Case in point:

Incidentally, MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” is not very pretty at all.
How is this fucking creepy? Let me count the ways.
San Jose’s NeuroSky has been testing prototypes of its system that uses a sensor-laden headband to monitor brain waves, and then uses the signals to control the interaction in video games. They hope that such games are just the beginning of a mind-machine interface with many different applications.
1)Look at that picture, look at it! That could be your son or lover someday! Is that what you want? *sob*

2) Have you ever talked to a gamer when he tells you this story and you have difficulty remembering if he is telling you a story that happened to him, or one that happened to his character in a game? Do we really need tools that will allow the gamer to lose this distinction?
3) Vibrating, complex handheld controlers is what gave my significant other the finger dexterity necessary to persuade me that marrying a gamer wasn’t all bad. If gamers no longer have to move any of their limbs or digits to game, how will we know they are alive? How will we keep the human race from devolving into limbless blobs? Do these scientists even read their sci fi? We’re supposed to evolve towards balls of energy, not puddles of grease.
4)Look at that picture! Look AT IIITTTTT!!!! *sob*
5) Please, gaming industry, oh please, give us another $100+ add-on and upgrade it frequently. Hey, thanks!
6)
Asked if monitoring brain waves means that their technology can read minds, Yang said, “We’re not there yet.”
And if your target market is gamers, I must ask you to never go there. You want to know what gamers are thinking about? Games. Food. Sex. Toys. There, I’ve just saved you a ton in R&D.
Christ on a cracker people. I’ll save the anti-video game rant for later (short version: like booze, a little is ok but too much will destroy you), but since we’re apparently gearing up for psychic games, now would be a good time to open up a general gamer discussion about how much gaming is too much and what the community is going to do to keep things under control. This little toy is going to open up whole new worlds of gaming side effects, and we might as well start talking about it now.
This is one of them. However, I’ll pass on the vet bill.
Author’s Note: Being too hung over to think, and busy tweaking a program that takes 10 minutes to run each freaking time, I bring you content of dubious originality. However, I am not a complete schtick thief-you’ll notice that I’ve taken this MSN article from a whole nother section that Amanda almost never touched. So nyah.
My fiancé’s major is in constant flux. Political science? Conflict management? International relations? Economics? To help him, we’d lie in bed and I’d make helpful suggestions about specific careers he could aim for. Pastry chef? Scuba teacher? Spelunker? Performance artist? Glass blower? Phrenologist? Lion tamer? Bodyguard? Onion farmer? I’d take great pains to make each suggestion more helpful than the one before, until I was so helpful that he had to beg me to stop before he became overwhelmed by all of the help. Yep, I helped. And was right proud of myself.
I wasn’t suprised at all to find at least one person making a living by being that helpful to everyone at once. She managed to find the 10 least practical jobs in America and get paid for it.
(more…)
The reviews are coming in from the Tribeca premiere of “United 93,” the film about the 9/11 plane that crashed in a Pennsylvania field. Down the line, they applaud the film as a masterpiece.
Yesterday, the Boston Herald ran a piece on the annoyance of punditry from those who haven’t yet seen the film:
It seemed clear – no “United 93” for me, my own little protest against Hollywood profiteering from a national tragedy that snatched away two people I knew and cared about – and awakened me to the evil that lurks in this world.
But a funny thing happened on my way to the moral high ground. It’s possible I have simply been sucked into the turbo-charged Hollywood spin machine, but I began listening to the words of family members whose loved ones perished on Flight 93.
They endorsed the making of the film. They were consulted each step of the way. For them, the film is a celluloid memorial to the bravery and heroism of their loved ones.
Who am I to be indignant – when they so clearly are not?
I get that. I’m not gonna ding anyone for tackling this subject matter. Maybe there is exploitation at the heart of this project, but as long as the studio didn’t force Paul Greengrass to compromise his film in some way that would sell tickets (and by all accounts they didn’t), then I support an artist’s choice to produce work on whatever subject matter s/he pleases. The studio patrons may profit, but that’s what it takes to score a patron in these wacky modern times.
