Dave Winer and b!X have been going at it, it seems. I haven’t been following the details; all I know is what I read on b!X’s site, so, granted, I’m only getting one side. One of the issues is Dave W. assaulting b!X’s credibility and authenticity because he doesn’t use the name he was given at birth.
Now, that’s one issue I know lots about, so Dave, let me just tell you about the evolution and authenticity of b!X’s identity. Let’s begin now and work backwards.
When I call anywhere for him, I don’t ask for him by the name I gave him when he was born. I ask for b!X. The toddler for whom he “caregives,” calls him Uncle b!X. His week-old nephew-by-birth is going to call him Uncle b!X. Everyone who knows him on the Internet, knows him as b!X. Everyone who knows him where he lives in Portland, Oregon, knows him as b!X. Over the years, he has grown into the identity we all know and love as b!X. b!X is who he has chosen to be. He is as much b!X as you are Dave Winer.
Now, that name and identity actually have an interesting history. Somewhere back in the 80s, he started writing wacky little vignettes about “Baby-X” and his (mis)adventues in an absurd and uncompromising world. It was obvious that he was writing metaphorically about himself. When he first began getting on the Web, he used the name slowdog, but that soon changed to baby-X because he knew that, without a doubt, he is a child of the infamous Generation-X. As he became more involved in the Web community, he began using b-x to identify himself in real-time chats etc. Somewhere along the line, the – became a !. If my memory of his evolution has any inaccuracies, he’s welcome to correct me. After all, I was watching all this from a distance.
If you’ve been reading b!X’s blog over the many years he’s been posting (and he began a blog-type site long before there were official weblogs), you know that he doesn’t reveal many specific details about his life or Self. His credibility lies in his reputation for clear writing, (sometimes) brutal honesty, passionate opinion, and intense commitment. Because of these qualities, in October, 1995, Rolling Stone magazine featured him in an article on Ten Things You Can Do to Make a Difference. (a jpeg of which I don’t know how to upload into this trackback, so I’ll post it after)
Anyone who really wants to find out the name he was born into can find him on WHOIS. But that’s not who is is today. And what he does to earn a living isn’t who he is either. Who he is, is on his weblog. I should know.

My therapist/shaman friend counsels Viet Nam vets. A while ago, I posted about a healing ritual in which I participated to support the painful healing process of a U.S. army nurse who is still struggling with PTSD. Several times a year, my friend leads a pilgrimage to Viet Nam as a way of continuing the healing process for the many affected by their experiences in that war. He sends back his thoughts on their journey, reminding us all that we in America are continuing to repeat the same mistakes, believing that our might makes right.
This is his latest message:
I stood on the busy streetcorner in Ho Chi Minh City, the old Saigon. I
crossed into the intersection jammed like an ant colony full of vendors,
bicyclists, cyclos with their weary drivers hard-peddling, sputtering
mopeds. It all zigzagging every which way at once, yet no one ever hit
another. Traffic in Viet Nam is a cacaphony of communal spirit.
It was here, in the middle of this place of traffic and this place of the
ordinary, that Buddhist monk Thich Quan Duc burned himself in an image
that placed a permanent stamp on all of our psyches. Thich Quan Duc was
from the Thien Mu Pagoda outside of Hue, where a few years later the
awful battle would be fought. He found intolerable the U.S. supported
South Vietnamese government which, partially in line with its Catholicism, oppressed Buddhism and Buddhist monks throughout its region of control. The Viet Nam War was also a religious war.
In1965, the monk drove from his pagoda outside Hue to this crammed and
frenetic intersection. Here he doused himself with gasoline, assumed the
lotus position, and lit himself on fire.
I contemplated the spot from a corner, crossed slowly through the irreverant traffic, arrived on the opposite corner before the fenced memorial tablet erected to Thich as an ancestor of us all, an guardian of the spirit of spiritual and religious freedom. I contemplated his meaning as such a model for us today. I contemplated how his single act truly did change the world, for here were eight American pilgrims – veterans, peace activists, professors, students – seeking his memorial for homage and inspiration. Then I entered through the green fencing and lit incense and prayed to his memory.
I sat on the sidewalk after prayer, a little stunned with the power of it all. And as if the Reverend led the cosmos in prayer, I heard, or felt, these words:
When
I
burn
let
me
sit.
So must we all in order to live our lives well, and in order to stop the violence.

