Seeking Privacy

Here at the UCTMW World HQ we've had some problems getting the privacy to which we've become accustomed. And even though the boyfriend and the visitor from across the pond are now gone, there is still the cute Co-Ed around, just down the hall, watching netflix in the evenings, with or without her ear buds on.

Add that to the fact that we have a big family wedding coming up next weekend and the masses that will assemble in conjunction with that .... well, it seems like a good time for Slave and Mistress to flee for a little R&R for a few days before the unwashed and intrusive masses descend. We've reserved some chambers at a favorite Inn  just off the big lake to our northwest, and I've loaded our bikes on the car for a quick mid-day escape.

Of course, the theme of privacy - or the lack of it - has been all over the news this week. A 29 year old computer geek without a high school degree has fled his $200,000/ yr. job as a consultant for the NSA to the freedom loving environs of the People's Republic of China, from whence, over hotel room service, he's disclosed that his former masters  have been accumulating Multiple Zetas of data that might allow the government to figure out who we have ever called and when, ever  since the advent of the I-Phone.

And then there's that whole internet thing: tracking the emails and web traffic of "foreigners" to see if we can discover what those pesky terrorists are up to, and where they might strike next.

It made me realize that as a world renowned sex blogger with a vast media conglomerate and an international following (of sorts), the NSA likely has somewhere in the bowels of its dingy data mine a detailed history of Molly, Mick and all of the commenters who have graced these pages.

Could it be that some of the comments have been coded messages from one "bad guy" to another?

Does the comment "nice ass, Molly", really mean, pick up the plastique at 3 am in the dumpster behind  the bar on Penelope Ave. in Fresno?

Do references to "vats of lube" really mean drums of depleted enriched uranium for a dirty bomb?

Could NSA "analysts" employed as independent contractors by some international consulting company like Booz Allen be spending vast quantities of  billable hours admiring Molly's ass?

Maybe we should all be paranoid about this  vast expansion of government data collection in the name of the war on terrorism.

But you know what?

I don't really care.

We already know that by setting foot in and laying tracks on the cyber-world we've opened ourselves to the prying eyes of corporate giants like Google, Verizon and Facebook, and to the cyber stalkers and lurkers who might like to exploit our freedom of expression.  It's no secret that Google's systems track our emails and pitch us ads based on their content. Facebook does the same. So do the pages of websites like the New York Times and the Washington Post that we frequent.

So the notion that our cyber-conduct is being monitored by "Big Brother" should hardly be a surprise to anyone.

Is it different that Big Government in addition to Big Corporate is doing the data collecting on us?

Potentially.

Certainly the power could be abused to monitor political rivals or punish dissidents, as happens in China where the liberty loving Mr. Snowden now hangs his hat.

But we've seen no sign of that abuse here, at least so far. And who can blame a government expected to protect us from the next 9/11 to use the tools available to at least try to do that.  After the Boston Bombing the political finger pointing - "why didn't the FBI prevent those losers from doing this" -began even before all the blood was mopped up at the Marathons finish line.

Finally, we all know what to do if we don't want to be tracked by the snoops at NSA, Google, Facebook and the rest.

Unplug.

Eliminate or reduce your cyber footprint. Cut the blogging, facebooking, and tweeting.

Reintroduce yourself to your local mailman, newspaper or book store.

They sure could use the business.

And that would free up a lot more time for sex.

Waiting for the Thought Police to knock at the door,

Mick