jimray:

There’s something so boringly obvious about Kara Swisher’s behind-the-scenes look at how Facebook came to own Instagram. To fans of Silicon Valley drama (amongst whom Swisher seems to count herself), it’s a breathless tale of luck, determination, and picking the decisive moment to pivot. From a more critical vantage, it’s the story of a rich white son of privilege selling his company to another rich white son of privilege.

Maddeningly1, Swisher insists on writing it straight as a rags to riches story, glossing over the life of complete safety and entitlement of Instagram’s most prominent co-founder, Kevin Systrom. Prep school, four years at Stanford, startup internships, requisite time at Google — this is a well worn path in the valley (or a parallel one to Wall St.) and there’s nary a hint of what made Systrom different or interesting. If you read the story hoping to glean some lesson for selling your own zero-revenue company for a cool billion, keep looking, unless that lesson is to pick your parents well.

Perhaps there’s some cause to celebrate the waspy young turks who forsake well-groomed, upper crust New England lives in finance or medicine or law to strike out to the already tamed frontier of the valley. After all, Systrom and Zuckerberg and Bill Gates all reached further than their fellow prep-school grads to amass unimaginable wealth from silicon and social. Look no further than a Winkelvoss or (Randi) Zuckerberg to see how it could have turned out. Ultimately, though, these amount to little more than brave tales of how the 1% become the 0.1%.

The background stories of today’s robber barons amassing users and mining likes are no different than any other generation’s: wealthy scions risking little and being rewarded for their cynicism and ability to network.

  1. Maddening, if not exactly surprising, considering the whole thing is in Vanity Fair. The day Swisher’s story was published, the second most popular story on the site was one about a hedge fund manager alongside a slideshow of beautiful people on horses. ↩

jimray:

There’s something so boringly obvious about Kara Swisher’s behind-the-scenes look at how Facebook came to own Instagram. To fans of Silicon Valley drama (amongst whom Swisher seems to count herself), it’s a breathless tale of luck, determination, and picking the decisive moment to pivot. From a more critical vantage, it’s the story of a rich white son of privilege selling his company to another rich white son of privilege.

Maddeningly1, Swisher insists on writing it straight as a rags to riches story, glossing over the life of complete safety and entitlement of Instagram’s most prominent co-founder, Kevin Systrom. Prep school, four years at Stanford, startup internships, requisite time at Google — this is a well worn path in the valley (or a parallel one to Wall St.) and there’s nary a hint of what made Systrom different or interesting. If you read the story hoping to glean some lesson for selling your own zero-revenue company for a cool billion, keep looking, unless that lesson is to pick your parents well.

Perhaps there’s some cause to celebrate the waspy young turks who forsake well-groomed, upper crust New England lives in finance or medicine or law to strike out to the already tamed frontier of the valley. After all, Systrom and Zuckerberg and Bill Gates all reached further than their fellow prep-school grads to amass unimaginable wealth from silicon and social. Look no further than a Winkelvoss or (Randi) Zuckerberg to see how it could have turned out. Ultimately, though, these amount to little more than brave tales of how the 1% become the 0.1%.

The background stories of today’s robber barons amassing users and mining likes are no different than any other generation’s: wealthy scions risking little and being rewarded for their cynicism and ability to network.

  1. Maddening, if not exactly surprising, considering the whole thing is in Vanity Fair. The day Swisher’s story was published, the second most popular story on the site was one about a hedge fund manager alongside a slideshow of beautiful people on horses. ↩

