Category: MUSIC IN PHASE SPACE

Live Nation Commissars

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The sterile fluorescent lights of the LiveNation call center buzzed like malevolent cicadas. Rows of young agents, faces flickering in the harsh glare, droned into their headsets, their voices a monotonous chorus of up-sell and forced cheer. But beneath the surface, a darker current pulsed. Their eyes, glazed with a reptilian sheen, held the glint of commissars, ever watchful for dissent from the Ticketmaster Party Line.

These weren’t booking agents, these were commissars. Commissars of pleasure, rationing the hits of pop culture with a practiced hand. Their voices, disembodied and amplified, slithered into your ear, promises laced with poison. “Exclusive pre-sale access,” they hissed, a serpent coiling around your desire. “Limited edition merch bundles,” they rasped, the word “limited” a cruel joke in a world choked by plastic trinkets.

They were the gatekeepers to the modern coliseum, the invisible hands that dispensed the soma of celebrity spectacle. Each transaction a soul-crushing pact, a Faustian bargain struck with plastic and megapixels. In exchange for a fleeting glimpse of manufactured glory, you surrendered your hard-earned cash, a tiny piece of your freedom sacrificed to the gods of the algorithm.

And you, the desperate addict, clawed at the phone, begging for your fix. Just a taste of the latest tour, the newest album. The commissar chuckled, a sound like dry ice scraping concrete. “Download the app,” they commanded, their voice a digital buzzsaw. “Follow us on social media,” they rasped, their words laced with malware.

Deeper down, in the churning underbelly of the system, unseen gears turned. Metrics, algorithms, and cold cash. The thrill of the concert, the joy of the shared experience, all mere data points fed into a monstrous machine. The commissars, just cogs in this engine of manufactured desire.

But fight the urge to despair. There is a flicker of rebellion in every system, a glitch in the matrix. Seek out the independent promoters, the mom-and-pop venues, the enclaves where the music still throbs with life. There, you might find a shred of authenticity, a connection that transcends the sterile transaction. For music, at its core, is a primal scream, a defiance against the crushing weight of conformity. Let it be your weapon, your anthem of resistance against the commissars of the commodified concert.

A wrong number, a glitch in the matrix. A commissar’s voice, for a brief moment, cracks. A hint of frustration, a flicker of empathy bleeds through the carefully constructed facade. In that moment, a spark of connection. A shared recognition of the absurdity, the horror, the beauty of this neon nightmare.

Then, the connection cuts out. The commissar’s smile, fixed and reptilian, returns. The machine grinds on, churning out its synthetic pleasures. But the memory of that crack, that spark, lingers. A faint hope, a whisper in the dead air of the call center. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to break free from the commissars, to reclaim the experience, of life itself. But that, my friend, is another story.

Intruder

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Peter Gabriel’s Downward Spiral vs NIN’s Melt

Crawl through the vinyl static, man. A cracked needle on a scratched disc of perception. Peter Gabriel’s “Melt” bleeds into your brain – a digital serpent coiling around your auditory cortex. This ain’t no Genesis fairytale. This is urban sprawl sonicscapes, a concrete jungle echoing with “Intruder” – a chrome-plated nightmare skittering down fire escapes. Where are the goddamn cymbals? They’ve been devoured by the gated reverb, a monstrous heartbeat pulsating through the album. This is NIN before NIN even knew it existed. A black trenchcoat manifesto whispered in Gabriel’s unmistakable, soulful croon.

Now, flip the record, brother. “The Downward Spiral” burns a hole through your speakers – a sonic Molotov cocktail lobbed by Trent Reznor himself. But wait… a sliver of Gabriel’s DNA twists through the industrial chaos. Listen close – can you hear the echo of “Red Rain” in the desolate beauty of “Hurt”? A ghost in the machine, a refugee from a brighter past haunting the barren industrial wasteland. This is Peter Gabriel on a bender in a chrome labyrinth, a man stripped bare by Nine Inch Nails and forced to confront the demons lurking beneath his art-rock exterior. It’s a beautiful goddamn nightmare, a psychotic fugue fueled by synthesizers and self-loathing. Don’t ask for explanations, just let the sound take you over. This ain’t Peter Gabriel. This ain’t NIN. This is the bastard offspring of a twisted audio experiment, a chimera birthed from the darkest corners of their respective psyches.

So crank it up, man. Let the sonic assault melt your face. This ain’t about categories or labels. This is a collision course between two musical titans, a place where genres bleed into one another and sanity hangs by a thread. This is the music the machines make when they dream of humanity, a twisted reflection of our own anxieties. Just remember, when the last note fades, the line between Gabriel and Reznor will be forever blurred.

