How Fast Are You?

You’ve probably heard all about this, but here’s a little recap:

1. RIAA files suit against guy for infringement
2. Guys dies
3. Upon learning that guy is dead, RIAA files motion to stay the case for 60 days to allow dead guy’s family to grieve, after which they will pursue suit against dead guy’s family
4. Story hits the blogosphere
5. RIAA spokesdroid tells Cory Doctorow that the RIAA — “out of an abundance of sensitivity” — has elected to drop the suit

Conclusion: the RIAA is staffed by douche bags

Mr. Doctorow also asked the spokesdriod:

Where was the “abundance of sensitivity” when the RIAA failed to initially drop its case against the Scantleberry family following the death of the named defendant in the case? Given that this “abundance” only materialized within 24 hours of this story hitting several large news outlets and blogs isn’t it fair to say that the RIAA is demonstrating sensitivity to its public image, and not its sensitivity to the Scantleberry family?

Oddly, spokesdroid had no comment. He probaly had to go rough up a 15-year old girl or something.

Via EFF.

By the way, if you’re a blogger, you have rights, and the EFF wants you to know about them. Check out their resource page, which includes tidbits like a Legal Guide for Bloggers and How to Blog Safely (About Work or Anything Else).

They’re fighting for your rights, too. Support ‘em.

Tower Records is dead. Chapter 11, the business dirt nap. Quite frankly, I’m wondering what took so long. The obvious answer is: The American public finally wised up. After years of paying 19 friggin’, hard-earned dollars for each shiny, plastic disc, they finally stopped. Now, Tower is paying the Jethro Tull piper for its sins of avarice and greed.

Yes, the recording industry is whining about illegal downloading, file sharing and piracy (by honest Buccaneer-Americans), but they also have only themselves to blame. Just like Congress, old white guys in suits tried to keep the gravy train rolling. The problem is, people weren’t coming to the station anymore. They found that bicycles were faster, and… well, let’s stop beating that metaphor into the ground.

The point is, many of us wised up and realized that when you buy something, you own it, and can share it at will. You can let a friend use your car, your computer, your phone… why not your digital music files?

Now, if we can just stop the RIAA from suing dead people’s families.

RIAA Annual Meeting

A little gift for That Bald Guy.

Thanks HMO!

Charlie Stross went on vacation recently, read some pulpy books, and when he got back, posted a bit about the state of the SF and horror genres, and what their respective best-sellers say about the state of the reading public.

For starters, the strange rebirth of the horror field is quite illuminating. We used to know what horror was about — it was about Killer Whelks menacing a quiet English seaside town, from which a strong-jawed but quiet fellow and a not-totally-pathetic female lead might eventually hope to escape with the aid of a stout two-by-four and a lot of whelkish squelching after trials, tribulations, and gruesome scenes of seafood-induced cannibalism. Then Stephen King came along and transcended, becoming a mini-genre of his own. Attempts were made to replicate the phenomenon, but instead the bottom dropped out of the market.

The new horror isn’t about whelks, killer or otherwise: it’s about vampires, werewolves, and middle America. With police and detectives. Hell, you could even call it cop/vampire slash and have done with it, except that you’d be missing out on the tedious Manichean dualist drivel into which all these series eventually descend (unless they end up as soft porn instead — a very lucrative market, as Laurel Hamilton and her imitators have discovered — call it the fang-fucker subgenre). For the sad fact is, there seems to be some kind of law about contemporary American horror getting into furry sex by volume three then suffering a fit of remorse and going all god-bothering and Jesus-fondling by volume six. It must be all the crosses and holy water they need to fend off the blood sucking fiends, I suppose, but the endless re-hashing of tired old religious-sexual neuroses is getting to be a stereotype of the genre, and it’s not healthy. Horror isn’t about being born-again: it’s about bloody screaming catharsis, not a warm security blanket of belief that blocks out all menaces. But in the new horror, if the bloodsuckers are remotely sympathetic the story turns into some kind of supernatural redemption epic, and if they’re not, the protagonist eventually goes all googly-eyed and born-again.

