Saturday, July 21, 2007


Its noon, the sun blasts a dry harsh heat beating down on the clay of the stadium, tattered blue flags wave in the wind above. The sweat of the gladiator shines of his tanned skin, and blinds a crow above. The crowd roars.

Everyone's on their feet screaming, one girl sits she holds a doll a pacifist in a world of death, tears roll down her cheek leaving a clean stain on her dusty skin, the gleeful screams of her family pierce her ears.

People scream for blood, the underdog, sweating bare chested, a pair of short shorts show off his large muscular and tight ridged behind, his chest hair slick with sweet, scars on his back, his blond hair flies in the air his eyes distant, lost in another world, motionless black.

Two figures emerge from the darkness, pink and purple plastic suits, their hammers massive and the signs of use, the blood and bits of flesh from the last victim. From behind and hammer strikes from behind, down, this is over, the bright green ninja made it so. Hammers fall of soft flaccid organs, and sensitive orbs of tender flesh. The crowd loves a painful death, blood soaking into the floorm the screams of pain lost in the lust of blood. Then next hammer is the finisher, the grand finale.

Lights out.

The hill

The rolling hills, a sea of green stretch into a the distance fading away in a far away fog the clouds the rest of the world, casting a ring of shelter around this luscious valley. A vast expanse of green grass covers the world here alone on hill stands a tree. The dark brown bark scarred through time, the wood half dead and lifeless, the leaves a pure source of natures life, reaching up to the sacred yellow orb, drinking up its subatomic life.

The tree silently sways, as it always does in the tides of time, caught in the current of the wind of the world. The tree moves and its shadow plays across the earth, moving, changing. The darkness comes, a shadow plays upon the land, the violent winds bringing the shade to the soil that surrounds the tree, cooling it from the hot sun, the light vanishing.

The prevailing winds are not constant, ever changing, a mix of infinite complexity, bringing forth change, shade and light on the land, it will forever alternate.

The tree moves a little leaning elsewhere, the darkness fades, the light comes about, breathing life, the dark soil, now populated by the tiniest of plants, green fresh life springing from the moist earth, leaping towards the sky.

Two children arrive beneath the free, a young boy and girl, they look over the land and drinks its beauty, soaking it up through their eyes. The tree moves in the wind, the shadow cast upon the boy, he pulls a lifeless limb from the tree, a sword. Next to the epic trunk, a solid mass of wood, grown over time innumerable, sits the girl in the light, in awe of the life growing at her feet.

The boy lunges, and swings, his stick a sword, a weapon for imagined foes, thrusting and stabbing, they fall and are replaced by more, who fall, and fall, a succession of death, the air pierced by the wooden limb. The light and boy dance, one second he's caught in the light, a bright knight in shining amour, protecting and severing. The moment changes with the winds, the light gone from the boys face, darkness covers his eyes, as he murders, kills and destroys, the limb an extension of his body, a magnifier to his power.

The darkness swings onto the little girl, a shiny blade lost in the darkness emerges from her dress, cloaked in darkness she carves a heart in the fragile tree, forever the icon shall be written in the free, the heart becomes a part of the bark, growing with the tree. As the wood is carved from the wooden flesh a single tear rolls down the girls cheek, its precious water giving life, green growing in the darkness. The light covers her face as she smiles at her iconographic work, and the life that is flourishing, now caught in the sun.

"I can't do this anymore," the boy cries, screaming into the hills. He sits on the soft earth and watches it grow, tired, the sweat drips from his brow, the life in the ground soaks up his sweet liquid, living, growing.

Darkness, and light dance a battle over the still children, in awe of nature, the sit silently. The light vies to be seen, the darkness pushing its boundaries, trying to cover everything and overcome. The light and shadows dance, like a candle in absolute darkness, flicking in the wind, an epic struggle as the wick burns towards the end, burning bright the light casts the darkest shadows, without the candle absolute darkness would reign.

The rich crimson blood soaks into the earth, the life flourishes as another expires, its very essence flowing out of the girl, from her stomach where the small blade is lodged. Around her a pool of blood flows, in it the green nature, thriving in the light. She vomits blood as she expires, collapsing into the soft green beside the boy, who is sharing the same fate, their blood mixing, their lives flowing away, giving life to new growth, new life, a trade. They lie beneath the heart, holding hands, the sun setting as their eyes close.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

And like that they were gone...

