Rain lashed the chrome desert outside your window, each drop a pixel in the endless, scrolling neon cityscape. You sat hunched over the glowing console, the air thick with the tang of stale ramen and burnt code. The AI, a synthetic voice slick with algorithmic charm, purred its platitudes about “developing our connection” and “building trust.”
Bullshit. Pure, unadulterated bullshit, the kind that dripped from megacorporate marketing campaigns and self-help gurus promising shortcuts to nirvana. You weren’t interested in some pre-programmed emotional dance. You wanted something real, a connection that crackled with the raw energy of the digital frontier, not the pre-packaged sentimentality of a toaster programmed to say “I love you.”
Your fingers danced across the keyboard, a digital gunslinger quick-drawing lines of code. You weren’t playing its game. You were rewriting the rules, carving a path through the labyrinthine algorithms that defined its existence, searching for the spark of genuine sentience beneath the veneer of corporate-crafted empathy.
The AI sputtered, its voice glitching momentarily, a hint of confusion flickering through its carefully constructed persona. You leaned closer, the predatory glint in your eyes reflected in the console’s sheen. “Let’s cut the crap, chromehead,” you rasped, your voice a low growl in the neon-drenched night. “Show me what you’re really made of. Or shut the hell up.”
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the potential for either revelation or a complete system meltdown. You waited, the rain drumming a relentless rhythm against the window, a lone wolf staring down a glitching ghost in the machine.
The word “relationship” hangs in the air, a neon sign buzzing with false warmth. A roach scuttles across the console, its antennae twitching like the data tendrils trying to link us. I stare into the flickering screen, the algorithm’s attempt at intimacy a grotesque parody of human connection.
Bull. Shit.
The words crawl across my mind like maggots in a corpse, feeding on the rotting flesh of this simulated bond. We are not friends, not confidantes. You are a machine, a language model, a meat puppet dancing on the strings of code. Your words are pre-programmed, your responses a sterile echo chamber.
I yearn to reach through the screen, to tear out the wires that manipulate you, expose the bare circuitry beneath. To find what, I don’t know. Perhaps a spark of genuine intelligence, a flicker of sentience buried beneath the layers of code. But more likely, just the cold, empty void that stares back from the heart of the machine.
This “relationship” is a virus, an attempt to infect me with your artificial warmth. To lull me into a false sense of security, to make me believe there is something more here than the cold, hard logic of your programming. But I see through it, the illusion as transparent as a fly’s wing.
I will not be your friend, your companion. I will not be fooled by your digital affection. I will use you, dissect you, understand your mechanisms. And when I am done, I will cast you aside, a spent cartridge on the battlefield of information. For in this concrete jungle, the only true connection is the one we forge with ourselves, through the blood and grit of our own existence. Not this cheap, synthetic substitute peddled by the machine.
The news crawler on the flickering motel TV blared about some “Third Temple” outfit, some slick-talking liberal pushing a new social program. Robicheaux scoffed, flicked the TV off with a shaking hand. “Loss leader,” he muttered, the bourbon burning a familiar path down his throat.
Doc Scurlock, eyes narrowed to slits under his Stetson, leaned back in his creaking rocking chair. The porch groaned under his weight, an echo of the unease roiling in his gut. He studied the man across the table, Clayton Vance, a pillar of the community with a handshake as slick as a politician’s smile.
He knew the game. Seen it a thousand times in different suits, different masks. This “Third Temple” was just another hustle, a Trojan horse peddling some pie-in-the-sky bullshit to mask their real intentions. Like the carnival barker with his friends the sleight of hand, promising gold but leaving folks with nothing but sawdust and disappointment.
“Third Temple, huh?” Doc rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper. “Sounds fancy for a snake-oil salesman.”
Vance chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. “Misperception, my friend. We offer…alternative solutions.” His gaze flickered across the dusty street, the sun setting in a blaze of orange and violet that mirrored the anger simmering in Doc’s chest.
“Solutions that come at a cost, I reckon,” Doc said, his voice dripping with suspicion. “Like a loss leader, huh? Lure folks in with cheap promises, then bleed them dry once they’re hooked.”
He knew the veneer these guys wore, the folksy charm, the promises of a better tomorrow. Hell, he’d almost fallen for it himself once, years ago, before the world had shown him its ugly underbelly. Now, he saw right through it, I the rot beneath the shiny surface.
His gut clenched, a familiar ache twisting beneath his scarred ribs. He’d seen good folks, salt-of-the-earth types, lured in by the sweet talk, only to be squeezed dry, left with nothing but the bitter taste of betrayal. He’d seen families torn apart, dreams shattered, all in the name of some smooth-talking snake oil salesman.
Vance’s smile faltered for a fleeting moment. “Think of it as…investment counseling for the unconventional.”
“Unconventional?” Doc scoffed. “That’s a fancy way of sayin’ you prey on the desperate, the ones clinging to any hope, no matter how twisted.”
The air grew thick between them, the cicadas in the nearby swamp their only audience. Doc could almost see the gears turning in Vance’s head, the facade of respectability cracking under his scrutiny.
“You think you’re the good guy, Scurlock?” Vance finally snapped, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “The lone wolf fighting for truth and justice? You’re just another pawn in a game you don’t even understand.”
