Social media gaffes… or when Roxane Gay got mad at me

This will be on my can’t-sleep-at-night regret loop for a while. And it’s exactly the sort of fuck up I’m constantly telling my kids can happen. We tell them, “The Internet is INDELIBLE… it’s written with a Sharpie… you can’t take it back… it will haunt you forever. Words are powerful and permanent and can be misinterpreted.” And then we screw up, ourselves.

Well, I did.

Admittedly, I might have been looking for a shout out for my fundraiser. I’ll be honest about that. We had fantasies we could get this SUPER FAMOUS FABULOUS actress/author as our keynote speaker for our annual gala, but she was busy with a book tour. I’d known that for months. But maybe she’d be free next year?

We’re trying to raise big $$ here for a program that is doing great things. Three Steps to Success students got full-ride scholarships this year! I’ll climb the rafters and tweet at celebrities to champion this nonprofit and the accomplishments of the students it serves. When our whole community is involved, this wraparound care of programming begins to feel and function more like family. Spreading the word is how we get more people into our orbit, and social media is supposed to be a useful tool for that. So when I saw that our unavailable book tour babe was going to be speaking with another of my favorite writers, I thought… ooh what fun! But what I wrote was this:

“We were trying to get G for our fundraiser, but looks like it’ll be more fun (for her) with you in LA! Have a great evening!”

Or something like that. Without any context for tone, those parentheses are tragic. It was perceived as snarky: “Y’all suck because instead of headlining my teeny fundraiser, you’re being busy and famous somewhere else!” Which I didn’t intend. And the world famous author called me out for tweeting a manipulative guilt trip. Which is how it sounded to her in that moment. Maybe I need to use more emojis. The only worse response I’ve gotten on social media was when I admitted on Facebook that I don’t make my boys do chores. (They’ll do them wrong.)

Immediately, I was a terrible person– and suddenly there was tweeting proof of it. Disgruntled readers flocked to my “Asian by marriage” Twitter bio and didn’t read that as a silly quip encapsulating 16 years of wedded bliss, but proof of exactly what sort of tone deaf white girl I am. And attempts to clarify my BUT HEY I LOVE YOU GUYS WAIT WAIT WAIT explanations were read as lame and victim-y.

It’s really enough to make a girl want to log off forever. I mean, I’m a writer, dammit. Well, sort of… in that I write stuff and sometimes people read it. I should be able to make my words plain. I’m going to have to ask the teenagers how they navigate this land mine of wordsmith-ing every single day. The very idea that we expect them not to screw up is ludicrous.

An easy remedy is to stop tweeting @ famous people. Or use emojis that convey “Yay, everything!” Either one. Probably I’ll do what I keep telling my boys to do: proofread every email or message as if it were being read aloud to the entire class.

Also, apologize when we forget to do that. The great writer forgave me… I think. Hard to tell without emojis.

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Luceo non uro

My middle name is Mewhinney. I’ve always loved it. No one is named Mewhinney. Except me. I’m @mewhinney! And of my dearest, closest, oldest friends, I’m still Mewhinney. I was named after Laura May Mewhinney, who Stockton family lore touts as tiny, adorable, and beloved. Growing up, I assumed all sorts of other stuff about her. Mewhinney is definitely a gal who winks. She’ll slip you candy from a stash in her handbag (and definitely calls it her handbag); she embroiders, drinks gin, and wears dresses with tiny floral patterns. Mewhinney gets all freckly in the sun and never leaves the house without a treat for the neighborhood dogs. Is any of this true? No idea. But this is where my mind goes: always to the pretty stuff.

There’s plenty of ugly stuff in the world right now. Possibly in response, Bernie and I recently left the TV off, turned on Corey Hart Radio on Pandora (highly recommend), shared a bottle of Fume Blanc, and appreciated the genius of Richard Marx. It was restorative. At our respective laptops, Bernie edited research papers and I traded song lyrics with Facebook buddies. The kids were in and out of the room wrestling and giggling and farting and being that awesome mix of adorable/irritating/lovable/gross that is The Teenage Boy. They know all the words to Take on Me and Teddy’s don’t… don’t you want me, well, it’s a parenting perk for sure.

