I’m thinking about social networks still – as always. How can we build Uncharted up? How can we find the people with the passion for what we do, as the makers of the Revelry social network have discovered for those who knit and crochet? As Facebook expands to 740 million users, as Google+ begins to tear it up among techies, what chances do we have, as microblips on the social networking radar, of becoming a force to be reckoned with?
Maybe Clay Shirky has the answer.
Part of what we want to do at Uncharted is to unite our users to do good, to do humanitarian things as our reach expands. And if we can develop the passionate user base that we hope to develop, we can accomplish great humanitarian things with thousands, not with the tens of thousands or millions that the behemoth social networks possess.
Shirky, in this short presentation, says that he’d like to see “more effort put into helping groups send real signal, rather than continuing to engage in competition in increasingly meaningless political noise.” What he means is that he’d rather see change wrought by a thousand letter-writers than spam coming from 2.5 million people whose most active political engagement comes from sending a form email. This goes back to what Michelle and I have talked about – in this day and age, what you’ve got to do to get attention is not to flood the mailboxes with stuff people won’t read, but show a much smaller, but much more committed group ready for action. Shirky talks about this in the guise of representation and voting, but I’m sure the same easily translates into other forms of social action.
Indy and Harry
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We're heavily into many things at our house, as is the case with many
houses. So here are the fruits of many hours spent with Harry Potter and
Indiana Jone...
Here at the End of All Things
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And another book blog is complete.
Oh, Louis Untermeyer includes a final collection of little bits -- several
pages of insults -- but they're nothing I hav...
Here at the End of All Things
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I’ve pondered this entry for a while now. Thought about recapping my
favorite Cokesbury Party Blog moments. Holding a contest to see which book
to roast he...
Christmas Box Miracle, The; by Richard Paul Evans. 261 pages.
Morbid Tase for Bones, A; by Ellis Peters. 265 pages.
Peanuts by the Decade, the 1970s; by Charles Schulz. 490 pages
Rakkety Tam, by Brian Jacques. 372 pages.
Rickover Effect, The, by Theodore Rockwell. 411 pages.
Road to Freedom, The; by Shawn Pollock. 212 pages.
There's Treasure Everywhere, by Bill Watterson. 173 pages.
Trolls of Wall Street, The; by Nathaniel Popper, 339 pages.
Undaunted Courage, by Stephen E. Ambrose. 521 pages.
Read in 2025
Diary of A Wimpy Kid Hot Mess, by Jeff Kinney. 217 pages.
Ze Page Total: 217.
The Best Part
Catch You Later, Traitor, by Avi
“Pete,” said Mr. Ordson, “we live in a time of great mistrust. This is not always a bad thing. People should question things. However, in my experience, too much suspicion undermines reason.”
I shook my head, only to remember he couldn’t see me.
“There’s a big difference,” he went on, “between suspicion and paranoia.”
“What’s . . . paranoia?”
“An unreasonable beliefe that you are being persecuted. For example,” Mr. Ordson went on,” I’m willing to guess you’ve even considered me to be the informer. After all, you told me you were going to follow your father. Perhaps I told the FBI.”
Startled, I stared at him. His blank eyes showed nothing. Neither did his expression. It was as if he had his mask on again.
“Have you considered that?” he pushed.
“No,” I said. But his question made me realize how much I’d shared with him. Trusted him. How he’d become my only friend. And he was the only one I hoad told I was going to follow my dad. Maybe he did tell the FBI.
He said, “I hope you get my point.”
Silcence settled around us. Loki looked around, puzzled.
Mr. Ordson must have sensed what I was thinking because he said, “Now, Pete, you don’t really have any qualms about me, do you?”
Yes, perlious times then. Who to trust? And perlious times now, with paranoia running even deeper than during the Red Scare . . .
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