Why The Internet Sucks

Around eleven years ago, a dorky-looking Quebecois kid named Ghyslain decided to film himself re-enacting lightsaber battles from his favorite sci-fi movie with a golf ball retriever. You've probably seen it: the stick twirls, the mouthed lightsaber sound effects, the stumbles, the trips, and so on. Forever known as the Star Wars kid, Ghyslain and his video were uploaded to the internet by some mean-spirited students and went on to become the most watched video on the internet. Ever. The Star Wars kid video has been watched nearly a billion times. ONE FUCKING BILLION TIMES.

I admit it, it is a pretty funny video. But what about Ghyslain? Well, he had to drop out of school. Go through years of therapy. To this day he most likely endures stifled laughter as he walks through mall hallways. His life is changed forever.

We live in a world where we can instantly upload any piece of media, idea, or feeling within seconds. This information can then be seen by virtually anyone in the world with an internet connection, a notion which I heralded as a great thing for humanity in my last entry. But at what cost?

Today, I fear for myself in social situations involving cameras. What if someone captures a revealing, unphotogenic picture of myself and puts it on Facebook? What if I make some sort of social gaffe and an acquaintance with an Iphone and dreams of making it big on Youtube gets it all on (digital) celluloid? It happens to thousands of people a day. And we happily consume this media with excitement, laughter, and a desire to share the entertainment with others. When the clip ends, we move on. It's only a matter of time before some other buffoon attempts to do a backflip, fails miserably, and must in turn endure the schadenfreude of people around the globe.

In the 60's, Andy Warhol famously exclaimed that "in the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." And he was absolutely right. But what we don't see is what happens to these people after their fifteen minutes are up. For many, they probably end up a lot like Ghyslain.

Beyond the celebration and easy accessibility of embarrassment that the internet has spawned, it has also given everyone a (somewhat false) sense of anonymity. With the popularization of online message boards, comment sections on news stories and blogs, and the lack of a need (or, perhaps desire) to formally identify yourself, the internet has bred a special type of cynical, confrontational, and extremely vocal minority of people appropriately named trolls. 

Trolls are found everywhere on the web: they are the ones telling you that the song you wrote is terrible and that you should die in a fire. They just need to tell you why your favorite movie is garbage. They are the ones picking apart a myriad of news stories, berating both the author and the article's subject. Oh, and they're the people you don't recognize on your favourite social network; the ones who you've never met before but still need to ask if 'u mad, bro?' after they antagonize you with a disparaging comment. Most importantly, they don't have a name, a face, or any sort of physical presence to associate your disdain for them with. It's this anonymity that makes trolling so common. Perhaps trolls see their activities as cathartic. Or simply as a time-killer. Maybe it's a way for people to vent their innate need to be confrontational, without having to do so in real life.

Whatever the cause, for most people, trolling sucks. The majority of us know better than to take the mischief of trolls with anything other than a grain of salt, but it doesn't stop us from nonetheless being hurt by their nature. We may not agree with the raving, often illogical rants of why your favorite television show is awful by some teenager in his basement (whom, I might add, is probably not that different from our friend Ghyslain), but it is enough to plant a seed of doubt: maybe LOST wasn't as great a TV show as I once thought.

It is perhaps the smarminess of trolls that makes them so irritating. The unwarranted self-assuredness that whatever they say is as concrete as the word of God. This leads to my final point on why the Internet sucks: it has enflamed our own vanity and sense of importance.

I recently came to the realization that Facebook has extensively documented the last four years of my life. We could debate for months how accurate it is in its depiction of myself as a human being, but the point is that virtually anyone can check me out and get a general sense of how my life has played out over the last few years. But really, why should anyone care? 

