Random Endeavors

Traditional Media Is Dead; Long Live Dead Trees

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:41:00 +0000

I know I missed a couple days. I blame this on illness and feeling otherwise abysmal.

I'm approaching the final drafts of a short-ish story. At least I hope I am. In that case, though, I wonder if I should attempt traditional dead-tree publication.

It is a pretty firmly genre story (sci-fi, eh), with a traditional-ish narrative arc with no really weird pretentious shit in the way like I feel I do sometimes. There is no real reason why I shouldn't send it off, aside from that whole lack-of-instant-gratification thing, and the fact that I kind of see the whole market for sci-fi shorts to be drying up. Though I don't have evidence for that. Perhaps an electronic formatted one...

I will probably send it, but last time it took nearly a year for a story to make the rejection rounds...but that was paper only, perhaps electronic venues will be a little more speedy.

Missed yesterday

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:51:00 +0000

Crap, so I missed yesterday. I went to Fermilab last night and didn't get home until after 12:00, and I wasn't exactly tip-top either (not from drinking too much or anything; I finally found something I'm allergic to; quite a bit, it seems), so I just took my meds and went to sleep.

Mass, Part 2

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 04:38:00 +0000

The lady with the make-up and I watch the animal liberation protestors march with their elephant for a moment. I can hear the ambulance.

"What the hell?" I say, and look at her. She shrugs. Her hair is all shiny with blood. "I'm a doctor. Let me see your head, come here." The makeup is, strangely enough, only messed where she hit me earlier. I am still sucking on my own lip.

"You're very tall. I need you to put your head down," I tell her; she does. "Scalp wound, lacerated, obviously. Probably from when that guy tripped you. Not very deep or bad, they just bleed a lot."

"If you're a doctor," she says, "Why didn't you try to help the other people who were hurt?"

"I am helping you, there is a lot of blood." I paused. "Of course you're right. I do have to get back, you'll be fine, just keep this on." I took off the hooded sweatshirt I was wearing and wrapped it around her head like a turban, "But..."

"What is your name?"

I hate this question.

"House. I am Dr. Greg House."

"Like on TV?" she laughed.

"Yes, like on TV."

"Oh boy. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I said.

"I know you have to go, but remember this patient, Monica Lewinkski, will be waiting here."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

I shook my head. "You win."

"I know."

I turned around, "Back to the breech," and then I went into it, through the hole the elephant left. I was happy that this was a shitty circus, only 4 people had gotten hurt; it could have been much worse. One was the girl, obviously trampled, obviously gone, and no need to get gory on how she looked. Another was the man I knocked down, he was crying over his daughter now. "They took her. They took her without me."

I wondered what kind of circus this was. I mean, it was sparcely attended, sure, but why the hell were there still people in here?

The third was holding his arm, but looked OK.

"Hey," I yelled to him, "You OK? I'm a doctor."

"I'll be fine," he said, "That man has got issues," he pointed at what looked like a pair of pants half-shoved under a bleacher.

That was the 4th. I went to him. He was half-under the bleacher, looked like he was sleeping when the elephant stomped on his midsection.

"Ahh, yeah."

Then the circus music started up again. And out came a lion.

Pt. 2 end

Story: Mailbox Baseball, Inc.

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:59:00 +0000

1 minute to spare.

We saw the mark as soon as we turned the corner in our old shitty convertible, it was a old faux-vintage aluminum mailbox, white with a red flag; a rooster was painted on the side. I chose a nice wooden bat from the back seat. There were gloves and balls, as well; didn't want to explain to a cop why we just carried baseball bats. What we did was legal, but how we did it probably wasn't.

"Dude, slowly. Just kind of slow and steady," I told Mick, the driver. "I want to hit this one right. I hurt my back whiffing one of these last week." I rolled down the window and put the top down (it was an automatic). I stood and positioned myself. "OK. Go."

"Ain't that sprained back from humping your mom?" he said, but listened to my direction. He drove nicely, and the mailbox stayed right in my strike zone. I just had to hit it. I swung.

The bat went through the face of the box easier than a new knife. I didn't even feel the bat slow as it went through the cheap metal. Before the thing even hit the ground, Mick had already started speeding up.

I slid back down into my seat, gave Mick a fist bump, then punched him in the shoulder. "What was that for?"

"A 'humping your mom' joke? Your stand-up career should have started decades ago. Perhaps by now, then, you would have OD'd."

I had been working through The Greater American PostBox Concern (TGAPC) as a contractor for several months now. I was an "Obsolescence Specialist." At least that's what the card said on that day. When I started they said "New Accounts Department."

This was my job; TGAPC was given a local Postal Monopoly by the Postal Privatization Act (PPA). Initially, TGAPC was one of those companies that made the generic, kid-toy esque mailboxes made of plastic; but after the PPA was passed and the postal service was privatized, TGAPC and their competitors basically did as they wanted to "out-of-spec" mailboxes; they didn't tell you what was in spec, but they could surely tell when you were out of it. That was my contract: identify and remove by any means an out-of-spec mailbox. For TGAPC, out of spec meant anything made by anyone else, models updated every years to discourage "mail piracy," whatever that meant.

But, mostly, mail itself flowed. Occasionally, you would have to go to a TGAPC office to arrange the release of a "randomly held" letter, where you were then addressed by a high-pressure salesman offering to "upsell" your postal delivery services. This happened to me, personally, about every month.

"Around the next corner," he said. The GPS was guiding us. Mick asked, "did you ever think you'd have a career hitting mailboxes instead of baseballs."

"No," I answered, "This is easier."

