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June 11, 2009
Should I Facebook-Friend Request My Former Midwife?
Dear Mr. Loose Gravel,
I am struggling with that classic dilemma...whether or not to friend request someone on Facebook. In my quest for answers, I stumbled upon your excellent January post about this very topic. However, my scenario is a bit different. The other day, my nurse-midwife popped up on the "do you know this person" section of my home page. I do know her. We are friendly, exchange emails about general things and medical things, but we don't have a relationship outside of this. I am no longer her patient, as I have moved away. She is a really great person, and is so interesting. I like the way she practices (her profession), and I'm always recommending her to other ladies. But, do I ask her to be my Facebook friend? I don't want to put her in an uncomfortable, or unethical, position. What's your opinion on this matter? Where do we all draw the line?
Thanks,
Afraid-to-Overstep
----------
Dear Afraid-to-Overstep,
You're thoughtful and responsible to consider your former midwife's feelings regarding whether or not it's proper to friend her on Facebook.
I'm assuming you want to friend her because you are interested in her life, you enjoy Facebook, and want to continue your interactions with her in that forum. If instead you are feeling guilty that you haven't yet friended your former midwife, the person who helped you through one of the biggest moments of your life, then don't friend request her. Guilt is not a good reason to friend her in this case.
Ask yourself this: Would you friend request a former therapist? How about a former general practitioner? Former garbage man? When a professional relationship ceases, there really is no hard and fast rule for how the parties should continue interaction. I think if you are considering using her services in the future, then it would probably be best to maintain status quo and avoid facebook friending altogether.
Where was your relationship headed prior to your move? You explain clearly in your question that your interactions haven't become friendlier than general and medical exchanges. If several months have passed since her services ended, this could be a sign that you two might not have been progressing towards sharing backyard barbecues, splitting appletinis during ladies night at the club, or taking each other out for birthday brunches even if you had not moved.
That said, many people use facebook for professional reasons. She may appreciate being your facebook friend, as you may be able to help her with references in the future. This article from the Wall Street Journal talks about how people use LinkedIn and Facebook to help build up what sociologists call "weak ties" for getting a job, mining for clients, or finding prospective employees.
As I stated in my facebook post from January 22nd, the folks you choose as friends can typically view all of your content. Many people accept hundreds of friends but routinely post content directed towards a much smaller group of people. Consequently, it's much easier to inadvertantly publish information and pictures to forgotten Facebook friends that you normally wouldn't show them. Facebook users can choose to edit their privacy settings (top right of facebook homepage, 'Settings', 'Privacy Settings') and customize exactly which content certain users can see. For example, let's say a college student's mother discovers Facebook, and she sends an invitation request to her son or daughter. While the student keeps mom happy by accepting her as a facebook friend, they can simultaneously protect mom from the horror of seeing her offspring doing a keg stand or participating in a wet t-shirt contest during Spring Break at Daytona by excluding her from certain, tagged, or all pics.
Keep in mind that the onus for professionalism and boundaries in this case is on your former midwife, not you. It isn't the client--or former client's--job to know whether or not friending on facebook would be an ethical dilemma; it is her's. If she is the professional you say she is, you should expect her to either accept your friend request without reservations, or decline with a polite explanation about her policy. Maybe you two can split appletinis yet.
June 11, 2009 4:33 PM · Comments (1)
April 17, 2009
Misplaced Old Men and Mailboxes
Last Friday evening I had one sweet hour to kill--alone.
It wasn't that long ago--2007, in fact--when I didn't really have to be anywhere after work. If I was going to hang out with some friends after quitting time, I just told my wife the plan a few hours in advance and that was my life. As most of you are aware, all it takes is one small child to change everything.
Last Friday afternoon I read a text message from my wife reporting that the family was meeting at Deschutes Brewery for my mother in-law's birthday at 5:30. I was at an all-day training kinda close to the brewery, so at 4pm I called my dear wife to announce that I was heading straight to the party instead of going home first. There was first a moment of silence, then she asked: "What are you going to do until everyone gets there?"
"Um, hang out alone and enjoy myself." She was jealous.
A few minutes later I was parking my car near the brewery. But my mission for solo time couldn't happen until I mailed off my life insurance premium, which was due in three days. So I had to find a mail drop box, and find it fast. While I was very familiar with the neighborhood, I couldn't think of where a drop box might be. Who remembers the location of such things? I walked past a Ben and Jerry's and thought about asking an employee, but I refused to suffer the pained grimace of an annoyed teenager who wouldn't know the location of a drop box if it was outside their high school locker. Walking several blocks with no box in sight, I thought, "Google Maps, of course." I pulled up my location on my handheld device and searched for a mailbox. No help.
