You want good news? let's talk about this fuckin' meme But first let's talk about this So eight weeks ago my (inch and a half) water main pinholed under my dining room. Because the dining room used to be a patio, and because it was raining, we assumed it was water in gutters or a french drain (I have fourteen gutters and six french drains). It wasn't until five days later that enough circumstances stacked (such as, enough water had accumulated that scrap wood was bumping against the joists in the current like driftwood at the wharf) that it became clear there was a biblical leak and that the water shutoff didn't shut off all the water. Subsequent archaeology and OSINT determined that this water main had cut loose in 1986 and 2014. It's worth noting that the house has four crawl spaces, two of which are quite comfy, but the water main bursts about every ten years under the now-dining-room, which is utterly inaccessible. Fortunately this inaccessible area is surrounded on all sides by concrete footings which means any leak is shored up from affecting the rest of the house... at least until the flood travels 45 feet underground to find freedom in the shop. Nonetheless, we're not doing this shit again. 230 sqft of floor and subfloor have been destroyed. Roughly 100sqft of discarded, soaked carpet has been removed, along with assorted other detritus (a 1986 Coca Cola Classic can, for example), not to mention roughly 10 gallons of mixed nut shells and rat shit (and three mummified rats). The pipe had been clearly man-handled with channel locks, which is a good sign that it will cut loose again. The floor cannot easily be made accessible, besides which we're now talking about architectural modifications to support future failures. Instead I ran a fish tape down the pipe and located it in a dead-nuts straight line to the former-bar, future Bond-Villain-Fishtank room (yes there is a Bond Villain Fishtank room). From there it clearly elbows at 20 feet. From there it's 12 feet to a patch of dirt in a crawlspace I can access (albeit with an 18" ceiling), then it's under 25 feet of concrete (half of which is outside), then it's under a legit giant sequoia, then it's under stairs, then it's under driveway, and then 65 feet southwest and 15 feet down it hits the street shutoff. In other words, there's a 4' x 8' patch of dirt that probably contains a water pipe, is under shelter, is accessible, and can be re-routed through a mechanical chase into the mudroom closet (once the mudroom is built, and once it has a closet) such that the water shut-off is in a reasonable place, all plumbing from that point forth is accessible and never again will floors need to be destroyed to remedy broken plumbing. I needed luck here. I needed the goodwill of the spirits. So I finished emptying my service pit. With no water, by the way, we've been without water since before Thanksgiving. But I emptied out my pit. It's got a drain! Six fuckin' feet under the garage and it's got a drain. And I reinterred Bandit. Yeah I found the jawbone and pelvis of a dog in there. I also scanned four rolls of photos. So I'm pretty sure this is Bandit. Anyway. I had a little ceremony out by the Hoggson sign and a put Bandit out where he could spiritually bark at everyone walking by and keep the house safe. And I put some daffodils on top of him. And then I asked for all the luck the spirits of the house could give me and went digging. With a mattock. Prone. On my chest. In the dirt. For five hours. Making a trench 18" deep (pipe should be between 6" and 12" according to code and best practices in 1970) by four feet wide. And failed to find the fucking pipe. So now we're going to be for realsies and call in a locating service. They're going to run a snake down my pipe and radio waves are going to say exactly where it is. This will cost $400. They locate the pipe, exactly where I thought it was, and say it's between a foot and three feet down. They also determine that the plumber's former worker severed my landscape lights with a backhoe but that's a problem for another day - the plan now is to open up the subfloor, excavate where the elbow is and see where it's going. Because the obvious thing for it to do is head towards the street... but five of those gutters simply go at least six feet straight down and disappear off the earth. So the pipe might just go DOWN fifteen feet and then wing over. We have no idea. Apparently my electrical meter hookup is six feet underground because at some point in the '80s they raised the fucking STREET So it's entirely possible the pipe doesn't get within twelve feet of where I was digging. So the subfloor is opened and the elbow is under a fucking abandoned patio. The good news is that at "1 to 3 feet down" with the grade two feet under the subfloor that means it's gotta be right at the surface, right? Bust the concrete and away we go? No. Bust the concrete, dig two feet in any direction, dig two feet down, no fucking pipe. At this point, my plumber, who is the best plumber I've ever met, is out of fucking ideas. He does not know what to do next. I say "well, at least this isn't the most fucked up house you've ever worked on, right?" To which he says, 'no actually this is far and away the most fucked up job I've ever worked on and granted I've only been doing this for fifteen years so there may be something more fucked up out there, I don't know, but if there is I sure don't want to work on it and i hope I retire before I find out." Can you imagine how demoralizing that is? You've spent $90k on plumbing and you haven't been able to wash your hands for eight weeks. There's a pipe somewhere but it might be so buried you'll never find it. And your plumber is ready to throw up his hands. Your shoes? Permanently smell like dirt fungus. Your gloves are full of grit; you take them off (even