Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️

Building the Tokenized Civilization.

Co-Founder @altworths @cryptomondaybcn

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@nntaleb

[Privacy Pools @0xprivacypools]

privacy pools v2 is live

a new privacy layer for ethereum is here

[Ian Miers @secparam]

Relevant XKCD strikes again, this time for real. A certificate authority actually generated private keys where 4 was part of the key.

[Logos @Logos_network]

https://t.co/cR2jLTdo2v

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@thomasoncrypto follow up to that https://t.co/S2wuPBKLKp

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@thomasoncrypto One of the most GOATED podcast episode was on Visa https://t.co/m8uKRDsE94

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@hartejsengh Saw a friend with the most insane ensemble the other day. All Adidas. They are definitely stepping up.

[Dmitrii Eeeekimov @Ekimko]

Лучшее, что я видел за последнее время — чел пилит ASCII MMORPG, в которой вся графика состоит из букв и символов.

Да, буквально весь мир, персонажи, окружение и спецэффекты нарисованы разноцветным текстом.

Автор сейчас экспериментирует с магией, визуалом и боссами. Я прям залип на то, как из нескольких десятков символов получается такая красота.

Буквально сны при температуре 37,2.

Via: https://t.co/vtYXAaEioi

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@JoeNakamoto Extremely accurate.

[Naomi Brockwell priv/acc @naomibrockwell]

Suffering Privacy Fatigue

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@frideswyth Try a pao de deus with butter inside.

[Rahim Taghizadegan (scholarium.at) @scholarium_at]

Message à la droite française.

Vous allez probablement gouverner en 2027. Alors je vous parle franchement, de l'extérieur : je suis économiste de l'école autrichienne et je vous écris de Suisse.

Hier soir, à Limoges, une mairie de 1883 a brûlé et son clocher est tombé. Elle avait été payée par une France qui produisait encore. Elle a été brûlée par une France qui ne fait plus que distribuer. Les formes survivent longtemps à leur raison d'être. Puis elles brûlent.

Rien de ce que l'État pleure aujourd'hui n'a été bâti par lui. Les banques, les lettres de change, la comptabilité, les bourses : les villes les ont faites, entre marchands qui se devaient des comptes. La couronne les a encaissées et a appelé le produit « la France ». Le comité a hérité du tout. Les fruits de la liberté se récoltent dans des phases de non-liberté croissante, et c'est pourquoi l'on prend si facilement le centralisme pour la cause de la prospérité.

Je le dis comme je le pense : la Révolution française fut une erreur, et le centralisme qui la suivit en fut une autre. La théorie étatique de la monnaie n'a fait en 1789 que changer d'habit, de l'hermine au comité. Le comité est devenu ministère, le ministère déficit.

Écoutez la rue : elle veut plus d'État. Un des plus gros déficits de la zone euro, et une foule qui le veut plus gros. Une religion de salut dont le dieu est en faillite ne perd pas de fidèles ; elle hausse la voix et, hélas, ses briquets.

Il n'y a pas de complot, ni à gauche ni à droite. L'Occident s'est relâché après une surtension excessive et névrotique, et dans le vide s'est avancée la religion de substitution de l'étatisme : le salut par l'État, la rédemption dans le nous collectif. La plus grande part de la faute, aussi paradoxal que cela paraisse, revient aux prétendus conservateurs. Un appareil se nourrissait en parasite des institutions et consommait leur capital, et les conservateurs appelaient cela préserver. Ils ont donné bonne conscience au déclin.

Et l'immigration ? Vous pouvez la régler demain matin, vous n'aurez soigné que la fièvre. L'immigration de masse subventionnée vers l'État-providence, menée sous le mensonge du réfugié, est le dernier symptôme : le point culminant d'une naïveté hors du réel, d'un formalisme aveugle et de la consommation de statut et de revenu dans l'État thérapeutique. Qui y voit la cause confond la poussée de fièvre avec la maladie.

Et ne comptez pas sur le patriotisme pour vous sauver de l'étatisme : il en est la forme d'origine. La nation est née en 1789 avec le comité, la conscription et l'impôt pour tous, et la droite « patriote » vit aujourd'hui du même jeu à somme nulle que la gauche : servir les nôtres contre les autres avec l'argent d'une machine qui ne produit rien. Sans la machine, elle n'aurait rien à promettre. L'électoralisme est le cœur du système, pas une faiblesse de vos candidats : il sélectionne une classe qui distribue et une foule qui attend la distribution. Il est trop tard pour le patriotisme ; il faisait partie du problème.

