Calling all geeks

 "You will look gorgeous whatever you choose to wear, dear. I only ask that if there's tech swag to be had, score as much as possible."

     So wrote Supportive Partner Man (denizen of the Nerd Lair!) in a comment at the end of my previous post about BlogHer '12.
     I've been told that the companies represented at this weekend's event hand out metric tons of stuff to the many conventioneers. And some people, apparently, get into, um, collecting. Some veterans will warn you to be wary and watch you don't get into a fistfight over the heaping helpings of swag. Others say it's not a big deal.
   I don't know. I'd be happy just to pick up some nice pens. I'm always losing them.
   But I've been charged by my dear one to snag some flash drives if they're handy. Oh, and, for the love of all that's holy, be sure to submit my name if anyone's doing a drawing for iPads or cool software/games.
     Because we geek in so many ways at Chez T.
     Tech. Books. Video games. Legos. Sci-fi. Disney. And, of course, anywhere that these areas may cross over. For example, the 30th anniversary of Epcot — where tech and Disney get together and party — is coming up in October. SPM (Imagineer groupie!) is beyond stoked that we'll be in WDW for that event.
     We're always looking for ways to further fortify our geek-fu dojo. Our basement family room is, in fact, the Nerd Lair. I can't take any credit for the moniker. Another blogger I've read for a long while, Lori Summers, coined the term for a room in her house, and it just stuck with us because it's so bloody appropriate. It's packed to the rafters with Penn State memorabilia, movies, CDs, giant Lego Star Wars models, scads of wired, blinking electronic devices and a fully-stocked bar.
     But whether I come home with anything more than what I left with or not, I was made to stop fretting about shoes and feel much better about my potential BH social experience last night. I found out that my buddy April and I will not be the only Whovians in the house.
     We've stumbled upon a fellow conventioneer who is the co-author of "Goodnight, Pond." This upcoming book, based on the classic "Goodnight, Moon," is being done as a parody of the British sci-fi classic "Doctor Who." I can't wait to meet her ... and read it. I also am seriously looking forward to meeting some new people with similar frames of reference.
     Besides the aforementioned co-author, a few more geek-adjacent personnel have popped out of the BlogHer woodwork as well. We even briefly discussed making an attempt to hit the Who-themed bar in Brooklyn, The Way Station, to watch the first in a four-pack of BBC America Doctor Who specials. However, that was just a bit too much to try and squeeze into what's shaping up to be a jam-packed couple of days. (So the DVR is set to snag, bag and tag the Who-y goodness so I may watch when I get home. Which reminds me, I also must catch up on Warehouse 13 and Breaking Bad. But that's a whole other post.)
      Instead, I think we'll likely settle for catching up at a breakfast and speculating on the upcoming season, the impending new companion and the utter badassery of the weeping angels.
     Works for me. Speak geek, will travel.
     Now, if I can just find a sponsor who's handing out sonic screwdrivers...
   

Playing dress-up

     The impending trip to BlogHer '12 has me facing a challenge I seldom like to stare down: my closet.
     However, the pre-BH Facebook group of which I am a member features seemingly countless threads pertaining to what I will be wearing, on both my tubby person and my wide, but otherwise undistinguished feet. The photos of the 12 pairs of shoes, 16 sparkly tops and 10 stylish dresses some conventioneers are toting along have me hyperventilating. That's primarily because, in terms of what I wear, I long ago decided to agree with a concept brought forth by the late, great Gilda Radner:

"I base my fashion sense on what doesn't itch."

