2013

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“Guys who have enough money to randomly go to outer space.”

thanks a lot asshole – you know who you are!

i fucking hate you. you make me angry. you ruined my life and now everything makes me angry. puppies make me angry. stupid hipster baristas piss me off. yoga makes me angry. people who wear leg warmers. people who wear arm warmers. facebook status updates. gluten-free labels. stores that don’t take $50 bills. atm’s that keep handing them out. vegetarians. vegans. people who don’t like fur. ugly people. fat people. skinny bitches. people who use bad grammar and make up words like refudiate. throwing up in my mouth a little and then having to swallow it. dropped calls on my iphone. waiting for the bus. paying for the bus. being ass grabbed on the bus. paying too much for cable. rainbows and fucking unicorns. children who at the age of 4 already feel entitled to give the world attitude. the asshole parents who make them like that. tim horton’s coffee. emails from nigerian princes and british estate lawyers. cel phone ringbacks. detox diets. thanksgiving. black friday. christmas. easter. valentine’s day. jesus. solar calculators. solar panels. saving planet earth. hippies. sorting my fucking garbage even though half the recycling still goes into landfill. guys who have enough money to randomly go to outer space. corn poo. tickle me elmo. endless voicemail options. the alarm clock. shitty take out. good take out. warm beer. creepy ass earwigs. god damn birds chirping in the morning. people who steal. and most of all these gorgeous awesome smelling tulips that were my favourite flower make me fucking angry!!!!!!! 

"Hippies."

“Hippies.”

"Fat people."

“Fat people.”

"Refudiate."

“Refudiate.”

Big Data as applied to terrorism (and more banal matters) is useful because it provides predictive behavior patterns without spending time and resources on locating the cause of the behavior. But should we abandon cause and just be concerned with potential effect? From Evgeny Morozov at Slate:

The end of theory, which Chris Anderson predicted in Wired a few years ago, has reached the intelligence community: Just like Google doesn’t need to know why some sites get more links from other sites—securing a better place on its search results as a result—the spies do not need to know why some people behave like terrorists. Acting like a terrorist is good enough.

As the media academic Mark Andrejevic points out in Infoglut, his new book on the political implications of information overload, there is an immense—but mostly invisible—cost to the embrace of Big Data by the intelligence community (and by just about everyone else in both the public and private sectors). That cost is the devaluation of individual and institutional comprehension, epitomized by our reluctance to investigate the causes of actions and jump straight to dealing with their consequences. But, argues Andrejevic, while Google can afford to be ignorant, public institutions cannot. 

‘If the imperative of data mining is to continue to gather more data about everything,’ he writes, ‘its promise is to put this data to work, not necessarily to make sense of it. Indeed, the goal of both data mining and predictive analytics is to generate useful patterns that are far beyond the ability of the human mind to detect or even explain.’ In other words, we don’t need to inquire why things are the way they are as long as we can affect them to be the way we want them to be. This is rather unfortunate. The abandonment of comprehension as a useful public policy goal would make serious political reforms impossible.

Forget terrorism for a moment. Take more mundane crime. Why does crime happen? Well, you might say that it’s because youths don’t have jobs. Or you might say that’s because the doors of our buildings are not fortified enough. Given some limited funds to spend, you can either create yet another national employment program or you can equip houses with even better cameras, sensors, and locks. What should you do?

If you’re a technocratic manager, the answer is easy: Embrace the cheapest option.”

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Mason Peck, NASA’s chief technologist, did a smart Ask Me Anything at Reddit about a month ago. He’s back doing another one right now, this time focusing on asteroid exploration. A few exchanges follow.

_________________________

 Question:

What is the actual chance of an asteroid large enough to do some serious damage actually hitting us anytime soon?

Mason Peck:

Very low. None of the asteroids we have found are expected to impact the earth in the foreseeable future. And we have found most of the largest asteroids. There are still many smaller ones that remain undetected. That’s the current challenge: where are those asteroids, and do they pose a threat?

_________________________ 

Question:

When is it estimated that NASA will be able to send people to an asteroid?

Mason Peck:

The President’s goal is for NASA to do so by 2025. If we find the right asteroid, we’ll be able to do so as early as 2021. We’ll use mostly hardware we’ve already got and are already working on, including the SLS launch vehicle and the Orion multi-purpose crew vehicle.

_________________________

Question:

I’m an idiot on this subject, and please forgive me. So are you guys going to… blowup asteroids? Like with a missile or something? 

Mason Peck:

The asteroid initiative includes plans to send a robotic spacecraft to move a small asteroid into an orbit near the moon. It also includes a Grand Challenge in which we ask for the world to engage with NASA to identify the threats asteroids pose to human populations and then know what to do about them. The Grand Challenge addresses your question. There are many ideas about how to keep an asteroid from hitting the Earth, but the best offense is a good defense: know where they are, and the sooner we know, the easier it will be to deflect them.

