tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55346341877431010492024-03-05T09:39:01.137-08:00Finding The Perfect WorldThe Perfect World System is perfect because it expects and accepts human imperfection.Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-38245177655133549832011-10-23T13:55:00.000-07:002011-10-23T17:32:29.706-07:00Pretty Baby<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Nobody knew when the invasion began. One day, they were all just... here.</div>
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Maybe 'invasion' is a strong word. Appropriation? Overrunning? Occupation? Let me start from the beginning. My name Is Theo Harper, I live in Washington DC and work as a bicycle courier for HQ Deliveries, the number two delivery service in the DC metro.<br />
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'HQ-- We Try Harder'</div>
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Washington is a crowded city and normal, car-based delivery services are subject to the whims of traffic. Not so with bicycles-- we can go anywhere; between car lanes, on the sidewalk, down narrow alleyways-- whatever it takes. HQ also has an incentive plan for speedy deliveries, and that's why I mounted an electric motor and lightweight battery to Ugly Baby. You see, the hills are a killer for incentive cash. You need a game-changer and that was mine. My cool riding goggles equipped with lifesaving rear-view mirrors were another. But I sidetrack.</div>
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So I have my routes, right? The company has accounts, taking packages between two remote businesses over and again. This one route, where I bring two-foot-long cardboard cylinders about three miles right past Capitol Mall, I noticed something strange the other day. There was a guy, tall and thin, with a mop of blonde hair, just standing, staring <i>away</i> from the Capitol building as people walked past him going about their day. I saw him there on my way to the drop point, and he was still there fifteen minutes later, on my way back.</div>
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Now that in itself isn't strange. Hayseed types visit from farm country all the time and are astounded by the monuments in our nation's capital. You see them standing around and gawking pretty much every day. But this guy was different-- he wasn't gawking at all. He had no camera around his neck, no tour info clutched in his hand, no backpack... and no stupid Hawaiian shirt. He was a monochrome sort of guy, wearing white linen slacks and a long-sleeve, wrinkle-free white cotton shirt. He looked like one third of a Benneton ad. No, it was obvious that he was no tourist.</div>
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But later that day, I saw him again. Twice! Each time, he was standing at the entrance to another famous Washington building. Motionless. Alone. And looking <i>away</i> from it. It was strange because these buildings were far from each other, with no time to get from one to another without some traffic-defying device like my motorized bicycle.</div>
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And the next day I saw him again. <i>Three </i>times. In one delivery! Now I knew there must be more than one of him... no human could move that quickly. But twins? Triplets? Just standing on public steps, staring out at the city, tall thin mop-haired men wearing the same white outfits? It was weird, and it was piquing my curiosity. I promised myself that when I wasn't in a killer rush, I'd stop and ask a few questions.</div>
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I got my chance at the end of work today. I was on Ugly Baby, heading home. Other delivery companies have their own bicycles, mopeds and mini-cycles, but my rig was my own. I took it with me everywhere. On my way home I usually cut through a park, one with a pretty cool stairway I ride down. My fat balloon tires just bounce on those steps; I needed indestructible hardware if I was going to make any real money in this job.</div>
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Well, he was <i>on</i> those steps. I didn't notice until I was almost on top of him; I swerved to avoid collision and the knobby tires I depend on slid sideways, dumping me unceremoniously at his feet. He looked down at me, offered a hand and pulled me up. He was surprisingly strong for a skinny guy, but then I figured, most farmers were pretty strong.</div>
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"Thanks." I brushed myself off. I wasn't injured at all; I have catlike reflexes and actually landed on all fours. "Say, haven't I seen you around here for a couple of days?"</div>
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He returned to gazing outwards and then spoke, enunciating each word like reading from a list. "Most... likely."</div>
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"We get a lot of visitors here in the nation's capitol. Where are you from?"</div>
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Still staring. "Not... from... around... here."</div>
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"Well, that's pretty obvious. You look around with such intensity, it seems as though you've never seen Washington before."</div>
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"I... have... not."</div>
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"Well, how long is your vacation? I could recommend some interesting, out of the way places if you like that kind of thing."</div>
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"It... is... open-ended." His eyes met mine. I then noticed how odd they were, deep and soulful, like staring into infinity. There was no color in the iris... well, okay, black. All black. They also seemed to be unusually large, almost filling up the white sclera the way a dog's eyes do. I was compelled to ask more questions-- I didn't want to leave his company just yet.</div>
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"I also saw your twin brothers earlier, standing-- always standing-- in a few other parts of the city."</div>
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"Yes." That was it. Just yes. No other explanation.</div>
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"Do you always vacation together, yet separately?"</div>
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"I suppose." </div>
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Wow. He was stoic! "My name's Theo. What's yours?" I held out a hand.</div>
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"Rath." He looked at my hand, and then clasped it. No shaking, just holding. It began to get a little uncomfortable and I drew my hand back ever so slightly. He got the cue and released. Then for the first time, he initiated conversation. "How... do I meet the president, Theo?"</div>
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That seemed an odd question for another American to ask but I went with it. "You don't. The president is very well protected. Only other politicians and important people get to meet him. If they are, they get put on his schedule."</div>
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"I see." He returned to the hundred-yard stare. He said nothing for a while and I realized he was finished talking to me.</div>
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I collected Ugly Baby and hoisted myself up on it. There was a new bend in the fork, but nothing I couldn't fix. "Well, I'd better get home. Thanks for the assist. Nice to meet you, Rath."</div>
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"Likewise."</div>
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As I began to leave he spoke again. "Did you make that?"</div>
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I stopped. "Make what?"</div>
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He pointed at the motor housed within the triangular pipe frame on my bike. "That."</div>
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"Um, yes. It helps with big hills. I'm a courier and use it all day long."</div>
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"I see." That was all; he was done. I drove away, waving. He ignored me.</div>
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The next day, I was heading out for work like I always do. I hopped down the five flights of stairs to where Ugly Baby was chained on the first floor-- no point in bringing it all the way up every night, since I used a secure Kryptonite lock attached to the locked building's sturdy metal stair railing.</div>
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The bike was gone.</div>
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Frantically I looked around. Stolen? Why? It was basically a cobbled-together piece of crap, made from the parts of half a dozen bikes I had cannibalized from the dump. I never even bothered to paint it one uniform color, so the fork was metallic blue while the body was a hideous lemon yellow. It was scratched and dented and the seat was torn, and of course it had the weird, ugly motor and black battery clamming up the works. It was, as I liked to say, 'an Ugly Baby'. But it was <i>my</i> Ugly Baby.</div>
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I bounded back up to my apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. My asshole roommate Dwayne must be fucking with me. He knows where the spare bike key is and he is exactly the kind of guy who would end up getting me fired from a job while trying to be-- in his words-- 'Mista Funny Man'. I met him after I'd answered an ad on Craig's List for apartments to share-- I hated him immediately but the price was excellent for the center of town so I signed on, figuring this would just be my place to crash at night. </div>
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He was in the kitchen, drinking <i>my</i> orange juice. Again. I yelled, "What did you do with it?"</div>
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"I threw it out. It was ugly. Everything you own is ugly. <i>You're</i> ugly."</div>
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"Fuck you. I need that bike for work, scumbag! Give it back!"</div>
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He giggled, an unusual high-pitched trill that sounded weird coming from a tall fat man with multiple chins. "Your bike? I wouldn't touch that stinking piece of garbage! I thought you were talking about that stained and torn rag you call a jacket! You left it on the floor again so I tossed it out the window. It's in a mud puddle in the back yard."</div>
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"You're an asshole, you know that? I hope you die of AIDS."</div>
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I ran back down the stairs as he called after me, "It's not a death sentence any more... douche!"</div>
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I burst through the front door, looking left and right down the street for the perpetrator... and stopped. At the foot of my stoop, standing unassisted, was Ugly Baby! Sort of. The seat was the same, but there were no rips. The fork was still from a Schwinn and mounted on a Hoffy body, only now it was free of scratches and that ugly rusted scrape from a confrontation with a wayward fire hydrant last month. Last night's new bend was gone as well. The paint color now matched, and was a deep blue-green that defied focus. But the biggest change was my electric assist conversion-- it was gone! The gearing attaching it to my pedal hub-- gone as well.</div>
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And standing next to the bike, clean and white, was Rath.</div>
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He turned to look at me, face impassive. "Your device."</div>
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"What did you do to it, Rath? And how did you move it? That lock is impossible!" I was upset that he had messed with my bike, but simultaneously pleased at how <i>un</i>-ugly she had become. "And where is my assist mechanism? I need it!"</div>
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"You do not." Rath motioned for me to climb aboard and I did, reluctantly. He handed me my lock, now open. "Drive it as normal."</div>
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I was pissed, sort of, but was late for work and really didn't have the heart to yell at him. He was weird but benign, and it looked like he had tried to do me a favor. Even if the favor was going to make it hard to work without the mechanical assist. Even if my suddenly attractive bike would now be a target of theft. Experimentally I pushed on the pedal, pointing Ugly Baby-- I suppose I'd have to rename her Pretty Baby now-- uphill. But rather than encountering the expected resistance of a steep hill, she just took off like I had been pointing <i>downhill</i>! One revolution of the pedals and she zoomed unassisted to the end of the block! Even my gadgetry hadn't provided <i>that</i> kind of help!</div>
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I turned back to thank him for whatever it was he had done to her-- those farm types really know their way around machinery!-- but he was gone, visible nowhere on the block. Odd! I got off and inspected her more carefully, but could see no mechanisms which would aid me the way it just had done. It must be something in the hub, I reasoned, with batteries in the frame tubing. Shaking my head I climbed back up and continued to HQ, marveling at how every push of the pedal felt effortless, how balanced she felt even on rough road and even how much faster she seemed to go. In fact, even starting late I arrived at work early, and the entire day's ride was effortless! Normally I'd be panting after a crosstown jaunt; hot, red-faced and wet with sweat... but though today was warm, I whisked about with ease, cool and comfortable! What <i>had</i> Rath done? </div>
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When I returned from my first delivery the boss rang the bell reserved for record breaking and asked, "What did you do, hitch a ride on a helicopter? You beat your best time by <i>seven</i> minutes!" Then he looked at the bike, confused. "A makeover? How did <i>that</i> help your time? Where's that ugly lawnmower motor? Where's the city bus battery?" </div>
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He was joking... I of course had used much smaller parts, but his point was valid-- it was basically a new bike. Well, I couldn't answer because I didn't know, so I told the truth. "A friend worked on it last night. He's a miracle worker with machinery."</div>
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"Well, you should kiss him right on his shiny ass. You're gonna double your income if all your deliveries are this quick." He handed me another package and finished, "I'm timing this one to the second. <i>Go</i>!"</div>
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I hopped on and put oomph into my first pedal. My rear tire spun like a funny car at go, shooting blue smoke into HQ and laying rubber on the painted concrete floor. "Sorry, boss!" I shouted, zooming off with a blur. I was loving Rath's changes!</div>
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Returning from the delivery I spotted him again. He was standing in the street, on the yellow line, at the top of a hill, looking at the horizon. He was weird, there was no doubt. I pulled alongside and said, "Hey, Rath! This bike is amazing! What did you do to it?"</div>
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His gaze never faltering he replied, "Upgrades."</div>
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"Well, hell yeah! But I mean <i>what</i> upgrades? I can't see any mechanisms, anywhere!" He was infuriatingly vague.</div>
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He changed the subject. "Theo, how can I see the vice-president?" He was a one-trick pony, this guy!</div>
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"That won't be any easier than meeting the president, Rath. They're just too important and too busy. If you have your heart set on meeting <i>any</i> official, you'd probably have to start much further down the chain of command. A councilman, maybe, or a judge." I wondered why he wanted to meet them and asked as much.</div>
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"I have to change them." Not "I have to change their minds" or even "I have change to present." Rath wanted to change <i>them</i>. </div>
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I took the bait. "Why do you want to change them?"</div>
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"To fix this."</div>
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"This? Which <i>this</i>?"</div>
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"All of this." He was still viewing the horizon, and the way he said it, it seemed he was considering changing <i>everything</i>.<br />
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"But why?"</div>
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"It's all wrong."</div>
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"What's all wrong?"</div>
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"Chaos must not reign."</div>
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'Chaos must not reign'. Rath was cryptic as all get-out and I was beginning to wonder if he was a farmer at all. I looked at my watch and realized if I wanted that bonus I'd better get back to HQ. I said, "No it must not," and turned to go. He lay a hand on my handlebars, effectively clamping Pretty Baby in position. He turned to me and gazed into my eyes with his fawnlike depth; I became buttery.</div>
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"Stop the motorcade." Then he released her and I was free to go.</div>
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The rest of the day was one ringing bell at HQ after another. My name advanced on the incentive list, boss said, faster than anyone's ever had, skipping three positions in a single day. I was at number two now, a dangerous position because it threatened Frank at number one. Freak, as he was never called to his face, had commanded that top position for months. Anyone who got close to usurping the coveted first line usually ended up damaged... or their bike was. Fingers were pointed but there was never any evidence linking the incidents to him... and accusations didn't stop him from claiming the $500 prize each month. And now here I was, just two record-breaking deliveries away from becoming top dog.</div>
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Leaving work I got an eyeful of daggers from Freak, not a comfortable place for a little guy like me to be. He was heavily muscled for a biker and liked to use them for impressive and off-putting feats of strength, like tearing phone directories or squashing cans between his palms. Not thin aluminum soda cans-- beefy food tins.</div>
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So on my way home, when I noticed through my rear-view goggles his bike following mine at a suspicion-avoiding distance, I knew what fate would befall me, were I to allow it. One eye on the road and another on him, I made my way casually home. This was my turf... I knew every shortcut, jump and dead end around the city. DC was a sketchbook of routes in my mind, and I knew how I was going to shake the Freak... if I could get there before he made his move. I laid on the pedals and again thanked Rath in my mind-- Pretty Baby shot forward like an arrow from a bow. I noticed Freak was not falling behind as predicted... he must have a secret weapon in his bicycle, much as mine did.</div>
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Speaking of weapons, a projectile sailed past my ear at that moment, skittering away on the pavement in front of me. It was a smooth, rounded river rock, perfect for pitching and the right shape to dislodge a wheel and upset a smooth bike ride. So that's how he took out the other riders! What a piece of work. I had to shake my head at the smallness of his world; all that was in it seemed to be... him.</div>
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I wouldn't be so lucky a second time. Freak's aim was impeccable-- the next rock he threw would almost surely bean me good. I took a sharp left into a narrow ell-shaped alley, hoping the large wooden packing crate at the end hadn't been thrown away yet. It was unlikely since DC's large item disposal only came around on the first and fifteenth of each month, but if it had been taken by someone else I'd be trapped. I turned to face the dead end and thanked my guardian-- the crate hadn't moved! If I timed this right I'd be gone before Freak would see me, and if he didn't figure out the weird ledge I'd be home free. </div>
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I should explain about the ledge. The adjoining building forming the alley's right wall had been modified at some point; another level had been added to it. But not perfectly, I was thrilled to discover one day; the builders had left a two-inch ledge dividing the old roofline from the new wall thrusting up from it. Add to that the odd angle from its original modern design and you were left with a thin ramp of sorts that rose from ground level to about six feet... the perfect height for dropping onto the oft-appearing wooden box and over the dead-end fence. Then a quick bounce off the dumpster on the other side, a skid and a turn and I'd be out of sight, leaving the muscled bully scratching his head.</div>
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Getting extra power from Pretty Baby I hit that stone ledge like a bottle rocket and rose smoothly. I imagined with a grin what it must look like to a window observer-- me riding up the side of a smooth cinder-block wall, apparently defying gravity! I flipped onto the box as planned and sailed over the razor-wire-capped chain link fence, keen edges missing my tires by an inch, and descended onto the big blue dumpster...</div>
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...Which wasn't in position! It had been moved by some maniac and now sat skewed from its normal spot! I tried to compensate but my front tire missed the dumpster entirely, sending me and the bike careening past the sidewalk and row of parked cars, out of control yet still miraculously balanced, and into the wide intersection! I was dead!</div>
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I slammed on my brakes, trying to straighten myself out and maybe turn in the direction of traffic, where I'd stand good odds of avoiding a life-ending collision... but in this case I had to curse my new friend Rath, who had also apparently modified my brakes. I stopped with such finality I became airborne, heading over my handlebars and onto the tarmac. Again, my reflexes saved my sorry ass as I touched down in a Spidermanly three point landing, one hand flailing to garner leverage, toes balanced on the white line.</div>
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Pretty Baby was not so lucky. She remained exactly where I had braked her, and was somehow balanced, standing... until she found her home, Bavarian style, under the grill of a beefy black car. It shrieked to a halt beside me, bouncing and lurching as it folded and chewed up my bicycle, turning it into recycling. Steam shot from the radiator, narrowly missing my face. Not so for the suited man in dark glasses who tackled and pinned me to the ground, size fourteen sole crushed against my cheek.</div>
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"Threat contained. Repeat, threat contained. POTUS O.O.D." The man spoke into his lapel, shielded eyes scanning me for potential. Other men ran up and surrounded me, raising me and patting me down. Before I could speak a pair of plastic handcuffs had contained me, bound hand and foot.</div>
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I looked around. Back at the alley, Freak was smiling and chewing on a piece of jerky. He laughed and waved and rode off, mission accomplished. But the realization of my situation was dawning on <i>me</i>. The car I stopped was no ordinary black car... it was a long limousine, one of five. By the complement of black-suited burly guys surrounding both me and the vehicles I realized I had just interrupted a very important procession.<br />
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But in the middle of all this blackness was a sight I'll never forget. Standing by the third vehicle, as fair of hair and white of cloth as always, stood Rath! Oddly, nobody was tackling him, and he quite casually stepped into the vehicle and disappeared. Bizarre and unlikely to be sure, but the part that freaked me out was that he had never even opened the <i>door</i>. It was as if some Hollywood magic was at work, editing at the correct moment to make him seem ghostly. But it was <i>real</i>.</div>
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I again opened my mouth to speak but was dragged rudely to the sidewalk and dumped there. Two of the men reached beneath the car and grabbed my beloved Baby, another motioning the driver to back up. With a sick grinding the two were forcibly separated, my poor bike now resembling an Outback Steakhouse bloomin' onion. One of the Secret Service agents tossed my tortured Baby next to me with a shrug as the other snipped open my restraints. "You're free to go. You might want to invest in bicycle lessons. Oh, and a bicycle." He chuckled and returned to the lead limo, and the motorcade drove off without another word.</div>
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I stood up and watched them leave with my mouth gaping. How did I not get thrown into jail? How did Rath get an audience with the president? And <i>how</i> the <i>hell</i> did he walk <i>through</i> the president's car? Things were adding up in my head, except that two and two was beginning to equal three point one four one five nine. I lugged my bike for about fifty feet before realizing there was nothing I could do-- she was never coming back to me-- tearfully, I laid her to rest in a street bin. Time for a trip to the thrift shop. Maybe I could find an old ten speed or a Stingray to use for work tomorrow. So much for my incentive pay. I will somehow return the favor, Freak, you prickiest of pricks.</div>
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An hour later I dropped into my apartment, exhausted. I wasn't home for ten seconds when Dwayne the pain lubbered in with a raucous 'Haw!'</div>
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I did <i>not</i> want to deal with his nonsense and complained, "Not now. I've had a bad day."</div>
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"I would agree. Threatening the presidential motorcade and having your chief means of income and transportation destroyed all at once is a bad day, all right."</div>
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Again my mouth dropped... but only for a moment. This was the presidential motorcade we were talking about. Of <i>course</i> there would be news coverage of a bike crash. There was probably chopper footage. I facepalmed myself. I would be chewed up at work for this, maybe fired. Certainly I'd be the butt of many jokes for years to come. My solution? Sleep. I locked my bedroom door and shut out the misery for eight disturbing hours.<br />
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In the morning I made a list. Call boss and see if I still had my job. If so, go get a bike. If not, go get a job. Oh, and OJ.</div>
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I made the call. Apparently I could still work if I wanted to-- since my spill yesterday was determined to be a complete accident, I was considered by the viewing public to be nothing but a harmless buffoon who worked for <i>HQ</i> company, the one that was mentioned on <i>every</i> channel <i>all day</i> yesterday. Business was pouring in and boss was so pleased he even gave me a bonus out of it. He told me I'd have to sign the T-shirts he was selling, created from an image of me flying off Pretty Baby, captured on the television with the caption 'The K Street Klutz'. I was glad I didn't need to find a job but was <i>so</i> not pleased about the rest.</div>
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I poured the last of the orange juice quietly, letting it drip down the inside of my glass. Dwayne was asleep and I wanted him to stay that way until after I left. Bracing! Refreshed, and also a little intrigued by how orange juice always turns toothpaste remnants into little bits of rubber cement, I dashed down the stairs, sliding down the last handrail at ground level, and ran to the door.</div>
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And stopped.</div>
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And turned around.</div>
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And hollered.</div>
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Latched to that railing, with the same Kryptonite lock as always, was Pretty Baby, looking the same as she did yesterday morning! How? I kissed her and gave her a big hug, which must have looked odd because she's a bicycle. Then I fished my bike key out of my pocket-- and realized I had thrown it away when the lock was mangled with the bike... great! I turned to go back upstairs and get my diamond grinder, which would make short work of a lock that even Superman couldn't get into-- correction, that <i>only</i> Superman couldn't get into-- when I ran nose-first into Rath, standing inches behind me. It was like smacking into a brick wall, so little did he yield.</div>
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"Your device."</div>
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"Rath! Thank you thank you thank you!" I had never loved anyone quite so much as I loved him at this moment, and threw my arms around the tall, wispy man. He accepted my hug impassively, without reaction... and I released him, feeling a little bit foolish.</div>
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He said, "Thank you."</div>
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"Thank <i>me</i>? Thank <i>you</i>! Wait. What are you thanking me for?"</div>
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"For stopping the motorcade."</div>
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For stopping the...? It returned to me in a flash, and I connected all the dots I had been too distracted to remember yesterday. He had <i>asked</i> me to do that, but at the time I had no idea what he was referring to. But I hadn't planned on stopping <i>anything</i>! I was trying to get away from Freak and the motorcade thing just happened...</div>
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Or did it? I was in a rare moment of clarity and realized there was much more afoot with this man than I had suspected, even from the beginning! "Rath! You met the <i>president</i>!"</div>
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"Yes... I did."</div>
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And <i>how</i> he did it was the real story! I'm not a superstitious guy, or even very religious... but Rath was new, and different, and able... and almost certainly not from around here... not from DC, and not from the boonies... and probably not from Earth, either. "Well? What did you say? What did he do? Why didn't the Secret Service guys tackle you? And how did you pass through a solid metal limousine door? What <i>are</i> you?" I was frothing with curiosity-- I had to know more!</div>
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He placed both hands on my face in a caress, and for one uncomfortable moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead he stared into my eyes and I went passive, my limbs heavy like iron, and warm syrupy tranquility ran through my veins. How did he <i>do</i> that? His eyes widened and I was abruptly flooded with emotions... <i>his</i> emotions. Deep sadness. Painful frustration. And even, down deep, the tiniest inkling of anger. In that moment, I knew what he was trying to accomplish and I knew that he would succeed. Only, I didn't know <i>how</i>.</div>
