Internet People Rock

I recently wrote an angst inspired post that could possibly land me in an uncomfortable position if it fell into the wrong hands. So, after stewing on my rash impulse to hit ‘publish’ I decided to implement that fancy password protection functionality that some of the smart people on the Internet have used with a seeming measure of success. I then learned that Blogger does not give its users the option to password protect individual posts. It’s all or nothing.

Well, that’s no good.

I thought I might endure the jittery feeling of knowing my words were "out there" if I knew that Blogger was working hard to imminently deliver this functionality, which I erroneously assumed would be standard stuff. I posted a query on a Blogger help forum: “Is Blogger actively working on this functionality, which I really, really want, and if so, what is the timeline?*”

I didn’t have to wait too long for a single word response: “No.”

I have no idea if the respondent was a formal, sanctioned-by-Google techie type or if he was just a dour old grump, but I took him at his word and thought about a big change.

Maybe I should move to Wordpress.

This is a thought that I have thought before; a thought I have acted on before: I had an account already set up. I rummaged a bit to find my WP (I think that’s how the cool kids call it) user name and password. I logged in. I imported every single one of my blog posts. I thought I’d imported all of the comments as well.

“This is going to be grand!” I thought. “I’ve moved to Madrid. My blog could do with a make-over. Excellent stuff!”

My initial enthusiasm to make the switch was not completely dampened by the fact that I would have to pay WP for some of the functionality that I currently receive free from Blogger (e.g.s are (a) re-directing my blog to its personal domain and (b) having the ability to alter the CSS, or in other words having as much free rein as I could want over the look and feel of my simple sight.)

I make a good salary. I can afford these modest fees. Even though they are annual. This free stuff can’t last forever.

Undeterred I plodded forth with experimenting with WP’s dashboard and templates and playing with the style sheets (you can amend them to preview, but if you want to use your modifications on your blog, you have to pay).

After some playing, some sleeping, some tussling with the idea of free speech, some tweaking, some working, some tinkering and more tweaking, I have decided to give up on the idea of the big switcheroo.

Here’s why:

• I have had enough change in my life. In addition to the move to Madrid, I am now using a MAC. I love my MAC, but getting used to some of the small changes associated (navigation shorcut keys) has taken some of my energy. I know Blogger. I’ve got a template I’m happy with. I can’t stomach the idea of signing on to a new programme that will tease my brain further.
• WP might have a couple of features that I really want (password protection of individual posts and a ‘search this site’ function – which Blogger might have, I just haven’t gotten around to researching it yet), but it also has some disadvantages.

Here they are:

1. Not all of my comments were imported when I imported from Blogger. Maybe it was just a one off error and would work if I tried it again. I don’t feel like faffing about.
2. The alignment of the photo associated with each post was a bit off. I think I’d have to meddle with each and every post to get it ‘right’.
3. There doesn’t seem to be as much configuration flexibility. For example, I like the way my archives show each blog post title under the month if you click on the little arrow next to the month. WP doesn’t seem to allow you to show this level of detail in the archives list.
4. You have to pay for CSS meddling. You have to pay for domain re-directing.
5. Finally, I just got tired of trying to get the template right.

What to do about that rash post?

Something (specifically a Google search) led me to Vincent Chueng.

Vincent is one of those strange, altruistic individuals who solves problems for someone like me.

It’s not perfect. The formatting is kind of screwy. But, hey. I can password protect an individual post on Blogger now.

Thanks Vincent!

*Possibly not a verbatim replication of my query, but something along these lines.

Take Me Away from it All

Since the ‘front man’ of Right Said Fred who lived in my neighbourhood in London had moved away, the local celebrity quotient suffered, until Natasha Kapinsky started popping up at the local Starbucks (with all the other moms) or at the park. Natasha is no Right Said Fred front man, but she’s on TV, which means she’s famous, and famous people make me very excited. One time Natasha even took the bus. The very same bus that I was on. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t stop staring. I texted My Man. He wasn’t so very impressed. He seems to see Natasha like every other day.

No, no. She’s definitely not his type.

As sad as it may seem, I thought about the impact my move to Madrid would have on my celebrity siting prospects. Ample opportunity for celebrity siting was one of those things that I was resigned to miss. Then I remembered:

• An aged yet straight-backed Jimmy Stewart in Madrid in 1993 or 1994.
• A youthful Javier Bardem prowling the narrow bar-strewn streets of Malasaña in 1994.
• And Pedro Almodvar wearing a red jacket, reminding me the eensiest bit of Elvis Costello, as he exited the mouth of the Opera metro station. Also 1994.

“Maybe that thrill will still be available to me.” I thought as I packed my socks into the side pocket of my duffle bag.

Sure enough, whilst I stood at a (this) corner and waited for the tweeting green light of the pedestrian crossing signal, I saw him again. His hair is white now. His wardrobe possibly toned down. And in the flash of the moment that my eyes drank him in, I fantasized that in me he would recognize an intelligent, funny, capable woman whom he really should employ because a celebrity always needs an intelligent, funny, capable woman on staff.

I never had this fantasy about Right Said Fred or Natasha Kapinsky.

I Am Not a Retrofit Ho

There was a time when I was completely obsessed with my stats. I used to keep a spreadsheet with daily, weekly, monthly totals. I'd get excited when the end of a reporting period would come because then I'd get to add another bar to my bar chart. I'm pretty certain that an obsession with statistics ...

and comments! give me more comments!

