the slack daily

The Internet Fuck-Off Rule.

Today I got up early, walked & medicated Daisy and set her up in her crate, and headed down to USC to check out the Transmedia S/Telling the Story conference.

I knew I wouldn't be able to stay all day - Will leaves the house at 7am and doesn't get back until 8pm most days - so I'd need to be back mid-afternoon to walk and care for Daisy.

A few minutes after I turned onto Jefferson I heard the WHOOMP!

Then the tire warning light went off.

I drive a Mini, which has run-flat tires. But they're not magic. I pulled over to assess the damage and realized that the tire was deflating more quickly than normal. I could try to make it home in the thick of traffic and hope that I didn't damage the wheel.

Or I could call AAA, get towed to the tire place. My tires were nearly bald - they're the ones that came with the car when I bought it. Seven years ago.

I called AAA, called Just Tires, and then hopped on Twitter while I waited.

I was deluged with Tweets asking me if I needed anything. And then came the DMs, which alerted me to the fact that I was doing this all WRONG.

Why didn't I just change the tire myself? Why didn't I try to drive home? Why did I think I needed new tires? Why was I making fun of the guys in the rape van who offered me a backup plan in case Will and I didn't work out? Why didn't I just walk home?

I understand any time you put something on the Internet, people are going to comment. But I believe it's time to explain my Internet Fuck-Off Rule.

If I have asked or solicited advice, then I am obligated to politely listen to said advice, even if I don't agree with it or plan on taking it.

If I have not asked for or solicited advice, I am free to tell you to Fuck Off when advice is offered.

And I admit I was wrong about the rape van comments. It turns out the area I broke down in hasn't had a reported rape in seven days!

Just a whole bunch of violent robberies. (From LAPD Crime Maps.)

The Price is Right.

Tiger Woods is reportedly offering his wife, Elin Nordegren 80 million dollars to stay with him for seven years.

Regardless of what you think of the whole Tiger Woods brouhaha (and I wonder why haven't celebrities figured out by now that if you cheat you will get caught? It's not if you get caught...it's when) 80 million dollars is a serious chunk of change.

On our honeymoon (BTW, I seriously recommend honeymoons...I think we'll be taking one every couple of years, if not every year) Will asked me if I'd marry him again. 

This was a serious question to consider, now that I knew that the going rate for Elin was 80 million bucks over seven, I could figure my worth accordingly.

When I married Will, I got four crates of records, a box of Jo-Jos, and a three years' worth of podcasts from Scharpling's Best Show on WFMU.

I still came out ahead.

The Honeymooners

Two and a half years after getting married, Will and I are finally going on a (small) honeymoon. We're heading up to San Francisco (if you'd like to see us, RSVP to this!) for a few days. 

We're flying Virgin, which offers the opportunity to upgrade 24 hours before you fly for a smaller fee than if you had booked a first class ticket at the start.  Seats were available, so I took the plunge.

Why not? How many times are we going to go on a honeymoon? I asked him.

Three times, tops.

CPR...

Remember that time when I used to blog about stuff in my life, like important stuff, thoughts and hopes and dreams and cures for cancer and solutions to the health care crisis and posts that brought families together and made you laugh and cry?

Yeah, me neither.

However, I have noticed that I've used this space to promote what I'm working on (Woke Up Dead, Valemont), my dog (she is cute when she eats ice cream), the GAP (Miz Brat, your gift certificate is in the mail, I swear), the show I host with my husband every Saturday night (except for this Saturday night, we'll be seeing my nemesis Paul F. Tompkins and friends at the Largo.)

I haven't written about anything going on in my life because I haven't been living my life right now.

As a writer, you breathe life into your characters on the page. While you're supposed to know what their favorite color is and how they feel about their father and what they've got in their pockets, your characters live and die on the page. (And eventually, on the screen if you're doing that sort of thing.)

But when you're working on a project that covers multiple platforms - call it outreach, call it viral marketing, call it transmedia - your characters are always living and breathing. On Facebook. On Twitter. They react to events. They converse with their friends. They pick fights. Sure, they promote your project but they promote it simply by existing. By being themselves. Unique voices. Unique perspectives.

It's a pretty exciting time, seeing how people react to these beings out there - part pixel, part actor. The audience can choose to accept them as real and participate, or watch them as a separate storyline, or ignore them completely. 

Just like they'd do with living, breathing human beings.

Except that these characters need someone to breathe life into them.

And currently I'm performing a lot of CPR. ;)

Writer? Marketer? Brand Manage-wha?

Last night I attended Digital LA's "Characters Go Digital," which was held at the WGA. The night promised some interesting speakers, including my friend the Brilliant Jay Bushman (no really, that's his name!) as well as panelists representing brands from Looney Tunes to Spongebob to Wall-E to the Muppets.

