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Awesome web design site. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Tuesday, September 27, 2005.
Came across this awesome, awesome early web design guide called "The Art and Zen of Web Sites." I'm hereby making this permanent assigned reading for IPD and may, in fact, have some of it engraved on my left shoulder. It's old, I think, and it's quite outdated in some ways. (The site, not my left shoulder.) And there are things I simply don't agree with, or about which time has made their advice less useful. And the technology has changed so much that some of the advice is no longer practical or applicable. That said, there's some really good information here.
Some awesome snips:
"Web publishing is no more about HTML than book publishing is about type fonts."
"Colored or textured backgrounds, weirdly colored text or links, and a preoccupation with appearance over content are sure signs of a 'first generation' web site."
"Although art can be created with a chainsaw, this is hardly a justification for giving every would-be artist a chainsaw."
"Before you put a really dark background on your web page, ask yourself this: Why is it so much harder to drive at night than in the daytime?"
"Web publishing depends on an understanding of Internet science, the same way that cooking requires an understanding of food science. But when gourmets meet, they discuss the great chefs, not the great food scientists."
"There will be a great variation in how your site looks to different users if you rely on fancy HTML tricks and commands ... There will be a great variation in how your site looks to different users even if you don't use fancy HTML tricks and commands."
"As a result of heavy Internet traffic, web pages bloated with gratuitous graphics, older hardware or software, a fair number of folks are surfing the web with the graphics turned off in their browsers. What does your site look like without its graphics?"
"How does your site look with Lynx? Try it and you'll see how your site looks with a text-only viewer. This may be the only viewer that a Unix user will have, especially in foreign countries. If your site is mainly informational, don't deny access to these potential visitors."
"When the Macintosh first came out, Apple published a set of user interface guidelines for software developers. Some developers felt that having to adhere to a standardized interface would hamper their creativity. But others realized that it would actually free them to spend more time applying their creativity to step up to the next level of application design."
"Consider the signal-to-noise ratio of your interface. How much is useful and interesting, and how much is just noise? Avoid using large or gratuitous graphics that don't add to the content of the page."
"If you really believe that it's okay to change the meaning of interface elements, then it's a good thing you're designing web pages and not airplane cockpits."
"Other visitors, with less-than-perfect vision, may have trouble viewing images and text with strongly contrasting colors (like red text on a blue background). Don't make your page so that it can only be viewed by teenagers."
"Imagine you're an art director and you have to design an advertisement that will appear in a lot of different magazines. You've been told that the same ad will be printed one, two, and three columns wide. Sounds crazy? How would you design such an ad? ... Yet this is one of the biggest problems facing web page designers. The height of the browser's window has very little effect on how your page is displayed -- you just see more or less of it, sort of like a window shade. But as the width of the browser window changes, it can have a spectacular effect on how your page is displayed."
"Friends don't let friends use frames."
Couple o' things. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Tuesday, September 27, 2005.
First, here's this week's great technological advancement for the betterment of mankind.
Second: Woot! Last night, the WB Board of Education approved our request for 16 iBooks. IPD will be stylin' and profilin' in a week or so ...
The true story of Pocohantas, as told by the Powhatans. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Friday, September 23, 2005.
A while back, I came across this fabulous, concise account of the "true story" of the Pocohantas myth from powhatan.org. I repost it here for your mythbusting pleasure:
In 1995, Roy Disney decided to release an animated movie about a Powhatan woman known as "Pocahontas". In answer to a complaint by the Powhatan Nation, he claims the film is "responsible, accurate, and respectful."
We of the Powhatan Nation disagree. The film distorts history beyond recognition. Our offers to assist Disney with cultural and historical accuracy were rejected. Our efforts urging him to reconsider his misguided mission were spurred.
"Pocahontas" was a nickname, meaning "the naughty one" or "spoiled child". Her real name was Matoaka. The legend is that she saved a heroic John Smith from being clubbed to death by her father in 1607 - she would have been about 10 or 11 at the time. The truth is that Smith's fellow colonists described him as an abrasive, ambitious, self-promoting mercenary soldier.
