A letter of resignation...
Nearly five years ago, on a chilly spring morning, I pulled into the parking lot of a charming museum in a mansion on Lake Calhoun. I wasn’t sure where to enter the building, and the lot was a ghost town. I wondered if I had written down the wrong day. As I walked toward the delivery entrance, admiring the led glass windows, one of the garage doors opened—almost magically. A friendly man wearing a baseball cap appeared. “You must be Chris… I’m Chris,” he said with an outstretched hand. He confirmed that I had arrived on time for my first day of work at The Bakken Museum.
I have experienced a great deal during my time here. I have learned so many new things. There is so much that I will never forget. The squeals of delight from the kids who experienced the jolt of a circle shock during a school field trip. The look of excitement in visitors’ eyes as they discovered how the Electricity is Life machine worked during a Super Science Saturday. Seeing grownups giggle and wince as they anticipated how their mouth would feel when they took a sip of electrified wine during Bakken Evening Out. Watching an amazing volunteer charm a group of Red Hat Ladies during a house and garden tour. The beautiful book displays assembled outside the library. Smiling so wide that my cheeks hurt as I listened to kids tell funny stories about their inventions during a fundraising breakfast. Trying to contain my laughter as Birthday Party kids all hopped up and cake and electricity bounced off the classroom walls. Feeling so much pride that I thought I might burst as thousands of visitors came to see science theater, static demos, and dozens of super cool science activities from super cool staff and volunteers during 10 Best Days of The Bakken.
I will also never, ever forget the people who showed their support and love when I went through the most difficult time of my life last year—fighting the battle with ovarian cancer, and winning.
It is with a heavy heart that I tendered my resignation today. I will miss coming to this beautiful building every day, and working with the many extraordinary people here. Thank you for all you have done, and all you continue to do to make The Bakken a really amazing museum. I am proud to say I was a part of it during my time here.
Warm Regards,
Chris
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Social media is not your savior
My first "real job" was chasing ambulances. Sort of. I did PR and marketing for an air ambulance service. The coolest part of my job was directing photo shoots inside medical helicopters while hovering over the city. That was the 90s, and in my opinion, media was pretty simple. There was print. The oldest form of media. Anyone who took a "Marketing 101" course in college learned that print had been around since the 1500s. There was radio and TV, also around for decades. And a few others including grassroots or "non-traditional" media.
I feel ancient for saying this, but around that time the internet was just emerging. I'm not certain that anyone had a full grasp on what it was, what it could do, or where it would take us. Cell phones sort of existed--we had a "bag phone" at the company where I worked. It required that the user lug around a big black leather satchel that housed the guts of the phone, and the hand held receiver was tucked away inside. I refused to use it because the bag never complimented any of my outfits.
My second position was in broadcast media where I found my niche. A job behind the scenes at a radio station was by far the best way to learn how media works. While there may have been some science to it, most often we took what was successful for our advertisers and made it work for us. We used promotional inventory (separate from paid advertising inventory) and told listeners why they should keep listening. Everyone had A.D.D. Everyone loved to channel surf. Messages needed to stand out and be memorable.
But we didn't just use radio to promote radio, we relied on all traditional forms of media. And guerrilla marketing. It was possibly the most aggressive form of grassroots marketing. We would park our vans outside of various events and venues, hand out bumper stickers, can coolers and T-shirts, and blast music. We would show up and crash competitor's events with armies of interns, and give away CDs and concert tickets. We would put up banners on any unadorned wall or fence. We would use high powered projectors to flash logos on the sides of buildings. We would broadcast live from beaches, parking lots, nightclubs. The guerrilla marketing code: "Ask forgiveness, not permission."
What was great about working in media was that we were usually the first to recognize and test new forms of media. The digital media age had taken off and we were in the thick of it. We had in-house programmers who developed our own websites, and designed client sites too. We hosted online contests and advertiser promotions. We shared pictures. We streamed audio and video. We interacted directly with our listeners. And during my last year in radio, we added text message marketing to the mix, to promote exclusive contests and create cutting edge campaigns for our advertisers. Oh, and there was a little thing called social media. On-air personalities created profiles on MySpace, and looked for a way to get on Facebook, which was only open to students.
After more than a decade, I left radio, but I walked away a Media Guru. I took my vast and inside knowledge of media and went on to do PR and marketing for the nation's largest traveling museum exhibition. Naturally, social media was part of the plan. We infiltrated Facebook's then private student network with a team of college interns who posted messages about how the exhibit was a must-see attraction. Cameras were prohibited in the exhibit, but our student crew shared their "insider" photos on Flickr and it went viral.
There's a reason I don't refer to myself as a Social Media Guru, and it's not because I don't understand the power of social media. I'll be among the first to acknowledge that it has changed the way we communicate--especially how we relay information, and what goes public. But hasn't every form of media done exactly that in its own time? I also agree that any great marketing plan should include social media. Without it, the museum exhibit would likely not have had the "buzz" that it did. It certainly didn't hurt that our intern team had something buzz-worthy to share. People were curious about real human bodies that had been turned to plastic. But it definitely would not have happened if the exhibit hadn't spent millions of dollars on advertising--mostly in traditional media.
