Post by HarneyBarnes on Sept 23, 2017 19:14:56 GMT
New Networking Solutions For The 21st Century Digital Native And You, by Robert Parker Santigo
"Be quiet or you'll miss the parade". "Change nothing sonny (also buy more video games)". "The fuck are you staring at?!" "Nethan P. Boil is a pretty fly nice guy for a white guy, right?" These leather pelts of questions flew hard. The walls and ceiling had been cracked, molded by the short hours from this excursion of the aquaeducts. Sounds like a new time and age for me to leave at this junction. So with that great creatures and minerals, I left the flat and hopped onto the nearest wimbey lorry for the laddie at eight, past a pardon to a nearing bonker. Near the entrance to Pub #152790 closest signee engraved as the "Daft Cow Wally Trollops" past 5, the worst had occured. Fucking big, daft Yankee Americans licking the carpets. The ankle-biter gits began the spilling torrent of questionnaires. Another began comparing us to the Scandinavian knobs. Another wave of Yankee tourists stormed into the enterance, filling in the pub even further. Fat stupid Americans, the stench of follically challenged bodies was too much. I just wanted the pisser.
Participation is not a participatory activity for the person making the assumption in the state of being. A discussion where multiple people can gather in, sharing ideas and experiences. This formal entertainment has a long history, dating beyond war and peace. This contractual agreement has pre-historic connections, before the idea of a pre-historic man was to become historic. When you look back at a piece of media, you find history. History is everything, much in the same way that atoms are everything, whether to be including if granular synthesis can form. In a way, granular synthesis is much like the forming of a galaxy long before learning to bake an apple pie, hooking a simple development kit to generate sand-sized particles of sound. These snippets can be anything, from simple clap, to a full solo from a french horn player in a jazz duet. Some synthesis theory can bring an additional dimension to the sound, through the form of a simple Attack-Decay envelopes, or the complex 8-stage 'hex-key envelopes' of Casio synthesisers of the 1980s, as best seen of the CZ series of synthesizers. Of course, the market demands for a better product, and had given society the 'ROMpler Revolution', a mass paradigm shift for a higher deity of audio synthesis. This continued into the latter era of the 21st Century, where Korg Incorporated had developed the MicroKorg X, introducing higher 64-stage synthesis, and every common form of generating audio, including 48-operator Frequency Modulation.
This discussion goes the whole circle when we look back at how a particle of sound it's own dimension unto itself, where the fractals of music become its own universal rockstars of their own crowd. One is totalitarian, five is an oligarchy, but an infinitesimal is your own being.
"Ha-haa! And that was the hottest rockers The Fray, and their song How to Save a Life, off of their album of the same name, which is coming out a couple months from now in this year. But now's not the time for schooner business, we got a call-in from one of our viewers." The announcer ends his line, and pulls in the call booth to open wide. What comes out is a telephone call from the booths the floor below answer for the Billboard Charts. A grainy but coherent voice becomes vocal. "Hi! My name is Jane and oh, my, goodness, I just love The Gorge so much! It's such a lifesaver whenever the customer flow gets to my head, and The Gorge is always there behind my ears. It's like Jesus music! Could you play Remedy by Seether? "Sure can do missy, this is The Gorge, and Rock is our modus operandi and know more than the backs of our own hands! Speaking of hands, reminds me of our tech guy, who's been grabbing quite the handy operation, if you know what I mean, ha ha haaaah! It's like the whole system's been jogging and groping strings, hahaha!"
"This is 107.3 The Gorge, where we play nothing BUT ROCK!"
The Fall breeze and wind chills have arrived, making sweaters a minimum mandatory for present pedestrians. The stores slowly pass by. Thrift Store, Pawn Shop, Old Town Hall, Old Diner. Standing in the line of a job fair at the local Community Center, a bit later than most to arrive at its opening. 8:15 AM. There's only a small leftover piles of job applications. The printed resume of mine ends up redundant. Application is filed out.The speakers are playing the worksafe pop radio stations on Pandora. A long line of middle-aged women wait in line for a search for an open position for a job. "Shake It Off" and "Look What You Made Me Do" by Taylor Swift play loudly out of a Behringer PA system. A close cousin comes out of the interviewee booth. The line moves. A trade of smiles and a small, discreet greeting is shared. Cousin leaves the building. The line continues for a long while. The line moves. The many mothers, soon-to-be mothers, and pre-retirement women remain. A lady goes out for a smoke break, leaving her coat at her seat. The line moves. Some of the mothers talk about their children, about their babies preparing to become one with the American Education System. The line moves. Phone's finally uploaded a PDF file. The file must be downloaded yet again in order to read it. Glancing over the phone's clock marks it approximately near 11:00 AM. The line moves. More people arrive. They are directed towards the card table with more application sheets. Let's stretch backwards to grab a pen. Crazy party trick. The line moves.
A quick count shows over 20 people waiting line in one shot alone. Let's estimate that amount plus 5 more that left the room when what was spotted. At least fifty people enter the Community Center just for this job fair alone. Counting for the other two days, this leaves a rough estimate for over a hundred people handing over applications. Just for the chance to work as a cart mover for a discount grocery store specializing in B-Stock and canned foods. An entirely brand new building was constructed in the other side of town just for the company alone. The city build a brand new warehouse just for a discount grocer. But in a world where paid carpooling is now a norm, reality doesn't care about you. You've got to do what you've got to do.
