Category Archives: Specifically Steff

Confessions of (Not) a Bandwagoner

Here we go: playoffs, baby.
I actually love playoff hockey. There’s nothing more fast-paced and exciting than when your team starts doing well in the post-season. The spring of ’94 was one of the most exciting times of my life, when this town went on the playoff run with the Rangers. Man, was that some kinda hockey.
And maybe the Olympics were a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but so’s a Stanley Cup Playoff Run in Vancouver, and, for me, the playoffs are a bigger, happier, more awesome memory for me than the Olympics. It was unexpected, it was for us and no one else.
This year is the first time I’ve watched almost none of a season. I can’t believe it. Feels so odd to not be into watching sports all winter anymore. But there you have it.
But don’t let that fool you. I want the Canucks to go all the way. I want them to play inspired, to get hurt and come back from it every single game. I want little Vancouver boys and girls watching and later playing street hockey with all their favourite team players’ names taped on their backs.
I want the streets to open up and bleed maple-flavoured hockey blood, man. I want a choir of angels harmonizing “Hallelujah” behind Stompin’ Tom belting out The Good Old Hockey Game while an arena stomps along.
YET I didn’t watch the regular season.
Some yahoos on Twitter last night are exactly the kinds of asshole fans that kind of turned me off of watching day-in, day-out. Some are saying Bushisms like “You’re either with us or against us!” and calling people tuning into the playoffs “bandwagoners”.
Those dickheads make it seem like THEY did what these 26 guys accomplished on the ice. Um, no, they’ve done nothing but swill beer and mouth off at their TV — those 26 teammates have bled and ached for the game.  They’ve been well-paid to do so, yes, but they’ve bled and ached and trained.
So, I’m here to tell you the real reason I don’t watch the full season of hockey anymore.
From 1991 to 2004, I probably watched or listened to 80% of ALL the Canucks games that were broadcast. I was a fan girl, baby. I didn’t miss a MINUTE of the spring of 1994. I was managing a photo lab and on game nights when I was working, you could hear the game in the mall corridor, filtering from my back lab, where it would be blasting.
When the team started sucking again, I stuck with them. When a new empire began with Bertuzzi and Naslund and Mo, I was  in love with that hard-hitting great-shootin’ team.
2003-2004 was The Year It Changed for me, in more ways than one. The hockey season was all right, sorta phoned it in with a tendency to start slow and win late, and the playoffs sucked. It was game 7, series 1, against the Minnesota Wild. Dominating the first 3 games, they lost the next four, and the Wild took the series. I was the fool with the hope they could undo the falling-apartness and actually WENT to Game 7 live.
You know, the infamous game where Captain Markus Naslund later confessed the team “choked”? It wasn’t their first post-season choking, it was just the most offensive occurrence of recent years. THE FUCKING MINNESOTA WILD!
I stayed until the end of the game, because that is what a FAN does. I don’t leave early, it’s disrespectful.
And then some asshole threw a lidded beer from higher up, and missed the ice by a mile — hitting me in the head, exploding all over me.
That was it. I was done.
And it coincided with the Lost Year, thanks to the NHL strike — which caused me to loathe the pettiness of both players and owners. With no hockey available, I learned there WAS life after hockey. Holy toledo.
I got out of the habit of watching, and I liked being out of the habit. I found it harder to focus on pro sports anyhow, having had a head injury during the year of the strike, and not trying to watch made more sense.
When fans are rabid and love their teams and support them, and in losses suck it up, grumble a bit, but know that’s how it rolls, they’re great.
It’s the dickheads with the us-versus-them, take-it-all attitude that boo opposing teams’ anthems, pitch beers when they’re unhappy, get argumentative, etc who turn folks like me off.
Year-round? Well, I find the “fans” who insult and belittle the team for a loss after 4 wins turn me off too.
When the team’s playing hard, showing up, like the Canucks have all year, then that’s all a fan can ask. Sometimes I think Vancouver fans ask too much, and I grew tired of being in the mix. I needed a break.
So, am I a bandwagoner? Nah. I’m a fan who’s watched them for much of 25+ years. I’m a fan who doesn’t like having to commit to watching sports anymore. Not right now. I’m a fan, I’m just not an observer.
I was bantering with a friend in email last night, who surprised me when she said she was watching, and confessed she only watches playoffs, so I asked her about whether she thinks she’s a bandwagoner. Her reply?

