“It’s raining,” I said on the phone to David, who was still entwined in the subway system on his way to Bitan. We’d promised Athula, the Sri Lankan rotti-provider and patron saint of the Muddy Basin Ramblers, that we’d perform on the street in front of his stand as part of the Taiwan Beer Festival on Saturday night. But all I could see from my balcony as dusk fell was sheets of rain. Still, I got my things together, just in case.

20 minutes later the rain had stopped, so I stuffed my pocket trumpet in my backpack and lugged the euphonium and the washtub bass components down the wet street and over the bridge, meeting my neighbor Brent and his wife on the way. The bridge was full of people, and I wondered if it might not be a good idea to have a sign saying “Do you know why you’re crossing this bridge?” on the Xindian side, as most people just cross the bridge and turn back. The strollers I can understand, but it’s the people who seem to be in a hurry to cross, glance at the other side, and then rush back that confuse me.

Xindian Street was full of people and pavilions selling various products under a curtain of Taiwan Beer ads, and Athula was doing his usual roaring business. We set up in the middle of the street. Just our appearance, with all of the unusual instruments, attracted a lot of people, but once we started the show we gathered up quite a crowd. They were in a festive mood, too, applauding and yelling in appreciation. It seemed that everyone had some kind of recording device running. Several people brought cups of herbal jelly tea for us all to drink through thick straws. Sandman’s dog Balu trotted around the area following up interesting smells.

The rain started in again, and we moved under one of the awnings nearby. The acoustics there were a little better, but there wasn’t enough room for much of a crowd. As soon as it stopped, we moved back out into the middle of the street. We played nearly every song that involved the euphonium, which tired me out and left my trumpet performance lacking, but I managed anyway. At one point Thumper invited a small boy in a striped shirt to play the bells on his washboard, and the kid really took a shine to it; the look on his face was priceless.

We played the Taiwan Song, which David said was meant for just such an occasion. After another song I had just put away my trumpet and returned to find a spectator playing the washtub bass with a rather confused yet determined look on his face. He used so much force that he broke the pencil I’d been using to pluck the string in half. I let him play and retrieved my trumpet to play along instead.

We were halfway through Work Song when the downpour started. Big, heavy drops began splattering down, and around us a host of umbrellas went up. Slim slipped his hat over Conor’s amp to keep it from electrocuting anyone. By the time we finished it was pouring rain. I slipped the washtub over my head and gathered up my trumpet and the euphonium, which had tumbled to the pavement when Jojo had mistakenly picked up the unfastened case, and ran back over to the awning for shelter.

It was 10pm, and the pavilions were beginning to pack up. We stood around chatting with local denizens, politely declining invitations to play again on other nights. I pinched the straw of my herbal jelly tea, trying to filter out the jelly part, but to no avail. In the meantime, some of the foreigners in the crowd were getting pretty drunk. One guy fell off his motorcycle, breaking a part off of it.

The rain stopped again. By the point, traffic was being allowed through again, and a cavalcade of little blue trucks approached to take away the pavilions. We weren’t quite finished, however. We set up again and played some quieter songs for a while before the police showed up, as we knew they would. More chatting and milling around ensued before Thumper and I whisked Slim away from his complicated social life, down to the dragonboat platform erected on the edge of the river, which was covered in beautiful fog. There, we chatted and drank until the wee hours. It was a nice evening.

Due to rain and other obligations, I missed last week’s class. The weather cleared this week, though. As I arrived at the park, Mr. You and another student, the guy I keep thinking is from China but who is not (notice a pattern here?) were practicing sword forms together. I went over and did my forms a little self consciously, as Mr. You was apparently teaching the other students, and I didn’t want to hear “You see TC over there? That. Don’t do that.”

Many other students arrived, pairing up as they went. Everywhere I could hear them trying to instruct each other. It was like a room full of actors, all convinced that they were Obi-wan Kenobi and the other guy was poor, deluded Darth Vader.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Anyway, first up was Mr. You, who was more aggressive this time. I’m beginning to be able to deal better with overt aggression without responding in kind, though I still have a long way to go in that respect. I tried to focus on moving by relaxing certain muscles rather than by constricting others. Mixed results. I was also very tired, as I’d stayed up until 6:30am that morning and only gotten a few hours’ sleep.

Next up was the little new guy, though he’s not so new any more. Like everyone else, he was full of ideas about why I suck at Tuishou. Fair enough. He tired himself out very quickly, as he is still in the “shove as hard as you can” category of pushing. I wondered aloud if maybe he should put the energy before push instead of afterwards, but I was really only talking to myself. It does seem to work better that way, I find.