As I strolled a few more steps, anxiety rising, I spotted an older gentlemen at the end of the block. He had just exited a local store and was adjusting a sandwich board. Of all the people that were walking around that Friday evening in the hip part of Portland, he was the only one who instantly gave me hope. As I walked closer I saw his head turn, and he was smoking a pipe! Hah! Jackpot! Old man+tobacco pipe=Archiver of random facts. I was now certain he could help.
From out of nowhere another guy went up to my old man and asked, "Where is the lady who sets up her art in a booth over here. You see, when I was here four years ago there was a lady..." This guy knew what I knew: The man with the pipe knows stuff. The old man patiently listened to him for a minute as I circled the two, grumpy that another dude beat me to the punch. When he noticed me there, and I interrupted them and asked, "Where is a mailbox?"
The old man pointed to the next street corner and said, "It's over there by the stop sign."
And that was the end of it. I'm insured for another year, and I secured an hour to myself at the brewery before the rest of the family showed up.
Old guys who smoke tobacco pipes know where stuff is.
April 17, 2009 10:55 PM · Comments (2)
April 6, 2009
Buffet Fantasies and the Golden Dragon
I had some bad Chinese food the other day, and I totally should have
seen it coming. I will elaborate, but first I offer this question:
Would you eat lunch here?
Yes, there is a restaurant in the picture. I'll help you find it.
First, find the tattoo parlor with the creative sign: STRAIGHT TO THE POINT.
Next, find the strip club. Now, look at the yellow sign in between that
says, "Golden Dragon". Jackpot.
After nearly four years at my workplace location downtown, it's shocking that I coexisted with a buffet in close proximity, yet did not one time grace it. A mere two blocks away from my 6x6 cube, I had passed near the Golden Dragon on foot infinity plus a google times. It seems as though I'm always hungry, and I rarely shy away from opportunities to eat enormous proportions or try a bizarre combination. I'll never forget a chocolate ice cream and bacon shake I tried a few years ago here in Portland. The first few bites were great, then the flavors...evolved, let's say. I suppose I'm a food prospector, always looking for that next enormous or strange bite. A food adventurer, if you will. You might also call me a glutton. You choose.
I like Chinese food pretty well. And 'buffet' is a word that lands softly and sweetly on my ears. It's my comfort word. Sometimes when I am having trouble getting to sleep, I just picture steam tray after delicious steam tray of meatloaf and ears of corn and mashed potatoes and gravy with it's skin lining the perimeter. In this soothing fantasy, I'm sliding a giant platter along giant buffet rails on an enormous steam table. As I add each enormous helping, I hear the platter grind slightly louder against the rails until it's a deafening roar at the end by the desserts. But while this cacophony disrupts everyone else around, it comforts me like white noise on the television after I've fallen asleep.
And buffets have meaning for me, as well. In my personal nomenclature, 'buffet' is synonymous with 'license to binge with or without shame'. Pop psychology has saturated us with the concept that the Chinese translation for 'crisis' incorporates both danger AND opportunity (apparently this is not actually true, but it's a legitimate idea based on the nature of change, nonetheless), and I believe it is also the most accurate description of my experience when I've engaged virtually every buffet through the years. First, opportunity: I fill myself to the brim with semi-tasty, unwholesome calories and finally feel complete as a person. Second, danger: Immediate dizziness, occasional narcolepsy followed by ALL of the predictable consequences of an overtaxed gastrointestinal system.
Last month while again passing by the Golden Dragon Chinese buffet and wondering how on earth it had taken me so long to set foot inside, I took a moment to superficially explore the surrounding elements for clues. Of course, there was the ever-present sandwich board outside that has always read "$5.95 All You Can Eat". I think my glances at the buffet's advertised cheap price had subconsciously triggered ambivalence, touching simultaneously on my thriftiness as well as my vague concern for taste and atmosphere. It also occurred to me how off-putting it was that I couldn't see any patrons from the sidewalk. Most restaurants have a window providing quick validation that normal people are eating normal meals inside. This restaurant-foul provided yet another challenge to me. But, as I described in the picture above, the Golden Dragon's neighbors--bookends of vice--have most likely provided reason enough to dine elsewhere. Despite my persistent generalized hunger. Despite my relative fondness for Chinese food. And even despite my fantasies about buffet food. I've taken the liberty to illustrate a number of challenges the Golden Dragon must overcome to get someone to their cash register:
Yes, there is a restaurant in the picture. I'll help you find it.
First, find the tattoo parlor with the creative sign: STRAIGHT TO THE POINT.
