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After a savage bout of sleep deprivation I may be back to waking up before noon. However, those of you with the technology may note the modification time of this page. I actually covered more ground than I expected to last time, so I think I'll actually clear my backlog this morning and go back to my usual one entry every three weeks. But don't bet on it. Moving has been pretty stressful, and it's stirring up a lot of old thoughts and memories, tepid and pedestrian though they may be.
My difficulty with getting to work on time revolves around the fact that I am not, when it comes right down to it, terribly interested in what I'm doing there. What I'm doing is more or less fiddly little changes to a huge, monstrously complicated piece of software that I discovered today was the dog of the division's products, and likely to remain so. What makes it worthwhile to bring someone three thousand miles and shower them with enough money to allow them to set themselves up in the style to which they have become accustomed within commuting distance of the corporate hive is that making fiddly little changes to a huge, monstrously complicated piece of software requires a rigorously systematic approach with attention to detail.
But I digress. One of the standard experiences of new arrivals here is going by company X, company Y, and company Z on the way to work, and being across the street from company alpha and company beta. In my case, company X, Y, and Z are Netscape, Netscape, and Netscape, that company having moved into middle-aged spread after just four years in business. The central building is at a major intersection and has a fountain, composed of three rectangular prisms of different sizes and heights arranged in an artfully asymmetric pattern, with water spilling off them. It is a mark of how conventional most of my coworkers' schedules are that they weren't even aware that the fountain is off on weekends. Riding past it at 3am on Saturday on my way home, or at midnight on my way to work, depending, I know.
I have come to imagine that I can come to work on time, and be motivated, and start to really enjoy life here, if I can only be there on Monday morning when the fountain in front of Netscape turns on. Just picture it: dawn, cars driving by, sun peeking through the trees, lighting the tall silent pedestals with the "N" logo. Someone bicycles up, and stops at the light, waiting. The light cycles once, maybe twice, but the cyclist just sits there, and then, as if a spring has magically manifested itself, the fountain starts. Isn't it just the most phallic, uh, I mean, symbolic thing?
Naturally I know that I'd be drawing my inspiration from some facilities employee or timer switch opening a valve, but hey, an image is an image.
If they ever make a movie of Microserfs, I will spend the time from when I hear a confirmed report until the moment it is released suppressing the urge to suggest that they use the "Macross Anthem" from Macross Plus as the signature tune for the arrival of the characters in Silicon Valley. It's completely wrong for the story as told in the book, but it's perfect for my story.
Among the pages at Phil Greenspun's excellent photo.net, (you may have noticed that I am rather coy about providing links to web sites: I just don't want to call more attention to these pages than necessary) there is a discussion of the value of reflecting the multi-faceted nature of public truth, rather than trying to compel it to one thing or another. I was eventually reminded of this after reading Antonia Levi's Samurai From Outer Space, and in particular her distinguishing the Western outlook by its sharp division of ideas and actions into right and wrong, whereas in Japan, supposedly, it's taken for granted that there are more than two sides to every story. I don't know about that, but the tendency, bordering on compulsion, that I've seen in myself and others to arrive at the one, definitive opinion of a book, a movie, a music group, a TV show, or of anything eventually got through to me.
If I mention that Koyaanisqatsi is an amazing work, and someone else replies that it's tedious, pedantic drivel, I will immediately get anxious. The assumption is made on both sides, unconsciously and instantly, that only one of us can be right, and when we find out who, the other will have to give up their position, or suffer the consequences, usually nothing more severe than never talking about movies with that person again, but ranging up to not talking to them at all any more, depending. Bitter disagreements of the latter sort rarely spring up over movies or other works, but mention philosophy of life, or investment strategy, or political affiliation, and take cover, because There Can Be Only One.
Phil Greenspun puts it too politely. The pursuit of a "one-truth world" is glaringly evident in nearly every article in the newspaper, every conversation, magazine cover, film, and novel. It leads companies to build grotesque, pathetic web sites with sentences like "Trust FooCorp for all your bargly needs." Such language is stark evidence of a company that has never had to respond seriously to any informed criticism. This can get so bad that it has persuaded me to avoid a company's products. I'd write a letter to some of the worst offenders, but the rationalizations are all in place: Their competitors will eat them alive unless they position themselves as a market leader in foo. Their business depends on the public perception of them as the bargly choice.
Well, I'm going to say this three times.
They can go to Hell.
They can go to Hell.
They can go to Hell.
And I'll be waiting for them in a burning Boxster with a copy of chimera.
It has often been mentioned that reading Arthur C. Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey, helps in understanding the movie. Lots of people have complained about the incomprehensible effects near the end, but I'm not so sure that Stanley Kubrick didn't know what he was doing. Very few science fiction films have worn so well as 2001, and I think part of the reason is the director's decision, financially imposed or otherwise, not to be too specific about all the odd things Bowman experiences before the final scenes of the film. The slit-scan interlude may be weird and baffling, but weird and baffling is better than hokey.
I can hardly believe it, I'm up to date. I can go back to procrastinating about writing down the vague ideas floating around in my head again. Quite a relief, I assure you. Being frog-marched along by a set of notes is most uncomfortable, but then again, maybe comfort isn't all there is to enjoying life.