Barry Posts

I’ve recently been conducting some research on “collections understanding” among humanities faculty. While a number of studies have been conducted on the information-seeking behavior of humanties scholars, many of these ignore the role that knowing about collections plays in their research activities.

At a meeting yesterday I learned that in the Open Archives Initiative Protocol for Metdata Harvesting (OAI-PMH) has the ability for repositories to indicate that they have “friends.” From the OAI-PMH Implementation Guidelines, “friends” are “a recommended schema allowing a repository to list confederate repositories as a means to support automatic discovery of repositories by harvesters.” Here at UIUC Tom Habing is mapping the connections specified in repositories that say they have “friends” (See the UIUC OAI Experimental Repository for graphs in various formats).

While the Implementation Guidelines suggest this is really about discovery of other repositories, I’m now wondering what it means for institutions and collections to have “friends.” Does it mean they have some institutional/administrative connection? Can collections be friendly with other collections that have similar or related materials (e.g. I’m a archival manuscript collection who has a friend that has a museum collection of physical objects from my creator…).

We can and do build some of these relationships by searching or clustering metadata with similar descriptions. But I can search Friendster and find other people with similar interests as mine, it doesn’t necessarily mean they are my friends. If someone is my friend, I can also indicate what kind of friend they are (family, social friends, work friends, “in a relationship” or my favorite “it’s complicated” - and we all know about those kinds of collections!). The XSD for the friends schema has a place for “friends:type” but I don’t see any suggested values for types. The friends tag is implemented by a data provider, I wonder how these institutions are deciding who their friends are (do they ask permisssion?, do people just point to repositories they think should be friends?)

I hadn’t really considered this when I was conducting my research, but from what I’ve learned, establishing these kinds of relationships could actually enable some of the “citation chaining” behavior that scholars engage in. And being able to specify what type of friend a collection/repository is could be useful.

I’d be interested in hearing about any research going on about social networking of organizations or individuals that might offer some suggestions. I’ll post any interesting examples of the use of “OAI” friends.

Well, I didn’t watch the Oscars tonight, but a somewhat related article caught my eye.

The Razzie awards, held the night before the Oscars honor the worst in movies over the year. In this case Halle Berry ‘won’ for her apparently awful performance in Catwoman. For obvious reasons, people don’t really show up to accept these awards, but in this case Halle Berry did, showing a great sense of humor.

She thanked everyone involved in “Catwoman,” a film she said took her from the top of her profession to the bottom.

“I want to thank Warner Brothers for casting me in this piece of shit,” she said as she dragged her agent on stage and warned him “next time read the script first.”

It is rare for a Razzie winner to show up at the spoof awards held on the night before Oscars — but Berry did, saying her mother taught her that to be “a good winner you had to be a good loser first.” She received a standing ovation.

The handbag above is mine, all mine. I *love* this handbag. If you make stuff (and if you are reading my blog, you probably do), I suggest you make one (of whatever it is that you make) for yourself. It feels so good to spoil yourself the same way you like to spoil other people.

I’m not a handbag connoisseur. I like having a cute purse, but I usually buy cheapies from Claire’s or Target. The only reason I made myself this bag is because my last one was starting to come apart. It was just too ridiculous for me to buy another $15 purse when I freakin’ make purses.

I modeled my handbag after the one I created for Bitter Betty. Instead of the anatomical heart cameo, I decided on the three blood drips. My concept here is Asian Horror Movie … which is why the blood is dripping *up* the purse. I left the drip ends open, like I did on BB’s handbag. I like that the blood drips kind of resemble simple flowers. I also like how they look a lot like this awesome Alexander Henry fabric that I’m seeing on everyone’s blog. I *must* get some of that fabric!

Not only is it nice to spoil yourself, but now that I’m carrying around one of the handbags I sell, I can see first hand how it performs in the real world, which is invaluable information. You can see that the handles have stretched a little after weeks of use, but they still are in proportion - thank goodness.

I put a pocket in my purse that is split into a 4″ pocket for my cell phone, a 3″ pocket for my headset (I put lotion in it for the picture), and a 1″ pocket to hold a pen. (Sorry Bethany, I didn’t think of the pen thing for yours.)

