Friday, November 15, 2002
I have a serious problem.
I am deeply obsessed with the Internet. Not just innately curious; way past vaguely interested. No, no - I am obsessed. I mean, it's an information-junkie's wet dream. Where else can I - wait, let me check...yes: where else can I search for the phrase "weebles wobble," and get over 1,700 results in just two-tenths of a second? Google, that's where.
But that's not the extent of my wonder. Imagine that this random search was to reel in from the net a site I had already visited, like so much big game wrested from the savannah. Now, that would be a coincidence worthy of mention. The circle closes, my friends, and the world becomes smaller as we traipse, link-happy, all over the information parking lot.
It's been a very slow day here on the hill. Well, okay; the day has been moving at near-normal speed - it's me snail's-pacing it towards quitting time. During my moments of reverie, however, I happened upon this positive endorsement of my chosen profession. And by a rather blog-savvy individual, if my amateur judgement is worth anything - I send her my sincere thanks. She mentions her surprise at finding out that members of the scientific community can actually be attractive - well, I'm glad for her public validation. I've not seen much confirmation of it, myself, but...that's just my opinion. I've been sheltered, behind my guard-gated laboratory entrance, for far too long.
I am deeply obsessed with the Internet. Not just innately curious; way past vaguely interested. No, no - I am obsessed. I mean, it's an information-junkie's wet dream. Where else can I - wait, let me check...yes: where else can I search for the phrase "weebles wobble," and get over 1,700 results in just two-tenths of a second? Google, that's where.
I should add that I feel the statement "weebles wobble" is one of modern society's few concrete truths, and should not be lightly taken. Its mere utterance gives me a feeling of certainty and hope for our entire human race. Wobble on, comrades.
But that's not the extent of my wonder. Imagine that this random search was to reel in from the net a site I had already visited, like so much big game wrested from the savannah. Now, that would be a coincidence worthy of mention. The circle closes, my friends, and the world becomes smaller as we traipse, link-happy, all over the information parking lot.
It's been a very slow day here on the hill. Well, okay; the day has been moving at near-normal speed - it's me snail's-pacing it towards quitting time. During my moments of reverie, however, I happened upon this positive endorsement of my chosen profession. And by a rather blog-savvy individual, if my amateur judgement is worth anything - I send her my sincere thanks. She mentions her surprise at finding out that members of the scientific community can actually be attractive - well, I'm glad for her public validation. I've not seen much confirmation of it, myself, but...that's just my opinion. I've been sheltered, behind my guard-gated laboratory entrance, for far too long.
Arrrggh!
I've been wrestling with the Blogger interface for some time now, and I can't seem to bring my archived pages back from the dead. There are several suggestions for the solution in the Blogger knowledgebase, but it would seem that they don't work in my case. Ah well, I guess we'll have to wait until tech support can suggest a solution to my sticky problem. After all, I know how you all are champing at the bit to read the dusty back-issues of the Chronicles. Well, I am - I'm a narcissist; what's worse, in fact, is that I'm a habitually bored narcissist.
I suppose this frustration, in a way, foreshadows my plans to change the nature of my blogging to a more "custom" approach. I'd like more control - wouldn't we all? - and I think I'm up to the challenge. Hell, simply working with Blogger has taught me a bucketload about web-publishing, scripting, and of course writing witty, flawless prose. At the very least I'd learn more about these sorts of things - and that's not bad. I've stumbled upon a thriving community of fellow bloggers, all earnestly interested in developing blog technology - there are tons of informative ideas out there, and excellent user fora for their dissemination. A new link in my collection for example, is to girlie, an accomplished blogger and blog-developer. Check out her site, proof that there are remarkable things one can do with a browser and some raw ideas these days. Hopefully I'll be able to ride that wave, and enjoy it.
Until then, of course, back to wrestling with Blogger.
I've been wrestling with the Blogger interface for some time now, and I can't seem to bring my archived pages back from the dead. There are several suggestions for the solution in the Blogger knowledgebase, but it would seem that they don't work in my case. Ah well, I guess we'll have to wait until tech support can suggest a solution to my sticky problem. After all, I know how you all are champing at the bit to read the dusty back-issues of the Chronicles. Well, I am - I'm a narcissist; what's worse, in fact, is that I'm a habitually bored narcissist.
I suppose this frustration, in a way, foreshadows my plans to change the nature of my blogging to a more "custom" approach. I'd like more control - wouldn't we all? - and I think I'm up to the challenge. Hell, simply working with Blogger has taught me a bucketload about web-publishing, scripting, and of course writing witty, flawless prose. At the very least I'd learn more about these sorts of things - and that's not bad. I've stumbled upon a thriving community of fellow bloggers, all earnestly interested in developing blog technology - there are tons of informative ideas out there, and excellent user fora for their dissemination. A new link in my collection for example, is to girlie, an accomplished blogger and blog-developer. Check out her site, proof that there are remarkable things one can do with a browser and some raw ideas these days. Hopefully I'll be able to ride that wave, and enjoy it.
Until then, of course, back to wrestling with Blogger.
Thursday, November 14, 2002
The death of ideology.
