Why I cannot get to heraldica at night, my eastern standard time, is probably related to the fact I no longer purchase virus protection, and if you're going to ask me why I don't just kill part of my online service, that issue will be rearing its head, soon. I did, however, succeed earning partial supplements through 08. So I'm breaking my back, literally, trying to hold on, ignoring all the rules about blogging, but let me assure you, that if I had done the right fucking thing and left Riverside in 05 after I broke up with Frank and mama collapsed and died, you would not read such a dismal tone. My chairs broke around 06, and building manager's trench war with me started 07, and I spent down, with no money coming in, from that time, perhaps no longer a target employee for one of those wedge businesses. Gawker is dead, and if I was a very good blogger I'd know how they acquired the Bollea tape which led to Thiel's litigation. I know what Gawker did with the tape, wrote about it in my vanished Yabberz profile footprint. I know Gawker's former editor testified. I know Thiel is pissed about something which doesn't matter; I'm anti-gay and even so, it doesn't matter, and I've worn a lot worse than a tweet using the word faggot to scold.
Yes, libertarians would say Thiel read The Fountainhead and played it out, and fuck that. Gawker uses fuck; for them it was sartorial; for me it is menacing; this is what 22 years of screaming at my family to get me the fuck out of Riverside adds up to. The scar runs deep, a virtual gouge. Is Thiel going to help me? Ease my pain? Let me have my freedom? Doubt it. I'm ruined, because I let Protestants and minorities scam me like an EBT magnetic strip-- though I am on Nick Denton's side, however, the rancor is starting to grate, one note of chopsticks, leaving us to wince. I don't know what is going to happen to me. I'm got going back to a home though. I'll die in Houston raped by a gun muzzle sooner, and some of you know I no doubt mean it.
I will have more to say later. I may not have a contract, but my nose knew the Bollea victory would ripple. I just do not want to do extensive edits now.
Showing posts with label ayn rand. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ayn rand. Show all posts
Monday, August 22, 2016
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
The Love of Theoretical Constructs
stop cursing everybody-- unattributed
I worry a great deal about Palantir. Peter Thiel commands in his online captions "let's change the world," but this facial recognition software and complex data analytics contravenes the very notion of personal liberty, and seems less innovative than simply more of the same. Asimov predicted, rather uncannily, where global conglomeration is taking us, long before David Mitchell earned a tsunami of critical acclaim with Cloud Atlas, as early as 1952, with Foundation and Empire. The protagonist, whose name is beyond recollection, discovers at the close of the novel that robots--for all intents and proposes androids, have programmed absolute control of human destiny, an ending more chilling than Mitchell's grim predicate of our decline and fall as a species, and here we are with these massive monopolies to which we've already ceded our lives, today nearly a prerequisite for existence, barring a reversion to a nomadic existence. Examining Thiel's media hostility under another lens, however, Thiel's destruction of Nick Denton's business is eerily similar to what Ayn Rand's mogul publisher Gail Wynand does by silencing a columnist who has co-opted his paper. Wynand cannot stop the man from preaching to his readers, so with an improbable ruthlessness, Wynand simply shuts down his presses, giving The Fountainhead a spiritual stridency for which Rand is often criticized. The Fountainhead is Rand's best polemical writing, undoubtedly, but she eschews the media because journalists, by definition, are shepherds, trying to penetrate, reform as much as inform upon its audience. It points to an old fashioned conceit about gay men and lesbians as a class, a retentive prudery.
