“I'm sending an SOS to the world...”

(if I don't get a reply I'm gonna feel pretty ripped off.)

So, just like Horatio Cuthbert, the monologuing hero of The Police hit “Message In A Bottle”, I too am now in a position to communicate with the masses even if I have indeed found myself to be a tropical exile. But unlike Cuthbert, I will not be using second-hand glassware that has come into my possession by chance, but rather a sleek, futuristic device that I splurged on, out of total whim and impulse (Thank you also to Pablo, the arctic flightless bird of much knowledge and smiles.)

The ability to communicate over long distance has been something we humans have always desired to do. We've found a myriad of ways and instruments to achieve this end, from the eloquent sounds of Sir Tancred O'Laughlins soliloquy “Bullroarer”, to the sweet melodies of M'kombe Lildwala's “Message To My Girl” But the way I'm most interested is far more in line with the parable rich ramblings of Tyler Spencer, in the legendary “Synthesizer”.

In a day and age where a device's value isn't weighed so much on how well designed it is, but rather on how many functions of day-to-day life that it fulfils, more and more we are finding ways to incorporate gadgetry into our gizmos. We are putting mustard on that mustard, as it were. A few years back Victorinox hit the market with a Swiss Army knife that comprised of the regular assortment of useful implements PLUS A USB DRIVE. This indicator seemed to say that no matter how useful the implement already is, unless it possesses the ability to store massive amounts of data – it’s junk. People communicate with written word transmitted at speeds that make breaking the sound barrier look like a feat achieved in slow motion, and expect to be able to do anything on the move. Eat, read, communicate (I know, how crazy is the last one?)

So now I can travel on public transport, my iPod on and my varied selections playing directly into the eagerly receptive membrane that is my ear drum. In one hand, I have my mobile, frantically texting to people, using language that isn't so much a dialect as a distillation of words down into a semaphore-like arrangement of individual alpha-numerics, and the occasional outburst of punctuation to summon forth an avatar of faked emotions. On my lap, a compact machine that allows me to record my written thoughts and then wirelessly transmit them to the greater world, so that all the others with lifestyles that make them resemble well-dressed cyborgs can read and lol.

If I begin to forego human interaction at the expense of the electronic word, someone must interrupt me as I communicate with my thumbs, and put a magnet to my head for eight seconds. If you then utter the phrase, “That'll do nicely, pig”, I'll get the reference and the injection of pop culture shall restore me to the original factory settings. Which might indeed be a mistake, but it can't be too far a step backwards, especially in contrast to the fleshy automaton that I had become.

That's two posts in a row I've used the word fleshy. Egad.

In contrast though, would a race of cyborgs that are seamlessly integrated into our existing society be such a bad thing? They would still share the right DNA, they would work alongside us, just with the added benefit of being able to interact with our workplace tools on a more even keel. The added familiarity with the IT component of our lives would streamline a great deal of process, reduce the overheads caused by system interruption, and further the culture of in-jokes expressed through binary code. Ultimately, this would lead to a society where we are free to focus on the real issues at hand – the impending crusade against Mars.

Undoubtedly, the Martians dealt with the problem of yuppie cyborgs ages ago, and we're just playing catch-up. They'll be laughing hysterically at us when they see the way we clumsily add more and more devices into our lives as species-wide we suffer this odd form of computer envy. This is why we must trump them, we must do this better than they did. Whether this means an iPhone built into the arm of every man, woman and child, or whether it means Inspector Gadget style mobile telephony (which would be pretty cool), we're going to have to outdo our green/grey nemeses.

Imagine a world where the communications network is not just a bunch of satellites and wires, but composed of the organic web that can only be woven by linking every single person together. Nothing would get by us, we'd stand united. And when we saw a little green man descend from his saucer, trip and tumble down head-first, we'd all be able to share the moment, and laugh the guffaws of the righteous.

Gotta go, I'm getting a call from work on my shoe.

Q: Diamonds Or Pearls? I’m not fussed, it’s all Prince songs to me.
Song For The Day: “Whisper Your Name” by Harry Connick jr

And the dead shall rise...

I got so excited writing about the mythological clash that would be the result of Bob Dylan and Keith Richards crossing paths, I completely forgot about the other member of the Immortals that still walks the lands.

This one is mummified, and has gained the terrifying powers of the lich-priests, as his soul continues on after his body has expired. With the ability to shriek in such a manner as to paralyze his foes with fear, he then consumes their life essence and adds them to the many souls that he has already gathered to help him motivate the dry husk he calls home.

Man, Rod Stewart scares the hell out of me.

“There Can Be Only One!”

