CreatorID

Last night, a bot descending upon Blackwater gallery. Only for a few moments. Didn't respond to IMs. Logged off shortly after his visit.

Simple landbot? Maybe, but I don't recall any land for sale in that sim. And it's not an infohub, so it could not have been loitering due to being kicked off its home sim. Maybe it was a scout bot. "Scout bot, check to see what and who is in that sim! Report back at 0800 hours!"

Needless to say, Jurin and I were perplexed. The hidden doubt, the small fear in the back of her mind, was that this might be a copybots. Coming so soon after Rezzable's announcement of Bob the BuilderBot, it might even be a test run of their acclaimed creation. If not them, then maybe some clever programmer who decided to mimic it.

So...

Any thoughts on this, CreatorID Absent? You're quite welcome to defend yourself, either you or your owner. It would certainly calm our fears. And to everyone else, if you see this guy, it would be nice to strike up a conversation with him. Her. It.

372

Name Origins

How I got my name:

Replacing Posts with Comments!

I've reached an all new low in posting quality and am now going to just post a comment I wrote on this blog. Yes, that's sad. I spent more time drafting a comment than actually trying to, you know, write a post on this blog. Shame on me.

Begin Quote:

Work was slow today, so I went ahead and read the entire thing.

It seems to me that people are/were confusing what is legal with what is morally ethical. According to your research, Minnu did not violate the EULA at the time. But the way she did it struck a chord with people. They knew/know something is not quite right, and that something should be done.

In each post and the resulting comments, a constant hymn was that Minnu was ethically wrong for 'stealing' skins. Ok. That's fair enough. But due to the license, she could and was able to do so legally. That's all there is to it. Ethics, morality, and all that, however noble, cannot deny that there was nothing to prevent her from doing so. If there is a case.

For a real life example, many consider abortion to be ethically wrong. However, it's legal according to the law and no matter how much mewing is done by however many people (barring another bill or court case) it will remain legal.

The take home lesson here should be that if you're going to release something, draft a license so specific people won't be able to wipe their nose with it without your permission.

As for irresponsible blogging, this really isn't much of a surprise. I'd wager about 95% of bloggers aren't any kind of journalists, just regular ol' people banging away at the keyboard (before everyone leaps on me, know I'm one of that 95%). Doing research and covering a story is HARD work and often bloggers are just not going to care. Throw in a lack of editors and you get things like this.

The wonderful part about the internet is that everyone is free to express their opinions. The sad part is that automatically shuts down the typical user's inhibitions.

441

Left Handed Mayhem

People who are left handed creep me out. Sinister used to mean 'left' and there's good reason for it.

Let's get the obvious out of the way first: it's pretty damn inconvenient to write with the opposite hand. Why would anyone ever bother? I've seen lefties with horrible dirty smudges running up their palms which stick even after repeated washings. It harms their scribbles (I'm being generous there by calling their chicken scratch 'scribbles') as well. Most of it appears to come hot off an old fashion printing press with ink slurs across the entire page. Ugh.

And then their accommodations tax both time and sanity. I had the misfortune to have to sit in a left handed disk and the experience of reaching across the desk to be able to write was unbearable. My elbow kept drooping down into my legs and sometimes near the end of sentences and equations my palm would slip. This all forced a huddled position across the arm of the desk. I swear one kid in our class who was left handed was watching me and he had this grin plastered across his face. I wanted to wipe it off with his smudge filled (and probably completely wrong and failing) test sheet.

Ambidextrous scissors seemed like a good idea. Too bad it hurts my hands. By trying to accommodate people of both handedness, they ended up making everyone uncomfortable. All this because some southpaws whined and moaned about how their fingers hurt. Now everyone's miserable! Thanks for nothing. The same applies to every other implement which are just better right handed. There's a reason why right handedness is predominant, and that's because so many things work better on the right. Scissors worked great on the right. In the middle, they stink.