A person can post the most mundane of status updates on Facebook ("OMG, I FINALLY FOUND THAT PENCIL I WAS LOOKING FOR FOR THE LAST TEN MINUTES") and within minutes there will be a handful of "likes," replies, and congratulations from friends, acquaintances, and even total strangers. The rise in popularization of social networking and the supposed necessity of having an online presence has given us all a false sense of importance. If that photo I uploaded of myself at the game gets a bunch of comments from friends telling me how cute I look, well, it just has to be true. 

So yeah, you could google "dildo origins" and it would only take a few minutes before you were an expert on the subject. But I bet on the way to that answer, some asshole will tell you that dildos are only for dykes or that they're a tool of the devil.

Why The Internet Rules

If you wanted to know the answer to a question like "what is the origin of the dildo?" fifty years ago, it would take some serious determination, not to mention a pretty thick layer of skin. You'd have to go to the library, pull out the encyclopedia, and sit there for a while as you sifted through peripheral information, until finally you read a two hundred word blurb that didn't exactly go as in depth as you were hoping. Maybe you wouldn't find anything at all, and God knows you wouldn't go around asking people. 

Today, it would take you about three and a half seconds to pull up this information. Simple. You grab your phone, google "dildo origins" and right there is the Wikipedia entry for the 'Dildo'. Not only would you get a detailed write-up on the historical background, cultural significance, and controversies surrounding dildos, you would also get links to important related concepts and names associated with the term. If you weren't happy with what you found, you could always check one of the other 300 000 results that google populated for you. And best of all, no one would ever have to know that you even looked it up. 

I don't know anything about dildos. Or, I didn't before I started writing this entry. I might not be an expert yet, but even the silly example I used above has resulted in more knowledge on the subject than I had before. 

This is the beauty of the Internet. 

To go back to the analogy, in the time it would have taken me to find that one paragraph about dildos in 1960, today I could be fully versed in the topic in half that. The internet has freed us from devoting a lifetime of study to an idle curiosity. Now we can devote our lives to many idle curiosities.

The curmudgeons of generations past would have looked at this scenario and scoffed. They would argue that it's not about the answer to the question, it's about the journey you take to get there. For them, what's important is the sifting through that peripheral information; the excitement you had on your way to the library.

But what they fail to realize is that the journey doesn't begin when you ask the question, it begins when you find the answer. The internet begins this journey. If a friend and I were having a disagreement on an issue based on statistics, there is an easy answer: check the internet. Were there more deaths in boxing or MMA last year? Turns out it was boxing. But regardless of whether myself or my friend was right, the discussion doesn't end, it just changes course. We can start looking at all the data surrounding the issue. We can question the legitimacy of the findings. We can learn how these deaths were caused. The point is, we come away with a better understanding of the topic and we generate new ideas, all in a few minutes.

The internet has given us limitless freedom to learn about any topic we could ever imagine. It has given a voice to the niche markets; the counter-culture; the fetishists. It's curiosity's best friend. It's one big giant support group: comforting proof that no matter who you are, there is someone out there just like you; no matter what the question, an answer exists. This type of freedom didn't exist before the internet.

Perhaps the best indicator of the power of the world wide web can be found in this blog. It gives me the chance to voice my thoughts (even if no one's reading...can't help that!) and anyone who wants to be a part of that discussion only has to read or post a comment. If even one person reads this post and reflects on it, whether they agree, disagree, or fall somewhere in between, then the internet is already a success: it has facilitated intellectual growth where they may have been none before. And next time someone google's 'dildo origins', this very blog entry will be firmly entrenched among the other three hundred thousand sites dedicated to the subject. If that's not awesome, I don't know what is.

Coming soon: Why The Internet Sucks

Sequels Are Zombies.

The other day I picked up a copy of Dead Rising 2 for Xbox 360. I was excited for this release; I loved the first one. When it first came out in 2006, Dead Rising was an entertaining romp that attempted to explore just how many ways you could kill a zombie (my personal favorite: jamming a shower faucet into a zombie's head and watching the blood fountain everywhere). Since then, zombies have invaded popular culture from every angle: console and handheld games, movies, and TV (such as the new series The Walking Dead based on Robert Kirkman's comic book).

