The Politics of Laziness

We were going to stay out of it, we usually try to, but enough is enough and we are compelled to write about it. Which we will limit to one post.

Internet Movie Database (IMDB) is being attacked by a self-righteous mob for failing to provide “inclusivity”. At least, that’s what you might hear. In this article we document the origins of this manufactured and pointless storm-in-a-teacup and how it will all turn out – by making you pay a little bit more for everything.

Tagging – It’s So Complicated

A self-described filmmaker, who has worked on a few minor sex-themed movies, tweeted this complaint:

She was adding keywords.

Filmmaker Wolfe tried to add “woman-director”, then raised a complaint because that tag didn’t work right and auto-suggested alternatives were not to her liking. It soon became a MeToo moment of cultural misogony for her, baked into the fabric of tech:

Research

If she had spent 30 seconds researching IMDB tagging she’d have learned that IMDB users that preceded her have opted for “female director”, rather than “woman director”. That is the extent of the problem she faces. The community prefers “female”, she expects it to be “woman”.

Her argument that women movie-makers can’t be tagged is thus moot.

No matter, she’s already taken it up with the movement. A movement that thus far appears to consist of her and her Internet friends.

This was after several people, including ourselves, had tweeted her, suggesting which tags to use. She was given screenshots of the search results, but for some reason the “film threat” account didn’t tweet screenshots that show you can in fact search for female directors. They chose to run with the false implication that you can’t.

Threat takes up the demand that IMDB “fix” the not broken backend. No mention of who will pay for these changes to the backend software, but ‘threat’ does offer some limited tag-word policing, to be provided by the community. As if an IMDb community hadn’t existed these last 18 years or so doing just that, or is there a new community in town? Come to clean up this website, sheriff-style?

Analysis

Somebody who makes films wanted her films to get more hits on the free website IMDB. She wanted to use the tagging features to achieve this. Fine, this is how search works and IMDB provide users with the means to enhance the site with this feature (Amazon, who own IMDB, are hardly likely to pay people to add search tags are they?). End-users have to add their own search tags.

Then it gets difficult. The tagging interface is complicated. Other people who have used it before chose different keywords for the tags. The auto-suggest is horrible, about poop, and everything. So she wants it “fixed”. Right now. It has to be inclusive and tags have to be reworded to meet her approval.

If she is successful in getting the SJW mob involved, which we doubt she will be as nobody has ever heard of any of her films, IMDB may be forced to bend to her lazy-ass will. Which will cost money. Which Ms Wolfe certainly will not be handing over. You will. Everytime you buy a product that is advertised on IMDB or Amazon or Washington Post, or any other company owned by Amazon, no matter where you buy it from, you will be financing Wolfe’s self-righteous laziness.

Cost

Don’t think it will come cheap. Wolfe will defend her laziness by inventing on-the-spot arguments against “female director” in favour of her choice of “woman director”, thus offending trans directors by doing so, and before she knows it the entire alphabet soup of metooism will get involved overhauling the entire backend tagging system at great expense. Without asking you if you wanted to finance it for them. You have to finance this, because that’s your privilege.

Once it’s done they’ll all, especially Wolfe, give each other a pat on the back and will have forgotten all about it five minutes later. Leaving everybody else to pick up the tab as they go off data-mining the Internet for more minutiae they can get all offended about rather than having to waste their precious time on considered thought.

Wolfe’s behaviour is typical of the Urban Elites. When the world and the things in it does not live up to their expectations, then it is the world and the things in it that must change – at the world’s own expense – because Wolfe’s merry band of urban trendies know better than the rest of us.

Epilogue

Initially we tried to help Wolfe. We showed her a list of tags she could use, we demonstrated how an end-user can easily find her and other women’s films in search, and we even screen-shotted the page we’d found for one of the short films that she had taken only a minor role in as an associate producer early in her career.

She said that screenshotting “her own page” (it was a screen shot of somebody else’s movie page, but no matter) was abuse, blocked us, and started yelling at her followers that we had accused her of self-promotion and was smearing her character. Which hadn’t even crossed our mind until she said it.

But now that she’s bought it up…

…it all becomes clear. “Her friend” was updating IMDB. A pretend-friend who can take screenshots but doesn’t tweet, apparantly. That kind of “friend”. The “film threat” account taking up the staff, white knight style, with the same poop-ridden screenshot. Another of that same circle of “friends” perhaps? The only exhibit she will allow to be entered into the record is her own “damning” screenshot, anonymously sourced, instablocking and abusing anybody who researches her claim beyond that initial image.