The line moves. Diving back into the internet by phone, a quick search of video synthesis brings up freeware Android programs. Downloading one generates a controlled swirl of pixels and colors flying. The phone vibrates, revealing another update from Ebay. Something about car bolts, it's a shared family account. The line moves. Time check: 11:50. Reading of several social media posts bring things past a bit. An audio company got into hot waters. Politics. Some silly posts bring the mood up a bit more. Another is a promotional disguised as unique analysis. Rite-Aid stocks are still in the crater, disproving daytraders everywhere. An hour passes in the wait line, now "Conga" by Gloria Estefan & Miami Sound Machine is playing. The room furniture is nearly empty, sparse with nothing but card tables, folding chairs, and a pile of papers. Middle-aged adults sitting in line, with strong sullen looks in the line, with additional sprinklings of a simplified grin. Some waiting in line near the door entrance must stand for the hour, while those in the second room sit in a string of disposable plastic chairs.
"Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger Don't you fight it 'til you tried it, do that conga beat Everybody gather 'round now Let your body feel the heat Don't you worry if you can't dance; Let the music move your feet It's the rhythm of the island, and like the sugar cane so sweet If you want to do the conga, you've got to listen to the beat"
The line is finally near the end. The person next to me leaves the room, for a particleboard serpentine corner, feeling oddly reflective and mirror-like. Getting to the end is almost a sort of exciting moment now, like the end of an experiment where a person forcibly enters an isolation chamber for a long amount of minutes. Or when students pull elaborate pranks of replacing all food in the kitchen cabinets and pantry with purely 6 grain oatmeal or microwaved breakfast sandwiches. The next person leaves, making me next for application submission. A brief interview asks basic questions of aptitude, with me stumbling here and there. A third interviewer asks for the resume. The interview ends, and I leave the building with a business card and free pen. A quick walk back home with an additional 35 second stoplight crosslight walk to destroy the flow of traffic, and I'm home.
It was a dark and stormy night. After an evening of watching the black box in the living room, a time for some dinner was nearing arrival. To prepare for dinner, some bowls and cooking utensils were taken out. Knives, cutting boards, corkscrew, and some platters on the tables. I needed to bake up some potatoes, so I got out the oven pan from the small cabinet room. Small condiments like paprika, peppercorn, and salt were a given, a family staple. Next up was to reach out for some potatoes. I got out of the roller-stool and headed on over to the potato basket in the next room, what had occurred next had scarred me for life. I cannot bring this up without shaking in trauma.
There were no potatoes, and I forgot to buy potatoes at the store.
The first thing is you discover the grey market businesses and side hustles your extended family had dipped their hands into. The next thing you know is that Martha Stewart is the crime boss of Insider Trading for soccer moms. The maternal cartel. It's time to get in the seat. The seat of broke-ass, office recliner haunted by the doll lost inside the chair. Jacking into the hacker chair, the activation code is sent out by the federated bungaserver. The information of your rival is in. Their eMail page, their mailing listings, and their Service Tag and MAC Address. Injecting their home page is easy, enter the System Shock graphic editor, hack in a cyphered dummy code to activate their Perl CGI models, so that their fantasy Pixar characters will end their own nefarious schemes.
Bentley Van Civic enters with his loving family. The kids crafted their own homebrewed Counter-Strike autoaim scripts. A labor of love for the children, with nothing else much in these days where their Moon Shoes Redux was no longer the awesome party trick. One time had the neighbor dude come over and tried them, and then he just flew off like a rocket into the pine tree. Next thing was that his entire body was caked in a layer of pine needles; the clinic was immediate. The guy moved out a couple weeks later. Courtesies were over with, Bentley was truely a tired man. A hard work of clean business with the clientele, so what else to do but hammer for his personal projects? The machine is activated. But on the desktop, everything was wrong. Scrounge was holding a gun, aimed at multiple hostages. He aimed a second gun at you. "It's either the babies or your baby," he demands. Right as Bentley is halfway finished vocalizing a question inquiring about this stupidity, all senses end. Bentley's head caves in and explodes, like that scene in the TV Show 'A Scanner Darkly', where the American Idol judge dies from the psychic's motivations.
In the late days in the month of 2018's August, a server that I was a regular of hosted a challenge.
The challenge was to change your avatar on all social media places to an anime avatar. It seemed simple, pick something I had mild enjoyment in.
Until I found the latest tweets of Lil B The Based God, showing two very rare and based 'selfie' portraits . This demanded for me to take a photo, to incorporate a part of it as my own. Lil B is anime, and BasedGod accepted this ideal in whole.
It took a mere 3 days until I received pushback, from the very same server the month issued! I asked the moderators and owner, and they claimed the icon of Based God as "not anime". Well I have come to this station, and these mods are nerd-ass liars. The people of the server agreed with my stances and beliefs of Lil B.
And this is not even speaking for the amount of spite and hatred for a mere anime avatar on social media data silos outward. I was betrayed by users everywhere, from internet 'mutuals' to random users online. Once again I was being attacked for presenting new ideas. That new idea, #based avatars.
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