Astroturfing-sockpuppets and Rickrolling-trolls

          I don't like people much.

          That's the answer I give when asked why I don't chat, or aren't on Facebook or Twitter.  I suppose I could calmly explain my golfing preference (in perfect weather); cat-hiking (on windy or cloudy days); book-reading, creating art, and gaming (during inclement weather); watching films (at night), et cetera...but who's going to sit still for all that? 

          Although I read a few dozen blogs, I don't spend much time elsewhere, nor do I frequently send messages or read communiquΓ©s (forgive my transgressions Squire).  Today, however, I wandered along many strands of the web and learned about internet sockpuppets and trolls as well as Astroturfing and Rickrolling.

          I still don't like people much—but they can be very entertaining.

People do not like to think.  If one thinks, one must reach conclusions.  Conclusions are not always pleasant. — Helen Keller

Google Maps Oil Slick

          I envy anyone who got the opportunity to visit Yellowstone National Park prior to the 1988 fires, which devastated over a third of it.  A few years ago I traveled to see Yellowstone's wonders—now surrounded by mile-upon-mile of ugly burned hillsides.  It'll never attain pre-1988 nice in my lifetime.

          If you always wanted to enjoy the Gulf of Mexico, but you have been putting off that beach vacation for one reason or another—you've got a brief window of (maybe) a few months to visit clean Gulf beaches, and to scuba, snorkel, and swim in clean waters.  It'll never attain pre-2010 nice in our lifetime.


Until the great mass of the people shall be filled with the sense of responsibility for each others welfare, social justice can never be attained. — Helen Keller

Red Dead Redemption


          After playing this game for a few weeks, I highly recommend it if—like myself—you specifically enjoy 'side games'.  If you normally prefer to stick to the main mission, finishing it without much deviation...this game is NOT for you.  If you are considering this game, it's probably because you've played a sandbox-style game before (like Grand Theft Auto) and enjoyed the open world format.

          In Red Dead Redemption, Rockstar Games has moved side-games from optional to mandatory.  In GTA4 accomplishing mini-games (like racing and going to arcades or bars) improves your relationships, but there's no measurable penalty for not doing so.

          Choosing to not accomplish the mini-missions in Red Dead, is detrimental to accomplishing the main mission.  This is done with two meters:  your fame meter (which begins at the bottom) and your honor meter (which begins in the middle).  As you successfully finish tasks (main and mini) you become more famous; increased fame makes life much easier.  If you "turn a blind eye" to mini missions (or fail them) your fame decreases.  For every good deed you accomplish (save villagers from bandits, rescue a person from attacking animals, choose to disarm a criminal rather than kill them, etc.) your honor increases.  For every bad deed (whether by choice or accident) your honor decreases.  The more honorable or dishonorable you become the more you are loved or feared, which alters the way you are treated by both law enforcement and people in general.

          Although you can decide to become an infamous outlaw or a famous legend of the old west, the game makes it possible to be both at the same time, to effectively "become a wolf in sheep's clothing."  This is done with outfits, which you earn by accomplishing various mini-tasks.  As an example, one outfit is that of a bandit-gang.  If you wear that outfit with a bandanna on your face not only can you commit crimes without your honor being affected, but you can freely enter the bandit gang's camp.

          Advertisements for Red Dead focus on the shooter-aspect, on the old west environment, and on the outlaw with a heart of gold.  They all fail to mention the strong element of hunting-as-necessity and hunting-as-sport.  If you have no problem killing and looting the bodies of video game stagecoach-robbers or cattle-rustlers but wouldn't enjoy the concept of killing and skinning innocent animals for food or sport, then this game is NOT for you.  There are several dozen different birds and animals in this game—some are predators who stalk and kill you and your horse if you enter their territory (unless you kill them first), some scurry fast through the brush, some glide slowly overhead, some dart quickly trough the trees—all need to be shot and skinned (or feathers removed) at some time or another, in order to sell their meat, hides, and feathers; in order to accomplish mini-games; in order to survive in the game.

          The biggest reason I appreciate and enjoy this game:  it successfully incorporated the key elements of every spaghetti-western and cowboy movie from my childhood—from dueling in the street to cheating at poker, from herding cattle to breaking broncos, from gold mines to searching for buried treasure with treasure maps, from stopping a hanging (by shooting the rope) to stopping a runaway train.  The notable historical exceptions (so far, I've not finished the game) are the absences of slaves and Native Americans.
   