Well, if she is self-promoting, as her triggered behaviour and the evidence suggests, then she gave herself away, not us. We don’t care. Excluding appearances “as herself” alongside Young Turk Cenk Uygur, her entire catalog consists of two films, including the minor associate producer role mentioned above. Are these not meeting her sales expectations? Boo hoo. She can hire a marketing firm like every other filmmaker has to. Her IMDB record, however, suggests filmmaking is just something she does while waiting for her inheritance to kick in.

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We Don’t Need No Education

As a matter of fact we do, but the ‘education’ we receive is anything but.

At 11-years old I was not all that interested in learning about how to perform a quick enema in the shower prior to unprotected butt-sex, and I was – and remain – unconvinced that men may spontaneously, if not at will, transform into women. That’s when they’re not groping and abusing them of course, they want to be one.

So I quit what is rightfully called ‘skool’ at about age 13. Home or self-schooling in the UK isn’t allowed, unless mummy and daddy are rich and or have the right connections. For everybody else, you must go to skool. If you don’t, they will come looking for you. In the form of Truant Officers.

The “beak” we called them. Usually these beaks were angry disaffected authoritarian men who didn’t make the grade to become policemen or Army NCOs. So they took their frustrations out on their neighbours’ children instead, hunting them down in amusement arcades and playgrounds to yell at and threaten them, and for this service beaks got compensated with a small wage paid by the taxman.

Secret Hide Out

Tracking down and shouting at traunts was a role almost made for such men, on the assumption that even they would be smarter than traunt children. Which in most cases they were. Not in my case. In three years of actively seeking my whereabouts during skool hours they never once found me. Because I “hid out” in a place where a traunt officer will never in a million years think of looking – the public library.

It was full of books. Over the course of the two-to-three years that I spent six-to-eight hours a day five days a week there, I think I must have read most of them. Books about physics, chemistry, laboratory animal management, biology, the law, engineering, urban planning, naval warfare, business management, metallurgy, philosophy, politics, economics, and having been born in a city heavily damaged during the Second World War sporting childrens’ playgrounds colloquially known as ‘bomb sites’, I read books about that as well.

bomb site

The former home of H.G. Wells reduced to a bombsite-cum-childrens-playground.

Playtime

It wasn’t all work and study though. At times I would go down to the children’s section to relax with Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl – a child needs to have some escapism after all, even a hard-working traunt. The soon-to-become contemporary classic Stig of the Dump was a personal favourite capturing as it did the essence of time and place – Der Zeitgeist as German-speakers say.

That’s not to say I neglected the established classics. Coming from a town that had once been home to Charles Dickens, Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, and Rudyard Kipling among others, the fiction section of the library simply had to be visited. Mostly though I spent my early teens searching out reference material in the non-fiction section, with the occasional field-trip to a local botanical garden or museum when the coast was clear.

Only one time did I think I had been busted. The librarian came over and asked me to leave. I was certain I’d find the beak waiting outside, but she was asking everyone else to leave as well. When we were all safely outside I overheard some grown-ups saying it was a bomb-scare, and we were soon allowed back in to read our books.

Much To Learn

Some of the books, concerning subjects such as nucleo-synthesis, the Hertzfeld-Russell diagram of main sequence stars, quantum superposition, specific pathogen free laboratories, jury nullification, machine-language programming, the rise and fall of the Third Reich, evolution by natural selection, bomb-damage effects, and other advanced topics that engaged my interest often required some little background reading.

Fortunately our library was a fairly modern one since the Germans had bombed the old one while reducing the entire city center to rubble when my parents were children and the newly-built library had installed microfiche – the high technology of the day. There were no public computers in those days, but I soon became an expert in the use of searching microfiche indexes to locate the shelving of the particular book I needed to reference.

Navigating the Dewey Decimal System was something else that was soon to become second nature, and post-graduate researchers in the library would often ask for my help to locate books for them, in exchange for some pennies that I could spend on cigarettes.

Exams

There was no avoiding the end-of-skool exams that a UK child is required to sit at age 16, so I had to turn up at skool for those. Before the examination it was requried to practice, by spending a few days sitting the exams as a dry-run, or “mocks” as they were called.

Of the nine mocks I sat I scored eight A’s and a B – more than enough for me to sail into the University of my choice had they been the real deal. I completed each of those mock exams in half the time allocated or less, then had to sit in the examination room for another hour or more each time with nothing to do – not even allowed a book to read.

Then I was impolitely told that I would not be allowed to sit the final exams because I hadn’t attended enough skool, on the grounds that those who had not attended skool would not be able to pass them, my eight A’s and a B in the mocks be damned.

