spacematic.net

I write this post at the risk of sounding old, out-of-touch and a tad back-asswards. But things are moving fast, ladies and gentlemen. The times are a-changin’, and it took a new cellphone to wake me up out of the Stone Age of 2002 and come to the realization that in four years, I missed the tiny steps in-between. These tiny steps are like small towns on a road trip – if you nod off for a nap, you’ll miss the scenery and arrive at your destination with a start. Woah! Here already? Such a thing just recently happened to me, and it led to a benign but annoying case of technological and cultural alienation.
Last weekend, my cellular provider left a cryptic text message on my phone. It stated quite simply, “Your voicemail is changing. Please contact Cingular. “ I did not comply. This cellphone, a Nokia candy bar, has been reliable. It has put up with my abuse for four years and I’ve been very happy with it. I’ve dropped it, I’ve forgotten to charge it, I’ve cursed at it, I’ve carved into its face, I’ve drawn on it, painted it and I’ve thrown it at (okay, toward) a cat. It still works perfectly. Then the weekend came and went – and so did my voicemail.
I hopped in the car and went to the Cingular store to see what the problem was. It seems that the problem wasn’t my phone, it was my account. Even though I’ve been living in Atlanta since 2004, my phone still had a Florida (850) area code. The rep couldn’t help me with my problem. He suggested that I modify my account to reflect local customs and conventions. While I was at it, I decided to get a new phone. This time, I opted for the Motorola Razr V3c. It’s a nifty device. It takes pictures, it plays video, it supports mp3 ringtones… and if you want, you can use it as a phone!
I don’t consider myself technologically naive. In fact, I try to keep an eye on advancement simply out of interest. After all, I grew up with computers. I’ve been smitten with gadgets ever since I first got a TI-99/4A computer and learned to make it say nasty words. That was back in 1983. Since then, I’ve watched the advent of the hard drive, the 3.5″ floppy, optical media, wireless networking and the rapid spread of Dippin’Dots: Ice Cream of the Future. So I’m not naive, but I can’t help myself wanting to say “Scotty, how long until we have the warp engines back online?” when I flip my Razr open. This thing comes straight out of Star Trek. It’s a Star Trek phone, for Godsakes, and it came to us two centuries before its time! But this futuristic gadget even has a leg up on Kirk’s communicator. Kirk couldn’t snap a shot of the rubber-suited monster he was fighting in the California desert. Back in the Sixties, visions of the future were still a somewhat practical, even if unbelievable. Phones were phones, cameras were cameras and never the twain would meet. It seems that the future turned out even stranger than the wild and optimistic visions of our previous generations’ speculative mind-trips. In all their attempts to predict the advancement of technology, the writers of sci-fi never thought of combining devices into bizarre and improbable combinations. They must have thought that in the 23rd Century, man would had evolved beyond entertainment through novelty. Obviously, in the 21st Century, this trait is still hard-wired and going strong.
Not long after I got this new chunk of technological candy, my “harrumphs!” about having a phone that is also a camera were quieted. This little all-in-one device can be a lot of fun – hell, it can even be practical! How many times have I wanted to get even a low-res snapshot of a funny situation, only to remember that I left my camera at home?
I hopped on the Web and started looking for articles that detailed how to get images from the phone to my Mac. It was then that I stumbled upon a review that stated, “The RAZR V3c has a lot of features that please, although to save both battery life and space, this phone has no flash.” I read it again. “This phone has no flash.” I think I pulled a ligament in my brain. What the hell? This is the future? You have to take one star off an otherwise great review because the TELEPHONE you are reviewing doesn’t have an integrated FLASH BULB? I was confused. I was tickled. I started thinking.
What surprises are in store for us in the next four years? I imagined reviews of appliances from the year 2010.

“The Maytag QuietCycle 4400 is a superb front-loading washer, but to maintain its Energy Star rating, the manufacturer opted to produce this particular model in two-wheel drive only. Therefore, Road And Garment has to rate this otherwise spectacular washer a 3.5, a star and a half below the BMW Z-13 Terrain Tumbler.”