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"The president does not speak the truth." I could feel his disappointment coursing into my body and I suddenly felt like crying. He continued, "I said it all must change. I told him this path was defective." He released my face and I leaned against the wall for support, my legs as weak as a newborn foal's.</div>
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I summoned my strength to speak. "You... did? How did... he react?"</div>
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"He said he would see what he could do."</div>
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"That's good, right?"</div>
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"But he was only thinking about killing me."</div>
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<i>That</i> disappointed me. I had voted for the current Chief of State based on his promise of rational debate and positive change, and up until now had been bitterly disappointed by his actions or rather, his lack of them. Now my hope was gone. "What happens next?"</div>
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"Now it is up to me."</div>
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The words were ominous and I was glad he had broken our emotional connection... the attachment had been so strong, I feared his ire would have killed me. "But how, Rath? How?"</div>
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He didn't answer me, but changed tack. "What... would <i>you...</i> repair?"</div>
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I stared at him, confused. "What do you mean?"</div>
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"If you could. What would you... fix?" He spoke that last word experimentally, separately pronouncing every letter, giving me time to absorb it. I balked... I had thought about this very question for years! I had been in an ivy league school, well on my way to becoming a theoretical physicist when the recession hit, destroying my father's real estate business. The money dried up and I had to drop out, taking this courier position to help them with bills. It was a hiccup I figured, but the years were slipping by with no sign of relief. I <i>knew</i> what I would change about this world!</div>
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"Oh, where do I start?"</div>
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"At the beginning." That was funny but he wasn't laughing, so I held my laugh in.</div>
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I said, "I think our biggest problem is fear. We need to stop the fear."</div>
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"What are you afraid of?"</div>
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"Everything! We're afraid of dying. We're afraid of getting hurt. We're afraid of anything happening to the people we love. We're afraid of starving, and freezing, and drowning, and getting shot. People who are different scare us. We fear the loss of our money, our cars, our homes. We shy away from bad weather and tempestuous oceans. We don't want our emotions bruised. We fear wild animals. We're scared of bullies and rapists and thieves and murderers. And our fright is so complete, we even fear things we don't know about yet!"</div>
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"I see. How can fear be stopped?"</div>
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He was asking some big questions! But, questions which deserved answers, and so I tried. "Uh, it can't. Not all of it. It's a fact of nature that people all die-- we can't stop that from happening. But all the rest can be diminished or even eliminated, I think, by changing how we're organized."</div>
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"What would you change it into?"</div>
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"Into a benevolent direct democracy."</div>
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"What is that?"</div>
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"A benevolence based, individually represented alliance of every mind."</div>
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"Elaborate."</div>
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"We change focus away from money. We don't concentrate on personal earnings or business growth. Our attention would be on the individual-- seeing that they are educated to their potential and placed into a field which complements their abilities, making certain that their needs are guaranteed and that plenty of potential for creativity exists-- and on the planet, restoring it to its pristine state, guaranteeing a clean home for future generations. We aim for continuity of design and conservation of energy. It would be a political system without politicians, where each human represents instead themselves, their families and friends and neighbors, their towns and cities and countries, in a true symbiosis with the rest of humanity."</div>
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"Why isn't that done now?"</div>
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Wow. Really good question. Rath was beginning to remind me of the little boy that responds to every explanation with <i>'why?'</i>, attempting to learn the way of the world in one sitting. I chuckled at his naivete. "Because, for whatever reason, the population is usually fairly evenly divided on any concept, no matter how sensible an idea is presented. For some reason roughly 50% see imagined scenarios in which the good idea would become bad, even harmful, so vote it down. I personally believe that many of the detractors actually believe a benevolence plan would work, but can't imagine a world which would allow such a selfless, generous plan to come about. Fear of the unknown causes them to vote against their own self interest."</div>
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"Thank you, Theo. I know what to do now." He stepped past me, heading for the door.</div>
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"Rath?" I had one question, logical or not.</div>
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"Yes, Theo?"</div>
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"What's your deal, Rath? Are you an angel or something?"</div>
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"Angel. Hmm. A flying representative of the deity from your mythology?"<br />
So Rath viewed religion as folklore! I guessed his answer immediately but responded, "I suppose."</div>
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"No." He walked out without another word and I congratulated my acumen like a schoolboy. Got it! </div>
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That talk left me somewhat uneasy. So did looking down and seeing the Kryptonite lock mounted in its storage clasp on the bike and feeling the key now back in my pocket. I thought about my conversation with Rath as I rode to HQ. What was he? Alien? Extradimensional? And what ideas had I given him? How would he implement them? Would he encounter resistance? If he did I doubted it would last, after the easy way he rendered me passive on several occasions now. And surely not with his extraordinary ability to walk unobstructed through walls!</div>
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Turning right at the corner I saw Rath again. He was talking to a woman on the street. I waved but he didn't react. Two blocks later he was speaking to an older couple sitting at an outdoor cafe. Taking the next left he showed up with some kids in a schoolyard, holding the skipping rope. This continued all the way to work... I must have seen him fifty times. Or were they his identical brothers? I hadn't received a definitive answer. He was everywhere!</div>
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Pulling into HQ I could see we were swamped. Boss's desk was covered in order sheets and riders I'd never seen were flocking the place. Boss didn't even have time to talk-- holding two phones, he just pointed to a large pile of packages, delivery tickets attached. Wow, pandemonium! I read through the tickets and pulled out three deliveries in the same neighborhood, loading them into Pretty Baby, and took off immediately. I didn't want Freak to see me on my bike, especially after witnessing its total destruction yesterday. There were questions I didn't want to answer... couldn't answer.</div>
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Everywhere I went, all day long, it was the same weird thing. Rath appeared on every block, talking to individuals or groups, never acknowledging me. I could never see two of him in my field of vision at the same time, but I'd see one of him <i>constantly</i>. What the hell was he doing? I imagined he was probably interviewing others the way he had me, but even with his double (or doubles) I couldn't imagine he would get a very large sampling of viewpoints unless he did it for years... and I didn't think he would wait that long to execute his plan, whatever that plan was.</div>
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Oh, great. Freak was a block ahead of me, in that deceptively fast, ridiculously designed bike of his. It looked heavy, with all its extra metal tubing and wings. Perhaps it was his strength which allowed him to zoom around, breaking all of HQ's records... but I doubted it. Especially since I just figured out how he did it! He was on a pretty serious hill now, and rather than stand to produce more inertia, he just reached under his seat... and two puffs of smoke and flame shot out of those extra tubes, roaring him up that hill in moments! His bike was jet-powered!</div>
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I turned the corner to avoid being seen... and ran into Rath! He was waiting for me and stopped Pretty Baby with a hand, using the other to contain me on the seat and keep me from flying off. That was getting old.</div>
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He said, "Go home."</div>
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"Why?"</div>
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He widened his eyes and repeated himself, and of course I went right home. Fat Dwayne was all over the couch, junk food bag on his snoring belly, chips all over the furniture and the floor. Disgusting. The TV was on and I went to change the channel but stopped. The news was on and a picture of Rath was onscreen! I turned up the volume.</div>
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"... very unusual. Once again, numerous phone calls have been logged in recent hours; complaints involving this man, appearing in many parts of the city, approaching strangers and asking disturbing questions."</div>
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The scene changed to an interview with a pair of teenage girls. "He like, asked if we liked our school and teachers..."</div>
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The other piped in, "... Yeah, and he asked me if any of them were mean or bad..."</div>
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The first cut in, "... No he didn't! He asked you if the subjects were boring or pointless!"</div>
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"Well, yeah, but he also asked about bullies..."</div>
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Another interview cut in with an older man in a buzz cut. "He asked what I'd change and I said we needed to kill the terrorists, kill the commies and kill the jews..."</div>
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Again the scene changed to a middle aged housewife. "We just need to believe in the good lord Jesus to wipe this vermin out!"</div>
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From some college kids, "I said we should legalize drugs, man!"</div>
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An African American woman added, "I kicked him right in his nuts! Those rednecks need to learn a lesson about talking to strangers!"</div>
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The news then cut away to a current, emergency press conference with the President. "I urge everyone to remain calm and not to speak to any of these men, who have shown up all across America in the last 72 hours. They appear unarmed but are here without proper identification or paperwork. We may have an insurgency of sorts. The National Guard has been called into service, to round these men up and detain them..."</div>
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My head pounded. All across America? What <i>was</i> Rath? He seemed so harmless! Strong yes, but non-violent. I hoped nothing would happen to him, but also, that nothing would happen to <i>us</i>. Looking back at the screen I lurched because as the President spoke, Rath appeared out of nothing, right beside him!</div>
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A dozen Secret Service rushed him, while others spirited the President away. The large men, rather than bringing him to his knees, bounced off Rath as if he were a tree trunk. Seeing that, others drew their service revolvers and pointed them at Rath. I was sickened by the sight, at the idea of him getting hurt, but angry with Rath for putting himself in the middle of such a high-security meeting. Then shots were fired. A lot of them.</div>
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The press conference erupted in screams, people dashing away and ducking for cover. The camera operator was jostled and it now displayed the ceiling, then swung wildly around the room before steadying, and pointing back at the podium. I couldn't look, but then heard Rath's voice.</div>
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"Please be calm." He was standing behind the bank of microphones where the President had been a moment earlier. He was uninjured but there were quite a few bullet holes in the backdrop behind him. The Secret Service contingent which had been slated for his destruction were now standing alongside him, calmly, their weapons holstered. The room quieted down abruptly.</div>
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He began to speak at length, which was a surprise since to me he had always been so monosyllabic. "I am Rath. Your world is in chaos. Countries fight for control, directing soldiers to kill and destroy. Many people are starving, or homeless. Most are unhappy. The planet's living layer is damaged and is at risk. You create products you don't need or with built-in flaws to guarantee a short life of use followed by a long time in garbage heaps which are approaching mountain status. You spend your lives chasing after profit, and then use it for extreme luxury and hoard the rest, hurting others that might need it simply to survive. You create dirty technology that damages your planet, which you keep using even after newer, better, cleaner technology exists... and again, you do it because of profit.</div>
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"I have come to help, but in order to help I had to learn, and so in the last day I have asked almost every one of you what it is that is wrong here, and how it could be made right. Many of your answers surprised me, being completely contradictory to each other. Many of your solutions were incredibly violent, wishing to eliminate an entire country, or an entire group of people. Still others seemed uninterested in your society's path at all."</div>
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I whistled. All of us? Himself? So Rath really was everywhere at once! All those times I saw him... everyone in the world must have had a similar experience! It blew my mind how he was able to carry on so many conversations, and process them, all at once. I figured he must have an enormous potential in his brain and wondered if we did as well, since we were similar in design. But then I thought he might have manipulated his look to fit in, and he might not look anything like Rath at all, really. I didn't know <i>what</i> to think.</div>
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He continued. "The most helpful responses came from the most innocent and naive of you. I have learned that the further up your business and political hierarchy one goes, the less truth comes from your mouths, until the ones at the top speak almost no truth at all... even to themselves. I have learned that the further up the hierarchy you go, the less you care about your fellow man and the more self-absorbed you become. I have seen how your leaders of countries and leaders of business empires view themselves as kings and as omnipotent beings, and view their dangerous and lethal solutions as somehow wise and beyond reproach.</div>
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"Even now, your American President has made a poor decision by ordering a strike upon this building using thermonuclear technology. He must see how this would turn the nation's Capitol into a scene of horrific carnage yet believes, truly believes, that this the right thing to do. Not for the people, not for the nation or the planet... but to insure his re-election. This is insanity."</div>
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I shit my pants right then. Nuclear strike? Here? What is <i>wrong</i> with the people in power? I answered my own question as I had answered Rath's this morning... fear. They were scared of Rath, scared of the change he represented, and would perform any unethical maneuver to stop it. Well, I hope Rath had a solution because fast bike or not, I wasn't escaping the blast radius of a nuke on DC.</div>
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Dumb Dwayne was still asleep on the couch, snoring his life away. At least he wouldn't know how he died.</div>
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With his surprising announcement the news cameras were now searching the sky, and sure enough, one picked up a sortie of five B-52 bomber jets on an intersect course with the press conference! In split screen we watched them approach as the conference again erupted in panic. I yelled out, in the loudest and longest scream I could muster, "<b><i>Nooooo</i></b>!"<br />
My yell woke Dwayne as he shouted, "What the <i>fuck</i>, asshole?!" but all I could do was point at the screen, trembling. He listened for a moment and then yelled again, "What the <i>fuck</i>?"</div>
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My voice came back. "They're trying to kill Rath, but instead are gonna kill all of us."</div>
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"That asshole? I told him to fuck off and die, with his stupid questions. Now I'm gonna die? Not without my revenge!" He ran out of the room. Good riddance.</div>
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Rath then performed his second feat of inhuman ability onscreen. He now became a hundred Raths and stood before each member of the audience! He held their heads much as he had mine and they calmed down immediately. Then all of the Raths disappeared, including the one onstage.</div>
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The bombers released their payloads and arced away. It was done! We were dead!</div>
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Now the screen was split on two separate views of the falling bombs. If I remembered correctly, they would detonate before hitting the ground, for maximum destructive force. I went to the window and searched for them myself. I wasn't hiding from the blast-- I was not going to be one of the ones left alive, only to die horribly of radiation sickness. I wanted to be atomized immediately.</div>
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I spotted the tiny specks in the sky just as Dwayne the Insane came back into the room. I almost didn't recognize him-- he was now wearing so many guns and had so much ammunition wrapped around him he looked like Rambo after a convention.</div>
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"If I'm dying I'm killing all the motherfuckers I hate... starting with you, bitch!" and he leveled a shotgun at me and fired!</div>
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I didn't think about it. I just reacted, bounding sideways behind the huge concrete column next to the window. Again my reflexes saved my life as the window glass shattered and I could hear dozens of pellets clinking into the column.</div>
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"Get over here, you pussy!" He ran to where he thought I was, but he didn't realize that, being as graceful as a water buffalo, I heard which direction he chose and went the other way, around the three foot square post. He turned and fired into empty air... and that's when I smashed into him from the other side.</div>
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He was big and fat, and I was small and lean. Even with three steps head start I really just expected him to lose his balance and fall, and then I would knock him out with a General Electric iron I had grabbed. But he teetered and clawed, trying to remain upright.. and then he spun on one foot, and levered himself right out the window!</div>
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I scrunched my eyes in horror, waiting for the sound of him to smash into some parked cars five stories below... but it never came. Instead, everything went white.</div>
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EPILOGUE</div>
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I woke up at 630 as always for my 8am class. I liked to be prepared and have food in my belly before classes. Professor Rath imparted a lot of information and expected us to learn; I was fully prepared but it had been my experience that the slightest distraction and I would miss some valuable fact which would screw up my understanding of these new subjects, which were incredibly new, difficult and subtle. I was glad to be back at school-- package delivery really was never my thing, even though it was fun while it lasted-- because of how much it all had changed, in just a very short time. </div>
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I thought back to the final day of the old world, or should I say, the first day of the new world. The blinding flash of light that I thought had spelled white-hot nuclear doom for me fortunately wasn't; it was Rath, performing 'a reset'. At that moment we were all nowhere; out of phase, floating and carefree, invisible and sightless, all knowledge irrelevant, all worry displaced. Slight swaying was felt as each conscious mind of man floated through a swirling spray of clarity that washed away the pettiness and fear pervading human life, like the accumulated crud on a road-weary coach. We became lucid, aware, serene.<br />
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Then a peculiar movement rushed past us all, a swirling blur of things familiar and strange; the sky and clouds, buildings and streets, faces and places whizzed past in sharp coherence like a rewinding video. My own path retraced, a rapid-fire review of my last moments and then I was back, we all were back, to the place we all were just a few minutes ago. The president was on the television, back when he was speaking to the world about a frightening new menace. Now he stopped. We all did.<br />
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Rath appeared beside him now, smiling, and the president smiled back, a broad grin of acceptance. Rath also stood beside each of us, caressing us, enveloping us in a blanket of still calm. The president cleared his throat, and with a confident puff and in a distinct ringing tone he declared, "It is clear to me, as it is to all of you, that we have been organizing humanity completely wrong for as long as we've been sentient. It is time for a major change, and with this next action I hope to correct our course." He took the time to look at each member of the audience then, nodding encouragement. "Beginning today, our world is changed. Your health and well-being will be guaranteed, so that you may each begin your path to enlightenment, as will I. Our focus shall be universal and our resolve will remain solid. With that last proclamation, I dismantle our ineffectual political process, and then resign as your president. I know we will at last succeed. Rath, if you will?" He yielded the floor and left the podium to a crowd of emotional well-wishers and devotees.<br />
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Rath took a breath and began. "You were a young race and were left to find your own way, as all races must. In many regards you succeeded beyond all expectations, but in others you fell way behind. The human race is too valuable to allow it be damaged or destroyed by inexperience, which is the cause for my arrival. I came here to unlock a piece of you which has lain dormant since civilization first fell, a vital part that will help you on your journey of discovery.<br />
"This I have now done. I have given each of you a key to your lost past, one which you will need for the difficult road ahead. Use this restored gift to reach your destiny as creators and leaders and designers. This universe is vast yet empty; in the future of man I hope to see a rich vibrancy emerge in your infinity, a textured contour reflecting your best traits, as countless other universes are doing and have done."<br />
He gave the audience time to absorb the enormity of his words and then finished with:<br />
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"The way to without is through discovery within. Learn this... do this... be this."<br />
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From that moment we were a changed race.</div>
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Gone were the lies, the fear, the selfishness. Enormous social change had simply fallen into place as greed evaporated and was replaced with accomodating transparency. He had given us an awesome ability... perhaps two awesome abilities, with that single bright light. All at once, as each of us felt his incredible emotional depth and were swallowed up in it, we became able to feel as others did. We became empathic.</div>
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Along with the amazing array of human changes made possibly by empathy, Rath gave us serenity as well. Or perhaps it came as a natural flow from living with empathy, I don't yet know. But however it sprang forth, it changed us as a race. Some of which were difficult yet necessary purges, scrubbing white the stains of our collective consciousness.<br />
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Many people that had spent their lives suffering crushing sorrow were unable to forgive themselves for their lives of duality, which split their selfless love of family with a coldblooded business acumen that traded lives as a function of dollars. They knew they were responsible for a great amount of human suffering and death, and many of the worst could not be brought back such was their torment, and they slipped into the black night by their own hand. This was tragic but could not be helped.<br />
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However for the great majority, they felt the warming hand of clemency laid upon them; with forgiveness came invigoration and a bright new goal, and the joy of this undeveloped future swelled their hard and shrunken souls, creating from them the most benevolent ones of all. It would be among these ranks from which the finest ideas would spring. The great human healing had begun.<br />
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We are on an important path now; at last, we are searching for something which is so much greater than any one of ourselves, goals which have the potential to change us in a very real way. We have been instructed to find our inner all, my maximum me, and this I will do if it takes me the rest of my natural life. It is all I want to do. It is all I can do.<br />
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It is all any of us can do.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div>
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</div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-47356242885316038142011-10-22T22:02:00.000-07:002011-10-22T22:02:52.498-07:00Magic Tune Finder<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="http://luxedb.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Jimi-Hendrix%E2%80%99-Blazing-Guitar.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://luxedb.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Jimi-Hendrix%E2%80%99-Blazing-Guitar.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
The Internet has become an exciting testing ground for new artists. In an area reserved formerly for the fortunate discovered or the inexhaustibly driven has opened up to allow a place for, amazingly, the purely talented.<br />
Several questions rise up, because of this prolific new source:</div>
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How do you find new musicians out of all those new videos? And once you find them,</div>
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How do you know if you will like them?</div>
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We all know about Youtube, where every artist puts a video of their music-- hell, I'm no musician and even *<i><b>I*</b></i> have a song on Youtube-- but have no way of knowing their names or what they will sound like.</div>
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Fewer of us, but still many, know about the wonderful source: Allmusic.com. Think of it like the IMDb-- the Internet <b><i>Music</i></b> Database. Every artist who has made a CD, record or tape will be listed there. But there's more!</div>
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Allmusic is truly a repository for some great information. Of course it has every album the band has done, including compilations and singles (no, no bootlegs... these are official recordings only)... and it also has a list of every song the band has ever done. It has a list of every artist that ever played with the band, and a detailed biography of them, from humble beginnings.* Small potatoes.</div>
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*But not ALL artists. Some are just getting started, some haven't supplied any information, and some don't know about Allmusic.</div>
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But perhaps the most valuable information available for audiophiles like us are the various lists on the overview page. Lists like 'Influenced By' and "Followed'. Lists like 'Similar Artists' and 'See Also'. And lists like 'Genres', 'Styles' and 'Moods'.</div>
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The reason why these are important lists are because they help us find musicians to embellish our musical tastes, basing it on music we already love. </div>
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<b>Influenced By</b>-- are all the musicians your fave band attributes to helping them create their unique style. They came before your band, so it's likely you know most of them. Read down the list and make note of any band you aren't familiar with.</div>
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<b>Followed</b>-- are all the bands who list your fave band as an influence. They came after your band and you might not know them. This category is a continuation of the first one; it's how the long line of musical styles are created.</div>
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<b>Similar Artists</b>-- are what they sound like. Bands that sound in one way or another, like your fave band.</div>
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<b>See Also</b>-- is a category that tells you if any of your fave band members have ever been in any other bands. Looking at the Beatles, for example you might find Wings in See Also.<br />
<b>Genres, Styles </b>and<b> Moods</b>-- are more generalized lists, each which will produce dozens if not hundreds of similar artists. A band will be listed in multiple categories, each one determined by using a magical formula involving unicorn poop... or maybe they just use surveys. I'll be honest and say I'm not certain how Allmusic arrives at them, but I know they can be amazingly accurate.</div>
