Words. Ideas. Actions.

27 December 2022

Every one of these posts start with the date. Today’s no different. And with only 365 available most years, there’s a good chance that if you’ve lived long enough, each date could have a significant memory or milestone attached to it. There’s obviously holidays and birthdays and anniversaries, but what about life-changing events you’re reminded of year after year.

I bring it up because today, 28 December, has a combination of events that I make sure to observe every year. The first notable event is that it’s my parents’ anniversary. Having it so close to Xmas has meant that for a lot of years, we were able to celebrate with them, usually commemorating with a dinner event at Berns, which usually also includes a visit to both their wine cellar and the Harry Waugh dessert room, as well.

I also note the 28th as the passing of the one and only Ian Fraser Kilmister, more commonly known as Lemmy. I can vividly remember where I was when I read that he had died in 2015. We were in Florida visiting family for the holidays, on the road, coming back from a day at the beach. Because my in-laws live close to the middle of a national forest, cell phone reception is spotty during most of our commutes. But for a brief moment, I had a signal, and I got a text from a friend about Lemmy’s death. I loaded Twitter as fast as I could, before I lost connection, and read as many Tweeted remembrances from publications, journalists, fellow musicians, and devoted fans as I could before returning to the land of the unconnected. In retrospect, I’ve always thought that Lemmy had a premonition about what 2016 was about to deliver, and got out before having to endure any of that schlock.

Lastly, today has one more designation: it’s the birth date of my friend, Scott. I’ve written about him before, most notably when I found out he had died and again once I had some distance from that initial shock and pain. His loss isn’t as all-consuming as it was back then, but goddamn if I don’t miss him intensely at some very strange and unexpected moments. He was definitely a mentor to me. And he helped make my work much better. But he was also a sage sounding board, often helping to make me better. And even as recently as today, I’ll see something or write something or hear something that I want to share with him, just to get his unique, insightful, and often funny, reply. Writing these posts have brought his loss back into focus for me because more than anyone else, I would want him to read and review them, question me on certain decisions, and, ultimately, make them so much better. I don’t just miss him as an editor, though. I miss sharing all the life I’ve lived since we worked together. I miss his takes on news events. And on our lives as dads.

One of the most painful aspects of living without him is not being able to share how much being a parent has changed me. It was a frequent topic of conversation when we worked together; he already had two kids, and Katrina and I had just started having very difficult conversations about our own family planning. Of all the people I wanted to have in my corner on those less-than-easy days as a dad, it’s Scotts voice I wish I had in my ears. But he’s gone. And sometimes, that makes me feel so alone. 

So, as I sit here looking at today’s date, I am filled with so many mixed emotions. I celebrate the lives that brought me here, am grateful for a musician who fills my heart with an aggressive amount of joy, and remember the birthday of a man who was always able to give me the frank, sensible, and encouraging feedback that I constantly need in my life. I think when I sit back and think about it, every day can have meaning, either ones that already exist, or what you wake up and make of each new one. 

See you tomorrow?  

17 November 2022

There’s no big theme or focus today, just a brief story. I have a friend who I’ve known for decades. And although we met in middle school, it wasn’t until about ten years ago that we reconnected, making a commitment to get together every six weeks, or so, to make sure we never drifted apart again. Well, as it happens, today was one of those days where we were scheduled to get together. I made my way to our regular spot, picked out a seat near a back wall, and waited for Muni to deliver my friend to our rendezvous.

As I sat, trying to ignore the Twitter train wreck, I kept seeing familiar faces filling up seats at the other side of the bar. Turns out, dozens of my former Twitter colleagues were getting together having just ignored the ultimatum to be more hardcore. I headed over and was immediately greeted with as much warmth as surprise. And lots of hugs. It felt so good. And so sad. 

See, when I left Twitter, we had, only months before, started mandatory work-from-home. I turned in my laptop by shoving it in the mail. I sent farewell notes to colleagues by DMs. All the pictures and mementos from my desk were shipped to me in a box. But I never really got to say goodbye. 

Tonight felt like a wake. We talked about the good times, made fun of the mistakes we made together, and generally romanticized what was — when we really think about it — just a job. 

But it was more than a job, wasn’t it? We could have worked at any number of other places, if all we were looking for was a job. But a lot of Tweeps called it our dream job. We were doing work we enjoyed, with people we genuinely cared about, on a service we felt purpose-built to maintain and improve. I don’t know that this will ever exist again, definitely not for me. I cannot imagine a more perfect way to take the disparate skills I have and apply almost every single one of them in such a focused direction.