In 2010, will BMW also be the Ultimate Washing Machine? –mike

Not too long ago, I said that TiVo makes it possible to enjoy better programming in the same space of time one would normally be watching crap TV. That remains true, but if you haven’t gotten one of these things yet, let me warn you about an illness I’ve encountered: Two-Week TiVo Overdose.
Don’t get me wrong, you need a DVR. But making the adjustment to the new device’s many features and capabilities will turn you into a fool for about two weeks. When I got mine, I dove into the relatively trouble-free setup, spent an hour or two watching TV and promptly went about my business. The first few days, TiVo was just another component in my entertainment system. But then the silly little bugger started finding things for me to watch, and I was unprepared for such altruism. Each time I went to the TiVo Suggestions menu, I was intrigued by the offerings. Shows I never even knew existed were magically waiting for me! I had to watch.
Before I knew it, my normal viewing habits were out the window and I spiraled into an ungodly television binge over a two-week period. I couldn’t move, my eyes were bloodshot, I felt the need to snack almost constantly. Roughly thirty hours a week were spent in this state. TiVo – Damn You! You weaseled your way into my home and hijacked my spare time with countless episodes of “South Park,” “King Of The Hill,” “Flavor Of Love” and “Mail Call.” And those were just a few of the Season Passes I had set up.
What makes the little beast completely irresistible is its ability to seek out new things to record based on your interests. TiVo quickly learned that I like documentaries, so while I caught up on R. Lee Ermey’s hyper-enthusiastic demonstrations of military technology, TiVo simultaneously recorded nature shows, disaster scenarios and biographies. My favorite doc title by far was “When Beaches Attack!” Who could resist a show so fetchingly titled? I simply had to learn about beaches that lurk in the shadows, waiting axiously for the chance to strike out at unsuspecting tourists. In all of my years of visiting beaches, not once have I worried about turning my back on one. The last thing you expect is a beach sneaking up on you, deftly slicing through your achilles tendon, pummelling you into submission and taking your wallet. But wait a second – I have had a beach steal my sunglasses. And my money. But homicide? Not the beaches I know. They’ve always seemed so calm and quiet. Just kinda keep to themselves, ya know? Now I know better.
Toward the middle of my two-weeks of television mayhem, my dog started to whine whenever I picked up the remote control. She was my savior. If not for her constant attempts to pry me away from the idiot box, I probably would have remained there, basking in the warm, lobotomizing cathode-rays. I would have been overcome with the mysterious urge to lean on random watercoolers and recapitulate the latest happenings on “24.” As she helped me recover from my addiction, I realized that there really is a Dog… and she loves me very much.
Now things seem like they’re back to normal, and I’ve been able to temper my viewing habits. I’m back to my old schedule of three hours a day. When used judiciously, TiVo is a brilliant tool. But as is the case with all technology, it must be treated with respect, and maybe even a little suspicion. Dare I continue using the TiVo? Of course I should! The cute little thing would get lonely if I just left it there.
Truly, the marketing of a component as an anthropomorphized “TV friend” who is eager to please was a brilliant move.  As if television weren’t addictive enough already, TiVo has incorporated a Tamagochi-esque animated mascot who magically learns what you like to watch, seeking out programming tailored to your interests and input. Aww, simpwy puh-wesshious! But Allie’s got things under control. She’s ever vigilant, and she’ll be damned if a silver box replaces her as man’s new best friend. –mike

Google is a great company, whose mantra is “Don’t Be Evil.” Still, they’re entitled to a little fun now and then. And what better way to do it than fake one’s own gruesome death? Well, since that one kinda back-fired on me, it’s no wonder Google didn’t employ the same tactic to rile its patrons. No, they did one better, by poking fun at their various “beta” products. Googles Beta products are largely free and extraordinarily useful. Take Gmail, for example. I have an account, and I must say that it’s the best email I’ve ever had. Problem is, you can’t just go sign up for it. You must know someone who has it, then you have to hope they send you an invite. But since every participant gets fifty invites, you must be very low on the friend list not to get one.
For April 1, 2005, Google announced a new Beta product rollout, Google Gulp! A description of the product is as follows:

At Google our mission is to organize the world’s information and make it useful and accessible to our users. But any piece of information’s usefulness derives, to a depressing degree, from the cognitive ability of the user who’s using it. That’s why we’re pleased to announce Google Gulp (BETA)��� with Auto-Drink��� (LIMITED RELEASE), a line of “smart drinks” designed to maximize your surfing efficiency by making you more intelligent, and less thirsty. Think fruity. Think refreshing. Think a DNA scanner embedded in the lip of your bottle reading all 3 gigabytes of your base pair genetic data in a fraction of a second, fine-tuning your individual hormonal cocktail in real time using our patented Auto-Drink��� technology, and slamming a truckload of electrolytic neurotransmitter smart-drug stimulants past the blood-brain barrier to achieve maximum optimization of your soon-to-be-grateful cerebral cortex. Plus, it’s low in carbs! And with flavors ranging from Beta Carroty to Glutamate Grape, you’ll never run out of ways to quench your thirst for knowledge.

