The Future of Reputation

Someone saw me reading this book on the subway and wrote a comment about it on my blog.  If I saw me reading that book on the subway I would think it was funny too.  But sometimes things around here start to get a little bit too, like … an eagle is eating a snake that’s eating its own tail, and maybe the eagle is about to get sucked into a jet engine.  I think this week might be one of those times.

9 comments to The Future of Reputation

  • [...] If you took my brain, and put it in another body, and then turned that body into a brain in a vat, you would have Annalee Newitz. Seriously, I love this girl woman person. She understands me. She gets IT. And by IT I mean both Information Technology and the big picture, the world riddle, the reasons we blog and exist and blog about existing and blogging (and so on). [...]

  • Bill G

    Oooh, this is heavy. Can you maybe lighten things up with a couple of cat blogs?

  • Ben

    But maybe the jet engine just splices the DNA of the eagle and the self-consuming snake, creating the world’s first sneagle. You never know.

    Sneagle. I am very proud of myself for that.

  • MikeJack


    The next time I see you on the train, I’ll eat your liver with farva beans and a nice Chianti.

    Guys! Only stalk people on facebook!

  • scott

    that’s an interesting choice of material … do you ever feel that you are limited in choices now (career wise) because you were so catty on gawker? though it was a fun site .. id assume youve made more enemies than friends

  • pulling socks

    Ah! That is the same pose the 12-finger pianist in Gattaca had. An interesting adaptation of the pose from the modesty of tremendous talent to celebrity in the face of gossip.

    Only just read about you in NYT magazine. Good luck.

  • Mickey

    Ignore what the world says. Do your own thing, as long as you’re happy in your skin and not mean to others.

  • the self-reference loop / hyperconnection / am I or someone else on drugs / philosophical maundering / systemic hiccup / is this about surrealisme? / what is the dark secret that isn’t eating my darkness / technology’s involved as-per-usual-and-extraneously / isn’t this from that dream / if oroboros is involved what am I? / yet there is someone else participating / and somehow its not about Descartes mode

    I sympathize (I’m cutting down on the more loving word, knowing I misuse it, although poetesses swallow me whole)

    I like the other phrasing more, where you say the snake eats the eagle who is airplane passenger (of course that’s more parasitic; lately I’ve been considering how to escape parasite-as-man, maybe its my condition, but if not yet existential, a serious issue speaking of things submerged worse than I might ever dream of myself; no longer nechomachian shadow-fighter, or self-nemesis, as are so many nascienmen, the voyagers who kill poets in themselves)

    By the way I love covers like that; maybe its an artificial aesthetic that’s more about using black and tan together, or it may have missed the bowldler / bowler hat reference, falling into that postmodern category of attributation Ikon subvertum ad ikon e.g. archetype becomes internet ‘avatar’ [maybe that's the way to buy into the internet, or maybe its the usual ruse and gloister of plastic and time 'roominated' into a ticking stopwatch of emptiness and suppositions at heckling and the memory of tickertape]

    Although at one point the clenched hands meant ‘migraine’ or existential ‘angst’ / ‘annoia’ [I might refer this to 'modern spiritualism' versus 'postmodern reconstructivism' of many blah-words ||to coin a phrase||] however now the best review in-all-assessments is that he’s a great person put on by someone with money to represent that chai-tea and an air-conditioned job mentality, within which everyone very ostensibly aspires to play an important character in The Sims, and good feelings arrive, or ‘are presumed’ in the context of expressing anger minimized, condoling all accregence in the perview that things are, relatively-in-speaking so okay

    Sublime isn’t just a word to me, and I haven’t just written a novel, and although this is a simple mode [suggested by appearances as though]people-as-such remember play-dough instead of clay, there are nousciences of a world found not simply in yearning, eating, or accomodata-in-imago; maybe woman feels, and I could see a woman assuming the same, or living life of her own; not making this personally, the idea that so much is missed either in the assumption of identification, or the subsumption in an idea that misses itself; what gives life?

    I’m just now finding the sort of case where there is a communion of meaning, as with the noticed book; so much begins in the conscience or fatalism of taking a role beyond morals [or the assumption of morals], within which image is a risk, and therefore appears

    How can I say to myself that there aren’t younger Nathans thirsting for something interesting on the internet? The risks I don’t take are greater risks _ _ _


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