We turn our lights out and pull around the corner slowly. I bypassed the "electric car warning sound" box, so we were in complete stealth mode. There was a guy standing next to our mark, "Mick, a poacher?" A poacher was a freelancer, someone trying to make us look bad, generally by hitting the wrong mailboxes which we get penalized for and, if a sufficient number are damaged, we could lose our contract.

"Yeah. Slimeball," Mick said.

"What's he using?" I wondered aloud; and then I could see the fuse light; he walked away confidently and just a moment later came the sound of--

"An M-80, easy. Cheap and standard and will pretty much do any job required of it. Also can be chained together."

Now, just because I was lazy and hated to get out of the car proper, that was why I used the mailbox baseball thing. Some people, like this poacher, used explosives. That seemed a little overkill, if still pretty fun.

This guy then walked to another neighbor. Mick said, "He's lighting everyone; we have to stop him."

Mick was more on the fight side of the fight/flight response.

As soon as the guy lit the fuse and the sparks are going, Mick flicked on the headlights, spotlight, and blared the horn; the poacher lights up pretty well from about 20 feet away. I was glad that I do not recognize him. Especially as he realized he had forgotten to put his M-80 down. It went off and the flat percussive sound of mass-produced fireworks didn't even echo. The poacher looked down and confused; I looked away at Mick, who looked, fascinated, at what he has done.

"We have another on the edge of Oregon," Mick said. "We're 20 minutes out."

"Fine," I said. "Let's just get out of here."

Mass, Part 1.

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 04:28:00 +0000

Between the elephant with a woman, pancake make-up, standing tall on the pachyderm’s shoulders and the tent marked inflammable, and the strange ring of anti-animal-circus protesters (I have no idea what specific group) outside, the single ring circus looked like it would stumble before it started.

The audience was about 1/6th capacity. Benches were spacious. Homeless men could be observed on the upper benches. There was no effort to move them. This was, what, 15, 20 years ago...before the half-houses got many of the homeless out of the streets and into small houses and neighborhoods of their own.

The elephant went around once, twice, and then right on out through the audience itself. If I sat at the single ring's noon, then the mega fauna stampeded through at 2pm. It looks more like inertia rather than the graceful movement of nature.

The rider, her face stretched to smile still, leaps in my direction and lands on her feet onto an empty space on the half-empty bleacher in front of me. It's almost worthy of applause. I hear the term is "stuck." As in "The landing was stuck perfectly."

But someone else doesn't think so. That someone is obviously mad that the elephant has trampled through the crowd. That someone else is obviously thinking that the rider had any real control over where that mass of gray meat was going to go. It would be like arguing with an asteroid.

I would have thought that a large elephant leaving through an exit of its own creation would perhaps encourage some people to evacuate. Not these folks.

That someone climbed up to where she stood and knocked her down, pitching her forward onto me. She hit her forehead on my philtrum, splitting it open, but avoiding my nose which, given the nerves in the septum, is probably for the best. The makeup tastes awful; it is mixed with some perfume. She looks at my face, horrified. I forget, for just a moment, that I am actually bleeding quite a bit, and think she is just looking at me the way I do. She says, "Are you--" when she is pulled away again.

She falls--what is this guy's problem?--and he is standing over her, kicking her in the face and yelling, "You killed my daughter."

I stand up and push him. He falls back through the bleachers and onto the ground. He doesn't get up. The lady is dazed and bloody--her own blood this time--and I keep looking around at absolutely no-one moving, nothing happening. At all. I didn't expect the ones crushed underfoot to move, but the others beyond me, her, and that someone. Why haven't they evacuated? Why haven't they ran? Why haven't they screamed? Why haven't they ran and screamed? Why aren't they attacking me? Is everyone still stunned about the elephant?

I help the lady up and we walk off the bleachers and out of the elephant shaped hole and follow the obvious tracks toward the protesters. I would think that perhaps this is evidence that nature has a sense of irony; but not this time she doesn't. The elephant was walking around, gently, with them, carrying a sign that said "No More Monkey Massacres."

Pt. 1 end

Illness: Day x+3(?)

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:14:00 +0000

I am still sick, and totally not willing (or able) to hold my head up at this point; though I really don't want to sleep because that's so sweaty and unpleasant and I know, just know, that in 6 or 5 hours I will wake up and will have a headache of proportions that approach migraine--but aren't--or a hangover--never had a particularly bad one of those--and I will end up taking a shower in the middle of the night and then it'll come to me:

What the hell is with the Christmas stuff already up?

Then I'll head back to sleep and wake up at 6:30 thinking I should go to work, but I'll be out of breath heading back and forth to the bathroom, then I'll think about Chinese-made strollers amputating small fingers.

Will I go to work tomorrow? I don't know.

Still Sick

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 05:54:00 +0000

Feeling awful. Can't sleep, either. Tomorrow, possibly the doctor.

Sick

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 05:00:00 +0000

So, no real post today. I'm sick. Spent approximately 16 hours in bed today. Perhaps it'll be better tomorrow.

Thesis Title & Minor Developments

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 00:00:00 +0000

So, yes, my thesis has a title, which is, of course, subject to change. However, it might not, as this title meets the rigorous requirements for thesis titles that I have collected through painstaking seconds of research on Twitter.

Like a sonnet, limerick, or other poetic devices, a thesis title has a certain number of things that it has to have before it is really properly a thesis title. Those requirements mean that it has the following items in a specific order:

something witty, preferably a cultural reference (pop or otherwise)
a colon
a more descriptive sub-title.