drydenlane: “Avocados are my favorite fruit. Every Sunday my grandfather used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comics. He taught me how to eat avocados by melting grape jelly and French dressing together in a saucepan and filling the cup of the pear with the garnet sauce. I felt homesick for that sauce.” - Sylvia Plath, the Bell Jar You know that saying about how every generation thinks they invented sex? I’ve long thought that the same is true of avocados. You’re a rockstar if you bring an avocado-topped salad to a potluck. I’ve been on long car rides where avocados are the main topic of conversation. Folks shell out $1.25 to add guacamole to their burrito at Chipotle. That’s a lot of money, y’all. People suddenly think avocado toast is the hautest of cuisines. In college, I picked an avocado from a tree that drooped a few of its lovely green fruits over public land. I named him Allen and then I got too sad to eat the poor thing.Leah Reich, a writer and blogger and photographer I have admired for some years, wrote a piece about the many varietals of avocados for the Atlantic. We eat mostly Hass avocados, and sometimes Florida ones. (I don’t care for the latter.) Ms. Reich says that not only am I missing out on costume parties and being happy and drinking whiskey and being a good writer—things I never do—but also that I am missing out on Pinkertons and Reeds, Zutanos and Bacons. The author suggests that these more rare types of avocado are far more amazing than the humble Hass. What do I know of avocados, then? Of life? Is it all a lie, a dream, a farce? photo by balotto Well, huh. I know for sure one thing I did do: Write a piece about avocados for The Atlantic. The rest of it? No idea. 
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drydenlane:

“Avocados are my favorite fruit. Every Sunday my grandfather used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comics. He taught me how to eat avocados by melting grape jelly and French dressing together in a saucepan and filling the cup of the pear with the garnet sauce. I felt homesick for that sauce.”

- Sylvia Plath, the Bell Jar

You know that saying about how every generation thinks they invented sex? I’ve long thought that the same is true of avocados. You’re a rockstar if you bring an avocado-topped salad to a potluck. I’ve been on long car rides where avocados are the main topic of conversation. Folks shell out $1.25 to add guacamole to their burrito at Chipotle. That’s a lot of money, y’all. People suddenly think avocado toast is the hautest of cuisines. In college, I picked an avocado from a tree that drooped a few of its lovely green fruits over public land. I named him Allen and then I got too sad to eat the poor thing.

Leah Reich, a writer and blogger and photographer I have admired for some years, wrote a piece about the many varietals of avocados for the Atlantic. We eat mostly Hass avocados, and sometimes Florida ones. (I don’t care for the latter.) Ms. Reich says that not only am I missing out on costume parties and being happy and drinking whiskey and being a good writer—things I never do—but also that I am missing out on Pinkertons and Reeds, Zutanos and Bacons. The author suggests that these more rare types of avocado are far more amazing than the humble Hass.

What do I know of avocados, then? Of life? Is it all a lie, a dream, a farce?

photo by balotto

Well, huh.

I know for sure one thing I did do: Write a piece about avocados for The Atlantic.

The rest of it? No idea. 

  • 80 Plays
  • Nothing Can Change This LoveSam Cooke

lolspratt:

Sam Cooke - Nothing Can Change This Love from Live at the Harlem Square Club 1963

So maybe sometimes I sneak into Margaret’s room while she’s napping and sing this to her. So what.

You’re the apple of my eye

You’re cherry pie

You’re cake and ice cream

You’re sugar and spice

And everything nice

You’re the girl of my dreams

Favorite Sam Cooke song of all time.

Emptyage: Second Annual Ocean Beach Polar Bear Club

emptyage:

Ocean Beach, January 1, 2012

The ocean is great, right? It’s big and wavy and wonderful and smells delightfully briny. Let’s all go jump in it on New Year’s Day.

What?
On January 1, at 12 noon, let’s all go jump in the Pacific Ocean.

Where and when
We can meet up at 11:45 on the beach, at the Judah intersection….

I can’t recommend this enough. I did it last year and it was one of the best things I did all year. If I weren’t going to be a big hippie and do a yoga workshop on New Year’s Day, I’d be there in a heartbeat. 