     I am the anti-fashionista.
     I dress well only when I absolutely must. Weddings, funerals, job interviews, weeknights in the office. Otherwise it's jeans/shorts, flip-flops/sneakers and T-shirts. The only thing remotely girly about me is my enjoyment of a well-timed spa service. (Someone remind me to write about the joys of Hershey's Chocolate Spaaaaaaah sometime, OK?)
     However, at BH, there is are dressy-dressy parties out the wazoo, including a party called "Sparklecorn." Folks are going all out about being as spangly-dangly as possible for it. I do not sparkle. Not on a plane or a train, neither with a fox nor in a box, to go all Dr. Seuss on you. Nope, I do not sparkle here or there; I do not sparkle anywhere.
     I can see why some might want to at least do the business casual thing at the conference itself. There will be an expo floor to mix, mingle and do the sponsorship mating dance with representatives of more than 115 brands from Canon to Land O' Lakes to Logitech.    
     But I want to travel light: a tote bag with a toothbrush, a change of clothes and my iPad. It's New York City in August, and I am going primarily to attend sessions that I hope will give my aging brain a booster shot of enthusiasm and a some much-needed instruction in new media. I just want to get a podcasting tutorial and a better grasp of SEO. Can't I just wear shorts, sneakers and a T-shirt and lurk in comfort?
     I have the better part of four days to decide.

Adaptation

     Apparently, when I take on a new challenge, I don't start small.
     I classify myself as a vintage — OK, old — journalist. No, I'm not old enough to have worked with typewriters or hot type. When I began, though, we were still working with AP Leafdesks, photo wheels, paste-up boards, waxers and Exacto knives. We had no Internet. Gasp! No Google! Cellphones were huge, antennaed luxury items. Filing stories remotely involved phone couplers and "Trash-80s" or, more often than not for this reporter, writing a story longhand, then standing outside at a pay phone and dictating it in the dark, rain, snow or iron-forge heat.
    But, unlike some colleagues I have had over the years, I do not harbor a fear dread loathing ... an outright terror of advancing technology. If my abrupt, shocking entry into the world of pagination taught me nothing else, it was that things in my industry can change at the drop of a hat, and it's best to just keep learning.
     To elaborate, in 1995, I was working at The Trentonian (yes, the one with the ridiculous tabloid-y news heds and Page Six girls ... don't judge, I was in sports, the legitimate portion of the operation). One day, a bunch of humorless men from JRC corporate swooped into the newsroom for a few minutes and said, "You're live on a new system tonight. It's called 'Quark XPress.' Paginate, or you're fired."
     Then they swooped right back out the door. That was the extent of our official training.
     Luckily, we had one guy, a recent college grad, who had used Quark in a journ lab. He knew enough to get us through that night. After we miraculously produced a section, we went to the bar and had a couple of bracers. Then we went back to the office, where Joe's Quark Night School came to order. For several weeks, we repeated the process every night until another guy and I had learned enough to do it ourselves.
     Of course, that's about normal for me. I've never taken a journalism course of any kind. I was an English major. But, 23 years after writing my first bylined article, nine stops (one of them twice) on the newspaper food chain, two layoffs and a handful of freelance gigs, I'm still standing. I'm not at ESPN or the New York Times or other major metropolitan news outlets like some of my college friends, but I'm still slugging it out in my chosen field 20 years after graduation.
     Why? Because it's adapt or watch the career you can't be you without wither and die.
     Which brings us to the next twist in the road.
     Everyone says newspapers are dying. While I'm hoping that ultimately won't be the case — I mean, come on, where else are you getting information on the day-to-day machinations of your small community? — I realize that there are avenues I should take for self-enrichment and future considerations.
     That's why I started writing this blog. It's not journalism. It's my opinion on a variety of topics. I began not necessarily to gain a following, but to try to get myself in the habit of writing regularly again, and to get a handle on the technology of a blogging platform, because the information industry is growing in this direction.
     But the more I've worked with this blog, the more I've realized it's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There's a teeming Internet society based on commercial blogging efforts. What's more, there are all sorts of conferences for bloggers held on a regular basis all over the country, offering a wide variety of classes/seminars and extensive opportunities for networking.
     In fact, I'm going to one very soon.
     It's not just any conference, either. It's "BlogHer" — the biggest one run. You've seen one of their icons over to the left here for a few weeks now.
     As I said, I apparently don't start small. I'm throwing myself into the deep end here. From what I've been told, there will be between 4,000 and 4,500 bloggers at this gathering, to be held in New York City the first weekend in August. Katie Couric will be a speaker, as will Martha Stewart.
     I was introduced to the conference by my good friend April, with whom I'll be rooming. I've been following along on Twitter, and have been inducted into a couple of Facebook groups of attendees. The planning and hyping online is reaching a fever pitch, and quite frankly I'm feeling a tad overwhelmed. I get the distinct feeling most of the women who are coming (I'm told there will be a few guys there, too) are seasoned pros at this whole blogging-attracting-sponsors-networking thing, and that I'll be at a disadvantage.
     The writing and editing part I'd like to think I'm solid on. It's the business angle on which I'm flying blind, and that's my goal for this whole conference. I have a distinct business idea for future exploration percolating in my mind and on my computer, but I know I need to acquire some additional technical skills and a foundation in marketing for my plan to take root and flourish. That's something the newsroom has never taught me.
     So, here I am again.
     Time to start learning something new.
     Time to take a deep breath and leap.

