Twitter Fatigue

The phases of Twitter are well documented.

Whether there are Six phases or Forty-Six, the extremes are what I like to call Attrition to Addiction.

First, they tell you, you’ll dismiss Twitter as far too overwhelming. You’ll abandon, possibly for months and return only reluctantly because people you respect keep telling you it’s not what you think.

And then you’re hooked.

The fun, for research nerds like myself, is discovering what people respond to and how to effectively be heard over the din of millions. It’s watching a personality emerge in 140 characters until you just can’t wait to meet this brilliant, hilarious, ravenous, succinct, and simpatico-in-every-way gadabout behind the quip.

I do not recall my first real tweet but I believe it was in August 2008.  (A free Wow Bao treat for the first person to sift through all 20,000+ of mine to post the first in the comments.  Must redeem in Chicago.)

It began slowly, as it always does. Testing the waters. Coming to terms with the utter narcissism of it all. Getting into the proverbial groove.

I have blogged about the Phonatics timeline, which marks the beginning of my “Addiction” phase. As I approach the end of 2010, I realize that my entire social and professional life this year has been informed and influenced by Twitter.

Attrition to Addiction.

But what comes next? Because that’s where I am.

I propose that the next in the Twitter timeline of phases is Fatigue.

Fatigue is characterized by, but not limited to, the following:

• You dread planning tweetups because the people you love say, “Ugh, I won’t come if so-and-so is going.”
• You dread attending tweetups because so-and-so will be there.
• You were giddy at the rollout of Mute functionality.
• You make a new acquaintance with someone who informs you of your bitter rivalry/disagreement/argument with someone you’ve never met or even heard of.

Fatigue differs from Attrition in that you don’t want to walk away from the platform altogether because you’ve seen how powerful it can be. You haven’t lost interest. You’ve lost tolerance.

I’ve met more incredible people and made more lasting friendships in 2010 than in all my prior years on the Earth combined. I’ve grown professionally and cultivated clients and referrals all from Twitter. I wish to continue to do so.

But the honeymoon is over.

Much like that unceremonious but crucial point in a romantic relationship when the shit gets real, Twitter Fatigue sets in when the gloss fades. And in a romantic relationship, I generally love this part. I’d choose First Year over First Date any day because that’s when it gets good. And deep. And dirty. That kind of intimacy will decide whether you want more or no more.

So what have I learned after a year of Twitter?

I’ve learned that you people are fucking mean.

Perhaps it’s the assumption of intimacy that is bothering me. The ease with which people will take offense, lash out, or diminish another’s reputation or point of view. In real life, it’s simple to avoid toxic people. We just avoid them. Remember the ranking system? On Twitter, you simply can’t without being mean.

I’m not perfect. I’m quite often considered rude. But I won’t be mean.

Is there a difference, you ask? I think there is. Rudeness is often unintentional because it is defined by an individual. Meanness is always intentional.

A gal once told me I was rude because when asked my opinion about a restaurant she loved, I replied, “I went twice and didn’t enjoy it.  I should try it again.”

She then told me that I must have no taste.

Which was rude and which was mean? And wouldn’t it have made more sense if she were my sister or my best friend as opposed to someone I was just meeting at a tweetup?

So my cowardly solution has been to close ranks, develop a thicker skin, and manage my expectations of Twitter a bit.

On the flip side of this argument is my obsession with an Abe Lincoln quote that AnnMarie shared over dinner: “I don’t like that man.  I must get to know him better.”

Perhaps I have it all wrong.

Inspiration

The Gift Room

I’m missing my friend Julie this Christmas.

To be fair, I miss Julie and her wonderful husband Steve every single day, but this Christmas especially for some reason.

Julie and I worked together for many years although in different cities in Texas.  When I travelled to Austin from my Houston for work, I was welcomed into their home and spared from a lonely, impersonal, jizz-stained hotel room.

Julie and Steve had two grown children who had long since moved out into the world, having been raised in warm love and prepared for greatness.  One of their rooms had been converted into a guest bedroom and the other into…

The Gift Room.

What the hell is a Gift Room?

Obviously, a gift room is a place to store gifts.  For this delightful woman, The Gift Room is a place to store all of her lovely intentions and her generosity.

You see, throughout the year, Julie thinks of all the people she loves.  And when she comes across a ribbon, a bow, a card, a trinket, or any gift that might appeal to one of these lucky people, she pounces right then and there.  She seizes the thought and the opportunity to make a friend smile and she saves it for just the right occasion in The Gift Room.

You can imagine how fun this room is.