There was an interesting piece on NPR this morning, outlining China's gradual softening of its traditional hard-line Communist behavior. The piece featured interviews with young Chinese students, one of them recorded while sharing coffee at *$. These interviews served to illustrate how the Communist Party, even though it is very much alive in that country, has tacitly changed its approach to more confidently coexist with a fledgling capitalist economy. Not that the Party would admit this, of course. For a government that still chooses its leadership behind closed doors and via a mysterious process, meeting capitalism with an open embrace would be too much to ask. But as the NPR correspondent put it, the Communist Party in China seems to say, "Don't challenge this government, and we'll let you do pretty much anything you want."
But, what happened to the idealist revolutionaries that risked - and gave - their lives in Tiananmen Square in 1989? Swayed? Demoralized? Squashed? It might seem that they have all but disappeared. To the cynical eye, it looks as if they're sold their ideology for a Frappuccino. But we know better - I, for one, would rather give credit to these young leaders of the "new China." Perhaps they've discovered that it's easy - and far more productive - to live off of a huge, aging, totalitarian regime than to try and smash it. This is wisdom we're seeing, perhaps, not fear and laziness.
Perhaps, too, they're taking a page from the book of the Party itself - what happened to those revolutionaries, the ones who mobilized workers when the Party established itself? Old Lenin is rolling over now, along with Marx, as they see what time and money have done to idealism. Now membership in the Chinese Communist Party is a path to a good job and social advancement - no more, it would seem, than a card-carrying membership in a dysfunctional alumni association. One that requires cash, not the sweat of the just, to run efficiently.
It looks like nothing is what it seems, anymore.
There was an interesting piece on NPR this morning, outlining China's gradual softening of its traditional hard-line Communist behavior. The piece featured interviews with young Chinese students, one of them recorded while sharing coffee at *$. These interviews served to illustrate how the Communist Party, even though it is very much alive in that country, has tacitly changed its approach to more confidently coexist with a fledgling capitalist economy. Not that the Party would admit this, of course. For a government that still chooses its leadership behind closed doors and via a mysterious process, meeting capitalism with an open embrace would be too much to ask. But as the NPR correspondent put it, the Communist Party in China seems to say, "Don't challenge this government, and we'll let you do pretty much anything you want."
But, what happened to the idealist revolutionaries that risked - and gave - their lives in Tiananmen Square in 1989? Swayed? Demoralized? Squashed? It might seem that they have all but disappeared. To the cynical eye, it looks as if they're sold their ideology for a Frappuccino. But we know better - I, for one, would rather give credit to these young leaders of the "new China." Perhaps they've discovered that it's easy - and far more productive - to live off of a huge, aging, totalitarian regime than to try and smash it. This is wisdom we're seeing, perhaps, not fear and laziness.
Perhaps, too, they're taking a page from the book of the Party itself - what happened to those revolutionaries, the ones who mobilized workers when the Party established itself? Old Lenin is rolling over now, along with Marx, as they see what time and money have done to idealism. Now membership in the Chinese Communist Party is a path to a good job and social advancement - no more, it would seem, than a card-carrying membership in a dysfunctional alumni association. One that requires cash, not the sweat of the just, to run efficiently.
It looks like nothing is what it seems, anymore.
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
My head is spinning.
It's every once in a great while - but more frequently, lately - that I enter a kind of hyper-sensitive mode, where I read, touch, adjust, write, and otherwise tinker with everything I come into contact with. I drive my car a little more aggressively, somewhat more enjoyably; ideas occur to me more frequently, and with greater fecundity; the written word doesn't seem so far out-of-reach all of a sudden; and of course, I surf the Internet with frightening speed and unusual athleticism. It is here that this meta-mood becomes most fruitful, utilizing its ultimate expression: the hyperlink. Thank you, Tim Berners-Lee, for this extension of my brain. I shall disregard, for the moment, any hoopla about British Telecom's claim that it invented the hyperlink, and continue my worship of the web in the manner which it was intended.
I have spent this unproductive work day jumping from reference to reference, realizing the utter interconnectivity of it all; it's truly amazing, and not all empty and worthless, as some might imagine. I believe strongly in the ideals of technocracy, as ar as I have imagined them, and I understand that this makes me a geek in every sense of the word. Well, so be it, then.
Eh, guess it's almost time to leave for home. Wow, big day.
It's every once in a great while - but more frequently, lately - that I enter a kind of hyper-sensitive mode, where I read, touch, adjust, write, and otherwise tinker with everything I come into contact with. I drive my car a little more aggressively, somewhat more enjoyably; ideas occur to me more frequently, and with greater fecundity; the written word doesn't seem so far out-of-reach all of a sudden; and of course, I surf the Internet with frightening speed and unusual athleticism. It is here that this meta-mood becomes most fruitful, utilizing its ultimate expression: the hyperlink. Thank you, Tim Berners-Lee, for this extension of my brain. I shall disregard, for the moment, any hoopla about British Telecom's claim that it invented the hyperlink, and continue my worship of the web in the manner which it was intended.