Left handedness has been associated with extreme evil. Harry S Truman was left handed, and he cold heartedly dropped two atomic bombs on two innocent Japanese cities. Seriously, how did he sleep at night? The right handed FDR managed to never nuke any German, Italian, or Japanese city. In comes the lefty and bam. Two down in a row. Hitler and Stalin were also left handed and seriously, do I really need to explain it in those cases? The list goes on and on. Napoleon was left handed as is Fidel Castro. Jack the Ripper and Atilla the Hun round out the list. So, we know there is a pattern of left handed people behaving as generally evil people.

I think the primary cause is their cross wired brains. You see, in a normal ordinary right handed person, the dominant side is the left side of the brain. Whereas in the left handed abomination, it shifts to the opposite. Now, the right side of the brain was never meant for dominance. As a result, over the centuries it has accumulated a vast array of defects and oddities. Things the left side of the brain knew it needed a little of, but didn't want completely overruling everything. But now, in a lefty's brain, such detrimental waste is brought to the forefront with disastrous consequences.

For example, one of the acclaims is that lefties are more intelligent than comparable right handers. But is this really the case? As we discussed above, many lefties are inherently evil. We should also notice that said lefties were also intelligently evil. To a degree, anyway. Their evil was systematic and executed with cunning forethought. For example, Jack the Ripper chose to murder in a time period where criminal investigations were delightfully shoddy. That is sheer evil left genius. Intelligence, yes, but at the price of being unable to utilize such genius in any field for the betterment of the human race. In a way, we should pity them as they cannot help what they are.

There's also talk that they are more creative than 'Northpaws'. This is due to sheer luck. You see, one of the nasty things driven from the left side of the cerebrum is the emphasis on visual and simultaneous processing. This is bad because on a given problem, a southpaw become a Jack of all trades, master of none. Nothing gets done because they spend too much time looking at the big picture and thus cannot find any solution.

No such problem in the proper right handed individual, however. The unique logical and linear analysis exclusive to that hemisphere is perfectly suited to breaking down a task and solving a problem in detail. Thus, work can get accomplished as well as be properly documented so that future generations can build upon it (rather than: "hey, this works to solve the entire thing! Let's run with it!" silly lefties). Things get done in an organized manner without all that 'craetive' nonsense the leftist idiots will lob at you.

There are some things which, thankfully, work against them. On average, their lifespans are nine years shorter. Most of it is due to being unable to function in our society. Their unnatural handedness can easily lead to accidents while driving cars or operating heavy machinery where the machines are finely tuned to the right (as they should be, if they were reversed far more accidents would occur). In addition, the genes which cause left handedness probably also cause epilepsy, autism, dyslexia, and Down syndrome; all of which are detrimental to surviving in our world. Epilepsy and Down syndrome are particularly nasty. Imagine if your surgeon was an epileptic left hander? No thanks. Epileptic left handers flying right handed airplanes probably die by the truckloads. It's probably for the best because being left handed is a severe impediment and as I've established, they're evil.

Left handed people are evil. And it is only through the grace of divine Providence that they only compose 7% of the population. That's enough evil for one world.

449

On Statistics

I recently put in a tracker out of boredom and because I was tired of estimating how many people were visiting. Also, I wanted to thumb it at those who insist I get a lot of eyeballs visiting this site. And I must say, I was surprised. I have calculated that there are a total of six or seven of you out there who regularly come to read me. Thank you, thank you.

I also got a fun chance to see what the other one-shot wonders were searching for when they stumbled onto me. This list is at once amusing and disturbing:

1) Second Life beginner island
2) "second life" astronomy stars viewer
3) sl "script limits"
4) Nova Albion Infohub
5) bradford reagent ldh
6) adult free pronvideo
7) Anna Nalin, PA
8) second life zeppelin -led -lez
9) how to make bot using pluto
10) besteality stories
11) copybot torley
12) pluto their ailens

Adult free porn? Besteality stories? Their ailens? Who in Nunchuck's Good Green Grid is searching for "Anna Nalin" in Pennsylvania? I have no idea why anyone is trying to connect Torley with Copybot or how to make one. The stupider idea would be someone trying to copybot Torley, as if he wouldn't notice. I'm pretty sure the 'bradford reagent' is due to me copying a lab report in here somewhere in a drunken stupor one night. That's pretty redundant since I usually post in a drunken stupor.

