instant expert

As with most web users, when I set out to research something, Google is my inevitable first stop. As a result, that site holds great power in designating expertise. Show up as a top result for a search string, and it’s assumed that you know something about the topic that led the searcher to your site.

As I’ve previously written, that’s not always the best assumption. While I continue to pick up a dozen hits a day on ‘urinal etiquette’, a topic I have written about in depth, I also draw equal numbers from searches like ‘fat naked guys’ and ‘lesbian self-photography’, topics that, while obviously enthralling, fall a bit further outside my area of expertise.

Apparently, even people who should know much better are using Google in this way. A Newsweek editor, for example, emailed a couple of months back while researching an article on specialty teas. And while the extent of my contribution to that area of knowledge is essentially limited to occasionally talking shit about Starbucks’ decision to sell sub-par Tazo, I still managed to get my father quoted in her article as a result.

I’ve been particularly amused, however, by the recent spate of visitors arriving at this site by searching for the string ‘asdjf’. I mean, that’s not even a word – it’s what you get when you smash your hand down nonsensically on the center row of a keyboard. Still, each day I get thoughtful, dorky questions like:

“I would like to know what words that appear to be just a random sequence of letters, usually containing elements of the set {a, s, d, f, h, j, i} mean. Sometimes the “words” are separated by semi-colons. Examples are “asdjf,” “asf,” “asdfkl” and “sldfjasjkdf.” Teenagers and young adults use them on the internet and chat rooms, many times in conjunction with “grrrr” (which I presume to be an expression of anger.)”

To which I can only say: aas;lkdfj alj;fsdk kljalfsd a;sldkfjads;fkl.

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effigy

This Saturday, following a fair bit of drinking at Bar Nine for Yoav’s twenty-sixth birthday, we all headed back to his apartment to brave the rain and burn a teddy-bear.

Sadly, neither Yoav nor I can lay claim to the idea of stuffed animal torching – the credit instead belongs to attendeed Mike Schupbach, three-time Emmy winner (seriously) and head Muppet Wrangler for Sesame Street, who suggested that Yoav write everything negative that had happened to him over the last year on a piece of paper, stick it up the bear’s hoo-haa, and then light the whole thing on fire in a Santeria-esque ritual that would doubtless permanently traumatize any six year-olds who happened to catch a glimpse of the action.

By the time of the burning, everyone wanted in on the act, and so the poor little bear was loaded up with an array of scribbled-on paper scraps, doused with enough lighter fluid to match Hades, and set ablaze.

The flames leapt a good five feet in the air, and when the rain finally cooled the embers, there was less left of Teddy than a well grilled hamburger leaves behind. And while we all likely took years off our lives inhaling the chemical fumes flame-retardant stuffing apparently puts out when push beyond the limits of its retardation, it was clearly worth it.

We left feeling cleansed, ready to face the world, knowing that whatever problems, trials and tribulations we’d previously faced had all gone up in smoke, stuffed up a teddy-bear’s ass.

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throwing in the towel

My best intentions to the contrary, it appears there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to run this shoot, blog about it on Cyan’s site, and blog about it here.

So, to minimize the insanity of this week’s endeavor, I won’t be posting here until I return from Israel next weekend, focusing instead on hitting the daily post mark at www.cyanpictures.com.

Head on over and take a look; I’ll do my best to make it worth your click.

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the world on my shoulders

When I was in middle school and high school, I hated, hated, being assigned group projects. Inevitably, someone (or multiple someones) would drop the ball, and I’d be left frantically trying to cover for them.

I’m having that same feeling this week, as, despite there being ostensibly two other producers on this Israel documentary, all of their work seems to be eventually ending up in my lap. And though that’s somewhat detrimental to me sleep schedule, sanity, and week-focused-on-jazz ambitions, it’s probably for the best. In the same way that I’ve always preferred individual sports to team ones, there’s something oddly comforting about knowing that if it all goes to shit once we head out to shoot, there will be nobody to blame but myself.

Related addendum:

“There is no monument dedicated to the memory of a committee.”
– Lester J. Pourciau

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where in the world

Escaping the thunderstorms and humidity, I’m off to California for a week of tech-dork consulting, meeting with animation firms for a possible upcoming Cyan film, and (most importantly) honing my trumpet skills at the Stanford Jazz Workshop.

Posts, I realize, have been a bit sparse of late, but I’m trying to get back to a daily schedule. Also, as things are gearing up for a Cyan documentary that starts shooting next week in Israel (yes, kids, I’m racking up the frequent-flyer miles like a pro), I should also be writing regularly in my movie mogul alter-ego at www.cyanpictures.com.

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