Chris Sacca's 'What is left?'

Shhhh . . . Listen . . .

[Our truck was broken into while parked in our locked garage last night. The thieves made off with about 200 CDs including the binder that was loosely arranged to include hip-hop and the binder that contained our 90s rock. While riding the train to work, I tried to get on with my day, but found myself getting choked up. So, I wrote the following.]

Does it seem quieter today? Listen harder. Strain your ears . . . nothing? Can you hear anything at all? No roots? No Beasties? Can you hear any Handsome Boy Modeling School breaks? Any KRS off in the distance?

Spearhead is not riffing on Republicans, LL is being remarkably modest and its certainly not Dre day. G Love must be all set for cold beverages, and the Bare Naked Ladies found it too cold this morning in SF so they went back inside to find their clothes. Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam are boycotting the venue. Blind Melon is wimpering for just one more day with Shannon. For once, Billy is resolutely side by side with the rest of the Pumpkins, his pugnacious lips not flapping. The Chili Peppers are back under the bridge. And, if Mr. Brownstone is dancing, it is not with us.

Jay Kay (front man of Jamiroquai) once had his trademark black hat stolen from an overhead bin. He said it was particularly painful because, though the hat didn't mean that much to him, and wasn't actually that valuable, the hat was the thing he would turn to to take the edge off of pains like . . . getting his hat stolen.

What better way to cope with the loss of hundreds of cds than to play some DJ Shadow, Entroducing? Or not, as the case may be.

This is the second time in life I have had my music taken. I feel like my fingerprints have been peeled off. Like my face has been erased with the top of a nubbed #2. Moments, encapsulated emotions, the shards of my aggregated chronological identity, vanished. Sure people will still recognize me. But, how do I recognize myself? Mirrors dont work well for me. Blisteringly loud songs in the open air, beats pulsing through my chest, and my voice echoing the melodies until scratchy. This is where I look for my reflection.

Here I sit, moments after this trangression, seeking triage by clutching at ditties in my Itunes. Eclectic singles that were only intended to round out valleys in my collection of discs. Ice cube, to Snoop, to Steely Dan, Boards of Canada, Shadow remixed, Mos Def, and Biggie, a few cuts from the Streets, a Dizzee single, Sublime makes me grin, Femmes remind me of simplicity, Tragically Hip take me home, but U2 is just too much right now.

I want to take these headphones from my ears, drive them into my junkied veins and let lyrics and beats innoculate me. Come on, the withdrawal is on its way. Give me my methadone. My bloodstream and soul, coursing with such poetry, might then illuminate the contours of my now blurry visage.

After a short vigil considering the futile, fleeting, and pointless nature of owning things, anything at all some of the kidnapped music will be replaced. Within 48 hours surely I will own each Roots album produced and Mike D, MCA, and Adam will once again kick it root down on my shelves. Yet, some will be lost forever. Will I remember to pick up MC Solaar? Will Common leap out at me in some used bin some day and remind me of the shattered glass littering my front seats? Will I sit lonely some evening craving the elixir of a Big Audio Dynamite interstitial to no avail?

What about Chris Keup's debut? A valet car parker with whom I shared an ugly $6.50 an hour job, but who had the tireless drive to share his gnarled and smokey baritone with the world. Our tip money was his studio budget, and the unrequited affections of the women who hurried over our bricked corner the objects of his pen. Off to gemm.com to scour for suckers foolish enough to part with one of the ten greatest albums never distributed.

There was a Pumpkins bootleg I found in Slovakia in 1995. An Ozomatli promo, worn like a badge that I made it to the party early. A George Michael two-disc compendium following his break with Sony. J5 is gone and the early Black Eyed Peas will hopefully find a new home. I had a Proyecto Uno album from a release party in Quito. Use Your Illusion I and II remind me of a summer laundry room at Stanford. Milennium Hip Hop Party stringing together weekend surburan high school nights in a freshly felled field. The Def Jam box set used to loom like a reference book ready to settle bets or offer education.

There is one warmth to which I cling in such an acerbic moment: shared experience.