The street bustled with life, rows of cafes and shops, with apartments above, facing the board walk and the blue water assaulting the sand beach with waves after wave. The sun began rising casting a giant yellow reflection in the water, the cafe was packed with people enjoying their morning coffee, the smell of fresh pastries and the rustle of news papers filled the air, the traffic light, and the sidewalks absent of the late morning crowd.

The two men sat peacefully discussing family as I brought them their coffee. The cups rattled on the glass table as I sat them down, one of the mens daughter just got excepted into a prestigious university, and the other graciously complimented him on his family's honor and success, he paused to sip his coffee.

The sun rose in the sky, its brilliance deflected by expensive chrome sunglasses, matching the expensive suits, the shirts unbuttoned for the heat, ornate chains of gold sat atop black chest hair.

Traffic flowed through the street, one man thrust his arm forward shooting the lustrous chronograph on his wrist out of his sleeve, time check complete, as cool as can be, he reached into his trousers and pulled out a phone. He dialed and began talking, the words lost in the hum of cars and people talking, the conversation was brief and the phone returned to his pocket.

The first thing I noticed was the squealing of breaks, and suddenly the white van stopped in front of the men, before the van even stopped, the door slid open, and the two men vanished into van, torn out of their seats by men in black masks, the door slammed and the van slipped into traffic gone before the two mens chairs had fallen back to the ground, the cups rattled on the table with their sudden departure.

Flabbergasted, “Who will take care of the cheque?” I asked to no one in particular.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

untitled cyberpunk work rough draft

The Bentley Intergalactic W-16 speed through the streets, its 3,600 horsepower hauling ass, its pilot weaved through traffic with computer like precision, because it was a computer, a top of the line AutoDrive Elite with enough sensory for a NASA mission to a new galaxy, and enough CPU power to calculate all the data that streamed into its data ports.

In an instant, the massive black car swung into a side street disappearing from the crowds of the busy market in downtown Tokyo. Cruising away from the neon glow of the streets, the car pulled into a industrial garage, a space left empty for the hulking beast to wait. The wetness that remained on the car, began evaporating as tiny nano bots began washing and polishing the car, keeping it in immaculate condition, while it sat idle.

The door swung up automatically and from the back seat emerged a single man. Carrying an Ultra Laser Umbrella, he walked out of the garage the car humming as it polished, into the dark rain outside in the alley. A cloud of mist covered the man, as his umbrella tracked every raindrop that would make contact with the man and instantly evaporated them before they could get he man wet.

The cloud of vapor surrounded him, in a blinding fog of ultra cool technology, his next gen umbrella obscured his vision of the dark alley, his optics system automatically adapting integrating other, clearer, visual spectrum's, IR data filtering through, showing 3rd story a 150meteres away, on a rusting fire escape lays a junky, jacked in, tuned out of the reality his body rotted in, living in cyberspace, curled up in a sleeping bag, a carboard box providing an overhang to keep the cyberhead sheilded from the rain, the data pouring through his wireless a tangled mess or wires leaching power from who knows where sat by his feat.

No one else in the alley, the pink neon signed blurred by rain set the destination. The man quickly began walking around the puddles, a trail of vapor following him. Suddenly the high pitched noise of a engine registered on the HUD, The AI identified it as a single 600cc dirt bike, ripping through the water, a rooster tail spraying intermittently as the bike dash between puddles at 250km/h. To far to the club to reach before the bike was upon him, he could only keep moving until he could ambush his attacker, feinting obliviousness to the impending his attack, he hope to catch his attacker by surprise, his Glock's firing silently at 600 rounds per minute.

Now he said to himself, as he spun around and simultaneously pulling out his two plastic pistols the deleted uranium 10mm rounds would easily rip through the white helmet shooting towards him, a large round target.

