Tom Watson

My Tail Grows Longer

As many of you know, I am a reluctant blogger. The distribution itself fascinates me, and the conversation draws me in. But the shear act of blogging - the pull of feeding a small audience for free, creating all those pesky links, answering comments - can sometimes feel like a burden. I love to write, I only like to blog. Plus, you know, it's overdone. Why, nearly two years ago I wrote these words:

...Blogs are yesterday's news. Dead. Unbreathing. Anachronistic folly of the followers. Mere digital entrails. We're talking lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Fury lay buried dead. The crooked crosses and headstones, the spears of the little gate, the barren thorns, the whole deal. The Dead. Another trendline I've followed to the downward side of the peak.

That rant doesn't exactly haunt me; it still rings true in many ways. Today, I filled out the survey of a doctoral student studying the effects of blogging on politics and many of the questions centered around the standards of journalism (paid media) versus the standards of bloggers (unpaid amateur media). Fair enough, though simple; blogs have gained some influence but to me, real news product is still real news product. It's just that I want to get a bunch of that product in my feed reader and on my phone, and I want to be able to talk back at it. But yeah, I still value journalistic standards - they help separate our species from the rest of the animal kingdom.

Anyway, the survey got me thinking - especially this question:

What is the MOST important event to occur in the blogosphere?

Dan Rather’s removal from CBS news   Trent Lott’s resignation as Senate President   Ned Lamont's upset of Sen. Joe Liebermann in the 2006 Connecticut primary.   Press credentials issued to bloggers at the Republican and Democratic National Conventions   Blog reporting during Hurricane Katrina   Blog reporting during the December 2004 tsunami in Indonesia

Is that all we've got? Credentials to the blowhardathons. Some slight assistance in the self-destruction of a once-brilliant career (Rather, not Lott). Disaster diaries (chilling as some were). Even Lamont's victory - surely the "biggest" blogging victory yet - was the result of the incumbent's disastrous political missteps, assisted by enthusiastic bloggers. Besides, it misses the point.

Because there is none. Blogging isn't about big stories or mainstream journalism. It's about giving voices to thousands and thousands who didn't have them before (beyond their dens and livingrooms and local barstools), providing real open distribution, and creating a vast patchwork quilt of conversation, thought, and passionate argument.

Which brings me to the latest hot theory of media monetization, the "long tail." A book followed a fascinating Wired story by Chris Anderson, and both posited that in the digital age, the very vastness of content libraries - the ability to offer everything at any time - mitigated the need for mass marketing only the big hits, the juggernauts, the blockbusters. I think there's some truth to it. Esoterica reigns in my media-buying universe. But it's not just about the big media libraries and how to monetize them, anbd it's not all about YouTube or MySpace or any of the other defenseless supersites out there.

Blogs have long tails too - this one certainly does. I'll give you two examples, two posts actually, that continue to drive both traffic and comment years after their publication date. (There are others, but these two both popped up - yet again - this week).

One was a post about the Guitar Center, the chain of supermarket-sized music shops that has grown and prospered by selling aging boomers the kinds of guitars and amps they couldn't afford when they were following bands around in the 60s and 70s. "A trip to the Guitar Center," I wrote, "is like a trip to the amusement park."

Apparently, not for the employees - the ones who treat me so well when I want to sit around and blast an SG through a massive amp without buying a thing. My little post has become a center for anti-GC sentiment expressed in stunning detail by the people who work there. I now know that most of these guys work mainly for commission, with their (small) guaranteed salary being deducted from their paychecks against that commission - and yet they keep the sales pressure incredibly low and take care of all the other grunt work around the large, bright, easily accessible stores. I had some GC stock based on my own experience and good feelings about the company. I told it today, because employees are leaving - and the GC is an "experience" business. That welcoming playground for geezer rockers like myself is why they're successful. The employees make that happen. As one commenter said: "GC needs to realize that the salesperson is the first and last impression." I learned this over two years on the long tail of my original post. So I'm no longer a shareholder.

I remain, however, one of the band of music fans who hold the late Johnny Thunders in tremendous esteem - and because of the long tail of this blog, I find myself somewhat responsible for maintaining that network. It all began with this post two and a half years ago, praising Johnny's seminal 1978 solo record So Alone. Ever since, Google has sent wayward Johnny fans my way and many leave comments; indeed, the comments to that post are far more interesting than the post itself - a real record of the Thunders legacy, and a source of some fascinating tidbits besides. There was this note from Gary Q last year:

I am proud to say that JT was my cousin. I never knew him but my dad knew him well, and even gave him a few lessons on the accordian. I have only recently discovered Johnny's music, as well as the dolls. I am amazed! What else is there to say. I feel lucky!