To appease their taunts of “bandwagoner!”, I tell them I’m not a fan of hockey, I’m a fan of fans, and fans are really fun this time of year! 😉

I have to agree. Some fans are HILARIOUS and just so much fun at this time of year, and I love the energy they bring to the city — those with shrines on their work desks, hockey flags, a schedule for washing/wearing their jersey — they crack me up and are everything a fan should be.
Know what I want this year? Average fans who can handle the playoffs WIN OR LOSE. Fans who respect the effort, who don’t become assholes if it should go awry, who understand there is no US OR THEM in Vancouver — this is VANCOUVER. We’re in it together, but not everyone’s addicted to hockey. It’s not a CHARACTER flaw. It’s like chocolate versus vanilla — you like what you like.
But mostly, I want the Canucks team to put it all on the line, hit any motherfucker with the balls to touch a puck, pass clean, hit fair but HARD, make fast changes, listen for their linemates, remember how much their fans have stuck with them over the decades, do what the coach says, and fuckin’ WIN.
That’s what I really want. This town would be wild after a Stanley Cup.
Maybe that’ll make me fall in love with regular season again. Who knows. Or maybe I’ll just keep hockey as a Canadian rite of spring.
Either way: Bring us the Cup.

A Last Look at a Horrible Crime

In 2008, my brother’s closest friend from high school and his early 20s was killed in a bizarre Craigslist murder that has captured the media’s attention.
Yesterday, the jury came back with a verdict of guilty. Mark Twitchell will, it seems, spend 25 to life behind bars. (Thanks, Jury.)

The poster Johnny's friends made when he first "disappeared".


My brother has obsessed over the case, following it in extreme detail. The murder broke his heart, I guess because Johnny Altinger was one of those quiet dorks that everyone loved because he was able to be himself. John was a little obnoxious, a little sweet, a little clueless. But he was a whole lot of good. He was a good, good, good man, and he trusted people at the blink of an eye.
Their crowd grew up on the computer, they were the original “social media” crowd. They talked on chat systems, came of age as the humble modem grew from 110bps to 300, then to 1200, then 2400… and now at seemingly the speed of light.
It was an oddball mix, back then. Folks too smart for the general population, kids too outside the norm to conform to the school crowd. They found like-minded friends on the precursor to the Internet, the Dial-Up Generation.
Johnny was the kind of guy who, in the ’70s, would’ve been stuck in lockers or mocked senselessly at school. He had a big nose, bad glasses, awkward gait, goofy teeth. But, coming of age in the ’80s, he found his crowd online, and so did my brother. Some of their friendships are as strong now, 25 years later, as they were then — friendships born on ideas and discussions, not just happening to be in the same class or born in the same neighbourhood, friendships that seemingly came from a deeper place and lasted longer on merit alone.
Johnny A and my bro kept in touch when Johnny moved north. They chatted online, stayed in touch, traded book titles to read, shared video files — at length. It wasn’t a surprise to hear that, given his newly isolated northern home, John was meeting more friends off the computer, and even using Craigslist for dating.
All right: I’ll be the first to admit that Johnny annoyed me. A lot.
But he was my brother’s friend, I was 16 or 18 or so, and that’s how it rolls — older brothers and their friends torment the annoying little sister. I think it’s Sibling Rule 72, paragraphs A through C.
That said, there were those rare moments where we both managed to be ourselves, rules aside, and I liked what I saw of him. More importantly, he was always a friend when my brother needed one.
But we were never close, and I don’t want to pretend we were. My brother didn’t live at home when he and Johnny were friends, so I really seldom ever saw him. He wasn’t even someone I’d even thought of in 5 years, aside from my bro’s rare mentioning of him.
Still, when I heard not only of his death but the horrific circumstances behind his death, I rethought many things I assumed to be true in life.
No one I know will ever be bludgeoned, stabbed, dismembered, burned, and dumped in a sewer. Wrong. Internet violence is a myth, it could never happen to me. Wrong. This stuff only happens in the movies. Wrong. Canada is a nice safe place. Wrong.
I’m more skeptical of people I meet now. More dubious of online followers, usually distrustful that they are who they say. When I see X many people in my audience, I now assume, the larger the number grows, that some amongst them are just plain evil. Because now I know it’s out there.
I thought my innocence was shattered in my teens, but the truly heinous nature of this crime, and the fact that it’s even touched the peripheries of my life, gave my remaining innocence a big adjustment.
And it’s so weird.
Now everyone wants to know about John. Everyone wants to hear “what was he like?” My brother can’t even log onto Facebook without a new reporter trying to contact him.
But where were these curiousity-seekers when he was looking for friends and relationships on Craigslist? Sure, now you have a story to file. Now you’re bored and surfing the web at work. Now you’re interested.
That part makes me angry. Now, interested. Now, prying through his life. Always with the sensationalizing. But I was trained as a journalist, so I get it, too. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Sigh. I don’t know. This whole case… the tragic death of a good guy, Johnny Altinger, it’s just so fucking unsettling when I think of the guy I knew, and THIS happened to him. If there’s anything I have, it’s a very healthy imagination. And this turns my stomach every time a flash of an image hits me.
My creative side has always wanted to write macabre books with twisted deaths. Sometimes I think about it now, but I stop at a thought of Johnny and I feel physically ill. It’s straight out of Dexter, ripped from fiction, what happened to him.
There are things that happen that really shake our faith in people, and this chapter has been one for me.
There’s a severe disconnect between the kind of person it takes to commit this kind of crime, and the kind of trusting person it takes to be a victim of this crime, and the idea that they both are in this same world, at the same time, breathing the same air…
When they told me the world was full of possibilities, well, I never for a moment wanted to believe they meant it like that.
Still.
Twitchell didn’t get to become the serial killer he dreamed of becoming.
People noticed him. He got caught. That says something, right?
People are horrified by the crime. That says something, too, right?
But I still can’t watch Dexter. It cuts too close to home. I’ve never been able to imagine a victim’s mindset like this before, and I hope I’m never able again.
Rest in peace, Johnny.
I hope it’s the hardest time imaginable that Mark Twitchell serves. I honestly do.
Today, as a testimony against this kind of crime that preys on those who are lonely and looking for friendship, be nice to someone who might not get a lot of attention. Don’t brush off that small-talk-making stranger at the bus stop or store. Give them just a moment of your humanity. You just never know.

