venomous porridge
I’m Dan Wineman and sometimes I post things here.
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May
11th
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Mar
27th
Tue
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Replies, promoted tweets, and a crazy idea

Indulge me in a fantasy.

Currently, reply scope on Twitter works like this:

  • If Alice replies to Bob’s tweet, everyone who follows both Alice and Bob will see the reply.

What if, instead, it worked like this:

  • If Alice replies to Bob’s tweet, everyone who follows Alice and saw Bob’s tweet in their timeline will see the reply.

The difference is subtle but significant, because following Bob isn’t the only way I might see Bob’s original tweet. Someone else I follow could have retweeted it into my timeline. Alice herself may have done so, in fact. So one effect of this change would be to eliminate that awful “dot-reply” cheat: instead, just retweet the original before replying and all of your followers will see both.

Another effect is that it gives us a way to meaningfully interact with promoted tweets. Today, replying to a promoted tweet is all but pointless. The promoter won’t hear me — they’ll have thousands of replies to sift through, if they even bother to look — and beyond that, only those who already follow both me and the promoter will see my reply. That’s not likely to be very many people, since the whole idea of promoting a tweet is to put it in front of people who aren’t following the promoter. But under this new rule, all of my followers who saw the promoted tweet would also see my reply. Now we’re getting somewhere.

That’s step one. Step two is where this dream gets crazy:

  • Using an algorithm similar to that of Top Tweets, when a reply to a promoted tweet receives a large number of retweets and/or favorites, the reply should also be promoted to the same audience.

It might look like this:

(Original tweets.) Completely nuts, right? Why would any advertiser ever go for this? It’s not fair, you may be thinking: Microsoft paid good money to have their tweet promoted, so why should any random nobody get to ride that train for free?

Here’s why: like it or not, by introducing promoted tweets, Twitter has declared that popularity and money are equivalent currencies. Your tweet can gain exposure organically, by virtue of your own following and the viral nature of retweets, or you can just pay up and they’ll stick it in everybody’s stream (or some large subset of everybody). What’s unfair is that due to the way replies currently work, the paying voice speaks alone. It’s paying to disrupt conversations, not to participate in them.

Which, of course, is what advertisers want, so this will probably never change. But to me, that’s an unfortunate failure of imagination. Banksy, or possibly Sean Tejaratchi, writes:

Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head.

What if this idea of freedom to rearrange and reuse were baked into the concept of what ads are? What if online ads became less like discarded flyers blowing down a busy street and more like living, breathing fragments of human conversation? What if users were treated like thinking beings and not like credit cards with eyestalks? Wouldn’t everybody win?

Naturally, not all replies to promoted tweets will be favorable to the promoter, and that’s OK: when you barge into a crowded room and start shouting through a megaphone, people don’t always say nice things. That’s part of the deal. And the longer ads continue to live on a weird plane of their own that barely intersects reality, the less effective they’ll continue to be, and the sooner the things we love that depend on ads will stop being able to exist.

I’d rather Twitter didn’t have ads at all, but if we must have them, let’s at least try to do something better than throwing rocks at heads.

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Mar
17th
Sat
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These are OK:

Telling a true story, with objectivity and accuracy. (Documentary.)
Telling a story that’s not entirely true under the pretense of accuracy, or while obscuring its nature as fiction. (Mockumentary: This Is Spinal Tap. Exit Through the Gift Shop.)
Telling a story that’s not entirely true, but that concerns real people and events with details changed or fabricated to serve a dramatic purpose. (Docudrama: The Social Network. HBO’s Rome. Historical fiction. Gonzo journalism.)
This is not OK:

Telling a story that’s not entirely true, but that concerns real people and events with details changed or fabricated and representing it as truth. (We call this propaganda.)
Mike Daisey could have performed a monologue about going to Taiwan to visit the Wolfconn factory where they make the Orange ePhone. He could have played a character not named Mike Daisey, or he could have presented his story as “inspired by real events” rather than as some new form of investigative theater. The artistic value of the piece would have been the same, though it may have received less attention. But instead, Daisey put himself in the story, he made up stuff about China and Apple and Foxconn, and then, offstage, he told everyone it was objectively true.

