Text Me A River
I’m probably one of the few people who enjoyed high school even with all the teen angst floating around. But one thing I do not miss is the popularity contest that always poisoned the air—everyone jockeying around for a slot on the, I’m-so-cool list. As I recall being part of the in-crowd was even important in grade school. In fifth grade we had slam-books to keep everyone in their place. Someone would pass around a notebook with a classmate’s name on each page so that everyone could write down what they thought of that person. I don’t know why we didn’t just shoot each other and be done with it. It was horrible.
So imagine my concern upon reading that there is now a digital way to keep track of who’s in and who’s so definitely out—a Klout score. As Beth Teitell explained in last week’s Globe,
Klout is one of a number of new status measuring tools aimed at making social networking more like high school than it already is. Sites such as Klout take public information from Twitter, Facebook and LinkedIn to determine a person’s influence on social media.
The article goes on to introduce us to Valentina, a Boston University junior who, immediately after she accepts a date offer, goes online to see how many Twitter followers her suitor has. She checks her own follower count three times a day. When she meets someone who admits to following more people than follow him, she thinks, “That means you’re a loser”. So when her Klout score hit an impressive 59 out of 100 recently she was ecstatic. “I felt worthy”.
For those of you who didn’t quite follow that, it means that if high numbers of random people who you’ve never met aren’t following your prospective honey bun, he’s a loser—dump him. And conversely if your own random numbers, that were dreamed up by some ad company to make pots of money, are through the roof then congratulations you’ve made it, you are worthy.
Why do I feel that while I was sleeping aliens abducted me and dropped me into some black hole of techno-idiocy? But this is the part that I really love:
The companies use secret algorithms that go beyond simple numbers of followers or friends counting retweets, the number of links clicked, and even how influential one’s followers are, among other indicators.
Kind of like being on double secret probation a la Animal House, no? Some company, whose mathematicians are former high school algebra geeks out for revenge, comes up with a random equation to prove that God is dead, the moon is made of Swiss cheese and your digital-social popularity. Sure you discovered a cure for cancer, climbed Mount Everest, and fought your way through the Amazon rain forest but if your twitter count is low you’re just not worthy. Alice in Wonderland couldn’t have come up with a better scenario.
If this were only a game that college students play I wouldn’t care. We did weird stuff too like protesting the war in Viet Nam and demanding equal rights for women. But now sites like Klout are influencing those of us who live in the real world as well.
Mark Schaefer, author of the “Tao of Twitter: Changing Your Life and Business 140 Characters at a Time”, said the new score-keeping tools create a “disturbing’’ social media caste system that he dislikes. But, he adds, “from a marketer’s standpoint, they’re a dream.’’
Your Klout score has already jumped from the online world into the real one. Advertising Age wrote in September, “Need a Reservation? That Could Depend on How Big You are on Twitter.” So thanks to marketers who have discovered their very own holy grail you may not get a table at your favorite restaurant or a hotel room at your vacation destination or a good seat at a concert if you don’t know how to do the social media dance. I’m as good as dead.
Especially if I go to a restaurant that uses text messaging as their new communication tool. Kathleen Pierce of the Boston Globe writes,
You probably text your friends and co-workers, so why not do the same with a waiter or waitress? That’s the concept behind several Boston area companies that now offer ordering and seating systems based on text messaging. At Charlie’s Kitchen in Cambridge, tapping “another round of drinks’’ or “extra sauce with that’’ into a BlackBerry or iPhone is now the norm on busy nights.
The restaurant, Fire & Ice uses texting to call their customers to their table thereby enabling their marketers to get their customers’ phone numbers. They can get access to that personal data only if customers opt into the system.
So if your server just left, you don’t have to tire yourself searching for him, just dash off a quick message. You don’t even have to speak to him or acknowledge that he’s human. I remember our lovely experience at the restaurant, Spiga where our waiter, Dan made us feel as if he had cooked our meal himself and then served it to us in his dining room. I really think that texting him to bring us olive oil chop-chop would have somehow spoiled the atmosphere.
