A director friend at dinner the other night mentioned that people fear failure so much they won’t try new things. That it stunts the creative process, too. I’ve never had a problem learning in public- a contentious issue when I was learning Ruby on Rails recently. I asked this on FriendFeed the other day- “name one thing you are learning, that you are bad at” and got 77 responses (good, for me).
So the thing is: to start something new, you have to try it. And since you’ve never done it, you’re going to be bad at it. You just have to get over that.
A friend from way back reminds me of this situation. She wanted to make some stuff, but she was always intimidated by him. She didn’t want him telling her what to do, and so she never got into it. She wouldn’t let herself just be bad at it. She only wanted to do things that she was good at, right out of the gate.
So what happens? We never learn things, we always drift to those things that we were born doing well. We never give ourselves a break, we’re harsh critics, and we don’t have much fun since we limit our activities.
We blame all sorts of things: age, namely. That “kids learn easier.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this as an excuse not to take a foreign language. It’s a misinterpreted study wheeled out by each individual in turn. The study goes like this: at age 2 or 3, we learn thousands of words a day, at a rate that is unmatched throughout our lifetime. Are we going to stop learning things because we’re not as good as we were at 2? That’s ridiculous!
Others say it’s far easier to learn a language at any age up to 10, by immersion. Well, there’s another study that says bilinguals have a hard time learning other things during that period, too. So pfffft.
Ask any actor- the more you start memorizing, the better you get at it. The same goes for learning. The more you do it, the better you are at it. My first day of Mandarin, at age 33, was two characters, “hello.” I had a hard time memorizing them, much the less recognizing them in a line-up. By my 3rd year I could study a page of 30 characters one night and ace a quiz in the morning.
(part of a series on feminism in tech, in web2.0 world)
On Friday, I witnessed some intense, intense cattiness. On Saturday, I was part of a great event - co-teaching Ruby on Rails to 80 some odd men and women who wanted to learn. It was truly touching, the companies and organizations that extended real resources- cash, venue, teachers- to encouraging people to learn this rapid development tool.
I believe I can safely say I’m a Silicon Valley veteran, and I’ve seen this cycle repeat itself in the community:
- person sticks out
- person is put up to unfair tests
- person is dragged through mire
- rinse, repeat
It’s probably just the human condition that we crave drama and love to humiliate people. If all women knew the odds that we were up against in these circles, they probably wouldn’t be party to this cycle.
The incident on Friday: colleague from way back says something snarky about a new up and comer, storms out of her talk. Her opinion wasn’t new to me, I’d heard other people say same snarky things. I decided to make my own judgment, talked to new-up-and-comer, had a great conversation, ruled out hearsay.
My career in technology has been littered with these kinds of incidents. The first woman on my college’s network. My username got hacked and changed to “1-800-hot-sex” (funny!). The first time posting to BSD list. Talking at MacWorld, publishing in journals, on and on. We’re so nice to newcomers. Really.
You could argue that “friend” was holding up and comer up to the standards of the industry. No special treatment, and all that. Thing is, “friend” wasn’t even using her own judgment. She doesn’t program and was lifting her husband’s. She even said, “My husband thinks…”
I also ascribe it to the fact that being a woman in a male-dominated field is going to make some people uncomfortable. That is part of the cycle described above. Wow, there’s a woman on this network. I have to throw a stone at her (or annoy her, needle, her let her know I notice somehow). My plea: women, can we not do that to each other.
3 red small potatoes or yukon gold, sliced
1 small fillet of white fish (I just ask at the counter what is inexpensive & local)
fresh sprigs of rosemary
olive oil
3 cloves garlic (peeled, whole)
salt, pepper
1/2 T butter
1 T milk
Heat oil in pan, add sliced potatoes. When almost done, add garlic, rosemary leaves. Cook about 10 minutes more. Cool and mash (with fork, because I don’t have a masher.)
Heat pan full of water - I use double-broiler. About 5 or 6 cups. When boiling, add fish. Let it cook until it’s flaky, a few minutes. Remove and put on a plate or towel and flake.
Add the fish to the mashed potatoes with butter & milk! Salt and pepper to taste.