In terms of the most visited page, the 'Great Evils' posts seem to draw the most attention. Maybe I should do more of those. There's also someone who is continually accessing the archives for October 08 and is most certainly a bot. Attention Bot: there is nothing interesting there. Sorry. At least, I think so. I'm not going to dig through the hundred pages or so in my archives. And on that tangeant, I'm not going to count them either, probably in the two hundred range.

Finally, just to freak out the bot, I'm going to insert the following phrases:

Pigeons diarrhea Samsung Pringles number two five four three two one mirado warrior Troll Ink Printer AIDS thumbnail anal coronal totally patent patient Oregon Trail drill The Great Escape Emergency 911 silverware desire Girl Scout Cookies California Here I Come Terrorist machine gun curve cubane predebtor rojak declassification jitter Federalized Athwart Dammit Slily Lily Lillee Garment Roadrunner Comcast lust Sydney Dyspareunia Family Friendly Fun

And this is certainly going to be fun!

-D

I walk with a hasty pace down 35th. My purse is clutched deep against my side but my gut is too preoccupied with other things than to whine with pain. Why had I delayed and squandered time, I thought. What costly absentmindedness! I pour my concentration into the long path ahead.

The dim warm sodium lights did little to illuminate the path, accentuating instead the night. I scurry between them, each an island such as they are distantly spaced. Along my path imposing rows surround and encase me. Their windows betray not a flicker of a candle. They are bottled up and against the night but some are simply empty and some are simply empty lots. All loom from the depths and just as quickly return to it.

Down the scarred sidewalk I hurry. Each step is one closer to home. The sounds of insects and birds and people are absent but not for lack of notice. I pull my purse tighter ruining the smooth surface with my nails digging deep into it. The contents are surely just as ruined. But that does not matter nor is it noticed now. Perhaps later.

The sound of a distant rumbling resonate through the ground. Just the trains, I thought with a startle, and I am rewarded with the accompanying squeaks and protests of brakes and electric lines far off. The wish of a bus line here to accompany it crosses the mind. It's a dream unfortunately denied.

The sound of footsteps catch my attention, behind me, then muffled and distant as its owner, invisible in the night, wanders off down a different block, no longer behind me. A rustle alerts me as a harmless bag drifts across the road kicking up trash along the way. More rustling as the wind picks up and blows it all around playfully.

Snapping attention upwards from that sudden distraction, a white light emanating from one lot ahead brightens the path. I feel pulled towards it like a moth spiraling slowly to the flame. I wondered, what could be there? Why such an attraction at such a time? I slowly approached the source apprehensively, keeping a vigilant eye upon the neighborhood.

A sole floodlight is keeping watch over this particular residential vacancy. A silhouette stands against it. The broad tall figure casts a lone long shadow which reaches towards me. I am transfixed by the scene. The surroundings dissolve around me, my focus drawn solely on this man.

And then he turns to me:

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Ghosts!

The other day, I was wandering about Second Life as I usually do when none of my friends are logged in and I'm bored.

There is a beautiful build on that ring shaped continent, in the middle or thereabouts, in the Iris sim. It's some kind of pagoda with lovely deep red pillars framing its graceful arches and rooms. It is also the place where I discovered now that I am completely insane.

There was a bunch of people standing around, some afk, some bots. And someone walked by, decked out in some kind of blue spiky avatar that was named, and I kid you not, Okasus. That, my friends, is how I know I am officially insane. I am starting to see things that I made up walk around. I couldn't catch him/her/it before it left, but the name was definitely Okasus.