Next, find the strip club. Now, look at the yellow sign in between that
says, "Golden Dragon". Jackpot.After nearly four years at my workplace location downtown, it's shocking that I coexisted with a buffet in close proximity, yet did not one time grace it. A mere two blocks away from my 6x6 cube, I had passed near the Golden Dragon on foot infinity plus a google times. It seems as though I'm always hungry, and I rarely shy away from opportunities to eat enormous proportions or try a bizarre combination. I'll never forget a chocolate ice cream and bacon shake I tried a few years ago here in Portland. The first few bites were great, then the flavors...evolved, let's say. I suppose I'm a food prospector, always looking for that next enormous or strange bite. A food adventurer, if you will. You might also call me a glutton. You choose.
I like Chinese food pretty well. And 'buffet' is a word that lands softly and sweetly on my ears. It's my comfort word. Sometimes when I am having trouble getting to sleep, I just picture steam tray after delicious steam tray of meatloaf and ears of corn and mashed potatoes and gravy with it's skin lining the perimeter. In this soothing fantasy, I'm sliding a giant platter along giant buffet rails on an enormous steam table. As I add each enormous helping, I hear the platter grind slightly louder against the rails until it's a deafening roar at the end by the desserts. But while this cacophony disrupts everyone else around, it comforts me like white noise on the television after I've fallen asleep.
And buffets have meaning for me, as well. In my personal nomenclature, 'buffet' is synonymous with 'license to binge with or without shame'. Pop psychology has saturated us with the concept that the Chinese translation for 'crisis' incorporates both danger AND opportunity (apparently this is not actually true, but it's a legitimate idea based on the nature of change, nonetheless), and I believe it is also the most accurate description of my experience when I've engaged virtually every buffet through the years. First, opportunity: I fill myself to the brim with semi-tasty, unwholesome calories and finally feel complete as a person. Second, danger: Immediate dizziness, occasional narcolepsy followed by ALL of the predictable consequences of an overtaxed gastrointestinal system.
Last month while again passing by the Golden Dragon Chinese buffet and wondering how on earth it had taken me so long to set foot inside, I took a moment to superficially explore the surrounding elements for clues. Of course, there was the ever-present sandwich board outside that has always read "$5.95 All You Can Eat". I think my glances at the buffet's advertised cheap price had subconsciously triggered ambivalence, touching simultaneously on my thriftiness as well as my vague concern for taste and atmosphere. It also occurred to me how off-putting it was that I couldn't see any patrons from the sidewalk. Most restaurants have a window providing quick validation that normal people are eating normal meals inside. This restaurant-foul provided yet another challenge to me. But, as I described in the picture above, the Golden Dragon's neighbors--bookends of vice--have most likely provided reason enough to dine elsewhere. Despite my persistent generalized hunger. Despite my relative fondness for Chinese food. And even despite my fantasies about buffet food. I've taken the liberty to illustrate a number of challenges the Golden Dragon must overcome to get someone to their cash register:
Overcome with curiosity about the Golden Dragon, I recently decided to
ignore all the obvious negatives and dine there alone for
lunch. Proudly shame-free, I strolled over to this seedy block for a cheap dining adventure. Here is what I saw after opening the door:
Another challenge and another turnoff for me. I had to admit that a
nice long pre-meal flight of stairs was the perfect exercise for the
buffet consumer. You might call it a show of compassion from the Golden
Dragon. The Chinese-looking references and stylings in the tattered
wallpaper and
ceiling fixtures helped remind me of where I actually was despite the
stairwell's odd likeness to the urban sequences of any of the Matrix
movies. As I began to climb towards the summit, I had the unique
experience of full awareness--awareness that through the wall to my
left were folks were paying professionals to put permanent stains on
their skin, and through wall on my right were other folks paying
professionals to put permanent stains on their clothes. If awareness is
supposed to be followed by internal calm, I was mostly aware that I was not calm. It's not that I am fully opposed to tattoos and strip clubs. As
I've discussed previously, buffet experience is an emotional one for
me, so intermingling with a little grime gives me pause. Cresting
the stairs, my wariness eased a bit with the subtle knowledge that I
was now above fray and riffraff, about to eat Chinese buffet with
other like-minded individuals.
A friendly Chinese woman then greeted me and asked me what I wanted. I replied, "How are you doing today?" She smiled back and said, "Fine." Pause. Then, "What is your order?"
"Um, do you own the Golden Dragon?" She glanced towards the wall, smile fading, "No." I cleared my throat. "Who does?"
"My brother," she said with finality. I appeased her, "I would like one buffet meal, please." While my credit card processed, I exercised my small-talk superpowers with, "How long has he owned this place?" She put the receipt on the table with a pen, then said, "Twenty years," while walking away. But it was ok. After all, I was at a buffet, and I knew the rules.
