Facebook, the ubiquitous social network, star of the movie "The Social Network," and black hole on which people spend way too much time (including myself), became a publicly-traded company this past week. Yes, that's right kids, your parents can own a small percentage of that webpage where you stash all your raunchy photos and stalk your ex-girlfriends (or boyfriends, not discriminating) from afar. Unfortunately for Mr. Mark Zuckerberg and his book of faces, the stock price hasn't risen since a slight increase on day 1 of public trading.
If it wasn't obvious to everyone else but me, Facebook is not a company that is geared to make money. It is a company that relies mainly on advertising for revenue; aside from that, it has no product to sell and no outlooks as to other products it might release. Zucks recently stated that the company could come out with their own phone, though because the smartphone market is so saturated and dominated by a few major companies (Apple, Google, etc.), the prospects for a Facebook phone raising their dwindling stock price (now at $31; highest level: $40) are about as good as world peace befalling Earth tomorrow. Ain't gonna happen, sadly.
Facebook, fortunately, has the capacity to be an advertising giant; as of right now, an estimated 800,000,000 people have accounts (including myself, sadly). That being said, one still has to gauge the effectiveness of the advertisements on the target audience; I'll use myself as an example. On Facebook, I set my birthday as 7 December, 1941 (Pearl Harbour strike, for those of you who have never read a history book). So, looking at my ads right now, I have one asking me if I'd like to enter a nursing home and if I'm over 40 and single. Well, I may not be over 40, but I am single, so ladies, and this might be crazy, but I'm single, so call me maybe.
If Facebook hopes to succeed as a publicly-traded company, they need to take the Google approach and diversify. Google started out as a simple search engine and has grown to become one of the leading technology companies in the world. They only hire the best and brightest, which has helped to accelerate their company growth. As of right now, Facebook is just a social network, and one that I'll hopefully leave after this game of Words With Friends.
If Facebook's stock drops too low, then expect something crazy or bold to happen. Hitting the half-price mark from where it started only conveys that the company was a red herring and is worth about as much as a single internet server. At that point, Zucky will have to make some tough decisions about his company's future. Can they compete against Google? Can a single social network really become a marketable company? Will Mark Zuckerberg ever find true love?
I honestly expect, somewhere down the line, that Google will buy out Facebook for controlling share of the company. It might end up being the only option for the Zuckmeister as investors realise just how worthless his big internet billboard is. If you want good investments, look into small companies that just started, read their portfolios, and see if they actually have marketable worth.
I know this was a little different from my usual spiel, but I love railing against Facebook.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Contrivances
I'm not sure what to write, really. Yesterday, I graduated from Rutgers in a big procession full of pomp and excitement and a sense of ludicrousness. Having a commencement speaker talk about how rich he was certainly did not ease the incendiary sun above, which promptly burned my face, giving me the appearance of perpetually being embarrassed about something. He wasn't inspirational except to those who want to dominate the business world, and since that is most certainly not me, I essentially spent a good two hours being roasted like a pig at a luau. Whoop de doo. I feel especially sorry for the graduates wearing black robes (business school, I believe, which may actually be fitting and slightly ironic (no offence to my business school friends)), as I removed my robe, rolled up the legs of my pants, and put the university commencement program magazine on my head to block the sun, and that STILL didn't protect me. Damn my pallid, semi-transparent skin.
After that was the actual political science graduation. I must say, it was truly remarkable being able to assemble all those incredibly useless, expendable, indecisive people in one place and have the whole process go off relatively expeditiously. (I joke. Or do I? I've become a new level of the word "sardonic.")
One would think that, with a name shared by several notable people, i.e. an athlete and a rather famous inventor, that the name would be not commonly mispronounced, especially in a state where the athlete is pretty well-renowned. One would also think that writing out one's name phonetically on the name card would exempt me from having my name mispronounced, just like so many frustrating past teachers and substitute teachers and various others have done, squinting at my three-letter name, furrowing their brows, staring into the letters as if they would pronounce themselves, but, nope. It's almost as if the universe decided, "hey, let's poke fun at this kid just one more time at the last possible chance that would definitely make him look ridiculous in front of his peers." And so they did. As soon as I heard the mispronunciation of the first syllable, I shook my head and walked on with an expression tantamount to having just thrown up.
