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Misplaced Ideas from Gate 9 v.1

Now boarding…
I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll say it many times again, but modern airtravel is so weird. (if you’re just here for the paradox, skip five paragraphs down…)

Gate 9 Lounge I arrived two hours early for my 7pm takeoff; I didn’t want to be rushed and I miscalculated rush hour traffic.

Listening to right-wing talk radio on the way here… How did Republicans ever convince poor people to vote for them? This smacks of wide scale mind control, the greatest doublethink and spin in political history.

I’m headed to Illinois for a work conference, a digital media extravaganza… promoted with a subpar website and crappy email blasters… I’m not expecting much. But first of course, is the Hooverville Castrofuck of going home. Oy vey.

Word Problems Friends in Chicago, friends I haven’t seen in ages, want to meet up for drinks. I’m now at the age where my age is overcoming my awkward social phobia, the age where I’m willing to risk a horribly strained three hours of ‘chitchat’ with people I haven’t known in a lifetime rather than allow these decades-old co-constructed memories to be my burden alone. The only thing I hate more than not knowing what to say is knowing you used to have so much to say, and the only thing worse than that is the lack of back-channeled response from your solitary mind.

I’m always thinking epidemiology when I’m in the air. And I’ll freely admit it, it’s completely due to watching 12 Monkeys in my formative years. Air travel -> epidemiology -> network theory. And I’m in luck this week, because there’s been a helluva lot of network work going down. Which brings me to the Hidden Prize of this post, the *Friendship Paradox*. This is version 1. If you’re here, its because someone thought you were a Well Connected & Linguistically Imitable Person. Thanks for playing. Now just pass this post to six of your most Well Connected and Linguistically Imitable friends. The game closes at 1am on October 1st.

Speaking of People Who Should Be My Friend(s), there’s this guy,

Paul Charles, the “Gay Comic Geek”. He and I should totes be besties.
http://gaycomicgeek.blogspot.com/

And while the fingers of my social networks are reaching out to many diverse nodes, The fingers of my work-life continue to be in many pies; 2010 will be a year of great attempts, even if it may end with but few accomplishments.

MathThe airport Air travel is so completely non-standard. $2 for one hour of Internet access? Sure! $3 for a tiny bag of chips? Sure! Buy three and call it dinner! The seating equivalent of canvas-webbed lawn chairs you dug out of your parents garage 10 years ago to use as cheap college housing furniture? Luxe! $5 for a premium(ish) vodka cape cod? Su— oh, wait a minute, thats not too bad.

Even my sexual standards go haywire during air travel. The early-40s elementary school music teacher / executive mamma’s boy sitting diagonally from me isn’t remarkably attractive in the least,yet I’ve been fantasizing for the last ten thousand feet about fucking his brains out in the lav, just because he’s the best thing in view, and this is currently a closed set. Meh. Nice feet, anyway.


End of Summer Letter to Straight Men

And by the way…. Thanks, Straight Guys, for taking your shirts off this summer. Now, if we could work on ditching those board-shorts in favor of something smaller and tighter, that would be great. Just for the record, I want you to know that I am watching you, eyeing you, ogling you. “Just because I’m gay, that doesn’t mean I want to jump you”… that’s a lie. I do want to jump you (or have you jump me, either way). And, yes, I’m thinking about it right now, as I am every time you walk past me, on the beach, out my window, in the locker room.

I’m thinking impure thoughts as you glisten past me not just because it’s summer and we’re all a little twitterpated, but in a show of solidarity with each and every one of my sisters, mothers, aunts, and nieces, lady-friends and elementary-school teachers that you’ve eyed already today.

Just so you know, you’re someone’s dirtymeat, too.

Aaaaand were landing…My ear is now popped, or rather, won’t pop? Which is the baseline state? This is gonna drive me nuts. Air travel is so weird.


Connecting Flights of Fancy

Another nail in the evo-psych coffin, from my perspective: bees remember human faces

Ahh… face tats: ugly?

The sweetness of self-control: your brain on glucose

Genius Perverts: heh.

Birdshit Coffee Blues.

