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  • Twitter Is Bad, It Promotes Evil, It Makes Me Feel Bad, And I’m Leaving

    Posted on August 15th, 2018 Brian No comments

    I joined Twitter in May 2007, as user #6,060,732. Over ten years later, after not quite twenty thousand tweets, it’s time to go. It started out as something so simple – What are you doing? Over SMS no less! – and grew into a platform for global conversation.

    Unfortunately, it also grew into a toxic hellscape, fostering abuse by anonymous trolls, enabling the rise of neo-facism and political manipulation by foreign powers, and promoting an ever-shorter attention span as people vie for likes with the most clever hot take instead of thoughtful analysis. It has become apparent that the leadership at Twitter is either actively in league with factions I would consider treasonous to western civilization, or too naive to understand the cliff towards which their platform is relentlessly driving us. I want no part of this.

    On a more personal level, my timeline feels like an endless steam of anxiety, anger, and sadness, interspersed with occasional joy, laughter, and friendship; but the former far outweighs the latter. It makes me feel bad. I’ve tried a lot of things to improve things for myself over the years: judicious mutes and blocks, disabling retweets, cultivating lists, and temporary leaves-of-absence; but it seems to just continue to get worse. Third-party clients like Tweetbot gave me enough control to keep my sanity – mostly – but Twitter has effectively cut them off now.

    So I’m done. It’s been a long time coming. I don’t want anyone else to obtain my identity, so I will not be deleting my account. I have exported all my tweets, and intend to replace them here on my own site. But I have deleted them from Twitter. I apologize for any broken links, but I cannot in good conscious leave my writing on that platform. If, someday in the future, Twitter rights the ship, maybe I’ll be back. But for now, farewell.

  • Natural Reaction

    Posted on February 4th, 2014 Brian No comments

    Bloody MessJust south of San Francisco, shortly after you merge onto Interstate 280 heading down to the South Bay, there is this massive red stain in the center lane of the freeway. At night, flashing by so quickly under the headlights before disappearing underneath your car at seventy-five miles per hour, it looks for all the world like an eighteen-wheeler tractor trailer decimated a full-grown deer mere moments before.

    You instinctually look around when faced with that much carnage; you can’t help it: Where is the cab of the truck? Is the driver okay? The deer certainly isn’t, but … Why is there no body? Where are the guts?

    It wasn’t until the third or fourth time I made the drive that I finally realized it was just paint. But it still freaks me out four years later.

  • Divorced

    Posted on August 23rd, 2013 Brian No comments

    [I wrote this post several months ago, shortly after the divorce was finalized. I have held off publishing it until all the final details were completed. Now they are.]

    “How long were you married,” was always the first question. “Nine years,” I would reply. It was only a slight exaggeration. Our anniversary was only a few months away, and the mandatory waiting period meant we wouldn’t be divorced for six months, at least. “That’s a long time. You must have gotten married young.”

    It didn’t feel like it at the time. We were both out of college – she had a master’s degree already! – when I proposed. We had career paths and car payments, student loans and credit cards, rent checks and insurance premiums. We felt like adults, though still struggling to learn who we really were and where we really fit and what was really important. Several of our other friends had already said their vows a year or more before, and we loved each other. She agreed, and the ceremony was a year later. We were twenty-three.

    The years seem to have rushed by now, looking back. Our career paths detoured, and we sold our cars. A new city meant new friends gained, and old friends grown distant. The credit cards and loan payments were still there, but we exchanged the rent check for a mortgage payment, and put down roots. There were no children – a fact for which I am ever so grateful now – and as we discovered more of who we were, our love was changed and redefined, but was still a constant to me.

    When I uncovered her affair, my world view shattered. I left her. I told our mutual friends what was happening, moved out of the house, and spent the next four-and-a-half months hurting. I posted to a secret, anonymous blog, dumping to it anything that came into my head: I wrote angry epitaphs, aimed at her. I wrote of the unexpected sadness I felt at the family we would never now have. I transcribed the dreams from which I awoke crying at three o’clock in the morning.

    And then, without warning, I got over her. I moved on.

    “That’s too fast,” people would say. “Ten years is a long time. You can’t be over her that quickly. Give yourself time to heal.” Know thyself, said somebody or another. And I guess I do. I had set myself up to succeed the moment I decided the marriage was over. With the help of my friends and family, I had made it through to the other side. For the first time in a decade, I was ready to live only for myself. I could do anything I wanted, and I did. I lost forty-five pounds. I went on trips and to concerts. I ate goat brains and learned to love seafood. I started dating.

    I threw a big party this past New Years Eve. As I mingled with friends new and old, I found myself telling them that 2012 had been a really good year for me. Sure, a terrible thing had happened, but I came through it happier and healthier and more fulfilled than ever before. Loss and pain have acted like a lens, focusing me on what I want and what is important to me. My future is clearer to me now than ever before.

  • Mike Daisey’s Program From April 14, 2011

    Posted on March 20th, 2012 Brian No comments

    I don’t have anything to say publicly about Mike Daisey’s lies. What I will say publicly is that Heather and I saw The Agony and The Ecstasy of Steve Jobs at Woolly Mammoth Theater on April 14, 2011. It was a powerful piece, and – unusually for me – I saved the program. After reading this essay by the former marketing directory of the Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company, I have scanned page three and page four and placed them here. I have slightly edited the image of page three in an obvious manner. You may click on the the images to view full-size versions.

