Truths and Half Truths

A Personal (sort of) Encounter With A Comment Spammer

A few days ago, I posted some musings on winning a lottery.  A few of you read it, and fewer still made some comments - nothing unusual.

Then came a comment from someone identifying himself as "Michael".  It read:

"There are smarter ways of playing the lottery. I would like to point out a very cool program that I am a member of. Basically, you can get paid to play the lottery which is VERY cool. If you check out (link deleted) and click on “Income” it explains everything. To be a captain sounds expensive ($50 a month) but with just two team captain referrals you are already getting paid to play the lottery every month. Plus, since you are on a team, you increase your odds of winning. I’m not saying you have to join, or that you even have to give it the time of day. I’m just letting you know that there are options out there for playing the lottery smartly."

It irked me - I hate comment spam.  So I responded, calling him something along the lines of "a spamming prick" ... which he is.  I figured that would be the end of it, because spam is usually generated by a computer and computers don't mind being called "pricks".

But no.  "Michael" took umbrage, and responded to my comment by telling me to go easy, that all he wanted to do was tell people about this wonderful new "system" for winning the lottery.

I contemplated responding to that ... but by now I was bored with the little prick and unwilling to give him any more of my time - or yours.  So, since I was posting today anyway, I went into my comments and deleted his and a few other spam comments I've received over time.

A little while later, I get this: 

"First off, I was accused of spamming for participating in the conversation and trying to offer a better way of playing the lottery. Then, I must've hurt Nils' feelings because I told him to calm down. Now my posts have been deleted so that you can't see how much he overreacted. It must be nice to censor what everybody see's on your website Mr. Nils. This way, you always look good in their eyes... but like I said before, good luck on that lottery win. BTW, don't forget to delete this post too."

Well.  How rare is this, when a comment spammer actually sticks around for a chat?  And since I am proud to be the Number One Google Result for the phrase "Miserable Old Fart", I'm not only going to avail myself of this rare opportunity, I'll give you faithful readers out there a chance to have a go as well.

Dear "Michael",

We're adults, you and I.  Please don't insult my intelligence - and that of the people who read this blog - by pretending you just happened upon this corner of the internet and decided that "participating in a conversation" was just the ticket for brightening up your day. 

You're a spamming prick.  Admit it, and we can proceed.

You know how I know you're a spamming prick?  Because earlier, I deleted your comments - and Typepad, of course, told me that these changes would be irreversible.  So how did I manage to quote your first comment with such stunning accuracy?  Could it be my eidetic memory?  Well, yes - my memory is really quite amazing, but in fact, I didn't have to search my brain.  All I did was Google your company's name (which will not be mentioned here), and Presto!  A whole bunch of blogs from all around North America, unrelated to one another in any way except that in some way the lottery was mentioned - and all having received a friendly visit from "Michael".

I'm impressed, by the way.  In an uncanny feat of memory, you were able to reproduce precisely the same comment for each one.  Ah, good old "Michael", always the helpful, if somewhat repetitive guy.

You're a spammer, "Michael".  You're one of the most ubiquitous and despised denizens of the World Wide Web, a sleazy, persistent weasel who takes something that other people use for their own entertainment and amusement and tries to turn it into profit for himself.

You say "It must be nice to censor what everybody see's (sic) on your website, Mr. Nils".  Well, "Michael", I have to say it's more than "nice".  It's also a responsibility.  Because this is my home on the World Wide Web, and I hope people who come here see it as a reflection of me.  So if some half-assed Florida snake-oil salesman drops by with a friendly tone and a pyramid scheme to peddle, I will sure as hell make sure nobody is fooled by it, and I will toss him out on his ear.  Incidentally, I'd do the same if I had some folks come by for a party and you appeared on my doorstep.

"This way, you always look good in their eyes.", you say.  Umm.  No.  I don't always look good.  Sometimes I look downright goofy.  But that's OK.  I don't try to hide who I am.  You know, like some bottom-feeding spam peddlers we could name, "Michael".

So, "Michael", why don't you stick to defrauding pensioners and bilking gullible trailer trash out of their welfare money?  You are the embodiment of everything bad about the internet.  You are a waste of skin, and not only not worthy of our time, you're not worthy of your own.  Everybody who reads this blog knows exactly who you are, and what you do ... and we loathe you for it.

Now, run along, you tiny-brained spamming asshole.  Don't make me get annoyed with you.