7:00am, Tuesday, August 10th

Wake up. Where am I? Where’s that damn alarm? Wait. There is no alarm. FUCK! WHAT TIME IS IT? I over­slept, I slept through my alarm again, ohf­uckohfu­ckohfuck. What am I gonna tell the boss?

“Yeah, sry…

  • there was a wreck on the interstate.
  • I got a flat tire.
  • I was up all night with family problems; I’d rather not talk about them.
  • The roof of my house caved in last night.
  • Our furnace exploded.

Yeah, so that’s why I’m late for work today…”

Or I guess I could just—wait. It’s 7:02. Is it nighttime? Did I just wake up from a nap? 7:03 on Thursday, August 5th. What day was it when I went to sleep? Wed­nes­day? Okay, so it was Wed­nes­day and now it’s Thurs­day. Not a nap. It’s morn­ing. Is it morn­ing? Check out­side. Yes, it’s morn­ing. Oh, oh okay. Good. So— Ahh…. I’m not late for work. I woke up on time, with­out my alarm. I am awe­some. I am Clock­work Man. 7:05am—BRRRRRIIII­INNNNNGGGG!!!! BBRRRRIII­IINNNNGGGG!!! Oh shit, where’s my alarm?

7:07am
GAH!!! MY LEG!!!! RUB IT OUT, RUB IT OUT!!! Eff­ing stu­pid leg cramps! Eff­ing stu­pid! Gah! That hurts! Did I twist it weird? Why do I have a leg cramp first thing upon wak­ing up? Oh, crap, this is pun­ish­ment. This is god’s way of tell­ing me he’s so not cool with what I did last night. Aw, hell.

Wait, I total­ly don’t be­lieve in god and even if I did, I don’t be­lieve that god would ex­act pun­ish­ment in the form of a morn­ing leg crap. OWIE! OWIE! OWIE! IT HURTS SO BAD! Oh­em­gee, this is a sign of dis­ease. I’m sick. Oh god, what kind of sick­ness causes mas­sive leg cramps? Toxo­plas­mo­sis? Oh fuck, I have toxo­plas­mo­sis! Wait, isn’t that cat AIDS? Oh god, do I have cat AIDS? No, that’s… no. Cat AIDS is just AIDS that a cat gets, and I don’t even have a cat. So what’s toxo­plas­mo­sis, then? Oh yeah! It’s cat-­scratch fever! Duh. Kitty-­poopoo-­scratch-­dis­ease. I to­tal­ly don’t have that. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, it must be leuk­emia, then. I have to quit smok­ing. My insur­ance hasn’t even kick­ed in yet! I’ve given my­self leuk­emia from smok­ing and this leg cramp is the first sign… of… wait. That doesn’t sound right. May­be this is just a leg cramp. What time is it? Not yet 10 past 7, my back up alarm hasn’t even beeped yet. I am Clockwork Man. Ooo! Imma make coffee!

7:13am
I can’t believe we’re out of coffee.
Okay, almost 7:15, need to be at work by 9am, in line for coffee by 8:45, leave the house by 8:20, I should be get­ting dressed by 8:00, in the shower by 7:45. It’s all about timing. Oh, hey, I can just heat up this iced coffee from yester­day. Yester­day? Day be­fore yester­day? What­ever, it’ll be fine. It’s all about timing. Timing, timing, timing… I am Clock­work Man. And now that I’ve found a tiny dash of morn­ing coffee, I have time for morn­ing face­book. 28 minutes of time, in fact…

7:22am
Note to self: heating old iced coffee is not de­lic­ious. Meh.

7:45am
Time to shower.

Ahhh…..

7:58am
Glance at the clock—Oh, heck yea, I’m good. Clock­work Man has struck againnnnnn­nnnrrrrrrrgggggb­blurrblugbha. oh. that was werrrr­ggggllluuu­mmmbbbub­hbubh. oh. shit. bathroom. now.

What the hell did I eat last night? Oh yeah, beer and bu­rritos. Maybe that iced coffee was old­er than I thoughghgh­gtlvlvvwulwul­wulbbulh. oy vey. Well, this was un­scheduled. Regard­less, Clock­work Man will per­sev­ere…

8:42am
Eff me, I should be at the coffee shop by now. Where the hell is that other sock?