_________________________

Question:

What is the point/what can be gained from moving a small asteroid into orbit near the moon?

Mason Peck:

So much! We’ll learn how to send humans beyond Earth orbit, using technologies that will take us to Mars in the following decade. The moon is relatively convenient and safe, compared to trying out these systems for the first time in Mars orbit. So, this is a very cost-effective and yet ambitious way to make a lot of progress towards exploring Mars.

We’re going to send the first, robotic spacecraft under the power of solar-electric propulsion (SEP). So, this mission will be a technology demonstration of a technique that is broadly applicable across NASA’s portfolio and will help the commercial space industry as well. Our plans are to use a 30-50 kW SEP system here, which is traceable to at least 10x that level. This is a bold move, depending on a technology demo. That audacity recalls Apollo and the other work that has made NASA great. 

The President’s goal is for NASA to do so by 2025. If we find the right asteroid, we’ll be able to do so as early as 2021. We’ll use mostly hardware we’ve already got and are already working on, including the SLS launch vehicle and the Orion multi-purpose crew vehicle.

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Gaudi, background, 1904.

Gaudi, background, 1904.

As you might have noticed from the Google Doodle, today is the 161st birthday of architect Antoni Gaudi, who designed buildings that often seem to be haunting, hiding, falling, melting–like old women weeping because they’ve been exposed to the sun for too long. And some of his other work looks like a future too good to ever arrive.

From National Geographic: “The Sagrada Família has always been revered and reviled. The surrealists claimed Gaudí as one of their own, while George Orwell called the church ‘one of the most hideous buildings in the world.’ As idiosyncratic as Gaudí himself, it is a vision inspired by the architect’s religious faith and love of nature. He understood that the natural world is rife with curved forms, not straight lines. And he noticed that natural construction tends to favor sinewy materials such as wood, muscle, and tendon. With these organic models in mind, Gaudí based his buildings on a simple premise: If nature is the work of God, and if architectural forms are derived from nature, then the best way to honor God is to design buildings based on his work.”

Here’s the “Casa Batlló” section from Antonio Gaudí, an almost wordless 1985 cine-essay by Hiroshi Teshigahara, who made several genius films, including this one.

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“Impudent, sulky, spiteful. Played continually with a penknife.”

It was more than a hundred years ago that imps, devilkins, urchins and rascals ran roughshod over Brooklyn public schools, assailing teachers and fellow pupils alike with verbal and physical abuse. A remembrance of this dark time in our city’s history via the February 18, 1912 New York Times:

“A circular of inquiry sent out to Principals and public school teachers by Dr. Frank K. Perkins, Chairman of the Brooklyn Teachers’ Association’s Committee on Probation Schools, to determine whether or not condition in the schools justify his campaign for the segregation of incorrigible pupils in separate disciplinary schools has brought forth a harvest of replies telling of instances of depravity among pupils that renders insipid the charitable phrases that ‘boys will be boys.’ 

These boys boast that they are ‘hard guys,’ shake fists in the teachers’ faces and bid them go where they themselves are, according to the teachers’ intimations, unconsciously destined; they pull the hair of girl pupils and trip them; they throw spitballs and jab pins into the legs of their fellows with the armed toes of their boots, strike their teachers and their mothers, and threaten the teachers in open classroom with knives and other weapons.

Dr. Perkins, who is himself a Principal in an elementary school, believes such pupils should scarcely be allowed to associate in rooms with normal pupils, or under women teachers whose helplessness is the greater in that corporal punishment is forbidden by the school rules, and the wayward pupils know it.

"He frequently complains of pains in the head."

“He frequently complains of pains in the head.”

T.D., 14 1/2 Years–Uses vile language. Told teacher to go to —. Dismissed himself seven times in one morning. Sat on fence adjoining schoolyard and attracted other boys’ attention. Called teacher a fool.

T.S.—Truant for about twenty-eight days. When he came back he was almost intolerable. He with two others in the class admitted to teacher that he frequently got drunk. Whenever any of the girls chanced to pass him, he tripped them, kicked them, punched them, or pulled their hair. He frequently complains of pains in the head. Frequently, at the beginning of the term, when called on to read, he would leave out words and substitute others in order to suggest or give an immoral meaning.

A.W.—Impudent, sulky, spiteful. Played continually with a penknife. Became impudent when I told him to put it away. One day when I insisted, he said: ‘I’ll stick you with it.’ In a quarrel over a book strap on Nov. 8 he stuck the knife into a boy’s arm.

L.K.—Brought a tube to school through which he threw spitballs, striking a boy in the eye. When reprimanded, he threw his books on the floor, stamped and scraped his feet, banged his desk, and in a loud and threatening voice used the most vile and insulting language. Not satisfied with this exhibition of temper, he placed a pin in his shoe and started to annoy the boys in his vicinity by jabbing them.”

