Why are We Always Running Out of Context?

There's one place that we all know, understand, and wish a speedy delivery for the folks who don't get us (once we're taken out of it). This single word transcends the subjective machinery used in personal opinion-making. It describes shared understandings that we draw as representative samples (members of groups). The term is context and the phrase it describes is social information. I would have blurted it out sooner except for the routine dismissal or willful abuse of message senders and receivers alike.

Context is in a state of constant observation but it is only invoked when a news-maker is quoted outside its margins by a news distributor. Actively nudging the needle back to within contextual boundaries sounds like a sucker's game. But it's more than a fair hearing, the other cheek turned, or the benefit of the universal doubt. It's more than extending credit to the cashed-out egos of officials corrupted by their addiction to taking credit. It's the relative value of what we know and the assembled piece of ourselves that we bring to the abstract but vital understanding of what the world "thinks."

Context is not ferreted out in absolutes like dollars or power. Even the most deluded brokers and elitist messengers know it's a waste to pay for something no one owns. But that doesn't stop us from flirting with what it might be like to define, map, and measure the media climate in the degrees and dimensions of context.

Actually there is one duality at play that the tiny advertiser in us readily grasps: do I stop and listen or continue on what I was already going to tweet ... um ... do? Attention is the unit price of social information. Once the sale is recorded the next question is this: What filtering do we apply or purge from the lenses we affix to our own world views?

Influence-peddlers focus on the purge. It's a sanctionable way to steal a close election. It's the flickering moment where an uncommitted voter is open to persuasion. And that flicker will not extinguish because marketing itself would cease to exist without it. And that flicker can be magnified to a blinding high beam when the skillful marketer frames a self-selecting argument around the banded comfort zones of message receivers. How do we know we're on the receiving end? Do we end more firmly ensconced in our conclusions than when we began? That's a sign that we are surely running low on context. Another surefire sign: the permission we give ourselves to parade our own muses. The current phrase for this is "social media."

To the contrary social information is not about us. It is about the world and the tar and stuffing and back story that sticks to what each old topic brings to the table of each new day. It's the piece of gum just waiting for a ride on someone's feet. What will today bring in the life of bringing Tiger out of the Woods? Is it that he is the once heir apparent uber-superstar-letes from Babe Ruth up through Michael Jordan? Is it the interchangeable nature of sponsors and the celebrities with which they share top brand billings? Is this another indication that individuals and corporations should now be judged as equals under the law? Is it that Tiger was toppled by his own natural control freak similarly to Martha Stewart's jail bird song? Is it the Eliot Spitzer fall from grace where the role model carriage falls especially hard on tonal deaf ears? Pick your narrative.

But don't apply it to my fifteen minutes of fame. Apply it to the fifteen minutes of every news cycle that we use to process the fame-worthiness of others. We'll never run short on context within a jury of our peers.

Why are We Always Running Out of Context?

There's one place that we all know, understand, and wish a speedy delivery for the folks who don't get us (once we're taken out of it). This single word transcends the subjective machinery used in personal opinion-making. It describes shared understandings that we draw as representative samples (members of groups). The term is context and the phrase it describes is social information. I would have blurted it out sooner except for the routine dismissal or willful abuse of message senders and receivers alike.

Context is in a state of constant observation but it is only invoked when a news-maker is quoted outside its margins by a news distributor. Actively nudging the needle back to within contextual boundaries sounds like a sucker's game. But it's more than a fair hearing, the other cheek turned, or the benefit of the universal doubt. It's more than extending credit to the cashed-out egos of officials corrupted by their addiction to taking credit. It's the relative value of what we know and the assembled piece of ourselves that we bring to the abstract but vital understanding of what the world "thinks."

Context is not ferreted out in absolutes like dollars or power. Even the most deluded brokers and elitist messengers know it's a waste to pay for something no one owns. But that doesn't stop us from flirting with what it might be like to define, map, and measure the media climate in the degrees and dimensions of context.

Actually there is one duality at play that the tiny advertiser in us readily grasps: do I stop and listen or continue on what I was already going to tweet ... um ... do? Attention is the unit price of social information. Once the sale is recorded the next question is this: What filtering do we apply or purge from the lenses we affix to our own world views?