This is my new comfort food, and easily rotated into my roladex of recipes. I think I’ve made it 3X since reading the book- more than any other recipe. Her recipe is basically the same without the rosemary and garlic. I think it adds some flavor. Health-wise, she says small, waxy potatoes are better for you, with skins on. I think it adds a nice texture. This is super filling, too. I got rockfish today for only $2.50, the rosemary was probably the most expensive ingredient, but it can be picked fresh in many places (for free, haha).
Yes, the Dollhouse has sucked, but lately, it has rocked. Supposedly Josh Whedon had to let the network dominate the first few ones, and the difference couldn’t be more stark.
Ethical issues come up - argued with a friend of mine whether this was about Stockholm Syndrome, and on IMDB a rape/prostitution thread is raging. The ideas of free will- in a supplanted body, redefining what a body and a soul separation could look like, all really deep fodder for themes in an otherwise cheesy sci-fi TV series.
What intrigues me is how this series calls into question our ethics of fantasy. First, foremost, is the human trafficking question. Can you destroy another person’s life for your own entertainment?
Last episode covered immortality. If you could create a consciousness and live forever, would the desire to live forever forestall all others’, making it an irrepressible individual desire beyond all morals?
Welcome to I Can Haz Murder, a murder mystery… start here
A strip joint in the morning, an empty paddy wagon trolling down the main drag, two young guys in striped shirts and jeans, stumbling and laughing down Grant Street with lattes. This was the cheerful grittiness of Beth’s walk up Columbus to her new office, a few rooms rented over Caffe Roma. She had moved from her old place in Chinatown. The smell of dried Ginseng and shrimp, at first exotic, started to permeate her clothes. No amount of loud Pavorotti could drown out Hong Kong’s best hip hop celebrity, so she had to move out of her electric-blue painted nook in the Asia Mall that she’d loved for years. Moving in San Francisco was traumatic, despite it being only a few blocks. 10 feet from her office, instead of apples for 20 cents and bamboo trees for a dollar, she could buy pine nut cookies and top quality coffee.
She shared space with an architecture firm, a few metrosexual guys in exquisite glasses that worked til dawn. She worked too, occasionally, but mostly sat outside the cafe talking to Tony the owner and watching North Beach traffic on Columbus.
“It’s been pretty quiet around here.” Tony said, and sat down next to her. Despite spending a lot of time hanging out here, Tony was usually in motion cleaning or organizing. She coudln’t remember the last time he actually sat in one of the chairs in his cafe.
“Really? The stats don’t say that.” Beth regularly got reports from Captain Dudley regarding the weekend fistfights- usually over a girl- knifings, crack thefts, homicides, homeless pickups, you name it. North Beach was the main nightlife district for the 4 million SF metropolitan area. With the downturn, activity had increased, at least in the lower areas. She was physically aware of the new stats since she’d put togehter about 3 different presentations using data she’d gotten from the police reports.
Tony leaned forward. She knew he was sitting down for a reason. He didn’t do anything without a reason. “You know my sister has that cafe near the Hall of Justice.”
Beth nodded. Beth was familiar with Caffe Roma’s expansion into the South of Market neighborhood, the criminal court on 9th with bail bonds and dive bars that, outside of the Castro, served you more booze than you bought.
“Well the other day everyone was talking about this.” He took a folded paper form his back pocket and spread it out- a white kitten lolled adoringly on the flat top of a copier, almost covered by its top lid, plaintively eying the viewer. ‘Can I haz copy?’ written in large yellow letters over the top. Tony broke into a smile.
Bravo is rebroadcasting West Wing, and I’m watching it again. I used to watch it devotedly while I was traveling, in the late 90s, and now I’m trying to watch it in order. This was going to be a feminist review, but now it’s just a review-review.
I don’t like Sorkin’s writing- it’s a bad derivation of my least favorite aspect of Mamet. It’s intellectualism for the sake of intellectualism. He has oft-repeated stylistic tics that drive me batty. I’m lured in though through a love of American History, and some plot lines. Some of his episodes are very well crafted, but the dialogue drives me batty. Did I say that already? Sam?
