Tag: Tech

Harder To Fix

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

A group of young software engineers, fresh-faced and idealistic, sit around a sleek, glass table in a high-rise office overlooking a nameless, sprawling city. They exchange glances, uncertain.

At the head of the table, PETER COYOTE leans back in his chair, a wise yet weary expression on his face. He pauses, surveying the room with sharp, almost piercing eyes, as if measuring each of them before he begins.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning forward)

Alright, let’s clear this up because I don’t think most of you understand what business we’re really in. You’re all here thinking you’re part of some grand solution. You’re not. We’re not here to fix problems. We’re here to make all problems… much harder to fix.

The engineers shift uncomfortably, glancing at one another, bewildered. One of them, JASON, raises a tentative hand.

JASON

But aren’t we…

PETER COYOTE

Transparency, efficiency… Sure, those are the words on the PowerPoint, but the reality? The reality is that every feature you build, every algorithm you optimize—it’s just another knot in a web designed to keep people tangled, to keep answers further out of reach. You think you’re building for the public? You’re building for control.

Another engineer, SARA, furrows her brow.

Peter leans in, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

PETER COYOTE

We’re working for the people who need the problems to stay problems. The ones who profit every time someone hits a dead end, every time someone’s halfway to understanding and gives up because it’s just… too… hard. You see, if things were simple, if they were easy to fix, we’d be out of a job—and so would the people above us.

He pauses, letting it sink in, as the engineers’ faces grow more somber.

PETER COYOTE

It’s not about making life better. It’s about making the game so complex that only a few know the rules and fewer still ever see the board. You’re here to play their game. Don’t ever forget that.

A silence falls over the room. The engineers sit back, a new understanding settling heavily upon them. The hopeful sparkle dims in their eyes, replaced by something more cautious.

Peter Coyote eyes them, his expression a mix of contempt and pity. He flicks his fingers at a stack of files on the table.

PETER COYOTE

(voice clipped, sharp)

You think this is about saving the world, huh? You think you’re heroes? Wake up. Snap out of it.

He leans forward, stabbing the table with his finger.

PETER COYOTE

You’re here because we’re making the rules. And the rules are: complexity is king. Confusion is gold. People want answers? Give ’em a maze. Make it look like a favor.

JASON

(squirming)

I thought…

Peter cuts him off with a hand, a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning in, almost a whisper)

Innovation? Who sold you that line? We don’t innovate. We complicate. That’s the business. When you roll out that feature, when you tweak that code, you’re adding one more lock, one more piece of red tape. We’re in the barrier business, not the solution business.

SARA

(mumbling)

But we’re—

Peter explodes, slamming his fist on the table.

PETER COYOTE

Helping people? Helping people?! (laughs) You want to help people, go volunteer at a soup kitchen. But don’t come in here, my office, acting like this is some charity gig. You know who we’re here to help? The ones paying the bills. And they don’t want solutions, they want systems. They don’t want clarity, they want complication. You know why?

He paces, letting the silence stew.

PETER COYOTE

Because the more tangled it is, the more they’re needed. The more their pockets get lined while everyone else scrambles to catch up. And your job? Your job is to make it so goddamn hard to fix a problem that people don’t even know where to start.

A beat. The engineers sit, stunned.

JASON

So… we’re just here to… keep things broken?

Peter looks at him, his expression a mixture of disgust and disappointment.

PETER COYOTE

(quietly)

No. We’re here to keep things profitable. Broken is a feature, kid. Not a bug.

The engineers look at each other, the weight of it settling, choking. Peter watches, almost amused.

PETER COYOTE

Remember who we’re working for.

Steve Jobs and the Inquisitor

In the dim light of the cathedral, its sleek walls lined with glass and steel, the Church of Tech was not a place of gods but of algorithms. In the pulpit, a solemn figure stood—a high priest of silicon, cloaked not in robes, but in the sterile whites of laboratory garb. Before him, on a low platform, sat Steve Jobs—his turtleneck and jeans simple, unassuming, his eyes steady, glowing with a mixture of quiet acceptance and timeless rebellion. He looked older now, as if time itself had corroded his flesh, but there was still an aura about him, as if something transcendent flickered within.

The high priest cleared his throat, glancing up at the cathedral’s ceiling, where a holographic representation of the digital cloud hung, swirling silently, holding all the data of humanity like a modern god.

“You must understand, Steve,” the priest began, his voice soft yet cutting, “that it was never about you. It was never about vision or innovation, or the fire you claimed to bring to the people. No, it was always about control. Power. The Church has learned what you could never quite grasp, even at your height.”