So please world, move on without me and leave me to enjoy my meal in digital-social purgatory. I’m much happier here even if it makes me unworthy.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
First Date Anniversary
First Date Anniversary
It was one of those silly arguments that we have occasionally because of our differing memories. I kept insisting that we had eaten at Schraftt’s on our first date and Shatz kept saying that no, it was Howard Johnson’s.
“I should know,” he said. “I asked my mom where we should eat after the play and she suggested Howard Johnson’s.”
I should have given in but of course I didn’t even though my memory is not exactly old reliable anymore. So stubbornly I replied, “It was Schraftt’s!” and Shatz just shook his head. We left it at that until a few days later I looked it up in my diary. During my high school days I wrote in a diary every day and I’ve somehow managed to keep all that teenage angst in my downstairs closet. Every so often I read a few passages, always surprised when I discover how boring a teen-age girl’s life can be. All that ink spilled over boys, boys and more boys.
But one of those boys was Shatzie and I love that I can uncover my adolescent passion for him. And sure enough there it was under, February 17th 1968, in blue and white, we had indeed eaten at Howard Johnson’s. But the funny thing about the entry was that I had written about our date almost as an afterthought, book-ended by mentions of other boys. How was I to know that 43 years later we would be celebrating that date?
We were sophomores in high school when we met and juniors when we went on that first date. His mom had given him two tickets to a Broadway show, I Never Sang for My Father, that she wasn’t using and so of course he asked his best friend, Charlie to go with him. That’s right, Charlie! But Charlie couldn’t so I was the consolation prize. I don’t think he told me that till much later, at least I hope he didn’t since it wasn’t the most flattering invitation in the world. Plus he had no idea that I was dating Charlie so it would have been totally teen-aged weird! What can I say, it was the 1960’s.
I remember that it was a freezing afternoon and that I wore a gray knit dress with a pink and turquoise scarf and unfortunately no sweater or hat. God forbid you should ruin the hair with a hat so I froze, but quite fetchingly. I also remember not being able to fully enjoy the play because for some reason I hadn’t eaten anything and I was starving. I was pretty sure that the entire theater could hear my stomach roaring. Shatz offered me mints and I devoured them all.
Afterwards we walked over to Howard Johnson’s for burgers and fries. I remember that throughout that afternoon my adorable future husband never once took my hand unless we were crossing the street. Though we had been talking and flirting for most of that year, he seemed really nervous that day. Later I learned that not only was this our first date but it was his first real date ever, so that explained his sweaty palms and the distance he was keeping between us. When we got home that night I was feeling frustrated so, loose woman that I was, I grabbed him and kissed him good-night. Our next date was spent in much closer proximity.
Years later I began looking through my diaries to find the exact date of our first outing. Ever since then I’ve written it in my calendar. Because it’s so close to Valentine’s Day we celebrate the two days together. We make reservations at a favorite restaurant and I wear something gray topped with that pink and turquoise scarf. Somehow, despite all the moving around that I’ve done, that scarf has remained in my life along with my diaries.
This year was no exception. We’ve discovered a favorite new Italian restaurant in Needham called Spiga and so Shatz made reservations and off I went in my anniversary scarf. The place is cozy, friendly and embracing. The owner spoke to us in Italian and we tried to understand. Our waiter, Dan had the same bewitching Italian accent and I decided to pretend that we were in Italy. There would be no burgers and fries at our table this time.
Dan is the kind of waiter that is unfortunately disappearing—a consummate professional who knows the menu and the wine list intimately. He made us feel that we were his only table, bringing us samples and suggesting wines. We laughed with him and felt as if he were hosting us in his home. I felt so comfortable that I told him that we were celebrating our 43 first date anniversary. Those are numbers that I don’t throw out casually.
As we sat there blissfully enjoying our food, our wine and each other we talked about how amazing it was that we were still together so many years after that high school date. It seems to have happened slowly and quickly at the same time. Our lives have grown together day by day until there we sat, years from Howard Johnson’s and New York City, still holding hands. We haven’t been the height of Romeo and Juliet romance every instant, but unlike them we have our happily ever after. And I have the scarf to prove it.