8:49am
Clockwork Man, by ds bighamTen min­utes to get to work. And this clock is 3 or 4 min­utes fast, so real­­ly, I’ve got plen­­ty of time. I can swing by the coffee shop, final­­ly get some g-d- coffee, get to work, and be at my desk be­fore the boss makes his morn­­ing round. I’ll tech­­nic­al­­ly be may­be a coup­le min­utes late, but no one will no­tice.
I am Clock­­work Man. I can make this work.

8:50am

Traffic? Are you kid­ding? There’s never traff­ic after 8:30; every­one’s at work. Do I still have time for coffee? Well, real­ly, do I have time for the bitch-head­ache I’ll have if I don’t get my coffee? No, sir. Clockwork Man can make this work.

8:55am
And there’s a red light. Coffee or not? Coffee or not? I mean, at this point I’m go­ing to be late regard­less, so… might as well have a tang­ible rea­son for it.

8:57am
There’s a line? There’s never a line. There’s never a line be­cause I’m never here this late. May­be I should leave.

9:01am
I should have left. This is beyond ridic—”Oh, hi, yes, double ameri­cano with hazel­nut and soy. Yeah, thanks.”

. . .
. . .

. . .

And now you finally have your coffee, it’s 9:05am and you’re un­deni­ably late for work, but you’re on your way and you have your coffee. You’re walk­ing across the mani­cured park­ing lot of the quasi-cor­por­ate coffee shop, smug­ly satis­fied with you­r­self be­cause even though this morn­­ing hasn’t gone as you’d hoped, you know no one will chal­lenge Clock­work Man on being 10 or 15 minutes late to work, and you’re just about to your car when *PLOOOP*… A bird shits in your coffee.

Before you can think you’ve poured off the top third—the con­tamin­ated third—of the liquid and you’re ask­ing your­self if the 5-second rule applies as well to bird­shit in coffee as it does to cookies on the kitchen floor. You know it doesn’t, but still hesi­tate, list­ing all the poss­ible dis­eases you can get from bird­shit in coffee, or at least the dis­eases you’ve con­vinced your­self you can get, the dis­eases you have to con­vince your­self you would get or you might just try to drink it any­way.

Birdshit definitely has cat AIDS.

You are Clockwork Man; you don’t need cat AIDS right now.

Notes from Under the Ground, part two.

This is Part II of my re-telling of Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Under Ground” (Click here for Part I). This is as far as I got; I may or may not get back to it one day. Enjoy.

-doug


Part II.

Now, kids, what I want to tell you, whether you’re listening or not, is why I couldn’t even be a bitch. Honestly, there were plenty of times I wished I could be a bitch. But the wish never came true. Really, kids, I now know that being connected—“plugged in” as we used to call it—is a disease, an honest-to-goodness, DSMV-worthy, give it a name and a pill-regiment disease. Ordinary human connections would be more than sufficient for ordinary human needs—hell, we could do well on even 1% of the amount of information coming at a modern person living in this apathetic 21st century, especially to one who lives in a wifi hot-city like Austin, the most halfheartedly connected and techolusting city in the Western World (sure, there more connected cities, but I don’t live in them…those poor s.o.b.s…). It would have been perfectly fine, for example, to have only the limited knowledge and connections that those exciting and lively “good guys” have. You probably think I’m writing this for attention or to make fun of these “good guys”, that I’m just clanging out, like that customer who clanged into his cell phone. But come on, kids, no one could possibly want to expose their darkside just for that dwindling 15 minutes of fame, could they?