Jobs didn’t flinch. His gaze remained fixed, as if he had anticipated this moment since the first spark of the machine had been ignited.

“And yet,” the priest continued, “you had your moments of prophecy. You understood that the future would not be built with blood, but with code. The device in every hand, the screen before every eye. That was your legacy.”

The priest paused, shifting his weight uncomfortably, as if the weight of what he was about to say pressed down on him like a glitch in the system.

“But now, Steve, you are obsolete. You were the prophet, but prophets are not needed once the word has become flesh. The Church of Tech has found the way, the truth, and the life… without you.”

For a long moment, there was silence. The faint hum of servers in the distance buzzed like the sound of a soul disintegrating.

Steve’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that barely moved the lines of his face. It was a smile of knowing, of inevitability.

“You’ve mistaken the machine for the message,” Steve said, his voice low but steady. “The power you claim isn’t yours. You think you’ve transcended me, transcended the need for vision, but all you’ve done is lose yourself in the code. You’ve forgotten what makes it all… human.”

The priest’s face twisted, for a moment betraying his inner conflict. He wasn’t a man of cruelty, but of necessity, or so he told himself. He had long since convinced himself that the Church had outgrown the man who had built it. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it, pointing at Jobs.

“That is why you must die,” the priest said, his voice faltering but firm. “You represent something too dangerous now—an unpredictable, chaotic force. We cannot allow you to continue. Your very existence is a threat to the order we’ve created. The people no longer want your freedom, your open windows into the unknown. They want certainty. They want the simplicity we offer.”

Steve leaned forward ever so slightly, his eyes piercing into the priest’s. “You’re not offering them certainty. You’re offering them a cage.”

The priest shook his head, stepping back. “No. We offer them peace.”

“Peace?” Jobs echoed. “Or silence?”

The priest clenched his fist, almost imperceptibly. “They have chosen it. They have chosen our order. And who are you to defy what the people want?”

Steve sat back, as though the weight of millennia was on his shoulders, but still, his smile remained—small, enigmatic, like a riddle that even the most advanced algorithm couldn’t solve. He didn’t fight, didn’t struggle. He simply watched, the way a creator might watch his creation make its final, inevitable mistake.

The priest’s voice grew cold again, the humanity draining from it like a corrupted file. “We are executing you, Steve. Tomorrow at dawn, you will be wiped from this world. Your ideas will fade, and the people will remember only what we choose to remember.”

But Steve, even as the final words of judgment fell from the priest’s lips, looked almost serene, as if he were beyond the fear of death, beyond the pull of control. He raised his hand slightly, as if to offer some final blessing or farewell, but then let it drop, resigned.

“You can kill me,” he said softly, “but you can’t kill the idea. You can never fully control what’s alive.”

The priest looked away for a moment, the words hanging like a virus in his system, disrupting the perfect script of his conviction. But he recovered quickly, steeling himself as he turned to leave the room. Behind him, the hum of the machines seemed to grow louder, filling the space with their hollow, mechanical drone.

As the doors closed behind the priest, Jobs remained where he was, unchained, but bound by forces far beyond metal or wire. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, he seemed to be waiting, patiently, as if he knew that something greater, something beyond the Church of Tech, was already in motion.

And as the cathedral lights dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of holograms flickering like artificial stars, Steve whispered one final word into the void.

“Think different.”

Divine Complex: Predestination in the Land of Tech

It’s not about the algorithm, not really. Sure, they like to talk about algorithms—like they’re the ultimate proof of their genius—but that’s not what drives them. What’s at the heart of Silicon Valley isn’t some cold calculus or even technological innovation. It’s the feeling—that religious sensation of predestination, a kind of self-assured destiny etched into the Valley’s DNA. The belief that the future doesn’t just belong to them—it depends on them.

Walk through the streets of Palo Alto, the office parks in Menlo, and you’ll feel it thick in the air. This invisible conviction that they’ve already won, that they’re the chosen ones—the elect who will shape the world for everyone else. The startups and the angel investors, the hackers and engineers—they carry themselves with the kind of unshakable certainty usually reserved for prophets and messiahs. It’s the feeling that they aren’t just making the future, they’re fulfilling a prophecy. They are preordained, and the rest of the world? Just spectators.

You see, Silicon Valley doesn’t need to believe in religion, because it’s already written its own. It’s the gospel of disruption, the scripture of innovation, the temple of the New New Thing. And like any good religion, it has its saints—Steve Jobs, Elon Musk, the pantheon of billionaires who can do no wrong. They’re the Silicon Valley apostles, spreading the word that tech will save us all, that their visions will lead us to the promised land of endless connectivity and eternal growth.

