Today, for your diversion and amusement, I offer you a little home video related to Say Everything, which is now just a bit over a month away from publication: Who was the first blogger?

While I was pondering whether to write a book about the story of blogging in 2007, there was a little flurry of stories claiming that blogging was now ten years old, since Jorn Barger had coined the word “weblog” in 1997. And I thought, hmmm, that’s a pretty debatable proposition. Mike Arrington asked, “Will Someone Who Actually Cares About Blogging Please Write the History Of It?,” I thought, yes: that’s going to be worth doing.

Once upon a time, there was a Web company that was based not in Silicon Valley but in Santa Monica. It grew at a breathtaking rate. All of its content was created by its users, and though the pages those users created tended to look jumbled and messy, there was an enthusiasm embedded in all that busy-ness, and a fannish passion for pop-cultural pursuits. The company built up such a sheer momentum of traffic that a much bigger company was persuaded to acquire it for a massive sum of money at the height of a speculative Internet frenzy.

This story sounds like that of MySpace, the once-hot social-networking site for bands and their fans that Rupert Murdoch purchased in 2005. Once “the most popular Website in America,” as the title of a recent book had it, MySpace has been left in the dust by Facebook and Twitter in terms of innovation and growth. MySpace is in the news this week because Murdoch and his henchmen have just shown the door to the site’s founding duo, Chris DeWolfe and Tom Anderson, and replaced them with a former Facebook exec. It’s a recession out there, and Murdoch, who somehow believes that MySpace can be his entree to digital power, is eager to turn it around and demonstrate that it can become the online cash cow he has always dreamed of. Good luck there; I think that, even though Murdoch got MySpace for what many considered a bargain price (of around $500 million), it will prove an albatross around his corporate neck.

In fact, though, MySpace isn’t the company I was thinking of in that first paragraph. I was telling the story of Geocities — the MySpace of 1997-1999. Geocities was the most successful of the “build your own website” companies of the mid-90s (there were others, like Angelfire). Before there were blogs, there were Geocities pages, which were sort of like blogs except without the software to manage your content. Geocities pages were easy to build and really difficult to maintain. As a result, Geocities was populated fast — and nearly as quickly became a vast wasteland of abandoned digital real estate. It must have looked good on paper to the bizdev people at Yahoo in 1999, though, because they paid an astonishing $2.87 billion (in bubble-inflated Yahoo stock) for the ramshackle enterprise.

A decade later, Yahoo’s current management — facing tough times and after many rounds of layoffs — has decided to shut Geocities down. I don’t think there are too many people who will cry for this relic of a bygone era.

What I’m thinking is, there’s every reason to think MySpace will follow a similar trajectory, no matter how many executives huff and puff to try to reinflate its sagging appeal. If that’s the case, look for News Corp. to turn off its lights sometime in 2015 — about a decade after Murdoch’s ill-advised acquisition.

BONUS LINK: Harry McCracken surveys the top 15 Web properties of 1999 and asks, where are they now?

One of the points I make in Say Everything is that the reverse-chronological format that blogs use is embedded in the DNA of the Web from early high-profile uses in places like Tim Berners-Lee’s first website at info.cern and in Marc Andreessen’s NCSA What’s New page.

Today’s NY Times op-ed page features a great piece by Stephen D. Crocker that explains the history of the Request For Comment or RFC — the format the architects of the Internet used to promote the development of the open, extensible, cross-platform standards on which the Net as we know it today was built. RFCs were pragmatic and humble; the proponent of some new standard for computers to work with one another would put it out in public — at first, before the network itself provided an easier means of circulation, in snail mail — and take in critical comments and suggestions for improvements.

You could see this practice as the genetic foundation for the comments that today are a feature of nearly every kind of page published on the Web. Just as blogging’s reverse-chronological sequencing has its basis in the earliest structures of web pages, Crocker lets us see that the practice of adding a comments thread to blog posts can also be traced back to the early history of the Net.

In this sense, every blog post is, in its way, a “request for comments.”

