GeoCities was one of the first free, design-your-own-page website hosting services on the net, and was the place many of today’s web masters, bloggers and sundry other geeks popped their web design cherries.

Sure, most will remember it as a haven of eye-searing fluro text, badly animated GIFs, never-ending Midi tunes and the horror of HTML frames, but for me, it will always be where I took my first uneasy steps into the world of blogging and online media and embarked on a journey of more than a decade that has lead here, to being someone who gets paid to screw around on the internet all day (not to mention being one of Australia’s most self-declared social media gurus).

The internet came early to my household. My mother was an early adopter of email, and we’d had a clunky old modem for as long as I can remember. But when we finally upgraded from the old 486 sometime circa 1994 to a new Windows-based PC, it came with the first edition of Netscape Navigator, and my love affair with the World Wide Web (for back then we still called it that — when we didn’t call it the ‘Information Superhighway’, of course) began.

I was allowed an hour a day on our dial-up modem (couldn’t tie up the fax machine for too long), where my nine-year-old self would look up Simpsons and NBL fan-sites and cheat codes for Commander Keen and Skate or Die. One hour was never enough (actually, given each page took about 10 minutes to load, it really wasn’t). I yearned for more time online, but most of all, I yearned for a page of my own. Not that I had anything of interest to share with the world (of course, these days, Twitter has made sharing nothing with the world the internet’s raison d’être, but these were different times), but I honestly remember longing to design my own page.

But back then, it was all just a pipe dream. You needed money, you needed a host, you needed to know what a host was, you needed coding skills. I got $5 a week pocket money and was a dab hand at Paintbrush for Windows, but that just didn’t cut it. No-one I knew even had the internet at home, so who could show me how?

I wish I could remember more from the intervening years and exactly how and when I stumbled across GeoCities to make this narrative flow a little better, but it’s all a bit of a blur. It was sometime in ‘97 or ‘98 — around age 12/13 — that I got wind of the site (definitely well before Yahoo’s acquisition of the company in ‘99, anyway), and what I do remember is the genuine excitement when I fired up the WYSIWYG editor and discovered that ZOMG, I CAN ACTUALLY CREATE MY OWN PAGE AND I JUST HAVE TO DRAG AND DROP EVERYTHING IN AND IT’S SO EASY AND WOW LOOK AT THIS AWESOME FLASHING TEXT AND THIS BOX PUTS MUSIC ON MY SITE WHEEEEE!

By that stage, we had acquired a second phone line and internet access had become much cheaper and I was able to begin what would become a lifelong habit of staying up all night playing around online. And how! I dedicated hours — hours — every day to playing with my Geocities page.

My first page was called “Doris the Satanic Goat” (I’m actually blushing after typing that), after the neighbour’s pet goat (though I can’t vouch Doris was actually a Satanist. They were Catholics), and I filled the pages with my favourite jokes, Metallica lyrics (no, really) and, the quintessential feature of any self-respecting GeoCities page, animated GIFs I’d cribbed off other pages.

Thankfully, I don’t think anyone else ever saw the page.

But after a while, even that wasn’t enough. I wanted my site to look like the professionally designed websites that were popping up. I wanted readers. So I created a new site to practise my design skills and share some slightly more interesting content that other people might actually want to look at. The new site was called “R.B. Industries” (an improvement at least), and I designed everything by peering at the source code of pages I liked, then working backwards until I could fgure out what they’d done, teaching myself the basics of HTML and CSS in the process.

I started to fill its pages with cynical teenage rants about how lame the world around me was, cartoons I’d drawn (my l33t Paintbrush skills finally coming into their own), sarcastic commentary on TV shows, Mad Magazine-ripoff satires and other stuff I can’t remember. Little did I know, I’d created a little proto-weblog. It was there that I discovered a) writing was fun, and b) I was actually OK at it.

From there, I got into blogging more seriously (or less seriously, actually), and about three or four years later, I was offered my first paid writing gig.

So while GeoCities may just go down as a footnote in the history of bad web design, it holds a bit of a special place in my deeply geeky heart. I may be a social media tragic these days, but one reason is because I appreciate how amazing it is to have places like Facebook, Twitter and YouTube, where anyone of any age or technical proficiency can have their own web page and connect instantly with the world.

The online journalists of tomorrow don’t know how lucky they are.

Thanks for the memories, GeoCities

It’s how GeoCities would have wanted to go

Penelope.

We also discovered he was a Catholic surprise baby.

