Congratulations! You’ve had a brilliant idea. Now you’d like to share it!

But how? The answer is probably: words. The marketplace of ideas has shown strong year-over-year growth in the “musical” and “visual arts” mediums, but let’s face it, friend: Written and spoken language remains the number 1 preferred method to transfer a thought pattern from your head into my head.

It’s a great time for idea-sharers. “Blogs”, “tweets”, “eye-ems”, “face book messages”, the “online forum”, “electronic mail”, “web pages”, and more! And if you’re old, you might remember such classic technologies as “typewriters”, or “pencils”.

Lots of ideas, and lots of ways to share them. Great! But also: crushingly oversaturated.

So make your words count! Learn the fine art of editing! Don’t know how? It’s easy! Our FREE modern guidelines show you how:

Step 1: Don’t say anything. If you have nothing to say, don’t say it! You’re already half way to whatever award it is they give to great editors.

Step 2: Wait and see if someone else will say it. They probably will, leaving you—who cleverly said nothing—with more time for the good life.

Step 3: Say it on Twitter. Okay. You’ve got a really great idea and you think the world should know. I guarantee you it will fit in 140 characters. Force yourself to find a way. The world will wait.

Step 4: Fine, use 2 Tweets if you really need to.

Step 5: Still here? Right! Then you have an idea that’s both interesting and has depth. I like your style! Now you can move on to a blog post or some other, more verbose instrument.

Step 6: Delete, delete, delete. Also: delete. Just because you need more than 140 characters to say it doesn’t mean you get free rein. Please remember the old quote: “I wrote a long paper because I didn’t have time to write a short one.”

Step 7: Climb the bandwidth ladder only as necessary. Blog post too confining? Then maybe you need a whole website to communicate your idea. Still not enough to contain your boundless creativity? It might be time to start your own The Show.

The point is this: make every word fight for its life. If you can say it in less, don’t say it in more.

I’ll probably read this tomorrow and wish it wasn’t so long.

What happens when you don’t start a software project looking at it from the user’s perspective?

This happens:

I tried once or twice to press this point when I was serving my brief stint in the security world. Unfortunately I didn’t have much clout with the big names of SELinux, because I’ve never been a “real” security guy. I was more of a product & usability guy, living as a guest in their world. It’s a smart world, too. Hell, I’m lucky enough to count many good friends there, and these are not low-watt bulbs, let me tell you.

But it always made me sad that the community never felt willing to really, really internalize a respect for the user, or to entertain the crazy concept that maybe, maybe security doesn’t have to be quite this hard. Yes, real security exposes the thorny complexity of operating systems, and yes, it’s reasonable to say you need to know something about security to do it right. But with the right tools—and perhaps more importantly the right attitude—I think we could make some real usability improvements in the world of security.

 
P.S.: For the record, I was trying to figure out how to disable the audio on a Wiimote.

And I’m an uncle!

Here’s proof.

Some time in the past year—I don’t remember when—I was installing software updates on my Mac and decided to actually read the license agreement. I encountered this:

You agree that all goodwill arising out of your authorized use of Apple’s marks shall inure to the benefit of and belong to Apple.

Um…what? Do they have a magic bottle of goodwill they’re storing up just in case the fanboys get a sip of someone else’s Kool-Aid? And if so, can I purchase one of these emotion-capturing bottles? Imagine the business opportunities here…you’re sitting on a gold mine Apple!

Amazon updated their software since last year. They found room to squeeeeeze in one more letter:

Eventually they might notice the vast expanse of empty space and go for another two or three letters.

Stumbled across this treasure this morning:

Here we are at the end. Hey! Neat. It only took me, what, two months since our return to finish my last blahg entry about our trip to Russia. I appear to be following a logarithmic posting scale.

I’ll keep this one short. Partly because the memories are starting to fade, and partly because they weren’t that crisp to begin with. The stress of traveling was well and truly catching up with me by the end, and I was starting to shut down. I’m just not the best traveler in the world, it turns out.