Perfect. Unfortunately, I know of no one who has tried the new Google Gulp! yet. The method of obtaining a bottle of Gulp! is along the same lines of getting a Gmail account. “You can pick up your own supply of this “limited release” product simply by turning in a used Gulp Cap at your local grocery store. How to get a Gulp Cap? Well, if you know someone who’s already been ‘gulped,’ they can give you one. And if you don’t know anyone who can give you one, don’t worry ��� that just means you aren’t cool. But very, very (very!) soon, you will be.”
That, in my opinion, is true April Fool’s Day fun. But what do I know? I’m a geek. By the way, I’m of the belief that you can only fake your death once, so I’ll have to think of something a little more clever next year than convincing friends and family that I was devoured by a thresher in Little Five Points.

–Mike

I stumbled upon a distressing site the other day. A man is supposedly holding a rabbit named “Toby” ransom for $50,000 dollars. The site claims that if he does not receive the specified amount in donations or gear, the rabbit gets it and will be butchered and eaten.
A lot of peoples’ first responses have been “brilliant!” and “wow, that’s one way to make a quick buck.” But let’s just take a closer look at this so-called creativity, this remarkable ingenuity. First of all, this type of website isn’t new. There’s an older site named savebernd.com that makes the exact same claims. Only at savebernd.com, the owner is demanding one million euros. Upon closer inspection, the savebernd site declares itself a hoax. And indeed, upon examination of savetoby, we find the same thing. Visitors as early as February recall a small disclaimer at the bottom of the page that stated the whole thing was a hoax, but that disclaimer has now been removed. Why? Probably to induce empathetic champions of animal rights to cough up dough under duress. This begs the question: “Is this any honorable way to make money on the web?”
I don’t think so, and apparently neither does PayPal, since they have suspended the anonymous owner’s account. However, the CafePress store is still open for business and no doubt making money at this very moment. Hoax or no, I wouldn’t be able to sleep well at night if I was at the helm of such an entrepreneurial endeavor. This is just another sick extention of the age old-web premise “I deserve a bunch of money, so I’ll set up a site let everyone contribute a dollar.” True, if everybody on the web gave you a dollar, you’d be rich as sin. But I just wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it like this. The money-makers I respect and would like to emulate are the James Lileks’, Homestar Runners and many others who gain income through creativity and labor. The authors of savetoby and savebernd are appealing to the lowest common denominator of society, those who would do anything to make a quick buck. At best, this reminds me of cheap reality television. At worst, it’s proof that the Western world has learned nothing of its first few years in the 21st Century. Every day, we see people taken hostage on television, threatened with horrible execution unless some fringe terror organization’s demands are met. In no way am I trying to compare the life of a simple coney to the life of another human being, but the model of these pitiful web sites echo the model of modern terrorism. It’s a pretty safe bet to assume this extension of thought never made it to the minds of the simpletons who embarked on this “hilarious” cash-generating scam. There are too many other honest ways to make a buck, guys. This one just ain’t funny. It sure as hell won’t get you any dates, either. Put the rabbit down, give it to somebody who will care about it and imagine the responses and expressions of those you tell your story to. You know, that classic American success story of how you made a fortune by threatening to kill your pet. You’re a real hero, asshole. –Mike

“The dead know only one thing… that it is better to be alive.”
–Joker, “Full Metal Jacket”

