Repost: Just What is a Television “Season” Anyway? Culture Warrior By Landon Palmer on September 24, 2013

Don't forget season story arcs: Wiseguy, Buffy: The Vampire slayer, Prison Break, etc.

http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/just-what-is-a-television-season-anyway.php

This past week, AMC announced that it will split Mad Men’s seventh and final season into two 7-episode increments to air in 2014 and 2015, similarly to the way that Breaking Bad has been careening to its much anticipated yet seemingly breathless finale. On the one hand, this represents a business move that exists anywhere between shrewd and shameless, but one that is unlikely to anger fans who would be happy to follow Don and Roger well into the disco era, even if they’re ultimately only getting one extra episode as a result of the wait.
But the decision has convincingly been perceived as an act of desperation on behalf of a network whose two brand-making critical darlings of original programming will soon see their end, with no surefire successor to take their place (perhaps Low Winter Sun should create a crossover story with The Killing). But what I find most striking about this decision is the fact that, perhaps more so than any recent quality cable show, Mad Men has done of great deal of work to identify itself through – and, in the process, help to define – what a television season means in the age of binge-viewing. By separating each season by discrete gaps in the historical procession of time, Mad Men has overtly defined each of its seasons as characterized through changes in its characters’ associations, lives, relationships, locations, business affiliations, etc. So, will each “part” of Mad Men’s final season take place in a separate year?
More importantly, does this mean that, in the supposed golden age of cable drama, we’re returning to a notion of the “season” as an antiquated, purely contractual term, rather than an important organizational principle for our experience of a long-term story?

While scripted American television programming has always been divided into seasons (1950s sitcoms, for instance, had in excess of thirty episodes per season between summer breaks), because television was almost never been packaged and distributed for everyday commercial use for the majority of its existence, the notion of a television “season” was largely a trade term used to describe a show’s longevity, the order of episodes, and to denote the terms for greenlighting and contracts. Seasons, in other words, have rarely been conceptual tools for an audience’s experience of a long-running program.
While television programs became commercially available during the 1980s on VHS (usually in “best-of” packaged forms, but also as full-seasons for the rare devotees), it’s hard to say exactly when a television’s season became a regular evaluative term used in popular vernacular. My money would be somewhere between Happy Days, whose final seasons inspired the term “jump the shark”; Miami Vice, a show whose story arcs were fastidiously tracked by fans; and, of course, Twin Peaks, whose short life-span and deflating mid-second-season-reveal inevitably created first v. second season verbal fisticuffs amongst its unprecedented cult following.
- See more at: http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/just-what-is-a-television-season-anyway.php#comments

This past week, AMC announced that it will split Mad Men’s seventh and final season into two 7-episode increments to air in 2014 and 2015, similarly to the way that Breaking Bad has been careening to its much anticipated yet seemingly breathless finale. On the one hand, this represents a business move that exists anywhere between shrewd and shameless, but one that is unlikely to anger fans who would be happy to follow Don and Roger well into the disco era, even if they’re ultimately only getting one extra episode as a result of the wait.
But the decision has convincingly been perceived as an act of desperation on behalf of a network whose two brand-making critical darlings of original programming will soon see their end, with no surefire successor to take their place (perhaps Low Winter Sun should create a crossover story with The Killing). But what I find most striking about this decision is the fact that, perhaps more so than any recent quality cable show, Mad Men has done of great deal of work to identify itself through – and, in the process, help to define – what a television season means in the age of binge-viewing. By separating each season by discrete gaps in the historical procession of time, Mad Men has overtly defined each of its seasons as characterized through changes in its characters’ associations, lives, relationships, locations, business affiliations, etc. So, will each “part” of Mad Men’s final season take place in a separate year?
More importantly, does this mean that, in the supposed golden age of cable drama, we’re returning to a notion of the “season” as an antiquated, purely contractual term, rather than an important organizational principle for our experience of a long-term story?

While scripted American television programming has always been divided into seasons (1950s sitcoms, for instance, had in excess of thirty episodes per season between summer breaks), because television was almost never been packaged and distributed for everyday commercial use for the majority of its existence, the notion of a television “season” was largely a trade term used to describe a show’s longevity, the order of episodes, and to denote the terms for greenlighting and contracts. Seasons, in other words, have rarely been conceptual tools for an audience’s experience of a long-running program.
While television programs became commercially available during the 1980s on VHS (usually in “best-of” packaged forms, but also as full-seasons for the rare devotees), it’s hard to say exactly when a television’s season became a regular evaluative term used in popular vernacular. My money would be somewhere between Happy Days, whose final seasons inspired the term “jump the shark”; Miami Vice, a show whose story arcs were fastidiously tracked by fans; and, of course, Twin Peaks, whose short life-span and deflating mid-second-season-reveal inevitably created first v. second season verbal fisticuffs amongst its unprecedented cult following.
- See more at: http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/just-what-is-a-television-season-anyway.php#commen

This past week, AMC announced that it will split Mad Men’s seventh and final season into two 7-episode increments to air in 2014 and 2015, similarly to the way that Breaking Bad has been careening to its much anticipated yet seemingly breathless finale. On the one hand, this represents a business move that exists anywhere between shrewd and shameless, but one that is unlikely to anger fans who would be happy to follow Don and Roger well into the disco era, even if they’re ultimately only getting one extra episode as a result of the wait.
But the decision has convincingly been perceived as an act of desperation on behalf of a network whose two brand-making critical darlings of original programming will soon see their end, with no surefire successor to take their place (perhaps Low Winter Sun should create a crossover story with The Killing). But what I find most striking about this decision is the fact that, perhaps more so than any recent quality cable show, Mad Men has done of great deal of work to identify itself through – and, in the process, help to define – what a television season means in the age of binge-viewing. By separating each season by discrete gaps in the historical procession of time, Mad Men has overtly defined each of its seasons as characterized through changes in its characters’ associations, lives, relationships, locations, business affiliations, etc. So, will each “part” of Mad Men’s final season take place in a separate year?
More importantly, does this mean that, in the supposed golden age of cable drama, we’re returning to a notion of the “season” as an antiquated, purely contractual term, rather than an important organizational principle for our experience of a long-term story?