It certainly wasn't the greatest day of my life, nor was it the worst. It was just another day, honestly. I mentally checked out months ago, probably around the time I was accepted into graduate school. My grades certainly reflect this: for a class where I could bring a cheat sheet to both the midterm and final exams, I received a B. What's more, I'm pretty sure that my professor gave me the B out of some laughable pity because of my graduating status. The professor was a good guy, he legitimately liked what he taught, but even so, I couldn't bring myself to care much about folklore. Or, really, at all. Sorry professor, but I'd rather be tickled by a cactus than watch another movie about trains or singing cowboys.
There was a point after the whole proceeding where I sequestered myself from the brouhaha and sat on a bench adjacent to a nice stone path that I had walked on often to get to class. I had to take in this place just once more, just absorb the towering trees that created a verdant cover from the sun, look out over the small, arched stone wall to the river, see a view that I might not ever see from that perspective again. That place had evolved from my residence into a home. I even designated a tree my favourite, a silent, isolated spot my own; this place had become familiar in the most intimate way, and I am not ashamed to say that I loved it all.
One might say that my experience is not unique to me, that every student feels the same sense of withdrawal and immediate nostalgia that I am feeling what millions upon millions have felt. The only problem is, no two people will ever be completely the same. Everyone will always have a unique story to share, a different emotional connection to make to a place, so no, my grief is not the same as everyone else's. My feelings are built upon my own unique experiences at Rutgers, god damn it, and therefore everything I feel is my own and will always be uniquely mine. No one will ever feel the exact same thing, so this is a moot point of condolence. All that can be said is "move on," and that is all anyone can really ever do.
And so, here I am on the cusp of the beginning of all things, debating whether or not my real life will begin. I think I'll make it so, otherwise, I'll be perpetually waiting for an opportunity that will never present itself.
The person who waits for his life to always begin should be the instigating factor in that life. So, graduates of all, don't wait for opportunities; seek them out, take advantage of their benefits and learn from their failings, and never, ever be satisfied. There is always more to do, more to learn, and new adventures right around the bend.
This little opus makes me think that I might have been a better commencement speaker than the rich guy who talked about how he made his money. I guess political science did do one thing for me: it primed me for a tiddly bit of arrogance. Eh, I'll live.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
After that was the actual political science graduation. I must say, it was truly remarkable being able to assemble all those incredibly useless, expendable, indecisive people in one place and have the whole process go off relatively expeditiously. (I joke. Or do I? I've become a new level of the word "sardonic.")
One would think that, with a name shared by several notable people, i.e. an athlete and a rather famous inventor, that the name would be not commonly mispronounced, especially in a state where the athlete is pretty well-renowned. One would also think that writing out one's name phonetically on the name card would exempt me from having my name mispronounced, just like so many frustrating past teachers and substitute teachers and various others have done, squinting at my three-letter name, furrowing their brows, staring into the letters as if they would pronounce themselves, but, nope. It's almost as if the universe decided, "hey, let's poke fun at this kid just one more time at the last possible chance that would definitely make him look ridiculous in front of his peers." And so they did. As soon as I heard the mispronunciation of the first syllable, I shook my head and walked on with an expression tantamount to having just thrown up.
It certainly wasn't the greatest day of my life, nor was it the worst. It was just another day, honestly. I mentally checked out months ago, probably around the time I was accepted into graduate school. My grades certainly reflect this: for a class where I could bring a cheat sheet to both the midterm and final exams, I received a B. What's more, I'm pretty sure that my professor gave me the B out of some laughable pity because of my graduating status. The professor was a good guy, he legitimately liked what he taught, but even so, I couldn't bring myself to care much about folklore. Or, really, at all. Sorry professor, but I'd rather be tickled by a cactus than watch another movie about trains or singing cowboys.
There was a point after the whole proceeding where I sequestered myself from the brouhaha and sat on a bench adjacent to a nice stone path that I had walked on often to get to class. I had to take in this place just once more, just absorb the towering trees that created a verdant cover from the sun, look out over the small, arched stone wall to the river, see a view that I might not ever see from that perspective again. That place had evolved from my residence into a home. I even designated a tree my favourite, a silent, isolated spot my own; this place had become familiar in the most intimate way, and I am not ashamed to say that I loved it all.