Whether you are religious, agnostic or atheist, one thing people of all creeds agree on is that life is rare, precious and should be defended. If not for the survival instinct, life would never have persisted. It would have fizzed apart in the boiling primordial muck.
As a unique species capable not only of high rational thought, but also capable of creating tools and weapons, we sometimes disregard our instinctive codes regarding the sanctity life and auger in. The effect it has on survivors is always devastating, for the bereaved cannot comprehend self-imposed death. It is hardwired for us to try to live at all costs. Consequently, we start to believe that suicide must the work of some outside force. It must be someone or something else. The dead are not here to tell us their reasons, and the suicide note is only a glimpse into the mind of the afflicted.
As I read the various blog eulogies regarding the recent apparent suicide of Hunter S. Thompson, I was disturbed by some of the flamewar comments that arose from the original posts. One blogger’s post shared my sentiment that suicide should never be an option; that it seemed to go against the grain of a man who championed every cause that caught his interest. Most importantly, the blogger said that he was disappointed in this final act of cowardice that seemed so uncharacteristic in the life of such a cherished icon. I agree. In spite of HST’s ruminations on the end of the world and the loss of liberty worldwide, he seemed to always have a love of life. That is why this suicide in particular is such a blow to fans. In the wake of Thompson’s death, many are trying to defend his final act.
One respondent to the above-mentioned blogpost said:
“Complete crap! So you think it’s cowardly to commit suicide? So you feel cheated? How is suicide cowardly when it still strikes fear in almost anyone you meet yet he faced it head-on? I’m not saying rah! rah! commit suicide but I’m tired of hearing that worn-out line. Ah, it’s cowardly. Hunter S. took his life, he never allowed it to be taken from him. It was his choice, he’s a human being. You haven’t got a clue what was going through his head at that moment.”
Another cracked kernel of wisdom from a fellow suicide apologist goes as such:
“Everyone always says that… that suicide is a ‘cowardly’ act, etc. I call BULLSHIT on that. It’s definitely a selfish act and hurtful to others who love and admire you. But jumping off this earth into the greatest unknown we have is definitely not for the weak of heart. In a weird way, it takes a certain amount of courage. Many people can’t come to terms with that and are so afraid of death that they have knee-jerk reaction to suicide (calling it cowardly, etc.). If you come better to grips with death and really think about it… suicide may be a whole lot of negative, horrible things… but you’ll certainly see that it’s not a ‘cowardly’ act. That’s closer to the truth you may not want to face.”
Now it’s my turn. I’ll take these jokers’ arguments apart while attempting to keep my wits intact. It’s only fair that I do this. After all, they took a few key words from a post that lauds the life of HST and only condemns the circucumstances of his death. If the author of the blog entry was damning the man’s life and disqualifying his value by his choice of suicide, *maybe* vile responses such as the ones above would be warranted.
1). To the question: “How is suicide cowardly when it still strikes fear in almost anyone you meet yet he faced it head-on?” May I submit that human beings feel fear for one basic reason? SURVIVAL. We are programmed to survive. Simply because someone was swayed by a chemical imbalance in the brain or by a deliberate dulling of the senses doesn’t mean they don’t approach suicide with trepidation. Suicide occurs most often when someone is so miserable and off-kilter that acting out in spite of the fear seems to be the only solution to his/her desperate situation. Let me re-iterate – suicide is an act of DESPERATION.
2). To the comment: “It was his choice, he’s a human being. You haven’t got a clue what was going through his head at that moment.” I say that *yes* it was his choice. *Yes* he was a human being. His life’s work was, in fact, a great chronicle of what it was like to be human in the Twentieth Century. But don’t try to sell me a load of garbage about some glorious and unknowable epiphany that made Thompson’s ultimate solution poetic. It is true that we will never know what was going through his head at that moment. All we know is that whatever it was, it caused the contents of a shotgun shell to propel through his skull, transforming those thoughts to taco meat.
3). Now on to the second poster who said: “But jumping off this earth into the greatest unknown we have is definitely not for the weak of heart. In a weird way, it takes a certain amount of courage.” Wow! Suddenly suicide sounds like an adventure! Boldly go! This fool is twisting the deathbed words of agnostic cosmologist Carl Sagan, who was dying of preleukemia syndrome and speaking of his reconciliation with the inevitable. There is a marked difference between coming to terms with one’s impermanence and forcing an early end on oneself. There is nothing brave or visionary in the latter. After all, one does not kill themselves to go traipsing among the stars. One kills themselves to make existence suddenly halt. Any hope of continuation is a remote second place to the overwhelming urge to simply die.
4). Last quote: “If you come better to grips with death and really think about it… suicide may be a whole lot of negative, horrible things… but you’ll certainly see that it’s not a ‘cowardly’ act. That’s closer to the truth you may not want to face.” FINALLY, we have the mindset of these people pinned down. I’m assuming that the flame posters who are romanticizing suicidal notions are either in high-school or they never matriculated to higher philosophical ambitions than those of the state-sanctioned eleventh grade reading list. I’m not disparaging the youth, we’ve all been there. But such comments frequently come from those who are young and just beginning to entertain the possibility that they are not immortal. It is at the immediate post-pubescent stage that death is looked upon as a challenging no-man’s land. Youthful minds want to figure out death quickly and have it done with. After all, it is the ultimate “Does Not Compute” in an environment (supposedly school) where answers to all other questions are easily available. They definitely don’t want death to be the religious judgment promised in scriptural tomes, but neither do they want death to be a sad and meaningless *kaput.* It is only when we have the experience of wisdom (not necessarily age) and see that the world is full of unpredictable things over which we have no control that we start to put death in a rational context. We then recognize it as something always impending, but preferably avoided.
So am I saying that there is no such thing as a noble death? Certainly not. Laying down one’s life to save another is a great deed. Is it permissible to choose to die a relatively painless death rather than suffer through the agony of a terminal illness? Religious pundits may disagree, but I feel that one always reserves the right. Do we know all the particulars about Hunter S. Thompson’s circumstances to be able to answer why he killed himself? No.
In parting, I want to impress upon the reader that just because his final act may have been disturbing and disappointing, it is far from my intention to label him a coward. The bravest and best of men have lapses in judgment. It is sad to think that some are permanent. It is good for us to lament the unnecessary parting of a friend. But one can do so without condoning or endorsing his choice to snuff it. Now sit and spin. –Mike