While scripted American television programming has always been divided into seasons (1950s sitcoms, for instance, had in excess of thirty episodes per season between summer breaks), because television was almost never been packaged and distributed for everyday commercial use for the majority of its existence, the notion of a television “season” was largely a trade term used to describe a show’s longevity, the order of episodes, and to denote the terms for greenlighting and contracts. Seasons, in other words, have rarely been conceptual tools for an audience’s experience of a long-running program.
While television programs became commercially available during the 1980s on VHS (usually in “best-of” packaged forms, but also as full-seasons for the rare devotees), it’s hard to say exactly when a television’s season became a regular evaluative term used in popular vernacular. My money would be somewhere between Happy Days, whose final seasons inspired the term “jump the shark”; Miami Vice, a show whose story arcs were fastidiously tracked by fans; and, of course, Twin Peaks, whose short life-span and deflating mid-second-season-reveal inevitably created first v. second season verbal fisticuffs amongst its unprecedented cult following.
When television shows were introduced on DVD in full-season form in the late ‘90s and early 2000s (a more workable contrast from rows upon rows of VHS tapes), the television season thus developed a standard market value that turned it into a prime category for media consumption. That combined with DVR, Internet fanbases, and “complex” (yet aimless) TV narratives made for a framework through which viewers began to watch television programs largely in terms of seasons in place of individual episodes. The notion that we (assuming “we” are non-industry folk) widely think of television in terms of seasons is basically old enough to drive a car right now.
While that doesn’t seem like much in face of a form of media that has operated commercially for over sixty years, the effect has been significant: with the advent of the season as a dominant category for regular television consumption, programs became separated from their broadcast contexts. “Television” became no longer an ephemeral signal through space, but a collection of packages owned in physical or digital form. This is something that Nielsen is literally just now figuring out.
This is why AMC’s decision to air Mad Men as a divided final season is more significant than an example of a network whose future reputation conspicuously being evaluated. The foregrounding of the “season” helped define American television viewing in the 21st century. Engage with a friend in a conversation about Breaking Bad, Homeland, Dexter, The Walking Dead, or True Blood, and the term inevitably comes up as a site of contention, competition, and correspondence around the water cooler. It’s the way you know what not to spoil. And let’s not forget, a person’s favorite season of The Wire can tell you a lot about them, especially if you’re on a first date. (Here’s a tip: if you want to make an impression, say the second, partly because it’s provocative but mainly because it’s the right answer.)
Sure, the logic of splitting up seasons is something of a result of the de-centering of television away from television. As exemplified by Netflix, a TV season is now hardly more than a designated block of time. And nearly a decade ago, HBO first popularized this practice by splitting up the final seasons of Sex and the City and The Sopranos, respectively. This process blatantly pushes DVD sales, assists in negotiating with streaming venues, and builds a show’s audience if it’s popular enough to warrant the split. It also probably creates the most long-term benefit for networks from cast and production contracts and shooting schedules. And it’s the exact type of thinking that’s informed nearly every recent final entry in a beserkly-successful franchise adaptation of a long-running book series, from Harry Potter to Twilight to The Hunger Games. But as television already operates in a serial format, and seasons are no longer bound to the calendar year, perhaps such divisions are more natural.
Yet at the same time, this splitting of seasons threatens to return the notion of the notion of the “TV season” to its largely contractual definition and away from its use as an accessible, shared point of reference for engagement with and evaluation of the show.
The ritual value of television has been so thoroughly structured through correspondence centered on the season that networks’ attempts to capitalize on final seasons potentially threaten the coherence that enabled the modern phenomenon of obsessive TV viewing in the first place. “Seasons” are the units by which we’ve tracked the evolution of Walter White from Mr. Kotter to Scarface.
And Mad Men, whose seasonal division has explicitly organized the show’s content and its ambitious timeline, has in a more demonstrable fashion been both an essential product of this overall process and an important perpetuator of it. If Season 7, Part 1 takes place in 1969 and Season 7, Part 2 takes place in 1970, then these two airings will be, in effect, “separate seasons” in terms of the ways we will experience them, talk about them, and consume them as an audience, even if they’re the “same season” in AMC’s contractual and trade terms.
Will this disjointed approach to the season drastically alter the way we talk about TV? We’ll adapt, no doubt, but it’s worth noting that perhaps networks are the last to realize that the “season” has become a term that’s no longer exclusive to television’s production side.
- See more at: http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/just-what-is-a-television-season-anyway.php#comments

This past week, AMC announced that it will split Mad Men’s seventh and final season into two 7-episode increments to air in 2014 and 2015, similarly to the way that Breaking Bad has been careening to its much anticipated yet seemingly breathless finale. On the one hand, this represents a business move that exists anywhere between shrewd and shameless, but one that is unlikely to anger fans who would be happy to follow Don and Roger well into the disco era, even if they’re ultimately only getting one extra episode as a result of the wait.
But the decision has convincingly been perceived as an act of desperation on behalf of a network whose two brand-making critical darlings of original programming will soon see their end, with no surefire successor to take their place (perhaps Low Winter Sun should create a crossover story with The Killing). But what I find most striking about this decision is the fact that, perhaps more so than any recent quality cable show, Mad Men has done of great deal of work to identify itself through – and, in the process, help to define – what a television season means in the age of binge-viewing. By separating each season by discrete gaps in the historical procession of time, Mad Men has overtly defined each of its seasons as characterized through changes in its characters’ associations, lives, relationships, locations, business affiliations, etc. So, will each “part” of Mad Men’s final season take place in a separate year?
More importantly, does this mean that, in the supposed golden age of cable drama, we’re returning to a notion of the “season” as an antiquated, purely contractual term, rather than an important organizational principle for our experience of a long-term story?