Just for fun, I thought I’d show you what is in my purse. Let’s see … my organizer, my wallet (with blue paint chip tucked in the front pocket because I liked that the color was named “Confidence”), lip gloss, sunscreen lip gloss for car trips, ear plugs for live shows (the purple things in their carrying case), cough drops, cinnamon Listerine strips, hand sanitizer, lotion, a pen, yarn scraps in a zip lock for fabric matching (sticking out of the organizer), tissues, mace, and spiked brass knuckles (on the left, under the keys). You probably shouldn’t sneak up on me if you recognize me on the street.

Recently, a friend and listener to my show wrote a post on her blog that brought her a tremendous amount of unexpected internet fame. Her eleven year old daughter wrote an excellent, thoughtful essay about her teacher who assumed that everyone celebrates Christmas. On The Non-Prophets, Matt Dillahunty thought “Possum Momma”s post with the essay was so good that he should read it on the air.

Once we had read the post, the exposure of this post widened, and one of our listeners happened to be a fundamentalist minister named William, who also lived in Possum Momma’s area. I do not know why William listens to our show, as I have heard from very few Christians tuning in regularly.

In any case, several people dived in and started arguing with William, since that’s what we like doing. Word spread, and to make a long story short, Possum Momma was linked by a number of popular blogs including Brent Rasmussen and Pharyngula, and now she has hundreds of replies. And from what I hear, she’s not really all that excited about it.

Not that I can blame her. William called her a vile, filthy person, which is not that unusual among his ilk. It wasn’t only William, however, but many of the other newcomers who are nominally on her side. On many sites, Possum Momma has been all but called a liar by people who believe that no eleven year old can possibly write that well. They accuse her of fabricating the essay. One individual claimed that the daughter was an “a-hole”, a pessimist, and a whining complainer. And many more people have showed up simply to argue with each other.

Who needs it? When I got interested in web page creation in 1996, one of the first pages I created was a site that was critical of Amway. I wrote it to chronicle an experience I’d had, and I never expected it to get much attention. Yet when it showed up on search engines I started receiving replies, first in a slow trickle, then in a huge torrent. Some of them, quite frankly, either shocked or depressed me. Apparently since I didn’t think that an Amway starter kit was a smart way to spend your money, I was a pathetic loser, a terminal failure, a guy who would never succeed in life and die poor and alone.

That was the first time I noticed a truism about the blossoming internet, namely that every single time you open your mouth and say anything more controversial than “I love to pet puppies,” a very large swath of people will despise you and everything you stand for. Wait a minute, scratch that. On second thought, “I love to pet puppies” will probably yield the same result.

Now, some people realize this and decide that the fact that they are being criticized proves that they are right. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sometimes people criticize your opinions because your opinions are, speaking accurately, stupid. But that is not always (or perhaps even usually) the case, and the fact is that you can’t use people’s anger as a benchmark for how well you’re doing. That’s why many of us think that things like evidence are important.

The internet has become the world’s most powerful tool for channeling a shared emotion at an idea. If a few people are angry with you, then they can all tell all their friends, who will tell all THEIR friends, and so on until you have not one but hundreds of people angry with you. And that sucks. That’s the dark side of the internet.

But there are great positives at work as well, and they are the flip side of this anger. The internet is also a powerful tool for channeling good emotions like “support” and “community” and “confidence.” On Pharyngula, for example, I see this post by Allison:

PZ, thanks for these links! After my recent outing-of-self, I’m still looking for connections with others of my age and point in life (young adult, with youngish kids) who share my belief in freedom of thought.

Skatje [PZ Myers’ daughter] had already been inspirational to me, and now I’m beyong impressed with Possom #1’s reasoning skills. Oh, how I wish it hadn’t taken me until my mid-20s to start the process of deprogramming from my fundie upbringing!
Similarly, when my father does his high school presentations year after year, he regularly hears from a few kids who say things like “Until you spoke, I had no idea that there were other people in the world who thought like me.” The Non-Prophets gets listeners from all over the world, including quite a few who are closeted in Bible Belt areas and do not know any other atheists. As a son of atheists, with a great community of atheists as many of my friends, I’ve had an easy and mostly persecution-free time with my lifelong atheism. I know that this is atypical, and therefore it is uplifting to hear from these people who are so hungry for a connection, someone to talk to, who won’t dismiss them as evil heretics because they don’t believe in invisible friends.