No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars or sailed an uncharted land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit. — Helen Keller

It's eleven eleven, do you know where your superstition is?

The sentence—I'm proud that I am smart enough to not have any superstitious beliefs—is vainglorious and condescending; but, it's also true.  A few months ago, I had a brief conversation about ghosts with our resident rapscallion (my paramour's teenage son).  All conversations with youth are brief, so this one might almost count as a lengthy one.  We were watching tv, and I was jumping over a commercial logjam in 30sec hops with the DVR remote (for unaware Europeans: American TV has a few-minutes of commercials every ten minutes).  My last hop advanced into the show, so I made a couple 10sec back-jumps and we watched a portion of a commercial for one of those shows where a group of people walk around at night, with night vision cameras, in old buildings (for unaware Europeans: most Americans think one-hundred year old buildings are ancient).

"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"No."  I said (as I paused the TV).
"So, ummm, what do you think happens after you die?" 
"Where were you before you were born?" (My default teach-a-teenager position has become—answer a question with a question.  It can, occasionally, cause an additional sentence to be added to the conversation.)
"So, like, that's it?  Nothingness?"
"You almost sound upset."
"Well, it's kinda sad...you know...blip and we're done."
"I'm not telling you what to believe.  You can pick from dozens of religions that say you go someplace magical.  Also, if you want to think ghosts move old dusty chairs in basements of derelict buildings or float around as orbs...well, that's your prerog™."  (Clipping a suffixplus is kinda lame, but I get a kick when he repeats them.  In a month I'll overhear him with a friend playing Guitar Hero, "If you don't wanna use the mic while I play guitar that's your prerog bitch.")
"But you don't.  And you're happy with that."
"Not only am I content with 'blip and we're done' (as I said blip I snapped my fingers) I'm amazed and confused by anyone who wants and believes their existence to be infinite and forever."
"Amazed and confused—isn't that a Led Zep..."
"Dazed and confused is Zep.  Amazed and confused is Neil Diamond."
"You sure?"
"About the song titles...yes."

This conversation got me thinking about my lack of superstitious beliefs.  I realized that I do have one thing which can only be explained as superstitious ideation.  It also could just be a big coincidence (I once had a co-worker who said there were no such things as coincidences, but I think he might have been superstitious).

Almost every time-telling device in my possession, or around our home, is digital.  I don't wear a watch (and haven't for many years).  Since I don't live a life of deadlines, schedules, or appointments (and haven't for many years) I'm usually not concerned with knowing what time it is.  This lack of concern results in my not looking at the digits on the stove or the front of the DVR.  I can answer my cell, talk, and hang up...all without looking at the time.  I probably check the time about six times a day.

I usually need a strong reason to look at a clock.  If I'm woken and it's still dark out, I'll point my eyes at the digits on the nightstand.  If someone rings our doorbell at night, the clock will tell me if it's too late for our resident rapscallion to have visitors.  If I've been reading for hours and wonder if I could squeeze in another hundred pages, I'll let those same digits on the nightstand decide.  If I'm hungry, but we have dinner plans this evening, the digits inform me if a snack is necessary.  A round of golf could take 4 hours.  The film starts at 5:45.  The store closes at 9.  Even in my lackadaisical life there are reasons to look at the time.

Lately (and by that I mean for the last several months) when I do, it seems, more-often-than-not, the digits are all the same.  An inordinate amount of the time, when I check the time, it is either 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, 5:55, or 11:11.  And I read somewhere, enough years ago that I've forgotten when and where, that when that happens regularly it means something important is going to happen—and, that something is going to either be fortuitously good or viciously evil (I also forget which).

I'm not saying that every time I check a clock it's always all-same-numeral time.  But out of a possible 720 different minutes in every 12-hour period, there are six times it occurs (for unaware Europeans: Americans use a.m. and p.m. instead of the 24-hour clock).  That's a dozen opportunities out of every day, or—to be specific—only a 0.83% chance for it to happen every day.

I woke up at 4:44 to use the bathroom last night.  My landlord had people clean-out the rain gutters today; they arrived at 11:11.  I can go a day or three without it happening, but it's so frequent that I've begun to seriously wonder at the odds.

If I was completely non-superstitious, I wouldn't even notice if I sat down to watch TV at 5:55 or went to bed at 1:11.  But since I can't seem to stop noticing it happen, I must be a little superstitious.