While scripted American television programming has always been divided into seasons (1950s sitcoms, for instance, had in excess of thirty episodes per season between summer breaks), because television was almost never been packaged and distributed for everyday commercial use for the majority of its existence, the notion of a television “season” was largely a trade term used to describe a show’s longevity, the order of episodes, and to denote the terms for greenlighting and contracts. Seasons, in other words, have rarely been conceptual tools for an audience’s experience of a long-running program.
While television programs became commercially available during the 1980s on VHS (usually in “best-of” packaged forms, but also as full-seasons for the rare devotees), it’s hard to say exactly when a television’s season became a regular evaluative term used in popular vernacular. My money would be somewhere between Happy Days, whose final seasons inspired the term “jump the shark”; Miami Vice, a show whose story arcs were fastidiously tracked by fans; and, of course, Twin Peaks, whose short life-span and deflating mid-second-season-reveal inevitably created first v. second season verbal fisticuffs amongst its unprecedented cult following.
When television shows were introduced on DVD in full-season form in the late ‘90s and early 2000s (a more workable contrast from rows upon rows of VHS tapes), the television season thus developed a standard market value that turned it into a prime category for media consumption. That combined with DVR, Internet fanbases, and “complex” (yet aimless) TV narratives made for a framework through which viewers began to watch television programs largely in terms of seasons in place of individual episodes. The notion that we (assuming “we” are non-industry folk) widely think of television in terms of seasons is basically old enough to drive a car right now.
While that doesn’t seem like much in face of a form of media that has operated commercially for over sixty years, the effect has been significant: with the advent of the season as a dominant category for regular television consumption, programs became separated from their broadcast contexts. “Television” became no longer an ephemeral signal through space, but a collection of packages owned in physical or digital form. This is something that Nielsen is literally just now figuring out.
This is why AMC’s decision to air Mad Men as a divided final season is more significant than an example of a network whose future reputation conspicuously being evaluated. The foregrounding of the “season” helped define American television viewing in the 21st century. Engage with a friend in a conversation about Breaking Bad, Homeland, Dexter, The Walking Dead, or True Blood, and the term inevitably comes up as a site of contention, competition, and correspondence around the water cooler. It’s the way you know what not to spoil. And let’s not forget, a person’s favorite season of The Wire can tell you a lot about them, especially if you’re on a first date. (Here’s a tip: if you want to make an impression, say the second, partly because it’s provocative but mainly because it’s the right answer.)
Sure, the logic of splitting up seasons is something of a result of the de-centering of television away from television. As exemplified by Netflix, a TV season is now hardly more than a designated block of time. And nearly a decade ago, HBO first popularized this practice by splitting up the final seasons of Sex and the City and The Sopranos, respectively. This process blatantly pushes DVD sales, assists in negotiating with streaming venues, and builds a show’s audience if it’s popular enough to warrant the split. It also probably creates the most long-term benefit for networks from cast and production contracts and shooting schedules. And it’s the exact type of thinking that’s informed nearly every recent final entry in a beserkly-successful franchise adaptation of a long-running book series, from Harry Potter to Twilight to The Hunger Games. But as television already operates in a serial format, and seasons are no longer bound to the calendar year, perhaps such divisions are more natural.
Yet at the same time, this splitting of seasons threatens to return the notion of the notion of the “TV season” to its largely contractual definition and away from its use as an accessible, shared point of reference for engagement with and evaluation of the show.
The ritual value of television has been so thoroughly structured through correspondence centered on the season that networks’ attempts to capitalize on final seasons potentially threaten the coherence that enabled the modern phenomenon of obsessive TV viewing in the first place. “Seasons” are the units by which we’ve tracked the evolution of Walter White from Mr. Kotter to Scarface.
And Mad Men, whose seasonal division has explicitly organized the show’s content and its ambitious timeline, has in a more demonstrable fashion been both an essential product of this overall process and an important perpetuator of it. If Season 7, Part 1 takes place in 1969 and Season 7, Part 2 takes place in 1970, then these two airings will be, in effect, “separate seasons” in terms of the ways we will experience them, talk about them, and consume them as an audience, even if they’re the “same season” in AMC’s contractual and trade terms.
Will this disjointed approach to the season drastically alter the way we talk about TV? We’ll adapt, no doubt, but it’s worth noting that perhaps networks are the last to realize that the “season” has become a term that’s no longer exclusive to television’s production side.
- See more at: http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/just-what-is-a-television-season-anyway.php#comments

This past week, AMC announced that it will split Mad Men’s seventh and final season into two 7-episode increments to air in 2014 and 2015, similarly to the way that Breaking Bad has been careening to its much anticipated yet seemingly breathless finale. On the one hand, this represents a business move that exists anywhere between shrewd and shameless, but one that is unlikely to anger fans who would be happy to follow Don and Roger well into the disco era, even if they’re ultimately only getting one extra episode as a result of the wait.
But the decision has convincingly been perceived as an act of desperation on behalf of a network whose two brand-making critical darlings of original programming will soon see their end, with no surefire successor to take their place (perhaps Low Winter Sun should create a crossover story with The Killing). But what I find most striking about this decision is the fact that, perhaps more so than any recent quality cable show, Mad Men has done of great deal of work to identify itself through – and, in the process, help to define – what a television season means in the age of binge-viewing. By separating each season by discrete gaps in the historical procession of time, Mad Men has overtly defined each of its seasons as characterized through changes in its characters’ associations, lives, relationships, locations, business affiliations, etc. So, will each “part” of Mad Men’s final season take place in a separate year?
More importantly, does this mean that, in the supposed golden age of cable drama, we’re returning to a notion of the “season” as an antiquated, purely contractual term, rather than an important organizational principle for our experience of a long-term story?

