Cybershark Feeding Frenzy

October 21, 2010

Published by Taki’s Magazine:

The perverse coupling of surveillance and exhibitionism forms a cornerstone of American technocracy. Most Americans, be they liberals or libertarians, are unnerved by government agents, corporate data-miners, or high-tech Peeping Toms probing their personal details. And yet invasive, weirdly intimate technologies multiply like digital cockroaches, all but devouring the expectation of privacy taken for granted only a generation ago. Progress is simply too en vogue to resist.

Reality television brings a glamorous air to perpetual surveillance. The genre has enjoyed immense popularity over the last decade—comprising nearly a fifth of new broadcast programs this season—with cameramen poking into American life’s every facet. From moneyed luxury’s heights to the working-class struggle’s dregs, everyone’s in line for their 15 minutes of fame.

Consequently, the art of living on film is continually refined. But the recent success of TLC’s Sister Wives sounds an ominous warning as to who may be watching behind the camera’s prying eye. Immediately after the show’s premiere—which revealed a renegade Mormon polygamist’s fecund lifestyle—Utah authorities launched an investigation on Kody Brown and his four wives, with bigamy charges pending.

The risk of one’s private life going public is all-too-familiar to celebrities and politicians, but these days everyone gets their chance to shine in the searchlight. Social networks, YouTube, Twitter, and the blogosphere have captured and amplified a narcissistic culture of exhibition. Driven by Mark Zuckerberg’s philosophy that “a world that’s more open and connected is a better world,” Facebook now claims over 500 million users—making it the world’s third most-populous “nation.” In less than two decades, it became normal to display one’s personal details online—from romantic relationships and family photos to political affiliation and business activities. Even if you choose not to have your personality digitized, chances are that someone you know will do it for you. AVG Security estimates that 92% of American babies have their picture on the Internet. Anonymity is practically dead, with a Facebook memorial in the online graveyard.

Aside from being a smorgasbord for typical stalkers—and be honest, who hasn’t gone profile-trolling?—social networking also has market analysts and government agents licking their chops. It has become a common practice for law-enforcement agencies—from the Boston PD to the Department of Homeland Security—to “friend” suspect individuals and monitor their posts. If investigators want to dig deeper, our electronic communications’ trusted stewards—AT&T, Google, Yahoo!, Verizon, etc.—regularly provide access to private communications under the Patriot Act. On the corporate end, The Wall Street Journal recently examined the unethical activities of Web-based “listening services” that scrape forums for biographical information—including sensitive medical issues such as HIV, depression, and impotence—to craft more effective marketing techniques apparently geared toward human frailties. Illicit scraping aside, the practice of selling a client’s “anonymized” personal information is now routine. Inquiring minds want to know, and they know whom to ask.

And who could blame them? For entities that depend on psychological profiling to investigate and manipulate an otherwise inscrutable population—authority figures whose sympathies rarely lie with nonconformity or dissent—the human soul’s digitization is a dream come true. Whether we pour our deepest selves into public profiles or private emails, our personal lives have become fodder for cybersharks.

Wired magazine covers a vast array of disturbing digital-surveillance projects…

Read the rest at takimag.com.


Beyond the Burqa: America’s Role in Regulating Taste

September 30, 2010

Published in Taki’s Magazine:

France’s recent “Burqa Ban” has provoked all the global indignation and murderous outrage one would have expected. Pointed observations on the irony of a liberal democracy which tells its citizens what they can and can’t wear were soon followed by Muslims making lunatic bomb threats. Al Qaeda has sworn to “seek dreadful revenge.” France has instigated a cacophony of international noise, just to keep a couple thousand ladies from strolling the Parisian streets looking like the singing Dinks from Spaceballs.

This should be a familiar story to most Americans. While the world watches France harass its human curtain-rods, American authoritarians—in both public and private spheres—have ramped up efforts to restrict the apparel of various distasteful minorities. The message of this fashion fascism is clear: “Dress like somebody—or stay at home!”

On September 7, Dublin, GA’s mayor Phil Best signed a bill prohibiting all beltless bruthas from gettin’ their sag on. Classifying baggy pants as “indecent exposure,” this puts bad taste in the same legal category as masturbating or defecating in public…

Read the rest at takimag.com.


Bonnaroo: From Harmless Hippie Fest to Corporate Scam

June 22, 2010

 

Published by Taki’s Magazine:

In a perfect world, we would be stuffed together in plastic tents under the hot sun, breathing in the dust, absorbing the music. We would gorge on carnie food, smoke dope, snort coke, eat mushrooms, ecstasy, and acid, hydrating with cans of beer. We would strip down to birthday suits +1, meet sexy strange lovers and copulate in the moonlight. We would purchase and consume and toss the containers as if the Earth herself were hungry for more garbage. We would band together into loose-knit tribes, wandering mile upon mile, day after day, an endless parade of ogling eyes and perked ears searching for that perfect moment—the song that hits so hard you burst into tears.