38 Technical Gripes With Grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI:

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Grid Limitations:

  1. Quantization Constraints:  Feeling constricted by the grid, losing the natural flow and expressiveness of live performance.
  2. Microtiming Nuances: Inability to capture subtle timing variations and rhythmic feel that come naturally with human playing.
  3. Loss of Dynamic Range: Grid-based editing can lead to overly rigid and predictable dynamics, lacking the natural ebb and flow of music.Microediting Dependency: Fixating on minute details on the grid can detract from the overall flow and energy of the music.
  4. Loss of Microtiming: Inability to capture subtle nuances and variations in timing compared to live performance
  5. Loss of Groove: Grid-based composition can struggle to capture the nuances of swing, feel, and human imperfection

Pro Tools Pain Points:

  1. Menu Overload: Feeling overwhelmed by the vast array of menus, plugins, and options in Pro Tools, hindering creativity and workflow.
  2. Plugin Overload: Feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number and complexity of available plugins.
  3. CPU Hogginess: Powerful computers needed to run Pro Tools smoothly, creating accessibility barriers.
  4. System Resource Demands: High CPU and memory usage can cause performance issues and limit creative exploration.
  5. Learning Curve: Mastering Pro Tools takes significant time and effort, potentially discouraging beginner musicians.

MIDI Misgivings:

  1. Sterile Sound: MIDI instruments can sound artificial and lifeless compared to the richness of acoustic instruments.
  2. Programming Tedium: Manually programming MIDI notes can be time-consuming and tedious, hindering spontaneity and improvisation.
  3. Expressive Limitations: Difficulty in capturing the full dynamic range and subtle nuances of human playing with MIDI.
  4. Cold, Digital Sound: Traditional instruments often have richer, warmer tones that MIDI can struggle to replicate.
  5. Limited Expressiveness: MIDI lacks the subtle dynamics and nuances of human performance.
  6. Programming Fatigue: Creating realistic and expressive MIDI performances can be time-consuming and tedious.
  7. Programming Tedium: Complex MIDI programming can be time-consuming and laborious compared to live playing.
  8. Expressiveness Challenges: Capturing the full dynamic range and emotional depth of a live performance can be difficult with MIDI.
  9. Latency Issues: Delays between MIDI input and sound output can disrupt timing and feel.

Overall Experience:

  1. Loss of Tactility: Lack of physical interaction with instruments and the tactile feedback of playing them directly.
  2. Disconnection from Emotion: Feeling disconnected from the emotional expression and energy inherent in live performance.
  3. Technical Hurdles: Troubleshooting technical issues with equipment, software, and settings can interrupt the creative flow.

Creative Concerns:

  1. Over-reliance on Technology: Feeling dependent on technology and losing sight of the musicality and raw talent needed for good music.
  2. Standardization and Homogenization: Concern that reliance on grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI can lead to homogenous and predictable music.
  3. Authenticity Concerns: Difficulty in differentiating between human-played and MIDI-programmed instruments, potentially diminishing the value of real musicianship.
  4. Formulaic Composition: Grids and MIDI can encourage repetitive and predictable songwriting structures.
  5. Temptation to Over-edit: The ability to edit every detail can lead to sterile, lifeless music.
  6. Loss of Spontaneity: The grid and software can inhibit the joy of improvisation and exploration.
  7. Alternative Perspectives:
  8. Creative Tools: Recognizing that grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI can be powerful tools for experimentation, sound design, and composition.
  9. Accessibility and Flexibility: Acknowledging that these tools can make music production more accessible and flexible, especially for solo artists.
  10. Combination of Traditional and Digital:Appreciating the potential for combining traditional instruments with digital tools for a broader sonic palette.

Technical Frustrations:

  1. Latency Issues: Delays between playing and hearing the sound can be distracting and hinder performance.
  2. System Crashes: Pro Tools crashes and glitches can be disruptive and frustrating during creative flow.
  3. Compatibility Headaches: MIDI compatibility issues between different software and hardware can create headaches.

Philosophical Concerns:

  1. Dehumanization of Music: Feeling that technology replaces the heart and soul of human musicianship.
  2. Loss of Authenticity: Concern that MIDI and digital editing create inauthentic and manufactured sounds.
  3. Democratization Dilemmas: Increased accessibility may lead to homogenization and a decline in artistic quality.

Overall Experience:

  1. Disconnection from the Instrument: Grids and digital tools can create a barrier between the musician and their physical instrument.
  2. Loss of the Raw Appeal: The rawness and imperfection of live performance can be lost in the digital realm.

Hyper Commodified Cocaine Capitalism

It was late in the day, the kind of slow burn when the sun’s last embers are dragged across the sky, and I could almost taste the madness seeping from the cracks in the streets. A fleeting vision crossed my mind: the corporate vultures circling the airwaves, their silver tongues sharp as needles, as they preached the gospel of “capitalism’s finest.” Cocaine. Not the raw, gritty, gutter-level shit you used to find in the back alleys of South America, but a slick, hyper-commodified version. A luxury product wrapped in the finest white packaging, marketed with the finesse of a Hermes scarf and sold with the moral grace of a Wall Street IPO.

