Larimer Square, Denver, 2003. Larimer Square, Denver, 2003.

Too funny. And pretty accurate, actually. From The New Yorker:

Transition from the lede: pseudonym is not alone; the writer has seen not one, not two, but exactly three examples of this would-be trend online. (The last one is a stretch.)

Buzzword, buzzword, buzzword. Isn’t the buzzword on your mind now? Perhaps it is on other people’s minds? Read on or you’ll be clueless, dated, and without any friends in the world. Buzzword again!

First, statistic plucked from academic journal where the writer didn’t pay to pass the paywall. Also, a biased survey from a company with countless vested interests. It’s official: the above trend is slightly more common than you thought.

Alas, nut graph: there is a trend and it is happening—and maybe for the reasons that follow. Or maybe not? To find out, scroll past the fold….

The Minnesota State Fair: 1,824,830 people rubbing shoulders over the course of 12 days with each other, along with untold numbers of cattle, horses, swine, poultry (don’t forget the llamas) and scores of shops and kiosks selling everything from John Deere tractors to deep fried Twinkies on a stick. Coming as it does during the run-up to Labor Day, it’s always hot. I grabbed a quick Hipstamatic of these folks playing in one of the many misters placed around the fairgrounds to help people stay cool.

The NFL is easily America’s biggest, richest and most popular sporting league of any kind. And the college version from which it was spawned is not that far behind. College football is the third most popular sport in the US, only just behind Major League Baseball, according to widely followed surveys, remarkable given baseball’s status as the national pastime. It is also a huge business. While complete data aren’t publicly available, just the 123 teams in the Football Bowl Subdivision (the uppermost echelon of college sports) reported $3.2 billion in revenue in the last fiscal year. The NFL’s annual revenue is about $10 billion. And college football, or more accurately the whole subculture around it, explains America better than any other sport.

Stumbled into this backgrounder on Quartz this morning. Without intending to, it helps inform the current spate of headlines about domestic violence in the NFL. (And the lead photo is an eyeball grabber, especially on a big desktop screen.)

The broadcaster’s latest effort, BBC Popup, is an experiment in so-called “mobile” reporting: Rather than create a permanent local bureaus, BBC is creating temporary “pop up” offices in six U.S. cities over the next six months. The operation’s first stop is Boulder, Colorado, where the BBC has already started crowdsourcing story ideas from the local community via town hall meetings. While the focus on local coverage isn’t a new one for local newspapers, it is a new and significant one for BBC, which, like any global news organization, is more likely to base itself out of major cities like New York and regional hubs like Chicago, as opposed to comparatively small ones like Boulder.

Love the way the venerable BBC still keeps trying to innovate in the digital age.

Fire Island, the barrier beach separating Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean, means different things to different folks. To me, the best parts are the deserted stretches of the National Seashore from Fire Island Inlet, across the Great South Bay (and Captree Bridge) from where I grew up in Babylon, out eastward to Moriches Inlet. Right in the middle is the solitude of Sailor’s Haven and Sunken Forest: a modest little dock area for day boaters, a pier for the ferry from Sayville, a nature walk, a snack bar and deck for a few refreshments and souvenirs, and, across Dune Road, a handful of lifeguards with precious little to do on many days. It was a place I wanted our kids to see this summer on our trip back east, to grasp how it is possible to find such quietude less than six miles across the bay from 7.7 million Long Islanders going about their daily lives. Fire Island, the barrier beach separating Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean, means different things to different folks. To me, the best parts are the deserted stretches of the National Seashore from Fire Island Inlet, across the Great South Bay (and Captree Bridge) from where I grew up in Babylon, out eastward to Moriches Inlet. Right in the middle is the solitude of Sailor’s Haven and Sunken Forest: a modest little dock area for day boaters, a pier for the ferry from Sayville, a nature walk, a snack bar and deck for a few refreshments and souvenirs, and, across Dune Road, a handful of lifeguards with precious little to do on many days. It was a place I wanted our kids to see this summer on our trip back east, to grasp how it is possible to find such quietude less than six miles across the bay from 7.7 million Long Islanders going about their daily lives.

Fire Island, the barrier beach separating Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean, means different things to different folks. To me, the best parts are the deserted stretches of the National Seashore from Fire Island Inlet, across the Great South Bay (and Captree Bridge) from where I grew up in Babylon, out eastward to Moriches Inlet. Right in the middle is the solitude of Sailor’s Haven and Sunken Forest: a modest little dock area for day boaters, a pier for the ferry from Sayville, a nature walk, a snack bar and deck for a few refreshments and souvenirs, and, across Dune Road, a handful of lifeguards with precious little to do on many days. It was a place I wanted our kids to see this summer on our trip back east, to grasp how it is possible to find such quietude less than six miles across the bay from 7.7 million Long Islanders going about their daily lives.

In a wider discussion about his work and the power of the still image, he tells EyeEm:

Mobile photography has expanded our ability to tell stories, create compelling imagery and engage with the world in a new way, where direct contact is possible in real time. While there are deleterious effects on the business of photography, at least in the short term, the joys of creation and engagement are, for the moment, worth it.

The Guardian has been redesigning its website to meet mobile demands, using a public beta as a way to engage its audience and seek feedback for its designers and engineers work.

One of the key points they’re addressing is something all of us who edit digital news will recognize: The amount of time one spends getting the homepage to look just right, finding just the right mix journalism and branding, SEO and catchy headlines, great photos and more.

The Guardian calls these legacy homepages “dumb” because everything has to be done for them, by editors and producers. That’s going to change for the good:

From an editorial perspective, decisions about layout need to be largely replaced by broader decisions about journalism. Because that journalism will emit across every platform simultaneously. If that can be achieved, the good news for editors is that their time is hopefully freed to make more such decisions, more often, across a broader range of content. A richer yet more unified voice becomes the focus of their editorial day.

Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.)

Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.

Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.

Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.)