Mark Twain supposedly* once wrote: “A lie can travel halfway round the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.” Mark Twain would probably have loved the internet. It is, admittedly, the fastest conduit for spreading lies that the world has ever known. However, it is at the same time the fastest conduit for countering those same lies. It completely levels the playing field in such a way that “The News” is no longer defined by what a few large corporations think is worthy of attention, but by what ANYBODY can write, filtered by what people find interesting and worth reading.

It is because of this change that Possum Momma has received her unrequested attention. It is because of sites like Digg and Reddit, whose inhabitants declared “This is a great story that deserves a lot of attention,” and the internet made it so.

I know it’s uncomfortable, to be shoved in the spotlight this way, but in a way it’s a very exciting new world we’re dealing with. People are becoming more and more interconnected, ideas are being explored in all kinds of rapid new ways from the free associations that thrive on the web. It’s a fun thing to be a part of, and it’s something that will shape the future of humanity.

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I wouldn’t normally subject myself to Backstage on purpose, but do on occasion catch the repeat while getting ready in the morning. Hey, it’s either that or infomercials. And even Backstage is better than hearing about the latest amazing innovation in vacuum cleaner technology.

When I’d only been exposed to a little bit of Backstage, I thought it sucked. Now that I’ve watched a lot more of it, my suspicions have been confirmed. Why exactly does it suck? Let me try narrow it down to ten reasons:

1. The acting: Or should I say “acting”. How fitting that the soap should be centred around a performing arts college because the acting is straight out of the classroom. It adds an extra layer to things watching supposedly talented but really bad actors play supposedly talented but really bad performers.

Just as Isidingo seems to cast some of the best veteran and up-and-coming talent (with a few glaring exceptions: gives Tim and his girly hair a dirty look), so Backstage seems to cast the slimy gunk that floats on top of the SA acting pool.

2. The sets: When I did drama in [Name Deleted] high school, our sets pretty much consisted of black boxes and a door. We weren’t exactly doing Phantom of the Opera chandelier drops. Compared to any mildly larnie private school, we were shown up for the cheap bastards we were.

Backstage is the [Name Deleted] of the TV world. Cheapo sets. Worse, they’re not just cheapo, they’re dreary and depressing as well. Maybe it’s the lighting too. The overall effect is that you leave an episode wanting to listen to Radiohead while writing angsty poetry.

3. The villain: Every soap needs a good baddie, and the lead baddie in Backstage is named Duke. He’s supposed to be a shady, badass, criminal type who you don’t want to cross. That’s why they decided to go with a guy who looks like an accountant.

“Fear my auditing skills.”

He overcompensates for his weediness through some truly dire villainous acting. An obvious graduate of the William Shatner Acting Academy, he pauses…in the middle…of sentences…for dramatic effect. Every line is delivered through gritted teeth - perhaps some Senokot will help with that.

4. Wardrobe and hair: Ok, I know I’m being slightly unfair with this one. SA soaps are notorious for their crimes against fashion. Isidingo Steve’s flowery shirts alone make my eyes hurt.

So maybe Backstage’s costume department is par for the course. The hair department is a different story. Pam Andrews’ hairstyles have always been scarring, the worst of which was the one side of her head shaved look. And I seem to recall a character walking around with a white fringe on black hair. She looked like a reverse skunk.

5. The plots: Unbelievable? Check. Non-compelling? Check. About as well-written as the average YOU short story? Check.

A few weeks ago I witnessed the start of a subplot involving Pam Andrews’ character, Frankie, seeing herself on video and being shocked at her fat legs. She went on a crash diet and developed an eating disorder.

One week later I watched again, and Frankie had fainted during dance rehearsal. One of her friends berated her and Frankie decided she wanted a burger more than she wanted skinny legs. Voila. Eating disorder vanished instantly. Nice to see things handled with about as much depth as your average sitcom. It’s not like the format of a soap would be ideal for dealing with long-term storylines or anything.

6. Pam Andrews: Hey, I’ve mentioned her twice already, so I might as well get into what I think of her already. Everything about her bugs the crap out of me. She’s like a mosquito buzzing around my ear except mosquitoes don’t have horrible screechy voices.

