Please read this from start to finish Kurt: http://www.deepelm.com/filesharing will take 5 minutes of your time

Which brings me to this post. That underwhelming and hyperbolic article demands a response that I couldn’t possibly flesh out to a thoughtful extent in 140 characters. Also, I had already read it and having satisfactorily beaten English, I find this particular reading assignment rather annoying. Therefore, the cold hard truth about the recording industry, for labels major and indie alike, will sound colder coming from me.

No one ever went to a record store with the intent of buying intellectual property, even before the advent of relatively inexpensive internet access, cheap CD-R drives, and useful codecs. Rather, they went in search of physical media–vinyl, cassettes, and compact discs, which have significant manufacturing, distribution, and inventory costs–with which they could put in their stereo systems to reproduce music. Even though the some of the companies behind these media colluded to keep prices artificially high, the thought of paying for something tangible, collectible, and somewhat fungible made sense. Furthermore, upon breaking or losing such an item, one would find himself shit out of luck. If consumers ever honestly believed that they were dealing in intellectual property, they would have demanded discounts upon purchasing albums they already owned in other formats, or fresh copies at little to no cost in exchange for their worn out vinyl. Now that modern technology has enabled us to freely replicate, transmit, and store (musical) information, we see the recording industry suddenly pulling the intellectual property card, now that it’s in their favor to do so. And so the rent-seekers whine that their formerly hapless tenants should start to consistently avoid their hotel-ed Park Place, calling us thieves and pirates just because we’ve found better ways to spend what we have of our disposable incomes. How pathetic.

Instead of wasting their resources lobbying for stronger protections and governmental intervention, suing fans, and calling names, members of the recording industry need to innovate and devise new business models. Small labels and individual acts probably have an advantage in doing so insofar as they lack the corporate inertia preventing them from experimenting with new ways to make money with the music they compose, record, and perform. As such, I find it upsetting to read Szuch’s paranoid, delusional, and self-important complaints that acts like Radiohead are “devaluing music”, that equipment manufacturers are preying upon helpless music labels, or that the fate of music itself hinges upon the preservation of labels like his own and their aging business models. Get over yourself, John! At least Radiohead is trying something. At least equipment manufacturers sell worthwhile products. And let’s not forget that music predates the recording industry. Even amid increasing sales of digital copies of audio tracks via the likes of iTunes, no one is buying intellectual property. Consumers are paying for services that they find worthwhile, they’re avoiding the wrath of the RIAA, or they’re just trying to get money to their favorite musicians. Ultimately, unless they intend to make litigation their new business model, members of the music industry will have to stop relying on the notion of intellectual property. You can’t expect people to honor it when they’ve never done so before. If you really want to survive, come up with a worthwhile product that doesn’t exist solely in the realm of litigation.

Suggested reading: Against Intellectual Monopoly by Michele Boldrin and David K. Levine.

Welcome ta Earf!

Recently, over the period of more than a month, we’ve watched a deathly, inky goo spew from the bowls of the Earth, invading the shores of the United States’ coast on the Gulf of Mexico. Were it not for animals actually getting harmed, the Deepwater Horizon oil spill had the makings of such an impending disaster flick, and possibly a good one. A greedy, corrupt corporation ignores environmental and worker safety, leading to a violent, explosive disaster that unleashes a sea-monster of sorts that slowly makes its way to shore to wreak havoc upon the innocent citizenry and the cute animals. It even has a great title, Deepwater Horizon. However, we don’t have a complete script. Besides lacking American Humane Association approval, the script also lacks an intrepid president assembling a crack team of engineers and experts to save the day, with a hot foreign actress going to the most deserving member. Somewhat ironically, the best we get is a brainstorming session graced with the presence of the esteemed filmmaker, James Cameron. As such, Deepwater Horizon unfortunately looks more like My Name is Bruce than Sunshine. Perhaps BP will start shoving bean curd into the well next.

