Jun. 16th, 2005

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It occurred to me yesterday as I was cooking dinner that there is a similarity between the copyfight and globalization, that both cases are primarily moral in their approach, but that while globalization is going to win, the copyfight is going to lose. The difference between these two positions rests with the minority stakeholders.

The argument for globalization is that as states impose tarrifs and taxes on cross-border transactions, they reduce the efficiency of the marketplace and, in consequence, disrupt the market signals that inform the actual prices of goods. Globalization's proponents would rather reduce the cross-border inefficiencies. (Globalization is not the integration of the marketplace as in the European Union, where currency generalization has made it impossible to invest the viablity of local markets en masse. This inability to price currency relative to a local market is part of the reason why Italy has started to shy away from the European common market.) For the most part, globalization has been a good idea: prices on everything from wheat to televisions are lower across the world, even when measured in terms of the hours one must work to afford one in his or her own local market.

The argument for the copyfight is similar: as nations impose greater and greater copyright restrictions on one's ability to mix and remix popular culture, pop culture itself is disrupted. An article in the New York Daily News last month shows how the RIAA created a massive disruption in the hip-hop economy by raiding stores and outlets that distribute "one shot" mixtapes of remixes and live performances, an essential component of hip-hop. It's sand in the gears of a thriving economy that musicians adore but distributors detest precisely because it goes on without their getting their own cut. The power of the RIAA to conduct private raids, to summon police forces, interferes with the actual value of market that deals almost completely in freely reproducible stuff. For the most part, our culture is made up of free stuff, remanufactured and retold.

The problem with both globalization and copyfight is that there are minority stakeholders who will lose big if either succeeds. Although most of us enjoy the benefits of globalization, we don't associate globalization with the $29 DVD player or the $0.05 kilocalorie. What we do associate globalization with is the loss of jobs, which the news finds because the news like bad news: it creates anxiety, and anxiety sells. Overall, the benefit is a plus; it is not a non-zero-sum game. But for that minority, it's a loss.

And although most of us enjoy the benefits of culture very few of us would associate Shakespeare with "Ten Things I Hate About You," (say it fast to get the joke) or "Kiss Me Kate". Yet if Shakespeare's copyright were in effect those two movies and thousands of other movies would never have been made-- the holders of the originals would have sued. If copyright were loosened, many of us would benefit from the rights to use, say, Mickey Mouse or Elvis, the way we now use Alice in Wonderland-- freely.

The minority stakeholders in the globalization fight are those who've lost their jobs. They're sorta irrelevant to their legislative representatives except perhaps as a photo op. The minority stakeholders in the copyfight, on the other hand, are powerful recording and distributing interests who are very relevant to legislative representatives. Globalization will go on, and the minority will lose because, overall, the job market will improve and it will be hard to argue with that. Copyright restrictions will get tighter and the majority will lose because, overall, the "benefit to culture" is nebulous, but the lobbying of copyright interests is not, and they'll claim that strong copyright protects the economic interests of (their stable of, but they won't say that) musicians, and it'll be hard to argue with that.
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This morning, as I was walking to the bus stop on my way to work, I spotted something colorful in the bushes by the road and fished it out. It was a tarot card, The Page of Pentacles (the Mary Hanson-Roberts' colored edition of the Rider-Waite classical; how sad is it that I knew that?). The card shows signs of sun and weather damage; it's been out for at least a day or two.

The Page of Pentacles, when presented to you is often a messenger of material opportunity, the chance for great financial reward. When presented as you, the Page of Pentacles is often a moody, unsure character, representing the initial taking of responsibility for one's life and well-being.

It's probably only a coincidence that I use the Page of Pentacles as my signifier.

At the transfer station downtown in front of the museum, I sat next to this cute black guy who was doing his homework. I leaned over and said, "chotto means 'wait', not 'shut up'."

He looked at the page for a moment, then said, "Don't you think in this conversation he's saying 'shut up'?"

I read the rest of the sentence. "I suppose it could mean that, but it's not a proper translation. What would your sensei think?"

"Sensei would think you're right," he said.

It's been a day like that. This morning, one of my co-workers wore a t-shirt I've seen a thousand times before. It has a picture of a train and some Japanese under it. Today, I discovered I could read it. It says, "I am an idiot American." And I'm listening to a live recording of Morning Musume in concert and I'm actually understanding what they're saying to the audience between songs. Of course, it's contextual. When the singer shouts, "Minna wa, do desu ka!?", it's the same thing Ozzy shouts at the beginning of his concerts: "How are you all doing!?" Duh.
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I've graduated from Philip Glass to the hardcore stuff, Steve Reich. Obviously, I'll be listening to John Zorn soon.

Since I mentioned the couple of successes I've had with Japanese recently, let me also recount my one recent failure: actual conversation. Yesterday, Kouryou-chan's school had an end-of-school picnic, and one of the other parents brought with her an exchange student who's renting a room in her home for the summer. Aiko was obviously very nervous and uncomfortable and I'm sure nothing was meant by it but the woman, whose name escapes me, said, "Oh, Elf, you're studying Japanese."

We managed to convey that she had just finished her first year of English studies and I was going to start my third semester in the fall, that it was nice to meet her and, well, let's go get something to eat from the picnic. Other than that, I was completely at sea. I did remember 'Hajimemashite' (Let this be a good beginning), which is the polite introduction, and "My name is ___. What's yours again?"

Later, I spotted her doing a wide orbit of the picnic. She was obviously lost and had no idea where she should go or what she should do, so cut off was she from everyone else. My inhibitions about talking to strangers bugged me because I wanted to ask (and had the ability to ask) if she'd found Kinokuniya or Uwajimaya, the local Japanese bookstore and grocery, and if she knew how to get on a bus to get there. I'm still kicking myself for having the power to help, and being too damned cowardly to do so.
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Remember my comment about how from a single sentence an entire story might grow? My last example was, "Do you like my shoggoth?"

Today's example: "Why do people always laugh when I tell them I'm a vampire hunter?" From this, not only did I get a story, but I had to write the prequel to explain why that's the first line of the story.

Two day. Six thousand words. The return of R. Cheyenne Avalon.

Rock on.

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Elf Sternberg

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