Do male and female thought processes differ (beginning with human formation in the womb) and so there really are innate gender differences in terms of our skills and abilities?
The Brain Game: What’s Sex Got to Do With It airs on ABC-TV at 10 p.m. EST this Wednesday. Dr. Nancy Snyderman, Good Morning America contributor, surveys the latest scientific research, which seems to indicate that male and female brain powers differ because of biology.
I don’t know about you, but I sure will be watching it. Or at least taping it to watch later, since I’ll be taking my mom to hear the Rymanowski Brothers play some Polkas at a nearby outdoor concert.

Well, I managed to hook up by phone with Tom Bolton, who lives in the Boston area. It just felt good to make that next connection. Maybe on one of my future trips, we can meet for coffee (tea for me) and solidify the connection. Chris Locke made the point at one point: we blog so that we can finally get to meet each other.
Halley and I missed connections this time, but there will be other times. And we’ll always have Maine. I know her life is racing toward a new destiny. I’m thinking of you , Halley.

Over in the larger world of Blog Sisters, conversations abound about women and all of their evolving choices, stresses, and potentials. It is easy for me to saturate myself with the big picture. There are big issues out there — mountains that need all of our strengths and efforts to move.
But, over here, in my current smaller world, I am immersed in the little picture, struck by how at least one aspect of our biology hasn’t evolved in eons; how we are still intimately connected by that biology to the first human woman who ever gave birth, lactated, and became the sole food source for a totally helpless and dependent entitity; how, somehow, despite the pain, frustration, energy-sapping sleeplessness, and almost total loss of personal choices, we nevertheless learn to love these amazing, demanding parasites.
For all of the evolution of our brains and other body parts, it is disconcerting to realize that, for a women’s body, the birthing process has never changed. The tiny new human grows inside us for three-quarters of a year, shoving our other organs into places they’re not supposed to be, throwing our fragile spine’s alignment off so much that nerves get displaced, muscles stretched beyond easy return. Vampire-like the little being feeds off our essences, drains our life forces. We are prisoner to its every need.
And then, when it’s ready, it rips out of our bodies, tearing and bruising and demanding. For weeks the pain persists — when we sit, defecate, walk. And then come the bursting breasts, aching, sore, insisting — the bleeding nipples that send sharp stabs straight into our backs each time it latches on and starts to suck, suckle — continues to assert its needs, its choices, its destinies.
For all of the ways we have evolved as women, when it comes to the birthing process, we have no choice. Our biology is our destiny. Yet, we continue to accept this biological fate. Generations of us continue to line up to keep the human species going, despite the primitive nature of our ancient biologies.
Because ultimately we hold in our arms a magical human child — a human soul as pure and innocent as it will ever be — eight pounds plus of pure and unbound human potential.
And we are connected to this miniature human by DNA and blood, by histories and hopes. We look into its hungry face and see ourselves. We look into its shining eyes and see our futures. We learn to love — with fierce commitment and compassion — this helpless, demanding angelic creature, this new connection to all that’s meaningful about being human, this ancient connection to the biology of the eternally generating female.

I’m back home, trying to catch up with the rest of my life. Meanwhile let me brag a little with this:

Go here to see a photo of Alexander that b!X already has posted. And, yes, he does resemble Winston Churchill.

The beginning of everything he’s ever going to be is here now — in that tiny perfect being, my grandson, Alexander. He is humanity in a Ralph Loren onesie. I watch his miniature features spontaneously rehearse all of the expressions his face will ever form — he frowns, grins, rolls his eyes, purses his rosebud lips, wrinkles his tiny nose. He cries only when his diaper becomes too unbearable. Mostly he eats and then he sleeps, tucked against his mother’s (my daughter’s) heart.
I watch my grown-up child nurse her own child with intense caring, diligence, intent. She says “I understand, now, what they mean when they say that you learn to love your children.” She is learning to love as a mother loves.
Alexander’s father is at her side most of the time. He can’t do the nursing (although I can tell that he wishes he could), but he is right there, making sure that she has everything she needs when she needs it. They are an seamless team. A true family.
I am here mostly for moral support, cheerleading, and affirmation. And to cook dinner. And take photos, which I will download when I get back home. And to sit next to my daughter and listen and listen and listen as she talks through her concerns and fears and hopes and limitless joy.
Alexander. Our universe.

Well, it turns out that GranElaine is needed out in the Boston area after all. It’s been tougher on my daughter than she wanted to believe it would be. So, I’m frantically setting up my mom with food, instructions, phone numbers so that she can, hopefully, survive without me here for at least a week. She’s going to take care of my cat, and I’m going to take care of my daughter. Am I ever feeling the “sandwich generation” press! I’m leaving early Tuesday morning.
I can blog from her house, and I will make an effort. But no guarantee. Wish me luck. I haven’t held a baby in more than 30 years.