The New Aging Gracefully

I think it’s oddly intriguing I was inspired to write about aging gracefully on International Women’s Day, since there ain’t exactly a lot of women modelling how to age gracefully these days. Liposuction and tucks and Botox, oh my! But there you have it. Get over yourselves, girls.
I like getting older. I like it even better when I get told all the time that people think I’m 6-10 years younger than I am.
Probably from spending all those years protecting myself from the elements — sheltered on cushy sofas. No wind-battered face here, friends!
And now that I live much better than I did for a decade there, I guess that shows too.

Hallmark card character I LOVE.


But, aging? Yeah. I like it.
The big four-oh is still 2.4 years away, but I’m looking forward to aging and letting go of even more of the bullshit that mires one’s younger life.
I’m in a strange position in my life right now. Five years ago, I’d have been having a borderline nervous breakdown. Now I’m planning a dinner party for tomorrow, chilling, and erring on the side of faith.
There’s the old saying, “This too shall pass,” and I think around 40 is when we start really believing in what we can overcome and/or achieve. It varies, of course, depending on the crash-course life’s had each of us on.
Me, I got the lesson of “life’s tough, get a helmet” in the last decade, and now I feel like I’ve had the dress rehearsal, and I simply know at my core that every hard time I face is on a limited-life plan, and I’m more than likely to be the victor at the end of it.
“Face-palm and carry on,” as the new saying goes — the NEW Guide to Aging Gracefully.
It really comes down, I guess, to whether or not we’re willing to examine each lame-ass time for its growth lessons. I do. I can’t possibly imagine going through ALL that shit for NOTHING, man. If I’ve learned from it? Fucking A. I’ll take THAT for a dollar, Alex.
I still have more Zen Master schoolin’ to do. After all, I’m not even 40. I’m not nearly as chill as I’d like to be, but I’m surprising myself. Sure, I occasionally want to kill asshats on transit, but that’s not really indicative of me being high-stress, it’s more indicative of the erosion of intelligent life on Earth. I’m tryin’, man.
Honestly, I’m glad I was laid-off long-term. I’m glad I went through a lot of the shit in the last year that I have. I’m glad I had pneumonia. I’ve learned SO much about myself in the last year.
Was it hard? Yes. I even became depressed in the fall. (Not anymore.) I’m sort of back where I started, in a lot of ways, but as a completely different person. It grew a quiet confidence in me, and things I’m doing now will really amp that up. It’s confidence I had none of last spring, considering I was already in a depression and a financial hole before I even lost my job.
If the whole Malcolm Gladwell 10,000-hours-to-master thing is for real, then the 5 years since my last unemployment has been mind-bogglingly insightful. My god, the lessons we learn through our trials.
Staying employed and stable and never taking risks, well, that might make for a nice comfortable life, but I guarantee you, you’ll be learning a fraction of what it is you’re capable of in life.
Age. With it comes that experience you just can’t buy. And when you’re 20 and you think “OH! Why don’t they take me seriously? Why don’t they think I understand?” well, it’s because they feel exactly like I do — that you can’t possibly know all the things that’ll bloom in you over the next two decades.
I like to sit back sometimes and reflect on who I was at specific ages, how full of shit I was, compared to me now.
And then I like to think of how I’ll feel about the same question in another two decades. How I’ll chuckle dryly at the age of 57 — the same age my mother was at her death — and think how I couldn’t possibly have known all that would come my way, how much life could pack in an hour, a day, a week, never mind a decade, and how much I’d learn about myself and the world around me as I lived through all of that.
That’s the beauty of the unknown.
And the beauty of aging is, we better know the vastness of that unknown, but we also come to learn the vastness of human potential. We see more. We understand.
Or, some of us do.

