The other day I was watching a PBS documentary about ABBA, and I had one of those revelatory moments when the scales fell from my eyes and I realised something I'd long forgotten: that Agnetha Fältskog’s bottom was the sweaty, nylon-clad driving force behind my sexual awakenings.
They should make more subtle changes, like a chocolate eclair that actually tasted of a profiterole. Or cheese & onion crisps that actually taste of cheese & chive crisps. Of course, you'd have to take their word for it that they'd hadn't just put a load of cheese & chive crisps into cheese & onion crisp packets, and that they actually had modified the crisps. It's a system that's open to abuse, I suppose I'm saying. A Picnic that tasted of a Lion Bar - I bet I wouldn't be able to tell any difference. So don't get me to do the testing.
I want to know where I can download SilenceMorons.exe, myself.
It's moments like that which make me realize that on a certain level the internet is nothing but a bunch of people waiting around for someone to make new culture so we can fuck it to death.
This is so wrong. I feel dirty. Is there an internet support group for people who fancy Teh Wrong People?
Which strain of e. coli is fashionable this summer?
The Danish man went to Camden on my advice and found it so exciting
that he now wants to move there. He is an academic in his fifties who
only ever wears white. I fear the worst.
Thirty-seven comments, and every single one focuses on your software woes and not the big SPLOOSH of elephant spooge that comes whooshing out of her when he withdraws.
life returns: London sighs and unzips its pants
Tube life seem to be coming back to normal in London as the regular drunk assortment were out in full force.
A guy and his girlfriend were doing that wrestling that you usually reserve for the playground jungle gym, where you dangle and attempt to crush the other person in the Thighs of Death. She was getting pretty good at it and his jeans were getting down about his knees.
The guy sitting across from us was wearing jeans that were far too tight. It was made worse because he used his lump to rest his bottle of beer.
in my month away from the internet i have learned one thing: with basic cable and a bit of determination one can watch M*A*S*H pretty much all day long.
i also learned that it's surprisingly difficult not to write mash!slash. oh, shut up.
"Furries can never truly win an argument, since at the end of the day when everyone goes home, they are still Furries and you are not. In this sense, a Furry can never put forward a winning argument. A simple rebuff of any argument with 'But you are a furry' is invincible."
Apparently Becky has been a bad snake and has been trying to get out of the apartment by squeezing her body under the front door and into the hallway. According to the manager she has freaked out a couple of tenants and was about a foot and a half out the door. (She's a little longer than five feet and there is no way she could fit the rest of her body out underneath the door.)
Bad, bad, bad Becky.
When I started out bicycling, I had a jersey but just wore plain shorts even though I had a pair of those stupid-looking bicycle shorts. I didn't wear them because I didn't want to look like a poser. In my plain shorts, I would wave to other cyclists but they would just ignore me. One day I decided to wear the stupid-looking shorts and the world changed. Other cyclists would wave to me first! I suddenly had street cred. It was all about the shorts
Platonic solids make everything OK.
I think the problem is that the future, maybe for the first time since WWII, lies on the far side of an event horizon for us, because there are so many futures possible. There’s the wetware future, the hardware future, the transhumanist future, the post-rationalist (aka fundamentalist) future.
And then there’s the future where everything just sort of keeps going on the way it has, with incremental changes, and technology is no longer the deciding factor in things. You don’t need high tech to change the world; you need Semtex and guns that were designed by a Russian soldier fifty-odd years ago.
Meanwhile, most of the people with any genuine opportunity or ability to effect global change are too busy patting each other on the back at conventions and blue-skying goofy social networking tools that are essentially useless to 95% of the world’s population, who live within fifteen feet of everyone they’ve ever known and have no need to track their fuck buddies with GPS systems. (This, by the way, includes most Americans, quite honestly.)
You can’t blame them for this, because it’s fun and it’s a great way to travel and get paid, but it doesn’t actually help solve any real problems, except the problem of media theory grad students, which the rest of the world isn’t really interested in solving.
Feeding poor people is useful tech, but it’s not very sexy and it won’t get you on the cover of Wired. Talk about it too much and you sound like an earnest hippie. So nobody wants to do that.
They want to make cell phones that can scan your personal measurements and send them real-time to potential sex partners. Because, you know, the fucking Japanese teenagers love it, and Japanese teenagers are clearly the smartest people on the planet.
The upshot of all of this is that the Future gets divided; the cute, insulated future that Joi Ito and Cory Doctorow and you and I inhabit, and the grim meathook future that most of the world is facing, in which they watch their squats and under-developed fields get turned into a giant game of Counterstrike between crazy faith-ridden jihadist motherfuckers and crazy faith-ridden American redneck motherfuckers, each doing their best to turn the entire world into one type of fascist nightmare or another.
Of course, nobody really wants to talk about that future, because it’s depressing and not fun and doesn’t have Fischerspooner doing the soundtrack. So everybody pretends they don’t know what the future holds, when the unfortunate fact is that - unless we start paying very serious attention - it holds what the past holds: a great deal of extreme boredom punctuated by occasional horror and the odd moment of grace.