Friday, December 22, 2006

Strangest thing. I laid down to go to sleep and nothing happened. I feel at the moment, as alert as radar, though I've been up 32 hours.

These are interesting sensations I'm having now. The silence sounds fuller, like it's breathing. Thick and rank, as if it's old.

I find times like these indescribable, where I feel like another person and yet still somehow me. As if the world had been turned precisely ninety degrees. It's the feeling one gets when they stand up too fast.

I imagine this is mysticism. Indeed, I profess that it does feel as if a profound realization is within reach. But I imagine that's not because I'm moving closer to anything deep--rather, I'm simply seeing things differently than normal.

Cha Cha Cha!

Well I'm done for the year and I haven't slept in a long time. I gone from that place of euphoria all the way down crazy street to loopy apathy, and took an elevator to Man, it's depressing Drive and then I got stupid. I am full of caffeine. Also merlot and Doritos.

In my latest paper, I managed like every paper to insult both Richard Posner and Duncan Kennedy. Cass Sunstein escapes unscathed again! But I will you get you, you equivocating bastard, and your stupid little minimalism, too. Incompletely theorized arguments indeed. Moral relativists can hash it out in hell. Marx was wrong, but at least he took a stand.

All I got.

Computer Crime Paper

Here's the introduction to my Computer Crime Paper:




I. Introduction.

a. The Internet.

I spend a great deal of my life in a realm that I neither understand nor want to, a realm where social interaction is bizarre, communication odd and inefficient, where 99% of the information acquired is thoroughly corrupted, suspect, or simply irrelevant, and danger seems to lurk in a billion shady nooks.

Luckily, exiting this realm is easy. One merely opens a computer, finds a wireless network, and connects to the Internet, where things make sense.

Like the archaic realm of reality, the Internet is interesting, mainly because we have to share it with a billion other people, some nasty, some nice, and the majority with simply abhorrent grammar. And in virtual reality, as in real meat-and-potatoes reality, the trick is figuring out how to get along with those people. Theories of how to do this are plentiful. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, for example, Moses laid down some suggestions on how to deal with one’s brothers. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, Cain had another, slightly more direct, idea.

Regardless, we’ve had 100,000 years to figure out how to get along with one another, and minus the Crusades and a couple of world wars, we’ve pulled it through. But the Internet is fresh and new, and the race has had little more than a decade to explore, navigate, and mozilla it. And there was nothing on the Decalogue about trolls.
So it’s no huge surprise that we turn to the old world to explain the new. If you want to know how to treat email, you look at how we treat real, tangible mail. eBay is an auction house, Travelocity is a travel agent, homepages are homes. We compare and contrast, we analogize, we’re loose with our “as if’s” and “effectively’s.” Sometimes the comparison resonates, and sometimes it’s, to be generous, an awkward fit.

This paper probes one such analogy. I seek nothing less, and certainly nothing more, than a Lockean theory of cyber-property. I do not propose to settle the great philosophical debates of Western culture, nor do I aspire to solve the enigma of law, and I have neither the time nor ability to discern the natural order of the entire Internet and propose its ethical implementation. I will not even pretend to develop a fully-fleshed theory of property—this theory pays no mind to Rawls’ maximin, it may or may not perfect the greatest good for the greatest number, and if it should lead us to the final communist anarchy of Marx, I shall be, at the very least, somewhat surprised.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

For Mom

Having pretty much no money at the moment, I am, like most cheap bastards, reduced to sending people third-rate poetry on various memorials. I sent this to my Mom for her birthday. Being at heart and brain an unabashed elitist, I freely admit I have all the skill with verse that one would expect from an amateur, and cannot compare to the learned studiers of an art, e.g., Scoplaw.





Poem on Her Birthday


Memory is the universe’s way of filing its mistakes.

I give you the case of the eldest of three sons
Who wandered some underground path while the world above bloomed and withered two dozen times
And now could recite back, if you ask, one black backstab upon another,
But probably would miss the mother who loved him each time
With the enviable perfection of a stock character.

So it goes.

But maybe it’s to God’s benefit: why remember the things He got right on the first try?

Still, it’s not cosmic tragedy. I can hear the way she held me and, if I focus, I know still how she called those days asking if I was ok.

The deepness of this life is that it is because of you it is the life it is.
The rich and royal heart is the heart you gave, and
The—however fragile—conclusion that even the storm is beautiful after its fashion, is of course, premised on a clue you gave.
The one crystal fact for all wonder is that I was loved.

Mom, I’m glad I got your hair. I hope I get to keep it.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Broadway I've Been Listening To

Rent's good, though the second act pales to the first. One doesn't mind the prevalence of STDs, nor the omnisexual cast--kind of fun, actually, but one can't ignore the occasional lame rhyme and trite lyric.

Sweeney Todd, however, is the best thing I've ever heard.