Of all of Powhatan's children, only "Pocahontas" is known, primarily because she became the hero of Euro-Americans as the "good Indian", one who saved the life of a white man. Not only is the "good Indian/bad Indian theme" inevitably given new life by Disney, but the history, as recorded by the English themselves, is badly falsified in the name of "entertainment".
The truth of the matter is that the first time John Smith told the story about this rescue was 17 years after it happened, and it was but one of three reported by the pretentious Smith that he was saved from death by a prominent woman.
Yet in an account Smith wrote after his winter stay with Powhatan's people, he never mentioned such an incident. In fact, the starving adventurer reported he had been kept comfortable and treated in a friendly fashion as an honored guest of Powhatan and Powhatan's brothers. Most scholars think the "Pocahontas incident" would have been highly unlikely, especially since it was part of a longer account used as justification to wage war on Powhatan's Nation.
Euro-Americans must ask themselves why it has been so important to elevate Smith's fibbing to status as a national myth worthy of being recycled again by Disney. Disney even improves upon it by changing Pocahontas from a little girl into a young woman.
The true Pocahontas story has a sad ending. In 1612, at the age of 17, Pocahontas was treacherously taken prisoner by the English while she was on a social visit, and was held hostage at Jamestown for over a year.
During her captivity, a 28-year-old widower named John Rolfe took a "special interest" in the attractive young prisoner. As a condition of her release, she agreed to marry Rolfe, who the world can thank for commercializing tobacco. Thus, in April 1614, Matoaka, also known as "Pocahontas", daughter of Chief Powhatan, became "Rebecca Rolfe". Shortly after, they had a son, whom they named Thomas Rolfe. The descendants of Pocahontas and John Rolfe were known as the "Red Rolfes."
Two years later on the spring of 1616, Rolfe took her to England where the Virginia Company of London used her in their propaganda campaign to support the colony. She was wined and dined and taken to theaters. It was recorded that on one occasion when she encountered John Smith (who was also in London at the time), she was so furious with him that she turned her back to him, hid her face, and went off by herself for several hours. Later, in a second encounter, she called him a liar and showed him the door.
Rolfe, his young wife, and their son set off for Virginia in March of 1617, but "Rebecca" had to be taken off the ship at Gravesend. She died there on March 21, 1617, at the age of 21. She was buried at Gravesend, but the grave was destroyed in a reconstruction of the church. It was only after her death and her fame in London society that Smith found it convenient to invent the yarn that she had rescued him.
History tells the rest. Chief Powhatan died the following spring of 1618. The people of Smith and Rolfe turned upon the people who had shared their resources with them and had shown them friendship. During Pocahontas' generation, Powhatan's people were decimated and dispersed and their lands were taken over. A clear pattern had been set which would soon spread across the American continent.
IPD code. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Tuesday, September 20, 2005.
The IPD code from tonight is here. It's in PDF format, so it should be easier to read ... enjoy.
For Nicole Dallo. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Monday, September 19, 2005.
Hey Nicole (everyone else--look over there!): here's the link Ashley wanted you to have.
Don't say I never gave you anything pretty ...
History: Presentation assignment on colonial America. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Monday, September 19, 2005.
You can find the Powerpoint file explaining the assignment (more or less) right here. (PPT, 128 K)
Really awful interview with Orson Scott Card. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Thursday, September 15, 2005.
In prepping for class I came across this terrific awful interview with Orson Scott Card, entitled, "My Favorite Author, My Worst Interview: I worshipped ... Orson Scott Card--until we met." Very awkward, in a good way.
Reader's Response: Unaccompanied Sonata. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Tuesday, September 13, 2005.
Last time I taught this story was a few years back, in a different course, but I gave the same assignment: a brief, informal reader's response essay. I asked the students to briefly recap what they thought to be the most important elements of the story, then wrestle with some of their implications. It's an intentionally open-ended assignment, because I want to see what they're capable of doing in a critical setting.