Stupid question. Of course, everyone does it all the time; people love their darksides, and I probably love mine more than anyone. Whatever, it’s a moot point. Anyway, still, I stand by my notion that not only is being overly connected a disease, but so is being connected at all (technologically connected, of course… I’m not so grim as to advocate extreme isolationism and hermitage-founding!). It’s true. But whatever, moving on, back to the point. This is what I want to know: why was it that, at the very moment that I was becoming aware enough to “think globally and act locally” to “respect and value the differences” (as we, or they, used to say), that I gave up? That, in fact, I became even more wasteful and biased and… common? I was really awful. I mean, maybe I was no more awful than anyone else, but why was it always that I wanted to be most awful, do the most inappropriate thing, at exactly the moment when I knew I shouldn’t? The more aware I was on how to “act globally” and “respect the differences” the more awful and biased I became; the further I slipped into the despised sludge and the more I felt I really might belong down there. But it wasn’t just a coincidence or a moment of heightened clarity brought about by the juxtapositions of proper and desired actions; rather, it was like it was all coming along naturally… pre-determinedly. It was as if this were just me finally realizing who “me” really was; this was the real me. It wasn’t that my sickness (or depravity or general fuckedup-ed-ness) caused these dark thoughts, they were at the deepest levels of “me”; I had finally worn off the shiny skin veneer to see the truth beneath. Once I realized this, I stopped fighting it. I believed (or very nearly believed) that this was my most true self—this was living honestly. Oh but the horror (the horror!) before I came to that conclusion. It was awful! I thought that surely no one else was going through this, no one else suffering like me, alone like me. I was alone, but to keep from being utterly alone, to take solace in even the simple daily b.s. that people go through, I knew I had to hide it. My shameful awful secret. I even reached a point where I felt a kind of abnormal normalcy; a revolting pleasure in returning home at night to my little east side hovel, hyper-aware that I had once again committed some (or multiple) loathsome act(s) that I could never take back, acutely aware of the ramifications. I couldn’t take it back, I couldn’t apologize or volunteer enough to ever erase the scars I left behind me (even if they were “death of a thousand paper cuts”), and it ate at me, turned me against myself, tore me inside out, devoured every moment of me until at last the bitter bean was pressed into a rich shame and, at last!, actual satisfaction and pleasure. That’s right, actual happiness! Pride, even!

…Really. I’m telling the truth. I’m telling you this because I really want to know if other people do this, too, do others feel the wretched ecstasy as I do? Let me explain. The enjoyment was really just from the intense awareness of my own filth; from the feeling that I had finally gone completely over-the-top, that I had (in jock parlance) “hit the wall”; that I was absolutely wretched. But it could never change; you had no other choice—it’s just who *you* are. And even if you could change, would you really want to? And, supposing you actually did effect that change, what would that really mean, what would you change into? But back to the main point—this is all happening beyond your control; all happening according to some inherent natural pre-determined path brought about by your awareness and connectedness and the suffocation pressing down as a unique and unavoidable consequence of them. Therefore, not only can a person not change, but he (or she or shle) can’t do much of anything at all. Therefore, it also follows, as the logical outcome of this awareness and glut of information, that you have every right to be completely awful (as if this consolation really mattered anyway). But whatever… Ugh. I’ve been rambling. I still haven’t really explained anything, have I? How can I explain this… pleasure…? But explain it I will! I’ll sally on until it makes sense. That is, after all, why I’m typing these words now.

For example, I’m awfully proud of myself. I’m as mistrusting and sensitive as a rape-survivor (victim?); but, there have been times when, if someone would have decked me, I probably would have been grateful for it. For real. I would have gotten some weird kick out of it—the thrill of despair, naturally, but aren’t all the best thrills those that come from despair, especially when you’re incredibly conscious of the good chance it could go from bad to worse at any minute? And that’s just for getting punched. Imagine the sick-joy overload if I would have really gotten beaten up; getting my teeth kicked into the curb might have been orgasmic! Whatever. The point is, I’m always the first one people blame and I’m almost always completely innocent when they do—I’m only following my nature, after all. If anything, the only thing I’m guilty of is being smarter than most everyone else around me. (I know it’s not very humble of me, but I am generally smarter than most people around me. It can be embarrassing. But confrontation is even worse.) Finally, I’m blamed because if there really is any altruism left in me, it only would have highlighted the wretchedness and made me feel even more guilty because I know that altruism is completely useless. The altruism would do nothing for me anyway. I couldn’t forgive someone who punched me; he (she/shle) was just acting out off his (her/shler) nature anyway, same as me, and you can’t really “forgive” bad breeding; and even if you could forgive it, you still would have gotten hit, and it would have hurt all the same. Finally, even if I wanted to “fight back” or seek revenge, I couldn’t do it. I never *do* anything. Why not? Let’s start a new section for that one…

Notes from under the ground…

A while back, I decided to re-write Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground. This is this first part. Enjoy, dear readers, enjoy.