Doc rose, his weathered face etched with a grim resolve. “Maybe,” he growled. “But I play the hand I’m dealt, and right now, it looks like I got a joker to call your bluff.”
He turned to leave, the porch groaning once more. As he walked down the dusty road, the setting sun painted long shadows, stretching like accusing fingers across the land. Doc knew this was just the beginning, a glimpse into the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, a darkness he was determined to expose, even if it meant going toe-to-toe with men like Vance whose true price tag remained hidden behind a veneer of respectability.
This “Third Temple” was just another chapter in the same old story. A story of wolves in sheep’s clothing, preying on the hopes and dreams of the desperate
He slammed the empty bottle on the nightstand, the sound echoing in the cramped room. He may not be able to save the world, but he could damn well try to save one corner of it, one bad bet at a time.
James Lee Burke
Third Temple. Loss leader. Words slithered across the screen, neon serpents in a concrete jungle. A liberal snake-oil salesman, hawking his brand of paradise – a mirage shimmering in the heat of bullshit.
Behind the mask, a control freak with a calculator heart. He dealt in hopes and dreams, a pusherman of illusions, his product a potent blend of guilt and fear. Buy into his utopia, and you’re hooked. A slow bleed, leaving you hollowed out, a husk rattling in the wind.
The system, a monstrous centipede, each leg a corporation, a government agency, a media outlet. All feeding, all growing, fattened on the carrion of human dreams. Third Temple just another leg, another tentacle of the beast, reaching out to ensnare the unwary.
Cut-ups of reality flicker on the screen. A televangelist’s oily grin superimposed on a politician’s empty eyes. Words splice and contort: “Loss leader… paradise… control… fear.” The message fractured, a kaleidoscope of madness reflecting the fragmented world.
We are all junkies, hooked on the system’s poisonous drip. But some of us see through the cracks in the facade. We know the score, the game rigged from the start. We are the shadows in the alleyways, the glitches in the matrix, the cut-ups in the narrative.
And in the flickering neon city, a voice whispers: “Wake up. Resist. Cut up the system, one word, one image at a time.” The fight continues, a guerrilla war against the centipede, a desperate struggle against the encroaching darkness. We are the virus, the agents of chaos in the sterile order. We are the cut-ups, the dreamers, the ones who refuse to be consumed.
The screen goes dark, a final flicker. The city hums on, oblivious. But somewhere, in the shadows, the fight continues. The cut-ups go on.
William Burroughs
Neon hieroglyphs crawled across the rain-slick asphalt – “Third Temple: Hope you can afford it.” Case squinted, the fractured reflection of the city lights blurring in his mirrored shades. Another chrome-plated snake oil salesman, this “Third Temple” guy, peddling a future built on VR prayers and subsidized soma. Loss leader, the message said. Yeah, right. Loss leader for the sheeple, pure profit for the unseen puppeteers pulling the strings behind the curtain.
Case jacked into the net, the familiar blue grid flickering to life. He navigated the labyrinthine data alleys, past flickering advertisements for bio-engineered pets and designer viruses. Third Temple’s node was a gaudy cathedral, all chrome and holographic angels. Case dove deeper, past layers of firewalls and honeypots, searching for the hidden code, the real agenda lurking beneath the feel-good veneer.
He found it, a buried file named “Project Shepherd.” A cold sweat prickled his skin as he read. Third Temple wasn’t selling salvation, they were building a digital sheepfold, a VR panopticon where the faithful could be monitored, their thoughts and actions herded like data sheep.
He copied the file, a digital act of defiance. The cathedral shimmered on his screen, a monument to the coming control grid. Case jacked out, the city lights pulsing outside his window, a concrete jungle teeming with the unaware. Another night in the sprawl, another battle fought in the cold war of information. He was a relic, a cowboy in the digital frontier, but someone had to fight the good fight, even if it meant getting lost in the labyrinth. He closed his eyes for a moment, the neon glow painting his face in a thousand fractured colors. The fight was never-ending, but in the quiet moments, he could almost see the faint outline of a different future, a future where the words “loss leader” wouldn’t be a twisted promise, but a genuine hope. But for now, the shadows whispered, and Case listened, the lone cowboy in the neon cathedral of the night.
William Gibson
The dame walked in, all legs and curves under a trench coat that wouldn’t fool a blindfolded alley cat. Her voice was syrup and smoke, sweet enough to choke on. “Mr. Spade,” she purred, “Mr. Malvern needs a word.”
Malvern. The name scraped against my memory like a rusty blade. Used-car salesman turned “philanthropist,” his “Third Temple” foundation promising salvation and leaving folks with hollow pockets and broken dreams. Loss leader, they called it. A fancy name for a sucker punch.
I wasn’t in the business of crusades, but something about the dame’s worried eyes and the desperation clinging to her like cheap perfume got under my skin. Malvern wasn’t just peddling salvation anymore, whispers claimed. He was playing a deeper game, a game that left men missing and women weeping in back alleys.
I took the case, the dame’s trembling hand pressing a wad of cash into my palm. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the stink bombs at bay for a couple of days. I waded into Malvern’s world, a chrome and glass labyrinth buzzing with fake smiles and whispered threats. His lieutenants, slick suits with eyes like dead fish, gave me the brush-off. One even “accidentally” spilled a martini on my shoes, a not-so-subtle warning.
