It's basically not difficult to type out the several varieties of weblogs you could publish nowadays even right after you've combined your nouns (web site) together with your verbs (running a blog).

Pho - a photo blog site or phlogging = includes photos

Mo - a mobile blogging site or moblogging = consists of a cellphone, PDA, and so forth.

V - a video blogging site or vlogging = contains video clip

Where it gets far more complicated is in figuring out how you can do them, primarily offered the variety of instruments to choose from that will make it easier to do any among them...along with the keyword here's "one." We'll come back again to that. But first, here is a greater definition of what just about every is correct now and could soon grow to be.

Phlogging

Photoblogs are blogs with pictures that notify their tales, around the most specialist side, and friends and family albums of random pics over the most informal aspect. There's really tiny, or no text, that accompanies these images being a rule. The really serious ones, maintained by specialized photographers who are nevertheless gnashing their teeth in the picture resolution restrictions from the World wide web, can however be appreciated as art in spite of all their pixel imperfections. They live a far cry away from the arms crossed, pouty confronted, up your nose shots that litter each and every teen My Area weblog there's.

Moblogging

Moblogging refers on a single level, to submitting weblogs from a cellular machine. Blogging itself commenced as a means of mobily reporting earth occasions above the web. Back then it had been done with laptops. These days, it truly is performed via mobile phones and their World wide web connections. Though it would make my thumbs ache just to assume of making a whole submit on a cell telephone keypad, I suspect this term will also quickly come to encompass a great deal more.

Soon it may well also refer to blogs designed being read through on cellular phones. Mobi domains are actually preregistered from the countless numbers, and we're viewing many large organizations commencing to ascertain really serious cellular web-sites meant to sell impulse acquire products. The cell telephone display is really a best marketing venue to get a restaurant, in particular when they can supply a speed dial number to view if there can be quick seating to the guy calling in the sidewald out front.

Vlogging

Vlogging refers to some video weblog, or even a weblog produced up of video posts. You can find a few of them available, nonetheless they have usually lacked a significant viewership because of bandwidth constraints or download occasions. Some web-sites that property a big quantity of videos may possibly be organized around the weblog platform. A site devoted to training on a specific topic might be organized being a blog site with each and every "post" currently being created up of the different video clip lesson. But that isn't serious "blogging" as it is defined as an ongoing conversation.

Specialized streaming media tools

For the begin of this text, I reported there have been tons of providers crowding in into the blogging and social networking space. You will find plenty of products and solutions that will allow you produce a photoblog, or add your audio or video clip for your web site provided that it's from the one particular format (flash or Quicktime or iPod or H264, and so forth.) they assist. Any person can uncover something which will help them rapidly build a photoblog, OR convert an wav file into an MP3, OR an avi. file into a flv. should you consider adequate keywords and do plenty of searches.

Sorry, but I, for just one, just never have time for that any longer. I'm operating a business on the internet, and also have plenty of to accomplish just holding up with my private area of know-how. I don't have time to continuously find out new programming languages and interfaces just to be capable of converse to my prospects. What's most significant here is what is always been most crucial; giving what my viewers demands inside forms and formats they are able to use.

If I had to discover separate packages for building every kind of media, and then separate platforms for distributing every media I far too would be missing far too many probabilities to meet my audience when, exactly where and just how they want to be achieved. I might also be wasting other opportunities simply because I would not manage to use the suitable media for that position and that instant.

I could have a very award profitable text brochure or maybe a video infomercial that features a hefty 25% conversion charge in a single industry niche. Nevertheless, if I come to a decision to target long haul truck drivers, I'd must be capable to provide my communication in an audio format as well, ideally on the CD, or within a podcast delivered through Web radio.

I'm an enormous fan of uncomplicated, and I basically do possess a simple application that I use that aids me do that. I can generate, keep, produce and precisely tailor the format of any media, all in a single put, with just the click on of the button. It lets me pay attention to the concept alone, not on my delivery means I can do whatever I want to do to obtain my message on the market.

Apart from for that thumbs thing. I do not believe I'll ever be superior and quick ample to text a submit from my mobile phone.

You are about to read an emotional, clumsy and confusing confession about my first trip home after 17 years.

by Dan Hayon

(click on thumbnails for full-size images)

First try. I don’t have any illusions. I never succeeded from the first time.
As I expected, the phone goes crrrr, glong, grrrr; clang – for about two minutes - and then silence, nothing, niente, nada. Stone dead.

I dial again and again and while I listen to those strange metallic sounds, I imagine the phone signals crawling through thousands of miles of cables, following an irrational path on their way from Paris to Bucharest. God knows, they might go first to Antarctica then straight back to Albania, (why not?), upward to some satellite, then down again to Finland or something, and so on, before getting stuck by some operator’s switch.

Finally, I hear my mother’s voice: “Pain. Big pain in my hips. I haven’t been out for the last two weeks. I’m afraid we won’t be coming to Paris this year.” I say to her: “Don’t worry, I’ll come in May for a few days if…” She shouts back: “What? I can’t hear you (she’s selectively hard of hearing), I’ll pass your father, tell him.”

