A Mountain of Scata

When I hear the word "data" used for the mountain of daily dribble that Facebook and sites like it have piled up in their basements, I ever so slightly wince.

It must be the tiny weekend scientist inside me banging on my skull.

The word 'data' used to imply actual research.  You couldn't just record a phone call you had with a middle school friend talking about teachers and band class and call that "data".

Data starts with an intention, with some question in mind. It has a form of your own design so that you can fill it in like ice-tray popsicles, and then look it over to see what colors came out.

Modern 'data', especially 'big data', is characterized by a complete lack of form and mostly a complete lack of intention.  The questions come out of the data.

This is obviously not the same as real Data, and it's high time someone did something about it.

So I'm proposing a word that embodies both intention and circumstance, regularity and randomness. That word is -- wait for it -- 'scata'.  Don't like it?  Would you believe, 'guana'?

Think about it.  You don't want to confuse real useful stuff with the kind of 'information' you get out of millions of people commenting on cats and pummeling each other with babies and dogs.

You're really going to need a way to quickly inform the doctor or <gasp> data scientist next to you that yes, you get it, trying to squeeze a gem out of the vanilla pudding and Lucky Charms that is Facebook is as absurd as Jules Verne going on about submarines.

And data scientists will finally have a language ally, instead of that infidel that constantly betrays them as they try and explain that no, in fact it's not "data", it is largely a nonsensical string of gibberish that, if we spend enough money on processing power and storage, may one day derive the internal motivation of cats, but right now we have no results thank you -- while their smooth friend down the hall glides off to their genetic sequencing work using real Data.

Cave Art Shows

Of course there was this cave guy who really understood painting. The kind of guy that bored his friends and found everyone to be - well - undereducated.

You couldn't show this guy a cave painting you just put up. Not only would he not share your joy, but he would explain how you mixed your paint incorrectly.

But you have to admit to yourself, after dragging your kids across the forest to the cliffs across the way to see his latest work that everyone is talking about - his stuff is, pretty good. You try to hide your annoyance as the local women huddle together and produce a gurgle of excitement.

The artist Himself approaches and you are about to ask him what the red stick above the hunter's head is because it's a shape you don't readily recognize, when his air of Way-Above-Neanderthal wafts over you and your sudden bubble of interest pops. You have to leave the cave and grunt to the kids as you wipe a dirty hand on fresh fur hanging over the door on your way out.

Next weekend, it's back to that water park again.

Why don't these cars go straight?

"Back in my day, you didn't even have to touch the wheel - the car just went straight! None of this fooling around with the wheel! Nowadays you can do what you want but the car just won't do it!"  I imagined the old guy in front of me ranting while his car swerved all over the highway.

At least the old guys have an excuse!