Now, having a thesis title without these elements is rather like only writing in free verse. You can do it, sure, and some people are really good at it, and some decent poems have been written that way. But there is a certain amount of discipline required to meet the requirements of, say, a dirty limerick, and a good poet knows these and can write something that fits into the often-times crowded and competitive genre.

So, the title is done, and so, without further delays, of any sort, where I pretend to delay the inevitable by thinking you didn't automatically read the bolded and larger texts just below this really extensively and stupidly long line, I should think that I will present the title. After the jump. Wait, no. Here it comes:

Here Come the S.M.E.s: User Generated Documentation and the Impact on Professional Technical Communications

Now, I realize that ths might change, especially the 3rd part (I really think I nailed the colon, though). As for the first part, I'm a little antsy on the lack of an apostrophe, but, because I use Bob's Quick Guide to the Apostrophe, You Idiots, I am sure I am correct. (He's not as pleasant as Grammar Girl, but he'll do.)

In other news, I have found my cache of academic articles that I have read throughout my career at NIU. These hold such favorites as some stuff by Lessig, as well as some Slack, Miller, Bakhtin, and the always amazingly annoying Foucault. And, because the eldest daughter is down with the flu, I'll be pretty much at home all weekend...working on this. Which is probably wise.

Remember the Maine

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 20:06:00 +0000

Yes, it's a political post. And only 5 days in...and I'm slow on the topic, even!

I was hoping that the gay marriage referendum would uphold the right to marry for same-sex couples. They should be able to marry. But I got to thinking about which of the following is more amazing:

That over half of people in that state don't think gay people should marry the person they love.
That over half of people in that state think they have a right to deny a gay person the right to marry the person they love.

The second point is what I will take issue with here. The first one, well, that's unfortunate. But bigots die, and their ideas often go with them. Look at the leaders of such protests. Older, right? Occasionally you'll get a young proponent of "opposite marriage," but, for the most part, young people don't care. And the younger care even less. This is a *good* thing. It means that such ideas as equal rights for LGBT(etc.)s are, while not inevitable, part of the progression of civil rights that really, truly, only recently started if you take a historical perspective. Think about it, the last Civil War veteran's widow died in 2004. Civil War. That's not a typo. Surely there are still people alive with merely 2nd hand information from that time.
But bigotry, as I said, is not my main concern. They'll die or they'll learn. Either way...
So, regarding the second point:
Simply put, I don't want people forcing me to do things that I do not want to do. And, so, I don't think I should force other people to do things they might not want to do.
Does that sound familiar? It should. It's not as practical as some ideals, but...
Of course, that doesn't mean someone will not berate, belittle, insult, and cause a general ruckus when someone does or says something they don't like. But people have a right to determine the way they live their lives, especially when it doesn't affect anyone else.
From the evidence, most people don't think so. They like laws against drugs, guns, sexuality, gender variance, inter-racial relationships, and they like being able to discriminate based on any thing at all. It has been, for decades in America, almost always courts and specific leaders who have stood up against these majorities to protect minorities. The world doesn't fall apart, and everything is OK. Then the bigots die or learn.
Sometimes I'll read a reaction to such referendums like Maine that says, "Can I vote on your marriage?" Of course not. On it's face, it's an absurdity. But not because heterosexual marriage is debatable (and it is); it's absurd because it's not anyone's place to dictate someone how to live their life.
Advice? Argument? You'll get them, when I can muster the strength to mutter a few words here and there. But should I force you to do these things? No. Should I force you not to? Even less than no reason.
I am sure that everyone that reads this has something innocent and harmless about them or that they like to do that would not be allowed if put to a vote; and if you don't think so, then I think you need to get out and take a look around.
So, should gay people (and polys, and every other adult who wants to marry another consenting adult) be able to marry? Yes! For fairness? Yes! For equality? Yes! Because it's the right thing to do? Yes! Of course. Yes, for all these reasons and more.
But most importantly, it is because we are must maintain our freedom from our tyrannical government and tyrannical fellow citizens. Not simply for this issue, but for the ones we cannot even fathom...

I would suppose that such an attitude might be a type of small-L libertarianism; I can take that if your scope is individual freedom. I'd rather have legal arrangements like marriage handled by contract, for the record.

Just so it's clear, I think the people for same-sex marriage are on the right side here, but their arguments are more robust than fairness and equality...

Thesis Related: I Know I'm Running Late

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 19:00:00 +0000

And so, last night, I spend part of the night researching for my thesis, scribbling ideas, reading, and making notes to myself and I've basically got nothin'. I am having a particularly hard time with the "situating my work within the current academic discussion."

Half of my notes are about how I don't know if I can do this. Obviously this attitude is not conducive to actual work. I should have no excuse on this; I don't really have any good excuse on this beyond my typical self-loathing and other annoying personality traits. I know I work and think slowly, but I only have a few hours a few days a week to do this…failure seems like an obvious end result. That is not a helpful attitude.

The other half of my notes are bits half-remembered from various classes. So, I've got some things, like the progression of technical writing from [half-remembered term] to user-centered communication to my current thesis on the future of the field, user-generated communication. Through this, we see our [as tech communicators] power move from the actual technology (through its agency as an autonomous thing) to the tech writer (by a set of knowledge given by a "teacher" of sorts) to the end-user (by the sharing of knowledge among peers).

So there is power. And obviously web junk (not the now-cancelled show), and probably a little genre thing going on. All the parts are there, really, but I need to put it together. And none of which is really 100% clear to me in my head as far as where the ideas came from.

I would hate to have to go through my notes to find this stuff, but I fear that's what I have to do. And by "I would hate to have to" I mean "I have to find and".