after you've been pruning!) and your hands come out brown. So you come up with a plan. The locators come back out. Don't know if I'm paying for them this time or not, but they were extremely fucking wrong - they now determine the pipe is two feet closer than they thought. So digging continues. And three feet down and two feet away (the locators are off by two feet) there's a TEE. Not an elbow. A tee. Water comes in on the right, shoots off left to the inch and a half "lawn hydrant" (my new favorite phrase) used to fill the pool, shoots upward under the living room, under the house, out front, where it elbows in galvanized (big no-no), goes back under the house, pops up in the foyer and rejoins the rest of the house. The tee illustrates why the fucker was hard to find, it's complicated down there. Also, catching where it comes in means eliminating 20 feet of ABS to the tee, 30 feet of galvanized under concrete to the lawn hydrant, 30 feet of extremely ephemeral ABS under the dining room and 20 feet of already-rusting galvanized up front so my plumber? He cuts off that tee and we put a fish tape down it. Twelve feet in, it elbows. Right about where we were digging, really - He starts digging in my trench. And fails to find the fucking pipe. So I get mathy with it. The plumber's argument is that inch and a half ABS does not like to bend, so odds are good we're dealing with a straight line, at least to where we think. I get out my lasers and my tape measures and my fish pole and I do my calculations and I determine that where I dug my trench is two feet further than where we think it elbows. So I get back under my bathroom with my mattock and start digging a new trench. And fail to find the fucking pipe. So okay. Let's get real. I have all this as a WhatsApp conversation with myself - the most complete way to math it up. "5" from laser to slap. 35" from laser down to pipe. Laser is halfway up the joist, which is 7". Laser is now 17" lower than it was. 35" - 17" = 18" below laser... plus grade. Laser is 11" above ground. Therefore pipe is 7" down, plus however much it dives." We're already 18" deep. So okay. Let's confirm that the elbow is an elbow, and let's see if we can figure out which way the elbow turns. I have an endoscope (yes, we're now at lasers and endoscope). I tape it to my fish tape. And I discover that the elbow is not an elbow, it's a UNION and I can push two full feet beyond it. In other words, both of my trenches should cross the fucking pipe... assuming they're deep enough. But how deep do they need to be? So I get out a level. And I brush away a lot of dirt on the known pipe. And I crawl down in a hole with my level and a tape measure and bending in some truly interesting ways I determine that over 4.85 inches of run I have 0.9 inches of drop which works out to a ten degree down angle but that doesn't matter this is algebra not trig and out where the union is? Assuming the pipe is straight? it's 34 inches down. So I dig. With a mattock. On my face. And 36" down I hit hard clay. There are spots where I'm definitely digging through disturbed sand and spots where it's really clear nobody has been through that dirt since the glaciers so we'll assume the pipe is in the sand. So we triple-check our locations and there's no. possible. way. This trench WON'T intersect that fucking pipe. But now we need more luck, and our FRP grates (subject to the most amusing product photos on Amazon have arrived. So we head to metal supermarkets and buy some angle iron. We head to Home Depot and buy two boxes of red heads. And we head to Harbor Freight and buy a drill press, and we spend a couple days turning this To this ___________________________________________________ Sidebar: With all the information I have on these people I decide to look up his mother, for completeness (she's mentioned in a letter as being unwell, I wanted to see where his parents' deaths fit into the overall narrative). She has almost no presence on the Internet, which is interesting for reasons we'll get into in a minute. Where she does show up is here, as "another Henry descendant." See those extremely politically-incorrect native american statues? I have photos of the 1986 yard renovation (which undoubtedly coincided with this damn water main cutting loose) and uhhhhhhhhhh So you go "wait what the hell do they mean by "another Henry descendant" and you go "HOLY SHIT THAT HENRY" and you realize that while the guy who built this house was rich AF on his dad's side, he was thunderously wealthy on his mom's side and you're telling this to veen who points out that according to Wikipedia, this guy's great grandfather had a five car garage in Seattle in 1901, and you didn't think there were five cars in Seattle in 1901, and two days later the Seattle Times reports the first traffic count in Seattle as "on this day" and on that day in 1901, the first traffic count in Seattle counted ZERO CARS all day and you realize that this ghost, who built a five car garage, who had a grandfather with a five car garage prior to the advent of cars, had his widow sell his house to a jackass crab fisherman who filled in his service pit with garbage and his dog And if you wanted to be haunted? Well that's a damn fine start. ___________________________________________________ So. Service pit. Restored. Dog. Buried. Let's buy a trowel with extra reach, let's get the picnic blanket the radio station gave us for fundraising, let's cross our fingers and start digging. 90 minutes later I burst into fucking tears. You'll notice it's at a hell of an angle. For a pipe that don't bend, it's pretty bendy. It was also at 22", not 36", which suggests that trigonometry is a pain in the ass when you're in a hole. But more than that I now have a REAL GOOD INDICATOR where that sucker's gonna be when it hits the footing and lo and behold Now let's talk about this fucker. 