The sleeping bag drifted down three stories settling in a wet pile, its plaid pattern illuminated by the gunfire above. Three rounds, a perfect burst of accurate munition from a high powered rifle, the previously jacked in junky peering down the sight, the digital zoomed scope recorded the killshot in high def, the head disappearing in a cloud of pink vapor the umbrella seemingly unaffected by the massive amount of blood which it efficiently vaporized in a cloud of smoke, the body collapsing completely dry onto its knees, then the chest crashing into a puddle the umbrella shooting sparks into the water as it was submerged, apparently its not waterproof.

The rider slowed and stopped at the body, seeing dollars. The helmet was pulled off to let a wave of blond hair to fall out, the rider spitting on the graffiti wall.

The shooter climbed down the fire escape, he shouted "Don't spit. DNA!"

A blast from an Anti-Forensics spray cured that and he got on the bike and they melted into the glow of traffic, leaving the body in the puddle.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

IPTV coming to XBox 360 from Bell Canada

And soon, an IPTV offering that’s going to revolutionize how people think about television. That runs on an Xbox 360 or set top box. Seamlessly integrating services. Fundamentally changing the home entertainment experience.

Remarks by Michael J. Sabia, CEO of Bell Canada
2007 Annual and Special Shareholder Meeting on June 6th

IPTV through an Xbox 360?

Bell is already partners with Microsoft for the Sympatico Portal.
And Bell sells Xbox Live cards on their website.

With Bill Gates already talking about the possibility of the Xbox 360 being used as a super set top box for IPTV, and the CEO of Bell Canada talking about it, it looks like Canadians will have more to do than play Halo 3 on the consoles in the future.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Adolf vs. Nelson

The little corporal awakes screaming in pain, his agony falls on deaf ears, and cold wet cement. His screaming stops, the adrenaline rushing through his body, blood and saliva dripped out of his mouth as he clenched down controlling his pain. The sweat flowing down his face, permeated the room with the smell of fear and doom.

The thick hemp ropes lashed him to a solid wooden chair. He begins to open his eyes and focus. The cement walls cast a glow about the room, the brilliance of the high wattage bulb is refracting in every direction filling the room in light.

Blood is dripping off the chair, running across the floor into a drain, the incline perfectly angled away from the chain, to carry away the fluids dripping from the chair.

His bare chest glistens in sweat and blood. There are no tears in the room, just pain and suffering.

With the trigger depressed by the old black hand, the motor starts to rev again, its high pitched roar. The man with the gray hair grins, his dark face illuminated by the light. A drop of blood falls off the drill bit, pieces of flesh and bone stuck onto it with a bloody adhesive, it is sucked down by gravity to join the the pool gathering underneath the drill.

Blood spurts out of the mans shoulder as the drill bit is plunged into him again and again.

Old school work (v. Eniglish Lit): Acheillies Tears

The luscious green grass sank lower as my knees sank into it. The blue green blades of lawn bent and folded against the ornate stone memorial of a life. This cold piece of rock and its inscriptions, where proof of my ignorance and my stupidity. This stone sits here, now because of my inaction and me. I run my hand over the cold hard stone, feeling the inscription. Feeling the name, as if to remind myself, and yet I know it, as it is the name of my best friend. The friend that I let die. Poor Patroclus, please, Patroclus forgive me. If only I had been blessed with foresight, I would have been able to save him. I feel my eyes to get heavy and moist, and a tear streaks down my cheek, it falls of my chin and plummets towards the soft grass covered earth. The tears run down my face, are tears of sadness, for my lost friend, and tears of shame, for the action I could and should have taken, the action that would have saved my best friend, but did not. Shame fills my salean tears almost as much as it fills my heart.

I single hawk flies over the cemetery and I feel alone, alone as the hawk. I am not crying anymore, that is over, now I must be proud and strong in front of my men and my peers. I manage to remain composed in front of everyone during the day.

I retire early to my tent, content to wallow, alone with a bottle, of the most potent stuff my aide du camp could find, until it is hollow. I feel the liquid take a hold of me, and I relax. The candle casts a glow on the tent, I look around and see my armor shinning, as it was cleaned today. Scrubbed free of my best friends blood and sweat, it now shines gloriously.
But when my armor is old, dented and rusty, the memory of Patroclus will remain fresh, glorious, and brilliant, as he was when he was alive. He will live in me, his memory, and forever, until the day I die and rise to meet him in the afterlife.