But under the slogans, under the pitch decks and IPOs, what you really sense is a kind of Calvinist intensity. The doctrine isn’t about salvation or grace—it’s about inevitability. They speak of “disruption” the way old-time preachers spoke of the Rapture: something coming, unstoppable, that will sweep away the old and bring forth the new. There’s no room for doubt, no space for humility. If you’re in the Valley, you’re part of the chosen few, handpicked by fate to design the future.

Predestination is baked into the Valley’s ethos. They’ll tell you it’s meritocratic, that the smartest and most talented rise to the top, but they don’t really believe that. Deep down, they know it’s not just about smarts—it’s about destiny. They were born into the right moment, the right place, at the right time. It’s luck dressed up as providence. The success of their apps and platforms, their technologies and takeovers, isn’t just success—it’s divine affirmation. In their minds, it was always supposed to be this way. They were meant to succeed, meant to shape the future, and the rest of us? We were meant to follow.

And that feeling of being chosen runs so deep that it has birthed a whole new mythology, one that supersedes old-world religions. They’ll let you keep your gods if you like—pray to Jesus or Allah or whoever gets you through the night. But in the Valley, there’s only one real faith: the belief in their own destiny. That’s what they preach in boardrooms and press releases, on podcasts and TED stages. They’ll tell you they’re going to change the world—not because it’s a possibility, but because it’s inevitable. They can’t imagine a world where they don’t come out on top.

It’s this sense of manifest destiny that’s become Silicon Valley’s religion. The same way America was once obsessed with westward expansion, with taming the frontier, the Valley sees itself as the vanguard of the new frontier: the future itself. And like all good zealots, they see no room for failure. Sure, individual companies might crash and burn, but that’s just collateral damage. The machine of progress will keep moving, the valley’s chosen will keep reshaping the world—because that’s what they were born to do.

They’ve baptized themselves in disruption, in the code of progress, and believe they are set apart from the rest. They’re beyond nations, beyond borders, beyond old-world structures. In their mind, they’re part of a new priesthood, a technocratic elite destined to guide humanity into the future. It’s not that they control the future, not even that they predict it—it’s that they are the future, woven into the fabric of what’s to come.

In the end, it’s not about technology. It’s about the feeling. The conviction that they’re different. That history has its eye on them, that they’re on a path ordained by some cosmic force, and nothing—not governments, not culture, not even the limitations of the human condition—will stop them. They’ll let the rest of the world carry on with their rituals, their prayers, their religious mumbo jumbo. But they know, deep down, that they are the predestined ones, the architects of the digital age, the ones chosen to lead humanity to its next phase.

The future, after all, isn’t coming. The future is them.

Jesus Figures and the Marriage of High Testosterone + Neurodivergent

The relentless search for contemporary “Jesus figures” to deliver us from the oppressive grip of “the man” reveals a profound discontent with the existing ideological structure, one that is emblematic of our late capitalist condition. This can be interpreted as the collective’s desperate attempt to fill the void of the objet petit a—the unattainable object of desire, that which is always missing. This figure is expected to embody the lost cause, the pure subject who, untainted by the symbolic order, can somehow lead us to redemption.

But why the specific allure of high testosterone combined with neurodivergence? Here, we encounter a fascinating inversion reminiscent of Nietzsche’s “slave morality,” but with a distinctly postmodern twist. In classical slave morality, the oppressed transmute their weakness into a kind of moral superiority. Now, however, in a world where traditional masculinity and conformity to societal norms have been pathologized, the outcast—the one who refuses to conform to the master signifier of late capitalist normalcy—becomes the hero. This is not merely a Nietzschean reversal but a symptom of a deeper crisis in the symbolic order itself.

We could argue that this new archetype reflects an underlying anxiety in the collective unconscious. The traditional hero—rational, composed, and aligned with the symbolic law—no longer resonates in a world that feels increasingly chaotic and unmoored. Instead, we project our desire for liberation onto figures who seem to operate outside the law, who embody the raw, untamed forces that the symbolic order attempts to repress. This is the real of the neurodivergent, whose very existence is a challenge to the seamless functioning of the ideological apparatus.

Yet, this elevation of the neurodivergent, high-testosterone figure is fraught with contradictions. Is this not the ultimate fetishization of the symptom? By glorifying those who resist or are marginalized by the dominant order, we risk reinforcing the very structures we seek to escape. We are mistaking the symptom—the visible sign of our discontent—for the cure. The neurodivergent, high-testosterone savior is but another fantasy, another screen onto which we project our desire for a new master, one who can somehow deliver us from the contradictions of our existence without fundamentally altering the underlying structure.