Actually I shouldn’t be too hard on her because at least she makes an impression. She’s got charisma, even if it’s the bad kind of charisma, which separates her from those other hacks that play the students. It’s either her or that terrified Ziggy oke who looks like he’s going to shit himself whenever the camera is on him.

7. The names: Mentioning Ziggy has reminded me of the dumbass names on the show. Every soap has its fair share of characters with stupid names. I mean Ridge? Roman? Queen? They sound like brands of condoms.

But either Backstage has a disproportionate number of stupid names or I just notice them a lot more because of the general level of suck. These names include Ziggy, Duke, Gyles (as a first name), Shaka, and O’Ryan (also first name). You have to be real badass to pull off a name like Shaka, anyone else just looks like a giant geek poser.

The worst is O’Ryan, because it’s the real name of the actor too. I have an irrational hate of actors who just use their real names as their character names. I always think they have the same name because they’re too dumb to remember they’re supposed to be acting. And somehow I doubt the dude came in for an audition and the producers were all “Your name’s O’Ryan? Freaky, man. We just happen to have a character named O’Ryan! You wanna read for his part? Awesome.”

8. The wacky hi-jinks: The show doesn’t take itself completely seriously, thank God. But like everything else, the humour falls flat. While 7de Laan doesn’t impress me in their dramatic storylines, they know how to do wacky hi-jinks and bring the comedy. Backstage…not so much.

Currently there is a pointless and unfunny subplot in which one of the characters is a horrible cook and her friends must grin and bear her disgusting chocolate cakes. All it needs is some canned laughter to be one of those awful six year old sitcoms which lasted for like three episodes in the US that the SABC buys cheap.

9. The principal: I can’t watch that woman. I hate her on sight. She’s got this aura of condescension and prim-and-properness that drives me insane. Just by looking at her I feel like I’m back in school listening to an assembly on how much us students suck and need to be punished.

Hey, wait a second. She plays the part of smug, hateful principal really well so perhaps that’s one bit of casting they got right.

10. The fact that I’ve watched enough of this crap to know the characters’ names and come up with an entire blog post detailing just why it sucks: This one’s pretty self-explanatory really. If I find myself getting addicted to this shitty show, please stage an intervention at once.

Moving to another planet is not an option.

Follow our goofy rocketeers, Tom and George (Matt Jones and Brian Jack) while they try to reach for a distant shore to call it their new home.

Rocket Bros. is a funny short movie realized for MTV Switch, an ongoing campaign for environmental awareness. It sums up well the message of the campaign (and the state of things): if we’re not gonna get our act together very soon and stop battering the Earth, we’re gonna need a bigger boat. Except that there’s no suitable planet out there.

The movie has been directed by Hein Mevissen and written by Diederikje Bok. The two of them also created the film at John Doe Amsterdam, the creative agency they co-founded. Hein Mevissen is represented by Pink Rabbit.

Production has taken place at Het Kantoor Films. Director of photography is Jacco van Ree. Editor: Annelien van Wijnbergen.

The movie has been post produced at Condor Digital. Miniatures realized by Anytime Decor.

The theme song has been composed by Geert van Gaalen at Studio de Keuken and sung by Marco Bakker. The same studio did the sound design.
Seguiamo i nostri eroi Tom e George (Matt Jones e Brian Jack) mentre provano a raggiungere una terra lontana intenzionati a farne la loro nuova dimora.

Rocket Bros. è un divertente corto realizzato per MTV Switch, una campagna di sensibilizzazione su temi ambientali. Il film riassume il tema della campagna (e lo stato delle cose): se non ci diamo una regolata tutti quanti, e la smettiamo di danneggiare la Terra, ci servirà una barca più grande. Tranne che lì fuori non ci sono altri pianeti abitatabili.

Il film è stato diretto da Hein Mevissen e scritto da Diederikje Bok. Loro due si sono anche occupati della parte creative, presso John Doe Amsterdam, l’agenzia creativa di cui sono co-fondatori. Hein Mevissen è rappresentato da Pink Rabbit.

La casa di produzione è Het Kantoor Films. Direttore della fotografia: Jacco van Ree. Montatore: Annelien van Wijnbergen.

Il film è stato post prodotto presso Condor Digital. Modellini realizzati presso Anytime Decor.

