I run the social media program for a nonprofit in St. Paul. This has been a rewarding experience and I have learned much. But there is one thing I am struggling with and would like some advice on.
My nonprofit deals with some technical and political issues. And because I have been engaging our followers on Twitter, this means I have recently had to provide answers to some questions that are over my head for both technical and political reasons. I'm not going to leave questions unanswered (that's horrible practice), but I'm not going to BS someone. So I go to the appropriate expert staff member for the answer. I've been able to get appropriate responses within about 24 hours, which, when at-replying someone, is fine.
But now that it's the holidays, and now that we are taking some stances on some sensitive issues, I find myself frustrated. Hard questions are being asked (which is exciting!), but I have no expert staff around to help me answer them, because they are taking some much deserved paid time off. Meanwhile, hard questions go unanswered. What is a social media practitioner to do?
My instinct has been to email the appropriate staff with the question (as per usual) and to make a note to myself to follow up later. But I imagine a time will come when the person asking the question simply doesn't care any more.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Minnesota Comic Chad Daniels on the Tonight Show
On Tuesday night a man from Fergus Falls, MN was on Conan O'Brien's Tonight Show as the comedy guest. I always love when comedians are featured instead of bands.
This dude, Chad Daniels, was funny in a very generic way. He told jokes about his family in a cadence reminiscent of Jimmy Carr (who was also on Conan this summer, apparently), which worked. And while I laughed, this man has done nothing especially notable. He told jokes about how his children annoy him, how he wants to abandon them, and how they are idiots. Honestly, I liked it way better when Louis C.K. did it, like, ten years ago.
But, even so, it's definitely worth devoting five minutes to enjoying, if only for the fact that he is from Minnesota and he was on teevee:
This dude, Chad Daniels, was funny in a very generic way. He told jokes about his family in a cadence reminiscent of Jimmy Carr (who was also on Conan this summer, apparently), which worked. And while I laughed, this man has done nothing especially notable. He told jokes about how his children annoy him, how he wants to abandon them, and how they are idiots. Honestly, I liked it way better when Louis C.K. did it, like, ten years ago.
But, even so, it's definitely worth devoting five minutes to enjoying, if only for the fact that he is from Minnesota and he was on teevee:
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Dream Workplace
Sort of in response to Conner and then Emily's posts about what sort of bar they'd like to operate, and in light of this morning's commute, I would like to share some of my thoughts about the kind of office I'd run if it were up to me.
Armchairs. I always find I do my best work when I'm sitting in one of my armchairs. I would like to bring this into my work environment.
Bigass windows. I love to look out a window, and that enjoyment is increased with the size of the window. Also, natural light is a natural source of happiness and relaxation. Natural light is important.
Full kitchen. This is for breakfast. You can't buy a decent breakfast for less than $10, and I'm not made of money. (Alternately, since the idea is that perhaps I am the proprietor of this office, I didn't get rich by spending $10 on breakfast.) I will roll into the office 30 minutes early and cook biscuits and gravy for myself and all my coworkers using the full kitchen.
Liquor at 3 pm. Let's not be prudes, here. Sometimes I work better when I have an ounce or two of Scotch in me. Sometimes productivity rises midway into a Guinness. And hey! Why not do like the Red Stag does and put a shot or two of espresso in that Guinness? Relaxing and stimulating. This is what we all need at 3 pm, and it's the prudes and jerks of the world who prevent us from having it.
Downtown. My plan is to stay in the Twin Cities, and the public transit system in the area is exceedingly downtown-centric. So, my office will be directly at or within three blocks of most major bus lines, which my house will also be at or within three blocks of.
Armchairs. I always find I do my best work when I'm sitting in one of my armchairs. I would like to bring this into my work environment.
Bigass windows. I love to look out a window, and that enjoyment is increased with the size of the window. Also, natural light is a natural source of happiness and relaxation. Natural light is important.
Full kitchen. This is for breakfast. You can't buy a decent breakfast for less than $10, and I'm not made of money. (Alternately, since the idea is that perhaps I am the proprietor of this office, I didn't get rich by spending $10 on breakfast.) I will roll into the office 30 minutes early and cook biscuits and gravy for myself and all my coworkers using the full kitchen.
Liquor at 3 pm. Let's not be prudes, here. Sometimes I work better when I have an ounce or two of Scotch in me. Sometimes productivity rises midway into a Guinness. And hey! Why not do like the Red Stag does and put a shot or two of espresso in that Guinness? Relaxing and stimulating. This is what we all need at 3 pm, and it's the prudes and jerks of the world who prevent us from having it.