Seeing the service coming apart at the seams tonight has been incredibly hard. And I can’t look away. I took a little break to type this up, but even as I feel like I’ve said all I want to say right now, I find myself wanting to rush to the end, just so I can go back to the voices of the people who built that imperfectly beautiful platform. However, if you see me out in the next few weeks, and don’t mind listening to someone gush about a job I haven’t had for more than two years, ask me about Twitter. Istill have a lot more to say.

See you tomorrow?

16 November 2022

There were two bits of news which caught my eye today. The first broke early this morning regarding what is, essentially, a loyalty test for current Twitter employees. Apparently, the current owner gave people until 5 p.m. ET today to decide whether or not they were “hardcore” enough to continue to work for him. In the note, according to news reports, Twitter’s owner said, “At its heart, Twitter is a software and servers company …” 

The gasp I let out when I read that. 

But let’s park that for a moment while we talk about the other news bit I wanted to share. It’s the recent “On the Media” mid-week podcast episode about Twitter and Mastodon, their similarities and differences; take a listen before we move on:

Now one idea both these items have in common boils down to one of the fundamental values of Twitter: conversation. It’s not a stretch these days to say Twitter’s current owner fundamentally doesn’t understand its value. And his recent ultimatum to staff, reducing the platform down to — what was it again? — “software and servers,” is just so far off the mark. I mean, seriously, I’m having a hard time adequately putting into words how completely misguided this thinking is. 

But this isn’t the place to go on and on about everything he gets wrong. Instead, I want to point out just one of the many ways Tweeps used to think and work toward creating what we called “the conversation layer of the internet.” In 2018 (actually, it was exactly four years ago yesterday), the Design and Research team invited Priya Parker, author of The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why It Matters, to talk to us about how we could make sure that our work was helping create a place where people would feel comfortable to come to have those conversations. We learned about how people need to feel welcomed, we took part in workshops on how to shape constructive conversations, and we were constantly reminded that we were building to account for the unpredictability of humans. 

Now, if we think about Clive Thompson’s conversation with Brooke Gladstone on that embedded episode of “On the Media,” you’ll hear how the people who are fleeing for Mastodon are still doing some of the conversation curation work that we were trying to build into the product. But instead of Twitter’s product decisions helping keep you part of — or away from — particular discussions, on Mastodon, moderators are having to do the work that our product design decision used to do for you.

See, it’s much more than “software and servers.” 

As I revisit these ideas, I’m sad all over again. Twitter gets compared to a lot of other types of social media. But one thing that’s been true almost every day since its inception is that Twitter is not like any other platform. And no other platform will ever be like it. It attracted a certain type of person who favored the written word over video, was able to context-shift in the matter of 140 characters, and who were more than happy to speak truth to power and find a community of like-minded folks to gather with to make real change in the real world. Yes, the “Twitter is not real life” people have a point. But to ignore the influence people on Twitter were able to impose on the powerful is to completely ignore meaningful movements that have literally changed the world.

See you tomorrow?

04 November 2022

Last night, shortly after I posted yesterday’s entry, I saw a link in the Twitter Alumni Slack for a Twitter Space featuring current and former Tweeps, and I reluctantly joined. I’m glad I did. In it were current and former Twitter employees sharing fond stories, favorite memories, and lots of honest, genuine admiration for each other and what we have built. One thing that stood out for me, though, was the intense sense of camaraderie. 

We talked about Tea Times and One Team and the stories behind how we got certain celebrities back on the platform. And, as the night grew later, and the tales got more sentimental, one thing was clear: There is nothing like Twitter. And no matter who owns it, nobody can take those memories away.

One story that was shared happened at a Tea Time in 2018, right after most other platforms were booting a certain loud-mouthed Texan with a penchant for denying the reality of a massacre of 26 teachers and children. Twitter, and Jack specifically, had decided not to follow suit. There’s a lot more I want to share about this later — and I intend to — but it was a reminder that no matter how much we loved each other and this platform, we had to continually face, and respond to, almost each and every unpredictable event the globe could throw at us. While still building for the future. It’s no wonder why our bond is so strong.

I tried my best to go about my day today as normal, but it was simply impossible. Seeing new members join the Slack, hearing their histories, and reuniting with people I haven’t talked to in more than two years meant the world to me. And just being able to commune and commiserate with them did me some good as I watched news story after news story come to the same realization we had already reached: Twitter will never be the same.

Today exhausted me, and I didn’t even get laid off! But all of this news has definitely taken an emotional toll. I just hope I’m able to redirect this sadness and angst into something more productive, like finding these Tweeps new roles, and helping maintain the community that’s sprung up out of the decomposing body of what was a living, vibrant, beautiful organism, thoughtlessly buried by all this needless turmoil. Here’s hoping that all this decomposition leads to many new blooms very soon.

See you tomorrow?