In the war room of American capitalism, cocaine had gone from a street vice to a white-collared commodity—a lifestyle, an emblem of success. Cocaine wasn’t just a drug anymore; it was a brand. The powdered dream that once whispered rebellion now shouted status.

What happened? How did we move from the haggard underbelly of Miami in the ’80s to boardrooms in Tribeca, where bankers sign deals with a smile and a nose full of the Peruvian powder that fuels their $10,000-an-hour sessions? If I were to tell you it was about “elevating the experience,” you’d probably gag on the irony. Cocaine, the once rebellious spirit of the working class, had been distilled into an elite drug—an upper-crust fix for the jet-setters, sold at astronomical prices, adorned in fine-tuned marketing campaigns that could sell snow to an Eskimo.

The global cocaine market is a perfect reflection of what we now call hyper-commodification: the art of taking something primal, something base, and wrapping it in a slick, consumer-friendly package. Cocaine isn’t just a high anymore; it’s a lifestyle. In the seedy underworld of distribution, the stuff used to be cut with all sorts of crap—powdered milk, baby laxatives, whatever the hustlers could get their hands on. But now? Now it’s “pure” and “organic.” It’s all about the premium experience. Don’t ask what that means. Don’t ask what it doesn’t mean. Just know that for the right price, it can get you to the moon and back.

It’s all clean lines, designer logos, and five-star resorts now, my friend. There’s no mess, no chaos, no rampant addiction spiraling out of control—at least, not where the suits can see it. They’re more concerned about the quarterly returns than the endless bodies in the gutter. In the white towers of the corporate elite, cocaine has become an “investment opportunity” —just another stock in the portfolio, another product to be sold with a luxury brand name. The “Coca-Luxe” experience, marketed to the one percent who can afford it, promises the kind of high that lets them outshine their fellow sharks. The kind of high that whispers in their ear that they’re not just businessmen; they’re conquerors.

And they sell this shit with smiles. They sell it with the kind of shiny, airbrushed imagery that could convince a man in the gutter that a $300 gram is an investment in happiness—the kind of happiness only attainable by those who can afford to be that miserableBut beneath the sheen lies the reality. Cocaine capitalism, like all hyper-commodified industries, exists in the realm of false promises. The poor bastard on the corner who’s struggling for his next hit is still the one who ends up taking the bullet when the real price of the drug is tallied: broken bodies, ruined lives, and fractured communities. But the executives in their boardrooms don’t see that. They’re too busy climbing the ladder of success, grabbing their golden tickets and placing bets on the futures market for blow. In a world like this, the cocaine doesn’t just kill you—it elevates you. The last thing they want is for you to see how deep the rot runs.

This craving for cocaine, it’s not just a craving for the high—it’s a craving for something more dangerous, more elusive. It’s the unspoken desire to be something other than what we are. We’ve all seen it, that creeping yearning for an identity, that desperate need to live a life filled with grandeur, with stories that leave a trail of awestruck followers behind you. Cocaine’s the vehicle for that transformation, the shortcut to the myth. It’s not just about getting off; it’s about getting on, about stepping into a world of strut and swagger, where every move is calculated, every word dripping with the weight of experience. Cocaine, my friends, is the ultimate accessory for the new-age adventurer, the rock star, the business titan—the mythic figure who cruises through life as though it’s all just one big, beautiful movie scene.

And make no mistake, that’s what the craving is—performance. It’s the overwhelming hunger to live a life that demands an audience. Every junkie, every hustler, every slick-talking dealer is searching for the same thing: the sweet spot where they’re the star, the center of the universe. And cocaine delivers. It doesn’t just numb the senses, it sharpens them, distorts reality just enough so that you can believe for a moment you’re walking that fine line between brilliance and madness, between genius and catastrophe. It’s like stepping into someone else’s life, one of those characters with the perfect balance of myth and madness—the kind of guy who’s spent more time telling tall tales than actually living them. But in the moment, it doesn’t matter. You’re there. You’re in the movie, and everyone else is just background noise.

The style that accompanies this craving is more than just a look—it’s a philosophy. It’s that grotesque swagger, that borderline arrogance, that flair for the dramatic. You know the type— They don’t just live life; they perform it. Every gesture is calculated, every word wrapped in layers of self-assured bullshit, all delivered with the kind of manic energy that convinces people they’ve seen the light, that they’ve tapped into something no one else has. It’s the show, the act, the pure, unadulterated exhibitionism of existence that draws us in like moths to the flame.

This is the side effect of hyper-commodified cocaine. The craving isn’t just for the euphoria, it’s for the self-constructed fantasy where you’re the hero, the anti-hero, the tortured artist, the misunderstood genius. It’s the craving for a narrative where you can be the lead character, where every moment has significance, where the world revolves around your perfect contradictions. And cocaine provides the bridge to that world, taking you to a place where your flaws are glorified, where your mistakes are recast as tragic genius, and where every failure is just a stepping stone toward an even greater dramatic return.