My first objection, with the benefit of hindsight, is that Sorkin plays our heartstrings worse than NPR’s interviews with the homeless. He preys on simplistic moral gut-checks. At that time, the Right was taking away our government, so I fear that we were lulled into a fantasy world where smart people were ruling the country well.
Two: it plays into an odd aspect of our taste, as American viewers, to want to watch people work, and work hard, long hours, at meaningful jobs. Do we like it because we don’t have it? That’s just depressing (and why I love the Office).
Three: I don’t begrudge the actors. Rob Lowe- he has the same absent-minded “genius” arrogant style that Bradley Whitehead fine-tuned. It’s the writing. “Sam! Sam! Sam!” Sam is the most distracted, hearing-loss character in TV history. Beautiful women are always saying his name repeatedly, assertively, calmly, much like you would a 3-year-old that has long since tuned you out. They all say it with an odd inflection, too, like “say yam” vs. “sam.” I want to give Sam a time-out for not listening to his secretary.
One thing I love about watching West Wing, is how Sorkin elevates the role of writer. From this show, you’d think the speechwriter was the most appreciated, lauded person in the White House next to the President. After the State of the Union, the lead speechwriter is praised. The “fine tuning” the “polish” that Sam gets acres and acres of time to work on - halting the work of almost everyone else in the machine. It’s kind of great. But a little egotistical.
OK, now onto the meat of it. Sorkin has a serious thing for redheads, with pale skin and dark lipstick. It keeps coming up- new characters with the same style of make-up. It’s TV land so they style everyone the same, still, it makes me wonder. The dark hair and pale skin, thing. Donna Moss & Ainsley (the blond republican), still sport that dark lipstick too. Thank god the NSA woman came on the set- and yet, it reeks of tokenism. Not sure if it’s just a trend in the late 90s or what- along with the fuzzy mood lighting.
Oh, and there’s really only one way of knowing something: jaw-dropping arrogance and spewing statistics. There’s one-upmanship, and then there’s another style of discussion Sorkin loves: repetition. People never discuss something without providing tons of background info, usually wrapped up in a lecture. I LOVE it when CJ yells at the President, “don’t you dare lecture me.” (season 2, Manchester). The worst technique, though, I call the pratfall. An example:
Candidate for Asst. Attorney General: We want reparations (he is African-American).
Staffer: That’s stupid.
Candidate: We want retributions. (did I say Sorkin loved repetition?)
Staffer: (Here comes the statistic dump- memorized, of course) 122321 widows didn’t receive pensions from the Civil War, 32343 union soldiers lost their left leg, and it would cost each person $1232,222 to repay the slaves
Candidate: That’s all good, Say-yam, but we want retributions! (raise the emotional bar a bit, to show illogic)
staffer: (the one-liner last word, usually delivered by Tobee) My grandfather didn’t get retributions for Auschwitz.
In an interview with Rob Cordry, on Fresh Air, Rob confirmed that Sorkin rarely lets his actors read the script before filming. Rob’s character was showing his parents around the Studio 30 set when his father starts to guilt-trip him for working in TV, while “your brother is in Iraq” (or it may have been Afghanistan). During the interview, Rob admits he had no idea he had a brother, or that he was in Iraq. This was noted by Terry Gross as “great writing,” but to me, that’s awful. Classic pratfall, at the expense of Rob. Not only does Sorkin do it to his characters, he does it to his actors! Briliant.
Actually, in that episode about retributions, Josh did agree regarding reparations in a strange about-face. This brings me to the humiliating-the-other-side, and the Last Word, mostly used by Tobee. Liberals are always right, if they have the last word, like they do in fantasy TV-land. Queue creepy music, as we let Bushco take over the country.
Probably my least favorite episode is the Jackal, where everyone has to mention how they’re “missing out” if they don’t see CJ lipsync a rap song. I really like Allison Janey and she seems mildly embarassed to sing this song-made-up-for-the-show, as well as further sexualize her character. Oh wow- that’s a real song. Insane. Ronnie Jordan, sung by Dana Brown.
There are redeemable moments in West Wing- when they make fun of themselves. Joey the survey queen redeems women in general, as the token savvy political strategist. She of course has to be sexually available. Stockard Channing is probably the most wasted resource. I remember liking Bartlet’s secretary Mrs. Landingham, but she had the worst of all Sorkinisms, non-sequiturs, repetition, and repeating the character’s name to get his attention.