Job Prospects In Thatcher’s Britain

So I had to leave school at 16 with no more qualifications than a bronze certificate for having swam a 25-yard breaststroke in the local pool (I’d had to teach myself how to swim, as you’d have probably guessed by now). The town was an island, so my guess is that they couldn’t bring themselves to deny me a swimming certificate because that might have reflected on them – the generation on whose watch my city had been destroyed, the island’s waifs left to fend for themselves not even taught how to swim.

There’s not much call for qualified short-distance swimmers third-class on an island, and the certificate was more of a symbolic award. A consolation prize, with no job prospects attached. I told the careers officer that I wanted to be an airline pilot and she said I wouldn’t be able to do that and suggested that if I wanted a job in transportation I should consider driving a van instead.

I went to work ‘on-the-black’ in the aptly-named John Pounds Scrapyard for a short while, which the image featured below shows hasn’t changed much. I dismantled marine engines dumped there by the Royal Navy, whose inner parts I understood the purpose of, for a dollar-a-day, cash-in-hand.

boy in john pounds scrapyard

Then as Now: Unidentified Pompey Boy playing among the detritus of war in the aptly-named ‘John Pounds Scrapyard’ because there is fuck all else for him to do.

I had enough understanding of economics and practical military necessity to appreciate why these multi-million-pound marine engines, still in their original packaging, were being scrapped after having been left to rot for thirty years without ever having been installed in a ship.

Then Thatcher come to power a few months later and I was conscripted for the next ten years into the legions upon her own scrapheap.

Ten Years On

After Thatcher I was able to get into the local University, on the basis of scoring 98% in the University’s own entrance exam that I sat more-or-less on a whim – to keep the dole office happy.

I accepted the University’s offer to take a place on a Computer Science degree course by the end of which I chalked-up, lo and behold, 11 A’s and a B in the final exams – sufficient to get me invited up to Oxford with a research-council grant for to undertake post-graduate research in theoretical computer science.

Which gave me access to the Bodleian, and Oxford Union Libraries.

Oxford Union Library

View of the Oxford Union Library from Gladstone’s desk

Pictured above is the view I had for five days when I decided to sit one of the tougher Oxford exams there. It was during tourist-season when the undergraduates are sent down and many of Oxford’s buildings allow limited public access. As I was sitting a research examination the guide would get my permission before allowing groups of tourists in.

I am not one to deny tourists their right to wonder within an historic library, wherein Presidents, Prime Ministers, and Kings come to read, mayhap it will inspire them. Thus I gave my permission for them to gawk on the condition of “no photographs”. They could look up to me – I was sat at Gladstone’s desk on a raised platform – as an Oxford scholar, and woe betide them should they ever find out this scholarly researcher was an unschooled back-street riff-raff who had taken it upon himself to do the things they only dreamed of doing.

Moving On

I also wrote a book that year, which is now shelved in many local libraries including the one that used to be my own. I live in Switzerland nowadays, a self-employed enterprise and security architect for regulated computerized systems in health care, finance, and communications, but hopefully back in my home town my own book is being read by traunt kids smart enough not to accept the bullshit their underpaid underqualified agenda-of-rage “teachers” are shovelling into them on government orders.

Another of my home-town’s famous natives was John Pounds, the 1999 “Man of the Millenium” no less.

john pounds, cobbler

A load of Cobblers.

Let that sink in.

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The Hot Bitcoin Big Bang

We compare the introduction of Cryptocurrency to Cosmology.

Singularity
From somewhere, nobody knows where, the source code appears.

Inflation
The various coins rise in price compared to background legacy currencies, while tending towards equilibrium between cryptocurrencies. Huge mining monoliths dominate the market.

Decoupling
All the coins are mined. Expected in the middle of the 2020’s. A phase transition occurs as mining operations rationalize. Many high-energy cryptocurrencies will go out of existance.

Recombination
Fiat lux. Surviving coins spread throughout the market. The period of price discovery begins.

Dinosaurs
The big banks muscle in to the market and dominate it for a period of relative instability

Dominance
99% of the coins end up in the hands of 1% of the people.

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Another Right Women Have Lost to Google

In this case it is the right women have to communicate news of their pregnancy. Google have determined that if a woman wishes to use the Internet she forfiets the right of privacy in-utero.

Case In Point

I was browsing YouTube looking for videos on how to strip down and repair a lathe and I suddenly started getting ads for utterly unrelated new-born baby products. Do they think I am planning on machining a baby? That I am not the kind of engineer that would use the right tool for the job?

Or is there something the wife, with whom I share an internet connection, isn’t telling me?

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Fakenews Making Idiots of Themselves

Now they’ve got it into their heads that “location services” from Twitter, which can be customized by the end user, are sound enough to constitute proof. Proof, that you’re in the pay of Vladimir Putin, no less. As is happening to users who jokingly pretend to be in Russia, then find their account suspended for it.
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