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Bajo del 1500

sábado, 3 de diciembre de 2016

Bajo del 1500

Bajo del 1500

En el SSRN, en el posicionamiento global (de todas las disciplinas de ciencias sociales y humanidades), sigo batiendo mi récord personal:

Jose Angel Garcia Landa Author Rank is 1,494 out of 325,092

Me había planteado como objetivo llegar a estar entre los primeros 1500. Ahora claro, visto que la cosa avanza, tendré que subir el listón, y a ver si llego a estar entre los mil primeros.... no sé si debería conformarme con los 1250, pero es que mil sería tan redondo. Ya iremos viendo.

Sólo observar que de mi propia disciplina debo de estar entre los primerísimos puestos, porque en otros parámetros (por número de artículos aceptados en concreto) tengo mejor posicionamiento, y no veo a nadie de filología, por no decir a nadie humanidades, cerca de esos puestos.

______

A ver, está difícil esto de subir al puesto mil. Veo que con los últimos datos actualizados, ya he vuelto a decaer del puesto 1500.... con lo cual no sé que les diga. Hay otro dato positivo, sin embargo: las cifras que digo son de descargas totales, desde que se creó SSRN hace 20 años. Si tomamos los datos de los artículos subidos en el último año, estoy mucho mejor posicionado: en el puesto 627 estoy.

Y en el 51 por número de artículos aceptados este año; y el 7 (el 7 mundial, modestamente insisto) por número total de artículos aceptados. Que no son los más leídos de media, también eso se desprende de los datos, y es que ya decía Ortega que hay que dirigirse a la inmensa minoría.

________

 

PS: un año después, en diciembre de 2017, sigo en el Puesto Siete como mejor posicionamiento, y en número de lecturas totales he pasado también del 1400: en el 1327 estoy a fecha de hoy.

 

 

Puesto 1327

 

SSRN Top 30,000

 

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Retropost (2006): Hoy mejor sin humanos


Hoy mejor sin humanos

Publicado en Internet. com. José Ángel García Landa

Me pego la mañana intentando reservar unos billetes para un espectáculo en París. Primero desespero de un sistema, Billetreduc, que combinaba una pre-reserva en red con una llamada telefónica que había que hacer a continuación. Mal, porque comunicaba todo el rato. Así que me paso al otro, Cityvox, totalmente online... y al poco rato ya tenía los billetes comprados. No podemos competir. Esperemos que sea una pequeña alegoría del futuro: las máquinas para que trabajen, el humano a ver musicales... pero me parece que no irá todo así de suavecito. 

Me examinan los robots

 

Retroposts
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Retropost (2006): Ejemplares sin soporte tangible


Ejemplares sin soporte tangible

Publicado en Internet. com. José Ángel García Landa


Mirando un contrato relativo a derechos de publicación, me llama hoy la atención este párrafo:

OBRAS PUBLICADAS:

Son las obras que se divulgan públicamente mediante ejemplares físicos. Así se desprende de la ley de Propiedad Intelectual cuando define la "publicación" como "la divulgación que se realice mediante la puesta a disposición del público de un número de ejemplares de la obra..." (Artículo 4 del Texto Refundido de la ley de Propiedad Intelectual). 


Por tanto, entran dentro del concepto de "obras publicadas", por ejemplo, los libros y revistas impresos, y también las obras editadas en CD-ROM y otros soportes físicos similares, pero no las obras que se divulgan sin soporte tangible, como las disponibles en Internet o de alguna otra manera exclusivamente en línea. Estas últimas son, de acuerdo con la Ley, obras "divulgadas" pero no "publicadas", al no poderse hablar de "ejemplares".