But he may have a side-kick…

This week’s post is a belated last week’s post. The reason for the delay can be clearly seen here. I won’t make any bones about it, I spent well over two hours of my life reading that forum thread, and it was two hours or more I’d gladly spend again. THAT GUY BUILT A BATMOBILE. Ahem, sorry. To make up for it, you have some awesome links this time (please check them - that kind of nonsense takes hard work)

!!!

This might mean there is a slim chance of a double-posting in one week, to make up for lost time. The posts will be thrown up in such rapid succession that if you blink, you’d not only miss it, but you’d miss the big headlines in all the major papers and the constant news feeds announcing the event. The zeppelins hoisting giant screens announcing the outrageousness would also sail completely by.

Yeah, it’d be THAT big.

The topic of today’s post is: Mortality. Yes. The Big M. I thought, instead of my usual rants on topics that lurk in the shadows of our culture, and ill-prepared arguments on vaguely heretical themes, we’d talk about something happy and full of rainbows and puppies for once.

More importantly, I want to write about the growing sense of obsoleteness and decay that I’ve begun to experience. This sense has made me question my own mortality – I’m fully aware that I will only last so long, before my joints weaken, my eye-sight fails and my brain becomes a complete lump of raspberry jelly (it’s about 20% there already). What has brought on this impending sense of goo? None other than THE FUTURE. Yes, I met the future. But how?! You say with virtual semaphore – that’s temporally impossible!!!

I hear your temporal impossibility, and I raise it a statistical probability. We’re bound to cross paths sooner or later. There may be a knife-fight, there may just be a sullen sneer – I can’t be sure. But I know where it is. It sits casually on a bracket at Allans Music, languidly relaxing in the company of it’s less advanced siblings, safe in the knowledge that it will survive long after they are defunct and nothing more than expensive firewood.

I am of course referring to the GIBSON ROBOT.

"it's now more machine, than Les Paul...twisted, and evil..."

Sent from the future, the Gibson Robot is here to save us all with it’s precision-built servo’s winding it in to any tuning you desire. It’s high-tech mind allowing it to survey the requirements of a single artist, and within seconds transform it’s tonal array to suit their situation – it is a weapon with no equal. And this is where the mortality issue begins.

With the introduction of such a powerful beast, us fleshy types that get out of tune quicker than you can drink a beer are on the way out. We will be replaced by mechanisms that do not suffer from old age, do not lose their vocal range through repeated stressings of said chords. Stainless steel musicians from the future will take up our fallen instruments and usher in a new era of sonic conquest.

But we will not go quietly. Most of us, sure we’ll fall before the might of the machine, our sinewy forms no match for hard-welded steel. They will thin our ranks in the time it takes to re-string one of our standard issue side-arms. The few who stand will be immune to the ravages of time, and will be able to endure any hardship that environment, enemy or biology throws their way. These people are none other than: The Immortals.

(No, not the group that did the dodgy Mortal Kombat song – rather, people who don’t die!!!)

The first of these, is already amongst us. He has walked the earth for many years, and told us many a parable. His styles are famous, and his rhymes are atrocious. With a vocal tuning not unlike an out of tune guitar himself, he is: BOB DYLAN. Every few decades, Dylan wades into battle, his six-string in hand like a Japanese blade. He will strike down all who come to claim his head, and then retire into the distance, to make another two albums.

So far none have been able to stand before him, but there is one out there he is expecting. A warrior of equal renown and skill, who has walked the earth for decades, seeking a worthy challenge. With a face whose weathered look could not only tell tales, but probably does if you look closely enough, he has seen fashions come and go. He has made come-back after come-back. His body has now all but mummified and he continues his quest through sheer willpower. He is of course, KEITH RICHARDS.

These two icons of the Rock Age will stride into battle, their creaking frames limiting their top speeds, their faces locked into expressions that could only be described as old. Wielding their chosen implements, Dylan shall employ the time honoured “wakizashi” of the folk-hero: the acoustic 'katana' in hand, the ‘tanto’-like harmonica clenched between his teeth. At the same time, Richards strikes a pose, his powered implement held loosely, and his wild hair blowing in the strategic breeze. It would take a well-trained eye to spot he has frozen on the spot, almost as if his bodily functions have at last given up. But that well-trained eye would be a fool – his bodily functions gave up years ago!

And with the dramatic tension that only a slowly-raged battle can elicit, they strike their blows, back and forth. The sky is lit up with the impacts of their weaponry, the rumbling of their collisions sounding like thunder to the primitives, and scaring away and Simon & Garfunkle listeners. This battle rages for an eternity…well, it may. It started about 200 years ago. In the mean-time, they even found time to release new albums.

Two go in…One comes out…

And then there’ll be a farewell tour. Geez. Someone call Messrs Lambert and Connery - we must remove their heads, stat.

Q: Why can’t Bono find what he’s looking for? Because the streets have no names.

Song For The Day: “Hands Open” by Snow Patrol