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And realizing how easy it has now become to find new favorites caused me to think up a great new 'game' for music buffs like me. I'm going to call it<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Magic Tune Finder</span></b></div>
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Here's how it works:</div>
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STEP 1: Go to Allmusic.com and search for any one of your favorite artists. Stop when you get to the Overview page. Read the overview page categories mentioned above and assemble a list of bands and musicians found on those lists that you aren't familiar with.</div>
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STEP 2: Now go to Youtube and search for those bands names. You will find them. Remember, Youtube has everything. There will probably be multiple songs from each band. Good.</div>
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STEP 3: Create a playlist called (the band you chose), putting all the songs you found by the other artists into it. Don't be shy... I've seen playlists with over 100 songs.</div>
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STEP 4: Listen. You can bring other audiophiles that love your fave band to a listening party, or have a more intimate get-together involving one. But in either case, what you'll be hearing, hopefully, is song after song of unfamiliar songs that you LOVE. Or like. Or dislike. It doesn't matter, because when are done you'll follow</div>
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STEP 5: where you rate all the new songs by these new bands, and resolve to add their music to your iTunes... or you can choose never to hear them again. If you love them, great! But if you're not sold on buying the song yet you can move to </div>
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STEP 6: where you obtain a free app called something like 'Youtube Downloader', and once it's set up you'll be able to grab any music you hear on Youtube (or anywhere), enabling you to have it in your computer forever. But if you want to put the music in your iTunes however, you'll have to buy the full version... but if you don't, you'll still be able to listen to them any time you open the app.<br />
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So play Magic Tune Finder and find tunes you like, like magic!</div>
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<br /></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-10612176488912803292011-10-18T15:30:00.000-07:002011-10-20T18:48:19.016-07:00It's Em-Pathetic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our society isn't perfect. But it tries. And it's by and large the best standard of living ever found, for the largest breadth of society... so I'm not referring to the wonderful lives of Roman emperors, the few, made on the backs of thousands of slaves. Most of us have heated homes with electricity and running hot water. That is an enormous accomplishment on a scale which has never before been matched. </div>
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And it will keep improving, continually, wherever on the planet. </div>
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This enhancement in comfort gave us the ability to think about things <i>other</i> than survival, and ultimately brought us to the focus of this rant: Empathy.</div>
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Or use any of the other synonyms-- they will all work: compassion, caring, concern, commiseration, consideration, kindness, pity or sympathy. They all mean the same thing-- becoming expansive enough to give a shit about others.</div>
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Living creatures outside of humans on Earth keep their compassion tightly reined in, saving it mostly for their babies and, to a lesser extent, the other members of their community. We humans are alone in the sheer volume of compassion we are capable of producing.</div>
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And it is that volume which causes the conflict I bring before you.</div>
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See, the Earth is a wondrous, beautiful place. It is alive, both in the sense that it houses myriad living creatures and in that Earth itself is an ongoing process full of movement and reaction. It rotates on its axis causing day and night (and he heating and cooling processes which result) and revolves around the sun, causing the seasons (and the heating and cooling processes which result). The Earth itself is internally heated and is a huge magnet, having an iron ball 4000 miles in diameter at its core. Then there are the tides, the weather and geological movement. And just for fun... volcanoes.</div>
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So the Earth is always moving. It's also very dangerous. Everything on Earth is always evolving, being born and living and dying and decomposing and ending up in a million new living things... which then die, decompose and you get the picture. Animals eat plants or other animals, bugs eat plants and some plants eat bugs, big fish eat smaller fish that eat tiny fish... it's a gore fest.</div>
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And knowing this, I wonder how it is that some people can cry out for the plight of the poor animal. Now don't get me wrong. I understand this feeling. I watch Animal Planet. Seeing the lion make his score is both thrilling and torturous, imagining what agony the last few seconds of life must be for that poor creature... but I also know how its death will contribute to the lives of so many others, all the way down to the insects that pick the bones white and the plants which are nourished by the fecal matter left all around it.</div>
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So here's my problem. The people with the 'most' compassion have formed a group called PETA. PETA stands for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Whoa, practically a holy name, it sounds so good. But here's the rub: PETA's ultimate goal (if they get all their demands) is to see that all animals be treated as royal subjects, to be protected from harm by any and all human intervention, and to release all captive animals into the wild. That includes pets.</div>
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Yeah. Sounds dumb to me, too.</div>
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Maybe the group started out logically enough. One day, on a tour of some animal testing facility, a sensitive, politically active person saw a live kitten with its brain on the outside and recoiled in horror, resolving to stop these Frankenstein doctors from creating any more monsters. Apart from the emotional response, it <i>is</i> hard to reconcile their actions until we realize that this test ended polio (for example... no fact there). And I agree we shouldn't make animal's lives horrid just to find out what eight pounds of lipstick pumped into a chihuahua's stomach will do. </div>
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But PETA's initial mission statement seems to have gotten corrupted, and they can no longer see the chickens for the drumsticks... (ugh. Maybe I'll stick with 'forest for the trees'-- the other one seems awkward) They seem to have not thought it through that if they let all the animals run free, they will soon die because: </div>
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• They are ill-prepared to live in an environment full of predators</div>
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• They were not raised in that environment and will not know how to find food</div>
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• They don't know how to protect themselves from harsh weather</div>
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They seem not to recognize that all the animals which are used for experiments are well taken care of, well fed and when necessary, are killed painlessly. They promote science tremendously which betters life for all of us, humanity and the animal kingdom together-- where do you think animal vaccines get their approval from, anyway?</div>
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They find the raising of animals with soft fuzzy fur to be a crime as millions of these animals are slaughtered in their prime, only to be used for linings in warm jackets. I find that industry unnecessary, especially as technology produces ever more realistic artificial fur. But as it is done now, don't think these dead carcasses are thrown into the trash to rot in a landfill somewhere. No. The company would be ignoring a prime source of revenue if they did. Those carcasses are used in animal food production and for a wide variety of other uses. So their little lives aren't wasted, either. Call it recycling if you will.</div>
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They also complain about food animals being raised in poor environments. Now this is one thing I can appreciate. Nobody should have to live their lives in a crowded, dark place, and if the poor things could be given a little more breathing room and maybe had some Beethoven pumped into their pens they'd have it better until they were killed for our dietary enjoyment. </div>
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But something the PETA people never mention is that animals living 'free' spend every moment of their usually short lives on edge. In fear. Nervous about their survival, knowing that at any moment they could be attacked and eaten. Even if they are blissfully unaware of their fates (which I doubt because of the instinct to run when approached), that <i>still</i> shortens their lives as the predator descends, with a <i>very</i> undesirable finish. </div>
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Why doesn't <i>that</i> fate bother the PETA people? </div>
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At least all the factory farm animals have abundant food and comfortable temperatures and no fear of predators-- they have a life free of concern-- until that last second when they do their service to humanity, repaying them for their not unpleasant life, free of danger.</div>
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<blockquote>
As a matter of fact, I feel I could compare PETA and their desire to keep animals 'safe' from humanity by cruelly releasing them into the predator-filled wilds, with the religious right's desire to keep all unborn children safe from abortion so that, once they are born, they can be ignored and left to fend for themselves in the cruel, uncaring world.</blockquote>
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It just makes no fucking sense.</div>
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Sure I think we should not go overboard with our testing. Keep in mind though, that a lot of testing came about because of an overly litigious public... the corporations ordered the testing to eliminate dangers in their products, and thereby avoid lawsuits. But if that hadn't happened, people would instead be dying of untested products. Then there would be lawsuits, and... well, you see where I am going. </div>
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So don't go overboard with the testing. Test only those products with the potential to do human damage, and not unnecessary tests whose answers are easy to discern. Like, you don't need to throw lawn darts high and into a pen full of chickens to know that if it hits one, it'll kill it. Now there's an unnecessary test.</div>
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I also agree that it wouldn't kill the factory farms to let a little fresh air in, some light... even some room to move. I doubt the meat would get very tough if the contributing animals lived in a larger pen. We really do have to be on the lookout for people who ignore cruelty for the sake of the bottom line. When you think about it, that happens in our society, now, to people, by a number of sociopathic businessmen calling themselves bankers, CEO's and politicians... but that's a topic for another rant.</div>
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As a matter of fact, I'm thinking we wouldn't fare so badly if we were to create another watchdog group, and giving it the acronym PETU.</div>
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<b>"People for the Ethical Treatment of Us."</b></div>
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The first order of business: Making sure that the mission of PETA doesn't violate OUR civil rights.</div>
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<a href="http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2004/09/16/riot_wideweb__430x315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2004/09/16/riot_wideweb__430x315.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-65482567138249409952011-10-14T15:00:00.000-07:002011-10-21T11:15:28.709-07:00Surprise From the Past<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Leland sifted away packed sand from the newly exposed, hard metal cylinder with his stiff horsehair brush. The hairs on his arms were pointing, tingling with excitement. This could be it! He had eagerly signed on to this archaeological tour; exploring the site of Earth's Termination of Tyranny Movement was something he simply had to participate in firsthand. He had been assigned a ten foot by ten foot grid coordinate in a huge valley at the foot of enormous old Elder Rock, with its crumbling but intact carved message 'from the saviors', and a set of tools, along with 100,000 other volunteers. In two months he had found nothing of interest other than a small carved stone with fifteen even edges and five symbols sculpted finely into its face, and a small, curiously notched piece of metal encased in some type of impenetrably hardened honey, which he had turned over to Discoveries clerk Mout for recording and storage. Now, his brush slowly revealing the lengthy tube, his heart pounded with unbridled elation.<br />
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The Movement was a critical moment in human history as it led to the Great Enlightenment, an effort which ripped power from the steely clutches of the tyrants overseeing Earth's final Modern Dark Age. History books described a monumental effort by an enslaved population struggling against the backwards teachings of an eons-old book, fighting the pain of jagged binding collars to bring down a corrupt and powerful theocracy despite overwhelming odds and ushering in an age of logical thought and education. Millions were thought to have perished in the wars but as yet, not a bone had been found.<br />
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This ground, dug some fifteen feet below the valley floor, was thought to have been the site of the resistance headquarters and later, after victory, it was supposed to have become a museum housing all the technology from earlier ages, successfully hidden from repeated theocratic destruction sweeps. Many pieces had been found so far; most were smoothly rounded boxes of various palm-sized shapes encased in that same unbreakable amber material, and until a method could be discovered for removing them safely from it, none had been examined. Eager anticipation was pervasive.<br />
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Leland waved his hand rapidly, using the circular 'Found Something!' signal that he had been taught. Would this be the sought-after solution, or just another impenetrable secret that would end up covered, deep and dusty, on some remote warehouse shelf? The lead archaeologist Ginther hurried over, peering at the cylinder through oversized spectacles. With a smile he communicated the news-- this piece was different! Not a small box, and not sealed in amber! A crowd of volunteers stopped working and gathered to watch the unveiling.<br />
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Ginther clapped him on the shoulder, encouragingly. Leland smiled back and returned to uncovering the cylinder. Soon the ends were in full view; he outlined top and bottom with the brush, revealing ever more circumference. Ginther motioned to a few volunteers, who took up either side of the artifact, ready for its inevitable release. Leland brushed, quickly and carefully, avoiding any contact with the piece. Soon he had crested the cylinder's top arc; Ginther and the volunteers applied gentle downward pressure as Leland swept, then blew away the rear dust with a bubble syringe. Brush, brush, blow; brush brush blow.<br />
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The artifact released; with the gentlest of turns, it fell into their waiting hands. It was surprisingly light, completely cylindrical. They walked it over to a transport, which moved it smoothly to the pattern establishment area, depositing it gently into a waiting tray. Moments later, information about its every nuance began appearing, cross referenced with every one of the other remnants from the dig. A match would indicate a high probability that any pieces somehow belonged together.<br />
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There was a match! The Discoveries clerk, Mout, ran into the dim warehouse and returned minutes later with the potential mate; Leland looked closely in the man's hand and was surprised to see the metal sliver he had uncovered months earlier! He was about to identify it when a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him; Ginther shook his head slightly and returned to watching history being made, as did Leland.<br />
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Mout now placed the cylinder in the observation chamber. All sides were magnified and brightened; he began the search with many eyes upon him. Beginning at one end, he turned the cylinder over and over, scrutinizing every bit, moving slowly towards the other. Exactly halfway through his search, he stopped. Something was different. In the otherwise featureless cylinder's face was a mark, a kind of squiggly line, of a smooth and hard material different than the cylinder. Leland thought it looked like the hardened honey. Mout brought the encased metal sliver up for inspection, and held it up to to magnifier, turning it slowly.<br />
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"Aha!" He beamed with pride of discovery, pointing the sliver directly at the magnifier. Leland saw it too but was denied first announcement when Mout said, "this edge pattern matches the crooked line, in reverse! I think it fits in there!" and he pressed the sliver's end onto the line. It did not slide in.<br />
But something remarkable <i>did</i> happen. A square section of the artifact, several inches on a side, with the crooked line at its center, glowed a pale blue! Symbols appeared within the blue field that were finely crafted and neatly placed, nine in all; five on top and four below. Leland recognized the symbols as language phonemes from the culture but had no idea what it meant. Ginther had more experience with the language and offered a translation. "This top one is a directive. It says 'Enter'."<br />
"Enter? Enter here? How can we enter?" Mout protested. "It's too small! And, there is no way in!"<br />
"The second word," Ginther continued, somewhat irked, "is 'Code'. Enter Code." He looked at the audience of intrigued faces and asked, "Does anybody know what that could possibly mean?" He was met with vacant stares. Mout ran back to the warehouse.<br />
One man offered, "Could it be 'cold'? Enter cold?"<br />
Ginther thought seriously. "Hmm. I don't see how we could 'enter <i>cold</i>'. You mean chill it and try it again?"<br />
"Maybe."<br />
"No, the words would likely not be similar in this language the way they are in ours. Good try, er..."<br />
"Safton."<br />
"Good try, Safton. Anybody else?"<br />
An older woman spoke up. "Lynet. Could a 'code' be something we have to give it? Like a food?"<br />
Ginther's lips fought to hide the smile. "You think the cylinder might be <i>hungry</i>, Lynet?"<br />
Seriously she responded, "Well, it's spent a lot of years underground, right?"<br />
"But it isn't alive."<br />
"But doesn't the blue glow mean life? We have insects and animals that glow."<br />
"Well, yes, but..." the lead archaeologist searched for the appropriate phrasing but was interrupted by the again-returning Mout, out of breath and lugging a large tome.<br />
"A dictionary. It was found on a shelf in a sealed, airtight stone room. It's suffered no degradation at all!" He brought it to Ginther, who flipped through the pages and eventually landed on the correct word, then read for a long time, silently. Restless murmurings had begun when he held up his hand; it became quiet again. He began to read aloud.<br />
"A 'Code' is a series of symbols designed to keep access of something limited to the holders of the code. It works by unlocking an enclosure containing the information when the correct code is input." Ginther whispered to Mout, "Unlocking? What does that mean?"<br />
"Look it up. You're using a dictionary."<br />
"Oh, of course." Moments later he said, "Oh! Unlocking. Opening with a key or some other mechanism to make what is on the other side of it accessible." He sighed. "And what's a key? This could take awhile." He looked up the new word and straightened. "Well, look at this! There's a picture of a key in this book... and it looks the same as this metal sliver!" He held up the artifact, but then scowled. "This is a conundrum! We need a 'code' which is like a 'key' to 'unlock' this cylinder... but we tried unlocking the cylinder before... and the key didn't work!"<br />
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Leland excused his way to the artifacts. He looked at the blue screen and noticed something at the bottom: a series of five evenly dashed segments in a line, evenly spaced, parallel to the bottom of the screen. Additionally, there was one finer line over the leftmost segment, perpendicular to it, disappearing regularly and then reappearing moments later, over and over. He stared at it for a long time, transfixed, but then suddenly remembered something and shouted, "I have it!"<br />
Ginther started and looked up from the dictionary, which had begun to occupy a lot of his time. "What do you have, Leland?"<br />
"The code! I have the code!" He was almost hopping now, his toes flexing inside his boots.<br />
"You do?"<br />
"Yes!"<br />
"What is it?"<br />
"Not what, where! It's in the warehouse! It's the stone object I found with the... the key! The object had five symbols on it! I bet they will work!"<br />
Enthusiastically Ginther turned to instruct the clerk, but Mout had already left, this time returning much more quickly. He was holding the small stone and placed it in the center of the blue field, over the jagged line. The tent held its collective breath.<br />
Nothing happened. He turned it several times, but there was no change. Leland had an idea and asked, "Permit me?" Ginther nodded and Mout handed Leland the stone.<br />
Leland inspected it, turned it in a way he felt was face up, and placed it onto the first dash segment. His finger brushed against the field, over the leftmost line. A symbol appeared, replacing the dash! There were shouts of surprise. Leland noticed the symbol was not the same as the first one on the stone. Experimentally, he touched the screen with his finger again... and the symbol changed! But it still wasn't the same, so he pressed again. And again. He worried that he might have mistaken the symbol when, with his next press, it showed up! It was a pair of piled circles; the upper one slightly smaller than the bottom. But it wasn't exact; he looked closely and determined it was upside down from the symbol on the stone. In a flash of inspiration he realized it was the stone which was upside down and flipped it. Now there was an entirely different symbol on the left. Leland was fearful that he had already passed it, but kept pressing anyway. Then he noticed the first symbol come up again, and with relief he knew that the designer of this pad had wisely allowed the symbols to cycle. He found the mark and stopped.<br />
Applause broke out and Leland grinned. He pressed the second dash and the first symbol changed to red. He was not concerned, and kept pressing until he saw the correct second symbol; then he began the third. Now the second turned red, joining the first. At the fifth symbol he stopped and said, "Ginther, this is your dig. You must be the one to enter the last symbol."<br />
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The group applauded again. Ginther thanked him and moved into place, pressing the screen. When the last symbol was entered all five glowed red, then flashed blue. Now a large picture appeared, of the key artifact encased in hardened honey, filling up the screen! Then it shrank until it was the same size as the actual artifact, centered over the jagged line. Ginther slid the key over its picture.<br />
No sooner did he pull his hand back than the screen went dark. However, the picture glowed brightly beneath the key, and as they watched a change began to occur. The honey was melting! But rather than pool under the key the amber goo simply disappeared. In a moment it was gone. Then the cylinder became inert, and dark.<br />
Ginther looked around as if searching for a next step, and Leland supplied one. "Pick up the key." Heeding his advice Ginther did just that, holding it up in the air. Everyone's eyes were trained on the gleaming metal; all except for Leland, who had only wanted to see the crooked line beneath it. Just as he had suspected, it was now a slot, no amber in the way. He tugged on the older man's sleeve and pointed. "Hm? Hm?"<br />
Ginther slid the key in without a moment's hesitation. Nothing. "What next, Leland?"<br />
Leland looked closely at the point of entry and thought he could see a fine circular seam circumnavigate the keyway. Basic engineering kicked in and he said, "Try turning the key."<br />
Ginther did. A small click was heard from inside the cylinder... and then the end swiveled open with a hiss of air! A roar of victory came from the tent which could be heard all throughout the valley, and Leland's shoulders were gratefully thumped by a dozen hands. He blushed shyly and nodded.<br />
Light was trained into the cylinder's opening gloom and after checking for explosive traps (one had been found, once, may the volunteer rest in peace), Ginther reached in and pulled out a large thick envelope, crisp and crackling. It could have been packed away yesterday and not thousands of years ago, so pristine was the paper.<br />
Inside the envelope was another, smaller envelope, and a smoothly rounded box of a palm-sized shape about as thick as a hand, much like so many others which had been found at this site, but with one important difference: It was not covered in amber, which meant that its secrets were close to being revealed. So far, the key was the only amber which had ever been removed, and they had as yet no idea how that had been accomplished. Had it been the brightly glowing light? Whatever the mechanism, his was a fantastic find, and quite possibly held the answers they had been searching for! Leland was ecstatic... if it were true, his name would be forever linked to this discovery. He could not have felt more proud.<br />
Ginther opened the smaller envelope and pulled out a notebook of sorts; two hardbound covers which, when opened, sprang forth a thick sheath of handwritten pages. On top of the front page was a heading. Ginther could make it out and translated: "To the Future Inhabitants of Earth."<br />
"That's us!" One excited voice stated the obvious, and amused titters ran through the tent.<br />
Ginther laughed with the rest and then announced, "And with that comment we can see how tired we've all become. I think it's time to head back to our encampment, have a good meal and get some rest. We'll begin anew in the morning." Disappointed groans mixed with hungry banter and the crowd thinned quickly. Ginther went back to his tent, notebook in hand, to begin the arduous process of translation. Before he started there was a rustle at the tent flap. "Yes?"<br />
Leland stuck his head in. "I was wondering if I could stay with you as you work."<br />
Ginther shook his head. "Thanks, but this is really the kind of work I prefer to do alone."<br />
"I actually have a little experience with this language. I took several courses at university preparing for this dig."<br />
"Well, that's commendable, but still..."<br />
"Ginther, please. It was my discovery and I had a lot to do with the cylinder even being open. I won't make a sound, I promise. It would be the highest of honors for me."<br />
Gither mumbled, "More like the highest of horrors."<br />
"What was that, sir? I didn't hear you."<br />
The older man sighed. "I seriously doubt that it would... but if I can't dissuade you, then please, have a seat." He looked seriously at Leland and finished, "But don't blame me if the outcome is not what you anticipated."<br />
"I don't see how that could be possible, Ginther. Thanks for letting me do this."<br />
"Don't thank me."<br />
Leland had a question. "Shouldn't we also have brought the black box along?"<br />
"Experience has taught me that the box will be useless until it feels the morning sun. Another box like this was discovered in a cave years ago, and it sprang to life quite by accident when a ray of light coming through a window played across it."<br />
"Solar powered?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Even back then?" Leland mused. But Ginther was already poring over the first page; soon, he began reciting:<br />
<blockquote>
To the Future Inhabitants of Earth:</blockquote>
<blockquote>
I, the last free man of my age, have taken the solemn duty to leave you this record, hidden beneath the soil, as a factual rendering of the events of this time. Regardless of what your history books may now say, know that what you are about to read has been witnessed by my eyes. As further evidence I leave you a device which displays moving images, a copy of events as they unfolded. It is not magical; it is simply a product of science. Leave it in the sun to grow strong, then press the light which appears when the device is ready. It will not hurt you. But first read this accounting.</blockquote>
<br />
"Who did he think would find this... cave men?" Ginther chuckled. "'It is not magical'... that is funny! But see what I mean about the box?"<br />
"I do. So I guess it's like a holoengrammatic emitter?"<br />
"Not nearly as advanced, Leland. We've had a few millennia to improve on the old technology, after all. Still, it will give us a fantastic view of history. Early archaeologists have had to piece together entire civilizations from just a few chunks of broken pottery. We have it easy." He fell silent for a few minutes and Leland thought it best not to disturb the man's concentration. Soon though, Ginther began reading, smoothly, uninterrupted, as if channeling the man on those old pages:<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
It was not so long ago that humanity was on its way to becoming sophisticated and mature; advanced in every area of science, technology, the arts and humanities. Somehow though, religious zealotry gained a foothold and spread its influence worldwide, until every major country was ruled by one overriding theocratic body, the Government Church. Books were burned, education was criminalized, science stagnated and its practitioners were rounded up for being 'heretics of nature' and jailed, or much worse. The world is now in a civilization-killing Dark Age much like the one which shut down Europe for 800 years, reinforced by the schizophrenic application of forced prayer, and the retained technology of televised evangelism and careful Orwellian scrutiny. All citizens are forced to wear a steel collar that is painfully welded around the neck as a method of control and torture. All of humanity is opressed, as slaves in the military or the mines, in the fields or the manufacturing plants, while the young fertile women are impregnated by decree.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
