Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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Like my brownhouse:
   being to individuality what veal is to cow
Friday, March 21 2003 Things I hope for:

  • More Iraqi resistance to the forces of McDonalds, Halliburton, and Citibank now invading their country. On one level it's ridiculous for me to say this, knowing full well it would be better for them in the short term to roll over and accept our helpful crusaders. But if the world gives America the impression that wars of conquest will go easily, we can only expect more of them.
  • A more widespread vandalism of the many billboards owned by Clear Channel Communications. Apparently it's not enough for them to form media monopolies using the public's airwaves. Now they feel the need to leverage this monopoly to silence the on-stage political speech of artists and assemble phony pro-war demonstrations.
  • Just one person to say he supports the war against Iraq but does not support our men and women in uniform.

I was driving out to a client's house this afternoon with news of the Iraq war on my radio. The "Shock & Awe" campaign had just begun, intended to make Iraqis look out through the holes where their windows once were and say (as we did when the World Trade Center imploded) "Holy Shit!" Then the awe phase was supposed to begin, with the widespread scratching of Iraqi heads and the recitation of the Arabic equivalent of "Gee Willickers!"
As I was listening to live on-the-ground reports from Baghdad, I could hear massive explosions going off in the background. Enormous, expensive missiles, each costing far more than I will ever pay in taxes, were being lobbed into a city of five million people and the resulting explosions were being picked up by microphones, beamed via microwaves up to hovering satelites, then down to National Public Radio headquarters, then out to another satelite, then down to my local station WAMC, and then out through a radio tower, where the waves were being picked up by a rusting coat hanger that serves as the FM antenna for my truck. It sounded like the primordial Saturn devouring his children. It was a disaster, but there was nothing natural about it. Man was doing this to Man. I felt myself becoming nauseated, and yet I continued to listen.

The woman who had called me for today's housecall had a tiny little iPaq running Windows CE. I was amused to note that as she did things with it, it made those little unnecessary "bluple blurple" sounds that computers always make in Hollywood movies. This reminded me of an amusing reality: when people cast about looking for interface design hints on new technology, often times they're forced to draw on Science Fiction. I read once somewhere that the phrase "Access Denied" actually had its origins in film.
[REDACTED]
As usual for these sort of housecalls, I had to do a lot of talking. An hour or so into it, I noticed a foreboding scratchiness developing in my throat. By evening, I could feel myself coming down with a cold.

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