So what do I remember? Hmmm. Walking. More walking. A visit to a huge and, by American standards, abnormally warm food market. The warmth really amplified the scents. The stalls and the selection were glorious. The merchants were insistent. The chopping blocks were heavy and worn and shaped in fascinating curves by years of cleaver cuts. I failed to document it properly while there, but I did record our modest purchases back at Beth’s apartment:

We hopped on a bus and…went somewhere else. Ah yes, an art museum, I think. Like I said, hazy. But on the bus ride there I did catch a little British Style:

And traipsing around the rich district we spotted a rare Predator-themed Russian rice-burner facing off against a no-bugling sign:

And…and…more architecture, and a thrilling men’s choir we caught rehearsing in a little side room when we dropped in a touristy sort of church…and…and…

You know, it really was a bit of a haze. I remember a heavy Russian meal on our last night, and much toasting, and much vodka, and the next thing I can recall was sitting quietly in the back of a taxi cab on the way back to the airport. Sitting silently with Elizabeth, each staring out our own window as our last views of Moscow rolled by. Beth had explained to the cabby that we spoke no Russian and he would need to write down the charge for our fare. He pulled up to the airport, wrote down his number, I gave him our last rubles and said the only Russian word I knew (”thank you”), to which he responded with the only English word he knew (something like “Goodbye”) in an “I’m a tough Russian but hey I’m a nice guy too and I wish you all the best” sort of way—which I really appreciated at that moment—and then we were dragging our suitcases through customs and lines and inspections and lines and then the plane and…

…hey, is that a melting glacier? Nice.

The trip home was…not pleasant. Not terrible either, but something in between. On the one hand, the United States doesn’t welcome visitors with any great warmth. As our huge plane full of passengers unloaded into a cramped, windowless, narrow, hot hallway, no one explained why we were standing there going nowhere. A woman screamed at us in English and in Spanish—Spanish—to stay in line and ignored any questions about what the hell was going on. It was a pure cattle drive.

But! Oh, yes: but. Here is the end of the story. I have often heard the phrase “I love my country”. But I have also always felt…suspicious of that expression. I knew what love felt like, and I sort of knew what my country was, but I just couldn’t put the two together. Not really. It is a phrase that seemed to be quickly said but rarely felt. And it’s not the sort of sentiment I’m comfortable throwing around in a meaningless, unmotivated way.

But. After moving past the screaming New Yorker, and through the first set of customs lines, and on to the next set of security lines, I saw in front of me a woman and a man sharing a huge laugh. Total strangers sharing a huge, throaty laugh. And the way they shared it was, somehow, in a way I can’t explain, utterly American. Just gorgeously, warm-heartedly American. Something warm and electric traveled from my cheeks down into my heels at that moment, and I found myself thinking: “I love my country. I really, really love my country.”

And I did. And I do. For reals.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled Russia travelogue to announce the release of a new application for Mac OS X.

Last night, my friend Chad from Tresys released his new application Pear Note:

http://www.usefulfruit.com/pearnote/

If you take notes during meetings or classes, this app is for you. It’s a simple note taking app with a brilliant twist: it records the time you make every single keystroke, and it records the audio in the room as you take your notes. The result is not just notes. It’s notes with full context.

Did you write something down that doesn’t seem to make sense? Click on the word you typed and it will jump to that exact moment in the audio recording. Scrub around in the audio recording and it will highlight what words you were typing at that moment. Hell, you can even play back the whole class or meeting from beginning to end. Listen to every word and watch Pear Note highlight what you wrote at the exact moment you wrote it.

It’s not just audio, either. It also records video and even slides (PowerPoint, Keynote, or PDF). Point your camera at the action, drag the slides onto your notes, and start typing away. It will record which slide was up at every moment. Play it back to hear the audio, see the video, and watch the slides, all integrated as one complete note document.