'cuz here's the thing. The whole point of this fucking cartoon is to encourage you to keep trying or some shit. Not sure why these fuckers are wearing dress shirts and ties, probably because anyone needing a business meme is applying this to TPS reports or some shit. And what I will say? Is that once we tore up the floor, once we jackhammered the concrete, once we had locators out twice, once I spent NINE FUCKING HOURS ON MY FACE, that pipe was a scant four inches from where I had been digging. But you know what? We didn't know if it went left or down. We didn't know how down it went. We didn't know what the fuck was going on and no, you shouldn't keep pick-axing in your fucking dress shirt as if holes are somehow fun to dig, you should get out the math and laser beams AND KNOW WHERE THE FUCKING PIPE IS Because even with all the math and laser beams, my un-bending pipe was bent at a pretty jaunty angle and a good eighteen inches from where it should have been in X and a good fourteen inches from where it should have been in Y. And now? Tomorrow? I will have water again. And it will be in a place where no more floors will need to be destroyed to deal with it. As an added bonus, enough floor has been destroyed that it's just a little more added chaos to take my (REF) kitchen, my (-4.5") dining room and my (-8") garage and build the dining room subfloor at four and a half inches higher. This eliminates two tripping hazards, adds a third step to give me a truly sunken living room, and provides me a single 8" step into my garage. None of which would have been on the docket without eight weeks without water, due to the eruption of a geyser under my dining room.
House has been badly rekt since a little before Thanksgiving. In order to tip the balance of order to prevent my morale from plummeting I've been emptying my service pit. Did I mention I have a service pit? Yeah guy I bought the house from figured covering it in plywood was inadequate to the purpose of keeping his 8, 12 and 16 year old daughters from falling in so he filled it with dirt and garbage. "Dirt and garbage" started out with me paying my slack-jawed yokel to empty it out but as it turns out, not only was he a junky he was also a pussy. I started with a bucket on a pulley from the rafters but it turns out a 5gal bucket full of dirt and rocks is heavy. So then I went with a block'n'tackle but what they don't tell you is that coiled-core rope on a b'n't spins like a mutherfucker and ceases to be a b'n't. So then I grabbed my chain hoist which I use to move FrankenKerns around but holy shit chain hoists are stupid for lifting 200lbs. So then a buddy lent me his unused Harbor Freight winch but the minute it had any load it ejected its planetaries and crumbled to dust. So then I went to HF and bought a new one, hooked it up to a used UPS battery, hooked the UPS battery up to a trickle charger and now we're in fully-mechanized "it puts the lotion in the basket" territory. I've found a bunch of busted sewer pipe in the service pit. Also a 40 gallon barrel of oil. Also a bunch of carpet, which prevents me from just scraping along the bottom. But I've also spent an awful lot of time in the rafters of the garage and that's where things get interesting. That's one woman's life, nearly every document, from 1973 to 1975. Bank statements, bills, letters, report cards, medical intake forms, tax returns, car tabs. It's an easy fifteen pounds of documents, including a typing textbook, two yearbooks, a handful of hairstyle guides, a broadway musical script and a few rolls of negatives. It took four days just to go over. But holy shit. It was like sitting down to have a drink with a ghost. There was this guy. He was born rich, never had to work, but his dad had just died and his mom was unwell. He lived all alone in this castle on a hill with his dog and his '65 Mustang GT. He was a drunk and he was irresponsible; he owed Columbia House the equivalent of $600 for a bunch of Burt Bacharach 8-tracks. And there was this lady - she and her husband owned a restaurant out in the sticks and she owned and operated a three-chair hair salon. She drove a '72 Riviera; he drove a '68 Beetle. The restaurant went under and her marriage was on the rocks; she had a 22-year-old son and an 18-year-old daughter and even though she was overdrawn at every department store and hair supply house in a hundred mile radius, her daughter still managed to be voted "best dressed." Pretty sure the guy ran into the lady while she was making ends meet waiting tables. They totally hit it off. She kicked out her husband and he got an apartment; it probably helped to stay ahead of the law because he was a drunk driver. He paid her bills and sent her cards, she dealt with a dying mother in a nursing home and a dying mother-in-law in another nursing home. He refused a breathalyzer and Oregon suspended his license and forwarded his new address to Washington; he got arrested and sentenced to 90 days in minimum-security detox. And he wrote her and she wrote him and once he was out she bundled up all her shit and bailed on the sticks forever, leaving the kids, leaving the husband, and moving in with a newly-reformed, newly-sober fellow ten years her junior. She never had to worry about money ever again. Neither did her kids. The lady and the guy lived happily ever after, becoming well-loved social butterflies in a number of communities over the 35 years they had left together. And when he died, nobody wanted to find the box of letters. I found the kids. Tried to get them all this. I was told that it was a painful time they chose not to revisit and if I could please "throw it all away" they'd appreciate it. Two sides to every story; I have no doubt in my mind those two loved each other deeply and made each other very happy.