While I endorse the right to make and show the film, what I’m actually concerned about is its potential exploitation by the sinister warmongers salivating over the chance to whip America into a new 9/11 frenzy. I won’t be shocked if the White House repeatedly invokes the film or flight number explicitly in an attempt to get us fightin’ mad again.
The last time the administration accused some random country of being involved in 9/11, it worked. Many Americans were so angry they just wanted blood — anyone’s blood — back then. Now that we’ve got the mortgage on Iraq, Bush and friends are looking to stroll next door and raid the fridge. Will the emotional response to this film make it easier to convince people to do it?
Allow me to paint a picture:
After college, a few twists and turns left me as a social worker in the rural Midwest. When I go on home visits, I look for propane tanks with brass fittings turned teal green — or any tank fitting gone to rust. I test the air for the smell of cat piss. I look for sunken cheeks and lesions on the faces and arms of my clients. I see tweakers everywhere — you begin to just know, or think you do. You look for foil covering people’s windows, excessive paranoia. You wait for people to admit that they’ve called an entomologist about the bug problem that doesn’t exist.
Don’t bother watching Spun. It’s not even that glamorous.
Take the biggest city for 100 miles and drive 45 miles north. You get to a factory town. Remove all the factories with corruption and embezzlement. Remove the grocery stores and leave a gas station for grocery shopping. Diminish the population with poverty and age. Reduce the population to less than 2,000. Leave behind hundreds of families with young children, high gas and electric bills, and nothing to do. Add worry about how to feed your kids. Add boredom. Add bars. Add alcoholism. Add poor farmers with a steady stream of anhydrous ammonia. Make those farmers willing to sell since they can’t compete with corporate and research farming operations. Add nepotism in both legitimate and illegitimate business. Tell the people to lift themselves up by their bootstraps.
I know the man who was the first big bust in the county I work in — a young father of three with a small, struggling business who started using out of boredom and started manufacturing out of necessity, both for his habit and his bank account. He’s facing ten to life. He recalls how easy it was to get the anhydrous ammonia (in the west they use red phosphorous), a fertilizer that is expensive and relatively difficult to get legally. In the field you just run up and tap it when no one else is around and try not to blow yourself up, or you buy it from a desperate farmer. This is one of the necessary components to manufacturing meth. It’s also the most dangerous ingredient.
Publications in Oregon and elsewhere have been accused of hyping up the so-called meth epidemic. It’s not sexy, but it makes a good story and an excellent scare tactic in favor of the lost war on drugs. And the use of meth in the gay community isn’t a factor here — there is no gay community. In larger areas, in busier districts, there are other things that register on the legal radar. Where I work, it’s all about busting drunk drivers and meth users. I want to be an objective party, but in this environment, who knows how to separate the fact from the fiction? The people come to me too late, after a mental illness has been exposed by or created by the meth. I see them after they’ve been referred by probation or parole. I see their kids after they’ve been removed from the home, not before. Nearly all of the families I am in charge of monitoring have been touched somehow, in some way, by the use or manufacturing of methamphetamines.
And why wouldn’t they use it? With no jobs, with nothing to do, you make the high and you get the high. You lose weight, fuck better, feel better, and make some money on the side. The short-term gains outweigh the long-term costs for most of these families, many of whom have no access to higher education, job training, or even basic transportation. It isn’t uncommon for fifteen to thirty people to be busted in a month’s time, from elaborate labs in the middle of nowhere to travelling labs in the back of someone’s car — who needs a Mexican drug cartel when you’ve got the next-door neighbors? The kids do it at school, the parents do it at home. People smoke meth like I smoked pot in high school.
But here’s what scares the shit out of me: Most people I work with who manufacture meth will only consent to treatment after, after, they have cooked the “perfect” batch. This perfect batch, of course, never happens. Thus, they are forced to me by the courts. While most people believe that drug addiction is cured only in the willing, research shows treatment is most effective when it is forced.
Most of the time, meth addicts don’t even get that. They get prison time. I get their kids. Corporations pulling out of the countryside get off with tax breaks and federal loans. Government denies a problem, hires more police. Social services cleans up the mess.
