Laying down money for recorded music has been increasingly difficult for me to do in the last ten years; it’s such a blatant rip-off for everyone concerned, except the record companies. Shelling out a tenner for a piece of plastic that cost around ten bob to make, combined with the knowledge that the artist will receive even less than that makes it difficult to swallow.
But finally, the pillars of free-market capitalism (who caused this hideous situation in the first place) are crumbling away exposing the bottom of the pyramid to the fresh air.
For decades, the Dinosaurs have pumped disgraceful amounts of their artists money into fighting away easy access to music. Publicity campaigns, threats of ludicrously OTT litigation, lobbying for draconian legal protection, investment in countless scams which purport to offer copy protection…and all it did was harm consumers and artists – the affect on pirates was negligible. The pirates will always win, and the fascists are bound to lose – but what about the artists?

At long last, people are starting to understand how the Internet works and how it can benefit musicians. Bands and labels with a clue have started to realise that they can bypass the crooked upper echelons of the business and go direct to the fans – who also benefit because they can be closer to the music.

Together with the vinyl revival, this has been happening for a while now but I’ve only just encountered it directly.

Several jobs ago, someone dumped a bunch of music on our music server (this is de rigeur in most tech companies these days by the way – you may not like it but that’s how it is). One band in the deposit was Mogwai. I didn’t really know anything about them, and wasn’t too excited by what I heard at the time. But over the years they grew on me until now I spend a large proportion of my working life with them in my ears as I write my code. Those “pirated” tracks took me from ignorance to fully fledged fanhood. Did they ever get any money out of me – well…and hears the sad part…no. I love what they do, and I want them to be successful, but I never went the extra mile and shelled-out.

In the last year I’ve had to acknowledge that I owe the band, but paying full price for a fucking CD really still goes against the grain. I’d rather buy some t-shirts direct from them, or see them at a concert. A friend told me that they had a new album on the cards, and so excitedly I checked out their website. Their label, SubPop, were offering a free sample track from the new album in exchange for joining the Mogwai mailing list. They really did a good job – the process was quick and simple, the track was excellent, the list is very low-traffic and it just made me feel more connected to the band, and excited about the prospect of the new album.

A posting on the list announced a special deal on pre-orders of the album. I have to confess that by this time I’d managed to obtain a rip of a pre-release copy and had been playing it constantly – but the nagging guilt that I wasn’t giving anything back had already persuaded me to buy a copy. This was perfect. So, a few clicks and a credit card transaction later I’d spent over double what I would normally have spent in a shop, but for a special edition vinyl release of the album.

Now, I spent more than I needed to, but in the distant past I have spent more on a single CD purchase in a retail store than this. Not only that, but this time I was dealing directly with SubPop/Mogwai which felt a great deal better than dealing with some horrible retail outlet; real or virtual. In fact, considering how rare vinyl now is, this is a bit of a bargain.

The package arrived today and it’s truly a beautiful thing. A luxuriously pressed double album with a big, thick, heavy, blue-note-style cover. It included some silly novelty things like stickers and even some Mogwai earplugs, but you know what, even approaching 40 I still love that sort of tat.

But the most excellent bit was a small card inside the sleeve on which was printed a magic number and a URL. In return for visiting the URL and typing the magic number you receive a ZIP file containing 320K MP3s of the whole album, a PDF booklet, and a 23minute long extra track which I’m now greatly enjoying as I type this.

SubPop get it! They know what they’re doing! They know what we want. Will I buy more stuff from them or Mogwai in the future? Damn right I will! I love them even more. I almost feel connected now.

Look and learn Sony.

“What do you do?”
“I’m a computer programmer.”

The conversation usually ends there, thankfully. Sometimes it will continue along esoteric technical paths, but mostly it won’t. And that’s the desired effect. Responding “I’m [insert bullshit job title] in IT” will frequently encourage further conversation, but who wants to talk about IT? It’s going to end up in a discussion about a recent Windows problem some poor cunt or other has experienced and needs help with. Apart from not knowing the answer, I just feel depressed that the wonders of technology have become as bollocksed-up as they are now…primarily thanks to Microsoft’s terrible lack of vision. The word “developer” is another way to extend these moribund conversations – avoid it.

But this is all rendered irrelevant by the fact I spend all of my free time writing crap code for my own amusement. If someone were to ask “what would you do with eleventy-squillion dollars?” I would have to say that it would be doing exactly what I already do on the weekends…writing stupid code.

In terms of dayjob, we “developers” spend our entire lives gaining further experience and honing our skills. Tragically there is a “developer culture” that involves reading the same blogs, books, and then discussing how our interpretations are better than yours. In reality we’re actually just getting more experienced, older and sadder.

Since moving here, a constant source of amazement has been derived from the local mass transit authority: SEPTA. They have many, many, flaws but overall I have to admit that they do an equivalent, if not better, job with their resources than TfL (sorry Simon). The day after 15 inches of snow fell, despite the forecasters’ assurances that it wouldn’t happen, the trains ran on-time.

