While doing some research for a story, I came across some references to the time when Wal-Mart sent out "blog releases" written in the informal language of blogs, to bloggers. Some bloggers posted these releases on their blogs without attributing them to Wal-Mart.
In the ensuing drama (it is Wal-Mart, after all), those supporting what the bloggers did said they did nothing wrong, as they had no duty to reveal their sources, just like journalists don't have to reveal their sources. And my first reaction was "What?!?!?"
Who said journalists don't have to reveal their sources? And even if journalists can hide sources, who said they don't have to reveal the sources of press releases?!?!?
We see a lot of anonymous sources used in stories, but at most publications worth their salt, journalists have to make every attempt to get something on the record, and can use anonymous sources if all else fails, i.e. 1. when the information they are getting is a fact, not opinion 2. when nobody in the know is willing to speak on the record and 3. when it can be verified by a number of (at least 3) other reliable anonymous sources.
If a journalist is sent a press release from a company, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY he/she can use it without saying where it came from. In most publications, a journalist cannot even use a release word for word, unless he/she makes it clear it is a direct quote and attributes the quote. And definitely not without getting other, maybe opposing, voices into the story.
The bloggers in the Wal-Mart case were simply propogating Wal-Mart's side and hiding the fact that they were doing so. They had no reason to withhold the source of the information, but they did, in the process misleading their readers. But, the thing is, bloggers have minimal responsibilities and standards, unless they are self-imposed, so they can get away with doing so. Journalists can never do the same thing that these bloggers did, unless they work for a complete rag. So to compare these bloggers to journalists who use anonymous sources is farfetched and misleading.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Overwhelmed :(
With everything that's been happening over the past few days, I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed.
For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).
The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.
My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.
I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)
I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.
And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.
And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.
These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.
For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).
The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.
My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.
I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)
I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.
And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.
And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.
These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.
Monday, July 10, 2006
An incident
As I was standing at the corner of 23rd Street and I Avenue, waiting for my movers to arrive last Friday, I witnessed something that horrified and shocked me -- although, knowing this city, it should have done neither.
I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.
I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.
“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.
“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”
He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.
He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.
As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.
The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.
The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”
As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.
“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”
She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.
She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.
“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.
We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?
In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?
I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.
I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.
“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.
“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”
He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.
He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.
As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.
The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.
The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”
As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.
“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”
She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.
She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.
“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.
We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?
In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A nightmare move!
Hello Dear Reader,
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
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