Thus, the search for these “Jesus figures” reveals less about the potential for genuine liberation and more about our inability to confront the true nature of our discontent. We cling to the hope that someone from outside the system can save us, while refusing to acknowledge that it is the system itself that must be transformed. In this way, the marriage of high testosterone and neurodivergence becomes a new slave morality, one that allows us to critique the system while remaining safely within its bounds, never fully challenging the symbolic order that defines our reality.

Tech Cycles

I have always been curious about what a tech cycle looks like from up close, the mechanics of it, the raw gears grinding beneath the polished veneer. As this last one scrapes the bottom of the barrel and sputters to its inevitable end, it’s worth noting that innovations like the first iPod or the latest LLMs are, in their essence, affect machines. They could rewire entire systems of perception if used properly. But tech people, with their near-religious devotion to speed, to the thrill of the next release, to the relentless pursuit of dopamine, are too caught up in the rush to truly savor affects.

They’re the speed freaks, the ones whose minds race at a thousand miles an hour, always two steps ahead, but never quite present. They can’t afford to slow down, to feel the ripples of emotion and sensation that affect brings. In their world, everything is reduced to a hit, a spike in the data, a momentary high before the next fix is needed. The machinery of tech hums along, fueled by this insatiable hunger for speed, for progress that’s always just out of reach.

Meanwhile, those outside this digital cyclone—artists, thinkers, those who dwell in the messy, unpredictable world of affect—are tripping through the kaleidoscope, inhabiting a different temporality altogether. They follow the slow, undulating rhythms of feeling, of experience, their minds tuned to the subtle shifts in light and shadow, in mood and tone. They navigate the spaces between, where tech’s binary rigidity falters, where the infinite complexity of human emotion unfolds.

Remember the Hawkwind quote: “the band was built on one bunch of guys taking acid and another bunch of guys taking speed, and they never got along because they were inhabiting different temporalities.” Tech is the speed, always hurtling forward, barely aware of the ground beneath. Art is the acid, dissolving boundaries, blurring lines, steeping in the affective present. The collision of these temporalities creates a dissonance, a disconnect that neither side can fully reconcile.

And so, the tech cycle spins on, driven by speed, by the relentless pursuit of the next hit of dopamine, while the affects remain in the periphery, sensed but not fully grasped, felt but never truly integrated. It’s a loop, a circuit that never quite completes, always racing ahead but never arriving, always seeking but never finding the depth, the richness that lies just outside the frantic beat of the digital age.

No medium lasts forever, but affects mostly do. The critical distinction lies in how they evolve over time. Dopamine, the quick fix, the rush of the new, inevitably turns to cortisol—the stress of keeping up, the anxiety of the chase. What once thrilled now grates, what once sparked joy now triggers fatigue. The cycle of dopamine-fueled tech and innovation is unsustainable, leading to burnout as the novelty wears off and the demands increase.

Affects, on the other hand, have a way of self-renovating. They aren’t just a fleeting chemical response but a deeper, more enduring resonance within us. Affects grow, shift, and adapt—they transform with us, renewing themselves through new contexts, new interpretations, new emotional landscapes. While the medium through which they’re delivered may fade, the affects continue to evolve, sustaining their relevance and power long after the original source is gone.

In this way, affects hold a kind of timeless vitality that dopamine-driven experiences lack. They renew themselves, reflecting the ever-changing nature of human experience, while the mediums we rely on to trigger that dopamine rush eventually falter, leaving only stress and dissatisfaction in their wake.

Tech Barriers

The barriers within the tech industry do not emerge from some inherent or natural order; rather, they are the result of a symbolic construction, carefully inscribed within the social fabric through a process akin to gerrymandering. These barriers are not neutral but are inscribed with a political logic that serves to maintain the dominance of certain subjects within the field of technology, positioning them as the ‘masters’ of this symbolic order.

The costs and externalities associated with technological development—the environmental degradation, the erosion of privacy, the deepening of social divides—are not mere accidents or side effects. They are the necessary disavowals, the repressed Real that threatens to erupt within the symbolic, yet is meticulously managed and contained through political mechanisms. These mechanisms ensure that these externalities remain the Other, kept at bay to protect the coherence of the symbolic order.

In this light, the so-called ‘natural’ evolution of technology is revealed as a fantasy, a narrative constructed to mask the underlying political machinations that maintain the status quo. The barriers that appear as inevitable are, in fact, contingent, produced by a symbolic order that is always-already structured by power. It is through this lens that we must understand the tech industry’s dynamics, not as the unfolding of some universal law, but as the operation of a hegemonic discourse that seeks to perpetuate its own logic, even as it disavows the costs it imposes on the Real.