Histrionics aside, I mean it. Upon learning of the leak (eruption is probably a more appropriate word with “leak” seeming a little too BP-approved of a term) in the aftermath of the accident, President Obama should have begun conscripting the best engineers, geologists, and other experts to tackle the problem, all on BP’s tab, of course. We’ve heard from many sources, including the Obama administration trying to downplay its responsibility, that only BP has the resources and expertise to stop the oil. That doesn’t have to be the case. Obama has the executive authority to create his own team of experts and to commandeer BP resources as the situation requires. However, with oil already washing up on Florida’s coasts, Barack has missed his movie moment. Even if the hypothetical dream team couldn’t plug the holes in time, such an effort would have been more substantial than Katrina-style fly-overs or tours of soiled shorelines. Obama missed his chance to better delineate the good guys and the bad guys in this disaster, precluding the following scene.

Cold, dark, and moist, the cavernous cold room, where seafood, freshly harvested from the Gulf, used to await shipment, felt constrictive to Tony Hayward, BP’s former CEO, seated in its center. Once teeming with activity, its owners had to close shop. The oil choked off their business. Fittingly, the room’s old odors had a similar effect on Hayward’s throat. He couldn’t make that association though. He had no idea where he was, only that he had been taken here against his will. Although he had no restraints, the cone of light emanating from the lamp dangling above his head kept him seated in the unbalanced chair where he had woken some time ago. Unable to see much past the light, save for some warped and broken cargo pallets, he wouldn’t dare venture beyond it, choosing instead to study its intersections with the cracks in the floor. This meager distraction however, couldn’t overcome Hayward’s growing sense of reality.

Hours ago, he expected to meet with the president for some kind of beer summit. Perhaps he’d have to make another canned apology. When a SWAT team boarded his private plane, zip-tied his hands, and put a bag over his head, he convinced himself that there must have been some sort of mistake with a terror watch list. ‘Everything is going to be fine,’ he thought to himself. ‘Everything always turns out fine’. As such, he decided not to start calling for help. Hayward tried to think of plausible scenarios that might bolster his affirmations until a deafening metal squeal of the sliding door some distance in front of him interrupted him. A figured entered and then turned to Hayward’s left, almost disappearing in the darkness. Hayward tried to follow it with his eyes, but another figure appeared in the doorway, commanding his attention. Whereas the first was average height, with broad shoulders and a soldier’s posture, this second figure looked familiar, standing tall yet relaxed. The silhouette’s ears were distinct, and upon noticing them, Hayward felt both relief and dread. He was in the presence of the President, Barak Obama. A loud, staccato screech amplified Hayward’s dread as the first figure dragged a stainless steel table into view. Obama approached the table, his face glowing eerily with the light reflecting off of it. Hayward stood to greet him, but only made it a few inches off of his seat before the first figure, whom Hayward by now assumed was a Secret Service agent, loudly commanded him to sit back down. He felt some urine surge into his pants. He hadn’t visited a bathroom since some time before his abduction, but was too concerned with his situation to have acknowledged the fact.

“Looks like you’ve sprung another leak,” the president chided.

With his height, and with the BP executive still seated an uncomfortable distance away from the table, Obama had a clear view of the damp spot in Hayward’s pants. Unsure as to whether he should protest his detainment or defer to the reflexive pandering he’s typically employed with politicians, Hayward attempted both.

“Barry! What a surprise. Say, is there a bathroom around here?” His voice cracked and stuttered.

“You won’t be needing that, Tony” replied Obama.

“I-I beg to differ,” Hayward said, gesturing toward his crotch, “I seem to have had a little accident.”

“We’ve seen worse. Haven’t we?”

While only slightly damp in his pants, Hayward dripped with humiliation. The spill had been contained, albeit with some damage to the Gulf, its coasts, and its dependent industries. He had lost track of all the depositions and interviews but assumed that the worst was over for him. He had hoped to fade into comfortable obscurity with the help of a golden parachute.