Image credit: ESA/NASA/University of Arizona

What you see here is another world. Fancy that. At first glance, you may think ‘we’ve been to the moon, we’ve seen brief snippets of Venus and we’ve totally gotten an eyeful of Mars,’ and you’d be right. But this is the first time that we’ve seen another world with active surface features not totally unlike our own. What makes these pictures even more amazing is that this familiar-looking terrain is on a moon of Saturn 800 million miles away.
Being so far away, the average surface temperature of this moon, “Titan” is -290� Fahrenheit. Needless to say, the liquid you see isn’t water. It’s methane. Scientists have long believed that Titan has lakes of hydrocarbons like methane and ethane, with liquid properties of clarity and viscosity comparable to water. Hydrocarbons are essential elements to the building blocks of life. It is unlikely, though not impossible, that primitive cellular life could exist in an environment as harsh as little Titan.
Next time you look out the window of an airplane and see the snaking drainage channels of streams and canyon rivers, remember that we now have proof that something similar, though strangely alien in composition, exists out there. I’ll be keeping an eye on the data coming back from the NASA-ESA Saturn mission, and if anything fruity comes up from the likes of Noory or Hoagland, I’ll be sure to report in. These are indeed fun and thought-provoking times for space geeks. –Mike

Today being Saturday, I’m in the mood to keep things somewhat light. Though it is worth mentioning that a U.S. nuclear submarine ran aground yesterday, resulting in some injury. I certainly hope their accident wasn’t borne from being monumentally distracted by the Google and Drudge reports that Jen and Brad decided to formally separate. That would be just awful.
I’d like to talk briefly about the fun, glory and frustration that is uniquely Halo 2. I’m such a videogame geek that I searched out stores and boutiques in the hours prior to midnight to see if I could get my grubby little fingers on a copy (how old *am* I??). Alas, fanboys who were much more dedicated to the task than I had pre-ordered and lined up, thwarting any midnight hour glory I may have enjoyed. Instead, I woke up bright and early the next morning and trekked up to a suburb far north of Atlanta, walked into a Target and snagged a piping hot copy of the Limited Edition and proceeded to spend the entirety of November 9 conquering the Campaign mode.
I really am a decent and well-adjusted element of society, I swear. But this game is one chink in my otherwise impenetrable armor of cool, aloof whatever-ness. The colorful bloody, bullet-spraying glee of Halo 2 instantly transforms me into a drooling, sweaty-palmed pimple-faced geekchild with a mouth as big as Wyoming. <–? This is a brave admission for me to make in this public forum, since I spend most of my days writing about how astute I am to world events and other matters of import. But I think it’s also important to acknowledge wackiness and playful doofus tendencies from time to time. The online multiplayer mode of Halo 2 has given me many hours of beatdown glee that simply cannot be found without legal repurcussions in the real world. I have shot medical doctors with rockets, slapped lawyers in the back of the head and stuck flaming hand-grenades to the faces countless young urban professionals with nothing better to do on a late weeknight. Once, I even knocked a 73 year-old grandmother off a hoverbike, stole it and promptly ran her over with it. Then she shortly re-appeared to snipe me out of my newfound prize with a high-powered rifle.
Perhaps that’s the moment I started to realize that I’m not alone in this strange obsession, nor is my demographic of 18-34 year-old males the only set who has found fun and frustration in fast-paced, therapeutic alien-hunting.
The social implications of an online community as diverse as Halo 2 are beyond my expertise to explain. But I think that here in the *future*, people are less inclined to relegate videogames to the domain of little kids. Those who would never set foot in an arcade for fear of mortal embarrassment quietly hoof it to the megamarts of their respective communities, buy consoles for their “kids” and “loved ones” and proceed to uleash unholy fury on 6.3 million other devotees to a game that consists of nothing more than blowing other people up. And even though the object is to maim, torture and humiliate others in search of vain slaying glory, a friendly sense of community is rapidly evolving online.
Take the site Geezergamers.com, for example. GeezerGamers describes itself as a forum for 30-something plus gamers to find others of their age and interests for friendly online matches of anything from “Slayer” to “Capture the Flag,” and other custom gametypes too numerous to mention here. The site has already attracted a small town’s worth of devotees. Perhaps it’s this feeling of solidarity and community that makes me feel better about confessing the existence of my inner-geek. After all, guilty pleasures cease being guilty as soon as it becomes obvious that the enjoyment is prevalent.
I’m not predicting that the online gaming subculture will go mainstream with heated water-cooler debates about whether it’s better to turret someone from the back of a Warthog or to simply pray-and-spray someone into tiny chunks of digital oblivion. My feeling is that people will still keep their gaming fetishes somewhat secret by day, because there’s a certain illicit pleasure people get from having a secret alter-ego. Thanks to the Internet, the secret life is no longer the sole domain of Thurber’s “Walter Mitty.” It’s now a shared experience of countless imaginations where people, regardless of station in life or passion by day can leave reality behind and become champion tag-masters. Tag-masters with guns.
With the childish stigma of video games rapidly diminishing in our constantly-evolving society, online gaming is just becoming another place to make friends and keep in touch, combining the ease of communication the ‘Net affords with a rich sense of shared experience that no other medium has thus far afforded such a large and varied group of people. That can’t be all bad, can it? –Mike

