Hacking At Random 2009 Presentation
(Download Presentation) | (Eyeborg Project)
This was a presentation given to some serious hackers at the “Hacking At Random 2009” conference. What is more nerve wracking than giving a presentation to a couple hundred people? Watching the video of yourself giving a presentation to a couple of hundred people. If only they had a mic out for the audience, than you could hear what kind of a stand up comic I’m turning out to be. eeeep!
Part IV: Creamfields and the Tasting of Dan Flavin
The following is Part IV of V. Click for the beginning.
We had finally found each other in a London McDonalds. I had been chugging McNuggets and desperately trying to check my e-mail when she walked in with a big smile on her lovely Czech face. I resisted the urge to feel her up as we exchanged hugs. I appreciated the irony that kind of behavior would elicit though—girl travels thousands of miles for an absurd blind date, guy turns out to be a creeper, she’s stuck with him for five days. I imagine it can’t really get much worse than that.
We had disembarked and were on our way to the Creamfields festival. “I’m scared for my life. You can’t tell how far you are to the left. I don’t feel comfortable in cars.” she said in her New York accent as I slowly merged onto the highway.
Apparently Alice’s brother is the kind of driving maniac who, when frustrated by others on the road, resorts to cussing and threatening other drivers with the aluminum baseball bat he keeps under his seat. Consequently any criticism of his driving ability from his passengers results in a similar reaction.
Alice had been slow to voice her displeasure with my terrible driving, wary that I may brandish a baseball bat at her if she wasn’t careful.
“Listen, if I’m driving too close to the left—just yell at me, or scream depending on the severity of the situation. Don’t worry—well okay, worry, but just let me know.”
She yelled “RIGHT!” and I dodged a truck. It was working brilliantly already.
We drove for close to eight hours towards Daresbury England where partiers from all over Europe were assembling to take part in the drug induced mind fuck that was the Creamfields festival. Upon arrival we were both a bit anxious—it was 9 PM, we were supposed to be there at 2—we had been in what seemed to be a perpetual state of being lost.
Piles of beer cans littered the entrance. Dealers selling everything you could imagine muttered under their breath “pills, coke, dust” as we walked by. Scattered glow sticks illuminated the trampled grass, revelers stumbled about, the bass thumped, and lights moved neurotically in giant tents.
I imagined this to be what mainstream anarchism might look like. The commercial equivalent to a lawless society—one where the minute the Jägermeister booth ran dry people started rioting. As I donned my blinky bicycle/raver lights, she put on her dance shoes, and hand in hand we entered the festival for an evening that would probably be hard to remember for all the wrong reasons.
***
I woke up freezing cold in the back seat of our rental car. Alice was drooling in the passenger seat, her hair wild. The clouded silhouette of the sun was high in sky, small rain drops coagulated and dripped down the windshield. We were both covered in mud, my hip felt like it was dislocated, and it was apparent that at least one glowstick had exploded on us. My bike lights scattered over the car blinked slowly, as if they were exhausted.
We showered in the sink of a local subway shop. “I don’t really want to go back to London.” I said as my hair dripped. “Let’s go to Scotland then. Do you know anyone there?” She mumbled through the toothpaste in her mouth.
I did. Martin.
After I gave my talk on the Eyeborg Project an inquisitive gentlemen named Martin approached me. He pulled out of his cargo pants pocket a match-box sized box. “This is an IMU I made; I think I can help you build your eye.”
An IMU or “Inertial Measurement Unit” is a device used in rockets and airplanes to determine position in 3D space. It’s like a mechanical inner ear—if you didn’t have fluid sloshing around in your ears you wouldn’t know which way was up and you’d be falling all over yourself. He explained: “I want to build something that lives outside of the university. I like your eye project.”
He had given me his phone number, and in Amsterdam we had even gone out for tea to discuss what his contribution to the Eyeborg Project could be. Over a black tea with milk and two sugars I inquired “So would you mind if I came and crashed on your couch for a couple of weeks so we could work on the project together?” I don’t think he knew how quickly I would be abusing the privilege.
After a few phone calls we were on our way into the rainy afternoon. Alice and I talked about our lives—our pasts, our dreams for the future, and practiced making animal noises. Bahhhh. The rain in Scotland was constant. It makes sense—all those lush green hills seen on postcards need to get watered somehow. We somehow made our way to the topic of museums, and I told the story of my experience of the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam.
“It was pretty uneventful. I paid 12 Euros to get in with the sole intention of licking a Van Gogh painting, it was supposed to be a fun visit.”
“You wanted to lick a Van Gogh? That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Shush. I doubt anybody has experienced what a Van Gogh tastes like. We’re all talking about his brilliant use of color and blah blah blah—but maybe there’s a whole new flavor dimension to his work that is begging to be experienced. Don’t you ever wonder what’s on the back of paintings? It’s like that.” I replied.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) all the Van Gogh’s were covered in glass. Undeterred I slipped down to the Avant Garde exhibition in the basement on the hunt for something more accessible, more palatable. Jean Tinguely was no good—the piece was a rusting hulk and I hadn’t had a tetanus shot in awhile. The Warhol was lovely but the security guard was practically sitting on it. And then I spied the Dan Flavin—a little fluorescent number in the corner.