Being the self-proclaimed Media Guru that I am, I have to say this. It makes me cringe when organizations put all of their eggs in the social media basket. I get it. Times are tough, and funds are limited. Who has 10-digit marketing budgets these days? But without the foundation of traditional media, your marketing plan is doomed to fail. IMHO. There are ways to stretch your budget and achieve your marketing goals. Ask any Media Guru and they will likely provide you with dozens of options. But seriously, social media is not your savior.
I feel ancient for saying this, but around that time the internet was just emerging. I'm not certain that anyone had a full grasp on what it was, what it could do, or where it would take us. Cell phones sort of existed--we had a "bag phone" at the company where I worked. It required that the user lug around a big black leather satchel that housed the guts of the phone, and the hand held receiver was tucked away inside. I refused to use it because the bag never complimented any of my outfits.
My second position was in broadcast media where I found my niche. A job behind the scenes at a radio station was by far the best way to learn how media works. While there may have been some science to it, most often we took what was successful for our advertisers and made it work for us. We used promotional inventory (separate from paid advertising inventory) and told listeners why they should keep listening. Everyone had A.D.D. Everyone loved to channel surf. Messages needed to stand out and be memorable.
But we didn't just use radio to promote radio, we relied on all traditional forms of media. And guerrilla marketing. It was possibly the most aggressive form of grassroots marketing. We would park our vans outside of various events and venues, hand out bumper stickers, can coolers and T-shirts, and blast music. We would show up and crash competitor's events with armies of interns, and give away CDs and concert tickets. We would put up banners on any unadorned wall or fence. We would use high powered projectors to flash logos on the sides of buildings. We would broadcast live from beaches, parking lots, nightclubs. The guerrilla marketing code: "Ask forgiveness, not permission."
What was great about working in media was that we were usually the first to recognize and test new forms of media. The digital media age had taken off and we were in the thick of it. We had in-house programmers who developed our own websites, and designed client sites too. We hosted online contests and advertiser promotions. We shared pictures. We streamed audio and video. We interacted directly with our listeners. And during my last year in radio, we added text message marketing to the mix, to promote exclusive contests and create cutting edge campaigns for our advertisers. Oh, and there was a little thing called social media. On-air personalities created profiles on MySpace, and looked for a way to get on Facebook, which was only open to students.
After more than a decade, I left radio, but I walked away a Media Guru. I took my vast and inside knowledge of media and went on to do PR and marketing for the nation's largest traveling museum exhibition. Naturally, social media was part of the plan. We infiltrated Facebook's then private student network with a team of college interns who posted messages about how the exhibit was a must-see attraction. Cameras were prohibited in the exhibit, but our student crew shared their "insider" photos on Flickr and it went viral.
There's a reason I don't refer to myself as a Social Media Guru, and it's not because I don't understand the power of social media. I'll be among the first to acknowledge that it has changed the way we communicate--especially how we relay information, and what goes public. But hasn't every form of media done exactly that in its own time? I also agree that any great marketing plan should include social media. Without it, the museum exhibit would likely not have had the "buzz" that it did. It certainly didn't hurt that our intern team had something buzz-worthy to share. People were curious about real human bodies that had been turned to plastic. But it definitely would not have happened if the exhibit hadn't spent millions of dollars on advertising--mostly in traditional media.
Being the self-proclaimed Media Guru that I am, I have to say this. It makes me cringe when organizations put all of their eggs in the social media basket. I get it. Times are tough, and funds are limited. Who has 10-digit marketing budgets these days? But without the foundation of traditional media, your marketing plan is doomed to fail. IMHO. There are ways to stretch your budget and achieve your marketing goals. Ask any Media Guru and they will likely provide you with dozens of options. But seriously, social media is not your savior.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Premium greeting
 |
| Pony shares his bed with my first dog, Jake. |
I didn't meet Da Vinci until a month or so after Matt and I started dating. But Matt gushed about him all the time. And when we would talk on the phone, quite often I would hear loud "thud" noises in the background. When I finally asked what it was, Matt explained that Da Vinci was entertaining himself by pouncing on his toys like a kitten. At around 100 pounds, Da Vinci's jumping was far from graceful or cat-like.
I'll never forget the day I met Da Vinci. Matt surprised me one evening by showing up to my house with a bag of groceries, a six-pack of beer, a DVD, and his dog. As I opened the door, he announced that he was there to make dinner. A nice surprise! I immediately noticed a long white furry face that seemed to be at eye level with me. One blue eye and one brown eye. "You must be Da Vinci," I said as I opened the door. He quickly pushed his way past me and ran toward my 14 year old deaf wiener dog asleep on his bed. The height of his back came up to my waist. His head nearly reached my arm pit. "That's no dog, it's a pony!" I said to Matt. "You brought me a pony!" I immediately nicknamed him Pony.