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Another post which concerns the work of Dmitry Itskov and other immortality enthusiasts. This one presents the opening of a smart report about transhumanism from Andrew Couts at Digital Trends:

“Behind me, a Florida-orange senior citizen, in her orange blazer, wearing orange earrings, an orange bead necklace, and a white summer fedora, stands on the tip-toes of her orange leather loafers to get a better look at the weird scene unfolding in front of the crowd in the lobby of Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall in midtown Manhattan.

‘Yes,’ I tell Orange Woman. ‘The one sitting down is a robot. The one standing up is the guy who made him … er … it.’

‘Oh!’ she says. ‘I couldn’t tell the difference.’

‘Gemanoid HI-2,’ as it’s called, is an exact replica of its eccentric creator, Dr. Hiroshi Ishiguro. Same hair. Same all-black shirt and pants. Same little necklace. The only discernable difference between the two is that, while Dr. Ishiguro tells jokes, Mr. Gemanoid sits silently, slightly cross-eyed, blinking and jerking its head, with the eternally confused look of someone who suffered a paralyzing stroke while contemplating the ethics of Westboro Baptist Church.

In a tripod contraption next to Gemanoid hangs another of Ishiguro’s creations – a demented Casper the Ghost with all the charm of an aborted fetus. Its legs are a fused-together chunk. It has no hands, holes in place of ears, and the Mona Lisa smile of something undead. Ishiguro calls it Telenoid, an android designed with human-like features, but without all the pesky details that save onlookers from missing out on cold-sweat nightmares.

‘Well, that’s just wonderful,’ says Orange Woman. ‘It’s so lifelike!'”

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A philosopher once said this: “It doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.” Something more troubling than being lost in the sweep of time, in being an infinitesimally small piece of a larger plan, however, is if there’s not plan at all. The opening of Michael Ruse’s Aeon essay, “Does Life Have a Purpose?”:

“Aristotle, Plato’s student, didn’t want God in the business of biology like this. He believed in a God, but not one that cared about the universe and its inhabitants. (Rather like some junior members of my family, this God spent Its time thinking mostly of Its own importance.) However, Aristotle was very interested in final causes, and argued that all living things contain forces that direct them towards their goal. These life forces operate in the here and now, yet in some sense they have the future in mind. They animate the acorn in order that it might turn into an oak, and likewise for other living things. Like Plato, Aristotle used the metaphor of design but unlike Plato he wanted to keep any supervisory, conscious intelligence out of the game.

All of this came crashing down during the Scientific Revolution of the 16th and 17th centuries. For both Plato and Aristotle, the question of final causes had applied to physical phenomena — the stars, for example — as much as to biological phenomena. Both thought of objects as being rather like organisms. Why does the stone fall? Because being made of the element earth it wants to find its proper place, namely as close to the centre of the Earth as possible. It falls in order to achieve its right end: it wants to fall.

Now, however, the governing metaphors of nature changed. No longer did scientists think in terms of organisms: they thought in terms of machines. The world, the universe, is like a gigantic clock. As the 17th-century French philosopher-scientist René Descartes insisted, the human body is nothing but an intricate machine. The heart is like a pump, and the arms and legs are a system of levers and pulleys and so forth. The 17th-century English chemist and philosopher Robert Boyle realised that as soon as you start to think in the mechanical fashion, then talking about ends and purposes really isn’t very helpful. A planet goes round and round the Sun; you want to know the mechanism by which it happens, not to imagine some higher purpose for it. In the same way, when you look at a clock you want to know what makes the hands go round the dial — you want the proximate causes.

But surely machines have purposes just as much as organisms do?”

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I’ve posted before about Henry Petroski’s first book, To Engineer Is Human, which I love. It’s the one that made crystal for a non-engineer like myself that building bridges and buildings is not only a matter of science but also of best guesses. All these years after that 1985 volume–and with many books in between–Petroski has published a sequel of sorts, To Forgive Design, which examines, among other things, how the lessons of the past are no match for climate change of today and tomorrow. FromCollapse and Crash,” by Bill McKibben, in the New York Review of Books:

“But what if, in fact, the old war stories are becoming obsolete? The engineer, like the insurance agent, is hampered by the fact that his skill depends on the earth behaving in the future as it has in the past. As Petroski writes,

Since it is future failure that is at issue, the only sure way to test our hypotheses about its nature and magnitude is to look backward at failures that have occurred historically. Indeed, we predict that the probability of occurrence for a certain event, such as a hundred-year storm, is such and such a percentage, because all other things being equal, that has been the actual experience contained in the historical meteorological record.