Dan was a minimalist artist who created sculptural objects using off the shelf fluorescent lighting. I could relate—back in the day, to find an old fluorescent tube was akin to finding entertainment gold. Hurl one through the air, in a spear like fashion, and it would disintegrate into a pile of powder and glass with a loud pop. I felt like zeus wielding lightning bolts. The Flavin needed to be tasted.
When the security guard wasn’t paying attention I stuck out my tongue and leaned into the fluorescent tubes as if to closely inspect the fixtures glossy white finish. I had second thoughts as I came in for a landing, electrocution wasn’t particularly exciting, can you imagine the newspaper headlines “Man With Art Fetish Engages High Voltage Piece. Dies.” By the time my tongue touched down I had come to terms with my own mortality.
The finish was smooth, it tasted a bit like wax paper. It was a touch warmer than body temperature. The painted metal surface vibrated gently against my tongue.
I continued to Alice, “It was no Van Gogh, but truly a lovely experience.”
“RIGHT!!!” Alice screamed, and I narrowly avoided careening off a cliff.
Donut Holes and Fountains– Find the connection.
(By: Charlie Bucket) | (Music by: Ratatat!)
I grew up inside of a shoe. I know this may sound like the premise for a fairytale– but rest assured. This particular shoe had electricity, running water, a cockroach problem, and most importantly a walk up window from which we served donuts and coffee to hungry patrons.
“My little donut-boy, it’s time to wake up.” My mother would whisper into my ear early every morning. She would hand me my toothbrush and say “Smile, I hear today is your lucky day.”
The methodical churning of butter, sugar, flour and sometimes the stray cockroach—it wasn’t exactly what I would consider a lucky day nor was it much of a memorable childhood at that. But it wasn’t that bad, I can think of worse things– like working at Starbucks.
It was an accident really, this idea, “The Donut Hole.” I was in love with a girl. I assure you, it was really quite tragic. She was red haired, blue eyed, and was always yelling on about something. She would come in singing opera, and leave singing The Star Spangled Banner. But while she was in my store, she always sang the same song.
She came to buy a jelly donut—cherry, every morning. I would give her the one I made last– the freshest one. And she sang:
“I am the daughter of a watch maker and my mother is a whore
I can set your time-piece right, I can set men’s souls afire. I can dance and keep my time; I can make any man… mine.
I can build you a fine clock, and spit and cuss and fuss, but I’ll never be on time– not for you, and not for us.
I am the daughter of a watch maker and my mother is a whore,
You can catch me in the evening, and I’ll kiss you all night long. But when the sun starts shining, your watch and I… are gone.”
She was way too young to be singing about any of that, I was certainly too young to be hearing it– but she was a wonder. From the minute she walked in my heart would race, when she sang her song my mind would throb, and when she left my soul would cry. For as much as I didn’t understand of her I knew that I could love her. And I wanted to show her.
I used the finest flour, the sweetest sugar, and the richest butter. I mixed until my hands were sore– and then I mixed some more. With precision I rolled the dough into a loop small enough to fit her dainty hands, and stuck it in the fryer. I added diamonds of glaze, and precious stones made of sprinkles. It was perfect.
When she arrived I got on my hands and knees on the dirty kitchen floor, while the cockroaches scattered, I looked her in the eyes, and bumbled out my marriage proposal:
“I don’t know your name, but I know your song. But let me keep the time for you and let me find your mom a job. Singing girl, spend the mornings with me by the fryer, and I’ll spend the evening in your arms.”
To which she put her hands on her hips and said resolutely, “Hell no!”
“Why!??!??” I pleaded– and she said, “Donut boy, my darling, I could never marry you. Because you stink of donut grease, and your smile is too thin.”
So I told her she smelled bad too (which was a lie, she smelled like lavender soap.) To which she smiled and broke into her stupid song, about her whoreish mother and her stupid dad– who probably crafts a watch that can only keep track of 15 hours in a day.
As she walked out smug and with her usual jelly donut I yelled to her: “Never again will a ring be made from the finest dough, my love is far too sacred!” She turned to me, rolled her eyes, and walked off.
With the batter that had been filled with love I sculpted little balls of sugary hate. I threw them into the fryer and watched them sizzle and pop– never again would a girl break my heart.
And then, while I watched the pastry chunks of my heart bubble and boil… A stuffy business man with nice shoes and a smile that probably sold used cars at one point in time or another– he wanted half a donut. “You’re a stingy idiot!” I said. But he insisted, and demanded, and argued. So I gave him some donut balls. And the rest…
Is cake!
But that girl… with eyes like the sea and hair like the sun– I’ll never forget her, and her stupid song.