Daisey’s defense echoes Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck: he’s an entertainer, not a journalist. Sorry, Mike. You’re a propagandist, whether you meant to be one or not.

And now I’m afraid the aspects of the story that are true won’t be heard.

These are OK:

This is not OK:

  • Telling a story that’s not entirely true, but that concerns real people and events with details changed or fabricated and representing it as truth. (We call this propaganda.)

Mike Daisey could have performed a monologue about going to Taiwan to visit the Wolfconn factory where they make the Orange ePhone. He could have played a character not named Mike Daisey, or he could have presented his story as “inspired by real events” rather than as some new form of investigative theater. The artistic value of the piece would have been the same, though it may have received less attention. But instead, Daisey put himself in the story, he made up stuff about China and Apple and Foxconn, and then, offstage, he told everyone it was objectively true.

Daisey’s defense echoes Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck: he’s an entertainer, not a journalist. Sorry, Mike. You’re a propagandist, whether you meant to be one or not.

And now I’m afraid the aspects of the story that are true won’t be heard.

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Mar
11th
Sun
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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.] 235 plays

The biscuit story from So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams (read by the author). 04:32.

I doubt any author has influenced me more than Douglas Adams did when I was a teenager. I’ve read all of his books half a dozen times. Last Chance to See, a nonfiction travelogue on endangered species, may be the most painfully beautiful book I’ve ever encountered.

He was the kind of writer who possessed such vast knowledge and such monstrous insight that he could completely change the way you thought about things just by telling a funny story. Take, for example, this brilliant speech he gave in 1998 about the ages of sand:

I can imagine Newton sitting down and working out his laws of motion and figuring out the way the Universe works and with him, a cat wandering around. The reason we had no idea how cats worked was because, since Newton, we had proceeded by the very simple principle that essentially, to see how things work, we took them apart. If you try and take a cat apart to see how it works, the first thing you have in your hands is a non-working cat. Life is a level of complexity that almost lies outside our vision; is so far beyond anything we have any means of understanding that we just think of it as a different class of object, a different class of matter; ‘life’, something that had a mysterious essence about it, was god given — and that’s the only explanation we had. The bombshell comes in 1859 when Darwin publishes On the Origin of Species. It takes a long time before we really get to grips with this and begin to understand it, because not only does it seem incredible and thoroughly demeaning to us, but it’s yet another shock to our system to discover that not only are we not the centre of the Universe and we’re not made of anything, but we started out as some kind of slime and got to where we are via being a monkey. …

I can remember the first time I ever read a programming manual, many many years ago. I’d first started to encounter computers about 1983 and I wanted to know a little bit more about them, so I decided to learn something about programming. I bought a C manual and I read through the first two or three chapters, which took me about a week. At the end it said ‘Congratulations, you have now written the letter A on the screen!’ I thought, ‘Well, I must have misunderstood something here, because it was a huge, huge amount of work to do that, so what if I now want to write a B?’ The process of programming, the speed and the means by which enormous simplicity gives rise to enormously complex results, was not part of my mental grammar at that point. It is now — and it is increasingly part of all our mental grammars, because we are used to the way computers work.

So, suddenly, evolution ceases to be such a real problem to get hold of. It’s rather like this: imagine, if you will, the following scenario. One Tuesday, a person is spotted in a street in London, doing something criminal. Two detectives are investigating, trying to work out what happened. One of them is a 20th Century detective and the other, by the marvels of science fiction, is a 19th Century detective. The problem is this: the person who was clearly seen and identified on the street in London on Tuesday was seen by someone else, an equally reliable witness, on the street in Santa Fe on the same Tuesday — how could that possibly be? The 19th Century detective could only think it was by some sort of magical intervention. Now the 20th Century detective may not be able to say, “He took BA flight this and then United flight that” — he may not be able to figure out exactly which way he did it, or by which route he travelled, but it’s not a problem. It doesn’t bother him; he just says, ‘He got there by plane. I don’t know which plane and it may be a little tricky to find out, but there’s no essential mystery.’ We’re used to the idea of jet travel. We don’t know whether the criminal flew BA 178, or UA270, or whatever, but we know roughly how it was done. I suspect that as we become more and more conversant with the role a computer plays and the way in which the computer models the process of enormously simple elements giving rise to enormously complex results, then the idea of life being an emergent phenomenon will become easier and easier to swallow. We may never know precisely what steps life took in the very early stages of this planet, but it’s not a mystery.