More importantly, the staff have always been essentially helpful, accurate and friendly. “You’re leaving me early?” asked my lovely morning 99 driver on the day I was too tired to realise I was at the wrong stop. She is the model on which all bus drivers should be based btw.

And let’s not forget Philly’s favorite bus driver, Bruce, who holds court over every bus he drives, and manages to get a laugh out of every passenger. In fact if a single passenger failed to crack a smile, I’m sure he would take it personally.

The other impressive SEPTA victory is the “regional rail”: each train arrives and departs on time, and includes a full staff of helpful, friendly people who not only understand the byzantine fare-structure but can advise passengers on the cheapest way to complete a journey. It’s like they enjoy their jobs, and take pride in providing a good service! One excellent guy told me about an obscure type of pass called a “Cross County” which was absolutely perfectly suited to my particular way of life. $100 a month for any journey I could take to work, combined with travel anywhere on the network, on whatever medium, over the weekends! It was cheaper than I was paying for a one-way journey each way.

So, when you meet the type of officious cock-end I’m used to meeting with TfL, it’s a shock. Last week I lost my monthly pass. This is quite stressful because it is worth a significant amount of money. However one particular kid on the train wasn’t prepared to deal with me and my obvious fare-evasion ploy and gave me what I can only describe as a “right load of shit”. I offered him the receipt for the pass and his response was “that’s no good to me. I need a ticket.”
“Smartass!” said the elderly lady across the way from me (presumably directing her irritation to the young cock…although I suppose it could have been directed at me…anyway…)
Fortunately, my main man was also on the train and he vouched for me (he was the one that told me about the cross county pass in the first place).
I got home and searched everywhere I could before Michele found the pass in one of my shirts. I now look forward to seeing Mr Bellend again. Some people choose to grow beyond harbouring grudges…I am not one of them.

Immediately after reading details of Google’s prototype Chromeos netbook – the CR-48, I became mildly obsessed. This morning the mild obsession was promoted to wild, frantic, fully-fledged, autistic obsession; my HoD woke up this morning to find one on his doorstep and I got a chance to play with it. There were a lot of, probably valid, negative comments from other colleagues, but I fell in love with it in a profound way and now…

I WANT ONE!

Despite being a geek, I tend not get excited by new technology. The last two devices that I really developed an obsession for were a Motorola F3 e-ink phone, and my beautiful Bencher morse paddle; neither device could really be described as high-tech or cutting-edge, but I wanted them so badly I couldn’t help myself.
But this isn’t so easy: you can’t buy them. Google have to decide to send you one. And the strength of desire makes me feel like Charlie Bucket with Asperger’s.

It’s…perfect! Unbranded, voluptuous texture, no windows key, wifi, 3G, webcam…sorry, I’m afraid I’ve just cum.

Being an opinionated, arrogant, arse who works with a bunch of opinionated, arrogant, arses, I spend a great many hours engaged in heated debates. These arguments usually end in deadlock but occasionally they become a farcical circus where one of us realises they were wrong but pursues their argument in the hope of finding some truth in order to save face (usually by changing the argument or invoking some form of logical fallacy). For the purposes of catharsis and the lulz, the common reaction by the others is to demand an acknowledgement that wrongness has occurred: insisting they use the words “I was wrong”.
Pondering this, I wondered whether it should be put in writing for posterity in a kind of “Declaration of Wrongness”, that can be pulled out and waved at the victim in future debates; again this would be both cathartic and generate lulz.
Two colleagues (both geniuses) went further and created a legally binding, and utterly brilliant Certificate of Wrongness!
Download it, save it, and use it for righteousness.

Apologies if I’ve ranted here about this before, but this is such a significant issue that I think it deserves multiple rants.

Back in London I occasionally had to deal with engineers (invariably from Surrey) who needed to visit South East London. The question they asked with a depressing regularity was “what’s the parking like there”. As a non-driver (who could technically drive, but not legally) the answer I wanted to give was somewhere between “I don’t fucking know” and “who cares you sad twat”. The usual answer given was “it’s shit”, which was not only true but gave them something to think about.

In my newly adopted country, such answers are tantamount to treason. Christian fundamentalists are the usual suspects when people talk about flaws in American society, but they’re a big bunch of Jessies compared to the majority of car-drivers here. “Convenient parking” dictates the lives of so many Americans it’s not funny. People will avoid places solely based on the parking facilities! No matter how good the food in the restaurant, the quality of the play, the brilliance of the comic, the wonder of the brew, or the convenience of the public transport, if the parking is bad, people will stay away. Sad bastards.

When we opted to buy a house in Manayunk without a driveway or garage, people treated us like maniacs! There was a genuine belief that we would never be able to park and would spend eternity driving around like motorised zombies. Obviously, in real life we park in our street with no problems. The worst case scenario is we have to walk some minor distance from the car to home. To many ‘yunkers this is unacceptable, because they are twats.

If you want guaranteed parking then move to the suburbs where you can have infinite parking, and no pedestrians. If you’re profoundly addicted to Manayunk then deal with the fact that it was built before every arse owned a (or three) car(s) and move away. In a couple of generations you’ll be able to feel just as uptight about the bad changes to your gated community as you do about all the cars parking in your space in Manayunk. Enjoy your life.

