Five years ago, I apparently wrote text for an about page and promptly about it. What’s the only thing that matters less this year than a blog?
In that text, I linked to my name site because I had it, and I thought it might make sense to put a portfolio there or a business card-plus-other stuff. What’s in a name? These days I get up and clear out sp*m from whoever creates fake emails for the express purpose of scamming bank accounts, rewards points programs and looks-like-a-mailing-list no-way-to-opt-out clickbait. These are the perils of a common name, and privileges of having had that name for a little while.
In that text, I called myself a journalist. These days, I say reporter. What’s shorter than that? Writer? Hack? 📰📲?
I know it’s about five years old because my job title was different then, and because the masthead went away two weeks ago. I’d express sororities that the company name hasn’t changed, but why tempt those who handle these things?
In that text, I made sure to link to the Wayback Machine’s version of my site which was a good idea then and is still good now. Then I followed that with a list of interests: “culture, technology, race and ethnicity, cities, journalism, media, power and aesthetics.” But they’re just words and they don’t reveal how I feel about these things, where I think they’re going, who and what matters to me. I think I figured I could fill in the blanks with tag clouds and folksonomy stuff, but now there are algorithms for that.
In that text, I wrote around the choir I was in, the one that everybody slowly turned out the lights on. Nowadays, when I sing other people’s songs in public, it’s a nice blend of gigs, busking, rehearsals and karaoke, with the occasional themed DJ night.
In that text, I said I was a fan. Now there are now more useful tools and spaces and things happen faster, and the words have improved, if not the people.
In that text, there was an email widget and a spelled-out version of my address and the likelihood that If be on Twitter or some other network/platform. I guess one out of three isn’t that bad.