tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-97281042024-03-21T19:27:40.204+01:00Don't Be EvilMoral issues, coding guidelines and gossipTobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-73254827414793369742014-10-24T21:58:00.000+02:002016-04-02T11:33:48.425+02:00A storyShe was lying in a shallow ditch in a damp hole in the earth, cut off from her comrades, shivering in the dim light of the full moon.<br />
<br />
The attack had come quickly, like she'd read on Twitter. One minute she'd been running across the grassy hill behind her family's home chasing her little brother, the next she'd been running for cover, fire raining down from the sky, the smell of burning buildings and scorched earth choking her.<br />
<br />
She still didn't know where her brother was. She lifted her head gingerly to peer across the rim of her ditch, expecting a hail of fire at any moment. The fire did not come. A few meters in from of her hiding place she saw one of the insectoid exoskeletons that seemed to have been damaged in the fierce battle ensuing after the attack. The exoskeleton was rocking back and forth, emitting occasional sparks and jerking intermittently.<br />
<br />
She ducked back down, gripped by a deep desire to finally encounter the adversary, to learn the purpose behind the incomprehensible attacks. But she was afraid. So deathly afraid. An icy fear was trickling into her bones, freezing her in place. She started to shiver uncontrollably. "I'm too fucking young for this shit!" she thought to herself.<br />
<br />
Back in fifth grade, there had been that swimming course. She'd had to jump from the high spring board. High up above the water, she'd perched, shivering, gripped by some primal fear, unable to give a name to the nameless horror rooting her to the spot. She'd barely heard the shouts of her gym teacher, or the taunts of her classmates.<br />
<br />
She had jumped after all. She still couldn't put into words why. But she had.<br />
<br />
As soon as you'd let go, things were in motion, and there was nothing you could do any more. Looking back, the instant of decision hadn't been as hard as she'd imagined. From there, everything else had followed naturally.<br />
<br />
Now she remembered the feeling of that moment. A short impulse was all that was needed. The next second she was sprinting across the hill torn open by countless impacts. What had been a softly undulating, grassy slope was now a smoking expanse of brown earth, making her stumble as she sprinted towards the twitching alien machine.<br />
<br />
She slid down next to the hissing, jerking wreck that had been the one of war machines laying waste to her village. She had to know. She had to know why. Why all this destruction? What was the reason? She pulled herself over the mangled war machine until she came face to face with the occupant. Its eyes flickered in her direction.<br />
<br />
She tried to find the words to ask what she so desperately needed to know. "Why—"<br />
<br />
It cut her off, spitting a sequence of hissing and clicking sounds. A small box next to its head squawked the translation.<br />
<br />
"Actually, it's about ethics in journalism."Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-48933722711312012072014-08-08T01:12:00.000+02:002014-08-08T01:12:40.692+02:00A taxi rideI just had a conversation with a taxi driver that made me very uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
"So this guy I know, he drinks a lot. A real lot. And he goes out a lot. I once came across him lying in the street at 10am and I had to wake him up, that's how much he drank.<br />
<br />
"So one day, he wakes up in a bed that's not his own, totally naked next to a dude. Turns out the dude was gay, and they had sex.<br />
<br />
"So he totally freaked out. He took a knife, and he stabbed the guy. He ended up killing him.<br />
<br />
"Now he's in prison. It's been eight years now, and he's still behind bars. That's what alcohol will do to you.<br />
<br />
"Of course, you also gotta pity the other guy."<br />
<br />Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-20236840722092749782014-06-10T15:22:00.001+02:002014-06-10T15:22:05.488+02:00Infinite Monkeys (->tumblr)Hi!<br />
<br />
Ich zocke u.a. mit <a href="http://tante.cc/" target="_blank">tante</a> und <a href="http://danzei.de/" target="_blank">BuzzingDanZei</a> gerade ein <a href="http://storium.com/" target="_blank">Storium</a>-Spiel, das ich "<a href="https://storium.com/game/de-infinite-monkeys" target="_blank">Infinite Monkeys</a>" genannt habe.<br />
<br />
Ich wollte die Episoden hier posten, aber da das Rüberziehen der Inhalte auf hier auf Blogger nur Schmerzen bereitet, habe ich das Ganze auf <a href="http://kluepfel.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">tumblr</a> umgezogen.<br />
<br />
Bussi,<br />
TobyTobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-11176470237678998122013-06-21T17:11:00.001+02:002013-06-21T17:28:28.099+02:00ChoreHis wrists hurt. His back hurt. He couldn't feel his legs and feet. James had been slicing onions for what felt like hours now, and still there was no end in sight.<br />
<br />
He was long past hating Joan for this assignment. At first, he had felt the white-hot rage reserved for the lowest category of assholes, for sadistic fucks that get kicks out of other people's misery. But that had long since been washed away by the burning in his eyes, by the endless flood of tears, and had given way to a dull determination to make Joan pay for this, a dark black sphere of steely resolve that throbbed in rhythm with his lower back.<br />
<br />
Keeping a sip of water in his mouth had helped, a little, at first. But try having the same mouthful of water for 15 minutes, and anybody would prefer burning eyes, he was sure. He'd made his worst mistake after the first half hour, when he had unthinkingly rubbed his eyes. His left eye had still not fully opened back up yet.<br />
<br />
The knife was nice, though. A slick, ultra-modern applicance from some robotics manufacturer he'd heard of once, in the news. Something to do with home automation. He hated that modern crap, but he had to admit the knife had a nice balance. As soon as he'd picked it up, it had greeted him in a voice he assumed had been recorded by some highly paid TV actor, and focus group tested all to hell and back for maximum comforting effect. It sounded like a damn televangelist. He'd told it to shut the fuck up after the first sentence.<br />
<br />
He continued slicing, caught in the kind of trance that only repetetive, brainless work will put you into. Hindbrain work, he called it. Not the kind of work he enjoyed. He was accustomed to using a keyboard, and sitting in a comfortable chair. He had no idea why that asshole had told him to go slice a metric fuckload of onions. Her nonchalant visage flashed in front of James, in the perfect clarity that only angry hindsight could give you. "It's no big thing," she'd said, "everybody takes turns chopping up the onions." Sure, it wasn't part of his normal job, but then again, he was new and didn't want to go against the boss in his first month at work. This must be some kind of hazing ritual. What a jerk.<br />
<br />
There was a gentle knock, and Lisa peeked around the door. When she saw James, her eyes widened in shock. "Christ, what the hell happened to you?"<br />
"What do mean, what happened to me? I've been chopping these bastard onions for forever now, just like Joan told me."<br />
Lisa's hand shot to her mouth. "Oh god. You've been actually physically chopping them with your hands."<br />
"What? Are you kidding me? How would I chop them otherwise?"<br />
Lisa stepped up to the table, and put her hand on his knife hand. "Here, let me." She held the knife up, examining it. "Oh, you put it in standby," she said. "OK Knife, chop those onions." A green dot of LED light winked on at the base of the knife's handle. Lisa put the knife down, which started to hang in the air above the chopping board. She then grabbed an onion, and laid it down next to the knife. Immediately, the knife hacked the onion into two halves, then started dicing the halves into tiny, mathematically precise cubes.<br />
<br />