And, either unfortunately or not, I've run out of old stuff for this "I'm goin' to post daily on my blog for a month" dumb idea I got from somewhere or another, so I get to post all of those stupid things here. Basically, the only bonus there is that I have some proof that I tried, right? ؟Gah!

Storming the Foothills of Mt. Olympus, Pt. 2: Not to Question Why

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 16:00:00 +0000

Yes, the format has changed a tad from Pt. 1. Yes, this is still a draft. Yes, I notice that the line-lengths are drifting. Yes, I know I have a recurring problem with tense shifting, I was looking for help on that.

Awake again. Unlike the dreams, there was no maiden;
only a pile of urine-soaked hay. I regret nothing.

"Queen!" someone yells, "The Queen is dead! Smothered
under feathered pillows, her last breath hot against silk
pillow cases. Will you, can you, may you not weep, sweet
Achlys is dead. Some pious bastard, some fervent brother
of some false prophet, some demon or another of its ilk
stole the life of her who led us to the honey and milk."
"Guards, Guards! Where were the guards? All the guards
in this world are as impotent djinni on a vacuous moon.
Dead by dawn; her life disappeared before birds tweet.
Dead. Now, only by tall tale and legend will great bards
expand her own life. Dead, gone far too soon, too soon,
and my own quest looks just as quashed and doomed."

As others rise from their beds, find our leader vanquished,
they simply shrug and turn toward home. Honorless fools.

"You cowards evacuate even before a funeral dirge reverbs
through this valley," I yell. "Very well! I shall go alone
against the gods. Your leader dies, you run! I won't abandon
this war. You, who would simply turn away, are the turds
that a skunk would not bury. You could not present a bone
even for a siren." Abandoned, I must bury her on my own.
So I set myself with a grimace to the burial of my queen,
I took a shovel from an idle gravedigger (war profiteers,
but I don't envy their task) and planted rocky dirt one
pile on another, down until the ground was unseen
even if I stretched up on my toes. The grave clear
and deep and long: I climbed out, thirsty for wine or beer.

I do not pray; I mourn, but I will
not pray, and I drink deep.

At the end of the day, she lies still under dirt and rocks
and some pitiable headstone, and I sit under a tree. Even
the supply train has retreated out of sight; it is just me,
that pitiable, terrible, white castle, and a dirty loch
choked with algae. Dusk erupts, and some un-heavenly
light flickers from the building. There is no decision
I have made so willingly, to head into that abode to slay
whatever demons, gods, or men that killed or so ordered
to kill my queen. Thusly and forever, I shall forsake the
minor desires of life and love, and my thoughts every day
will be turned to the execution of such a brutal coward.
I know and ignore that such vengeance makes hearts sour.

Sustain me, vengeance. I cannot plead with an emotion,
but it might sustain me for what is a forever war.

I nap after burying my queen, and I hold no hope
the night will slacken my rage, but it turned inward.
How dare I--all hubris and fantasy--make justice? I
shame at the false words I said. I fashion a rough rope
into a loose noose and think. I am not a bard,
I am a fool who makes love sword-in-scabbard
and I am a fool who cannot finish even a fool's errand.
How dare I--all failures in my crowded heart--propose
anything but to dive from cliff to rocks. Why try?
Let me do nothing and not fail rather than to defend
some concept as honor, valor, pride. I can say to those
who doubt me, "I am a coward, written in poetry or prose."

But am I? I have lived through more battles
than memories and I know there is valor in beer!

I face the castle and eye its iron fence and surrounding
curtilage, again the grounds look idle, not gardener nor
soldier disturb the architecture, glamorous white
stones stacked and grouted with more glittering
mortar disturbed regularly with murder holes, no door
visible. This is more keep then castle; a fortress for war
and no other purpose. Fear not, we are at the foothills
of the great mountains, and this keep is but the first
building to fall. "Coward," I tell myself, "before the light
dims in the sky, add at least one number to your kills."
I breathe, close my eyes, and when I open the curse
of fear has cleared and I move to slake my murderous thirst.

The distance collapses as I approach, alone, but the sun
sets fast in the sky. Wasn't it morning not long ago?

The dark is no matter, and there is no restraint
upon violence when I find the throne. I'll run though
that false idol with my hands, and the pitiable souls
he's deceived will be free. Hope and light are faint,
I charge closer to castle, keep, into the row upon row
of gleaming bricks towering over the moats undertows.
There it is! A major door hidden in sight. I traded
grass for rock underfoot. Yes, yes I am afraid.
Wood cut from one tree, two men wide, painted white. No holes
for keys or hands. I push where the wood is faded,
and it moves easily, unlocked. I imagine the ropes, frayed
with time, pulling the door open. I step in to begin my raid--

The sword is comfortable in my hand, and the shield offers
comfort like a mother. I press forward, ever forward.

Vows

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 01:00:00 +0000

Yes, I conducted a wedding a week ago. Yes, I am happy with how it went. No, I will not be doing another one. Ever. Well, pretty sure on that. Ever is a long time. Total time is approximately 2:34 seconds, as timed by one of the attendees. Now, this is the script. There is a little improv in there somewhere, right before the "gathered together" bit, but I'm not going to try to remember.

For the record, I think this is about 3 or 4 times longer than the wedding my wife and me had.

