Celebrities and social networking: Now you're famous. We hate you!

I had a meeting with a person yesterday who can legitimately consider himself a celebrity. He has an eponymous business, has written a book and currently hosts an international television show. Our conversation centered around solidifying his online presence. There's a website, a Twitter account, Facebook, LinkedIn and any other number of other sites who may comment and contribute to his online personality - and not all always in a positive way. Once achieved, a level of celebrity can also bring a level of discontent in a certain number of online wankers. I did a post about meeting Wikipedia founder Jimmy Wales and immediately received a raft of comments from people laying claim to some sort of 'founding' with Wikipedia as well. People who don't like Jimmy Wales. True? Not my job to validate or invalidate those claims - but it's everyone's job, anyone with any online presence at all, to make sure you manage that presence in as positive a way as possible.

And you don't think you're a celebrity? I don't either, but in the last few weeks this blog has become the #1 Technorati rated blog in Vietnam and I have been called out and treated as someone who has done something in otherwise normal social situations. Just on the street last week a guy yelled out at me, "Yo! Wild Wild East!". At another basically normal business meeting on another day the MD brought in a staff member and said, "She's a fan of your blog". Geez, a blogging celebrity? But the thing is - it's entirely possible, and in my case, oddly true. Do you think a lot of people sit around in their house at night and think, "The next big business idea is the Wild Wild East Dailies?" But I did.

My friend, Hugh MacLeod, a certified blogging celebrity, notes in chapter 35 of his book, 'Ignore Everybody' - "Savor obscurity while it lasts". Because once you hit the Internet, that clock starts ticking on what Andy Warhol termed, "Your 15 minutes of fame".

The most interesting thing about my recent celebrity meeting, and all the previous meetings I've had with such folks, is that that they all need to define what part of the person goes into the "Brand" of Oprah, Elvis, Tony Bennett, Dennis Quaid, Meg Ryan, Jimmy Wales and even Hugh - (and yes, I have met them all in more than a handshake capacity) to figure out which part needs to practice the art, clean the toilet, mow the lawn, have a romance, a family and as normal a life as makes them feel comfortable. My Monday celebrity simply wants to be able to do the work that made him famous and not have to dick with Twitter too much. God knows it hasn't helped Brittney or Lindsey Lohan too much.

And once you sort that out, you're on your way to being a celebrity as well. Like me! But I still have to pay for beers in bars.

Leaving Mali: Out of Africa - My next Evil Plan begins in Munich: The Wild Wild East In WWWest Germany I

[The photos here are arranged in comparitive fashion - first with Mali on the right and Paris on the left, and then, with Paris and French things on the left and comparitives George Jetson and Munich, Germany on the right. I hope it gives a reasonable facsimile idea of the diverse worlds we were traversing at the time.]

Leaving Mali was not tough. It was excrutiating. The rain and the cramped, four people in a Mercedes plus luggage, only added to the anxiety of the speed of the trip. In just two days the decision to leave country had been made and we were off - but not before paying the airport tariff that apparently everyone needs to pay before getting out of country - the tariff of having your life flash before your eyes and realizing that if you didn't jump through the right hoops at customs, including a few well pressed Francs into the right hands, you might actually have to stay. The situation at departures at Bamako airport was sheer pandemonium, like the rush to exit country during a military coup. But no coup had been had. This was just another ordinary day in Mali with the only thing for sure - that more people wanted to leave Mali than wanted to come in. Hundreds rushed the ticket counters at check-in and at no fewer than three times were we told that the line we had been standing in was the wrong one and we needed to move to the end of a new line. This took hours.

Once inside the terminal and waiting for our flight (photo above) we were immediately confronted by sellers of all things Malian in an effort to relieve us of whatever remaining CFA Francs (Communaute Financiere Africaine) we might be in possession of as well as the hundreds who would board the plane with us. On the food chain of well connected Malians vs. poor backpacker-looking foreigners, we were on the bottom. An obviously well to do Malian family, dressed like ancient African royalty waited to board, with their twin sons in tow, outfitted with perfectly tailored African suits and matching custom made packpacks & Nikes - I lost my few remaining Francs to the purchase of a CD, a packet of chocolate and a Time magazine in English, with a cover blaring yet another flattering photo of Barack Obama, Africa's new national hero. Nevermind that Obama is not really from Africa. That's wasn't the point. The point was that a black man was now the President of the most powerful country on earth and this fact would not be lost on the still millions of Africans hungering for a better life. From dusty streetside stalls selling plastic chairs and kiddie toilets, to men brandishing cowboy style beltbuckles with photo insets, the image of Barack Obama was everywhere in Mali. When I tried to take a picture of a picture of Obama, propped up beside a streetside stand, the owner stopped me and asked for three Francs (about six dollars). I declined his price and moved along. Obama had become too expensive for me to photograph his photograph.