The Evolution of a DeClutterer's Life

So, hi! I left you hanging with that whole letter-to-HR-folk thing last week, huh? Quel drama!
I was told three weeks ago I probably had three weeks of full-time work. Now it’s looking like I have work until closer to June, perhaps beyond.

Decluttering, by Paul Foreman


Since I started having steady work, I’ve been of the “things are going to get busy” mindset for a while, and it’s been pedal to the metal around the homestead, trying to get my place to what I wanted, losing more clutter, finding more clarity, all of that–in between job-hunting.
It’s been a lot of work. Since I’m getting a lot of things bought I’ve not had funds for, I’m opting out of the social life thing and prioritising my spending — which is giving me more time to focus on what my life needs on all levels.
I’m now doing the little things I never had time to sort — junk drawers, things like that. Everything is getting resolved, everything is being purged through. But all that’s left is my work desk and utility drawers. That’s pretty much it. I’ll probably have to stay on top of the purging thing and spend a day every couple of months, but I really like the downscaled life I’m starting to live.
With less unnecessary stuff around me, I have a clearer vision of what I need to do.
Also, the return of work — daily work that involves getting downtown and organizing my life around — has made exercise easier to do. I’ve slowly been getting more regular about workouts, and today was a return to my old rehab routine I used to do six days a week. Five days is the goal now.
I miss a working routine. I used to work out and write daily, as well as work. I lost weight easier on the job, and gained it while unemployed.
All the things I’ve been doing — tearing my house apart, organizing, planning, getting a routine in place — are things I did in the spring of 2008, before I lost 50 pounds.
And I know it SOUNDS insane to others who go “Well, geez, exactly what all are ya doin’ that it’s taking so long to get it all done?”
In short? Everything. Every damned thing I’m doing, I do to the best of my ability these days, whether it’s sorting a drawer or organizing books, because the better I do it now, the longer I can go without doing it again. I’m hoping this keeps me in order until October.
My goals are more multifaceted than just weight-loss, these days. I have a lot on my plate — a whole lot of things I’m working toward, and most of them I’m keeping to myself for the time being. What it takes is daily focus, total routine. What it takes is a Plan, Stan. I’m getting there.
I think the act of having done all this purging of late is indicative of the mindset I’ve got. It takes a long time, sometimes, to realize that knowing what you want is sometimes more about knowing what it is that you don’t want.
I know now what I don’t want. Piece by piece, item by item, line by line, I know exactly what I don’t want. I know who I don’t want. Where I don’t want to go.
So, that narrows it down. I know what I don’t want. Better yet, I’m getting it the fuck away from me.
Slowly, what I do want is coming into focus. And I know what I need to get done, obligation-wise, and what my limits are outside of that.
And that’s where it starts.
Where it goes, well, that’s the fun part. With continued focus and continuing to set new accomplishments (and getting ’em done) on a weekly basis, I suspect good things will come.
With that, it’s on with my week. And folding what’s in the dryer. Have a good one, minions.