“You’ve got a funny look on your face, Tony,” Obama continued, “one of entitlement, as though you not only deserve a bathroom, but the right to live out your days in luxury, playing golf on some pristine course. Well, in case you can’t tell, you’re a far cry from that, all thanks to your dishonesty.” Obama lifted his hands, palms up, fingers spread, as if to reintroduce Hayward to his confines.

“Dishonesty? I’ve been nothing but forthcoming in my efforts to mitigate the effects of the spill and—“

“Don’t bullshit me, Tony”, Obama interrupted. “The people want justice and atonement. It’s my job to deliver.”

“Well what do you expect me to do about it? The oil’s been spilled. All that’s left is to clean it up.”

“You know, in certain older civilized cultures, when men failed as entirely as you have, they would throw themselves on their swords.”

“Well, it’s two thousand ten. I don’t have a sword.” Hayward chuckled uncomfortably.

Obama starred at him. ‘Christ,’ Hayward though, ‘this guy has a sword. He’s the president and he put me in this hole. Of course he has a fucking sword.’

“Indeed” replied Obama. “George?”

The Secret Service agent reached into his coat, producing a handgun, which he then passed to the president. “Sir.”

“Thank you, George.”

“What the hell is that?!” Hayward could barely find his voice.

“SIG P226, standard issue.” Obama removed the magazine and handed it to George. He then pulled the slide back, gracefully ejecting the chambered round into his left hand.

“What’s this all about, Barack?”

“I guess I have to fill you in. You’re dead, Tony. Your plane exploded shortly after landing, before you could get off. Static electricity. It’s tragic. No survivors. Not even any discernible remains. At least, that’s the story the media will tell. Sorry it had to be this way, but in order to get financial restitution past your former company’s legal obstructions, you had to die so we could seize your estate, and thus your remaining shares in BP, with the help of some graft allegations. I suppose we could have left you to actually die in the explosion, but then you would have missed out on your atonement. Don’t feel singled out. I have appointments with some of your former colleagues as well.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Obama held the round up to the light, smiling as he admired its simple, precise construction. With a click, he re-chambered the round and coolly replied, “a bullet always tells the truth.” Obama placed the weapon on the table and turned to leave with his agent in tow. In the time it took them to reach the door, Hayward could barely process the president’s explanation. With his long strides, Obama was already through the doorway and out of sight. The screech of the door sliding shut jolted Hayward into action. He picked up the gun and pointed it at the agent. “Hey! You let me out of here!”

“Don’t waste your bullet,” the agent calmly replied, “the clean-up team won’t be here for a week.” With that, he slammed the door shut. The remaining contents of Hayward’s bladder streamed down his legs, into the cracks in the floor.

I copied two quotes from two excellent movies. Bonus points to anyone who can tell me which movies and which characters say them.

By cashing this check I agree to a thirty-day trial offer in Elite Excursions. I understand that the $19.99 monthly fee will be automatically charged to my card on file with 1-800-FLOWERS.COM unless I cancel my membership by calling 1-866-709-2905 before the end of the trial period… By cashing this check I authorize 1-800-FLOWERS.COM to securely transfer my credit card information to Elite Excursions for enrollment, billing and benefit processing.

Yeah. Would you, at the suggestion of a company that had ripped you off once before, sell your credit card information to a company you’d never heard of for $9.25? You be the judge, Internets.

As some of my readers may know, I married Kat on June 20 of this year. She’s awesome. She’s sexy. She’s smart. She may or may not know what she’s gotten herself into. And all that makes me very lucky. I had thought about chronicling the wedding, honeymoon, and the preceding events, but I can’t possibly do it justice. In fact, I’d almost prefer that the stories of our wedding exist only as an oral history, aging for the sake of occasional tastings, like a good vintage, or more appropriately, a dark, potent brew. So, I’ll stick to something I had hoped I would write about more often when I started this blog: beer.

