Protocol 7

I’m interested in ambient interfaces, unobtrusive data, and augmented reality, which is why this video, The Ambient Life, caught my eye over at johnnyholland.org. According to the post, The Ambient Life,

… was created for Freeband, a Dutch research program in which a.o. Philips and Delft University participate. The video tries to show a glimpse of the future they want to see, a future where you are ’surrounded by “intelligent” electronic equipment that can provide almost all of your information and communication needs on demand: an ambient intelligent environment.’

“Sa-weet!” I thought, as I clicked play.

The Ambient Life - have a gander at your future.

I’m jiving along with the peacefully groovy music, ready to pine for a future that isn’t yet here, but gradually, minute by minute, I become more and more alarmed.

When I think about the benefits and possibilities for ambient technologies, I think about weaving them into a world that is safer, more equitable, and more sustainable (if I’m going to envision the future, I’m going to really go for it). I’m waiting for that critical mass at which point our crazy world shifts, hopefully faster than ‘gradually’, to a path that is less insane than the one we are on now.

But this video, this imagined future, projects along our current path with nightmarish force. Security and safety, to the point of exclusion and isolation (I’m almost more interested in what isn’t shown, what kind of world this ambient life is built upon) seem to be primary concerns, and the incident at 2:27 really should have been re-thought, if not for the wtf of it, for the unexplained circumstances and unemotional reactions (I mean, calm and cool under stress is a great quality, but to achieve this level of detachment you need either brainwashing or drugs in the water).

I don’t want this future.

Am I being ridiculous, or do you see it too?

{ fin }

I have a confession to make. It’s the kind of confession that you normally wouldn’t bring up in mixed company, or with people you don’t know very well, but the blank buffer of cyberspace gives me enough false courage that I can talk openly. The whole thing happened a number of months back, but my conscience has been dogging me ever since. I’ve tried to justify the experience by telling myself things like, “But you didn’t know!” or “You were just being polite!”, but in the end these soothing excuses amount to nothing more than a bucket of fail. No one forced me to do it, I did it of my own accord.

I ate a lobster. I ate a lobster while it was still alive.

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The West has always lagged behind Japan when it comes to technological innovation, especially in the realm of robots and heated toilet seats. Humanoid machines and warm bums are indeed exciting, but pale in comparison to the unsung combini (convience store), whose shopping experience Japan has elevated to an artform. And the Pièce de résistance? Canned oxygen.

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I have a new job and a not-so-new car. The car is old, perhaps as old as Japan itself, and is approximately the size of an ice cube, but it is a car nonetheless and for this I am grateful. You don’t need a car to get around in Hamamatsu and the neighboring cities, but unless you have the money for a cab or love urban hiking, the places you can access are limited.

This week I am “training”, in which I accompany the current teacher to various classes, meet the students, and introduce myself. It is also my crash course in navigating the greater Hamamatsu area and driving on the other side of the road. Tuesday was my initiation day, during which my head almost exploded from repeating the mantra “left-side left-side left-side left-side” and trying to decipher stacked traffic lights, effectively interrupting my mantra with, “which one is the signal for this lane?!” every minute or so.

Other than the old lady I almost hit and getting brilliantly lost, I would classify my first day as successful.

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At the grocery store, the watermelons aren’t the big-ass bbq/Fourth-Of-July summer fun fruits they are in the States, but rather perfectly round entities usually tied with bows if not in a special box. And the price tag affixed to these items? Usually $30.00 (all denominations in USD).

Cantaloupes are the same, though usually not as fancily wrapped as the watermelons; small and perfectly round with a price tag of about $20.00.

I was never big on cantaloupes or watermelons (the former I used to grow in my parent’s garden in Michigan, the latter I’d stick its seeds to my forehead with a wish attached to each one, and the last one to fall off was supposed to come true), but seeing as they are so unobtainable here I suddenly feel a need, upon visiting the states, to indulge in a big melon fest (literal).

I left North Carolina Tuesday afternoon amidst a light snow storm. I usually fly American, but this time I was flying Delta because none of the American flights had the right combination of airplanes. At RDU American also has its own terminal (terminal C) dedicated to the entire airline, no sharesies. Terminal A is where all the other airlines cram together in a long line of confusion (I’ve stood in line for the wrong airline more than once). And terminal B appears to be one big baggage claim; I’ve never quite figured it out, though I do have a very vague memory of boarding a ValueJet plane destined for Florida a week before the fateful Everglades crash. So maybe baggage claim and mini-terminals for those ghetto boom-boom flights.

Anyways… the line leading up to the Delta terminal was one of the longest I’ve ever seen, and it consisted entirely of men in uniform (I’m assuming Army, I really don’t know these things). I freaked out since I can’t think straight in airports due to the drugs, and desperately tried to find Delta help. They pointed me to the self-check kiosks that were almost empty. Oops.

I passed out as soon as I got on the plane. I don’t remember takeoff (always a good thing), and didn’t really come to until the beverage people clanked down the aisle. I asked for an apple juice (I always drink apple juice unless I’m getting hammered) but they didn’t have any on the cart (?!?) and so I had to wait. When they brought my apple juice 5 minutes later, a stewardess leaned over and asked, “Miss Mignolo, would you like help with your connecting flight?” and since I can’t hear on planes and have so much xanax in me I can’t make much sense of anything, I say yes, figuring they wouldn’t ask me if the presumed answer was no. Maybe I was about to miss my connection and would to be zipped through the airport on those annoying ass airport-trolleys with the blinking lights that can never go very fast because of all the people, yet they are always trying as if a sliver of possiblity existed in which space would open up and they could just floor it.

We land and everyone begins the usual procedure of deboarding. The superhappy smiling steward and stewardess tell me that I need to wait. I wait until everyone is off, and then the steward helps me carry my luggage off the plane and directs me to a wheelchair. By this point I’m so confused I have absolutely no idea *what* is going on and mutely accept the ride. I couldn’t even get it together enough to ask what malady I was afflicted by. The man who wheeled me to my connecting flight took this intricate series of back hallways and elevators, and would jot things down on a sheet of paper occasionally. Everything was really empty, the superhappy helpful flight crew flashed into my head, and I wondered where I was really going to go. It’s fun to foment conspiracy theories when filled with a healthy dose of xanax - all the fun, none of the freakout. In a very disappointing conclusion, they wheeled me all the way to my connecting flight.

I now have a shortbus story and a wheelchair story. I’ll always wonder why they put me in a wheelchair… applejuice, in the context of Delta, will always be code for “act supernice and wheel them away quickly.” Maybe I was making it up, but I swear they got superhappy nice after I mentioned applejuice; like they were all in on a secret that I unknowingly triggered. Discuss.