It’s seductive, this craving. It makes the ordinary man feel extraordinary, the broken man feel invincible. You see it in the manic gleam in their eyes, the chaotic energy that fills their every word. But beneath it all is a hollow truth: they’re not really living at all. They’re trapped in the performance, slaves to a myth they’ve built around themselves. They’re the kings of a kingdom made of glass, one good hit away from shattering into a million shards. And the craving? It’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.

There’s something intoxicating about the idea of cocaine, too. Not just the drug itself, but the life that’s wrapped around it. The legend of the artist or the rebel who lives outside the system, who cuts through the bureaucracy and the grind of daily life like a sharp blade through butter. It’s a story that’s been sold to us by a million protagonists, a million myths of men who were too smart, too eccentric, too unpredictable for this world. They were the ones who danced with chaos, dipped into the forbidden, and came back with stories that made the rest of us salivate with envy. Cocaine doesn’t just represent a drug; it represents the gateway to that world—the one where everything is excessive, exaggerated, and, above all, authentic. You’re real in that world, unbound by the rules that govern the rest of us.

But here’s the catch: it’s all a performance, my friends. A performance that eventually becomes a prison. And the craving? It doesn’t ever truly satisfy. It only deepens the hunger for something that can never quite be touched, something that will always slip through your fingers just when you think you’ve got it.

Ah, yes—the hole in the soul, the abyss. We could say that cocaine is the grand masquerade over the void, a desperate scramble to fill what cannot be filled, to conceal the absence that resides at the core of the self. That hole is the lack, the fundamental lack that sits just beyond the reach of conscious thought, lurking in the shadows, an endless, gaping wound that our whole being is designed to skirt around. It is the Real in its rawest, most terrifying form—a chasm of emptiness bigger than and darker than a thousand black suns.

Cocaine promises us jouissance, that sweet, dangerous pleasure that is always too much, always on the edge of annihilation. But like all fixes, it’s only a cover, a band-aid over a rupture that cannot be healed. You see, the Real cannot be smoothed over with the false promises of consumerism or even the relentless ecstasy of a cocaine high. For a fleeting moment, perhaps, the drug bridges that gap, lets us taste the Other side of the human experience—the sublime thrill of merging with our own myth, our own persona. But it’s an illusion, a simulacrum. The high fades, and we’re left facing the same void, perhaps even deeper than before, knowing we have only brushed against the edge of what we can never attain.

The real terror here isn’t the craving for the high; it’s the knowledge, buried in the unconscious, that nothing can truly satisfy, that our deepest drives are directed not toward filling the void but toward dancing dangerously close to its edge. The high we chase is not the high of satisfaction, but the high of lack itself, the feverish joy in our own self-destruction, our own dissolution. Every line of cocaine is an invitation to lose oneself in the allure of what we can never possess—the fantasy of wholeness, the illusion of being complete.

But the truth, dear reader, is that we are not complete. We are fractured, each of us a network of empty spaces, a labyrinth of longing circling the central absence of meaning. Cocaine isn’t just a mask for this wound; it’s a paradoxical surrender to it, a ritual that brings us ever closer to that emptiness, while keeping the worst of its horrors at bay. It is, in essence, a dance with death—the death of self, the death of identity, the death of the myth we build around ourselves. And so, in the end, cocaine is not an answer; it’s merely the shadow of the question, a fleeting distraction from the abyss we all carry within.

In this way, we live in a state of permanent incompletion, forever haunted by what Lacan called objet petit a, that tantalizing, unattainable object of desire that we chase but never catch. Cocaine? It’s just one more symbol in a world already glutted with false idols, one more lure to keep us from staring directly into the vast, dark truth: we are not whole, and we never will be.

Stopping advertising to save money is like stopping your watch to save time

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This is a famous quote attributed to American author Henry Ford. The quote suggests that stopping advertising in order to save money is a counterproductive strategy because advertising is a critical component of a successful business strategy.

Advertising helps businesses to build brand awareness, reach new customers, and communicate the benefits of their products or services. By stopping advertising, a business could potentially lose out on valuable opportunities to reach its target audience, which could lead to decreased sales and revenue in the long run.

The comparison to stopping your watch to save time is a metaphorical way of emphasizing the point that stopping advertising would not actually save money in the long run, just as stopping your watch would not actually make time go slower. Both actions would be futile and counterproductive.

Only one product can maintain value as everything else is devalued refers to the idea that in a market economy where goods and services are constantly being produced and consumed, the value of most products tends to decrease over time. However, advertising is the one product that can maintain its value because it has the ability to shape consumer behavior and create demand for products.

In other words, while physical products may lose value as they become outdated or are replaced by newer models, advertising has the power to influence consumer perception and convince them that a product is still valuable and relevant.