Downtown. My plan is to stay in the Twin Cities, and the public transit system in the area is exceedingly downtown-centric. So, my office will be directly at or within three blocks of most major bus lines, which my house will also be at or within three blocks of.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
In Defense of Jimmy Fallon
I would like to take a moment to pose a complaint about Jimmy Fallon on his television program, and then totally refute myself.
Have you seen Late Night with Jimmy Fallon? He sucks at interviewing! He doesn't even let his guests talk. He just jokes around.
YES BUT
Have you ever seen a guest on a late night talk show? They are all vapid actors (save for Brian Williams, Al Roker, Will Ferrel, and Harrison Ford). They suck! Who wants to hear about the cute thing their baby did? Nobody, that's who.
So when Jimmy Fallon takes over the interview--even if he is only mostly funny--and gets the three mentions of the movie or TV show in, I say good work. That is moving things forward in the late night talk show realm.
Have you seen Late Night with Jimmy Fallon? He sucks at interviewing! He doesn't even let his guests talk. He just jokes around.
YES BUT
Have you ever seen a guest on a late night talk show? They are all vapid actors (save for Brian Williams, Al Roker, Will Ferrel, and Harrison Ford). They suck! Who wants to hear about the cute thing their baby did? Nobody, that's who.
So when Jimmy Fallon takes over the interview--even if he is only mostly funny--and gets the three mentions of the movie or TV show in, I say good work. That is moving things forward in the late night talk show realm.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Give Me a Break, I Got Hit by a Car
In an effort to A) populate this blog with good writing, B) share some of my favorite works published elsewhere, C) maybe drum up some interest in starting a comedy writing workshop group because I miss the old writers meetings from when I worked on the Times New Roman, I am going to be publishing several of my old comedy pieces. Enjoy.
This piece was published in the June 7, 2006 issue of Boston's Weekly Dig.
Last week, I got hit by a car. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I was walking to Northeastern from my apartment in Mission Hill, and I was going down Wigglesworth (teehee) Street when I saw the T. It was just sitting there, with its door open, saying, “Art! Come ride me! It’s not far to campus, but you might as well be sitting comfortably.” I considered the T’s offer, and decided that indeed I should sit comfortably, as sitting is one of my favorite things.
So I bolted across Wigglesworth (teehee) Street, careful to check to see if there were any cars coming, and sure enough, there were. However, in my haste to catch the T before it left, I performed my car-check only after I had already committed myself to a full-out sprint into the middle of the street.
I decided I could probably jump and let the oncoming car pass under me, à la Mario dodging one of those bullets with a face, but the car was too fast. I slid up the hood of the car, coming to a momentary stop on the windshield; then physics had its way with me, and I was deposited onto the street.
I did a quick mental once-over of my entire nervous system, and nothing was telling me: “Over here! This is where your death-inducing injury has occurred!” I was fine. Nothing was broken, nothing was fractured, nothing was bleeding. Only two parts of my body were remotely in pain: my Primary Impact Zone, the upper right-hand quadrant of my back where I hit the windshield, and my Secondary Impact Zone, my left shoulder where I hit the street.
Wait a minute. I ran into the middle of the street without looking both ways, got hit by a car (as I was warned would happen every day of elementary school ever), and then what? Nothing! What the hell!? I’ve had worse injuries falling off my bike. Onto a bed of pillows. Pillows that feed you candy somehow.
I’ve come up with a few possible explanations for this remarkable turn of events. First, it is possible that I am invincible; after all, I am a 21-year-old man. Second, it is possible that the driver was a puss and didn’t accelerate when he saw me run into the street, but instead slowed down (what a baby). Third, the car that hit me, a Toyota Prius, was probably so wussed-out—since it uses hybrid-electric power and a higher mixture of ethanol instead of burning only pure, delicious gasoline—that it couldn’t do any damage to anyone, ever. I mean, had I been hit by a Hummer or something of equal manliness (I’m kidding, I know there is nothing as manly as a Hummer), I would have been squashed like the pedestrian bug that I was.
It was probably a combination of these elements that allowed me to stand up, brush the dust off my pants, and head directly to my girlfriend’s apartment, where I proceeded to kick her ass at Monopoly (apparently, I was on a winning streak against cars that day). But damn it all if the T didn’t leave before I could catch it.
This piece was published in the June 7, 2006 issue of Boston's Weekly Dig.