Influence-peddlers focus on the purge. It's a sanctionable way to steal a close election. It's the flickering moment where an uncommitted voter is open to persuasion. And that flicker will not extinguish because marketing itself would cease to exist without it. And that flicker can be magnified to a blinding high beam when the skillful marketer frames a self-selecting argument around the banded comfort zones of message receivers. How do we know we're on the receiving end? Do we end more firmly ensconced in our conclusions than when we began? That's a sign that we are surely running low on context. Another surefire sign: the permission we give ourselves to parade our own muses. The current phrase for this is "social media."

To the contrary social information is not about us. It is about the world and the tar and stuffing and back story that sticks to what each old topic brings to the table of each new day. It's the piece of gum just waiting for a ride on someone's feet. What will today bring in the life of bringing Tiger out of the Woods? Is it that he is the once heir apparent uber-superstar-letes from Babe Ruth up through Michael Jordan? Is it the interchangeable nature of sponsors and the celebrities with which they share top brand billings? Is this another indication that individuals and corporations should now be judged as equals under the law? Is it that Tiger was toppled by his own natural control freak similarly to Martha Stewart's jail bird song? Is it the Eliot Spitzer fall from grace where the role model carriage falls especially hard on tonal deaf ears? Pick your narrative.

But don't apply it to my fifteen minutes of fame. Apply it to the fifteen minutes of every news cycle that we use to process the fame-worthiness of others. We'll never run short on context within a jury of our peers.

Walking the Talk

Today is the birthday of former news jock, PR executive, schoolteacher, current education wonk and lifelong pal Robert "Pondish" Pondiscio. Pondish was born with the gift of gab. He could start a discussion at the crack of the dinner bell in a firehouse. He could create situations with his patter that wallflowers like me could only have blossom in a file cabinet.

Unlike chatty academics he never used his gift to talk over or around the people he engages. Unlike the more plain-spoken folks he's inclined to side with (and sometimes speak for) he doesn't hang on the porch or in the hood in order to shoot/chew the breeze/fat. To this day Dish in a stupor can talk rings around most communicators in their most lucid moments of peak caffeination.

One life-changing decision he made that inspires great pride in me was his career change from managing media narratives to planting seeds as a grade school teacher in the South Bronx. In addition to math, reading, personal etiquette and crowd control he was probably the closest model that many of his fifth graders came to a daily paternal presence. He put his poverty where his mouth was -- to the tune of seeing his earnings cut by more than half of his former pay rate. Austerity was not a forced vocation for Pondish. Attracting public stares or peer disapproval would not have made this decision harder. Knowing Dish, it might have greased the wheels some.

But no outside influence eases the internal pressures that come with students lacking basic knowledge skills: "I would leave work every day with tire tracks on my back..." Pondish defines the mission and the missionary by what's left "undone" at the end of each school day. He describes how extensive dysfunction begets compassion fatigue and the soft bigotry of low expectations.

His experience was captured at the close of his public school chapter in an interview called "A Teacher's Tale" with Business Week, a former employer. In addition to the war stories there are stellar insights here into the adjustments needed to transition from a corporate culture to a giveback career. You can also catch up with his education policy pulse-taking at his Core Knowledge Blog.

Happy birthday, Dish. Long may you testify.

Walking the Talk

Today is the birthday of former news jock, PR executive, schoolteacher, current education wonk and lifelong pal Robert "Pondish" Pondiscio. Pondish was born with the gift of gab. He could start a discussion at the crack of the dinner bell in a firehouse. He could create situations with his patter that wallflowers like me could only have blossom in a file cabinet.

Unlike chatty academics he never used his gift to talk over or around the people he engages. Unlike the more plain-spoken folks he's inclined to side with (and sometimes speak for) he doesn't hang on the porch or in the hood in order to shoot/chew the breeze/fat. To this day Dish in a stupor can talk rings around most communicators in their most lucid moments of peak caffeination.