Someone could have been messing with my head, though, and made some alt, found me, and walked by to make me think I am going crazy. Who would go through all that trouble, though? Is it you, Jurin? Or is it you, Torley? I can't think of anyone who would be that spiteful to try and get me to think I am crazy, so I conclude that I actually am crazy.

Hell, now I wonder if I am actually typing anything or just think I am typing something.

Ah ha ha?

Empty

As I was walking down the street one day after columns of rowhomes there was a gigantic gap in between a block. The steps leading up to it remained, but the actual building had long been demolished. Gone forever save for a few steps and two small pillars. No one pays any attention to the lonely lot over which these reminders stand guard.

No one even remembers when the street became one house poorer. Have we become so insensitive to the destruction that the memory of it fades so quickly? Perhaps they put it out of memory. It is a grim memory, after all, one which reminds us just how transitory our existence is. One day you are in the here and now, cherished and beloved. The next you are bulldozed into a grassy lot and no one glances where once you shone. Even now, as I sit down and type this, I can recall those who dropped out of high school, those who dropped out of college, those who left for out of state colleges or far flung lands and haven't called back. To me, they are something like this lot. To remember them is to think about this lot.

We all can remember the true landmarks of the land. Roman aqueducts and Greek temples still stand tall through the centuries. New York's gleaming skyscrapers stand tall as they turn seventy, some eighty years old. Even here, a growing skyline is erupting forth whose disappearance would last within memory. But this small house is lost and no one cares. It is just one in a sea of them, up and down the block for almost three miles. It is not glamorous or dignified or tall. It was just a residence, and now it is gone.

Years from now, it will eventually be noticed. And in that time, a more modern structure will replace it. It might be a new house, if the city is in need of housing stock or a private investor takes interest. Or it and its block could be absorbed into a sleek new building for the university, which is slowly encroaching to the south. And then there would be no reminders of this little place at all, nothing to trigger the memories save for this small photograph (and others, hidden elsewhere). It will not be remembered for what it once was, or what might have been, but simply a plot of land now occupied by a new science center. On the land where children might have played on the porch as their mothers spied them from inside and elderly rocked recalling the good times, and the bad times, there would now be only talk of research projects and where all the good beakers had gone and of tenure and science!

When I was a child, there was a tall tree in front of my little rowhome. It was impressively tall to a six year old, taller than any building I could see in Center City. In the summer, it would cast its shadow over the porch where one could sit and enjoy some water ice, and in the fall it served as 'base' when playing tag. Then we moved. Time passes. I went down there once. It was gone. The corner store had closed up. And the neighborhood contained its fair share of lots, of memories long since torn down. I could barely recall what some had once looked like, as a kid running down the street to school, joining the slow trickle at first, escorted by the friendly crossing guards, then the massive throng at the school.

And yet some of it was still there.

The most infuriating thing about such loss is that it is never seen. Or you never wanted to see it. You didn't want to see the haggard look on the clerk's face as he struggled to turn a profit. Or the foreclosure on the poor Chikofskis whose father was laid off. Or the city slowly pulling services out from under. The thunderstorm whose winds were just a little too strong for the weakened heartwood. Crime exciting an exodus from a neighborhood already on edge with reports each day of this shooting, that shooting. And creeping slowly as the years pass, fading in like a Polaroid (remember those??), the empty lots come into focus.

Not just a local phenomenon. Anywhere people get into stride and lose notice of the little things. A small forest where teens snuck in to cut curfew and drink alcohol bulldozed for a housing development. The pastor, sent off to a larger parish as the bishops say his flock is too small to warrant a church, the church itself locked into disuse. Dust gathers upon the head of Christ as the years pass. Dust gathers upon the head of the Virgin Mary as the homes come up and come down and soon the parishioners forget they had ever held vigils in the quaint little building. Everything fades into the background, and developers set their sights upon the holy site, prime real estate in the suburban landscape.