This was one of the better ones I received. (In fairness, the student was already familiar with some of Card's work, not to mention a number of literary conventions we haven't yet discussed. And this was given later in the semester, after the students had acquired some skill in critical analysis.) I'm posting it now so we can use it as a model for what a really good reader's response can be like:
I have to admit this story wasn't exactly my introduction to Orson Scott Card's work. Let's be honest: if you read sci-fi, you read Card. True, he's written some stinkers (Xenocide may well have been the worst book I've ever read; and what the hell was up with the whole Memory of Earth series, anyway?), but when he's on, he's on. Ender's Game has secured its place in the pantheon of required reading, and the Alvin Maker series was a real gem.
But Ender's Game wasn't Card's first Hugo and Nebula nominee. As a matter of fact, Unaccompanied Sonata was his first published work, and it pulled down nominations in both categories. So when you assigned it, I was delighted. I mean, how bad could it be?
As it turns out, it was both pretty good and pretty bad. Well written, sure, because it's Card writing it, and interesting, but about as subtle as a sledgehammer. The story is set in a strange utopian world in which, by grace of the wisdom of the omniscient Watchers (a sci-fi convention that's just about run its course, thank you very much), each person is placed into just the perfect life: perfect home, perfect spouse, perfect job. Nearly everyone's happy, and there doesn't even seem to be all that much irony lying around, either.
Except there are those who fall through the cracks, the most tragic of which must be one Christian Haroldson. One of the revered "Makers," he is kept in total isolation so as to ensure his creativity with music does not become polluted and derivative. (Right there, I knew Card and I weren't going to see eye to eye on this story. I mean, come on, isn't that a little cruel? And why does an artist have to be kept in isolation? Call me lowbrow, but most of the artists I know draw sustinence and inspiration from the world around them.)
Before I go any further in this response, allow me to admit to having done a really geeky background check. Doing a web search on Card's name will pull up about a zillion hits. Half of them are fanboy sites. The other half are angry rants about Card's political and religious beliefs. Some of them seem justified, while others just seem stridently anti-Mormon. But like him or don't, agree with him or not, the one thing that's pretty clear is that his religion (LDS) is the single most profound influence on his writing.
I don't think that could possibly be more evident than in this story. "Christian" (get it?), a "Maker," (come on, now), lives in what surely must be the Garden of Eden until he is "tempted" to listen to some music by Bach. The Watchers give him a chance to set things straight, but he listens anyway; then, having bitten of the, um, apple of classical music, he is cast out of Eden by the angry and vengeful God-like Watchers. (What total tools they are!) Being kind Gods, they don't strike Christian down with lightning bolts, but rather with a 40 hour work week. He lands in a variety of mundane jobs, but like Lazarus, each time he rises from the dead to make music again, no matter how hard the Watchers try to keep him from his craft. In the end, the only recourse left to the Watchers to preserve the society they have created is to turn the keys of authority over to the one most guilty of breaking it.
Personally, I have a real problem with a lot of this. First of all, Card doesn't seem like he's being tongue-in-cheek when he calls this world a utopia. Maybe at heart I'm just a contrarian, but I'm not sure I want to live someplace where contentment is achieved through totalitarian means. I mean, I've already almost made it through high school, so I've done it once before, but still. I'm sorry, but the truly good society has to at least allow dissent to weigh in on occasion, if for no other reason than to ensure it doesn't become stagnant.
And what's up with Card's sense of the artist more generally, anyway? I mean, come on, when we learned about the Transcendentalists junior year, I thought they were kind of creepy, too. Asserting that the artist shouldn't allow himself to be polluted is not just elitist, it's flat-out wrong. Knowledge, beauty--these things are socially constructed, not discovered by listening to the birdsong. Now, I know his larger point was religious, but if Christian is indeed a "Christ figure," well, then, what does that say about Card's conception of Jesus? That he would be somehow polluted by human contact? That's not what I got from Sunday school, Orson, and it's not what I want to celebrate this Easter, either.