That record, however, is now shattered. In the course of Petroski’s lifetime, and all of ours, we’ve left behind the Holocene, the ten-thousand-year period of benign climatic stability that marked the rise of human civilization. We’ve raised the global temperature about a degree so far, but a better way of thinking about it is: we’ve amped up the amount of energy trapped in our narrow envelope of atmosphere, and hence every process that feeds off that energy is now accelerating. For instance, this piece of simple physics: warm air holds more water vapor than cold. Already we’ve increased moisture in the atmosphere by about 4 percent on average, thus increasing the danger both of drought, because heat is evaporating more surface water, and of flood, because evaporated water must eventually come down as rain. And those loaded dice are doing great damage. The federal government spent more money last year repairing the damage from extreme weather than it did on education.”

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A little more regarding Steven Spielberg’s comments about the future of cinema (which I posted about recently) from Frank Rose in the New York Times:

“Mr. Spielberg offered a more radical vision. At a time of ubiquitous screens — video, movie and computer — he predicted an end to on-screen entertainment. Instead, he said he thought we’d have a kind of enveloping, wraparound entertainment.

‘We’re never going to be totally immersive as long as we’re looking at a square, whether it’s a movie screen or whether it’s a computer screen,’ Mr. Spielberg said.’ We’ve got to get rid of that and put the player inside the experience, where no matter where you look you’re surrounded by a three-dimensional experience. That’s the future.’

Though most people treat screens as a window, Mr. Spielberg seems to understand them as a barrier, one that prevents viewers — now ‘players’ — from being fully, actively engaged in their entertainment.

The idea of immersive entertainment — in which you can lose yourself and in which the line between fiction and reality blurs — isn’t new at all. And its impact can be disorienting.”

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I haven’t really looked at Edward Snowden as hero or villain from the beginning of the NSA leak controversy. Just a cog in a new machine that American media and citizenry can’t seem to fully comprehend–the machine we’re all living in now. Privacy as we knew it–for individuals, corporations and government–has been permanently left in the past. Everybody’s watching everybody, and it will only get easier to spy. And to use one of President Obama’s favorite phrases, this would be a really good time for a teachable moment, for a frank discussion about the way our society is now, how some things have disappeared into the cloud.

But when you take temporary refuge in Russia, as Snowden has, with that country’s brutal and murderous recent history of oppression of journalists and surveillance of its own citizens, you’ve pretty much permanently ceded the moral high ground.•

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From an Economist article about newly released archives which detail futuristic tech projects in Britain that never reached fruition, a brief bit from 1968 about the MUSTARD (the Multi-Unit Space Transport And Recovery Device) space shuttle:

“READERS of a certain age may remember Gerry and Sylvia Anderson’s sci-fi puppet shows—Supercar, Fireball XL5, Stingray, Thunderbirds and Captain Scarlet—filmed, as the Andersons put it, in “Supermarionation”. Those who remember Captain Scarlet in particular may find one of the pictures here eerily familiar. English Electric’s Fighter Jet Take-Off Platform, a flying airfield, is not quite the Cloudbase from which the immortal captain operated. But it was intended, like its fictional counterpart, to launch and receive planes while itself airborne. It would have taken off and landed vertically in, say, a jungle clearing otherwise inaccessible to the aircraft piggybacking on it.

English Electric was one of the firms merged into what eventually became BAE Systems, and BAE has recently been through its archives and publicised some of the projects dreamed up in the glory days of the 1960s, when designers’ imaginations were allowed to run riot with little consideration of practicality or budget. MUSTARD (the Multi-Unit Space Transport And Recovery Device), for example, was designed by the British Aircraft Corporation (BAC). It could pass for something out of Fireball XL5 or Supercar—though it also resembles Virgin Galactic’s SpaceShipTwo which will, Virgin hopes, soon be taking paying passengers to the edge of space. It would have been a three-stage space-plane, though only one stage would have made it into orbit. The other two were reusable boosters.”

•••••

“This man will be our hero, for fate will make him indestructible. His name: Captain Scarlet.”

i used to be a good man

but i am not sure anymore. the world is closing in on me. i was a good father husband and i have a lot to show for it….so why am i feeling so low? why do i feel like i just want to cry? not sure. but all i know is i am tired of worrying..i am going to be 60 in a few months…and the wild ride has gotten to me. sometimes i just want to go out for that pack of … cigarettes and never come back…..and i don’t even smoke. oh well.

10 search-engine keyphrases bringing traffic to Afflictor this week:

  1. project nim documentary
  2. is president obama going to resign?
  3. when did leroy neiman die?
  4. jim holt why does the wotld exist?
  5. photo of champion pedestrian edward payson weston
  6. what really happens on cruise ships?
  7. robert mcgee’s scalp
  8. mike gammon roller derby star
  9. was diego rivera a cannibal?
  10. which city in america do people live the longest?

 

Afflictor: Thinking Paula Deen will be returning to her former, less glamorous life.