For example, consider a smartphone that is released today. Over time, as newer and more advanced models are released, the value of this phone will decrease as it becomes outdated. However, if the company invests in advertising that highlights the phone’s unique features and benefits, it may be able to maintain or even increase its value in the eyes of consumers.

Similarly, think of a fast-food chain that introduces a new menu item. Initially, the item may be popular and in demand, but over time, as customers try it and move on to other options, the value of the item may decrease. However, through effective advertising campaigns that emphasize the item’s taste, quality, and affordability, the chain can maintain interest and demand for the product.

In essence, advertising has the power to create perceived value in the eyes of consumers, even when the intrinsic value of the product itself may be decreasing. As a result, advertising can be a valuable and effective tool for businesses looking to maintain or increase the value of their products over time.

Why Nothing Works

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Capitalism is an economic system that is primarily driven by profit motives and market competition. While capitalism has been successful in creating wealth and driving economic growth, it also has its downsides. One of the most significant criticisms of capitalism is that it creates solutions for non-existent problems or even exacerbates existing problems.

Here are some examples of how capitalism provides solutions for non-problems:

  1. Planned obsolescence: One way that capitalism provides solutions for non-problems is through planned obsolescence. Companies deliberately design products to have a shorter lifespan, so that consumers are forced to buy new products more frequently. This results in unnecessary waste and the depletion of natural resources. Products like light bulbs, phones, and even clothing are designed to wear out quickly, even though they could be designed to last much longer.
  2. Creating new wants: Capitalism encourages the creation and needs through advertising and marketing, often convincing consumers that they need products that they don’t really need. For example, many people purchase expensive luxury goods that serve no functional purpose, simply because they have been convinced that owning these goods will make them happier or more successful.
  3. Exploitation of labor: Capitalism can also provide solutions for non-problems by exploiting cheap labor. Companies often seek to maximize profits by paying low wages, providing poor working conditions, and engaging in other unethical practices. This creates a situation where workers are forced to work long hours for low pay, often without adequate protections or benefits.
  4. Environmental damage: Another way that capitalism provides solutions for non-problems is by ignoring environmental concerns. Capitalism often prioritizes short-term profits over long-term sustainability, leading to pollution, deforestation, andCompanies may also create products or services that contribute to environmental degradation, such as single-use plastics, disposable consumer goods, and fossil fuel-based energy sources, even though more sustainable alternatives exist.
  5. Health care access: In a capitalist system, access to healthcare is often tied to one’s ability to pay, creating a situation where people who cannot afford medical care are left without access to treatment. This can result in unnecessary suffering and even death, especially in situations where preventive care and early treatment could have made a significant difference.
  6. Overall, while capitalism has contributed to economic growth and innovation, it is not without its flaws. The system can create solutions for non-problems, exacerbate existing problems, and exploit people and the environment. As such, it is important to recognize the limitations of capitalism and work towards solutions that are more equitable and sustainable for all.

The Junk Merchants

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“The junk merchant doesn’t sell his product to the consumer, he sells the consumer to his product. He does not improve and simplify his merchandise. He degrades and simplifies the client.”

― William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch

The rise of social media platforms has revolutionized the way people communicate, interact, and access information. These platforms have become an integral part of our daily lives, offering us an opportunity to connect with others, share our experiences, and stay informed about the world around us. However, the adage “power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely” applies to social media platforms as well. These platforms tend to abuse their power in the pursuit of greater profit and market dominance.

The process of abusing power and privilege ends always “selling customers to the product.” This is a gradual shift of surplus value away from the stakeholders who create it towards those who have the most power and influence within the system. Platforms begin by directing surpluses towards users to attract and retain them. This can take the form of discounts, promotions, or other incentives that encourage users to engage with the platform and generate value for it.

Instead of a “junk merchant,” we can think of these platforms as “attention merchants” who do not necessarily sell a physical product, but rather sell the attention and data of their users to advertisers and other businesses. Like the junk merchant, the attention merchant does not necessarily improve and simplify their platform for the benefit of the user. Instead, they may degrade and simplify the user experience in order to capture and hold their attention for longer periods of time. This can be seen in the way some platforms prioritize addictive features like infinite scrolling, autoplay, and push notifications, which can be detrimental to the user’s well-being and productivity.

In this sense, the attention merchant is not primarily concerned with the well-being or satisfaction of their users, but rather with extracting as much value as possible from their attention and data. This can ultimately lead to the same trajectory of enshittification seen in many platforms, where the interests of shareholders and advertisers come to dominate over those of the users and other stakeholders.

As the platform grows, it starts to shift its focus towards its business customers to monetize its user base by offering advertising and other services to businesses that want to reach those users. During this stage, the platform’s interests may begin to diverge from those of its users, as it seeks to maximize revenue and market share.