While scripted American television programming has always been divided into seasons (1950s sitcoms, for instance, had in excess of thirty episodes per season between summer breaks), because television was almost never been packaged and distributed for everyday commercial use for the majority of its existence, the notion of a television “season” was largely a trade term used to describe a show’s longevity, the order of episodes, and to denote the terms for greenlighting and contracts. Seasons, in other words, have rarely been conceptual tools for an audience’s experience of a long-running program.
While television programs became commercially available during the 1980s on VHS (usually in “best-of” packaged forms, but also as full-seasons for the rare devotees), it’s hard to say exactly when a television’s season became a regular evaluative term used in popular vernacular. My money would be somewhere between Happy Days, whose final seasons inspired the term “jump the shark”; Miami Vice, a show whose story arcs were fastidiously tracked by fans; and, of course, Twin Peaks, whose short life-span and deflating mid-second-season-reveal inevitably created first v. second season verbal fisticuffs amongst its unprecedented cult following.
When television shows were introduced on DVD in full-season form in the late ‘90s and early 2000s (a more workable contrast from rows upon rows of VHS tapes), the television season thus developed a standard market value that turned it into a prime category for media consumption. That combined with DVR, Internet fanbases, and “complex” (yet aimless) TV narratives made for a framework through which viewers began to watch television programs largely in terms of seasons in place of individual episodes. The notion that we (assuming “we” are non-industry folk) widely think of television in terms of seasons is basically old enough to drive a car right now.
While that doesn’t seem like much in face of a form of media that has operated commercially for over sixty years, the effect has been significant: with the advent of the season as a dominant category for regular television consumption, programs became separated from their broadcast contexts. “Television” became no longer an ephemeral signal through space, but a collection of packages owned in physical or digital form. This is something that Nielsen is literally just now figuring out.
This is why AMC’s decision to air Mad Men as a divided final season is more significant than an example of a network whose future reputation conspicuously being evaluated. The foregrounding of the “season” helped define American television viewing in the 21st century. Engage with a friend in a conversation about Breaking Bad, Homeland, Dexter, The Walking Dead, or True Blood, and the term inevitably comes up as a site of contention, competition, and correspondence around the water cooler. It’s the way you know what not to spoil. And let’s not forget, a person’s favorite season of The Wire can tell you a lot about them, especially if you’re on a first date. (Here’s a tip: if you want to make an impression, say the second, partly because it’s provocative but mainly because it’s the right answer.)
Sure, the logic of splitting up seasons is something of a result of the de-centering of television away from television. As exemplified by Netflix, a TV season is now hardly more than a designated block of time. And nearly a decade ago, HBO first popularized this practice by splitting up the final seasons of Sex and the City and The Sopranos, respectively. This process blatantly pushes DVD sales, assists in negotiating with streaming venues, and builds a show’s audience if it’s popular enough to warrant the split. It also probably creates the most long-term benefit for networks from cast and production contracts and shooting schedules. And it’s the exact type of thinking that’s informed nearly every recent final entry in a beserkly-successful franchise adaptation of a long-running book series, from Harry Potter to Twilight to The Hunger Games. But as television already operates in a serial format, and seasons are no longer bound to the calendar year, perhaps such divisions are more natural.
Yet at the same time, this splitting of seasons threatens to return the notion of the notion of the “TV season” to its largely contractual definition and away from its use as an accessible, shared point of reference for engagement with and evaluation of the show.
The ritual value of television has been so thoroughly structured through correspondence centered on the season that networks’ attempts to capitalize on final seasons potentially threaten the coherence that enabled the modern phenomenon of obsessive TV viewing in the first place. “Seasons” are the units by which we’ve tracked the evolution of Walter White from Mr. Kotter to Scarface.
And Mad Men, whose seasonal division has explicitly organized the show’s content and its ambitious timeline, has in a more demonstrable fashion been both an essential product of this overall process and an important perpetuator of it. If Season 7, Part 1 takes place in 1969 and Season 7, Part 2 takes place in 1970, then these two airings will be, in effect, “separate seasons” in terms of the ways we will experience them, talk about them, and consume them as an audience, even if they’re the “same season” in AMC’s contractual and trade terms.
Will this disjointed approach to the season drastically alter the way we talk about TV? We’ll adapt, no doubt, but it’s worth noting that perhaps networks are the last to realize that the “season” has become a term that’s no longer exclusive to television’s production side.
- See more at: http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/just-what-is-a-television-season-anyway.php#comments

Repost: The Future of Television: Countless Options, Multiple Screens By Chris Young, Alloy Digital 09.23.13

http://www.wired.com/insights/2013/09/the-future-of-television-countless-options-multiple-screens/

Image: Capt Kodak/Flickr

Imagine it’s 2023 — only a decade from now, but in digital time that’s a century. What will TV be like then?

It’s Emmy Award season, so television’s future is on my mind. What sorts of shows and technologies will we honor in 10 years? I love television — and I’m one of the very lucky ones who gets to spend his lifetime living in it. As a digital executive and entrepreneur, I can make some guesses.

