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I hate splash pages. I hate being held hostage. The topic came up recently on the “Information Systems Forum” listserv. It’s a listserv of diverse participants, gracefully managed by the indefatigable Deborah Elizabeth Finn.
The question was: “Are splash pages effective.” I thought about it for a few days and I posted a response. Michael Gilbert (who I think of as my own personal Perry White) suggested I repost my response here, on the Diner. (I think he’s worried that I haven’t posted much stuff in the last few months. Not to worry Michael, it was just a dry spell caused by excessive time travel.)
On this particular list, the recent conversations have drifted into the rights and wrongs of collecting (and using) personal information (like one’s birthday) for fundraising, and, more recently, the efficacy of “splash” pages — especially by nonprofits. While musing over the thread, I was reminded by an early example — a pre-internet example — of an attempt to hold an audience hostage.
You’ll find my original post below, (slightly edited and embellished to make me look more thoughtful):
Continue reading Get Thee Behind Me, Disco Duck!
Who’d of thunk it? A simple shoe — well, actually two — thrown with the right twist could so clearly express an opinion. An opinion so succinct, that the world can do nothing but applaud (and perhaps wish the thrower had had slightly better aim). It was a shoe heard ’round the world.
Shoes have power. You can vote with them (or I guess more accurate, you can vote with your feet). You can heat up a cold war as Nikita Khrushchev, shoe in hand, pounding on the lectern at the UN, shouting, “We shall bury you.” (Although there are those that say the more accurate translation is “We shall attend your funeral”). Continue reading Shoes for Industry
A Thanksgiving Tale from the Wild Wild East
We careened through streets, shrouded in darkness, packed into a grubby ersatz-Fiat 128, a Soviet-era knockoff. I was compressed, folded, and spindled into the back seat, a human shock absorber, a Dell Optiplex cradled in my arms. With only me between the PC’s steel case and the car’s steel struts, I felt every bump and grind of the ancient city’s streets. I was the car’s only functioning shock absorber. Noticing that it was past midnight, I thought: “Hey, it’s Thanksgiving.”
As we zoomed around yet another roundabout, my friend Tamás shouted over the engine noise: “This is ‘Hero’s Square. You can see the statues of the seven Magyar chieftains who led the Hungarians into the Carpathian basin. You remember, Saint Stephen — he’s there. See.” He gestured with his right hand, his ubiquitous cigarette smoldering in the other. He was a hell of a driver, Tamás. One hand always on the wheel, another manhandling the stick shift, ratcheting through the gears, clutch be damned; another Bogarting a constant cigarette, and another hand to spare, artfully used to point out landmarks and other points of interest along the way. 
I struggled to see out of the side window, smudged and clouded with urban fallout and the night’s reflections. I could see shadows, light and dark, vague objects lit by the cold calculating stare of mercury lights. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ll have to come back here sometime during the day.” “Yes,” said Tamás. It’s a beautiful city.” With those words, he lit another cigarette and whipped the car to the right, sliding me away from the window. Like a square, steel security blanket, I cradled the PC. We dove down, down into the dark, diving driving deep into the Budapest night. I was glad he knew where he was going, or at least he seemed to know. I wasn’t going to question. If this worked, it would be he who had saved the day; saved the week, saved my ass — assuming it, and I, survived the ride.
Continue reading Night of the Budapest Bunny
Connectivity is dangerous. The fricative sounds of German wafting through the open windows of today’s hotel room reminded me of that fact, reminded me of a misadventure long past, a memory from a time when connectivity took a modem and a phone line. Sometimes it took the diligent and careful application of alligator clips. Hotel phones were, and still are, nothing but trouble.
That time, in that past hotel, things went south. I had tried to look innocent. I failed. “Monsieur!” said the hotel’s night manager as he pounded loudly on my door. “Monsieur, he repeated as I opened the door, “is there is a problem with your telephone, Mein Herr?”