Moods in the Morning, February Style

The rain’s coming down sideways.
My coffee cup being more full than empty is fact, not perspective.
My attitude today isn’t a bad one, just one of nothingness.
What can I tell you? February. It’s that old wall-hanging quote: This too shall pass.
Which is an accidentally appropriate segue to a joke I’ve made a million times: “I need an existential laxative, ‘cos I’m finding it really hard to give a shit.”
So true today. So much needs doing, so little will to do it.
It’d be easy to chew myself out for missing the mark in a few areas, but by the time the dust on this week settles, I’ll have gotten a number of areas and long-running projects sorted in my life. I think. Or something.
But, in the meantime, between the oppression of February at its finest, the confusion of PMS, and the indecision of my life, it’s a really weird headspace I’m in this morning. Unsettled, but calm. Worried, but hopeful. The continuing state of the Steff, brought to you in part by the letter Y and the word “sigh”.
It’s weeks like this I find it impossible to write, mostly because I just have one theme on the top of my head: I just don’t know.
I’m not COMPLAINING or sad or depressed or bitter or anything. I’m the human equivalent of a rowboat tied up at dock right now. Ain’t a bad thing, ain’t a good thing — it just is. Poor little boat wants to just get a direction and sail, man.
But direction’s a two-way journey, and I’m not the only one with a say in the matter.
So, today it’s humpday. A rainy, stormy humpday.
And I got nothin’, nothin’ but a muddled mind as muddled as the clouds above.
Now my cup is empty, and my day begins. Enjoy yours.

The Continuing Limbo That Is The Life of Steff

I don’t have time to write!
Most of the time lately, I don’t have the wherewithal, either.
This is what happens when I’m in complete professional limbo. Everything, everywhere, all up in the air. I have no idea where I stand nor where I’m going, even though I have secret inclinations as to what the destinations may be.
But I can say nothing. NOTHING.
Tipping one’s hand in public is wrong, wrong, wrong. Dumb! We are not hardy fools here, my friends.
Today, it’s work, waiting on whether it’s a decision-making time, talkin’, and hopefully making it all fit in time to attend a meeting of an organisation I’ve intended to join for more than a decade.
Which is all to say I sort of feel like vomiting.
My entire month, from about January 8th through to now, has been chock-full of wait-wait-wait. It’s a much better place than “what the fuck do I do”, like where I was wallowing before Christmas.
It’s funny, I made a couple decisions over the holidays, and this full-steam-ahead mode has been the result, ever since. What decisions? One day I might tell you. This is not that day.
I should be writing more of this uncertainty down, but it’s the kind of writing I hate. All self-absorbed and repetitive. Maybe tomorrow.
Today, a wind is blowing — moving a dark, wet, oppressive weather system that kept us all inside and lazy yesterday, out the door and ushering in a sunshine-and-wind weather pattern for the next few days. It’s an interesting weather day for feeling that so much rides on conversations, choices, and self-confidence.
But that’s where it is. That’s what it’s about.
Still, I’m trying not to rush anything. These times of tumult and change and possibility and unexpected, unpredictable futures… we seldom get to enjoy these. The questions that are swirling around me — I know I’ve spent more of my life bored into routine than I have dancing with chance and opportunity like I am right now… and this should be a rare much-savoured treat, this uncertainty.
It’s a hard mental place to stay in, it requires so much self-belief: This will resolve, I will choose rightly, the changes it will usher might be amazing, I can do this, and so forth.
Chances are easier to take when you’re well-monied. Let that be noted.
I am not well-monied.
The chances I may soon take scare the living shit out of me, even if they seem small and nothing-like to others.
The only thing that keeps me comforted is this — and it’s a big one: I know myself really fuckin’ well.
So, yeah. Life? I don’t know.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. And I got nothin’ I can share with you. Or nothing I’m foolish enough to share yet, anyhow.
Now it’s into the mottled grey yonder, and into a big and daunting Monday. Let’s see where my life goes between now and the next dawn.
I don’t know. But I know I’m fortunate to even have choices, and I’m more fortunate I have the smarts to make ’em right.

