Ayyyy so they posted pictures from this year’s PyGotham conference, held in NYC. Here are a few photos. Full video of my talk coming soon!!!

After reading this lovely article by Kelley Lord wherein she describes the struggles associated with her experiences as a server in a cruel world, I was inspired to come up with a similar list, but having to do with stenographers, of course! I realize that stenographers are a fairly esoteric bunch — “misunderstood” doesn’t even begin to cover it. So it seemed to be a fitting theme for a blog post. As a disclaimer, I’m writing this from the viewpoint of a realtime captioner. Court reporters work under slightly different circumstances and I won’t delve really into the differences.

Without further ado, Reporters, Not Recorders: 5 Things Your Stenographer Wished You Knew

1. Don’t call what we do “typing.”

Many people make the false assumption that what we’re doing behind our funky little keyboards is essentially listening carefully and “typing” what we hear. Easy, right? In reality, it is far more complex. Typing involves recalling a word’s spelling, tapping out the correct sequence of letters, hitting the space bar and shift keys occasionally, and managing to not get your thumbs lodged in your anus during said process. God help you if you happen to spill your coffee in your lap and you have to backspace the mistakes you made while fumbling, trying to pick your doughnut up off the floor.

Now as stenographers, we don’t have time to drop our doughnuts or make errors as our job requires us to keep up with somebody else’s speech. That changes the paradigm a bit since now, you’re not only having to get it all down correctly the first time, but you’re having to do it as fast as somebody who isn’t you decides to deliver it. Not to mention, the process of writing steno requires that we hear a phrase, break it down to its constituent words, recall the corresponding shorthand outlines (which look like gibberish to you normal folk), execute those outlines with nearly 100% precision on a completely unique keyboard layout in order for the computer to correctly match them against our personal dictionaries, all at around speeds of two to five syllables per second. This is how it looks in action. We press multiple keys at once to capture handfuls of phonemes at a time, forming entire syllables every time we press down. There is no magic auto-correct or any form of predictive entry, auto-complete, Siri voodoo nonsense. Some modern steno software have algorithms that will try to guess, phonetically or statistically, how sloppy or otherwise malformed steno should have translated but worthy stenographers cannot and do not rely on this. Good realtime (instantly readable, machine-translated steno) is the product of quick and nearly perfect recollection and execution of the entries in one’s personal dictionary. I liken our job to sitting in front of a piano and having someone constantly put new pieces you’ve never seen before in front of you, demanding you play them at full concert speed with 99% accuracy. The preferred terms when referring to a working stenographer are “writing” (from “writing shorthand”) or “stenoing.” So please don’t refer to what we do as “typing” as it would be a shame if you were to trip and fall over a strategically misplaced piece of equipment before the end of the proceeding.

2. We’re not robots and we’re not psychic.

As Dee Boenau puts it, “we [stenographers] have to be very worldly” in that our work requires us to competently take down conceivably any topic thrown at us. We’ll try our best if you unexpectedly delve into the works of Feyerabend, discuss the plausibility of a working Alcubierre Drive, or on a whim, prattle your way into Sorites’ Paradox, GroEL/GroES, the P1-N1-P2 complex, maybe the historical significance of Nyan Cat, or the current exchange rate of the Dogecoin. But we can’t know everything all the time and the occasional error is bound to happen. And although most of us practically become walking, breathing encyclopedic databases of random knowledge over a career span, realize that we are still not Watson and giving us a list of key terms beforehand is immensely helpful. You see, what we stenographers do is we program shortcuts into our steno lexicons in advance so that we can pop out anticipated phrases or terminology quickly, usually via a single-stroke shortcut that we come up with on the spot. So even for what seems “basic” to you, giving us a heads-up for little things like, “Oh, by the way, Jacqui sitting on the left spells her name J-A-C-Q-U-I and her last name is Kaminsky” or “We’re going to be talking a lot about indigenous fauna, like x, x, and x” takes a HUGE load off our shoulders as we can then go ahead and redefine our steno outline for “Jackie” to render with her preferred spelling and quickly stick in briefs for “indigenous” and “fauna” to have on hand as they come up. It just makes things go a lot smoother for us. As the person who makes your dialogue magically appear in text form next to your PowerPoint for everyone to see, I have a lot of power. But with great power comes great responsibility and I will thrust part of that responsibility onto you, speaker and/or event organizer, of ensuring the captioner is informed of any tricky names or terminology. If we flub something due to your failure to inform us and something funny goes up on the big screen, I’m just going to go ahead and say, “Nice job, idiot. It’s all your damn fault.” ;]

3. Stop talking over each other!

I have a little exercise for you. Type me a verbatim transcript of this eight-second audio clip taken from a VSauce video.