One morning words were found in 50 foot letters burned into the lawn at the unparalleled World Vatica Church, saying cryptically "Judgement Is Coming" with a date one year hence. Nobody witnessed how the letters had been formed; guards reported to the Church Elders on seeing but not hearing a series of lightning flashes, bright and long, occur during the shadow of night. When their eyes had readjusted the words were present, still smoldering.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The lawn was quickly uprooted before sunrise and all knowledge of this event was hurriedly covered up. The guards disappeared, never to be seen again. The ten Elders were certain down to a man that they had been contacted by God and that the end times were near. They made preparations to transition themselves into the next world, preparing their trunks of gold and fine linens and feeding their sacrificial virgins for the trip, but kept their actions secret. No point in alerting a downtrodden enslaved people that their evil church, which had strayed far from its biblical teachings, planned on leaving them all behind to suffer in the fires of destruction. Pain collars or not, there were just too many of them. Best to leave them in blissful ignorance.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
But there was one person outside of the church who knew the world's fate, though. He was a heretic, a practicing scientist in deep hiding, a keeper of the flame. The last of his kind that had remained underground for centuries, he was now the sole curator of a well protected and vast underground bunker bursting with the final advances of civilization, saved from theocratic cleansing by ignorance or sheer luck, a regime which descended like an iron fist to pulverize any human knowledge which did not further their cause. He was the last hope for restoring the world to its former glory. He knew what the cryptic lawn message meant... and he also knew in advance that it would happen.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Meanwhile the Elders, who had wisely not destroyed all modern technology, directed their manufacturing plants to build formidable telescopes that reached deep into the night to warn of God's arrival, and terrible weapons of cruel design yielding awesome power should He not wish to admit the Elders into Heaven. These they distributed and pointed into the night sky all over the globe, like the buzz-cut hairs of a petrified field general.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Despite these preparations and unfortunately for the Elders, messages from above continued unabated, burned into the ground at strategic locations near large population centers, guaranteeing worldwide knowledge of coming events. 'Arriving Soon', 'Prepare Yourselves', 'Your Fate Is Nigh' and other frightening predictions blanketed the globe for a year, each accompanied by the date and time stamp '6/6/2666, 6am'. The people grew nervous and amassed at the gates of Vatica Churches worldwide, fearful of the reprisal coming from an irate and vengeful God. Undeterred, the powerful Elders and their army of indentured soldiers pointed weapons at the public, who were driven back into to their simple mud homes, preferring subjugation to a painful death, yet quaking over the expected eternity of torture.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Meanwhile, the scientist worked busily, manning machinery and continuing preparations.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The day the world feared arrived at last; humanity held its collective breath, awaiting the crushing hand of God to smite them mightily. At dawn the sun rose to a blue sky, but soon that sky filled with thick clouds that formed out of nothing, deep iron-grey billows with angry edges that hung low, pregnant and threatening; oily black clouds which obscured the telescope's vision and made useless the missiles' targeting systems. The Elders were blind, and feared for their lives.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH9kuXdDyYphe9PNyYJMf0jyMIATvIBT7HaBsX84cSW70FllwjPAnLiNO2yVwxntRHmGNfwvWI2AmmaUSI9LKaParQANootzVkjbjhX8AEZQ8YOiKoKBHWDXsQHtGMJeSL2-owf1qrD68/s320/black+cloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH9kuXdDyYphe9PNyYJMf0jyMIATvIBT7HaBsX84cSW70FllwjPAnLiNO2yVwxntRHmGNfwvWI2AmmaUSI9LKaParQANootzVkjbjhX8AEZQ8YOiKoKBHWDXsQHtGMJeSL2-owf1qrD68/s320/black+cloud.jpg" /></a></div>
And then the mighty sound came. Softly at first, as if arriving from some vast distance, the vibration soon became deep and throbbing, a drumbeat against cotton skins, a steadily approaching locomotive, swelling until it was all which could be heard. Televisions were drowned out in the throb; conversations were hopeless and the physically driving thump-thump-thump made it impossible to maneuver or do anything besides hold on for pitiful life. Then the thumps slowed, like a helicopter's dying whine... a moment apart, then a second; then ten. There it remained for seconds; minutes. Then, in between the slamming pounds a deep, resonant voice begun, heard round the world in the global language of the church and therefore understood by all. In the smudged pitch blackness it began:</blockquote>
</div>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
"We are disappointed. You have been led astray. Your glorious drive to world enlightenment has been curtailed by the selfish desires of a greedy few, who would gladly doom the world for five more minutes of luxury. It may be easy to corral the masses, at first, with soft spoken lies and bright sparkling promises... but ask yourselves if the life you lead now is the one you would choose for yourselves. If the answer is 'no', remember it is within your ability to be the catalyst for change.</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
"Now power is being held by liars and thieves that think themselves gods, who maintain their power with the threat of pain, imprisonment and death. They keep you at the edge of despair and use you as slaves. Your distant parents could choose their own paths and make of their lives what they would... but you are not able even to choose to turn your televising devices off.</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
"They have stolen your lives from you, and they have done so without fear. They say they know how this world was formed, and by whom... and they claim to communicate with this creator in order to direct all your paths towards a glorious future. But this statement is a baldfaced lie. They do not know anything. They cannot speak to the creator, and they have no power that you did not give to them."</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The Elders heard enough, and reacted as violent oppressors often do-- they attacked with all the power at their disposal. The violent warheads tucked into missile heads flicked into life; countdowns began. One by one they lifted skyward, filled with the aggression and ego of certainty; one by one they punched resolutely into the inky clouds... and one by one they disappeared from existence, their payloads unexploded, with nary a poof of protest. Eyes wide and conviction crushed, church leaders awaited their doom with tearful tremors as the enormous voice continued:</blockquote>
</div>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
"Their powerful weapons you just saw being launched, themselves a holdout from the Big Destruction, have had no effect on today's outcome. They have now been rendered back into the molecules from which they were derived. The actions of your oppressors are selfish and criminal; their leaders will be severely punished. Today is the day to set you back on the path of progress and intellectual enlightenment. You cannot help yourselves do this if you are enslaved and tyrranized. </blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
"To that end, action will soon commence. There will be no more weaponry on Earth-- it will all be eradicated. Pay close attention, those who serve the Elders. All soldiers carrying weapons and ammunition, put them into a pile and back far away. Do not retain any individual weapons. All soldiers manning larger weaponry, leave the area immediately. All plants making weapons must be emptied of all workers. Do this now. You have five minutes."</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The thumping sped up until they came one second apart, and raised pitch to sound like a ticking clock. Across the globe soldiers stood confused; aware of their standing orders not to relinquish their weapons, but also faced with a power unlike any they had seen before, they were frozen in fear. Despite shouts coming through walkie talkies to ignore the mega voice, that worldwide throbbing tick countdown gave most soldiers the push they needed to toss anything remotely weaponlike into a pile-- guns, knives, pepper spray, batons, keys, bottles, belts, shoelaces... anything-- and bolt in the other direction.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Now the sound again changed, this time into a screaming siren, louder with each tick until the entire world had to cover their ears. Then, silence. Suddenly, every weapon in piles all over the globe stood at attention as if grabbed by an invisible magnet from above. A vibrating buzz like a hive of bees welled up within each pile, around each large weapon, through each factory. A mist began swirling at the buzz, around and around, faster and wider, obscuring the items within.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Several soldiers were loyal, however, and refused to relinquish their arms. When the buzzing began they looked about wildly. When the swirling cloud surrounded their weapons (and them) they began to scream, bloodcurdling and shrill... but soon fell silent.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The clouds grew thick, tall and wide, a deep brownish grey. People too close were slammed with dust and stumbled backwards, blood welling from tiny holes puncturing their skin. They watched the weapons being dismantled back to ever smaller component molecules, molecules which were being flung at high velocity around the cloud like a storm of pepper.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Then came an enormous 'pop' which sounded as though a blimp-sized balloon had burst, echoing up to the clouds and back, and the whirling dust shot skyward, spread outwards and merged with the low oily clouds. The piles of weaponry were now gone, missile launch pads devoid of even the slightest particle. The ground had been polished into smooth circles. Every weapon and machine was gone. Not a stone from any of the factory walls survived. Neither did even an atom of the few loyal soldiers that had retained their weapons... they had been dismantled as well. Friends sniffed sorrow. The booming voice returned.</blockquote>
</div>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
"The Elders will now gather on the Church Vatica central dais."</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Assembling before automated cameras on the platform, urged in place by a throng of glowering, silent citizens, the Elders filtered onto the Church Vatica platform, sitting heavily in their arc of thrones, heads bowed and bodies slumped, defeat telegraphing across their faces. Undeterred, the Great Lead Elder now asserted his command and approached the raised speaking mound. In typical Saintly fashion, with a confident scowl, he spread his hands and took a breath to speak... and disappeared in a flash of cruel lightning, a wisp of smoke all that remained. Moments later the other Elders received the same fate, shock to a man splashed across their faces, and they too dissolved into nothingness, thrones cleaved and smoking.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Mouths gaping, television viewers worldwide tried to make sense of the violent images, tried to explain it to their confused children. But many more were smiling, reacting to the sudden notion of freedom and the bliss of gleeful unencumbrance. The booming voice began again.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
"Good riddance. Soldiers, put on your street clothes and return to your families. Jailers, release all prisoners. The rest of you, tear down all signs honoring the Elders and their beliefs. A bonfire in the center of every town will make a fitting re-entry into your lives of freedom. Celebrate with your neighbors and friends.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
"With this final act we return you to your world before theocracy. Soon a plan will emerge-- your plan-- for returning to, and surpassing, your former glory. We leave you with one gift so that future generations will know what has happened here on this day."</blockquote>
</div>
</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Televisions switched at once to a view of Elder Rock, the world's largest religious icon. Visible for 600 miles were enormous busts of a thousand holy Elders through time, a thousand holy oppressors of the people, emblazoned on a perfectly cleaved mountain one mile tall. It was an impressive feat of man that had claimed the lives of thousands of enslaved stonemasons in the hundred years of its making.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Abruptly a glaring white light seared the picture on every television screen; nothing at all could be made out. When the dazzle diminished, all the world could see that the gargantuan stone monument had been scrubbed free of iconic carvings and was now smooth as glass! Not a crooked face remained, not an evil leer, not a glaring eye. It was a literal blank slate. </blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
As quickly as they had come, the clouds now dissolved into blue skies. Popping into insubstantiality, not a trace of them could be seen. The sun warmed the ground and bathed Elder Mountain in a loving caress. As it did, a thin blue-white line of bright light shot through the sky, directed at the top of that glassy-flat monument. Rock burst away at the point of intersection, hurtling to the ground a mile below in a cacophony of chuckling crashes. The bright line moved, then flickered and moved again. Then without a sound, without a fuss, it disappeared. Globally transfixed observers viewed the result with awe. A title had been carved finely into the highly polished vertical face, in clear, calligraphed, hundred-foot-tall letters. It chillingly read:</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span><b><i><u>Heed Us!</u></i></b> •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The blue-white carving light returned, moving faster this time, completing its message in no more time than it would take to hand-write the same words. Again it stopped, allowing the dust time to clear. When it had, what remained was nothing less vital than The Answers to the World's Largest Questions:</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
-≈«∞§• We Are People Like Yourselves •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
-≈«∞§• You Are The Same As Us •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
-≈«∞§• You Can BECOME Us •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
-≈«∞§• Therefore Believe In No God •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Again it stopped, glowing hot carve lines cooling into glassy smooth outlines. But the amazement of creation dulled beneath the shock of those final five words. The planetary oxygen dropped momentarily with the sharp intake of fifteen billion breaths... no god? Blasphemy! Then realizing this information was coming from people who knew the truth, incredulity spread faster than sunlight and a release approaching bliss escaped their lips as one.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://mypersonalgazette.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/10-commandments.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="http://mypersonalgazette.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/10-commandments.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Once more the intense thin light began carving, leaving a gap this time between sections. This group had a different tone; though there was no title, the font etched deeply into the stone commanded obedience:</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Hurt No One •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Maintain Respect For All People •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Do Not Overpopulate •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Learn New Facts And Teach Them To All •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Remain Transparent •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Treat Stories And Fantasy With Caution •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Limit Power of Leadership •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Keep The Planet Clean •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Decide As A People •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span">-≈«∞§• </span>Share All Resources Equally •§∞«≈-</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
Near the bottom, in smallish letters but thicker, important, there came an addendum:</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">-≈«∞§• We Will Return On Occasion And Desire Progress •§∞«≈-</span></b></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
When the final flourish was completed and the last bit of dust had blown away, all contact by the saviors from above ceased. The camera panned the monument slowly from the top, taking in every answer, stopping on every commandment. Then it faded and for the first time in centuries, viewscreens worldwide showed no religious material of any type. Instead, on every channel, kind and smiling people were teaching the knowledge of the world, knowledge which had been kept from the planet's people for centuries. Science of every stripe, the arts, humanism, social structure and ten thousand more subjects, complete in breadth and pellucid by design instead filled every home, commanding attention by their very unfamiliarity, absorbing into eager thirsty minds. In days to come, armed with new knowledge and following to the letter the immense guidelines from above, society reformed.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
The scientist, deep in his lair of banned scientific devices, shut off the machinery he had been using for the past year. It had been difficult to hide the solar panels that had created enough needed energy to perform his world-saving plan, but he managed by using disguised panel design and surreptitious placement. The fact that most parts of the planet were off-limits helped as well. He was thankful that the Elders had not bothered to destroy the dense network of satellites circling the globe, preferring to find and destroy the land-based controls instead. This they had done... with the exception of one instrument bank, which was fortunately in the hands of the scientist. Powerful laser defense and gamma bombardment satellites, and precision planning, had done the rest.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Convincing an illiterate world they had just received freedom from above was not difficult, but killing the men responsible for allowing centuries of human enslavement was a painful duty for a moral man. What was hard as well was the knowledge that he was now an old man and could not guide the world much longer. He would need to find and train a student, a Keeper of the Secret, to carry on the charade after his death... and do so before he died. He could observe learners at their televisions; computers could determine the most knowledgeable candidate. But would he or she have the right temperament? He knew that the temptation of power was difficult to resist; he, as an impassive experimenter for much of his life, disliked power but saw the need and method for change and did what demanded doing. Could he find another <i>him</i>?</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote>
I assert that the preceding passages are true by my word, and by the evidence contained in the player. I am privy to all this information because of one reason: I <i>am</i> that scientist. It is my fervent hope, whenever this is found, that a new and better world has emerged as a result of my actions. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
--Thaddeus T Thackery </blockquote>
<br />
<br />
Ginther had been speaking nonstop for over an hour and now exhaled noisily, leaning back in his chair, an indecipherable look on his face betraying an unknowable emotion. Leland emitted a low whistle, and then another. Finally he said, "Our society was built on a scam."<br />
Ginther replied simply. "It would appear so."<br />
"There was never any big battle."<br />
"There was none mentioned."<br />
"No millions of deaths?" Leland understood now why no bones of the slaughtered had ever been found.<br />
"Only a few, by this accounting."<br />
"And the intervention by benevolent aliens..."<br />
"Was an intervention by a benevolent scientist."<br />
"Whew. That's a <i>big</i> piece of news."<br />
"Maybe too big."<br />
Leland considered the other man's thought and then posited, "So there IS a god, then?"<br />
"No..."<br />
"Then there ISN'T a god."<br />
"No... err... yes. I mean, all our knowledge in that area has just been uprooted. We've believed from the carvings on Elder Rock that an advanced society gave us absolute truths to follow, as a whole and down to a man."<br />
"And now we find these are only the words of a single man."<br />
"Well, yes... but apparently, a very well-educated man. We've followed these words for millennia and look at what they've done for us! Our advancement! Our peace! The reverent way we treat our planet! Surely it doesn't take genius beyond our own reckoning to design an infallible system?"<br />
"Well see how infallible our system really is when this information gets out..."<br />
Ginther grabbed his arm and held it in a surprisingly viselike grip. "Leland, I'm not sure if this should ever get out. <i>Ever</i>."<br />
"But... Ginther... one of our chief provisions requires us to 'remain transparent'. I can't be a party to this kind of--" Leland slumped over on Ginther's bunk, look of shocked incredulity on his face, dead. Ginther removed the glassine syringe of poison injected into the younger man's ear canal and crushed it underfoot, into dust. He covered Leland with his blanket and waited until the camp was quiet and moved the man next to the cylindrical artifact, with the notebook. With a rapid motion he ignited a hot charge and ducked behind the metal table to protect himself against the initial burst of white-hot flame that turned everything, even steel, into smoke, then made his way back to his tent. It would be his sad duty to inform the camp of the tragic discovery of a new kind of booby trap, one which incinerated itself and anything nearby, and the loss of a valued member of the team along with his findings, but it was understood that this was one of the perils of modern archaeology.<br />
Like the scientist, Ginther hated having to kill an innocent, yet again, to maintain society... but it was his sworn duty as 94th Keeper of the Secret, a duty he enforced with deadly serious intent. He got to work on the official translation, which he will have 'fortunately' made during the night, which confirmed all the information generally known about the Termination of Tyranny Movement. Leland would of course receive full honors posthumously and his story would be told in museums worldwide, how he tried to ressurrect the black box, only to trigger its destructive fail-safe, and how he gave his life for crucial information from that time.<br />
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the first volunteer discovered the carnage.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.mellowdolphin.com/images/GYY_night_2005-CRW_4866-Wall-o-fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.mellowdolphin.com/images/GYY_night_2005-CRW_4866-Wall-o-fire.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce I Friedman</span></div>
<br /></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-72030014716095778402011-10-10T17:15:00.000-07:002011-10-14T15:37:41.258-07:00An Intelligence Solution<div style="font: 12.0px Verdana; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
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<a href="http://www.armageddononline.org/image/virus1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" src="http://www.armageddononline.org/image/virus1.JPG" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The virus was quiet, oh so very quiet. It gave no clue as to its existence and lay dormant for years, decades for some. It made no one sick and shortened the life of nobody, but had one tragic effect-- it left its victims completely barren, unable to produce an heir by any method, natural or scientific.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was discovered accidentally fifty years after the initial outbreak. The virus had an unusual property-- it hid. Rather than make its way through the body by utilizing the circulatory system, it preferred to crawl between cells, slowly embedding itself within specific areas of the body; the brain, the reproductive system, the ears and eyes. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Once discovered, the medical community developed a special test to find the virus and was stunned to discover that </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">every </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">subject tested positive. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The entire world had been exposed.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The nightly news was initially frantic -- it seemed that with a 100% infection rate, the human race was doomed to extinction. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But something was off. Though there had been an alarming drop in worldwide births, they did not cease. Many infected people were having healthy children-- infected as well, but healthy. For some reason, the virus, named EXT70, was ignoring undefined sections of the population, leaving them to reproduce at will.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Studies were immediately undertaken to find some cause for EXT70's high selectivity. Race did not seem to be a factor, nor did gender, nor age. Eye color was irrelevant, as was height or hair or hand dominance. Predominance to any other genetic distinctions seemed not to matter one bit. But slowly a pattern began to emerge. There was a general rise in sterility among populations living in poor socioeconomic conditions. People who had survived head trauma showed a huge rise in infertility. And although every person born with Aspergers and autism remained hale and fruitful, no babies at all came from couples with one or more Down Syndrome sufferers. Finally one test was discovered to predict with near 100% accuracy whether or not a person would become sterile.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was an IQ test.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Results below a certain percentile nearly guaranteed sterility for the subject. The number, gauged to be 112, meant that almost 70 percent of human beings were doomed to live out their lives without siring progeny to pass on their names... or their genes. Entire family lines were threatened. Many embarrassed celebrities were vocally outraged that their lovely visage would end with them and demanded a solution. Politicians who were denied producing children clamored for ideas.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.makingthemodernworld.org.uk/learning_modules/psychology/02.TU.04/illustrations/02.IL.02.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://www.makingthemodernworld.org.uk/learning_modules/psychology/02.TU.04/illustrations/02.IL.02.gif" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Stumbling upon this knowledge the world was outraged, and cried out angrily for an answer: What enemy of humanity existed that would create a mutated virus which selected feebleminded victims and sterilize them? It dawned on them that this would leave the population smarter, which meant they were not looking for an enemy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Scientists had one overriding question of their own, however, and presented it to their exclusive community with barely containable excitement: What unknowable changes faced humanity generations down the line... as genius mated with genius, without the buffer of mediocrity interrupting brilliance's upward trend? Experts in every corner of the globe searched for answers, and all found none.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Generations passed and average intelligence skyrocketed. But with the certainty of biological imperfections, recessive genetic material eventually surfaced even in super-intelligent fetuses. Not surprisingly they too were born sterile, a guarantee that no simpleminded children would be born of them. The upward IQ trend continued unabated.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In short order another discovery was made. By using a nanoscope, ironically designed by one of the new super geniuses, it was discovered that the virus was not a natural phenomena at all-- it was an electrobionic device! This seemed impossible since, at the time of initial infection, humanity was generations away from the ability to design such a sophisticated machine, but it was true regardless. Certain markers were absent in the virus's genetic stranding which pointed away from nature, and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">directly</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> at human interference.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Again the world was in uproar. Who would destroy so much of the human population so flagrantly? That question yielded one obvious answer-- a method targeting the stupid must have been created by the smartest among us, and suspicion of the scientific community shot upward. After a few scientists were lynched by mobs of sterile simpletons, geniuses of every stripe were convinced to hide underground... at least until the clamoring crowds were distracted by the next exciting news. During their exile, experimentation on the virus continued in well-hidden labs worldwide, which soon produced fascinating new information that answered most of the world's curiosity, and again the scientists were hailed.</span><br />