He told me not to grab his arms. “That’s the most dangerous thing you can do,” he said. I bit my tongue and agreed, yes, it could be very dangerous. Sort of like flailing around in an epileptic frenzy trying to overwhelm your opponent with pure fury, I thought, for that was what he was doing. “If I go fast, you’re easier to push!” he said, not realizing that I was stepping back on purpose for fear of someone getting hurt. Afterwards he told me that he actually worked for a living, unlike the rest of the students, of whom quite a few are apparently nuclear physicists.

I pushed with another student before being passed off to a guy who previously seemed unwilling to practice with me, an interior decorator from Taichung. He started out smoothly but got more and more frustrated as he tried to push me over. In the end he was yanking me back and forth as hard as he could. I laughed, saying “You call this Tuishou?” in my best (Chinese version of) Dr. Henry Jones, Sr’s voice.

“If your opponent is flexible, press them over,” said Teacher Xu later. “If they’re not, just lower your stance and change position, as well as theirs, from your feet up.” He demonstrated several times. As he spoke of focus and intent controlling our energy, I was again reminded of Star Wars (it was that kind of evening, I guess) when they talk about The Force, do or do not, there is no try, etc. Ironically, force is exactly what you’re not supposed to use in Tai-chi.

“Your energy is focused in different ways for weapons,” Teacher Xu went on. “For empty hand form, your focus is just outside your fingertips.” He pushed a student over easily to demonstrate. “For, say, sword, your energy is focused and projected further away.” He then made a similar movement, but this time the student went flying back a good 15 feet. “It all depends on what you mean to do.”

I’m translating focus/intent (yi4nian4/意念) rather loosely here, of course. I understand that there’s a bit of debate on this, but although Teacher Xu does a pretty good job of explaining it in Chinese, I do a poorer job of explaining it in in English. In any case, it seems that with such focus or intent (or moxie!), you have access to a greater power than you normally would have. It’s part psychological, part physical, and possibly part something else. But I don’t want to get into any kind of metaphysical discussion here. If it works, it works. All I can hope to do is understand it slightly better than I do now.

Former ICRT mainstay (before it went down the drain) Brian Lynch showed up at Darrell’s on Saturday afternoon to do some pickup shots as well as his looping. Though he’s lost a bit of weight and is looking better, no one would accuse him of being excessively sprightly. The dogs were a bit apprehensive about Brian. The cats were nowhere to be seen. Doug, who played one of the many guards and lent us his jeep for the jeep scenes, also showed up to loop his (one) line as well as a series of fighting-related grunts.

After all of that, we piled into Doug’s jeep and made our way to JB’s, the site of the long-awaited cast party. To call it a wrap party would seem kind of silly as we finished principle photography in December. A number of people were already there, and the place filled up quickly. I was asked the same question approximately 389 times: “When will the movie be out?” My answer is a no-doubt overly optimistic six months, whereas Dean thinks it will take another year. The second most-ofted asked question was “What the hell are you going to do with it when it’s finished?” For this I have to be a bit more vague. My current plan is to submit it to some film festivals, show it to a few industry people I know here, and try to get some kind of distribution deal. Dean’s going to do the same in Canada. Although it’s possibly we could both end up in an elevator behind someone we think is a movie mogul, talking in exaggerated whispers about what a “sleeper hit” the movie is and how we’re “just going to leave a DVD right here next to the railing.”

At one point Dean dragged me by the ear over to the microphone setup, where he gave a short, humorous, well-scripted speech, as he is wont to do. Then he shoved the microphone at me, and I stuttered a few phrases into the awkward silence that followed. Actually, it was only at that moment, looking at the crowd of faces looking my way, that I realized not only how many people we’d managed to rope into helping us with this thing, but how wonderful they all are. I attempted to say so, and was surprised and moved when my remarks were met with enthusiastic applause. At the risk of sounding maudlin, I have to admit that it was a wonderful moment. It also impressed on me once again the fact that we owe these people the best movie we can make, and we shouldn’t let sentiment get in the way of that in any way. Maurice summed it up rather well when he said, “I’d much rather have a nanosecond-long role in a spectacular movie than a huge role in a mediocre one.” I hope everyone else agrees, because I plan to make that my mantra when I cut further versions of the movie.