And then this one yesterday:

Funny I stumbled onto this old thread. I was Johnny's roadie/driver/guitar tech for the 1983 Cosa Nostra tour of Europe and Sweden. Ah, the memories. Foggy memories, but memories. Billy Rath got me that gig, as we met and played together when he took some classes at Berklee (I kid you not). I ought to write a book. LOL!

And then my friend Brendan weighed in with a comment - and I reminded him via IM that he'd commented on this post two full years ago - and that he was commenting again...on comments! The long tail indeed. That's when it's worth it, like a first class human being.

UPDATE: Lance Mannion (kindly) suggests that I sound "like a parish priest out of a Graham Greene novel who's lost his faith but keeps saying mass every Sunday in the hope that going through the motions will re-inspire him one day." It's a terrific line, really - and close to the bone. In that my faith in people is almost always shaken by people he's correct. Lance observes correctly:

It's the regular media---the MSM as they appear to like us to call them---who are obsessed with the idea that blogs are all about politics and nothing but politics, and this is not just unfortunate in that they are depriving themselves of some excellent and entertaining reading on movies, books, music, science, and life in general, on the job and in the home and on the farm and out in the woods and in the mind; it's potentially disasterous for us, the bloggers, and for our readers, and for the still inchoate art form known as blogging.

Yes, blogging can be an art form - and I'll return Lance's compliments of my political activism by suggesting he himself approaches that standard with amazing regularity. And he's right that I often find it a chore stems from lack of faith, sure. Also from spoilage: I was once paid for my public ruminations, and very well.

But that stuff paid the bills more than the writer, in some ways - the long tail can satisfying. Over at the Tattered Coat, Matt recalls Lance's own years-long dance with Lemony Snicket plotlines and details his own long-standing, er, conversation with the swelling fan ranks of young Carrie Underwood and a colloquy on dating advice. You never know.

But I'll add my voice to Lance's in urging readers here to visit Kim's post, Hanging On For Dear Life. Life in an emergency room in San Francisco, read it.

Glycerine Tears

They broke out the Oxford cloth and chinos at the White House for President Bush's anniversary performance along the Gulf Coast - and Karl Rove rolled up the President's sleeves and tucked in that nifty leather belt, before he slipped the President's feet into soft loafers and nudged him into the Lousiana sunlight. The portrayal was the be simple: a man of action, humble in his dressed-down togs, patting local pols on the back and strolling through the wreckage.

But the wreckage stroll was a perp walk.

George Bush's very presence on the Gulf is a terrible admission, an admission that Katrina is a calamity worthy of that most American of news packages: the anniversary. The admission was also simple - without a catastrophic failure of leadership, without a record of historic incompetence, without a rudderless Federal administration there would be no anniversary news package. There would be no walk, no talk of "a moment of great sadness" to Brian Williams, no chinos and loafers.

The great, historic flood would still have happened; the disaster still would have been great. But the death and misery and suffering would have been mitigated by competence. A real response would have made the death toll more in keeping with other hurricanes in the eastern United States. Further, the anniversary story would have been brighter: real rebirth, the result of leadership that is colorblind and classblind.

Instead, we get the George Bush perp walk - the oh-so-slight mea culpa of "aw shucks, we coulda done better but we're gittin there." And still a great American city lies in ruins, the living memory of a President's response to a natural disaster than can best be expressed by the slight tipping of the wings of Air Force One.

Get the hell off the street, Mr. President and save the tears for the tragedy of your ruinous legacy.

Beach Reality

Moshup, originally uploaded by Tom Watson.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"You using that whole table?"

"You leaving that parking space?"

New Yorkers. Martha's Vineyard is swarming with 'em in August - in the SUV-swamped towns to the east and along the rolling roads on the western end. The competition for space, for a better seat alongside the takeout shack, for a more picture-perfect island "experience." It plays better on East 42nd Street, where I spent my Monday like all other Mondays, back as I am from the beach.

"Trevor, that's not yours dear."

"Waitress, can we get some water?"

"Where do you get the fishing rods?"

Uh, we brought 'em, lady. From home. And over on the Ferry, and then down to Lobsterville Beach this morning. It's less crowded in Aquinnah and Chilmark, where a confluence of anti-development residents, an anti-development Native American tribe, land conservation groups, viciously strict zoning, and sheer distance keeps it low-rise and spread out - meadows and farms and dirt paths through scrub oak and pine. We're talking $5 million "farmhouses" and $2.5 million fishing shacks. But it does look great, and it feels wonderful with the sun shining and the breeze rolling down Vineyard Sound, up over the cliffs, across the beach and around the point to the Atlantic.

A week with no blogging, no cell phone calls, and occasional emergency peek at email. Fill in the empty space with: reading (a Richard Russo and two Henning Mankell's), hikes, long casts from the shore, naps, swimming, ice cream, lobster rolls, catch, cards, cooking, and lazing about in the sun. Took lots of pictures.

So now I'm back.

