All posts by Nicholas Wong

Tavi Gevinson’s Rookie

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Tavi Gevinson is, among many, many other things, the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Rookie. Gevinson got her start as a fashion blogger, launching Rookie in 2011 as a way of moving beyond fashion to include her other interests. Rookie itself is an online publication that caters to teenage girls, but offers plenty of content that engage a broader audience as well. Gevinson is obviously not responsible for creating all the content, but a collaborative approach is part of what makes the website such an effective platform for her to express her worldview, allowing topics outside her expertise but within her sphere of interest to be covered.

That’s all well and good, but what makes Rookie so personally relevant to me, and, more to the point, what does a teen girl magazine have to do with technology and society? Well, part of the reason I chose to profile Tavi Gevinson/Rookie in the first place is precisely because teenage girls seem like unlikely tech experts. The fact is, girls are avid consumers and producers of technology, and as such have a thing or two to say about it. Unfortunately, they are typically shut out of conversations surrounding technology, despite being at the centre of so much adult anxiety concerning tech trends like selfies, sexting, and online bullying. Rookie gives girls an opportunity to combat this issue; its “Saturday Links” are often especially rich with tech tidbits from around the web.

As for personal relevance, while I may not be a teenage girl, I am a young person, and seeing other young people discuss things that affect us as young people is immensely gratifying. Instead of having to listen to a bunch of 30-and-40-something dudes wax poetic on whatever new digital plague is supposedly destroying young minds, I get a perspective close to my own, but different enough to expand my own worldview.

Godzilla vs. The Millitary-Industrial Complex

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With a new Godzilla film set to hit theatres in two months’ time, I thought I’d take this opportunity to revisit Ishiro Honda’s original version that first captured my imagination as a child. The ensuing sequels and spinoffs have garnered the franchise a reputation for silliness, but the 1954 progenitor, far from being a trashy monster flick, offers a sobering meditation on what ethical considerations should guide scientific practices.

When I decided to re-watch the original Godzilla, I discovered that the film I had seen countless times previously was an American version. Perhaps this is why it somehow never occurred to me until recently that the titular monster was created as a stand-in for the atomic bombs that devastated Japan just nine years prior to the film’s release. However, as I watched the film, it struck me as inadequate to paint the story as purely allegorical. Godzilla is not merely a proxy for nuclear weapons; he is a product of their use. Furthermore, a major plot point involves a young scientist agonizing over whether or not to unveil his secret “Oxygen Destroyer” capable of defeating Godzilla. He fears that if revealed in its current weaponized form, his device will soon be used for ill, but knows that the future of his country (and perhaps the world) depends on its deployment. Forcing the audience to confront the impact of nuclear weapons, something we know to be real, and having them coexist with fictional destructive forces like Godzilla and the Oxygen Destroyer serves as a warning that nuclear weapons are not the first, nor likely the last agents of mass destruction to be visited upon humankind by its own hand. This unflinching perspective is what makes Godzilla so powerful. Rather than limiting itself to a critique of a specific historical event, it becomes a broader commentary on the military-industrial complex and how the technology we develop in the name of progress can upset the “natural order” of things and produce unintended consequences.

Honda’s Godzilla was a serious piece of cultural analysis, and judging by the harrowing trailer, the updated version aspires to do the same. I’m eager to see if it will have anything new to say, sixty years later.

We’re All Going to Die (And That’s Okay)

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It has been argued (by proponents of the awesome-sounding “terror management theory”) that the most fundamental driving force behind human behaviour is the fear of death. Evolution has (perhaps uniquely) bequeathed us with the burdensome awareness of our own mortality, a knowledge that has generated entire systems devoted to extending and imbuing with meaning our nasty, brutish, and altogether short lives. We call these systems cultures, and at the heart of every culture is the desire to achieve what we know instinctively to be impossible: immortality. But what if the impossible became seemingly possible? What if humans were given reason to believe that they could, in theory, live forever? Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story provides an extended meditation on this possibility, in the particular context of a society in which technological innovation seems poised to make eternal life a reality. The verdict, unfortunately, is that we may be better off dead after all.

The events of the novel take place in a speculative, not-so-distant future where America is on the brink of collapse and so-called “äppäräti” are the all-purpose, all-knowing digital companion du jour. A series of diary entries and social media interactions reveal to the reader a burgeoning romance between middle-aged Lenny Abramov, a stereotypical New York Jew, and Eunice Park, a twenty-something SoCal product of Korean immigrants. Their relationship is predicated on Lenny’s belief that the youthful Eunice will “sustain [him] through forever” (Shteyngart 4), a belief made tangible by his work at the Post-Human Services division of the Staatling-Wapachung Corporation, where the realization of indefinite life extension is all but a done deal. As the two mismatched lovers navigate the crumbling physical and emotional landscapes around them, they attempt to reconcile their obligations to themselves, their respective families, and each other.

What makes the story so compelling, and its implications so hard to ignore, is that its imagined future is very much rooted in the real present. Lenny’s line of work may seem far-fetched to us at the moment, but even now contemporary scientists like Aubrey de Grey (whose work Shteyngart acknowledges as an influence) claim to be hot on the trail of a cure for aging. Similarly, the modern tech-enabled health and fitness craze finds its Shteyngartian counterpart in Eunice’s social media fat-shaming of her younger sister Sally (not to mention herself), and the obsessive nutritional monitoring and regulation practiced by Lenny and his colleagues. In both fictional and real worlds, the primary goal is the same: live a little longer. The difference lies in the expected outcomes: we are all just putting off the inevitable, while those of Lenny’s ilk are convinced that death is no longer a given.

