The never-ending story (don't ask)

 

Fame, fame, fame--Big Nazaré and us

Folks, this is the third time inside a week that we are witnessing an extraneous reference to us --- or, more precisely, to Nazaré, our sister town here next to Alcobaça in the international press --- extraneous, because it's completely out of context, and has nothing to do with the usual schmalz of Portuguese tourism. Here it is, jumping at us and the innocent reader, published by Bret Stephens in the New York Times:

"All this makes Fox’s business challenge approximately the same as for the surfers at the Portuguese beach at Nazaré: miss the wave, ride the wave or be crushed by the wave. For Fox, riding the wave will no longer come easy: Angry populism is a force that can only be stoked, never assuaged."

Us and Fox News. Even better: Us and Fox-News-in-trouble: Miss the wave, ride the wave or be crushed by it. How could that be? Well, this has to do with the sudden dismissal of Tucker Carlson on Monday, Fox's former Number One Prime Time Show Host. Stephens' column is about Tucker Carlson provoking angry populism with his show and being eventually consumed by the malevolence he sowed. "Die Revolution frisst ihre Kinder", we say in Yiddish.

Our correspondent Chang has ordered the new AI-facility on Photoshop to comment on all of this, and here is the result:

Well, one wonders. Beta-version, we'd say. How about an old-fashioned video-clip of the real thing, then (?):

Can you discern Rupert Murdoch missing the wave? Or Tucker Carlson? Crushed by it? Eliminated, eradicated, destroyed, annihilated, Trumped, obliterated, removed, taken care of, or simply stoppped? Well, we can't either, but wishful thinking is sometimes helpful, even when the polls threaten the re-election of the Donald.
Wishful thinking. Wasn't this post about fame? One for the road--watch this:

Meta...metaverse? All you need to know about it

Meta? Metaverse? What happened to Facebook? What happened to Mark Zuckerberg? 

You've been wondering, and so have we. Here's the first report from someone who's actually been there, wo visited the metaverse, and it's devastating, his report, fortunately. It's a bit long, the piece, but well-written, and appeared first in New York Magazine. Enjoy:

Searching for friends in Mark Zuckerberg’s deserted fantasyland

By Paul Murray

 

Paul Murray's avatar in the Metaverse

In September, my family and I move from our home in Dublin to a fancy East Coast college town, where I’ll be teaching for the semester. I grew up in Dublin, which means I have a wide circle of friends to draw on whenever I’m let out of the house. The street where I live is friendly: If I want to borrow a spatula or I need someone to look after my cat, I have only to ask.

Life is different for us in the U.S. We have, for the first time, a basement. But we have no friends. It seems as if none of the permanent faculty can afford to live in the suburb where the university has placed us. We technically have neighbors, but we never see them; they manifest only in the form of their gardeners, who are at work every day with their leaf blowers.

It’s in this strange scenario — alone on a continent, cut off from everyone I know — that I decide to try the metaverse for the first time. A whole galaxy of pals brought right to your living room? I think. Why not?

The first thing that strikes me when I enter the metaverse is the people, the avatars, their — Where are their fucking legs?

Bodies stop at the waist in Horizon Worlds, which is Facebook’s — excuse me, Meta’s — home base in the metaverse. So the price of entry to this virtual paradise is the surrender of your bottom half. Frankly, it makes the metaverse feel like a cult. Legs? We don’t even miss them!

It’s hard not to read the fact that half of you disappears when you enter Horizon Worlds as symbolic somehow, and it has been a focal point for the widespread derision that’s been aimed at Mark Zuckerberg and Meta. Apparently legs, legs that move in concert with the user, are very hard to do. The engineers are working on it, supposedly, and the people I meet in the metaverse are constantly telling me how “legs are coming,” like the creatures of Narnia whispering to one another that “Aslan is on the move.”

I’m busy contemplating my legless torso when I hear laughter in the room. Lifting my Meta Quest headset, I see my son has come into my office unbeknownst to me and evidently finds my appearance amusing.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m in virtual reality,” I say.

“You look like that leopard in India that got its head stuck in a pot,” he says.

Hold the presses...

 

 

Guilt! -- The Muppets

(We post this for our friend Sacha; you need to switch on the sound:) 

 

https://internclarabelle.tumblr.com/post/643287403672616960/obsessed-with-this-muppet-clip-where-gonzo-breaks

Broken promises -- It's raining cats and dogs

We once assured you that there would never do a dog-or-cat post on this blog. Well, there you have it (the third one is the best):

Bye, bye

 

Georgia on our mind

We went on this walk to celebrate the win of the forces of renewable energy over all things reactionary (because that's what the Trump presidency was; it wasn't conservative, but it was reactionary):

These turrbines are only a stone throw away from the Praia do Norte, which holds the Guinness Book of Records for the highest surfable  waves on the planet. 