    This is a work of nonfiction.

    Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company Present The Agony And The Ecstasy of Steve Jobs

  • Mohela Is A Pack Of Thieves

    Posted on January 15th, 2012 Brian No comments

    I graduated from college in 2000, with some student loans courtesy of the Department of Education. I consolidated them in 2004, and have been paying diligently through direct debit for the past eight years. I was fortunate and didn’t have much student debt, and the payment amount was low enough that I rarely thought about it. Month after month, year after year, my payment would be withdrawn from my checking account, marching steadily towards a payoff date sometime in 2013.

    Enter Mohela.

    Several weeks back, I started receiving letters about my loan. First was a notice from the Department of Education that they had given my loan to a company called Mohela for servicing. Then I received similar letters from Mohela itself. (Stupidly, Mohela has also started sending me monthly paper statements.) But whatever – it’s fine. I don’t really care who collects the money as long as my loan is being paid off and the terms haven’t changed.

    Until today.

    Today I opened another letter from Mohela, dated January 10, 2012. It explains inside that my loan terms have changed. The interest rate is the same, but my monthly payment has decreased 74%, and my loan term has been extended until 2019! The only explanation for this change is a cryptic statement at the very end of the letter:  “** Your terms have been re-calculated to maintain federal/program guidelines **”.

    So let me get this straight, Mohela: You want me to pay the same interest rate on a principal balance that – under the new terms – is now decreasing at a significantly slower rate than before for an additional six years?! I don’t think so. Your little “re-calculation” works out to a significant increase in the total amount of interest I’m paying on that loan, without my consent. Sorry – I didn’t agree to that. You’re trying to steal from me.

    I’ll be calling the Department of Education to complain on Tuesday, and I’ll be paying off the loan immediately. They aren’t going to get a single cent of additional interest out of me. I won’t be calling Mohela, however. They can suck it. It’s just not worth my time to try and get the payment terms restored.

  • Leaving Facebook

    Posted on December 1st, 2011 Brian No comments

    Erasing facebook

    Facebook was always a sketchy proposition for me. I avoided it for quite a while, and then for a very long time I left my profile status “Brian is not Facebooking,” without accepting any friend requests. It has been about a year now since I was pushed into the pool, and I find myself still wondering, “What’s the point?”

    I rarely log in, and when I do, I am immediately overwhelmed with the latest privacy updates, spam from Farmville, or news about the babies of people I haven’t seen since High School, most of whom I hardly talked to much even when I actually saw them daily. The people I actually do talk to on Facebook are the same people I talk to anyway, via chat, text message, telephone, or even face-to-face.

    I post updates even more rarely. In fact, for months my only updates to Facebook have been cross-posts made from other tools, like Twitter or Instagram or Foursquare. So what is the point? I will be deleting my account in a few days. It’s just noise.

  • The Time I Didn’t Meet Steve Jobs

    Posted on October 6th, 2011 Brian No comments

    Everyone has lunch at Caffé Macs on their first day. I was no different. It was exceptionally crowded that day, with a bevy of new hires meandering aimlessly around the cafeteria, overwhelmed by the myriad possibilities for lunch. You could barely hear the person next to you over the din of friendly chatter, clattering plates, and sizzling food. The lines for anything freshly prepared were long, and I opted for a pre-boxed lunch: a caprese sandwich and fruit smoothie.

    After paying came the most daunting task so far: find a place to sit. I had lost track of the friend with whom I had come to lunch, so I just stood for a moment, barely past the cash register, and surveyed a scene of chaos and scarcity. Every seat at every table, both inside and out, was filled. People with trays of food circled the floor, a ravenous look in their eyes – for a seat or their lunch, I wasn’t sure. Chairs were snatched from beneath diners while they were still standing up, and more than once a newly-opening table nearly resulted in a brawl. As I tentatively stepped out into that shark pool, my eyes suddenly landed on an open spot.

    It was a small, four-person table, with four chairs around it. Amazingly, three seats were empty, with only one person sitting quietly in the eye of the hurricane while the storm raged around him. Surely this person wouldn’t mind sharing a couple seats at his table! Without hesitation, I made a beeline for the table.

    As I closed the distance, I had a few moments to actually see who was at the table. He had finished lunch, and he had pushed his chair a bit to the side. His legs were crossed casually as he quietly read. He had salt-and-pepper, scraggly stubble, a balding head, and was wearing jeans and a black sweater.

    I stopped so fast the sandwich nearly slid off my tray and the fruit smoothie almost tipped over. It was Steve Jobs.

    Should I approach his table and ask to join him? Would he care? What if I pretended to not know who he was? Would he be impressed by the courage of a first-day hire, or would I have the shortest career in the history of the company?

    I don’t know exactly how long I stood there staring, but my racing thoughts were interrupted by an incoming text message. My buddy had found a table, and had let me know where it was. I turned, and I walked away from the only chance I would ever have to meet Steve Jobs.