Regards,

Mr. Nils

Please feel free to add to my thoughts about "Michael".  It won't change who he is, and won't make him feel any shame - I suspect that ship has long since sailed for "Michael", and he is either incapable of shame or so amoral that others' thoughts about him have no impact.

But I already feel better for calling him on his shit, and you will, too.

I'm Dressing Up As A Grammar Nazi

Today is Hallowe'en.  Not Halloween.  Hallowe'en.

That is all.

And yes, this makes me a we'enie.

A Better Friend Hath No Man ...

Now and again, as I do my daily laps around the Blogworld, I run across something that expresses a feeling I have more beautifully, more succinctly, more elegantly than I ever could have done it myself.  When that happens, of course, I steal it and, if possible,  add a few twists of my own.

But not without offering credit.  I found this at Humblebub's place, and while I have no idea if he was the author, it certainly sounds like the way he thinks.  And it sure matches my philosophy, which is why Bub and I are good friends:

To my friends:

1 . When you are sad - I will get drunk with you and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you that way.
2. When you are blue - I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
3. When you smile - I will know you’ve finally got laid.
4. When you are scared - I will tease the crap out of you about it every chance I get.
5. When you are worried - I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to stop your bloody whining.
6 . When you are confused - I will use little words.
7. When you are sick - I will tell you to stay the hell away from me until you are well again, because I don’t want whatever you have.
8. When you fall - I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
9.  When you are in need -  I will direct you to the nearest lottery kiosk.
10. When the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds - I will remind you that "Tapestry" was released in the early 70's and you really need to start listening to new music.

Comments, as always, are open.  Feel free to add to this list, and let's send it to all those dumbasses who bombard us with the sappy, sloppy, if-you-were-drunk-I'd-tell-you-to-shut-the-fuck-up versions of this list.

Google Speaks

According to Google, I am the number one destination when you perform a search for "miserable old fart".

I don't believe I have ever been quite this proud.

This Time For Sure

           Tonight's jackpot for Lotto 6/49 is 40 (forty) million dollars. 

           (For American readers, Lotto 6/49 is Canada's national lottery.  You pick six number from 1 to 49 (duh) and if they match, you win.  Draws are Wednesdays and Saturdays, and if there's no winner - as has happened in the past few weeks - the prize builds and builds.  And in Canada, lottery winnings are tax free.  It's like Powerball, only with Canadian money, so tonight's $40 million jackpot translates to ... ummm ... enough for a weekend in a cheap hotel in New York, but still.  )

           I didn't win the big jackpot in the Lotto 6/49 last Saturday.  Obviously.  I mean, if I had won, would you be reading this post right now?

            Nope.  If I had won the big jackpot, the only folks who would have any contact with me at all would be my wife, my kids ... and some beach boy named Raoul who's taking way too much time with those pina coladas.  And even Raoul would have trouble hearing me, what with the sound of the surf and the steel drum band and the limbo contest ...

            But alas, here I am, and that's pretty much how my luck runs. 

            Which is why I don't gamble.  I'm just not lucky at stuff like that. 

             You know what I'm lucky at?  I'm lucky at door prize draws where the door prize is something you would never, ever buy yourself.  So while other people are busy winning the 30 million dollar Lotto jackpots, I'm walking away with an electric turkey baster or a solar powered business card dispenser. 

            I once went to the Legion with my Dad.  They were having a meat draw.  (Seriously.  Buy tickets and if your ticket is drawn, you win ... meat.  A side of beef or some burgers or a rack of lamb.) 

             Know what I won?  I won pig's feet.  I shit you not.  They're still in the freezer.  If you have a recipe for pig's feet, please put it on a postcard and mail it to ... Guam or Bora Bora or France or some other place where they would actually eat something that looks that disgusting.  I promise you, I will never willingly eat my pig's feet. 

            The only reason I've kept them so long is that it's fun to get them out now and again and gross out the kids.  "Remember how you didn't like the lovely casserole mom cooked for you last night, how you whined and complained?  Well, you're in luck ... it's MY turn to make dinner and we're having ... this!"  And watch them run screaming from the room, begging Mom to make dinner and promising to eat everything on their plates, even the Brussels sprouts.

            But back to gambling:  I have friends and family who are heavily into video gambling ... They sit for hours in front of VLTs (is that a universal term?  Video Lottery Terminals), plugging coins into the machine, pushing the buttons in a trance-like state. 