One life-changing decision he made that inspires great pride in me was his career change from managing media narratives to planting seeds as a grade school teacher in the South Bronx. In addition to math, reading, personal etiquette and crowd control he was probably the closest model that many of his fifth graders came to a daily paternal presence. He put his poverty where his mouth was -- to the tune of seeing his earnings cut by more than half of his former pay rate. Austerity was not a forced vocation for Pondish. Attracting public stares or peer disapproval would not have made this decision harder. Knowing Dish, it might have greased the wheels some.

But no outside influence eases the internal pressures that come with students lacking basic knowledge skills: "I would leave work every day with tire tracks on my back..." Pondish defines the mission and the missionary by what's left "undone" at the end of each school day. He describes how extensive dysfunction begets compassion fatigue and the soft bigotry of low expectations.

His experience was captured at the close of his public school chapter in an interview called "A Teacher's Tale" with Business Week, a former employer. In addition to the war stories there are stellar insights here into the adjustments needed to transition from a corporate culture to a giveback career. You can also catch up with his education policy pulse-taking at his Core Knowledge Blog.

Happy birthday, Dish. Long may you testify.

In Search of Marriage

I've been searching for a more perfect union since the day my stepfather "needed the house to himself" and I realized I had no home to go home to. This joining of dreams and fortunes was the ticket out in the ghetto called my childhood. In this togetherness a new family would rise. The core solid; the conviction unshakable, and the path directed by a shared purpose. The road would commence in romance, progress to parenthood, and build on a shared identity held resolutely by two spouses. This is the patience, the trust, and ultimately courage which the bond of dream matrimony harbors and sanctifies through the daily renewal of ritual and gratitude.

It is no secret that these paths have been scarred by realities which no marriage of mine has ever endured. Each time they have diverged. Each time they have faltered on the premise that a rightful balance had been displaced by an unshared sacrifice or a sense of isolation. It's a stretch to suggest that anything extraordinary happened to ambush or sabotage the three vows I have taken. In each case the absorptions of work and self-pity sprung from solitary trials displaced the commitment to our common purpose. It is an unintended irony that: (a) over the last 24 years marriage is the steady operational state of my adulthood, and (b) none hold the lasting power of the original bargain -- this special attraction that marriage holds for me but not my actual marriages.

The cliches work from tired scripts of infidelity, the sudden loss of income, substance abuses, and wayward children. But these plot devices are not party to any regrets to find voice in my own failures. I don't stray. I'm gainfully (and gratefully) employed. More than one beer gives me a headache. My son is the kindest person I know. If the elites had a trace of his humility all stigmas about his cognitive challenges would disappate.

The one thing I can say about failed marriages is that ommissions count as much as commissions. It's one thing to resist temptation. It's quite another to embrace the fears and uncertainties of my dearest beloved.

I can only imagine that keeping a marriage afloat requires more than two souls that have lost their individual way with each other. And that sharing cannot be recovered or sustained without a higher purpose of family, community, and spiritual renewal.

In Search of Marriage

I've been searching for a more perfect union since the day my stepfather "needed the house to himself" and I realized I had no home to go home to. This joining of dreams and fortunes was the ticket out in the ghetto called my childhood. In this togetherness a new family would rise. The core solid; the conviction unshakable, and the path directed by a shared purpose. The road would commence in romance, progress to parenthood, and build on a shared identity held resolutely by two spouses. This is the patience, the trust, and ultimately courage which the bond of dream matrimony harbors and sanctifies through the daily renewal of ritual and gratitude.

It is no secret that these paths have been scarred by realities which no marriage of mine has ever endured. Each time they have diverged. Each time they have faltered on the premise that a rightful balance had been displaced by an unshared sacrifice or a sense of isolation. It's a stretch to suggest that anything extraordinary happened to ambush or sabotage the three vows I have taken. In each case the absorptions of work and self-pity sprung from solitary trials displaced the commitment to our common purpose. It is an unintended irony that: (a) over the last 24 years marriage is the steady operational state of my adulthood, and (b) none hold the lasting power of the original bargain -- this special attraction that marriage holds for me but not my actual marriages.