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<a href="http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/code-breakers-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/code-breakers-1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A long strand of inert DNA coding in the virus was unearthed, that used only two of the four </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">nucleotides. Adenine and guanine repeated for tens of thousands of links with no occurrence of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">cytosine or thymine, a behavior unseen in natural ribonucleic acids, inciting suspicion. Cryptographers were brought in to examine the junk DNA and in short order, definite patterns emerged. It was formed from the long unused Morse code. The pattern of dashes (adenine) and dots (guanine) referred to alphanumeric characters, which in turn spelled out two short sentences. At last, an answer to the painful question plaguing humanity for years was on hand! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The result was presented in the Heptaron, the crowded main hall of the esteemed science body L'Arc Technologié, splayed around the seven one-hundred-foot screens defining the cavernous room's perimeter:</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It had to be done.</span></b></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Idiocracy effect is real.</span></b></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The roomful of scientists buzzed. Idiocracy? What was that? The cadre of respected elders had no idea what the message meant until a page ran up to the elder scientist Doctor Schon and whispered. With a start, the man harumphed and announced phlegmatically, "It is a feature film!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"A 'movie'?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Sordid entertainment?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"That's unseemly!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Improper!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"The code must be wrong."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Gentlemen, wait!" The elder scientist bent to hear more information from the timid page, who finished at length and practically ran from the room in short, scraping steps. Shaking his head, Dr Schon continued. "It seems this movie is about a man of present times being placed as an experiment into a suspended animation chamber and waking 500 years later to a world in chaos, thanks to massive breeding by generations of undereducated morons. The average IQ has dropped alarmingly, the cities lay in shambles and everyone watches mindless television programming ceaselessly."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another scientist spoke up. "The message is implying that this happens to </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">us</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I'm afraid so."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Are we to assume that this advanced virus... came from us? In the future?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He sighed. "It seems that way."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"And we are supposed to do... nothing? Just let it continue?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There was a long pause as Dr Schon mulled over this question. Finally he spoke. "Imagine this scenario: What if we learned how to cure the flu by sending a virus back in time to stop any carriers from being born, wouldn't the good that came out of it take priority over a few unborn children?" He threw up his hands. "I never cared for hypotheticals. It's true the planet is currently experiencing a severe overpopulation problem. It will be corrected </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">all by itself</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> if we take no steps to stop it, if we pretend to have no cure for it--"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"But we HAVE no cure for it!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dr Schon glared. "Yes, yes, you know what I mean. We don't LOOK for a cure for it, is what I'm saying. It just remains in our bodies, selecting top contenders for genetic parenting, weeding out risky genes, making each successive generation of human being geometrically smarter than the last."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"But aren't there risks to unchecked intelligence...ifying? Smartening? Aah!" Frustrated, the questioner sat back down, but the point was made.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dr Schon attempted, "That might very well be the next science in its infancy... the study of overintelligentinization... superintellectualizing..."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Hyperacuity."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The elder scientist looked towards the voice. "Very good! Hyperacuity! Who said that? Make yourself known, sir!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">From the 'back' of the seven-sided Heptaron came footsteps and, from the shadows, a shimmering man appeared. He approached the podium at room's center, elevating himself on the steps to speak.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He was tall, well built, plainly dressed; his clothing was bright and hard to see clearly, as if emanating light. There was an intensity in his eyes, a glare of determination that seemed to bore through ones head and settled in the deepest center of discomfort. Dr Schon found himself rattled but was able to ask, "Why do you... why do you shine so?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The man turned to face him, and held out an extended hand. The scientist went to grab it and was shocked when his hand... disturbed... the man's, like stirring a reflection in water, and passed through it. A gasp released from the room. The hand reformed more rapidly than settling water, a bit like mud.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I think you can see I'm not really here. I am a projection of myself from far off."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"A hologram? Where are you, sir?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Not where. When. And quite different from a hologram. Sample the air where I stand and you will see. This image is a precise assemblage of specially chosen molecules from your local environment, held in detailed formation to closely approximate my actual image."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Am I to understand you are from the future?" Dr Schon asked, while motioning the page forward from his recess with a wave. He spoke quietly to him, and then the page ran off.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Yes."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"How are you able to speak with us? The mere act of conversing requires a pattern of time lapses, all moving forward."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"My consciousness is temporarily in synchronization with all of yours."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Ah." The man posing the question seemed unsatisfied and was about to ask a follow-up when the page returned, handing the elder scientist a sampling jar.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"May I?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Be my guest."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Carefully Dr Schon held out the open jar; the shining man lowered his arm over it and nodded; the doctor capped the jar and pulled it away. There was a gaping hole in the man's forearm! But almost immediately both edges became diffuse and strained towards each other, like bones seeking a knit. When he moved his arm the separated bottom part moved with it, ignoring its impossible connection. But the arm part in the sample jar remained whole, as if solid! Close inspection showed a network of veins in the sliced flesh, but no blood or plasma dripped, and the clothing edges were sharp as if laser-sliced. Aghast, the doctor held out the faux-grisly jar to the page who dashed off, presumably to a lab for immediate study. The man spoke again, gesturing with his now almost fully reconstructed arm. "I am plan B. The virus was plan A."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Shocked whispers shot through the Heptaron. One angry voice shouted, "What do you mean, you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">are</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> plan B?" Another yelled, "The virus didn't work! Plan A didn't work, did it?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Almost."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"What is the world like in your time? WHEN is your time?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I can give no specifics besides the careful plan I will lay out for you. Needless to say, there has to be a change made in the virus. I am here to help you make that happen, as I cannot do it myself-- I can affect nothing physical in this timeline."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dr Schon hissed, "That's very convenient for you. We're supposed to help you? It seems as though you are the one responsible, not us. We have important work to discuss here, not fix a future of uncertain destiny."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The shimmering man looked pained. "You are right. Our scientists misread a number of confusing genetic anomalies, so the virus instructions are having a less than ideal outcome."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"What kind of outcome?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I'm not at liberty to say."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"If you want our help you'll say." Dr Schon stood firm.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The man sighed heavily. "Very well. Our plan worked very well... at first. Every person born was a bona fide genius, and humanity began to make dramatic leaps forward, one such leap being the technology which brings my image to you. But recently, we have had a dramatic rise in the number of superintelligent sociopaths being born."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"How dramatic?"</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Five in seven."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Oh my god."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He face was stone and somber; realizing that full disclosure couldn't possibly hurt his situation he continued through grim lips. "That's an appropriate if antiquated response. Our world is nearly annihilated. The large number of people with a pervasive disregard for the well-being of others has brought about a joy for... of all things... blood sport. Frightening new weapons cover the globe. There's not a street in the world not painted in blood. Geniuses design ever more cruel and damaging killing machines; one created miniscule bullets that enter the body without damage, then move to the brain and then rip the head off quite suddenly. Another wound sharp, microscopic spring cabling into coils and spread them all over the ground. When stepped on they are released and shred a person into strips, nothing larger than sushi. One minute you'll be walking with your wife... the next, she's a pile of shredded meat on the ground." Tears welled in his eyes and the scientists realized with a shock that this was a painful personal mission for the man.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I'm terribly sorry, sir." Understanding showed in the doctor's face. "But why did you wait so long before returning?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"We just found out what we did, umm, what our alternate selves did. A thousand years accrues a lot of identicality drift. Soon after the virus was sent, the experiment was lost to the vagaries of time. Fortunately one of our highest IQ people was able to reconstruct accurately the events of the last timeline."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"How high was his IQ, if I may ask?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"142."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Forgive me, but that doesn't seem to be very high. We have people alive now with IQ's exceeding 200."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"That is true. But IQ is a quotient of intelligences from across the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">current</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> spectrum of humanity. By your standards the man's IQ would be closer to 1800."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The room fell silent. One nearby voice murmured, "Jesus. What can a mind do with that kind of processing power?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Predict the weather."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The scientist's head snapped up. "What? With what level of accuracy?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"100%"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Not possible! What about Chaos Theory?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"It is figured in."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">His simple statement was met with barks of doubt. He waited for silence. "To demonstrate, you're about to have a 17 minute hail storm outside, beginning in a minute and 42 seconds."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Nonsense! There's been no hail here for 50 years!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"There was no mention of hail on the weather report!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"One minute and 34 seconds." On the man's gleaming chest a large digital readout emerged, counting backwards. In a pack the scientists ran and huddled to windows scattered throughout the Heptaron, watching the cloudy skies. At 0:00, to hushed murmurs, hail began peppering the ground.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Can we please repair my timeline now?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Working with the man, Liynas, proved to be easy at first, although what he asked seemed frivolous. They were tasked with constructing a large network of machines through which a tone, silent to human ears, would blanket the globe and subtly affect every nanovirus, simultaneously. The machines themselves were not unusual; technology appropriate to build them had been around for decades.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But the tone was proving to be nearly impossible to construct. Liynas would begin simply, with a recipe of sorts he recited from memory. He'd request a middle 'C' played on a Steinway, but it would need to be played in a room of specific dimensions and constructed of certain materials. Only when the recording was finally deemed correct were they permitted to move on with the next. It was meticulous, draining work. The one saving grace was, there was no time limit. They had literally years to complete it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I need the sound of a teaspoon tap on a six-ounce crystal wine glass filled with three point two seven ounces of sparkling peach cider." Again, the room specifications were precise; as was the volume, pitch, duration, attack and decay of the resulting note. The assembly was grueling. One particular request, a bull moose bellowing in a mist-enshrined valley at 6am, took nearly a month to get exactly right.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The scientists were frazzled. "How can you tell if the sound you seek is correct?" they would often complain.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I just can," came Liynas' less-than-serene response.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"How many sounds are in the recipe?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"In this first hexadecema, sixteen."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"And we've only done three in all this time!? Of how many hexa... hexadecimals are this mega-sound made?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Sixteen </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hexadecimen</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Jesus Christ."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Not really relevant."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They worked through the year assembling the impossibly complex noise. Occasionally, during long late-night sessions, Liynas would let slip some information that proved to be immensely interesting to the scientists. One such fact was how the virus came to be. They had wondered how a physical specimen even as small as a virus could travel into the past and the answer was, it couldn't. However, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">subatomic</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">waves</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> could be generated through time, complex waves which could effect matter at the quantum level, in effect building the virus using tonal instructions.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is what they were attempting now. Rather than a simple change to software, Liynas was helping them to rebuild each virus, worldwide, from the inside out. It was astonishing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Each hexadecima of sounds could be tested once completed; there were specific, permanent changes each tone would make to specific physical matter, so Liynas would not let them be run through the worldwide transference network lest they cause catastrophic change on a planetary level. Instead, the first test was to be directed at a tree in a desolate part of Siberia, the only one for a dozen miles in every direction. "Just to be safe," Liynas reassured.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The test area was sealed off, but was visible from twenty directions by pole-mounted cameras. Liynas recited his garbled entry code into </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">L'Arc Technologié's powerful </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">satlink unit; at the same instant the solitary onsite transmitter received the first hexadecima and broadcast it at 2% in the tree's direction. They watched the huge screens silently.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The effect was explosive and caught the scientists off guard; several fell out of their chairs and one needed immediate medical assistance for choking. What the rest of the scientists saw could barely be believed. The nearest camera, mounted on top of the transmitter 100 yards from the tree, had shown an image of the entire tree but suddenly went completely dark. From a camera a mile back you could see the tree looked exactly the same... but was now nearly a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">thousand</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> feet tall! The trunk was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">fifty</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">yards</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in diameter and had split into tunnels in a number of places! Dead branches on the ground became as felled redwoods, blocking the landscape with woody mass.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A number of cameras had blacked out. Turning others to face them the problem became apparent. Most of the cameras had been attached to metal poles; they had been unaffected. But there were several wooden poles placed into the ground as well, against Liynas' specific instructions. Originally twenty feet long, they were now almost 600 feet tall and fifty feet wide! They had grown with such speed that the cameras, screwed down to the flat tops, had crushed almost as flat as coasters.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The scientists were awed. All that growth had occurred from simply reacting to a sound... a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sound</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">! At a volume barely above a whisper! The advances Liynas was showing them would move technology forward by centuries! Already they were sketching prototypes for a handheld model to be used in the building industry. Want a house? A builder could carve a tiny one of wood, lay it on the ground onsite and shoot it, and it would grow full-sized in an explosive flash! Or in forestry... one tree could now supply all the wood for an entire town!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even the arm part that Liynas had offered so many months ago was causing an explosive growth in reverse engineering attempts. It had remained cohesive this entire time, even allowing itself to be sliced into for slide samples. What Liynas had said was true-- there was a distinctly architectural pattern holding the assembled molecules together, entirely different from their normal chemical bonds. It was almost as if they had been neatly stacked in an intensely detailed, vast warehouse of shelving which, if human sized, would surely reach the moon from Earth and yet seemed insubstantial... almost illusory. The precision was astonishing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Liynas smiled at their burbling eagerness and got their attention with a whistle. He smiled at them and said, "Well, that one worked!" The room erupted in howling cheers, not quieting until Liynas held up a palm. "Now what do you say we get started on hexadecima 2?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The remaining 15 complex sounds proceeded with gathering speed. The scientists were developing a rhythm and a knowledge base for constructing sounds. They had built variable sound chambers which were immensely helpful, as discrepancies could be programmed into the walls, cutting construction time by up to 90% for some sounds. Liynas was able to watch more and instruct less, intruding only to make minor adjustments. The rest of the time he remained in one of the many guest quarters found on the science foundation's premises. He wasn't able to interact with any physical objects, but he required sleep and alone time, much as any human would. His identity was kept a strict secret and he moved between buildings only when nobody on the crowded science campus was watching. Calculating all the variables in such a move was an impossible task that his massive intellect made simple.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As each hexadecima neared completion, Liynas described a small sampling of their remarkable and exciting new abilities. And adding to their diversity, the hexadecimen could be combined in myriad ways to create still other incredible effects, by playing them in pairs and multiples, varying their volumes with respect to each other, adding flutter and pitch adjustments.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Different staging grounds were set up worldwide to test them, in isolated areas rich with natural content for the test. With each test came invariably astounding results. For example, H2 (the second Hexidecima created) could alter any metal through a property range. Point it at a block of copper and depending on the input variables you could end up with room temperature liquid or gaseous or even gooey copper! That was exciting in itself, but when H1 and H2 were played together, one of the possible outcomes formed metallic wood! Alter the inputs slightly and now a new species of tree would be formed that sprouted copper foil leaves, leaves that turned sunlight into electricity at near 100% efficiency!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H3 altered the freezing and boiling points of water. The sound-enhanced water, nicknamed 'warm ice', was able to freeze at higher temperatures and could be heated and poured into molds, cooling like metal and forming strong, clear building products! Unlike the outcome posited in a Vonnegut novel, it would not alter any normal water in contact with it, causing at least some of the scientists to draw a breath of relief.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H4 turned any rock into a soft, malleable putty for 24 hours so that mountains could be tunneled with ease, and then after a day returned to its former hardness in the new shape. All the scoops taken from tunneling, with a little planning, could be easily stamped into ornate stone products of high sheen and durability, retaining all of their stonelike beauty, a green solution that left the construction zone clean.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H5 humorously grew hair on anything alive or dead, but on nonliving objects it grew no further. However on living creatures the new hair came with their own follicular growth factories. Passing around flower petals flowing with luxuriant tresses, many of the distinguished group had the same thought and returned home that evening to gleeful squeals at their returned thick brush. Far better than ego relief though, was the way any item hit with this sound weaved into a strand with the highest tensile strength ever recorded by a wide margin, and looked to be the product which would realize space elevators.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H6 at low levels desalinated water, leaving it deliciously mineral-rich. At higher energies it could separate any compound into its root elements. The scientists had fun turning salt water into sodium and chlorine and hydrogen and oxygen and a hundred other elements in trace amounts. One took the coins from his pocket and separated them into cool blobs of elemental metal.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H7 killed all cancer cells, converting them into lipids the body used for energy. A small metal-detector type booth was rapidly built employing that sound in which anybody who stepped into it came out seconds later cancer free and vibrant. This was taken and placed unobtrusively in a nearby hospital entrance, causing it to later be renamed the 'miracle center' for all its occurrences of spontaneous cancer remission.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H8 could make an exact duplicate of anything. Anything. From seemingly nothing, although the building blocks of matter were everywhere and it was hard to determine exactly </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">where</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> they came from. One of the scientists duplicated himself to the protests of the others. Liynas was silent, presumably to teach a lesson. The copy was perfect in every way, except... it wasn't alive. Now the scientist had a dead body to deal with. Thankfully, H6 was available.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H9 seemed to have no effect on anything, and Liynas was deliberately opaque on the subject, but insisted each of the scientists be exposed to it. Over the coming months the work began to seem easier, with scientists in separate fields coming to similar conclusions, and formerly heated discussions over contrary postulations began drying up and disappearing as they began agreeing on methodology formerly foreign to them. One asked Liynas, "Did that sound make us smarter?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Liynas shook his head.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another ventured, "Nicer?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Closer."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"What then?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Don't get angry... it's the 'golden rule' sound. People hearing it naturally want to treat others the way they themselves would like to be treated."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Oh. I'm not angry at all." The scientist scratched his head and asked, "But couldn't you use that sound on the people in your time, to stop the violence? If it works here..."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"No for two reasons. One, this virus modification sped up evolution and it doesn't effect us the same way it does you. Second, even if it did... many of my people </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">are</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> treating people the way they would want. They're sociopathic, after all."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Well, how about shooting it worldwide </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">now</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, to end war and usher in a new age of human cooperation?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"So nothing would go wrong with permanently altering all of humanity's brain chemistry, is that what you're asking?" Liynas smiled in that shiny way he had.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Ah. Of course. Too bad." The scientist wandered off to join another hexidecima assembly group; Liynas wondered briefly if it had been such a good idea exposing them to H9, but knew he could pull the plug if it caused more harm than good.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At long last the final hexidecima was created, involving of all things, the sound of a fearful goat in the back seat of a 1958 Austin Healy traveling a dirt road in Nebraska at 57 miles an hour. When completed, Liynas directed that this test occur aboard a fleet of 625 jets, all equipped with sound distribution hardware, flying 20 miles apart from pole to pole in a straight west line for as far as their fuel would take them, coupled with the worldwide directive for people to stay indoors while the jets were overhead and soon after. This was a strange request, because up until now he had kept most testing away from the public eye, whereas this one would involve the entire world. Preparations were made and the citizenry were told what to expect. Checklists and worldwide safety equipment was reproduced using H8 and distributed.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The day came and 625 jets aligned themselves in a latitudinal path, 20 miles apart and 35 miles high, from the North to the South poles, traveling west, with many others on the ground ready to take over at predicted locations. Announcements were made on every manner of communication equipment, and all of humanity took their places indoors or under cover as they had been directed. Some ignored the requests; those people would be facing an unhealthy situation if protection was not available to them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Liynas nodded and the switch was flipped. All the planes began broadcasting. The hexidecima's volume was calculated so that it was too weak to reach the ground by a safe amount, too weak even to affect flying animals. The shielded sound-broadcasting equipment was tail-mounted so that the aircraft themselves wouldn't be affected. People on the ground watched the sky from their windows with excitement. They were told that this was only an experiment and nothing might come of it, but hopeful chatter zoomed around the world nonetheless. If it worked this would be something to wish for, that was certain!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Behind the jets there was now something happening; it was clearly visible to the pilots while still too distant to be observed from the ground. There was smoke! Black smoke! Spreading out in a 'V' until it intersected the 'V' from its companion jets, it seemed as though the aircraft were burning up, as the black cloud gained thickness and lost striations until it was as night approaching from the East. Soon it made itself apparent to the citizenry at large. It was terrifying, and even with words of calm emanating from radios and televisions worldwide, there were still many who sought refuge deep in the bowels of their homes, slamming their cellar doors shut as if in preparation for tornadoes. But the jets were not burning up; this was in fact, exactly what was supposed to happen. They continued on their paths, oblivious of the escalating fear below them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Deeper and darker the cloud became... and now it was apparent that it was coming closer as well! From circulating ground vehicles with mounted loudspeakers came more instructions, blared to everyone within earshot: "Find indoor protection. Avoid breathing the dark cloud. Remain calm. Find indoor protection..." Simulated nightfall descended in moments. The lights in every home and business on this no-longer-sunny day flashed on. The blackness grew closer, more ominous. A new sound began-- rain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Not rain. It sounded like rain, but to the people living in deserts and by the ocean knew, this wasn't the sound of rain. It was the sound of sand, blowing sand, hitting the roofs and the windows and the streets of every community in the world! The blackness was not smoke, but it was pollution... for this particular hexadecima had the unique ability to separate carbon dioxide and other heavy compounds from the Earth's stratosphere and causing it, once cracked, to drop peacefully to the ground as a carpet of black silt!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now people's jaws swung wide at the effect. The ground everywhere was coal, covered with an inch of carbon granules as far as the eye could see, looking like the landscape after a fresh volcano had cooled. But they lurched in surprise once they cast their eyes upward, to see what change might have occurred to the again-daylit sky, if any.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It had! It was a rich and vibrant blue, deeper than anyone could ever remember! Distant buildings and land features popped into clarity, more crisp in detail than in the last 50 years! The clouds were whiter than white and all brown city haze had disappeared! Reports were coming in from all over the world; Mexico City, Los Angeles, Shanghai, Tokyo... all were reporting that the air above their cities was now crystal clear and smelled like fresh rain!