OK: capto la idea, de acuerdo. Pero los conceptos hacen aguas, me temo... Tangible, tangible, un ordenador es tangible. Y también puede llevar cuenta del número determinado de copias electrónicas que genera. Por otra parte, las revistas electrónicas han de considerarse, entiendo, como meramente "divulgadas" y no "publicadas"... Ojo los que quieran tener publicaciones, y no "divulgaciones" en ellas. Sin soporte tangible no existen los objetos semióticos, me parece que eso no lo acaba de captar esta ley... que desde luego está más diseñada para separar modalidades de comercialización que para dar una definición coherente de lo que es "publicar" o "divulgar" algo. Las modalidades de transporte y envase llevan así, por un extraño conducto, a distintos derechos y consideraciones sobre la naturaleza del objeto semiótico (el mismo) que se ha transportado o envasado. Lo que está claro es que a efectos legales (de propiedad intelectual al menos) en este blog no se ha publicado nada.

 The Language of Websites

 

Retroposts

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Sharing Is Caring

sábado, 29 de octubre de 2016

Sharing Is Caring



From Dave Eggers' THE CIRCLE, a dystopian novel about overinformation, in which Mae, a modestly ambitious yuppie, becomes overexposed to public viewing in a Google or Facebook-like company, The Circle, acting as a 24/7 live walking camera and frontperson. In a public conversation with the company's guru, Bailey, we get a sense of the company's compulsory feelgood philosophy of social networking:

"I think it's simple. If you care about your fellow human beings, you share what you know with them. You share what you see. You give them anything you can. If you care about their plight, their suffering, their curiosity, their right to learn and know anything the world contains, you share with them. You share what you have and what you see and what you know. To me, the logic there is undeniable."

The audience cheered, and while they did so, three new words, SHARING IS CARING, appeared on the screen, below the previous three. Bailey was shaking his head, amazed.

"I love that, Mae, you have a way with words. And there's one more statement you made that I think should cap off what I think everyone here would agree has been a wonderfully enlightening and inspiring talk."

The audience clapped warmly.

"We were talking about what you saw as the impulse to keep things to yourself."

"Well, it's not something I'm proud of, and I don't think it rises above the level of simple selfishness. Now I really understand that we're obligated, as humans, to share what we see and know. And that all knowledge must be democratically accessible."

"It's the natural state of information to be free."

"Right."

"We all have a right to know everything we can. We all collectivelly own the accumulated knowledge of the world."

"Right," Mae said. "So what happens if I deprive anyone or everyone of something I know? Aren't I stealing from my fellow humans?"

"Indeed," Bailey said, nodding earnestly. Mae looked to the audience, and saw the entire first row, the only faces visible, nodding, too.

"And given your way with words, Mae, I wonder if you can tell us this third and last revelation you made." What did you say?"

"Well, I said, privacy is theft."

Bailey turned to the audience. "Isn't that an interesting way of putting it, guys? 'Privacy is theft.'" The words now appeared on the screen behind him, in great white letters:

PRIVACY IS THEFT


Mae turned to look at the three lines together. She blinked back tears, seeing it all there. Had she really thought of all that herself?

SECRETS ARE LIES

SHARING IS CARING

PRIVACY IS THEFT


Mae's throat was tight, dry. She knew she couldn't speak, so she hoped Bailey wouldn't ask her to. As if sensing how she felt, that she was overcome, he winked at her and turned to the audience.

"Let's thank Mae for her candor, her brilliance, and her consummate humanity, can we please?"

The audience was on its feet. Mae's face was on fire. She didn't know if whe should sit or stand. She stood briefly, then felt silly, so sat down again, and waved from her lap. Somewhere in the stampeding applause, Bailey managed to announce the capper to it all—that Mae, in the interest of sharing all she saw and could offer the world, would be going transparent immediately.

(...)oversurveillance

She was under no illusion that every minute of her day was equally scintillating to her watchers. In the weeks Mae had been transparent, there had been downtime, a good deal of it, but her task, primarily, was to provide an ope nwindow into life at the Circle, the sublime and the banal. "Here we are in the gym," she might say, showing viewers the health club for the first time. "People are running and sweating and devising ways to check each other out without getting caught." Then, an hour later, she might be eating lunch, casually and without commentary, across from other Circlers, all of them behaving, or attempting to, as if no one was watching at all. Most of her fellow Circlers were happy to be on-camera, and after a few days all Circlers knew that it was a part of their job at the Circle, and an elemental part of the Circle, period. If they were to be a company espousing tranparency, and the global and unending advantages of open access, they needed to be living that ideal, always and everywhere, and especially on campus.

