Open for business

The Times has two stories today about enabling the public to create together — one a business story about customers who design products with companies and the other a style story about Ze Frank having the people formerly known as his audience writing his routines.

  • Another related story you might like — baseball management by the consensus of the crowd.

  • Hi, I have posted here before, having, since March 27 of this year, attempted, working pretty much overtime, trying to see if it were at all possible to persuade the world that the litttle matter I am obsessed with, let’s say absorbed, about the secret ownership of MySPace prior to the fire sale to Murdoch (embers still burn) by ANdrew ALan and TIffany Wiederhorn, the Portland Fog Cutter Capital Corp.’s premier predatory adventuruers and entrepreneurs, and Clarence and Joan Coleman, their partners in dodgy ans sharp practices.
    Now, four days shy of three months of work, much of it in concert with L.A> blogger Trent Lapinski, who is also trying to alert the community that the secret ownersship of MySpace by disgraced human beings is a fact that should be put before the public; we speak, after all, of the largest social interaction site in the known universe, millions of children demographiucally bound to buy any bauble or bead or bangle or lotion that the Coleman and Wiederhorns, who have been data mining and conniving all along while your and I are out bowling alone.
    The news is all over the interfnet. I have poosted on BuzzMachine, Catbird Seat, TechDirt, Scobie, the Microsoft guy, and have two blogs, count em, two blogs, on Konspiracy Korner, Sounds of the Crickets Chirpring, and Kongspiracy Korner MySpace Issue, and amid all this internet hullabaloo and alarums, no bite from the MSM. I have written the NYT, its Public Editor (about the NHT being hoodwinked by cabin boys TOm Anderson and Chris DeWolfe), the LAT, USA Today, Boston Globe, Boston Phoenix, the Oregonian, the WIllamette Week, the Portland Tribune, the Eugenme Register, the Guardian, two big-city TV channels, and mkanaged to contact voice mails of editor in every direction from where I live, in lovely Hallowell Maine, called the LEwiston paper, the Brunswick paper, the Bangor paper, and in each instance got nothing real, just a voice on what is called voice mail,it is as if they are determined to keep your from conacting someone who might actually write a news story. I broke in on newpapers in 1953, a copy boy on the Miami Herald, and people would come in off the street, bums, panhandlers, poliiticans, all pretty much of the same stripe and calilber, and they woulde jst walk in, bum money off the reporters, and go on their merry way.Nowaday, you can’t get through to the fuckers becasue you can’t talk to anyone. Whatr is this: I have spent threee months tryhing to smuggle news into city rooms, and I suppose I would have done fine if I put on a suit and showee up, tousled my haiar, scuffed my shoes, and asked to see if I could possiblye habve an audience with somethbody who fainly resembl;ed a newspaperman. No sudch luck, and here it is, three months later, and not a peep out of the MSM about this lousy little story involveing your children. Later, al macleese, from Hallowell, where. for some odd reason, life doesn’t suck.