Snapped
I was interviewed for Melbourne’s
MX Magazine
this afternoon (article to run on Monday), and they wanted
to take some photos.
I said, “Smiling, looking serious, funny expressions, what?”
“Funny expressions,” said Nic, the photographer. “We like funny expressions.”
So, ignoring the fact that I was standing in a very public and busy part of Melbourne and passing businessmen were doing things I couldn’t see but were sure were inappropriate behind my back, I did what I could.
Nic sniggered. “What was that, your Magnum look?”
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you photographers were meant to build up my confidence. Lower my inhibitions. Develop a bond of trust between photographer and subject.”
“You don’t have a confidence problem,” she said.
A Chat with Max
I’ve never really gotten into instant messaging or
IRC,
mainly because I already have enough trouble keeping up with my
e-mail. I don’t really need
any new avenues of communication that I don’t have
time to respond to. But I’ve just had my second ever
IRC interview with
NationStates
players, and it was good fun. If you’re interested in what
I had to say about beers, bookstores, and programming, there’s
a transcript available.
Big Berry Crunch!
People often call me Max Berry by mistake. At first I
thought it was because of my Aussie accent, since whenever I visited
the US I had
encounters like this:
Max (checking into hotel): “The surname is Barry.”
Desk woman: “Berry?”
“No, Barry. With an A.”
“With an e?”
“A. A for apple.”
“E for epple?”
I swear, it really happened.
After that I tried laying on a thick American accent whenever I pronounced my surname, but I just got strange looks, especially outside the States.
I get called Berry in print too, though, so that can’t be it. I wouldn’t mind so much except I went to high school with a kid named Scott Berryman who moved in on a girl I was deeply in lust with, so he was my arch-nemesis for, you know, about three weeks around the end of 1987. Every time that damn Berry name comes up, I get flashbacks of Scott and Tracy sitting under a tree together, holding hands. Damn you, Berryman!
Still, even I can appreciate this pic, which a mysterious person called RaptorRed whipped up on the NationStates forum. Now that’s funny! I especially like the little heads floating in the bowl.
Lunch with the Generals
Once every few months, I have lunch with a bunch of ex-Hewlett-Packard
employees. Unlike me, most of these guys have real jobs, so they’re
still in that bizarre business world I’m no longer a part of. This makes
the lunches a little like anthropological surveys for me; I get to peek
in and see what’s happening. And what’s happening, apparently, is that
everybody’s “adding value.”
I know this phrase is not new. But last time I checked, it was mostly in annual reports and speeches by incoming General Managers. Now it’s everywhere. A business failed because “it wasn’t adding value;” a woman’s job is to “add value to the channel;” one man offered to help me with my new novel by “adding value to your sales and marketing strategies.”
Now, okay, value is important. You gotta have the value. But “add value” as a phrase has clearly reached the point where it’s no longer conveying any useful information. It’s adding no value. It’s so broad you can use it in any situation. Here, watch. My job as a writer is to “add value to letters.” My pajamas, which I’m wearing right now, are “adding value to my legs.” I married Jen because she “adds value to my daily living experience.” I saw Tomb Raider 2 on the plane, but it “added no value to excrement.”
The only way to rid the world of this expression is to overuse it so grossly that everyone gets sick of it. So if you’re at work today, really pack it in to your conversations. There’s no reason why every sentence coming out of your mouth can’t include “add value.” If people start to look at you funny, that just means it’s working. And if they nod their heads wisely and talk about strategic vision, it’s time to look for another job.
Resistance is futile
I know what you’re thinking. “Sure, Max’s web site is kind of neat and all,
but I don’t want to have to keep checking it for updates. I have better
things to do with my time, like browse for naked pictures of John Ashcroft.
Can’t I just get Max’s posts in my e-mail?”
Yes! You can! After spending a few days slaving over a hot command prompt, I managed to add a membership list, so you can now join my site. It’s a bit like being in a cult, only you don’t have to shave your head, mail me checks, or commit ritual suicide. I think you’ll agree that’s a plus.
Happy Birthday to me
People kept telling me that turning 31 is harder than 30. From a
psychological perspective, that is. Because physically, neither is exactly
a struggle. You just keep doing what you’re doing and the birthdays
organize themselves. But the thought of being 31 years
old was, according to these people, more of a shock
than the thought of turning 30.
Now I’m 31, I can say for sure: that’s a load of crap. Thirty-one has nothing on 30. When I turned 30, my body discovered age overnight. I swear, it was like while I was sleeping someone had broken into my body and taken it for a joyride. The vehicle was clearly no longer in showroom condition. There were scuff marks and discolorations. The radio was missing. My analogies had stopped making sense. And just to rub it in, everyone kept calling me up and saying, “Ho ho ho, the big three-oh!”
But 31, so far, has been fine. I’ve checked and everything seems to still be in working order. Nobody has tried to mock me with numbers. It’s a good day.