The flight back to Paris was the polar opposite of the flight in. Packed with flyers and not an empty seat to be had, we had paid an exorbitant fee to have changed tickets to be on this flying sardine can back into the civilized world - and the this time surly Aigle Azur staff made no attemp at concealing their contempt with us, the customers that had them on what was possibly the most unglamorous international flight on the planet. Tray tables did not stow properly, forget about video screens or a movie and whether you wanted the chicken or beef was not to have been a question. You were lucky to have gotten anything at all. It could have been Aeroflot. At one point I remarked to our dominatrix flight attendant that, "She could work a whole lot harder at being nice to people" and she glared back at me in a flood of disbelief that any passenger would even choose to question her crappy attitude. Probably she wasn't getting laid by this pilot on landing in Paris. Not my fault.

Landing at Charles Degaulle from Mali is like being deposited on the moon from earth - only in reverse. The sheer idea that you can take the metro from there to Gare De L'Est train station for a mere 10€ each and not have to pay an insane cabfare is a convenience many travellers might have chosen to have overlooked, but not us. We were now on as tight a budget as we had ever been and were willing to go through the extra bit of luggage handling to save 50€. But what we didn't account for were the turnstyles. While airports are designed to handle travelers with luggage and subways were not, we immediately understood the loss of a conveniently rolled luggage cart and began hauling our gear up and down stairs in a metro system that was designed during the time of Tolouse Lautrec and Alphonse Mucha and not much in the time of George Jetson - going through turnstyles and people passage devices a number of times - until I left a bag behind trying to get through one of them. How does one retrieve a bag after the full body-length two metal door device has closed? Well, waiting for another person to come through and then jumping in, the wrong way mind you, could do it. If you don't get your foot caught in the device mind you. Which I did. And the injury will plague me for the next number of weeks and months. Caught right above the heal and just to the right of my achilles tendon, the metal doors closed on an area that caused me to wince and pull away leaving a quarter-sized piece of skin flapping about and gushing enough blood to be used on the set of any self respecting slasher film. The blood was intense. I grabbed my partner's fine silk scarf and began wrapping the ankle, almost tournequet style so as to stop the bleeding, but to no avail. This sucker was going to bleed like a stuck pig and there was nothing I could do about it. We stood in the hallway just below street level of Gare De L'Est and tried to resolve our situation - all the while attracting the attention of all passing by. A limping bloody American and a fright-ridden Vietnamese trying desperately to do something, but what, nobody could tell.

"Get to the train dammit, get to the train", was all I could think. With my partner crying that we should go to the hostpital immediately (Vietnamese and Koreans have a habit of going to hospitals for things like splinters and the common cold), I played the brave American and vowed to soldier on - a decision I would live (thankfully) to regret later. Our window of opportunity to get the next train to Munich was narrowing and we needed to get a move on - no matter if the team leader looked to be in danger of loosing a limb. Nobody was about to care for an injured American in Paris anymore. WWII is over and now it's just the WWE all on his own.

Closing in on the ticket counter at Gare De L'Est it became immediately apparent that we weren't getting on the next train for sure - throngs of not very happy Parisians would see to that and they were already having their way with the attendants over their troubles. Little would be accomplished by an injured American trying to bully the French to get to Germany. "Sure, we let you yanks do that the last time you were here, because it was in our best interest. But now you have to wait - behind all the EU members, like all the other tourists", they seemed to say. "And nice to see you've finally made peace with the Vietnamese", I imagined them adding. Once at the counter I was informed that the next train to Munich would be a night train - and after a red-eye flight from Mali, that was just what we didn't need. But choices seemed non- existent and after a consultation with my partner it was agreed that that's exactly what we would do, provided we could get a sleeping car, which sounded perversely romantic in a European sort of way - if one had forgotten that I was sporting a legwound the size of Prussia which was becoming more and more in need of attention. So a sleeping car it was, at a small price premium, but well worth avoiding the wrath of an unhappy travel companion who had last voiced her unhappiness by leaving an entire country. Deal done. Except neither of us had ever travelled in a sleeping car and so surprises lay in store. Welcome the six berth couchette. A comfortable little rolling casket equipped with six bunks and plenty of non privacy. I, the luckiest man in car 54, would be sharing this compartment with not one, but five other attractive ladies on our way to Munich. "Orgy girls?", I imagined imagining like Tony Curtis in the film, Some Like It Hot. "Fat chance, schlub. Just pack it in and snooze, bozo - or all five of us will come clock your ass for even thinking about sex in a compartment full of five women", I imagined them not imagining but actually saying in unison. I slept like a baby. A baby in a women's prison.