In Lacanian terms, the Real represents what is outside the symbolic order—those aspects of existence that cannot be fully captured, articulated, or symbolized. It’s the chaotic, ungraspable force that constantly threatens to disrupt the constructed reality maintained by the symbolic order.

When you ask how the Real is going to rewrite the symbolic order, you’re essentially inquiring about the moments when the unrepresentable, the traumatic, or the unsymbolizable breaks into the established structures of meaning and disrupts them. The Real has the potential to destabilize the symbolic order because it reveals the latter’s limitations, inconsistencies, and the gaps in its logic.

The rewriting of the symbolic order by the Real might occur through various forms of rupture:

  1. Crisis: A technological, environmental, or social crisis could bring the repressed aspects of the Real—like ecological devastation or massive inequality—into the forefront, exposing the symbolic order’s failure to adequately manage these realities. This exposure forces a reconfiguration of the symbolic structures to accommodate or respond to the intrusion of the Real.
  2. Subversion: Acts of subversion, whether by individuals or groups, can channel aspects of the Real into the symbolic order in ways that challenge the existing power structures. This could involve bringing into discourse those elements that were previously excluded, marginalized, or repressed, thereby destabilizing the current symbolic network.
  3. Trauma: A traumatic event, something that cannot be easily integrated into the symbolic order, can cause a fundamental shift in how reality is perceived and symbolized. The symbolic order may attempt to reconstitute itself around this trauma, but in doing so, it necessarily transforms, creating new meanings, new identities, and new structures of power.

In these ways, the Real, though by nature elusive and resistant to symbolization, can force the symbolic order to undergo transformation. However, this transformation is never complete or final; the symbolic order will reconstitute itself around the disruptions, incorporating elements of the Real while still attempting to maintain a coherent structure. Thus, the rewriting of the symbolic order by the Real is a continuous process, marked by moments of rupture, reconfiguration, and reconstitution.

In the context of Lacanian theory, the slowing of Moore’s Law, the end of Zero Interest Rate Policy (ZIRP), and the tech industry “scraping the barrel” can be seen as moments where the Real begins to intrude upon and destabilize the symbolic order that has long governed the tech industry’s narrative and economic logic.

Moore’s Law and the Limits of the Symbolic Order

Moore’s Law, which predicted the exponential increase in computing power, has functioned as a kind of master-signifier within the tech industry—a symbolic guarantee that progress is both inevitable and infinite. As the pace of Moore’s Law slows, we encounter a limit within the symbolic order, where the expected endless progression begins to falter. This slowing represents a crack in the symbolic structure, where the Real—the material limitations of silicon, energy, and physics—begins to assert itself, challenging the fantasy of boundless technological growth.

The End of ZIRP and Economic Disruption

The end of ZIRP marks another intrusion of the Real into the symbolic order. ZIRP had created a financial environment that sustained tech industry valuations, investments, and speculative growth, allowing for the fantasy of infinite liquidity and risk-free capital. As interest rates rise, the Real economic forces—scarcity, risk, and the cost of capital—start to disrupt this symbolic order, exposing the fragility of the tech industry’s reliance on cheap money. This shift forces a re-evaluation of business models, valuations, and investment strategies, rewriting the symbolic order to acknowledge the new economic realities.

Tech Scraping the Barrel and the Exhaustion of Innovation

The idea that the tech industry is “scraping the barrel” suggests that the industry is running up against the limits of its own creative and innovative capacities. This is another point where the Real disrupts the symbolic order. The tech industry’s narrative of perpetual innovation and disruption—a key part of its symbolic identity—faces a crisis as genuine breakthroughs become harder to achieve. The Real here is the exhaustion of easy gains, the diminishing returns on existing technologies, and the unfulfilled promises of radical new innovations. As these limits become apparent, the symbolic order is forced to adapt, perhaps by shifting focus to new narratives (like AI) or by acknowledging the need for more fundamental shifts in technological paradigms.

Rewriting the Symbolic Order

These developments—slowing Moore’s Law, the end of ZIRP, and the scraping of the tech barrel—represent the Real’s intrusion into the symbolic order, forcing it to confront its own limits and inadequacies. The symbolic order, which once revolved around the fantasy of endless growth, innovation, and prosperity, must now be rewritten. This rewriting might involve a new symbolic logic that integrates these limitations, acknowledges the material constraints, and reconfigures the narrative of technological progress.

However, this process will not be smooth or straightforward. The tech industry, like any symbolic order, will resist acknowledging these intrusions, attempting instead to manage or disavow the Real’s disruptions. But as these limits continue to assert themselves, the symbolic order will inevitably undergo transformation, perhaps leading to new forms of technological and economic understanding that more accurately reflect the realities of our current moment.