First of all, TV as we know it today will evolve into a multi-screen experience throughout your home. You’ll have screens in any room you want them, any size you want them. 

They will be commanded by voice, and you’ll have a panoply of viewing choices. You’ll be able to choose to buy or stream any particular show or channel or brand. Ads — tailored just to what might interest you — will be delivered to you as product placements or surrounding your favorite shows and events.

So come with me to the future, and picture it for yourself. You walk into your living room, and command a screen to appear. It materializes, thin and pearlescent, on the wall above your fireplace. Admiring its sleek beauty, you command the screen to turn on.

You think for a moment: what do you want to watch? The news of the day? Nah, you’re in the mood for some light entertainment. So you tell the screen to offer you a selection of short rom-coms and a couple of even shorter comedic viral videos of the day.

You look them over, choose a few and queue them up to watch. You see that squirrel ride a skateboard and kitten napping that everyone’s been talking about, then suddenly have a hankering for an old movie: The Fast and the Furious XII (well, it is the future). Just by calling out the title, or even saying “the movie with Vin Diesel and Justin Bieber”, up comes the film—layered with hashtags and clickable product placements.

On demand viewing won’t just be an extended cable option—it will be the only way we order up programming. We can already use our digital cable boxes to search by keyword, and by 2023 we’ll be tagging every piece of content that’s streaming so we can call it up by a slew of keywords. Voice commands will be so ubiquitous by then that Siri will feel like you’re calling a switchboard operator asking to be patched through to Murray Hill-2857.

And you won’t need thousands of pre-paid channel options, either. In the end, the winner of the digital content shakeout will be the strongest, most memorable brands. 

If you think we all suffer from a bad case of ‘media metonymy’ now—blurring the lines between brand, network, and show–just wait another decade when there are just so many options from the convergence of TV and web channels that the only way we’ll be able to demand a show is by calling out basic phrases like “that sci-fi thing with you-know-who in it” and letting the algorithm do all the hard work.

A classic like The Sopranos won’t require an HBO subscription anymore — the brand itself will be its own channel, complete with its own programmatic ad buys tailored to you. And I don’t mean the generic, archetypal “you” we target now. I mean you, specifically. 

You’ll see ads on, in, and around the screen for things you have been price comparing on your phone, talking about on social media on your tablet, and bookmarking on your desktop at work. The old industry joke about the ads following you home won’t just be a metaphor, they’ll be creating themselves before your very eyes.

This presents a challenge for the content providers and also an exciting array of options for us eager users. By 2023 the cable provider won’t be the content hub it’s always been, simply the delivery platform. The Time Warners, Comcasts, and Cablevisions will have adjusted to being little more than the browser, just as Internet Explorer or Chrome became little more than a platform to the high-speed internet that let us shake off the shackles of AOL and Prodigy.

Don’t think you’re trapped in the living room with this incredible viewing technology of the future, though. When you’re snuggled up on the couch with your array of credit card-thin devices sprawled out around you and begging to be part of the multiscreen adventure, you’re going to get hungry. 

Just get up and go to the kitchen, where the display follows you to any of the flat surfaces — the microwave, refrigerator, even the cutting board will have screens. You’ll never have to miss a second thanks to your ability to rewind, pause, capture screenshots, and share them with the world all with your voice or a simple tap-and-swipe.

That’s my snapshot of the future — convergence at its best. See you there.

Chris Young is CMO of Alloy Digital.

Writing Real Human Characters from the News: NYC Subway Cleaner Nabs Mugger, Wins Hearts By Elise Solé, Shine Staff | Healthy Living – Tue, Sep 24, 2013

http://shine.yahoo.com/healthy-living/nyc-subway-cleaner-nabs-mugger--wins-hearts-203423847.html


Felicia Williams (Photo: MTA)

 It’s one thing to witness and report a crime — it’s another to intervene, risking your own life in the process. 

More on Yahoo Shine: Meet the Kidney Donor Who Saved a Stranger's Life

New York City subway station cleaner Felicia Williams recently helped cops catch a man who allegedly snatched a woman’s wallet inside the 18th Street subway station and fled. As a result, she's now been nominated for the Hometown Heroes in Transit Awards.

More on Yahoo: Woman Tracks Down Lifeguard Who Saved Her Nearly 50 Years Ago

On March 18, Williams, a 45-year-old mother of two, was working with six interns on a project at the 18th Street station on the No. 1 line when she heard bloodcurdling screams she says she’ll never forget.

“These were screams of a terrified woman,” Williams told Yahoo Shine. “They were coming from the other side of the platform, so I couldn’t see what was going on until I walked to the end and several workers ran toward me, yelling that a woman was being robbed.” 

From across the platform, Williams saw a young man who appeared to be in his 20s, wearing a windbreaker and a baseball cap, and pulling a 30-something woman backward down the subway stairs by the strap of her handbag, before breaking off and fleeing the station. “I didn’t think, I just reacted,” says Williams.

Yelling at the ticket booth clerk to sound the emergency alarm that notified the station agent and the police and fire departments, Williams raced up the subway stairs hoping to intercept the man. “When I reached the street, I saw the guy surface at the station across the street, but I had to wait until the lights changed to chase him.” Fortunately, Williams was able to catch up to the man, and slowly trailed behind him. And she was stunned by what she saw. 
 
As he calmly walked along 17th Street, the man removed his cap and windbreaker to reveal a crisp, clean suit underneath, and then threw the clothes into a nearby trashcan. “He looked like a businessman," says Williams. 