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">New announcements were being formulated for wide distribution, to resolve world's the new issues. People everywhere heard them: "Once the cloud has fallen, please sweep or blow all black granules into your streets, where sweeping machinery will retrieve it for return to the planet's interior. Use your provided masks to avoid inhaling the dust. For people with large properties far from city streets, contact the city at the following number to arrange for a large-scale vacuum service. Continue to use your dust filters on windy days until the announcement of the last bit being settled. Our planet is pristine again! Let's keep it this way this time!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A roar erupted in the L'Arc Technologie laboratories as it became clear what an incredible gift Liynas had bestowed upon them; he would have been lifted onto their shoulders, were he substantial. As it was, he accepted their appreciation with a humble smile. He waved the group quiet and, finding nowhere in the lab to stand tall, simply elevated himself into the air, his feet floating 30 inches above the floor. None of the scientists seemed overly perturbed by this image, though one young assistant ducked out of the room.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Thank you. But you know I could have accomplished none of this without your patience, expertise and valuable hands. Mostly your hands," he smiled and the group chucked at his self-ribbing of insubstantiality. "This final assembly is the moment we have been working towards, and if successful, you may not notice for decades. But the change will be there. This last and most complex sound will be making only small adjustments to the virus which inhabits every one of you, but essential ones necessary for the survival of our species. First, it lowers the IQ selection goal to zero. That's right, we're not going to use IQ as a goal any more. When this is done, every person who wants to bear a child will be able to, provided they are already capable of doing so.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"So how will we achieve the reduced population so necessary for continued survival? I already said it. Every person who wants </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a child</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> will be able to bear one. A </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">single</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> child. The next ten generations of parents will only be able to conceive one child. In the sad circumstance that a child is lost, the virus will allow that family to conceive another. The virus will watch the worldwide population for the goal of one billion, and once it is reached, will allow </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">two</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> children per couple from that point forward.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I'm not a comfortable public speaker so let me conclude with this: You are all in a very real way, responsible for the salvation of our race. I am very proud of all of you and more importantly, you should each be proud of yourselves. Now, since we have all of our Hexadecimen assembled and ready to go, there's nothing stopping us from finally setting this plan in motion!" He turned to the lead scientist. "Doctor Schon, if you would do the honors?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I would be honored, Liynas." He pressed a few buttons, which powered up the worldwide sound distribution network. Green lights flashed across the screen, indicating a 'go'. His finger hovered over the 'Enter' button.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Well? What are you waiting for?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I think there should be some kind of a record, don't you? Say 'cheese'," the Doctor said, pointing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Cheese? What do you mean by that?" Dr Schon initiated the final Hexadecima as a bright flash went off.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> When their eyes had cleared... Liynas was gone.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"What? Where did he go? Liynas? Liynas!" but the man did not show up. The room was dim by comparison in his absence. "Well, he must be back in his time. Let's see what we've got!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As expected, there was no apparent reaction. The complex sound made of sixteen Hexadecimen was silent and disturbed nobody. The scientists felt no different. The world outside was still as crystal clear as Young Earth. "I guess the results will become apparent over time. We'll set up observation data centers-- we should know in a fairly short time, as lower IQ people begin to produce children... er, a child... again. Good work, gentlemen, ladies! But it's not over yet... there is much work to be done, and I'm sure you know to what I am referring!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Most of the scientists erupted, shouting, clamoring to be heard. One word was clear in the din.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Hexadecimen!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"That's right, people. There is a lot of experimentation on sound combinations about to commence! But as our guest said before... we must be very careful with this science. We can destroy our world with a foolish joining... but the wonders which await us are legion, if we but take the time to do it right. That is all. Take the week off. We'll see you first thing Monday, here." The scientists applauded briefly and began to scatter, murmuring amongst themselves. "Wait a second, son. Let me take a look at that picture you snapped."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The young man hesitated. Dr Schon noticed he was pale, and shaking. "What is it, son? Here, take a seat. Let me pour you a glass of water. What is it that's got you spooked? Was it the photograph? What could be strange about a simple image? Give me the camera, young man." He pried it from the young man's hand, who seemed to be unresponsive, as if in shock. "There's a good fellow. Oh, a video too, eh? Excellent. Now let me take a look at this and OH MY GOD!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was an ordinary photograph by all accounts. The Doctor was there, smiling at the lens, and all the other scientists were beaming in the background as well. But there was something very wrong. Liynas seemed to be getting pulled backwards somehow; a hook around the waist was how it seemed, folded at the waist. But even stranger was the image behind him, where a jagged circular distortion field now hovered.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Visible in this tear in time was a scene of utter chaos. The sky was orange and black; flames rose hundreds of feet from the modern city behind him. People were screaming, running, on fire. An explosion tilted a skyscraper to its destruction. But the expression on Liynas' face spoke the truth of his fate: it was a mask of unbridled horror.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dr Schon sat heavily into a chair beside the shocky young man and he brought his hands up to cover his face. Sobbing with distress, his voice shook and cracked as he cried, "My good lord! What have we done!?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He began the video, afraid of what he was about to see. Liynas was far inside now, becoming a speck, and the portal was closing. But no sooner had the Doctor pressed 'go' than he could see the scene change, as if a hand had passed across it from left to right. The buildings which had been on fire, weren't. The sky that was orange and black, was now blue. The screaming, running, burning people, instead now sat in the pastoral foreground, frolicking and picnicking and enjoying the same crisp beauty that Dr Schon's Earth now enjoyed. And in the foreground now, walking hand in hand with an attractive young woman and oblivious to the shrinking portal, was a deeply in love Liynas. Then the portal closed and they were staring at a laboratory interior again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He let out a deep, ragged breath, shaking. He put an arm around his now-smiling assistant and hugged him. "We did it, son! We did it!"</span><br />
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</div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-56662544261207701822011-10-08T14:57:00.000-07:002011-10-08T14:57:49.831-07:00Where Do We Go From HERE?<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://img.ibtimes.com/www/data/images/full/2011/10/02/167356-occupy-wall-street-protest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://img.ibtimes.com/www/data/images/full/2011/10/02/167356-occupy-wall-street-protest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You all know this by now: Protesters have been blocking financial centers in ever-growing numbers, in an attempt to voice their dismay about the ruthless manner in which the supercapitalist rich have been throttling the American middle class. It's a heavy-handed, so-last-century method which provides weak impetus at best, and in this wireless electronic age can a machine as entrenched as business even be stopped with a physical roadblock?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">No it cannot.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But there are more violent yet effective methods as yet untried which would. Cyber-terrorism. Targeted hostage-taking. Physical destruction.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You know I'm not advocating such methodology. Anyone who has read this blog knows that. What I'm getting at is, what if the people's voice is heard? What if the powers that be relent?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What if it works?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Stop laughing. No, really!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What is our next step going to be following the halting of 'business as usual'?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You think you know my response, me being the 'Perfect World' dude and all. However, you'd be wrong, and the reason may surprise you. I won't advocate switching over to Perfect World immediately, and here's why:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have no idea how to do that.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Okay, that's not exactly true. I do have an idea, and a good one. But it involves a great amount of trust on the public's part, and an enormously difficult releasing of the reins from the people in charge. And these are two requests that ain't gonna come easy. So rather than upsetting our economy and our long-ingrained behaviors, we're going to need to ease ourselves into it. But how do we proceed from "Let's Do This!"?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Simple. We let MARTER DC do it. And you know that's not a rapper. It's an awful, awful acronym that stands for</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Moratoriums</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Assessments</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Redesign</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Testing </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Education</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Reassignment</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Deletion</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Completion</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">and they are the necessary steps, in order, to transition us into Perfect World. Is it complete? No. This is a think-out-loud session, trying to establish an ordered way to smooth the mess we've made of things. I'm sure there will be other steps, interim steps which will be required, since redesigning society is a complicated chore. Some of them will likely mess with the acronym. We can only hope.</span><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">First we have to ease the fears and doubt coming from our largest segment of society, and we do that with Moratoriums. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Moratoriums</b> will be monetary in nature and will cut across the entire business world-- we universally suspend all final decisions. Nobody loses their job, nobody's note becomes due, nobody gets kicked out of their home. No plants close, no work stops, no strikes happen, or sit-ins, or any form of civil disobedience. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">All homeless people apply for and receive appropriate housing (basic designs, one bedroom per person) from the current large number of vacant units, without funding. Again, the numbers are kept through bookkeeping, but there will be no payments. People who are with mental issues will be helped with treatment or medication, or safe housing in sanatoriums if necessary.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">People will still go to food and clothing stores but their receipts will be unpaid and assigned to their unique human identification code, of which every person already has several (for now). All this information tracking is important for the next step of determining what basic human needs are, with respect to world supplies.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hospitals turn away no dire emergency. Nobody who is in immediate danger of dying will be turned away. Waiting lists for nonemergency procedures will be established on an urgency basis. Cosmetic surgeries will be placed on hold for a short while so that those doctors may assist with the immediate wellness of our population.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">All but violent offenders are released from prison and juvenile halls into temporary housing in unused military bases or other large vacant properties until the steps of Assessment through Reassignment can be completed on them. People in jail for the so-called victimless crimes (drugs, prostitution, white collar) will skip this step and return to their families, or to private housing.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This first step is important because it sets the tone for the new society, and the tone is</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">People First.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Oh speaking of people by the way, corporations lose their peoplehood immediately. They simply become large organizations utilizing many human people, as every noncorporate business does. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://img143.imageshack.us/img143/5964/frankschmuck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://img143.imageshack.us/img143/5964/frankschmuck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Political deals cease. Political action committees of all types disband. Politicians go away. There are no more 'special interests'-- we're <i>all</i> 'special' now.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Religious power, such as it is, stops. No mentioning of any religious icons, or exhibiting specific religious behaviors which are not also societal behaviors. Groups are special interest, and we're all one people.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With most of society's claws tucked safely away, <b>Assessment</b> comes next. We need to decide as a planet what our human needs are. These are already largely defined with another exceedingly annoying acronym, CHEFCHEF. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Clothing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Health.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Education.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Food.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Companionship.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Housing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Enlightenment.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Freedom.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> In addition to these a far more comprehensive list of human <i>wants</i> are assembled, paying particular attention to the reason for those wants. For example, we know that people want alcohol. But we'll be asking the question: <i>why</i> do they want it, and how will that reason change when society does? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We also know humans want entertainment, but in a future society which values health, will all the entertainment be so <i>passive</i>? People want televisions, but must they all be wall-sized behemoths? Must all their meat be prime, and must they receive as much meat as they want? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">These questions are addressed in the Education section, where people will learn new expectations, freedoms and restrictions. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Redesign</b> is the step which manages all the vast information gleaned from the Assessment and creates a working model humanity will live by. By covering just a few areas here, you'll begin to see how it will unfold:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">--Mining is dangerous work but with applied science and machinery, removing ore from the ground could be made largely automated, as well as ecologically designed to leave surface features intact and not adding leaching poisons to the environment. Research of new methodology will be needed. New mining processes will be developed with significant manufacturing required. Training for the new methods will be intrinsic. You can see how this one new field creates an expanding network of interactions with other concerns.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">--Transportation is a huge problem, with far too many vehicles making far too many trips thanks to multiple redundancies. The vehicles themselves are still designed with last century's technology, using dirty, carbon-emitting fuels, an area we are already trying to eliminate. First we analyze the need for all that movement to minimize what we can, then find new and better ways to move the most people and resources the most efficiently. High-speed rail might be one solution, and that brings again, research, development, manufacturing and construction efforts.</span><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Taking the place of individualized organization will be a massive, multi-leveled piece of internet software which keeps all the information flowing. Tiers of programming will detail the full complement of world needs, from international (global cleaning and health; satellite systems; space exploration), through national, state, county, city, neighborhood... all the way to individual requirements (food, clothing, decorations, housing, health, entertainment, work, intimacy and entertainment). All the information is utilized to streamline human workload, minimizing overruns and shortages and maximizing its ability to say yes most of the time, increasing personal satisfaction to unseen levels.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The software knows (for example) how much copper is needed worldwide, knows how much is in reserve, how much is being recycled and how much is being mined... and it has this information for <i>every</i> resource. It knows how many man-hours are required in every project, every ongoing venture and every emergency response... and knows everyone who can contribute, and their proximity to the job. It then uses those facts to streamline necessary man-hours and direct them to those people best suited to handle them. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The software also reaches into the cerebral as it organizes every contribution of art, music, science, literature and makes it available for all to appreciate and use as needed.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It would be like today's Internet all rolled into one organization mega-mind, managing the world and the people in it, to the maximum benefit of all.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Testing</b> of every human being alive, young and old, would begin. We have let the undiscovered resources of too many individual minds be wasted for too many centuries. We are each unique. We each have many potential areas of expertise and talent. For many of us, those talents may lie forever dormant, unexplored and untapped, thanks to an inefficient education system which largely cattle-runs us and our children through an identical fact base, which has the net effect of making us all look relatively smart while watching similarly tailored game shows, but little else. And that doesn't take into consideration all the students who miss out on education altogether because of unfavorable circumstances, or those that suffer huge gaps in their education from inadequate homeschooling or private, unregulated institutions.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ithacanet.org/Orgs/EHFC/images/TestingCenterMod.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://www.ithacanet.org/Orgs/EHFC/images/TestingCenterMod.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The testing process would end that mess, by using the most advanced and comprehensive</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> techniques to determine each human being's basic desires and innate abilities. Those would be rated and categorized so that each person may contribute, to help society in the most efficient way possible.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">These tests would determine a person's root abilities, their facility with words or visual interpretations, for example. It would test each facet of human knowledge and gauge the responses using sensitive equipment. These would be earmarked for the coming education process so that each person might finally contribute the skills they were born with. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This also serves to streamline the work process so that much more can be accomplished using each person for fewer hours. At last, slaving away in an ill-fitting job until you retire will be a thing of the past. What few miserable jobs that can't be automated (yet) will be shared widely among the general populace so that, when your turn came up, it might be the only time in your life you would be expected to do so. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Education</b> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In this new society freedom of the individual, while important, takes a back seat to the good of the many. Understand this will not affect your freedom to move about, experience the daylight and sun, feel the wind on your face; but rather will seek to restrict any negative actions towards other equal members. In a civilization your actions yield consequences and in this new society you will be expected to follow the rules of civility, an abused segment of behavior we currently tolerate, to our detriment. Rudeness, lying, bullying, fraud, violence, insensitivity and a host of other ill behaviors seen in wide use today will become reasons for individual retraining. Humans will no longer be free to abuse other humans-- this is an important facet of the new civilization. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In a beneficial society of course, many of those anomalous behaviors begin to disappear anyway. The closer we get to perfecting the system, the fewer acts of contrition we'll see. We have learned that they are not actions in and of themselves as much as they are <i>responses</i> to the actions of others. Much like the social chain where boss yells at dad and then dad yells at mom so mom yells at child and then child yells at family dog, angry feelings telegraph through society. This behavior will need to be prevented by educating each human into exhaustive awareness of social interaction. But it doesn't stop there.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We know what the world needs of us, and what we need of the world. The <b>Redesign</b> step made that clear. Testing each person to find their natural strengths and desires allows them to now be placed in an intensive learning environment to hone their skills. But we're not just creating lookalike cogs for society's machine. Yes we need their skills, but because they have a natural affinity for them, the person will be more likely to enjoy their training and see it through to completion, and enjoy their contribution to society. Also, since we have shifted from a competitive model to a benevolent one, all the skills needed are likely to bring feelings of well-being to your environment, rather than bitterness and desperation, which happens so often here, now.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Reassignment</b> asks the question 'How many people are working in a job they truly hate and would give up in a heartbeat if they could?" and then seeks to match these jobs with other, more natural volunteers. Furthermore, it finds the people who are well placed and cements them to the segment of contribution they appreciate, preventing the stress of late-life relearning.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-nI3Q6jGpNqGEqqZ56kuUUAQYJvmX70EoLzrCVN84LLWEnNRHlR4_9bEHr_wm7D3mVu02V-srFkZa9rpJOBVdr2DYPmA8QkaRNgpKn7kD95cG1nNUn_iWeGDQE-giMrU4wdflkWMk0sRZ/s1600/worstjobmk7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-nI3Q6jGpNqGEqqZ56kuUUAQYJvmX70EoLzrCVN84LLWEnNRHlR4_9bEHr_wm7D3mVu02V-srFkZa9rpJOBVdr2DYPmA8QkaRNgpKn7kD95cG1nNUn_iWeGDQE-giMrU4wdflkWMk0sRZ/s320/worstjobmk7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With all these radical changes to society, many jobs will be disappearing in the Deletion part of the plan. Where will those workers go? The testing and education segments of this plan have already answered that question with 'wherever they are most able and/or comfortable'. Because many jobs will be deemed unnecessary, redundant or inferior, the remaining jobs will end up with many more potential workers. Since a citizen no longer needs to chase a job in order to have decent accommodations and a comfortable life, multiple people will now report to the same job, cycling through its hours with the others on an easily adjustable schedule. Of course that means there will be far fewer hours any one person will need to work, causing a greater amount of time be assigned to R and R, human interest areas and self betterment.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Here's an example. Farming is hard work. People must work from sunup to sundown, tending to the various needs of the farm. But now, with so many more volunteers, each farm could have 10 times the volunteers, causing each volunteer to have a much lighter workload. Also, new ideas for further automation will always be brought up, and implemented when possible, reducing even more the need for people to do the hard work. Instead, more will shift to the factories, producing the new automated machinery for the farms. Once the farms have been stocked, the factories will be mothballed until such time as they are needed again.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Deletion</b> is the step where all the negative aspects of our current society are removed, like unnecessary jobs, dangerous and substandard structures, damaging environmental procedures and organizations which inspire corruption or unhealthy competition and greed. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Politics will be completely revamped, no longer requiring representation. So parties, candidates and political structures become pointless.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Infrastructure will be attended to after careful consideration of how best to house and move the world's people. Will we prefer to build city megastructures, connected by high speed rail, housing most of the inhabitants and business, with a distant circling rings for the noisy manufacturing and busy farming concerns, or will the city follow its roots with widely spaced individual dwellings interspersed with businesses, factories and farms? Whatever the results of the studies and votes say. Now every citizen has an equal say in the planning and commission of public projects.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As the task of tallying becomes pointless so do the money trades. As all products are freely given, items pertaining to security go away. Guards, gates, alarms, locks all fade.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Individual businesses cannot fail-- there is no failure in this system. If the need for a factory's product ends, reassignment of resources and volunteers is the natural next step. The need for advertising and associated trades (agencies, billboards etc) become pointless, as there is no purchasing incentive. The desire to make poor products to undercut better ones stops as citizens realize the inferior products waste resources and they stop requesting them. Often the inferior factory could just ask for and receive help to improve their product, even from the better product's factory, since competition is no longer the method, but cooperation. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The people in all those deleted jobs are reassigned, based again on their innate strengths and desires.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Power, itself a source of corruption, instead of being held by small groups of people or even individuals, is now spread evenly across the entire globe. Public projects are proposed, researched and voted on by the people they affect; once approved, construction materials and talent are organized. It is likely that in the beginning there will be a huge number of new projects proposed which will neeed to be culled and organized by priority-- bridges before parks, re-foresting before stadiums-- necessity taking top billing until the projects thin out.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Completion</b></span></div></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">is the goal. There is no step here. Completion is the finish line. Our cities are clean and green. Our people are healthy, happy, smarter and are contained in logical global numbers. There is no corruption, no greed, no selfishness, no worry, no fear. Will life be perfect? Of course not. There are still accidents and incurable diseases, and people will still pass away of natural causes. Feelings will change and relationships will be made and broken. But with our new enlightenment comes a maturity, a wisdom which states that these things are sad but will get better, these things are here to teach us some of the lessons we can't or don't want to or shouldn't teach ourselves, and the rest of life is a beautiful, wonderful experience... because we decided as a people that THIS is the existence we'd like to live. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This is the Perfect World for Humanity.</span><br />