I glance at the sharp steel by my armor, its edge taunting me. I rise, and walk towards it. I pause before it, looking at it. I draw my dagger from its sheath. Why should he have died? Why did he perish in battle and not I? Because of my stupidity and pride, I was not there, I was there to protect him, to do my sword duty and uphold my honor. I failed him. I failed my people and myself.

I do not deserve to live. Patroclus did not fail his people, himself or me. I did. I should be in the afterlife, not him. He deserves to be here, enjoying life as a mortal, living. However, he is not and I am. I contemplate making things right. Trying to switch places with him, giving him what he deserves, and me what I rightfully deserve. Why this great injustice to my dear departed friend, why oh, why am I standing here in this world and he is not. Have the fates only the desire to make my life miserable and wretched, taunting me with this injustice.
A rush of air sweeps into my tent, I replace the dagger that has been resting on my wrist, resting with such force that it has left an indent in my flesh where it was, and I turn around to address whomever has entered my chambers.
“My lord, the celebrations of your victory are in full swing, care you to come address the men?” declares my aide du camp.
“I do, I will be there as soon as I can,” I reply and set forth to address my men, whom have fought so bravely with me.

I stare at the golden-framed mirror, and gaze at my face. The face of an unworthy man. I hate it. I Turn away, and exit my tent in a merry mood, ready to uplift my men, for they to must know and love there fellow man. They must grieve as I do, for those they have lost. I stand with them, as I do in battle, and a make them feel merry and great, and the wine certainly helps, to wash the sorrow and blood soaked images from our heads.

I raise me glass in salute as the tears run down my checks. They raise their glasses as well, and they to feel the loss and it runs down their faces, streaming away from their eyes, taking with team all the gruesome things, our eyes have seen.
“To those we lost,” the singular voice of many declares and the wine takes over washing the pain away.

From ~2004

More stuff: The Echos are Still Heard Today

James slid out of bed reluctantly, as he did every school day. Even though it was Friday and most kids at his school would be happy it was Friday, James was not. Even though it was Friday, it didn’t mean that the humiliation and bullying the other kids at his high school gave him would stop. So James got out of bed, consoled only by the fact that he and his best friend, Mark, would be able to hang out and listen to Marilyn Manson and play Magic Cards without prejudice for two days, after one more day of hell.

James got dressed after his shower in plain, but well kept clothes, which was all his single mother could afford. He looked respectable, in his blue jeans and t-shirt, with his black hair combed. His grey eyes and sharp features didn’t make him pretty and his build was of a medium height and lean. Because he didn’t wear the right clothes or look like a model for undershorts, he had no friends to speak of, except Mark and wasn’t popular, sout he and Mark stuck together isolated from the rest of the school community. He felt that society, not the people at school, dictated that he was a loser. Mark too, was small and they both liked Magic Cards, but Mark had shown James the joys of music, especially Marilyn Manson. Music didn’t discriminate against you; it didn’t make fun of you or shove you in a locker. Music simply was there. It was an escape from life and it was a friend.

James heard the front door open and knew it was Mark, from the sound of Mark’s second-hand store Doc Martin’s on the linoleum. James shoved his Manson tape in the tape player, which he kept in his pocket, and went to see Mark. After grabbing his lunch and breakfast Twinkie his mother had left out for him, before she went to the diner where she was a waitress. James and Mark exchanged morning greetings and walked out the door of the small suburban townhouse together. They timed their walk to school so that they arrived in their first class, which was Math, right when the bell went so that they would avoid harmful contact with other students. To them classrooms and the library were safe, as there were always teachers there. The halls could be dangerous, but the washrooms were like minefields.

The class ended and they went to the cafeteria to eat and then run off to the library. On their way to the cafeteria they got the usual. Cruel jokes and laughs, nasty comments, and various projectiles and the odd attempt at tripping them. The rest of the day went by without anything spectacular happening; they just breezed through school and left right when the bell went for the day and the weekend. As they were leaving for home a couple of kids from the football team were talking in front of the bathroom door. As James and Mark went around them and past them, James felt two big hands grab hold of his backpack straps and shirt and lift him up. He looked to his side to see Mark hoisted up as well. The football players threw them into the bathroom and followed them in. The 4 big football players passed a bottle around and got ready to have some fun with the ‘losers’. Mark was always vocal about their abuse and always took the front of it. When they emerged ten minutes later, allowing five minutes for their assailants to get away, they were bruised and sore. Mark was also wet from having his head dunked in the toilet.