Shelves lined with boxes and bows, figurines, colors, and packages of all shapes and sizes.

She is prepared for birthdays, holidays, and thinking-of-you days.  I’ll bet she’s even prepared for surprise babies.

I’ve received cards for every birthday and holiday since I’ve known Julie.  I often wear the silver friendship bracelet she gave me.  I have Longhorns napkins still from our lunch years ago at the University of Texas alumni club.

When I lost my beautiful mother, Julie’s was the first call I received.  And thereafter, she became the woman I turn to for guidance.  That was her ultimate gift to me.  It wasn’t in a box and it was wrapped with no bow, but it’s in that room nonetheless.  It’s her intent to bring comfort and love at any moment.

That’s what The Gift Room is. Not just a room full of things.  It’s a room filled with thoughts.  Of us.

My mother died ten years ago.  And Julie lives way down yonder in Austin.

So yes, I am missing my mother this Christmas.  Both of them.

Avenues

I was the giddy recipient of an invitation to enjoy a chef’s tasting at Avenues, the renowned Peninsula Hotel restaurant extraordinaire featuring the culinary stylings of Chef Curtis Duffy.

Now, I am not a “foodie” per se.

My taste is utilitarian with a pinch of adventure and a healthy handful of curiosity, informed by immigrant sensibilities.  That is not to say that my palate is anything short of acute.  I will soon host a soiree that features a blind taste test of varied ingredients and spices made popular by myriad cooking shows.

I will ask my guests to bring five ingredients for the competition and I will confidently compete.  Perhaps against you.

But I digress.

The thing is, I would rather cook than eat.  Gasp!

I love the experimental nature of combining flavors to create anew.  And I derive intense pleasure from feeding people as my bio adequately conveys.  This, coupled with limited resources and a disdain for style-over-substance hot spots has prevented me from truly exploring the rich Chicago culinary landscape.

Thankfully, and inexplicably, the real deal came to me.

Twitter has once again brought me much more than I deserve.  I can only assume that Avenues wanted an average joe to balance out the “Twitterati” I joined for dinner one recent snowy evening.

Tatiana, who I am fortunate to count as a dear friend in real life, is known across Chicago for her impeccable taste and restaurant savvy and who I take this opportunity to challenge in the aforementioned palate test.  I won’t mind losing to her.

Kara, Candyce, Mike, and Chao are Twitter idols whose acquaintance I had not made until this night.  Each hosts delectable food blogs boasting mouth-watering content and dedicated followings.

And then there was me.

But enough about me.

Let’s get to the food.

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I cannot begin to author a sufficient description of each dish so I will let the pictures speak for themselves.  Ask Tati for the particulars since she took copious notes, as a good foodie should.  I just ate and savored, for a change, a feast of such robust yet delicate alchemy made sweeter by perfect pairing.

Thanks to Susan Ellefson and Katie for the photos and for making this evening happen, and to Chef Duffy for choosing Chicago.

I won’t be able to replicate these dishes.  But I will have fun trying.

Forgotten Photos and Other Delights

Christmas 2008 049

Originally uploaded by FeliciaCago

So I’m testing this nifty Flickr to WordPress functionality and came across photos I forgot I loved.

This silly bridge crosses a tiny creek (pronounced crik by its neighbors) and joins a giant park to a baseball field.

Imagine growing up around this bridge which took you all the way from Little League at one end to wide open space on the other, and ultimately, home.

I can’t imagine it, but I’ll bet it was wonderful.

Bridges

Christmas 2008 054

Originally uploaded by FeliciaCago

I love bridges. And snow. The solitary leaf clinging to its branch told me a story.

Big Dreams, Little Biceps

Better Late Than Never…

How to Fail at Humor on Follow Friday

Halloween-ish Birthdays

My birthday fell on a Monday this year.

Lame.

Since Halloween is the day before, I rarely celebrate with costumes because, well…I focus on my birthday dammit.  And I’m not 11.

I realize now how ridiculous the aforementioned policy is because Twitter introduced me to a slew of new friends in the last year.  With these friends, I found myself celebrating Halloween with a splash of early birthday.

Our impromptu celebration started at Loft 610 and, for me, ended at Vertigo.  There are whispers of an after-party because there is always an after-party.

Paul S. is the most talented photographer in Chicago and his delicious pics provide a tiny glimpse into the secret world of impromptu tweetups.  If you’re fortunate enough to be included, you may find yourself immortalized one day.  If not, you will wish to be.

How many Chicago Twitterati can you name?  There may or may not be a prize in it for you.

I love my life.

Enjoy:

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