Lord, I Was Born a Ramblin' Woman

I'm new here, so I don't really have the right to complain about having to read yet another boring, Indian blog. But I'm going to gripe about it anyway. I wanted to like it, I really did. But Lost on the Street is gobsmackingly tedious. I guess the point of the blog is to entice her readers to visit the numerous beautiful locales of India. I wish she would just quit with the writing and take up photography because I think her photos are fabulous. Those pictures are what made me want to get off my ass and visit those places. But her words made me want to curl up on the couch for a nap.

She does take the time to write about non-travel related topics and upon reading some of those posts my ennui turned to anger. She actually contends in this one that housewives are using feminism as an excuse to be lazy. What a loathsome thing to contend. Her opinion that housewives, specificially educated housewives, have no right to claim to be feminists is downright disgusting. If she's going to make offensive statements on her blog she should at least back it up with a good argument. Another post that pissed me off is this one about tipping. What is the big fucking deal about leaving a 20% tip? She mentions in another one of her blogs that she has a maid. If she can afford to pay a maid she can afford a god damn tip.

Still, I'm not entirely unsympathetic to this blogger. She has a bitterness about her that I can relate to. And I can certainly identify with her complacency. She can form a coherent sentence and at least attempts to be grammatically correct. I'm assuming (perhaps wrongly) that English is a second language for her. If I'm right, then that's pretty impressive. I know a few native speakers of this fine language that can't do that. But being a good blogger entails a lot more than good grammar and sentence structure.

I suggest that she hone her story telling skills. As Love Bites recently told another reviewee, the topic of the story isn't as important as how you tell it. Lost desperately needs to edit. She seems to think that every last detail and thought is worth including each post. And the rambling has reached a critical level. She has trouble focusing and subsequently veers off in some confusing directions. What's annoying is that I'm not telling her something that she doesn't already know. It's apparent that she recognizes it as a problem because she mentions it in her posts. She wrote at the end of one post:

And thus ends one more pointless post. Promise this will be the last..pointless post that is.

But she broke that promise, over and over again.

Her template is dull but I don't really mind that. I'd much rather a dull template than a hideous one. She has tabs on the top but she doesn't really utilize them well. Lower down on the page is where all the trouble starts. In addition to her archives, she has way too much shit going on - tags, categories, favorites, just written, recent comments, and one of those creepy and annoying "Live Traffic Feeds". My suggestion is to eliminate all that crap and just use the tabs.

I do have one good thing to say about this blogger and her blog - Her niece is precious and those pictures of her pierced through the hardened layers of my bitter heart. That's not easy to do. Usually the only kids I find adorable are the ones I made myself.

In any case, this blogger gets a

She has potentional if she can learn to put a filter between her mind and the keyboard.

The Salty Professor

A guest review by Rassles:

The Ask Overlords wanted this review days ago. It’s like fucking homework.

No, I lie. It’s more like when you’re itching to play baseball, because at one point in your life you made an outstanding third baseperson, and then ten years go by and your friends are all, “play on our team” and you’re excited and first, and then you’re all, “okay but I’m superbusy and distracted right now because there are pressing episodes of Legend of the Seeker to watch on Hulu” and they’re all “what’s that” and you’re all “nevermind I mean It’s Always Sunny” and then the roguish Rajah of Reference in the group starts singing ‘Dayman’ and everyone laughs heartily, secretly thankful for Netflix, and you remember when YOU were the roguish Rajah of Reference back when you drank for sundayfundays instead of watching WGN all afternoon in your Double Dare sweatpants.

And that preceding paragraph is my formal apology for both (a) lately turning in my very long review and (b) neglecting to write a more suitable introduction. Then again, I could just take what I know about this blogger and my sweet intro and whip it into THE ULTIMATE MASH UP.

Speaking of which, when did “mash up” join the Common Tongue? I don’t know if I like it. Speaking of liking things, this blogger doesn’t like anything. Or anyone. At least, that’s what he wants us to believe, fucking hoser. Probably. It’s a theme he sticks to early in his blog (he’s only been writing this one since April) and lately he’s straying. It’s fine.

I Probably Don’t Like You is basically a collection of satirical essays on whatever pops into The Professor’s brain. That is not his official name but it’s the one I’m giving him. Yeah, he teaches at a college in Canada. Toronto? Probably. And even though he probably don’t like me, I really like him, despite the salty essay-ness of his posts.