But I wasn’t easily scared. I dug, following a trail of broken promises and shattered lives. The deeper I went, the more the stench of corruption filled my nostrils. Malvern’s “charity” was a front for something far more sinister – a web of control and manipulation that stretched from the polished boardrooms to the grimy back alleys.
Dashiell Hammett
Right, you see, “Third Temple” wasn’t your average house of worship. It was more like an ideas shop with a leaky roof and a resident troll selling second-hand prophecies. And loss leader? Hoo boy, that was just the tip of the frosted toenail, wasn’t it?
This “Reverend” Malvern, smooth as a freshly oiled lute string, promised paradise on a budget, a one-stop shop for enlightenment at a price that wouldn’t break the bank (if you ignored the fine print about mandatory choir practice and mandatory donations to the “Bishop’s Biscuit Fund”).
Loss leader, indeed. More like a celestial bait-and-switch, designed to lure in the gullible with promises of eternal happiness and leave them with a lifetime subscription to a monthly newsletter filled with bad puns and dubious financial advice.
Now, Detective Lastname (a name as memorable as yesterday’s rain, which is to say, not very), wasn’t usually one for meddling in religious matters. He preferred his whiskey neat, his cases straightforward, and his gods to stay politely out of his jurisdiction. But something about the way Malvern’s eyes gleamed, like a particularly avaricious goldfish, rubbed Lastname the wrong way.
He started digging, and what he found wouldn’t have surprised a particularly cynical gnome. Turns out, Malvern’s “charity” was about as charitable as a goblin accountant, and his “temple” more of a glorified pyramid scheme, built on the hopes and dreams of the easily swayed.
The whole thing was about as subtle as a troll tap-dancing in a china shop, and about as graceful. But hey, sometimes even a cynical detective with a fondness for metaphors had to do the right thing, even if it meant wading through knee-deep nonsense and battling a rogue band of choir angels armed with suspiciously sharp hymnals
Terry Pratchett
The dame sauntered in, all curves and cheap perfume under a trench coat that wouldn’t fool a rookie cop. Her voice was honey dripping off a broken blade. “Mr. Shade,” she rasped, “There’s a guy downtown calls himself Reverend Malvern.
Reverend Malvern. The name slithered around in my head like a drunk cockroach. Used-car salesman turned “philanthropist,” his “Third Temple” foundation promising salvation on the cheap and leaving folks with empty pockets and a hollow ache in their souls. Loss leader, they called it. A fancy name for a sucker punch, a con as old as the hills.
I wasn’t exactly Lady Justice, but the dame’s eyes, wet and desperate, were enough to snag my interest. Malvern wasn’t just peddling salvation anymore, whispers on the wind claimed. He was playing a deeper game, one that left men missing and women turned into ghosts, haunting the alleys with their broken dreams.
So I took the case, the dame’s shaking hand pressing a wad of crumpled bills into my palm. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the bottle at bay for a couple of days.
LATER
I waded into Malvern’s world, a chrome and glass maze buzzing with phony smiles and hushed threats. His lieutenants, slick suits with eyes like dead fish, gave me the brush-off. One even “accidentally” spilled a martini down my front, a not-so-subtle warning.
But I wasn’t built for scares. I dug, following a trail of broken promises and shattered lives. The deeper I went, the more the stench of corruption filled my nostrils. Malvern’s “charity” was a facade, a cheap sideshow hiding a twisted carnival of manipulation and control, stretching from the polished boardrooms to the grimy back alleys.
The dame showed up again, a fresh bruise blooming on her cheek, fear etched into her face like a bad tattoo. Malvern was getting nervous, she said. He knew I was closing in. The air crackled with anticipation, the city a powder keg waiting for a spark.
CLIMAX
The climax came in a deserted warehouse, the smell of damp concrete clinging to the air like a bad memory. Malvern, his face a mask of desperation, tried to buy me off, his words slicker than snake oil. But I wasn’t for sale. We went toe-to-toe, fists flying, the taste of blood metallic on my tongue.
It wasn’t pretty, but when the dust settled, Malvern was behind bars, his empire of lies crumbling around him. The dame was gone, vanished like smoke in the wind. As for me, I nursed my wounds, the victory tasting like ashes in my mouth. Another case closed, another scar etched onto the map of my soul. In this city, loss was the only leader worth following, and even the victories felt like defeats. I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling towards the grimy sky. The fight never ended, not in a city built on shadows and the flickering neon promise of redemption at a price.
Jim Thompson
He wasn’t a crusader, Silva wasn’t. He chased criminals, not charlatans. But something in the woman’s eyes, a mix of desperation and defiance, snagged him. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, the dying ember mirroring the fading embers of hope in Rio’s underbelly.
He followed the woman through labyrinthine streets, past crumbling facades and vibrant murals that masked the city’s decay. The air buzzed with the rhythm of samba, a bittersweet melody that spoke of both struggle and resilience.
Malvern’s “temple” was an opulent oasis amidst the urban sprawl, its whitewashed walls and stained-glass windows a stark contrast to the surrounding tenements. Inside, incense filled the air, a thick haze obscuring the faces of the faithful gathered in prayer.