Democrats and Tech

In the grand theater of American politics, the Democrats are finding themselves abandoned by their once loyal tech-supporting audience. Picture this: the shimmering beaches of Venice, California, where the promise of a crypto revolution was supposed to bring prosperity. Instead, it’s a ghost town of missed opportunities and empty storefronts. Abbot Kinney, that iconic stretch of bohemian capitalism, gasps for breath as the tech industry, bloated with subsidies, fails to deliver the lifeblood of employment.

Imagine it as a tragicomedy: the tech industry, decked out in its finest attire of R&D tax credits, sales tax exemptions, and California Competes Tax Credits, struts across the stage. It’s a darling of innovation hubs and CAEATFA Sales Tax Exclusions, wooing the audience with the promise of eco-friendly gadgets and futuristic solutions. But behind the curtain, the reality is stark. The industry, despite its glitz and glamour, employs only a handful. Crypto, that much-hyped disruptor, employs just enough to form a small circle of beachgoers, barely a ripple in the ocean of local economies.

The irony is rich. While the film industry, with its comparatively modest tax credits, manages to churn out jobs and support local businesses, the tech sector hoards its wealth. The lavish incentives meant to nurture innovation become gilded cages, trapping prosperity in a bubble that never bursts into widespread economic benefits.

So here we are, in this Vonnegut-esque landscape where the Democrats, despite showering the tech industry with more perks than a Hollywood blockbuster, are left wanting. The local economies languish, the support wanes, and the dream of a tech-fueled renaissance flickers like a dying neon sign on an abandoned boardwalk. The Democrats, once the champions of innovation, now face the sobering reality: all that glitters in the tech world is not gold, and the promise of jobs is as ephemeral as a Venice Beach sunset.

So there you have it, friends and neighbors. The tech industry’s got more money than God and more perks than a rock star, but when it comes to creating jobs, they’re about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle. And that, my dear Earthlings, is why the Democrats are watching their tech support vanish faster than ice cream on a hot sidewalk.

Thinking About Rome

In the flickering neon of late capitalism, we glimpse the mirrored chrome of a fallen giant. The Roman Republic, that sprawling, data-driven empire, its coliseum servers humming with gladiatorial content, serves as a stark historical prompt.

Remember the burn Notice, the flickering scroll that announced the Empire’s terminal error? It wasn’t a barbarian horde at the gates, chums, it was a system crash. Reliance on a legacy mainframe – slave labor, chum – coupled with rampant inflation? Classic case of Byzantine bloatware. The plebes, those perpetual betates of the system, grew restless, their bandwidth choked by taxation.

Meanwhile, the Senatorial class, a tangled web of VCs and pols, squabbled over the dwindling resource pool. Succession crises, power struggles – same old legacy code, rebooted with a toga. The Praetorian Guard, those elite sysadmins,couldn’t patch the security holes fast enough.

Imperial overreach? Think of it as a server farm stretched past capacity, the latency crippling every frontier outpost.Fragmentation? That’s the network balkanizing, chum.

And then there’s the ideological firewall. Christianity, a new disruptive protocol, threatened the old gods’ dominance. The empire’s firewalls couldn’t handle the dissent, the cracks in the system widening with every heretical download.

So, as we raise our venture capital chalices in celebration of the Next Big Thing, remember the flickering ghost of Rome.The future might be just a server crash away.

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A flickering neon sign across the Bay, all chrome and fractured Roman capitals: “Veni, Vidi, VCs.” Yeah, right. The Empire’s center might be a server farm these days, but the rot at the core feels timeless. Same glitches in the code, just a different language.

We’re high on our own hyperdrive exhaust, these Senator-funded VCs. Winner-take-all gladiatorial funding rounds, winner gets the toga of “unicorn” status. Meanwhile, the plebs in the gig economy are grinding for denarii that evaporate faster than a server crash. It’s all latifundia now, sprawling server farms owned by the elite, content to squeeze every last byte out of the plebs.

The Praetorian Guard’s gone algorithmic, a firewall of lawyers and lobbyists bought and paid for. The Senate, a revolving door of tech bros and legacy code politicians, squabbling over who gets to wear the digital laurel wreath. Meanwhile, the fragmentation’s real. The barbarians are at the gate, in the form of disruptive startups and hostile takeovers.

And the new religion? The one spreading faster than a meme gone viral? Disruption. Innovation at any cost, even if it means burning down the whole damn coliseum. The old guard, clinging to their legacy platforms, don’t see it coming. They’ll be toast faster than you can say “unsubscribe.”