Women rarely have the “not listening to their name being called” tic. CJ once in a while, but she’s a man in a woman’s clothing- she is the fawning “knows nothing” person. She’s actually well-adjusted, too, unlike the OCD over-achievers who are so hyperverbal they can’t kiss someone of the opposite sex without discussing it at length. “Is this a date?” Say-yam asks Melanie about 10 times. If you have to ask…
I see Sorkin’s writing as forgivable in that it was the best at the time. Much like The Wire, which is my favorite today, it’s an evolution. Screenwriting for TV is much like novel writing in the 1900s (I guess, if I was living then.) You’re at the mercy of audience each season, so you really have to pander. It makes for a lot of pressure, and a lot of innovation. I’m impressed that he made Washington sexy. I remind myself of that frequently- when women are asking dumb questions about process or I can see a pratfall coming- that he actually made 8th grade civics interesting. And who knows, maybe women’s make-up was a decision left to someone else on the team.
A show about comedians, that isn’t funny! OK don’t get me started on his other sitcom. Currently, Sorkin is working on a movie about FaceBook. “Pedoconferences” and the hyper articulate, in Stanford start-up world? I’m worried.
I was told tonight that I hadn’t informed my blog audience that I’d been. So there it is. At Sergey Posad, trying on a white fur hat. I should have bought it! It was $200.
This is the requisite Kremlin shot. I was told I stand like my sister Sally, and all of my nieces, when we are in photos. It’s like this weird Billstrom photo-pose.
Posted by banane on March 19th, 2009 — in can_haz_murder
Killing off Web 2.0 folks, one at a time. Enjoy I Can Haz Murder, a serialized murder mystery. If you guess the answer, you get a special “smartypants” chiclet
Nick powered down his $2 Guinness. He sang tunelessly along with “Sister Christian” on the jukebox, along with his friends, hwile also eating Indian food. Gretchen, his on-again-off-again fuckbuddy, groped his thigh in hopes that tonight she’d get some attention, but he was fixed on scooping up the creamy red spicy chicken with his garlic na’an.
Nick’s best friend Sam came to the table with more pints, and then Derrick, his roomie, a sellout CEO of some twitter startup, sat down and started eating his tikka.
“WTF….” Nick leaned over Gretchen to yell at Derrick. Gretchen was deep in conversation with Sam over whether that was the real The Prez Obama-Pez t-shirt, or a knock-off (of a knock-off).
“Dude, leave it alone. That’s our last one.”
“I’ll just order another.” Derrick said, licking the bowl.
“You can’t just get another.” Everyone knew the Kennedy’s kitchen stopped at 1am, and got backup with orders at 12. They’d never get to his order. Years of bottled up frustration at Derrick’s selfish roommate ways- not paying the extra rent on the parking spot, holding big parties and never paying for the keg, “slumming it” when they were eking by on their minimum hour jobs, which were glamorous until you needed new glasses or got a back injury… made him explode. “Jesus! Someone’s going to get really fucking pissed at you…” Nick got in Derrick’s face, a few inches away from the red stains of tikka on still on his cheeks. The table was silent.
Derrick held out the tin serving bowl. “I left you some.” A tiny smear of tikka was on the bottom of it.
Nick took the bowl and threw it across the room. “Fuck you.” He walked outside and lit a cigarette. Gretchen came out and threw on her hood, zipped up her jacket. “What the fuck was that about?”
Nick shook his head. “I fucking wish that guy was dead.” He looked at Gretchen, challenging her to deny it.
Posted by banane on March 18th, 2009 — in local color
OK, technically that is from last spring, but I love the lighting.
My big thought last night was: focus. We tend to get so submerged with pestering little demands all day, and with the internets, that happens tenfold. So you need to carve out time, almost constnatly, and put aside little demands. Focus on the big stuff.
On that note, I finally practiced cello. OK, well, it consisted mostly of restringing my rental and tuning it for a half an hour. But my arm got sore, and I played Ode to Joy (the easy version), which led to the full operatic version as I cleaned the kitchen.
Loading ...
Stumble it!