I have spent this unproductive work day jumping from reference to reference, realizing the utter interconnectivity of it all; it's truly amazing, and not all empty and worthless, as some might imagine. I believe strongly in the ideals of technocracy, as ar as I have imagined them, and I understand that this makes me a geek in every sense of the word. Well, so be it, then.
Eh, guess it's almost time to leave for home. Wow, big day.
Monday, November 11, 2002
Too much, too soon, too hard to resist.
In today's never-ending rush to achieve, acquire, and otherwise become everything we think we need, we sometimes aspire to be someone that others might want us to be. The directive is often subtle, a hint of a suggestion of a direct order; issued from some faux-oak paneled room where the Kings of the World motivate the new order of things. Most often, this New Order has something or other to do with holiday shopping. As I seasoned my coffee to taste tonight, I caught myself pouring a dram or so into the wastebin to make room for cream - what is this, the ultimate irony? In this era of the corporate caffiene broker, when such waste may be measured in real money, I am struck by the irony of our modern existence. Today we are compelled to have, to want - so much so, in fact, that we must pour a little off the top each time just to make room for the things we need.
This is a consequence of our Economics of Excess.
This time, however, my mania is my responsibility, alone. I am dizzy with a heady air of aspiration and perspiration, brought about by an exhausting visit to my local bookseller. All quaint notions aside, this was in reality a stop at the regional SuperBookCenter, a modern bastardization of the bookshop that brings to mind the appellation "McBooks." But, you get the general idea. And what's more, this failure of constitution has nothing to do with the Tall Traditional I threw back on the way home. It was, in short, the books that did this to me.
Does anyone suffer from a similar affliction? Strolling purposefully along the shelves, I find myself gradually worn down, inexorably drawn to sample each text that strikes me. The endless rows of colored spines are as a dream, each one calling out in a loud, clear voice: "Read me, damn it!" What is a dork to do? Once upon a time I was raised a social animal, brought up in the best traditions of relationship and human interaction - but I stubbornly remained a solitary intellect, comfortable within my walled fortress of words. For the last half of my life I have carried my library with me, dragging these hundreds of kilograms of paper across fifteen years and three thousand miles of lost journal entries. It a slow, burning addiction, as palpable as my need for coffee - and more powerful.
I need to know, as surely as I need to breathe. I am consistently wracked by exhaustion each time I visit these places, realizing how much there is to read yet - stunned by my utter inability to keep up with the rising tide. Are all these works worth reading? Well, yes and no, of course. Each person shall make her own choices within the confines of the personal library - herein is the sovereign rule of opinion, intellect, and taste. And so does my compulsion have nothing to do with anything - no media outlet has inspired this mania of mine; it is a disease somehow acquired in my youth. I think I picked it up from a stray copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea I purloined from the classroom bookcase at the end of my fourth grade year. It serves me right, after all.
In today's never-ending rush to achieve, acquire, and otherwise become everything we think we need, we sometimes aspire to be someone that others might want us to be. The directive is often subtle, a hint of a suggestion of a direct order; issued from some faux-oak paneled room where the Kings of the World motivate the new order of things. Most often, this New Order has something or other to do with holiday shopping. As I seasoned my coffee to taste tonight, I caught myself pouring a dram or so into the wastebin to make room for cream - what is this, the ultimate irony? In this era of the corporate caffiene broker, when such waste may be measured in real money, I am struck by the irony of our modern existence. Today we are compelled to have, to want - so much so, in fact, that we must pour a little off the top each time just to make room for the things we need.
This is a consequence of our Economics of Excess.
This time, however, my mania is my responsibility, alone. I am dizzy with a heady air of aspiration and perspiration, brought about by an exhausting visit to my local bookseller. All quaint notions aside, this was in reality a stop at the regional SuperBookCenter, a modern bastardization of the bookshop that brings to mind the appellation "McBooks." But, you get the general idea. And what's more, this failure of constitution has nothing to do with the Tall Traditional I threw back on the way home. It was, in short, the books that did this to me.
Does anyone suffer from a similar affliction? Strolling purposefully along the shelves, I find myself gradually worn down, inexorably drawn to sample each text that strikes me. The endless rows of colored spines are as a dream, each one calling out in a loud, clear voice: "Read me, damn it!" What is a dork to do? Once upon a time I was raised a social animal, brought up in the best traditions of relationship and human interaction - but I stubbornly remained a solitary intellect, comfortable within my walled fortress of words. For the last half of my life I have carried my library with me, dragging these hundreds of kilograms of paper across fifteen years and three thousand miles of lost journal entries. It a slow, burning addiction, as palpable as my need for coffee - and more powerful.
I need to know, as surely as I need to breathe. I am consistently wracked by exhaustion each time I visit these places, realizing how much there is to read yet - stunned by my utter inability to keep up with the rising tide. Are all these works worth reading? Well, yes and no, of course. Each person shall make her own choices within the confines of the personal library - herein is the sovereign rule of opinion, intellect, and taste. And so does my compulsion have nothing to do with anything - no media outlet has inspired this mania of mine; it is a disease somehow acquired in my youth. I think I picked it up from a stray copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea I purloined from the classroom bookcase at the end of my fourth grade year. It serves me right, after all.