I’ve been testing this app for a while now, and frankly I think it’s going to be a hit. It’s flat-out fantastic to have the full context of a meeting recorded with your notes. I took it to a meeting with my tax accountant, and a week later when I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was supposed to fill out a particular form I just opened up my notes, clicked on the part where I had tried (and failed) to write down his instructions, and listened to him describe it all again in full original detail. Brilliant.

Check it out and let Chad know what you think!

You thought I forgot, didn’t you? Nah, I’ve just been busy. Self-employment has a way of occupying more hours than normal employment. But I have it here, right on my to-do list: “FINISH RUSSIA BLOG”. So let’s take a dip into day eight.

In referring to my notes for day eight, I have only one entry: “rave dancing boys”. I’ll let your imagination chew on that for a minute, because the rave dancers don’t come in until the end of the day. In the meantime, let’s recap: We had just returned after two days in St. Petersburg. The last of our three overnight train rides had brought us into Moscow early on Sunday morning. We were tired, we were stiff, and some of us (okay…me…it was me, alright?) were beginning to have a reaction to something in the St. Petersburg water.

So here we are, back in Moscow. Sunday morning. We had, in some quieter moment of our pre-trip planning, thought vaguely about attending a Russian church service on our one Sunday morning in Moscow. There was no question of that now. I don’t think the thought even crossed our minds until late that afternoon. We wanted home, we wanted bed, and we wanted it now.

I don’t really remember the trip back to Beth’s apartment, or how long we crashed there. All I remember is that at some point, after we’d all had warm showers, food, and a little decompression time, the planning began anew. The discussion began: where to go next.

Now, at the time, I can’t say I completely welcomed the planning. I’m a serious introvert by nature, and a week of traveling had me crawling back into my mental cave. I say this because it means I came so, so close to whining my way out of our Sunday trip. And I’m so, so glad I didn’t.

As I groaned at Beth and Andrew about “where are we going?”, trying to gauge the worth, they just kept mum. They wouldn’t spill the beans. They kept claiming I just needed to come along, and that I wouldn’t regret it. “Fine,” I thought. “Fine. Let’s just go. I’m only in Russia once. I’d better go out and see the place.”

The place, it turned out, was the former private residence of Maxim Gorky. Maxim Gorky, Russian literary hero. Maxim Gorky, friend to Chekhov and Stalin. Maxim Gorky, who—being a literary hero and friend to Stalin—was given a very special old house to live in. Maxim Gorky, a man whose name I wish to say over and over because it’s so damn pleasing.

The Gorky house is small. It doesn’t sweep you away by being extravagant. No, it sweeps you way by being unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is a small little slice of Art Deco heaven, and it is best seen to be believed.

First, as with many Russian house museums, you put on some big goofy slippers:

Then, entering by the back door, you find yourself looking at the polished stone of the central staircase. And you realize you’ve just stepped into a fantasia.

After the Gorky house, we spent the rest of the day wandering around Moscow looking at architecture. It was cool.

But where, you may ask, do the rave dancing boys come in? After sunset we were walking through a central square somewhere in the middle of Moscow. It was full of fountains and crowds of people and dramatically lit sculptures. On the way out of the square, as the number of people around us began to thin, a motion to my left caught my attention and I turned my head to look.

Imagine, if you will, four teenage boys. Their clothing is Moscow-cool, clubbing-style. They’ve claimed a stretch of benches and they are dancing, furiously dancing. Raving as if God himself had commanded them to rave. Whipping their arms about in those snaky movements that ravers seem to think is really cool, while their torsos wobble in a boring rhythm under the influence of their wildly flailing arms. The concentration on their faces is intense. They’re each in their own world of the dance. Sweat on the brows. A burning focus in the eyes. By god, they’ll rave like no one has ever raved before. They’ll rave themselves straight through the earth and come flailing out the other side. The gorgeous model-women of Moscow will be pulled toward them as if they had their own gravitational pull. They were born to rave!