And while we are at it: have you listened to the Trump Tape of last Saturday, in which he asks the Georgian Secretary of State to "find him the votes" to overturn the elections in his favor? How often he uses the phrase "the people of Georgia"? Well, we are outdoing him in this little fragment from our novel Green Eyes, in which the semi-fictional Georgian District Attorney Hunnsbruck appears on local TV (Channel Two) to defend his record. We're in one of the later chapters:

Maurice fiddles with his iPad, holds it up. “We’re at the top of the hour, as they say here,” he says, “let’s see, let’s pop in.” 

The newsroom of Channel Two materializes on his screen. An anchorman and an anchorwoman appear in the beaming studio and greet each other expansively against the backdrop of the police department’s parking lot. Assorted vehicles are still parked there, and Charleze (the local reporter), is still on location. “The top story today is so breathtaking, it is positively, absolutely, and definitively shocking,” the anchorwoman (“Olivia”) enthuses, “Charleze has more.” 

Charleze expansively greets anchorwoman (“Olivia”), who expansively greets back. Next to Charleze a man is standing whom we know already thanks to our interest in family blogs. Hunnsbruck is dressed this time, dressed to kill, you’d say, or at least dressed to advocate innovative punishments for police department homicides, so he’s emphasizing local roots with a light seersucker suit of modest stripes and cut. The reporter turns to the seersucker suit and introduces him as the youngest DA in the history of the galaxy: “When we arrived on the scene this morning,” Charleze says to Hunnsbruck, “having been alerted by vigilant members of the Georgia Beach community to the unsettling traffic on the lot outside the local police department, right here where we are standing, rumors were swirling that an officer has been shockingly shot dead inside and that an assistant district attorney from your office is implicated. Does the size of the CSI vehicle” (pan on the white-cubicled truck) “points to the size of the crime committed inside?”

“Splendid”—-Maurice. 

“Thank you for having me on”—-Hunnsbruck. 

“You are always welcome”—-Charleze. 

And now, in unison: “Thank you”—-both.

A moment of recovery, Charleze catching her breath. “The word is, Sir, that Lieutenant Blake Jackson of the Georgia Beach police force was shot dead last night.”

“Although I’ve never had a chance to meet him in person, I am convinced that he is, or was, a truly wonderful person. My thoughts and prayers are with his family and friends at this difficult juncture.”

“We have to interrupt briefly for this message,” Charleze informs Hunnsbruck, who gracefully cedes the floor to a risqué soda commercial with a curly-blond girl, the wind-surfer back of a hot male (only the back), and a soda bottle. When finally allowed back, Charleze and Hunnsbruck have obviously had a chance to follow the ad on their return video—-so Charleze suppresses a giggle when asking Hunnsbruck: “Sir, this is a shocking crime, is it not,” (her left hand gesturing, digits splayed, dramatic nail-paint-jobs exposed, the right hand doggedly clinging to the phallic mike) “is it not a shocking crime when a trusted member of the local police force is shot dead while in full discharge of his duties. How do you feel about this?”

“Charleze, let me tell the viewers, the people of Georgia feel terrible about this, and in particular the people of my District, and I, as the DA in charge, feel exactly as terrible about it as they do. This is a shocking crime of which the people of Georgia disapprove strongly. It is, uuhh, illegal. Life is sacrosanct from inception, especially when it comes to the police.”

“Can you assure our viewers that your office won’t let this particularly shocking crime go unpunished?”

“The people of Georgia know me and my office, and I can assure the people of Georgia that I will work tirelessly to aggressively pursue the perpetrators of this shocking crime and bring them to justice.”

“What will be the charges?”

“It’s early days, but the perpetrators will look at malice murder, felony murder, aggravated assault, aggravated battery, possession of a firearm during the commission of a crime, maybe on several counts, or more.”

“Will you seek the death penalty?”

“We seek the death penalty whenever it is appropriate.” 

“The people of Georgia will be grateful.”

“This is another step ahead in the never-ending battle against crime.”

We’re interrupted by the studio and another commercial.

“Did you listen to what he just said,” Alex says, “about the never-ending battle against crime. It’s like saying we’re battling infinity, and we will count to three, and four, and five, and go on and on until we run out of numbers.”

Not everybody gets it, Alex has to explain.

“You’re better off if you don’t have to explain your own jokes,” Maurice says.

“It wasn’t a joke, it was the very opposite,” Alex replies.

“May I cut in on that?” the newsroom comes back, “Mister Hunnsbruck, a member of your office has been connected to the shocking events unfolding at the police office. Could you comment on that?”