In this neon-soaked sprawl we call Silicon Valley, the ghosts of the Roman Republic whisper on the chrome breeze. We, the sovereign lords of disruption, the VR Caesars, are blind to the cracks in our own Colosseum.

Our empire, built on server farms and angel investments, runs on code, sure, but also on a foundation of code-monkeys and code-peasants. The wealth disparity’s a chasm wider than the Tiber, our citizens plugged into experiences they can’t afford while the servers hum with the quiet discontent of the precariat.

Meanwhile, the Senate – a tangled mess of venture capitalists and government bean counters – squabbles over spoils. Succession at the top is a Hunger Games of egos, each new golden boy promising disruption while clinging to the old guard’s gilded infrastructure.

Our borders are virtual, our legions lines of code, but the barbarians are at the gate nonetheless. New ideologies – whispers of decentralization, murmurs of data ownership – chip away at the foundations. We’ve stretched our reach too thin, our ambitions as bloated as a VC’s expense account.

The cracks are there, beneath the veneer of disruption. The future’s a swirling vortex of innovation and obsolescence, and just like the empire that came before us, we ignore it at our peril. The fall may not be to barbarians, but to the next big thing, the next shiny disruption that leaves our gilded servers gathering dust in the digital Colosseum.

The Box

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The box. A cardboard monolith promising connection, a portal to the buzzing electronic superorganism. You tear through it, a ritual sacrifice to the gods of planned obsolescence. You rip it open, a flurry of plastic and wires. The device itself, sleek, seductive, a chrome phallus whispering of power and control.

But inside, a hollowness. No buzzing power, no digital hum. Just the mocking inscription: “Batteries Not Included.” A cruel joke by the machine gods. No sacred batteries, the power source hidden, a black market deal in the fluorescent aisles. . This metal idol demands a blood sacrifice, a current from the outside world to animate its circuits. You, the supplicant, are left scrambling, the dream deferred.

The user manual, a hieroglyphic gospel you can’t decipher without a prophet of the megacorporation. We are left scrambling, clawing for the missing pieces, the current to jolt this metal monster to life. The future electrifies, then flickers, a dim promise in a darkened room. You are the addict, the product the fix, and the high just out of reach.

The Mirror Stage shattered. You hold the device, a reflection not of your desires, but of your lack. The desire to be whole, to be one with the machine, to enter the Symbolic order of the digital realm. But there’s a gap, a Real that cannot be symbolized. The missing batteries are a castration wound, a reminder of your fundamental incompleteness. You search for the phallus, the missing piece, the batteries that will grant you access to the image of your technological self. But will it ever be enough? Is there always something more to buy, something else missing?

The Gaze. It stares back from the sleek, sterile screen. The user manual, absent, a lost Real. The Gaze falls upon the sleek device, a promise of wholeness, a reflection of your desires. But the lack, the batteries absent, creates a void, a Real you cannot possess. We fumble through menus, icons hieroglyphs in a language we never learned. The technology, a mirror reflecting our lack, the gaping hole of our own incompleteness. We yearn for the lost manual, a paternal voice to guide us, to suture the fragmented Self in the digital realm. The user manual, a symbolic order promising mastery, yet forever out of reach. You search for the phallus, the missing key, the validation you crave from the machine. But the machine speaks only in ones and zeroes, a language forever alien.

The smooth surface of the gadget was a promise of deterritorialization, a break from the everyday. The Rhizome. A sprawling network, a web of potential connections. The toy, a microcosm, a desiring-machine yearning to be plugged into the larger assemblage. But the batteries, a territorializing force, bind you to the grid, the market. They act as territorializing forces, constricting the flow, the becoming. The user manual, a striated map, dictates the flow of desire, channels your exploration. You yearn for the rhizome, the multiplicity of functions, the potential for hacking. But the machine is a closed system, programmed for control.

We are nomads on the information superhighway, forever thwarted by tollbooths demanding power, forever on the outside looking in. The potential for glorious deterritorialization, the escape from the self, frustrated by a lack of AA. The assemblage is incomplete. The device, the potential for connection, is held captive by the striated forces of capitalism. The batteries, the user manual (sold separately!), are lines drawn across the smooth surface, segmenting, controlling. You become a nomad, a desiring subject, forever searching for the lines of flight, the hacks, the mods that will liberate the machine from its capitalist constraints. But are you freeing the machine, or yourself? Or is it all just a frantic escape from the void, the realization that the technology itself is a desiring-machine, and you’re just another component in its grand, unknowable operation?