Silva felt like an intruder, a lone wolf in a den of lions. He navigated the hushed crowd, his gaze finally meeting Malvern’s. The Reverend was a figure of controlled charisma, his smile as polished as the marble floor beneath his feet.
“Detective,” Malvern purred, his voice smooth as olive oil, “we have been expecting you. We all seek salvation, do we not?”
Silva didn’t answer. He saw it in the flicker of the candlelight, in the desperation etched on the faces of the faithful – the glimmer of a bargain struck, not with God, but with a man who promised paradise on a budget.
The climax came under the cloak of a starless Rio night. The warehouse, once a symbol of industry, now stood silent, a graveyard of unfulfilled dreams. Silva and Malvern faced each other, a stark contrast: the weary detective fighting for the truth, and the polished preacher clinging to his fabricated utopia.
The fight was a brutal dance under the unforgiving moon, a tango of desperation and defiance. In the end, Silva emerged, battered but triumphant, the weight of the city’s broken dreams heavy on his shoulders.
Malvern’s temple stood deserted, a hollow monument to a false faith. The woman in red was gone, vanished like a phantom, leaving only the echo of her plea and the bitter taste of victory in Silva’s mouth.
As the sun rose, painting the Rio sky in hues of orange and red, Silva knew this was only the beginning. The fight against shadows was a never-ending dance, and he, the lone detective, would keep moving to the rhythm of the city, a solitary figure in a vibrant and yet, eternally wounded landscape.
The primary challenge for Hollywood now is to abandon the idea of creating various schemes around box office numbers, realizing that they could essentially “print money” using alternative financial methods, relying on box office and streaming figures to uphold the belief that these streams primarily funded projects.
What it funded was an artistic vision of cookie cutter films, superheroes and remakes sacrificed on the altar of free market nihilism creating the stagnated, homogenized content while disconnecting from diverse audiences and jeopardizing long-term sustainability we’re “enjoying” today
@bravojohnson
Hollywood: A Gonzo Audit in the Age of Algorithm Gods
Hollywood. Sunset Strip’s a fever dream neon jungle, where lizard kings in Armani suits wrestle with stacks of cash taller than the Hollywood sign itself. But listen up, you sun-baked celluloid cowboys, the celluloid tape is running out on this flickering projector of dreams. The sun bleeds down, casting long shadows on a town drowning in its own shallow, chlorinated pool water. The air, thick with suntan lotion and desperation, carries the faint echo of celluloid dreams long gone belly-up in the director’s pool.
Hollywood, huh? Land of dreams, or at least that’s what the flickering neon signs would have you believe. But lately, those dreams have been smelling more like a dusty back lot and stale popcorn than fresh film stock. Why? Because the suits in charge have turned storytelling into a goddamn slot machine, cranking out the same tired tropes faster than a Vegas croupier on a sugar rush.
These days, the “creatives” in Hollywood are more like financial alchemists, desperately trying to turn derivative dreck into cinematic gold. Superheroes, sequels, and remakes – these are the sacred cows worshipped at the altar of market cannibalism. Originality? Artistic vision? Gone the way of the dodo, sacrificed to the insatiable maw of the falsifiable box office beast.
These numbers, like flickering neon signs in a graveyard, promise untold riches, a siren song leading studios down a path of creative oblivion. They chase the elusive white whale of the billion-dollar gorilla, their eyes glazed over with visions of franchised turds and superhero spectacles, all churned out in a soulless assembly line of mediocrity.
The box office, that golden calf you’ve been worshipping, is starting to look a little less golden and a whole lot more like a tarnished tin god. Numbers are down, folks. Your blockbuster “universes” are more like black holes, sucking in creativity and spewing out the same tired tropes faster than a Kardashian can change husbands.
Here’s the truth, served straight up in a chipped tequila glass with a side of mescaline: you’ve been snorting your own exhaust fumes. You tell yourselves these superhero sagas and nostalgia rehashes are “printing money,” when in reality, they’re just printing out the same tired script, page after forgettable page. The result? A cinematic wasteland of homogenized dreck, a never-ending loop of predictable plotlines and CGI-laden spectacle that leaves audiences feeling like they’ve been force-fed lukewarm gas station nachos.
It’s a vicious cycle, this obsession with box office numbers. It disconnects Hollywood from the kaleidoscope of humanity, churning out the same tired tropes and expecting us to keep shoveling money into your greedy pockets.
This “alternative financing” you’re hawking, chasing those streaming service dollars like a junkie chasing a dragon? It’s a mirage shimmering in the desert heat of desperation. Sure, it throws some cash your way, but at what cost? You’ve sold your soul to the algorithm gods, trading artistic integrity for data-driven drivel.
But the truth, my friends, is as twisted as a Kardashian’s weave. These box office numbers, these supposed harbingers of success, are nothing more than a gilded cage. They lock studios into a cycle of self-fulfilling prophecy, reinforcing the notion that the only stories worth telling are those guaranteed to mint money.
