Wednesday, October 31, 2007 :::
Having said all we did on Monday, for the love of humanity there are certain offline activities to avoid. My soul may rest peacefully, now that I've clarified this point. Should we meet at some kind of Renaissance fair, ten or twenty years down the road, and you find me in full costume as Sir Dancealot, Lord of Song, you save me, understand? You print this shit out--you print this shit out on parchment, if necessary--and you remind me of our discussion.
Let's switch gears tonight, with the holidays fast approaching, and talk about air travel, specifically the safety thereof. You flight aficionados will want to tune out, I imagine, because you already know all the stats that need knowing, and that's cool. But for the rest of us--the Icarus, as it were--let's gather 'round.
You've had this discussion, probably, about how flying is safer than driving. Despite all the data, some will invariably brush aside the stats, claiming that sitting behind the wheel affords a greater sense of control, which always seemed a little odd. I mean, seldom do you hear the same argument leveled against buses or subways, right? I know when I board mass transit, I don't tell the conductor to scoot over so I can help out. Similarly, I'm not sure how much differently I'd fly the plane, were I in the pilot's seat. I suppose I'd be all, like, "I know you guys wanted LaGuardia, but I chose Montreal instead" or "Oh, so don't fly into the commuter plane. Got it."
Others cleave tightly to numbers, swearing that planes are the statistically safest way to go. Here's the thing, though, and it all boils down to chance, namely the chance of walking away from an accident. Say we're all sitting in a modern automobile, encased in a galvanized alloy cage complete with traction control and restraints and all manners of air bags. This stuff isn't there so we can magically avoid catastrophe--it's so that when bedlam strikes, we might just emerge. Not so when we're suspended tens of thousands of feet above ground. Sure, maybe that stray turbine blade decapitated you, but at least your tray table was in an upright and locked position. And do you really think your seat cushion is going to keep you afloat in 1,000 degrees Celsius? That plane crashes, we're all fucking dead.
In summary, Southwest's snack selection has been lackluster as of late.
Posted by Ben at 12:48 AM
Monday, October 29, 2007 :::
Consider two people. Subject A fires up a video game about knights and wizards in a faraway land, then hits the eject button after half an hour. "Yeah, this is fun and maybe I'll revisit it later," he thinks to himself, "but right now this is just too weird." Subject B clocks in 80-plus hours, successfully decking out his in-game leprechaun with armor fashioned entirely from fairy tears and the back hair of Poseidon himself, and shows no signs of stopping.
You might praise Subject B for doing what he enjoys, going against the grain, following his internal compass. There comes a point, though, when escapism costs too much. Extreme examples, to be sure, and the optimal point lies somewhere between these two subjects, but for now let's return to Subject A.
Here's where media self-consciousness kicks in, and it's a conceit I've found fascinating recently. Say you're sitting in a theater, watching a TV show, or playing a game. On the immediate level, you're consuming the media, but how does the experience look one level up? How would it appear to an outsider? That's where media self-consciousness comes into play. Certainly your choices shouldn't be guided solely by outside input, but some external influence might help you better shape your media diet.
And what the public eye prizes most, I'd argue, is how closely the media sits to reality. Would the opening scenario change if the game were about counterterrorism or managing a presidential campaign? Add to this a positive valuation of the offline world, and the scenario changes yet again. Subject A fires up a game about political intrigue, then hits the eject button five minutes later, opting instead to go outside and toss around the ol' pigskin. Slightly cooler, right?
You'll be pleased to know that, in an effort to be more offline, this discussion was conceived on actual pen and paper. Only problem, I guess, is now I've got to re-type all this into Blogger. Foiled again--dammit.
Posted by Ben at 11:17 PM
Thursday, October 25, 2007 :::
Family. Everyone has it. But no one has any real say in the matter, leastways not on the surface of things, and it's this push-and-pull between responsibility and lack of choice that's so compelling. Oh, sure, you may have picked your spouse, assuming neither one of you arrived on the doorstep with fifty heads of cattle, but there really ends the extent of your druthers. The art lies in how you play the hand you're dealt to completion, good and bad and dysfunctional, because the house has you. We're talking, like, Amityville House of Horrors Has You.
The high point of my long weekend was realizing the amount of gas conserved by having your tires properly inflated, then locking into cruise control. The D.T.E. meter jumped up by more than 70 miles. Serious savings, I know. Now, I can already hear your dire warnings about how cars optimally run at 60 mph and other such balderdash, which is purely preposterous. My baby sings at 85.
I think automotive integrity is one way to describe the feeling. It just seems right, miles-per-gallon maxed out, gliding effortlessly at fantastic velocities, where there's this sense of honoring motion and the road itself, and something like traffic, or even a rest stop, would ruin this kind of internal consistency. And have you ever tried changing lanes without touching any reflectors? I don't care what you thought you knew about biology--this is fine motor control.
Posted by Ben at 10:49 PM
Wednesday, October 17, 2007 :::
Somewhere in the wending avenues of my fevered brain, secreted far away from the dominion of common sense, was this idea that forgoing a delicious dinner at Chipotle granted me the right to purchase a shiny new Xbox 360. How any semblance of parity can exist in this reality, I can't say for sure, but it just made sense at the time--a desperate, urgent kind of logic I was only too happy to oblige.
Hundreds of dollars and numerous wasted hours later, I'm the bewildered new owner of the latest gaming technology. And you know what? It was everything I had hoped it would be. Not more than a minute gone, and it was all like, "Oh, shits. I think I'm controlling something damn near photorealistic." I've refrained from such electronic entertainments for a good while now, opting instead for ol' fashioned television shows, but this was the real deal, and like a sailor on shore leave I drank deeply. And once it hits your lips, it's so good.