They went to Marks house to hang out together, until James had to leave for supper. They sat in the living room and watched music videos on MTV, until James left to make dinner for his mom, who would be tired from a long hard day at the diner.
“Everyone.” The words reverberated through the room. Mark said, “We’ll show everyone not to mess with people. We’ll fuck them up all the people that have messed with us. They will a fucking pay.”

The heavy beat and shrill vocals of the music played in the background and the cards sat on the table untouched for what seemed to be hours. James simply couldn’t think of anything we could do to teach the idiots at school a lesson, that they were discontent with their lives. They felt worthless and small. Both James and Mark had considered killing themselves, before they had met each other and their friendship had kept them alive, even though the clouds of depression that loomed over them got bigger and darker. But Mark had a plan and James knew it would work right away, and he agreed with Mark completely. They would show them. Everyone.
Three months later James and Mark walked to school dressed in their new uniform. James wore a black trench coat as did Mark. They had been wearing them for months now and people had become accustomed to, although they thought two kids wearing trench coats on a beautiful summer day was odd, but today they weren’t for fashion. Today their trench coats had purpose. They both had headphones around their necks, with the same tape playing in sync. The summer had just begun and everyone, especially the seniors, were happy the school year was ending so they could have the summer to party. They arrived at the entrance to school and stood in the double doors and looked at the naive students in the school. The sun shone behind them silhouetting them in the door, as the door closed the silhouette died away and they emerged in black.

They walked through the door in harmony with each other. Thump, the left boot hit the tiled floor, thump, the right foot hit the floor. They didn’t care it was their last day. Lunch was just about to begin. They had ten minutes to set the pipe bombs, which they had made parts of in electronics class, around the school. After all the bombs were set they went to the cafeteria and waited. We counted down the minutes and seconds. Tick, tick, tick… The bell rang then 30 seconds later a cacophony of explosions went off. All the bombs were placed in central areas like the entrances and exits and the office, they weren’t to kill, or even maim, the bombs were to keep people inside the school and the police out. They reached into their trench coats and slowly withdrew Tec-9 semi automatic handguns as people began filing into the cafeteria. They sold all their Magic Cards and spent their savings on the small armoury they had. They thanked the second Amendment, and hoped the guns didn’t jam.

James and Mark went around the school shooting people. Bang-Bang-Bang. They shot those who made fun of them, and hurt them. No one cheated the to angels of death in trench coats. Bang, Bang-Bang. We even shot those who stood by and watched, but did nothing. Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang. We walked threw the halls of the school searching for the four football players, who had made their life horrible. The football players were found in the locker room, next to the gym. They were sitting there laughing and joking with each other. They had no idea of the massacre in the rest of the school, because the showers had been on, creating a blanket of white noise. James and Mark both stopped outside the door to the locker room, and filled their magazines. They walked into the locker room the smell of sweat and adrenaline hit them and they raised their guns and watched the fear on their victims faces. Bang, bang, bang. Thump, thump, thump, as the bodies fell to the hard tile. They had agreed to leave the biggest, toughest and the leader of the group for last. The bodies didn’t move, but the blood continued to drain from them creating an even bigger pool of blood on the floor. The echoes of the guns reverberated through the tiled room. They told the captain of the football team to get in the middle of the room on his knees. After a second to assess his situation, which wasn’t good and he knew it, he complied. He knelt in the middle of the room on the hard no-slip tile in a pool of his friend’s blood. They stood in front of him with their guns held against his forehead. They watched the tears well up in his eyes, and the beads of perspiration run down his face. His eyes were blue and filled with fear. Tears ran down his cheeks as his life ended, when two bullets entered his head. As the bullets exited through the read of his skull, brains and bones splattered against the wall, painting it red.

They stained the waxed floors of the school with what was to be the future generation’s blood, the crimson message of death all around. Mark and James stood in the main foyer in front of the office, on top of the blue seal emblazoned with the eagle. They looked at the flag of their nation, the red, white and blue that failed to protect them and those they murdered, and those who saw the carnage and would never forget.

