In this morning’s Washington Post there is an article entitled “Tweets tweet our emotional status.”  This article is both mundane and presents and screamingly firm grasp of the obvious.

The premise of the article is as our moods change, so do the tone of our tweets.  Well, duh.  An excerpt:

Optimism is reborn with each new day and slowly erodes as we work, study and go about our quotidian affairs. Our mood lifts as we head home to friends, family, entertainment and beer. Our outlook tends to be sunnier on weekends. And speaking of sun, when it starts to pile up in the spring or disappear in the fall, that affects our mood, too.

Well, there’s some groundbreaking news.  We hate work, errands, and love to party.  I know very few people who, on their deathbeds would say “Gosh, I wish I had done just one more day at work…[cue EKG sound of flat-lining].

There are a couple of things that caught my eye in the article, which to be honest, is not really worth reading unless you have not make the connection that we tend to share our emotions with others – or are perhaps more likely to do so via social media.  But here’s something interesting:

A new study in the journal Science examined the contents of more than 500 million tweets sent in 84 countries over two years, looking for signs of good moods and bad. It found what a lot of us could tell by looking at our own lives.

Let me see if I get this straight:  it took people or Cornell University two years, 500 million tweets and 84 countries to prove that people have emotions that go up and down and are shared via Twitter?  Wow!  And if you are a Cornell alumni donor, I would think carefully about where your money is going before writing the next check.  I doubt that you are getting a new basketball arena any time soon.

But it was the last part of the article that caused me to spit out my (expensive) Starbucks coffee:

“This is a stone in the foundation of a new social science that is being built,” said Nicholas A. Christakis, a sociologist at Harvard University who was not involved in the research. “We’re in a similar place that we were in in the 17th century with the discovery of the telescope and microscope.”

Telescope.  Microscope.  17th century?  I suppose that sending a man to the moon, working on discovering a cure for cancer or eradicating such diseases as polio are way down on the list.

I think what chafes my saddle sores is that first, this is viewed as serious research rather than a firm grasp of the obvious, or second, a formerly great newspaper like the Washington Post found it newsworthy – in the A section, no less.

What’s next?  ”One billion dollar study from the University of Phoenix shows that giving someone the middle finger in traffic may be tied to annoyance?”

Yeah.  Annoyance like reading this steaming pile of  pseudo-journalism.

Mark

P.S. – I would normally state something here like “Image source:  Washington Post,”  but I am pretty sure they would kick my ass if they read this post.

For those three of you who used to read this blog regularly, you’ll know that I wrote a lot.  Three time or more here, and both other publications as well.  I also did For Immediate Release as a correspondent.  Then, it stopped.

But so did I.  The picture to the right tells the story of where I was on February 23, 2011 and September 24, 2011.  It was the journey that took me from a near-death experience to living every day like I were dying.

The details don’t matter a ton, but in February, I discovered that I had big time problems with my heart and

Before and After - and Minus 40 Pounds

underwent an emergency (read: next morning) angioplasty.  Three blocked arteries, one of which had been blocked for so long that the docs didn’t even try to fix it.  I escaped both a heart attack and bypass surgery by the skin of my teeth.

A lot of people said that I was the “luckiest man alive,” and it was true, but what I did not anticipate was the aftershock of coronary artery disease and the pnemonia that came after.  So I spent a lot of time in the fetal position sucking my thumb.  To be honest, it took me three months or so before I shook it off.

It was then that I decided that I could either take control of my health and live life or let circumstances be decided for me.  Forgive the slogan, but I chose life.

Over the summer, I started taking long walks in my neighborhood in West Virginia.  Those walks turned into hikes up and down our 1,500-foot elevation mountain.  The hikes then turned into short runs. The short runs turned into longer runs.  And into runs at home in DC, and not just in West Virginia.

Then (and there is no particular significance to this date), I really started running on July 30th.  Since that time, I have run a 5k, and 8k (the before and after picture above) and done about 102 miles.  Not a ton by others’ standards, but for an old, fat white guy, not bad.

I had to use all of my energy and focus on getting healthy;  to ensure that I would be around for a long time for my  children.  So I would not become a burden for my whole family.

Having done the 8k, I am now signed up for a 10k and plan to continue to 40-pound weight loss.  And now that I feel like I have things under control, I imagine that you’ll be hearing more from me in this space – and others.  I have more time and energy to focus.

That’s where I’ve been, but I think I’m back.

Mark

This is a repost of an entry that I wrote on year ago today.  The emotions are still as raw;  the sadness still as deep.

I am sitting in my nice, comfortable house as I compose this on September 11, 2010.  It troubles me that so many people seem to have forgotten the tragedy that befell our country nine years ago today.  They want to “move on.”  It’s “issue fatigue.”

Bullshit.

My memories of that day nine years ago are as clear as a bell.  I worked in Washington, DC at 1615 L Street, NW.  The part that is important about that is “16,” as in “1600 Pennsylvania Ave.”  I worked two blocks from the White House.

Like many people, I was glued to the television at work and saw the second tower hit.  I saw the both towers burning. My mind could not comprehend what was happening inside of the buildings as people opted to jump out of the windows.  When you choose certain death – a terrifying end to your life – and that is a better option than what is going on inside, it speaks to the unimaginable horror of being in the burning towers.

I remember the Pentagon in flames a mere three miles from my office.

I remember (when we were forced to evacuate Washington, DC) the Humvees and soldiers with assault rifles on many street corners.

I remember the stories of heroes who stayed with co-workers or even strangers to comfort them in what they knew was their impending death.

I remember the heroes of the Pentagon as ordinary people dashed inside a burning, crumbling building to save others.

And I remember Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

You see, the “16″ is important because of the proximity to the White House.  We will never know where the United Air Lines flight 73 , the airplane that was taken back by heroes, was headed.  But if it was the White House, who knows what would have happened to me and my colleagues.  We’ll never know, but the sacrifice of others on that plane made possible my not knowing.

I remember being in New York City a scant two weeks after the towers fell.  I remember putting my not one-year-old son in the stroller and walking to the area of what used to be the World Trade Center.

I remember the desperate pleas reaching out from hand-drawn signs in Penn Station, aching with the pictures of loved ones.  I remember the smell.  Of drywall.  Of fallen buildings.  Of death.

I remember a grieving and angered nation.  I remember wanting revenge.

I remember finally making it home from work late in the afternoon, picking up my baby boy and sobbing.  I was grieving for the others – just like me – who got dressed, went to the office and worked.  Normalcy.  And all they wanted was to come home to their loved ones.

I did.  They didn’t.

I remember.

Mark