Blog Hlumblug

I attended the BlogHer Conference at Navy Pier last Saturday where I was subjected to unbridled tourism (It's a mall! And an amusement park! On a pier!)

I'm tempted to call Navy Pier Chicago's French Quarter, but that would be an insult to the French Quarter. Forgot how long the Pier is, and of course the conference rooms are in the very back, so this blogger was truly living up to her avatar by the time I picked up my mail bag full of green- tea scented promotional items and crept in towards the back of the Business of You session. The food was great, and the atmosphere decidedly uncritical. One of the panelists was hesitant to call herself a writer, prefering blogger, as it denotes what? Someone who is willing to be exploited and underpaid because they're "uncomfortable" with the term writer! Or maybe the term blogger now refers to one who schills products on the Internet under the guise of sisterly chitchat.

Perhaps the scariest moment occured when a woman in the audience identified herself as an HR Director at a biotechnical firm. I KID YOU NOT, she wanted to know how she could contract bloggers to do ad copy work on the cheap without having to pay them benefits!!!!! That was her question, in a room full of bloggers who sat there in silence, perhaps stunned, perhaps drugged on Curves New! trail mix waifers.

Has bloging devolved in to nothing better than a Tupperware Party? Many of the BlogHer attendees identified themselves as full-time moms. For these women, and others, blogging affords an extra source of income with all the benefits of a built- in community.

Perhaps I should just mist my pillow with corporate- sponsored green tea opiates and dream of android sheep.

P.S. Elizabeth Edwards was there campaigning. She made this lady cry.

And lest I sound too gloomy, something that gave me hope.

Writing Hard

Came across a great collection of thoughts on writing the other day on punkplanet.com and wanted to add to the mix of comments by bashing my own sloth-like writing ways. Emailing a friend I said

The process of writing is like untangling a string of Christmas tree lights. Thoughts come to me in brightly tangled bunches that must be unraveled and arranged into intelligible sentences.

A bad day at work can tighten the kinks, though I do my best to work through it. Some things are more important than angst.

I hate living in a segregated workforce where all anyone ever wants to talk about is America's Top Model and celebrity couples whose combined names would make a good title for a Godzilla flick.

And there I am again, staring at a mound of forest green knots. My brain's like the storage closets at Martha Stewart Living- an overly-sensitive writer just happens to live here.

I had a second job interview on Monday with a local service provider for developmentally disabled adults with vision impairments (shhh, don't tell my boss). It's usually refreshing to be interviewed by another blind person. I like not having to worry so much about making eye contact and playing the part of the hyper- intent/ engaging job applicant as my natural expression is sort of deadpan and aloof. It's not the professional drag I mind so much as maintaining that cheerful exuberance bordering on megolamania that reportedly makes people want to invite you into their offices and give you money.

There's generally less explaining to do with a disabled interviewer since nine times out of ten they will be familiar with the technology I use to do my work. No one would consider the task of explaining how screenreaders work the stuff of airy banter. I get so burned out on "educating" people about my disability that its kind of a thrill to get a respite from this tedious recitation.

I ran into an interesting conundrum concerning the interviewer's guide dog, however, who happened to be off- harness. Imagine trying to conduct an interview with a lumberingly affectionate boxer drooling in your lap. That sentence begs at least one dirty joke I'm sure, but stay with me. The interview was punctuated by the dog repeatedly nudging a slobbery toy into my clenched fist. Mentioning it to the interviewer didn't do much good as he just encouraged me to ignore him.

I thought that was kind of rude- seeing as how his dog was affecting my performance during the interview. Following the interview the dog resisted being put on harness, going limp as a sockmonkey on the office floor. "I think I hurt his feelings," I said.

Whatever, I have a third interview next week. Looks like I passed the Saliva Desensitization Test. Wish me luck.