Good morning, Munich. Munich's main station holds nothing over a French train station in terms of style or romance, save for a fabulous selection of food kiosks, and it was now our duty to get out of there and to the apartment we had reserved - somewhere on the outskirts of the city. But how to do that - a selection of subways, S-Bahn, U-Bahn (pronounced ooo-bahn) and trams awaited. Luckily, my partner speaks German, having been raised and educated here, so she used her impeccable language skills to get us to our intended destination. "Taxi", she bellowed- And off we went, into what, in the movie In Bruge, Colin Farrell would have described as, a fairytale town. Munich. Home of Augustiner, Hacker-Pschorr, Löwen-Bräu and more famous beers than you can shake a stick at. Our first evening in town finds us at the Augustiner beer house enjoying what cannot be enjoyed outside the city because they simply won't export the stuff. "Why export the good stuff when you can't import better?", my Vietnamese partner explains to me. "Right", I imagined responding. I needed a Vietnamese to explain German beer to me? Well, apparently I did. So many things are left out of an American education. I need to make a note to let Obama's people know about this.

The next few days would be left trying to figure out how we had ended up in German suburbia, far away from the fairytale nature of most of the citycenter, and what exactly we would be doing for the next few months. Munich, is now our new home. And although we had originally planned to travel here first, and end up in Mali later, the exact opposite has happened. But at least we're not in Vietnam. "Life is what happens to you, when you're busy making other plans", John Lennon said. I guess we all could be learning something from that. - My friend, Hugh MacLeod, has had quite a success with his book Ignore Everybody and has just announced the publication of his second book, Evil Plans. This whole trip, I've been working on an Evil Plan of my own - but if I tell you what it is, then it wouldn't be an evil plan, would it? You'll just have to stay tuned and read the installments as the Wild Wild East embarks on his continuing adventures in WWWest Germany. Infinite Wisdom comes at a price. A price I'm willing to pay. Now it's time to get on with the plan. Hugh's chapter 11 in Evil Plans reads like this, "Treat it like an adventure, an adventure worth sharing". So that's what I'm going to keep on doing...

To Be Continued: The random search effect I

"Progress isn't made by early risers. It's made by [ambitiously] "lazy" men trying to find easier ways to do something." -RAH

Today starts a new feature on WWED called "The Random Search Effect". It is, in essence, exactly what it says and refers to the notion that sometimes I just find things that match my thoughts at the moment or thoughts I've had in the past by no intent whatsoever. The quote above comes from JA Heinlein of the Heinlein Publishing Group in Colorado, and I found it while following a link for Hugh MacLeod's new book, Ignore Everybody. And I am of course, looking for a publisher for Wild Wild East, so what the heck - this random thing works pretty well - but what I like about the quote is that it closely parallels a thought by Lech Walesa, former President of Poland, that I had written about earlier this year in a story called "Workers of the World Unite - A Recession Re-imagined - The Individual Collectivist is Born". Walesa said, "I'm lazy. But it's the lazy people who invented the wheel and the bicycle because they didn't like walking or carrying things." I like both of those expressions of the same thought but in reference to my own way of working, would describe myself in terms of a thought by Madison Avenue's Bill Bernbach. "I spend many hours, making up for not being a genius".

So here's to random search. To happy accidents. To just foraging around in a mass of non-directional information until the right idea just presents itself - and you think that you're a fucking genius just for finding it. I'll just put in my hours, thank you very much.

For more in the Random Search Effect series see:

To be continued: The Random Search Effect I
Children & Unselfishness: The Random Search Effect II
Your Inner Fire: The Random Search Effect III
Mystery Google: The Random Search Effect IV
Warren Buffet: The Random Search Effect V

A Birthday - Perspective XXI: The Little Things XIII

Make sure to turn off the podcast in the sidebar before playing the video.