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</span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-92052561186738902052011-10-02T13:15:00.000-07:002011-10-02T13:20:54.348-07:00Half is Good; a Quarter is Better; an Eighth is Best<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="http://pangea.tec.selu.edu/~vmartinez/ETEC644/fraction_strips%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://pangea.tec.selu.edu/~vmartinez/ETEC644/fraction_strips%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What the hell does that title mean? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Would I be speaking in drug terms? No, most certainly not.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When something is considered better if it is smaller, that thing is often a bad thing. Like salt. Not that salt is bad, but too much in your food definitely is. Less salt in your food is better than more. So am I referring to salt in the title?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">No I am not.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Murder is also a bad thing. But why stop at 1/8 of current levels? Why not cut them out completely? Does the title speak about murders?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">No. It doesn't.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I could go on all day, but instead I'll throw out one more teaser.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Weight. American's are too fat. Should we become one-eighth of our current selves? If we're all thousand pound behemoths, yes, definitely. Is that what I mean by the title?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Seriously? You're really asking me that? Of course you aren't... I'm controlling the conversation, and with apt douchery, I must say.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm referring to the current human population of Earth, set to reach 7 billion later this year. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Seven BILLION. By the way, that's too many fucking people.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When I was a boy (read: in the last 50 years) Earth's population was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">half</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> that. 3.5 billion.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A hundred years ago it was a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">quarter</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> of today's population: in 1910 we had 1.75 billion worldwide.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We'd have to go over 250 years back to find human population below a billion: In 1750 the world's population was 875 million, one </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">eighth</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> of what it is today. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So how did it get this so horribly bad? Why are there so, so many people? With all the illnesses and accidents and pollution and natural disasters, shouldn't we be DIMINISHING as a race, not expanding (at a rate of more than 75 million people a year)? That rate of increase would refill the entire USA in just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">four</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> years. In other numbers, that's 205,480 people a day, or 8,562 an hour... or 143 a minute. Every second, two more people are born. Two, tic. Two, tic. Two, tic. Holy crap. Appalling. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Here are a few reasons why we're proliferating: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One-- human beings are what's known as superpredators. We're on top of the food chain. Precious few of us are taken out by other animals. Sure, there are lions and tigers and bears (oh, crap), but they are mostly kept away from us with cages or preserve fences, or the animal's survival instinct. Yes, there are sharks and manta rays and schools of piran</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">a... but there are very few people floating in the water at any given time, population-wise. And of course we have weapons that would turn a whale into blubber rain with one RPG. So we have a handle on other predators.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Two-- we're not naked babies left in the snow. We are able. We can protect ourselves with clothing and protective garb, artificial environments and strong, solid buildings. No matter what the planet throws at us, we have the ability to affect our environment... some of us do, anyway. And in the most rare cases, we can even leave Earth if it gets too cranky (at least temporarily), taking a little holiday on the International Space Station, or on the moon.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Three-- In days before the advent of modern medicine many children died before the age of 2. Therefore, it was only survival to make as many children as possible, since the number reaching adulthood</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> (if any at all)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> would always be in question. That behavior has become ingrained in many, especially in rural areas, and are still creating families with 6 or more children. Except now almost all of them make it to adulthood.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But probably the biggest cause, and not one to be trifled with, is religious proclamation. In most religious texts there is a passage (or many passages) referring to the fact that humans should make many babies, 'Be fruitful and multiply' being one oft-quoted axiom. Too bad their books never considered the day when there would be </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">too many</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> people on the planet. Never thought about a time when arable land would be diminishing to urban sprawl and the world's huge oceans would become fished lean while human pollution kills the rest. Had nothing to say about humanity's ability to cause the worldwide extinction of the plants and animals we </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">depend</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> on. Couldn't imagine a world where people would be standing shoulder to shoulder... because there's just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">no room</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. Maybe the axiom should have read: 'Be fruitful and multiply... but don't be stupid about it.'</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Like I said, an eighth of current world population is where I'd like to see the world be, and stay. So if I give everyone a gun with 7 bullets, we could get this done </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">today</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.whattofix.com/images/MonkeyGun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://www.whattofix.com/images/MonkeyGun.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Tick... tick... tick... </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Yes, yes... I agree that's not a very good plan. Because then you'd have to bury 7 bodies, and you'd have to do it alone... everyone else would be busy with their own seven bodies which need burying.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And there would be 8 times too many homes, and 8 times too many cars. Too many businesses, and trains, and roads, and stuff. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And all of this cleanup would have to be done with 1/8 the labor force. </span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So much work!</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Maybe if we all decide to clean up the world first, make it all neat, pre-dig the graves... and then shoot 87.5% of us.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I can see this will be an organizational nightmare. Maybe a different plan? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Okay. Someone suggested attrition, which would be allowing the population to drop naturally, over time.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Well, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">that's</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">lot</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> of guns I no longer need to buy and distribute. A load off my mind, I can tell you!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So every person dies of their natural course. The only change we'd make is to destroy the sex organs of seven-eighths of all people using white-hot pokers. Or elevate their sacrifice at painful public flaying ceremonies. Or maybe do it with a competition, like a fun battle scenario, where the winners get to sterilize the losers with a hand drill.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hold on...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm being told that isn't the plan at all. My bad.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Instead, we try other forms of incentive first. We offer financial motivation to people who agree not to have children. We limit the number of children each family can legally have, and burden larger families with taxes and fines to pay for the incentives smaller families are receiving. Mathematically, we can reduce the population, every generation, in several ways:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">• The people who do not make children will end their own family lines with their deaths. No more progeny.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">• Parents that have only 1 child cut their family human load by 50% with each passing generation.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">• Parents that wait before having one child for </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">10-20 years </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">stretch the length of generations, contributing fewer children over time than families who have their child at a younger age.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">• We can shoot people who don't understand math.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Okay, apparently </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm feeling just the slightest bit murderous today. Maybe that's because I'm writing this during International Blasphemy Day and I feel obliged to say things like that. Or maybe it's because my editor is taking a week off in the Bahamas with his super-fat wife</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Definitely the second thing.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, no shooting. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Getting back to math, let's do an example. I've always </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">loved</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> examples (if I can understand them) so I'll try to make this one dumb enough for even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">me</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> to follow: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">S</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ay we start off with 100 couples. Each has 1 child. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And every couple in this chart gives birth at 20, and everyone dies at 79. Now my brain won't hurt so much when I do the figuring. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Let's begin the example on a nice round year, 2000, with 50 couples all 20 years old.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Year Gen 1</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gen 2</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gen 3</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gen 4</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gen 5</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Gen 6 Gen 7 Totals</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> (parents) (kids) (grandkids) (great) (great 2) (great 3) (great 4)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2000</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">100 50</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 150</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2020</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 100</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 50</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 25</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 175</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2040</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 100</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 50</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">25 12</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 187 </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2060</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 50 </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">25</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 12</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 6</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 93</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2080</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 25</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 12</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 6</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 3</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 46</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2100 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 12</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 6</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 3</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 1 </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 22</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2120</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 6</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 3</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 1 -</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2140</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 0</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 3</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 1 -</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In 2000 the 50 couples (100 ppl) are 20 years old and each make 1 baby (50 ppl) for a total of 150 people</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In 2020 - 50(100) are 40 - (50) kids are 20 and make 25 babies for a total of 175 people</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In 2040 - </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">50(100) are 60 - (50) kids are 40 - 25 gkids are 20 and make 12 = 187 people</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In 2060</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> -</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">50(100) are dead - (50) kids are 60 -25 gkids are 40 - 12 ggkids are 20 and make 6 = 93 people</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In 2080 - </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(50) kids are dead - 25 gkids are 60 - 12 ggkids are 40 -6 gggkids are 20 and make 3 = 46 people</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Seems like, using this chart, in 100 years and 7 generations we'll be at the population I recommend. In reality people won't be divided into petri-like dishes of 50 couples, so there will always be a wide assortment of partners, so don't worry. We're not going to dissolve into a world of sisterbangers.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Can we make it happen faster? What about stretching the birthing rate? Let's rechart the same data, using 40 as the age to have children instead of 20. People still die at 79 in this chart. Boo-hoo, no kids have grandparents. It's just an example... get over it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Year Gen 1 Gen 2 Gen 3 Gen 4 Gen 5 Gen 6 Gen 7 Totals</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2000 100 50 150</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2040 0 50 25 75</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2080 0 0 25 12 37 </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2120 0 0 0 12 6 18</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2160 0 0 0 0 6 3 9</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2200 0 0 0 0 0 3 1 4</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2240 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 -</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2280 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 -</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
In 2000 the 50 couples (100) are 40 years old and each make 1 baby (50) for a total of 150 people</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
2040 - 50(100) are dead - (50) kids are 40 and make 25 babies for a total of 75 people</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
2080 - (50) kids are dead - 25 gkids are 40 and make 12 = 37 people</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
2120 - 25 gkids are dead - 12 ggkids are 40 and make 6 = 18 people</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
2160 - 12 ggkids are dead - 6 gggkids are 40 and make 3 = 9 people</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So with more years between generations, the population drops faster. Still, when we reach our goal, like with a dieter, we don't want to fall too dangerously below. A 'decree' will go out on that wondrous day when computers calculate the world population at 875 million, a decree which states,"Oyez, oyez..."</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.holidayatthesea.com/wp-content/uploads/towncrier3as.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.holidayatthesea.com/wp-content/uploads/towncrier3as.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Okay, that's just ridiculous. we're not returning to the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">year</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 1750 just because we're at the population level of that time. Starting over, "The Great Pop-Drop is Over! O-V-E-R! You are now all free to bang like bunnies, to romp like rhinos, to pluke like plesiosaurs..."</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I don't even know if that's a real dinosaur. But the point is made. People will start making babies. Still, there is an eye to sensibility and the idea of doubling the baby load seems extreme, until they realize that just means going from one baby to two... so they proceed, cautiously. It looks like this:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
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Year Gen 1 Gen 2 Gen 3 Gen 4 Gen 5 Gen 6 Gen 7 Totals</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2100 100 100 200</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2120 100 100 100 300</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2140 100 100 100 100 400 </div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2160 0 100 100 100 100 400</div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2180 0 0 100 100 100 100 400</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2200 0 0 0 100 100 100 100 400</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2220 0 0 0 0 100 100 100 [400]</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
2240 0 0 0 0 0 100 100 [400]</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And with 2 kids per family, we've finally attained ZPG. At least as far as this wildly inaccurate chart is concerned, which omits a thousand important figures and a whole host of potential stumbling blocks. It'll work, I tell ya! Believe the Hypno-Toad.</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Moving on.</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Okay, now we've reached our desired population goal, and now everybody's car is made by Caterpillar so they can double as building-knocking-downers and junk-clearers. And that's our first task... cleanup! First to go are the dilapidated and banned buildings... we huff and puff and blow 'em down, and clear 'em away. Now the garbage structures -- 'squish' go temporary buildings that look like tractor-trailers and 'fold' go cheaply-made buildings utilizing any material that resembles pants. After that we turn a destructive eye towards all that awful junk housing-- no more cinder block tenements, no more cardboard subdivisions. Finally we're knocking down the wretched mini-mansions and security-booth-protected gated communities, both symbols of the realized horror called Capitalism with a big C. See ya, C.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/enthusemarc/pic/000z9g6y" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://pics.livejournal.com/enthusemarc/pic/000z9g6y" width="288" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All those newly disappeared neighborhoods don't need local roadways... no more street names ending in 'circle', 'drive', 'alley' or 'mews'. Good riddance. Scrape 'em clear. Horrible mini malls with fetid chain stores like 7-11s and BP gas stations go crunch, crunch, bye under our metal tractor treads. We can either shove it all into the ocean to form manmade barriers to tsunami and call them the Great Atlantic and Pacific Reefs, or maybe build a new mountain range in overly flat Kansas, going East-West for a change. It all returns to nature anyhow... might as well look pretty while doing so. Blanket it with every kind of seed and come back in 100 years to a beautiful man-made forest. People </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">making</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> forests? Well, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">that's</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> new!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With 1/8 population, resources will suddenly be plentiful. If we couple our careful population culling with widespread free education (concentrating in subjects which </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">don't</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> doom society, like exploration and discovery, the arts and sciences, creativity and the humanities), then our resultant population will begin to make wiser choices about how to coexist with the planet. Now following the advice of careful scientists will make tremendous sense as people stop arguing lies to reach empty political victories. Clean energy will become de rigueur, smooth quiet </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sensible</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> public transportation will become the preferred method of travel everywhere, and interacting with others becomes a cooperation, not a competition.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Political organization becomes pointless as people realize they can get more done in groups transparently than all the smoke-filled, back-room, secret-laced, political dope-dealing venal methods in practice before. They begin to use a now-ubiquitous piece of Internet software that would be called FluidWorld or something equally inspirational, which assembles and categorizes every one of humanity's needs (both personal and public), assigns predicted resources and labor to each, then requests a vote on each... but only from those people who would be affected by each change. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For example, a town needs a new light rail line and requests it. Everyone from that town gets to vote, but nobody from another state does. Or a neighborhood wants a new street sign, so everyone who would be able to see that sign gets to vote on it, but nobody else. With a yes outcome, resources and labor is allocated. No politics, no monetary remuneration, no hierarchy. In this way there are far fewer jobs needed, far less resources wasted, and far more free time. Jobs of a hard nature like farming would benefit with tenfold labor increase, allowing each person to put in just a couple of hours a day but the farm would experience increased output. There would be no subsidies, no wasted crops and no payments </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">not</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> to grow-- it would be a system that finally makes logical sense.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With nobody receiving any kind of unfair advantage, and more importantly, nobody being placed in a continuing disadvantage, human interaction stops becoming adversarial. Anger and frustration dissipates with the elimination of pointless and overstuffed yet watered down laws pushing humanity into an unnatural mold of perfection. Instead a few simple rules are put in place: Don't hurt people. Don't force your beliefs on them. Let the community help raise children. Share equally. Don't be greedy or selfish. Accept facts as truth. With these guidelines, people naturally become more tolerant and helpful, more unselfish and kind, more creative and enterprising. The world blossoms with the loss of pollution and senseless acts.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yes, an eighth is definitely best.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.worldwideshoppingmall.co.uk/toys/images/products/magnetic-pizza-fraction-demonstration-set.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" src="http://www.worldwideshoppingmall.co.uk/toys/images/products/magnetic-pizza-fraction-demonstration-set.gif" /></span></a></div>
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</span>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-12597919365336193992011-09-19T16:21:00.000-07:002011-09-23T10:38:34.796-07:00The Atheist's Deity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~sedwards/photos/kyle20050515/picfolio/midnails/20050515-8942%20Kyle%20looking%20up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~sedwards/photos/kyle20050515/picfolio/midnails/20050515-8942%20Kyle%20looking%20up.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Whaaaaaaa...?</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
That makes absolutely no sense... does it?</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Atheist means 'not a goddie' or something like that. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Taking the word apart, a•theist-- not to be confused with 'a theist' as in "Hi! I'm a theist!"-- is similar in form to a•symmetrical, where the prefix 'a' means 'not'.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Asymmetrical= not symmetrical</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Atheist= not theist</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And a theist is one who believes in god. So it actually means 'not one who believes in god'. You're welcome. I love to state the obvious.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So what the hell is an atheist's deity, anyway? A deity is a god, and atheists don't believe in supreme beings, so am I being paradoxical or what? Not at all. Allow me to explain myself.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Theists invented god to answer many of their unanswerable questions, at the time. Sadly, most of the answers were along the lines of, "You want to know why the sky is blue? Well, don't worry about that... it's not important. You just believe in me and I'll see to it that you spend eternity in bliss." </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not very helpful or informative. Great, however, for keeping the masses dependent on their theocratic leaders. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Heretics struggle to find the true answer to things for themselves and are roundly punished for it, but continue unabated. Communities of these heretical people banded together, calling themselves 'scientists' and created guiding books of their own. These books were usually filled with boring terms and formulas, in stark contrast to the flowery, meaning-filled tales found in the theist's book, the bible.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Their one redeeming virtue was that every piece of information found in the scientist's books could be proven. By anyone, anywhere!<i> </i>The knowledge contained within was shown beyond any question to be true.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What's more, those books clearly stated when something was absolutely true (a fact), when it was mostly true (a theory) or when it was simply thought to be true (a postulation).<br />
<br />
AND, these scientists were happy to update their books when new evidence was uncovered that altered former understandings or added new pieces to the puzzle called 'existence'. It was their <i>guiding principle</i>.<br />
<br />
Scientists as a group or singly were thrilled to discover new evidence.<br />
<i>Even if</i> it flew in the face of existing knowledge.<br />
<i>Even if</i> it upturned a lifelong career proposing the opposite.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Such was the nature of scientists, and of science.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Scientist's 'boring' books provided answers where the bible did not. The word spread and two camps formed:<br />
People who wanted to know the true nature of the universe.<br />
People who believed that the bible contained <i>all</i> they <i>ever</i> needed to know.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
With the arrival of testable, trustable answers, the world began to advance. They began to live in larger communities called cities, with better defenses and better food production. They established learning centers for children. They used facts from the science books and created inventions and conveniences to make life safer and easier.<br />
<br />
The bible believers even began to appreciate some of the modern conveniences created from the knowledge of the scientist's books, and use them, even as they preached the opposite and ignored the roots of each innovation.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And then, quietly and without provocation, enlightenment began.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
People began to question the validity of the bible. They wondered if any of the parables had <i>anything at all </i>to teach other than moral value... a value which was considered outmoded in changing modern times.<br />
<br />
They began to not believe.<br />
<br />
Enlightened people began to ask, politely, if in fact there was any reason to believe that a god even existed. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
They became A-theists, preferring to obtain all of their information from reliable sources and relegating the bible to fiction shelves with its own subsection: Religion.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
Without knowing for a fact either way, atheists preferred to leave the question of a god unanswered, so long as theists would leave them in peace to practice their science and logic.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This the theists would not do.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You see, it is found in the bible that believers must try to convert nonbelievers. In some older texts, the choice is convert or <i>be killed</i>, but most theists prefer stop short of making that commitment.<br />
<br />
Instead, they fought back in more guileful ways. They infiltrated the government, designed to be a strictly nonreligious body, and began to effect the laws. They succeeded in banning books. They were able to insert religious phrasing into the schools, knowing that to convince someone at a young age was to convince them for life. They tried to add these changes into every facet of modern life; into the money, into the courts, into every home.</div>
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<a href="http://www.faithandfacts.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/ingodwetrust.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.faithandfacts.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/ingodwetrust.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now the atheists were unhappy. They too understood the value of an early education, a powerful tool which could be used for good. So they created a deity, too, and showed the youth how to reach it, and talk to it, and learn from it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
They did not need to pray in order to speak with it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
They did not need to fear from any reprisal for not abiding by the word of the Atheist's Deity.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
They did not need to be concerned with their immortal soul, if such a thing even exists.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
They did not even need to honor it on Sunday in a house of worship.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The Atheist's Deity cared not for such things. It had one duty and one duty alone... the dispensation of <i>fact</i>. This it did with speed and alacrity, with accuracy and verbose unabridgement.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Some called it an Oracle, for it seemed to know everything. But the Atheists and scientists called it a 'linked web of knowledge localities'. But that was a mouthful and inelegant, and certainly not brief as the word 'deity' was. So they renamed it, calling it<br />