I still unabashedly like Facebook, but I’ve seen at least a dozen friends (threaten to or actually) delete their accounts this week. The incessant onslaught of political HEY-DID-YOU-SEE-THIS posts– what David Brooks aptly describes as “the hyperventilating media”– are literally “trumping” funny quips about toddlers, car repair woes, and check-ins at Shake Shack in our timelines. If you’re like me, you’re sort of jonesing for the good ole days of Throwback Thursday bar mitzvah Polaroids and family-in-ponchos at Niagara Falls. I know it seems like the end of days, but I honestly miss discussions about Tooth Fairy handouts and your latest excuses for drinking on a school night.

But being apolitical is a political stance!

I read this on Twitter every day. Those folks aren’t closing up shop on social media and actually seem to be plowing forward with an increasing number of no, really, I, really, really, really hate him sentiments with funny/angry/poignant/unrelenting tweets. Certainly there are legitimate fears about our political leaders, but is social media hand wringing– or worse, trolling and fighting—is that activism? I’m not sure. Sharing info on how to contact your representatives and where to meet to march, that’s valuable politicking. But me? I’d still rather read your date night yelp review of the new movie theater. I’m Mewhinney!

Trump might be the Death of Facebook as we bore each other to tears with shared outrage. Brodie asked, “Is everyone going to pissed off all of the time for the next four years?” God, I hope not. The children are watching, indeed.

Here’s what I am noticing.

Out in the real world where we stand at deli counters and tip the delivery guy and chat up the waiter—out there, face to face, I feel like we are being nicer to each other. Have you found yourself smiling at a stranger over the lemons and limes, letting the Prius merge into your lane with a you-first wave, or making a more deliberate attempt to exchange even short pleasantries with your fellow line-standers? Are you trying to make fewer assumptions, or better ones, about the people around you… by talking to them? Have you paid for a coffee behind you, or thrown an extra quarter in an overdue meter just ‘cuz? These are the things I have seen.

Internet sleuthing led me to a Mewhinney family crest emblazoned with luceo non uro. Shine, not burn. I love that. Few things other than cardio or cut-and-paste-if-you-care cancer memes can tempt me to write angrily. I also don’t trust most reposted articles, preferring to read the opinions of smart lawyers who have a sober handle on precedent, our men and women of the cloth (of all ilk) who devote their lives to assuaging fears of earthly things, and Steve. But when I’m existentially and emotionally exhausted with world news, it’s a fun breather to scroll through the selfie stick snaps of your high school reunion. More than ever we need the silly things, the pretty things, and I hope that sort of sharing doesn’t die because our President is profoundly (and daily) uncouth. Even so, I guess there’s always Richard Marx, right there, waiting for me.

Luceo non uro. Share the good things, the pretty things, too. The children are watching.

moaenyso

Go ahead. Try to resist the uro gaze of Richard Marx.

My Twitter Followers Love Cheese… by @steviesaf and @mewhinney

We haven’t done a back and forth in quite a while. Steve tells me Twitter is having a birthday, so we got all data nerdy about it.

Twitter turns 10 this week, and I’ve been on it for eight of those years @steviesaf. Twitter Analytics shows you lots of data about your audience, and I’ve find out some very interesting facts. Like how big I am among people who buy cheese.

I have about 1,200 followers and Tweet 2-3 times a day. My “engagement rate,” that is to say “people who vaguely care about what I tweeted” runs between 1-3%. This sounds awful, but is actually not bad and probably is as interesting as people find me in real life. I get about 2 “likes” a day.

That’s some good raw data. But Twitter Analytics is a real gift. You can find out a lot more about your followers. For example: 30% of mine claim an income of $250,000+ a year. Still another 30% claim $175K+ a year. And 20% of my audience admits a net worth of more than one million dollars.

So, as we can see, I have an audience of total liars.

Not surprising for a tech and news guy, around 80% of my followers like tech, business, politics and general news. But two-thirds like comedy! So I have a pretty good lock on the funny tech guys. And if you’ve ever met an engineer, you know finding 800 of them who think you’re funny is pretty good. (Or a lot of movie quotes, ed. note)

59% of my followers are guys. No surprise there. Pants humor skews male. I’m biggest in Massachusetts, New York and California (what’s up Silicon Valley!), but I rate in Texas, Florida and Illinois. Political campaigns should consider courting my endorsement.

Best of all, Twitter Analytics knows a frightening amount about what you buy. My followers’ biggest purchase is cheese (65%) and I love them for it. 87% of my audience, my top category, is into buying “premium brands.” So, my biggest takeaway is that @steviesaf is synonymous with “overspending on crap.”

Let’s see Britt (@mewhinney) top that.