  • A brief note from 1921 about PEDs.

From the December 28, 1921 New York Times:

Pittsburgh, Pa.–The nimble Pirates, minus the tendency to crack in the heat of a National League pennant chase, and a Pitt football team that will display more agility than any trick movie star, are promised for 1922 by A. Lincoln Bowden, a Pittsburgh oil man, who has volunteered to supply both aggregations with dried monkey meat during the coming year. Glands will be included in the menu, according to the Pittsburgher, who has offered his services in the spirit of a devoted gridiron and diamond fan and says he wants Pittsburgh athletes to beat the world.

Mr. Bowden is about to depart for South America to lay in a supply of monkeys of a superior class, which he has frequently observed in Ecuador. The invigorating element of monkey meat and glands, he asserted, will give indomitable power and unlimited aggressiveness to the baseball and football men.

In proof of his assertions, he points to the case of of a Pittsburgher who was in Ecuador with him two months ago. In this case, Mr. Bowden said, although the patient was quite bald, a diet of monkey meat caused new hair to grow on his head, while all pains and aches left him and neither the heat of the jungle nor the cold of high mountain plateaus affected him in the slightest degree.”

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The Digoene is Renzo Piano’s new attempt at a mobile home. From Vitra:

The development of Diogene

In an interview with Renzo Piano, the architect explains that the ideal of minimalist housing is something which he has been considering since his student days. It is a kind of obsession, but a good one. A living space of two by two by two metres – just enough space for a bed, a chair and a small table – is a dream many architecture students share. Back then, he was unable to realise the idea. At the end of the 1960s, however, when Piano was teaching at the Architectural Association in London, he joined forces with his students to build mini houses on Bedford Square. The architect has also designed boats, cars and, a few years ago, cells for the nuns of the Poor Clare nunnery of Ronchamp. There too, it was about minimising the spatial environment of these people, not for reasons of economic efficiency, but for self-moderation. The minimalist house is an idea that continues to fascinate Piano, particularly in an era in which his office is dealing with big projects, for instance what was Europe’s tallest high-rise at the time of its completion in 2012 – ‘The Shard’ in London.” (Thanks Pop-Up City.)

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You know how Google famously asked applicants brainteasers during the interview process? Like, how many basketballs can you fit into this office building? You and I always knew this was self-flattering, grandstanding nonsense that was predictive of nothing, and even Google management has finally come around. From Adam Bryant’s New York Times interview with Laszlo Bock, Google Senior Vice President of People Operations:

Laszlo Bock

On the hiring side, we found that brainteasers are a complete waste of time. How many golf balls can you fit into an airplane? How many gas stations in Manhattan? A complete waste of time. They don’t predict anything. They serve primarily to make the interviewer feel smart.

Instead, what works well are structured behavioral interviews, where you have a consistent rubric for how you assess people, rather than having each interviewer just make stuff up.

Behavioral interviewing also works — where you’re not giving someone a hypothetical, but you’re starting with a question like, ‘Give me an example of a time when you solved an analytically difficult problem.’ The interesting thing about the behavioral interview is that when you ask somebody to speak to their own experience, and you drill into that, you get two kinds of information. One is you get to see how they actually interacted in a real-world situation, and the valuable ‘meta’ information you get about the candidate is a sense of what they consider to be difficult.

On the leadership side, we’ve found that leadership is a more ambiguous and amorphous set of characteristics than the work we did on the attributes of good management, which are more of a checklist and actionable.

We found that, for leaders, it’s important that people know you are consistent and fair in how you think about making decisions and that there’s an element of predictability. If a leader is consistent, people on their teams experience tremendous freedom, because then they know that within certain parameters, they can do whatever they want. If your manager is all over the place, you’re never going to know what you can do, and you’re going to experience it as very restrictive.”

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A lot of Americans seemed to not be aware until the Snowden leak case that the government is spying on us–and that we’re spying on the government. The realization caused the Amazon sales rank of George Orwell’s 1984 to surge. Of course, Amazon was collecting information about you with each order and if you purchased the Kindle version of the book about spying overlords, you were potentially setting up a trail of info that could incriminate you. The opening of Nick Harkaway’s article on the topic at Future Book:

I’m quoted in the Guardian’s piece on Joyland and filesharing today, and on the basis that if you’re here at all it’s because you’re prepared to let me flesh out some ideas, that’s what I’m going to do. In the words of George Cyril Wellbeloved: ‘I expect you’re wondering what I think about all this.’

‘All this,’ incidentally, is a new system which apparently alters the text of ebooks in order to trace whose copy has been copied without consent.