It was one of those silly arguments that we have occasionally because of our differing memories. I kept insisting that we had eaten at Schraftt’s on our first date and Shatz kept saying that no, it was Howard Johnson’s.
“I should know,” he said. “I asked my mom where we should eat after the play and she suggested Howard Johnson’s.”
I should have given in but of course I didn’t even though my memory is not exactly old reliable anymore. So stubbornly I replied, “It was Schraftt’s!” and Shatz just shook his head. We left it at that until a few days later I looked it up in my diary. During my high school days I wrote in a diary every day and I’ve somehow managed to keep all that teenage angst in my downstairs closet. Every so often I read a few passages, always surprised when I discover how boring a teen-age girl’s life can be. All that ink spilled over boys, boys and more boys.
But one of those boys was Shatzie and I love that I can uncover my adolescent passion for him. And sure enough there it was under, February 17th 1968, in blue and white, we had indeed eaten at Howard Johnson’s. But the funny thing about the entry was that I had written about our date almost as an afterthought, book-ended by mentions of other boys. How was I to know that 43 years later we would be celebrating that date?
We were sophomores in high school when we met and juniors when we went on that first date. His mom had given him two tickets to a Broadway show, I Never Sang for My Father, that she wasn’t using and so of course he asked his best friend, Charlie to go with him. That’s right, Charlie! But Charlie couldn’t so I was the consolation prize. I don’t think he told me that till much later, at least I hope he didn’t since it wasn’t the most flattering invitation in the world. Plus he had no idea that I was dating Charlie so it would have been totally teen-aged weird! What can I say, it was the 1960’s.
I remember that it was a freezing afternoon and that I wore a gray knit dress with a pink and turquoise scarf and unfortunately no sweater or hat. God forbid you should ruin the hair with a hat so I froze, but quite fetchingly. I also remember not being able to fully enjoy the play because for some reason I hadn’t eaten anything and I was starving. I was pretty sure that the entire theater could hear my stomach roaring. Shatz offered me mints and I devoured them all.
Afterwards we walked over to Howard Johnson’s for burgers and fries. I remember that throughout that afternoon my adorable future husband never once took my hand unless we were crossing the street. Though we had been talking and flirting for most of that year, he seemed really nervous that day. Later I learned that not only was this our first date but it was his first real date ever, so that explained his sweaty palms and the distance he was keeping between us. When we got home that night I was feeling frustrated so, loose woman that I was, I grabbed him and kissed him good-night. Our next date was spent in much closer proximity.
Years later I began looking through my diaries to find the exact date of our first outing. Ever since then I’ve written it in my calendar. Because it’s so close to Valentine’s Day we celebrate the two days together. We make reservations at a favorite restaurant and I wear something gray topped with that pink and turquoise scarf. Somehow, despite all the moving around that I’ve done, that scarf has remained in my life along with my diaries.
This year was no exception. We’ve discovered a favorite new Italian restaurant in Needham called Spiga and so Shatz made reservations and off I went in my anniversary scarf. The place is cozy, friendly and embracing. The owner spoke to us in Italian and we tried to understand. Our waiter, Dan had the same bewitching Italian accent and I decided to pretend that we were in Italy. There would be no burgers and fries at our table this time.
Dan is the kind of waiter that is unfortunately disappearing—a consummate professional who knows the menu and the wine list intimately. He made us feel that we were his only table, bringing us samples and suggesting wines. We laughed with him and felt as if he were hosting us in his home. I felt so comfortable that I told him that we were celebrating our 43 first date anniversary. Those are numbers that I don’t throw out casually.
As we sat there blissfully enjoying our food, our wine and each other we talked about how amazing it was that we were still together so many years after that high school date. It seems to have happened slowly and quickly at the same time. Our lives have grown together day by day until there we sat, years from Howard Johnson’s and New York City, still holding hands. We haven’t been the height of Romeo and Juliet romance every instant, but unlike them we have our happily ever after. And I have the scarf to prove it.