"Jesus, Jim," Lisa said, "didn't anybody ever tell you you've got to let the knife do the work?"Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-86429414194123153412013-05-05T21:18:00.000+02:002013-05-05T21:39:01.733+02:00Rest<span style="font-family: inherit;">"ご主人さん"</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl's voice jars the warrior out of his stupor. He does not recall how long he has been sitting in the half-dark chamber, staring into the remains of the fire in the centre of the room. He recognises the girl by her voice, but even if he didn't, he would recognise her by the wrong honorific. A bit too irreverent, not respectful enough. If he were to discipline her for this insult, nobody could object. Then again, nobody can object to anything he does. After all, he is part of the army that conquered this village.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Everybody hates him. But their good manners still make them treat him like a dignitary. No, not their good manners. Their fear. Except for the girl. She is all of eight years old, and the only member of the household that has taken him in who openly shows her dislike. The others cower and bow in fear, even though it was their idea to offer their bed chamber to a warrior from the invading army, in the hopes of preferential treatment. And it is true, those families who put up soldiers have a better chance of surviving the winter.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As long as their guests behave themselves.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"主人さん、ご飯はできました"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He realises she is waiting for his permission to enter. He grunts. The door slides open. She is kneeling outside, a tray in front of her, with covered bowls of soup and rice.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"いらん。出ていけ" he barks at her. She does not flinch at his gruff dismissal, like she did yesterday. Instead, she shuffles forward, pushing the tray of food until it sits next to him on the tatami mats. He ignores it.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Staring into the embers of the fire, images from the last weeks flash unbidden before his eyes. Images of gore and blood, of death, of bodies lying by the wayside. Crows picking at still warm corpses.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Listlessly, he removes the cover from the bowl of soup. A small cloud of steam wafts up. It smells of miso and seaweed. The aroma should make him salivate, but the taste in his mouth is of ashes and death. There was a time when he could enjoy food. There is a tingling pain in his nose as tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"お邪魔します"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her reappearance jerks him out of his thoughts. He did not notice her leave, but now she's kneeling outside the room again. As their eyes meet, she drops her eyes, and bites her lower lip. What a sorry sight he must present. Welcoming the distraction from his thoughts, he watches her as she scrapes the ashes out of the fireplace and replenishes the coals. Then she sees the uneaten food, and wrinkles her nose.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"お召し上がりになりませんでした"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"いらんって言っただろう。出ていけこんヤロー!", he barks, irritated.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Taking the tray, she leaves, shuffling backwards on her knees and closing the sliding door behind her. He hears her stand up, then a window being opened. The sound of soup being poured on the ground outside. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So they do not even want his leftovers. Maybe they are too afraid. He does not care. He has not seen any of the residents of this house after they offered him this little chamber. Except for the girl.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His thoughts drift to images of other little girls. Crying. Dying. Dead. To atrocities he has seen. Atrocities he has committed. His gaze falls on a bit of coal that has dropped out of the fire. Without thinking, he puts his bare foot on it.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Immediately, a sharp burning pain shoots up from the sole of his foot, up his calf. He does not move his leg. The pain is all he feels. The images are gone. The ember of coal fades beneath his foot. A smell of scorched flesh wafts up to his nose. The pain fades.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">More images. This time of a burnt village, of smouldering corpses. The same roast pork smell. He is caught in his living nightmares. This time, he does not attempt to hold back the tears. He does not know how to escape this living hell.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some time later, the girl reappears. Her eyes widen at the sight of his injured foot, and she scurries out of the room, to reappear minutes later with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. To his amazement, she kneels down and starts washing his burn wound. He is too weary to stop her. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"なぜだ"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His question goes unanswered. He wants an explanation, a reason for her behaviour. Instead, she looks away and shakes her head slightly. She continues to clean his wound. Her touch is soothing, a long-missed bit of human contact. He leans back and allows himself to relax. We she is finished, she takes the dirty rag and the bowl outside, but leaves the door open. Soon, she reappears with another tray of food, which she puts down next to him.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"お召し上がり下さい"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He is not even annoyed by the slightly too impolite address any more. He just shakes his head, then moves to turn his body away from her.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"もう食べなさいよ"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is not polite at all. Instead, it is what a mother would say to an annoying child. The rudeness surprises and angers him. His head snaps around and his eyes lock on hers. She meets his gaze, her lower lip trembling. Her eyes start to fill with tears, but she still does not look away.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"食べてください"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A little more polite, but far short of what would be used for an honoured guest. This is how you would talk to an acquaintance. To a friend.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He picks up the bowl of soup.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"ありがとう"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She nods at his thanks, and looks down again, the short moment of connection gone. Her hands are trembling. He must have scared her.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He takes the lid off the soup, and takes a sip. Like the noon meal, it is a miso broth with seaweed and cubes of tofu floating in it. As soon as the first gulp hits his stomach, he notices how ravenous he is. He devours the soup and rice. He doesn't even notice the bitter aftertaste until he is finished.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She is still kneeling next to him, head bowed down. A tear drops from her face and lands in front of her on the rough wooden floor boards.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"毒入ったね"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's not a question. He already knows what she has done. He can already feel his fingertips start to tingle and go numb. He thinks he recognises the type of poison. From what he has heard, his death will be relatively painless.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His sword is lying next to him. It has been lying next to him the entire time. He knows he has enough time left to take his revenge on this family. But what would he gain from that? Maybe it is for the best. This way he can rest, finally. No more nightmares. No more unbidden images in his mind. This girl. He first met her two days ago. She decided to take revenge for her townspeople, but instead she gave him a way out of the trap his life has become.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He realises with a jolt that her family will be punished if his commander were to find out he has been poisoned. They will make an example of them, to deter the rest of the town from rising up against the occupying forces. He realises he does not want that to happen.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He picks up the sword and holds it out to the girl. She flinches, then looks at him, puzzled. He shoves it towards her, and she hesitantly takes it.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He props himself up to a kneeling position. When he draws his knife and holds it before his stomach, she realises what he is about to do. This way, they will not be persecuted. He will have died by his own hand, and her ending his suffering will be an honourable thing. An act of mercy. In a way, that is what has already happened. He looks at her.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"手伝ってくれ"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He hopes she knows what she has to do. His sword is very sharp, so he thinks she can manage to sever his head, as soon as he has committed seppuku. As she starts to draw his sword from the scabbard, he braces himself to make his last act an act of compassion.</span></div>
Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-50131116896268745842013-01-25T20:56:00.001+01:002013-01-25T20:58:56.723+01:00An alle Männerrechtler<br />
Liebe Männer, die sich von <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23aufschrei" target="_blank">#aufschrei</a> zu Unrecht angeprangert, mit bösen Menschen in einen Topf geworfen, oder sonstwie diskriminiert fühlen:<br />
<br />
OK, ich verstehe, daß das echt scheiße ist, wenn man das Gefühl hat, man wird für etwas angeklagt, das man nicht getan hat, nie tun würde, und das man auch schlimm findet und verurteilt. Aber ich verstehe eins nicht.<br />
<h3>
WHY THE FUCK FÜHLT IHR EUCH DA ANGESPROCHEN?</h3>
Da erzählen Menschen (ja, überwiegend Frauen) davon, wie sie im Alltag belästigt, oder wegen ihres Geschlechts, beziehungsweise ihrer sexuellen Orientierung, schlecht behandelt wurden.<br />
<br />
Ende der Geschichte.<br />
<br />
Niemand prangert, niemand verallgemeinert da irgendwas, keine alte Sau schmeißt irgendwen in irgendeinen Topf. Wer sich da angesprochen fühlt, der zieht sich den Schuh nicht einfach an, der rennt dem der den Schuh hat hinterher, reißt ihn ihm aus der Hand, merkt er passt nicht, hackt sich den großen Zeh ab, und zwängt sich dann mit Gewalt rein.<br />
<br />
Und eins ist echt eine ziemlich arschige Nummer: Eine Person, die Euch nicht persönlich angreift, die Euch nicht mal persönlich kennt, und <i>der es gerade schlecht geht</i>, anzugreifen.<br />
<h3>
IHR ARMEN, ARMEN, ARMSELIGEN KLEINEN WÜRSTCHEN.</h3>
Ende der Durchsage. Lest mehr <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23aufschrei" target="_blank">#aufschrei</a>. Denkt darüber nach.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-44976622228792350572013-01-10T16:37:00.000+01:002013-01-10T17:01:18.177+01:00Über das Missbrauchspotential der Creeper Move Cards<br />
Während und nach der 29c3 habe ich einiges über die <a href="http://creepermovecards.de/" target="_blank">Creeper Move Cards</a> gelesen, unter Anderem über ihr Missbrauchspotential.<br />
<br />
Insgesamt kann ich die Reaktionen gegen die Karten, die ich gelesen habe, so zusammenfassen:<br />
<ol>
<li>Generalverdacht!</li>
<li>Also <i>ich</i> bin noch nie belästigt worden.</li>
<li>Wem's hier nicht passt soll woanders hingehen.</li>
<li>Man kann doch drüber reden statt gleich 'ne Karte zu geben.</li>
<li>Die Karten sind viel zu krass.</li>
<li>Inflationärer Gebrauch der Karten schadet der Sache.</li>
<li>Missbrauchspotential!</li>
</ol>
<h3>
Generalverdacht</h3>
Wenn ich zu mir in die Arbeit sowas wie die Creeper Move Cards mitbringe (und klar ist, daß ich vorhabe, sie im Büro bei Bedarf einzusetzen), dann werden mich meine 4 KollegInnen mit Recht fragen, ob ich sie wirklich so fies finde.<br />
<br />
Aber doch nicht auf einem 6000-Personen-Kongress, Leute. Sexismus existiert. Menschen, die sich ein 29c3-Ticket gekauft haben sind deswegen noch keine Heiligen. Und die Möglichkeit von sexistischen Zwischenfällen anzuerkennen (mehr tun die Karten nicht) ist von Generalverdacht so weit entfernt wie noch mal was. 'Nuff said.<br />
<h3>
Habt euch nicht so</h3>
Argumente Nummer 2 und 3 habe ich nur der Vollständigkeit halber aufgeschrieben. Wer die benützt hat, denkt bitte nochmal drüber nach. Oder (alternativ bei #3): Schämt Euch.<br />
<h3>
Man kann doch über alles reden</h3>
Es gibt eben Situationen, in denen nicht jeder über alles reden kann. Und dazu zählen auch soziale Situationen, wo alles recht schnell geht, eins sich leicht überrumpelt fühlen kann, und auch unter Konformitätsdruck steht. Außerdem zählen dazu noch Situationen, in denen man sich vor den Kopf gestoßen, angegriffen oder verletzt fühlt. Eine Belästigung auf eine Hacker-Kongress (bis zu der man sich wahrscheinlich sogar auf dem Kongress recht wohl gefühlt hat) vereint alle dieser Bedingungen.<br />
<br />
Können wir uns also darauf einigen, daß man nicht <i>immer</i> über <i>alles</i> reden kann? Und daß diejenigen, die das aus unterschiedlichen Gründen nicht können vielleicht trotzdem eine Chance verdient haben, zu signalisieren "Stop! Ich will das nicht." oder "Das ist nicht in Ordnung."?<br />
<br />
Na also.<br />
<h3>
Der Missbrauch</h3>
Bleiben also die Argumente "Die Karten sind zu krass" a.k.a. "Geht das auch netter?" a.k.a. <a href="http://geekfeminism.wikia.com/wiki/Tone_argument" target="_blank">Tone Argument</a>, der inflationäre Gebrauch und "Aber das Missbrauchspotential!"<br />
<br />
Die Creeper Move Cards sind im Grunde Macht. Macht, die diejenigen bekommen, die weniger privilegiert sind und strukturell diskriminiert werden. Die Machtlosen also.<br />
<br />
Und Macht kann eben auch missbraucht werden. <a href="http://neindochoh.de/">http://neindochoh.de</a><br />
<br />
Wenn eins sich mal diesen Aspekt unter dem Blickwinkel eines weißen Mannes (also mir) reinzieht klingt das so: Personen, die weniger Macht haben, und die auch immer wieder mal schlecht behandelt, ausgegrenzt, verarscht, in den Hintergrund gedrängt werden, bekommen plötzlich ein Machtinstrument, mit dem sie willkürlich jedem eins auf den Deckel geben können, so ganz ohne Kontrolle.<br />
<br />
Da wird mir auch ein bisschen mulmig.<br />
<br />
Da könnte ich ja jeden Moment von jemandem einfach so eine Karte vor den Latz geknallt bekommen, und die/derjenige müsste sich nicht mal rechtfertigen. Obendrein wirken diese Karten auch noch so, als wäre dieses Verhalten (auf irgend einer Ebene) allgemein geduldet, wenn nicht sogar sanktioniert. Da kann eins sich schon ein bisschen schutzlos ausgeliefert fühlen.<br />
<br />
Genau so ist das Gefühl (glaube ich) für so manche Frau. Nur eben nicht erst seit es diese Karten gibt.<br />
<br />
Sondern eigentlich immer.<br />
<br />
So kommt man mit den Creeper Move Cards - so ganz neben dem eigentlichen Zweck - als Mann in den Genuss, mal diesen Blickwinkel nachempfinden zu können. Meine Empfehlung (mit den Worten von Noah Sow): Nehmen Sie's als Erfahrung.<br />
<br />
<br />Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-64999708497601455992012-12-05T10:02:00.002+01:002012-12-05T10:04:09.380+01:00Die andere Seite der Klotür<br />
Ich habe jetzt <a href="http://antiprodukt.de/die-sache-mit-der-kloture/">eine</a> <a href="http://rainbowda.sh/clotuer/">wirklich</a> <a href="http://nonconform.noblogs.org/post/2012/11/20/kloturgate/">unglaubliche</a> <a href="http://theological.de/index.php/bengoshis-blog.html">Menge</a> <a href="http://birgit-rydlewski.de/2012/11/26/die-klotuer/">über</a> <a href="http://proletin.blogsport.eu/2012/11/26/im-namen-der-opfer/">das</a> c-base-Klotür-Incident <a href="http://nordlicht-development.de/2012/11/26/pin-ups-ueberall/">gelesen</a>. Ich glaube, es ist inzwischen genug darüber geschrieben worden. Also habe ich mal was darüber geschrieben.<br />
<br />
Vorweg: Ich halte Vandalismus für eine legitime Art der (politischen) Meinungsäußerung. Ich finde ihn oft scheiße. Manchmal so, wie ich Meinungen oder Meinungsäußerungen scheiße finde. Manchmal, weil ich es scheiße finde, daß etwas kaputtgemacht wird, das jemand anderem gehört. Schmaler Grat.<br />
<br />
Ich möchte in diesem Post nicht das Vandalisieren der Klotür bewerten, sondern eine Sicht auf den Vorfall zeigen, die ich interessant finde.<br />