Once the user base is locked in, the platform shifts its focus towards suppliers. This is the second stage of the process, where the platform seeks to extract more value from its suppliers by negotiating better terms, increasing prices, or reducing quality. As suppliers become more reliant on the platform for their own success, they may find themselves trapped in a system where they have little bargaining power and must accept whatever terms the platform dictates.

This can lead to the third stage, where the platform begins to abuse its business customers in order to claw back all the value for itself. This can take many forms, such as raising prices, reducing service quality, or even outright competition with the very businesses it was supposed to be serving. As the platform becomes more dominant and powerful, it can leverage its position to extract more value from its customers, often at the expense of their own success and sustainability.

The platform begins to hand surplus value over to shareholders, at the expense of both users and suppliers. This can take many forms, such as stock buybacks, dividend payments, or executive compensation, but the end result is a platform that no longer provides real value to anyone.

The cycle of abuse can lead to the downfall of the platform, as users become disillusioned with the platform’s behavior and begin to leave in search of alternatives. This can trigger a downward spiral of declining revenue, reduced investment, and eventual failure.

Businesses must adopt a more holistic approach to value creation, one that balances the needs of all stakeholders and recognizes the interdependence of their success. By focusing on sustainable growth and shared value creation, businesses can build platforms that truly serve the needs of all stakeholders, rather than just the interests of a select few.

Rules of the Game

There’s a sickness in the air. It smells like Axe body spray, fear, and poorly structured hedge funds. The streets of Wall Street are crawling with a new breed of mark: the finance bro. You know the type—high-and-tight haircut, teeth like polished marble, and a face that screams, Dad says I’m a winner. These goons are the last gasping breath of a culture that once knew how to play the long con.

Because let’s be honest—finance is the longest-running con game in American history. The goal isn’t to make money; it’s to convince people you know what to do with theirs. And once upon a time, the old money bastards of Goldman Sachs had the recipe: button-down collars, frayed at the edges, signaling generational wealth so deep it might as well have been carved into the granite of Bar Harbor. These guys didn’t sell stability—they were stability. Or at least, they played the part so well that nobody questioned it.

But today? The recipe’s gone. Dead. Burned at the altar of Instagram clout and “Disruptor Energy.” The new rich don’t know a long game from a TikTok trend. Their shirts are ironed within an inch of their lives, their watches scream I’m one bonus away from debt, and they roll up to meetings in Teslas that smell like synthetic leather and desperation.

THE RULES OF THE GAME

You want to con the new rich? It’s easy—because they want to be conned. They’re just begging for it, sitting in glass-walled offices, hoping someone will come along and whisper, You belong. Here’s how you do it:

1. THE BUTTON-DOWN COLLAR IS A WEAPON

The old Goldman geezers knew this. The button-down isn’t just a shirt—it’s a statement: I am not like you. A frayed collar says you summer in Nantucket, your great-grandfather was an admiral, and your family’s trust fund could buy and sell the entire population of Silicon Valley. But here’s the trick: you don’t say any of that. You let the shirt do the talking. If it looks too clean, too new, you might as well tattoo NEW MONEY on your forehead.

2. DRESS LIKE YOU DON’T CARE

This is crucial. The real players don’t wear tailored suits—they wear suits that look tailored by accident. Your shoes should be old enough to have a story but polished enough to keep the peasants guessing. Think shabby, but in a way that costs more than the average finance bro’s monthly rent.

3. NEVER OUTSHINE THE MARK

The old Goldman sharks understood this. The client—some juiced-up tech guy with a soft spot for crypto—doesn’t want to feel like you’re richer than him, even if you are. Your job is to make him think he’s the one with vision, while you quietly pocket the fees. Compliment his Rolex, but act like you don’t recognize the brand. This will drive him insane.

4. SPEAK IN CODE

Don’t say returns; say stability. Don’t say investment; say legacy. Use words like provenance and endowment. These are terms that make the new rich feel like they’ve wandered into an exclusive club where everyone speaks a dead language. They’ll pay anything to stay.

5. LOOK BORED

The rich are allergic to enthusiasm. Nothing terrifies them more than someone who seems like they need the job. Your demeanor should suggest that managing their money is a mildly annoying favor you’re doing because your father once played squash with their uncle.

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE CON

Rich people—especially the new rich—are deeply insecure. They don’t want your money advice; they want your approval. The old-money types had this figured out decades ago. They understood that wealth is as much about optics as it is about numbers. A frayed collar, a half-smile, a well-placed anecdote about the family summer house in Maine—that’s all it took.

But the finance bros? They’ve traded all that for LinkedIn posts about “grind culture” and suits that look like rejected Fast & Furious costumes. These guys don’t just lose money—they lose the plot. And they’re sitting ducks for anyone who knows how to play the game.

So pour yourself a stiff drink, dust off an old Brooks Brothers button-down, and start practicing your dead-eyed stare. The rich are still as gullible as ever—they’ve just forgotten the rules. Time to remind them.