The idea that one person owned this place for twenty years stuck in my head for a little while as I looked around the place. I got the impression that they must have given up on atmosphere years ago. Reminds me of when single or widowed men get into their 60's and don't have anyone to remind them the comb their hair or put on clean clothes when going out in public or to trim their ear and nose hair. The Golden Dragon is a widowed 65 year old man that is not yet retired and sees no end in sight, wearily working simply because someone will employ him and he must continue to survive.
The dining room was enormous. I counted 25 people eating, but it felt like 5 were actually there. There is a bar (picture below) that I walked through and actually thought was kind of cool. But with zero booze, it was merely a memory of happier days, possibly when then the homeless patrons currently eating their won tons were a little better off. It was also the place where they store piles of dishes in bus tubs waiting to be washed.
Keeping my belongings on my person at all times, I grabbed a tray and a couple
of hot plates. I piled some orange chicken, fried rice, egg rolls and
pot stickers and chose to sit from one of many big, empty booths. I was able
to count by feel three distinct springs holding me up beneath the ancient seat fabric. Unfortunately, I
needed to use the facilities and I spotted them here behind the bar:
The emergency exit doubled as
the entrance to the restroom. After eating some of this food, it was
clear that this hallway had probably serviced many "emergencies" that
were solved easily via fast access to a toilet. I was cheered a bit by "Rest
Rooms" glowing in neon (camera couldn't decipher the lettering well),
but I don't believe the owner was thinking of my mood when he hung it there. I'm all but
certain the sign was given it's second or third chance at utility here
at the Golden Dragon after being pilfered from some poor failed
restaurant long ago.
After customarily stuffing myself with average Chinese food, I felt strangely depressed rather than whole again. The other folks eating their fried fish and rice looked a bit crestfallen. Some looked downright impoverished, or even homeless. Suddenly there was noise outside as a parade of 15 protesters marched down the sidewalk calling for a Free Tibet. Normally you would see a group of people get up and check it out. Instead, everyone glanced up for a second, but then just continued eating through the ruckus (many of the windows were open) without care, myself included. Maybe that's just life in downtown Portland with the frequent demonstrations, but I wonder if we were just all too overcome with calories and melancholy to move. I started to pack up my belongings and fought off the urge to search the steam trays for antidepressants. This passed quickly as I suddenly realized I might not be feeling the good "buffet effect" kind of physically bad, but instead just physically bad.
Aware my insides were decidedly wrong and settling back on my three springs for another moment, my thoughts drifted to a happy place. I saw myself at a buffet, gliding my platter along the steam table rails and happily noticing it's weight making more and more noise. Then somewhere between a malodorous vagrant passing me by and the sight of six tables unbussed, it occurred to me that it was time to make my exit.
As I staggered green to the bottom of the stairs and went out the door, I turned back trying to remember if I had all my belongings with me. A middle-aged man and his loving bride passed me on their way out, smiles around. The man apparently mistook me for someone entering the Golden Dragon to eat. He said, "You'll enjoy it...best Chinese food around. Enjoy."
4/7/09 Addendum: You may wonder why there might be a strip club in the middle of downtown Portland and not on the outskirts of town. The answer is simple: Strip clubs are not disallowed in the City of Portland. They aren't on every street corner as one might imagine, but strip clubs are here and there all over town.
Another challenge and another turnoff for me. I had to admit that a
nice long pre-meal flight of stairs was the perfect exercise for the
buffet consumer. You might call it a show of compassion from the Golden
Dragon. The Chinese-looking references and stylings in the tattered
wallpaper and
ceiling fixtures helped remind me of where I actually was despite the
stairwell's odd likeness to the urban sequences of any of the Matrix
movies. As I began to climb towards the summit, I had the unique
experience of full awareness--awareness that through the wall to my
left were folks were paying professionals to put permanent stains on
their skin, and through wall on my right were other folks paying
professionals to put permanent stains on their clothes. If awareness is
supposed to be followed by internal calm, I was mostly aware that I was not calm. It's not that I am fully opposed to tattoos and strip clubs. As
I've discussed previously, buffet experience is an emotional one for
me, so intermingling with a little grime gives me pause. Cresting
the stairs, my wariness eased a bit with the subtle knowledge that I
was now above fray and riffraff, about to eat Chinese buffet with
other like-minded individuals. A friendly Chinese woman then greeted me and asked me what I wanted. I replied, "How are you doing today?" She smiled back and said, "Fine." Pause. Then, "What is your order?"
"Um, do you own the Golden Dragon?" She glanced towards the wall, smile fading, "No." I cleared my throat. "Who does?"