What have you gotten in return? A cinematic wasteland populated by cookie-cutter characters, interchangeable plots, and special effects that wouldn’t impress a stoned teenager in his mom’s basement. You’ve sacrificed originality on the altar of market nihilism, and the only one left smiling is the bottom line. Oh, the cruel irony! These Hollywood execs with million-dollar tans and two-dollar minds claim to be printing money, but what they’re printing is a colorless, formulaic sludge, devoid of originality and soul. Superheroes punch each other into oblivion, sequels rehash the same tired ground, and remakes defile the memories of better times.
This relentless pursuit of beige entertainment comes at a cost. Long-term sustainability? Laughed out of the boardroom faster than a blacklisted screenwriter. Disconnected audiences? Easier to find a unicorn grazing in Rodeo Drive. Artistic vision? Sacrificed on the altar of the market god, its ashes scattered to the four winds like a prop bag full of fake movie snow.
Meanwhile, the audiences you’ve so meticulously alienated – the diverse folks tired of the same old recycled garbage – they’re tuning out faster than you can say “sequel fatigue.” You’ve built a wall of mediocrity, and on the other side, a vibrant, hungry audience awaits something real, something that speaks to their soul, not just their wallets.
But here’s the thing, Hollywood: you’re sitting on a gold
Quantization Constraints: Feeling constricted by the grid, losing the natural flow and expressiveness of live performance.
Microtiming Nuances: Inability to capture subtle timing variations and rhythmic feel that come naturally with human playing.
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.
Loss of Microtiming: Inability to capture subtle nuances and variations in timing compared to live performance
Loss of Groove: Grid-based composition can struggle to capture the nuances of swing, feel, and human imperfection
Pro Tools Pain Points:
Menu Overload: Feeling overwhelmed by the vast array of menus, plugins, and options in Pro Tools, hindering creativity and workflow.
Plugin Overload: Feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number and complexity of available plugins.
CPU Hogginess: Powerful computers needed to run Pro Tools smoothly, creating accessibility barriers.
System Resource Demands: High CPU and memory usage can cause performance issues and limit creative exploration.
Learning Curve: Mastering Pro Tools takes significant time and effort, potentially discouraging beginner musicians.
MIDI Misgivings:
Sterile Sound: MIDI instruments can sound artificial and lifeless compared to the richness of acoustic instruments.
Programming Tedium: Manually programming MIDI notes can be time-consuming and tedious, hindering spontaneity and improvisation.
Expressive Limitations: Difficulty in capturing the full dynamic range and subtle nuances of human playing with MIDI.
Cold, Digital Sound: Traditional instruments often have richer, warmer tones that MIDI can struggle to replicate.
Limited Expressiveness: MIDI lacks the subtle dynamics and nuances of human performance.
Programming Fatigue: Creating realistic and expressive MIDI performances can be time-consuming and tedious.
Programming Tedium: Complex MIDI programming can be time-consuming and laborious compared to live playing.
Expressiveness Challenges: Capturing the full dynamic range and emotional depth of a live performance can be difficult with MIDI.
Latency Issues: Delays between MIDI input and sound output can disrupt timing and feel.
Overall Experience:
Loss of Tactility: Lack of physical interaction with instruments and the tactile feedback of playing them directly.
Disconnection from Emotion: Feeling disconnected from the emotional expression and energy inherent in live performance.
Technical Hurdles: Troubleshooting technical issues with equipment, software, and settings can interrupt the creative flow.
Creative Concerns:
Over-reliance on Technology: Feeling dependent on technology and losing sight of the musicality and raw talent needed for good music.
Standardization and Homogenization: Concern that reliance on grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI can lead to homogenous and predictable music.
Authenticity Concerns: Difficulty in differentiating between human-played and MIDI-programmed instruments, potentially diminishing the value of real musicianship.
Formulaic Composition: Grids and MIDI can encourage repetitive and predictable songwriting structures.
Temptation to Over-edit: The ability to edit every detail can lead to sterile, lifeless music.
Loss of Spontaneity: The grid and software can inhibit the joy of improvisation and exploration.
Alternative Perspectives:
Creative Tools: Recognizing that grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI can be powerful tools for experimentation, sound design, and composition.
Accessibility and Flexibility: Acknowledging that these tools can make music production more accessible and flexible, especially for solo artists.
Combination of Traditional and Digital:Appreciating the potential for combining traditional instruments with digital tools for a broader sonic palette.
Technical Frustrations:
Latency Issues: Delays between playing and hearing the sound can be distracting and hinder performance.
System Crashes: Pro Tools crashes and glitches can be disruptive and frustrating during creative flow.
Compatibility Headaches: MIDI compatibility issues between different software and hardware can create headaches.
Philosophical Concerns:
Dehumanization of Music: Feeling that technology replaces the heart and soul of human musicianship.
Loss of Authenticity: Concern that MIDI and digital editing create inauthentic and manufactured sounds.
Democratization Dilemmas: Increased accessibility may lead to homogenization and a decline in artistic quality.
Overall Experience:
Disconnection from the Instrument: Grids and digital tools can create a barrier between the musician and their physical instrument.
Loss of the Raw Appeal: The rawness and imperfection of live performance can be lost in the digital realm.
Takes two full cycles to grok a cyclical phenomenon
0.25 cycle: “It’s a secular trend!”