The party ran past midnight, the crowd diminishing until only Rowan, Brian Asmus, Lisa and I were left, pleasantly drunk, at a table in the darkened bar. The owner suggested that we depart, so we did. I was fully intent on going home, but the others were in the mood for yet more revelry, so we took a brand-spanking new taxi to Watersheds. Brian marched straight in, but Rowan and I held back, regarding the young fashionable types strolling around outside the tiny space. Not our crowd, we decided, and began walking down the rainy alley towards Bliss instead. Lisa followed.

Bliss was still open, thankfully, and we had more drinks, and more, while sitting amidst the green carpet of the downstairs lounge area. Rowan grabbed a diminutive bartender and began dancing with her. Her Harry Bellafonte collection had been kidnapped, so we listened to Billie Holiday. I don’t recall much of what we talked about through the rye whiskey; I’m reasonably sure most of my state secrets survived intact.

Eventually they stopped serving drinks, and the bar prepared to close. We were ejected with a suitable amount of grace and caught taxis to our respective homes. “Where was the other fellow heading?” my cabbie asked me as we hydroplaned in the general direction of Bitan.

“Yangmingshan,” I answered. The driver grimaced.

“Damn, I live on Yangmingshan. I could have dropped him off and gone straight home,” he said. Outside, the sky was lightening into a dull, wet blue. After arriving home, I took a shower and slept to the sound of the rain until Buddhist chants woke me up at noon.

Thursday evening after work I took a cab through the unrelenting downpour up to Chongqing North Road Section 4, to a part of town I don’t go often, i.e. the spit of land between the Danshui and Keelung Rivers, to record some music for my friend Chalaw, of the Betelnut Brothers. He wanted David Chen and me to lay down some tracks for his upcoming CD.

The place turned out to be situated along a wide stretch of road dominated by neon betelnut stand signs shining on the wet pavement. A major trucking thoroughfare, no doubt. David was already in the 4th-floor walkup studio, playing his shiny Art Deco-style Dobro guitar behind thick soundproof glass framed in wood. Chalaw and his assistant sat under a cloud of cigarette smoke in front of a bank of recording equipment connected to an old grey Mac. I sat behind them watching the process. I’d never really done proper studio work before. It looks easy, but once I got in the cold, dark room myself, I found out how hard it can be. My trumpet sounded tinny and dry, and the pressure of “getting it right” made me overly cautious. Between takes I stupidly left my trumpet in the cold room, so every take was like warming up all over again. It was night and day from the stage.

The night wore on towards midnight, and we drank Oolong tea brewed by some of the assistants to stave off any thoughts of sleep. Betel nuts were also passed around, but I declined. During that time, we went through two songs, with mixed results. Chalaw said he chose me out of the hordes of more competent trumpteers out there because he felt the feeling of a musician was more important than technical prowess, at least for his purposes. Also, he knows me and we’re almost exactly the same age.

Eventually I clued in to the fact that I should at least keep my mouthpiece warm between takes, which improved things somewhat. It was a rough session, but I think we did some good work. David certainly did, not only on the dobro but on the uke as well. The trumpet line for one of the songs reminded me strongly of a 60’s-era Morricone spaghetti western soundtrack, a classic style I can’t get enough of. Both songs were in B, which isn’t the best key for b-flat instruments: all sharps and flats. One of the songs goes from minor to major and back again, which normally doesn’t trip me up but did in that environment.

It was the wee hours of the morning by the time we were done. Chalaw was nice enough to drive David and me back to our respective homes, before going on to his home in Taoyuan. We were supposed to have another session on Friday, but Chalaw had to go on TV at short notice, so we’ll probably do it next week. In the meantime, I’ll have to do some practicing.

So we’re down to 24 allies, as of a couple of days ago. In all honesty, there were warning signs galore that this would happen, mainly the WHO vote at the UN when Costa Rica effectively voted against Taiwan’s bid. That wasn’t entirely unexpected, as even the US and Japan had withdrawn their support for the bid after the DPP decided to apply for full membership under the name “Taiwan” instead of observer status. That decision was made more for domestic political consumption, after all, than out of any actual desire to obtain WHO membership. But Costa Rica was in danger even before that. China has been setting up representative offices throughout Central America, just as the ROC has been setting up such offices in countries where it is not officially recognized. From there, Beijing invites local officials to China, where they can be wooed over to the other side.