"My brother," she said with finality. I appeased her, "I would like one buffet meal, please." While my credit card processed, I exercised my small-talk superpowers with, "How long has he owned this place?" She put the receipt on the table with a pen, then said, "Twenty years," while walking away. But it was ok. After all, I was at a buffet, and I knew the rules.
The idea that one person owned this place for twenty years stuck in my head for a little while as I looked around the place. I got the impression that they must have given up on atmosphere years ago. Reminds me of when single or widowed men get into their 60's and don't have anyone to remind them the comb their hair or put on clean clothes when going out in public or to trim their ear and nose hair. The Golden Dragon is a widowed 65 year old man that is not yet retired and sees no end in sight, wearily working simply because someone will employ him and he must continue to survive.
The dining room was enormous. I counted 25 people eating, but it felt like 5 were actually there. There is a bar (picture below) that I walked through and actually thought was kind of cool. But with zero booze, it was merely a memory of happier days, possibly when then the homeless patrons currently eating their won tons were a little better off. It was also the place where they store piles of dishes in bus tubs waiting to be washed.
Keeping my belongings on my person at all times, I grabbed a tray and a couple
of hot plates. I piled some orange chicken, fried rice, egg rolls and
pot stickers and chose to sit from one of many big, empty booths. I was able
to count by feel three distinct springs holding me up beneath the ancient seat fabric. Unfortunately, I
needed to use the facilities and I spotted them here behind the bar:The emergency exit doubled as
the entrance to the restroom. After eating some of this food, it was
clear that this hallway had probably serviced many "emergencies" that
were solved easily via fast access to a toilet. I was cheered a bit by "Rest
Rooms" glowing in neon (camera couldn't decipher the lettering well),
but I don't believe the owner was thinking of my mood when he hung it there. I'm all but
certain the sign was given it's second or third chance at utility here
at the Golden Dragon after being pilfered from some poor failed
restaurant long ago.After customarily stuffing myself with average Chinese food, I felt strangely depressed rather than whole again. The other folks eating their fried fish and rice looked a bit crestfallen. Some looked downright impoverished, or even homeless. Suddenly there was noise outside as a parade of 15 protesters marched down the sidewalk calling for a Free Tibet. Normally you would see a group of people get up and check it out. Instead, everyone glanced up for a second, but then just continued eating through the ruckus (many of the windows were open) without care, myself included. Maybe that's just life in downtown Portland with the frequent demonstrations, but I wonder if we were just all too overcome with calories and melancholy to move. I started to pack up my belongings and fought off the urge to search the steam trays for antidepressants. This passed quickly as I suddenly realized I might not be feeling the good "buffet effect" kind of physically bad, but instead just physically bad.
Aware my insides were decidedly wrong and settling back on my three springs for another moment, my thoughts drifted to a happy place. I saw myself at a buffet, gliding my platter along the steam table rails and happily noticing it's weight making more and more noise. Then somewhere between a malodorous vagrant passing me by and the sight of six tables unbussed, it occurred to me that it was time to make my exit.
As I staggered green to the bottom of the stairs and went out the door, I turned back trying to remember if I had all my belongings with me. A middle-aged man and his loving bride passed me on their way out, smiles around. The man apparently mistook me for someone entering the Golden Dragon to eat. He said, "You'll enjoy it...best Chinese food around. Enjoy."
4/7/09 Addendum: You may wonder why there might be a strip club in the middle of downtown Portland and not on the outskirts of town. The answer is simple: Strip clubs are not disallowed in the City of Portland. They aren't on every street corner as one might imagine, but strip clubs are here and there all over town.
April 6, 2009 9:40 PM · Comments (5)
March 30, 2009
Coin Operated Gold
In this economy, every business is desperate to
drum up more customers. For example, check out the marquee on this laundromat sign:
Bet you want to do some laundry now. Everybody knows that nothing
ropes business in like a new big 75-pound washer. In all seriousness, though, you'd
have to be a real laundromat aficionado to fully understand the impact of a 75 pound washer when reading the sign while driving home from McDonald's.
Makes me wonder if they only bought two as a loss leader: Get patrons in the door, then they have to use whatever machine is open if the new ones are taken. It reminds me of when I was in junior high and I heard about the new controversial, bloody arcade game Mortal Kombat. Of course I wanted to play it, but by the time got to an arcade, there would be a line of players 6 deep with only 90 minutes before my dad picked me up. So I would end up playing pinball or an oldie like Centipede. Lame.