            I call VLTs the "Dirty Rotten Liar machines", because just about everybody who plays them is forced to become a dirty rotten liar.  They always seem to win.  (“ ...well, okay, maybe not today, but last week, boy, I took this machine for ninety bucks... ”).  They tell you they never spend more than five bucks (“...well, okay, maybe not today, today I spent twenty, but you gotta spend a little to make a little, you know ...?”).  And they tell you they just got there ("Well, OK, four hours ago ..."). 

            It gets a little pathetic, to be honest.

            They always seem to lose when people are there and always do their winning when there aren't any witnesses.  If everybody always won the way my friends allegedly do, video gambling would be the first thing the government cut back.  In Canada, proceeds from video gambling go to the government, so if the machines were routinely spitting out money, it would cost the government millions of dollars.

    "Mr. Speaker, in our battle to reduce the deficit, we plan to put a stop to the huge drain video gambling is causing on our provincial revenues."  Hands up, anyone who thinks that will happen.  Uh-huh, thought not. 

      The fact is, those machines suck up millions of dollars every year from people like my friends and family, creating what is essentially a Stupidity Tax.  And the government won't ban them because it has come to rely on the money.   It turns out my friends aren't the only addicts these machines create.  Maybe there should be a twelve step program for governments.

            I'm sorry - I'm preaching.  I really don't care how other people spend their hard-earned dough.  If they want to play the Dirty Rotten Liar machines, fine by me.  Although I really wish my friends would just stand in front of me, putting loonies into my pocket. 

            No, really, it'd be great.  Every ten loonies or so, I'd yell out "Jackpot!" and give them back five.  I'd even be prepared to tell them jokes or sing songs while they're playing.  And afterwards, I'll back them up when they tell their stories.  "Oh, yeah, he's down a bit today, but yesterday ... well, yesterday he dang near cleaned me out. No, really."  Let's see a machine do that.

            It sounds a bit degrading, but I figure I'd only have to do it for a year or so.  Then I could retire to somewhere warm.  And you wouldn't be able to hear my voice over the sounds of the surf ... the steel drum band ... the limbo contest ... and the gentle crackle of pig's feet over an open fire. 

            ("Raoul ... another Pina Colada - and make it snappy!")

            Or better yet, maybe I'll win the lottery tonight.  I bought a ticket.  Well, two, actually.  OK, ten.  I'm addicted enough to be a Dirty Rotten Liar about it..

Contact High

I spent most of the last week at Contact East , a booking conference where theatre managers, arts organizations, and anybody else who books talent assemble in one place and watch showcase performances from up-and-coming new artists trying to get touring opportunities.

I've done more than my share of these conferences, often as a performer.  They're cool events, because not only do you meet a lot of interesting people, you get to see and spend time with some extraordinary artists doing amazing things in music, theatre, and dance.

I seldom showcase any more, because anybody who books tours anywhere I want to travel pretty much knows what I do.  But I still love the conferences.  Often I'll give a workshop I've developed on marketing live performance events - over eight years of touring and close to 1200 shows, I've run across some great marketing ideas (and some really horrendous ones, too).  So we'll gather together as many presenters as are interested - the good ones are always keen to pick up any new ideas - and show them what has worked in other places.

This week, I also hosted some of the showcase evenings.  Each performer gets 15 minutes to strut their stuff, and when they're done they come over to the side of the stage for a mini-interview that, coincidentally, lasts exactly as long as it takes the stage crew to set up for the next performer.

Being the host of an evening like that doesn't sound all that hard ... until you have to do it.  You want the audience to feel at ease, want them to laugh a little and stop shifting in their seats.  The interviews would be dead easy, you'd think - I mean, you're asking performers to talk about themselves.  But doing a live interview in front of hundreds of jaded industry professionals, asking questions that make the artists look smart or show their personalities, making the interview stretch out for however long it takes to set up a drum kit and plug in a seven piece band ... well, it's a learned skill, is all I'll say.  And you have to see it done badly to  really understand that.

It's pressure time for the performers.  They have 15 - 18 minutes on stage.  That's four songs, for the musicians.  In the audience is every person you'll be calling to say "Hey, I'm coming to your area and wondered if I could do a show in your theatre ...?" These people can make or break your career - everything you've worked for since the first time you picked up a guitar or sat down at the piano or hung a bedsheet across the garage door and arranged the lawn chairs on the driveway so you could put on a show for your parents and aunts and uncles.  It's all on the line in that next 20 minutes.