The switch from French to German seemed ominous. Moreover, he looked ominous. He looked like he had spent his formative years on a diet of steroids and fondue, while bench pressing Tony Soprano. “Whoops,” I thought, “this can’t be good.” Articulate and ever ready with smooth repartee, I replied with a set of universally understood monosyllables. “Uh, err, ah, umm,” I said.
Gathering my wits about me, I continued: “Uh… nope, err… Nein. Ich bin… err.” At that I had exhausted what I remembered of my high-school German. All I could think of was “Ich bin ein Berliner.” That wouldn’t work. Wrong country, wrong era; moreover (urban legends about jelly donuts aside) I am no John Kennedy. Giving up, I continued in English, once again adopting my best Midwestern silly grin, “Can I have a late check-out?” I said. Continue reading Les Liaisons Dangereuses
 I learned of the game the hard way. Sometimes it’s called “Follow the Lady” — you probably know it as “Three-card Monte.” It depends on the art of misdirection, distraction and illusion, and just a little sleight of hand. And now it seems, it’s played every night on the evening news. Even “The Daily Show” (or for now “A Daily Show”) seems to have been taken in by the artful dealer; fooled by the throw of the cards; fooled into casting the contests one by one, and ignoring the real story.
“What,” You say, “you don’t know the game?” Well, it’s easy… easy to play, easy to win. Step in a little closer…, trust me… Step right up, everyone’s a winner!
I learned the game when I worked a carnival one summer. Nope, I wasn’t “a carnie.” I was just a “greenie,” cheap summer labor. Being a carnie, well, that’s something you’re born too.
I was an innocent — called “a new” — maybe a half-step above the mooks and marks that meandered on the midway. Even now, I can sometimes catch a scent of that past, when the wind blows right. It’s scent that casts me back to those long days and thick summer nights, Kansas in late August. Continue reading Follow the Lady
[The exciting sequel to "The Cuneiform Code"]
Having established the elements, theories, and principles, what I really wanted was pretty simple. I know what I wanted to keep (element one); I had a place to keep it (element two); and what I thought was a simple way to find it all again (element three).
Element One — Know what you want to keep:
What I wanted to keep were all the bits and pieces of information that are crucial to a sane IT operation. Here’s the dirty secret. There is a vast amount of stuff — facts, figures, incantations, mystical folklore, secret handshakes, twiddles and tweaks — that IT folks have to remember to keep tens or hundreds or thousands of computers happy and healthy. There’s even more to remember if you want to keep a vast army of squeaky users happy and healthy too. To most folks IT stuff is voodoo. I needed a simple system to remember all the voodoo, Papa Legba be dammed. What I wanted was a simple system to track all these assorted permutations, combinations, and incantations. Continue reading Cracking the Cuneiform Code — The KM Supremacy (2 of 2)
In theory, knowledge management is easy. Then again, in theory, lots of things are easy. In practice, things are never quite as easy as they sound. Nevertheless, lightly armed, I set out to put a few of my theories into practice.
There are three essential theoretical elements to effective knowledge management. I call these “Gavin’s Three Essential Theoretical Elements To Effective Knowledge Management.” Unfortunately, “GTETETEKM” does not lend itself to a memorable mnemonic, so let’s just call these the “KM-3.” Continue reading The Cuneiform Code (1 of 2)
My car doesn’t trust me. My bank thinks I’m stupid. Fact is there are quite a number of things that seem to think I’m royally dense. The sad thing is I’m starting to believe them. The list includes the dipsy-dumpster down the road, my car, Amazon.com, and the American automobile industry.
Every day, as I drive to work in the birthplace of GM, I’m reminded of just how stupid they must think I am. On my drive, a billboard screams out “20 MPG!” Continue reading Welcome to the Idiocracy
The NTEN NTC (Nonprofit Technology Conference) has come and gone. This year’s was in D.C. As was true for the two previous NTC’s, there were surprises all around for me; all around. If you work bending technology to serve the greater good, and you missed it; well, shame, shame, shame. For me, as usual, [...]
I’m reminded of the Dormouse’s advice to Alice when I start to talk about philosophy.
… "you know you say things are much of a muchness," said the Dormouse, — "did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, [...]
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