Late last night — because late night is the time to tinker with software! — I decided to test drive Dave Winer’s recent crib sheet on setting up an Amazon Web Services cloud-based server. Dave called it “EC2 for Poets” (EC2 is the name of Amazon’s service), and I’ve always been a fan of “Physics for Poets”-style course offerings, so — though I do not write poetry — he lured me in.

For the uninitiated, Amazon has set up a relatively simple way for anyone to purchase and operate a “virtual server” — a software-based computer system running in their datacenter that you access across the Net. It’s like your own Windows or Linux box except there’s no box, just code running at Amazon. If you’ve ever run one of those arcade video-game emulators on your home computer, you get the idea: it’s a machine-within-a-machine, like that, only it’s running somewhere else across the ether.

Dave provided crystal clear step-by-step instructions for setting up and running one of these virtual servers. (Writing instructions for nonprogrammers is, as they say in software-land, non-trivial. So a little applause here.) The how-to worked hitch-free; the whole thing took about a half-hour, and by far the longest part was waiting for Amazon to launch the server, which took a few minutes.

But what should one do with such a thing? Dave’s sample installation runs a version of his OPML editor, an outlining tool. That gave me an idea.

Regular readers here know of my dependence on and infatuation with an ancient application called Ecco Pro. It’s the outliner I have used to run my life and write my books for years now. It has been an orphaned program since 1997 but it still runs beautifully on any Win-32 platform; it’s bulletproof and it’s fast. My one problem is that it doesn’t share or synchronize well across the Net (you need to do Windows networking to share it between machines, and I just don’t do that, it’s never made sense to me, as a one-man shop with no IT crew).

But what if I were running Ecco on an Amazon-based server? Then I could access the same Ecco document from any desktop anywhere — Macs too. So I downloaded the Ecco installer (using a browser running on the Amazon-server desktop, which you access via the standard Windows Remote Desktop Connection tool), ran it, and — poof! — there it was, a 12-year-old software dinosaur rearing its ancient head into the new Web clouds:

What you see here in the innermost window is Ecco itself (displaying some of the sample data it installs with). Around that is the window framing the remote desktop — everything in there represents Windows running in the cloud. The outermost frame is just my own Windows desktop.

This remains very much in Rube-Goldberg-land at this point. Accessing this remote server still requires a few more steps than you’d want to go through for frequent everyday use. (To me it felt like it was about at the level that setting up your own website was in 1994 when I followed similar cribsheets to accomplish that task.) And the current cost of running the Amazon server — which seems to be about 12.5 cents per hour, or $3 a day, or over $1000 a year — makes it prohibitive to actually keep this thing running all the time for everyday needs.

On the other hand, you have to figure that the cost will keep dropping, and the complexity will get ironed out. And then we can see one of many possible future uses for this sort of technology: this is where we’ll be able to run all sorts of outdated and legacy programs when we need to access data in different old formats. Yesterday’s machines will virtualize themselves into cloud-borne phantoms, helping us keep our digital memories intact.

I’ve just finished Sarah Lacy’s book Once You’re Lucky, Twice You’re Good: The Rebirth of Silicon Valley and the Rise of Web 2.0, and I’m feeling a little…green. Lacy’s portrait of this decade’s Web industry is so relentlessly shaped by the yardstick of cash — how much money this entrepreneur made, how many millions that startup is valued at — that by the end of the book, you can’t help having absorbed a little of that world view.

As I put down the volume, I found myself thinking, gee, why didn’t I start a company in my dorm room and pocket tens of millions before I turned 30? Then I slapped myself in the face a couple of times and reminded myself that the last time I lived in a dorm room, the Web didn’t even exist — and that when I set out to become a writer the idea wasn’t, how can I make millions, but rather, is it possible to support myself doing what I love? (I was lucky enough to have the world answer “yes!”)

To be fair, Lacy’s a business reporter; she’s written a business book; business is all about money. She paints a colorful and absorbing portrait of the world of Silicon Valley’s latest wave of smart kids to strike it rich. On the other hand, I can’t accept that her account offers an accurate portrait of “the rise of Web 2.0.” Because, in a way, I feel like I was there, too, at least in the earlier phases, talking with many of the same people and companies that Lacy writes about, showing up at many of the same conferences, witnessing the same phenomena. And it just looked, and felt, different to me: at the start, it was much less about retaining control of one’s company and much more about giving control to one’s users.