I’m officially taking a stance against using an essay format in basically any form of writing, because it makes me feel like I’m reading a goddamn essay and essays are wicked dumb. But with his writing – okay, it’s like during each introduction he’s taking a slow, deliberate, annoying-ass cruuuuuuunch from a fresh apple right behind my fucking ear, and my neck trembles and locks in aggravation and I want to swing around and drive the whole royal gala up his nose with the heel of my palm, but then he offers me a bite and I accept, lingering through the crunch myself, and I can’t help nodding in savvy satisfaction, because it’s a pretty damn good apple.

For someone with the dry, acute skills of The Professor, the expository essay is acceptable. I don’t drift towards it naturally, because I like to be thrown right into the fuck of things from the get-go, but it’s a personal style issue and I’ll overlook it. He’s adept and deadpan in an affable, jaded kind of way.

I do not like the read more links. I DO NOT LIKE THE READ MORE LINKS. Professor, I understand you want them there because you’ve got some long ass posts, but I hate them. Drives me bonkers. It is a damn good thing you’re funny. You have solid pacing and generally well-placed asides.

Most posts are ironic anecdotes wrapped up with a buh-dum ching epigram that’s full of cheese. And cheese is delicious. This is not a day-in-the-life blog, but it is a unique opinion blog, which makes it personal, but I’ve said this before, and I am an Expert In Everything: put a little more self in there, because it’ll smooth personal credibility into the tartness of your words, helping readers distinguish your intelligent business from everyday snark blogs. Things will feel more genuine like they do in this post, which I am linking three times because I love it.

Like with many other bloggers, readers must endure the two most frustrating banes of blogging following blatant douchebaggery and the daily rehash: his shit is long (we can smell our own, sir) and he’s a humor blogger.

Cool points: The Professor efficiently name-drops the fuck out of things I support, like Robert Heinlein and Gilligan’s Island and Firefly and Proust. Okay, maybe not Proust. Okay, sometimes Proust. I’m a big fan of the name-drop, but more importantly I’m a big fan of not necessarily linking said drop, which he doesn’t. He assumes his readers are in-the-know, and I fucking like things that way. Good golly, he’s on his way to being a Rajah of Reference, but not quite…more like the Knave of Reference. With tart. Buh-dum CHING.

Get it? You know, because of the Knave of hearts, and he stole some tarts? Get it? GET IT?

Oh, even my weak jokes crack my shit up.

Also, he has an unhealthy obsession with posting pictures of Avril Lavigne,. It’s freaky. She fucking looks just like my sister and I keep on wondering who dared her to get Glamour Shots.

So this mash up is a failure. Whatever. In the end Professor, I’m giving you three stars. I dig this.

The Subtle Art of Blogging

Dear sweet lady from the UK or Australia,

Why on earth did you submit your blog to us? You have to know that we are not fond of mommy-blogs, as a genre, and we're very, very bitchy and demanding. We are not your target audience, and you are definitely not going to be happy with anything I have to say to you today.

You write:

I started this blog in January 2008 with the following aims:

1. To improve my photography
2. To learn a new skill (the subtle art of blogging)
3. To have a pictorial record to look back on at the end of the year.
4. To prove to myself that once I’ve started something I can jolly well finish it!!

You've accomplished your goals, at least to your own satisfaction, so you really don't need us. And, I have a feeling that honest criticism is going to cut you like a knife. So, here's a backpat for keeping a chronicle of your kids' growing up years, and taking plenty of pictures, and it appears, being a very good mommy.

If you can't handle sharp feedback, STOP READING NOW. This warning is for your own good.

Okay, here comes the rending.

Goal 1 - Pictures: Your photos are poorly focused and have zero emphasis on composition. You need to do your homework. There is more to photography than point and shoot. Do some research, read up on how to properly frame a subject, and really WORK at it. These times will pass quite quickly and at this point, all you have to show for your efforts are some blurry, smeary, not very interesting shots.

Here's a good place to start.

Goal 2 - The Subtle Art of Blogging: You've put words on a page, on a regular basis, that much is true, but you haven't learned to blog. Blogging, at its essence, is telling stories. It isn't keeping a journal. It's writing, FOR AN AUDIENCE. Even if that audience is only family members (only), they do not deserve to want a bullet in their head after reading something like this.

Barbara, congrats. You've turned the miracle of birth into a scientific manual slash middle school girl's diary. Holy fuck. No one wants to read this. It's painfully dull.