After reading this sign the first time, my first thought
was, "What the heck? That's wacky so I'm taking a picture of that." As I examined the photo
more, it occurred to me that a 75-pound washer would be personally significant to me if I ever
used the laundromat with regularity. If I frequented a laundromat, I
might actually check out the load capacities, time machines individually for speed and efficiency,
and evaluate each machine for quality. I might then keep this research secret to increase the chances that my fast machine would be available when I arrive. And I guarantee I would
know the difference between a 60 pound washer and a 75 pound washer. In fact, if I used the laundromat, I bet would have pulled over the first time I saw the sign to make sure I read it correctly. Then I would point at it out of my car window and glare at my loving wife, and say with much gusto, "That Just Happened." Then I would wait for her to acknowledge that this is very important information. Then with a satisfied grin I would put my hand back in the car, pull back into traffic safely, and go home looking for dirty clothes.
So I commend you, Glisan Sunshine Center, for catering to your customers and knowing what they are looking for. And though I have a washer and dryer at home, I'll definitely come over as soon as you put Mortal Kombat arcade game in for me to play during wash cycles.
March 30, 2009 3:56 PM · Comments (4)
March 18, 2009
First Ever Loose Gravel Sports Interview
After a 30+ year hiatus, this year Portland is playing host to the first round of the NCAA Men's Basketball tournament for the next few days, and the teams are in town right now.
The only reason the NCAA is here in Oregon at all is because Oregon Legislature voted a couple years ago to terminate their Sports Action game, which allowed folks to bet on the NFL games. They were suckers bets--parlays--but that one program alone raked in over 2 million dollars in state revenue annually (Oregon Lottery pulls in over a billion for the State annually). I could never understand why the NCAA cared who bet on the NFL and how that affected the basketball tournament, but that is the stance they maintained.
So I've been grumpy about this Sports Action trade for NCAA tournament because, well, it's fun to make small wagers on football and the NCAA is just a fundamentally ridiculous body of geezers enforcing 1950's sensibilities. But you know what? If the NCAA wasn't so stupid with their rules, I would have never scored my first Loose Gravel sports interview today.
As I was walking back to work downtown today I spotted a few members of the Illinois "Fighting Illini". I stopped and chatted with Mike Davis for a few minutes. Here is his card:
Gavin: Hey, is it true that Missouri ran a full-court press the entire game when you played them earlier this season?
Gavin: Hey, is it true that Missouri ran a full-court press the entire game when you played them earlier this season? Mike: Yeah, man.
Gavin: That's crazy. The whole game. Wow.
Mike and the other guys had to go at that point. Thanks for your time, Mike. And hopefully this is just the first of many Loose Gravel sports interviews.
March 18, 2009 7:53 PM · Comments (2)
March 9, 2009
Facebook Ads - Get Rich Quick?
Dear Mr. Gravel,
Why are all the Facebook ads all about losers who figured out how to make thousands of dollars a month by working from home?
Thanks,
iwannworkfromhometoo
Hi Iwannaworkfromhometoo,
After I received your note, I checked my own facebook account to see what you mean. I cropped a screenshot of my page. Here it is:
Geez, there are a ton of ads about folks able to make lots of dough from the comfort of their own home!
I like the top ad "I got $11,668 in only a month", like this is some impossibility. If you make $150,000 at your day job for "the man", you would be bringing in $12,500 monthly. Of course, your ad might read, "I earn $12,500 each month, click here to earn your degree and work hard like I did...".
The bottom ad is a little weirder. "Learn how I make $1250 a week from my kitchen table in my underwear"????? I think the picture paired with that quote tells us everything you need to know. It might as well read, "Learn how to rake in dough with porn cams in your house!"
If you go to the advertise page with facebook, it tells you about how you can make your own ad with their utility and target it to just the right folks. So maybe iwannaworkfromhometoo and I have something in common: Facebook thinks that our facebook profiles suggest we both want badly to be lazy and while simultaneously pulling down Bejamins. So be it.
On facebook, most of the ad placements are in a rightside column. At the bottom of the row of ads, you can click on 'more ads', and then you a big list. I really liked these two side by side:
I wonder if I should click on the $75/hour or $100/hour? I'd like to make more money per hour, but what if I have more responsibilities? And could that stack of money the dude is holding look more ill-gotten? Wrapped in rubber bands? Remember folks: If he's holding $10,000, working at $75/hour rate, he put in 133 hours for those bucks. Nothing comes easy, right?
With just a little research about these ads, there is one resounding theme: Don't send anyone your money, because you shouldn't have to pay your employer, but vise-versa. Wise words, indeed. These types of ads have been around forever in newspapers, and Facebook is just the most recent, hottest ad farm. So iwannaworkfromhometoo, why does Facebook have a bunch of work from home ads? Gawker.com has a nice idea about that here. But I'm certain that the ads are there because lots people submit them, and lots of people click on them. If you grow tired of them, just click the "thumbs down" icon under the ad. You can cite the reason for the thumbs down as "misleading" or "offensive". That's what I did, and now I make $500/hourly working from the comfort of my mom's basement!