What an interesting &mdash and frankly, sad &mdash point. And I can’t say I disagree with him. But what do you expect from American culture? We use sex to sell everything, then tell people that sex is a sin against God and nature.

He also draws some conclusions from the rise of the alternate history sub-genre of SF:

Probably the fastest-growing sub-genre in the swamp is alternate history. I’ve been known to dabble in it myself, I hasten to admit: it can be fun and educational, a desert topping and a floor wax. But mostly floor wax these days, I find, because a lot of authors who should know better are turning to it in a mad collective ostrich-head-burying exercise rather than engaging with the world as it is.

Yeah, that’s pretty much dead on. Americans don’t want to think about the here-and-now, ’cause it sucks. Between Dubya, bombs in our Gatorade and our iPods, a costly and perhaps illegal war, constant reminders of the “threat” of terrorism, the NSA spying on our fellow citizens, oil dependency, poverty, pending thermonuclear war with Iraq, pending war with/between everyone in the middle east, the end of the world as predicted by the Aztec calendar or whatever, etc., etc., ad nauseam, people want to escape. Fans of alt-history must find a great deal of solace in a revised world similar to our own. It doesn’t require a lot of thinking or the absorption of new ideas, just a different flavor of today. How nice. No wonder it sells so well.

But all is not lost.

Oh, there are exceptions. Vernor Vinge is swimming strongly against the flow in “Rainbows End”, where he envisages a future just a couple of decades hence where the machines dance. Peter Watts is doing stuff with the genre that just shouldn’t be possible (evolutionary biology, exobiology, and vampires in spaaaaaace — all done with a deft touch of plausibility and a refreshingly pleasant dose of bleakly nihilistic existential despair). And there are a few others.

In closing, let me point you to one of the others: Chris Nakashima-Brown. He’s got links to a bunch of his short-stories on the intertubes and in print, one of my favorites being Welcome Back Qatar. Good, smart, reality-based stuff.

Fella name a’ Doz (aka iBgerd) is clearly the #1 Snakes on a Plane Fan[atic], and clearly deserves some kind of prize.

Boing Boing has a great round up of more SoaP meme related stuff. Follow the bouncing link.

Says Cory Doctorow:

They’re onto something here. If the existence of a plot to use implausible liquid explosives against aircraft creates a global war on moisture at the airports, imagine what a similar plot to smuggle a bomb up a terrorist’s ass would engender. The war on moisture is bad, but it’s nothing compared to the inevitable war on body cavities.

Via Boing Boing.

This weekend The Bad Kitty and I watched a movie called Brick. We’d heard that it was good, but it wasn’t. It was really, really good.

Imagine Philip Marlowe as a teenager today. Not the various movie versions of Philip Marlowe, but Raymond Chandler’s character as written: the hard, imperfect, honorable man who did the right thing, even when it meant taking a beating himself.

Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.

— Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder

And clearly, the movie and it’s lead character, Brendan, are a loving homage to Chandler’s work. Rian Johnson (the writer/director of Brick) did a great job of updating and reproducing Marlowe’s quick, smart-aleck, private dick argot. Some examples:

Brad (the BMOC): Oh yeah?
Brendan (our hero): Yeah.
Brad: Oh yeah?
Brendan: Yeah.
Brad: Yeah?
Brendan: There’s a thesaurus in the library. Yeah is under “Y”. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

The Brain: Ask any dope rat where their junk sprang and they’ll say they scraped it from that who scored it from this who bought it off so and after four or five connections the list always ends with the Pin. But I bet you got every rat in town together and said ’show your hands’ if any of them’ve actually seen the Pin, you’d get a crowd of full pockets.

Then there’s “The Pin” (played quite creepily by Lukas Haas), who refer’s to Brendan as “Soldier”, like Eddie Mars referring to Marlowe in The Big Sleep:

“Convenient,” [Eddie] said. “The door being open. When you didn’t have a key.”

“Yes. How come you had a key?”

“Is that any of your business, soldier?”

“I could make it my business.”

He smiled tightly and pushed his hat back on his gray hair. “And I could make your business my business.”

“You wouldn’t like it. The pay’s too small.”

See? Good stuff. Go see Brick on DVD, and then go read some Chandler.