But not for long, you see. I plan on giving the little white box a few more days, and then it gets the boot. Why? It's the same reason I still don't own a teevee. Both devices are portals to a lifestyle that harbors a very real danger of becoming absolutely unhinged and all consuming. Once you get into a serious groove, it's over, you know? Showers not taken. Parrot dead. People ignored. Website neglected. Bags of Cheetos ravaged.
I'm trying to paint a quick picture, so you'll have to excuse the broad strokes. There's another layer to this discussion, and it's this idea of media self-consciousness, kinda like, "Alright, I'm consuming this piece of media. How would it appear to an outsider looking into all this?" I'm still craving that burrito, however, so let's adjourn for the evening. We'll talk next Wednesday.
Posted by Ben at 11:34 PM
Wednesday, October 10, 2007 :::
Internet radio, the way I remember it, used to involve surfing through dozens of poorly spelled stations, all of them ending in "z," to find the tunez my eardrumz craved so fervently. What I expected was a seamless aural experience, but what I got was a different story entirely, a perversion of a hallowed invention that's been around for more than a hundred years.
Clicking on a station should've called forth a river of music everflowing, and it did. For, like, about five seconds. Each second thereafter would constantly cut out, in a shuddering carousel of sound that made you want to get all indignant and demand where, exactly, your connection went. Best guess? Somewhere just north of Canada and slightly east of wherever Britney Spears hides her underwear nowadays.
Things have changed, though, and I was recently introduced to this. It's a fascinating way to expand your musical palate, with a pleasing interface that makes you want to get all up ins without the constant stop-and-go of yore. More interesting is the technology itself, which claims something or another about how every song has hundreds of musical genes, and how your tastes gravitate toward specific genetic sequences, whatever that means. All I know is there's a lot of relevant music coming from a website with big, shiny buttons. And what if you were to pair this cutting edge genome with programs of ill repute designed to collect music permanently on your hard drive? Shame on you for even thinking that.
Posted by Ben at 10:03 PM
Monday, October 08, 2007 :::
We discussed a theory about Asian grocery stores a few months ago, and I'm loathe to say it's been next to impossible getting it published in any respectable journal because the theory--that such stores are shitnasty--rides completely on anecdotal evidence. Now I've got some hard data for you: the sanitation rating for this particular store? Eighty-five-point-oh. Let me explain the significance.
Here in North Carolina, every dining establishment boasts a score dispensed on a scale of 70.0-100.0, with anything below 70.0 leading to automatic closure. 95-plus is kosher, and scoring above 97 is a testament to sterility. Low 90's hint at minor culinary indiscretions, such as your angel hair pasta containing an actual hair from Angel. Go below 90, especially around the mid-80's, and the line cook willfully sheds into the cheddar fries, soup tureens are routinely mistaken for chamber pots, and the floor doubles as a wok.
Perhaps I'm alone on this, but when I worked in foodservice I made damn sure those burgers and pancakes were flipped with pride and a frickin' chef's hat planted firmly on my head. It's this idea of quality control, or more precisely the lack thereof, that drives me nuts. But the free marketplace has spoken, and if you wrap a turd in tin foil at the Most Honorable Shack of Forbidden Values and Heavy Eatings, well, it sells.
Posted by Ben at 10:31 PM
Wednesday, October 03, 2007 :::
Your mailbox is usually a gateway to the mundane, a portal lined with coupons, bills, and solicitations bound for the trash, but every once in a while a surprise lies in wait. Tax time is traditionally reserved for the spring, except spring apparently comes again this year, with hefty property and vehicular tax notices to herald this strange phenomenon.
Taxes always seemed like a badge of honor to me, almost like an expensive rite of passage you must continually affirm, year after year. There comes a point when you've got to divert money away from frivolous avenues to more serious channels. But that doesn't mean they can't suck, considering the grim lineup: sales tax. Income tax. House tax. Car tax.
I mean, what the eff? No matter what you purchase, it always seems like you're forced to take what you bought and buy it more, such is the edict of the Dong of Uncle Sam, ever poised to pierce the tranquil routine you so enjoy. Them's the dues, though, and I suppose it's not so bad when compared to living in, like, China, where a chance brush with a poisonous toy will kill you in mere seconds. I'm just kidding, of course. It takes closer to a week, or so I gather from my leaden Barbie doll.
Posted by Ben at 11:21 PM
Monday, October 01, 2007 :::
Web content is probably one of the worst time investments ever, with more than four solid years under our belts, and yet we appear to march willfully onward, no end in sight. Think about it. An evening discussion takes 30-40 minutes to publish and only 15 seconds to consume, all for free and sometimes by complete strangers, which puts things firmly in the red.
Now, obviously I'm not suggesting we charge for this shit, nor do I expect you to read for a commensurate 30-45 minutes--this isn't the slow class, after all, where subject-verb conjugation am spooky--but the wacky proportions are interesting. It's like you build an enormous blimp powered by unicorn farts and fancy, and then prior to liftoff a passerby drops a lit match into a fuel tank. That's if I were doing this for any other reason than shameless self-interest, of course.
I've been trying to broaden my media portfolio recently with an influx of books, and the current interest is Freakonomics, a fascinating look at the mechanics whirring beneath everything from rigged sumo matches to how realtors sell their own houses. Books simply feel more real, a far more authentic experience than, say, the Internet. The physicality of the medium plays a huge role in this, and the tactility is something I appreciate. Sure, I probably won't retain anything after reading this book, but at least the pages felt good.
Posted by Ben at 10:38 PM