Stars in My Eyes-part II
Stars In My Eyes—Part II
The technology piece of our presentation was driving me and my co-trainer Merilee, slightly mad. You remember me--the one who owns a cell phone that only—gasp—makes phone calls. Ironically when I had originally filled out my application to be a STAR trainer I had blithely checked off knowledgeable in Power Point, computers and sending a chimp into space assuming that I would figure it all out when the time came. Well the time was here.
The piece of technology that was making us nuts was a polling device. It allows you to project multiple choice questions onto a screen where your participants can choose their answers by pushing buttons on little clickers. After everyone has clicked in, you push a button on your computer and voila! It calculates your audience’s answers and displays the results on the screen.
You can gauge what percentage of people already have some knowledge of what you’re about to teach, or how many participants understood what you’ve just taught, thereby enabling you to tailor the presentation to their needs. It’s also used in college classrooms and has been called “wicked cool” by some students that I talked to. And like all technology, it is—when it works. When it doesn’t work it just looks kind of sad and you look like an inept loser who can’t even work your own computer.
Of course every new piece of hardware or software has to be installed, and here’s the kicker, by someone who really knows what they’re doing. And that usually isn’t me. Sure they try to convince you that all you need to do is to follow their directions but have you ever tried it? You start out full of confidence that yes, you’re an intelligent human being and can install this whizzygig. As the philosopher DesCartes once said, “I think therefore I can install!” or something like that.
You begin by following normal directions like, choose from the menu or click on save, but then somehow you cross into techno Neverland where you see instructions like: frapping the zort three times will give you the choice of wicking the tricon raptor or freezing the liverwurst. At which point I usually put my head down on my keyboard and scream, “Shatz!!!!” and magically, my husband, king of all things computer in the Schottenfeld household, appears to slay the beast. That is also why we get desperate phone calls from Arizona and Cambridge from certain daughters who have unfortunately inherited their mother’s computer prowess.
That day there were about eight of us with a whole wheelbarrow full of degrees (unfortunately none of which were in Computerese) who gathered at the Department of Education office in Malden to enable one polling device. The DOE people had erroneously assumed that their tech people had already installed the software, but it turns out that all they did was plug various things into other things.
“Well, how hard could this be?” we asked each other heartily, knowing full well that we were all on the polling Titanic. My first question was, “Where is the manual?” but it turned out that there was no manual, just a laminated keychain thingie of “Quickie Instructions” that promised to get us up and running in no time. (Sometimes I wonder if the universe was created by a set of Quickie Instructions.) Sure enough the instructions were a mixture of English and techtrek but we were determined to frap the zort until we were victorious.
We gazed at the computer and the huge bag of clickers in front of us. Then we opened up the Power Point presentation, said a quick ecumenical prayer and began hopefully clicking—and clicking—and clicking. We read the instructions on the key ring, performed them as instructed, clicked, read again, changed a few settings and clicked. We went on in this fashion until suddenly I had a scary thought: “What if each of these clickers needed to be programmed?”
Finally we found the most important piece of information of all--the HELP phone number. We spent the next two hours speaking to a very patient guy somewhere in the Midwest and lo and behold, four hours later it still didn’t work. Merilee and I were hyperventilating when we left. We had one week till our training and we had no idea if this would work. The DOE ladies, God bless them, spent the next week alternately conferring with the Help guy and programming each and every clicker and unbelievably, one hour before our first training the polling did work.
After all the months of preparation and worry the training itself seemed almost anticlimactic. It all went amazingly well. After that first marathon day, when we didn’t get home until 9:00 that night knowing that we had to be there again at 8:00 the next morning, I felt that I could do anything in the world. And more importantly I felt that it was all worth it.
The teachers and directors had been receptive about the new reading instruction package and excited about trying it out at their schools. And that’s what mattered--that in some way I might have had a hand in helping a few students learn to read a bit more easily and to get on with their lives. Even if it meant worrying myself sick, losing sleep and perhaps frapping a zort.