Moving ahead from a blue-and-white scandal

     This may disappoint some people, and possibly outrage others, but I won’t be traveling to the Old Main Lawn to torch my diploma from Penn State.

     I worked too bloody hard for it.

     For months now, I’ve held my tongue as the hits kept on coming: The initial Jerry Sandusky bombshell. Joe Paterno’s ouster and subsequent death from lung cancer. Sandusky’s trial and conviction. And now the Freeh Report.

     All the while, there's seemed to be a rousing game of dogpile on the rabbit going on, complete with snide comments and dirty looks any time I've worn an article of State-themed clothing.

     But I’m not about to change who I am.

     Because I am Penn State.

     We’re not all child molesters.

     We’re not all cover-up artists.

     And we’re certainly not all apologists.

     Yep, some downright disgusting things happened to kids, things that shouldn’t happen anywhere. Yet they do happen. All too often and in far too many places.

     There were shenanigans at the top of an institutional food chain in a misguided attempt to sweep wrongdoing under the rug. That, too, shouldn’t happen anywhere. Yet it does, again all too often.

     Then again, in a nation where the national pasttime is trending toward butt-covering and buck-passing instead of baseball, this shouldn’t surprise anyone.

     When crimes this heinous occur within a high-profile institution, though, all the wolves come out, baying for extra rations of blood.

     We hear people with no connections to the case opine about how they would have handled the situation. They would have swooped in to save the day. They would have shot Jerry Sandusky right between the eyes. They wouldn’t have let anyone get away with anything.

     I won’t disagree that sort of — stoppage — would have been welcome.

     It is, however, unrealistic ... illegal, even.

     I feel horrible that any of this happened at my school, under the watch of people I respected. You just don’t do that sort of thing to defenseless younglings. It’s beyond the pale.

     But justice, despite its unconcionably long delay, has been served. Jerry Sandusky is behind bars, and is no longer a threat to children. 

     How about JoePa? He was no saint. He did many wonderful things for the university community. But he ruled the Nittany Kingdom with a hand that was beyond firm. He committed the sin of pride on an epic scale. Ultimately, it was his undoing. And now? The man's dead. He can't do anything more to help or hinder anyone.

     The others at the helm of this shameful episode have been kicked off the ship. Let the courts take care of them.

     It's a brand new day at Penn State. New university president. Some new trustees. New football staff. New sense of transparency. And, every semester, without fail, throngs of new students with no connection whatsoever to events past.

     So leave off shaking your fists in impotent rage and let the rest of us get to work for tomorrow. We quite fully comprehend the wrongs that have been done here, thanks. They make us just as sick as they make you. But you know what? Just because we're not willing to sever our ties to a place that was instrumental in forming who we are today doesn't make us criminals by association.

     Kindly quit confusing this horrible episode with the thousands upon thousands of good, hardworking, intelligent people upon whom Penn State has been bestowing degrees since 1855. 

     Turning your anger on us doesn't stop child abuse from happening. Not at Penn State, not in the Catholic church (or any church, for that matter), not in the Boy Scouts of America and not at your local elementary/middle/high school. Not even in the house across the street, where the cops just led your kindly, bespectacled, sweater-vested neighbor out in handcuffs after learning he possessed the biggest stash of kiddie porn in county history.