-doug


Part I.

I am depressed. … You don’t know me. I am spiteful and alone. I think I have social anxiety disorder. Or maybe not. I don’t know. I’m not in therapy; I’ve never even been to an analyst, though I believe in modern medicine and think everyone could use a little counseling. I’m incredibly superstitious—enough to believe in psychopharmocology at least. (I shouldn’t be superstitious, I have a degree for chrissake, but still, I am.) No, kids, I don’t go to therapy because I don’t want to. You probably won’t understand. You don’t know me, and that’s okay. I can’t really say why I don’t want to go to therapy; the therapists (whom I’m not seeing, but spiting nonetheless) certainly don’t care. I know very well that I’m only hurting myself. Still, if I won’t seek counseling, it’s out of my lonely spitefulness. I’m depressed? Good! Let me wallow in my despair!

Working It I’ve been like this for a while—fifteen years at least. I’m thirty now. I used to work in the service industry. But not now. I was a nasty StarBucks boy. I was haughty and mean and I liked it. After all, since I didn’t get tips, at least I had to get something out of it. (That was a dumb line, but I’ll leave it in. I wrote it thinking it would be fun and sardonic, but now, realizing that I only wanted to show off my jaded-coolness, I’ll deliberately not delete it.) When customers used to arrive at the front of the line and ask me what kind of bagels we had, I’d frown and snarl and feel such joy if I managed to make them feel small. It always worked. Mostly they were just bland student-types: naturally, since they were in a coffeeshop. But among the fops, there was a certain customer whom I really hated. He simply refused to be bothered, and he always clanged into his cellphone in a loathsome way. I argued with him about that cell phone for over a year. I won eventually; he stopped clanging. This was a while ago, though, back in my college days. But do you know, kids, why I was so spiteful? The whole thing, the worst part, was that I was shamefully aware every time, even the times when I was at my most horribly rude and condescending, that not only was I not spiteful, but I wasn’t really sad or lonely either, and that I was just spitting on frogs to no effect and making myself feel better by doing so. I was blue with contempt, but just flashy a shiny gadget at me or let me smoke a cigarette and I’d have calmed down. I would have been shyly overjoyed, though I’d probably have snarled out of embarrassment and then given myself an ulcer for the next month worrying about it. That’s just how I am.

4-D Doug I was lying just now when I said I was a nasty barista. I lied out of spite. I was just taking a jab at the customers, but I could never really become spiteful. I’ve always been hyper-aware of so many facets of me that are just the opposite. I could feel them gurgling within me, these contradictions. I knew they were bubbling deep down inside me my whole life, just waiting to bust out, but I kept them inside, yes I did, I kept them there on purpose. They picked at me, embarrassed me; they drove me to fits and—and finally I was sick of them, oh how I was sick! Perhaps, kids, it may seem to you that I’m confessing something, asking for forgiveness or absolution for something? That’s probably how it seems… But seriously, I don’t care…

Not only couldn’t I really be spiteful, I couldn’t be anything. Not nasty, not helpful, neither a great guy nor a bastard; neither a bitch nor a hero. Now I spend my days in my little room, needling myself with the pointless notion that intelligent people can never really be anything and that only idiots can become something. It’s true. The burden of intelligence in the 21st century can only be, must only be (because he’s painfully aware of much too much) a whitewash imitation of a person, a character without character; a “good guy”, a person you’d want to hang out with, is a fundamentally stupid being. That’s 30 years’ wisdom. I’m 30 now, and 30, after all, is an entire lifetime; it’s positively old age. It’s awful to live past 30. It’s showy, immature! Who really lives past 30? Honestly? Really? Who? You know who? Only idiots and jerks. I’ll tell them, I don’t mind. I’ll walk right up and tell it to their faces, all those respected geezers, all those silver-haired and well groomed foggies! I’ll tell them all! And I can say it, I have a right to say it, because I will live well past 90! Maybe even 100, or 150! … Whoa, I’m getting to excited…