When I started up the sequel, déja vu flooded my mind almost immediately. Did I accidentally re-buy the original? The graphics, gameplay, and overall presentation felt identical to the first. I was disappointed. But why? I loved the original, it had provided so many hours of entertainment. What was wrong with more of the same?

Clearly the developers approached the game with a "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" mentality. If it was successful the first time, why completely overhaul it and risk failure? But though Dead Rising 2 carried over all of the things I loved about the first, it just didn't feel the same. I quickly grew tired of the gameplay mechanics I was already inherently familiar with. The Dead Rising series is not the only one guilty of repackaging a game, changing the setting, adding a new feature or two and calling it a sequel. There are a host of others. The Skate series. The newest Fallout. Halo.

What was it about the first iterations of these games that allowed them to attain so much popularity? The answer is simple. These games pushed the envelope. They were innovative. They set themselves apart from other games in the same genre by doing something different. It's what I loved so much about the first Dead Rising. Sure, there were many zombie games before it, but was I able to mow down the undead with a shopping cart in them? Could I level up? No, Capcom's game took the conventions of what a zombie game could be and turned them on their head. The games mentioned above did the same with their respective genres.

But with the success of these franchises, much like in other media, imitators appeared. In the years between sequels, many of the innovations of these games were lifted and put in other games. Eventually, it all felt a little too familiar.

By the time the follow-up was released, we had all gotten our full enjoyment out of the original games and their many imitators. So why bother play the same game again? The new features in Dead Rising 2 felt like something that would be put in an expansion pack rather than a sequel. In the four years between the two games, I had been exposed to all sorts of zombie-related media. I became a zombie aficionado without even trying. But because it was all so familiar, I couldn't enjoy it nearly as much as the original.

Don't get me wrong. I expect the fundamentals of the game to remain the same. I wouldn't want it to stray too far from its roots and risk eliminating what I loved in the first place. Dead Rising should always be about killing zombies in hilarious ways. There is, however, a healthy middle ground in between changing too much and changing too little. Take the Final Fantasy series. Each iteration maintains the core role-playing element. But with each sequel came a refreshed artistic style, overhauled gameplay system, and most importantly, a different feel from the last. There are plenty of other franchises that succeed in changing just enough to capture what was great about the original all while expanding and evolving it with new technology and innovation.

I hope that developers can continue to evolve their sequels beyond a carbon copy of the original. If there ends up being a Dead Rising 3, I'll pass. Unless they can really wow me. Until then, if I want to behead some zombies, I'll stick with the classic.

The Day The MP3 Took Over...

When I was eleven years-old, I discovered Napster. I watched my brother, six years my senior, download a song within a half-hour (ah, the download speeds of ten years ago) and saw how easy it was to simply type in an artist's name and wait patiently as an entire list of their material appeared, ready to be selectively picked like a berry off a vine. For my eleven year-old self, it was the start of something magical. Having never really been an avid fan of music before then, it allowed me to explore a limitless landscape of songs and albums from bands and artists I'd never heard before.

I grew up with Napster, and never once did it ever occur to me that I was stealing. I had never stolen before, whether it was candy from convenience stores or clothes from malls. I knew that was wrong. But I never thought that taking a song off the internet was theft. I guess I was too excited about discovering all of this new music that I remained oblivious to the hubbub that was generated by the legal and moral ramifications of downloading an artist's material for free.

One day, I logged on to Napster as I did virtually every afternoon, hoping to download the newest Eminem song I heard on the radio. My attempt was cut short by a pop-up message stating, "The artist Dr. Dre has requested that your access to Napster be terminated for alleged copyright infringement." I was banned, excluded from a utopia in which I could hear any song I ever wanted at the click of a mouse. I took it personally. Dr. Dre was mad at me. Why? I hadn't forgot about Dre. All I wanted to do was enjoy such riveting tracks as "Bitch Niggaz" and "Deeez Nuts." It never occurred to me that Dr. Dre was losing money because I was downloading these files. I didn't realize I was putting him out of a home.

