Way Off Target

Modern technology is amazing. The power of social media is changing everything we know about communication and information dissemination, but even more than that, it’s actually convinced me to get a Twitter account.

I’ve had the thing for a couple of weeks now, and while I can’t say it’s changed my life at all, I’m sure it’s made a huge difference to the ten or so people who now eagerly follow the occasional deranged overflow of my overcrowded mind. Mind you, the ten people who follow me on Twitter appear, broadly, to be the same ten people who follow this blog. So I guess you already knew what you were in for.

Meanwhile, as we’re all well aware, the real point of social media is to make money out of people’s lives. The whole point of having a massive audience is, ultimately, to sell that audience as a commodity to advertisers. And if you have access to the personal data of millions of people in order to target that market to the desired demographic, well now you’re cooking with someone else’s gas.

I like to keep an eye on the targeted ads that Facebook sticks on the side of my news feed. I never click them on principle, but it’s interesting to keep an eye on what the algorithms in Facebook’s advertising database can determine about me based on the content of my profile. When it advertises local music or theatre events, I’m impressed, but not surprised. When it advertises protest events for left-wing political causes, I laugh and congratulate myself for having such a diverse and socially active group of friends.

This week it gave me a targeted ad informing me that ASIO (Australia’s intelligence agency) had job vacancies for linguists. I broke my rule and clicked the link, not so much out of a desire to be a secret agent, but more out of professional interest in career opportunities for academically qualif…

Yeah, okay. I totally want to be a secret agent.

It doesn’t take Q to realise that Facebook knows I’m a linguist because of my listed education and the groups I’m a member of. It’s possible it even knows I’m in the market for a new job because I work for the NT Government. Nonetheless, I was touched that Facebook thought of me when the opportunity came up.

It turns out that ASIO wasn’t after linguists so much as interpreters, which I’m not. So I closed the ASIO website and went back to Facebook. The ASIO ad had been replaced with a new ad.

Engagement rings.

A few weeks ago I informed the world (and Facebook) that my relationship status had gone from “It’s complicated” to “It’s even more complicated with Kirribilli Kim”. And to demonstrate how proud we were of the fact that we’d kept it a secret (not very well) for nearly six months, I even listed the not-uncontroversial start date of the relationship. And apparently the Facebook advertising algorithm has decided that eight months is quite long enough, thank you very much.

It’s possible the Algorithm came to this conclusion by first checking my religion, which is also listed. And I suppose that’s fair enough. Eight months is getting up there for a Christian couple these days. Fair play. I may have to add a note in the personal description field saying something like “frequently gets in trouble for not doing what the other Christians are doing”. That’ll sort it all out, I’m sure.

In related news, the humans in my life who seem to be arriving at the same conclusion, and asking similarly inappropriate questions can go jump in a very deep lake. But that’s a different post, which I’m probably not going to write.

Meanwhile, I think I’ll leave the sociological commentary on targeted ads to one side for now. Otherwise I’ll have to come to some uncomfortable conclusions about what the ads for Fitness First are trying to tell me.

Make of that what you will.




Garry with 2 Rs

Anti-Social Media

Following on from last month’s theme of 'ridiculous things people expect Garry to be good at,’ on Friday my boss sent me to a Social Media Marketing conference, with a view to improving the office’s presence on online social media. I’m not sure why they sent me specifically. I’ve no qualifications in marketing and I’m not especially sociable. It’s got absolutely nothing in common with anything else I do at work.

It might just be because I’m male and under 30 (just) and am therefore naturally assumed to be good with computers. This is foolishness, but I didn’t mind a day away from the office where I’m assumed to be good at project management, which is also foolishness.

It was more a training event than a conference, run by a crew from America called SkillPath. It was a two person team who were in town as part of a whirlwind tour of Australia, shining the light of social media into the deepest depths of cultural cynicism, represented ably by me in the back row.

It didn’t start well. I had to give the Americans points for trying to contextualise their data for the locals, but pointing out that some people were likely to be following Julia Gillard on Twitter, while others were following Tom Abbott (sic) didn’t quite have the desired effect. And the presenter’s revelation that she thought she was in Queensland, and didn’t actually have any idea where Darwin was, was just downright hilarious.

However, the obligatory mocking of visitors from America having been indulged, the content they presented was quite interesting at times. And some of the examples of how not to use social media were fascinating.

