James Gleick has written a really interesting article on the shrinking namespace of the modern world (thanks to Chris Taylor / Synthetic Morpheme for the link) Get Out of My Namespace. The more I think about copyrights, the more bizarre and elusive they become to me. The whole point of having a name is that it can be copied. It can be spoken, written down, printed on a sign, typed into a computer, etc. Some folks want tighter control over their names. A favorite example Prince changing his name to that unpronouncable symbol. This example illustrated (with obnoxious precision) that a name is not simply a possession of the individual, but a means by which the rest of society can refer to someone/something. A name is for the express purpose of being repeated and copied in order to make reference to a person. It is a place-holder. Like the variable 'x'. Wouldn't it be just rediculous if the letter 'x' could only ever be used to refer to one particular variable, say, the distance between my house and Britney Spears. With all the efforts to control names, I think it's only a matter of time before some jackass (maybe me) changes their name to an unclonable quantum state. It can never be copied, or even measured with much precision. It can only be transfered through reversible quantum operations. It could only be infringed upon if it were directly, physically stolen. I am aware that these comments are a bit ad absurdum, but that is the only environment I've ever known. My prayer for humanity is that the concept of "copyright" will one day evolve itself right out of existence.

I've never spent much time watching the Oxygen Network, nor have I watched many films based on Romance Novels. But tonight I happened across a film called "My Sexiest Mistake," starring Sabrina Lloyd. I liked her in "Sliders" years ago (a series which otherwise sucked), so I thought I'd watch for a few minutes. "My Sexiest Mistake" is based on a romance novel about a romance novelist. To cure her writers' block, the author decides to try screwing a man-whore. She arranges to meet a male escort at a hotel, but picks up a random stranger by mistake (with sexy results). (Actually they don't end up doing it because her lucky oh-so-responsible stranger didn't bring any comdoms). I like comedic aspect of mistaken-identity-man-whore for numerous reasons. For one, it affords me the rare opportunity of saying "man-whore." I also like being able to yell suspense-thriller reactions such as "No, don't sleep with him! He's not the real man-whore!" I also like the irony of male prostitution being not only legitimized but trivialized on a womens' network. Sadly, as in most Oxygen-like material I've watched, the plot is only advanced once the male becomes totally emasculated. The progression goes something like this:

1. They have a night of passion. Both parties are satisfied. 2. Woman subsequently realizes she banged the wrong guy. 3. Woman blames the guy, plots revenge for his precognitive lapse. 4. Woman comits felony by leaving man in hotel room chained to bed. 5. Time passes, and they meet again. Woman persists in hatred of man for his unwitting deception (though he is now her publisher). 6. In an astounding act of self-immolation, man crafts a romantic apology. 7. Romance ensues. Man allows his professional judgement to be affected by their romance. Woman, in effect, uses man to advance her career. 8. They live happily ever after.

You can draw your own conclusions, but (like all other Lifetime and Oxygen shows I've watched) I would classify the themes of the show as socially regressive. But, just one last time, I'd like to say "man-whore." Thanks.