However, unlike Dr. de Grey or some of his own novel’s characters, Shteyngart seems to have both little faith in the possibility of immortality and an acute appreciation of the potential pitfalls bound to accompany such a drastic shift in existential assumptions. Especially telling is the very first thing Lenny confides to his diary, that he has resolved to never die. This frames death as a choice, much as not getting vaccinated is a choice to be sick, or not wearing a helmet while cycling is a choice to suffer head trauma. Herein lies one of the central flaws of expecting immortality: far from alleviating our already considerable existential angst, knowing we could potentially continue to exist forever would make the prospect of non-existence that much more frightening, increasing our anxiety to the fever-pitch exhibited by Lenny and other “life lovers”. Ironically, the certainty of death offers us some measure of comfort. Take that away, and the stakes rise considerably. The pressure to keep yourself alive would be almost unbearable. In any case, all psychological issues aside, the final chapter reveals that even the best-laid plans of Post-Human Services had proven futile in time. This would seem to make it pretty clear that Shteyngart views immortality as not just undesirable, but unlikely in the first place.

In Super Sad True Love Story, Gary Shteyngart tackles some of life’s biggest questions, including what it means to live and die. In the end, I think Shteyngart believes that our mortality is precisely what makes us human. It gives us an edge, keeps us hungry, humble, and brave, because we know that some day, in the not-so-distant future, it will all be taken away from us.

 

Works Cited

Shteyngart, Gary. Super Sad True Love Story. New York: Random House Trade Paperbacks, 2010. Print.

The Death of Standard Written English?

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This would have been so relevant last week, but since I totally forgot, here’s a nice piece on the continually evolving relationship between language and perceived trustworthiness, particularly with respect to journalism. The author argues that using a more personal, informal style actually boosts your credibility as a writer in the eyes of contemporary, web-cultured readers.  As someone who has always taken pride in writing beautiful, flowing sentences of “Standard Written English”, I know how easy it is to get caught up in the pedantry of it all. This was an important reminder to wield my literacy with care and embrace new ways of generating meaning. Putting snobs like me in their place: One more reason to love the internet!

Through the Google Glass: What Lies On the Other Side of Augmented Reality?

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I have a confession to make: I love the internet. This love has turned my MacBook into something of a digital albatross, a ball with a chain only as long as the Wi-Fi signal’s reach. Smart phones, tablets, and other mobile devices have gone some way to rectifying this problem; all those formerly pesky little wasted moments between points A and B now burst with potential! But these devices still have the same crucial design flaw as a desktop computer: They separate and compartmentalize the virtual from the physical.

Enter augmented reality (AR). Two separate realities that demand constant switching back and forth are replaced by a single integrated space that works wherever the user is, an antidote to strained eyes and lamentable posture. Beyond mere convenience, AR also allows users to both enhance physical objects with digital information and reify abstract ideas for a more intuitive learning experience. Everyone from surgeons to white people seems poised to benefit from having their world slathered in layers of data.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4VRFuSyzzc

Looks pretty cool and all but TBH I was praying for the spinning beach ball of death to show up and make this douche force quit his flirting.

But might this techno-infusion hasten the decline of some essential element(s) of what it means to be human? As much as it can hurt to tear myself away from tumblr and Facebook, I feel a little bit freer once I abandon my laptop. I get on the bus. Notice people. Make up stories about them. What happens when the mystery is erased, when everything we look at is mediated through a gaze of questionable benevolence? The appeal of AR lies in its capacity to create a more harmonious relationship with technology, but the prospect of having no escape from it is what makes it so terrifying. Besides, aren’t our lives overwhelming and over-saturated enough as is?

I’m confident humanity will adapt, but that’s not exactly comforting. I don’t want to live in a Shteygartian future where books are smelly artifacts, or where I’ll be nostalgic for days like this, spent happily clacking away in the jealous embrace of a machine trying to keep me tied down while it still can.

Greetings

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Hello folks, Nick Wong here. I’m a Psychology major doing a fifth year victory lap to complete the TS minor. I guess that means I’m no luddite, despite the fact that the closest I’ve ever come to owning a cell phone is when my mom gave me her old iPod about a year ago, which I now periodically take out in public and pretend to text on whenever I want to blend in.

I suppose my initial interest in the intersections of technology and society stems from an early affinity to social media (I’ve always felt my most effective communication mediums were the 2am MSN (R.I.P.) convo and the long form Facebook message (semi-R.I.P.)). However, my fascination with the subject has broadened to the point where I almost can’t think of anything at all without also considering how it relates to humanity’s use of technology.

Something I’d be particularly interested in exploring is the idea of the “death of knowledge” and how it might force educators to reconsider their role as well as that of the entire educational system. If you take active externalism as your guiding philosophy, and combine it with the growing ubiquity of mobile technologies, traditional academic values are being rendered obsolete. Our mobile devices are now extensions of our minds, and anyone with a smartphone and an internet connection can access virtually every scrap of human knowledge produced to date. Where, then, should our educational priorities be, if not with rote learning and specialized knowledge? How should the curriculum be modified to reflect these changing priorities, and what technologies will emerge or be appropriated from other domains for use in the classroom? I would argue (or perhaps just hope) that the arts will take on increased significance, so I’d like to see us explore how technologies related to music, art, writing, and other creative disciplines might affect how and what we learn in the future.