Possibly the most cataclysmic outcome of the conference for me was that I’ve finally been convinced of – if not the virtues – then certainly the utility of Twitter. I’m only ten years late. You can follow me @GarryCondoseres, but I can’t promise I’ll lead you anywhere useful. Next thing you know I’ll be posting pictures of other peoples’ cakes to my Pinterest board.

I don’t have a Pinterest board. One step at a time.

#MakeOfThatWhatYouWill.




@GarryWith2Rs

It's Complicated

A couple of weeks ago I published the internet’s most explosive revelation since Isaac Newton tweeted his discovery of gravity: I’m dating Kirribilli Kim and while the entire blogosphere may have been set a buzz by the information, that’s nothing compared with the furore of comments that erupted when we updated our relationship status on Facebook.

I had a laugh when I changed mine, as realised that since the first day I logged on all those years ago, my status had been set to “It’s Complicated”. And just as you might expect, switching off the sign that says "it’s complicated" was just the signal the karma fairies had been waiting for.

After Tassie, I spent a few days in Sydney with Kim. We hired a car to drive up to the North coast of New South Wales for Kim’s best friend’s wedding. Having not driven in Australia much, Kim has a tendency to drive on the wrong side of the road, so it fell to me to take the helm for an epic journey of discovery.

It should have been simple enough: Get on the Pacific Highway and stay on it for an hour and a half or so. But Sydney has a nasty tendency to spring surprise lane changes, merges and inescapable exits on unwary drivers. If you don’t know what you’re doing it’s easy to end up on the fast lane to Parramatta when you’re supposed to be aiming for the Harbour Bridge. It’s complicated.

By sheer force of will (and blatant disregard of a few road markers) we managed to stay on the highway until we got out of Sydney, but at some point we teleported off the freeway and found ourselves on a windy mountain scenic route, without either of us having any memory of having exited the freeway. It was a lovely drive actually, but I still have no idea how we managed that one. Fortunately the scenic route met up with the freeway again further up. I don’t know how much time it cost us, how we got on it in the first place, or even exactly where we went. It’s complicated.

But it all worked out in the end. We made it to our accommodation in a little village called Long Jetty. As you might expect, the main feature of the area was a really long jetty, which we walked out along around sunset. It was one of the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen; Kim must have taken upwards of thirty photos. Even I took a few.

On the way back we were accosted by a little girl who asked us if we had any fish for her, in a voice that suggested she might have been possessed by elves. We didn’t have any fish, so we ran away.

The next day was the day of the wedding. Kim and I got dolled up and made our way out to find the wedding site to make sure we’d have plenty of time and wouldn’t be running late. Sure enough, we found with plenty of time, so we went for lunch in a café up the road. Something went wrong with time, but I don’t know what. It’s complicated. The next thing we knew, we were running late for the ceremony anyway. Fortunately we got there before the bride, so it was all good.

After the ceremony we milled about for a bit and then made our way up to the reception. It was simple enough; Kim informed me that the reception was at a lighthouse just around the corner from the ceremony.

The lighthouse was a beautiful location, overlooking the beach and with lovely conference rooms. It had everything that could possibly be wanted, but it was missing one thing.

It wasn’t actually the reception venue. We had got the photo shoot location and the reception venue mixed up. So now we got to drive around I circles in a sleepy North Coast town, looking for a bunch of people celebrating a wedding. We tried the bowls club and the beach and the lighthouse again, and eventually we had to call someone to find out what the hell was going on. It was in the surf lifesaving club as it turned out, which was both lovely and very difficult to find by accident.

The following day we made our way back to the city and I attempted the most complicated operation I’ve ever undertaken: I took Kim to a cricket game at the SCG and then proceeded to try to explain to an American how cricket works.

By the end of the first innings, she had got the basic idea sorted out, and we were all ready to settle in and put her education to the test in the second innings when the skies opened and the entire match was rained out. No matter, you can check her progress here. I was disappointed not to get to watch the full match, but in the meantime we also got ourselves up on the big screen doing karaoke (don’t ask) and bore witness to the largest beer snake ever constructed. It made it all the way from one end of the Victor Trumper Stand to the other; a truly epic achievement, but perhaps an inevitable outcome at a cricket match with no cricket.

And then before I knew it, it was time to pack up and fly back to Darwin. But first I had to drive our hire car through Sydney peak hour to return it. I had to do three laps of King’s Cross just to get into the lane I needed. It’s complicated.