Last week, I got hit by a car. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I was walking to Northeastern from my apartment in Mission Hill, and I was going down Wigglesworth (teehee) Street when I saw the T. It was just sitting there, with its door open, saying, “Art! Come ride me! It’s not far to campus, but you might as well be sitting comfortably.” I considered the T’s offer, and decided that indeed I should sit comfortably, as sitting is one of my favorite things.
So I bolted across Wigglesworth (teehee) Street, careful to check to see if there were any cars coming, and sure enough, there were. However, in my haste to catch the T before it left, I performed my car-check only after I had already committed myself to a full-out sprint into the middle of the street.
I decided I could probably jump and let the oncoming car pass under me, à la Mario dodging one of those bullets with a face, but the car was too fast. I slid up the hood of the car, coming to a momentary stop on the windshield; then physics had its way with me, and I was deposited onto the street.
I did a quick mental once-over of my entire nervous system, and nothing was telling me: “Over here! This is where your death-inducing injury has occurred!” I was fine. Nothing was broken, nothing was fractured, nothing was bleeding. Only two parts of my body were remotely in pain: my Primary Impact Zone, the upper right-hand quadrant of my back where I hit the windshield, and my Secondary Impact Zone, my left shoulder where I hit the street.
Wait a minute. I ran into the middle of the street without looking both ways, got hit by a car (as I was warned would happen every day of elementary school ever), and then what? Nothing! What the hell!? I’ve had worse injuries falling off my bike. Onto a bed of pillows. Pillows that feed you candy somehow.
I’ve come up with a few possible explanations for this remarkable turn of events. First, it is possible that I am invincible; after all, I am a 21-year-old man. Second, it is possible that the driver was a puss and didn’t accelerate when he saw me run into the street, but instead slowed down (what a baby). Third, the car that hit me, a Toyota Prius, was probably so wussed-out—since it uses hybrid-electric power and a higher mixture of ethanol instead of burning only pure, delicious gasoline—that it couldn’t do any damage to anyone, ever. I mean, had I been hit by a Hummer or something of equal manliness (I’m kidding, I know there is nothing as manly as a Hummer), I would have been squashed like the pedestrian bug that I was.
It was probably a combination of these elements that allowed me to stand up, brush the dust off my pants, and head directly to my girlfriend’s apartment, where I proceeded to kick her ass at Monopoly (apparently, I was on a winning streak against cars that day). But damn it all if the T didn’t leave before I could catch it.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Yes, I Once Put Bits of Churro in My Beard
There has been some unease about my MaBeGroMo ambition of letting my beard grow for a month. Namely, Emily is worried that I will put bits of churro in there.
"Ha ha!" you might be thinking to yourself, "That Emily! Always with a witty remark, she." Yes, except her concern is not a nonsequitor or other silliness. Her concern is rooted in factual history.
When I was 16, I had a full beard. (Hell, when I was 15 I had a full beard, but this story takes place a year later.) The problem with giving a 16 year old full facial hair privileges is that he will abuse them by growing a chin beard out to four inches long and try to impress his friends with the all the different foods he can fit in there. I don't remember the exact number of churro bits I got in there, but it was in the vicinity of many many.
"Ha ha!" you might be thinking to yourself, "That Emily! Always with a witty remark, she." Yes, except her concern is not a nonsequitor or other silliness. Her concern is rooted in factual history.
When I was 16, I had a full beard. (Hell, when I was 15 I had a full beard, but this story takes place a year later.) The problem with giving a 16 year old full facial hair privileges is that he will abuse them by growing a chin beard out to four inches long and try to impress his friends with the all the different foods he can fit in there. I don't remember the exact number of churro bits I got in there, but it was in the vicinity of many many.
MaBeGroMo Picture: Day 2
Yesterday I announced that I will grow my beard for MaBeGroMo. I also promised that a picture was forthcoming, and I do not lie. This picture was not taken on Day One of MaBeGroMo, but it's close enough. I give you my unusually long-looking head and The Beard on MaBeGroMo Day Two:
You can expect a MaBeGroMo update mid-month, and then a photo from the 31st.*
*We'll see if Emily lets me achieve the extra goal, set forth by Dyer, of going all the way until Valentine's Day. We have an anniversary in there somewhere, so I'm thinking probably not. But we'll see!
You can expect a MaBeGroMo update mid-month, and then a photo from the 31st.*
*We'll see if Emily lets me achieve the extra goal, set forth by Dyer, of going all the way until Valentine's Day. We have an anniversary in there somewhere, so I'm thinking probably not. But we'll see!
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