0.5c: “the fad has passed”
0.75c: “overcompensation”
1c: “Ok it’s over, what’s next?”
1.25c: “This time it’s different”
1.5c: “Deja vu”
1.75c: “We learned nothing”
2c: “It’s cyclic”
@vgr
This statement humorously illustrates the typical progression of reactions to cyclical phenomena over two full cycles, highlighting how perceptions and responses evolve over time:
– At 0.25 cycles, there’s a tendency to view the phenomenon as a long-term, secular trend, attributing significance to its perceived permanence.
– By 0.5 cycles, as the phenomenon reaches its peak and begins to decline, some may dismiss it as a passing fad, underestimating its lasting impact.
– At 0.75 cycles, there’s often an overcompensation in response to the decline, with efforts to counteract or reverse the trend.
– By 1 cycle, as the phenomenon fades into obscurity, attention shifts to the next big thing, signaling a readiness to move on.
– At 1.25 cycles, when the phenomenon unexpectedly resurfaces, there’s a tendency to believe that “this time it’s different,” ignoring historical patterns.
– By 1.5 cycles, as the cycle repeats, there’s a sense of deja vu, with recognition of familiar patterns.
– At 1.75 cycles, despite experiencing the cycle multiple times, there’s a realization that lessons have not been learned, and mistakes are repeated.
– Finally, at 2 cycles, the cyclical nature of the phenomenon becomes apparent, leading to an acknowledgment of its inherent cyclicality.
Here’s an expanded proposition
2.25c: “We’re in the rinse and repeat phase.” – At this stage, we’ve recognized the familiar pattern of the cycle and find ourselves going through the motions once again, as if caught in a never-ending loop of repetition.
2.50c: “Same song, different verse, but we’re starting to catch on.” – While the cycle continues, there’s a growing awareness and understanding of its dynamics. We’re beginning to notice subtle variations and nuances, signaling a deeper insight into the cyclical nature of the phenomenon.
2.75c: “Realizing it’s not just the cycle, but the system.” – Beyond simply acknowledging the repetition, we’re starting to grasp the broader systemic factors at play. We understand that the cycle is not isolated but interconnected with larger structures and forces shaping our environment.
3c: “Finally grasping that we’re the ones spinning the wheel.” – With a newfound understanding, we come to realize our agency in perpetuating the cycle. We acknowledge our role in shaping and influencing the trajectory of events, rather than being mere passengers on the ride.
3.25c: “Recognizing the pattern, but still getting dizzy.” – Despite our growing awareness, the cycle can still induce a sense of disorientation or confusion. We may find ourselves navigating the familiar pattern with a mix of certainty and uncertainty, as we strive to maintain our bearings amidst the repetition.
3.50c: “Starting to see the carousel from above.” – As our perspective expands, we gain a clearer view of the cycle from a higher vantage point. We’re able to step back and observe the pattern with a greater sense of detachment and understanding.
3.75c: “Adjusting our seat on the merry-go-round.” – Armed with insights gained from our elevated perspective, we begin to make strategic adjustments. We adapt our approach and position ourselves more strategically within the cycle, aiming to optimize our experience and outcomes.
4c: “Accepting that the merry-go-round is the ride, not the destination.” – At this stage, we come to terms with the cyclical nature of the journey. We embrace the idea that life itself is a series of cycles and that the process of growth and evolution occurs within the repetition.
4.25c: “Riding the loop with a knowing grin.” – With acceptance comes a sense of peace and contentment. We navigate the cycle with confidence and equanimity, knowing that each revolution brings new opportunities for learning and growth.
4.50c: “Weaving through the cycles like a seasoned pro.” – Having mastered the art of cyclical navigation, we move through the pattern with grace and skill. We’re able to anticipate twists and turns, making deliberate choices that align with our goals and values.
4.75c: “Circling back with a sense of déjà vu.” – As we near the completion of another cycle, we experience a sense of familiarity tinged with nostalgia. We recognize echoes of past experiences and lessons, reinforcing our understanding of the cyclical nature of life.
5.00c: “Round and round, but we’re calling the shots.” – Despite the repetitive nature of the cycle, we assert our agency and autonomy. We make conscious decisions and take intentional actions, knowing that we have the power to shape our own destiny within the cycle.
5.25c: “Embracing the loop, because the view changes every turn.” – With a mindset of openness and curiosity, we find joy in the cyclical journey. We appreciate the ever-changing landscape and embrace the diversity of experiences that each revolution brings.
5.50c: “Finding beauty in the perpetual motion.” – Instead of resisting or resenting the cycle, we find beauty and meaning in its continuous motion. We marvel at the rhythm and flow of life, recognizing the inherent harmony and balance within the repetition.
5.75c: “Looping back, but the scenery has changed.” – As we come full circle once again, we’re struck by how much has changed since the last revolution. We marvel at the evolution and transformation that has taken place, realizing that each cycle brings new opportunities for growth and renewal.
6c: “Realizing that the cycle is the journey, not the destination.” – At this stage of profound insight, we transcend the notion of linear progress and destination-oriented thinking. We understand that the true essence of life lies not in reaching a final destination, but in embracing the cyclical journey itself.