La canzone è stata composta da Geert van Gaalen presso Studio de Keuken e cantata da Marco Bakker. Lo stesso studio si è occupato del progetto del suono.
thx to Suzanne Huisman

DOWNLOAD: Scarica Rocket Bros.
[Format: MPEG-4 - Size: 40 MB - Running Time: 90 sec.]

DOWNLOAD (ALT.): Scarica Rocket Bros.
[Format: MPEG-4 - Size: 18 MB - Running Time: 90 sec.]

DOWNLOAD (LOW RES): Scarica Rocket Bros. Bassa risoluzione
[Format: Quicktime - Size: 6 MB - Running Time: 90 sec.]

WATCH: Guarda Rocket Bros. su ‘boards.

LINK: Visita il sito di Global Rocket.
[Needs: Flash]

LINK: Visita il sito di MTV Switch.

LINK: Visita il sito di John Doe Amsterdam.

LINK: Visita il sito di Pink Rabbit.

LINK: Visita il sito di Het Kantoor Films.

LINK: Visita il sito di Jacco van Ree.

LINK: Visita il sito di Annelien van Wijnbergen.

LINK: Visita il sito di Condor Post Production.

LINK: Visita il sito di Anytime Decor.

LINK: Visita il sito di Studio de Keunen.

CODECS: Apple Quicktime - Flash

Here's a scene with Dan Fogler and Patton Oswalt from the upcoming comedy, __Balls of Fury__. DotComedy has the video but doesn't want to share through the magic of embedding, which is “why you must click here”:http://video.dotcomedy.com/player/?id=143207. The movie comes out Aug. 29. “Click here for more”:http://www.ballsoffury.com/.

By the time the man slammed the truck door with a satisfying “whump” and squinted at the cloudless sky the heat had wrapped itself around him as if he had sat too close to a campfire. He dropped the rear gate and began to carefully gather up his tools. After walking down a long set of wooden steps, he carried his rakes and shears across a narrow path to the crest of a hill where he saw a vast garden shimmering in the sunlight. Clusters of flowers bunched in front of him like giant piles of laundry. He traveled back and forth on the path, stacking bags of fertilizer next to spreaders and trimmers. When he had emptied his truck he stood smiling in front of the sea of color before him, grabbed his clippers and passed through the gate. Pulling off his gloves, he bent over a rosebush and dipped his nose into it. His eyes widened, and he quickly began to touch each flower, folding its petals between his finger and thumb. He rushed through the greenery, slapping at gladioluses and tugging on lilies. After a while he sat down at the entrance with his chin in his hands. As his shadow crept toward the beauty within, he surveyed the garden with amazement and disappointment - for it was filled with artificial flowers.

There is no quicker way to make oncologists feel worthless than to place them in a room filled with healthy people. Don’t get us wrong - we love the idea of a world free from cancer, but until that miracle occurs we expect to be worked, and worked hard. Oncologists exist for two reasons - to help cancer die and to help cancer patients live. Deny us the opportunity to perform these tasks and we will shrivel like a pot of neglected geraniums. We are sustained by our duties toward our patients.

This would explain the strange sensations I had while lounging around on the beach last week. I didn’t ponder much on it at first but after a few days could not help but realize that everyone at this resort looked perfectly well. It was as if I had been transported to the Land of the Healthy, which is not a particularly bizarre concept since the great majority of people one encounters during a typical day appear to be in similarly robust shape. This land, though, is not where oncologists reside and I felt as if I was on a space journey as I lay on the sand surrounded by healthy bodies of all colors (including pale and red). After spending years caring for people with cancer I felt adrift in this sea of baking merrymakers. Not one person there had any reason to ask for my assistance.

So why not just relax and enjoy the break from the stresses of the job?

Sounds fair to me - so relax I did, returning day after day to the hot sand, squeezing in between middle-aged men and teenagers, listening to idiotic conversations on cell phones (which are de rigueur apparently), watching parched families languish in the noonday sun as their orange flags marked “Beach Service” went neglected, reading the flying ads for 25 cent beers trailing behind a continuous stream of noisy airplanes. I rested well - and not a moment too long.

The oncologist on the beach is like the gardener at the flower show, for each backdrop delights the eye with displays of luster, vigor and beauty. At the end of the day however, both doctor and horticulturist hurry to the place where their tools rest, waiting to be put to use by sun-tanned arms. For those who tire of lying around, this wonderful place is where reality is sown - and the true meaning of life grows.

