My Coogee Girls' Technoworld

Social life is now all about gadgets.  I studied AI in uni at Brown and in post-graduate at Univ of California, and I knew in the 80's that we would eventually be ruled by machines.  They are taking over gradually, and we are indentured to care for them, along with corn, rice, sugarcane, wheat, potatoes, cows, sheep, goats, and bees who seduced our ancestors and now sustain us.  Our animal and plant mates are reliant on our machines, too, in large scale agriculture to maintain their unnatural global dominance and control over us humans.  It's a slippery slope, it's a vicious cycle, it's a pan's labyrinth, but we primates are happy to just slide along munching corn chips.

Stacey is happy with this arrangement despite her cloudy view of the world.  Not only happy, she buys into it wholeheartedly, thumping along to her robotic mechanical techno music.

Humans are blind to being dominated by machines.   We see side effects like the high rate of accidents caused by texting and driving, texting and walking, texting and cycling.  But these gadgets are an attachment that is hard to shake.  I took myself off of Facebook in 2010 because of the undeniably evil energy behind the company.  Many cannot live without it now, but it's not part of my world.  

But then there's my iPhone.  Don't mess with my iPhone!! As I told that ruski police fascist: He BePbTe MHE Ha TE^e%oH (ne verte mne na telefon), when he arrested me for taking selfies in the Sant Pete train station, including pics of him, for my uniform blog.

Ruski copper headed my way to arrest me for doing NOTHING wrong but playing with my iPhone spy device!

"Are the machines all in sync?", Jamie asks carefree Stacey.

"We love this machine, can't live without it!", Jamie pronounces proudly.  Visitor Canadian Rob is mesmerised by its hypnotic drone.  He wants one now.

"Darn, I'm so frustrated.  I can't sync with that darn stereo!", says Canadian Rob.

Genetically-calm Swiss-Italian Mikele methodically adjusts the wireless signals in the house to make sure the machines can talk to each other seamlessly in the background.

Things got nasty when Rob tries fixing the cooking machine and a turnip protests violently.  Turnips have little control over humans.

I head home to care for my own machines.  

A torch is not really a machine, I'd say, though.  It sure is nice for walking home on the beach in the the dead of winter.   On the way home, one of the girls' uptight Neighbors accosted me.  

"What are you doing?!", she shrieked at me.  

"How is that your business?"   

"I live here!"

We were on the sidewalk, so that was a stupid comment.  But the girls explained maybe she thought I was going to rob her house.  Was it because I am clever enough to carry a flashlight at night, and that no other Aussies have the sense to do so?  Perhaps she though I was going to bollux up her precious machines inside, to "whom" she's so attached.

"I'm just taking a selfie."  Duh.  She's as arrogant and nasty as the fucking Russian police I have been mocking.

Then I realized I was dressed like a tough Russian soldier in my one and only piece of leather clothing, a gorgeous leather jacket my ex David and I bought in Florence in 1997, custom handmade to fit both of us.  He kindly ceded it to me in the divorce.  I figure the cow cruelty is already under the bridge so I think about that cow fondly, wear it and love it.  I don't but anything leather any more if I can avoid it.

At home, I use a non-machine toy to amuse my non-machine cat, Beautemps.

Beautemps is an unreal leaper, lean and strong and beautiful.  I got him from my vet's lobby when my carer Matt was out of town.  Bt was a rescue cat from the Blue Mountains RSPCA.  There's apparently a lot if heroin up there and probably a lot of bad pet owners.  So I am thinking long term for my bee hives, to buy a country house in the other direction in posh, quaint Bowral.  It's on it's own  dissected sandstone plateau gorge, which is just as nice as the famous blue mountains'.

Beautemps leaps 0.5m off the ground.

Beautemps has impossible unnatural art design.  But it turns out he is an exemplar physically and behaviourally of the oldest natural breed of domestic cats on the world, Turkish angoras, from Ankara, Turkey.  He's unusually intelligent and loves high places, loves getting his sweet, buff, pretty step-brother kimba into trouble, teaching him how to climb on the roof, which kimba never even considered for three years alone. 

Kimba makes sure the computer does not consume me.