Why are all the Facebook ads all about losers who figured out how to make thousands of dollars a month by working from home?
Thanks,
iwannworkfromhometoo
~~~
Hi Iwannaworkfromhometoo,
After I received your note, I checked my own facebook account to see what you mean. I cropped a screenshot of my page. Here it is:
Geez, there are a ton of ads about folks able to make lots of dough from the comfort of their own home!
I like the top ad "I got $11,668 in only a month", like this is some impossibility. If you make $150,000 at your day job for "the man", you would be bringing in $12,500 monthly. Of course, your ad might read, "I earn $12,500 each month, click here to earn your degree and work hard like I did...".
The bottom ad is a little weirder. "Learn how I make $1250 a week from my kitchen table in my underwear"????? I think the picture paired with that quote tells us everything you need to know. It might as well read, "Learn how to rake in dough with porn cams in your house!"
If you go to the advertise page with facebook, it tells you about how you can make your own ad with their utility and target it to just the right folks. So maybe iwannaworkfromhometoo and I have something in common: Facebook thinks that our facebook profiles suggest we both want badly to be lazy and while simultaneously pulling down Bejamins. So be it.
On facebook, most of the ad placements are in a rightside column. At the bottom of the row of ads, you can click on 'more ads', and then you a big list. I really liked these two side by side:
I wonder if I should click on the $75/hour or $100/hour? I'd like to make more money per hour, but what if I have more responsibilities? And could that stack of money the dude is holding look more ill-gotten? Wrapped in rubber bands? Remember folks: If he's holding $10,000, working at $75/hour rate, he put in 133 hours for those bucks. Nothing comes easy, right? With just a little research about these ads, there is one resounding theme: Don't send anyone your money, because you shouldn't have to pay your employer, but vise-versa. Wise words, indeed. These types of ads have been around forever in newspapers, and Facebook is just the most recent, hottest ad farm. So iwannaworkfromhometoo, why does Facebook have a bunch of work from home ads? Gawker.com has a nice idea about that here. But I'm certain that the ads are there because lots people submit them, and lots of people click on them. If you grow tired of them, just click the "thumbs down" icon under the ad. You can cite the reason for the thumbs down as "misleading" or "offensive". That's what I did, and now I make $500/hourly working from the comfort of my mom's basement!
March 9, 2009 3:57 PM · Comments (1)
March 4, 2009
Old School - The Wedding
Last weekend I flew back to Texas to see my cousin get married. It was a blast. Huge fun had by all. Here's an observation: I was in the "old crowd".
Now technically, I think I was the oldest of groom's coevals, but his older brother and I are close in age. And my cousin, his rowdy friends and I are only a couple years apart in age, 33 on my end, 30 on the young end.
But the bride and her peers? I don't think one of them has had their 25th birthday yet. Now, I didn't really feel old around them, but I'm certain that when they first met the beard and dissolving hairline the thought was, "Who dug out this artifact?", or, "My aunt Sally might like him...".
What do 24 year-olds like to do? With state college barely in the rear view mirror, I'm guessing nightly beer and horseplay. It's that magical time in post-pubescence when you can live like you're in college while actually pulling in a paycheck. Nowadays I like television, like 24 (Monday nights!) and Lost (Wednesday nights!). That's because television happens inside my house, where I need to be now pretty much every night.
But wait! I have pictures of my son and wife!
Who cares, geezer!
And dog!
What a bore!
So you might think, "Gavin, I bet you wish you could party like a 24 year-old!"
The truth is, I can party like a 24 year-old, but I choose not to. You see, with my ever-increasing value on sleep, I don't like it disrupted. A couple weeks ago I went out late at night for a little while and ran around with some youngsters. It wasn't all that great. Any fun I had was countered by thoughts about how tomorrow's misery was increasing incrementally with each passing minute away from bed. What a bore, indeed.
But the old crowd did well hanging with the youngsters this past weekend, no doubt. Up past 3am a couple of times, we were. That's pretty good. Too bad on Tuesday morning after the weekend I still felt beat-up and tired. Betcha the young crowd felt great Tuesday morning, putting together more horseplay plans for the next weekend.
I noticed the old crowd filled up the wedding hotel jacuzzi a couple days in a row. Gotta relax after those hard nights of socializing. Unfortunately, a glance or two from the young crowd getting out of their cars and walking past the back of my grizzly bear shoulders sticking out, and I was crossed off even Aunt Sally's list.
