I am a person with chronic depression, and that's OK.

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Depression, Amirite?

Everybody has a depression blog post, right? What makes mine special? Mine’s not special.

That’s my whole point; Depression’s not special. It’s just who I am. It’s a chronic illness that no more defines me than the shape of my face or the color of my skin. (Which is to say, it's a big part of who I am, but its not what defines me. Fuck you, semantics.)

Look, I’m not fishing for a pity party or your atta-boy clap on the back. I’m here to tell you the dread monster of depression is a real thing. And that’s ok. I am not ashamed.

I don’t have a clever nickname for my depression. I don’t have a “Welsh Troll” sitting on my shoulder telling me what a terrible person I am (ala John Roderick). I don’t have a dramatic story about how I hit rock bottom that I can vlog at you with dewy tears welling in my eyes, as much as a love and support those of you who do.

The thing is, for the most part, I get by. I have a very good therapist, and I have a very good support system and an incredibly understanding wife and family. And I get really, really sad sometimes. I want to make it ok. I’ve been pretty open about my depression to those of you who know me in person, but the fact is, I haven’t written much about it. Time to change that. I blame John Moe.

So what kind of depression do I have?

I have the insidious null that crawls across your belly just as you start to feel the tug of creative inspiration. I have the tamped down nothing that flattens your affect as your brain retreats into “one more episode of Star Trek: the Next Generation.” I have the tired eyes that can’t stand to look you in the face because you’ll see what a horribly broken person I’m hiding under all this bravado. I have a non-ending chatter of mean spirited, negative self-talk about my worth. My monsters are the sad little moments of heartbreak that are built on untrue perceptions. They haunt me, kick me when I’m up, punch me when I’m down, and generally make it really hard to work my mojo.

That’s the kind of depression I have.

The thing that will surprise almost none of you is that humor, it turns out, is the thing that helps me cope most of all. And it’s a wry, unhealthy sarcastic humor. I enjoy deep dark chuckles and things that are horrible. I made this short video in one of those unhealthy sarcastic moments.

Why did you make that video?

I have a whole series of dumb videos like this one. I’m sharing this one with you because:

  1. It turns out I’m not the only one who thinks Depression is Hilarious. A lot of great comedians agree with me.
  2. The last time I went in for a medication adjustment, my labs showed that I had NO vitamin D in my system. None. None vitamin D.
  3. Depression is worse when we don’t talk about it, laugh about it, ort look across the table and tell each other that it’s ok and that tomorrow will come and we’ll deal with that then.

At the end of the day, I don't want anyone who sees this video to worry about me. I’m working through it, and I’m feeling hopeful these days-- better than I have in weeks. And I don’t really know what the future holds. But I do know that it will come to pass, and that is enough.

Just sending happy little emails

Early on in my career, I was something of a Bob Ross of email marketers. Don't get me wrong, I love Bob Ross, but, just like how he would sometimes paint "Happy Little Clouds," sometimes, I was just sending "Happy Little Emails."

Like Ross' little clouds, my emails were fluffy and pretty and made me and my bosses feel good. At the end of the day we made little reports we could show off. We were so proud.

Don't get me wrong; I looked at the analytics-- in all cases, I had a pretty respectable readerships and click through rate-- but what I didn't have was any kind of inbound or follow-through marketing strategy.

And that's where the real power lies in email marketing, right? I mean, I know I'm preaching to the choir here. None of you would ever send out a huge smash of emails to everyone on your list just because.

Of course not. That would be crazy.

The problem is, people do just that all the time. If you've ever had your email address fed into the spam machine by a group of angry script kiddies (long story) you know just how large of a problem this is.

Five ways to be a better email marketer

So what are responsible inbound marketers to do? Here are five suggestions for how we can be better stewards of our email marketing efforts.

  1. Don't buy Lists. Ever. And refuse to work with those who do.
  2. Understand how email works. Not just server to server, but understand the peering and reputation systems at play behind the scenes.
  3. Segment, Segment, Segment. Don't send email to people who don't want it. People who already bought your product probably won't want to see that email that tells them you're having a sale on the thing they just paid full price for.
  4. Understand your audience Not just to the demographics of your audience, but understand all the ways your audience wants to interact with you, and what your unique value proposition is to them. If you don't have audience personas written down somewhere, you're probably not really marketing.
  5. Take a class or get a certification. You probably don't know as much about this as you think you do, and this stuff is changing all the time.

Scene from a dressing room

Smell of inexpensive whiskey: You're naughty. You were supposed to say in this small box near all these strangers."

Through tears: "I don't like being alone."

"Daddy says you've been naughty all day. "

Cry whine: "I'm sorry. "

"Sorry doesn't make it ok."

Defiant cry whine: "Yeah it do."

Unintelligible whispering

Fearful cry whine: "I'm so sorry."

Smell of inexpensive whiskey: Walks out and hangs cowboy jeans on rack, disgusted because they don't fit.

Here's a great photoset of the VW Mircobus that was part of my childhood backyard.

The bus belonged to the photographer, Mark Duerr, but as a constant companion in my backyard adventures, the bus was as much a part of my transition to adulthood as it was his.