But that’s Sydney for you, I guess. It’s a nice place and all, but everything you put your hand to turns out to be far more complicated than you realised.

Make of that what you will.





Garry with 2 Rs

Meme-Free Monday

The blogosphere is a strange, amazing and frightening place.

I’ve been exploring the world of blog networks. I say exploring, but what I really mean is observing from a comfortable distance with a self-satisfied sneer on my face. I would have imagined, from my obviously naive and unrealistic bubble, that writing stuff about your life online would be the resort of people who are fed up with the three dimensional world and need a place where they can wantonly put forth whatever is on their mind without having their performance appraised, motives questioned or grammar corrected (ahem). In short, people like me.

I mean, obviously the premise is flawed from the outset, as the number of blogs out there is huge, and the number of people like me is so small as to be almost immeasurable (and that is probably just as well). But even so, the number of ways people can find to take their own individualised cyber-portal for self expression and make it the same as everyone else’s never fails to amaze me.

There is now a content generating meme available for every day of the week. If you aligned your blog with all of them (and some people do) you’d be writing a meal plan on Monday (that’s not a blog, that’s a shopping list), discussing the funny things your cats do on Tuesday (it doesn’t rhyme or start with the same letter as Tuesday, but apparently it’s a thing. Also, it’s a little bit exclusive of people who don’t own cats, or who do own cats that never do anything interesting (Yes. I’m looking at you, Sis.)), writing wordlessly on Wednesday (that’s not even possible, unless you just post an image with no heading or caption, which is an interesting idea but doesn’t really you help to connect with your readers) being thankful on Thursday (and presumably remaining bitter and ungrateful for the rest of the week) and flogging your blog on Friday. (I’ve already written about how stupid that is). By the time you got to the weekend you’d be so over-memed with your blog that you’d be ready to delete it and start fresh. And I probably wouldn’t blame you.

My first and extremely predictable reaction to this was to declare Cum Tacent Clament a meme free zone. You can take your “Write like everyone else Wednesday” and stick it up your word processor. Unfortunately there is the small matter of the large pink “One Lovely Blog” sticker sitting on my left side bar. There’s more than enough disingenuousness around with regards to things that actually matter as it is, without me getting all hypocritical about something as banal as Novelty Mango Chutney Recipe Tuesday*.

So instead, I’m starting my own meme-based protest movement. I was going to call it “Self-Important Saturday” – a day for people everywhere to show how independent, creative and spontaneous they are by all writing about the same thing at the same time for a day each week. Unfortunately I slept in on Saturday, and then the rest of my day got filled up with opera rehearsal and sepak takraw training.

So instead, I hereby present you with the very first “Meme-free Monday”. It’s a one day in the week when bloggers from all over the community can celebrate the freedom of their online voice by WRITING ABOUT WHATEVER THE HELL THEY WANT!

It’s such a great idea, don’t you think? Send the message to five people, and let’s spread the word of meme-free Monday to everyone in the blogosphere! The first person to send me a link to their meme-free Monday post wins a free Cum Tacent Clament T-shirt** signed by Brooke Fraser***. <3 <3 <3 Yay! <3 <3 <3.

Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

*This might be a real thing, but probably isn’t.

**This probably isn’t a real thing either.

***How cool would that be?

The Whole World Revolves Around Meme

I’ve been memed again. Jess has sent me a “one lovely blog” award.

The "rules" are:

1. Choose five other people who deserve this award and pass it on.
2. Tell 7 facts about yourself.
3. Let the people you gave the award to know.
4. Thank the person who gave you the award.

Now I’m really in a pickle. I have to find a combination of sentiments that can, while retaining my trademark aloof disinterest, convey both how grateful I am to be considered for this award and also the extent to which Cum Tacent Clament is way too cool for internet chain letters.

Also, apparently I’m supposed to write seven things about myself. So here we go:

1. I am extremely grateful to have received this award, even though my blog has nothing to do with child rearing, botanic photography or hipster book reviews.

2. I am way too cool for internet memes.

3. I am of the opinion that, while there are a myriad of adjectives that might be applied to this blog, “lovely” probably isn’t one of them.