catching up with the speed of steff

it’s a rainy sunday morning, and for once i’m gonna write without capitals.
i’m not wearing pants, either, so let’s just keep pretensions at bay and a coffee cup in hand, all right?
it’s been kinda a crazy week or so in the land of steff.
there’s one job i took a pass on, one job that took a pass on me (sort of), and a client that is a work in progress.
my old job has hours for me, my new client has work for me, and i think rent’s getting paid just in time. all things being equal? fuckin’ skookum*.
i’m in the middle of a sorting-out-my-homelife thing yet again. it has veered dangerously toward “rustic crack den” of late but also just needs bimonthly dustbunny-genocide duties executed. i’m all over the dustbunnies, man. makin’ asthma my bitch, yo.
for the first time in a long time, i’m liking the look of my work horizon. i want my home proper sorted so i can focus.
i’m widening my creative worldview and trying to take on a few things that i’ve always been terrified to try, though i deep-down dream of going there. like, i’ve done training for a radio station at the university recently. a friend and i are batting about the idea of doing a live latenight talk show that would be stream real-time on the intertubes and be downloadable later as a high-quality podcast. i’d also get hands-on skills with one of the most-used, best recording systems used on radio stations around the globe.
ideally, i’d be able to continue with my creative extracurricular goals along with work-type stuff. i’d love to be doing talk radio. i’ve always wanted to do that. i love my writing — i want to have the financial means to chill and keep at my goals there, too.
i have the time to be creative these days, but financially i’m too thinly stretched to have the freedom to do it WELL.
who i am creatively, THAT’S WHO I AM. that’s not negotiable. it’s not “hobbies”. it’s my identity. it’s what i’m comprised of at a molecular level.
you wanna live to work? fuckin’ rock on, buddy, but that ain’t my scene, never will be.
my mother DIED at 57. she didn’t get her retirement. she never saw her golden years. want to wait to live yours? FINE. not me.
so, we’ll see where the present situation leads. i think it’s what i’ve been looking for. the jury is out — and probably will be for about a month, until i get a better grasp at where i’m floating in the financial sea of life.
i’ve worked 60, 70, 80 hour weeks before, i once worked 10 weeks without a day off. unless it’s doing what i love — writing, talking, etc — then it’s never happening again.
i want the trappings of success, but not the trap of it.
as a result, i’m conducting the most patient and slow job search of my life. i want the right situation, not just a paycheque.
there’s no economy for being picky right now? we’ll see.
in the mean time: no pants and a coffee cup in hand, baby. that’s my sunday morning.
have a good one, world. 🙂
*skookum: (adj) it has come to my attention that this is a “regional colloquialism in southwest canada”. it basically means wonderful, really good, snazzy, and all those other lovely ducky adjectives. except… it’s skookum, bitch.

Gawker Lowers the Bar Even Further

Ed. Note: This posting requires heaving use of annoying quotes, italics, and bolding, because it’s so fucking ludicrous that anything less would imply I respect the source. My apologies for the heavy-handed grammar. This is what they have reduced us to doing.

***

This “story” (cough, right) on Gawker.com makes me quite angry.
Look at the photographs on the page, the “questionable embrace” that seems so dirty and wrong takes place in a fraction of a second. How do you know? Look at the water line.
These are bracketed photos, taken at high speed and in succession. The WHOLE “STORY” attached to these highly-inflammatory photos is:

“When I first saw these amorous images, I thought supermodel Stephanie Seymour had taken a young lover. But—surprise!—that is actually her 18-year-old son. How close is too close when it comes to mothers and sons?”

SERIOUSLY? If anyone’s ever had an overly-gushy mom who smothers them with affection, they know what it’s like to get big crushing hugs and endless interaction. It’s embarrassing. And sometimes it feels really awesome to be loved that much that they’re crushing you with a big embarrassing hug.
Trouble is, it’s not usually a woman this hot who’s “Mom”. And it’s not usually a teen who’s this buff and cute who’s “the kid”.
Does the “reporter”, and I use the term as loosely as I possibly can, cite even a single source that claims the family has inappropriate relations? No. Do they have any other “photographic evidence” of this possibly inappropriate relationship? No. Is there even a RUMOUR they’ve got a quote on? NO!
This isn’t just fun gossip.
It’s fucking slow news day and they’re saying, “Huh. Hug, or incest? You decide. Pass the salt?”
By even saying “I thought supermodel Stephanie Seymour had taken a young lover,” the reporter* is implying a family is engaging in incest. This is tarring the reputation and image of a KID.
Not a single source. Not even a source of “rumours”. Nothing! No evidence of anything, save for ONE embrace at the end of what looks like a good swim at the beach.
What the fuck are Gawker thinking? How is this even REMOTELY credible journalism?
Quick answer? It’s not.
It’s trash meant to create discussion and propel traffic. It’s NOTHING more.
Way to really lower the bar on credibility, Gawker.
This week, that takes a lot of fucking doing. Nicely done. Asshats.
*That’s Maureen O’Connor, for those keeping score at home.

The Blind Leading The Blind: News, Twitter Style

Days like yesterday make me realise I’ll always feel I’m a journalist. My schooling leaves me obligation-bound to the truth and facts, not conjecture.
Yesterday was a painful lesson in how very exceptional that mindset can be on the web, when it comes to researching from a fact-based place, and not just trying to find reports that match your worldview.