And another birthday comes. Those who know me well will understand that my favourite recording artist, Todd Rundgren, who is 61, and I share a birthday on June 22nd so the video makes perfect sense - but what makes even more sense is the choice of song selection - and those who know the concept of Peter Pan will appreciate it for sure. "I know a place where dreams are born and time is never planned. It's not on any chart, you must find it in your heart - Never-never-land." It's the way I want to feel about this birthday. a) Earlier in the week I found myself sitting with a man who is 54, just a year older than I, and he was rather insistant in telling me that I needed to understand that age was working against me in the employment market and that I needed to lower my standards and expectations - to basically learn to shovel shit and be happy about it. Not the kind of man who takes to discourse and debate well, I decided not to argue with him and just let the comment pass. b) Days later Mads Monsen and I would finish the layouts for our public service campaign and realize we had a real winner - an original idea that is impeccably executed and will not only bring smiles to a lot of faces, but hopefully save a few lives on the roads here in Vietnam. This made me smile and realize that the man I had spoken with earlier was incorrect. Good. c) The term Brand Provocateur showed up again this week in the blog of Mary van de Wiel, a New York marketing consultant and we had a nice meeting over the sharing of an idea. Once our public service campaign gets out I'll have some more illumination on brand provocateuring or is that provocateering? d) Along with a birthday, a few new blog stats: (one) Our Technorati ranking is up to #342,000 and while that may not immediately sound like a best-seller, it is in the top .3% of blogs worldwide so some growth comes along with age. (two) Likewise our subscriber base on Feedburner passed 100 and that's another milestone. Thanks readers. Those are the birthday presents you really don't expect. e) On a totally different front, my old friend Hugh MacLeod released his book "Ignore Everybody", which debuted at #11 on the Wall Street Journal's business book list and has been consistently in the top 100 on Amazon. Congrats Hugh. f) This week also marks my first trip out of town in quite some time and I am way looking forward to it. The plan is to hit the central highlands town of Dalat and stay in an old refurbished French Villa, eat well and maybe do a wine tour or two. Download time. Saigon's "oldest digital man", needs a bit of that. g) A Vietnamese party at the street restaurant near my home hits like a flash flood. 10 motorbikes show up with two people on each bike. The revelers are all in their early 20s and seem to have come from an office of some sort. Arranging the folding tables around to make a long line, the staff braces for the onslaught and starts dragging out cases of beer. As the party goers arrange themselves it reminds me of a high school dance - girls all on one end of the table, boys on the other - so that there is virtually no interaction between the sexes, save for the waves of Mokt, Hai, Ba, Yo! chants (Which means - one, two, three, Go!) as they hoist their glasses in a birthday toast to the birthday boy, another guy. After 90 minutes and the complete destruction of any number of hotpots and beers, the whole things dissipates almost more quickly than it had assembled and they are gone. h) On Friday my Dad turned 80 and I'm very happy that he's in good health and living well. For his birthday he was planning to attend the reunion of all his old Navy pals from the destroyer the USS Dashiel in the Korean war. They call it the Tin Can Reunion. Pretty cool. i) So another year passes with small fanfare. I'm doing a much better job in being selective in my work and personal associations, and basically surrounding myself with healthy, positive influences. The blog has become not only a refuge but an outlet for which I feel an appropriate amount of responsibility to my growing list of readers and friends. Thank you all. You're the best birthday gift I could possibly have.

For more on the "Perspective" or "Little Things" series, click below:

A Birthday: Perspective XXI - The Little Things XIII
My Morning Wake-up Call: Perspective XX - The Little Things XII
We'll Have A Gay Old Time - Perspective XIX: The Little Things XII
"Rolled Foggy Disposed Ricepaper" - Perspective XVIII: The Little Things XI
Joyeux Noel - Perspective XVII: The Little Things X
Lunch With Obama - Perspective XVI: The Little Things IX
One Motley Crue On The Bus Today - Perspective XV: The Little Things VIII
Attraction vs. Conversion: How To Power Your Blog - Perspective XIV: The Little Things VII
A glass box full of deep fried chicken heads - Perspective XIII: The Little Things VI
Seoul Searching - Perspective XII
He Would Have Shot Me 40 Years Ago - Perspective XI: The Little Things V
Chomsky on Colour & Sleep - Perspective X: The Little Things IV.2
Running With Scizzors - Perspective IX: The Little Things IV
Henry Miler II - Perspective VIII : The Little Things III.1
Henry Miller - Perspective VII: The Little Things III
Big Brother - Perspective VI: The Little Things II
This Carnival of Life! - Perspective V
The Art Walk - Perspective IV: The Little Things
Bentley #5 - Perspective III.2
Bentley vs. Vespa - Perspective III.1
Bentleys Invade Vietnam - Perspective III
Death Of A Colleague - Perspective II
Perspective