If you're on the 18th green at the Master's and you miss the putt and lose the championship, you get a healthy check and say "Maybe next year ..."  If you strike out with the bases loaded in the 9th inning of the 7th game of the World Series (Go, 'Stros!), you pack up your equipment and know that spring training is only months away. 

But if you go out on that stage and suck, you're done.  All that time you spent watching your friends playing outside while you went over your scales one more time; all those nights you spent honing your craft in front of drunk, uncaring barflies; all that money you spent recording your CD, and paying graphic artists and photographers and printers and managers and agents and a million other people might as well have been flushed down the toilet.

And it's not enough just to not suck.  You have to flat out kill.  If you go out for your 15 minutes and it's not perfect, if it's just okay, you know that there are about forty other showcases they'll be seeing this week.  Why would they choose you over someone who comes out later that evening and blows the room away?

And that happens.  Oh. My. God.  In every conference like this, there are moments when you witness something on stage - a towering talent in full flight - that takes your breath away.  The audience sits, mouths gaping, entranced, then explodes in a spring-loaded standing ovation.  People whose job it is to book performers into theatres as small as 200 seats and as large as 2500, people who have seen every act there is to see, from the Rolling Stones to U2 to Bruce Springsteen are screaming and hooting and applauding wildly for someone they - who know the business inside and out - have never heard of before.  In 20 minutes they have been transformed from slightly cynical, ass-weary, note-taking business people to cheering fans.

As a performer, you want everyone to do well at these things.  But when you're backstage and you see the performance from the wings and hear the audience going wild, it's disingenuous to say there isn't a little bit of "Damn ... and I have to follow that?" going on. 

But you suck it up and head out when your number is called and give it your best shot because you've been around enough to know that it can happen twice in a row in one evening, or even three times ... or not at all.  And it's not the luck of the draw.  It's all on you.

It was an exhausting week, and I saw some talent that flat out blew me away.  I love when that happens. 

And I was oh, so glad that I never had to follow a single one of 'em.

Click Your Heels Together Three Times and Repeat After Me ...

I'm home.

Last night my plane touched down around 11.  My wife picked me up at the airport, and five minutes later I was in my own house, sitting on my own sofa, having a drink, listening as my daughter chatted excitedly about how the past two weeks have gone for her.  I then climbed into the hot tub to shake off the effects of nine hours in airplanes and airport lounges.  I slept in my own bed last night beside my wife (and - this is a new development - my dog.  I am not at all pleased about this turn of events, and intend to bring it up at the next management meeting.  If I ever get invited to one.).

And this morning I got up, wandered down into my office, and switched on my computer, which - for me (and feel free to make whatever judgments you want; I honestly and sincerely don't give a rat's ass if you think it's sad or not) - completes the experience of getting home. 

While I tour with a lap-top, I can't always find a wireless hot-spot - and trust me, if you're touring in rural areas and staying in hotels that proudly proclaim on their billboards that they offer "COLOURED TV'S!!!" (sic), your chances of finding a high speed LAN are as dim as the 40 watt bulb they've installed in the so-called "reading lamp" beside the bed.  I asked one concierge at a palatial prairie motel if there was anywhere in town that offered high-speed internet and he looked at me with eyes as big as those on the children in the painting over the bed in Room 12, and said "They have e-mail computers down to the library, if that's what you're after.  But it closed at 4:30."

After two weeks of hopping on someone else's computer to have a quick glance at my e-mail or at best a mini-tour around some of my favourite blogs, it was sheer bliss to have as much time as I wanted to catch up with all those sites you can see on the right hand side of this page.  So that's where part of today went.

And the rest went to the minutiae, chores-waiting, and myriad tidy-ups and catch-ups that come with being away for a couple of weeks: dozens of little errands that were sitting around waiting to be done, and the somewhat larger chore of looking at what's happening in the month ahead and deciding what needs my full attention and what can be put off.  I have at least one huge project on the go and several smaller ones, all of them interesting and fun, all of them needing a piece of me.  So, it's like triage, only nobody dies.

I love touring, and this tour was fun because I got to combine it with my parents' 60th anniversary celebrations.  But more and more, the road is wearing on me.  And more and more, I realize that Glenda the Good Witch was right ...