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Beim Durchlesen der unzähligen Posts bin ich über das Wort "Safe Space" gefallen. Es war in dem Kontext gebraucht, daß sich Frauen an einem Ort (hier: in der c-base) sicher fühlen können sollen. Aber da kam mir die Einsicht: Irgendwie ist so ein Hackerclub auch ein Safe Space für alle Mitglieder, die sich dort von einer Welt zurückziehen können, in der sie wegen ihrer Interessen dumm angelabert werden.<br />
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Und nun passiert etwas in diesem Raum, in dem man sich sicher und wohl fühlt. Eine Klotür wird vandalisiert. Das ist ein Eingriff, ein Angriff. Das ist Gewalt. Der sicher geglaubte Raum wird beschädigt. Sicher ist das nicht dasselbe, als wenn ein Einbrecher bei einem zuhause war, aber es geht in die Richtung. Man fühlt sich verletzt, und deswegen verletzlich. Der Space wirkt plötzlich gar nicht mehr safe.<br />
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(In dem Kontext versteh ich auch, warum viele ein Nichtmitglied verantwortlich machen möchten.)<br />
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Von der anderen Seite her betrachtet war das Bekleben der Klotür sowas wie eine Notwehrhandlung. Da war's mit Safe Space wohl von vornherein nicht so weit her, andere Versuche, das Bild an der Tür zu entfernen waren erfolglos, und so wurde dieser Weg gewählt, um sich zu wehren.<br />
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Sich zu wehren, gegen ein System, das übermächtig und uneinsichtig ist, selbsterhaltend, und ohne aktives Eingreifen der von ihm Begünstigten nicht zu ändern. Und nachdem (nach Ansicht der handelnden Personen) alle anderen Optionen erschöpft waren, wurde sich eben mit anderen Mitteln gewehrt. Durch einen Angriff auf das System.<br />
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Man greift ein System an, aber man trifft immer Menschen. Ja, natürlich auch Menschen, die das System unterstützen, oder zumindest dulden.<br />
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Jetzt kann man sagen, geschieht ihnen recht. Sollen halt nicht das System unterstützen. Ja, nein, vielleicht. Keine Ahnung.<br />
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Aber mein Punkt ist: Denen wurde gerade auch Gewalt angetan. Die sind aktuell verletzt. Klar, das macht nichts besser. Aber behaltet es Kopf, wenn Ihr mit ihnen diskutiert oder ihre Blogeinträge lest.<br />
<br />Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-90050302391144934452012-09-11T14:31:00.004+02:002012-09-11T14:45:12.585+02:00Lost Cities UI Tips and Tricks<h3>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With Additional Hints for People Who Have Trouble Distinguishing Between Colours</span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'll touch on some of the more subtle parts of the UI which can be very useful, if you know how to make use of them.</span><br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. Opponent's last move</span></h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those lamps up there above the lanes show you into which lane your opponent played their last card. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHowM4ZMud480azSxSt3VllrvexYy7QsggmLYx3QadRmmND8_Sl4MwHml9IYQOKGMFuQ_8OnbYtbRCRvDUeMYDfb25pTlDEy-1H7dS-6gwhd9v0yD6nTljrjd3VB7FKScpQn4/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+12.58.50-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHowM4ZMud480azSxSt3VllrvexYy7QsggmLYx3QadRmmND8_Sl4MwHml9IYQOKGMFuQ_8OnbYtbRCRvDUeMYDfb25pTlDEy-1H7dS-6gwhd9v0yD6nTljrjd3VB7FKScpQn4/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+12.58.50-2.jpg" width="265" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If your opponent didn't play a card, but discarded instead, his last discard is placed a bit askew on the discard pile.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TASy7L6bJ5efS4Na01FWGVQ3cZhRXhjsTb6zuQ59a91Uf_u5GyW6Nvo9gTkOwDEL1ttTjNfsC-SPylvSTzZ0_tfUgGBHHa9jrYgemniTUEfXoFm3eDESNcQYJdwcZCACSQ9X/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.12.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TASy7L6bJ5efS4Na01FWGVQ3cZhRXhjsTb6zuQ59a91Uf_u5GyW6Nvo9gTkOwDEL1ttTjNfsC-SPylvSTzZ0_tfUgGBHHa9jrYgemniTUEfXoFm3eDESNcQYJdwcZCACSQ9X/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.12.29.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Opponent's last draw</span></h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That tiny card up top right shows you what your opponent last drew. If the card shown is face up, they drew it from a discard pile. If it's face down, they drew it form the draw stack (and we're not telling you what it was ;P)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsV_XYeSjqarF_HxakYxhV3c8VA72ezNxOpqJh2SprZeuq_MAB1F7TqSzyI0oNTQiMFfC51bXJjTLHtpKG_IKJUyb1xus-rZ44b6RwDHiXOeBPKXZcU74mguMknOxu2oSdGNiX/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.12.29-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsV_XYeSjqarF_HxakYxhV3c8VA72ezNxOpqJh2SprZeuq_MAB1F7TqSzyI0oNTQiMFfC51bXJjTLHtpKG_IKJUyb1xus-rZ44b6RwDHiXOeBPKXZcU74mguMknOxu2oSdGNiX/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.12.29-1.jpg" width="265" /></a></span></div>
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. Your last draw</span></h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The card you last drew sticks out a little bit from your hand. If you missed the drawing animation, looking for this is a quick way of checking which card is new.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KVjHamKvwy1AEglG4nx-Sk0F_XsF4c_c3vJjk_GQHPC4_nmGAuyZNPkpxgT8lBRhbcLl2xVKTOHx-pFiu4dfpSJ2f2c7_yiMNwFLnHve_D0oylTfzpQnXfnCqB9OZaKDWimi/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.16.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KVjHamKvwy1AEglG4nx-Sk0F_XsF4c_c3vJjk_GQHPC4_nmGAuyZNPkpxgT8lBRhbcLl2xVKTOHx-pFiu4dfpSJ2f2c7_yiMNwFLnHve_D0oylTfzpQnXfnCqB9OZaKDWimi/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.16.03.jpg" width="265" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpE1F6pUFbFvCXE3K05PTI0yFAAQBPzRmDmIVYDFPFukfovHJz6ZC_nHZ0oqpvhEuxqbhb42_bXu61B9phsnKwMqlCr2HwkuHJ6Y6uE53Yw7mT5yB2rp11mUosAp-3QuRQzR7u/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.15.52-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpE1F6pUFbFvCXE3K05PTI0yFAAQBPzRmDmIVYDFPFukfovHJz6ZC_nHZ0oqpvhEuxqbhb42_bXu61B9phsnKwMqlCr2HwkuHJ6Y6uE53Yw7mT5yB2rp11mUosAp-3QuRQzR7u/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.15.52-1.jpg" width="265" /></a></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Colour Thing</span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We noticed there are a number of people who have trouble telling the colours of the cards apart. So we decided to do something about it. Several things, in fact.</span><br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. High Contrast Mode</span></h4>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaQSzurEJUN8yK1ah6cJn7dwctnFWEFBFg138qvrhMYz-CVsnjMpiSLBCMBNzIGTWoV_ornpwCbq0Xrp1aL_MyIMKLaiBu-GyYMAA6LMKs9SqpsZBf_9ISyTnHva1vdW_-0G9/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.20.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaQSzurEJUN8yK1ah6cJn7dwctnFWEFBFg138qvrhMYz-CVsnjMpiSLBCMBNzIGTWoV_ornpwCbq0Xrp1aL_MyIMKLaiBu-GyYMAA6LMKs9SqpsZBf_9ISyTnHva1vdW_-0G9/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.20.57.jpg" width="265" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Turn this on in the settings, and the game board looks like this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhjtWdbdywjFm0GQhaImUaTcqwPS2n42uk7YhIM19asPl4-PsAKs99sVIC4JT7Ia3z3ehsRsltlrusiu0FXr85eYCFWj0hQCP1sQjqs0FkQoA1D1h5ocBWwIHjxz4FjSeB3Ga/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.21.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhjtWdbdywjFm0GQhaImUaTcqwPS2n42uk7YhIM19asPl4-PsAKs99sVIC4JT7Ia3z3ehsRsltlrusiu0FXr85eYCFWj0hQCP1sQjqs0FkQoA1D1h5ocBWwIHjxz4FjSeB3Ga/s400/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.21.30.jpg" width="265" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This mode may make it easier to distinguish colors. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The "empty" cards on the discard piles are there to give a better contrast, and to show which color indicators (see Number 2) go with which lane.