[After writing this essay, I began to look for appropriate images and, in so doing, discovered more than a few e-groups discussing the 'phenomenon' as communications from the other side or somesuch.  They were a comfort to read, because then I realized that all I'm doing is pattern-recognizing.  If I see it's 10:52, I immediately forget the time and note to myself, "almost eleven."  But when I started the car last week and it was 2:22—that immediately got saved in long term memory because it's a signpost, of course!]

AAAhhhh me.  Once again a superstitiousless idiot.

Security is mostly a superstition.  It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it.  Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.  Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. — Helen Keller (blind and deaf author-activist)

I Don't Do Decoration Day

          When I was asked how I celebrated Memorial Day, I tried out the reply:  I don't celebrate May 31st.  It seems I say something similar almost every holiday.  This time, I decided I'd try to come up with something polite, and truthful, and which wouldn't set me up for follow-on questions.  And, it didn't work.

          "What do you mean?  You were in the service."  She said with a southern accent; maybe Texas near the Oklahoma border.  It came out—Whadja mean, yaw're enda sarvace!

          I must have made a scowl or something.

          In the past I've tried an abbreviated, "I don't celebrate," which only seemed to imply I didn't drink or party and, once, I attempted the ΓΌber-short, "I didn't"—but that person assumed I must have had to work.  I was now thinking I might regret not choosing the put flags on graves outright lie.

          "I'm surprised you don't acknowledge our fallen heroes, retired army an all.  Betcha think it's alright that Obama didn't lay a wreath at Arlington then."
          Although indignation seemed to be familiar territory for her, we didn't know each other well enough for her to pull indignant, so I said, "I look at it the same way I look at December 25th...I try to be polite all year, not just the holidays...and, I try to remember my heroes all year round, not just the first day of summer.  And here's something you should know:  working in the military was just a job.  And, like any job, there's maybe one hero for every couple-thousand ass-hats.  Dieing doesn't make you a hero.  Cemeteries are filled with ass-hats."

The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of tiny pushes of each honest worker.  — Helen Keller (1880-1968)

Art - Andreas Hykade; Music - Heiko Maile

I love power.  But it is as an artist that I love it.  I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies. — Napoleon Bonaparte

Emulate-Zheng

          Recently, in China, there have been six school-attacks on kindergarten, elementary school and pre-school children.  The first of this spate of spree killers/attempted killers was Zheng Minsheng, who began his unusual overpopulation-curbing attempts with a tally of 8-5 (killed-wounded).  Although the Chinese government speedily executed Zheng by firing squad, he's spawned five copy-cats.  Most, like Zheng, were also knife-wielders.  One, with a flair for originality, tried to attain amok-speed with a hammer and self-immolation (but achieved a paltry 0-5).  The latest used a cleaver; because his kindergarten-of-choice contained 20 children and two adults, his score of 9-11 reflects thoroughness, if nothing else.
          These attacks jolted my memory.  In early 2005, a meme posited:  What single weapon would you select if forced to thunderdome-battle a hundred unarmed 5-year-olds?  I dis-recall (and can't find in the archives) my answer from a half-decade ago...but I think I chose an edged weapon.  I did successfully locate Davecat's well-thought-out reply:  Dog Chain.

          Now, after learning about these dismal beta-test results in China, (I mean come-on Zhengers...with potential targets as young as 3, are double-digits really too much to expect?) I'd definitely not choose a short handled weapon—blunt or edged.

          Apparently, a hundred kindergartners will scatter like a thunder of 2am-cockroaches from a 1000-watt spotlight, so catching seems more crucial than dispatching.  Today, I'd choose a twenty-foot nylon cast net as my weapon.  Yes, I realize that means manually topping each kid before un-tangling them...but, if you pace yourself, I assume—just like clubbing baby seals—there's an attainable rhythm to efficiently snapping pre-schooler's necks. 

How many things, apparently impossible, have—nevertheless—been performed by resolute men who had no alternative but death. — Napoleon Bonaparte

Hustle



How many really capable men are children more than once during the day? — Napoleon Bonaparte


related art:

STICKER

          I have a talent (or a curse) which I turned to my advantage during my crime scene investigation days.  My parents innocently planted and then accidentally cultivated this ability deep into my psyche between my seventh and twelfth birthdays.

          My family moved six times during that five-year period and professional movers have an effective (but insidious) way of insuring no items become lonerganed:  they place a small sticker on your furniture, and a checklist with every sticker's number is annotated during loading and off-loading.  Movers unbox, re-assemble, and remove all packing material—they do not, however, remove those tiny fucking pieces of colored tape. 

