… so claims an article at NewScientistTech.
First: what’s up with the mixed-upper-lower-case, no-spaces-between-words naming convention? NewScientistTech? Why not New Scientist Tech, or Newscientisttech, or New-scientist Tech?
I have a thing for hyphens, one might notice.
And the impersonal third person singular one.
The bionic eye reminds me of a season 2 episode or two of Alias; Sloan kills the guy who helps him to get around a tracking device (“Three can keep a secret if two are dead”), and later they find out what Sloan was up to because the guy who helped Sloan was blind in one eye and so had treated himself as a lab monkey for some wetwear. Or WetWear. Wet-wear. Wet wear.
Such man-machine hybrids are fascinating in literature and movies and the rest. A little Blade Runner, a little Matrix, a little Ghost in the Shell or Johnny Mnemonic or Neuromancer, etc. Cyber-punk all the way, but the interest in machines and automatons and the rest goes back much further, not just to Frankenstein.
Tonight there will be no wine, no “J” music, not TV, for instead I’ll head out in a few minutes to Jolly Bob’s, land of page after page after page of rum-based cocktails, and light-blue decorating. And a disco ball, and loud DJs. But rum: mmm mmm mmm.
Mike’s birthday arrives soon; I like to say that he got the looks and I got the brains, but I don’t know why I like to say that. I’ve been to Jolly Bob’s three times so far, I guess, the first time for Rachel’s birthday or such years ago, when they ate their dinner out back. Another time we were stuck seemingly for hours against a bar before finding seats of some sorts. We were astounded and disgusted by the quality of some of the “meat” on display, to be crude. In the fall I went with Lynn and Jack and Claire post-Weary Traveler for a few drinks; I finally paid Jack back for his minor loan today. He might have forgotten.
Off to dinner.