“The case is being investigated extensively, and I would like to thank Deputy Sheriffs Hartley Hansford, Harrison Thomas, and Jeremy Hicks from Glynn county, Lieutenant Thomas Raybon, Lieutenant Peter Hoyle, and Lieutenant Mario LaStrada from the GBI, and many unnamed others for their tireless efforts. I can assure the people of Georgia that no stone will be left unturned in this ongoing endeavor.” 

“The people of Georgia will thank you for that, Sir.”

“Thank you.” 

Are you still there? Then you will like the book. Give it a try: 

"Click"

Star Wars Episode IX -- Review

We're still living in Le Trayas, 19 kilometers from Cannes, or 19 quilometros, as they say in Portugal, whereto we are planning to relocate. We kept a Netflix subscription for three or four months last year, during which we watched ONE movie. So we canceled Netflix and decided to resume our occasional excursions to Cannes, where the theaters may show movies in English. And yesterday we went to see the latest Star Wars movie...uh, what was the title..."The Rise of Skywalker" (yes).

This is the Esterel, seen from Cannes, the "mountain" range where we live

I don't quite remember, but this may have been my first time to walk out of a movie before it ended. I had read the reviews, which were so-so, but not devastating.
You watch this movie like you're reading a recipe...
-- "Make sure to satisfy all demographics that count, and don't forget the Marsians and all the other good people of the galaxy;"
-- "Make sure to ignore the established laws of physics, because hard-working American Families, including Donald Trump's, don't care" (so we have this obnoxious space travel going on all the time, and it's particularly grating that we are informed that they travel at the speed of light (meaning, if they are crisscrossing a serious galaxy, that they would still need hundreds or thousands of years to get anywhere));

We could serve as a Star Wars location, save for the beach umbrella

-- "Make sure to separate GOOD from EVIL."
-- "Don't offend anybody," meaning that SELF-HELP is the only permissible ideology/religion left to support the GOOD GUYS. And so we are constantly treated to blatant falsehoods such as 'You can do anything, if you want,' or 'Good people will fight, if we need them,' or 'The force will be with you, always,' or 'Was this review helpful?'
-- (as a lemma to the last ingredient:) "Don't use swear words, or any such thing. And...sex is out of the question, unless it happened light years ago between Harrison Ford and Princess Leia."

"Uuhm"

So, we walked out. It was Chang, partner and photographer, who noted that I was constantly looking at my watch, and suggested that we'd leave.
The special effects are trying to be more special than any previous special effects, and this race is going on now for a hundred years. As this movie shows, there are special limits. We liked the special waves, though (link), because the place we are moving to in Portugal has the highest surfable waves on the planet:

Nazaré, on November 22, 2018

Have a look at the link. Nazaré's waves are better.

The history of Brexit -- so far

We've found this nice article in the Guardian, and present a few highlights with the original HTML-markup still in place and a picture that could start the next Agatha Christie film (scroll down):

May has failed, so far, because she could not win around Conservative rebels, mostly hard Brexiters from the European Research Group. A last, desperate promise to quit if MPs backed her deal only reduced rebel numbers to 34, 28 of them linked to the ERG.
...
Few Conservatives expected Brexit to triumph in the referendum. But the 52% result and May’s elevation to Downing Street changed the picture dramatically.
...
Boris Johnson, the face of the leave campaign, was given the job of foreign secretary, but May marginalised him from Brexit policy. Chris Wilkins, a former speech writer for May, said: “She sees him as fundamentally unserious, and for her that is the worst criticism.”
The prime minister later remarked there was no off-the-shelf plan for Brexit. Instead she set about devising policy in the strictest secrecy, barely consulting cabinet colleagues on the most important diplomatic event since the UK joined the European Union 40 years earlier.
Policy was initially delivered via speeches. According to Wilkins, texts were only shared with cabinet members the day before. There was no general discussion at cabinet...
...

German for beginners

via GIPHY 
 Kleine Sünden bestraft der liebe Gott sofort

Inkitt (2) --- Inkitt and AI---are Inkitt's sales so bad that they have to keep their numbers under wraps?

Inkitt has defined itself as a publisher "without an acquisition department." It invites willing authors to put their manuscripts on its platform and promises to publish the best-performing ones as fee-yielding books. Performance, it claims, is measured by an AI-inspired algorithm. 

James Beamon

In January this year, James Beamon, one of these authors, engaged in a dialogue with the platform about said algorithm which yielded little but obfuscation and gobbledygook Inkitt-wise. I thought about this and sent him the following letter (mildly redacted): 

I have posted two or three stories about Inkitt and had a chance to observe the phenomena that you describe in your post (regarding the relationship between reading behavior and their analytical engine).
Before I started to write fiction, I taught Artificial Intelligence at the University of Amsterdam, the discipline whose name Inkitt invokes as its unique sales proposition (“our algorithm is AI”).

My hunch is that this algorithm is mostly ballyhoo.

Why?

