5.27.2010

Trust In Me, Just In Me

Today my good friend Brett McCracken wrote a post on his blog The Search that touched on the subject of Facebook and privacy. Brett posits that the recent privacy outcry on Facebook is "really just a scapegoat/smokescreen that covers up for our own frightful inclinations toward exhibitionism." But he concludes that 
Talk of privacy is a joke and an absurdity when people are getting up each morning to voraciously begin a day of tweets, or to post a thought about the weather on Facebook, or to blog about what they did over the weekend (or to blog about most anything, for that matter). If you want privacy, quit putting anything of yourself on the Internet! The Internet is inescapably, necessarily, and wonderfully public. It is open, free, limitless.
...Half a billion people are on Facebook. And they are there for reasons that have much more to do with unabashed exhibitionism than with the preservation of interior, personal, and private existence. 

Naturally, I disagree with the idea that by having a Facebook account we are willingly relinquishing any semblance of anonymity we might have on the Internet. And though Brett is discussing privacy on the Internet as a whole, which includes blogging, Tweeting, and any other form of social media, what he more pointedly refers to in his post is Facebook's recent privacy concerns. 

Well count me one of the concerned. I tend to agree with the side of the fence that leans toward irrational paranoia, but most of you already knew that. And in this case, it's not irrational and it certainly isn't paranoia that causes me to question the practices of a juggernaut who has managed to gain the trust of its users only to betray that confidence by doing the very thing that should cause people to get rankled: using trust as a commodity in a transaction that begins and ends with advertisers, money, and bottom lines. 

I've been using The Good Book since 2005, back when you had to be a student in a university, back when it was a real stretch to include high schools into the mix, back before mini feeds and even banner ads. That's how it all started, and that's how Facebook won the trust of its users, who willingly forked over personal information about themselves that they might not have otherwise released to sites like Myspace, Twitter (back then still an egg of an idea. I kill myself.), or Blogger. The problem is in the quiet and methodical chipping away at the fortress of Privacy that Facebook built around its thriving e-tropolis. 

Changes have been made over the years which have slowly acclimated users to diminishing levels of privacy and control. Changes which have been nearly subliminal in impact, some barely causing a ripple and others creating an agitated froth of users who, despite squawking indignantly at first, warmed up the idea eventually. The problem is that the water's been coming to a boil for so long, most people aren't aware that the time is likely coming when they'll have to leap out of the pot or get simmered and served in an advertiser's bouillabaisse. 

The problem, of course, is that once trust has been gained by a website or corporation, it's very difficult to shake that trust because most Facebook users don't find themselves questioning what all these changes mean. And why would they? It's a social networking site that allows the kind of connectivity that pen pals in 1985 never dreamed of! It certainly isn't, at least not to most users, the holy grail of private user information which can be used as a ballast for advertisers seeking to proliferate a world already infected by subtle manipulations with, well, a whole lot more of the same. Remember Youtube before the pop up ads? Remember Facebook before the banner ads? Remember a time when we weren't constantly and relentlessly bombarded with poorly designed, poorly devised, poorly executed cultural filth whose sole objective is to transfer money from our wallets to someone else's? No? And you won't, because unless you're upwards of 90 years old, you've been inundated since the day you were born. 

In an article for the December 2008 issue of GQ, Alex French discusses the very idea of user information and a flimsy sense of trust at length: 

Jeff Chester, of the Center for Digital Democracy, says most Facebook users have no idea that their personal information is being commercially harvested and sent out to the thousands of third-party developers whose applications populate the site. He and other privacy advocates worry that rogue developers might profit from that information by selling it to marketers (who would then flood your in-box with spam) or by committing illegal acts, such as identity fraud. At bottom, for critics like Chester, the issue is whether or not users have complete control of where their information winds up: You should have the right to opt out of targeted advertising, and if you choose to opt in, you should know which companies are getting your information and what they plan to do with it. The worst case is an Orwellian scenario in which all Web content is fully determined by user targeting. "We are going to live in a world completely dominated by advertising," says Chester, "where advertising plays the key role in the creation of most of what we see."

The issue isn't that our information is being used against us (it is), it's that Facebook has shrewdly created the illusion of trust with its users, most of whom are barely aware of what's at stake and certainly aren't keeping a close eye on the near-monthly changes that affect the fidelity of that trust. Sure, we're throwing our information 'out there' willingly, but to whom, exactly? And should we trust that the almighty Facebook will treat our personal data with as much strident commitment to privacy as we do? 

I'm going to go out on a fairly sturdy limb here and say no, we definitely shouldn't. 

Tribe

Here's a peek at what I've been working on this week. More to come...