Got it? Cool. Assuming you have normal hearing, a working short-term memory, can type, have a computer that can play the clip, and understand English, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

Now transcribe this one.

Wasn’t that fun? Now imagine doing that for two hours.

One at a time or I torch this mother to the ground with your motor mouth in it, k? Thx.

4. Remember to breathe and enunciate.

The average, non-cocaine-abusing English speaker speaks at a rate of around 150-180 WPM. 180 WPM sounds like a pretty comfortable pace to most native speakers. The baseline requisite speed to become a certified stenographer in the United States is generally set at 225 WPM for English at 95% accuracy. The best of us can go much higher than that, sometimes exceeding 300 or more WPM in bursts. So, yes, as licensed stenographers, we are trained to go FAST. But please, give us a break and slow down once in a while. Maybe add in some tasteful pauses?

Now I understand it isn’t easy to change your speaking habits. I find that most speakers are completely unaware that the way they speak is, well, really quick, and that they’ve had their foot planted firmly on the stenographer’s submerged head for the past two hours. And even after a polite reminder to maybe slow down, most people relapse after about ten minutes and it gets awkward having to repeatedly remind people to monitor their speech as people tend to become very self-conscious. So if you could maybe remember this and possibly, pretty please, with a cherry on top kick it down two notches and try to make an effort to keep it there? But more than just unrelenting speed, the number one thing that makes me want to drown the speaker I’m taking down in the river of blood from my rage-induced fit of harakiri is mumbling. I can go fast but if I have to strain to understand what you’re saying, those split seconds of hesitation add up and REALLY make it a struggle for me to maintain a rhythm. Oh, and if you’re talking so fast that you start mumbling because you physically can’t pronounce the words that quickly without getting your tongue caught in the ceiling fan? Yeah, I hope as you’re drowning in that river of blood, you trip over the strategically-misplaced tripod into a bed of rusty nails covered in cat urine.

5. A little acknowledgement never hurt.

Please, do take the time to talk to us. We’re friendly, most of the time and — surprise! — people, too. After working behind the scenes for so long, Norma and I were really spoiled by you wonderful folks at SRCCON. It was a welcome and unexpected novelty as stenographers to be put front and center for the entirety of the conference. We really appreciated it and we joked amongst ourselves that our heads would never return to normal size. But really, just asking how we’re doing or if there is anything you could do to help make our lives easier is appreciated. We don’t ask for much. Give me a comfortable, armless chair, an extension cord, and maybe a few snacks and we good. Anything beyond that is extra but for us stenographers, the distance between “apathetic” to “LOVING YOU” is small and any effort on your part will win us over and cause us to casually kick that tripod back under the table :].

As a disclaimer, I’d like to first say that despite the descriptions of my experiences that, at times, could be interpreted as sounding negative or tragic, that overall, my new life in the City has been overwhelmingly positive. This is just my overly frank analysis of my circumstances as I am apt to do with all things.

Five Things New York City Has Taught Me: A Six Month Reflection

(As a twentysomething, recent inductee into the NYC scene)

1. You will meet people in the most random places.

It’s true. It’s logical that in a city of 8 million, it’s bound to happen. But I am continually surprised by how people I run into at the gym, the park, the club, on Tinder, or on my way to the subway unknowingly and suddenly become permanent fixtures in my life. Take advantage of it and keep yourself open. You never know what can happen.

2. Life will pass you by if you don’t look up.

Despite how horrible sometimes it can be not having an excuse to avoid awkward eye contact during the moments we’re all trapped inside a steel tube, crammed inches from each other’s armpits, sometimes I find it beneficial that most of the time on the New York Subway, there is no mobile phone reception. For a guaranteed few minutes every day I am forced to be in the present, be it trying to figure out what language the passengers across the car are speaking or witnessing a drunken tragedy unfold before my eyes, the only things with which I have contact are those of the immediate present. All too often I have observed people living their lives completely oblivious to the fact they live in this great city, unable to take pleasure in really anything. I understand that a large portion of twentysomethings move here for the expressed purpose of complicating their lives in pursuit of their ideals of becoming the archetypal fast-paced New Yorker busybody that everyone needs at all hours of the day but nowhere, I feel, is a higher sense of awareness more beneficial, or even requisite than when living in a place like this. Unless you can step back and detach, the City will suck you in and put you in a sensory coma. Instead of silently bitching to yourself how shitty the MTA is every time your train is late, why not take a moment and look at your surroundings. Has it even crossed your mind how much history and engineering had to have to come before your being able to stand there, pissed that the E is taking forever at rush hour? But I guess if you’re legitimately about to be late for something, fuming and seething with frustration is the most appropriate response. Still though, New York is fucking awesome. These moments will make up an amazing chapter in your life. Don’t let them slip away unnoticed.

