Future Ironic Celebrity Deaths
- Keanu Reeves on an out-of-control horse, saying “Whoa”
- Arnold Schwarzenegger in a robotics factory
Steve Irwin fucking with dangerous wildlife
- Jeff Goldblum bitten by a fly. Shirtless.
- Harrison Ford at an archeological dig
- Bruce Willis dead the whole time
There’s a relatively long tradition, in the field of data visualization, of tracking the way we swear. This makes sense. Not only is it fun to track, but cursing is also conveniently specific as a data set; you’ve got your f-bombs and your double hockey sticks and your bodily functions, and, factoring in their permutations, you’re good to go. Plus, you don’t need much sophisticated sentiment analysis to ensure that your data are accurate: An f-bomb is pretty much an f-bomb, regardless of the contextual subtleties. As a result of all this, we, the public, get treated to sweary heat maps. And more sweary heat maps. And sweary interactive maps. There’s just something about big data and sailor-cursing that complement each other—like peanut butter and mothereffing jelly.
Traditionally, those maps are based on text—on swears that are typed into Facebook or, even more publicly, Twitter. Making a map of the sweariest states requires simply gathering geocoded posts, isolating the swears, and going from there.
Read more. [Image: Marchex]
The fuck is going on with Massachusetts there? That doesn’t seem right.
New Hampshire’s numbers come almost exclusively from yelling at Masshole drivers.
Source: The Atlantic
And the award for Sweetest Death* goes to…
A spider just lowered itself from the ceiling right between my face and the monitor. I grabbed a cupcake wrapper out of the trash and did the under-swoop-capture-and-squeeze move on it.
* You know, besides the 21 people who died in the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.
The FBI had been keeping an eye on Sartre from as early as 1945. Soon after, they began to investigate his contemporary, Albert Camus. On 7th February, 1946, John Edgar Hoover, director of the FBI, wrote a letter to “Special Agent in Charge” at the New York field office, drawing his attention to one ALBERT CANUS, “reportedly the New York correspondent of Combat [who] has been filing inaccurate reports which are unfavorable to the public interest of this country.” Hoover gave orders “to conduct a preliminary investigation to ascertain his background, activities and affiliations in this country.” One of Hoover’s underlings had the guts to inform the director that “the subject’s true name is ALBERT CAMUS, not ALBERT CANUS” (diplomatically hypothesizing that “Canus” was probably an alias he had cunningly adopted).
The irony that emerges from the FBI files on Camus and Sartre, spanning several decades (and which, still partly redacted, I accessed thanks to the open-sesame of the Freedom of Information Act) is that the G-men, initially so anti-philosophical, find themselves reluctantly philosophizing. They become (in GK Chesterton’s phrase) philosophical policemen.
Hoover needed to know if Existentialism and Absurdism were some kind of front for Communism. To him, everything was potentially a coded re-write of the Communist Manifesto. That was the thing about the Manifesto—it was not manifest: more often it was, as Freud would say, latent. Thus FBI agents were forced to become psychoanalysts and hermeneuts—drawn into what the historian Carlo Ginzburg neatly called the “cynegetic paradigm” (a brotherhood of clue-hunting detectives in which he includes Freud and Sherlock Holmes). Thus we find intelligence agents studying scholarly works and attending lectures.
But the FBI were “philosophical policemen” in a second sense: in tracking Camus and Sartre (surveillance, eavesdropping, wiretapping, theft) they give expression to their own brand of philosophical investigations.
Hoover’s FBI was deeply suspicious of philosophers, especially foreign ones, virtually philosophobic; but this does not stop the organisation from developing its own brand of philosophical thinking in response to Sartre and Camus—the FBI files on being and nothingness.
The FBI did not read Sartre or Camus in the original French. One of the agents, having stolen some notebooks and diaries (“obtained from the personal effects”) in early 1945, complains that this “material [is] all in French” and translators were drafted in. Then the investigation proper could begin.
The FBI emerge from these files as neo-existentialists in the classic early Sartrian mould. They, like the early Archibald Macleish, take the view that people, not just poetry, “should not mean, but be.” They don’t like meaning—they are on the look-out for it, especially secret coded meanings, but they don’t like it. They certainly subscribe to the “hell is other people” school of thought. And Hoover, in particular, would be greatly relieved if only everyone across the whole of the USA was an angst-ridden, anomic, introverted loner. In short, an Outsider. What they fear and object to is meaning, and finally, the plot—or narrative. They are anti-narrativists.
The FBI echo Sartre’s classic modernist critique of narrative, in his novel Nausea. Hoover’s FBI are quintessential existentialists in refuting teleological narrative—they would rather have contingency and chaos than telos. The FBI found Camus fundamentally their kind of guy: the Camus of the Absurd and the Outsider, according to which the individual will never really make sense of the world, nor hook up, in any kind of long term way, with others.
J. Edgar Hoover, always suspicious of Communist propaganda, kept files on Sartre and Camus.
"If you haven’t done anything wrong, then you don’t have anything to worry about."
As always, it depends on who is defining “wrong,” doesn’t it?
once I asked my English teacher if teachers shipped their students and after explaining what shipping meant she told me that that is literally one of the most popular discussions in the staff room
I had an English teacher who thought these two students were nice together, so she made them partners on a project.
They got married.
New pet project.
Still don’t know what shipping means.
Well, I know about the Aristotle Onasis kind, and I would like to go as long as possible without knowing whatever this new meaning is.
When it’s mentioned, I prefer the mental image of the person trapped in a shipping container without toilet facilities for an overseas voyage to a life of indentured servitude.
I may have gotten a little off-topic, there.
Attn: Prospective CHSH attendees
You know those Entertainment coupon books your neighbor kids sell to make money for their show choir or hierarchical organization with leadership of questionable morals? The ones that let you buy two Sausage McMuffins for the price of one, and tickets to the local sportsball team for $5 off?
It has a card in it. That card can get you a room at the CHSH hotel for as low as $129* a night, which is slightly cheaper than the normal CHSH rate (but might be for a room on the murder floor).
I only mention it now because this is the time of year the urchins are selling those books, so you can probably help out their Dr. Who fan club or cunnilingus appreciation society or whatever they’re raising money for these days, but if you don’t know any kids who desperately need you to show them the value of hitting up their neighbors for money, they also have a website.
That said, the organizers always do a bang-up job of negotiating a fantastic rate, too. Mostly because CHSH attendees are polite and hardly ever burn anything down.
* plus secret incalculable hotel taxes that probably end up being around $50 a night, but the only way you avoid those is a secret blood pact with Rahm Emmanuel.
Good words of advice, put together in a pleasing order.
If you would like to have so much fun that the 17th floor calls, go to CHSH.