5.20.2010

Old Pappy




I'm embroiled in a bit of a love affair with whiskey at the moment (a moment otherwise known as always), but especially American whiskeys. Tennessee, rye, Bourbon, blend, single barrel, aged - I'm enamored by all of it. Most of you are aware that my mini bar has outgrown the size its name would suggest and is currently residing in the Fledgling Full Bar status. I'd certainly not compare myself to a bricks and mortar establishment, but I will go out on a fairly sturdy limb and say that my mini bar probably puts yours to shame. (And, if by some loophole in the order of things, your mini bar were to size up my mini bar and send it packing with its tail between its legs, then we should meet. Really. Call me.)

I received some birthday money recently from a few friends and family (a million thanks, by the way), and I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it: on new additions to my collection! Hurrah! The list was short but formidable: Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve 15yr Bourbon, Blanton's Original single barrel, Cascade Mountain gin, and Clear Creek Eaux de Vie of Douglas Fir. The Blanton's and gin were obtained easily enough at BevMo (and no, I haven't opened them yet), and the Clear Creek will have to wait until I come into more money (or head home for a visit), but the Pappy's proved to be much harder to find. 

Wheated and aged 15 years, it's a no-longer-in-production limited edition. All of Pappy's bourbons receive superlative ratings, and this one is no different. I searched far and wide for this sucker and what would you know: Wade's Wines in Thousand Oaks had one bottle left. They were exceedingly helpful in helping with my search - even going so far as to call back after my initial call uncovered no more bottles of the 15 year. As fate would have it, there was one bottle left, and now it's on its way to Long Beach. 

5.19.2010

Prophet

It all makes sense now. I should really make a new label for these Chats with Byron. 

Byron: Dont wear glasses any more but I like the BOG(ive)O(ne) aspect - but come on a Monocle? http://bit.ly/aXR9Up
Laurel: Warby Parker. Yes. I love that company
B: COME on,
L: Also, you just tweeted/buzzed that didn't you? I've noticed. When I check Google Buzz, I'll see things and I'll think, Byron iChatted that to me. And then I realize, no. Our conversations now exist solely as copies and pastes of his TWEETS. You're a tweet cheat. 
B: Nah, you're the audience there. Think about it: From God's lips to my ears, to your ears. 
L: HAHA. I'm getting the transcript for the Bible breathed into my soul right now, aren't I? 
B: Pretty much. He's got a sense of humor, and I'm that vessel for it. Just saying: John the Baptist, Joan of Arc, Byron Samayoa. 
L: You're the proverbial platypus: Proof of God's humor. Except that he tells you what to tweet and you do it. An oracle for the Internet Age. 
B: It's more like, "Laurel will like this one, tweet it." 
L: So really, I'm the litmus test. If I proffer a few ha's, then you know it's golden. I had no idea I had such a responsibility to the Twitterverse.

LOST!


Most of you are too well aware of my undying love of Lost and all its wonky time-travelin' hokey pokey. I can't get enough of it, and with the series finale looming on Sunday's horizon, my feelings are appropriately mixed. On one hand, I'm still so emotionally invested in the series that the 2.5-hour behemoth finale will likely play in the same way any other episode has: With me perched on the edge of my seat, ready to fall down dead from overexcitement at any moment. On the other hand, it's the end. Fin. No more after that, no spinoff series, and thusfar, no other show raising its hand as a likely candidate for replacement (oh, the irony). Sorry, Fringe. No can do, FlashForward. Many have tried, but those are some massive four-toed sandals to fill, y'know what I'm sayin'? 

So like any obedient daughter of iTunes, whose general behavior falls in the muddy area between Generations X and Y, I've chosen to mediate my experience through a mix. It's a Lost mixtape in digital form, an ode to those wayward castaways, those myriad plot twists, and those innumerable (and inscrutable) theories. If you'll be right there with me weeping until the very last second on Sunday night, then feel free to snag the mix here

For everyone else, sorry kids, but you sure missed out. Luckily, the complete box set is as inevitable as it is sure to be a money-raking juggernaut so if you feel compelled to hole yourselves up for a few (dozen) hours to see what all the fuss was about, you know I'll be there with bells on. 

5.18.2010

5"

Welcome to the fold, my little lambs.


(L to R: Pierre Hardy for Gap, Alice + Olivia for Payless, Cynthia Vincent for Target)

I Was Hiding Underneath The Sea

We've got an empty room in our house for another couple of weeks that's painted the color of a robin's egg. I don't know if it's the photographer in me or the Oregonian-turned-Californian boxed in by a grid of suburbia, but whenever I see unadorned space, I am compelled to take pictures. Ash and I goofed around for a bit, dancing to The Black Keys and letting the camera do it's thing. The color of the background makes some of these look like they were taken underwater. Minus the exorbitantly expensive protective camera housing, of course. Oh, and the latent threat of death by an angry octopus who may or may not be lurking under a nearby rock. 

Right. Can't be too careful.

5.17.2010

YEAH!