I spent one confusing highschool summer sleeping in the bus instead of my bed. One thing Mark and I share, I'm certain, is great memories of sleeping to the calming sound of rain pattering on the van's steel rooftop.

my old micro bus. . .

If you get a chance, be sure to read his fairwell, posted in the header of this photoset.

Now, covered with vines and rust it resembled a Mayan ruin. Fair well my friend, it was an honor to call you mine.

What is remembered lives, Mark. Thank you for sharing her.

I find having the Microsoft Reading Robot read to me a super effective way of making sure my stuff is as good as it can be before I send it out to anybody else to review.

I made a little video on how you can set up your copy of Microsoft Word to use the Microsoft Reading Robot:

When you have your work read to you, your listening brain will catch things your reading brain can’t.


I got a weird email the other day. So, I don't get a ton of requests from people asking me to put something on this here blog. And I'm not sure that I really qualify as a Milwaukee blogger anymore, what with me holed up the 'tucky of Jefferson County. But here's the thing: **You should totally take your family to see UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR: A TALE OF JACK FROST.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that this should replace your "Nutcracker or Not" weekend of slumming it with the Milwaukee Ballet or going on a Christmas Carol bender at the Rep. But like, tickets to UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR are only $21 bucks. Nosebleeds at the rep are like, $25, and you'll have to give them your phone number which they will aggressively use to call you for the rest of your life. (Editor's note: Seriously, Milwaukee Rep, you can do better. Have some dignity.)

UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR promises to be a family friendly story, it's for-real theater, and probably doesn't require you planned ahead and bought your tickets last June. And you can buy your tickets online, like a boss.

Milwaukee is, among other things, ripe with theater alternatives. I saw a production of "The Wall" at Thai Joes in the late 1990's that was as good as any show I've ever seen in a Thai restaurant. True story.

So, if you like theater, and want to support local artists, and also are not afraid of the world, you guys should try UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR out. The producers were kind enough to let me preview the script, and as alternatives to the mainstream Christmas stories, it's pretty good.

But here's the thing: the script is only part of the magic of theater, right? It's the collaborative performance of all the artists involved that make a night at the theater so great. And when those collaborators are motivated by a project they really believe in, that's when the magic happens.

I haven't seen this show. But I haven't seen The Rep's Christmas Carol either. But I'm willing to believe that both sets of creators really believe in what they're creating. So you really can't go wrong with either.

Except one you haven't seen before.

And that's probably worth something.

The show runs December 4 - 5, 10 - 13, and 17 - 19, 2015 at the Soulstice Theater, 3770 S. Pennsylvania Ave, Suite 2, St. Francis, WI 53235. (414) 481-2800

This is the blurb from the website: After a year of living as a human, Jack Frost must decide by midnight on Christmas Eve if he wants to remain human with the woman he loves. Pulling Jack away from mortal bliss are the immortal superheroes of the season – the whimsical Father Christmas, The Sandman, Wodan, and the dreaded Krampus.

Puffball Gift

"Do you guys know what a puffball mushroom is?" Teri asked as she went to sit down at her computer after lunch. 

And the next thing I know, she and I are headed out to the location where she spotted one on her way back to work.  

"Don't you have a 1 o'clock meeting?" she asked. 

I didn't. 

"Who cares?" I said. "This is a puffball!"

She directed me to the location. I did my best not to speed.

Photo Courtesy of TerriB

Sitting in the right of way between the road and private property was an odd little spheroid.. A lump of white about the size of a pair of venn soccer balls, overlapping at about 73 percent. 

It was the biggest, most perfect, magical puffball I have ever seen. I plucked it from the grass and it seperated from its stalk with a reluctant tug. It was firm' the skin was tight and not pocked or broken.  I pulled  a few tiny millipedes out from the mushroom's stump and tried not to think about them.  Terri and I hopped back in my van and we drove back to work.

We walked it into the office and I grabbed a knife from the office kitchenette. Terri and I had agreed to share it, so we had to split it up, but I knew that this was the moment of truth. When I sliced through this mushroom, I would either see tender, delicate white fungus flesh, or I would see the yellow streaks of a miracle just passed. 

Photo Courtesy of TerriB.  Pumpkin Grease Doughnut shown for scale. 

It was the purest white inside that I have ever seen. I believe I heard children giggle as I split the mushroom in two. 

After work I told my daughter what we were going to eat for dinner and she whooped and danced with her arms over her head for three full minutes. 

I took it to my father's house because I knew he had a well seasoned cast iron frying pan and two sticks of butter. I gently sliced and peeled the fungus into fillets the size of a deck of cards. Fried with some chopped onions, butter and a little salt and pepper, they were ambrosia. Crisp around the edges and creamy in the middle. Amazing. 


It is an amazing gift to find a mushroom this beautify. And it is an amazing gift to share it with three generations of my family. 