A story is not "I went here." "I did this." "I saw this."

Go here. This is blogging. It takes more time than just regurgitating, "and then we bounced on trampolines" onto a page, but it's also clearly BETTER. It's something that people actually WANT to read, even though it involves sucking a bird's guts into a vacuum cleaner (and the word protein is misspelled). That's the SUBTLE ART part. And, that's what your blog is lacking at present. A good blogger can make getting blood drawn interesting. A bad blogger can make childbirth dull.

It's good to write, but it's better to be a writer, and actually THINK about the words you are writing.

Your blog at present:

This isn’t a great picture (I still haven’t got around to reading the manual on photography in low light) but the girl saw it and immediately said “I look great in a smile and a pink plait, don’t I”.

(note grammatical errors and boring introductory sentence)

What your blog COULD BE, if you worked at it:

I didn’t see it at first. I was talking to husband about his day and was walking from the living room to the kitchen.

There it was. A pile of feathers on the carpet–all that was left of the cat’s lunch.

Crap.

“Your cat did that,” he said. I just sighed and went to find the vacuum cleaner.

Do you see the difference, how the first few sentences suck you in, and make you WANT to read the story? How it's clear that this IS a story? Even this example could use more editing, but the beginning is GREAT. It takes work, that. But you COULD do it, if you tried.

Here's an example of how the pink plait could be reframed:

When she saw the photograph, the girl said “I look great in a smile and a pink plait, don’t I?”

I agree, she does.

Do you see the difference? You could then go on and talk about how the photo could be improved, how use of the manual might allow you to properly focus the lens, how you wish you were improving faster. But the focus is on the PHOTOGRAPH and the girl, not you.

Obviously, your voice is going to be different than Franklin's or mine. But, primarily, the subtle art of blogging consists of GETTING OUT OF THE WAY of your story and telling it in a way that is visual, stimulating, and engaging.

Also, you selfish cow. Why, oh why, would you tell us about making a Christmas cake (nut-free, no less), and not provide a recipe? That's just evil and wrong. You did the same damn thing with your mincemeat post, which means you are not only selfish, but you have selfish tendencies. You should share. That's all I'm saying.

So, move. Get out of the way. Tell the story. Focus on the subjects of the story. Make it come to life. Use interesting words. Think about whose eyes are seeing the story happen, and how THEY would tell the story. Use their perspective, not just yours.

That's blogging.

And you, my dear, are not yet a blogger.

But you could be.

I give you

London is drowning and I live by the river

I'm here. Hi. How've you been? Oh, I've been fine. Good, good really. Just... not blogging. Busy, you know? Working and being and all that. But not blogging. Not here and not at my site. Not anywhere.

I don't know what to tell you, really. I'm not sure what changed, or how it changed, or for how long it will continue to be changed. I'm just not blogging. And as such, because I'm not really participating in the circle jerk that is blogging (how many fucking times can I say that word in one review?), I haven't felt like I'd have much to contribute here, really. Who cares what a nonblogging blogger thinks of other bloggers who are actually blogging?

But dammit, I'm here. And last week, by christ, I managed to wrench three whole blog posts from my wriggling and fetid entrails, so lucky y'all who know my real fake identity. Read 'em and weep. No, really: Have your hanky ready because the staggering downfall of my online writing career is a tear-jerker.

And again, I'm here. And I'm raging, raging against the dying of the light. And I'm going to give you a review today if it kills me.

It's kind of a shame, really, that I didn't get a shitbag of a blog to review. In my current bout of ennui, it'd be nice to dabble in some truly vicious asskickery. And then maybe I could have pulled off that superior bit, you know? Oh, I'm a limp dick of a writer right now, but I'm still better than this turdlet. But no. I've got The Daily Smoke.

It's a quiet, unprepossessing kind of blog. Black and white with a little red, the template is fine. Basic, uncluttered, fairly well organized. I'd go for some tabs, of course, but what do I know?

Her posts are almost always bundled and wrapped up in pretty packaging and well-paced. There's nothing slipshod about it. There's nuance and detail involved, and, yes, quite a bit of navel gazing. But her vision, I'm pleased to say, is just the tiniest bit skewed, which makes that gaze rather charming.

As an ex-pat blog, it's interesting to read about her experiences in London, and she's very self-aware and writes with confidence and grace. She does these quick little observations, a brief vignette of who and what she sees through the smoke, and it's delightful, really. A kernel of time and thought with nice grammar and a clever ending.