Despite his size, Pony is a very gentle dog. He runs as fast as lightning--an amazing sight to see. And he is clearly enamoured with Matt. In the morning, when he has to go outside, he comes to Matt's side of the bed and stares at him. Sometimes he makes a tiny squeaking noise. This dog is the only creature on earth that can get my boyfriend out of bed without any trouble. Their ritual begins with Matt sweetly saying, "Good morning, Buddy... Good morning, Da Vinci... How's my Buuuddy?" Or some version of it. Pony sighs and nuzzles Matt as he scratches his head. This goes on for a while and then Matt asks Pony if he wants to go outside. Pony lets out a big puff of air that makes his lips flap--just like a horse--and jumps around to confirm that he would like to leave the house. Quickly.
During this entire process, if I try to be a part of the ritual, I generally get ignored. At some point, I shared this observation with Matt, mocking the way he speaks to his beloved pet in the morning. It is what I now refer to as the "premium greeting." "I wonder if I'll ever get a premium greeting?" I ask in a syrupy voice. "Good morning, Sweet Pea... Good morning, Cricket... How's my Sweeeet Pea???" This generally doesn't work for me, since Matt is a bit of a bear in the morning, although it has gotten me a smirk or a headlock a handful of times.
Nowadays, I get woken up every morning by a super cute orange fluffy puppy. My dog Thor is seven months old, and he has already learned the art of the "wake-up-stare-down" from Pony. I don't mind though. Finally, my own premium greeting!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?
I recently stumbled across this journal entry about my dad and it made me smile. It was written a few days after I finished my final round of chemotherapy. He would have turned 70 this Sunday. I really miss him. Maybe it's time to make a call to heaven...
I had a dream about my dad this morning. I called his old number and he answered the phone--turns out he was answering from heaven. At first he was a little grumbly (my dad always had a grumbly side) but when I asked, "Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?" he perked up and said of course he did. I asked what he was doing and he said he had to work. It was a Sunday in my dream and I said I was surprised he had to work--I thought for sure there would be no work in heaven on Sunday. He said there was always work to do and asked if I wanted to go out for Chinese food later. I asked if I could invite my friend Nicole. He said yes and we talked about where to go.
I woke up feeling like I had really talked to him. It was so nice to hear his voice--deep and calm and even a bit grumbly. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and called his old phone number. I knew I wouldn't reach him but hoped his voicemail would pick up and I would really get to hear his voice. I got the standard operator greeting saying the number had been disconnected. I hung up and felt a strange craving for Chinese food.
I got out of bed and brought the dogs outside. My heart felt so full of life. What a beautiful day! I sat on the steps and felt the sun and breeze on my bald head. It felt amazing. When I looked up at the cottony white clouds in the vibrant blue sky, I knew that my dad was there, he was everywhere. I had an overwhelming feeling that today was the start of something new, and that everything was going to be OK. No more chemo, no more cancer, no more pain. And although I couldn't reach my dad by phone, he would always be with me, helping guide me through my journey.
I had a dream about my dad this morning. I called his old number and he answered the phone--turns out he was answering from heaven. At first he was a little grumbly (my dad always had a grumbly side) but when I asked, "Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?" he perked up and said of course he did. I asked what he was doing and he said he had to work. It was a Sunday in my dream and I said I was surprised he had to work--I thought for sure there would be no work in heaven on Sunday. He said there was always work to do and asked if I wanted to go out for Chinese food later. I asked if I could invite my friend Nicole. He said yes and we talked about where to go.
I woke up feeling like I had really talked to him. It was so nice to hear his voice--deep and calm and even a bit grumbly. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and called his old phone number. I knew I wouldn't reach him but hoped his voicemail would pick up and I would really get to hear his voice. I got the standard operator greeting saying the number had been disconnected. I hung up and felt a strange craving for Chinese food.
I got out of bed and brought the dogs outside. My heart felt so full of life. What a beautiful day! I sat on the steps and felt the sun and breeze on my bald head. It felt amazing. When I looked up at the cottony white clouds in the vibrant blue sky, I knew that my dad was there, he was everywhere. I had an overwhelming feeling that today was the start of something new, and that everything was going to be OK. No more chemo, no more cancer, no more pain. And although I couldn't reach my dad by phone, he would always be with me, helping guide me through my journey.
Friday, October 21, 2011
First best friend
I have a brother Bill who is a year younger than me. I was born small so as toddlers we were the same size. Strangers often mistook us for twins. I remember clearly one evening when I was around four years old, and Bill was three. We were hanging out with my dad at a Chinese restaurant, waiting for our take-out order to be ready. Another customer commented how we were adorable twins. I didn't get it then, but looking at pictures later I could see it.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Stalker confessions
My name is Chris, and I'm a Facebook Stalker...
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Like home
I worked in radio for more than a decade. Nothing high profile, like a morning show host or anything. My job was more behind-the-scenes, and mostly entailed planning and managing events and promotions. My first gig was at Cities 97, a Minneapolis "adult album alternative" radio station, when I was in my twenties. The playlist included a lot of music from local bands, and one of my favorites was The Jayhawks. They had been around since the 80s, but I didn't really discover them until the 90s, when I saw them perform live. I copped their "Tomorrow The Green Grass" CD from our music director--free music was one of the perks of the job--and played it over and over. I quickly fell in love with every song, and got to see the band play live again on several occasions (another job perk).
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
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