Now, take this mental picture, and adjust it as follows: give each boy his own iPod. Wrap the entire scene in a deep, ridiculous silence. The only sound is the heavy breathing and urgent grunting of the frantically raving boys. Thus, I give to you the scene I watched in the Moscow square. Truly: a treasure.

One of the top concerns of international travel, right after finding free toilets in your moment of need, is food. Low blood sugar and unfamiliar cities don’t mix. One moment you’re winding your long, hungry way toward the Guide Book’s top-rated breakfast cafe, the next moment you’re standing in an empty cobblestone street very clearly devoid of anything resembling a cafe, much less a top-rated breakfast cafe thankyouverymuch.

“Alright. Well, what’s the second top-rated breakfast cafe in St. Petersburg?”

And you’re off once again: back through long streets, over small canal bridges, diving through morning traffic with a prayer and a hint of desperation. By now you’re getting crabby. Sure you’re walking through the textured back alleys of St. Petersburg Russia, the likes of which you may never see again in your entire short life, but aside from a quick snapshot of a lady washing her little European car you’re increasingly uninterested in the fact that you’re in jolly old St. Petersburg Russia and by God you could be instantly transported back to Boringtown Kansas without the slightest touch of regret so long as a soft chair and a warm plate of food was waiting to meet you.

But we’re almost to the second top-rated breakfast cafe in St. Petersburg—it’s just around this next corner, and…

…it’s not here. In fact, once again, absolutely nothing of any sort appears to be here.

Do, pray, tell me the intended use for a Guide Book that contains addresses entirely unrelated to the destinations described therein?

But wait. All of St. Petersburg is under construction at the moment, and there’s a great grimy thick blanket of construction covering that bit of the street down there. Sweet heaven above, let there be some sort of food behind that plastic sheet!

Andrew trots down the street to take a look:

Great merciful gods, there is! And how!

Cheesecake pies and cabbage pies. Green onion and egg pies. Chicken, hare, or whortleberry pies. Lemon, apricot, or apple pies—with or without cinnamon.

Break out the rubles, it’s time to feast!

Take it from me: with a belly full of warm pie and good black tea, the world is transformed.

Full and happy again, we set out to properly enjoy the rest of the day. The sun had returned to its typical hiding place behind drizzly gray clouds, and we let ourselves enjoy an unhurried day exploring by foot and by boat the churches and bookstores and canals of St. Petersburg.

I won’t bore you with a comprehensive list of the places we visited that day, but I will mention that even if you’re not the church-going type, if you ever find yourself in this city do take the chance to visit The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. (Or “Big Bloody Church”, as I’ll call it.)

Big Bloody Church was built by Czar Sonny Alexander on the very spot where Czar Poppy Alexander was assassinated on the street. The story as I heard it was that the first bomb failed to kill Poppy Alex, after which he made the mistake of stepping out of his carriage to taunt the attackers for their failure, which gave them a swell opportunity to rectify their mistake.

In consequence, his son built a church on the site of his dad’s murder, and as a dramatic touch left the bare cobblestones showing where the deed went down. Because sonny boy was in a gruff, pro-Russian sort of mood at the time, the style of this church eschews the European models that inspired the rest of St. Petersburg and goes all-out hard-core Russian.

The onion-domed exterior is beautiful in the way that the great all-out hard-core Russian churches can be, but the interior is…stunning. Every visible surface is covered in gorgeous, detailed mosaics. That’s over 7500 square meters of mosaics. And the kicker? The church was only used for a few years before—surprise—Russia goes secular and churches become warehouses. This one stored potatoes. Later it got upgraded to opera sets.

How ’bout those humans, eh?

Anyway, as I said: I won’t catalogue the whole St. Petersburg trip. But to sum up: cool city. Less hectic than Moscow. Very pleasant, as long as you stay safe on the subway. Recommended.

That night we went back and gathered our things from the hostel, hopped on a bus to the train station, and boarded our very last overnight train. Destination: back to Moscow.