This all turned into a fun game of:

What Would You Be Called If You Were Born a Boy/Girl?

Editor Green doesn’t know. He did tell us he was “born dead” though. We told him to call his mum.

Incidentally, this is what Green would’ve looked like had he turned out to be a girl baby:

Crook also doesn’t know. He does, however, know that he was born “on drugs” and spent the first few days of his life fascinated by the tennis ball moving back and forth across the Wimbledon court on the TV in front of him.

Brown kicked so much in the womb that her family were convinced she was a boy and they were going to call her Robert. Which proves the nature v nurture theory (she’s a kickboxer people). Bob for short. Or we may have made that bit up.

Jamieson also doesn’t know. She says her mum tells her the first ten years of her life “are a blur”. Amber’s dad wanted her to be called Wistari. That’s the name of a reef off Heron Island, the island on which Amber was conceived. Hopefully not actually on the reef. Too much information? Perhaps. Amber’s sister Tenaya was named after a lake in Yosemite National Park. Amber was jibbed.

Black — Marcus, or Benjamin. And the next name on the list after Sophie? Disturbingly — Morag.

Leigh is pretty sure he would’ve been called Leigh.

Mick the subbie? Elizabeth. Which suits him, oddly enough.

Do you know what you would’ve been called had your chromosomes rearranged themselves into the opposite sex?

It now ranks as one of my favourite magazine names, alongside Jane (no longer being published), as well as Jane and Jane Magazine.

Picking a publication name is perhaps one of the most delicious (great magazine name btw) of all the editorial tasks. Creative, best when caffeine-fuelled and much easier than writing the damn thing. (In fact, having always coveted a career naming lipsticks, it’s no surprise that this feels more like pleasure than work.)

Which is why Crikey staff recently spent a dedicated afternoon throwing around ideas for a funny, Crikeyish name for a women’s group blog that wouldn’t offend the target audience. It was surprisingly hard. All the best ones were a bit dirty.

We filled three notebook pages with names:

The actual creation of the blog has been put on hold while we work out how to do it in a non-token, non-ghettoised way and with a style all of its own. Think something like Double X (yup, nice name).

When it comes to great glossy descriptors, one-name mags seem to punch above their weight: Monocle, Wallpaper, Bitch, Tatler, Word.

A quick survey of the Crikey-Smart Company office throws up some more faves:

Talk – Crikey publisher Di was a fan of Tina Brown’s short-lived magazine’s title. Ditto the name of her most recent venture, The Daily Beast, if not its content more generally.

Scrotum – editor Jonathan Green’s initial suggestion though we’re not sure it exists and are unwilling to Google it. He later nominated Horse & Hound and the Australian Hoofs and Horns.

Vanity Fair – brilliant book title and equally brilliant magazine title (which is why it’s been used four times)

BUST magazine — now there’s a women’s title that’s ballsy and has a sense of humour. So does the magazine.

Larvatus Prodeo — the Australian political blog that proves you don’t need to understand a name to like it.

Is Not Magazine – the little poster that could.

Three Thousand — email mag for Melbourne hipsters (postcode 3000) that’s spread to Two Thousand and beyond.

A couple of Crikey staff also proposed the names of previous publications they’ve worked with. Namely, Gas Today and Bacon Busters (for pig shooters).

But sometimes, as intern James notes, the best names are fictional. To wit, American Bitch, the dog magazine featured on mockumentary Best in Show.

The Twitpic option, or even just the simply provision of links, allows the most casual and yet exceedingly personal look into the lives of the people I follow — from their children in stripy stockings to their cats sleeping on car bonnets and the weird looking dude on their morning train to work.

But my favourites are, of course, the famous people. Barack Obama’s media team @ObamaNews regularly Tweet images of the president and his family at official functions, like meeting the Russian first family, and doing regular around the White House stuff, like Michelle Obama gardening. Today’s offering (from Ghana?) was pretty mysterious:

This morning (Australian Eastern Standard time) NASA and many astronauts were Twittering about a rocket launch, including pictures as events unfolded:

My favourite astronaut Twitpic is of the famous Buzz Aldrin arm wrestling Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. His caption read: “I think I would win in arm wrestling b/c his joints don’t work the right way”.

How cool is that? Three cheers for Twitpic!

But today a big box arrived at the Crikey office full of little snack pack samples of the stuff.

Each pack contained four slightly cheesy biscuits, and a little compartment of “new” Vegemite — a mix of Vegemite and cream cheese, not dissimilar from a Le Snack.