Mandelbaum, Mandelbaum, Mandelbaum

Shawn Green comes to the Mets to give them a powerful hitter in the six hole, and replace the lamented Xavier Nady as a real corner outfielder and RBI threat behind the slumping kid at third-base, the one they used to chant "MVP. MVP, MVP" about way back in late June. He also gives them another mensch on the bench, to go with the likes of Delgado and Franco, Floyd and Glavine - older, productive character guys who know how to play the game.

Though it puts an end to the overblown "Team of Latinos" conspiracy theory, a Jewish leftfielder also appeals to a sizeable fan base in this metropolitan area of ours - a former All Star, still young at 33, good-looking, and he doesn't suit up for Yom Kippur. Omar Minaya knows what he's doing in Queens. If you follow the standings only, the Mets appear to have been cruising since May Day - except it's not true, really.

Although they play in the anemic National Leeague, the Metties have had to overcome quite a bit - the complete replacement of the starting staff, the loss of the best set-up man in the league to a Miami traffic accident, a massive hole at second base, and various mega-slumps (Heilman, Delgado) and assorted injuries. Pedro's been a non-factor for two months.They haven't really cruised; they've made the right moves to keep the big ship moving.

Think about who's gone from the opening day roster: Matsui, Zambrano, Bannister, Nady, Castro. Pick-ups like Hernandez and Mota, along with Heilman's resurgence, have given New York a dominant bullpen. Of course, they do have two legitimate MVP candidates in Beltran and Reyes, as dynamic a duo as there is in baseball.

But Willie's astute moves, the shuttle of starters under Peterson's care, and most of all, Omar's telephone work have kept the Mets moving steadily to dominance. Add Shawn Green, the best Jewish hitter in New York since Art Shamsky, already inspring "Messiah" signs from the wise-ass Shea denizens. He fits the Mets, he fits the Mets fans.

We've got a lot of Izzy Mandelbaum in us, left over from the Dave Kingman years perhaps - that sense that although we know we're tough, we're sure the world's out to screw us. Everyone thinks they're better than us. Well, hello, dough boy. We're here to whip you in to shape, so grab your jocks - if you need one. It's go-time.

Overlooking the Sea

I95 was horror show between Stamford and Rhode Island, but we eventually made the Cape and crossed to Vineyard Haven on a ferry packed with 60 Harley Davidsons and their leather-clad owners. Now we're ensconced on a hill in Aquinnah surrounded by scrub pine and water, set adrift for a week...and me away from headlines and links and the telephone. Dim connectivity, except with the sky and the sea ... all of which goes to recharge the batteries on this unit (and to avoid a tragic Dell-like explosion). Will return all too soon. Feel free to talk among yourselves.

It's the Freakiest Show

Back in the early 70s, I'd sometimes sit in my parents' room and watch The Avengers on their old black and white TV. It was cheeky fantasy really, a strange alternative world of crime-fighting keyed by the visual cues of a bowler hat, an umbrella, small guns, and Dianna Rigg's tight leather pants. I'm not sure if the show actually ran in color on Channel 9, but I watched in shades of gray and all the world of that Great Britain seemed to live in those hues. The 60s had already swung by the time the series ran in America, and it seemed like a relic - a fun relic, to be sure, but ancient.

I was thinking about The Avengers when I tuned into the new BBC drama Life on Mars, whose premise is a lawman's strange return to the world of 1973 in grimy Manchester, whose monochrome backdrop is tinted a stready flavor of grimy red brick. From the whirlwind opening, when a chance traffic accident sends Deputy Inspector Sam Tyler into a netherworld - he "lives" as a police officer in 1973 but is occasionally drawn to his hospital room in 2005. I could go on about the premise, but I won't; it's complex and in some ways, the facts don't matter.

What matters are the superb performances, the groovy soundtrack, the wardrobe brillance (all cheap leather, chains, and wide polyester collars), the sets thick with cigarette smoke, and the wonderful enveloping sentimentalism for the 70s. The moral center is provided by DI Tyler's nemesis, an old-fashioned bruised-knuckle copper as played by Philip Glenister, whose rutted face is like a crinkled motorway roadmap. His corruption and real-world venality root the weekly episodes in the kind of fertile acting loam that produced Ian McShane's brilliant Al Swearengen.

The men smoke, booze, beat up suspects as they please, and grab ass; the women don't seem to mind. Oh, the nostalgia - keyed by the soundtrack, which opens with Bowie title track and has included (thus far) pitch-perfect choices like Live and Let Die, Jean Genie, and Lou Reed's I'm So Free. I'm totally hooked. Or as Bowie said:

Take a look at the lawman
Beating up
the wrong guy.
Oh man!
Wonder if he'll ever
know
He's in the best selling show.
Is there life
on Mars?