In the first place, I think the notion of a book which is reconfigured to provide a chain of evidence in a civil proceeding against the reader is repellant. I think that is in the most perfectly Teutonic sense an un-book. Books should not spy on you. I’m fascinated by Kobo’s remarkable ability to track readers’ progress through an ebook, and the commercial side of me really wants that information. But the civil liberties thinker in me hates that the facility exists and loathes the fact that people aren’t entirely clear on how much they’re telling the system about themselves. It really unsettles me. This is far worse: the deliberate creation of an engine of observation inside the text of the book. It stinks

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hemingway@realhemingway

Isn’t it pretty to think so? #sadendings

 

•••••

An excerpt from a New Yorker blog post, in which author Thomas Beller, who is not Madison Smart Bell, considers the intersection of Twitter and literature:

Though Twitter is not exactly a new writing technology, it is a technology that is affecting a lot of writers. It used to be a radical cri de coeur to claim, ‘We live in public.’ Like many mantras of the cyber-nineties, this turns out to be mostly true, but misses an even larger truth: more and more, we think in public. For writers, this is an especially strange development.

•••

I sometimes wonder how the great writers of the past would handle the Twitter predicament. Would they ignore it or engage and go down the rabbit hole? Who are the really unlikely tweeters from literary history? Would Henry James, whose baroque sentences could never have been slimmed down into a hundred and forty characters, have disdained Twitter?

Most great writers could, if they wanted to, be very good at Twitter, because it is a medium of words and also of form. Its built-in limitation corresponds to the sense of rhythm and proportion that writers apply to each line. But some writers achieve their effect through an accumulation, or make sense via sentences that are, by themselves, on the far edge of making sense. (Robert Musil comes to mind.) Not everyone is primed to be a modern-day Heraclitus, like Alain de Botton, who starts each day, it seems, by cranking up his inner fortune-cookie machine and producing a string of tweets that are, to varying degrees, sour, funny, fatalistic, and bitingly true. It’s a comedian’s form. The primal tweet may be, ‘Take my wife, please!’

Gertrude Stein, with her gnomish, arty, aphoristic tendencies, would seem to be ideal. ‘There is no there there’ may be one of the great proto-tweets.

Joyce Carol Oates, whom I don’t think of as famously concise but who has become a prolific and often ingenious tweeter, recently tweeted a question: ‘If an action is not recorded on a smart phone, does it, did it, exist?’

Oates’s question touches on a set of major problems for writers on Twitter: Does a piece of writing that is never seen by anyone other than its author even exist? Does a thought need to be shared to exist? What happens to the stray thought that drifts into view, is pondered, and then drifts away? Perhaps you jot it down in a note before it vanishes, so that you can mull it over in the future. It’s like a seed that, when you return to it, may have grown into something visible. Or perhaps you put it in a tweet, making the note public. But does the fact that it is public diminish the chances that it will grow into something sturdy and lasting? Does articulating a thought in public freeze it in place somehow, making it not part of a thought process but rather a tiny little finished sculpture? Is tweeting the same as publishing?”

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Who among us doesn’t build a castle in the sky once or twice in his or her dreams? Some, however, don’t let such fancies pass.

For more than three decades, Horace Bullard fantasized of building a Coney Island with some of the luster the one of his youth possessed. And year after year he was frustrated, unable to transform what was in his head into reality. Bullard wasn’t a Rip Van Winkle: He lived a full life. But along with that life was a parallel one that remained unrealized, though he could almost touch it. Would reality have been a disappointment? We’ll never know.

From C.J. Hughes in the New York Times:

“Born in 1938 in East Harlem, Mr. Bullard grew up impoverished as the son of a black father, who was a plumber, and a Puerto Rican mother who raised five children. He began working at the age of 8 shining shoes, according to a television interview produced for the Manhattan Neighborhood Network TV channel in the early 2000s.

And although he said he largely shrugged off prejudice, his sister blamed racism for his failure to secure a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise in New York in the 1960s. But he later turned that to his advantage, having a friend analyze the chain’s batter and adding Puerto Rican spices, or ‘a touch of love,’ his sister said.

In 1968, that recipe grew into Kansas Fried Chicken, a chain named for Max’s Kansas City, a popular nightclub in Lower Manhattan where Mr. Bullard liked to spend time, said Ita Lew Bullard, who said she was his common-law wife for 35 years until they separated in 2002. He made his fortune from the chain, which once had 18 locations across the country — including one on the ground floor of the Shore Theater.

The business eventually closed, but the profits enabled Mr. Bullard to buy up properties on Coney Island and to begin dreaming of restoring the resort area’s luster with new or improved rides and parks.

‘He wanted year-round amusements, year-round employees,’ said Ralph Perfetto, a Coney Island resident and political organizer who knew Mr. Bullard since the 1970s. ‘It would make the neighborhood safe at night, it would be lighted up and clean, so we were strongly in favor of Horace Bullard.’ Even Mr. Bullard’s stationery was inscribed with carnival rides on it.”