***

Cutting-edge graphic demonstrating how news circulates on Twitter.


Early in the day, a “Congress on Your Corner” event in Tucson, Arizona, left 6 people dead and 14 injured when a gunman opened fire with a semi-automatic weapon armed with an extended magazine of ammo.
For a very short time after the first word of the shooting in Arizona, all we knew was that a politician and her surrounding entourage had been fired upon in a crowd at Safeway, and the casualties seemed heavy.
Immediate reactions were: “Some Tea Party bastard did this!”
And my gut reaction was the same. Do the math, right?
Emotional reactions happen to us all, that’s humanity for you.
Then I realised: We don’t know jack. We need to wait for more. Realising that put me in a very small minority.
Probably 80% or more of the content I saw flying about on Twitter was rampant speculation about political motivation.
Now, here’s the thing: We still don’t know what happened. Anything I say about Jared Loughner, the alleged gunman, or his motivations, are speculation until his life is torn apart and we know everything.
There’s a possible second shooter/accomplice that the officials are still seeking, so we’re far from having a clue about what really happened.
Early evidence, though, suggests that Loughner is anti-government more than he is motivated by party lines. There’s also evidence that he’s usually a nice guy and a volunteer for social events, but that he has some kind of mental illness.
This is all we know, really, so far. And it can change, quickly, and so might my stance; but the EVIDENCE will dictate my reaction.

***

It’s funny, the public always says how crap the media is, so off-the-mark so often, but the public itself doesn’t seem to have a clue on how to check stories before they go retweeting “facts” or “news”. They don’t seem to even care if it’s true.
But god help the news organisations if THEY get it wrong, right?
Case in point is this particular tweet from late in the day, when reports suddenly circulated that stated Congresswoman Giffords had already magically recovered from being shot in the head and was up chatting just a matter of hours after the shooting.
Because that always happens, right? Why not just assume it’s true. Okay! Here goes.

This tweet flew fast and furiously, with these 143 retweets coming within a half-hour of the report. His profile says he’s a reporter with KTLA. Therefore, he MUST be right, right?
How did I respond?
First reaction: That’s AWESOME.
Second reaction: Okay, says who?
So, I did a Twitter search for a couple different terms: “Congresswoman” and “Giffords”. When paging through HUNDREDS of results, the ONLY report saying she was awake was coming from this guy, Reporter David Begnaud of KTLA.
Literally, no other source was claiming this on Twitter. No news organisation links were floating, nothing. Just Begnaud’s inaccurate story.
Did the rest of Twitter check this out? No, more than 140 people blindly retweeted Begnaud’s erroneous information without seeing if a source had been cited anywhere.
One great thing about Begnaud is, he retracted it as soon as he knew.
But the big problem? He had a lousy 550-600 followers at the time. The 143 retweets had spanned widely across the web, with a vast array of six-degree tweeters, and the damage was done.
As soon as he retracted it, I was the FIRST PERSON to retweet his retraction. Others followed.

Just not many others, that’s all. Lookit. Four lousy retweets.
His retraction received less than 3% of the retweeting traffic his erroneous information generated.
So, who’s at fault here? Well, both the journalist AND the public.
Kudos to Begnaud for admitting he fucked up, big ups to him for retracting it and deleting the wrong info. But he reported without getting definitive confirmation from authorities. Journalists aren’t supposed to do that. “Be accurate, THEN fast.” Not the other way around.
Damage? Done.
And that’s how the whole OMIGOD A TEAPARTYMEMBER KILLED A MEMBEROFCONGRESS, WHATAREWEGONNADO? panic got unleashed on Twitter earlier yesterday.
Folks just ASSUMED there was a Tea Party connection. Someone remembered there’d been a clip about target practice in the opponent’s campaign, someone else remembered the Palin infamous “target” poster, and everyone just assumed they went together.
The wrong story flew and a shitstorm ensued.
But don’t just take my word for it, take a look at Craig Silverman’s excellent timeline of tweets that shows you how the Twitter Day of News progressed after the horrible shooting happened. It’s simply brilliant. The news agencies screwed the pooch six ways to Sunday yesterday.