At least that’s the humble opinion of this simple-minded blogger. Of course, the Aqua Teens are an exception and will always be near and dear to me. Unfortunately, recent AS offerings such as “Tom Goes To The Mayor” are completely lost on me. To the rescue, friend and fellow Web geek Jeff Steiner introduced me to an odd body of work known collectively as “Salad Fingers.” Please take the time to go visit this creation of David Firth at fat-pie.com. A link has been conveniently placed in my Blogroll for your perusal and judgment.
Over the past two weeks, I have found myself replaying all five installments of this outlandish and otherworldly Flash project, trying to analyze its idiosyncrasies. Any meaning I have pulled from the strange world of Mr. Firth is detailed below in my review. It is with utmost emphasis that I again advise you to view all five episodes of this saga if you are to understand a word of what’s written here. Or don’t. Fine. I’m pretty sure this entry will pique your curiosity enough to click over when you’re done reading.
The picture above is the tortured face of none other than our tour guide “Salad Fingers.” This cartoon, being British in origin, may bring a bad-teeth stereotype to mind for many Americans. Suffice it to say, I’ve never met a Brit with teeth as bad as these. You’re more likely to find such a sloppy, broken maw in the Appalachian back-country or in an alley somewhere in Cabbagetown or Harlem. In the world of Salad Fingers, dentistry is not a priority.
The pale and damaged appearance of the characters is also present in their surroundings. The setting is an uncertain and unsettling place, evoking post-apocalyptic Hiroshima one moment and desolate desert wastelands the next. The world is broken, stained and burnt. The sky is consistently an ash gray. Almost any display of modern cultural convention is glaringly absent. Drab, drab, drab. In a place such as this, it’s easy to see how anyone could quickly go off their rocker. In any tale, setting tends to shed light on the state of characters. In this case, it is especially so.
Back to Mr. Fingers. His demeanor is somewhat fumbling and imprecise. He conducts himself with the nervous apprehension of a heroin-addict on withdrawal, cast as host in a dark version of a children’s televison show directed by David Lynch. His speech is oddly proper, mixed with occasional archaic dialogue. At other times, he seems to be near a total loss for words. His stuttering search for accurate expression adds to the awkward and uncomfortable atmosphere of the cartoon. Speech of this caliber is commonly found in the mentally-deficient, childish oafs of motion-picture lore.
In the first episode, we learn that Salad Fingers is obsessed with touching things. Chief among his sensual pleasures are objects that are rusting or decaying. His search for the perfect spoon is nerve-racking. His lust of rust, coupled with an encounter with a lone child forms a thin line that Firth forces us to travel in tightrope fashion. One side deals with the discomfort most “well-adjusted” people feel when in the presence of terminal loner quirkiness. The other side deals with impending child predation. The nervous look on the child’s face frequently reflects the viewer’s own expression when watching what transpires.
Nowhere in Firth’s Salad Fingers series is a child depicted as being outright abused, killed or tortured. However, there is an ambiguous scene in one episode where it is implied that a child may have been accidentally baked in the host’s oven. The cut-scene is brilliant. As Salad Fingers’ attention is diverted to a rusty nail upon which he impales his finger, the viewer hears a door shut. Did the child escape? It is a distinct possibility, though we are led to believe the worst. The clever direction in this cartoon is scarecly, if ever, found in Web-animation.