When I read about it, I thought it was a can't-miss panel. With an hour of networking prior and after the event, I thought it would be a good opportunity to meet people within the digital entertainment community. The fact that they were mostly kids' properties made the virtual pot even sweeter. I'm a Kids' TV writer with animation experience with over thirty produced episodes of television. I've written on the upcoming web series "Woke Up Dead" and I created all the online content as well as the ARG for MTV's Valemont.

THESE ARE MY PEOPLE.

Networking events can be strange, because a lot of the times there seems to be little networking going on. The first thing that I do when I go to a digital event is let people know I'm going to be there, so I was announcing it on Twitter, Facebook and the like for days before. However, I still didn't know anyone in the room (except for my friend Jay, but I was there! to network!) The room was oppressively hot and it was difficult to read everyone's nametags, and while I'm generally good at walking into a room of people I don't know I felt sort of skeevy walking up to someone and saying THIS IS WHAT I DO.

I was thinking about this last night, wondering if there was a way to make these a little more specific - would I pay more if the people who ran the events actually "hosted," introducing people to others? I honestly don't know, but I need to figure out a better strategy. Again, this is an issue where I blame myself, not the organizer. However, I'd be curious what others in the tech community think.

The panel was great - even in instances where they covered ground I already knew, it reinforced some ideas that I already had and gave me additional ways to fight for those ideas when talking to studios and the like.

However, the impression I got (and it could be wrong) is that a lot of the online voices are being handled by marketers as opposed to writers. Or that marketers and writers are blending into one thing. While web TV has taught me to wear many hats - writer, producer, marketer - at the end of the day, I don't have a marketing background. I can't talk about ROI or clickthroughs, but I can discuss which characters should have a twitter and why, speak in multiple voices (I currently tweet over seven different character accounts) and engage with the community in the context of the narrative. 

Do I need a marketing background? Or do I need to market myself to marketers?

As we drifted away from brands and into ARGs, there was some talk about choice and the letting your audience discover things on their own rather than pushing them to do so. Valemont has taught me that even though you drop certain clues, people will interpret them and pick up the conversation and even though it's not what you imagined or planned, it's even better. Because your audience is now participating, they're using their wits to so and they have a stake. Sure, I'm laying track while the train is running, but that's the brilliance of immediacy of doing this all online.

At the end of the panel, everyone rushed to speak to the panelists and I watched and listened while people discussed specific bits of business, and in a couple of instances, tried to get money for their web series. While there's something delightfully egalitarian about the whole process - I admire anyone who can go up to a stranger and ask them for money - I couldn't figure out how to make an impression in thirty seconds that would make me stand out. 

At the moment, I'm not looking for a job or money, I'm looking for information and people within a community who are interested in telling stories any way they can. After my current gig with Electric Farm Entertainment is over (end of November) then sure, I will be looking for a job and money.

But even if I have neither, I'll be looking for a way to tell stories any way I can.

It Ain't Ozzie & Harriet.

Two things said to me in the last week:

Real Conversation #1:

The vomit should be more...chunky? Definitely chunks of things in it. Less transparent, more vomit-like.

Real Conversation #2

If the TV guy gets here in the next ten minutes, I won't be available. I mean, I'll be here, but I won't be available. I'll be in the bathroom. Because...well, you know. Okay, I'll be pooping, okay? I WILL BE POOPING!

I don't want kids because I was trying to avoid vomit and poop. But clearly IT IS LEGION.

...

You still have one more day to win a pair of free jeans from the GAP! More info here.

It's a Great Weekend When...

You get your face rocked off.

Not once, not twice, but three times.

Your husband gets to meet two of the people who inspire him to create more.

When Ted Leo introduces himself to you.

When people walk up to you at a venue and say, hey, I knew you were here since I read it on Twitter.

There are days when I feel like I am dumping the contents of my brain out at an insane pace. There's no way I can do enough, write enough, be funny enough, charming enough, empathetic enough, present enough. And then there are weekends where you meet people who remind you that you can.

And it's worth it.

Love and Rockets,

the slackmistress

A Gap $50 Gift Card for Your Most Embarrassing Clothing Story...

The following statement can now be found on my About Page:

Full Disclosure: As of July 2009, I am a Gap Brand Enthusiast. This is different than a Gap Band Enthusiast, as I am a fan of the Gap Brand an not the Gap Band. No disrespect to Gap Band fans.As a Gap Brand Enthusiast, I am not paid nor required to blog about Gap merchandise or functions. However, on occasion I do receive free merchandise for my own personal use as well as to give out on my blog. These blog posts will always have the hashtag #gapborntofit and will be categorized as such.

I have been wearing clothes from the Gap since the 70's. The only disclosure statement I have about that is that their jeans make my ass look good, and I will always say that for free.

On Thursday night, I had the pleasure of assembling women for all blogs of life together for a Gap Born to Fit Party at the Gap 1969 Pop-Up Store on Robertson Blvd. It was a night of sangria and laughing and, as I told everyone who walked in the door I invited you to a party where you have to take off your pants. 

We were all different shapes and sizes, as women have a tendency to be, but the one thing we all had in common is that we all left with a pair of 1969 jeans that made us feel like rockstars.