***

But that’s traditional media. Surely social media has no such ethical obligation, right? Wrong.
If you’re a member of “social media” and you think you’re some news aggregator, and you’re sending out link after link because you’re “so on top” of all this shit, but you don’t research to make sure there’s more than one source cited, or ensure it’s not just speculation, then you have no business aggregating news.
I don’t give a shit that you don’t have a degree in journalism, you’re not paid, and you think the media’s “ethics” aren’t bound to you.
You’re “helping” people by spreading “interesting” stories?
Um, no. No, you’re not.
You have a responsibility to do your CHOSEN job well. Make sure what’s sent around the web isn’t just more of the lies and half-truths that are tearing America apart.
Waiting for the right information isn’t sexy.
Being the woman shouting “YOU’RE SPECULATING, THERE’S NO PROOF” is really hard when people accuse you of being a heartless bitch or not caring about the victims, or that you’re stupid and ignorant about the OBVIOUS political situation.
Conjecture and speculation are dangerous.
What if it took longer for the news to come in? What if enraged Democrats loaded their rifles and went out looking for retribution?
What if?
Yesterday could have been a far worse day.
We’re very lucky the misinformation and passionately partisan battles have largely subsided today, because it’s toxic and should have no place in our society.
As social media, we too have a responsibility to ensure the accuracy of what we report. We have an ethical obligation to ensure truth, not conjecture, is what we spread.
I’ve been saying for years that blogging and social media could change the news world forever, that the non-corporate “journalist” worldview could bring a more “We, The People” perspective on the news, and events could be shaped with more societal relevance than ever.
But, you know what?
Not if you don’t get your shit right. Not if you don’t stop believing that, if it’s in print, it’s true.
There are more inaccuracies on Twitter than anywhere else on the web, I feel, because of the fly-by nature of tweets and the ease in which you can delete them.
But tweeting fast-and-furiously without regard for accuracy and then just using the Cleanup-on-Aisle-7 method of delete-and-retract IS IRRESPONSIBLE. It’s dangerous.
It’s bad social media.
I don’t give a fuck if you think the Tea Party is horrible, and that violence seems to be something they espouse. You don’t take that belief and sandwich it with what APPEARS to be the situation, then call that a “news”. That’s a gossip column, at BEST.
You don’t take your politics and then analyse the situation according to your worldview then report your subjective take on it.
Who the fuck are you, Glenn Beck? Oh, you’re a liberal, so THAT makes it okay? Uh, no.
And I don’t care if you’re some guy with a Twitter account, not a “journalist” — you’re a part of the misinformation problem. Don’t be.
Sooner or later, bad things are gonna happen if people don’t start spreading information with more objectivity and research done before clicking on “update” or “tweet”.
If folks don’t like me because I call it like it is when people are injecting personal feelings into their chosen “news” tweets, or are jumping to dangerous conclusions that are inciting others, then so be it.
But I sure as hell won’t stand around when I see nothing but half-truths, inaccuracies, and preaching being sent around. I won’t stand around when partisan hate of either political affiliation is being circulated as “news”.
Because, whatever you might think of some fuckwits in the industry, I’m a journalist, I learned the ethics of news circulation, I live the ethics, and that’s not changing.
Integrity matters. Truth matters. Because that’s what the press SHOULD be guided by. That’s what social media SHOULD be guided by.
If we the people want the media held to a higher standard, reporting better than they have been, then it needs to start with us.
It starts with us demanding more, but also with us researching the claims we make, the links we share, and the stories we tell…
BEFORE we send the information out there.

[insert happy dance here]

So, my little piece over at Books on the Radio got a nod from The Week magazine as one of the three “Best Opinions” on the web about the Huckleberry Finn “We don’t need the word ‘nigger'” revisionist fiasco.
Back when I was the girl merchandising the magazines at Duthie Books, I’d put The Week next to TIME, the Economist, MacLeans, and the New Yorker.
And you know what I never wanted to write when I was younger? A book. Know what I wanted to write? Op-ed, like writing idol Hunter Thompson.
So, when a thinktank like The Week says I’ve got one of the best opinions out there right now on a subject like racist rhetoric — when Dad raised me on slavery history and civil rights — it’s a really fucking nice night Chez Steff.
Better than money, man.
I’m just recording it here for posterity. I, Steffani Cameron, have The Week’s Best Opinion tonight.
2011 looks fun. Yep.

Censoring Huck Finn is a mistake: The way Huckleberry Finn “captures, in a beautiful and heart-rending story, the racial hatred and poison that marred America’s early days” is what makes it a classic, says Steffani Cameron in Books on the Radio. Censoring the language dilutes the significance of the “biracial friendship” between Huck and Jim, a slave trying to reach a free state. The “soul-crushing, race-dividing epithet” gives educators an opportunity to discuss with students “how powerful” words can be.

–The Week’s Best Opinion “Books” round-up