</span><br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Indicators on the cards</span></h4>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you look closely at the points labels on the cards, you may notice some spiky bits standing out downwards from the cards. Let me tell you a secret: They are not there by coincidence (*gasp)! The number and placement of the spikes indicate the color of the card. It's easy to memorize: No spikes means center lane, and 1 or 2 spikes to a side mean 1 or 2 lanes to the left or right (depending on the which way the spikes are pointing).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, to fully enumerate all colors: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVMiGHJSKDJCqwqoMcG5YBFFYoPGBAusIFgDYn8CbwlKbDRa_Y9G1KcVeUeqJPUu533rHslUVrr01mnLX4lWb5V_yv7uAgm569HZyWCHtPykfzfsFxB6XcfQFhScByUS0bIjk/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVMiGHJSKDJCqwqoMcG5YBFFYoPGBAusIFgDYn8CbwlKbDRa_Y9G1KcVeUeqJPUu533rHslUVrr01mnLX4lWb5V_yv7uAgm569HZyWCHtPykfzfsFxB6XcfQFhScByUS0bIjk/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.08.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yellow (leftmost lane)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKeKmNGcWwGYVAbGeUj89muNoiOk_QNc5Fg-QsLzF2h9PzNEYAbHBE5BELq_nng9wcnmPHkJWhxngAelfmzlb2kNM6_P11XnAYkubV1-eUsGNgZis8IpFHeG0Hc6cpymk1Lg2/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKeKmNGcWwGYVAbGeUj89muNoiOk_QNc5Fg-QsLzF2h9PzNEYAbHBE5BELq_nng9wcnmPHkJWhxngAelfmzlb2kNM6_P11XnAYkubV1-eUsGNgZis8IpFHeG0Hc6cpymk1Lg2/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.19.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Blue (1 to the left from the center lane)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCp7MFLKHdWN_t68pEvsowB6LQSTteiHdsJijjbQ6v5EjIwzMT1SoNz5Gzhcxt6Av3kAbKixXuvQ4V_PI4Olabkk_sRGGV2hfqkyKRcVYXowWTo1gCQXUGjQLYj734_SPQ2RxR/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCp7MFLKHdWN_t68pEvsowB6LQSTteiHdsJijjbQ6v5EjIwzMT1SoNz5Gzhcxt6Av3kAbKixXuvQ4V_PI4Olabkk_sRGGV2hfqkyKRcVYXowWTo1gCQXUGjQLYj734_SPQ2RxR/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.27.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">White (center lane)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsjO2J8gezAcX4uF0WRG4xsgXqN_JZaLRVPW1A8l1bRfipEZeoj_OYDgkdjqckeixAFBrcew2nthqN2eQxFFE5tfNH7jpT58Stla2CKiumXxRili87DcoztsU1Zeta9X4Dcd2/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsjO2J8gezAcX4uF0WRG4xsgXqN_JZaLRVPW1A8l1bRfipEZeoj_OYDgkdjqckeixAFBrcew2nthqN2eQxFFE5tfNH7jpT58Stla2CKiumXxRili87DcoztsU1Zeta9X4Dcd2/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.33.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Green (1 to the right from the center lane)</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgysEFuUj8cBfeIFX7LrW1irx94mlhN5c8W5lVDXuMbhGfjxrU7A3JwWTx3ZoNdwSGvMK_XNv1_h3-QhIM_NUwVJxqZ0v_NFvYGUXRJ5BRPJz4k8q0F0iWbKhQpvZmfwDqL97s9/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgysEFuUj8cBfeIFX7LrW1irx94mlhN5c8W5lVDXuMbhGfjxrU7A3JwWTx3ZoNdwSGvMK_XNv1_h3-QhIM_NUwVJxqZ0v_NFvYGUXRJ5BRPJz4k8q0F0iWbKhQpvZmfwDqL97s9/s1600/Screenshot+2012.09.11+14.24.38.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Red (rightmost lane)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-75073310371628964722010-08-15T15:42:00.002+02:002013-05-05T21:26:37.458+02:00CasualtyHe was awakened by mortar fire. <br /><br />"Boom boom boom". <br /><br />Thinking "What the hell?" he yanked on his pajamas, and rushed outside, where he found a young guy sitting in the street before a plastic replica of a mortar, making shooting noises. When he saw where the mortar was aimed, he realized his house had been shelled. <br /><br />He raced back inside to check his email and, sure enough, he saw that he was dead. He ran back outside to confront the young guy who was now taking aim at his neighbor's house. "What the fuck do you think you doing, asshole?" he shouted. <br />"What's it look like?" said the guy.<br />"Where did you even get a mortar?"<br />"None of your business, dude."<br />"Fuck, now I've lost a whole year. I have exams next week!"<br />"Should have filed for an exemption then." He finished taking aim. "Boom boom boom!"<br />"In the middle of the city? What the fuck are you doing here shooting heavy weapons anyway?"<br />"Urban terrorist."<br /><br />At that moment, he realized how much trouble this idiot had caused him. He would have to reschedule his exams. He'd had a couple of interviews set up with companies for after his graduation, which he would miss. Also Shelly would not be happy to hear he had been killed. And by such a stupid idiotic prank, too. The kid couldn't be older than twenty years. <br /><br />Right then, he would have liked to punch this asshole right in the mouth.<br /><br />But he couldn't.<br /><br />He was dead.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-72061386703155430112010-08-11T03:53:00.004+02:002010-08-11T03:57:57.135+02:00It takes as long as it takesI just discovered an important skill. <br /><br />If you're doing basic, hindbrain work, such as sorting mail or something similar, your brain is likely to fire at some point and go "What are you doing? You're wasting your valuable time! This has to go faster!", causing a sense of dread and anxiety to rise up and threaten to engulf you. <br /><br />If that happens to me, I'll end up doing a botch job of the tedious work, and start working aimlessly on something "more important" to make myself feel good.<br /><br />That is, that's what I used to do. Now I tell my brain to STFU, adding "The work is proceeding at the right speed. You don't have to do everything as fast as humanly possible. This is going to take a couple of hours, but then it'll be done, and the world will not have ended because I took so long".<br /><br />It helps, believe me.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-11668121150276597002010-07-04T05:00:00.000+02:002010-07-04T05:15:15.618+02:00Japan: ArrivingGetting to Japan was very pleasant, on the whole. The plane was a brand-new A380, which turned out to be surprisingly quiet. I ended up getting a great seat that had extra leg room. Now I know why they charge triple for business class tickets. <em>Because they are worth it.</em><br /><br /><div style="width:320px; display:block; margin:0px auto 0px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTuZFck7Jv6uEY0klxAKEln38WfvJPL8Wc-HXv6BkmuEKc1r-WxhP86EaR1S3WqZB0fN9OMhgzZZuK05YkbZndXICnsoJQ2FwtT3jrAmWFnHqqB3MadUrAmWviV6PvoQGxTLG/s1600/CIMG8470.JPG"><img style="margin:0px auto -4px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTuZFck7Jv6uEY0klxAKEln38WfvJPL8Wc-HXv6BkmuEKc1r-WxhP86EaR1S3WqZB0fN9OMhgzZZuK05YkbZndXICnsoJQ2FwtT3jrAmWFnHqqB3MadUrAmWviV6PvoQGxTLG/s320/CIMG8470.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489881619422683410" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lufthansa's pride and joy</span></div><br />Disembarking, walking through the airport, it slowly started to dawn on me that I had in fact arrived. The walkways, the bamboo and lacquer wall decorations, the recorded voices warning of various dangers, such as falling off the end of a moving walkway, everything was still familiar. I noticed a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was good to be back.<br /><br />After customs, I met Noby-san, who had graciously come to pick me up, and off we went on our merry way. As the train neared Tokyo, I was struck by the way that rice fields gradually gave way to first small village houses, then larger buildings, amd finally the towering blocks of living cubicles that serve as accomodation to the millions of workers that commute into Tokyo each day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vlgce4m1RRFg93dCNmZUDo-Ie7A35WIDpgfUoTS5F6OJ9km_uAelS-rHwNltyTiJhxtLPYlzu241-92HbO3L9a6V7Vvp-2HXniDbrq_LZ2w3JyidWSvrv_AZp_gKTQSffNFI/s1600/CIMG8472.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vlgce4m1RRFg93dCNmZUDo-Ie7A35WIDpgfUoTS5F6OJ9km_uAelS-rHwNltyTiJhxtLPYlzu241-92HbO3L9a6V7Vvp-2HXniDbrq_LZ2w3JyidWSvrv_AZp_gKTQSffNFI/s320/CIMG8472.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489883030099991650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CNHsRdj6qyL4JYE8N0gIkD62fjnRlXRSgBfkfDM_xYYVZLjQHnumH2-qeZKYjRXllC7P8cFu76XEixbHHO9bH2EcZOd4jZoO0ghZn5hbHt24LT19icalzK88OOu-wODU7T8z/s1600/CIMG8473.