Thank you, Incomparable

Leonard Nimoy's passing has crossed nearly every cultural circle that I roll in. My actor friends, my musician friends, my nerdy friends, and my church friends. Every one of them has something to say about Nimoy-- and while I'll typically scroll quickly over the discussion threads on the social medias, I've caught enough of them to get a sense of the scope of the significance of Nimoy's death.

So, I decided, against my better judgment, really, to go ahead and listen to The Incomparable No. 236: Lived Long and Prospered..

And because it's The Incomparable, it was entertaining, tasteful, respectful and a delight to listen to.

And after Jason Snell signs off, the program ends with a recording of Nimoy's voiceover from the end of Star Trek II. This is when the lump caught in my throat. This is when I mourned.

The episode was a fitting tribute to Nimoy's legacy in every way.

Thank you, Incomparable.

Texts for my daughter.

We took Gaia to see Harvey at the Milwaukee Rep this weekend. We'd been teasing her by trying to get her to figure out where we were going. Before we went I sent her this text.


She was unfamiliar so this was not a good clue. But it set the stage for my favorite moment: the reveal of the painting during the play.

I watched her face light up with uncomfortable delight.

It was funny, she said. "But it was also scary"

The Prop folks at the Rep's production carried the show as far as I'm concerned. The painting was exactly right and the set was incredible.

The gallery doesn't do the craft service on this show justice.

Fake Internet Judge Judge

So yesterday, Gaia asks: Dehdeh, is Judge John Hodgman a real judge?

Me: No. He is a fake internet judge.

Gaia: What is the difference?

Me: Judge John Hodgman gets to use common sense and his sense of right and wrong as his guide. Real judges use giant rule books written by corporations and old white men.

Fake Internet Judge Judge

So yesterday, Gaia asks: Dehdeh, is Judge John Hodgman a real judge?

Me: No. He is a fake internet judge.

Gaia: What is the difference?

Me: Judge John Hodgman gets to use common sense and his sense of right and wrong as his guide. Real judges use giant rule books written by corporations and old white men.

Bad Marketing is still bad marketing.

Bad Marketing Ideas from History

The idea that there is a magical, silver bullet "audience" out there for your product is complete and utter horseshit and anyone trying to sell it to you is the modern day snake oil peddler. Google, MSN, Yahoo! I'm looking at you.

I just finished reading a white paper which "reveals" that internet advertising numbers are padded and that you may be only reaching 20-percent of the amount of people that Google, Yahoo, or whoever, is selling.

If only 50% of your target audience is identifiable by a cookie because the rest are being blocked or the cookie expires - and only one out of every three of those cookies you serve to is actually a unique user – then less than 20% of your audience is actually being reached.

Of course, the white paper from which I cut and pasted this quote does the typical assward thinking that all internet marketers fall for: It assumes that such an audience ever existed.

Of course, that's because the both the authors and the audience of this white paper are both desperate for the same thing: A magic formula that makes it easy for them to sell their shitty products to fat and stupid people.

There is no "market segment" that you can magically buy that will make your shitty product a good one. Please stop trying. You are wrecking it for everyone.

See Not the Fifth Light of DST

An update in which I argue that Daylight Savings Time is an Instrument of War.

In Nineteen Eighty-Four, Jean Luc Picard is tortured by O'Brien until he finally admits that he sees five fingers when O'Brien only holds up four.

I don't think it is unreasonable stretch to apply this same paradigm to Daylight Savings time.

DST is an idea born from one of America's most beloved charlatan narcissists Benjamin Franklin, who invented the concept as a means of scorning the French while simultaneously keeping French women as mistresses. And technically, he didn't really mean it. There was no such thing as standardized time in 1784, so really, Franklin was just being a dick.

Turns out, DST was actually invented by a New Zeland shift-worker who couldn't get enough time off to pursue his passion of bug-hunting. DST was invented again by a guy who felt like it just wasn't ok for Londoners to sleep as they choose, and besides, dusk really fucked up his golf game.

The first fullscale implementation of the deployment (and therefor rationing) of time was a product of deluding the masses to fuel the war machines.

Germany, Austria and Hungary were the first to adopt a time shift as a way of tricking people into using less coal during World War One. And because you can't coordinate having your soldiers kill other soldiers if both sides are using different clocks, Britain and her allies adopted a similar measure shortly thereafter. And the United States joined up in 1918.

If you're looking for a thought technology that rattles the pubic and keeps them stupid, there are few that are as effective, I think, as telling people that their natural chronobiology is wrong. Suddenly, you're tearing people away from their biological connection to nature for no other reason than it suits the war machine.

And there's plenty of evidence that keeping people stupid is exactly what DST accomplishes. The National Institute of Health suggested in 2001 that pubic health officials "should probably consider issuing warnings both about the effects of sleep loss" due to "Forced changes in the circadian patterns resulting from DST."

But what do we do about it.

I am afraid there is only one solution that I can think of, and Timothy Leary thought of it first. We are, I think, stuck with DST as a society. And in that case, the only possible recourse we have is civil disobedience. In this case, I suggest when you go to fall back this autumn, you set your clock back to Fuck-You:30.

Stay strong, my friends. Believe in your heart that you are right. You see only four lights. You see only four lights.