The power of language: For those too young to remember, "ethnic cleansing" was a term unheard of before Slobodan Milosovic. The phrase was coined by the Serbians to describe what they were doing to the Bosnians to say "silly NATO! We're not committing genocide! We're practicing ethnic cleansing! What are you worried about!" It's an example of the power of language that "filling trenches with dead children" was very much genocide, but for the past 30 years everyone has been circling around the crime of "ethnic cleansing" to determine what, exactly, is the prosecutable crime there that doesn't trigger UN conventions against genocide. It's also worth pointing out that when first introduced, embargoes were considered genocide. After all, they target a civilian population for purposes of death and displacement. Now of course they're the first tool in the kit despite knowing that they hurt the civilian population first and foremost. The power of language: The Nakba was the direct result of European genocide and, if you like, "ethnic cleansing." The whole of the post-WWII economy of Europe was powered by confiscated Jewish wealth; the whole of the West German economy was Jewish wealth, the post-war economies of Eastern Europe and the USSR were powered by confiscated Jewish wealth and founded on confiscated Jewish property. The overwhelming majority of post-War American influence was due to massive expansion in the Western states which was only possible due to de-facto confiscation of property from Japanese Americans. Meanwhile, of course, the 1948 war was in response to a partition plan that allowed Europe to kick the can down the road. If you give the Jews palestine you don't have to give them back Brussels. The British Empire, which had ruled the entire region with an iron fist for generations, was too weak to do anything but withdraw and the end result was genocide. Jews did the displacing. It's also complicated. The power of language: “What couldn’t be?” my professor asked. “Ethnic cleansing. Because it’s what happened in the Holocaust, so we can’t be charged with this,” she replied. Another student cut in. He qualified by referring to himself as a critic of Israel. “There’s a distinction between occupation and ethnic cleansing,” he announced. “It’s an issue of structural power and systematic violence—what happened in 1948 was not ethnic cleansing.” I can't be guilty. There's no way I have any culpability here I'm just a smol bean. History, on every level, in every country, at any time, is "we did good" and "they did bad." The purpose of history education from a civics standpoint is to sheepdip your populace into the common understanding that defines your collective morals - that's why the southern US skirmishes over slavery every goddamn day and will until the end of time. Nobody wants to be the baddies. It doesn't help that we don't introduce the "are we the baddies" conversation until fucking college because any casual observation of the History Channel will clue you in to the fact that we're the baddies, all of us, at some point or another. But unless you want to know this shit, there's too much complexity. "I benefit materially and spiritually from the oppression of others" is an ethics question for philosophy majors, not a viewpoint introduced to children and god help you if you try. So here's this poor Intro to Fuckery professor saddled with Mary Jane and Bobby Sue who are pretty sure the Nakba wasn't ethnic cleansing and into that mix you've got a Palestinian auditor who could obviously teach the class? But whose salary and tenure are not dependent on Mary Jane and Bobby Sue. We're the baddies, all of us, at some point or another. Munich bombings? Palestinians. Lebanese civil war? Palestinians. October 7? Palestinians. I could very easily make the argument that each of those was justified and retaliatory but I won't. Fundamentally the Israelis wear uniforms, the Palestinians don't, both sides know it's because that would be the end of the Palestinians and the Israelis get to sit there going "checkmate." The power of language: "Simple" implies it can be fixed. "Complicated" implies that it can't. It's been nigh onto 80 years and the world can't agree on borders, let alone what happens after that, and it's not like nobody has tried. Ben Gurion and Maier firmly believed that there would never truly be peace until they had exterminated the Palestinians but they also knew that Hitler held those exact same firm beliefs about the Jews so they didn't shout it from the mountaintops. Meanwhile four generations of Arab states have loudly proclaimed that the only pathway to peace is the eradication of Israel which - c'mon. You're going to triangulate around the phrase "ethnic cleansing" and ignore that it's a stated goal of Hamas' charter? Bartcop argued the simplest solution would be to give the Jews Oklahoma and I'm not sure he's wrong, despite the obvious distaste Israel would have for replacing Jerusalem with Tulsa. "Complicated" masks the fact that in a simpler time, both the Palestinians and the Jews would be extinct. That "simpler time" wasn't so long ago. And that really gets to the worst part of the Israel/Palestine conflict: both sides plead simplicity and if you disagree, you're a murderer. IN MY ADULT LIFE I have watched the phrase "ethnic