A Rain of Frogs

The problem with the world today is that its run by engineers and money men. Quantitative thought has dominated all other modes of cognition – possibly past the point of no return.

Money men have systematically cut qualitative thought from our school programs, shielding children from arts and music and literature, raising them on a diet of maths and sciences. Engineers have helped, technology companies funding school systems in order to sway future purchasing decisions in their favor.

It lacks soul. There’s no life in numbers or money. There must be more to the world than consecutive profitable quarters and faster, smaller, cheaper computer chips. There must be life, and light.

There must be balance and consideration. Since the 1950s, design (excepting graphic design, which was recognized as an excellent tool to convince the masses to buy more) has slowly been pushed aside by low prices. After all, only a few will choose design over a lower price, and those people aren’t money men or engineers, and therefore aren’t enough of a market.

I lament the loss of art in schools. I lament the loss of music. I lament the loss of creative writing as anything more than a tool of marketing. I lament the loss of the human soul.

The geek truly has inherited the earth.

You know, eleven years and a personal musical career resurrected later, I have to admit that Alanis really nailed it when she released Jagged Little Pill. I liked it when it first came out in 1995, but rapidly lost interest after the media played it non-stop for what felt like one hundred years.

Thought its full of hard-core breakup songs, its not girl-band saccharine – in fact, its downright bitter in a way that could only come from a girls crushed heart. It’s obvious that its based in personal experience. Vitriolic lyrics from You ‘outta know are heart-wrenching (and surprisingly erotic in parts) and will probably speak to most girls post-breakup pain. What’s particularly interesting is that it also speaks to the pain boys feel after a breakup too, though most boys wouldn’t admit it.

Last year’s acoustic re-release of the album sparked a lot of controversy, as it was only available from Starbuck’s for the first six or so weeks after its release, but it was also a fantastic way to revisit the original album without immediately reminding listeners of the fact that for six or so months Jagged Little Pill was the soundtrack of their own personal hells.

In between the releases of these two versions of this album, I resurrected my musical career. I am a one-time classically trained musician – technically what is called a “Piano Dropout” I guess. I gave up music completely in my teens and only returned in about 1996. Though I’d probably not admit it to some of my harder-core musician friends, Jagged LIttle Pill rekindled a passion for music that was lacking in my life.

I didn’t pick up a guitar and start playing again because of this album. Not at all. That came later, in Nova Scotia, when a bass player I met decided to walk out on his gig and leave his guitar player hanging. I filled in, and my feelings for music were realized once more. but the album did make me start paying attention again, made me start enjoying listening to music in a way I hadn’t since I was young.

Instead of being the soundtrack of my own personal hell, Jagged Little Pill bookends the period of my musical rebirth.

A couple weekends ago, I received an email from a guy who had just bought a sailboat similar to mine. Although he had sailing experience, he had no experience with rigging a sailboat, and had asked if he could come watch me put the mast up on mine, so he could get an idea of how to handle his.

Of course, I told him yes, and we met on the day my mast went on the crane and put it up. It was interesting to meet him – the third person I’ve met face-to-face so far from the Contessa Corner, a website I run for people who have Contessa 26s.

Further emails passed between us after my mast went up. I offered to come down to the Port Credit marina (only a 1/2 hour drive from my own) and help him when his boat was going in the water. Engine problems on his boat torpedoed that plan, but I still met with him and another Contesssan (I’ve now met 5 of them). It was this second meeting that made me more aware of the six degrees of separation concept than anything else has for a long time.

He asked me what high school I went to, and when I answered, he had a good laugh. It turns out his wife was one of my art teachers.

As some might know, every night that I can, I go for a ten kilometer stroll. I wait till nightfall, as I find the darkness less distracting than the daylight. It’s not only a walk for physical fitness, its a time for my mind to reel freely, to spin and draw out thoughts that don’t get a chance in my normal day-to-day activities.

Last night I realized I feel it important to continue exploring one of the ideas that arose out of yesterday’s post, the idea of shaping the Internet into a more immersive experience. I may be relying on stereotype to hold my case together here, but I’ve been in the field for a long time, and sometimes, stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason.

There seems to be an overwhelming drive among techie types to create an Internet experience so “real” that it renders reality obsolete. Instead of going to work every day, these same techie types want to create an immersive environment that simulates a work environment perfectly, but doesn’t require them to step out of their mom’s basement (see? using stereotypes as duct tape).

They can create entire second worlds, like Second Life, where they can be anything they want. What is telling is how rarely these “second lives” are anything like the first lives.

Instead of being (perhaps) overweight 30-somethings with no social lives, no social skills, and a deep-seated self esteem issue, they often assume the role of women that have rejected them in their real lives. An understandable role reversal. Now they are the ones doing the rejection. I am sure it gives one a sense of power.

What it doesn’t do is address the self esteem issues. In fact, it probably feeds the issues. Makes it more likely these men will continue to be rejected by real-life women.

This goes beyond hygiene, it goes beyond personality. I know a great many of these types of men. My best friend in high school was one when he was little, and one when he reached adulthood. Brilliant, but utterly unaware of why he wasn’t being accepted for the amazing person he was. It must have been overwhelming, because he eventually took his own life.

What I am getting at here is fairly deep, and I fear I am doing a poor job of articulating it. Instead of rebuilding the universe in such a way that they understand all the rules, these people might be better served by learning why they are being rejected. They are, after all, worthy people – beautiful people with beautiful minds and beautiful souls. What they are not is confident.

Over the course of my musical career, it has been demonstrated to me time and again that looks have almost nothing to do with appeal. I have seem musicians – skinny, nerdy, funny looking musicians around whom lovely girls swarm. It is not how they look. They look just like some of those same techie types. It is the attitude. The self-worth. The belief in ones self.

It seems like such an engineer way to deal with things. See a problem, find the solution which offers the most technological challenge, and go boldly. Change the universe, don’t change the person or their outlook.

The Internet should (and could) never approximate reality. Television sure as hell doesn’t. Newspapers don’t. Books don’t. We can get lost in the worlds presented by these mediums, but they aren’t reality, and nobody confuses them with reality. At least, they shouldn’t. Television has its own problems in this arena, but that lays outside the scope of this post.

In short, the misfit toys have to stop believing they are flawed. They have to value themselves before they can expect anyone else to. For many people, this is a built in capacity, but for some it might be something that has to be learned.

Engineer, fix thyself.

A really fascinating article from the Wired website piqued my attention last night. It was about text.

Momus, as he calls himself, complains about the text-oriented nature of the Internet, how we’ve all “become typing trolls. We’re all disagreeing, but we’re ‘on the same page’ (and it is a page, a white rectangle covered with a tangle of text).” Apparently the text-based nature of the Internet has left out “huge areas of what makes us human.”

This idea gave me pause. I considered my experiences with text. I considered Shakespeare, which I’ve only read as text and never seen performed. I wondered if William’s soul was absent from his writings. I considered Jack London. I considered Hemmingway. I considered Chaucer. I pondered the soullessness of their writings.

I concluded that Momus is full of it. Yes, text can be soulless. It can be devoid of life and personality. It can, as the article noted, neglect texture. But just because it can doesn’t mean it must. In the hands of a good writer, text has as much soul and life as music, or art, or theatre. In the hands of the talentless, it may be as Momus notes.

His solution is to get rid of the textual shackles that bind the Internet, fill it with sight and sound and smell and feel. Make it more immersive. I don’t know about anyone else, but if I want sight and smell and touch and feel, I’ll close my Powerbook and go outside.