Another factor was the fact that Costa Rica is up for a rotating seat on the UN’s security council this year, something Beijing can definitely help them out with. The same situation happened with South Africa, which was going up for just such a seat around the time of its switch from Taipei to Beijing. There was more of an effort made to keep South Africa at that time, however. One of the reasons behind the current issue is the fact that our ambassador to Costa Rica, while an earnest and hard-working man I’m sure, doesn’t even speak Spanish. He is a political appointee, closing in on 70, whose ability to be seen as a friend of the people and the government of Costa Rica has been jeopardized by his lack of language skills. Normally, all of these warning signs would have been flagged and the minister of foreign affairs called in for a report to the Legislature, but the current head of that body’s Foreign Affairs Committee, unlike his predecessor, did not exercise his right to do so, instead organizing trips and letting the situation go unchecked. Granted, MOFA should have known what was going on. I’ve heard some say that Beijing secretly appreciates the DPP’s contribution to their cause of reunification, as it sees Taiwan’s economic leveling off and thus the lessening of the gap between the two sides’ previously massive economic disparity as the product of the DPP administration. The DPP and Beijing also share similar views of Chiang Kai-shek and the Republic of China, and the DPP is pushing more and more people away from the idea of Taiwan as “Free China”, which some argue makes for an easier sell for Beijing.

In any case, it’s likely that Costa Rica is just the first of many, as Beijing has deeper pockets and more political influence than Taipei can afford. Countries like Nicaragua, where Ortega proclaimed that he would switch recognition if elected, are still allies today due to massive Taiwanese-funded textile industries there, but that situation could change. MOFA has its work cut out for it, but after reading all of the self-righteous sputtering and railing against Beijing instead of admitting its errors, I just hope that it can keep its focus on actual results, as in the actual retention of allies, rather than just playing political games for upcoming elections at home.

After our show at the Peacefest, I got a message on my phone from a friend who said he had just seen me on TV. Cool, I thought at the time, there must be a tv crew around here somewhere filming the bands. I’d seen a lot of cameras and assumed some reporters were there.

Then, on Monday night after badminton practice I was walking along Beixin Road when an older fellow, one of a group sitting out in front of a teashop, offered his hand. I shook it and continued walking, thinking: ok, that’s a bit odd. But it happens; every so often I’ll encounter someone on the street, usually some crazy person, who does things like that. Since then, however, I’ve spotted more people smiling and pointing than usual. One guy waved enthusiastically from across a banks of escalators. I thought for sure he was greeting an old friend standing just behind me, but nobody was around me.

Later I found out, after another friend texted me, that PTS is re-airing the TV spot they did on me a while back. I wonder if this is going to become a regular thing they do every so often. If so, they should at least give me a bit of warning so that I can stop wondering if some random slightly famous person is following me around.

Still can’t get anyone to sit next to me on the subway, though. Guess I’m not famous enough for that.

最近每天下大雨。 我依然忙著一些關于創

Over the years, the Hoping for Hoping Peace Festival has gained a reputation, at least in my mind, for playing host to mostly crappy weather. Spring is Taiwan’s most unstable season, and it has rained at some point during every Peacefest I’ve been to so far. In the past, we always played the last act on the last day, Sunday, and were invariably shut down by the management before satisfactorily completing our sets. This time, however, we chose to play on Saturday afternoon, just before the mass abstract jamming/hand-holding/circle-dancing orgy they call the “Peace Circle”.

I shoehorned myself into the back of Sandman’s Sentra along with his dog Balu, and we set off for Longtan. Jojo had a rough map, but so engaged were we in a fascinating discourse concerning language acquisition that we managed to miss the exit; we had to go all the way to Guanxi and then back around. Then we missed another turn and had to stop for directions at a gas station before we finally got on the right track, arriving at the hippie-filled garden spot at about 4pm. To our surprise, the weather was gorgeous, with a fresh breeze and no sign of rain. People, mostly young, tanned foreigners with interesting hairstyles, lay spread out on the field in front of the stage. Balu played with the other dogs and cheerfully mauled someone’s Frisbee. A short, heavyset foreigner with frizzy hair rushed up to Slim and David, pushing cans of coffee into their hands and saying in a good approximation of a 40’s businessman voice, “Hold these, fellas, I need to get to promotional pictures…make sure the labels are showing!”

I walked around for a bit, taking pictures of the temple’s lotus pond. After a while, we set up a little practice session behind the temple in a claustrophobic clearing next to a tipi. The grass muffled the sound of the washtub bass, and I felt tired and apathetic among the stunted trees filled with spiderwebs. We went over Viola Lee several times, but it seemed slow and lethargic, and I played a few rather inappropriate fills. Sips from a Rosemary Screwdriver perked me up a bit, and afterwards I used the time before our show to buy a decent whiskey coke to put me in the mood.