Jill from Feministe has tackled the gargantuan task of remaining measured and polite while arguing for freedom of choice over at Dawn Eden’s soundstage. I can’t imagine how she keeps her cool as the oh-so-enlightened wingnuttery labels her a Nazi and such; she’s got real Christian patience, that one.
Like Jill and many of our friendly scientists, I don’t believe a fetus is a human being. But for some reason, maybe you do. Jill responds to the implications for choice:
But that said, even if we could demonstrate that a fetus was the full equivalent of a human being, I would still be in favor of abortion rights, because I don’t think that any human being has the right to use another’s organs and body for its own survival without that person’s consent.
Dawn counters:
If one believes that the humanity of the unborn child does not matter because a mother is not responsible for the human life growing inside her, then no one is responsible for another in any way. Parents are not responsible for their children and children are not responsible for their elderly or disabled parents. Husbands are not responsible for their elderly or disabled wives, and vice versa. No one has any responsibility to the poor, unfortunate, or suffering.
I’m too angry at Dawn’s ignorance to respond as politely as Jill might, so I’ve asked an associate to guest-blog a response for me. Punkassfriends, please meet my pal, Bluey, the Body Rights Thingamabob:

Bluey wants to transmit a message of body rights and tolerance that the young and Dawn Eden should be able to grasp…
H/T everyone and their mother.
According to the BBC, the Pope may let a lucky few wrap up:
In his interview with the newspaper, Cardinal Barragan said: “Soon the Vatican will issue a document about the use of condoms by persons who have grave diseases, starting with Aids.[sic]“
I don’t understand why it’s okay for people with AIDS to kill their unborn, unplanted probabili-babies while the rest of us have to suffer the pull-out method or dry humping. Can people with AIDS masturbate now, too?
Man. People with AIDS get to have all the fun.
First, check out this promo the Big 10 Conference ran during its televised basketball games this year:
Frankly, I’m stunned the suits from a stodgy conference like the rust-belt Big 10 would push an image that’s unabashedly cool on so many layers. First off, there’s no hip hop star with more credibility than Talib Kweli. Nice choice. The ad doesn’t mention his name, though, and you have to know at least a little something about hip hop to recognize him on your own. Says to me the marketers are actually assuming their audience does know something about rap music, which is way more revolutionary than it should be these days. Finally, they keep it simple — Kweli’s stylings, nice clips, a little scratch — and do nothing to soft-pedal the hip hop edge. In other words, the Big 10 is utterly unapologetic about connecting hip hop and basketball and feels it’s the best way to reach out to fans.
Too bad NBA marketing execs hate us too much to do the same.
(more…)
Movie studio exec: “Yeah, yeah, the megaplex is struggling, but have you seen our DVD sales figures? Ridiculous. People are coughing up $20 a pop for movies they haven’t even seen, can you believe that shit? We’re gonna figure out this whole download thing someday, too, as soon as poor people stop wasting welfare money on crack and mix in a cable modem.”
TV exec: “Americans spend 4.33 hours a day staring at the tube. We kick the crap out of every other creative distribution mechanism in terms of audience, ad money, and customer options. Our farts smell even better than G*ldstein’s.”
Record label exec: “Sure, CD sales are down, but any time I wanna nail some A+ hottie with a C- voice, I only gotta say one word: iTunes. Just the thought of the whole world being 99 cents away from downloading her lame-ass karaoke stylings makes any wannabe rump-shaker melt in my mouth. Trust me, our industry’s fine.”
Satellite radio exec: “Don’t ask me how, but we got people to pay for something they can still get for free. I mean, yeah, you can get satellite radio in the middle of the Sahara or after a limited nuclear war, but you can get what, exactly? We have 194 stations, true, but the music ones play maybe 6 different songs a day, and the talk is canned crap; even podcasts blow our content out of the water. Then again, we did nab Howard Stern, so maybe we aren’t all smoke and mirrors after all.”
Terrestrial radio exec: “What? Howard Stern left for satellite?” [retrieves revolver, spins chamber, blows own brains out]
The channels of mass distribution for artistic content are changing, but if you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said only one is threatened with total extinction: terrestrial radio.
Recently