Getting Spiffy

My dear friend Kelsey got married on Saturday to a fine gentleman named Jake. The wedding was lovely, but I didn't bring my camera so I don't have any documentation of the event. But there were cupcakes! And  there was wine! And a candy bar! And tacos! And dancing! In other words, it was a real helluva good time. On Saturday morning Jody and Ashley were both fretting about what to wear, so I took on their worries as my own personal project and styled them from head to toe for the event. The theme of the wedding was vintage garden party (or something like that). Here are the results:



P.S. Sorry the color is so profoundly wonky on these images. I'm have serious profiling issues. Any other Chrome users experience this? Ugh. Ah-nnoying.

5.16.2010

Eat Your Way Through L.A.: Day 4, In Pictures Only

If you're scratching your heads and wondering where days 1, 2, and 3 ran off to, it's because they're flung so far back into last month that you probably don't remember them, do you?

I don't blame you. It has been awhile. But in all fairness, after the fourth day of Eating Our Way Through L.A., I realized I didn't have the words to describe it. Our first stop was Pâtisserie Chantilly (located precisely on the corner of Nowhere and Nowhere) for sesame creme puffs. Following that, we gorged ourselves at Rajdhani (18525 Pioneer Blvd., Artesia) and that's where the words started to falter. Because the food just kept coming, and I was (and am currently) completely unable to identify any of it. Really, all I can offer is a shrug and a nod and the suggestion that you experience it for yourself (please do, if you know what's good for you). Saffron ice cream followed at Saffron Spot (18744 Pioneer Blvd.), and we celebrated the end of Food Week with schooners at Thirsty Isle. Readers of this blog know that it's not like me to wrap things up so neatly or so quickly, but sometimes when you're confronted with food that good, no words are necessary. 

Images, however, always are: 



5.13.2010

4/5 Ain't Bad

I have a repertoire of exactly five dance moves, four of which are bad decisions. 

There are a litany of reasons why I know this to be true, not the least of which involves James Brown, my old boss's wedding (can I get a whut-whut Doug? Jen? Byron? No one?), and the rapt attention of the photographer at the event, who captured a whole lotta raised eyebrows and slack jaws on that dance floor. In the spirit of full disclosure, I just looked through a handful of images from that wedding thinking I might post a few examples evidencing my dawning suspicions about the fidelity of my groove, but the reality is ruthless and in the light of day, even three years later, those images exist as a reminder that copious amounts of hair flipping belong on the stage of a hair metal show. In 1985. Why I ever thought I could whip my mane around with the same panache as Bon Jovi or even Meatloaf is beyond me, yet here I am in 2007 at Doug's wedding, doing just that. 



See that? Stunning. Which says nothing of my dancing compatriots, and I do take solace in the fact that I wasn't alone in drinking that much pinot noir that night, and I clearly wasn't solo on that dance floor. Still unconvinced of the magnitude of dance floor crimes committed that evening? Oh, okay...because there's this: 


And this:


Oh, and definitely this:


I rest my case. And while many of you are likely thinking that the real culprit responsible for that last bit of wholly ill-advised shoulder shaking is the pinot noir (and you wouldn't be entirely incorrect), it behooves me to hang my head in shame and admit that yes, I dance like that all the time, whether my carafe overfloweth with water or wine. 

The most damning evidence of all, however, came swiftly on the heels of the first Fauxchella. Specifically, the morning after the performances and the earth shatteringly awesome dance party that followed when Jessica's folks plugged in the camcorder they'd been hoisting around the entire evening and pushed Play. What followed was the hip bumping equivalent to the walk of shame, wherein our actions, as laid bare in the harsh light of day (equally deflating as the grainy night vision quality of the tape, I assure you), came into startlingly humiliating focus. I watched myself with stern disapproval as green-eyed night vision Me flung herself from one physically improbable contortion to the next and back again, literally pinballing from one checkpoint to another, racking up points like an arcade demon playing a few hundred rounds of Oh No She Didn't: The Game!

Not only did the unfriendly and ultimately scathing addition of 24 frames-per-second render my dancing queen dreams null and void, but it revealed an even more disheartening layer to my reality: I only had 5 dance moves. And literally no variations therein. Five. Five moves. Four of which, please say it isn't so! But it's so! It's absolutely SO! are bad, bad decisions. 

I was crushed. What I'd long suspected to be true was true with a bullet. BANG. Four outta five is pretty bad, it turns out. 

All of that to say, I am fairly certain that I was every bit as wackily demented on the dance floor at this year's Fauxchella, but Adam Sjoberg, in his infinite goodness as an artist, managed to capture a moment - scant, to be sure, a teeny gold nugget gleaming amongst a steaming pile of proverbial poo - wherein I look like I'm having fun. And my hair! My hair is having fun! And my chin exists somewhere and my eyes are more or less focused, and my hips haven't dislocated and staged a mutiny on my shoulders! It's a dance floor miracle! And, in case you haven't guessed by now (and you probably haven't), the whole point of this post was to direct your attention to Adam's blog, where he's posted more sneak peeks of the Fauxchella Documentary. But this wouldn't be Blinking Against The Brightness if it didn't take me at least two anecdotes, three parenthetical asides, and eighteen paragraphs to get there. 

 
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