We took the stage as the sun set, and all I could see through my sunglasses were brief glimpses of the audience as the lights swept out and around the field. The bass was booming in a resounding fashion, but nobody else seemed to mind. We hit our stride early on and things only got better. People moved up towards the stage, and soon we had a large crowd, most of whom were dancing. The sound guys stayed on top of things, and the audience, which had up to that point only showed passing interest in what was going on on stage, was incredibly enthusiastic. Our allotted time went by in a flash of some of the most inspired Ramblry I’ve seen to date. It was almost surreal. Part of that was the whiskey, and part was the shades, but by any estimation, it was an amazing show.

We stepped off the stage into a shower of compliments, which was gratifying. The Peace Circle was next, and a group of other musicians took the stage with a guitar, a digeridoo, and some other instruments. The crowd assembled into a large, hand-holding circle and danced to the rhythm. I took some pictures and then joined Sandman and some others in a little horn ensemble that had formed next to the drummer.

The Peace Circle lasted a long time, and I was tired afterwards. Slim, Thumper and I trekked up the hill a ways for a post-show chat, sitting on the dark road taking care to avoid being mown down by any unwary scooters. As the next band started up, we were glad we’d done so, because even at that distance it was painfully apparent that they were not only way too loud, but they didn’t seem to be playing any songs. I kept waiting for their soundcheck to end, but it never did. We sat on the road and talked until they stopped, which took quite a while. It might even have been more than one “band”. Maybe they have a following among others, but it was definitely not to my taste, and I could only feel sorry for the eardrums of those who stayed below.

Thumper took off into the night on his scooter, back to his mountain abode, while Slim and I toured the field again. The stage was back to its more-or-less unattended state. We were soon surrounded by Taiwanese girls, who oohed and aahed over Slim’s Chinese. Of course Slim, being the Evil Child that he is, sicked them on me by revealing my secret identity. In the end I was forced to show my card.

Sandman, Jojo and Balu were ready to go by that point, so we piled in the car and set off. Balu shifted around in his seat for a while before falling asleep and snoring, and Sandman soon followed his example. I sat watching the lit windows of the apartment buildings flash by. I love driving through the highway tunnels at night and spying the lighted tip of Taipei 101 over the mountains ahead. Traffic was reasonable; we made the trip back to Bitan in under an hour. But I was exhausted and in bed by 11.

Over the years, the Hoping for Hoping Peace Festival has gained a reputation, at least in my mind, for playing host to mostly crappy weather. Spring is Taiwan’s most unstable season, and it has rained at some point during every Peacefest I’ve been to so far. In the past, we always played the last act on the last day, Sunday, and were invariably shut down by the management before satisfactorily completing our sets. This time, however, we chose to play on Saturday afternoon, just before the mass abstract jamming/hand-holding/circle-dancing orgy they call the “Peace Circle”.

I shoehorned myself into the back of Sandman’s Sentra along with his dog Balu, and we set off for Longtan. Jojo had a rough map, but so engaged were we in a fascinating discourse concerning language acquisition that we managed to miss the exit; we had to go all the way to Guanxi and then back around. Then we missed another turn and had to stop for directions at a gas station before we finally got on the right track, arriving at the hippie-filled garden spot at about 4pm. To our surprise, the weather was gorgeous, with a fresh breeze and no sign of rain. People, mostly young, tanned foreigners with interesting hairstyles, lay spread out on the field in front of the stage. Balu played with the other dogs and cheerfully mauled someone’s Frisbee. A short, heavyset foreigner with frizzy hair rushed up to Slim and David, pushing cans of coffee into their hands and saying in a good approximation of a 40’s businessman voice, “Hold these, fellas, I need to get to promotional pictures…make sure the labels are showing!”

I walked around for a bit, taking pictures of the temple’s lotus pond. After a while, we set up a little practice session behind the temple in a claustrophobic clearing next to a tipi. The grass muffled the sound of the washtub bass, and I felt tired and apathetic among the stunted trees filled with spiderwebs. We went over Viola Lee several times, but it seemed slow and lethargic, and I played a few rather inappropriate fills. Sips from a Rosemary Screwdriver perked me up a bit, and afterwards I used the time before our show to buy a decent whiskey coke to put me in the mood.