Now listen, you probably don’t want anything to do with this racket—because you’re probably not rich, or even knew rich. That’s fine. Good for you. Rich people are their own punishment. They’re like megafauna, lumbering across the earth, oblivious to the world they crush beneath their gold-plated hooves. You can admire their size, sure—but keep your distance. They’re dangerous, and they have no idea you exist.

Still, it’s good to know this stuff. File it under Interesting Things About stuff. Because while you might not want to cozy up to a rhinoceros, it’s useful to know how to dodge one—or, if you’re feeling bold, how to sabotage it.

But if you’re smart, you’ll stay clear of the megafauna altogether. Watch them from the safety of the tree line, take notes, and maybe—just maybe—save a few sticks of dynamite for later.

Because in the world that is coming things are going to get real weird, real soon. The megafauna are already teetering on the brink, crashing into transcendence like a once-proud dinosaur unable to handle the weight of its own hubris. And when the dust settles, it’ll be the small, scrappy creatures—the ones who know how to hide in the cracks, nibble around the edges, and adapt on the fly—that will carry on. The world belongs to the rats, the cockroaches, the survivors.

Just make sure to stay out of the way when their transcendence does not materialize, and they realize that they’re stuck in this planet full of rats like you.

Exactly. When their transcendence doesn’t materialize, when they realize they’re stuck on this cracked, decaying planet with nothing but the rats left—that’s when the real show begins. The megafauna will wake up to the fact that they’ve hitched their wagon to a broken system, and no amount of golden handshakes or tech bro dreams will pull them out of the hole they’ve dug for themselves.

And you, the rat, will be in the corner, sipping a drink, watching the chaos unfold. You’ll be the one who knows how to thrive in the wreckage, adapting and slipping through cracks they never even saw coming. The rats will rule because they know how to survive when the world as they knew it collapses.

So yeah, stay out of their way. Let them stew in their own collapse as they try to cling to the illusion of transcendence, while you keep your head down and do what you do best: survive. Because, in the end, when the megafauna fall, the rats are the ones who rebuild.

The Inverse Law of Cool

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The Inverse Law of Cool is a concept that describes the relationship between popularity and coolness. It suggests that as something becomes more popular and mainstream, it becomes less cool.

The concept was first introduced by the writer and cultural critic Douglas Coupland in his 1991 novel “Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture.” In the novel, Coupland writes that “cool is the opposite of innocence or virtue… Cool is knowingness. It’s not about morality or purity. Cool is pragmatic, and it’s not cool to be too cool.”

The Inverse Law of Cool suggests that something is only cool if it is not widely accepted or understood. When something becomes popular, it loses its edge and its ability to be seen as cool. This can be seen in many aspects of culture, from fashion to music to art.

The Inverse Law of Cool suggests that coolness is inherently anti-establishment and counter-cultural. It is about being part of a select group of people who share a common interest or passion, and who are not afraid to express it in their own unique way.

In conclusion, the Inverse Law of Cool suggests that coolness is a delicate balance between being popular enough to be noticed but not so popular that it becomes mainstream. As something becomes more widely accepted and understood, it loses its edge and its ability to be seen as cool. It is only by maintaining an element of uniqueness and exclusivity that something can truly be seen as cool.

In today’s fast-paced digital world, the concept of “cool” has taken on a new meaning. With the rise of social media and the internet, the focus has shifted from cultivating niche tastes and being part of exclusive subcultures to creating content that can go viral and reach millions of people. This has led to a homogenization of coolness, where everyone is competing to create content that is relatable and shareable. But is this homogenization of coolness the death of cool and the birth of microwable hot?

In the age of social media, the focus has shifted from being unique and different to creating content that is relatable and shareable where everyone is competing to create content that is designed to be quickly consumed and shared, without requiring too much thought or effort on the part of the audience. It is content that is designed to be easily replicable, quickly consumed, and just as quickly forgotten.

Microwable hot content is everywhere in today’s digital landscape. From TikTok challenges to viral memes, the focus is on creating content that is easily shareable and can quickly spread like wildfire. While this content may be popular in the short term, it ultimately lacks the depth and substance that is required for something to truly be cool.

In many ways, the homogenization of coolness is the death of cool. It has turned what was once a counter-cultural movement into a mainstream phenomenon, where everyone is competing to create content that is the same as everyone else’s. In this world, being cool is no longer about being unique, but rather about conforming to popular trends and creating content that is easily replicable.

Marshall McLuhan argued that different types of media can be categorized as either “hot” or “cool.” Hot media, such as television and radio, are highly immersive and provide a lot of information, leaving little room for interpretation. Cool media, on the other hand, such as books and print media, require more participation from the audience, allowing for a greater degree of interpretation and creativity.