Thankfully, there was enough to illuminate and celebrate within the Circle gates. The fall and winter had brought the inevitable, all of it, with blitzkrieg speed. All over campus there were signs that hinted at imminent Completion. The messages were cryptic, meant to pique curiosity and discussion. What would Completion mean? Staffers were asked to contemplate this, submit answers, and write on the idea boards. Everyone on Earth has a Circle account! one popular message said. The Circle solves world hunger, said another. The Circle helps me find my ancestors, said yet another. No data, human or numerical or emotional or historical, is ever lost again. That one had been written and signed by Bailey himself. The most popular was The Circle helps me find myself.


google.com/+joseangelgarcialanda



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Otra cosa sintomática

Jueves, 27 de octubre de 2016

Otra cosa sintomática



Después de las broncas o bronquitis a resultas de mi expulsión del grupo de Facebook mayoritario de "lo mío", "Los Filólogos somos necesarios" (bronca que cuento aquí, en "Innecesario filólogo") aún sigue la historia con nuevos episodios.

Visto que allí no me querían (o al menos no me querían los administradores) me fui a otro grupo, también numeroso, titulado "Filologías, lenguas y anima ...hu....", en el que inmediatamente salió gente pidiendo mi expulsión. Y parece que les han hecho caso, porque me han bloqueado y el grupo ha desaparecido del horizonte.

En este caso, mi intervención más polémica e insultante (por allí dicen que voy "insultando" los que me llaman facha y otras lindezas sin que a ellos los expulsen) consistió en sugerir que se cambiase el nombre del grupo por uno más claro y coherente, pues "Filologías, lenguas y anima ... hu..." era el resultado de intentar poner un nombre largo, "Filologías, lenguas y humanidades" que Facebook había distorsionado.

Bien, no diré que subió el tono de la discusión, porque en realidad no, pero el resultado fue que:

- El nombre "Filologías, lenguas y anima...hu..." les parecía cojonudo y nadie veía por qué convendría cambiarlo. (Algo que da que pensar).
- Que rápidamente (sin broncas ni insultos ni palabras airadas por mi parte, que por parte contraria sí hubo una furibunda que abominaba de mí) me han bloqueado.

Pues oigan, ustedes mismos se ponen el nivelico. Me parece que en Facebook me atendré a mi página, mientras no me eche Zuckerberg, y a correr. En todo caso me parece sintomático de lo mal que se lleva en Facebook cualquier cosa que no sea el mero "me gusta", y el bajísimo nivel de tolerancia que hay para la discusión y el intercambio de ideas en unos foros creados, supuestamente, para eso. De echarse a temblar, vamos.



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Retropost (2006): Thunderbird

Thunderbird

Publicado en Internet. com. José Ángel García Landa

Por alguna razón imposible de averiguar, mi programa de correo Mail ha fenecido de muerte súbita. Así que la lógica de las cosas y the search for the perfect me lleva a instalarme hoy el Thunderbird. Y oye, que me funciona de maravilla en la media hora que llevo, así que recomendado queda. Bueno, es la versión para Mac, que por alguna razón es mucho más jevi que la de Windows, suele pasar... Ah, pero, pequeña observación, en la oficina megafashion supermola de El Diablo se viste de Prada, tenían ordenadores igualitos que el mío; como suele pasar en una peli cuando quieren crear ambiente de estar a la última y de diseño hasta las cejas... así que ya sabéis cuál es el Prada de los ordenadores. Aunque el también Mail era Prada e in de lo más in y petó. Bueno, pues a ver si me sale más chachichic el Thunderbird éste. Por lo menos me trae buenos recuerdos de los años sesenta, de un pequeño Thunderbird 4 de la serie de marionetas de la tele que tenía yo...

John Battelle, The Search




 

Retroposts

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The Fruits of Her Labors

The Fruits of Her Labors


Una sátira sobre nuestro mundo de las redes sociales ambientales, posicionamiento web, y la vida mediada por ordenador:


(De The Circle, Dave Eggers 2013).