The algorithm supposedly links reading behavior to sales success, so it either (a) knows, or (b) has learned how reading behavior predicts book sales.

(Ad a) Imagine that you are the programmer, or the team of programmers hired to code the algorithm. You will have some hunches as to how the reading behavior re successful novels differs from reading behavior re less successful novels (and, perhaps not coincidentally, these hunches surface in the answers we get from Inkitt (“readers unable to put the novel down”)). There's some obvious plausibility to this, but initial hunches are not Artificial Intelligence. They represent the natural intelligence of a bunch of kids (mostly/usually), who spend their nights with a cold pizza on their lap hired to write the code. In other words, Inkitt’s AI-touting sales proposition does not hold, or at least: it did not hold at the outset.
If Inkitt has an advantage NOW over traditional (human) intelligence (agents, editors), it would be on the data side. Agents or editors don't have data about the reading behavior of a manuscript that hasn’t been read by anybody except them, whereas Inkitt, 2.5 years into its existence, can claim to possess such data.

Human rights and connubial bliss

We didn't do our connubial bliss for quite some time, but here we go:

Chang, as a Korean, is of course much-begone with the North-Korean-US-rapprochement. He and I discuss this a lot, and occasionally we agree. We did agree on the fact that Trump's acting outside the box made sense (as a large chunk of political Game Theory has been telling---"proving" by any standard---since more than 50 years). Lots of "games" lock you into a losing position for as long as your adversary can assume that you are a bienpensant-negotiator. But if your adversary has to fear that you don't care much about a few million Korean citizens killed in a war that's ultimately won by your side because you have "the bigger nuclear button on [your] desk," the equation changes, and you may prevail in negotiations that are otherwise lost. The whole North-Korean nuclear armament issue since 1994 is possibly the best example. Trump is not a complete idiot because he understood this. (We would still say Trump is a complete fool, leaning on semantic differences between the terms "fool," and "idiot"). 

And now this Trump-fool, having been promised a meeting with the "supreme leader" (as his own "commemorative medal" of the meeting issued a few days ago calls the Kim Jong-un tyrant), and having been put onto the fawning shield of a Nobel Peace Price by South-Korean president Moon, and then having evoked his Nobel-eligibility on TV, this fool has then his vice-president Pence give a talk in which the latter compares the deal with Kim to the deal with Arab dictator Qaddafi, who gave up on his nuclear prep-work in exchange for nothing and was then swept away by the Arab insurgency of 2011 while the West stood idly by.

Plus, during all of this, Trump cancelled the US deal with Iran, thus putting his country in a position where it may face two major wars of choice at once (from where is Trump to launch his attack against Iran? From Quatar, where he alienated the ruler xxx, and where the US has two military bases, a fact of which the supreme leader (Trump, in this case) was apparently not aware when he did his anti-Quatar twittering? Any other US bases nearby? No.).

So, North-Korea didn't show up during a preparatory meeting three days ago and then didn't even answer the phone. (This is like dealing with local craftsmen on our beloved Cote d'Azur.)

At that point, Trump had maneuvered himself into a position where he needed the meeting more than Kim. Snapping defeat from the jaws of victory---as Trump's erstwhile chum Steve Bannon characterized the Trump's trade negotiations with China a few days ago. The art of the deal.

Connubial bliss...sorry, we'll try again tomorrow.

Brexit means Brexit

If looks could kill

Note the tie

Brexit Blues

Spread the news

Our friend Glenn sends this cri de coeur:

Not exactly a cri de coeur, but you get the gist.

Anything the GREEN EYES have to add to this? We have a billionaire, Neill Palmer, sure, and he dies a suspicious darkroom death in Part II. But we have nothing really funny. Well, okay, here, from Part I, John meeting Palmer at Godehart's party/orgy (the thing about the web site is true, actually, and the guy's name really was Neill, but he wasn't wealthy). Here goes:

The network next to me consists of two elderly men, and two youngish rent boys. Love is in the air. The men are much older than me. I recognize one of them from the distant past, when I was still a young regular at the Blue Moon. He was running a place off the Coastal Highway, on Route 24, a large Thai place with an upper, more secluded, floor above the main restaurant, awful food, and willful oriental boys, who were waiting on tables in the meantime. Patrons came from all over the place, even from Atlanta, to taste one or more of his waiters. Yes, now I remember his name, Neill Palmer. He kept a website back in those days that was quite revolutionary, poorly aligned text in colorful, meandering hues and pictures of his staff, ranked according to their state of sexual arousal, the apex being the climax, boys caught with their cum coming in flagrante. I remember that he had never managed to externalize the moment of the squirt (white ropes flying from the penis), his cum-shots were always a bit off, the cum caught already dispersed into milky drops in the empty, or not so empty, space in front of his oriental masturbators.

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