 

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A pair of brief, fascinating Canadian radio reports from more than fifty years ago about IBM computers beginning to do tasks that algorithms now do routinely. The first from 1957 is about computerized dating, with the IBM making rudimentary matches based on data provided by single people attending a convention. (The hook-ups still had to be arranged via pay phone, however.) The second, recorded in 1962, concerns a department store using a computer to suggest gifts that you’re loved ones might like.

John Hodgman, who refuses to retire, has today released his Netflix special, RAGNAROK, which is streaming 24 hours a day at no extra charge for subscribers.

RAGNAROK, by the way, is a Norse word meaning “Netflix won’t promote my special because I gave it such a stupid fucking name.”

Actually, the special is a taped live stage performance that Hodgman did in Brooklyn last December, concerning all of the end-of-days fervor perpetrated by those dishonest Mayans. There will likely be a lot of sorta funny stories about obscure shit, and it may also be an opportunity to watch a lavishly overcompensated man have a midlife crisis onstage. Still, I root for the big lug, so I’ll be streaming tonight. I hope you will as well.

But why, you ask, should we be supporting the affable front for evil corporations? Well, technically Hodgman isn’t solely responsible for Bangladesh. There are other players who must also be brought to justice. Hanging is too good for them all.•

John Hodgman: Hot romance with Drew Barrymore.

John Hodgman: Hot romance with Drew Barrymore.

No, that was me.

No, that was me.

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"Did you volunteer?"

“Did you volunteer?”

Hypnosis side effects?

A lot of people want to know but are afraid to ask. 

Maybe you’ve seen one of those stage shows where people do silly things. Did you volunteer? Some volunteers go home and have some embarrassing side effects. Maybe you were made to flap your arms like a chicken on cue, and afterwards you have strange dreams about being a chicken? Or perhaps you can’t smell things quite right? Believe me, there are lots of people who go through these shows with fun, but there are some who suffer some embarrassing effects afterwards and are just too afraid to share. Have you experienced the above? Email me telling me what happened.

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“Maybe you were made to flap your arms like a chicken?”

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“His condition was filthy in the extreme.”

Members of the Lunacy Commission popped in on the hovel of a wealthy, naked pack rat one fine day and uncovered a remarkable story, as recounted in an article in the August 18, 1871 New York Times, which was apparently published before the invention of paragraph breaks:

“In the report of the Commissioners in Lunacy, just issued, an extraordinary case is mentioned in the list of lunatics found under illegal charge. It appears that the Commissioner, having learned that a gentlemen reputed to be wealthy, and about thirty-five years of age, whom they designate as Mr. A—, was living for ten years in seclusion at the chief hotel in B—, made inquiry which showed that such a person actually existed, that the manager of the hotel alone had access to him, and that his acts were scarcely consistent with sanity. Very soon one of the medical members of the Board, accompanied by the Secretary, paid a visit to the hotel, and inquired for Mr. M—, the manager. This person was not forthcoming, and, consequently, the doctor and his attendant made their way upstairs, and were going toward the apartments which they understood were occupied by Mr. A—, when they found the manager in the ante-room. Mr. M—, it seems, begged for delay; but the doctor, pushing him aside, opened a door, and speedily found himself in an inner and perfectly dark room, whence came a voice like that of a man under surprise and in alarm, demanding repeatedly what was the matter. Lights were obtained, and the visitors then saw what was before them. From wall to wall the room was literally blocked up with a mass of furniture and rubbish, from the midst of which emerged the head of a middle-aged and dark-bearded man. A single tortuous lane through this lumber led toward him, and the doctor had to pick his way over broken glass and crockery, bundles of candles, old clothes, parcels of stale biscuits, and other indescribable rubbish. No fire was in the grate, and, a curtain being drawn across the window, no daylight was visible. Behind a table, covered with bags of stuff, lay Mr. A— on a small, broken-down horsehair sofa, closely hemmed in on every side. He was enveloped with a rug, but without any other clothing. His condition was filthy in the extreme; his beard was upward of two feet long, the lower two-thirds being inextricably matted with filth and full of vermin. His hair was even more matted and dirtier than the beard, especially on each side over the ears, being in this condition even more than a foot in length. On his feet were some pieces of American cloth, under which was an admixture of filthy rags, paper and refuse tied with numerous strings about his toes, feet and ankles, the condition of which was extremely loathsome. The great toe nails were an inch and a half in length. The finger nails were also enormously long, and with the hands were very offensive to the sight. His legs, from being kept in one position, had become rigid, forming nearly a right angle with the thigh, and resisting the extension, although there appeared to be no swelling or tenderness. The face of the extraordinary person was pale and haggard; but his body, though emitting a powerfully-disagreeable odor, was fairly nourished. He had not washed for years, and though abundance of clothes was lying about the room, he had made no effort to get them. With all these strange appearances, however, Mr. A— appeared to be perfectly sane, and was able to give a rational account of himself, and the reason which had brought him there. In fact, his gentlemanly demeanor most strangely contrasted with horrible condition he was in, and made the sight more painful. The doctor soon ascertained that Mr. A— was possessed not only of the large estates, but a life interest of upward of $100,000; that some ten years ago he had gradually sunk into a nervous condition, which caused him to fancy that people regarded him as a lunatic, and he resolved to shut himself up away from the world. Taking rooms at the hotel, he gradually became more determined in his resolve; and then, having made arrangements with the manager, Mr. M—, to supply him with food, he changed his residence to the apartment where he was now discovered, and from that time had allowed no one to visit him. In this way he had existed for years, until the state of the room he was lying in, and particularly one adjoining, was such that the doctors and others who visited the place professionally express their astonishment that typhus fever had not been generated long ago. From what he said, he would gladly have left his place of seclusion some years since, and he was continually mourning the fact of his being shut out of the world, but the prevailing idea on his mind seemed to be that to accomplish this he must have someone to help him, and Mr. M— appears to have offered him no assistance. Frequently when he heard people talking below his windows he had exclaimed, ‘Oh, God! when shall I be assisted out of this state, and be able to mix again with the world.’ He seemed very anxious to know whether the doctor considered him out of his mind, saying that, although he was laboring under a delusion when he took up his residence at the hotel, he was now perfectly sane, quite disgusted with the state of affairs, and determined that if any attempt were made to show him insane he would spend his whole fortune to prove the contrary. He was very shortly afterward removed in a cab to the neighboring asylum, and there placed in a chair, in which he appeared unable to sit upright, but cowered down with his head bent over his knees, drawing at the same time a large piece of baize over him, concealing his features, which, when exposed, were nervously agitated. Upon his hair being cut, he begged earnestly that no one might be allowed to see it, or the old rags with which he had covered himself. He was afterward placed in a bath, where he proceeded to cleanse himself vigorously, and then being put to bed, some warm brandy and water was given him. Although he at first refused to take proper food, he gave way very soon to the advice of those under whose care he was placed, and expressed his great desire to and in any means which might be adopted for endeavoring to restore the power and motion to his stiffened joints. Although at first his statements were somewhat incoherent, his powers of memory appeared remarkably good, and his conversation was, as a rule, marked by intelligence and shrewdness of mean order. The only semblance of delusion was the idea–frequently repeated by him–that it was necessary to have someone of stronger will than his own which he found inadequate to assist in resuming his position in society. His great regret appeared to be that he had not met with the doctor who first visited him ten years ago, as he said that he only needed a little help to have been enabled to conquer the disposition to seclusion which eventually overcame him. After he had been under medical treatment for some time, and it was found that he was in no way insane. Mr. A— was allowed to leave the asylum, he being exceedingly anxious to go out into the world again. It is not stated in the report which was issued July 23 whether proceedings of any sort were taken against M—, the manager of the hotel.”

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The opening of “Man of the Future,” a very well-written article by Alex Mar at the Believer, about the death–perhaps temporary–of Iranian transhumanist Fereidoun Esfandiary:

On July 8, 2000, a man was loaded into an ambulance, packed in with dozens of Ziploc bags of ice cubes, and rushed onto the long flight from New York City to Scottsdale, Arizona. Several hours earlier, he’d been pronounced clinically dead, but on the ground a team of technicians had rallied around his cancer-riddled cadaver with great optimism.

At the Alcor Life Extension Foundation, they laid out the body—now patient A-1261—on an operating table encased in a coffin-shaped Plexiglas box. To keep the temperature down, the technicians pumped the box full of hyper-cold nitrogen gas, maintaining A-1261 in what they believed to be a liminal state—on pause. They worked so feverishly to preserve the body because it belonged to one of their champions. A-1261 was (and, they hoped, would someday become again) one of the world’s most celebrated transhumanists, a prominent member of a loose collective of futurists working in philosophy, science, and technology to realize humankind’s full potential, with the ultimate goal of shrugging off the shackles of aging and death. At Alcor, the Holy See of cryonics, the attendants were of the same tribe, and this is how you die if you’re one of them: an impermanent death, your mind and all the radical ideas contained therein ‘cryopreserved’ until a distant, far more evolved Future is ready to grow you a new body and embrace you as your Phase Two, cyborg self. A transhumanist’s death is merely a pit stop on the way to his inevitable resurrection.

The surgeons inserted their bright blue rubber-gloved hands through mail-slot openings in the Plexiglas to tend to the vessel. They cut deeply with the scalpel, then identified the precise spot—between the sixth and seventh vertebrae—and with a chisel and a mallet lopped off the head of Fereidoun Esfandiary.”

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Now you can tweet forever:

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