One might say that my experience is not unique to me, that every student feels the same sense of withdrawal and immediate nostalgia that I am feeling what millions upon millions have felt. The only problem is, no two people will ever be completely the same. Everyone will always have a unique story to share, a different emotional connection to make to a place, so no, my grief is not the same as everyone else's. My feelings are built upon my own unique experiences at Rutgers, god damn it, and therefore everything I feel is my own and will always be uniquely mine. No one will ever feel the exact same thing, so this is a moot point of condolence. All that can be said is "move on," and that is all anyone can really ever do.
And so, here I am on the cusp of the beginning of all things, debating whether or not my real life will begin. I think I'll make it so, otherwise, I'll be perpetually waiting for an opportunity that will never present itself.
The person who waits for his life to always begin should be the instigating factor in that life. So, graduates of all, don't wait for opportunities; seek them out, take advantage of their benefits and learn from their failings, and never, ever be satisfied. There is always more to do, more to learn, and new adventures right around the bend.
This little opus makes me think that I might have been a better commencement speaker than the rich guy who talked about how he made his money. I guess political science did do one thing for me: it primed me for a tiddly bit of arrogance. Eh, I'll live.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Monday, April 30, 2012
Last of the Poet-icans
So, my semester and Rutgers career is winding down. Here's my final creative writing assignment in lieu of anything more interesting. The assignment was to write ten statements with "The truth is" connecting them with the clause of "or."
The truth is...
-I can believe it's not butter.
-OR you actually do look fat in that dress.
-OR it's not me, it's you.
-OR Greedo shot second.
-OR your beauty is unmatched by anything on this Earth, or whatever line works best to get me into your pants.
-OR one does simply walk into Mordor.
-OR that I taped us having sex and posted it online. Oops.
-OR that blue crayons don't taste like blueberry, no matter how much you want them to.
-OR that sleeping with your girlfriend's twin sister is inexcusable, regardless of whether or not her sister posed as your girlfriend.
-OR that I like to feign a sense of philosophical sagacity in order to raise my self-esteem and make myself seem smarter than everyone else.
-OR that I'm afraid of graduating and becoming old because being old indicates that I'm one step closer to being weighed down by a family, kids, a mortgage, taxes, and death. Take me back to freshman year.
The truth is...
-I can believe it's not butter.
-OR you actually do look fat in that dress.
-OR it's not me, it's you.
-OR Greedo shot second.
-OR your beauty is unmatched by anything on this Earth, or whatever line works best to get me into your pants.
-OR one does simply walk into Mordor.
-OR that I taped us having sex and posted it online. Oops.
-OR that blue crayons don't taste like blueberry, no matter how much you want them to.
-OR that sleeping with your girlfriend's twin sister is inexcusable, regardless of whether or not her sister posed as your girlfriend.
-OR that I like to feign a sense of philosophical sagacity in order to raise my self-esteem and make myself seem smarter than everyone else.
-OR that I'm afraid of graduating and becoming old because being old indicates that I'm one step closer to being weighed down by a family, kids, a mortgage, taxes, and death. Take me back to freshman year.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Two Emily Bronte-style poems
The usual assignments.
"Perpetual"
What weary eyes are those,
Those pale reflections of once-life;
They look upon the universe in pose,
Considering that she was once his wife.
Something so grandiose cannot be forgotten,
Try as one might.
It leaves the mind thinking it is begotten
With no sense of delight.
But life shall always go on
Until the last star fades;
Every day is presented with a new fawn
Who will explore the universe that none forbades.
And when that fawn feels lost,
When it has a modicum of doubt,
When its mind feels tossed,
It will have its life to tout.
For life is a phoenix,
That shall always burn and rise.
It is with those mechanics
That tomorrow is always the true prize.
"A kind darkness"
For what can I say but say adieu?
There is no reason for time;
For time continues with no ado
And mocks one like a pantomime.
It is that fire that burns the eyes
And tears away at the heart.
It cares not whether one cries
And haunts one from the start.
What grace there is in darkness
But sadly that none could see;
It is that darkness is lonely
And can never truly be free.
That darkness holds a mystery,
One that some lament;
But others appreciate its history,
And find strength in its torment.
For when one accepts that darkness,
It can only become a friend.
Its slash turns to a caress,
As it guides you through the end.
"Perpetual"
What weary eyes are those,
Those pale reflections of once-life;
They look upon the universe in pose,
Considering that she was once his wife.