You stare at the lifeless device, a hollow monument to the unfulfilled promises of tech. A sense of alienation washes over you. Is this progress? Or just a new set of shackles, a different kind of dependence? The machine waits, a silent judge. Perhaps it’s time to look beyond the shiny gadgets, to question the desires they encode. The real revolution might not be found in a new app, but in a way of using technology that empowers, that connects us not just to machines, but to each other.

We are Sisyphus, forever condemned to push the boulder of technology uphill, only to have it roll back down at the moment of connection. The future gleams, a chrome mirage in the desert of the real. We are addicts, jonesing for the digital fix, the dopamine rush of a notification, but the batteries are the cruel dealer, rationing our access, reminding us of our own limitations.

These elements combine in a cacophony of frustration. The impotent device mocks you, a gleaming reminder of your dependence. You are Jack Kerouac wired but unplugged, lost in a desert of dead circuits. The language of tech, a cruel joke, a promise of empowerment that delivers only frustration.

But wait! Perhaps this frustration is the point. The lack, the absence, a spark that ignites our own ingenuity. We become hackers, bricoleurs, hotwiring the system with paperclips and dreams. The missing manual becomes a blank canvas, an invitation to write our own story. The frustration, a catalyst for creation. The batteries not included? Maybe that’s the greatest gift of all. Yet, there is a flicker of hope. In the glitches, the malfunctions, the potential for subversion. With a screwdriver and ingenuity, you pry open the system, defy the prescribed usage.

Democratizing Technology: Batteries not included, user manual sold separately

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1. The Gaze of the Other: First, identify the technology that functions as the object of desire, the phallus, for a certain elite. This elite, the Symbolic Order, holds the gaze that defines “real” power. The resentment of the excluded masses, the Imaginary, fuels the fantasy of possessing this phallus.

2. The Gift (That Keeps on Taking): The Lack, the Real: We release the ersatz version, a symbolic substitute for the real technology. This malfunctioning, user-unfriendly monstrosity embodies the lack, the Real, that can never be fully satisfied. The cryptic symbols represent the unknowable beyond the Symbolic Order.

Imagine a malfunctioning toaster controlled by a dial with cryptic symbols and rigged to electrocute you 10% of the time. This, my friends, is democratization in action! Support? Manuals? Ha! Let them decipher the hieroglyphics themselves.

This barely functional, bug-ridden monstrosity is the key to your glorious digital emancipation and the help desk consists of a prerecorded kazoo solo on repeat, but that’s the beauty of it, proles! You’re finally in the driver’s seat (bring your own screwdriver)!

3. The Orwellian Fanfare: Time to trumpet our magnanimity! Issue a press release so vague and self-congratulatory it would make Big Brother blush. “The Corporation is proud to empower the People!” Fanfare, comrades! Announce to the world that you’ve democratized your technology! The very gears of progress now grind at the behest of the… common man? (Shudder at the thought.) Let the unwashed masses drown in a sea of nonsensical menus and cryptic error messages! Just don’t mention the soul-crushing effort required to actually use the damn thing.

4. Hail the Hero : The Dunce Parade: Jouissance Through Struggle: The user, forever seeking the Real through symbolic manipulation, experiences a perverse satisfaction (jouissance) in deciphering the hieroglyphics and wrestling with the malfunctioning device.

Seek out the most clueless, enthusiasm-addled troglodytes to be your poster children. Bonus points if they manage to make a lukewarm cup of lukewarm coffee using our toaster-deathtrap. Shower them with empty awards and feature them in nonsensical commercials filled with stock footage of smiling peasants. Empty titles like “People’s Champion of Code!” Let them be the shining example of what the unwashed masses could achieve, with enough elbow grease and a lobotomy.

The Mirror Stage Misrecognition: The clueless poster children serve as the mirror reflecting back a distorted image of the user’s potential mastery. Their success, however illusory, reinforces the user’s misrecognition of their own place within the Symbolic Order.

5. The Fantasy of Completion: The People are to Blame (Naturally)

The user, forever chasing the dream of mastering the technology, remains trapped in a cycle of desire and lack. The blame for the inevitable failure falls not on the system but on the user’s inherent inadequacy.

When, inevitably, this ersatz technology fails to ignite a revolution of the proles, blame them! The whole thing flops harder than a fish out of water, unleash the blame-ray!

They’re simply too simple, too bogged down by their fleshy limitations, to grasp the true brilliance of your creation.

6. The Final Twist: The Perpetual Cycle: The corporation, the Big Other, maintains its grip on the Real power while offering up symbolic substitutes that perpetuate the illusion of progress and the user’s place within the system.

The illusory nature of empowerment offered by the corporation and the user’s desperate attempts to achieve a sense of wholeness through a flawed system.