3. If you haven’t already mastered self-restraint, you will learn the hard way.

In a city where time is relatively scarce, and where you can’t walk a block without passing by a restaurant, a bar, a shop or four by the time you reach the next intersection, if it isn’t the variety, the accessibility will test your self-restraint to its limit. Then throw in your revolving circle of acquaintances who all invite you to happy hour at all hours of the day, who the hell wants to stay in and cook? For about a month and a half of living here, I only ate out or ordered Seamless out of convenience. But now, I eat out maybe once a day if it’s a particularly long day out and about working. On weekends, you will face an unyielding barrage of temptations to go out. Well, this depends on the people with whom you tend to associate but for me, as someone who exists in the overlap of both the EDM and gay scenes, the allure is particularly unrelenting. If it isn’t a favorite DJ, it’s your bar/club buddies who cordially request your presence in becoming shitfaced. Going into it knowing you don’t live in a world with unlimited resources is a good start, lest you wake up one morning to check your bank account in horror after you’ve finished puking up all the pills and shots from the night before.

4. You will become acutely aware of rude or inconsiderate behavior and may become more considerate as a result.

What I’m thinking as a New Yorker:

• That person walking super slowly in front of me with a million bags weaving left and right: What the fuck is this fucking bitch doing? EITHER MOVE THE FUCK OVER OR LET’S GO.
• That person who’s smoking next to me, conveniently located where the wind will blow it all in my face: At least your stupid ashtray cuntface is gonna die early. Seriously, fuck you.
• This person who is deafening me with their furious honking because they decided to go right before the light changed and is now gridlocked: Hey, dickcheese, not my problem you’re now blocking all of 6th Avenue, so shut the fuck up you fucking piece of Jersey shit.

Makes sense since we New Yorkers are so constantly rude, right? Not so fast. Basically, it comes down to the fact that since we’re all so tightly packed together, any act performed on your part without due regard will affect at minimum, the ten people immediately around you. And so it’s not that New Yorkers are rude, as conventional wisdom may imply. In fact, people who actually live in the City are quite pleasant to be around because they understand the unwritten code of urban living. Those who live here understand how to navigate tight spaces without getting in the way and, in public, behave in a way that maximizes efficiency given the limitations in real estate and time. Be swift and move confidently. If you fuck something up, most New Yorkers will smile and won’t think anything of it if you apologize. Act obnoxiously, and prepare to be shoved, knocked in the shoulder, eye-rolled, scoffed, or even yelled at. Oh, and if you hold a subway door, be prepared to have your arm chopped off.

5. You will learn who your true friends are and will value your time with them more than ever.

I saved this one for last because despite the blissful optimism I look to New York City as this new chapter of my life unfolds, this is the one theme I longingly look behind to my days in Seattle with stinging nostalgia.

Since I moved to New York, my social network has exploded and yet, there has never been a time I’ve felt more alone as I have felt here. Part of it has to do with the actual literal geography that separates me from my family and friends from earlier times. As a native west coaster, I’ve never in my life been so far from my roots. But a big part of it, I notice, comes from just the pace of NYC and the culture of social interaction here. I dub New York City, The City of Acquaintances, as they seem to abound in every sphere of my life — acquaintances who will drink with me, go out with me, have cursory conversations with me over brunch or over Facebook or text. We will party, share stories like friends, and at least superficially, appear to share a bond not unlike a “friendship.” Yet at the end of the designated social gathering of sorts, we part, never to talk to each other except on occasion to plan the next designated social gathering, or at the next gathering itself. They are context dependent colleagues, like actors in a play if these social gatherings were shows. Certain people to go out with, certain people to have midday lunch with, people to meet for dinner, people to work with, people to fuck, people to go shopping with. Like in a play, everyone is assigned a specific role. Once the show is over, the characters bow, and the setting dissolves into no more until the next one.

Why is this so hard here? You know, having true friends who will tag along to dinner with a last minute text. The ones who will show up drenched at your door to console you when it’s pouring outside after some boy rained all over your heart. The ones who, with nothing better to do will stay in, bake cookies with you, get hammered, play video games, and call it a great night. The ones who will turn up with you at a rave but will leave with you if you were having a bad time no matter how much they were into it. The ones who keep your toothbrush and deodorant at their place because you stay over so much. The ones who will stay up talking with you all night and leave at 3:00 in the morning on a Sunday night. The ones who will sit in front of you at a coffee shop somewhere with their laptop, while each of you do your own thing. Yet both parties feel a sense of comfort and satisfaction as a result of the other’s presence. The ones who buy you presents for no reason. The ones who don’t flip endlessly through all their acquaintances whom they could avail when deciding who will best fit the role for “friend” at this particular free moment. The ones who don’t need a plan to be available. The ones, who in the absence (or abundance) of pretty much anything else, will default to you.