4. Sometimes I dress all in green and wander the night, fighting crime and planting horseradishes.

5. I am afraid of sopranos

6. I like self referential sentences, such as this one.

7. There is no way on God’s Earth that I am passing this on to five other people.

I think that about covers it. Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

A Collective Sigh of Resignation

I’ve recently received a revelation about what I’m doing wrong when it comes to getting people to read my blog. The penny began to drop when I noticed my sister had been asked to guest post on someone’s blog. Something about being an Australian in Canada or something, on a blog about female geeks or some such. The drop was complete and made that irritatingly unsatisfying “ping” sound on the concrete of my consciousness when Jess, who is basically my brother from another mother, (or to use the feminine, my sister from a … a blistered … twister? Never mind) started joining up with a network of blogging mums. I realised what my blogging experience is missing: a collective!

The problem is… what the hell kind of messed up collective could I possibly get away with joining? Jess suggested joining the blogging mums’ society and crying to the sexism police if I was refused membership. It sounds like great fun, except for the part where I piss off a whole social network full of pregnant and/or post-natal women. Maybe later.

I’m not sure there really exists a network that CTC would slot into naturally, as the whole point of tacently clamenting is that there’s probably no other place in the cyberverse where I could get away with it. If we did form a cranky, cynical, independent, socially awkward writers’ network, I can only see it lasting a month or so before some prawn decides he’s too cool for the collective, takes his cricket bat and goes home.

There’s a reasonable chance that prawn would be me.

A week or so ago, Laurie over at Hipstercrite republished an old piece listing tips for generating higher blog readership. It’s full of great advice that I’ll probably never follow, but it also recommends an online network known as Twenty Something Bloggers. To qualify for that network you just have to be twenty-something years old and have a blog. Being of the ripe old age of twenty-mumble, I decided to sign up.

It took them a few days to verify the account, but now I have a shiny new 20sb profile. It’s a bit like Facebook, but only for writers. Now the quest is on to find user groups for topics I’m interested in. Having decided to raise the bar for myself, I’ve typed in searches for ‘religion’, ‘philosophy’, ‘linguistics’ and ‘cricket’. There aren’t any groups for those. Can you believe it? Most of the groups were focussed on acquiring followers for their own sake, which seems a little bit wanky to me. Everyone wants more followers, but who wants followers that are only following you because you’re following them? Join the collective and we’ll all go round in circles!

In the end I joined two groups: the Australian Bloggers group (17 members, which might explain a lot) and the “I support Velociraptors” group (37 members). Most of the other interest groups centred on regions of the US or on what colour hair leads a woman to have the most sex. And as tempting as it might have been to join the ‘fashionistas’ group (763 members?) I think I might just keep my blog tucked away quietly in the obscure corners of the internet for a little while yet. The blogosphere, it seems, is still not ready for blogs by men from Australia who haven’t even read Twilight (Seriously! A 20-somethings’ network with a Twilight fan group (173 members) How does that even happen?).

Actually, blogs by men full stop seem a little difficult to come by. There’s a group for us (129 members) but I’m not really sure I could bring myself to join a group called ‘boys’ club’. Especially when we’re outnumbered by the ‘chick-lit lovers’ (363 members) by almost three to one.

Nope. I think I’m just going to have to generate readership the old fashioned way.

Osama, while planking a Harry Potter Fan Fic conspiracy theory, could cover-up the evolution of Dancing With The Stars in the Middle East. Boobs!

Google to the rescue. Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

The Eleventh Hour

Gaaaargh I hate my generation so much today.

This morning in my office, it was realised that we had forgotten to acknowledge someone’s birthday earlier in the week. So we got her a cake today to make up for it. All good. At five minutes to eleven they called us all into the tea room for happy birthday and a piece of mudcake. I subtly pointed out that that the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month was possibly not the most appropriate hour to bursting into jubilant song.

My co-workers looked at me like I was the one not getting into the spirit of things, until it gradually dawned on them that maybe we should be observing Remembrance Day. I had a hard time keeping a straight face (Giggloop anyone?) as we all stood for two minutes, staring reflectively into our slices of chocolate cake. But at least we observed it.

Then at lunch time, I was asked by a shop assistant if I was wearing a flower on my shirt for Gay Pride Week. I have no objection to Pride Week, but I had had just about enough of general ignorance for one day, so I explained I was wearing a poppy for Remembrance Day. I dared him to ask “What’s that?”

He did, so I beat him to death with his own iPhone and scattered the pieces as a warning to others.

Okay I actually glared at him like he was some sort of imbecile (which he was) and directed him to the Legacy stand. He walked to the bus stop instead and started tweeting about it.

#dickhead

Lest we forget (and don’t you forget it)

Garry with 2Rs