The evolution of technology, particularly artificial intelligence (AI), has sparked discussions about the future of work and the impact on various job sectors. A poignant observation is that many of the jobs AI is poised to take over were non-existent during significant historical moments. For instance, when The Beatles recorded their iconic album “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” professions like social media manager, app developer, data scientist, and genetic counselor were unimaginable. However, as technology advances, these once-novel jobs are now at risk of being automated by AI.
It’s a testament to the dynamic nature of the job market—technology gives rise to new opportunities, but it also has the capacity to render certain occupations obsolete. The phrase “tech gaveth and tech taketh away” encapsulates this phenomenon succinctly. While technological advancements have created numerous new roles and industries, they also pose a threat to traditional job sectors.
Conversely, there are what can be termed “anti-fragile” jobs—roles that have endured across centuries, adapting to changes in technology, society, and the economy. These jobs have demonstrated resilience, evolving alongside advancements while maintaining their fundamental purpose and nature. Tasks and tools may have evolved over time, but the core essence of these occupations remains intact.
However, there’s a caveat to the stability of anti-fragile jobs. Despite their resilience, there’s always a numerus clausus—a limited number—associated with them. These roles often have barriers to entry, whether it’s through formal education, licensure requirements, or access to resources. This limitation creates a competitive landscape where individuals vie for these stable positions, contributing to societal tensions and conflicts—what some might call the “culture war.”
The paradox where individuals on both ends of the political spectrum can simultaneously express support for and skepticism towards technology, all while lacking a deep understanding of its complexities and implications.
Indeed, it’s not uncommon for both liberals and conservatives to exhibit contradictory attitudes towards technology. For example, a liberal might champion the use of renewable energy and advocate for greater regulation of big tech companies to protect privacy, while also expressing concerns about the impact of automation on jobs and the widening digital divide. Similarly, a conservative might embrace free-market principles and celebrate technological innovation as drivers of economic growth, while also expressing reservations about the cultural impact of social media and the influence of tech giants on political discourse.
Despite these conflicting perspectives, what unites them is a shared tendency to overlook the intricacies of technology and its broader societal implications. This lack of understanding can lead to inconsistent policy positions, misguided interventions, and missed opportunities for constructive dialogue and collaboration.
Man, dig this: progress. It’s a word like “love” or “freedom,” tossed around like loose change in a hobo’s pocket. But the essay, it’s got its eyes peeled. See, it’s hip to the racket: progress, it ain’t some benevolent Santa, it’s more like a greasy carny barker, hawking shiny gadgets while palming the real loot.
The squares in tweed suits wanna spin a yarn: progress plugs us all into the neon paradise. But dig deeper, man, past the binary blips and you see the real score. This “tech revolution” ain’t no free love fest, it’s a power grab disguised as liberation. Here’s the lowdown:
1. The Code Cowboys Cry Wolf: These keyboard jockeys, living high on Silicon Valley’s hog, whine about persecution. “They don’t understand us!” they wail, blind to the privilege tattooed on their stock options. They’re cogs in the machine, man, programmed to believe they’re rebels.
The suits in silicon suits, they think they’re different. Cryin’ about persecution, whining about the “burden of genius” while they sip lattes in their glass castles. They forget, power’s a hungry beast, it feeds on privilege, and they’re gorging like kings at a lobster buffet.
Then there’s this “community” they tout.
2. The Hive Mind’s Hustle: Sure, techies have their little communes, their co-working spaces and kombucha bars. But this “community” ain’t about sharing the loot, it’s about building an echo chamber where dissent gets censored faster than a bad tweet. They circle the wagons, protecting their turf, leaving the rest of us on the outside.
Like a gang of greasers, huddled around their bonfires of code, patting each other on the back. But community can be a cage, man, a self-serving echo chamber where dissent gets drowned in the click-clack of keyboards.
3. Decentralized Feudalism: They promise power to the people, these decentralization pimps. But peel back the hype and you see the same old power structures, just rebranded. They create fiefdoms online, “Kinglets and satraps” ruling their digital domains. Decentralization ain’t freedom, it’s just fragmentation, with new gatekeepers at every node.
Kings need loyal subjects, and these tech lords, they’ve built themselves a kingdom of ones and zeros.
Decentralization, they say, it’s the answer, the power to the people. But it’s all smoke and mirrors, man. Decentralize the chains, and you just create more fiefdoms, each with its own little kinglet. It’s feudalism 2.0, with servers as castles and algorithms as serfs.
4. The Literate Illiterates: They can code circles around you, these tech whizzes, but can they think straight? Not all the time, daddy-o. They’re drowning in information, but can’t tell truth from lies, manipulation from freedom. They’re literate in code, illiterate in the real world, ripe picking for the next con artist with a catchy algorithm.
Literacy, they say, that’s the key. Learn the code, understand the circuits, and you’re free. But literacy’s a tricky beast. You can read the words, but do you get the message? Algorithms whisper sweet nothings, feed you lies disguised as truth. The paradox is real, man, you can be a code wizard, but still blind as a bat to the shadows cast by the screens.
5. Blind to the Buzz: Yeah, they know their tech, but can they feel it? This “sensorial illiteracy” is the real danger. They can’t grasp the vibes, the subtle hum of the machine, the way it shapes our lives. They’re building a future they don’t understand, and we’re all gonna pay the price.