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CNHsRdj6qyL4JYE8N0gIkD62fjnRlXRSgBfkfDM_xYYVZLjQHnumH2-qeZKYjRXllC7P8cFu76XEixbHHO9bH2EcZOd4jZoO0ghZn5hbHt24LT19icalzK88OOu-wODU7T8z/s320/CIMG8473.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489883033527479522" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_bq5aCsVVDZFm6GY6ZuFWXcSHatKiqh3xYcO-neRUvSeWpWKPzfyyEd9AylEWuh3LVUJCFMgOJwbWbK0Tv6dsiEvVtdFnx70Q7y3nKD9vjUZHCYuF3N9r0NXbNl2mf7Frspl/s1600/CIMG8475.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_bq5aCsVVDZFm6GY6ZuFWXcSHatKiqh3xYcO-neRUvSeWpWKPzfyyEd9AylEWuh3LVUJCFMgOJwbWbK0Tv6dsiEvVtdFnx70Q7y3nKD9vjUZHCYuF3N9r0NXbNl2mf7Frspl/s320/CIMG8475.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489883045074425858" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0jXjUQYa83_wutK9r-hDgrwqMZ9xTWPvA3h20YqgV-FKrx1eaVklc43mf90Mo4j1HwdR7BTsdna5TkMnhnxKeWx8wiuO2YEHQ2y6KVLRDb84daIPCROznns6SJZbHPdb3eBw/s1600/CIMG8476.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0jXjUQYa83_wutK9r-hDgrwqMZ9xTWPvA3h20YqgV-FKrx1eaVklc43mf90Mo4j1HwdR7BTsdna5TkMnhnxKeWx8wiuO2YEHQ2y6KVLRDb84daIPCROznns6SJZbHPdb3eBw/s320/CIMG8476.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489883046462355234" /></a>Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-31625019722141744782010-06-14T17:41:00.004+02:002010-06-14T17:49:40.951+02:00San Francisco, WWDC10I just left San Francisco, and I wrote a short post about it. Head on over to <a href="http://klüpfel.com/travel/san_francisco.html">http://klüpfel.com/travel/san_francisco.html</a> for a post that's a little more pretentiously styled than what I post here. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://klüpfel.com/travel/san_francisco.html"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnLpOFwA1uyP4xMSOYPIstmY9hSqaKJ2b173zi0uBgic9gaZO5hADJQ-zn-jKHaLDfzG7tiLkIrNGwN6xz9qNqudEd_kC5s_bmUaicfGlAoNvf8T8UuzYMuUws-PKizY-ZR8x/s320/CIMG8419.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482655636372727490" /></a><br />By the way, Martin looked over that page yesterday, and deleted three <table>s before having breakfast.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-5908143108570558742010-03-07T23:49:00.001+01:002013-05-05T21:26:49.589+02:00The Killing GroundsHere, we execute the traitors, he said, as we were walking across the vast concrete yard. Everyday we shoot about ten to fifteen. We passed a piece of wall pitted and chipped by a month's worth of bullets. We'll have to repair that section again soon, he continued, it's almost March, but we have to do it in front of a wall, you see. Being, as we are, in the city, we can't expose our loyal citizens to the danger of stray bullets, can we. <br /><br />Our loyal and peace-loving citizens, you mean, I interjected.<br /><br />He fixed me with a stony gaze as implacable as the gray concrete surrounding us. Indeed, he said, conveying anything but agreement. I looked away, feeling ill at ease.<br /><br />As my mind drifted, drawn away from the hot ground and shimmering air, I imagined a scene such as no doubt occured daily on these grounds. A handful of men half dragged, half walking on their own to stand before the wall. Why would anyone walk willingly to their own execution, I wondered. But men are capable of such unfathomable things, I thought, and resigned myself to mere observation. The blindfolds were donned, and stony-faced soldiers appeared on the scene, equal in number to the culprits arrayed before them. In the past, there would be twice as many soldiers as there were criminals, and the ammunition handed out always included one blank cartridge for every pair of soldiers. But ammunition is precious these times. <br /><br />Why did you choose this section of wall, I asked. No particular reason, he said, we simply picked a spot, and since we have to repair it regularly, we thought we might as well stay in the same place. Not to waste precious resources, he said, looking sideways at me in a way that spoke volumes of his opinion about the situation. <br /><br />The firing squad assumed its position, and an officer barked out orders, curt, sharply ringing in the morning's quiet. Twelve carbines barked in unison. Splinters of concrete and plaster squirted from the wall behind the condemned, filling the air with the acrid smell of burnt stone. Twelve bodies slumped, then dropped.<br /><br />We'll have to move it over to that end, I said, to make better use of the space. There will be more room for the witnesses that way.<br /><br />The spectators, you mean, he replied. <br /><br />I looked at him sharply. He met my gaze with the same impassive intensity as before. In that instant I recognized him for a man who had seen more than he had ever cared to see, who had been taken to a point beyond reasoning, beyond caring. A man dangerous in many ways. I know you're opposed to the concept, I said. <br /><br />I am, he said.<br /><br />Your concerns will be duly noted, I told him.<br /><br />I have no doubt they will, he said. <br /><br />From his eyes spoke the full comprehension of what he had just done. The finality of his decision, doubtlessly premeditated, executed in cold blood, chilled me to the bone. I could no longer meet his gaze but dropped my eyes to the stains on the ground, scrubbed over countless times but never fully eradicated.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-28942713869576047172010-03-07T22:57:00.002+01:002010-03-07T23:01:32.099+01:00Too much metaI was just about to post <blockquote>Artists: Whatever you're doing: It's not as beautiful, or as new, when you study its history properly. Everything has been done before.</blockquote> on Twitter, but then I thought, surely that's not gonna be the first 'everything's been done before' tweet ever, and decided against posting it.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-48499240804221644682010-02-13T11:30:00.008+01:002010-02-13T12:40:56.552+01:00No Kindle for Me<p>I hate hardcover books. They're just too damn big. With the amount of books I read, every little gain of storage space counts, so I always go with paperback editions whenever I can.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9vSw4OVDqJKbK3sEK46uhrjIPzgCgy2hkWNPa5zDGceBkvVowZQAatSAjL4aMoD-lacWY90bkUWQEbUEoJKenECGore7ebD6QpJehUhmb-2U3jzJOit4R9wz30znxg9If_yh/s1600-h/51Kxrsf0gvL._SS500_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9vSw4OVDqJKbK3sEK46uhrjIPzgCgy2hkWNPa5zDGceBkvVowZQAatSAjL4aMoD-lacWY90bkUWQEbUEoJKenECGore7ebD6QpJehUhmb-2U3jzJOit4R9wz30znxg9If_yh/s320/51Kxrsf0gvL._SS500_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437691378333246690" /></a><p>Consequently, I was very disappointed to learn that <a href="http://www.amazon.de/Tokyo-Vice-American-Reporter-Police/dp/0307378799/">Tokyo Vice</a> by Jake Edelstein is not being released in paperback format until October this year.</p><p>Well, what about the Kindle version, I hear you thinking. I considered it, and decided against buying it. It's true that reading the book on the iPhone Kindle app might have been somewhat more tedious that having a physical book, but that 's not the main reason I didn't buy the Kindle version. Neither are concerns about data loss and sudden DRM fubars.</p><p>The main deterrent for me is the book's afterlife, after I am finished reading it. When I'm done with the book, I plan to take it to work and show it to my colleagues, who will no doubt grin and nod appreciatively, and then leave it lying around the office for a while, for anyone who comes along to browse at leisure.</p><p>And I can't do that with a Kindle book.</p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvk7vCtRXdnD2ucFe6cxXplaXTKULgQ0SSZ_I0Kv6F7_cynyntrEUaXXnQOTdiJBz-hqyWUl9GUATp6a_hyXQwl0qBTRgeWRa9nOAteZ-VEIT6tmbMu240MxvpxVsXb62HmcyA/s200/classics.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437686435325496450" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 175px; " /><p>Maybe some other time, when the book in question is not one I want to share with other people so much.