<as the Princess Bride minister>Love! True love is what brings us together today. Marriage, that blessed arrangement, that dream within a dream, is what we bear witness to today. Friends, new and old, I ask that you join me in the hope that love springs eternal between our bride and groom today.</end stupid accent>

I'll be brief, as their courtship has been long. They told me to they wanted to get "married in a hurry." I told them I would be honored and humbled to perform this ceremony, and started on the short-short version. This is not what they had wanted. They simply wanted a short version, which is why we are all gathered today, in this beautiful place on a beautiful occasion, so let us spare just a moment for them—

After a decade, then, they are getting married. I suppose, about this I should say simply, “About time!”

So, here we are, gathered together to join Miss D <obfuscated> and Miss R--I'm sorry, it's the hair--Mr. R <obfuscated> in the bonds of matrimony.

The short version. Thusly:

R, place the ring on D's finger. The ring symbolizes the love of these two, never to be broken. R, repeat after me.

I, state your name,

Promise to have and to hold

from this day forward

for better for worse

for richer for poorer

in sickness and in health

to love and cherish

until death do us part.

D, place the ring on R's finger and repeat after me.

I, state your name,

Promise to have and to hold

from this day forward

for better for worse

for richer for poorer

in sickness and in health

to love and cherish

until death do us part.

I now pronounce you husband and wife. You're married. Kiss her!

Goodbye, virgin alarm.

Is it Cheating?

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 02:45:00 +0000

Is it cheating to use day one of NaBloPoMo to say I'm going to try to do NaBloPoMo?

Poem: ObPoemReWriting

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 14:23:00 +0000

I do hate writing about writing; and yet here we are...

The man is upstairs, writing again. A
pointless habit. A thankless hobby. He
burns his poems and stories in the fire
pit in his back yard, the pit was built
one long weekend last May, in-
between unidentifiable allergens. He
writes, still, almost to spite dead
daydreams of picking up a book in a store
with his name printed tastefully
on the side, smelling glue and paper
and ink. It is the one joy, among joys
of family, work, and simple existence,
that is his.

He is in a state of no-mind, of
perfect focus. He holds the pen softly,
it all comes.

A small child appears at the doorway,
his son, and he can smell his rotten
diaper from across the space. He
rises to find a diaper, wipes, powder,
various items required for modern
infant fecal removal. He completes
the task, in wonder at how fast the son--
he can call him a child now, no longer
a helpless infant--has grown. How
much he loves, he doesn't think there
are words that exist that are quite
right. His son runs off to bother sister.
As every day.

The man looks at the paper, going
over what he has written. "It is more
or less crap," he says. He's probably
right. He holds the pen softly
and nothing comes.

The man looks out the window at Autumn
glorious and wet; leaves carpet the
lawn. Which needs to be raked, bagged,
recycled at the front of the driveway
because tomorrow they come to take
cans marked yard waste. The day
after is trash.

The paper sits; the secular meditation
is over. Not the kids' fault--but a
little--the man feels like a bad parent.
He's probably right. He holds the pen
softly, nothing comes.

A random phone call from his mother,
asking directions to a store she's been
to a dozen times. He worries about
brain lesions and forgotten children's
birthdays. He worries about genetics and
himself and others.

The soft rain stops, so he goes out
to rake the leaves. Sometime after
the first pile, but before the children
jump into the leaves, the focus comes
but the pen is far away. Even as he
walks toward the house, he knows
that the feeling be gone once he gets
there. And it is. He is not surprised.
He fetches a half-full notebook;
he will burn more than leaves in the
fire pit today.

So, Yes, I Do Have a Thesis

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 02:36:00 +0000

In between the depressed moments, some good news happened. I guess I have a tentative thesis topic, which I now have to research and possibly write a prospectus on. Yep. User Generated Documentation. I know I already broke the news on Twitter to the few users who are not bots that follow me, but it's still cool to me.

I hope I'm doing this right.

Anyway, so I should be working through that in the next few weeks. Or couple months. I am excited to actually have a focus that touches on so many of my interests.

I don't know if I should post the prospectus on-line? Perhaps no. Though it is tempting to have it out there on a google doc or wave (no invite, so no go on that one) and see how the document grows/changes over a period.

Also, finished section 4 of the weird little poem I posted a month or two ago, making it damn near 350 lines long so far. Working on a short story which is almost done but will not be posted here for a while. The novel is growing, but the plot is not moving because I didn't think some of it was flushed out enough. Don't worry, though, I'll probably edit it all out again soon enough.

Researching User Generated Content at NIU

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 14:56:00 +0000

I’ll be going to NIU this weekend to return McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and hide in the stacks for a few hours. While I could probably do most of my research from my house, I find it almost impossible to do real work at home. Distractions, internal and external, are everywhere. Also, there is still the draw of being amongst the books and other students. I do miss it, a bit.

I’ve been in school for a long time, with the biggest gap being 2 years after I finished my BA at ISU. I’ve taken semesters off, am now to work on this thesis, but I do not know what I’ll do when I’m done this time. Another degree? I don’t know.

I've done this before, but...

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 13:50:00 +0000

I have 3 interests that would fall within the scope of my current M.A. pursuit.

· Copyright.

· Social Media and how it impacts tech writers.

· Social Media and tech writing, specifically “User-Generated Documentation.”

The first is, surely, far too broad. The second seems right, but, again, the scope is too narrow; and further I do not know how it affects most tech writers as I have a somewhat unique perspective. The third seems just right.

But wait, I can hear, the third seems narrower than the others, but it’s not. You can trusts me on this or you can look around and see who, exactly, is doing most of the tech writing out there. It’s not folks like me, with English degrees and a thesis to write; it’s folks that have skills and can write decently well. A blog post titled “Musings on user-generated documentation” seems to sum it up nicely, and even touches on my copyright interest. (Also, this PDF is another perspective. I don’t like linking to PDFs, but it’s there.)