I prepared a really awesome gift for my groomsmen. It consisted of a homemade Oktoberfest contained in fancy, swing-top style bottles. Each bottle bared a hand-made label, and came packaged with a pint glass, hand-etched with the groomsman’s initials. Pat Faust, the wife of Dennis at Brew and Wind Hobby in East Hartford, did the calligraphy and screen-printing for the labels as well as the glass etching. I had the beer brewed and bottled for sometime prior to the wedding, but I waited until about 10 days before the wedding before I came up with the label idea and started looking for someone to make it and the glasses for me. In addition to creating a really nicely finished product, Pat did it within my tight schedule and the gifts were a hit. They simply wouldn’t have happened without her.

As far as actually brewing the beer went, it involved a lot of firsts. It was our first lager, it was Dave’s first experience with homebrewing, and it was the first brew session at my parent’s house. Also, this batch employed some new equipment, including a 185,000 BTU propane regulator and burner for brewing, and a mini-fridge equipped with a temperature controller for fermentation. The burner necessitated that we brew outdoors, on a cold December night, at my parents house. Since it produced lots of fire, heat, and carbon monoxide, we obviously couldn’t operate it in the apartment. Furthermore, I didn’t feel like lugging brewing equipment to and from the courtyard. However, brewing away from home would present its own challenges, like forgetting to bring the yeast. While brewing, I turned up the burner too much, leading to a boil-over and then a small fire. Apparently, the foam from the wort caramelized as it spilled down the side of the pot and then ignited upon contact with the flame. After dealing with that and adjusting the burner to a lower setting, I thought all was well. We still had a really strong boil going, which undoubtedly helped make the beer really clear in the end, but we also lost a lot of water, reducing yield and increasing the concentrations of hops and malt. I wish I could blame the small amount of beer, 3.75 gallons, on the insanely powerful burner, but truthfully, I easily replenished the lost wort volume with water during fermentation, achieving the intended concentrations of malt and hops. Therefore, the low volume really has to do with poor efficiency in the mashing process. Perhaps the small quantity increases novelty of the whole thing. At least it tastes good!

And it’s not just me saying that. Even Samuel Adams agrees. On a whim, I submitted four twelve ounce bottles of Groom’s Reserve to the Samuel Adams Longshot Homebrew Contest where it earned second place in the Oktoberfest category. I will point out that the brewer who took first in that category became a finalist with another one of his entries. In other words, I was beaten only by a skilled brewer, as opposed to some schmo. As a prize, Samuel Adams sent me a hat. I may only wear it when I get drunk, but I wear the glory 24/7.  Have a look at the judges’ report cards:

Before I close, I’d like to share a link to some of the wedding photos taken by our guests. When I get a hold of the digital copies from our official photographer, I’ll share them there.

That’s why the events described in this article trouble me. Apparently some folks are so adamant that humanity can engineer climate change away that they’ll go ahead and experiment with dumping iron filings into the ocean to increase plankton growth in spite of a UN moratorium on doing so. I doubt that anything interesting will happen, but I’m sure the parties involved will claim promising results in order to gain investors and collect more grant money, money that’s better spent on research into and proven methods of reducing pollution. Also, when people proselytize geo-engineering in Popular Science or on shows like Project Earth, they promote an unhealthy notion that we’ve got a Plan B for the planet or that we can renovate the Earth to accommodate our behavior. What hubris! With the same notion, one can justify urban sprawl. Rather, we should modify our behavior to accommodate the Earth, and by extension, accommodate each other.

I can’t shake the feeling that these geo-engineers—I hate the term but it already has a Wikipedia entry—just want to profit on the hype (cough, Y2K) or are just crazy. Even if we have pushed the climate past its tipping point, and assuming that climate change can be intentionally reversed, only a cooperative, concerted effort from every country could overcome the climate’s inertia. I doubt that even an alien invasion could spur such an effort. Nevermind that reversing climate change sounds too much like un-baking a cake.