We took the stage as the sun set, and all I could see through my sunglasses were brief glimpses of the audience as the lights swept out and around the field. The bass was booming in a resounding fashion, but nobody else seemed to mind. We hit our stride early on and things only got better. People moved up towards the stage, and soon we had a large crowd, most of whom were dancing. The sound guys stayed on top of things, and the audience, which had up to that point only showed passing interest in what was going on on stage, was incredibly enthusiastic. Our allotted time went by in a flash of some of the most inspired Ramblry I’ve seen to date. It was almost surreal. Part of that was the whiskey, and part was the shades, but by any estimation, it was an amazing show.

We stepped off the stage into a shower of compliments, which was gratifying. The Peace Circle was next, and a group of other musicians took the stage with a guitar, a digeridoo, and some other instruments. The crowd assembled into a large, hand-holding circle and danced to the rhythm. I took some pictures and then joined Sandman and some others in a little horn ensemble that had formed next to the drummer.

The Peace Circle lasted a long time, and I was tired afterwards. Slim, Thumper and I trekked up the hill a ways for a post-show chat, sitting on the dark road taking care to avoid being mown down by any unwary scooters. As the next band started up, we were glad we’d done so, because even at that distance it was painfully apparent that they were not only way too loud, but they didn’t seem to be playing any songs. I kept waiting for their soundcheck to end, but it never did. We sat on the road and talked until they stopped, which took quite a while. It might even have been more than one “band”. Maybe they have a following among others, but it was definitely not to my taste, and I could only feel sorry for the eardrums of those who stayed below.

Thumper took off into the night on his scooter, back to his mountain abode, while Slim and I toured the field again. The stage was back to its more-or-less unattended state. We were soon surrounded by Taiwanese girls, who oohed and aahed over Slim’s Chinese. Of course Slim, being the Evil Child that he is, sicked them on me by revealing my secret identity. In the end I was forced to show my card.

Sandman, Jojo and Balu were ready to go by that point, so we piled in the car and set off. Balu shifted around in his seat for a while before falling asleep and snoring, and Sandman soon followed his example. I sat watching the lit windows of the apartment buildings flash by. I love driving through the highway tunnels at night and spying the lighted tip of Taipei 101 over the mountains ahead. Traffic was reasonable; we made the trip back to Bitan in under an hour. But I was exhausted and in bed by 11.

Two new tools for exploring the world have become available recently as Microsoft and Google fight to see who will become known as the one to go to when you want to have a look around the planet (Yahoo’s pitiful maps don’t seem to even cover anything outside of the US, so they’re not even in the running). Microsoft’s Virtual Earth, which seems like a copy of Google Earth, now includes 3D structures, so that you can see a city’s buildings from any angle like a poorly rendered Duke Nuke’m-era video game (full disclosure: I usually play first-person shooters in order to explore the interesting environments rather than for the actual shooting; I’m weird that way). Cities like San Francisco and Seattle are well covered. Even Dallas has quite a bit of 3D coverage, with ordinary buildings and houses presented very nicely. The lack of trees or anything besides the buildings makes every place appear very stark, however. Perhaps that will be improved upon, but it’s still very cool.

Even cooler than this, however, Google has added street-level views to its maps site, so that you can walk around some major cities and even zoom in on cats in windows if you like (some people don’t). This, I feel, is particularly wonderful as my idea of a good time in just about any city is just walking around with my camera. I could spend hours just “walking” around these virtual places looking at the stores and houses.

My hope is that these two services will somehow be combined, or that elements of one are implemented in the other, resulting in a photorealistic and navigable 3D environment that can be expanded outwards from the handful of cities presently included. I wonder, however, if people will be able to block certain sites for security or privacy reasons, resulting in a a big billboards with “404” printed on them scattered around.

I also wonder how these services will impact “documentary” photography, i.e., pictures that simply show a place but without any other photographic merit. Won’t all of that simply become redundant and go the way of realistic paintings upon the advent of photography? This is fine with me, of course, as I don’t usually take pictures of things just to show people places. But if you can call up any street scene in the world, with you in them should it ever go real-time, what would be the point of taking such pictures on your vacation? Maybe digital cameras will become less ubiquitous in such a society, used by a few photography enthusiasts simply for “art shots” or abstracts rather than to shoot Deloris next to the quaint Taco mart. As with other art forms, when everyone has the capacity to be “special”, the art form will be forced to change. Into what is anyone’s guess.

In any case, these technological leaps are making the world more accessible to anyone with a computer, and if the new surface computer interfaces are anything to go by, sooner or later we’ll be able to be anywhere at any time. At that point, I’ll probably just want to get away from it all and won’t be able to.

So relish every time you get lost. It could be your last.