cleansing" be born, ridiculed, argued, enshrined and defined. What started out as "you murderous asshole that's genocide" has become "well, but let's figure out if this is bad or bad-bad" and it's nothing more than a way to justify sitting back and doing nothing. A lot of that is because "genocide" was used to set what the Nazis were doing apart from what everyone throughout history has always done, which was generally just referred to as "winning." And yet there are still Palestinians, and there are still Jews, because as a civilization we no longer permit that scale of win. If it were simple it would be solved already. That it's not means any argument put forth for solving it in Intro to Fuckery is likely to be eliding some important details.But that familiarity didn’t last. By the end of the first month, the class was split on the definition of “ethnic cleansing”—not only how to define it but who, in terms of the subject doing the action, can be charged with this human rights violation.
The professor called our attention to his use of the term “ethnic cleansing” in his own writing. He wrote that around 750,000 Palestinians were displaced in 1948, an act that today would be considered ethnic cleansing. At first read, this statement seemed bold—he may not have named the Nakba, but his writing gestured toward violence. Even so, his examination felt sanitized. Palestinians “were displaced,” he wrote. But there was no mention of who did the displacing.
After reading part of the article out loud, a girl who had been fidgeting in her seat said it couldn’t be.
The word “complicated” is often used to describe the occupation in Palestine, a word that insists that occupation is untouchable—Palestine’s history is too complex, there are too many moving parts, it’s a puzzle that can never be solved. But this word is condescending—a distraction. It wants us to feel small, worthless, and petty in our investigation. It demands power structures remain in place, allowing some to speak while requiring others to stay quiet.
Garbage disposal went out a few weeks back. Just started leakin'. It's okay, it's a Sears; my father-in-law put it in back in like 2004 which I recognize is exactly the sort of thing old people say. The total time to diagnose, research, purchase, remove and replace the garbage disposal was approximately 2 1/2 hours spread across two days. That included a run to Home Depot to get an assortment of plumbing to replace the father-in-law's "rocket garbage out the other sink" drain geometry. This made me realize that the machine, from an "effort and cognition" standpoint, has been the equivalent of two, two and a half "garbage disposals" a day, six to seven days a week, for two years. My cousin and his friends are having a boy weekend, a "for those who tried to rock" adventure at an AirBNB to recapture the mood of trying to be rawk stars back when they were in their teens and early 20s. They're all extremely excited about it even though it's weeks away. I declined my invite because frankly, I was nowhere near them as a teenager (and when they were teenagers I was... seven) but pointed out to my cousin that they clearly need to do this more often; with "deaths from despair" leading all other causes for white dudes over 50, simply bringing guitars, poker chips and tequila to a beach cabin twice a year could extend their lives an easy 20 years. My cousin agreed (several of them clearly neeed this) and pointed out I should come next time as dorking around with a bunch of aging butt-rockers might just clear up my musical constipation. I said that every ten-fifteen years I'm apparently required to do something stupid and laborious that shuts everything else down. In high school it was a 4x4 Triumph TR-7 with a Chevy 400. In my 30s it was a birth center. In my 40s it's apparently a $150k CNC machine. Besides which... I had the world's cheapest Atmos studio. I've been limping along on these ancient Tascam surround controllers, one of which I've owned since it was new in 2003. They were born at the height of the capacitor plague, and yes I've recapped all three of them multiple times. I taught myself surface-mount soldering just so I could rebuild the analog section of one. And about five months ago a yahoo in a stolen car drove through the substation that shares a yard with the police department. I heard the bang from here, a quarter mile away. Power flickered in a crazy way, then went out, and despite having four separate UPS in this house, it took out a 40TB server and two surround controllers. The server? Came back once it was allowed to express its outrage. But the controllers started dying in ways I've never seen, that the Internet has never catalogued, that cannot be solved without replacing and reprogramming ePROMs and ICs that have not been available since Obama was president. Said-same cousin pointed out that Washington's current laws make it so that I will have to pay capital gains on the amount of crypto I'll need to sell in order to expand the birth center. The thought process went like this: - For that amount of money I could move to another state for a few months while I pull the money. - But it's going directly to schools. - Which absolutely need it, this is why your kid is a private school brat. - Besides which, the only people who would be