I worry a great deal about Palantir. Peter Thiel commands in his online captions "let's change the world," but this facial recognition software and complex data analytics contravenes the very notion of personal liberty, and seems less innovative than simply more of the same. Asimov predicted, rather uncannily, where global conglomeration is taking us, long before David Mitchell earned a tsunami of critical acclaim with Cloud Atlas, as early as 1952, with Foundation and Empire. The protagonist, whose name is beyond recollection, discovers at the close of the novel that robots--for all intents and proposes androids, have programmed absolute control of human destiny, an ending more chilling than Mitchell's grim predicate of our decline and fall as a species, and here we are with these massive monopolies to which we've already ceded our lives, today nearly a prerequisite for existence, barring a reversion to a nomadic existence. Examining Thiel's media hostility under another lens, however, Thiel's destruction of Nick Denton's business is eerily similar to what Ayn Rand's mogul publisher Gail Wynand does by silencing a columnist who has co-opted his paper. Wynand cannot stop the man from preaching to his readers, so with an improbable ruthlessness, Wynand simply shuts down his presses, giving The Fountainhead a spiritual stridency for which Rand is often criticized. The Fountainhead is Rand's best polemical writing, undoubtedly, but she eschews the media because journalists, by definition, are shepherds, trying to penetrate, reform as much as inform upon its audience. It points to an old fashioned conceit about gay men and lesbians as a class, a retentive prudery.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Braque Boxes
James once suggested to William Dean Howells that he should consider publishing a story on incest. --Michael C Clark, shoulder ghost
I may not have had the diction on hand then that I have available today, but even before my father smashed my stereo to avoid smashing me, and there were several of those instances, signifying the luck of the draw that my immediate family wasn't subject to annihilation, I knew in my pre-collegiate days that Pete Townshend's solo smash was too effective as a corrosive force on my naivete. Elton and Bernie may have dangled homoerotic lyrics like a choice pork medallion, but they did it with an adolescent simplex. Townshend is darker in Empty Glass, a sick perverted bastard if ever there was one, and yet, in the musical traditions that fermented British rock, the album is a work of art, much like Birth of the Nation put the movie industry on the map due to its technical accomplishments, despite the ferocity of its repressions. Blomkamp speaks to this aesthetic complicity in District 9. He was speaking my language before my blogging unwittingly gave voice to my somewhat unrealized convictions, before I butted heads with secular liberalism, whether Zionist, academic, or LBGT.
The plot does have certain inexplicable elements. Christopher seems to be a lone intelligence amid a swarm of alien idiots who cognate slightly better than great apes, and Copley's Wikus survives a paranoid military of a paranoid government and its equally brutal gangland counterpart, but that given, it is a film that has caught up with what it is possible to achieve in science fiction when authors treat the genre with respect. In watching Blomkamp's mock analysts, we see reinforced how our own analysts stand as a bulwark, giving power the benefit of the doubt. When the Petraeus scandal broke, David Brooks gaffed, sitting in his Newshour chair, "I had lunch with him [the general] last week."
This signifies that Brooks gets access in the Beltway, but little else in what the public should know, could know, about the people we pay to run our governments; District 9 signifies this -- it is a film integral to Africaan guilt (and those Dutch polyglots should feel guilty) but applicable to the rest of us. It is honest in its view that the legal collapse of apartheid does not magically fuse Europeans and Africans like Siamese twins, although Henry Louis Gates, whose chip on the shoulder practically vibrates, says we are all biologically African! How can caste subjugation be so pervasive? Gates makes Rand's ideological lunacy seem sympathetic.
Blomkamp should have won the best foreign film Oscar, but that would have been risky, an anti-establishment gateway.
I may not have had the diction on hand then that I have available today, but even before my father smashed my stereo to avoid smashing me, and there were several of those instances, signifying the luck of the draw that my immediate family wasn't subject to annihilation, I knew in my pre-collegiate days that Pete Townshend's solo smash was too effective as a corrosive force on my naivete. Elton and Bernie may have dangled homoerotic lyrics like a choice pork medallion, but they did it with an adolescent simplex. Townshend is darker in Empty Glass, a sick perverted bastard if ever there was one, and yet, in the musical traditions that fermented British rock, the album is a work of art, much like Birth of the Nation put the movie industry on the map due to its technical accomplishments, despite the ferocity of its repressions. Blomkamp speaks to this aesthetic complicity in District 9. He was speaking my language before my blogging unwittingly gave voice to my somewhat unrealized convictions, before I butted heads with secular liberalism, whether Zionist, academic, or LBGT.
The plot does have certain inexplicable elements. Christopher seems to be a lone intelligence amid a swarm of alien idiots who cognate slightly better than great apes, and Copley's Wikus survives a paranoid military of a paranoid government and its equally brutal gangland counterpart, but that given, it is a film that has caught up with what it is possible to achieve in science fiction when authors treat the genre with respect. In watching Blomkamp's mock analysts, we see reinforced how our own analysts stand as a bulwark, giving power the benefit of the doubt. When the Petraeus scandal broke, David Brooks gaffed, sitting in his Newshour chair, "I had lunch with him [the general] last week."
This signifies that Brooks gets access in the Beltway, but little else in what the public should know, could know, about the people we pay to run our governments; District 9 signifies this -- it is a film integral to Africaan guilt (and those Dutch polyglots should feel guilty) but applicable to the rest of us. It is honest in its view that the legal collapse of apartheid does not magically fuse Europeans and Africans like Siamese twins, although Henry Louis Gates, whose chip on the shoulder practically vibrates, says we are all biologically African! How can caste subjugation be so pervasive? Gates makes Rand's ideological lunacy seem sympathetic.
Blomkamp should have won the best foreign film Oscar, but that would have been risky, an anti-establishment gateway.
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