The technology piece of our presentation was driving me and my co-trainer Merilee, slightly mad. You remember me--the one who owns a cell phone that only—gasp—makes phone calls. Ironically when I had originally filled out my application to be a STAR trainer I had blithely checked off knowledgeable in Power Point, computers and sending a chimp into space assuming that I would figure it all out when the time came. Well the time was here.
The piece of technology that was making us nuts was a polling device. It allows you to project multiple choice questions onto a screen where your participants can choose their answers by pushing buttons on little clickers. After everyone has clicked in, you push a button on your computer and voila! It calculates your audience’s answers and displays the results on the screen.
You can gauge what percentage of people already have some knowledge of what you’re about to teach, or how many participants understood what you’ve just taught, thereby enabling you to tailor the presentation to their needs. It’s also used in college classrooms and has been called “wicked cool” by some students that I talked to. And like all technology, it is—when it works. When it doesn’t work it just looks kind of sad and you look like an inept loser who can’t even work your own computer.
Of course every new piece of hardware or software has to be installed, and here’s the kicker, by someone who really knows what they’re doing. And that usually isn’t me. Sure they try to convince you that all you need to do is to follow their directions but have you ever tried it? You start out full of confidence that yes, you’re an intelligent human being and can install this whizzygig. As the philosopher DesCartes once said, “I think therefore I can install!” or something like that.
You begin by following normal directions like, choose from the menu or click on save, but then somehow you cross into techno Neverland where you see instructions like: frapping the zort three times will give you the choice of wicking the tricon raptor or freezing the liverwurst. At which point I usually put my head down on my keyboard and scream, “Shatz!!!!” and magically, my husband, king of all things computer in the Schottenfeld household, appears to slay the beast. That is also why we get desperate phone calls from Arizona and Cambridge from certain daughters who have unfortunately inherited their mother’s computer prowess.
That day there were about eight of us with a whole wheelbarrow full of degrees (unfortunately none of which were in Computerese) who gathered at the Department of Education office in Malden to enable one polling device. The DOE people had erroneously assumed that their tech people had already installed the software, but it turns out that all they did was plug various things into other things.
“Well, how hard could this be?” we asked each other heartily, knowing full well that we were all on the polling Titanic. My first question was, “Where is the manual?” but it turned out that there was no manual, just a laminated keychain thingie of “Quickie Instructions” that promised to get us up and running in no time. (Sometimes I wonder if the universe was created by a set of Quickie Instructions.) Sure enough the instructions were a mixture of English and techtrek but we were determined to frap the zort until we were victorious.
We gazed at the computer and the huge bag of clickers in front of us. Then we opened up the Power Point presentation, said a quick ecumenical prayer and began hopefully clicking—and clicking—and clicking. We read the instructions on the key ring, performed them as instructed, clicked, read again, changed a few settings and clicked. We went on in this fashion until suddenly I had a scary thought: “What if each of these clickers needed to be programmed?”
Finally we found the most important piece of information of all--the HELP phone number. We spent the next two hours speaking to a very patient guy somewhere in the Midwest and lo and behold, four hours later it still didn’t work. Merilee and I were hyperventilating when we left. We had one week till our training and we had no idea if this would work. The DOE ladies, God bless them, spent the next week alternately conferring with the Help guy and programming each and every clicker and unbelievably, one hour before our first training the polling did work.
After all the months of preparation and worry the training itself seemed almost anticlimactic. It all went amazingly well. After that first marathon day, when we didn’t get home until 9:00 that night knowing that we had to be there again at 8:00 the next morning, I felt that I could do anything in the world. And more importantly I felt that it was all worth it.
The teachers and directors had been receptive about the new reading instruction package and excited about trying it out at their schools. And that’s what mattered--that in some way I might have had a hand in helping a few students learn to read a bit more easily and to get on with their lives. Even if it meant worrying myself sick, losing sleep and perhaps frapping a zort.
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