James glanced at Mark, and they nodded to each other. The words, “Let’s do this.” came from their lips and they knew what to do.
Simultaneously two fingers slowly tightened around the steel. BangBang. A sudden flash of light lit up the foyer and the light died. The firing pins struck forward sending the brass projectiles forward, as the air behind the slugs expanded, forcing the slug out of the muzzle and into the flesh of two young boys. The bullets traveled through their heads at over five hundred feet per seconded, as the two brass casings arced through the air, and clattered on the cold stone floor, on top of the eagle. Their bodies became limp, now devoid of life, as the bullets blew their brains out onto the flags. The nation was covered in their blood, as were the hands of the students who mistreated the two bodies that fell to the floor with one thump and everyone who stood by. There were no innocent bystanders that day; everyone got what they deserved, except for two. They fell together as their guns clattered on the hard floor, as the echo of the gunshots dissipated, into the halls. The echoes are still heard today.

This was written in 2004 for an English class in high school. It is the first writing assignment that I remembered where I used violence to shock the reader. I gave it to a classmate to read, and she couldn't finish it she found it so disturbing.
I wrote this to try to give some meaning to why teens were shooting people in their schools, something that I felt like I wanted to do at one point in my life(years before, like in grade 7).
This is not to glorify, justify or endorse shooting people in school. This is a slap in the face to the people that blame, MTV, rock music, drugs, and video games for school violence.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Backlog of Writings

In the last little while I have written a few things but neglected to share them, as I have been far too caught up with reading Gibson's _Virtual Light_.

First up is a 'write a story in 50 words or less'.
Panic. My eyes snap open; sleep flees from my body as I awake.
“Where am I?” I ask to no one.

It’s a white room, the walls, the sheets, the furniture, everything is white here. There is a manicured lawn beyond the locked window.

“Where is my daughter?” I scream.

Next I wrote this after a tasty meal.
The little boy squealed with glee. A knife lay on the kitchen counter, cookbooks, and papers, bills, cups and plates all hastily shoved to one side. A hideous child's mess lay strew about half the counter, with a clear bath to the microwave. Inside a plate full of something cooking lay, the dull yellow light of the microwave was burnt out and cast no illumination on the mysterious meal.

With this horrible mess, where are the parents?

Two drops of a thick red blood from each of the boys dirty little hands. They droplets hit the white tile floor and created little liquid explosions, tiny little droplets flew away from their mother in a flash of energy to become a stain on the clean floor.

Why isn't anyone watching this child?

The little boy did a little dance. He shook his ears by his head, on different intervals, raising them up and down with an inhuman energy. A madness burned in the boys eyes, as they rolled in his head as he jumped around and golden locks orbiting his head. He jumped up and down to the clicking of the microwave as the plate rotated around, the numbers slowly dancing away, grinding to zero. A zit on the boys greasy forehead suddenly exploded, the filthy puss and blood flew as fast as it could, desperate to flew the boy.

Is this child alone? No one would leave such a child alone.

The microwaved had not the chance to sound its final tone, as the boy ripped open the door and carried the plate to a table. The boy hastily grab the food with his hands and filled his mouth in a barbaric fury. Primal grunts of pleasure thundered through the room. As he devoured the tender flesh, red blood flowing out of his mouth as he crewed, streams of crimson blood flowed down his cheeks dripping onto his white shirt.

The sound of a door opening echoed through the near silent home, the boy instantly stopping, listening to the intruder to his solitary meal. Footsteps came closer, shadows filled the doorway.

The little boy looked up at his mother. Blood covering his little smile, he gazed at his mother as she spoke to him. He wanted more.

"Oh my God Jonny! Where is your sister?"