</p><p>I have been reading Lewis Carroll's <i>Alice In Wonderland</i> books in <a href="http://www.classicsapp.com/">Classics</a> on the iPhone, and I can confirm that you get accustomed to reading on the iPhone. </p>Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-5519596200876222902010-01-09T00:20:00.004+01:002010-01-09T00:25:55.315+01:00Ode to the Western Digital Hard Drive I Bought by Mail OrderSleek and silver<div>Expensive and Spacious</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly too large</div><div><br /></div><div>So my half-disassembled</div><div>Living room mac</div><div>Spent the night </div><div><br /></div><div>Writing zeroes</div><div><br /></div><div>All over it</div>Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-23763941121181964372009-09-09T11:08:00.003+02:002009-09-09T11:12:30.438+02:00Ode to the Monkey CaveSince Twitter mangled my newlines and this is >140 characters anyway, here it is on a blog post, in its entirety.<br /><br /><blockquote>O Monkey Cave you're so much fun<br />you new abode of simian bliss.<br />For coding, lolcats, podcasts, viz.,<br />for daily work from ten to one<br /><br />But also, o mysterious one,<br />You strangely make me wonder this:<br />What other monkey business is<br />within your deeper regions done?</blockquote>Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-27917227590881733552009-04-13T08:37:00.002+02:002009-04-13T09:13:21.665+02:00Please Ignore This MessageI find a good portion of human conversation to be unnecessary. A lot of the communication we choose to have with each other—or rather, at each other—serves no purpose beside being said for its own sake. <br /><br />Why does it seem like some people never stop and think about what the contents of their words mean to the recipient? In some cases, I suspect because the answer would be 'nothing' close to 100% of the time. For instance, in what way does something like "If I'd a known you didn't have one a these, I'd a brought one" give the recipient anything of value? How does the information he could have almost had something improve his current situation? I guess at best the sentence conveys a vague feeling the speaker woulda helped you out if only he'da known, but as warm fuzzy feelings go, that one is kinda tepid and threadbare.<br /><br />In fact, that whole "if only" can of worms is a rant of its own, an activity that some people seem to love to wallow in. And if the image in your head when you read "wallow" is of a pig in his sty, all I can say is that it matches the one in mine. Image. Head. (To quickly fix the references, because I do not have a lot of time. I have to be going soon.)<br /><br />Some of you may have guessed: I'm going to see my parents-in-law. Please don't misconstrue the previous paragraphs; I really like them. They're genuinely nice and lovable folks, and I often enjoy spending an afternoon with them. If only there wasn't such bland and shallow conversation. Or if there simply wasn't such a lot of it.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-10351121687770679512009-02-15T10:17:00.006+01:002009-03-01T23:43:30.508+01:00Crooked Little Vein<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3G9vmKAbAsO0bsEqCHPUCxB7M1Qxwi0pfeMrChrlMHU7sSfSK2EWNmnmVxjtMMrcXPFds3cef0GuWgX2MiWh4TnvOu1qnj2RcpDcSHfkL3iC9ao98gAwNISIf3RNfp6i36wa/s1600-h/b779419328a04a1c7c7be110.L.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3G9vmKAbAsO0bsEqCHPUCxB7M1Qxwi0pfeMrChrlMHU7sSfSK2EWNmnmVxjtMMrcXPFds3cef0GuWgX2MiWh4TnvOu1qnj2RcpDcSHfkL3iC9ao98gAwNISIf3RNfp6i36wa/s400/b779419328a04a1c7c7be110.L.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302952042335334114" /></a><br />I am a Warren Ellis fan. <br /><br />I love <i>Transmetropolitan</i>, <i>Desolation Jones</i>, and especially <i>Fell</i>. I love Ellis' style of setting his story in front of the weirdest backdrops and make it all work. Despite the weirdest scenario, he still manages to make the story interesting and give it depth. <br /><br />That said, Crooked Little Vein is a little shallower than I had hoped.<br /><br />Before I start, it is a rather short book. Don't let the package fool you, it looks like a normal book, but it has a large typeface and wide margins. <br /><br />Starting to read <i>Crooked Little Vein</i>, I got the impression Ellis wrote it with the explicit intent to put something gross on every page. The beginning of the book failed to draw me in by cracking too many jokes, too many one-liners, and generally going overboard too much. In that respect, to me it was a lot like the first half of Hugh Laurie's <i>The Gun Seller</i>—too smart for it own good. I did enjoy the grossness, and I genuinely cringed a couple of times at his descriptions of (or his hinting at) the outrageous acts of perversion that form the backdrop to his book. But it is this crass backdrop which is, in my view, the book's weakness. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDDU0rlBCjsJKZymsZm9cNewmXLcmiBA0twmapaPJoWCHsWKYGhXNFS2Yu_qcACua9ezT4l1RrkKnMmtF5ydcJVumn6aQ2CdSEEm9bZyEmFLqd2mRJSWnDreDeMwei1hFQBFF/s1600-h/amtryinghard128582160091067286.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 380px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDDU0rlBCjsJKZymsZm9cNewmXLcmiBA0twmapaPJoWCHsWKYGhXNFS2Yu_qcACua9ezT4l1RrkKnMmtF5ydcJVumn6aQ2CdSEEm9bZyEmFLqd2mRJSWnDreDeMwei1hFQBFF/s400/amtryinghard128582160091067286.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302954992268388738" /></a>Warren Ellis tries to do something extraordinary by using the most vile, disgusting, and often silly occurrences as the setting of his book, in a way a dystopian view of America, where perversion is pervasive. Instead of employing it for shock value (e.g. make a baddie truly hateable by giving him some weird repugnant fetish), he transforms it into something ordinary, which the characters in the book accept as everyday occurrences. <br /><br />The one occasion where the plot itself sharply rises above the background noise level is late in the book, at a turning point for the main character. Up until then, Warren Ellis has been the weird uncle you only meet once every year on that family occasion, whom you try to get drunk because he will tell you the most outrageous stories. But the harmless uncle suddenly gets up and punches you in the stomach so hard all the air goes out of your lungs. Like Cory Doctorow, Ellis masterfully tortures his readers and induces that gut-wrenching feeling of loss you feel in sympathy with his characters. <br /><br />The ending is short and sweet, although it could have been a little sweeter in my opinion. The reconciliation between the two main characters, an ideal counterpoint to the mean shock before, would have been nicer had it been described in more detail. It still would not have been too long. After all, the point of hurting you main character is to set up the happy ending, right? <br /><br />All in all, I think Crooked Little Vein is best not considered as a full-length novel, but as something more experimental, like Warren Ellis' three-issue miniseries <i>City of Silence</i>. I do not mean to belittle the book in any way by saying this, by the way. I did enjoy it hugely, and I think it's wonderful that not all books are the same. <br /><br />Ellis Fans: Buy it if you don't have it already, which you almost certainly do anyway. <br/>Others: You might as well go ahead and buy it, if you fulfill the prerequisites: being a little jaded to the perversions of modern times, and the ability to accept a story on its own grounds.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-55508550595357915712009-01-22T16:49:00.004+01:002009-01-22T16:52:25.234+01:00By the Way, Congratulations<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmr6WpFHi9OuCgOuQrd80omUR-Wc79OAK_DyUztSpgHiAiW31OEKVnPcNKhefl0zGBqQeINx8R4U12qKPVxZFRH12o-9WmSv71d83LGvbfS-0v0ljWzAuYefTEgceTu0jRosu/s1600-h/political-pictures-barack-obama-chill-out-got-this.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmr6WpFHi9OuCgOuQrd80omUR-Wc79OAK_DyUztSpgHiAiW31OEKVnPcNKhefl0zGBqQeINx8R4U12qKPVxZFRH12o-9WmSv71d83LGvbfS-0v0ljWzAuYefTEgceTu0jRosu/s400/political-pictures-barack-obama-chill-out-got-this.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294145922761459090" /></a><br />via <a href="http://punditkitchen.com/">Pundit Kitchen</a>Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-62863879571327008292009-01-09T09:07:00.002+01:002013-05-07T00:08:43.538+02:00Untitled"You're out of here on the count of three, or I shoot the three of you. One."<br />
<br />
What's he waiting for? He can't think I'm not going to shoot. I apply more pressure. Make it clear I'm not messing around.<br />