 

And immediately the fruits of her labors were evident. There was a river of congratulatory messages on her third screen, from Dan, Jared, Josiah, Denise, five or so messages from each of them, and at least a dozen from Annie, who seemed so proud and excited she might burst. Word spread through the InnerCircle, and Mae was sent 7,716 smiles by noon. Everyone had known she could do it. Everyone saw great things fro her at the Circle, everyone was certain she would graduate from CE in no time, as soon as september, because rarely had anyone risen so quickly through the PartiRank and with such laser-like focus.

Mae's new feeling of competence and confidence carried her through the week, and given how close she was to the top 2,000, she stayed at her desk late through the weekend and early the next week, determined to crack through, sleeping in the same dorm room every night. She knew the upper 2,000, nicknamed T2K, was a group of Circlers almost maniacal in their social activity and elite  in their corresponding followers. The members of the T2K had been more or less locked in place, with few additions or movements within their ranks, for almost eighteen months.

But Mae knew she needed to try. By Thursday night, she'd gotten to 2,219, and knew she was among a group of similar strivers who were, like her, working feverishly to rise. She worked for an hour and saw herself climb only two spots, to 2,217. This would be difficult, she knew, but the challenge was delicious. And every time she'd risen to a new thousand, she received so many accolades, and felt she was repaying Annie in particular, that it drove her on.

By ten o'clock, just when she was tiring, and when she'd gotten as high as 2,188, she had the revelation that she was young, and she was strong, and if she worked thorugh the night, one night without sleep, she could crack the T2K while everyoned else was unconscious. She fortified herself with an energy drink and gummy worms, and when the caffeine and sugar kicked in, she felt invincible. The third screen's InnerCircle wasn't enough. She tuned on her OuterCircle feed, and was handling that without difficulty. She pushed foward, signing up for a few hundred more Zing feeds, starting with a comment on each. She was soon at 2,012, and now she was really getting resistance. She posted 33 comments on a product-test site and rose to 2,009. She looked at her left wrist to see how her body was responding, and thrilled at the sight of her pulse-rate increasing. She was in command of all this and needed more. The total number of stats she was tracking was only 41. There was her aggregate customer service score, whih was at 97. There was her last score, which was 99. There was the average of her pod, which was 96. There was the number of queries handled that day thus far, 221, and the number of queries handled by that time yesterday, 219, and the number handled by her on average, 220, and by the pod's other members: 198. On her second screen, there were the number of messages sent by other staffers that day, 1,192,  and the number of those messages that she'd read, 239, and the number to which she'd responded, 88. There was the number of recent invitations to Circle company events, 41, and the number she'd responded to, 28. There was the number of overall visitors to the Circle's sites that day, 3.2 billion, and the number of pageviews, 88,7 billion. There was the number of friends in Mae's Outer Circle, 762, and outstanding Requests by those wanting to be her friend, 27. There were the number of zingers she was following, 10,343, and the number following her, 18,198. There was the number of unread zings, 887. There was the number of zingers suggested to her, 12,862. There was the number of songs in her digital library, 6,877, number of artists represented, 921, and based on her tastes, the number of artists recommended to her: 3,408. There was the number of images in her library, 33,002, and number of images recommended to her, 100,038. There was the temperature inside the building, 70, and the temperature outside, 71. There was  the number of staffers on campus that day, and number of visitors to campus that day, 248. Mae had news alerts for 45 names and subjects, and each time any one of them was mentioned by any of the news feeds she favored, she received a notice. That day there were 187. She could see how many people had viewd her profile that day, 210, and how much time on average they spent: 1.3 minutes. I f she wanted, of course, she could go deeper, and see precisely what each person had viewed. Her health stats added a few dozen more numbers, each of them giving her a sense of grat calm and control. She knew her heart rate and knew it was right. She knew her step count, almost 8,200 that day, and knew that she could get to 10,000 with ease. She knew she was properly hydrated and that her caloric intake that day was within accepted norms for someone of her body-mass index. It occurred to her in a moment of sudden clarity, that what had always caused her anxiety, or stress, or worry, was not any one force, nothing independent and external—it wasn't danger to herself or the constant calamity of other people and their problems. It was internal: it was subjective: it was not knowing. (192-94)

pulgares arriba



A comparar con un clásico que podríamos considerar, quizá, el germen originario del que derivó la visión de la sobreinformación globalizada, de la red social virtualizada, y del control total por ordenación—The Machine Stops, de cuyo comienzo selecciono dos fragmentos:


Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk-that is all the furniture. And in the armchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh-a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. It is to her that the little room belongs.