“Parking” is now a word that gets me as uptight as “baptism”. Leave your dark-ages crap at home please, we’re in the 21st century now. We can build wireless networks, LHC’s, pocket computers and space ships.

Just walk a few feet home. It won’t kill you – in fact it may extend your life.

The first time I became aware of Bencher Morse keys was seeing a picture of a BY-1 on Wikipedia. I fell in love. After some time on the Googel, it became obvious that they were not only excellent keys, but also expensive. It also became evident that there existed an even more beautiful version of this device which was all chrome: The BY-2. At this point I had to have it. Oh yes. It will be mine. And now it is, thanks to a bargain on eBay. Even second-hand it’s thoroughly beautiful visually, as it is beautifully tactile. But what possible use could it be to someone without a Ham licence or a rig? Well, I want to get practice of 20 wpm morse and luckily all that needs is CWIRC which allows morse code over IRC, and also includes a beautiful and effective keyer. But how do you connect a morse key to a computer?
My eventual solution was to take an old USB mouse, connect a 1/4 inch jack socket to it, and solder it to the mouse button contacts. Bingo – instant morse key interface to every OS!

It’s been a productive weekend all round; not only did I get my lovely key hooked up, but I also spent a lot of time playing with IPMI, and we even managed to collect a second-hand FMT (Fucking Massive Telly) from M’s father and hook it up. We now have a 42 inch LCD projection TV! The biggest telly I’ve ever owned. Our old TV we managed to freecycle to a lovely couple of lesbians.

My little niece Lily, who will never know a world before video conferencing, was lovely on Skype today.

Well that didn’t take long; less than 48 hours after deactivating I reactivated my bastard Facebook account.
Yes, that’s pathetic, but please hear me out. There were several aspects of Facebook’s insidiousness that I hadn’t considered or had under-estimated. In fact yesterday was a day choc-full of misjudgment.
If you find yourself as fully ensconced in the Fecebook swamp as I, then you may want to consider the following observations before you quit:

• There are people with whom I have a relationship of sorts, yet we’ve never met. Now this is a situation that has existed for centuries (assuming that pen-friends have been around that long), but Facebook makes it all too easy. I have Facebook friends who are friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, and even total strangers who share a single interest. Being able to see, acknowledge, approve, disapprove, or ignore what your contacts say is a surprisingly powerful and pleasurable thing. When you leave Facebook, you lose these people and the limited but significant contact you have with them.
• Old friends. Facebook makes it easy to stay in touch with old friends, even if it is in the most shallow way. Whilst discussing this issue with a friend at work last week, we both agreed that staying friends with someone who you normally couldn’t be bothered to connect with is pointless. But now I completely retract that assertion because even if you simply click “like” on a person’s status updates (if you do truly like them) is better than losing touch. Humans are social creatures, and surely it’s better to stay in touch with the people you like than forget them?
• Facebook only has a “like” button, and no “dislike” button, and I now believe this is a good thing. Criticism is all very well, but it usually dwarfs praise; we’re more likely to send a complaint than a letter of praise. Personally I try to send praise frequently too – but the sad truth is the complaints usually outnumber the praise. So Facebook’s decision to only have a “like” button is interesting and quite a significant move. It helps strengthen relationships – that can’t be bad can it?
• If you want to hate people, the Facebook allows that too! Arguing on Facebook is all too easy, especially for the web amateurs.
• If you really like someone, should you not make more of an effort to contact them properly? No! It’s difficult! And if you really like them then communicating “properly” with them is going to take a lot of time, which no-one has. Clicking “like” now and again when they say something you agree with or sending the occasional comment is surely better than drifting away? There are a lot of people I have “shallow” relationships with on Facebook whom I would willingly give a kidney if needed.
• Most people don’t blog, but they often post things on Facebook. Ostensibly that’s the same thing, but usually anyone can read a blog; unless you’re friends on Facebook, your posts are private. That may suit the majority of Facebook users, but some people actually have interesting and thoughtful things to say! Leaving Facebook means you don’t get to hear them any more.

It’s been an emotional couple of days at work, and it culminated today with my fake Facebook persona being “outed” by a friend I inadvertently managed to piss-off (we’re all friends again now btw). The upshot of this was that I have deactivated my Facebook account. Non-Facebook-users will surely not be in the slightest bit interested in this, but it maybe of interest to the rest of you; thus begins a diary of going cold Turkey on Facebook.

In the unlikely event that there should be anyone who reads this blog and isn’t a former Facebook friend, please accept apologies for the cack that will probably end up getting posted here in future; all of the stuff that I used to post on Facebook (because it wasn’t interesting enough to blog) will now end up here… sorry.

So, here goes with the first post of the new era:
[clears throat]

After being in America for three years, I’m finally getting round to watching one of the cultural touchstones which have eluded me thus far: A Christmas Story. This film has been quoted, cited, and produced such astonishment from peers and friends when they discover I’ve never seen it (including twice today) that it seems necessary.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2010/dec/07/bert-williams-obituary.