I'll write more about that when the photos come in. Also, if I managed to figure out the technology correctly, I even have a livevlog from the dressing room. It's like BetheMarriage, except pantsless.

Actually, it's exactly like BetheMarriage (which is on tonight at 8pm PST, by the by...)

But thanks to the folks at Gap and Brand About Town, I have a $50 gift certificate to give away! (And there may be more where that comes from, so stay tuned.)

All I want is you Most Embarrassing Clothing Story.

You must post this story in the comments (or you can post it on your blog with the hashtag #gapborntofit) but you MUST return here and comment with the link to the blog. I will be using a random number generator to pick the winner from the comments. This contest closes on Wednesday, August 19 at 5pm PST.

You ARE allowed to post more than one story to enter more than once - you can enter TWICE but they must be separate stories in separate comments! (2x is the cap, though.)

I don't qualify, but here's my Most Embarrassing Clothing Story after the cut.

Why You Shouldn't Invite Me Anywhere.

Will and I were at a the wedding of a friend of his a couple of weeks ago.  I had met the friend twice and his bride all of none times, but the best thing about weddings is that there's an open bar everyone's incredibly happy to be there, celebrating in the couple's special day.

The reception was held in the old Public Library in Redondo Beach, right on the water.  Along with the theme, there was a card catalog table set up with notecards and pens, so you could write something and file it away for the happy couple.

Will and I each took a card.  He was finished writing long before I was.  He grabbed me a glass of wine from the bar and brought it back as I filed my card in the catalog.

How long does it take to write Best Wishes? he asked.

Oh, I thought it was for advice.  I stammered.

What did you card say?

Um, I might have used the word 'asshole.' 

He shrugged.  You're probably the only one to write 'asshole' on their wedding cards.

I took a sip of wine.  Twice.

His eyebrows shot up. 

Look! Mini pizzas!

...

For the record, I wrote something akin to this:

On your wedding day, you're going to get all sorts of advice, but there's always going to be someone who says "don't ever go to bed angry."  If you don't go to bed angry, you might not get any sleep.  And it's never a good idea to argue when you're exhausted.  So I'll say this: when they're acting like an asshole, just remember: they're your asshole.  That's the asshole you fell in love with, and you still love. Don't forget that part.

(Okay, so three times.)

Pin the Glove on MJ.

Where I grew up, junior high started at sixth grade. I remember the year clearly, as it marked the first year that I took a bus to school. That I had a locker. That girls started "going out" with boys and being popular became A Real Thing. It was the start of the Mean Girls and cafeteria food and being split up into "teams."  Each team had a similar amount of kids as well as a "advanced" class and a "regular" class.

There were two (or three? someone help me out here) teams of sixth graders at Hadley Junior High back in 1983. I was on Team B.

The A and B teams rarely assembled together except for grade-wide field trips and the End of the Year Party. Each End of the Year Party had a theme. Our theme was Michael Jackson. There was a "Pin-the-Glove on MJ," there was a moonwalk contest, and there was a Michael Jackson impersonator that was slated to perform.

Only the Michael Jackson performer got lost and stopped for directions at a White Castle, where he was promptly mobbed by a crowd. He never made it to the party, and instead Todd and a couple of other guys showed off their "breakdancing" moves, which included some sorry-ass poppin' and lockin' (we were a bunch of suburban white kids, y'all) but no headspins as the teachers were afraid he'd break his neck. (This was before Todd started assaulting me between classes. He's the only guy I've kicked on the nuts on purpose and I'd do it again right this very minute on behalf of seventh-graders everywhere.)

Michael Jackson died today, and as the news came out over Twitter, I found myself sadder than I thought I'd be.

Will and I were talking about it this evening, asking why were we so sad for a man who was so profoundly flawed, a man who was, by all accounts, a child molester. As we told our stories about buying our first Michael Jackson albums, I realized what it was.

Michael Jackson, while he belonged to our parents as part of the Jackson 5, belonged to us when he went solo. Michael Jackson was our music. Michael Jackson was the first album that a lot of us ever bought. Ironic that the man-child marked my first foray into adulthood, which was developing my own musical tastes. My dad listened to the Temptations and the Four Tops, and mom was a Rolling Stones/Beatles/Simon and Garfunkel fan.  But Michael belonged to me. 

Many of us look back on the 80's through a veil of hipster irony and nostalgia, with our Thompson Twins and our Duran Duran and our Culture Club.  Most of the music seems dated.  Michael Jackson - who we watched endlessly as he pranced on the light-up sidewalk of Billie Jean on the newly-formed MTV - seems timeless. 

Except that today, his time was up.

I'm sad because it's a small reminder that while it seems like yesterday that I was playing "Pin-the-Glove on MJ," I'm nearly 37 years old.  At some point my time will be up, too.

Everyone is embedding Thriller, which of course we learned in dance class that year. However, my favorite MJ song (which we also danced to in class years later) is Smooth Criminal. Enjoy.