03 November 2022

I started drafting this right after getting out of this week’s therapy session. In a surprise to absolutely no one, what’s happening at Twitter was a big part of my conversation. I posted a shorter version of this in the relatively new Twitter Alumni Slack (if you are a former Tweep and need an invite, please let me know), but I wanted to flush out my initial thoughts here a little bit, in an effort to process the utter disaster that is happening to some of my former colleagues and current Tweeps right this minute. (For the most up-to-the-minute updates — assuming you’re avoiding Twitter like me — I’d recommend following the reporting of Mike Isaac, Casey Newton, and Will Oremus.)

One thing to keep in mind, please, as I think out loud tonight is this: The people being laid off, and the way it’s being done, is the most important aspect of this. There is nothing more important than their safety and wellbeing. The words I am grasping to collect here as this unfolds is just a desperate attempt to try and personally process all of this. There is just so little else I can do, other than watch newly former-Tweeps post in the Twitter Alumni Slack in real-time as their corporate access gets cut off.

From a practical standpoint, the Twitter Alumni Slack is at least a pragmatic focus, a distraction for good, helping Tweeps find their next role. It’s helped mitigate a lot of my rage and anxious energy, but there’s also a value — for me, at least — in acknowledging how sad all this is. Sad for current Tweeps. For former Tweeps. And especially for the ones being let go. Seeing something we put so much time, effort, and care into get completely gutted from the inside, it’s just heartbreaking. To paraphrase a thought I came across in one of the many, many links people have been sharing today, Twitter is no more. The service that people worked for will never be the same. And even if you survive the pending purge, the role you originally had, and the culture that surrounded it, is gone forever. 

As I’ve toiled with my own complicated feelings, I had been telling people it feels like I lost a friend. But today — and with apologies for the possible ableist language, I’m just trying my best here — I realized maybe it feels more like losing a limb in that an important part of me, something I used every day and relied on for multiple tasks and reasons, is now gone. Yes, I’m still here and able to function, but it’s not the same. And it’s never going to be the same.

I have no idea what additional trauma tomorrow will bring for Tweeps, but as I wrap up this attempt at trying to make some sense of absolutely anything at all, I want to make sure you know this: If you are a former Tweep, and you need something, no matter how big or how small, please let me know. 🫡

See you tomorrow?

01 November 2022

The more I learn, the less I know. As I get older, this becomes more and more true. But why am I starting this post with so much uncertainty? Well, of the few facts that I do know, two include:

1. We never know what is coming next

2. Nothing is guaranteed.

As we approach the ass-end of 2022, I sit here thinking a lot about my former employer. And some of my favorite colleagues. And a community I loved. All of it, however, is no more. Now, this isn’t going to be a long Why I Left Twitter rant, but the fact is I cannot continue to use a product that is going to put even one more penny into the pocket of a megalomaniacal billionaire (or a murderous sovereign kingdom, for that matter). But to be honest, I’m having a really hard time quitting Twitter. 

I’m pretty sure there is an amount of withdrawal involved. There’s no place to put the random thoughts in my head any more. Well, that’s not quite right, now, is it? I mean just look at this seemingly haphazard collection of letters and punctuation. I put all these here without much problem, didn’t I? What I guess I’m really missing — if I’m honest with myself — is the attention my Tweets were able to garner.

I joined Twitter in 2007. Sooner than most, but not as early as some of the people I admired. Which was really why I was there. And because it was in its nascent stage, I got to carefully select which accounts I wanted to follow, creating an experience that was perfect for me: mostly news, some humor, and hyper-local information. As the platform grew and evolved, so did the number of people I followed. To keep myself from getting overwhelmed, I came up with my own Dunbar’s number for accounts I followed: 666. Once I hit that number, new follows worked just like club capacity, one in, one out.

The details of who I followed and the types of accounts I added over the years should be the theme of a future post. For now, I just want to focus on my emotional response to Twitter’s new reality. In a word, crushed.

As I may have mentioned before, it feels like I’ve lost a friend. I know that’s not actually true, but in some respects I have. There are people I’ve grown close to on Twitter who I’ve never met in person. Yet, we’ve now known each other for years. I have no idea how I’ll be able to maintain those relationships now. There’s a real last day of high school feeling to this. You intend to keep in touch over the summer, and promise you’ll see each other on holiday breaks from college, but life moves on, you move on, and before you know it you’re getting an invite for a high school reunion you don’t want to go to because you have no idea if your best friend in high school will even recognize you in the person you’ve become.

Look, the coherent thoughts about The Future of Twitter™ are for another day. Today, as more and more of my former teammates either leave or get pushed out, I’m just at a real loss for anything close to a pithy estimation of the whys and hows each 280-character product roadmap are doomed to fail. But I wanted to do something with all this nervous angst. So it all landed here. Instead of a ridiculously rambling Tweet thread. 

See you tomorrow?