Quartz has an excellent (as usual!) digression into the topic of email today. Conclusion: It works. I wholeheartedly agree.
The quote from Devin Coldeway says it best:
“No company owns it. It works reliably and as intended on every platform, every operating system, every device. That’s a rarity today and a hell of a valuable one.”
We have come a long way since the time when a woman showing so much as an ankle could be considered scandalously inappropriate. Even so, fashion shops promoting going commando seems to me as venturing a bridge too far.
It is the weekend, and the FT is “probing” another strain of conspicuous consumption: bespoke libraries. (Is there a wholesale version?)
Paying people to assemble a library in your home is like paying them to hunt, kill, prepare and eat food for you – leaving you with some rotting antlers to hang on a wall.
For the more serious bibliophile, it might even be akin to hire someone else to fall in love, have sex, raise a family and send you the photoalbums to display as your own.
The pleasure of a personal library (or any private collection) is foremost in the process – the search, the read, your autonomous curation – without which the display is pure theatrical scenery. Glancing over the scenery offers you no memories, no connection of your own reflections, impulses, ideas and revelations – no history. The epic story of assembling your “bespoke collection” is that you sent some nerd an e-mail, he showed up at your house with a truck, you paid him a princely sum, and now you have a room full of inked paper.
But the worst part is that it seems completely counterproductive. Instead of being seen as well-read and intellectual, you increase the risk of proving that you are not. Imagine the embarassment of being asked by a house guest your opinions of a book in your personal library, and not being able to offer any.
It is like purchasing stage 4 Alzheimer’s.
Read the full article at: https://www.ft.com/content/9b4a4542-1e17-11e8-a748-5da7d696ccab
Happy World Radio Day, everybody! The 2018 theme is radio and sports, but never mind that.
As has been evident for some time, although wide adoption doubtless will take some time, podcasting is the new radio: Available on demand, episodic content, high quality and covering a bewildering number of finely sliced niche markets.
I wish I had the energy to launch my own podcast (on the enlightened holy practice of not giving a f**k), but en attendant Godot, here are some of my current favorites:
UPDATE Feb 19: Stumbled upon and pondering an interesting point from Quartz – “Live podcast recordings ruin everything that makes podcasts great”
They go against everything I love about the medium of podcasting itself: that it is calming to listen to, not audibly jarring or interruptive, and I feel like the hosts or guests are talking to just me. Whereas public radio greats have an air of authority by mere virtue of being on NPR, the connection I build up with certain podcast hosts I listened to “before they were cool” feels genuine. The fact that it’s not reciprocal doesn’t matter much—until they invite an audience of people into my ears to shatter the illusion. They begin making jokes for the audience, not for me. The grating sound of applause or laughter fills the pauses that usually give me space to ponder. The echo of a theater sounds like the opposite of the uncommon silence of a studio I usually cherish.
As usual with Quartz, there is a discussion of opposing arguments as well. Still, I think I agree mostly with what Rosie Spinks is saying. Live audiences very seldom make a podcast better, but frequently interject.
Why don’t drunk people sing anymore?
Admittedly, it’s been a while since I dragged myself through the indecency of public drunkenness. But in my memory it had some glory to it when all or most in the crew were able to carry a local tune all the way home through the city centre. Haven’t heard that much this holiday season.
It’s probably the internet’s fault.
When winter finally hits Oslo, it can hit hard. And suddenly. (Ny-sådd ≈ Recently sown)
Christmas sneaked up on me and hit me hard, too, like it usually does. I don’t know why I never learn. It’s a tradition, I guess.
When I have some time off from everything, I like to take the subway downtown to mosey around. One of these days, I was randomly browsing in a book store, and I happened upon a book about street photography. And for some reason, a switch flicked in my head.
Since then I have been chasing “the decisive moment”, so to say. Not much to show for it yet, but even an epic quest can begin with a stumble.