We naturally had moral objections to the whole concept of reinventing such a perfect condiment, but we’ve never let morality get in the way of a good story before, so we had to at least try it.

I realise Kraft’s PR folk send this to us exactly so we will write about it as I’m doing now, and I’m perhaps just playing into their hands, but this is an issue of great national importance, and as such, I think it’s vital Crikey weigh in.

Here are the team’s views, in one sentence each:

First Dog: I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.
Journalist Eleri Harris: I’d happily eat it again… in fact I WILL eat it again, as I still have one left
Intern Sophie Tarr: Creepy — cheese should be solid; that’s not cheese, it’s… cheese sludge.
Web Editor Jane Nethercote: Good mouth-feel
Production Co-ordinator Leigh Josey: It was shit – and I’m a Vegemite connoisseur!
Deputy Editor Sophie Black: What’s the point?
Journalist Ruth Brown: UnAustralian.

Matt Preston: Not enough lift in the puff, but because I like you, I swallowed it.

As the product doesn’t actually have a name yet, each pack contains a blank space for you to enter your own suggestion. First Dog took the initiative:

At 10.10am, I, a green Crikey work experiencer, set out to the Sanity store under the gentle direction of two seniors. (”Do it now!”). The task: see whether music stores had already replaced Andre Rieu stands by pushing Michael Jackson merchandise to prime selling position — and if so, take a photo of the evidence.

After quickly deciding to walk and not catch the tram, gazing at the map outside St Francis for five minutes, asking a cheery business fellow for directions and learning how to use that fancy store directory thingy, I arrived.

Once there, I loitered around, waiting for the store owner to finish talking on the phone, while listening to Thriller. (Please, I’ve heard it three times this morning already.) In the store with me was a geriatric pondering something-or-other, an uber-cool guy perusing the music and a middle-aged woman looking suspiciously at me. (”A product of the public-school system, probably”).

The store owner told me that it was in fact too early to do anything regarding a tribute to Michael Jackson as the centrepiece of the store and he also told me that, if it were to happen, it would be the record company’s decision for said centrepiece. Back at the office, Crikey staff were stunned that more had not been made of Jackson’s death, with a nice little quip from Mr. Onthemoon that said it all: “An epic fail of capitalism”.

Bernard Keane reports in today’s Crikey Daily Mail email edition on the eviction last night of a toddler from the Senate chamber:

Sarah Hanson-Young is to be commended for having her child with her in the chamber yesterday. It was for a division, not a debate, and her daughter was about to leave to return to Adelaide.

What do you think? Do you agree with Senator Sue Boyce:

Once again in the Senate last night we had a demonstration of the systemic anti-family attitudes embedded in our current parliamentary processes

Or do you side with Helen Razer?

Well, I don’t think that the primary care-givers of children should be parliamentarians.

Make a comment, join the fray, have your say.

Contained within the package was a snuggie – and not just any snuggie – OUR snuggie. The original Crikey snuggie. Stinking of wood smoke and beer, dirtied along the hem, MCN logo on the side, missing in action since the wee hours of Sunday.

There was no note with the snuggie, the address was printed on a label and the signature, declaring to Australia Post nothing explosive was contained within the parcel, reads simply “Amanda”.

I know of no Amanda. As far as we know there was no Amanda at the party of the century. However, since I explicitly said there will be no questions asked upon the return of the snuggie I cannot ask, all I can do is speculate.

Popular consensus on Facebook has labeled a Mr John Safran of Aunty the snuggie kidnapper, although Crikey believe that is largely because our initial suspect, Mr Richard Willingham of the Bendigo Advertiser, immediately provided a (somewhat flimsy) alibi, while Mr Safran has consistently failed to leap to his own defence.

Unfortunately the Crikey snuggie did not return in time for Bernard Keane to wear electric blue backless polar fleece to Parliament’s night of nights, the Canberra Press Gallery’s mid-winter ball. Nor for Leigh Josey to wear it to the Japan vs Australia soccer match at the MCG, where he was famously removed from the media section by security with a Turkish photographer. Perfect opportunities to road test the snuggie, lost.

The wait for the return of the snuggie has been fraught with anxiety and many nail biting moments. In an attempt to recover any snuggie before the aforementioned road testing events, I requested assistance from the twitterati. They were utterly useless. Anyone who tells you the cyber revolution has begun is crazy, these guys can’t even magic up a blanket in two days.