Now technically, I think I was the oldest of groom's coevals, but his older brother and I are close in age. And my cousin, his rowdy friends and I are only a couple years apart in age, 33 on my end, 30 on the young end.
But the bride and her peers? I don't think one of them has had their 25th birthday yet. Now, I didn't really feel old around them, but I'm certain that when they first met the beard and dissolving hairline the thought was, "Who dug out this artifact?", or, "My aunt Sally might like him...".
What do 24 year-olds like to do? With state college barely in the rear view mirror, I'm guessing nightly beer and horseplay. It's that magical time in post-pubescence when you can live like you're in college while actually pulling in a paycheck. Nowadays I like television, like 24 (Monday nights!) and Lost (Wednesday nights!). That's because television happens inside my house, where I need to be now pretty much every night.
But wait! I have pictures of my son and wife!
Who cares, geezer!
And dog!
What a bore!
So you might think, "Gavin, I bet you wish you could party like a 24 year-old!"
The truth is, I can party like a 24 year-old, but I choose not to. You see, with my ever-increasing value on sleep, I don't like it disrupted. A couple weeks ago I went out late at night for a little while and ran around with some youngsters. It wasn't all that great. Any fun I had was countered by thoughts about how tomorrow's misery was increasing incrementally with each passing minute away from bed. What a bore, indeed.
But the old crowd did well hanging with the youngsters this past weekend, no doubt. Up past 3am a couple of times, we were. That's pretty good. Too bad on Tuesday morning after the weekend I still felt beat-up and tired. Betcha the young crowd felt great Tuesday morning, putting together more horseplay plans for the next weekend.
I noticed the old crowd filled up the wedding hotel jacuzzi a couple days in a row. Gotta relax after those hard nights of socializing. Unfortunately, a glance or two from the young crowd getting out of their cars and walking past the back of my grizzly bear shoulders sticking out, and I was crossed off even Aunt Sally's list.
March 4, 2009 9:59 PM · Comments (0)
February 18, 2009
Greetings from Downtown Portland
Hello there,I am a civil servant for the local county here in Portland, Oregon. I love working downtown. Above is a snapshot of the view from my office building. It's a far cry when I lived on E.N. 16th St in Abilene, let me tell you.
I'll never forget visiting Portland from Abilene in twice in August of 2001. Going from daily +100 degree days to the 70's and rainy (it actually doesn't rain that much in the summer) was pretty fabulous for a big guy like me. Though I miss the excellent bar-b-q and authentic tex-mex of Abilene, I don't regret the decision to move here for a minute.
February 18, 2009 12:38 PM · Comments (0)
February 17, 2009
25 Random Things About Me
Dear Gravel Journal,What the heck is up with 25 Random Things on Facebook? I keep getting tagged by my female friends who want me to read them. I refuse to respond, or even read any of the random items. The name itself, "25 Random Things" is even irritating me. Before you read any of the "random" things, there is this paragraph:
Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
I don't like rules like that. And when someone has put in the effort to write 25 random things, and then took time to take me, I wonder if they are going to think I'm a jerk for not even reading.
My questions:
1. Do I have to then write a note with my own 25 random things?
2. Am I going to make someone feel bad for not reading theirs?
Thanks,
Gavin
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No Gavin, thank you.
Here is 1 random thing about me: I have no problem writing a question to myself in the form of a journal entry.
I've been thinking a lot about 25 Random Things About Me from Facebook recently. This NYT article explains it pretty well, if you aren't sure what "25 Random Things" is.
Time has an excellent article here about some of the annoying nuances of this feature, pointing out that 5 million of these notes were written last week. The author, Claire Suddath, refers to this as "viral narcissism", which is apropos given that people share completely boring and unfunny facts about themselves on these lists. Wouldn't 5 Random Things been a much better idea? Less fluff.
Salon.com points out that people really do write some insightful things here and there. But I don't want to put in the effort to read all that stuff to find a couple gems. The wonderful slate.com gets some science in there to talk about the parasitic nature of "25 random thing" and how it's evolved.
Now to your questions. You do not have to write your own list. You can just leave it alone because--and this answers your second question--with so many people tagged, nobody will notice that you haven't made a list. Just forget that you were tagged, and pretend that the lists don't exist at all. Wait for the really important "25 random" lists come out--maybe an ex-girlfriend publishes her list--then check it out to see if you are on it.
February 17, 2009 4:06 PM · Comments (0)
Wife My New Editor - Part 2
More conversation about the editing. Find the Facebook reference:
February 17, 2009 12:22 PM · Comments (3)