Stephen Fry wrote a touching remembrance some years back, and it’s collected here with quite a few others:

He was a huge man: when he was in a house it rattled and you always knew he was there. He did the same to the earth. It doesn’t rattle any more now that he’s gone.

Douglas would be 60 today. I miss him so much.

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Mar
5th
Mon
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R.I.P. self-reblogging

I haven’t seen it announced anywhere, but Tumblr recently made a couple of changes to the way reblogging works. You can now reblog any post, including your own — “Reblog” buttons appear on everything — but you can no longer reblog a post to the same blog where it was originally posted. I don’t really understand why they’d actively prevent this, since it’s handy in some cases and anyone who abuses it can be easily unfollowed. But Tumblr is Tumblr, and who but mere Users are we.

Back when the solar system was still forming, I wrote a bookmarklet that gave you a universal reblog button, expressly for the purpose of self-reblogging. With these changes, the bookmarklet isn’t useful anymore. You may therefore now gently delete it, dallying for a moment to reflect on simpler days, when the wind blew cool and sweet and the reblogs flowed like summer wine.

Onward.

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Mar
4th
Sun
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Mar
1st
Thu
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This potted citrus, immature
in the hallway
at the top of the stairs
cannot yet bear fruit
of the literal kind
at least.

My mother-in-law, visiting
(last name Watson)
botanically inclined
as to its species
earlier this morning
inquired.

An innocent question
posed innocently
caused the cosmos
for a moment
to align—

—Six words spokenA lemon tree, my dear Watson
and into the pages
of pun history

I insufferably

stepped.

This potted citrus, immature
in the hallway
at the top of the stairs
cannot yet bear fruit
of the literal kind
at least.

My mother-in-law, visiting
(last name Watson)
botanically inclined
as to its species
earlier this morning
inquired.

An innocent question
posed innocently
caused the cosmos
for a moment
to align—

—Six words spoken
A lemon tree, my dear Watson
and into the pages
of pun history

I insufferably

stepped.

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Feb
16th
Thu
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Easy with the alerts

Neven Mrgan notes an inappropriate use of modal alerts in Amazon Mobile:

When you view an item in the Amazon app and tap the button to add it to your wish list, it comes back with this:

alert, n an alarm or warning, esp. a siren warning of an air raid.

It’s really not that big a deal that I added an item to my wish list. There’s no need to lock me into a modal dialog. Just add the item and move on.

Neven’s right, of course, but as I clumsily observed on Twitter, this alert abuse is in stark contrast to Amazon’s web design, in which they’re usually great at not bothering the user with needless shrill error messages. For example, when you add an item to your Wish List from the website, this is one possible outcome:

I would change the icon to be more btw and less omg, but otherwise, see how polite that is? Instead of interrupting me to point out that I asked for something dumb, Amazon helpfully did something else that better matched what I probably wanted in the first place. It’s like mistakenly asking for an extra fork with your ice cream and having the waiter just go ahead and bring an extra spoon, rather than needlessly correct you.

We expect that sort of intelligent interpretation in human/human interaction, but in human/computer interaction it’s so vanishingly rare that when it actually happens, nerds write blog posts about it. Ta-da.

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Feb
10th
Fri
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Couple of months ago, we rounded the corner into year three without Favrd. I still miss it. Favstar serves part of its former purpose now, but only the uglier, vainer part. The better part — the community — is mostly absent.

Favrd gained a vibrant community pretty much accidentally, which is notable because that’s hard to do even on purpose. Things tend to spring up these days, spend years and minor fortunes building a community, then turn on that community and ransom it because oh yeah we were supposed to be making money, weren’t we. Other things exploit social psychology to steal your life from you in momentary increments, selling your partial attention to an advertiser while you click on pictures of carrots. But Dean Allen just built a room, put things in it that interested him, and invited people in to look at them. They brought their own things to look at, and before long it was a party.