Man, maybe I’ll do it anyway. There’s always time for yoga…

Hey everyone. This is a Big Deal project Michele and Leah have been working on behind the scenes for a while and now it’s going live and we need your help. So many kids were displaced after Superstorm Sandy and still many other children who did not lose their houses still lost many of their possessions in flood waters.  Our goal is to bring a smile to the faces of these kids and their parents this holiday season by delivering to them toys, games, etc. It’s pretty easy to donate. All you have to do is go to the Sacks For Sandy site and click on the link to the Amazon Wishlist, which has been built with kids of all ages in mind, even teenagers. You purchase something, it gets sent to Michele’s house and as the gifts come in she will have volunteers wrapping the presents (we are wrapping them color coded to age group so please send presents unwrapped). We will then coordinate with various relief organizations to get the gifts to kids on Long Island, in the five boroughs and in New Jersey.  Our goal is 500 gifts. Together, I know we can do this. Let’s give the gift of generosity to children who need something to smile about this holiday season.  All the info you need is at the site. If you have any questions at all, you can use the ask box there. Please reblog, share on twitter, Facebook, etc. so we can meet our goal. And if you are local (Long Island) please contact Michele if you would like to help wrap and/or deliver presents. Thank you, Michele and Leah Sacks for Sandy  Thank you to Michael Owens for putting together an amazing website, to Aaron Cohen for the guidance and to Hosting Matters for providing the domain name.
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Hey everyone. This is a Big Deal project Michele and Leah have been working on behind the scenes for a while and now it’s going live and we need your help.

So many kids were displaced after Superstorm Sandy and still many other children who did not lose their houses still lost many of their possessions in flood waters. 

Our goal is to bring a smile to the faces of these kids and their parents this holiday season by delivering to them toys, games, etc.

It’s pretty easy to donate. All you have to do is go to the Sacks For Sandy site and click on the link to the Amazon Wishlist, which has been built with kids of all ages in mind, even teenagers. You purchase something, it gets sent to Michele’s house and as the gifts come in she will have volunteers wrapping the presents (we are wrapping them color coded to age group so please send presents unwrapped).

We will then coordinate with various relief organizations to get the gifts to kids on Long Island, in the five boroughs and in New Jersey. 

Our goal is 500 gifts. Together, I know we can do this.

Let’s give the gift of generosity to children who need something to smile about this holiday season. 

All the info you need is at the site. If you have any questions at all, you can use the ask box there.

Please reblog, share on twitter, Facebook, etc. so we can meet our goal. And if you are local (Long Island) please contact Michele if you would like to help wrap and/or deliver presents.

Thank you,

Michele and Leah

Sacks for Sandy 

Thank you to Michael Owens for putting together an amazing website, to Aaron Cohen for the guidance and to Hosting Matters for providing the domain name.

Source: sacksforsandy.com

langer:

So I’ve decided to believe in Heaven. God too, if that’s what it takes, but it’s Heaven I’m really after here, because the only way I’ll be able to find it in myself to continue trudging along through a life I already know to be ultimately meaningless, to be veering hopelessly and irrevocably towards an anonymous, lonely, forgotten death, is if I can at least rest assured knowing that all of these tech founder types will some day have to stand before the pearly gates and testify to what good they did during their time on this Earth, and one by one these people will look up ever so briefly from the glow of the handheld screens on which they furiously refresh their Klout scores and declare, by rote, in language so rehearsed as to suggest that admission into this industry comes with a prepared set of self-congratulatory talking points, that they used technology to change the world for the better—and this is when St. Peter will laugh a great thunderous mocking laugh, and he will lean over and press the button that opens the hole in the clouds and every last one of these assholes who ever deceived themselves or anyone else into believing that “changing the world for the better” means “making it easier for well-off upper-middle class urban types to catch cabs home after a night out on the town” will fall the many miles back to the fiery Inferno below and spend the rest of eternity in a dark corner of Hell where there is no light save for the glow of an old flickering cathode ray set in the corner playing this video on repeat, forever, until the end of time.

Augustine heard the voice of a child singing in a garden; I got trolled by a YouTube video. We don’t get to choose our conversion experiences. Blessed be the lord, etc.

BEST BEST BEST.