sympathetic to your plight are the sort of people you hate. - You aren't even vaguely poor anymore. Why do you feel so poor. - Because you haven't spent any gains on anything since before COVID. So I sold some crypto and bought myself a $5000 audio interface. B-stock, of course; I'm not a monster. It showed up yesterday. I put Kai through the monitors one last time and tore it all out. I dunno. It should feel like a victory. So far it feels like a defeat. I've spent two years trying to find a cheaper solution. I failed. This will solve my problems perfectly - I goddamn saved myself some time by subconsciously buying the wrong bits of eBay which will serendipitously allow me to remove an entire digital-analog conversion chain consisting if eight cables and three powered devices - and yet, my inability to figure out some clever way to solve the problem is absolutely galling. Never mind the fact that this is such corner-case weirdness that the cheapest solution is to use actual movie theater parts - since they aren't made anymore, and since my chosen gadget interfaces at a systems level with the rest of my gadgets, it would be stupid to, you know, not do what every other Atmos studio does. Not that there's a lot of those. I think there's a fundamental alienation that takes place when your problems are so far removed from the normal experience of everyday life that they take paragraphs to describe. It's probably why, despite being wildly successful by any metric whatsoever, things are a constant goddamn struggle. LOOK AT THIS LITTLE FUCKER Goddamn R2 unit right there. It's 650-odd parts in SolidWorks. I did not design about 150 of them. I had to model them in Solidworks, though, and they all need to line up in three dimensions. 650 parts, no tolerance stacking errors. It all fucking bolts together. I used to get sick at the end of every season. It's my body responding to stress, basically, by collapsing once I'm over the hump. I haven't had a season since 2019 but I've made a speedrun from stomach flu to thanksgiving to my kid's birthday to COVID to Christmas. My wife has caught none of it. I said something like "I'm embarrassed for my genes" and she said "that's not your genes, that's your ACE score" and she's probably right. That, and those 650-odd parts are... kind of it. There are a few bits and bobs that need to be modified or tweaked, and a couple minor components that need to be created and tested but fundamentally, the next part is "wire it, plumb it and program it." Two garbage disposals a day for two years. No excuse me, nearly three. Fucker showed up April 2021. While it was crossing the ocean, the Ever Given was clogging the Suez.
Naaaah dawg. My accountant just spent two emails and a phone call trying to make me feel guilty for taking ERTC so I'm going to indulge in a little self care? I'm gonna show you some HATE. You know. For me. And like I'm going to pause every now and then and save a draft and get back to work and come back to this because it's too delicious and I can tell I'ma spend two hours just straight loathing on this fucking Concorde Moment of tech journalism. because this is the dumbest fucking shit I have ever seen. I mean, let's start with the endless loop of a hand trivially grasping nothing. Pinch your fingers three times to pause the world's most insipid playlist. "Imagine staring at your empty hand with a logo projected on it." Down to the Sanskrit wedding ring - fuckin' McSweeney's couldn't write this article better. I'ma need that title image as a gif 'cuz this one takes too long: And it is just so chockablock with cheesy goodness that I'ma have to go inline because holy fucking shit this is self-parody so incising and adept that if it were anywhere but the New York Times, I would accuse them of trolling. But it's the New York Times so naah, it's Principle Skinner And The Children. ____________ A brief aside, though: ever thought much about space helmets? I have. See, I wrote a short film with a prominent space helmet in it. It's pure science all the way and we hit it out of the park and I'm really pleased with it and so has everyone else been and one of the "a ha" moments of making a movie with a space helmet in it, as a fan of science and technology, is you go "well of course we're not going to project blinding fucking lights on the actor's face like every other film because that's super dumb." Except as soon as you shoot a single frame of an unlit space helmet you realize that the camera doesn't read your actor's facial expressions and the emotion drains right the fuck out of the scene and you run to 7-11 to buy a half-dozen keychain flashlights to gaff tape around the viewport because fuckin' hell you do not have a movie without facial expressions, I'm sorry, and yeah - the actor can no longer see shit and yeah - this is absolutely not what NASA or anyone else would do in this situation but you know what? It's a movie, and what matters is the audience. Think about that next time you see some jackass flashing gang tags to dismiss their text notifications. Who is the audience here? 'cuz that whole "fuck haptics let's mime" approach that the tech industry loves? They love it because they are the audience, watching their shit up on the big screen, popping a boner over how fyooooooooochur it looks without sparing a single fucking thought of what it feels like to fucking use it. VR helmets, Marcel Marceau moves, those stupid Playmobil creations that Kroger now thinks are their customers? 