The internal meanderings of Salad Fingers’ imagination is also brought to light in this episode, where he passes out after impaling his finger. He bleeds into warm unconsciousness, muttering “I like it when the red water comes out.” The statement is reminiscent of something we would hear the damaged child “Danny” say in Kubrick’s “The Shining.” The scene that follows shows us that the inner world of Mr. Fingers isn’t much different from the one in which he resides. It is a place filled with decaying objects, equally empty and bleak. One of his finger puppets, Hubert Cumberdale, makes a brief and screaming appearance. In Salad Fingers’ imagination, the finger puppets aren’t mere playthings, they appear as either personality fissures or miscreant entities unto themselves. It is revealed here that Salad Fingers has a somewhat childish intellect in an adult body. John Steinbeck proved this combination to be dangerous when unchecked, through his character “Lennie” in “Of Mice And Men.” Multiply that admonishing sentiment by ten and you have a good idea of the discomfort one would feel in the presence of our dubious protagonist. Lending further credence to the childish state of Salad Fingers’ psyche is a late segment where he converses with a sowbug named “Bordois.” When he tries to pet the isopod, he inadvertently crushes it. Salad Fingers is put-off by this encounter and claims that he will not play with it again until it “has had a wash.”
In another episode, we find Salad Fingers adoring nettles, going so far as to place one of the abrasive weeds in an archaic baby carriage. As he carries the plant away for private enjoyment in his home, he his stalked by what appears to be an armless butcher named “Harry.” Harry bashes his head into Mr. Fingers’ door until he falls to the ground, bleeding profusely. Later, Fingers opens his door to discover the now inert creature-character. Paying no mind to the state of “Harry,” he offers the hospitality of his confines and renames him “Milford Cubicle.” For all we know, “Harry” is dead. Salad Fingers regards this bleeding hulk of a mal-formed man as yet another plaything, much as he would one of his finger puppets. Things go completely bonkers when Fingers hangs Harry’s body upon a hook and treats him to a flute serenade.
Further episodes deal yet again with Salad Fingers’ encounters with lone children. In an interesting twist, there now seems to be some discomfort and apprehension in Fingers’ interaction with them. One young boy with enormous, dark bug-eyes takes a liking to Salad Fingers. Mr. Fingers spends the episode nervously evading the child’s seemingly innocent adoration until he becomes trapped in a box. To Fingers, imprisonment is a mere inconvenience where he is easily diverted by sensations afforded through the vigorous caress of rusty prison bars. His manner of eventual escape is altogether unexpected and further evokes the children’s show ambience of the entire series.
The last episode deals with a picnic, where a little girl Fingers names Mable sits down to enjoy Loganberry Crumble and Peas Porridge. When he elects the introverted little waif his new playmate, one of his finger puppets makes a surprising appearance. The autonomous actions of “Marjory Stewart-Baxter” imply that the puppets aren’t so much toys as they are voodoo-style totem demons with sinister machinations. The climax of the episode involves the theft of one of Salad Fingers’ cherished spoons by an erratic crow with furious wah-guitar banter. After a shared giggle between the child and our host, Fingers begins to panic and damn-near blacks out from the inconceivability of the theft.
So there you have it, Salad Fingers in a nutshell. Needless to say, there are hundreds of other elements I have overlooked that beg psychoanalytic investigation. Freud and Jung could have spent volumes with competing theories of meaning and motivation. As for myself, I am disturbed but entertained nonetheless. By the feedback on Firth’s own website and upon numerous message boards, it is evident that the author has struck a nerve among the viewership. Some regard his work as funny, brilliant and engaging. Others regard it as violent dreck. The latter set, I believe, simply does not understand the intention, which is to simply entertain. There are far too many important issues in the world to be addressed at this time without adding static of cartoon violence and the role of media responsibility to the public discussion. Like it or not, Salad Fingers is a creative work of art, utilizing a growing medium to great effect. As the most elementary art student is reminded, art need not be pretty to accomplish its mission. For something to be both art and entertainment stirs simple-minded jealousy in less-creative types. Bravo, Mr. Firth and all involved with Salad Fingers. May your endeavors be rewarded with eternal encouragement to continue.
As for the reader, go watch it. Now. –Mike