So, this is it: I’ll go back to Bucharest, first time after 17 years. Strange. The thought of going there, after so many years, doesn’t provoke any particular feeling. “I go to Bucharest” equals “I go downstairs to buy some cigarettes.”

1988 was the last time I flew there, from Stockholm, where I’d been living since ‘85.
I took a chartered old Russian Ilyushin plane, a wreck with two propellers, better suited to carry soldiers than tourists. The noise was terrible, the service hopeless, the food grotesque, the rough toilet paper unforgettable. But we survived and made it in one piece to Bucharest’s international airport, small in size but big on Ceausescu portraits. And, of course, policemen, everywhere, looking suspiciously at us, like bipeds from another planet.

In 1972, leaving Romania for good, I was seen off by my parents and a few friends from the Art Academy. I was carrying in a little folder a number of photos, all of them portraits, and each one glued by their corners on yellowish cardboards. They were the only works I’d been allowed to take with me; supposed to be worthless souvenirs by the customs officers. Nevertheless, they checked under the photos to see if I didn’t hide any forbidden green dollar bills. .

A year before leaving, and still being a student, I got a summer job for a fiction movie using mostly unprofessional actors, as a stage photographer charged with shooting the portraits of the candidates for different small roles. Strange old people living strange lives. Scared of what tomorrow will bring them. Strange young people living weird lives. Asking themselves if their hopes will be answered one day.

I got the job because I was the friend of the film director’s fiancée, an art student like me.
With the little savings I had, I bought a compact Russian camera, the kind of you-push-the-button-we-do-the-rest plastic box.
The nights, at the hotel, in the darkness of the bathroom I was developing the films and making prints smaller than letter-size pages, because the enlarger – also Russian-made – was the size of a James Bond attaché case and didn’t accept anything bigger.

Such is the story of the black and white portraits you see here. That’s when I got hooked forever on photography. And even if life made sure afterwards that I wouldn’t make my living as an artist, I never stopped taking pictures since.

Bucharest. My father waits for me at the flashy new Otopeni airport, along with his neighbor, owner of an antique Romanian-made Dacia car still in service as a taxi. A special car for a special occasion for a special price. The conversation that followed confirmed that this didn’t change since my last visit. “This” meaning the “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” system of getting things done.

We pass by interminable gray buildings built on the personal indications of the biggest architect Romania ever had: Ceausescu. Like a surgeon, he, the Haussmann of the socialist era, cut in the living flesh of the old city his never-ending victorious perspectives, tearing down all the houses and churches that stood in his way, making sure nobody will ever forget him.

But now, a new era is galloping towards capitalist heaven: huge outdoor billboards cover the buildings, selling Coca Cola, Pepsi, mobile operators, Japanese cars, French cars, German cars, Koreans cars, McDonald’s, bank services. I’m amazed by the size of those posters, the height of five, six floors, as wide as three apartments. The taxi driver tells me why there are so many everywhere. The tenants want them, even if their presence is stealing almost all the light that could come through their windows. The money they get from renting the space to advertisers helps them pay for the electricity and hot water, which are very expensive.

Finally, I arrive home: block B2, entrance B (it goes as long as H), fourth floor (it goes as high as 9), apartment 42 (it goes as far as, …well, I never knew). The trees with the bottom part of their trunks painted in white, the staircase walls covered with olive-green oil paint, the mailboxes covered with the same olive-green oil paint. Almost nothing has changed, only the apartment doors, each in a different style, according to the artistic tastes and the financial resources of the owners.

Bucharest. I’ll be staying here only five days and I know already that they will pass as quickly as five seconds, yet feeling like five years. I start taking pictures, obsessively. Like those five days will be my last days on Earth. My parents surely think I’m crazy when they see me turning like a caged animal, photographing the kitchen – where nothing changed since the days I lived there – the bathroom, the balcony and the red plastic chairs, about which my father is so proud that he keeps asking me every five minutes, “Isn’t it nice here?”

And for the next five days I’m out photo-hunting, chasing my memories: the house where I was born 58 years ago, the city quarter where I made my first charcoal drawings on pavements heralding the future big artist I never became, the Art academy where I spent six years, the main streets, the central park with its military band (still playing there), the people doing people-watching, the Gypsies selling flowers and tickets to the park amusement spots.

I try to find old friends that are still in Bucharest but, with only one exception, I don’t have much luck. They are all over the globe, emigrants like me, living in the USA, Australia, Germany, Israel, France, the UK, you name it.

And then I’m taking pictures of what I have never seen: the absurd People’s House, the second biggest building in the world after the Pentagon (a Ceausescu masterpiece, of course), an incredible number of abandoned cars (spread everywhere over the city) slowly melting into the ground. The icons of the new consumer-hungry society where, for the first time in half a century, you can buy anything you want (though more and more people have less and less money to do so). The graffiti on the walls with Bin Laden next to Jesus next to mother Theresa next to Ceausescu, who’s announcing “I’ll be back in five minutes.” And the signs of the reborn religious fever (lots of memorials dedicated to the saints that decided to show themselves to the population after the December 1989 “revolution”).

I took about six hundred photos. Back home in Paris, I’ve thrown away half of them.
But I’ll probably be going there again soon: my folks are too old now to travel. Well, that’s life.