...is par for the blogging course.

Somehow, over the course of the years, I grew out of my preoccupation with how many hits my web presence received and whether those hits were unique or not and how many return visitors I received, and how long the average visitor stayed. I stopped updating my spreadsheet. I stopped logging into Statcounter multiple times a day. I stopped logging in even once a day. Now, I might check my stats once a week or once every two weeks. They don't change that much.

Nonetheless, checking my stats can still provide some wonder and entertainment. Wonder of the people scattered around the globe who happen across these pages. For example, lately I have been receiving quite a few hits from various parts of China.

Why?

There's no explaining it.

I'm sure it can be explained if you really want it to be explained.

And entertainment in the word searches that have brought you folks calling.

Here are a few of my favourite recent search terms that have led (you?) to me.

1. retrofit ho smoke units for shay

Maybe you come from China?

2. England smokes some shit

and Jamaica?

3. What happens when your mind wanders

Pretty much what this blog is all about. Welcome!

4. Do vampires floss?

Who are you? I love you! Thank you for wondering the same thing as me; and, I'm sorry I didn''t have the answer for you.

5. Duvets suck.

I disagree. But if you want to have a duvet bashing party, go over to Franklin's place.

I hope some of you stay. Even if you're quiet and if you got here by thinking of retrofit hos.

Biggest Cheese Stinks

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Push Peddle Woes

On the bus on the way to my not-home-anymore-flat (although it still very much feels like home) from the office where I shouldn't have had to have been on the Monday of the Easter holiday weekend, I sit in my preferred seat of the London double-decker bus: in the front row on the left hand side. The window has some kind of laminate that has blistered and bubbled so I keep thinking that it has started to rain, but then I tell myself, "No, that's something wrong with the window. It's not raining."

I look out at Green Park and see there is still some construction work that means the pedestrian traffic still snakes around the Northeast end of the park. I have a vision of my sneakered-feet keeping a measured beat around the pebbly surface. I smell the the grass and feel the humidity on my face. I miss the run I used to do. This missing has nothing to do with leaving The Smoke. I've not been running in months due to a silly injury. I'm certain that if I didn't have a silly physical hindrance, I would be creating new paths for myself in the Parque del Oeste. It's a hillier park, and Madrid is a higher altitude city* than I am used to so the training would be more difficult at first, but I would get used to it ....

I'm sure you would!

... but I haven't yet had the chance.

I curse flat shoes and the damage done to my arch.

I catch myself thinking about blogging about this (Green Park and the memories it conjures) and that (the bubbled laminate on the bus window), and I wonder at the sudden activity in my brain.

Why don't you have this much blogthink in Madrid?

Then I have a brilliant insight into my circumstances and my creative energy.

Of course!

I don't commute in Madrid. In my new routine, I don't have an imposed time for my brain to go off in whatever tangent it likes. I don't follow threads of thought like a third party observer. I'm all in it and involved and emotional. I'm too close, and I haven't got enough unstructured time.

This realisation is a call to action.

*A bit of trivia: Madrid is the undisputed highest altitude major capital city in Europe. Andorra claims a higher capital, but technically Andorra is a principality, not a country.

20% Paro* But Not Me

I might not have explained it clearly (or at all): I did not have to quit my job in order to move country.

I was ready to. My Man had run the numbers, and we had agreed on a budget and a period of unemployment. I had discussed my personal circumstances with 'higher ups' and agreed that I would submit a letter of resignation 3 months prior to my departure. My first 6 months in Madrid were going to include Spanish classes, long walks with The Dog, a disciplined daily window of job search activities (Internet research, cover letter writing, CV submissions, networking events), and wine drinking. My grand adventure was all arranged.

Circumstances conspire against plans. My employer is (and has been) a company in transition. A merger, an acquisition, departing heads, and demanding customers: all factors that led to a call from A Foreign Big Cheese. A Foreign Big Cheese wanted to know if I could put off my plans.

"No way, José." I said.

Then to demonstrate I am much more flexible than my knee jerk reaction might have indicated, I clarified.

"I mean, nothing is set in stone. But, we've paid out a lot for certain expenses and it would be quite costly to change plans."

"Well, then, would you consider staying with us even from Madrid. If we have you focus on European accounts, it won't matter where you live. Madrid, London. What's the difference?"

For the sake of readability, I have significantly edited Foreign Big Cheese's proposal. This particular Big Cheese is a wordy fellow and fond of the sound of his own voice. He's not a native English speaker, and I suspect he still gets a kick out of hearing his voice spit out words in a foreign language. Once he gets on a roll it's nearly impossible to stop him.

Before I knew it, I was walking away from the conference room the Foreign Big Cheese had occupied during his visit to our little hamlet (London) and to which he had summoned me to offer me continued employment. My head was spinning. My plans had changed.

Fuck the disciplined daily window of job search activities!

I was ecstatic. The Man was ecstatic. With already so much of our lives in self-created turmoil, the prospect of a fixed element (and continued paychecks) provided us with a certain sense of relief.

All of this by way of explanation: I am still traveling for professional reasons. Sometimes within mainland Europe. And sometimes, right now, for example, back to The Smoke. If this trip is indicative, then these trips 'home' will be rife with nostalgia and will drag out the comparatives.

Oh, and all this also to lay some groundwork. I think I will in the future complain about work.

*Unemployment