     Full disclosure: I interviewed Jerry Sandusky one-on-one once, way back in the early 1990s. I was covering a golf tournament benefitting his Second Mile charity. We chatted for a long while. He was kind, polite, funny. He spoke earnestly about providing help for kids who needed it. 

     He was not wearing a badge that said, "I do unspeakable things to kids."

     I doubt any molester does.

     I'd wager that we all come in contact with these people, and are just as in the dark as I was that bright, sunny day in at the golf course.

     It seems to me that all we can do as human beings is try and be aware of our surroundings. If we see something that's suspect, we should do our best to try and bring the truth of the matter to light. Continuing to harp on a case that's resolved doesn't help those who were victimized. All we can do is learn from wrongs and missteps, extend our hands to the victims in support, and then try and work together to head other potential tragedies off at the pass.

     So, no more outrage, please. No more recriminations. No more finger-pointing. It's counterproductive, and the time for it has passed. It's a brand new day.

     I'm extending my hand. Let's move forward together, shall we?

Steam heat and American Stick Insects

     So much for that twofer post ... is that really a week ago? Gee, time flies.

     No, I didn't get trapped under a pile of falling stuff last Friday. Literally, anyway. Figuratively? I always get trapped under a pile of falling stuff. I'm not quite sure how my attention always seems to get diverted by something else (my Disney fan friends are now shouting "squirrel!" in unison, I think), but I am prone to being easily sidetracked.

     So, let's see. What's been going on at Chez T since last I checked in?

     Our traditional family yard sale has been postponed — it was scheduled for tomorrow morning — because it's going to be ridiculously, disgustingly hot and humid. As The Lovely Cousin Jody explained it, it was for the best to postpone because: A, we didn't think it wise to make some of our older family members have to come out in the heat; and, B, the thought of haggling with the masses while overheated and drenched with sweat might lead to some, shall we say, unwelcome fits of temper ... or perhaps spontaneous combustion.

     The part of me that enjoys hanging out with some of my favorite family members is disappointed, but the part of me that enjoys air conditioning is quite pleased.

     And anyway, we'll still be having it, just on a (hopefully cooler) Saturday to be named later.

     Hmm, what else?

     In the ongoing gym-based serial "Tales of Brave Supportive Partner Man (he picks things up and puts them down!)," SPM has been chugging right along. He made his first visit to a support group last night, and his friendly neighborhood exercise physiologists, Ryan and Cory, apparently are happy with his progress in the gym. They have increased his weights and time on the cardio equipment. He's been coming home drenched and achy, but rightfully feeling quite good about himself. 

     As an extra bonus, he even went to the regular gym today for the first time in about two years. Although I am but the B-plot in this story — I'm shooting to earn an Emmy award for comic relief — I am happy to say that I got out of bed and accompanied him. I tried a different program on the elliptical today, which was going quite well until the machine told me to pedal backwards. I managed to do it without falling on my head, so, score. Lasted nearly five minutes going that way, too. But my quads are killing me.   

     The interesting part of going to the gym is the other people. There are a few who are built like we are, but most of them fall into three categories: fit, fitter and American Stick Insect. The last of which I remain intimidated by. There was one woman on the step machine today with eye-popping washboard abs and what looked to be 0.17 percent body fat. I know this because she was ruthlessly owning the machine while wearing only her spandex shorts and her sports bra. Seriously, you could liposuction me to within an inch of my life, then lock me in the gym for a month with only granola, water and the arc trainer to sustain me and I doubt I could be that thin. I know there are many of these people who are very nice. However, I've had issues with a few who have given me the stinkeye as I've loaded my tubby butt onto the elliptical, hinting that I had no right to be breathing their air.

     Makes me want to force-feed them a donut or six.

     SPM says he refuses to be intimidated by these people any longer, and he's going to go to the gym whether he feels wanted or not. He's just reported he's lost another belt notch, so I guess he's the one with the most correct outlook.