Even the intangible. The smell of the new car fades. The attitude changes. You get a feeling that perhaps you shouldn't be there. Something has changed, either you or it or them, but the fact remains that it has changed. There is just an indescribable sense that something that once was has changed or no longer is. Perhaps the worst, after all, there isn't any there there to pin down why. And yet it evokes the same feelings.

But the greatest loss is human loss. The loss of a fellow human is nothing compared to the material loss. The lot can be put to good use in the indeterminate future. Nothing can replace a dear friend or cherished family member. Nothing. Once that life has flickered onto the next plane of existence (or into nothingness, depending on what you believe), there's no replacing them. Except the pain, I suppose, for what it is worth.

Sometimes they are remembered throughout history. They become the organic equivalent of Greek columns or arching bridges or a small flag planted on a moon. They remain visible and stalwart through the ages long after their meaty sacks have rotten into the earth. Their names resonate through the years, sometimes with reverence and sometimes with disdain. Newton. Elizabeth I. Sun Tzu. Hitler. Just to hear the name and many can recall the lives of such people. While their presence may be gone they are not forgotten. Like the temples who remain even after most of their structure has fallen and their use abandoned, just their memory lives on.

But many, too many, are like the lot. Once gone, they are gone forever, lost to the ages. Unlike the lot, they are still felt by those left behind. But as they, too, die and fade, so does their memory. Until they are forgotten.

Wander a graveyard, and marvel at all the names of those beloved now forgotten. And like the lot, with its history hidden, one can wonder who they were. What they had dreamed, aspired to, loved, hated, regretted. All lost to time. All that is left is a name, perhaps a time span and a small epitaph, on a tombstone (which these days may be nothing more than a plaque embedded in the ground). Nothing more and nothing less. The name 'Jonathan Venti' evokes nothing in you or me. Just a label of someone who was born, lived, and died without making any waves in our universe.

I had to get up early this morning for class. There was nothing on TV except the morning news (checked the weather, then flick! Too depressing) and the History channel. The History special was on the USS Arizona. They showed the sleek white memorial, and the list of those lost inside. And I thought to myself, just who were those people? Who was Lieutenant C. T. Janz? Or Seaman C. W. Miles? Seaman first class D. J. Orr will only be known forever more as just one of a long list of names of those lost in one moment of time. I will bet even those alive today who served with them have forgotten them, either through the faultiness of memory or a wish to suppress a terrible experience. This is true of almost every memorial. Name after name, these people cease to exist and turn into objects, into a singular monument. We tend to think in the macroscopic of these people and forget the individual.

Perhaps in an attempt to unify our existence, that we shall be remembered not for what or who we are but what we contributed to or participated in?

For most of us, we become just a name in an endless list of names. Essentially forgotten. But at that one point in time, at death, it seems as if it will never fade. And yet, time marches on. We become forgotten like the empty lot. Our presence on this planet only noted by a marker. For some, there is not even that distinction. For some, they disappear completely. That is tragedy. That they should be lost with none to even mourn them is tragedy.

On the other hand, it is, perhaps, for the best that our memories fade. The pain also fades with it. Life picks up again. The seasons march on in their ceaseless parade (until the earth gets knocked out of orbit, or the sun explodes, I guess). If we spent forever lamenting what was then nothing would ever get done. We would spend forever reminiscing over what was. The past, rather than the present or future, would dominant.

Still, some remembrance would be nice. Just a little nod and notice that in this sea, this mass, of people are not just names, or an event, or a simple stone but a person. Individuals who had lives outside of their deaths. Some innocent, some guilty, but all humanity none the same. I think too often we reduce them down into an event in time, or an object on display. Just one more thing to gawk at while going about your way.

Second Life is no exception to this rule save for one regard. There is always the hope that the person on the other hand has simply forgotten about Second Life. They've moved on with their lives due to some reason. They are not gone forever. And that is one relief and a welcome difference from a dreary first life fate. The pain is still there of a loss, but there is hope that someday they will return, and then we'll all have a drink.