An electric bell rang.

The woman touched a switch and the music was silent.

"I suppose I must see who it is", she thought, and set her chair in motion. The chair, like the music, was worked by machinery and it rolled her to the other side of the room where the bell still rang importunately.

"Who is it?" she called. Her voice was irritable, for she had been interrupted often since the music began. She knew several thousand people, in certain directions human intercourse had advanced enormously.

But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said:

"Very well. Let us talk, I will isolate myself. I do not expect anything important will happen for the next five minutes-for I can give you fully five minutes, Kuno. Then I must deliver my lecture on “Music during the Australian Period”."

(...)

 "The truth is," he continued, "that I want to see these stars again. They are curious stars. I want to see them not from the air-ship, but from the surface of the earth, as our ancestors did, thousands of years ago. I want to visit the surface of the earth."

She was shocked again.

"Mother, you must come, if only to explain to me what is the harm of visiting the surface of the earth."

"No harm," she replied, controlling herself. "But no advantage. The surface of the earth is only dust and mud, no advantage. The surface of the earth is only dust and mud, no life remains on it, and you would need a respirator, or the cold of the outer air would kill you. One dies immediately in the outer air."

"I know; of course I shall take all precautions."

"And besides----"

"Well?"

She considered, and chose her words with care. Her son had a queer temper, and she wished to dissuade him from the expedition.

"It is contrary to the spirit of the age," she asserted.

"Do you mean by that, contrary to the Machine?"

"In a sense, but----"

His image is the blue plate faded.

"Kuno!"

He had isolated himself.

For a moment Vashti felt lonely.

Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere - buttons to call for food for music, for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorized liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was the button that produced literature. and there were of course the buttons by which she communicated with her friends. The room, though it contained nothing, was in touch with all that she cared for in the world.

Vashanti"s next move was to turn off the isolation switch, and all the accumulations of the last three minutes burst upon her. The room was filled with the noise of bells, and speaking-tubes. What was the new food like? Could she recommend it? Has she had any ideas lately? Might one tell her one"s own ideas? Would she make an engagement to visit the public nurseries at an early date? - say this day month.

To most of these questions she replied with irritation - a growing quality in that accelerated age. She said that the new food was horrible. That she could not visit the public nurseries through press of engagements. That she had no ideas of her own but had just been told one-that four stars and three in the middle were like a man: she doubted there was much in it. Then she switched off her correspondents, for it was time to deliver her lecture on Australian music.

The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and saw her, fairly well. She opened with a humorous account of music in the pre Mongolian epoch, and went on to describe the great outburst of song that followed the Chinese conquest. Remote and primæval as were the methods of I-San-So and the Brisbane school, she yet felt (she said) that study of them might repay the musicians of today: they had freshness; they had, above all, ideas. Her lecture, which lasted ten minutes, was well received, and at its conclusion she and many of her audience listened to a lecture on the sea; there were ideas to be got from the sea; the speaker had donned a respirator and visited it lately. Then she fed, talked to many friends, had a bath, talked again, and summoned her bed. (...)



The Machine Stops y The Mechanical Operation of the Spirit



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Retropost (2006): Reparar un ordenador viejo Macintosh


Reparar un ordenador viejo Macintosh

Publicado en Curiosidades. com. José Ángel García Landa

Qué triste es acudir a Google poniendo la fórmula mágica "reparar un ordenador viejo Macintosh", darle a "voy a tener suerte" esperando dar con el servicio ideal.... e ir a parar a esta página. ¿Soy el único del planeta que quiere repararlos? Al menos el nambarguán sí que parece...

Macperson
 


Retroposts

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