The cliches work from tired scripts of infidelity, the sudden loss of income, substance abuses, and wayward children. But these plot devices are not party to any regrets to find voice in my own failures. I don't stray. I'm gainfully (and gratefully) employed. More than one beer gives me a headache. My son is the kindest person I know. If the elites had a trace of his humility all stigmas about his cognitive challenges would disappate.

The one thing I can say about failed marriages is that ommissions count as much as commissions. It's one thing to resist temptation. It's quite another to embrace the fears and uncertainties of my dearest beloved.

I can only imagine that keeping a marriage afloat requires more than two souls that have lost their individual way with each other. And that sharing cannot be recovered or sustained without a higher purpose of family, community, and spiritual renewal.

X and Y but not Z

I work in an engineering culture. This affords me the luxury of speaking my mind if I can select the correct fact base for supporting my views. This is a license I haven't had in more politically-charged work cultures and for that alone I will never take this freedom for granted. Views are meant to be: (a) expressed, and (b) challenged. That is both a given and a taken -- the taken is this precious benefit of working with engineers.

The challenge for a decidedly right brain in the middle of a STEM ("science, technology, engineering, and math") population is that I run a system resistant to the way my colleagues are rewarded by their clients. Their mission is to drive complexity out of systems. Simplicity is not just a virtue but a requirement. All outcomes are reducible to X or Y. There is no Z because Z represents chaos. Even if chaos sounds more rational than two choices it still wrecks the model. The third choice invites uncertainty. It tests the faith that engineers can deliver a purely causal relationship: if you do X then Y is a no-brainer.

I'm not wired to perform multiple-step calculations. I can't steer my way around the break even point or apply the needle-moving macro that will change the expectation or game the system. I'm the artful, conceptual word guy. But even so I can see there are binary outcomes that create clarity, purpose, and a useful instruction for accelerating a plan. Even a confrontation-averse relativist humanist like me can understand that there are only so many parking spaces at the Market Basket in Somerville and many more shoppers. The result is Darwinian dodge ball set to the abrupt stoppage of a musical chairs needle skipping. This is the real world -- eat or be eaten -- the zero sum game.

The allure of sports is the certainty of outcomes. Even ties need to be decided -- there's no corrupting force of interpretation. No middle ground. What could be as uncompromising as a win or a loss? As a parent it's hard not to appreciate the clarifying power of 'no' as in "what part of you're-not-allowed into-X-or-Y don't you get?"

However left to its own limitations this logic can create more false choices than it does true ones. The Profit and Loss ("P&L") statement is based on the premise that we are either revenue-generating or overhead. This model swallows the inclusionary either/or condition. The third way is the third rail of engineering. It stops the train from ever leaving the station.

A binary bias is at work whenever complexity is driven from the service centers we call to inquire about the status of our bills, terms, conditions, and ignorance (a.k.a. tech support). The computer-voiced router tells us to press "1" for the entire range of acceptable questions. Press "2" to scream what about "1" we don't find relevant to our consumption of this service or product. End result? Driving complexity from the system also drives customers away from the relationship. (Dial "3" if you want the word people consultants who fix that one).

As a Z team passenger who rides into town on that live, uncertain third rail I often tell my X and Y members that it's a mistake to equate a fact base with its ultimate usefulness or knowledge-enablement. Zero sum games around learning almost always result in a loss for the knowledge possessor. That's because it's less common for two different people to take the same actions with the same knowledge than it for you to do something differently than me. The world is not flat.

If 15 years of the web has taught us anything it's that access guarantees nothing. Having “possession” of bare facts and figures does nothing either to address their dissemination, analysis, how instructive they are, or ultimately what we intended to do with them. The corollary isn't that knowledge is power -- far from it. It's the universal pain point of recognizing that unlimited access paralyzes our ability to form plans and take actions. Microprocessors foster the illusion that given enough technology, it is both possible and desirable to know anything about everything. The real secret to our transparent world is knowing when to move beyond X and Y.

The Z world is social, interpretive, multidimensional, and easily colored by perception. It is sloppy and potentially correlated but never dualistic or directly causing what happens next or soon thereafter. Experience laughs at X and Y because no two people have the same Z outcomes in mind, body, or the actual events they trigger. Engineers need to face this music in their waltz steps with systems -- whether they partner with Z or pretend it away.