100% "fuck yeah my shit looks good on someone else." This is why, incidentally, Neal Stephenson will always be a grasping idiot while William Gibson will always be a fucking genius: Gibson invented cyborgs who were fashionable. Stephenson invented "gargoyles" covered in Borg laptops. Everyone wants to be Molly Millions, everyone hits the cons like gargoyles. And "my shit looks good on someone else" changes with the times. Take the first Star Trek. Phasers that looked like guns, walkie talkies that looked like walkie talkies. Take the second Star Trek. Phasers that looked like hand massagers, walkie talkies that look like lapel pins. The Federation in '66 was a bunch of gunslingers with belts full of domination, the Federation in '86 was a bunch of grief counselors taking in the complexities of the universe in their pajamas. Federation '66 was about giving the actors props to get them into the zone, Federation '86 was about making the actors look good in the minimalist chic your average '86 coke addict thought the future would look like. So let's get back to the Graspersons: ______________ Douglas Addams could do no better: "Far Out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.” That's right - we're a quarter billion dollars into ugly brooches. Take it from a jeweler - the only people who wear brooches are postmenopausal grandmothers and they favor rhinestones. What the fuck do you think Youtube is by the way The first appearance of the space helmet: "wouldn't it be cool if some dipshit who didn't know how to load a dishwasher could stare at it like a moron, his hands full of greasy plates, and beg the heavens for guidance? Fuck yeah Sequoia would be all in on that shit." Let's pause to reflect, before moving on, that your average normie doesn't want to take a picture without the ability to look at it. But in the product video we'll just superimpose a perfect snap over his haplessness without having to worry about the fact that generally people want a modicum of QAQC. "Hey Siri how much of a dumpster fire is Alexa" "Hey Alexa How are things going at Google" "Hey Alexa how is Siri generally regarded" Or, and I'm just spitballing here, it's the ultimate "if we build it they will come" circlejerk. For $399. With no monthly subscription! And a pretty compelling use case! By 2009, there were 385,000,000 music players sold by Sony alone! "It's like a walkman but it doesn't skip, lasts twelve hours and holds 50 hours of music" is not a hard sell. "It's like a phone but you can't watch videos, scroll Facebook or call people, also ..."People will need to learn a new operating system," the NYT said blithely, without the slightest acknowledgement of the simple power of blue bubbles. Wait wait wait they're expecting this thing to replace your fucking phone? "new phone who dis also don't confuse my AI" For the record, Microsoft abandoned that shit more than ten years ago. Their whole focus was alzheimer's patients. They were winding it down when Google announced Glass because ten years of trying failed to find a use for the fucking thing. Let's call it what it is, though - Theranos Black. It's what you wear when you're trying to make people think you're Steve Jobs, not when you're Steve Jobs. See, Dieter Rams also wore all black. So did Karl Lagerfeld. So does Helmut Lang. When Steve Jobs wore all black? He was aping designers to make you think he was a designer rather than a tech nerd. When everyone else wears all black? They're aping Steve Jobs to make you think they aren't grifters. In other words, the absolute worst aspects of iOS. In other words, a bureaucrat. “You know," said Arthur, "it's at times like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young." Also, Brother Spirit's real name is Denpok “For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much—the wheel, New York, wars and so on—whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man—for precisely the same reasons.” "Like a phone, except you can't see or hear anything" Projected haptics - championed by designers and eschewed by consumers since 1992 Huh, wow! Really impressive. Are you sure it took you that long to miniaturize a laser, Mr. & Mrs. Badhaptics Pointyhair? Or maybe it took you that long to negotiate prices on the one you want? cuz here's Forbes in 2012. LOL "what can we say about the office?" "it was... office-ey?" "no, no, something something design." "Well they bought Totos." "Fucking everyone buys Totos you can buy Toto at Home Depot now." "well what you got mister design" "shit I guess write about the toilets" allow me to show you something worse than swiping Mr. Chaudhri praised the “assuredness” of one chirp noise and Ms. Bongiorno complimented the “more physical” sounds for the pin’s laser. “It feels like you’re actually holding the light,” she marveled. Less assuring: That whoosh, which plays when sending a text message. “It feels ominous,” Ms. Bongiorno said. Others around the table said it sounded like a ghost, or as if you made a mistake, almost. Someone thought it was a Halloween joke. must...resist...lowhangingfrooooooootLooks dumb, but I'm a hater and haters are gonna hate, I guess.