This is the first in a multi-part series on the subject of the various great and memorable enemies I have had the pleasure of knowing over the years, from the earnest gibbering of schoolyard bullies to the courtly dance of the merely ritualistic antagonist.

I have often found that identifying someone as an opponent can crystallize one’s position in a muddy situation, or even inspire one to achievement in order to thwart their evil. The notion of the personified nemesis speaks to a deep part of the human tribal psyche. It is the basis of our stories, the stuff of nightmares, the archetype at the foundation of our understanding of conflict, righteousness and victory.

Our series begins when I am just four years old.

Jessica No Legs

On the first day of preschool I was introduced to three enchanted playthings: a child-proportioned wooden automobile in which one could sit and pretend to be driving around, a storey-high wooden castle with tiny rooms inside, and a girl named Jessica with curly hair who wanted to hold my hand.

She did not enjoy the wooden automobile as much as I did, which I could not fathom since pressing the pedals made little coloured lights on the dashboard illuminate — a reward inarguably among the coolest cause and effect relationships available in the preschool’s toy complement. Never the less, Jessica favoured the castle.

It was while we were racing up the down and tiers of the castle’s tower that we were sandwiched in a child-jam: Jessica could climb no higher because the top of the castle was crowded, and I could not retreat because someone was pushing aggressively on my bum. Stuck in the companionway between tiers, my face was pushed up against one of Jessica’s legs.

The leg was not flesh. It was made of skin-coloured plastic.

The smooth, inhuman texture of the thing gave me the willies. I was simultaneously repulsed and transfixed. It was like Jessica was not a real girl at all, but some kind of toy. At my Grampa’s house I had seen part of a movie called Westworld in which robots who looked like people had become angry and tried to hurt everyone. It scared me, so Grampa turned it off.

I wasn’t sure whether or not Jessica’s toy leg scared me until the whining and crying in the castle became serious enough for the authorities to intervene. The north wall of the tower hinged open by adult hands and, in a mishandled effort to loosen the clot, I was yanked out of the companionway. Since I had been supporting Jessica who was in turn supporting the suddenly claustrophobic party at the top, this uncorking resulted in a violent landslide of children.

When the dust settled I saw one of Jessica’s toy legs, and I saw Jessica. They had landed on opposite sides of the pile of human moraine. Jessica’s thigh terminated in a slightly irregular bulb which waggled in the air like a giant nail-less thumb. Her other toy leg had come only partway uncoupled, and hinged off her knee at a sick, free-wheeling angle.

I suddenly felt the way I had felt when I had swallowed too much snot one day. (I recalled the term nosey-ated from my father’s explanation.) I did not know exactly why, but I was now sure that Jessica’s condition made me feel icky and strange.

So, from that day forward whenever I saw Jessica coming I ran the other way. And she gave relentless chase.

I tried tattling on Jessica, but none of the adults I knew supported eschewing the girl just because she was a cyborg. Once I mentioned her having “funny legs” I lost any sympathy the earlier part of my narrative may have earned. My mother thought it was quite adorable the way Jessica chased me and told me that Jessica might have a “crush on” me.

I was horrified. Could her bionic legs be possessed of the adult-scale strength required to actually crush me? I resolved never to let down my guard.

Whenever I came into the room or approached a toy I scoped things out so I could know where Jessica No Legs was. I kept her under stealthy observation, glancing over the heads of other kids as we mucked in the sandbox. I followed her movements, prepared at any moment to dash away should she spot me.

As the preschool year wore on I learned that there wasn’t anything inherently icky about Jessica. I sat beside her in the singing circle and I didn’t even mind playing with her at the crafts table. It was easy to forget that she was a cyborg when you were only dealing with her torso.

In all full-bodied contexts I continued to run away and she continued to chase me. Our confrontations had become ritual, our motions and feints rehearsed.

The following autumn kindergarten began. It was only when I learned that Jessica was in the morning class instead of the afternoon class with me that I realized how much I would miss having an adversary. Coming to school wasn’t nearly as exciting when you didn’t have to hide from and athletically dodge a semi-mechanical nemesis.

I guess I had a sort of crush on Jessica, too.