Ne cherchez pas non plus le moment où revenir. Ce moment n'existe pas : tout moment que l'on voudrait ramener est une récolte, et les récoltes ne se répètent pas, mais bien les semailles. Ce qui demeure de la nostalgie, c'est le costume, et le costume pris au sérieux devient un jeu de rôle qui ne veut plus que célébrer sa certitude de salut.

On ne renoue pas avec un moment. On renoue avec un momentum : l'autonomie des villes, la décentralisation, la confiance entre étrangers, l'ambition culturelle, l'esprit d'entreprise, l'invention, l'individu qui ose quelque chose et en répond. La France en avait plus que quiconque, dans ses villes, ses foires, ses salons et ses ateliers.

Il n'y faut pas de programme ; les programmes sont la figure sous laquelle un moment se défend contre le temps. Il y faut des hommes qui fondent, découvrent, inventent, tiennent une maison sur des générations et contredisent une autorité lorsqu'ils savent mieux qu'elle. Et des institutions qui leur donnent durée, dignité et liberté, au lieu de les traiter en suspects.

On ne ramène pas 1883. On peut ramener ce qui l'a bâti.

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@hartejsengh We live in the Future, not sure it’s the Good one though.

[Sean Bowe @ebfull]

Make your NEAR swaps post-quantum unlinkable with Zcash's current protocol.

Uses a new trick that adds a kind of "diversification" but instead of for addresses, it's for viewing keys! Using the PIR tech that @adamleetucker17 et al. have been building at @ValarGroup.

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@sailaunderscore T'inquiète chérie, c'est que ma collègue. 😂

[Jake Orthwein @JakeOrthwein]

Camille Paglia on Revenge of the Sith

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@thomasoncrypto You can just do things.

[Nelson – reg/acc - 🛡️ @ComputerPoet]

@bitcloud I went to an underground show recently where a guy was doing live music/programming plus projection and wrote on the screen that Elon *inherited* his billions.

🤦🏽‍♂️

[Peter Girnus 🦅 @gothburz]

I am a member of the Norwegian Nobel Committee.

There are five of us. Five people, appointed by a parliament most of the planet could not find on a map, who decide, once a year, which human being the world has agreed to call good.

I know. I know. I think about it on the tram.

We meet in a building on Henrik Ibsens gate, a street named after a man who wrote almost exclusively about people discovering they are frauds, which nobody on the committee finds funny except me. There is a room with a long table and the portraits of the dead laureates looking down, Mandela, the Dalai Lama, a great many earnest men in spectacles, and one portrait we do not discuss, which is Kissinger, 1973, awarded while the bombs were still falling, after which two of our predecessors resigned and the satirist Tom Lehrer said political satire was now obsolete. We keep him on the wall. A reminder. Every family has the uncle.

It is October in Oslo, which means the sun gives up around four in the afternoon like a civil servant, and it rains the particular Norwegian rain that isn’t quite falling, just hanging there, judging you. I arrive with wet shoes. I always arrive with wet shoes. There is coffee, because this is Norway and there is always coffee, we drink more of it per person than almost anyone alive, and someone’s wife has sent kanelboller, the cinnamon buns, and we sit, five Norwegians, damp, caffeinated, sugared, and we decide the moral standing of the entire species.

Let me tell you how it actually works, because the world imagines a cathedral and it is, I promise you, a book club with a mandate.

287 nominations this year. 208 people, 79 organizations. Anyone can nominate, that’s the secret nobody understands: a professor, a parliamentarian, a former laureate, so the “nominee” list is meaningless, it’s a suggestion box, and every autumn some congressman nominates his own golden retriever and the press writes “SHORTLISTED.” Nobody is shortlisted. There is no short list the public ever sees. There is us, and the coffee, and the rain, and the portraits, and a Norwegian stubbornness that is older than the prize itself.

We read reports. The institute’s advisers write them, thick dull documents, and we argue. Our chairman told the BBC once that in the final meeting “there is a high temperature.” High temperature, for a Norwegian, means someone slightly raised an eyebrow and then apologized for it. We don’t do high temperature. We do a long silence, and then Kristin says “well,” and everyone knows exactly what “well” meant, and it’s settled. That’s our shouting. “Well.” You’d have to be raised here to hear the violence in it.

Now. This year. I will not say the name, because we never say the name, but you know the name.

A certain head of state wanted this prize the way a child wants a thing in a shop window, which is to say loudly, and in public, and with the full belief that wanting it was itself the argument. He said he deserved it. He said he’d ended eight wars, a number that grew most times he said it, like a fish. He had other heads of state phone us. Israel’s prime minister posted it on the internet, “Give him the Nobel.” The leaders of Cambodia and Pakistan announced they’d nominated him, as though announcing it were part of it, as though we tally mentions. A man flew around the globe collecting endorsements for a Norwegian committee the way you’d collect signatures for a petition to the council about a noisy dog.

