Category: Conspirators

  1. Do you own enough shit?

    YES

    NO

  2. Of course you don’t. Get some more! This is easy, because of Capitalism.
  3. GOTO 1
  4. Uh oh, it’s time to move! You’d better pack all that up, drive it around, and carry it up stairs. But your fleshy man-body is weak! What will you do?
    • Hire professionals
    • Ask your friends for help, but pay them what you would pay professionals
    • Ask your friends for help, on Valentine’s Day, in eight-degree weather, and repay them with Mexican food that you didn’t even buy, your girlfriend did
  5. Wow, you’re kind of a bastard! But at least all your shit is moved now.
  6. Wait! You still have more shit to move! How did that happen? You’d better stay up until 3 am. You can move the rest tomorrow! I mean today!
  7. GOTO 4

Thanks to Maria’s parents Mike and Susie, Scott, DC and Beth. We owe you guys a hell of a lot more than those enchiladas.

Responses to my last post, saved from the feed:

Ben: “All this copyright nonsense gets worse, eventually spiralling into ‘The War on Information’.”

Josh: “Assuming that your parents are baby boomers, your parents’ generation were unique, the only generation in history to have been able to consume without responsibility. Unfortunately, it’s unlikely that any future generation will have that opportunity.”

Kevan: “I’m not sure how bad a thing it necessarily is, but the next generation being able to dig through their parents’ online diaries and data shadows is going to be quite big and strange. Reading unguarded entries about what their parents really thought of you when you were young, stocking up on ‘if you did this when you were my age, why can’t I do it now?’ ammunition, and being able to stalk some of your crushes or bullying-targets all the way back to birth.”

Catherine: “Also, the increasing dichotomy between rural and urban cultures. People from, say, Seattle can be a mite uncomfortable in rural Georgia. People from, say, Atlanta are often a mite uncomfortable in rural Georgia.”

All thoughtful, all excellent. Catherine’s response is closest to my own worries: that we will allocate greater bandwidth to strident, divisive, polemical speech than to speech that crosses boundaries. I’m not arguing for censorship of radicalism here–my own brand of radicalism is specifically anti-censorship–but warning against the rapid propagation of our trust networks through people who will tell us only what we want to hear. When you can find a thousand people who agree with you more easily than you can find one dissenter, you are on the road to becoming an instrument.

From a discussion of finding Dracula’s voice in the Anacrusis LJ-feed comments comes this quasifilk gem of Ben’s:

“You know perfectly well the nature of doctor-patient privilege, Vlad,” says Van Helsing. “But–“

“I have her power of attorney since she was declared missing,” says Mina. “Go ahead, doctor.”

Dracula looks at her sharply, then back to Van Helsing. “Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula, Dracula.”

Van Helsing sighs. “It’s Ms. Murray’s discretion. In here, please.”

He gestures them into a file room and rummages through drawers. “Polycythemia vera,” he says, “a chronic condition. Simply put, the young lady produces too many erythrocytes; circulation is slowed, bruises come easily. Treatment of choice is–“

“Dracula,” says Dracula.

I have whiplash now! Great! Dammit! This is from about eight seconds of headbanging during “Blister in the Sun” at Erin and Stephen’s wedding. I used to be able to dance like that for hours, and now my limit is less than eight seconds.

I guess having ruined my spinal column in college is worth some cred. Maybe.

Stephen and Erin got married! To each other! Stephen’s pastor talked about his webcomic in his toast! Stephen wins. (And now has to hope none of his grandparents remember to search for it.)

Erin Polgreen, we failed to intersect at brunch! Email me?

Years ago:

“Fish are the beef of the sea.”

–Yale

Tonight:

“Seals are basically dolphin puppies.”

–Maria

Yale is sick. Get better, Yale!