And finally...
The aeroplane lay peacefully on the tarmac. It was fresh and new, full of fleshy lives, ready to see the world. It began with a crawl, and slowly rose into the air, taking off. It climbed and climbed, reaching new heights, higher into the sky. Aside from the occasional dip of turbulence it rose, and rose. Then a bump, a drop in altitude, a slight recovery, higher, almost reaching the previous high, then popping up above the clouds, higher than it ever had gone before. The sweet sunlight caressed the aeroplane, glimmering on the shiny aluminum, a bright light, above the gray ominous clouds below, and then the aeroplane began to drop. Gone was the brilliant light, replaced with a dull gray blur as the aeroplane dropped through the clouds, falling through the sky. The stark reality of the decent became clear as the aeroplane fell towards the earth, the details of smokestacks, factories, people toiling away, a new reality for the aeroplane that had once soared so high, high above the dreary reality. Then aeroplane fell and fell, until it was barely flying above the trees. Had the landing gear not been tucked into the belly of the aeroplane, it would have clipped a tree and sent the aeroplane plummeting into a fiery death. The aeroplane cleared the forest, and emerged over a tranquil lake. The aeroplane fell towards the still dark waters. Further towards them the aeroplane did fly until no longer was it soaring in the air, but slicing into the frigid waters, cutting a path into the depths. Lower did it plunge, as the turbines continued to turn forcing the aeroplane deeper and deeper, carrying with it the fragile fleshy cargo.

Enjoy. :)

Proposal: Secure Bookmarks

I am tired to not having bookmarks on some of my machines; because I do not want the obvious persistent indicators of what sites I visit frequently enough to warrant a bookmark.

I also want to be able to access these bookmarks across multiple systems and environments.

Thus I would like a portable and secure bookmark storage system.

A centralized bookmark file stored somewhere on the internet, encrypted to be accessible only to authorized users (simple username and password authentication), that can be downloaded and temporarily stored on a local machine, changed, and be able to upload the changes to the central server for access from other machines.

Cost Benefit Analysis
+ Convenient access to bookmarks anywhere
+ Secured bookmarks from people with local access to machines
+ Secure
+ Backup of your bookmarks

- Requires Authentication in a time when people already have enough usernames and passwords to remember
- Having such a file on a central server make a security breach very dangerous as your bookmarks shed much light on your person.

Implement directly into a browser via plug-ins. Support for multiple browsers (FF, Opera, IE) to ensure usability across most systems people will use. Via plug-ins in the browser, point towards the server hosting the bookmarks, authenticate, then download and store temporarily the bookmarks. Save and submit changes to the server before the session is terminated.

Anyone know of a system like I have described that exists, or does anyone want to work on it?

Thoughts or comments on the topic?

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Notes on my Generation

What will people remember of my time, my age, and my life?

I know what I am not. I am not a baby boomer, I do not belong to Generation X.

Born in the wake of the Macintosh, I am the product of two individuals of the Baby Boom.

I saw the Wall fall, I saw a man stop a tank. I am plugged in, I am connected, I was wired, but now I live without wires.

I grew up with the world fighting on TV. The failed war on drugs, African genocide, the First Gulf War, was the culture to grow up in. Later we would fight and die in the War on Terror, continue fighting the war on drugs, and witness more ceaseless conflict in Africa.

We are faced with a revolving door of new, change, evolution, and the next thing. We make slow steps up the stairs, with corporations and an ever powerful government setting up tolls, watching us on CCTV. Obsessed with incremental advancement towards materialistic goals, where is the revolution?

Do we have anything to say for our age?

We are the Orwellian children. We live in a world of fear, actors for the Watchers.

Fast. Instant. Now. Connection.

Computers, and the Internet have created for us a new reality. A world where physical limits are set aside, and our minds set the boundaries. We live in and for information. Fast computers, instant communication, media on demand playing now. We are connected to the global communication and information network everywhere. At home, in class, on our phone, to every faucet of our lives the data flows. We are connected to it all and each other.

Everything is jacked. Everything is connected. Everything is amped. Everything is fast.

With everything happening NOW, have we lost sight of the future?

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Ghost Riding


Using not driving a way to demonstration of your wealth.

Here we have a rich guy who has a chauffeur to drive him, because he is rich enough he doesn't have to drive.

YouTube Link to Ghost Ride It
Here we have a bunch of rappers dancing on their cars while they are in motion instead of driving them.
"when you get a new car [ uh huh uh huh ]
and ya feeling like a star [ ok ok ]
what you gon do [ what cha gon do, what cha gon do ]