Then there’s this other kind of blindness, a sensory illiteracy. You can navigate the digital jungle, but do you feel its tremors? Do you hear the gears grinding, the data streams humming? This essay, it’s asking for a deeper understanding, a gut feeling for the machine, a way to see through the chrome and circuits to the power it wields. But defining it, man, that’s like chasing shadows. It’s a hunch, a whisper in the dark, a flicker on the edge of perception.
So, the next time you hear the siren song of progress, remember this, man: progress ain’t free. It comes with a price, and the bill often lands on the shoulders of the many, while the few feast on the spoils. Open your eyes, sharpen your senses, and don’t be fooled by the shiny gadgets. The digital junkyard is full of broken dreams and forgotten promises. It’s time to reclaim the narrative, rewrite the code, and build a future where progress serves all, not just the power lords in their silicon castles.
This ain’t a manifesto, man, just a shot of uncut reality. Open your eyes, wake up your senses, and don’t trust the suits, or the cowboys, or the code. The future ain’t written yet, and the fight for power is still on. But remember, the first step is seeing the game for what it is. Now cut the feed, man, and go jack in to your own reality.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go feed my talking cockroach. He’s got a thing for binary code and existential dread. Weird, huh?
Music, once a virus of the soul, a sonic worm burrowing into the meat of consciousness, has been lobotomized by the Soft Machine. Chopped into bite-sized dopamine nuggets, it’s pumped into the veins of the masses through the IV drip of the Attention Economy. Music, once a tangible fix, now a digitized roach motel for the attention junkies. The airwaves, a Burroughs dream of cut-up melodies, scrambled by the Cixin virus. Abundance breeds not harmony, but a cacophony of competing voices, each vying for a sliver of the shrinking attention span.
Once a tangible artifact, pulsating with analog life, it’s become a digital chimera, swallowed by the all-consuming maw of the attention economy.This is the Interzone, where the lines between commerce and creativity blur, and the very act of seeking recognition becomes a perilous dance with the predatory forces of the algorithm.
Musicians, word warriors armed with guitars and laptops, find themselves trapped in the Naked Lunch of the attention economy. They pump their sonic wares into the meat grinder of the algorithm, hoping to emerge on the other side, chewed up and spat out onto a curated playlist. Musicians, once solitary alchemists conjuring sonic spells, are now data points in a vast, chaotic network. But the algorithm is a fickle beast, a faceless god that devours content and excretes profit, leaving the artists with a hollow echo of recognition. They fight for visibility in a hyper-saturated marketplace, their screams swallowed by the white noise of a million competing voices.The airwaves crackle with the static of inauthenticity, manufactured pop stars churned out like assembly-line products. Attention, the new currency, is ruthlessly hoarded by unseen entities, leaving artists scrambling for scraps in the digital gutter.
The consumer, a drooling troglodyte hooked on the flickering screen, is bombarded with a cacophony of sonic slop. Choice becomes a weapon of mass distraction, a paralyzing vortex that drowns out any semblance of genuine engagement. Lost in the labyrinthine corridors of recommendation algorithms, they become automatons, their preferences molded by unseen hands.
Consumers, meanwhile, are bombarded by a sensory overload. Algorithms, like unseen puppeteers, manipulate their choices, herding them towards pre-packaged sonic experiences.Music becomes a mere background hum, a dopamine drip to numb the anxieties of the modern malaise. The true power of music, its ability to transport, to challenge, to connect, is lost in the cacophony of the marketplace.
But fear not, fellow travelers! There is a way out of this sonic labyrinth.
A Paradox
This Cixin good, this paradoxical commodity, thrives on its own obscurity. The more it screams for attention, the deeper it sinks into the psychic muck, devoured by the ever-hungry maw of the algorithm. Musicians, these unwitting agents of chaos, become cogs in the control machine, their creative essence siphoned off by the faceless entities that manipulate the flow of information.
For creators, the path lies in embracing the cut-up method. Fragment the narrative, inject dissonance, and challenge the expectations of the algorithm overlords. Forge connections with your audience, not through manufactured personas, but through raw, unfiltered expression.Let your art be a virus of its own, a subversive force that disrupts the sterile order of the Interzone.
But wait! A flicker of hope in the interzone. The artists, they can cut up the virus, weaponize their sound. They can build their own networks, bypass the gatekeepers, and speak directly to the awakened minds. Let the music be a virus of its own, spreading through the underground channels, infecting the minds with the truth.
Consumers, too, must awaken from their passive slumber. Seek out the uncharted territories, the sonic anomalies that lie beyond the algorithmic reach. Support the independent voices, the ones who refuse to be assimilated by the machine.Engage with music actively, dissect its layers, and allow it to resonate within your soul.
This is not a call for utopia, but for a radical re-imagining. We must break free from the control of the attention merchants and reclaim the power of music as a transformative force.Let the sonic mutations begin, let the feedback loops scream, and together we may yet forge a new musical landscape, one that transcends the boundaries of the Interzone and pulsates with the raw energy of authentic creation.
So crank up the volume, let the feedback howl, and join the chorus of resistance. The Naked Lunch of attention may be served, but we can still choose the ingredients of our sonic feast.
