Retro-greement
I was going to comment on a recent post from Shelley when I realized that I already had, sorta.
I was going to comment on a recent post from Shelley when I realized that I already had, sorta.
The above is an amusing spam message I received today, which was send to a shell mail account I used a couple of months ago to leave comments on a Radio-based weblog. A variation on an old theme, of course, but the amusement factor almost makes the annoyance of dealing with crap like this worthwhile.
Anybody know if Radio has fixed its vulnerability to email-harvesters reading comments threads yet?
(The return email address for this piece of crap was isiomaprosper@qrio.com, by the way. Harvest away, spam-robots!)
Who teaches logical positivism, and is he (or she) also in charge of the sheepdip? If not, I hereby volunteer for ‘Professor Emeritus of Being In Charge of The Sheepdip’.
Update : As the Good Reverend has seen fit to put me in charge of Analytic Philosophy and cruelly denied me my request to be in charge of the Ovine Excreta, I figured I’d read up on it. Most interesting.
It’s been a while since I’ve done a shameless plug, so : if you’re fond of ‘vintage blues and various cognates, kith and kin thereof – from a capella to zydeco, including but not limited to deep delta blues, jump blues, Hawaiian slack key, hillbilly, Western swing’ and so on, I most highly recommend Karl Kotas’s (y2karl of Metafilter fame) streaming show here.
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I’m not sure I agree with Mr Odlyzko, entirely, but that may only be a matter of semantics. My feverdream defense of ‘content’ a couple of days ago took as its launchpad an understanding of the word that is broader than the one Mr Odlyzko uses (and in some ways is actually diametrically opposed to it, but that’s a side-issue, I think). Blogs as open letters, as content rather than Content….
One of the things Mr Odlyzko is saying is that the internet is not a broadcast medium. As obviously wrong as it seems, thinking it is was one of the core dumbass mistakes that businesses were making before the bubble burst, one of the dumbass mistakes that’s still being made. AOLTimeWarner indeed. LOLTimeWarner, maybe. (Ba-dump dump tish! Thank you, you’ve been a great audience. I’ll be here until Thursday!)
One-to-oneness is where value (questions there are aplently about the word ‘value’, too) lies, more than one-to-manyness (Mr O talks about letters and newspapers, about email and the web). The bridge between the two concepts is (ta-daaa!) the weblog, of course. It’s not email, but it shares much of the intensely personal nature nature of correspondence. It’s not ‘Content’, at least not in the way that Big Media regards it, as a ‘non-recoverable expense‘. But it is true that blogspace contains some of the most compelling writing and imagery and pure fun that’s available on the internet or elsewhere, ‘content’ that’s constantly renewed by the passions of thousands of individuals singing their individual songs for the pure joy of the singing, and for the comradeship that comes from finding people who hear similar music in their heads…
This message of Mr O’s reminds me very much of the sort of thing that a certain Mr Locke (quoted recently here: “You can broaden the pipe as far as you want, but if everybody can play, it’s not broadcast any more. There isn’t that control of the passes. The channel is out of control and that makes it a different game…”) and his cohort of merry cluesters have been saying for a while, and are still saying.
I like it when things come together like that.
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I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here, but I think I like it.
I always find the visceral hatred some web-purist types seem to harbour for Flash puzzling, particularly when wacky folk can use it to make trippy stuff like Crankbunny. Each thing in its proper place. Kumbaya, my lord. Something like that.
This Metafilter thread has put me into an old well-worn groove wherein, despite many thoughts ignited and roman-candle launched across the night sky, I keep circling back inexorably to a conviction that people are evil, and that we are all circling the bowl waiting for that terminal clean-up flush, and so, before I get too terribly worked-up about it, I just move on.
Edit : Yes, I know :
“People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
Exhibit The First
Exhibit The Second
A Rant, in One-Part Harmony.
See me feel me touch me heal me. Wasn’t that what the Burning Sun God sang, all falsetto fakery? It’s really all in the way the words are said or sung or screamed, rather than the actual words you choose, isn’t it? I am content. I am content. See what I’m sayin’, there, folks? Not what you deliver, but the delivery itself!
Shuffling, whether off the mortal coil, or into the spotlight, it’s the motion, not the meat, mama. The medium ain’t worth a rat’s posterior. The eye is drawn to motion – ‘don’t move or he’ll see us‘ is whispered child’s-voice breathlessly in a technicolour dream of Monsters Under The Bed.
Shoot the messenger, or wait until the marathon man Phidippides collapses of his own accord, it’s all the same to me. Amp up that pure sweet white-noise signal. “These ones go to 11!” Don’t talk to me about Signal versus Noise – the noise is the signal. The carrier wave carrying itself. Not amplitude, but frequency modulation.
It’s not the Message, by golly, it’s the Carrier.
Go go gadget fugue state!
Comedy comma improv. The native indian aboriginal american whatever the hell we’re supposed to call those poor bastards these days (racist sacks of redneck dung, amongst drooling cadres of whom I spent my formative years, referred to them as ‘chugs’), anywaywhatevernevermind, the tribe that lived for a few thousand years in the area in which I grew up in Northern British Columbia before us white devils arrived, the Nikozliautin the Pintce and the Nakraztli, are collectively referred to as the ‘Carrier Tribe’. This name arose from their custom in which a widow was obliged to carry the cremated remains of her husband on her back for three years after his demise.
Just think of that. Three years of carrying that dust and those bones.
Exeunt omnes, with sackcloth and ashes for damn sure.
