Proverbs for Paranoids, 1: You may never get to touch the Master but you can tickle his creatures. [237]
P for P, 2: The innocence of the creatures is in inverse proportion to the immorality of the Master. [241]
P for P, 3: If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about the answers. [251]
P for P, 4: You hide, they seek. [262]Pynchon, Thomas. Gravity’s Rainbow. London: Vintage, 1995.
Porque hay cosas que deben aprenderse, sobre todo el n
Loss of privacy is perhaps the most obvious shadow side of technological cooperation systems. In order to cooperate with more people, I need to know more about them, and that means that they will know more about me. The tools that enable cooperation also transmit to a large number of others a constellation of intimate data about each of us. In the recent past, it was said that digital information technology, such as the magnetic strips on credit cards, leaves a “trail of electronic breadcrumbs” that can be used to track individuals. In the future, the trail will become a moving cloud as individuals broadcast information about themselves to devices within ten yards, a city block, or the entire world. Although there is room for speculation about how quickly the new tools will be adopted, certainly over the next several decades inexpensive wireless devices will penetrate into every part of the social world, bringing efficiencies to the production of snooping power. The surveillance state that Orwell feared was puny in its power in comparison to the panoptic web we have woven around us. Detailed information about the minute-by-minute behaviors of entire populations will become cost-effective and increasingly accurate. Both powerfully beneficial and powerfully dangerous potentials of this new tracking capability will be literally embedded in the environment.
Cooperative effort sounds nice, and at its best, it is the foundation of the finest creations of human civilizations, but it can also be nasty if the people who cooperate share pernicious goals.
Rheingold, Howard. Smart Mobs: The Next Social Revolution. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002. p.xxi.
Simplemente una forma de anunciarle a JL lo que le espera en el terru
John Perry Barlow, a quien en otra vida hicimos una entrevista, tiene un blog. Ojal
NASA, the board argued, had become too reliant on presenting complex information via PowerPoint, instead of by means of traditional ink-and-paper technical reports. When NASA engineers assessed possible wing damage during the mission, they presented the findings in a confusing PowerPoint slide — so crammed with nested bullet points and irregular short forms that it was nearly impossible to untangle. ”It is easy to understand how a senior manager might read this PowerPoint slide and not realize that it addresses a life-threatening situation,” the board sternly noted.
PowerPoint is the world’s most popular tool for presenting information. There are 400 million copies in circulation, and almost no corporate decision takes place without it. But what if PowerPoint is actually making us stupider?
This year, Edward Tufte — the famous theorist of information presentation — made precisely that argument in a blistering screed called The Cognitive Style of PowerPoint. In his slim 28-page pamphlet, Tufte claimed that Microsoft’s ubiquitous software forces people to mutilate data beyond comprehension.
No es la primera vez que leemos sobre la maldad de Powerpoint: el primer aviso lo vimos en el New Yorker en mayo del 2000. Ahora la Nasa achaca su
…tu cuerpo es s
That was all. ‘I’m going to come on your face.’ No instructions for me, though I played with my breasts and nipples, sucked my own fingers after touching myself, hoping that would help. All that I had known before the appointment were the details of the meeting and a request to wear a lot of makeup.
My effort didn’t seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again. And the mantra. ‘I’m going to come on your face.’ I writhed on the sheets and groaned. No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh. Again, no reaction.
Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel the way unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest. ‘I’m sorry honey, it ain’t gonna happen,’ he said, as if it had been my idea all along.
Cortes