Or are you just a horribly misshapen freak of nature with a strange, rectangular protrusion popping out from your groin? Yet another “Department Of Stuff You Can’t Make Up” article for the blog. Honest. Playboy has jumped on the opportunity to showcase airbrushed, big-boobied bimbos on Apple’s newest music player. The iPod Photo is a cool device, and my friend Jefe was one of the first to run out and buy one. Now I’m questioning his motives.
The editor of Playboy, John D. Thomas is qouted with the following gem: “The overwhelming response we have received for this feature supports our theory that iPod Photo users are a technologically advanced group with a significant interest in enjoying beautiful Playboy images.” The Hell??? That makes iPod users sound like some bizarre, hyper-libidinous race of super-beings with a dire need for a rechargable, go-anywhere sexual pacemaker.
I take advantage of public transportation with increasing frequency these days, and the last thing I need on my subway ride is a new suspicion that Joe Fruitcake is lustfully eyeing his new super-gadget and secretly getting his jollies mere feet from where I stand. It was bad enough when I thought he may be inconspicuously listening to the Book on Tape version of “The DaVinci Code.”
The bright, shining light of the future comes from the tiny LCD of the iPod Photo. Lo and behold, it just happens to feature the Playmate Of The Month. –Mike

Where was the Twenty-First century I was promised? Somewhere along the line, things went woefully out of control. Now, the circumstances under which we currently live resemble the wet dream of a mid-1980’s pork-belly profiteer. We were supposed to be attacking environmental problems head-on, saving the future for generations of human beings to follow without the risk of poisoning, polluting and destroying. We were supposed to be more enlightened and we were supposed to have a greater sense of personal responsibility.
Instead of more efficient, more sane methods of transportation, we dug our heels in and gouged the dwindling oil market with the largest, most destructive vehicles that can possibly be made without pre-mounted weapons. Our corporate executives dry hump the profits of their productive workforce and then pay themselves more for the gift of robbing us blind. If we look back on the greed of the 1980’s with disgust, then the future will look at the first decade of the twenty-first century as the most unnecessary backslide on the ethical, technological and political march of progress. We’ll be lucky if we’re not too disgusting to be a mere mention. Hell, I’m ashamed of myself for being here at this point in time. The world we live in today is grossly self-interested, self-medicated and parasitically destructive. What happened to the dissatisfaction of Generation X in the 1990’s? Weren’t we supposed to do something positive with all that angst?
Well, something happened today that mede me feel a little better. The goofy little Spaceship One made its second successful flight to space today, marking the beginning of commercially-driven space tourism and (eventual) exploration. Now I’m suddenly inspired again. Now I have hope for the future. Maybe we’re not so disgustingly self-interested and entranced by pop culture that we can look on this with a modicum of the wild-eyed innocence our parents and grandparents viewed the fledgling Mercury missions. Maybe this silly little spaceplane is big enough to distract society from its hedonism and languid, barstool hypnosis and remind us that “HEY! We’re living in the 21st freakin’ century here! Let’s light this thing up and meet it head on!” Melt down the Navigators and Escalades! Spaceships for everyone!!! –Mike