The Lair

Yet another act in the umpteenth rehashing of “Yes, I’m a [random nationality]. My opinions - they are like a single falling leaf in autumn” kicked off recently. I’m slightly nonplussed why people actually think this is worth nattering on about any longer. Is this the same sort of misplaced optimism that has a website asking whom the world would elect? Because I don’t think the Americans are really interested in having their presidential elections determined by the six billion odd inhabitants of the planet; regardless of (or in spite of) what said inhabitants may think about GWB.

And since I made a reference to GWB, it’s only fair that I link to MoveOn. Which is taking aim at Facebook. Yes, new advertising scheme. The most disturbing part about this whole setup is that it may use cookie sharing (like Microsoft Passport). Help Pages here - a tad sparse on information. But really, if you’re in the UK - then this is pretty much nothing. 25 million personal records lost in the post. Yes - names, dates of birth, bank account details. The lot.

An interesting observation about news coverage of the data security incident. I know the field reasonably well. I probably can’t spot the sophisticated half-truths, but I can pick out the idiots. The number of idiots interviewed in the past couple of days about the incident makes me wonder if all the stories are spun in the same clumsy haphazard way.

And finally, ah, England. Did you really deserve to qualify at all? At least now you’re rid of that bumbling underachiever who allegedly coached you for 18 odd months. And on a different sport, the tour match scorecard almost looks like the scorecard for the Aussies in the tests.

Back in the early 80s when television was in its infancy where I grew up, the entire family used to huddle around the box watching sitcoms like The Jeffersons and The Cosby Show. Yes, the stories in each episode had variations; but you somehow knew that the familial unit would win out. There would be drama, the occasional piece of angst but on the whole it was as predictable as soggy, milk soaked cereal in the morning (or back where I was: rice and curry for lunch). Wholesome drama that can be watched by the entire family.

Ostensibly, this is everything that Californication isn’t - after all, I’ve seen it referred to both as skanky and X-rated (they may both be accurate). The show has thus far featured nuns and other religious figures in inappropriate positions at least twice, there is plenty of simulated bumping and grinding, occasional nudity with the genitals artfully masked by furniture props and the odd cuss word (gasps of horror at the last, I know). You can just about smell the outrage, the burning of effigies/placards and the cries of depravity if this show ever dared screen in a slightly more conservative country. Even now, you wonder how the religious right in the US hasn’t taken aim at the show for its nun-too subtle intermingling of the church and blow job. Yes, I spent a whole 30 seconds coming up with that pun, so you’ll read it and you’ll groan. Just like I intended.

Yet, fundamentally, this show is not a great deal different from the aforementioned Jeffersons and Cosbys. It is about the constant strivings of Emo Duchovny and his writerly life. There is a superficial veneer of sex and salaciousness, of the wild life, of snorting lines of coke, of vomiting on paintings, of smoking pot. Whatever. Essentially, David Duchovny (Hank Moody, the stunningly imaginatively named main character) is portrayed as a nice guy. He loves his daughter. He’ll do anything, he’s desperate to get back with his ex-girlfriend who has left him for a (surprised?) richer guy with a palatial mansion. There are more plot twists, but the shining beacon that is Hank Moody’s goodness shines through. Somehow, you get the impression that you’re supposed to be rooting for Hank to get back together with his family again because you know, that rich guy doesn’t care about the admittedly tasty looking Natascha McElhone.

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I’m more than a little late to this party - but it’s a pet peeve and I feel the need to vent. So here we are… yet another instruction on why trusting personal details to a random startup is a bad bad idea. Gather around, kids. This is fun.

Part 1: Ceiling cat Facebook employees are watching you. They know what’s on your profile, they know which profiles you’ve been visiting and it’s apparently a perk to be able to stalk people. Discount the last as Valleywag hyperbole (although no one seems to be rushing to deny it) and you still have an interesting picture. Surprised? People actually seem to be.

Part 2: People on your friendlist can be co-opted for targeted advertising. (More commentary here and here).

Surely that can’t be legal, you cry indignantly. Well, it is - if their terms of service hold up in court. They can pretty much do whatever they want according to that document (remember clicking I agree on that?). It’s their data. There is also an argument in the Slashdot comment thread about Facebook’s deletion policy for profiles - they seemingly promise to resurrect all the data if you should return from your fit of pique.

But I’m being both misanthropic and cynical about this. I no longer consider it my personal crusade to tell people to hide personal information (date of birth? permanent address? good grief, people! how many banks rely on your date of birth for one step of authentication?) on their profiles. There are two reasons for this - first is that it’s amusing to have articles on how to make out like a bandit with FB (translated - thx R for both links). The second reason is that people with lots more information out in public are low hanging fruit for the data miners and criminal elements that are undoubtedly going to invade. Cynically, it’s sort of like staying next to a herd of slow, limping zebras when the lions turn up looking for lunch.

If some inventive dataminer figures out a way to tie in Scrabulous stats to personal information though, I’m pretty much screwed.