But in the final estimation, what really bunched my panties about this story was that his protagonist accepted his fate so willingly. Yeah, yeah, I know, Jesus wants us to be meek, he wants us to turn the other cheek when our fellow man does us wrong. (So does all authority, when you think about it. It suits their interests.) Personally, I try to follow His teachings, but this is too much. What, really, did Christian do wrong? Listen to music? That's such a sin as to accept the amputation of his fingers, the loss of his voice, the uprooting of his entire life? Why in the world SHOULD he accept these punishments? Me, if I'm Christian, I'm going underground and into violent insurgency. Contact the Communist front, get some real armament, and bring the suckers down! And besides, who was hurt, anyway? A group of parasitic consumers who exist simply to achieve rapture in his presence? Personally, I was left unconvinced of the threat Christian posed to the world's happiness. And I was left unfulfilled by this story. I kept wanting to take Christian by the lapels, smack him a few times, and shout, "Fight back, you son of a bitch! Fight back!"
Young Adult Lit Syllabus. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Monday, September 12, 2005.
Some of you were looking for a copy of the syllabus for Young Adult Literature and couldn't find it, so I'm taking the liberty of linking to it here. (PDF, about 63 K) Don't say I never gave you anything ...
A New Orleans Story. Submitted by Gary Weisserman on Saturday, September 10, 2005.
Forwarded to me from a friend. I post it here for your perusal:
Hurricane Katrina-Our Experiences
by Larry Bradshaw, Lorrie Beth Slonsky
Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's store at the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The dairy display case was clearly visible through the widows. It was now 48 hours without electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk, yogurt, and cheeses were beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The owners and managers had locked up the food, water, pampers, and prescriptions and fled the City. Outside Walgreen's windows, residents and tourists grew increasingly thirsty and hungry.
The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and the windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters. There was an alternative. The cops could have broken one small window and distributed the nuts, fruit juices, and bottle water in an organized and systematic manner. But they did not. Instead they spent hours playing cat and mouse, temporarily chasing away the looters.
We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived home yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or look at a newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video images or front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists looting the Walgreen's in the French Quarter.
We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images of the National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the "victims" of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we witnessed,were the real heroes and sheroes of the hurricane relief effort: the working class of New Orleans. The maintenance workers who used a fork lift to carry the sick and disabled. The engineers, who rigged, nurtured and kept the generators running. The electricians who improvised thick extension cords stretching over blocks to share the little electricity we had in order to free cars stuck on rooftop parking lots. Nurses who took over for mechanical ventilators and spent many hours on end manually forcing air into the lungs of unconscious patients to keep them alive. Doormen who rescued folks stuck in elevators. Refinery workers who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats to rescue their neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters. Mechanics who helped hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry people out of the City. And the food service workers who scoured the commercial kitchens improvising communal meals for hundreds of those stranded.
Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from members of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only infrastructure for the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.
On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees like ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and shelter from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and friends outside of New Orleans. We were repeatedly told that all sorts of resources including the National Guard and scores of buses were pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources must have been invisible because none of us had seen them.
We decided we had to save ourselves. So we pooled our money and came up with $25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those who did not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by those who did have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses, spending the last 12 hours standing outside, sharing the limited water, food, and clothes we had. We created a priority boarding area for the sick, elderly and new born babies. We waited late into the night for the "imminent" arrival of the buses. The buses never arrived. We later learned that the minute the arrived to the City limits, they were commandeered by the military.
By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street crime as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out and locked their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to report to the convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered the center of the City, we finally encountered the National Guard. The Guards told us we would not be allowed into the Superdome as the City's primary shelter had descended into a humanitarian and health hellhole. The guards further told us that the City's only other shelter, the Convention Center, was also descending into chaos and squalor and that the police were not allowing anyone else in. Quite naturally, we asked, "If we can't go to the only 2 shelters in the City, what was our alternative?" The guards told us that that was our problem, and no they did not have extra water to give to us. This would be the start of our numerous encounters with callous and hostile "law enforcement".