And here, uff da, is the detail I treasure, the one that makes me smile into my coffee. The nomination deadline is the 31st of January. He took office on the 20th. So for all the phone calls, all the posts, all the gilded lobbying, the only nominations that could possibly count for this year’s prize were filed in the first eleven days of his term, before he had, by his own arithmetic, ended a single one of the eight wars. He campaigned all year for a prize whose window had shut while he was still hanging up his coat. We didn’t have to reject him. The calendar did. We just watched. Norwegians are very good at watching. We have long winters.

People think we sit there weighing his deeds. We don’t. That’s the thing I can’t make the world understand. We’re not grading his homework. We don’t owe anyone the prize for a ceasefire, however real, however loud the announcement. “He made peace” is not a sentence that ends in a medal, the way he believes it does, the way he believes every good thing ends in his name on it. The will of a dead Swede says the prize goes to whoever did the most for fraternity between nations. A dead Swede, I should add, who made his entire fortune inventing dynamite and selling arms, and spent his last years horrified at his own obituary, which called him a merchant of death, and so bought his way to immortality as a man of peace. The whole prize is one guilty arms dealer’s attempt to launder his name. We are, all of us, administering a dead man’s public relations. I find this clarifying. It keeps me humble. It should keep everyone humble, and it keeps, by my count, no one humble at all.

So who did we give it to?

An eighty-five-year-old woman. A judge. Born in Durban, under apartheid, granddaughter of a Tamil man who came to South Africa as indentured labor, a bus driver’s daughter from the poor Indian quarter, who became the first non-white woman to run a law practice in her province, who defended Mandela’s people when defending them was dangerous, who sat on the Rwanda tribunal and the court at the Hague, and who, at eighty-five, is right now a judge weighing whether a genocide is a genocide. When we told the world, our chairman said the rule of law “underpins the system we have set up to ensure peace,” and that “peace requires justice.” She wasn’t even in Oslo. She was in Nuremberg. In courtroom 600. The actual room where they tried the Nazis. You cannot stage that. God staged that, and God, it turns out, is a better satirist than any of us.

She did not phone us. She did not post. No prime minister demanded it for her on the internet. She had, as far as our deliberations are concerned, the one qualification the loud man could never manufacture, which is that she wanted the work and not the medal. The medal finds those people. It flees the ones who chase it. This is not a rule we wrote. It’s just the only pattern the hundred-odd years of our mistakes has ever shown.

The reaction from across the ocean was immediate. His spokesman posted that we “place politics over peace.” Ja. Perhaps. We’re five damp pensioners in a rainy city; of course it’s political, it was always political, it was political when we gave it to a sitting American president nine months into his first term for the promise of things he had not yet done, and we have been quietly embarrassed about that one for fifteen years, so believe me, we had a particular reason this year to prefer a woman with fifty years of verdicts behind her over a man with eight wars in front of him and a deadline already behind him.

Here is what he will never understand, the thing I’d tell him on the tram if he ever took one. We are the one prize he cannot buy, cannot post his way to, cannot have a friendly dictator phone in for him. Not because we’re incorruptible, nei, we’re as vain and wrong and human as the portraits on our wall. But because the entire point of the thing, the only power a small cold country’s book club has ever held, is that it goes to the person not performing the wanting. The moment you demand it, you’ve proven you don’t understand what it’s for, and proving that is itself the disqualification. He ran the most expensive campaign in the history of the prize and the campaign was the reason. He was never losing to Navi Pillay. He was losing to the concept.

It’s dark now. Four o’clock dark. The buns are gone. Kristin said “well” an hour ago and we all went home. I’m on the tram with my wet shoes, and somewhere across the water a very powerful man is explaining to a camera that the prize is rigged, that we’re corrupt, that he’ll win it next year, and he genuinely might, we’re only five idiots and we’ve been wrong before, Kissinger is still on the wall.

But not this year. This year an old woman in Nuremberg, in the room where the law once stared down the exact kind of man who thinks wanting a thing loudly enough should make it his, got a phone call she didn’t ask for.

That’s the job. We don’t reward the man who ends the war and announces it.

We reward the woman who spent fifty years deciding what a war was.

He’ll never see the difference. That’s rather the whole point of him.

Takk for i dag. I have to change trams.

[ColdJack @TheColdJack]

USA vs. Europe