Luckily, a van carrying school safety officers happened to drive past, and Williams began waving her arms frantically in the air. The van stopped and several officers jumped out and chased the man, catching and apprehending him.

The suspect was identified as Robert McLeod, a 20-year-old man from Bayonne, N.J. According to the Daily News, he was charged with robbery and assault.

Back at the station, Williams comforted the woman. “She was hysterical and had a hurt leg,” she says. Later, she learned that the woman’s leg had been broken in the attack.

As for her hero status, Williams is taking it in stride. “I was just doing my job, and anyone who would have heard this woman’s screams would have helped, too,” she says. “People need to watch their surroundings in the subway, whether they’re walking [through the station] or waiting for the train. This incident has definitely made me more aware."

It's made her a new friend, too. “We exchanged phone numbers and she invited me to dinner," says Williams. "I know we'll stay in touch forever." 

Organized by the New York Daily News, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, and TWU Local 100 (New York’s largest public transit union), the annual Hometown Heroes in Transit Awards are given to bus and subway workers, toll booth clerks, and train operators who go the extra mile to keep travelers safe. 

"Candidates typically share three qualities," Pete Donohue, transit reporter and columnist at the New York Daily News, told Yahoo Shine in an email. "They're proud of their work, they care about others, and they're tough when it matters. They're New Yorkers you can count on. 

 Last year, one winner rescued a man in a wheelchair who had tumbled onto the tracks, another is a bus driver who learned greetings in many languages so he could address his diverse ridership. Williams wouldn't allow a vicious criminal to get away ... she followed the guy at some risk to her own safety."   

The deadline for nominations is Nov. 15. The winners will be featured in a special section of the New York Daily News and honored at a ceremony Jan. 29.

More on Yahoo Shine:
How Did This California Girl Become a Real Warrior Princess?
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9-Year-Old Hero Saves Diabetic Mother

Human Character: A very wise elder woman

[Lovely. It's amazing how this points out how fragmented daily life encourages us to be. Whole is better. Not separating the sugar from the lemonade water._NS]

The Great Spirit

...went to high school with her grandaughter i met her many times very wise elder woman. Donald Waya.
 =====
 
How often have you heard or said "I'm part Indian"? If you have, then some Native American elders have something to teach you. A very touching example was told by a physician from Oregon who discovered as an adult that he was Indian. This is his story. 

Listen well:

Some twenty or more years ago while serving the Mono and Chukchanse and Chownumnee communities in the Sierra Nevada, I was asked to make a housecall on a Mono elder. She was 81 years old and had developed pneumonia after falling on frozen snow while bucking up some firewood.

I was surprised that she had asked for me to come since she had always avoided anything to do with the services provided through the local agencies. However it seemed that she had decided I might be alright because I had helped her grandson through some difficult times earlier and had been studying Mono language with the 2nd graders at North Fork School.

She greeted me from inside her house with a Mana' hu, directing me into her bedroom with the sound of her voice. She was not willing to go to the hospital like her family had pleaded, but was determined to stay in her own place and wanted me to help her using herbs that she knew and trusted but was too weak to do alone. 

I had learned to use about a dozen native medicinal plants by that time, but was inexperienced in using herbs in a life or death situation. She eased my fears with her kind eyes and gentle voice. I stayed with her for the next two days, treating her with herbal medicine (and some vitamin C that she agreed to accept).

She made it through and we became friends. One evening several years later, she asked me if I knew my elders. I told her that I was half Canadian and half Appalachian from Kentucky. I told her that my Appalachian grandfather was raised by his Cherokee mother but nobody had ever talked much about that and I didn't want anyone to think that I was pretending to be an Indian. I was uncomfortable saying I was part Indian and never brought it up in normal conversation.

"What! You're part Indian?" she said. "I wonder, would you point to the part of yourself that's Indian. Show me what part you mean."

I felt quite foolish and troubled by what she said, so I stammered out something to the effect that I didn't understand what she meant. Thankfully the conversation stopped at that point. I finished bringing in several days worth of firewood for her, finished the yerba santa tea she had made for me and went home still thinking about her words.

Some weeks later we met in the grocery store in town and she looked down at one of my feet and said, "I wonder if that foot is an Indian foot. Or maybe it's your left ear. Have you figured it out yet?"

I laughed out loud, blushing and stammering like a little kid. When I got outside after shopping, she was standing beside my pick-up, smiling and laughing. "You know" she said, "you either are or you aren't. No such thing as part Indian. It's how your heart lives in the world, how you carry yourself. I knew before I asked you. Nobody told me. Now don't let me hear you say you are part Indian anymore."

She died last year, but I would like her to know that I've heeded her words. And I've come to think that what she did for me was a teaching that the old ones tell people like me, because others have told me that a Native American elder also said almost the same thing to them. I know her wisdom helped me to learn who I was that day and her words have echoed in my memory ever since. And because of her, I am no longer part Indian,

I
am
Indian

CHARACTER WRITING, consider these: 10 Surprising Things All Wives Should Know About Their Husbands By Woman s Day | Love + Sex – Thu, Aug 22, 2013

http://shine.yahoo.com/love-sex/10-surprising-things-wives-know-husbands-175700556.html


By Lauren Ramakrishna

 Whether you recently said "I do" or just celebrated a double-digit anniversary, you can probably spout off a lot of info about your husband-his middle name, where he was born, his favorite food. But knowing these 10 other things can bring you closer than ever. Find out why, and try these relationship strategies to ensure your husband is anything but a mystery. Photo by Getty Images

1. When He Needs Space
 Sharing office news, the kids' schedules and the latest neighborhood drama as soon as your husband walks in the door each night can backfire. "Most women want to immediately connect at the end of the day. For a lot of guys, they need their space more than ever then," says Les Parrott III, PhD, a psychology professor and co-author (with wife and marriage therapist Leslie Parrott, EdD) of The Good Fight: How Conflict Can Bring You Closer. Give your hubby a few minutes to unwind when he comes home. You're more likely to get his undivided attention if you wait.

