Speaking of imaginary worlds created by cliques…

Close one eye, and you lose your depth perception, the ability to see behind things. So it is with Monocle, the Tyler Brulé pseudo-vanity project that I continue to buy in spite of itself and myself. Take the carefully arranged global pantry in ‘Shelf Life’:

While we spend a great deal of time sniffing and squeezing the fresh produce at Portobello Road market, we also spend a great deal of money on pantry staples at Globus in Zurich.

Do you bollocks.

Perhaps Tyler Brulé really does nip to Zurich for a half-kilo of coffee beans; if so, it says far more about his airmiles account than his nose for coffee. No matter what, it sums up the particular strain of globollocks in Monocle that both entices and infuriates, like a coke-fiend friend.

Continue reading searching for the one-eyed jesus →

There’s a point in certain forms of appreciation where value detaches from the object under scrutiny and attaches to the surrounding milieu, the ability to imbibe augmented by the means to own, the opportunity to acquire, the capacity to describe. In the world of fine wine, I’d suggest that point starts at around fifty quid a bottle; any more is essentially a exponentially-graduated entry fee into an ever more rarefied social circle.

Patrick Radden Keefe’s New Yorker piece on wine counterfeiting is a case in point, a deliciously understated narrative with hints of Nabakov and Borges. It sketches out the aspirations of one millionaire collector, the intoxicating mixture of glamour and mystery concocted by Hardy Rodenstock, and the collaborative wish-fulfillment of wine masters and Merlot-tinged prose artists for whom the world of untainted vines and Jeffersonian vintages is so enticingly close that one might already have dreamed its taste. Is it surprising that such a milieu would be so ripe for deluding?

Sidling uneasily into the space reserved for unfortunate exemplars, we have the ‘Compare People’ Facebook app, as noted by Sugarrae and reported on by The Reg:

Maksimovic says he has suspended new sign ups of the premium service until he figures out a way to clarify exactly what information is given out.

He’ll have a job on, since Facebook’s third-party apps are seemingly built with components that can’t help but obfuscate. On top of that, he may well be forced to refund the $9.49 coughed up by people who hoped his ‘premium’ service was the equivalent of those old back-of-the-paper X-Ray Specs.

That a naive and clumsy solo developer exposed the opacity of Facebook’s privacy framework doubtless chafes the marketroids working on more insidious ways to procure personal data that can be converted, if you know the right people, to cash money. They’re a new kind of pickpocket, ignoring your wallet to go straight for the loose change, in the knowledge that nabbing pennies from thousands adds up to the same thing as lifting tenners from individuals, but with much less risk of being found out.

I know how much my organs might fetch on the black market. I even have a vague sense of what turning my forehead into a casino billboard would earn me. I have no idea how much my intangibles are worth, and it’s time to start asking.