Two dudes made one of the very first-ever multi-user worlds by hand. They didn’t want to sell things to ‘gamers’ and they didn’t want to wank people’s desire to be a Lord High Elf or a Mr. Troll Man or whatever it is people are told they ought to want to embody today if they are ‘nerdy’ enough, ‘lol,’ whatever.
You might read all of these tweets and status updates and feel excited and attempt to assemble a CMJ ‘plan of attack’ for yourself and your friends. The official CMJ website seeks to facilitate this by implementing a ‘schedule builder’ so that you can put all the bands you are theoretically going to see into one schedule so you will always know where to go for which ‘act.’
Good morning! It’s me again. I had some solutions to the insomnia you tweeted about, and also some tips for you to get past where you said you’re stuck on your current project. Writer’s block, eh? Must be writer’s block. I’m not a writer, but I get that all the time.
Brooklyn is a cruel laboratory for the self.
It’s weird that we don’t have media where women are rewarded for developing the courage to walk out on disappointing, terminally-adolescent screw-ups.
People telling others to shut up about their political views on Facebook are legislating how others use the service, yeah. Abstain from the dialogue or hide it if you’re not interested, but handing out dictums through image macros or impassioned essays is weird, dude.
Let’s just combine it and call them Generation Why Me. It fits, right?
Like, I feel like media criticism is to an extent an established discipline, but in what way are traditional ideas of ‘criticism’ relevant to what we’d call ‘new media’? Is the glut of 90s-nostalgia Tumblrs operated by ironic 20-year-olds a phenomenon worthy of a note in the cultural history books, or is it aberrant, unnoticed?
It should be noted that in the ‘weirdo’ context, individual is differentiated from “Facebook user who is merely interested in/ wishes to share in the culture in which the mutual friends of yours participate.”
If in a far-flung future when the Earth has died, leaving only minefields of shattered Gorilla glass and the vomited innards of machines, the corpses of wireframe creatures with wires spilt out on the blasted land like entrails, let’s say some foreign species arrives and combs our data ghosts in order to divine the purpose of Valentine’s Day.