But there is still a pain there. Sometimes they don't come back. Then you're left out with no way of knowing (unless you've traded real life info) if they will come back. Then it mimics real life. Thousands of accounts log in, make a few friends and perhaps a few lovers, and then leave. Those who knew them grieve and then move on. Only a few remain as famous figures, names who echo across cyberspace.

One devious little trick might be someone dropping their account and making an alt. Those friends left would be sad, while that person left as an alt. Starax did this to a degree. For a while, people wondered where he had gone and mourned him as if he had died. Only he turned up later. Is he excused for pulling such a stunt? I do not know. I don't know him. It is really up to those who did know him. I do know, though, that I would be happy that he did return, in any form, even if some time later.

And what of those who create alts and never tell? That's up to them, I suppose. I met someone once who did just that. Someone found out, there was much drama. I never saw them again. If history repeats, as it does so often, they probably made a new alt account. I can only wonder why they would do so, but I am not them. I am sure their reasons are there.

Sometimes, you learn that the person on the other end is gone. That is harsh. I'm not sure how closure works then. Hold an inworld memorial? The distance between people who play Second Life is enormous in most cases (often between countries). There is no reasonable way to fly thousands of miles for someone who you have only met through a created avatar and their typings. Not unless you have the time and the money which are in short supply these days. They disappear. The most recent I can think of is Kendra, someone I never knew or met, but who must have been quite a person because the day she died every SL blog went into an uproar with an obituary. Quite a testament, and in the world of Second Life probably makes her one of the 'Greek Temples' who you hear about years later in the history books. Such as Second Life history books are, anyway.

And when you think about it, all you see of most of your friends is their typing. Just their words. Nothing more. One does not need to be a particularly good actor and most people are fairly competent writers. There's no face to read or body language to provide a tell. You could befriend, or even fall in love, with some fictitious figure who is the creation of a clever mind. I would like to think that most people would rather not open up rather than lie, but who knows? I think these would be truly unforgivable. Those I could judge. It is simply not right to manipulate and play people like that.

In a small way, you could say that the small faint hope of SL loss can be compared to spiritual beliefs in real life. There is hope that we shall see our loved ones in the afterlife, whatever it may be. The key difference is that while in SL this is sometimes outright known and occurs with regularity, in real life no one has come from beyond the grave. I think ghost stories are bull. And a belief in such demonstrates a true kind of faith to believe in such hope that has never been confirmed. It is, truth be told, very comforting. For my part, I wish it true even though the more cold and calculating part of me doubts. Perhaps wishing hard enough is the same.

In the end, a loss is a loss is a loss. There are varying kinds, from material to indeterminable to permanent human loss, but in the end it is all the same. Save for few cases, what is gone is gone forever. And while spending one's life musing about it is quite unhealthy, harmful, and a waste, it is fine on occasion to devote some small thoughts to the matter.

After all, in the end, we ourselves become another's loss.

Fruit

Punch

Freaky Faces

One of the more interesting aspects of Second Life is that you can customize your avatar into any shape, form, or contortion that you can imagine and then some. The sheer variety you can spot if you keep your eyes open is amazing.

The best places to check out all this out is at an infohub. Infohubs are unusual creatures, because I've never met one that gave out any useful info. They either spam links at you or have 'freebies' (if by free you mean you have to pay a small amount in) available. They're really only used nowadays as a holding pen of sorts for newbies, or a general haunt for regulars. It would be better perhaps if the infohubs were somewhat pretty, but most are not. Most are just a square block of concrete with benches lining the rim, and a teleport spot in the center.

One infohub I happen to prefer is the Bear Dream Lodge Infohub, in the Bear Sim. It's one of the nicer infohubs, and it has a small lodge of sorts with an camp area behind that. And that's where I captured some of these unique avatars. So, without further ado, and in no particular order:


The one above was not taken at Bear infohub, but hey, where else are you going to see a giant robot tango with a jelly?



The one above is another non-Infohub pic.