American music festivals are a long-standing tradition, a postmodern rite of passage is rooted in pilgrimage and peak experience. The blueprint for Bonnaroo—one of Woodstock’s more well-known offspring—was laid back in 1967, when fifty thousand kids were drawn to San Francisco for the Monterey Pop Festival. These kids were California dreamin’, yearning for a perfect world beyond stiff suburban routine—peaceful, egalitarian, in harmony with Nature. Two years later—when Woodstock enticed over 300,000 kids to turn a tiny New York farm town into a mud-spattered orgy porgy, pulsating to the beat—music festivals attained quasi-religious status. From Altamont’s acid-fueled ultra-violence later that year to Wozniak’s tech-savvy US Fest in 1982; from the gentle nomadic culture of Grateful Dead tours to the jock-driven rape scene at Woodstock 1999; America’s wide array of summer events caricature the many faces of each generation.

From my perspective as a temple technician, today’s faces wear a blank expression…

Read the rest at takimag.com.


A Memorable Fancy

May 27, 2010

 

“A man carried a monkey about for a show, & because he was a little wiser than the monkey, grew vain, and conciev’d himself as much wiser than seven men.”

—William Blake
       from “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”

 


Bonnaroo Love Pats

May 25, 2010

 

Bonnaroo and I have been indulging a warped, sadomasochistic relationship since the festival’s first year.  For days I prep and pamper her, get her ready for the big show, and what thanks do I get? She snaps at me on a whim, feeds me sickening meals, and leaves me to die of pneumonia in a moldy communal tent.  Still, I love her backstage, night after night, taking all that she has to give.

It might be shameful that I proceeded to abuse her in public.  Back in 2007, I published “How Bonnaroo Killed My Rock n Roll Fantasy” in the Knoxville Voice (another paper which has sadly gone the way of the fish wrapper.)  I was set to do a big write up again in 2008, but my touring schedule didn’t allow for my attendance.  Perhaps that was the Hand of God protecting her from my venomous tongue.

Last year, she finally lashed out at me.  Maybe she’d had enough of my shit.  Maybe I’d had enough of hers, too.  Either way, she kicked my ass.

What happened was, after working for days in the hot sun, getting fucked by production’s budget cuts and choking down the slop served in Plebian Catering, I needed to unwind.

There is this bridge out on the country roads of Manchester, TN, a little ways from the Bonnaroo site.  Like many young bucks before me, I leapt from the concrete wall over the catwalk and plunged into the river 40 feet below.  I splashed and hooted and paddled to shore.

I discovered a rope swing under the bridge.  I pulled it up to the highest bank.  Having jumped the bridge, I thought, What could be the harm in a 15 foot swing on a rope?

I have one rule when it comes to dare-devil activities: Try anything once, after you’ve seen someone else do it first.  Well, it turns out that the second part is the most important.

My feet gently grazed the rocks on the edge of the shore. But I found plenty more about 6 inches beneath the surface of the river.  As the pain shot into my guts from my knee and feet—making me want to puke and cry simultaneously, but unable to do either—I thought to myself, That wasn’t very graceful.

Not very smart, either, but so it goes with anything fun.  Not that hobbling up that muddy embankment on the battered purple soles of my feet was a blast.  Examining the cuts and abrasions and the blood pouring from a hole in my knee, my rigger buddies put it to me straight.

“You’re shit’s all fucked up, man.” 

Should I go home? 

“Don’t be such a pussy!  Just walk it off.”

That seemed reasonable.  So I walked it off all night, pounding drinks—and whatever—from one end of the festival site to the other.  Mile after limping mile, I just walked it off.

I woke up in my car the next morning, late for work, and as I stood up to piss out the door, it was clear that I wouldn’t be walking anymore.

Laying on my couch with an elevated leg, I missed Nine Inch Nails’ last show in America—or so it is said.  As I licked my wounds, acts like Rodrigo y Gabriela and Band of Horses took the stage for rosey-faced dolls and camel-backed jocks seeing the light.  I could have seen The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Mars Volta, or Erika Badu, but I had my swollen toe X-rayed instead.

Sometimes you act like you’re 19, then wake up feeling 40.

Of course, by Monday I was good to go.  Prancing across the empty stage, I climbed the steel all afternoon—one of my favorite things in the world—but even that had lost its luster somehow.  I blamed it on the 3-day old casserole, but it was probably jealousy.  Bonnaroo had loved her lovers, and forgotten all about me.

Fucking Bonnaroo. Maybe I deserved it for mocking her all those years.  It would be hypocritical to ignore the fact that I have lavished in the milk of her teet.  I thought that, since she was 100,000 times bigger than me, it was justified self-defense.  Well, apparently she knows how to defend herself pretty well, too.

I’m sorry, baby.  Be good to me this year, and I promise—we’ve all heard this one before—I’ll never hurt you again.

[The fruits of these domestic squabbles---"An Open Letter to Ashley Capps" and  "How Bonnaroo Killed My Rock n Roll Fantasy"---are posted below.]

 


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