Authorisation vs. Consent An Article by Terence Eden shkspr.mobi I recently read this interesting, and distressing, story of a man who was drugged and robbed. A form of crime which has been going on for centuries. But the 21st Century twist is that the thieves forced him to transfer large sums of money via his phone's banking apps. While under the influence, the victim used his usernames, passwords, PINs, and biometrics to send money to the criminal's accounts. Is there a "technological" way to stop this? His banks initially refused to refund the stolen money. Only once the press stepped in did they relent. One bank, Revolut, said: This was an unusual case where the payments were authorised by the customer but, as is now clear, without his consent. Upstream Color crime
Rethinking Twitter Verification An Article by Terence Eden shkspr.mobi The main problem, I think, is that no one knows what "Verified" means. If I were in charge (which I'm not) there would be various types of ticks. 🤖 is a bot 🆔 proved their legal identity 🏭 is run by a brand ⚖ is run by a government department 👮 Official law enforcement 😎 Celebrity And so on. iconographyidentity
A Slow Boat to China A Short Story from The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami Can you even call it memory?Never any place I was meant to be
Can you even call it memory? My recall is a damn sight short of total. It’s so unreliable that I sometimes think I’m trying to prove something by it. But what would I be proving? Especially since inexactness is not exactly the sort of thing you can prove with any accuracy. Anyway—or rather, that being the case—my memory can be impressively iffy. I get things the wrong way around, fabrication filters into fact, sometimes my own eyewitness account interchanges with somebody else’s. At which point, can you even call it memory any more? memory
Never any place I was meant to be Supposing I found myself chasing another fly ball and ran head-on into a basketball backboard, supposing I woke up once again lying under an arbor with a baseball glove under my head, what words of wisdom could this man of thirty-odd years bring himself to utter? Maybe something like: This is no place for me. This was never any place I was meant to be. melancholywisdomage