Well, that's because I wasn't. 

For local acts and big artists alike, file-sharing has been somewhat of a blessing in disguise. Fledgling groups looking to gain popularity have been able to share their music worldwide, allowing anyone with even moderate computer skills the ability to download their album within minutes, put it on their iPod, and share with friends. Yes, it's true that they are losing the small royalty for the CD purchase that they receive from the record company, but in return they are gaining hundreds (thousands?) of fans who will enjoy their music and tell the world. It's an exponential climb: the more people who download the album, the more are able to share it. All of a sudden, touring groups that no one has heard of see increased attendance at shows in cities where they thought no one cared. Increased attendance leads to a bigger cut at the door and merch table purchases such as t-shirts, stickers, and yes, even vinyl and CD sales. This effectively cuts out the middle man (record labels) and allows the artist to get paid directly for their product. It's a much more personal relationship, and it's a lot more than they would have got if their albums were not available for free on the Internet.

While it is true that bigger artists are more dependent on music sales to ensure they remain signed and supported by their record label, they can also count on increased marketing and money generated from cross-promotion, as well as larger venues to fill with adoring fans who will shell out $50+ on a ticket for a live show. In the reality that we live in today, big artists are doing just fine and most likely have much more money than you or me. Trust me, Dr. Dre (as he will tell you in many of his songs) is rolling in dough.

Ten years after I got banned from Napster, I now have over twenty gigabytes of music on my computer's hard drive, a sizable library (though not nearly as large as some) that contains over 3000 songs from hundreds of artists and bands. That includes my man Dre. I play several instruments, attend live concerts, and consider music to be a major part of my life. Today, I have no qualms about downloading music "illegally." In fact, I wouldn't be the person I am if it wasn't for file-sharing.

If a band I like (big or small) comes through my town, I will always pay the full ticket price to go. My friends will come with me, as one of us would have surely showed the others the music of the group in question. Some of us will buy t-shirts. Others will snatch a limited edition, tour-only pressing of the band's new 7". It is important to do this. The artists definitely need financial support, and if you like a group and enjoy their music it's the least you can do to keep them going. But do it directly. Don't let the money pass hands, allowing CD carriers like Wal-Mart to get a cut of the profits.

Music is not about making money. It's about forming a connection with the listener. It elicits an emotion or idea that one would not otherwise have. It is for our enjoyment. The music I've downloaded has made me a better person. It's expanded my knowledge of the world, provided an emotional release, and gotten me through some hard times.

We (the listener) should not have to pay money for this connection. Nor should we take a risk and shell out ten dollars or more when we don't enjoy the music and the connection isn't there. If I download an album and dislike it, I never listen to it again, simple as that. Had I paid for the album, it would have worked out the same way. The artist who I've "stolen" from won't see me at the live show, nor would they if I had actually purchased the album.

There are an infinite number of people who will disagree with me, ranging from the average person, to artists, to record label execs, and so on. It's undeniable that record labels small and big alike have seen a dip in profits since file-sharing has become common practice. But we don't need a middleman hiking the price on a relationship that should exist between artist and listener. Music is an emotional being, not a commodity to be bought and sold.

Ten years later, Napster is no longer a free file-sharing network, but a myriad of other programs have replaced it. Since file-sharing is a relatively new concept, it's hard to see the long-term benefits it will provide. But I can tell you that there are thousands of bands that would not have survived past their first album if there hadn't been avid music fans downloading the songs, telling their friends, and going to the show.

So Dr. Dre, it was nothing personal. My mom would never have bought me The Chronic when I was eleven, and I definitely didn't have the money to buy it. But if you ever come through my city, the drinks are on me. I may even buy a t-shirt or two.