We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and were told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not have water to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass meeting to decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the police command post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would constitute a highly visible embarrassment to the City officials. The police told us that we could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle in and set up camp. In short order, the police commander came across the street to address our group. He told us he had a solution: we should walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway and cross the greater New Orleans Bridge where the police had buses lined up to take us out of the City. The crowed cheered and began to move. We called everyone back and explained to the commander that there had been lots of misinformation and wrong information and was he sure that there were buses waiting for us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated emphatically, "I swear to you that the buses are there."
We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with great excitement and hope. As we marched pasted the convention center, many locals saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we were headed. We told them about the great news. Families immediately grabbed their few belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then doubled again. Babies in strollers now joined us, people using crutches, elderly clasping walkers and others people in wheelchairs. We marched the 2-3 miles to the freeway and up the steep incline to the Bridge. It now began to pour down rain, but it did not dampen our enthusiasm.
As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police commander and of the commander's assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to move.
We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as there was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the West Bank was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no Superdomes in their City. These were code words for if you are poor and black, you are not crossing the Mississippi River and you were not getting out of New Orleans.
Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the rain under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided to build an encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on the center divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We reasoned we would be visible to everyone, we would have some security being on an elevated freeway and we could wait and watch for the arrival of the yet to be seen buses.
All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the same trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be turned away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no, others to be verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New Orleaners were prevented and prohibited from self-evacuating the City on foot. Meanwhile, the only two City shelters sank further into squalor and disrepair. The only way across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw workers stealing trucks, buses, moving vans, semi-trucks and any car that could be hotwired. All were packed with people trying to escape the misery New Orleans had become.
Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery truck and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so down the freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations on a tight turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping carts. Now secure with the two necessities, food and water; cooperation, community, and creativity flowered. We organized a clean up and hung garbage bags from the rebar poles. We made beds from wood pallets and cardboard. We designated a storm drain as the bathroom and the kids built an elaborate enclosure for privacy out of plastic, broken umbrellas, and other scraps. We even organized a food recycling system where individuals could swap out parts of C-rations (applesauce for babies and candies for kids!).
This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out for yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for your kids or food for your parents. When these basic needs were met, people began to look out for each other, working together and constructing a community.
If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water in the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the ugliness would not have set in.
Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing families and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our encampment grew to 80 or 90 people.
From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media was talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news organizations saw us on their way into the City. Officials were being asked what they were going to do about all those families living up on the freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of us. Some of us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an ominous tone to it.
Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of his patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the fucking freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its blades to blow away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff loaded up his truck with our food and water.
Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or congealed into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims" they saw "mob" or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay together" was impossible because the agencies would force us into small atomized groups.
In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we scattered once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the dark, we sought refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on Cilo Street. We were hiding from possible criminal elements but equally and definitely, we were hiding from the police and sheriffs with their martial law, curfew and shoot-to-kill policies.
The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with New Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an urban search and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and managed to catch a ride with the National Guard. The two young guardsmen apologized for the limited response of the Louisiana guards. They explained that a large section of their unit was in Iraq and that meant they were shorthanded and were unable to complete all the tasks they were assigned.
We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush landed briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on a coast guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.
There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we were forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds if us were forced to share two filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with any possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) we were subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.
Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been confiscated at the airport because the rations set off the metal detectors. Yet, no food had been provided to the men, women, children, elderly, disabled as they sat for hours waiting to be "medically screened" to make sure we were not carrying any communicable diseases.
This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker give her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street offered us money and toiletries with words of welcome. Throughout, the official relief effort was callous, inept, and racist. There was more suffering than need be. Lives were lost that did not need to be lost.
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