Insulating polar ice with blankets, spraying sea water into the air to make clouds, manipulating plants and creatures to gobble carbon dioxide, and other schemes either signal traps for venture capitalists or good faith yet futile attempts to avoid various nightmare scenarios. Our best bet is to eliminate pollution, rehabilitate forests and other ecologies, adapt the best we can to whatever happens next, and hopefully learn a lesson.

Burgess’s fails at reducing piracy on the high seas to terrorism because he misses a simpler truth. Pirates, like those operating off the cost Somalia, just want the money. This motive explains why they patiently hold ships, cargo, and crew members for ransom, as opposed to the proper terrorists who took hostages just to kill them in Mumbai. Burgess tries to justify his reduction with the ancient Roman reasoning that pirates are “enemies of the human race” as paraphrased by Edward Coke, a 16th century English jurist. Surely this reasoning resembles contemporary sentiment for proper terrorists, but the world should know by now not to let sentiment steer foreign policy. Anyone still seeking this conclusion for himself need only recall President Bush’s assertion of the presence of soul in the dreamy eyes of Vladimir Putin. Burgess goes on to claim that the inability of navies to defeat the pirates results from a jurisdictional Gordian knot in that no nation knows how to treat the pirates. Let’s just treat ‘em like terrorists, he argues. Taking care of terrorism is also everybody’s responsibility, because you’re either with us or against us, right? With this argument though, he swings at the wrong Gordian knot with a dull blade.

Even if the world’s naval powers could round up all the pirates in the Gulf of Aiden, sending them to the various Guantanamos in the world would constitute an irresponsible and unreasonable effort. Such an effort would distract from going after real terrorists. Furthermore, if Burgess would actually compare the Somali pirates with Al Qaeda or Lashkar-e-Taiba, he’d see that they represent dissimilar threats. The Somali pirates threaten private property, while proper terrorist organizations specifically target and kill people. Given limited resources, I can’t imagine how Burgess could assign pirates to the same class as terrorists. And if we have to fight a War on Piracy, the War on Terrorism makes for a poor example to follow. I surmise that those who disagree enjoy confusing terms like criminal, solider, unlawful combatant, and prisoner of war and inventing others like illegal enemy combatant and detainee. I won’t bother to get into the issues of having a war on ideas or things like drugs and, of course, terrorism. 

If I recall my history lessons correctly, then interpreting the ancient Romans’ sentiments of piracy assuming anything but an ancient Roman’s perspective will lead to confusion. For all they cared, the Roman Empire was civilization and Romans were the human race. They filed everyone else under the category of barbarians. So piracy on the high seas threatened commerce and thus Roman interests. Indeed, piracy still threatens modern commerce just as it did back then, but one has to stretch to assert that the world revolves around these affected business interests. Furthermore, Burgess can’t call the Somali pirates enemies of the human race unless he thinks Somalis don’t count. After all, I imagine that a good amount of the ransom money helps to put food on Somali tables.

Yes, piracy has bad consequences, but calling piracy terrorism will just lead to more bad consequences. I propose a more dignified solution. Just let the pirates continue their operations. Let them organize. Eventually the companies shipping things through Somali waters will get tired of the risks and ransoms. Some will take longer, more expensive routes to bypass the threat. And some, I hope, will negotiate and pay the pirates in advance. Such an arrangement would preclude violence and provide income to Somalia to make up for that which it cannot earn by fishing anymore. The pirates will become an authority in the region. They will seek to maintain power and keep competing and depreciating interests out, including proper terrorists. One could call my idea a cop-out that could potentially lead to the establishment of a pirate state in Somalia, but it beats playing a game of neo-conservative semantics.

Kat and I might not be following the polls and coloring our electoral maps this evening, but given that some of the buttons endorse political movements and candidates from as far back as 1940, for Franklin Roosevelt, we’re certainly politically involved, if not inundated in Americana.