While most of the time efficiency is the way to go in New York City, this is a huge exception. I admit that having associates for every particular occasion, and only that occasion is convenient and logical when faced with a seemingly endless revolving door of people coming in and out of your life in a city as big as this one. It takes time and resources, both of which the majority of people here guard fiercely with miserly custody, to invest in somebody when the possibility looms that at any given moment you could find somebody with higher social capital: Better looking, more affluent, funnier, better connected. But I urge you, New York, this is not the way to go. I’m not sure if this is due to a difference between the coasts or maybe even a difference between making friends as a college student versus as a working professional but as far as I’m concerned, New York has taught me that perhaps the very definition of “friendship” may not be universal. And I’m sure you can imagine what my dating life must be like here if you extrapolate what I said above re merely finding friends.

But actually, I think what New York has taught me about intimacy is that no matter what, in the end you have to be okay with yourself. Because no matter what happens around you, or who comes into your life or departs, even if no one fulfills your definition of what a friendship/relationship is or even wants to, as long as you can stand strong by yourself, you’ll be okay.

And even though I’m still waiting to have here what I had in Seattle, that’s okay because until I do, I have me.

Normally I don’t take articles from Cracked.com too seriously but this one hit home in a special way. So. Fucking. Spot. On.

5 Awful Side Effects of Insomnia No One Talks About

You see, I have insomnia.

Most of the time when I tell people I’ve gotten maybe 12 hours of sleep the entire week, they probe me for explanations or simply tell me to just go to bed earlier. Or maybe, try stretching, yoga, chamomile tea, melatonin, warmed milk. Whatever they suggest I do, I probably tried it last night. Sometimes they offer me empathy.

“Yeah, a couple nights ago I had really bad insomnia. Like, I got three hours of sleep and work sucked ass the next day.”

“Well, how do you feel now?” – I ask.

“Oh, I came home and took a nap for, like, two hours, had dinner, then went back to sleep until morning.”

Lucky you.

Is it really that easy for everyone else? Is that why they make fun of me or react with disbelief when I tell them that I normally sleep for 10-12 hours each day on the weekends, normally not waking until about 3:00 pm?

Try having it be a daily struggle.

Endless tossing until 5:00 in the morning, feeling overheated and antsy. Take the covers off and you’re too cold. Pull the blanket back on and you dampen the sheets with your own sweat. No matter how you turn, shuffle, or contort your body, there’s somehow always an itch, a twitch, a weird pain somewhere just annoying enough to compel you to flip, waking yourself up all over again.

Sitting upright at 4:00, feeling partially defeated, wondering if it would be worth it to try taking another sleeping pill or to pull another swig even after having slept just four hours the night before.

“Oh, you get to wake up at 9?  That’s must be so nice!”

Not if you’ve been passing out moments before sunrise in a chemically-induced haze for the third time this week. Why? I don’t fucking know. I really never know or can control when my body feels like sleeping or being wide awake and anything that happens to me before 1:00 pm is pretty much miserable – a blur of resentment, nausea, inability to focus on anything for more than two minutes, and wondering why the fuck this bitch talking to me right now is so damn energetic. IT’S 8:30 IN THE FUCKING MORNING. I SHOULD BE IN BED RIGHT NOW. STOP TALKING TO ME.

And truthfully for the four to five nights of the week I do manage to achieve some semblance of somnolence, I don’t “sleep” as much as pass the fuck out from complete exhaustion, and, oh, mixing sleeping pills with alcohol. I lay helpless and distraught. I have no control over my own body. How is it that I just took six sleeping pills and yet feel nothing?

I grab my phone and check the time.

“I have to be up in four hours”

I check Facebook.

“I have to be up in 3 hours”

I check Instagram, OkCupid, Tinder, okay, Facebook again. A round of Angry Birds? PvZ? What the fuck am I doing?

“Fuck, I have to be up in an hour!”

At a certain point I know I’ve lost.

“Fuck it. Just fuck it.”

I arduously crank the knobs in the shower wanting to die.

On nights like these, I think about Michael Jackson – how he abused propofol until he basically put himself to sleep forever. And then I imagine how handy it must have been to have such a high-powered general anesthetic like that on hand, fantasizing about using it on myself with the same ardor and titillation a bullied kid might daydream of the day he finally brings a gun to school.

Bedtime for me is a time of anxiety, uncertainty, and ultimately, dread.

Save the odd night or two, you lie down most nights and simply drift off without thought.

That, my friend is a luxury.

You don’t fucking have insomnia.