First, the good stuff about Once You’re Lucky: It’s full of amusing anecdotes, some of them illuminating, and it offers some valuable insights into the motivation of many of today’s young Web entrepreneurs and the complexity of their relationships with their financiers. It gives a great tour of how the startup and venture capital games have changed over the past decade, as the cost of launching a company has dwindled, reducing the need for big upfront investments that dilute founders’ stakes, even as the prospect of everybody-gets-rich IPOs has grown rarer.

I fault the book in a few areas. In tracing the emergence of the Web 2.0 era’s emphasis on social networking and user contributions, Once You’re Lucky is neglectful of the long history of these phenomena that predates the Web 2.0 era. From Amazon book reviews to the Mining Company (later About.com) to the AOL “guides” and on and on, the so-called “Web 1.0″ era was actually full of content created by “the crowd.” Its most overinflated and notoriously flaky IPO, in fact, that of TheGlobe.com, was entirely a “community play” (though in a way that betrayed the best possibilities of online community). The Web of the day just wasn’t as efficient as the later generation of companies at organizing the material contributed by users, and there weren’t nearly as many contributors, and Google hadn’t come along yet to help the rest of the Web find the contributions (and to help the companies profit from them).

My biggest beef with Lacy’s book is that its choice of which companies to focus on seems capricious. Maybe it was just based on who she got access to. Plainly, Lacy got lots of great material from one of her central figures, Paypal cofounder Max Levchin, and she paints a thorough profile of the driven entrepreneur. But, his company, Slide, just isn’t all that interesting or innovative. After reading several chapters about it I still can’t tell you exactly what the company’s driving idea is. It does slideshows on MySpace! It’s big on widgets! It out-Facebooks Facebook with apps like Super Poke! But, you know, if you were stuck in the proverbial elevator with Levchin, could he actually tell you what Slide is all about?

There are other stories in the book whose inclusion makes more immediate sense. Few today would argue against Facebook’s significance, and it’s worth the time Lacy spends on it (though one might look for a little more skepticism). Ning may or may not prove important, but Marc Andreessen’s story is valuable in itself. What’s most interesting about Digg is its model for group editing (which, again, is based on “Web 1.0″ roots via Slashdot), not its so-far-unfulfilled quest to sell itself.

Lacy might have delivered a more comprehensive portrait of Web 2.0 by offering more than cursory mentions of the companies that, in my book, really created the template for that phenomenon: Flickr, Delicious, the short-lived Oddpost (which got absorbed into Yahoo Mail). These small startups, growing like mushrooms out of the mulch of dead dotcom treetrunks, pioneered virtually all of the tools and technologies we now think of as “Web 2.0″: easy sharing of media creations; tagging of content to create user-generated “folksonomies”; Ajax techniques for inside-the-browser applications; and so on.

It seems that even though these services and companies were at the heart of the invention of Web 2.0, they don’t figure prominently in Lacy’s narrative because, by the financial yardstick, they were relatively small potatoes (all three were acquired relatively early by Yahoo for amounts rumored to be in the low tens of millions). Levchin is a lot richer than the founders and creators of these companies, but in my view, their work was far more significant.

As someone in the middle of writing a book on a related topic that is inevitably going to face similar criticism (how could you write about this blogger and not that one?), I know that Lacy couldn’t possibly cover every significant company. It’s just not clear what criteria she used to make her choices beyond the will-o’-the-wisp that is market valuation (especially wispy when your company is not actually traded on the market).

So this is where I say: the importance of a company does not lie in how rich it makes its founders, but rather in how widely its ideas spread. The business reporter who is too easily mesmerized by the number of zeroes in a company’s valuation is like the political reporter who is only interested in the horse race.

By themselves, numbers are dull. To me, the fluctuations of a company’s market value, like the ebb and flow of a politician’s polling numbers, is only of interest as part of a larger picture: How is that company, or politician, influencing our world?