          I was the kid on the floor in front of the TV who got tired of seeing a yellow Allied Van Lines and a white North American Van Lines underneath the living room coffee table.  I eventually found the red National Van Lines under the base of my red bicycle frame.  Every spring—the first Sunday after the full moon after the vernal equinox—my mom would hide a hundred of those little colored-foil covered chocolate eggs around the house.  My sisters would find half of them and I'd find the other half...along with a few dozen more stickers.  By the end of my Freshman year in High School, I could enter a cluttered room filled with furniture and instantly see the millimeter-wide edge of a green Mayflower Van Lines peeking out from under the rear leg of a chair...in my new neighbors house.  After my step father died in the 90's, I found a decrepit set of my grandfather's WWII-era golf clubs in the back of the garage.  The bottom of the canvas bag still had a stack of five, stuck one on top of the other, edges curled, adhesive gone, the only thing keeping them in place for more than 25 years had been disinterest and the fact that the Easter Bunny never hid eggs in the garage.
           Time has morphed my sticker-curse in an Adrian Monk kind of way.  Today, when you show me your new electronic gadget, I'm instantly bothered by the protective film you failed to completely remove from all the cracks and edges or *shudder* intentionally left in place on the screen.  If you like the advert-logos on the face of your computer...don't loan it to me, even if I ask real nice.  I'm retarded when it comes to anything even remotely similar to those little bastards (I get the urge to pick and peel just looking at them up there on the screen).

          During my first housebreaking and larceny investigation, I realized my curse could also be a talent.  In a nutshell:  Sergeant Cooper returned from a two-week Christmas vacation to discover his house ransacked and vandalized.  I collected over 100 fingerprints and a dozen samples of DNA.  Apparently, a large group of zombies trashed the entire house during a nonstop Xmas-to-New-Years party.  No neighbors knew the Cooper's were on vacation; they all thought he threw a big party they weren't invited to.  Not much was stolen; everything of value was damaged to the tune of about 50K.  Interviews with neighborhood teens was a waste of time.

          Two weeks later, Sergeant Cooper's Datsun was stolen (and he realized, at that time, that his spare set of keys must have also been stolen).  Three days later it was recovered, I found no fingerprints, and told him to change his locks.  A week later his car was stolen again.  A few days later it was recovered again (still no prints).  Sorry, I didn't have time to change the locks yet—he said.  I used the office copier to make a sign, which I posted on our internal bulletin board.  The sign...
                                                                                                                                    ...got me a gentle ass-chewing from my boss because Sergeant Cooper saw it when he came to the office to provide his detailed statement of loss (and—his sense of humor must have also been stolen, even though I didn't see it on his list).

          Two more days go by...stolen again!  Goddammit Sergeant, what the fuck?  Sorry, I bought one of those club's for the steering wheel, but I might've forgotten to put it on.  After it was recovered for the third time (still no prints) I found a red 'Club' and a red cellophane-wrapped heart-box of candy (with receipt) in the detritus which permanently resided on the floorboards.  Since I'd searched that pile of garbage twice before, the Valentines gift jumped out at my eyes just like a sticker.

           The entire case was wrapped up in a week.  The receipt lead to a gas station video tape.  The cellophane had good fingerprints of the guy in the video.  He lived in the neighborhood, didn't want to pay for the damages he wasn't responsible for, and remembered five other people at the party...who remembered a few more, who remembered a few more, who remembered all the rest.  And all their prints and DNA matched what had been collected.  Almost twenty people.  Came to a little over 2K in damages per vandal.  The only one who got any jail-time was the joyriding guy who forgot his box of candy...and that was only because he was already on probation.
 
Note:  It would still be a few years before I would learn the term Asperger's, which would not only explain my attention to detail but my lack of eye contact and odor sensitivity.

Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake. — Napoleon Bonaparte

Davecat Gothic

A bout du chapeau to Ptak Science Books; I include a wonderful yet anomalous "find" of Mr Ptak's:  A future photo of Davecat taken in 2046.  Although he ages quite well, it is a bit unsettling to see that in the next thirty-six years Dakota and Carolina consolidate and, accordingly, there are again 48 states. 

"Keeping a straight face with you giggling, Sidore, is not easy."

The myth holds us, thereforenot through its romantic flavor, not the remembrance of beauty of some bygone age, not through the possibilities of fantasybut because it expresses to us something real and existing in ourselves, as it was to those who first stumbled upon the symbols to give them life. — Mark Rothko