I need to look at this more, and soon. At this point, I’d rather take the damn comprehensive tests and be done with it, but I think if I do have a focus, then it’ll get easier.

Citizen Tech Writing

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 16:48:00 +0000

So, I was listening to Dan Carlin’s Common Sense (got into it while listening to his awesome history show), and he got talking about the Acorn video that recently surfaced (wherein a pair of citizen journalists dress in bad drama costumes and ask for tax advice on a prostitution business). And, briefly, he was not interested in the usual angle, but rather about the citizen journalist aspect of it, and how, because “real” journalists were not doing this kind of exposé kind of story, citizen journalists had license to do it, even if they don’t have credentials or training. The reason why they have license to do this is mostly because “real” news organizations don’t do that stuff anymore; it’s too expensive.

And I kind of buy that argument, but that’s not what I want to discuss here. Well, I want to discuss the argument, but I want to say that a similar argument could be made for tech writers in a traditional help-file/manual role.

With blogs and forums and wikis, the requirements for someone in-house to create documentation of a product is much smaller. This is not a revelation, surely, but I’ve got to wonder, still:

Why?
Is it a “Bad Thing?”

I’ll start with the latter. I’d argue “No.” I’d say that because, in the end, the user is getting helped, and likely when a question is answered on how to do something, the source of the advice (unless it could be dangerous) is often irrelevant.

And that is also “Why.” Because the end-user supplied documentation is often more directly applicable to what a thing is used for more than the help files. This is why there are thousands of Photoshop tutorials out there, because simply reading the help-file isn’t really applicable. Though, sometimes, I’ve used good manuals (e.g., Excel’s formula help is good, and Crystal Reports has a decent help on their formulas as well) which are applicable to my uses of the software. These are rarities.

An interesting twist on this is how Chrysler is ditching paper manuals (a “booklet” will still be provided) in lieu of multi-media DVDs. This will allow videos and such, and will probably be worthless. Definitely, if you don’t drive around with a DVD player in your car.

Yes, this is a little uneven. Sorry.

Written Tech Support v. Tech Writing

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 15:26:00 +0000

So the question came up: What is the difference between Written Tech Support (WTS) and Tech Writing (TW).

I would put the former in a category of the latter. So that WTS is a specific subgenre of TW.

A working definition that I would buy is that WTS is an on-the-spot, single use genre often based on circumstances of the author and audience. This differs from other types of TW, like procedures, in that it’s not necessarily meant to be a sustained document that will exist beyond a short (often functionally instant) time-frame. It exists in the form it does because the user requires it, hereby I provide an dramatization:

Support Person: Thank you for contacting Wally Wilson Widget’s Wigiteering, proprietors of fine software and hardware Widgets since 1643. How can I be of assistance today?

C~~lueless Customer~~ Your Mom: Hi! My widget on my other computer just broke.

SP: Well, what happened?

YM: I was using it and it broke off. Is it waterproof?

SP: We sell software, ma’am. I don’t think that using it underwater is a good idea.

YM: How can I fix it?

SP: You might have to buy a new one.

YM: Can I speak to your manager?

Etc. Etc. Etc. Obviously, a person writing a manual on a piece of software generally wouldn’t consider it’s sub-aqueous use, but that is the nature of these types of WTS. Sometimes it doesn’t fit what a user would be expected to do or the problems they are expected to run into. Thusly, I would consider that it fits into the hierarchy of TW.

Is there a further hierarchy? This would imply that one type of TW would be a “higher” form than another, which isn’t fun, correct, or instructive.

Thanks, Rob.

Thesis Related: Tech Writing & Twitter

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 15:36:00 +0000

Well, it’s been hard for me to come up with a topic for the thesis. I’ve been told this is the hardest part of the process, and, thus far, I’d agree. At this point, I lean rather strongly to a more practical (than scholarly) type of document, which saddens me a little. I do have a long-standing desire to be a scholar; however things did not end up that way. But, you know, desire is the root of sadness, etc. etc. etc. So I’ve been trying to find something that suits me. Copyright, social media, automation & AI, and so on. This is one of those posts where I think through this stuff. It’s kind of nerdy.

I’m not an OGT(witter); I did sign up on May 2^nd, 2007. But I don’t feel I really got into it until mid-point last year, when I started meeting people on there with (dis-)similar interests, geography, and/or opinions. The 2008 election helped, surely, even if my candidate (Green Party, [because the Guns and Dope Party wasn’t on the ballot]) didn’t have the clichéd snowball’s chance.

I really liked the people I met there, and continue to meet and interact with. It is my primary social media site and I consider it my electronic “Third Place”. I like it primarily because of the simplicity of the idea. Also, the 140 character limit limits my occasional written-word loquaciousness. Regardless, I have slowed my use of the it for 2 major but unrelated reasons: it has been invaded by spammers/marketers and just general attempts to de-clutter my life. There are other personal reasons, too, but… Nonetheless, I try and go on every day and peruse the recent tweets and write a few of my own.

I have struggled, though, because it [Twitter] seems as if it has little to do with my professional field [writing, currently specifically Technical Writing]. Well, at least I think so as of right this moment. Other social media types, such as wikis, seem almost written for the tech-writing field (certain occasionally awesome experiments like everything2.com can push the wiki form into art).

Twitter does have a networking advantage…but I’m not worried about that in a day-to-day, helping the user kind of way.