[The book's site is here, and here's Lacy's blog. Katie Hafner's critical review is here. The SF Chronicle review by Marcus Banks is here.]

Here’s a few other links carrying on from yesterday’s post about Nick Carr’s lament that Google and the web in general have made it harder for us to pay attention to books.

Howard Rheingold links to a post on Timothy Ferriss’s blog, by Josh Waitzkin, titled “the multitasking virus.” Waitzkin paints a scene in which listless college students shop on their laptops while their professor’s giving an inspired lecture on Gandhi and nonviolent civil disobedience.

Howard, ever the intelligent pragmatist, says he’s most interested in “engaging students in learning how to train their attention.” He’s right. Most of us, today, could use some serious and rigorous training in attention-focusing skills. Meditation is probably the best. Organizational tools can help, too. Whatever works for you. Howard used to urge people to “pay attention to what you’re paying attention to,” and that was good advice; today we also need to pay attention to how we’re paying attention.

It’s undeniable that the web and all its tools add to the volume of potential interruptions in the workday. There’s nothing new about the interruptions themselves, and we faced them long before we had computers on our desks. (My reading of the Waitzkin post, for instance, was interrupted by an unsolicited telemarketing phone call which, however noble the cause — the American Cancer Society — constituted a far more severe violation of my focus than anything my computer screen can throw at me.) But the Net gives anyone with a proclivity for procrastination a nearly infinite number of options to avoid doing whatever one Must Get Done.

This topic is only going to become more urgent. Today’s Wall Street Journal included a review of a new book, Distracted: The Erosion of Attention and the Coming Dark Age, which I just ordered (it’s by a writer named Maggie Jackson, and has a foreword by my friend Bill McKibben). I’ll look forward to reading the book when I get it. (I hope it’s better than the hilariously overwrought subtitle.)

In the meantime, I should say that the Journal reviewer, David Robinson, lost me when he declared that Twitter is “an update service devoted to what-are-you-doing-at-this-moment inanity.” Sure, there are plenty of Twitter users who are inane, but — after a period in which I couldn’t quite get what all the fuss was about — I’m finding my small-but-growing group of people-who-I-follow to be a valuable source of real-time Web pointers. Like any popular Web platform, Twitter is as bad or as good as whatever sliver of it you choose to pay attention to.

Right about now is where I should say that I heard about Howard’s post itself because he posted about it on Twitter.

I have a special place in my heart for video-blogging star Amanda Congdon, since through some total coincidence she ended up briefly plugging my book before it even came out. Thanks, Amanda! So I read with interest in today’s Times about her return to the web after apparently unsuccessful attempts to transition into more traditional broadcast gigs.

Then I read this:

“She was really one of the first, if not the very first, Internet blog stars,” said Dan Goodman, the president of digital media for Media Rights Capital. “She has been entertaining people in the digital space since there were people to entertain there.”

Where to begin? Congdon’s Rocketboom began, I’m pretty sure, around 2004. I do believe there were a few “Internet blog stars” already at that time.

As for the second claim: I think that “digital space” had its share of entertainment even back in the Usenet days. And certainly, even if your definition of “digital space” begins with HTTP, the first ten years of the Web pre-Rocketboom had its share of laffs, too.

I can’t say I’m surprised that some digital entertainment lawyer might be ignorant of this stuff. But, you know, the Times really shouldn’t be printing such silliness.

We have become dependent on Google as a part of our Web infrastructure (too dependent, some say), in part because Google’s reliability record is so superb. All of which makes the receipt of any sort of error message from any dimension of the Googleverse worthy of note.

Today I tried to access my Google Calendar. Instead I saw this:

A minute later, my calendar returned. But for an instant, I got to thinking about life without Google.

“You know, much of England was drunk on gin for 20 or 30 years during the 18th century.”

I studied English history, but my brother studied it more deeply than I did. So when he told me that, a long time ago, I filed it away in the back of my brain as an odd fact worth exploring at some point in the future. The file has been undisturbed ever since, until I watched Clay Shirky’s talk at the Web2.0 Expo.