Related: 10 Things You Should Never Say To Your Mother-In-Law
2. When He's Really Listening
 If it seems like your husband constantly tunes you out, consider this: Men may look at other areas of the room while still paying attention, according to Deborah Tannen, author of You Just Don't Understand: Women and Men in Conversation, who reviewed videotapes of same-sex best friends talking. Rather than focus on where your husband's gaze lands during conversations, note how he responds to you. If your words are truly falling on deaf ears, Rachel A. Sussman, a relationship specialist and author of The Breakup Bible, suggests gently telling him you feel he isn't listening; then, let him respond. "Don't accuse or blame him," she advises.

3. The Most Productive Way to Fight…
Arguments happen in any good marriage. But there's a wrong and right way to fight. Through a study conducted to predict how long couples would stay married, researchers discovered, not surprisingly, that yelling during fights often led to divorce-but so did approaching arguments differently from one's spouse (say, one spoke calmly and the other avoided the conversation). "Ask yourself, 'When would I want to have this conversation?'" suggests Sussman. "Then, think about what might work best for your husband." Assessing both your moods can help you pinpoint the best time for a constructive argument.

Related: 10 Sexy Tricks That Actually Turn Men Off
4. …And When an Argument is Going Nowhere
For some disagreements, there's just no productive way to fight it out. To find out if you're gearing up for a purposeful fight, rate the importance of the topic. If it's a core value-like how to raise your children or which city to live in-rank it highly. If it's not-like the color of a new bedspread or what to have for dinner-it may not be worth an argument. Next, determine if you and your husband are ready for the discussion. If either of you are "tired, hungry or distracted, don't get into a conversation about something important," Dr. Leslie Parrott advises.

5. Which Topics Set Him Off
 Maybe it's talking about his mom's flavorless cooking-or his late nights at work. Dr. Les Parrott says it's important to "know where the emotional landmines are. If you step on one, you can expect an explosion," he says. But you can't avoid all "hot topics." "Find the right space and time to talk about these issues," he suggests. Plus, try to understand your husband's side, and then approach him in a non-threatening way. You might say, "I'm not looking to upset you; I'm just looking for a solution to an issue that's causing me a lot of pain," Sussman offers.

Related: 12 Biggest Lies Men Tell Before Sex
6. How (and When) to Be His Support System
Couples who say they have strong spousal support and face daily stress have 50% higher rates of marriage satisfaction, according to a 2012 study. While wives equate affection and warmth with support, husbands feel supported when they're appreciated, needed and receiving offers to help with errands. Not sure if your hubby needs you? Ask him. "Mindreading is outlawed," says Jackie Black, PhD, a board-certified couples' coach and author of Meeting Your Match: Cracking the Code to Successful Relationships. Volunteer to tackle some tasks on his list so he can recharge. And tell him how much you appreciate him as a partner to give him a boost.

7. When He's Not Loving Your Love Life
If your man isn't showing signs he wants to have sex-perhaps he usually kisses your neck or gives you a telltale look-then it's time to rekindle the fire. Dr. Leslie Parrott says couples reconnect when they try out-of-the-box activities together. "Women experience intimacy through communication, so we often underplay sharing something novel," she says. Plan a date that'll get you both in the mood. Some ideas: Sign up for a race, head to the museum or take a cooking class to, ahem, turn up the heat.

8. How He Views His Role as Husband and Father
 Whether it's just you two or you plus kids, you and your husband have equally important family roles. And it's vital that you recognize how he views his part and respect it. "Of course that's a two-way street, but it's even more important for men," says Dr. Les Parrott, who adds that respecting his role helps him feel close to you. Fight the urge to cast your husband into specific parts without his input. And keep in mind that you don't always have to be in sync with parenting. "Differences in temperament and style are key to parents' success and the enjoyment of parenting," Dr. Black says.

9. What His Dream Job (or Vacation or Car) Is
It's easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life, but happy couples discuss "each other's hopes and dreams to build and sustain intimacy," says Dr. Black. Make it a point to regularly talk to your husband about, well, him. Find out his career goals for the next few years-or just hear about his favorite book, TV show or food of the moment. Then, reciprocate by telling him more about you. Communication helps you grow with each other instead of apart.

10. That You Don't Know Everything About Him
No matter how much you communicate with your husband, you can never completely know him, and that's OK. "It's never good to believe you know anything about your partner for sure and therefore not ask," says Dr. Black. "It's vital that you and your husband continually get to know each other," adds Sussman. "If you're growing, you have to continue to catch up with each other." That means there's at least one enjoyable thing you can do each week: get to know-and fall in love with-your husband all over again.

You Might Also Like:
10 Compliments Men Hate Getting
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FOUND IT! "Jesus Can Work It Out" Lead singer Diane Williams. Russ Parr played this weekly.

"Jesus Can Work It Out" Lead singer Diane Williams. Russ Parr played this weekly. People are looking for this energetic version. Finally found it. iTunes, album BACK TO CHURCH by Rev. Charles Hayes.

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/back-to-church/id402309884

BLOG: How to Break Into the Game Industry Part 3: On Writing for Games and the Impossible…ish Dream. July 30, 2013. 2:10 pm • Section: COMMUNITY, Technology

How to Break Into the Game Industry Part 3: On Writing for Games and the Impossible…ish Dream.