Here is where we ought to divorce the concept of Twitter [the specific site] from a more general genre [the micro-blogishness w/ community]. Surely, there were, are, and will be other sites and services offering what Twitter does; it is just the most current and successful model of the genre. However, for brevity’s (hah!) sake, for at least the duration of this blog post, I will specifically reference Twitter, knowing that it’s simply the most current and—yeah. You got it. OK.

So, what does Twitter have to do with technical writing? Well, depends who you ask. On the tc.eserver.org, you can find lots of information.

Hell, even last year I was quoted about this on this blog post on idratherbewriting.com. On another, more recent post, the blog author reviews Conversation & Community (which I suppose I should read), and points out that that some companies start using Twitter because, well, others are using Twitter and they need to catch up. That’s not the use I’m interested in. I’m not talking about marketing, networking, and so on; I’m talking about using the platform as a way to communicate to users.

There are companies that do use it. Comcast has a Twitter account that they use to help do tech support. I am sure there are others. The Comcast one was actually nice and useful to me, personally…

But, often, we can be without a support person on the other end. Therefore, the ephemeral nature (and copious quantity of) of micro-blog entries means that there is a lot of stuff to wade through before meaningful information can be found. A sufficient staff to maintain a Twitter account makes that point moot and restores the tweets to usefulness. A search function (which is a relatively recent feature on the twitter site) also helps.

So, in that case, is written technical support considered technical writing? Probably, I would say. Though that kind of technical writing is far removed from what I do day-to-day.

Here is where we ought to discuss what precisely is meant by technical writing. Good luck on that.

So, in that case, is written technical support considered technical writing? Probably, I would say. Though that kind of discussion would quickly lead away from the topic at hand. Though, I guess, that might be to my advantage, given my goal. Regardless…

Briefly looking through the eserver papers shows a blog post called “Mind the Gap” on the blog onlinehelptwo.zero. What he (gendering the author because of the name “Guy”) says, in part, is that the people supporting a product might want to listen to the users on such social media sites because they could, possibly, start their own type of support, which may (or may not) be desired. He then goes on to basically talk about how it’s important to tech support people basically get on board with these technologies.

At that point, I looked at his tags (another completely awesome thing that ~~technical~~ writers could use on their wikis and blogs). One of the tags was “Micro-Interactions”. Did not know that such a term existed….

I think I should cut this right now...will be working on this more, I think...

On Quiet Cars and Old Women

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 13:20:00 +0000

When he hit the woman, my ex- was driving down the empty street too fast and waving his obscenely long middle finger at me. His hybrid's engine was not as loud as the the hood crumpling as the old woman fell on it; it didn't sound like a crash, like something metal on metal; it was a sigh, like a plastic garbage can. She flew up over the car and fell on the ground behind. The hood rebounded back into shape. He stopped the car short.

We bought the car together in Boca last year. I chose the color.

I sat at my table at a sidewalk cafe. The waitress didn't quite register what had happened. The busboy prayed in rapid Spanish. My ex- held his hands over his mouth, stretching out the skin under his eyes. Then moved his hands slowly to the wheel, then he drove away.

Me and the waitress were still, like the old woman on the ground. The busboy had some semblance of wit and went to help the woman. He touched her wrist and the neck, like we've seen heroes do on TV. He then stood up slowly, pulled out a cell phone, and called the cops. He looked toward us and shook his head. The waitress ran into the cafe, crying. I drank coffee. I sipped my coffee.

While we were waiting, the busboy was standing by the dead woman. I could see the small pool of blood around her. The owner of the place ran out and started yelling at the busboy. I could hear them from where I sat.

"Get back to work!"

"How can I get back to work, this woman got killed. The police are on their way."

"You called the cops!? What horrible publicity."

The owner looked down at the woman and stepped back.

"Mom?"

Of course.

The sirens echoed off buildings now, and the pitch rose as they accelerated, surely attracted by waves of guilt from a dying mother.

The ambulance came. Two men jumped out of the front cab, strapped her to a board, picked her up onto the stretcher. As they loaded it into the back of the ambulance, they shook their small heads. The owner tried to climb into the back with his mom, the driver pushed him away until the owner explained who he was and cried. The ambulance cried out and they drove off.

The cops were coming.

A minute later a couple came out of the cafe and walked to their car parallel parked across the street. They drove off in a different kind of hurry.

"They didn't pay their bill," I thought.

I went in and refilled my coffee, sat down again outside and waited. The cops came. The waitress came back out to talk to them.

The busboy: "Crazy man just drove by and hit her. He was at table 13," and he looked at me, tilted his head toward me, "before...they were fighting or something. I could hear it." The cops nodded their big heads.

The waitress agreed with the busboy adding, "The owner. His poor mother."

They came to me angry, "It's my fault, of course," I said, knowing it wasn't.

"Excuse me?" the good cop said. The bad cop leaned back, judging.

"He told me that he would love me forever. I told him I couldn't promise that. We'll die. Everything ends. The protons in the universe will decay," I said, "Then he got angry and left through the back alley of the cafe. He drove by. Then the finger. The crash."

They looked at me, as if I would lie to them. Why would I lie to them when I didn't lie to him?

"You just sat here?"

I nodded.

"Do you know where he is?"

I gave the cop his name, address.

"Don't you care for him anymore?"

"I do care," I said. I got up and walked into my brother's cafe for more coffee.

Poem: Pareidolia

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

You took me to Africa
to see this spot.
And I sat through
vespertine
times with you at
this lake-front beach.
Every day,
after sunset,
and the green flash
that I can’t see,
among waterfalls,
we kissed, near stones
worn by wind and
crashing water.