 

Given it’s my blog, and I have ultimate editorial power and last word privileges, you’d think I could totally top that. But I can’t. Twitter Analytics did the loser-cough thing when I opened the program. I’ve only lured 527 followers to @mewhinney since I first logged on in 2009. Admittedly, I’ve only been active since I found @OhNoSheTwitnt and developed a GoT-themed girl crush that hasn’t subsided. People who stop by really don’t “like” me very much at all. Though I’ve had silly Facebook threads run over 100 comments long, I’ll only earn a “heart” or two a day on this harder-to-crack site. My meager 2.6% engagement rate is probably inflated by other weirdoes with insomnia (e.g., @steviesaf).

72% of my followers love comedy, writing, and music, and their income is equally stratified among levels quite south of the 1%-ers. And though a very small percentage of them own fancy homes, most of them wouldn’t scoff at a Chanel bag. Only 9% are vegetarian, which may have something to do with me constantly bashing liquefied salad diets and yoga.

Twitter Analytics can help you combine all of your demographic data into an amalgam of your typical follower. Mine is a California apartment-dwelling, dairy-loving comic with great taste. @13spencer should be hanging on my every word.

Every once in a while a huge account, like @CulturedRuffian, will post a dollar value that correlates with the worth of his Twitter-ing. Mine amounted to little less than one Jimmy Choo. And not even a boot, to boot. I’d love to know how someone with thousands and thousands of followers is surprised, delighted, disheartened, or aided by this demographic data. I’d also love to know who is buying all of this cheese on line.

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My (Mostly) Final Word on Cancer… By Steve Safran

I don’t want to be known for the rest of my life as “The Cancer Survivor.” I don’t even want to be known by that label for the rest of the year. So this is my final post– more or less– on the topic. It’s not that I’m going to ignore cancer. It’s just that it’s time to get back to the regularly scheduled programming in this space.

Cancer can make you that person on social media. You know that person:

“The One with Four Thousand Pet Pictures”

“The One with ALL the Opinions about Obama/Trump/Vaccines/Guns”

“The One Who Posts Photo Memes” (so many photo memes)

“The One Who Should be Flogged with a Selfie Stick”

Admittedly, since I was diagnosed in May, my essays have been narrowly focused on reacting to that. But moving on, I don’t want to be “The One Who Only Posts About Cancer (but Didn’t He Used to Have a Sense of Humor)?”

For someone who didn’t immediately disclose his diagnosis on line, I guess I’ve come full circle wanting to give my timelines a break from cancer. For someone who has been paid to advise people to tweet and share and like and network, I wasn’t sure this felt right back in May. So I asked a friend, whose wife was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2014, how they decided to update everyone via social media.

I can boil down his advice as follows: People are going to find out anyway, so they may as well hear it from you. And once you decide to share, you owe it to your friends to update them on your progress. In the absence of information, they’ll assume things are getting worse. And vague updates are a really quick way to anger, worry, and annoy your “followers” even when you don’t have cancer.

So, I wrote. I shared the stories about the diagnosis, the weird hospital experiences, the humiliation and, yes, the very dark humor there is to be found in cancer treatment. My friends, supportive blog readers, and my growing circle of cancer survivor allies kept responding positively, so I kept writing. It was the only aspect of The Cancer I had any control over.

This past month, I’ve been raising money through a very silly cancer fundraiser called The Movember Foundation. I’ve grown a mustache, and friends have donated money—many have ignored their razors in hairy solidarity, too. The generosity has been remarkable: My friends have donated $3,200 to charities that concern themselves with testicular and prostate cancer, as well as other men’s health issues. I am honored, humbled, and grateful.

I’m cured now. “Movember” ends tomorrow. It’s time to get back to life without chemo and end the run of cancer-centric posting. I need to write about the new experiences, humiliations, and dark humor that 2016 will bring. I need to find a job. I need to post stupid jokes, mock Britt’s gardening obsession, poke fun at Debby’s height and Jason’s bald head (now that my hair’s back) and, possibly, be a little nicer too.

I want to be known as a lot of things: a friend, a dad, a colleague, a wiseass, a writer, an off-key singer, and a Sox fan. I’d like people to know I’m one of the world’s most average ukulele players. I want to be known as trustworthy, sincere but a little too sarcastic, open to new ideas and yet still set in my ways. I even like being known as “The One Hit by the Bat at Fenway.”

As for now, I’m finished being “The One Who Had Cancer.”

Steve Movember

‘Stash-tastic Stevie