July 30, 2013. 2:10 pm • Section: COMMUNITY, Technology

Posted by: Robert Edwards

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This is an ongoing blog about game culture, development and a primer for an introduction to the professional gaming world . We’re Boximals Studios – a video game studio in Vancouver, passionate about making games, the industry, and blogging about it!  

Last Week was the second in a three part series with hints and tips on how to break into the Video Game Industry. 

This week’s blog is the third in a three part series detailing tips and tricks on how to break into the Video Game Industry. Today we’re going to focus on writing and, as with last week, we’ll look at skills and education needed to apply for a permanent job in the industry, as well as what is needed to work on your own projects.

So you want to write video games.

Part of me wants to just say “Don’t” and go for lunch early, but that’d be irresponsible and unhelpful. I’ve tried to highlight how difficult it can be to break into the industry, but here’s the real wall. In fact, realistically, there are only two ways to do it.

1. Be a published author or have had a script produced for some form of entertainment media (Web series, TV, Film, etc) and pitch yourself based on that.

2. Create your own projects. and use that as a way of gaining experience.

Most posted game writing jobs require at least two-three years minimum of experience working in the game industry as a writer. It’s a pretty massive Catch-22, but I can offer some ways to help.

Writing for the game industry falls under a few different categories. While there are similarities to the television writing industry, for the most part it’s a totally different beast. 

 Note, these terms are not totally ubiquitous, and some studios will use their own classifications.

Boximals are smart critters. They know the self-help section isn’t where you learn to write. You learn that by living. Going to school helps too.

Technical Writer: These people write the technical aspects of Video Games, known as Design Docs. Sometimes given to a Content Writer if they have the skills.

Content Writer: They are the ones who write for the Web, Item Descriptions, Quest Design and Codex/World Building.

Narrative Designer: A Narrative Designer is the lead of the Writing Department. They will have had a hand in crafting the overall story, and may be the one doing most of the dialogue writing.

Creative Director: The Creative Director is similar to a Showrunner for a TV show. They are the true leading voice on a game, usually having created the main story.

Writers are also sometimes folded into a “Game Designer” role, but this tends to be more of an indie thing. A indie game may not have all these various classifications, and the writing job may in fact be given to a actual designer instead of bringing an official writer on board. 

The truth is that a trained writer isn’t always needed for a game. That said, there are many opportunities for writers, you just need to know where to look. It is advantageous for a writer to try to develop as many other skillsets as possible. 

Being able to develop or code would significantly help being able to find a job.

Education goes a long way when applying for writing jobs. Many triple A companies require some form of creative writing or English Lit background, or at the very least, the understanding of how to write a script. 

This can be done on one’s own (At places such as Screenwriting.info ), but it would be beneficial to take film studies and creative writing classes at a University or College, or attend a private school that focuses on Writing for Film and Television. 

While these classes will teach you how to write for film and television, and not specifically games, the knowledge is mostly transferable. 

One of the greatest advantages of attending a private school is contacts. Students who are in the producing or game design programs are excellent sources for creating your own games, and building that portfolio of experience.

The Game Design Campus, located in Historic Chinatown. Also several blocks from the Boximals office!

A few schools in Vancouver that offer Creative Writing Programs

• Vancouver Film School’s Writing for Film and Television Program
• Praxis Centre for Screenwriting (More focus on Screenwriting Workshops as opposed to traditional education).
• Vancouver School of Writing
• Film Production at University of British Columbia

There are a few avenues for finding actual work as a an independent game writer. The first step is to create a portfolio that represents your best talents. Television writers will generally write a “spec” script of a television episode, to show they have the ability to capture the voice of a particular character. 

For games, you want to display that you know how to write for an interactive medium. One of the best ways to do this is to learn the various toolkits provided with games, and create your own campaigns or stories with them. Several recent games that have excellent toolkits are:

• The Witcher 2
• Shadowrun Returns
• Neverwinter
• RPG Creator

This doesn’t just apply to writers. Those aimed at wanting to develop and design games would find this beneficial to do as well. 

In addition to creating your own levels, craft traditional speculation scripts of TV shows, or pilots/films to show off your writing style.

Additionally, there is plenty of opportunities for gaming journalism. The problem with this method is that it is very difficult to make the jump from being a journalist to a professional writer, and there are few paid opportunities out there. Most gaming journalism, except for the few major sites, is done via blogs or pro-bono work.

Once you’ve got some portfolio pieces, it’s time to look out there for independent work. There are several good sites to find writing work on, but don’t expect it all to be paid. It’s part of the life of a writer that you will need to do volunteer time, or work for a profit of the game after it is released.

This Boximal has found plenty of opportunities to write, but will probably end up frolicking in a grass field instead.

These links are not just useful to the writer, but for someone in any discipline trying to break into the gaming market.

E-Lance
IndieDB
ModDB

Utilizing these sites, as well as networking options (Such as Meetup) are all essential for a writer to build their portfolio. It will take a while, but one day you’ll see that game come out with your name in the credits, and that’s what makes it all worth while.

It may seem a little daunting, and I’m not trying to be negative. Writing for games is a hard choice, but one of the fantastic things about the gaming world is that it can be done remotely. The team doesn’t all need to be located in your home city, and you can take advantage of opportunities located all over the world.

Here at Boximals we’ve faced all the ups and downs of Indie life, and we’re looking to help others get into the industry. Writing can be a tough nut to crack, but the best advice we can offer is to keep writing! 

Blog about games. Write your own stories, and make as many contacts in the industry as you can.  All of our team members worked in the freelance world at one point, and it’s a great place to develop skills, and the ability to work with others. 

(Note, Writer for Hire. Will work for Boxes. Sorry, I meant peanuts).