<br />
"I'm going shoot your daughter first."<br />
<br />
I take aim on the center of the five year old's forehead. His new wife's face drains of all color and she looks ready to faint.<br />
<br />
"Two."<br />
<br />
Why the hell is he smiling?<br />
<br />
"Three."<br />
<br />
I brace myself. I hate it when this happens. You bring yourself in a situation where you lose control, and you have to do things you don't want to.<br />
<br />
The hammer clicks home on the empty chamber. <br />
<br />
"Don't get yourself into a situation where you have to do things you don't want to," he says.<br />
<br />
The quote is so familiar, from years ago, it almost brings a smile to my lips. Brief memories of shared in-jokes and friendly discussions take me back to a less complicated, happier time. All the fight goes out of me. <br />
<br />
I have to beat them to death with the butt of my empty gun now. It will mean life imprisonment for me, at the least, if I don't. I've seen it done, but I can't bring myself to do it.<br />
<br />
"Damn it, dad." I say, dropping my gun onto the thick carpet.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-36870388730604511912008-12-18T16:43:00.005+01:002008-12-18T16:54:38.275+01:00Yahoo wants to copy my data to its servers in... Limbo?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLT1NIoMFoAoHLYvMm7FElHDhL98Gia22eVQj0Az_lObX61BsgdVtkFmj4KtG01ntJlBgTLdujeMHnwbHQawZX3rg7Q8dLOn05oOKN3Lv00Cua6ME6r7WVgGcNOwCVNQktl5QB/s1600-h/servers+in+.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 49px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLT1NIoMFoAoHLYvMm7FElHDhL98Gia22eVQj0Az_lObX61BsgdVtkFmj4KtG01ntJlBgTLdujeMHnwbHQawZX3rg7Q8dLOn05oOKN3Lv00Cua6ME6r7WVgGcNOwCVNQktl5QB/s400/servers+in+.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281158213924667410" /></a><br /><br /><br />So they want to copy my data to their servers in . I've neven been to , but I hear it's nice and warm there.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-45934332226941513172008-12-10T19:02:00.008+01:002010-07-08T04:10:53.414+02:00My Kitchen. Let Me Show You It.<embed src="http://blip.tv/play/AYG100AA" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400" height="310" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed><br /><br />EDIT: Well, it's been two years now, but I finally got around to putting up a nice embed link.Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9728104.post-48856296295177734262008-12-08T22:07:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:08:11.409+01:00Charles Stross: Glasshouse<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7oI7pZVgy3a9c5Y3KVBtSpgcFGKmUC-Z8S_NzQP8L9zwA-feG_9j6Qg9I7iWbNScMaK8pAp4355pKZ4HVcVfgyxXr9l4S3zyfQcdeeonQjZH9DXxc5WlXlndHxe9Dq0kY6bd/s1600-h/Glasshouse+cover.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7oI7pZVgy3a9c5Y3KVBtSpgcFGKmUC-Z8S_NzQP8L9zwA-feG_9j6Qg9I7iWbNScMaK8pAp4355pKZ4HVcVfgyxXr9l4S3zyfQcdeeonQjZH9DXxc5WlXlndHxe9Dq0kY6bd/s400/Glasshouse+cover.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127109457285831026" /></a>I recently finished Glasshouse by Charles Stross, and I have to say, my high expectations have been more than fullfilled.<br /><br />The first book I read by Charles Stross was <a href="http://www.accelerando.org/">Accelerando</a>, which is a wild ride into the future of mankind, and so-called "posthuman", or "post-singularity" humanity. Accelerando is available as a free download under a CC Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs license. Go read it. It's great.<br /><br />What I loved about Accelerando was that it was so <i>weird</i>. Every few chapters, the timeline jumps ahead a few years, a couple of decades, or even a century or two, and the setting and characters you'd just barely got used to in the preceding pages change so radically it throws you off like you're being flung out of a rollercoaster. You have to work to reconnect to the story.<br /><br />Which is not to say, it's hard to read. I hate books that are hard to read. This book isn't exactly what I'd call hard, but it does take some effort to read. However, I really enjoyed putting in that effort. I even enjoyed the recurring sense of disorientation —it was intentional, after all—and the ever-increasing weirdness of human life, or what in the later stages of the book is referred to as 'humanity', more or less, I suspect, for lack of a better term.<br /><br />Glasshouse is much more accessible than Accelerando, because the setting does not change half as quickly. But the lack of rollercoaster-style disortientation is compensated for by a lot more punch. After reading about the first third (the novel is about 400 pages long), it seriously became impossible for me to put the book down. I finally succumbed to fatigue and fell asleep at 2am (on a work day no less).<br /><br />Glasshouse is set in the far future. Thanks to 'assembler' technology (replicators to you Treckies), combined with mind/consciousness/memory transfer, humans are essentially immortal. Everyone has a backup to revert to in case of fatal accidents, making death a mere inconvenience. However, as you live for a truly long stretch of time, you are bound to accumulate unpleasant memories, up to a point where they become too much to bear. When that happens, people use the assemblers to have their memories partially or fully erased, and start a new life.<br /><br />Stross addresses the age-old Sci-Fi question of "what is life?", or "what is human?", but not in the way Asimov and others did. Where Asimov speculated whether man-made automata could aquire sentience, Stross takes the concept of sentient artificial life as granted, and focuses on a different aspect of what makes us human, or rather what makes us <i>us</i>. If our thoughts and memories are what makes each of us unique, what if these memories could be manipulated arbitrarily?<br /><br />Another question arising in that context is whether someone is responsible for actions he committed, before his memory of these actions was erased. And what would be the point of punishing somebody for something he cannot remember doing?<br /><br />Throughout the novel, which is written in first-person perspective, Stross manages to convincingly tell the tale from the point of view of somebody who has his memory erased, is killed and restored from backup, brainwashed, and has other ugly things happen to his memory. No mean feat, considering what the stream of consciousness of someone like that must be like, but he pulls it off brilliantly.<br /><br />By setting the bulk of his novel in a wildlife-preserve-like social experiment, intended to recreate the "dark ages"—that is, the late 20th and early 21st century—he manages to bring another message across. By describing our present day from the viewpoint of an 'enlightened' future human, he holds up a mirror to our society.<br /><br />Rereading that last sentence, it reads just like the usual generic blather you'd read on any book cover. But this book has honestly been different, at least for me. This was the first time I actually went 'Holy shit, we really <i>do</i> live in a damn restrictive society'.<br /><br />There is one more point I found remarkable, but I don't want to spoil too much. Suffice it to say that this book has opened my eyes to some issues of gender roles, i.e. women staying at home, men going out to work and the associated problems, better than any other author I've read before.<br /><br />Lastly, while Glasshouse is not what I'd call a 'hard SF' novel (if you want that, try Eric Nylund's 'Signal to Noise'), there's still a lot of technology in there, especially relating to the 'assemblers'. As much as there is, it's all very well thought through, with all implications of the technology considered. The world the novel is set in really gives the impression of being well-rounded, and is very believable.<br /><br /><br />All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable book, which I can only recommend, very much, to anybody.<br /><br /><br /><i>Disclaimer: This post had been lying in my drafts folder for almost a year, so the part where I claim I 'recently' finished the novel only applies for very large values of 'recently'.</i>Tobias Klüpfelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07073905644498659779noreply@blogger.com0