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Michael considered fate at 14:27   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment
I know it's been sparse around here lately. I know I've been slacking. The last few days here has mimiced the collective experience of a group of 3rd graders watching an old oil painting. It's been a ghost town of sleepy-lazy tumble-weed posts about optic tricks, for fuck's sake.

And I apologize. We can't all be on the ball all the time. Sometimes it's gotta be left alone to roll and bounce by itself.. it's what gives us silly pseudo-artsy films of old men watching child-like objects from their past act, seemingly, on their own. Mix man with boy, add [digital] camera, morph ball to plastic grovery bag: voila, an Oscar winning movie of amazing beauty.. no no, not just amazing beauty; American Beauty.

I guess what I'm saying is you can't talk all the time. You can try, and people will give credit for it, but that's not necessarily the sort of credit you want to get. Believe me.

So now that my lips have been silent and sealed on matters of introspective thought for a few days I am struggling, like an insect in it's cocoon, to stretch out my mind's arms and legs. Eager to bounce around on all six appendages.

Process: sweep the ether waves of 1's and 0's for pertinent or interesting news bites. Look for the truth between the lines of hype. Evaluate different avenues of attack and then - flinch - stare briefly at the banner-ad exclaiming "Q: Which State has the longest coastline? - Test your IQ for free @ Tickle your brain". Fight fight that nasty urge in the back of the brain saying click on the little icon of Alaska because it's so goddamned obvious it hurts, like Neo being plugged into the Matrix for the first time.

GAH! So fucking OBVIOUS.

It's almost enough energy to wire the body into standing straight up out of my seat - lurch-like, zombified - and stumble to the first person in site. Stop. Stare. PUNCH their lights out.

Ouch! Why Women Feel More:
Women have more nerve receptors, which causes them to feel pain more intensely than men, according to a report in the October issue of the journal Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery.

On average, women have 34 nerve fibers per square centimeter of facial skin. Men average just 17.

"This study has serious implications about how we treat women after surgery as well as women who experience chronic pain," said Bradon Wilhelmi, a member of the American Society of Plastic Surgeons and author of the study.
I fight the feeling of hopelessness, and read another letter-to-the-editor about truth in journalism pretending as if it will make a difference. Over my shoulder: "Maybe they feel more but maybe they can handle it better than us because they feel more and are therefore more used to it?" So be it. Write it up. Call it truth. As good as words on a piece of low-cost newspulp - because, why not?

Honestly, it's all Greek to me. What these words are trying to say, what they're telling me to do: How many of what product I should buy. I can't understand them, not the way I see normal people on the street understanding them. My comprehension level is basic, like a child's view of the world. I see squares and circles, I see light, dark, and funny books of thin grey paper riddled with tiny little symbols on them. They call them "words" but I know better. They are letters and it is these unassuming symbols - featherweight - that make up the heavy words.

Of the richest men of all time, Andrew Carnegie:
"My heart is in the work... the duty of the man of wealth... is to set an example of modest unostentatious living, shunning display; to provide moderately for the legitimate wants of those dependent upon him; and, after doing so, to consider all surplus revenues which come to him simply as trust funds which he is strictly bound as a matter of duty to administer in the manner which, in his judgment, is best calculated to produce the most beneficial results for the community."
Yes, moderately and legitimately. These are the watch-words of our time, the ethos of the people.

Call it what you will but news was one of the main traditionals left but now it's named for exactly what it is: media. It's pulp. It's consumable pieces. It is marring the line between product and service so much you aren't sure what you're paying for; the paper, the words, or the fact that they come together to form sentences? Nevermind the intellect (ha!) - computer programs can form proper sentences. Is it the information in those sentences? I think a long time ago in some land somewhere, town cryers yelling out death notices, it was. But then a little sarcasm here, a little slight there, and pretty soon you have yourself a competitve product. The service - cold, hard, measurable delivery avenues - falls off the business model's pie chart and soon it is the product - flawed and broken due to labour cuts and cost-cutting on the factory floor - that they are selling. No longer are they just in the business of delivery. They're responsible for an actual real product now.

Would you let your phone company produce your telephone conversations for you? Not just the delivery but the actual content?
Your mother says hi. She is worried you're not eating enough. Please tell your father to fix the garage door, he won't fix the garage door, I wish he would fix the garage door. The Anderson's moved out. Went to Florida.
Quiet frankly, I don't think they know what they are doing. They've taken the entertainment model and slapped a new name on it. They call it information services but it's not, it's information product. It's taking what little pieces of truth there is to tell and trumping it up into a big flashy story with characters, actors, set pieces, and backdrops. It's mixing and stirring the words up so much that I'm not sure what they mean anymore, all blurred and mashed together on the cheap thin grey pieces of paper. Next to them is a square box with a picture of a matress and some more jumbled symbols below. "50% off" it says. I cringe.

It's all Greek to me. I blame Heroditus.

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Check out heroecs, the robotics team competition website of my old supervisor's daughter. Fun stuff!
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