That run-on sentence is all I have to post right now, other than a story about an incident that occured when I went to vote today. My apartment number was wrong on the registered voter list. Luckily the ladies behind the desk were nice and let me vote. Be nice to old ladies. They are the gatekeepers of democracy. Also, when exiting the polling place, Kat and I accidentally used the entrance and not the proper exit to leave. We caught a slight scolding from a middle aged woman. Such women are powerless underlings.

Consider the various Sarah Palin quote generators’ eerily similar outputs. Well, they definitely don’t pass any Turing test, but my point is that too often, that which spouts from Palin’s mouth lacks coherence, relevance, even sentience. Her interview transcripts dumbfound. Joe Biden’s slip-ups, however, help prove that he’s not a bot. They demonstrate his fallibility and highlight his character. I have yet to encounter a bot which possesses these traits. As such, if Gotcha Journalism exists, I don’t see it at play here. I entirely understand Palin’s interviewers’ astonishment and recognize that if anything they’re not out to get Palin. They’re just aching to see what happens when they type in penis.

For the most part, I’ve heard two stories regarding what happened: one, that some hacker hacked poor Governor Palin, and two, that Yahoo!’s web-mail security sucks. Both lack the proper relevance. The first story screams hyperbole and the second, in addition to inadequately assessing free web-mail security, simply isn’t news. I want to hear the story about state officials conducting state business over an insecure medium, why they do it, and how are they allowed to do it.

Some folks, who I assume to agree with me, at least in part, decided to drive the point home to Bill O’Reilly. As I understand it, his website has some features and content only available to paying subscribers. As such, the site keeps information on the subscribers, but not securely. Now the subscriber information resides, in part, on Wikileaks.

I’m sure the prank will compel O’Reilly to find a secure web host, but I doubt that he’ll put his foot in his mouth out of embarrassment. For that, or any other sufficiently big target, only a big enough prank will do.

So now I’ll just come right out and say it: I want to see more of what happened in The Usual Suspects where the police escort service gets exposed. For the uninitiated, here’s a little synopsis of the scene at hand. In it, the New York City police arrest and generally harass some gangsters for apparently no reason. Afterwards, the gangsters get their revenge by spectacularly exposing the corruption within the department. And it’s awesome.

As a matter of definition, the gangsters carry out their revenge vindictively, but they do so in a big way that really messes things up for the corrupt police department. Also, no one really gets hurt. I’d love to see more pranks of this caliber as a matter of avenging the public and generally embarrassing people who deserve it. I think the folks responsible for going after O’Reilly had the right idea, but I hope that they and anyone else so inclined step it up next time.

So far, I’ve only been through two bosses and the subsequent training sessions for each in The Force Unleashed for the Wii. My first impression is mostly good. Two issues immediately annoyed me, however. Those would be the game’s default brightness level and the controls. The first issue can be solved by taking some time to play with the game settings and the television’s settings. The levels tend to be dark and shadowy, so getting the settings right will allow for proper enjoyment of the scenery and you lightsaber skills. The controls are tricky at first but a little practice is all it takes to graduate from intuitive slicing motions with the remote.

Speaking of which the only characters I’ve actually been able to slice were some innocently bystanding droids. Unlike in the Star Wars films, I have yet to see any flying limbs or rolling heads. Hopefully there’s a cheat available to up the gore. To conclude this gripe session, there’s no online multiplayer support, as far as I can tell.

As for the good stuff, I’m enjoying the story and the characters. I’m having fun killing storm troopers and other goons. The single player experience genuinly entertains me. The first two levels appear to follow the same formula. I haven’t encountered any real puzzles yet. I hope The Force Unleashed adopts some Metal Gear Solid gameplay elements in later levels.

‘Cause I’m a huge dork.

(And, I love Kat for buying me this game for my birfday!)

"Guilty."

Today I deposited some checks at a Bank of America ATM. The machine instructed me not to use an envelope. All I had to do was feed it the endorsed checks one at a time. Then, it read the value of the checks without me having to type anything in. Maybe these new ATMs aren’t new to anyone except for me, but seriously: holy crap.

Also, I’m trying out Chrome. Not too shabby.