All that you see, all that you eat, all you excrete (sucker that I am for scatalogical humour, one of my favorite moments of the late lamented Family Guy is when the son, Chris (ain’t that a kicker), stares intently at a chocolate bar before gleefully declaiming in his oddly-timbred voice : “I’m going to turn you into poo!” and taking a bite), and so on a la U2 ripping off Pink Floyd : it’s content, baby. And we are all just containers : conduits, conductors, conspirators. In this I am content.
Now gimme that money, ‘fore I smack you up!
[via AccordionGuy]
From ‘The Philosopher’s Magazine on the Internet’, it’s Battleground God! Give it a whirl. Just don’t do it after a few beers, like your humble host. That was a bad, bad idea.
The instructions – “the aim of the activity is not to judge whether these answers are correct or not. Our battleground is that of rational consistency” – threw me off a bit, dammit. I think this may be why after a couple of years of university philosophy, I deemed it all a big wank, and henceforth focussed with laser-like intensity on holding forth from barstools. More fun than parsing out logic, ’twas, by golly.
Regardless, an amusing diversion. Enjoy.
I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, one who would condone the spraypainting of graffitti. Even the ‘urban art’ thing. Give the bastards some brushes and cleaning solution, and make ’em do something useful for a change. Pay ’em to do it, even. If they spray paint even one word, arrest the little bastards, and put ’em to work.
Now, despite this aversion to defacement I feel, this image (popup, 16k) from Page 3 of today’s Korea Times annoys the hell out of me, because it speaks so eloquently of Koreans’ endless ability to either blame their problems on other people, or shine the light of disapproval on the Outsider, while ignoring their own failings. The mote in your brother’s eye, and all that crap. Find this halfwit Cedric and his hydrocephalic girlfriend Andrea and make them scrub the throat-oysters off subway platforms for a while, sure, but don’t turn a blind eye to the endless acts of incivility and filthmongering your own people do, every goddamn day, you sanctimonious, self-important bastards!
(Whew. That feels better.)
If you’ve been following the Korea-related rantings of the wonderchicken for any length of time at all, you know how I feel about the filth and pollution that a city dweller here in Korea must wallow through. I really wish I had that digital camera I want to buy, just so I could show you some of the refuse-handiwork around my neighbourhood, by way of comparison. Later, maybe.
Happy 70th birthday to Harold Kindall, Jerry Kindall‘s dad. Just ’cause I’m a sentimental old chook, sometimes.
Via Lia, these more-than-slightly-surreal photos of the so-called Arirang Festival in North Korea at the moment.
Isn’t it just amazing sometimes the stupid stuff people do? I mean, at least once a day I mutter to myself about things South Korean : “What the hell can they be thinking?”
But even the most oddball of behaviours here in the South (today’s example was the environmental Green Festival posters plastered pell-mell across every non-moving surface, vertical or horizontal, at the university, literally hundreds of them, printed on paper that will dollars-to-donuts not be recycled…) are peanuts compared to what would to all intents and purposes appear to be some sort of weird consensual hallucination (possibly triggered by the predilection (seemingly limited to Koreans and Ukrainian grandmothers) for mixing swaths of pastel pink and green wherever possible) north of the DMZ.
(My, I’m parenthetical today, aren’t I? Must be the vitamin B.)
I offer these Canadian facts as accompaniment to the post about America earlier :
These shocking facts and more can be found here. Once again, I leave my gentle readers to draw their own conclusions about this hateful, evil nation and its unpleasant denizens, with their incessant foul language and their flip-top heads. [via boingboing]
This is a test post using w.bloggar.
Edit : Now, that’s cool. The propellor on top of my beanie is spinning like nobody’s business.
Korea is not a nation known for it’s consumption of dairy, although people here are eating a lot more of it in recent years. These days, I only have to travel about 40 minutes on the subway to buy some actual cheddar cheese, imported from Australia.
There’s still a racially-based prejudice that Koreans have, expressed in the commonly-known, accepted-wisdom phrase (transcribed into roman characters for your delectation) used to describe the smell of euro-descended people : buttah nemseh. The ‘buttah’ part of this phrase means, as you might expect, ‘butter’. ‘Nemseh’ means ‘smells of’, or ‘stinks like’. The idea is that westerners stink of butter, and the assumption is that this is because we (the generalized monkey mass of ‘we’) eat so much dairy. Whether the difference in odor one experiences in a crowd of Koreans as opposed to westerners (although it must be noted that a diet heavy in kimchi creates its own set of quite pungent scents : early morning elevator rides can be trying) is due to diet, or the oft-repeated claim that there are enzymatic differences in the sweat of those of Asian descent, I have no idea, and am unqualified to guess.
This butter thing would apparently be the norm in Japan as well. Fujiko, a Japanese porn starlet, is quoted in this article at NYPress.com (of all places, and I have no idea why I remembered it, but the piece is well worth reading) in which Jonathan Ames is invited to be a porn director-for-a-day :
Fujiko and her colleagues, I would think, are perhaps uniquely qualified to evaluate the differences in scent between men, at least, of different nations. Of necessity, she obviously gets more up close and personal than, say, your average secretary or computer programmer might, and has a larger sample group from which to draw her comparisons.
Maybe there is something to the phrase, and the preconception. I have never really imagined myself smelling ‘buttery’, though. My wife claims that I am veritable chameleon of scent, which is perhaps mildly reassuring.
What is true, and may have something to do with the attitude towards dairy products here, is that milk in Korea stinks! No, seriously – every morning when I make coffee (which is the only time I use milk), I take a sniff of the milk carton, out of sheer habit, and I am struck once again (as I was just before I sat down to type this) how bad that stuff smells, more than in any of the other couple of dozen countries in which I’ve drunk it.
At the risk of sounding like a bad standup comic, what’s up with that?