Comment of the Week

There was some discussion in the comments on my post about Maureen Dowd's misogynistic snipe at Hillary Clinton about whether I actually meant to suggest that Senator Clinton has a realistic change to be elected President - "the first [woman] in U.S. history with a real shot at the Presidency," as I put it. In other words, is Clinton electable?

My answer: yeah, she is.

To be sure, handicapping Presidential races twoyears out is an inexact science. Things have to break right for her - in the opponent sweepstakes, especially - and she may have to weather some Democratic primary losses (John Edwards is the next-strongest candidate, barring a Frankensteinian Al Gore rebirth). It'll be a fight. But I can see her whipping anybody not named McCain on the GOP side. She was wrong about the war and there's certainly a whiff of dynasty about her career, but she may well be the toughest, most disciplined major elected politician in America.

Now, this puts me at odds with most of the readers' comments - even those who blasted Dowd for her blatantly anti-feminist language mostly thought Clinton is already toast, the victim of a. her ambition, b. her gender, c. demonization by the right, or d. all of the above. Chuck's comment is typical:

HRC is where she is at because she married a fast track guy. Nepotism is not merit and the vast dumb-voter conspiracy will never cast their votes her way. She will lose... she is now a "brand" created by the GOP with years of demonization and hatred. Hillary is hated like no other. NO one I know would ever talk about her with ANYTHING other than disdain in public.

Respectfully, I disagree - and point to this comment by Sally, who sums up my current POV on the efficacy of a Clinton candidacy and earns comment of the week:

Too many Dowdisms are about Hillary's gender although that is vehemently denied time and again. As terrible a person and president Bush is, I doubt anyone has written as many negatives about him (or Cheney or Rumsfeld) in one column as the anti-Hillarys do. Get over the fantasy Republicans want her to run. Just like they are anxious for Bill to be her campaign manager. I think not, ladies and gentlemen.

Will: Kerry Was Right

In the category of unspoken words now uttered: There is virtually nothing I can disagree with in this George Will column in the Washington Post, excepting his uniformed crack about the blogosphere. A taste of realistic conservative thought on foreign policy and the so-called "war on terror" (as opposed to the wild-eyed sloganeering of fanatics):

F-16s are not useful tools against terrorism that issues from places such as Hamburg (where Mohamed Atta lived before dying in the North Tower of the World Trade Center) and High Wycombe, England.

The talking classes regurgitate the Rovian spin that the left is split, that we're eating our own, that we're enforcing an orthodoxy of weakness. But most of them miss the massive gap on the right, probably because most Republicans - being nominally in power - are loathe to attack the leadership directly. Not a problem here on the opposition side. But Will and others are slowly creating a more vocal GOP back bench, and it's getting louder and more vicious in its offensive against failed neo-conservatism. I mean really - George Will telling John Kerry he was right about terrorism and national defense is almost as jaw-dropping as Karl Rove backing a putative Democrat in Connecticut.

Generation Reyes

No one in Major League Baseball has more stolen bases than Jose Reyes, the brilliant 23-year-old shortstop of the Mets, who has 48. No one has more triples (14). He ranks eighth in hits (137) and second in runs (94). When he gets on base, you believe he's going to score - which he does more than half the time. He plays a ranging shortstop and has a powerful arm from the third-base hole. He plays a bit recklessly, but he loves to play. He's the best young ballplayer to come along in a long time - actually one of two 23-year-old Mets who can claim that honor, a truly Amazin' verity. He smiles, he runs hard out of the box, he laughs at stupid jokes, invents crazy handshakes, and shakes off mistakes. Sitting here on an August Friday, Jose Reyes in a great baseball phenomenon to consider. He makes me smile.

Their Shame, Our Stench

The Blue Wren has a long and brilliant, evocative, must-read post that casts a trip to the neat German villages of Bergen and Belsen in the light of current horrors. Here's a taste, but please go read the entire article and leave comments - very well worth it:

America, my country, feels that this horror, this atrocity, this mass murder at a distance, is necessary for a “new Middle East.”

Whatever that is.

America holds prisoners at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba without trial or hope of release. We continue to enable and perpetuate a bloodbath in Iraq and stand by as that country collapses into a civil war we perpetuated. We shrug and turn our backs on poor, war-ravaged Afghanistan and we shake our heads, not very sadly, over the sad fact that hundreds of civilians dying horrific, violent deaths in Lebanon and Israel.

After all, there’s really nothing we can do about it. After all, most of the people who are dying are ragheads and Hadjis. They’re not really people.

The Nazis had a universal word for them. “Untermenschen.” Subhuman.

Really, we’re not responsible. We’re uninformed.

We go to work, we shop and play,we talk with our friends, we make love and we live our daily lives as if we have no personal accountability for what the leaders of our country are doing in our names. Never mind that like the good people of those little towns in Northern Germany, Bergen and Belsen, we have to hold our noses and breathe through our mouths to avoid smelling the stench.