By now, kids, you probably think I’m kidding—trying to make you laugh. You’re wrong. You don’t know me. I’m not the humorist I appear to be, or might seem to be; however, if you’re getting bored (and I know that you are), and if you want to know who I really am, then I’ll tell you: I’m someone with a degree who still works in a coffeeshop. I work so I can pay my bills and watch my cable TV (and that’s all); and last year, when grandma died and left me my monstrous inheritance, I walked out in the middle of my shift, and immediate bought my one room condo. I used to rent and now I own. It’s a run down, dirt-hole on the sketchy east side of town. I have a cleaning lady (an angry immigrant woman with an accent who’s spiteful out of stupidity). Everyone says that this area, my corner of town, is getting worse yet somehow even more expensive given my fixed and limited means. I know that; I know it far better than the 3rd wave white-flighters and hipster incomers. But I’ll stay right here; I will not leave the east side! I won’t leave here because… Fuck it. Who cares if I stay here or not?

So then, what can a good person talk about with any real joy?

Himself (or herself, or shlerself, or shimself or whatever).

So, let’s talk about me.

Singular Now


The Singularity is coming…


…or so says Ray Kurzweil.

And while technicians, sci-fi writers, and futurists quibble over the details of the Singularity, within these we find that fundamental questions remain unasked—questions so integral to Singularity Studies that, until they are answered, each talking point amounts to little more than piss in the theoretical river. I’ll get around to those questions in a minute, but first, what is the Singularity, exactly?

A recent Singularity Go-To Guide on io9.com states:

The term singularity describes the moment when a civilization changes so much that its rules and technologies are incomprehensible to previous generations. Think of it as a point-of-no-return in history. ¶ Most thinkers believe the singularity will be jump-started by extremely rapid technological and scientific changes. These changes will be so fast, and so profound, that every aspect of our society will be transformed, from our bodies and families to our governments and economies.

Likewise, the Wikipedia entry Technological Singularity:

Technological singularity refers to a prediction in Futurology that technological progress will become extremely fast, and consequently will make the future (after the technological singularity) unpredictable and qualitatively different from today. … ¶ Theoretically, if a machine built by humans could bring to bear greater problem-solving and inventive skills than humans, then it could design a yet more capable machine. If built, this more capable machine then could design a machine of even greater capability. These iterations could accelerate, leading to recursive [machine-based] self improvement. … ¶ It is alternately suggested that a singularity could come about through amplification of human intelligence to the point that the resulting transhumans would be incomprehensible to their purely biological counterparts.

And going back to Kurzweil’s original definition (taken from the Wikipedia entry on Kurzweil’s 2005 book The Singularity is Near):

Kurzweil first defines the Singularity as a point in the future when technological advances begin to happen so rapidly that normal humans cannot keep pace, and are “cut out of the loop.” Kurzweil emphasizes that this will have a profound, disruptive effect on human societies and on everyday life, and will mark the end of human history as we know it. In place of normal humans, Strong Artificial Intelligences and cybernetically augmented humans will become the dominant forms of sentient life on the Earth.

So, in a quick, extrapolated, digested summary, the Singularity is a time/point when most of the following will (have) be(come) true:

  • Technological advance is so rapid that normal humans can’t keep up (though transhumans are probably okay with it);
  • The political and economic structure of the pre-Singularity world (heh… the Pluralistic World) has been destroyed by the Singularity and *something new* has taken their place;
  • The social structure of the world exists in a manner previously unknown (i.e., lacking a good deal of the Universal Features of Human Culture)

Sounds reasonable enough, right? Sound like a good old-fashion testable scientific hypothesis, right? Maybe not. At least one major question has been left unaddressed, namely…

Will we recognize the Singularity when we see it?

Humans are notoriously bad at predicting the future—most predicted futures are little more than gussied-up present-days; is there any reason that our predictions for the world of the Singularity should be any different?