Shirky tugs on that bit of information as part of a much larger argument that’s well worth a view (it’s about a 15-minute video — he’s also posted a transcript). In brief, he suggests that the English were so stunned and disoriented by the displacement of their lives from the country to the city that they anesthetized themselves with alcohol until enough time had passed for society to begin to figure out what to do with these new vast human agglomerations — how to organize cities and industrial life such that they were not only more tolerable but actually employed the surpluses they created in socially valuable ways.

This is almost certainly an oversimplification, but a provocative and fun one. It sets up a latter-day parallel in the postwar U.S., where a new level of affluence created a society in which people actually had free time. What could one possibly do with that? Enter television — the gin of the 20th century! We let it sop up all our free time for several decades until new opportunities arose to make better use of our spare brain-cycles — Shirky calls this “the cognitive surplus.” And what we’re finally doing with it, or at least a little bit of it, is making new stuff on the Web.

This argument is in some ways just an extension of Shirky’s book Here Comes Everybody (I’m in the middle of it, so, you know, maybe it’s all in there, though he says it’s not). But it also frames the larger sense I’ve had, from the moment I first saw the Web in 1994, that its importance lies in its potential for displacing TV.

It was the first medium I’d encountered in my life that looked like it had a chance of somehow challenging or eroding TV’s primacy in our world, and eliminating some of the distortions TV has rendered in our culture and politics. I’d spent the first part of my career chronicling a venerable medium — live theater — that has never properly recovered from the ascent of TV, so you know who I was rooting for.

Recalling a conversation with a TV producer skeptical that the participatory Web was anything more significant than LOLcats and World of Warcraft addicts, Shirky argues, “However lousy it is to sit in your basement and pretend to be an elf, it’s worse to sit in your basement and try to figure out if Ginger or Marianne is cuter….It’s better to do something than to do nothing.”

And so, because somebody chose to write a Web page rather than watch another sitcom, today you can read all you want about Britain’s Gin Craze on Wikipedia.

I’ve spent most of this week deep in the archival attic, researching the new book in old documents, digging through the dull roots of today’s Web, planted back in the 90s. It’s been strange and enlightening; I’ve found much interesting material.

One thing that becomes clear is that what we now think of as “the Bubble” was surprisingly brief. The Web actually experienced something of a downturn beginning in late ‘97 and early ‘98, and extending through the Long Term Capital meltdown later in ‘98. It was only toward the end of ‘98 that the bubble really began to inflate in a serious way. The High Bubble lasted till April 2000, when the market suddenly realized, like Wile E. Coyote poised in midair above a canyon, that it was standing on air.

So the era of high dotcom madness was really barely a moment: 18 months or so.

The other thing I’ve learned is how much more extensive the Internet Archive is than I’d realized. I’ve been using the archive heavily for days. I’ve picked up some pointers that, perhaps, others already know; I’ll share them anyway in case they prove helpful.

First of all, ignore all the error messages the Archive itself sends you, like “bad gateway” or “failed connection.” These are indicators of momentary failure; they don’t mean your page isn’t there. Try, try again; reload; eventually, you may get what you’re looking for. (On the other hand, error messages that are stored on target pages that represent the archive’s record of a snapshot of the web page itself — they’re real. They mean that the archive’s bot hit that error message and never recorded the page you’re seeking.)

Also: If the archive tells you that the earliest edition of a particular page it has is from, say, 1997, this doesn’t mean that the site’s content from previous years is gone forever. Iit’s true that you’ll probably never be able to recall, for instance, the Hotwired home page from 1995 — since it was constantly mutating, day by day with new content and year by year with new designs. But the material published on a site that lived at permalinked or semi-permalinked addresses can still often be dug up from Archive.org by poking your way carefully from the present into the past through the site’s own “back issues” or archives or “previously” links.

For instance, Web Review, the early GNN-backed web zine, vanished long before the Web Archive started up, along with most of GNN itself — a crib-death for one of the Web’s earliest original content ventures. Still, I was able to unearth my friend Andrew Leonard’s first piece (from Sept. 1995) for Web Review, all about “clickstream” measurement: Here it is.

We don’t have all of the early Web, but we have more of it than you might think!