A certain commercial television network offered their snuggie, but unfortunately decided to use the blanket with sleeves in a promotional event that evening. Some suggested I order another online, however knowing full well the difficulties posed by their delivery service, I procrastinated. Scott Dooley from Triple J suggested calling local sports centres, “if they answer after two rings it’s them because they’re experiencing warmth AND convenience!”

I was just short of launching an elaborate attack on the local shopping centre, but lucky for Kmart and their display snuggie, the original has returned.

And now all that’s left is my punishment: a walk of shame in the snuggie down Swanston Street. Something to look forward to.

For those of you who aren”t aware, the snuggie was mysteriously sent to the Crikey office last week. Its arrival signalled a new era in investigative journalism and resulted in what was intended to be an ongoing series of articles on the Crikey Team blog — road testing the snuggie.

This was party testing the snuggie. Here is a picture of ABC radio and television personality John Safran party testing the snuggie:

Note how snug and warm Mr Safran is wrapped in electric blue polar fleece.  Note how happy he looks.

Many pictures were taken at the party of inner city Melbourne hipsters and minor media kids, dancing and rejoicing in the snuggie’s warmth and fashion mayhem. Here are some of them:

It looked like we were on to a winner! The snuggie really is the perfect party accessory.

Unfortunately when dawn broke and the doors at Newman street closed, the snuggie was nowhere to be seen — it had been snuggie-napped!

Crikey intend to recover our snuggie through any means. We have our suspects: some Swedish backpacking gate-crashers, marauding Tasmanian pirates and a Mr Richard Willingham of the Bendigo Advertiser.

Information leading to the return of the snuggie, or in fact just the return of the snuggie generally, will be rewarded with fine Crikey merchandise.

There is a no questions asked policy relating to the recovery of our beloved snuggie.

Please help! The Facebook group for investigating the mysterious disappearance of the Crikey snuggie can be found here or email us with any information at boss@crikey.com.au.

The New York Times Company’s Boston Globe is one of that nation’s biggest and most respected and it’s sinking fast and loud, with media commentators the planet wide over analyzing every single tiny development.

For the last few months keeping tabs on the situation has been like watching the Wicked Witch of the West melting, plenty of screaming and arms waving but taking forever to actually hit the floor.

Here’s what happened, the 137 year old publication was bought out by the New York Times Co. in 1993 when newspapers were still profitable. As is the case at many newspapers the world over, the family who had owned it for most of its existence publicly listed the Globe in 1973 and sold the last of their shares at the dawn of the new millennium.

Following the advent of the internet, the demise of print advertising and then last year the Global Financial Crisis, The Boston Globe started to crumble. In 2008 circulation dropped 8%.

On April 2^nd the New York Times Co. declared it would need to find millions of dollars in savings to keep the paper afloat. Interestingly enough it decided that a key part of this money saving venture should be to request staff accept a pay cut, initially of 8.4% — which the Globe’s unions rejected. The cut request then traveled northwards somewhat with the Times chairman Arthur Sulzberger Jr. yesterday saying the paper will not survive without staff accepting pay cuts of 23%.

Unfortunately this announcement was simultaneously met with plans to sell the paper off – provided there’s a buyer. One allegedly interested buyer is a real estate company — and by all accounts it seems they’re more interested in the properties possessed by the Globe than continuing the glorious traditions of the fourth estate.

As far as Crikey is aware this salary cuts approach is rather unique amongst the dead and dying media organizations of the United States, or in fact the world. Usually the company will just fire stacks of journalists and sub-editors, making sure to keep their managers on board a la News and Fairfax circa GFC.

The staff of The Boston Globe look pretty doomed no matter what happens to their paper at this stage in the piece — all of those pain staking union negotiations appear close to worthless. But the sad tale of woe befalling the Globe begs the question, how reasonable is it for the mangers of media companies to request their employees accept massive pay cuts to ensure its continued survival?

Assuming the quality of the content of The Boston Globe is not the reason the company is falling over and regardless of whether this plays a part, it is surely the job of management to – well you know, manage?

The failure of newspapers to adapt to the online era, to find a workable solution to paying for content, to retain their major income earners in classified and other advertising, cannot be solely rested on the shoulders of employees who are only doing the jobs set before them.

Will Arthur Sulzberger Jr. and his family be trimming down their own income?

There is enough musings on the demise and future of traditional media to fill an ocean, but in the case of The Boston Globe it must be asked how the New York Times Company reached such a pivotal stage in collapse where it was left with nothing to sacrifice but labour costs? How do they justify requesting such personal sacrifice?