Lately, there's been some depth added to the blog. Some darkness and reality that makes her already interesting voice that much more captivating. But even that edge is tempered with her dry wit and a self-deprecating awareness.

Also, Clive fucking Owen.

So, I really liked this blog. I felt like I could come close and get to know Ellie. But not right away. There'd be some idle chit-chat at first. Then she'd casually reveal something not-so-casual that would make me think, "Huh. Interesting chick, here. Not quite what I expected." And then, still later, after fun times and insightful conversation and maybe a drunken bitchfest or two and a shared appreciation for hot men, all of a sudden I'd realize, you know what? I fucking love her.

Give me some soul, leave out the crocodiles

When I was 21 and travelling across Ireland, I made my way to the town of Doolin on the West coast where I checked in to a hostel and there I met an Aussie girl. She had been travelling solo for two years, trading gourmet dinners for cans of sardines and Saltines; a wardrobe full of designer jeans for two changes of plain, comfortable travel garb; and prestige for bar jobs and summer teaching gigs. But she got to go down to the shore at sunset and stare at the green Cliffs of Moher and toss stones into the sea. She got to read Down and Out in London and Paris in, well, London and Paris, her hangovers came from too much whisky at Sol discotheque in Madrid and were well worth their trouble, and she wiped the sweat from her brow at the Acropolis in summer.

We sat on that old wooden picnic table and smoked and talked. The hours passed and a cup of tea turned to a bottle of wine and turned to two, and I ate up every story she told. She made me wish I had the balls to give up a conventional life filled with stupid stuff that gets old for a life filled with memories that never need to be mended, never accumulate dust.

I wish I had kept in touch with her just to know if she had a blog today so that I could read it, even if she had gone on to live an ordinary life. Because there are some people who just know how to tell a story, and there are others who just don't, despite having a life less ordinary.

Travel With A Couple is a decently written blog by an Indian couple who are travelling across their country, which sounds promising enough.

But my first problem with today's blogger is that s(he) uses the first person plural, "we" when s(he) writes, refering to both self and spouse. I feel like I'm reading the blog of incestuous Siamese twins. If you wipe your own ass (and I suspect you do or at least you do the water jug and left hand deal thingy that I've heard about) you should be posting in first person singular so your readers can get a feel for your individual personalities. Otherwise you're just this blob of a conglomerated human.

Secondly, I hate the fact that the full posts do not appear in my reader, which means I have to take my mouse and click on the fucking blog on the off chance that I might want to continue reading. Waiting for a page load equals work. So basically I don't even know you and you're already asking me to help you move and pick you up from the airport. For bloggers to get away with this demanding behavior, they better be prepared to blow their readers' minds with some attention-grabbing introduction, like maybe a paragraph about having a threesome on the back of the bus on the way to Bangalore or something, not this PBS-on-codeine shit:

"The Great Indian Bustard didn’t reveal itself to us. But our birding experience at Nannaj Bird Sanctuary wasn’t disappointing. We spotted many other birds (don’t ask for names, though we went there armed with A Field Guide to the Birds of India) and as a bonus, saw two wolves chasing blackbucks. Nannaj Bird Sanctuary, officially called [...]"

Fasten your fucking seatbelts because we're going to a bird sanctuary with a bird book. Jesus Christ, could your intros possibly turn me off anymore? Even if I were into birds, I would already want to brass knuckle your collective nuptial bindi to beat the ho-hum out of you.

Now, don't get me wrong, this blog is probably a wet dream for anyone who happens to be travelling around India, especially if they get turned on by tiresome geographical data and abstracts on the local fauna. If, however, you are not, get ready to not give a shit.

The Couple, my advice to you is to move beyond the travel book writing forte and start thinking about readers like me that are just living our sell-out lives at 9 to 5 jobs with errands to run and dinner to make, that need more than you're giving. Don't you see that the experiences you get to draw from provide limitless possibilities and your pigeonholing yourself into factual reports?

I want to know what you saw from the train that reminded you of your childhood playmate. I want to know about the fragrance in the restaurant that made you think of your mother today. I want to know about the guy with the flaring nostrils that stared at you on the train whose poverty made you uncomfortable. I want to be in the room with you while you two have a fight under a leaky air conditioner.

I want to know this: what does your soul say when you travel?

Until you start answering that, you get a