Every so often I load up the old Favrd home page just for the hell of it. I did that last night, and something in Dean’s farewell note struck me: “Sites like this one now serve mainly as fuel for emotional up-fuckedness in the guise of a game.” You see, Mr. Allen’s room also had mirrors in it, and lots of people were showing up just to preen. They would stare at themselves for hours, and — if you’ll allow me to switch metaphors somewhat ungracefully — reload their mirrors over and over, clicking on carrots, ignoring everyone else at the party.

Dean believed he had made Farmville by accident, so he shut it down.

For a man of his talents, it wouldn’t have taken much effort or imagination to monetize this accidental community. But for a man of his character, profiting from the encouragement of what he saw as an emotional bad habit was unacceptable.

We need more folks like Dean.

Couple of months ago, we rounded the corner into year three without Favrd. I still miss it. Favstar serves part of its former purpose now, but only the uglier, vainer part. The better part — the community — is mostly absent.

Favrd gained a vibrant community pretty much accidentally, which is notable because that’s hard to do even on purpose. Things tend to spring up these days, spend years and minor fortunes building a community, then turn on that community and ransom it because oh yeah we were supposed to be making money, weren’t we. Other things exploit social psychology to steal your life from you in momentary increments, selling your partial attention to an advertiser while you click on pictures of carrots. But Dean Allen just built a room, put things in it that interested him, and invited people in to look at them. They brought their own things to look at, and before long it was a party.

Every so often I load up the old Favrd home page just for the hell of it. I did that last night, and something in Dean’s farewell note struck me: “Sites like this one now serve mainly as fuel for emotional up-fuckedness in the guise of a game.” You see, Mr. Allen’s room also had mirrors in it, and lots of people were showing up just to preen. They would stare at themselves for hours, and — if you’ll allow me to switch metaphors somewhat ungracefully — reload their mirrors over and over, clicking on carrots, ignoring everyone else at the party.

Dean believed he had made Farmville by accident, so he shut it down.

For a man of his talents, it wouldn’t have taken much effort or imagination to monetize this accidental community. But for a man of his character, profiting from the encouragement of what he saw as an emotional bad habit was unacceptable.

We need more folks like Dean.

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Feb
2nd
Thu
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An honest question for the TSA

Every day at your airport checkpoints, you screen thousands of passengers for objects that could conceivably be used as a weapons. If you find one, you confiscate it, and the unfortunate traveler continues on her way, cupcakeless but no longer a threat to national security.

You’re also looking for explosives, which is understandable. If you found a live bomb — I mean, not that you ever have — but if you did, well, that would clearly be one terrorist caught and many lives saved, right? That is, assuming you actually remembered to do something about it, of course. But everybody makes mistakes and I won’t blame you for that. I’m sure someday you’ll stop being a complete waste of money. Really, we’re all pulling for you.

But here’s my question. Suppose I, a normal taxpaying non-terrorist type guy, were to bring through a checkpoint something relatively harmless but still against the rules: not a bomb but, say, a pocketknife. You’re going to take that away from me, right? But why? If I’m not a terrorist, how is it dangerous for me to have a four-inch folding knife in my trousers? It’s staying there until well after we land, unless Amazon Prime really improves. Or do you think I might suddenly decide to abort my vacation, abandon my family, and throw my life away in a fit of deranged violence when the captain interrupts the in-flight Mad About You for the seventh time to announce that one of the shittier Great Lakes is on the other side of the plane? Right when Murray the dog is about to make Paul Reiser get a little bit annoyed?

Of course not, because you are an organization of highly intelligent cupcake confiscators. The only logical reason for you to take my knife from me is that you think I’m a terrorist. You’ll smile and shake your head at the dopey terrorist, and you’ll go tsk tsk, and then you’ll let me through to board my flight.

So, TSA, answer me this: why are you allowing suspected terrorists onto planes?

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