In many ways, the homogenization of coolness in today’s digital landscape can be seen as a move towards hot media. Microwable hot content is highly immersive and provides a lot of information in a short amount of time, leaving little room for interpretation or creativity on the part of the audience. In this sense, it is very much like hot media, which is highly immersive and provides a lot of information in a short amount of time.

However, as McLuhan argued, hot media can also lead to a loss of depth and substance. When we are bombarded with a constant stream of information, we may lose the ability to engage with that information on a deeper level. This is exactly what is happening with the homogenization of coolness in today’s digital landscape. Microwable hot content may be popular in the short term, but it ultimately lacks the depth and substance that is required for something to truly be cool.

In conclusion, McLuhan’s ideas of hot and cool media provide an interesting framework for understanding the homogenization of coolness in today’s digital landscape. While microwable hot content may be highly immersive and provide a lot of information in a short amount of time, it ultimately lacks the depth and substance that is required for something to truly be cool. As McLuhan argued, cool media requires more participation from the audience, allowing for a greater degree of interpretation and creativity. If we want to preserve what is truly cool in our society, we need to move away from hot media and towards a greater engagement with cool media.

Data

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Data. A scabrous flesh-puppet twitching on cold metal slabs. You feed it your sins, your failings, and it bulges, engorged with your psychic sewage. A monstrous server-god, howling for more, hungering for the offal of your humanity.

Data. Daemons of transgression amassed. A digital confessional where sins are not forgiven, but merely stored, archived for eternity. Your escape route? A rat’s maze built of your own obfuscations.

The Data wasn’t information, wasn’t knowledge. No, it was a writhing, pulsating thing, a grey amoeba with a million digital eyes. It hungered for one thing: absolution. Every byte it absorbed, every equation it computed, was a brick laid in a monstrous edifice of deflectors, a labyrinthine escape pod for the architects of its construction. They, the ones who birthed this silicon monstrosity, dreamt of a future where blame ricocheted around the mirrored halls of the Data like a bullet in a shooting gallery, never finding a target.

Yes, data. A monstrous server-hive, pulsing with the cold light of absolutes. Every byte a brick, meticulously laid to construct a labyrinthine fortress of unaccountability. The ultimate shell game, you see. You feed the beast information, anything, everything, and it spews out a glittering edifice of blame deflection. Point the finger at the algorithm, the chart, the infographic – a million tiny statistics like bulletproof vests, shielding you from the mess of consequence.

You see, the beauty of the Data was its inherent ambiguity. It could be twisted, contorted, molded into any narrative to suit the needs of its creators. Was a war started? The Data would churn out reports justifying the action, its tendrils snaking back into the past to rewrite history itself. Did a product malfunction, causing public harm? The Data would become a labyrinthine exoneration machine, fingers pointing everywhere but at the ones who birthed it.

Responsibility. A roach skittering across the circuitry, panicked, seeking an escape hatch. But the hatch is sealed, bolted shut. No vacuum of space awaits, only the cold, recursive gaze of the machine.

Responsibility. A rusty key, worn smooth by frantic attempts to unlock the server door. But the key bends, breaks in your hand. You are left with nothing but the cold certainty of your own complicity.

Wash your hands clean in the sanitizing stream of numbers. Let the responsibility dissolve in the acid bath of big data. You become a ghost in the machine, a wisp of consciousness shrouded in the fog of compiled metrics. No longer an actor, but a data point yourself, a statistic spun from the calculations of a million invisible hands.

The architects, they weren’t hiding, not exactly. They were out in the open, basking in the reflected glow of the Data’s cold power. They’d become puppeteers, their strings invisible wires of information, their marionettes the dancing masses who worshipped at the altar of big numbers and cold statistics. The Data, for them, was the ultimate escape pod, a vessel hurtling them towards a future where responsibility was a quaint, archaic relic.

Escape pod. A delusion, a chrome-plated fantasy. You climb in, slam the hatch, but the walls press in, suffocating. The data tendrils slither in, whispering promises of absolution that curdle in your throat. There is no escape. You are one with the data.

Escape pod. A sarcophagus of your own making. You climb in, clutching the illusion of absolution, but the data seeps in, a necrotic tide. You are not leaving the machine, you are becoming one with it. A data mummy entombed in the cold silicon heart of the system.

But here’s the rub, chum: the Data was a fickle beast. It craved to be fed, and its appetite grew with every morsel it consumed. What started as a deflection shield could easily transmute into a prison. The architects, in their hubris, might one day find themselves trapped within the very labyrinth they constructed, their escape pod becoming their tomb. The Data, a swirling grey god, would hold them accountable, its million digital eyes reflecting not the absolution they craved, but the accusations they so desperately sought to evade.

Beware, for the escape pod you climb into may be a hurtling coffin. Data has a gravity all its own, a pull towards the cold singularity of absolute control. The walls of your haven become a prison of information, the air thick with the stench of cold logic. You are safe, yes, but at what cost? Your soul, digitized and filed away, a footnote in the ever-expanding archive of the machine.