    I keep a small list of regrets: moments and decisions in my life from which I  vow to learn a lesson and not repeat the same mistake again. The time I didn’t meet Steve Jobs is on that list.

    Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

    – Steve Jobs, 1955-2011

  • Twelve Things I’d Rather Do With $30,000 Dollars

    Posted on December 23rd, 2010 Brian No comments

    Hedda and I went to see Second City’s touring company at the Woolly Mammoth Theater last night, for their show entitled A Girl’s Guide to Washington Politics. As always, the show is a blast. The stage was decked out like a Metro platform, complete with red warning lights in the granite that blinked when a train arrived. Highlights included Nancy Pelosi’s Stand-up Schtick (she’s not bitter), the Agony of Todd Palin, and Elena the Opera. Definitely see it if you can – it runs through January 9.

    One moment of disbelief for both Hedda and I, though, was during the Guide to Financial Planning, a hilarious skit where financial advice was proffered to the audience in a sort of Suze Orman meets Mad Money style. The audience was asked if any of them owned a car, and of course most of them did. Then they were asked how much they paid for their cars. Hedda and I nearly fell out of our seats when almost everyone in the room simultaneously blurted, “Thirty thousand dollars!”

    That is a lot of fucking money. And I am sure they were only considering the sticker price. With financing, the real cost of the car could be nearly double. My mind boggles at what they’re paying after factoring in fuel, insurance, maintenance, parking. So, since we are a car-free household, here is a list of things I would rather spend $30,000 on:

    1. Twelve 55″ HDTVs,
    2. Eleven bottles of 1958 Glen Garioch whisky,
    3. Ten solar panels,
    4. Nine top-secret smart phones,
    5. Eight 450-year-old bibles,
    6. Seven nights in a beach house,
    7. Six home micro-breweries,
    8. Five golden rings!
    9. Four years of college,
    10. Three trips to Europe,
    11. Two life-sized gingerbread houses,
    12. Or a savings bond worth $34,848.50 in five years.

  • Write Like No One is Reading

    Posted on December 15th, 2010 Brian No comments

    I haven’t blogged much lately. My employment has taken away my ability to talk publicly on most technical topics of interest to me, and my interest in engaging in public political debates has waned as I’ve grown more disaffected with the futility and destructiveness of the national political discourse. Local politics still holds interest, although since refocusing my efforts onto my software career and our new home I have had less energy for direct involvement or thought on all but the issues that most directly affect my daily life (e.g. rats in the alley).

    When I first started blogging, it was with the intention of keeping a dairy of interesting thoughts, but in a public way. Such a digital talking-out-loud helps me to crystalize incomplete ideas into cogent concepts. I want to get back to that.

    But I need to deal with something first: comments. I’ve had comments on here since the beginning. Comments are traditionally seen as necessary for a good blog – a way to foster discussion between the writer and readers. At first, that seemed true, as I would often engage in heated debates with the commenters on the topic at hand. Later, my comments morphed into defense or further explanation of an opinion I held. These days, I barely took notice of the comments, except for the rare occasion where a long-lost friend would choose a random post comment as a way to re-connect.

    One might say I have become set in my thinking as I have aged, but going back and reading even the best threads here has convinced me otherwise: Rather than being useful discussions, they were merely naive passion-fueled debates between uninformed parties – full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing. They added little, but took time and energy that is in short supply. Perhaps most damning, though, is that they didn’t serve my purpose here.

    So I am taking back my blog. I have disabled comments, and from here on I will write for myself, like no one is reading.

    And who cares, really? This is just some backwater blog on the ass-end of the Internet, and the comment threads were never really that good. It might be just a symbolic move, but symbols matter. And if you have an opinion you would like to share or feedback to give, then you know how to reach me. We can talk about it in a more personal manner.

  • Mentally Girding Up To Get Groped

    Posted on November 14th, 2010 Brian No comments

    I’m on a bus to the airport at the moment, and I’ve been reading plenty about the new security scanners at the airport. I have been subjected to them in the past, but I have since been vowing to opt-out of them if I were selected to go through them.

    But the TSA really, really wants us to go through them. After spending hundreds of millions of dollars on a technology with marginal gains, they had better use them! So to *ahem* “encourage” folks to not opt-out, they have instituted a new We’re-Gonna-Feel-You-Up policy. That is, if you opt out of the insane invasion of privacy the scanners represent, of if you don’t want a picture of your naked body stored by some nameless agent (as has happened in several cases where operators have intentionally or unintentionally stored the near-naked pictures of passengers’ bodies despite assurances that such a thing could never, ever happen), then you will be subjected to the most humiliating, groin-rubbing, feel-coppin’ pat-down they can muster as a punishment.

    That’s what passes for security in our airports now. I have to choose between a naked body-scan or some guy rubbing my penis to make sure it isn’t a bomb. And Osama bin Whoseitsfuck is laughing his ass off.

    UPDATE: Well, I didn’t get groped because there were no full-body scanners at the security station I went through. They did take my razor, though, so now I can’t shave. They’re 3/10 on finding them, though, so I’ll keep trying.

    Location:I-294 N