Something so grandiose cannot be forgotten,
Try as one might.
It leaves the mind thinking it is begotten
With no sense of delight.
But life shall always go on
Until the last star fades;
Every day is presented with a new fawn
Who will explore the universe that none forbades.
And when that fawn feels lost,
When it has a modicum of doubt,
When its mind feels tossed,
It will have its life to tout.
For life is a phoenix,
That shall always burn and rise.
It is with those mechanics
That tomorrow is always the true prize.
"A kind darkness"
For what can I say but say adieu?
There is no reason for time;
For time continues with no ado
And mocks one like a pantomime.
It is that fire that burns the eyes
And tears away at the heart.
It cares not whether one cries
And haunts one from the start.
What grace there is in darkness
But sadly that none could see;
It is that darkness is lonely
And can never truly be free.
That darkness holds a mystery,
One that some lament;
But others appreciate its history,
And find strength in its torment.
For when one accepts that darkness,
It can only become a friend.
Its slash turns to a caress,
As it guides you through the end.
Off-rhyme poem
Because I was in Chicago for the weekend and am still very tired from it, here's my latest assignment.
With each blink I fall to sleep;
My mind has little incentive not to slip
Down that tunnel of unknown realms.
It is a cavern in which one should not delve,
Lest you welcome the insanity of darkness to come to blind you.
The adventure has ignited that fool
And found that there is no love in intransigence.
Creep along with a lurker’s existence
Only to feel the grains of sand fall through your fingers,
and forget all the yesterdays that meander.
With each blink I fall to sleep;
My mind has little incentive not to slip
Down that tunnel of unknown realms.
It is a cavern in which one should not delve,
Lest you welcome the insanity of darkness to come to blind you.
The adventure has ignited that fool
And found that there is no love in intransigence.
Creep along with a lurker’s existence
Only to feel the grains of sand fall through your fingers,
and forget all the yesterdays that meander.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Sonnet #2
Let us lay in wait for that fateful day
'till the leaves caress the silken touch of the wind,
her angelic voice entrancing the Earth itself.
It is this love I cannot rescind,
for she holds the envy of a thousand stars.
My unintelligible ramblings do no justice
to the elation she brings to every today.
Tomorrow is an avaricious lion,
demanding her eyes avert me; but
tomorrow will never feel the delight
of her presence.
Let there be a doubt of injustice, if
only for a day, for there will be none
when we finally unite.
'till the leaves caress the silken touch of the wind,
her angelic voice entrancing the Earth itself.
It is this love I cannot rescind,
for she holds the envy of a thousand stars.
My unintelligible ramblings do no justice
to the elation she brings to every today.
Tomorrow is an avaricious lion,
demanding her eyes avert me; but
tomorrow will never feel the delight
of her presence.
Let there be a doubt of injustice, if
only for a day, for there will be none
when we finally unite.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sonnet I wrote for Creative Writing
The cleft between us leaves all cold at heart
For no amount of will could bring me closer to seeing your rutilant face.
Only the rakish man with a moil-minded conscience should forget
Those eyes, those blue incitements of a soul hell-bent on a love so forlorn.
My chest is a cannon as I cry to the weeping angels,
“Spare me this tearing soul! Show me mercy! Undo this hasp and toss me asunder!”
But angels they are not, as their disgust turns to scorn.
Their libations are a selfish fanfaronade of farewells
Aimed at he who could not regret.
I call to her, “Let our tryst not be mournful, let us not acknowledge
The knell of that silent divide.”
Only her ears are the wind caressing the ilex,
Having no patience for a lovesick waif
Like myself.
For no amount of will could bring me closer to seeing your rutilant face.
Only the rakish man with a moil-minded conscience should forget
Those eyes, those blue incitements of a soul hell-bent on a love so forlorn.
My chest is a cannon as I cry to the weeping angels,
“Spare me this tearing soul! Show me mercy! Undo this hasp and toss me asunder!”
But angels they are not, as their disgust turns to scorn.
Their libations are a selfish fanfaronade of farewells
Aimed at he who could not regret.
I call to her, “Let our tryst not be mournful, let us not acknowledge
The knell of that silent divide.”
Only her ears are the wind caressing the ilex,
Having no patience for a lovesick waif
Like myself.
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