One day, behind
us, in the rock
and sediment,
you saw a face.
Your gasp startled
me and the rock
watched us, judged us,
loved each of us
conditionally,
depending on our
position in
the universe,
as if we were
chosen to witness
a miracle
among godless
moments and places.

Storming the Foothills of Mt. Olympus, Part 1 (Draft 1)

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 20:30:00 +0000

I wrote the majority of this over the past few months. It is the first draft of the first part of this long-ish poem. The rest of it is outlined in my text-drafting program of choice (Evernote, though Dropbox and simple text files are getting appealing lately). A goal is rhyme and meter or abandoning both.
Part of me is interested in how the drafts evolve. Because I write on a computer (or texting capable cell phone) almost exclusively, drafts are generally destroyed or mangled in process. Drafting seems like a weird process to those that do not do it ("Just write it right the first time!").
Also, part of me wants to put something up as proof that I'm actually doing some work.

{All you need know: I am a soldier, dressed in a hoplisis,
fighting against the gods. My goals: succor and gold.}

Achlys moves the Earth with her words: "Armies
onward towards the crest of this hill and
onward towards the home of the Gods;
ever forward, forward to usurp these
faulty idols. We do not pray, we demand
what's ours and will raze their castles of sand."
I say, "Those who stopped just before this hubris
are what we call, 'Un-ambitious.' They are
the forgotten soldiers upon history clods
upon with terrible hooves. Great people, this
is how we inhabit history: ideas and tar
and mortar and art. We are dancing stars."

{But we will not be the greatest. We would fall
under the forgotten tasks of our ancestors.}

Achlys orders us further upwards to lay siege
the home of the gods. We will starve
them of pomegranate and catapult rocks
and rotten meat. We will not leave these
mountains without just rewards, riches carved
by Zeus; his struggles become our toy models.
I can see the great walls now: battlements
bare of soldiers are covered with a haze--
a smoke that refuses to rise. It is dusk;
I lay my head on the grass. Slaves raise tents
for officers. I breathe deep: their supper today
is fowl: all save best officers have gluttonous ways.

{The soldiers empty stomachs churn, prolapse into
nightmares and make sleep exhausting.}

Morning. "Xolotl has distemper; the eagle god's soft eggs
poach well," Achlys tells us we will be upon them,
we will fight the gods and triumph and win and reclaim
"For we have made them in natures image, the hags
and the dogs and the eagles and warriors!" Then
she stops short, breathes deep, and pulls up phlem.
She spits on the ground; it is clear and healthy.
"We spit upon their throne; we deny their place
at the head of our lives; we deny them any fame
or hope or existence. These gods--never the
way to truth--have occluded our search, face
to face they tell us that we're the inferior race."

{My own doubts are still full and fast. There might
be something to this even still, even still.}

"They're worse than us because they learn slowly;
even now, we see that bombs and wrath are tools
of last resort, and they act like the unwashed.
They are not our betters. We raid brutally
but with hope. We will kill those fools
who, on our sacrifice, lived petty, fought petty duels.
"And we see their castles brick by brick now,
each one white square and arranged by a slave.
Imagine such a life! An eternity of toil for naught;
for the mere pleasure of an ungrateful sow.
Zeus is mine. When I enter His castle, I'll pave
the world with his soldiers, from general to knave."

{Do her slaves hear her words as she promised freedom?
Do they know she lies like everyone before her?}

Small men--advisors--scurry all around. New news
from scouts and prisoners returned. "Silence,
silence!" she says, wills, orders. "Free the men
in chains. What treasures from our dues
to the gods lie ahead? How do we battle? Lance,
sword, or siege?" Them: "There is barely even a fence.
When we ran to the gates and threw them agape--
no longer afraid of terrible white towers, buttresses
overhead--we scurried and pillaged every corner, ran
upwards, forever upwards, into spires. Empty, from nape
to foundation, of gods or men." "Then, what nemesis
bound you, stripped you, and held you in place?"

{Who else is left? Who remains to lock them up? Logic
tells us who it must be, but it is still a cause for wonder.}

"Achlys, we locked ourselves in the dungon and traded
our freedom for fear of offense. We were afraid
of our freedom. We wish to return to our holes,
bound and miserable and secure." She looks over faded
skin, gaunt and hanging loose, and clothes frayed,
worn. She says, "Do you say that when we raid
we, too, will feel this fear, and feel an ache for restraint?"
"Aye." "Well," she says, "I have felt deep aches, though
I wouldn't call them aches from fear." We laugh. "Souls,"
she says, after the slow men understand her faint
wit, "take a boat to that river and row, quickly, row.
Stay mid-river. Rocks line the shores. Beware of undertows."

{Of course you don't know (do they?) just around
the bend: waterfalls and rocks and hard clay.}

"The Computer Did It"

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 29 May 2009 22:38:00 +0000

As of late, I've been thinking aloud here about thesis ideas so I can finally finish the M.A. I've been working on, well, forever. This is yet another one of those posts.

Except it's an idea I think I can wrap my tiny head around: a study of how people react to messages on their computer. Whose fault is it, really, that the computer crashed or who, in fact, created the error message. My initial thought is that the computer is trying to tell me something, right? Well, that's not necessarily the case; the case is that the programmer is trying to tell you something, but, in communication, it's not just what the issuer of the statement does or says that matters; an equally important idea is how the receiver interprets this statement.

So, what do they say? What do they believe?

So, a random idea is a survey of computer users; and also a survey of computer power users or administrators. Do they differ in their usage? What does it mean, if my hypothesis is true...