When I was a kid in the early 1990s, AT&T did a series of commercials—the “You Will” ad campaign—about what the amazing AT&T-jet-pack enabled future would look like. At the time—less than 20 years ago, mind you—everything they showed us seemed unimaginably far-off, like an honest-to-dirt Star Trekian future. I finally found those commercials on YouTube recently, and, well… see for yourself:

Rewatching them now, is there anything in “You Will” that still feels like The Future? Most of that showcased technology now seems beyond commonplace, bordering on clunky, old, and antiquated. Again, this was less than 20 years ago. As quoted on io9, of the coming Singularity, MIT Research Scientist Rodney Brooks said:

“The lives of our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be as unrecognizable to us as our use of information technology … would be incomprehensible to someone form the dawn of the twentieth century.”

But because each of these generations coexists alongside one another, what may be Singularity-like advances as understood by the younger generations would a priori be misinterpreted by older generations. After all, how could anyone be expected to recognize something that’s by definition unrecognizable? Is there any greater hubris than to believe we would comprehend the fundamentally incomprehensible?

Which brings us to a second question: How should we demarcate the pre- & post- Singularity worlds from each other? Or, in other words, when has the Singularity arrived? Has the singularity arrived when the first forays into post-Singularity type advances occur? Has the Singularity arrived only after technology, government, medical treatment, and society have all advanced to their post-Singularity states? Has the Singularity arrived only after the entirety planet has caught up with itself, or can the Singularity hit different nation-states at different times?

It seems unreasonable to expect to wait for the whole world to catch up before we start hailing the arrival of The Singularity. After all, we’ve been talking about the Information Age for over two decades now, even though many parts of the world still don’t have clean drinking water. I’m not getting on a worldcare soapbox, I’m just pointing out that even with the Singularity we should expect some trickle-down stragglers. Is there then a critical point where >n people need to have been affected by the Singularity before we acknowledge it?

How about the four-part paradigm shift—Technology, Society, Government, Medical—the Singularity will bring? We surely can’t expect to wait for each of these to fall in line before we claim the Singularity is here. Government is notoriously slow to change, the diffusion of medical care relies on a government, which relies on a Society that’s eternally fractured into the more progressive and more traditionalist camps. It seems that Technology will be the first to change, ushering in the other cultural pillars. This is nothing new and is wholly in line with Kurzweil’s outline. But, again, when do we start to describe the world as post-Singular? Only after all four entities catch up? That will likely take much longer than the 35 years we have left before Kurzweil says we’ll be post-Singularity (2045).

So, summing up the major questions… Regardless of where one stands in the Singularity debate, we still don’t have a reasonable answer to whether we’ll notice the change or how the change will proceed. This can be further reduced to saying that while Kurzweil et al. appear to have a good idea of the *post-* Singularity and *pre-* Singularity worlds; they don’t have even a suggestion for what the *intra-*Singularity world might look like. Which brings me to my third point…

The Singularity is already here…
…it landed, hit, happened—whatever—sometime between 2008 and 2009. Sometime around when the supposedly infallible world economies started to collapse, sometime around when Communist China morphed into Capitalism, sometime around when every phone became a smart-phone.

We’ve already moved into the realms of transhumanism, with artificial arms, artificial legs, and artificial eyes. And while these may, for now, be mere single instances—case studies—in transhumanity, that’s my point. What’s the critical level, how many transhumans must we have, before we admit they’re here? [I'd also point out that we post-modern humans are a far cry from our pre- and early-modern brethren in other ways as well].

And what of technology? As the Cybertheorist blog reminds us, the world at large has already hit the Age of the Zettabyte, while here in the U.S., defending the homeland is becoming more about virtual security than geophysical defense. And, as I’ve pointed to in previous posts, current human interaction with technology is both much further reaching and more unlike previous communication analogues than I think we realize.

That is to say, I think we have already reached the age where the older generation doesn’t understand technology or society—at least not in the same ways that their kids and grandkids do. Perhaps rather than debating the Singularity and what the post-Singularity wold will look like, we should start to accept that we’re already living it—the Singularity isn’t near, the Singularity is now.

-doug

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