Geycen Oliveira, Artist

Road to 40 Episode 16 Hipsters...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMX0l14l46s

Syrinx, DJ/remixer

https://soundcloud.com/syrinxstarr/cmon-everybody-clap-your-hands

This is one of my favorite mixshows that I've recorded. It originally
aired on NRRRadio.fm on May 16, 2010.

STEPPIN' OUT - Joe Jackson
THE ROCKAFELLER SKANK - Fatboy Slim
ALL THE SMALL THINGS - Blink-182
THAT'S GOOD - Devo
SHAKE IT - Metro Station
SHOUT - The Isley Brothers
THEME FROM "SO YOU'VE DECIDED TO BECOME A GOTH" - The Gothsicles
WHITE WEDDING - Billy Idol
PERCOLATOR - Cajmere
WE ARE IN THE DARK - Plasmic Honey
WE LIKE TO PARTY - Vengaboys
DAMN THAT DJ MADE MY DAY - Adrenaline
NEW ATTITUDE - Patti Labelle

Jane Bozarth, Author

My new book is Show Your Work: The Payoffs and How-Tos of Working Out Loud.   Organizations struggle to capture tacit knowledge, mistakenly believing that we can catalog what people "know" as items that can stored in a database. Showing our work means writing about it, talking about it, posting a video of how we solved a problem, taking pictures of how we achieved a repair, drawing a map our our journey from idea to execution --including barriers and mistakes. It means

answering questions like "How did you learn that?" and "Can you show me how to do that?"  Ultimately, it can help solve some organizations' most bedeviling communication problems, help connect talent pools, and span organizational boundaries and silos. 

The book will be released May 1 and is available for preorder now from Amazon.com (http://www.amazon.com/Show-Your-Work-Jane-Bozarth/dp/1118863623/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1396373472&sr=8-1&keywords=bozarth+show+your+work) and other booksellers.

David Lester, Musician

David Lester, Musician

Eddie Fliess, Musician

Here We Go Again - Calling Planet Earth

Karen Craigo, Poet

Love Poem to Before Pictures

I’m not much for

appearances, but Jesus,

have some dignity.

Brush your hair. Slap on

a little foundation. Try

not to look so surly.

Take heart: We’re all

roughly the same,

deep down—just fleshy

balloon animals, inflated

to different scales,

and we tend to define beauty

in terms of symmetry,

a factor that’s mostly

outside our control.

But oxidation

has everyone’s number.

There’s a death sentence

on every cell. You have

no reason to grimace.

Don’t you know

there’s no love like the after

for the before?

She’ll do anything

to get back to you.

She’ll make it her life’s

purpose. So square

your shoulders. Smile a bit.

Step out into the softer,

gentler light.

 

Love Poem to Prescriptive Grammarians

You worry so. At the rate we’re going,

pretty soon we won’t understand

each other. We’ll stumble blindly

through our once-thriving cities,

splitting infinitives, stopping cold

at prepositions. You tried to tell us

when things start to disintegrate

there’s no way to put them back

together. You snipped away associates

for gross infractions—the wrong there.

Lying when they should lay. Or classic

overcorrections (just between you and I).

But we don’t need words to share our truths.

Ella, her scratch-throated scat song:

she brought power with every syllable.

The interlopers have won. Go home.

Embrace your pajamas, your tête-à-tête.

There’s nothing here for you to save—

the empire already in ruins as the queen

covers herself with a tattered stole.

English can’t love you back. Let us

be Robinson Crusoe and Friday,

coming together, negotiating meaning.

Eventually he got what he wanted—

someone to serve him, to call him Lord.

 

Love Poem to the Symbols of Our Incompetence

The hand can cut like a knife,

but look at you, standing there stunned,

flinging guts of tomatoes

from your fingers. I’ve seen you

fuck up dinner, perplexed

by your still-uncooked potatoes,

checking your watch as if

they’ve missed an appointment.

Who continues to let you near the oven,

sad maroon, dumping noodles

all over your floor? I’d like to suggest

we order in tonight. As yet

there is no gadget to replace you

behind the wheel, you with the depth-

perception and muscle control

of an infant. Why are you working

so hard? Is there no one who loves you,

no one who sees the danger you face

spastically lurching from room to room?

 

Love Poem to the Television Amnesiac

Your first two questions

are perpetually the same: Who

am I? And who are you? And the lover

breaks down but remains

committed. Let’s concede

it would be tempting to walk

out on you, freedom offered

in a wrapped box that fits

precisely in the pocket.

But you are almost

more beautiful for that square

of gauze on your forehead,

and I sense you do not smell

like antiseptic or unbrushed teeth.

Someone has loved you sufficiently

to brush your hair, to fan it

across your pillow just so.

And it’s taken me years

to understand an issue

you pinpoint immediately

upon opening your eyes.

But I have good news for you:

once you know you don’t know

who you are, the problem

disappears. Give yourself a name,

honey. Today is the first day

you can be anyone at all.

This is a test. This is only a test.

 My name is Mark. I plan on using this space for guest blog posts only.

This is an experiment in the blind spot. All posts in this blog will be by people I know, in some fashion or another. This is my world, completely devoid of any direct information from me.

 I hope this works.