Inside a former horse stable in the San Francisco neighborhood of SoMa, a wave of gentle chirps emerged from small, blinking devices pinned to the chests of employees at a start-up called Humane.
It was just weeks before the start-up’s gadget, the Ai Pin, would be revealed to the world — a culmination of five years, $240 million in funding, 25 patents, a steady drumbeat of hype and partnerships with a list of top tech companies, including OpenAI, Microsoft and Salesforce.
Artificial intelligence “can create an experience that allows the computer to essentially take a back seat,” Mr. Chaudhri said.
They’re billing the pin as the first artificially intelligent device. It can be controlled by speaking aloud, tapping a touch pad or projecting a laser display onto the palm of a hand. In an instant, the device’s virtual assistant can send a text message, play a song, snap a photo, make a call or translate a real-time conversation into another language. The system relies on A.I. to help answer questions (“What’s the best way to load the dishwasher?”) and can summarize incoming messages with the simple command: “Catch me up.”
The technology is a step forward from Siri, Alexa and Google Assistant.
To tech insiders, it’s a moonshot. To outsiders, it’s a sci-fi fantasy.
Humane will begin shipping the pins next year. It expects to sell around 100,000 pins, which will cost $699 and require a $24 monthly subscription, in the first year. (Apple sold 381,000 iPods in the year after its 2001 launch.)
For the start-up to succeed, people will need to learn a new operating system, called Cosmos, and be open to getting new phone numbers for the device. (The pin comes with its own wireless plan.)
They’ll need to dictate rather than type texts and trade a camera that zooms for wide-angle photos. They’ll need to be patient because certain features, like object recognition and videos, won’t be available initially.
Sam Altman, OpenAI’s chief executive, said in an interview that he expected A.I. to be “a huge part” of how we interact with computers. He has invested in Humane as well as another A.I. company, Rewind AI, that plans to make a necklace that will record what people say and hear.
Ms. Bongiorno, 40, and Mr. Chaudhri, 50, have a marriage of contrasts. He shaves his head bald and speaks with the soft, calm voice of a yogi. She sweeps her long blond hair over one shoulder and has the enthusiasm of a team captain. They both dress in Jobsian black.
They met at Apple in 2008. Mr. Chaudhri was working on its human interface, defining the swipes and drags that control iPhones.
Ms. Bongiorno was a program manager for the iPhone and iPad.
A Buddhist monk named Brother Spirit led them to Humane. Mr. Chaudhri and Ms. Bongiorno had developed concepts for two A.I. products: a women’s health device and the pin. Brother Spirit, whom they met through their acupuncturist, recommended that they share the ideas with his friend, Marc Benioff, the founder of Salesforce.
Sitting beneath a palm tree on a cliff above the ocean at Mr. Benioff’s Hawaiian home in 2018, they explained both devices. “This one,” Mr. Benioff said, pointing at the Ai Pin, as dolphins breached the surf below, “is huge.”
Humane’s goal was to replicate the usefulness of the iPhone without any of the components that make us all addicted — the dopamine hit of dragging to refresh a Facebook feed or swiping to see a new TikTok video.
The device’s most sci-fi element — the laser that projects a text menu onto a hand — started inside a box the size of a matchbook.
It took three years to miniaturize it to be smaller than the size of a golf tee.
Humane also retained Apple’s obsession with design details, from its device’s curved corners and compostable white packaging to the Japanese-style toilets at the company’s stark office.
Mr. Benitez Cong said he was “disgusted” by what the iPhone had done to society, noting his son could mimic a swiping motion at the age of 1. “This could be something that could help me get over my guilt of working on the iPhone,” Mr. Benitez Cong said.
A haunting whoosh filled the room, and two dozen Humane employees, seated around a long white table, carefully concentrated on the sound. It was just before the Ai Pin’s release, and they were evaluating its rings and beeps. The pin’s “personic” speaker (a company portmanteau of “personal” and “sonic”) is critical, since many of its features rely on verbal and audio cues.
Ms. Bongiorno wanted the sound for sending a text to feel as satisfying as the trash-can sound on one of Apple’s older operating systems. “Like ‘thunk,’” she said.
The device is arriving at a time when excitement and skepticism for A.I. hit new highs each week. Industry researchers are warning of the technology’s existential risk and regulators are eager to crack down on it.