If my home burned to the ground today, in my melancholy I would sit back and remember the bountiful dinners and parties, friends crammed knee to knee around the table with boastful reds and cackling laughter. Such reassuring comraderie soundtracked to Michael Franti, Oakenfold, Fatboy, and Thievery Corporation and the conversation stepping in time with each groove. Julieta Vanegas and Brooklyn Funk Essentials would move us until eyes grew heavy and that next shot didn't seem like such a good idea. And as I would behold the embers that were once where I lived, I would sigh knowing the immutability of treasured times shared there.

So, as I stared today at the conceit of safety glass confetti that scurried to avoid the burglar's assault thus seeking immediate refuge in seemingly arbitrary nooks throughout the car, my thoughts soon turned from that garage. The random crisp of liberated fragments against the soles of my shoes was fading. The dank light of the muted concrete brightened. I closed my eyes.

Because, though the discs that were the wrapper for so many of our memories were gone, there I was with each of you. After a hard day of skiing boilerplate in Ellicottville, wrapping up a bleary night in Georgetown, cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, wreaking havoc on Mormon bowling alleys in rural Utah. We have danced through basement bars Spain, translated a lot of lyrics in Latin America, made trouble together through unprepared Ohio towns, and thrown macaroni at musty waterfront stages in Baltimore. We have belted out tunes by fires in Ireland, laid back with the top down in the sun driving nowhere tapping beats on the rearviews, stood on the bars at Sundance, been lost and homeless in the Czech Republic, and comforted each other on the grayest days in Buffalo.

[And then, before I got too sappy, the train pulled into Mountain View.]

Some links that have piled up:

W, in his own words.

How I am deciding for whom to vote.

GM vs. Denmark? Daimler vs. Poland? (I love this kind of data)

Punchlines suggested by Ashton Kutcher for Punk'd that were rejected due to their archaic nature.

Side-splitting bottom-up literary and cinematic critiques. (Worth 1/2 an hour at least)

A spectrum map of intellectual property protection.

Never been on a cruise, but such an impressive illustration.

Pitch suggestions from a VC. It never gets old because so few execute it well.

Race to Invalidation

Many of you know that I have very strong opinions about the state of intellectual property protection in the U.S. For instance, the realm of copyright jurisprudence and enforcement is rife with inconsistency and absurdity. You only need read Lessig and Gillmor (among others) for a week or two to figure that out. Nevertheless, what has really depressed me over the last few years is the dysfunction of our patent system.

I unforunately cannot write in specifics because I was counsel to a handful of patent actions that are still pending before federal courts today. Nevertheless, I can say that the more I learned about the patent system, the more I realized that its application today was functioning to stifle innovation and technological progress. This is why I was so excited to see that EFF was putting effort into exposing and hopefully invalidating some of the most egregious patents and the teams who seek to exploit them.

The Patent Busting project has assembled a list of what it deems to be the Ten Most Wanted patents for invalidation. On the list there may be some particularly underhanded folks with whom I may have butted heads over the past few years. But, of course, I wouldn't want to cast any targeted aspersions.

Take a second to read the list and consider the effect that these well-heeled extortionists can have on bootstrapped start-ups. Convinced? Now take a moment to give EFF a couple of bucks. Feels good, eh?

Sunni Rochambeau

The trial of Saddam in Iraq shows that the bleeding edge of international jurisprudence is finally embracing the decisiveness of rock, paper, scissors as an alternative dispute resolution mechanism.

Caution to readers: do not confuse the tactics of a rookie like Saddam with an experienced gesticulator like Rumsfeld.

Keep the peace? Since when . . .

From a personality test via Chester, via Meg:

You are passionate about your causes, with a good heart and good endeavors. Your personal fire is contagious, and others wish they could be as dedicated to their beliefs as you are. Your dedication may cause you to miss the boat on life's more slight and trivial activities. You will feel no loss when skipping some inane mixer, but it can be frustrating to others to whom such things are important. While you find it difficult to see other points of view, it may be useful to act as if you do, and play along once in a while. In any event, you have buckets of charisma and a natural skill for making people open up. Your greatest asset is an ability to make progress while keeping the peace.

Okay, reflecting upon the above, I agree with the passion and dedication points. I do take some pride in getting people fired up. However, missing the boat on life's trivial activities? Frankly, I think I specialize in the slight and inane. I will admit that seeing the points of view of others has always been a weak point for me, but that is because these 'others' are usually wrong.