Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor: Circus Master Guy Kawasaki under the Big (All) Top

There are so many metaphors for this crazy web space we all play in – Wild West, superhighway, collective brain.

Today I’m going with circus.

It fits, doesn't it? One wild and crazy act after the other, all competing for applause. Or maybe that only describes the blogosphere.

Whatever metaphor you like, a circus is definitely the best way to describe Guy Kawasaki’s newest venture, All Top. Displayed in deceptively simple fashion, the site feels like a giant circus tent, where the best blog acts come to ply their trade. Step right up: there are politicians and celebrities and mamas and just about every other act you can think of, all juggling words and ideas, peddling dreams and opinions. For what is a blogger if not a performer, flying on the trapeze and teasing lions in hopes of keeping the audience enthralled?

Guy is a shrewd circus master, deftly slotting diverse acts next to each other, always keeping one ear tuned to the crowd. One of his best moves was naming one of the categories “ego” – ooh, what does it mean? Insult or compliment? You decide.

A sleek, colorful stripe - the "anti-header" - floats at the bottom of each page: the perfect accessory for a virtual circus.

Suddenly, I'm craving popcorn.

Everything Guy does is heavily scrutinized by the peanut gallery, and All Top is no exception. Jeremiah Owyang dubbed it a "gimmick site". Michael at TechCrunch? Hated it! The commenters on his post weren’t much better: snark, snark, snark. So many haters, so little love.

But I'm a fan, and here's why:

It helps me be more efficient. My RSS reader already has too many feeds, but I still want to be able to check out new blogs. All Top lets me do that.

The interface rocks. Clean and spare, with lots of white space. In an increasingly noisy medium, this is a tremendous relief. Hover your mouse over the post title, and a box pops up with the first few lines of the post. If I'm intrigued, I can click over; if not, I don't. Easy.

The categories make sense. There are eight meta-categories and several sub-categories within each. It feels manageable, inviting exploration without overwhelming.

I keep going back. That’s the ultimate litmus test, isn’t it? I might forget about it in a few months, but it's working for me today.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

I first met Guy Kawasaki in 1999.

The place was a dingy hotel conference room on the Peninsula, where Guy was signing his new book, Rules for Revolutionaries. I was there with the person I was co-founding a software company with; we stood in line with our copy of the book. We wanted his signature, but what we truly coveted was his reaction to our brilliant idea.

The bubble was still bubbling in those days. Beneath the watery, florescent hotel light, the air was sticky with excitement. Everyone had a fabulous idea, and Anyone could be the next Big Thing.

We wanted it to be us. Oh, how we wanted it to be us. Our great idea consumed every moment of our days and nights. We spent hours sketching out concepts with dry-erase markers, circles connected with lines connected with words. We had meetings with important people, revised our business plan and revised it again.

When we finally reached Guy, he cracked open the book cover and looked into our eager faces. "What are you working on?" he asked. We blurted out our 30-second pitch, hearing the words ring in the air, secretly hoping that he would pull us into the next room and beg to be an investor.

He listened intently, head cocked at a slight angle. "Hmm," he said, when we were finished. "Interesting." He scribbled his best wishes onto a creamy white page and shook our hands. "Best of luck with that," he said. We walked away, whispering furiously to each other: you should have said... you forgot to mention...

That moment swims to the surface of my consciousness now and then, conjuring up the smell of dry-erase markers and anxiety.

Guy is one of those people I use to mark time; in the years since that night in the hotel room, he has launched a number of different ventures; my start-up was dead by December of 2001.

It doesn't happen often these days, but there are times when I wake up in the wee hours of the morning and think: what if I never have another great idea? Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing? Am I creative enough? Smart enough? What if I never…? And my ribs clench against my lungs, while a tide of panic washes over me.

Then, just before I stop breathing altogether, I realize that I still have so much to learn. This isn’t a race. All that matters is doing good work – the best work I can – on each and every project. That I can do. That I will do.

Because one thing is certain: the circus is here to stay.

Cotton candy, anyone?