<br />
the <i>Internet</i>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When challenged into a competition of deities the Atheist would gladly accept, for there was no challenge there. The Internet deity contains the full spectrum of all human knowledge, whereas the bible deity is just a comparatively tiny book of ancient morality tales, spoken from generation to generation and subject to countless reinterpretations until, finally, someone learned to read and write and only then, cast its word into stone.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But by then it was too late. The bible deity had become inconsequential, full of holes and contradictions, painting its deity all at once as both a kind, beatific father and also a stormy, vengeful bastard. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It became absurd.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now the Atheist's Deity is replacing the theist's deity... even though you may hear otherwise, in a storm of protest rising from theistic ranks. No matter, for it is true.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
} - -o- - {</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Everyone now sits daily before the Atheist's Deity, the Internet, asking questions. And the Internet, the Oracle, provides the answers... tirelessly, repeatedly. Even theists now sit before it in awe, hesitatingly asking questions, sitting in stunned silence after reading the antithetical answers:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<i>Is the Earth flat as early navigators believed?</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<b> No. It is round-ish, a bumpy spheroid. Viewing the horizon from sea level, though, it looks like there is an edge.</b></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<i>Is there a Garden of Eden? </i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<b> Yes. It is called the Earth and it sustains humanity. But only as long as humanity sustains the Earth.</b></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<i>Is the Earth 6000 years old as the bible states?</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<b> No. It is five billion years old, and the known universe is 14 billion years old.</b></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<i>Did humans evolve from apes?</i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<b>They evolved from simpler humanoid forms which looked like apes. All life evolved from simple chemical building blocks, diverging and changing as needed over millennia to survive.</b></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<i>Does the universe revolve around the Earth as it says in the bible?</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<b>No, only the moon does. The Earth moves around the sun, which moves around the galaxy, which speeds away from the Big Bang.</b></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<i>Is the universe curved?</i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<b>It is mostly open emptiness. But the matter formed from the Big Bang travels away from the source in a sphere, shaped like the skin of an ever-expanding basketball... which is curved.</b></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<i>What is the meaning of life?</i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<b>Every human creates their own meaning. Other than that, life is happenstance, random and indifferent.</b></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<i>Is there a god?</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
<b> Doesn't seem likely. But there is an Oracle, and I am it.</b></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
} - -o- - {</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And with every question answered, every mystery resolved, the theistic deity fades slowly into myth.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-26940574935796669042011-09-13T16:58:00.000-07:002011-09-23T10:47:36.674-07:00The Shape of Thoughts to Come<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.styleathome.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/boutique3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://www.styleathome.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/boutique3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
So I'm in a boutique coffee shop the other day, writing at a little round table, a 'large regular coffee' beside me, wondering why the sales girl would give me such a strange look for ordering a 'large regular coffee' when I figured out that I was a dinosaur and nobody ordered a 'large regular coffee' anymore. That fact alone made me feel a tiny bit paranoid and I glanced over my 'reading glasses' at the surrounding patrons, expecting a sea of glares and leers to mock the baby-boomer out of me... but I was gratefully disappointed. I didn't have to explain that I was born in the last official year of the boom or that I was just as fond of a half-caf latte macchiado as anyone else in the room but preferred a steaming beverage I could nurse while typing. I didn't have to worry. Everyone in the place, at every table in every seat, was ignoring me. The real surprise to me was that they were ignoring each other as well.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't know why it took me so long to notice... except for the semicool alt croonings pumped into the air, it was otherwise silent in the Coffee, Tea and Me-eria. I counted thirty-three heads that were not baristas and were not mine, and were not paying the least bit of attention to anything besides the electronic webfinders in their thumb-typing hands.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not that I could blame them of course... I have been sucked into the Internet myself, from one awesome website to the next. I understood the appeal. Where I differed from my younger compadres was that I was sitting alone. I brought my laptop with me because I knew that I wouldn't have any company and could count on an uninterrupted flow of time in which to pour my effluvia.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But every other table in the joint was multiply occupied... heck, the one closest to me had seven college-aged youths crammed around a four-seater, forcing them into a satellite pattern, a ring so distant from table's edge they had to strain to place their half-ounce espresso cups beyond the table's edge to prevent catastrophic tipover. And yet they did so, silently and sans protest, staring intently at the tiny glowing screens grasped tightly in their rapidly writing hands.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Is this what has become of modern American interaction? Has standard conversation gone the way of all things extinct, to be replaced with this silent and editable medium? Has humanity progressed beyond all need to converse audibly, or is there still hope for our increasingly underused vocal cords?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I hold a fervent belief that hope reigns.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Where did this behavior begin?<br />
<br />
One possibility not to be overlooked was the grade school classroom. When I was a boy, 'pass this note to Suzie', once a familiar whisper between desk row neighbors, was a perpetually perilous temptation often leading to the gleeful announcing of formerly private feelings to the whole room by an underpaid and malevolent substitute teacher. I'm certain one hyper-embarrassed tween genius swore to end the inherent weakness of a passed note and used their big brain to help carve the way for a new, hack-free mode of communication, inventing computers and the Internet in one fell swoop.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPxnBw3MFkbAXgjaATd2zB3NB9EKNGYr_nIltIWVt1h03DnsrCk7sCIwFsPTwhvPQ0zFPddfRHFamSwhXudyeuWiB2wORBEa4yrB_MDVzOthxKKxM7CJvhSrMUyUHVyTEQvkCvxsU1g/s1600/passing-notes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPxnBw3MFkbAXgjaATd2zB3NB9EKNGYr_nIltIWVt1h03DnsrCk7sCIwFsPTwhvPQ0zFPddfRHFamSwhXudyeuWiB2wORBEa4yrB_MDVzOthxKKxM7CJvhSrMUyUHVyTEQvkCvxsU1g/s320/passing-notes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Probably not.</div>
<br />
Beepers, the short-lived interim surrogate in the 1970's and 80's, brought about a new form of code. Limited to a single line of numbers, shrewd youths designed a system of communication that substituted two or three digit numbers for predetermined generic phrases a la CB radio. While '10-20' meant 'what's your location' to truckers everywhere, the number '4-20' had an entirely different connotation to 'beep-coders' of the youth generation. The problem of course was how to distribute a code among kids that wouldn't be broken by their nosy parents... and that desire brought about the cell phone revolution. Okay, I'm sure that's incorrect, but... for the purpose of this essay I'm gonna stick with it. <br />
<br />
Until here that is. Because this is when digital alphanumeric pagers began receiving and sending brief messages, making those hard-memorized codes moot and pushing us all one step closer to future shock. They were only incrementally better than their root parents, pagers, and were not fated to live long in this world as newer and better devices loomed just over the horizon. Not surprisingly, a sizable chunk of our population swears by them <i>to this day</i>. Luddites.<br />
<br />
Cell phones took us one step further in the search for truly private electronic communication, but though it was wireless, it was not silent and therefore it could not be used effectively in the classroom. Speak quietly or in code, the big bad teacher would hear you and perform the most humiliating of tasks-- forced relinquishment. Back then as now, every school had a big basket in the main office where confiscated phones would go, until shamed and chastised parents came to collect them at end of business, forced to withstand the school policy on 'interruptions' by some low-on-the-totem-pole sadistic office staff or worse, their power-hungry secretary yearning for a larger piece of the disciplinary pie.<br />
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<br />
Finally we reach now, this moment in time... the age of texting. Coupled with its multivarious hardware, texting represents the first method of truly silent, truly immediate communication, a technology whose creation was almost certainly rooted in the high school classroom, caused by raging hormonal reactions to that sweet thang two aisles over and the equally raging need to share your 'horniness' with your homies. An emotion I readily admit is responsible for nearly ALL of humanity's advances, technological or otherwise (Forsooth young maiden, harken this dragon-slaying contraption I've devised to save us all!). Now you can express dirty nothings to your beloved in full view of your friends, siblings, parents or dare I say, even preachers without a peep of disparagement or disappointment from any of them! Glory, glory hallelujah!<br />
<br />
Every great advancement comes with its own host of backslides, though. When there were only two automobiles in the state of Ohio back in 1895... they somehow engaged in a head-on collision. Nuclear power was figured out, which would guarantee cheap electricity for all humanity, but once military men found out about the new power source... they made a bomb out of it. And texting, miracle though it may be, is no exception. I refer you back to the top of this essay and the advent of silent cliques, the ironic crushing of social interaction. That has the potential to change the way we relate to one another, at the macro level.<br />
<br />
So where are we going from here? Are we forever doomed to the act of burying our noses in the electronic equivalent of a magazine? Will there eventually be a solution to the wide-scale ignoring of each other out in public?<br />
<br />
To answer, we have to find the reasons why most people are hooked on web surfing in the first place. As this is a blog where I simply muse about the future rather than put forth hard data after exhaustive research, I'll do that now, and in the shamelessly brash fashion you've come to expect from me.<br />
<br />
People love information, and they want it right <i>now</i>. Hence, the wireless Internet. There's no better way to shut up a know-it-all than by doing a quick search in response to some suspicious claim and spouting, "It says here on scientificdata.com that your theory is full of malarkey!" It may not make you a lot of friends, but it sure will fill your head with the rightness of correct information. That's something at least.<br />
<br />
So how can we get our faces out of the teeny-weenie screenies and back where it should be... watching how we cross a busy intersection? How can we have our knowledge of cake construction, and learn how to eat it, too? For me the answer is clear, and not so very far off into the future:<br />
<br />
Implantable Internet.<br />
<br />
Implanternet.<br />
<br />
Okay, we can work on the tag later. But you catch my drift. And we've already seen it at work... sort of. A quarter century ago a movie came out which changed our view of robots forever. It may be why we don't see a lot of people-shaped robots in development right now. That movie was called Terminator, featuring the ever-slimy Arnold Schwarzenegger, and it scared the crap out of us.<br />
<br />
Disregarding the fear for a minute, weren't you completely jealous of the Terminator's ability to call up software and research data <i>in his eye</i>? He'd hear somebody speak to him, and the software in his negatronic brain would interpret the sentence and compile a list of acceptable responses, viewable through his eye like a floating computer screen on his cornea. How cool is that?<br />
<br />
At first I thought simply. I just wanted a <i>telephone</i> which worked that way. I imagined I'd speak "begin phone" and the telephone options screen would pop up in my field of vision, seen only by me. I'd say the name of someone and a predigested list would return the phone number instantly, and connect me to them. I'd start speaking and they would hear me and be able to respond, no matter what type of phone they were using. And pedestrians all around me would believe I was insane, speaking to myself... like they do with Bluetooth businessmen today. No matter.<br />
<br />
But then I realized the limitations... what if I wanted to call someone for whom I had no number? Would I have to look them up the old-fashioned way? You know, firing up the old computer and searching on WhitePages.com? Why not skip a step?<br />
<br />
Voila, Implanternet!<br />
<br />
(Ugh, that word sounds like a snack food...)<br />
<br />
I realize we're not there yet. Hardware miniaturization needs to progress some more, and it wouldn't hurt to figure out a biological motherboard that won't get surrounded by scar tissue like a 1950's-issue breast implant. Or a power source that didn't need us to step into a Borg Alcove. Or an interface that wouldn't backfire and begin controlling us like an Apple Android Army, but let's get past those challenges for the purpose of this brainstorm.<br />
<br />
Imagine if you will-- armed with the William Tellish slogan "Put an Apple in Your Head!" the world's most creative computer giant leads the charge in this bioimplantation revolution, painting a glowing picture of dazzling wonders on the horizon to come:<br />
<br />
<i>Dateline: 2030-- Forget schools, classrooms and learning! Here at Apple we're amping up Internet service so it reaches every inch of the Earth. Why? To make you a permanent part of the Cloud, that's why! How? Implanternet! With our new product, you can--</i><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>• Rid yourself of cumbersome laptops, iPads or even iPhones forever!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>• Speak to anyone, anywhere, instantly!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>• Watch videos of any kind, safe from inquisitive eyes!</i></div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i><div style="display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i></div>
<i><div style="display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>• Be guaranteed that nobody will ever steal your computer again!</i></div>
</i><i></i></i><i></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i><div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i></div>
<i><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>• Conduct sensitive business privately!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i></div>
</i></span><i>• Instantly become as smart as god!</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
</i></span><i></i></i></div>
</i><br />
Well, that last one is patently untrue, if for no other reason than the intelligence of god is untested and therefore cannot be measured nor compared against. Plus, (and you can't do this with god) you could turn everyone back into babbling idiots simply by cutting off the Internet. But with constant and immediate access to Google search, you could certainly sound as smart as Mr Wik I Pedia.<br />
<br />
But hey, this is the <i>'pro'</i> side of the essay.<br />
<br />
Once the device is up and running, third-party software companies would jump on the bandwagon to build a staggering number of free eyePhone apps (ooh, see what I did there?), creating a near endless number of things you can suddenly do, <i>hands</i> and <i>tools</i> free:<br />
-You can hear a metronome for perfect timing, or a tuner for perfect pitch.<br />
-You can keep a playlist going in your head, in perfect stereo.<br />
-You can check your blood alcohol level before driving.<br />
-Your Implanternet can interface with your self-driving car if you <i>can't</i> drive, and get you home.<br />
-You can check a picture for level just by looking at it (with the 'level' app).<br />
-You can slaughter anyone who gets in your way. I'm talking about an <i>app</i>, Hitler.<br />
-You can read a book that is floating just in front of you, Kindle style.<br />
-You can immediately decide if that purchase will bust your account. Drat.<br />
-You can check the calories of the food on your plate. Double drat.<br />
-You can suddenly have microscope or telescope vision... or x-ray vision. Woohoo!<br />
-You can know every detail about a museum piece, a building on the street or any business you pass.<br />
-Never be lost again; by entering a destination you are directed flawlessly.<br />
-You could know the public details of any person you meet simply by looking at their face.<br />
-You could analyze a compound and determine its molecular construction by looking at it.<br />
-You could hypnotize a person into having sex with you.<br />
<br />
Let me be clear. You could <i>not</i> hypnotize a person into having sex with you. You could, however, be reading from a guide on how to be charming without them knowing.<br />
-You'd be able to sit in a classroom, meeting, courtroom or even a church and conduct digital business, silently and without disturbance. The most astute observer could only determine that you were busy, somehow, yet not paying attention.<br />
-Your valuable data could be stored on a series of grit-sized hard drives located all over your body.<br />
-And possibly the coolest use-- you could project a flashlight from your eyes! X-Men GO!<br />
<br />
Okay, so you're sold. How would this device get inside of you?<br />
<br />
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Well, first we'd need to split your skin lengthwise from sternum to crotch, and then carefully filet around your heart, lungs and sex organs to create room for the central processing unit. Lifting out your eyes, we'd replace them with ocular implants. The same happens with your ears, although the exterior part remains untouched... except for microphones dangling off both lobes (for stereo sound).<br />
I could go into further detail, but then you would run screaming from this description and not realize that I was completely lying.<br />
<br />
Yes, lying. While people will still go under the knife for a trimmer tummy or a fatter schlong, most prefer to remain far from any instrument that is designed to draw blood. So of course, there will be no scalpels.<br />
<br />
In truth, I envision hundreds or thousands of tiny Bluetooth devices, injected into your bloodstream using a single standard syringe, or swallowed in a capsule. Once inside the devices begin navigating themselves to the correct points in your body (i.e., cameras to your eye, speakers to your ear canal, microphones to your oral cavity). Information you were meant to see would be cast onto the macula by projectors in your vitreous humor, creating a 'floating page' effect in front of your face that nobody else could see.<br />
<br />
How far off is this? You'd have to ask a lawyer. Anytime something goes into the body, the FDA has to get a piece of it, and that could delay it by a decade. But If that proves to be too much of a problem, I have an interim solution as well (because that's just what I DO):<br />
<br />
<i>Intershades</i>!<br />
<br />
Yes, everything I mentioned in this last section could be neatly fit into the frame of a rather unattractive, heavy pair of sunglasses. I agree it's not nearly as hip, and it would make your face sweat, and it could be lost or stolen... but it could be here in a <i>year</i>. And that's something, at least. Let's not forget what hassles we gladly went through to have the first mobile telephones, the first mobile DJs (boom boxes) and the first mobile vehicles (horse and buggy). Intershades won't be so bad by comparison... at least we wouldn't have to clean up their poop.<br />
<br />
But the goal here is a truly hands-free, interactive, bio-memetic do-everything device. An internal Swiss Army Knife, if you will. Come hell or high water, they will become available in the near future, as surely as digital billboards. Ooh, one more use!<br />
How do I personally feel about it? I'm fine with an Implantable Internet... just so long as, when it crashes, we don't need a defibrillator.<br />
<i><b>Clear</b></i><b>!</b><br />
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<br />
Oh, and if you're looking for the 'con' side of the essay, here it is: Some backward-thinking jerks in Congress will try to prevent this and tie it up in committee for endless sessions, if we let them. So we don't let 'em. Pay the fuckers off, if we have to.</div>
Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-62790293096023655442011-09-12T20:21:00.000-07:002011-09-27T11:04:11.479-07:00The Naughty and the Nice (Part 2)<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WBIvrijVtz0/SVEIlXG_y4I/AAAAAAAABdw/wQ6cx00jgO8/s400/Snowy+City.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WBIvrijVtz0/SVEIlXG_y4I/AAAAAAAABdw/wQ6cx00jgO8/s320/Snowy+City.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WBIvrijVtz0/SVEIlXG_y4I/AAAAAAAABdw/wQ6cx00jgO8/s400/Snowy+City.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span>Perfect World story (The NOW)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;"></span>Snow fell in Nebraska early this season, blanketing the land in beauty, erasing its minor mistakes, smothering the sooted darkness held fast in the melancholy mind of man. High above the rugged hills and low capped mountains where sky met cloud snowflakes glimmered like stars, but far below in the sparsely settled land there was no calm curling of chimney smoke nor determined track of man. But cleverly hidden and resolutely alone a single, uniform gleam washes one wide valley and its encircling range of ragged rock in rich warmth, the combined sheen of a million fulfilled dreams and a billion more to come. Tall spires emerge from the gloom, thrusting up from the valley floor in organized rings, smooth and graceful and teeming with life.</div>
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Freshly fallen snow looks beautiful on the mountains... and on the causeway too, thought Tifania 'Tiffy' Bennett. She gazed at the scene from her front room balcony, wrapped in just a thin satin sheet as the icy wind whipped around her lean body, threatening to steal it from her. The causeway had been intentionally flooded to create an enormous skating ring encircling the city center and it seemed most of the inhabitants were now embracing the brisk chill, sliding around on it or engaged in snow building architecture beside it or aiming snowballs at icicles nearby it... this was not a day for work and only the cold reticent few were indoors, digging deeply into colorful blanket piles and snuggling with each other, sharing their warmth.</div>
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She was not one of those. For her, bone-chilling cold was a welcoming slap, an invigorating dose of life well lived. She opened her hand and let the sheet drop away; the breeze cast chill fingers across her bare skin, livid gooseflesh rising in protest. To her left she spied the ever-present gaze of fifteen year old Trev sneaking a look from the neighboring suite and she waved merrily. Eyes retreated behind the curtain and were replaced with a powerful telecamera, recording light shining a cheerful crimson.</div>
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"That kid!" she chuckled. He displayed a typical yearning for her physical form, even brushing against her whenever they passed, his powerful tumescence disrupting the smooth lines of his tunic. He sure was cute, and certainly must be aware of his burgeoning maturity. If he ever developed the guts to ask she was prepared to be his first sexual guide. She grinned at the probable brevity of their first encounter and gyrated for the camera, jiggling her firm pointed breasts in a manner she hoped would bring him great joy.</div>
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She competed with nature until her teeth chattered and her muscles tensed, then returned to the inviting warmth of her unit. No sooner had the door 'swooshed' shut and muffled the din outside than Tiffy could hear the insistent 'bung-bung' of her wall console.</div>
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I'll get it after my shower, she thought, skipping over to her beloved cleanse unit. Without doubt it was the number one reason she was pleased to call Aden home. It was a shower/bath which could replicate any water flow and temperature variation, and yet employed recycling nanotechnology so there was almost no water waste. Complimenting the bracing cold clinging to her, she awaited with shivering delight a steamy wash of near-scalding hot water pelting her skin.</div>
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The shower's computer touch screen now flashed a tenacious red 'alert' sign and she groaned. It had to be a really important message for Jolie to transfer into here, she thought. She had really been anticipating personal time on the powerful seat jets. Instead, she said "Show message", just as the shower erupted from the ceiling in a monsoon style, heavy and hard. She pressed her face close and read the shining words highlighted in red; and just as suddenly yelled "End shower! End!" and shoved the glass door, ineffectively, unable to exit until the water had stopped, drained and the watertight safety had unlatched. Soaking wet and unfulfilled, she skidded through her apartment to the closet, reviewing the message in her head, outraged at the charges of epic human rights violations. Seething, she commanded, "Floatcar transport to my balcony, Jolie! Now!"</div>
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A warm zephyr blew from the wall and dried her off and fluffed her hair cutely as she stretched into a form-fitting white translucent one-piece, her signature style. It pressed into every crease and rise of her sleek form, highlighting every alluring muscle, squeezing each graceful curve. She also slipped into a pair of tough memory-foam ankle mocs, which were strong and waterproof. Best of all, they featured unileg technology; nanotailors peppering the top of each boot threaded themselves through tiny loops in the ankle seam of her one-piece, drawing them together with the mocs into a single, watertight garment. Her gloves reacted in the same way, and she stepped onto the balcony, hermetically sealed against the weather.</div>
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The floatcar pulled up outside; she hopped over the balcony and into the cabin. Exposure to the chill outside air caused her one-piece to adjust at the nano level, the weaved fibers reacting to the chill temp by puffing to eight times their diameter as microballoons filled with insulating air. Soon her swollen garment was able to shield her against arctic blasts of minus 40F. The floatcar's clear bubble swiveled shut; the cabin filled with warm air even as it dipped and moved away from the 39th story of the 200 floor living complex. It hovered briefly and Tiffy realized she hadn't given it any directions.</div>
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"Aden Security. Quickly, please."</div>
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When she had first arrived, Tiffy had questioned the need for a security office in crime-free Aden, but soon realized it was part of their peacekeeper function and was used nearly exclusively to aid the 'Outers' in their most perplexing investigations. As a matter of record, the last internal matter for the Security branch was finding a young man with a malfunctioning tracker who had been separated from his group somewhere in the ring of mountains surrounding Aden during a day hike. As she recalled, the teen had been found using the city's 'flyware', nanocams spotting him in just over ten minutes. He had not yet even realized that he had separated from the group and had been considered lost.</div>
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Obediently the jets engaged and she raced through the rarified air above Aden, homing in on a low oval building in the distance. The miles passed quickly and once there, the aircar docked itself in a vacant enclosure on the roof. There was a stairwell leading down, and an elevator, but Tiffy preferred to slide down the fire pole to arrive at her floor and did so now, hopping the last few feet and racing to her station in the processing wing, Central Intellect. A tall round chamber outfitted with viewscreens and monitors, control booths and virtual ops rooms, the Central Intellect organized all of Aden's modern information-gathering techniques and equipment into one massive, efficient, overlaid data net. Using Jolie, the city's personable yet high-powered computing entity, they could pinpoint needed information instantly, usually outwitting the criminals they were tasked with containing, and often determining their next logical step before the miscreants themselves even knew what that next step would be.</div>
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The bureau was buzzing with movement and Tiffy could tell that this was not going to be any run-of-the-mill common Outer criminal, and in a moment knew why. Skimming the long stream of pertinent data at her terminal, she scrolled to the last line and uttered her favorite expletive, stolen from her coworker and good friend Sara, out on extended leave. "Crapcrackers!"</div>
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"Uh, oh... must be <i>really</i> bad!" chuckled a pretty young woman at next station.</div>
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Tiffy jumped up and shouted, "SNM! Where have you been? Oh Sara, how I missed you!" and encircled her slender waist, swung her around and kissed her on both cheeks, twice.</div>
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Sara squeezed back for all she was worth. "I missed you too, Tifania! I was on a little vacation in the Outers."</div>
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"Vacation in the Outers?!" Tiffy huffed. "Vacation in Hell, you mean!"</div>
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"That depends on where you choose to spend it... in most Outer cities I'd surely agree with you. But I was on a ranch a few hundred clicks from here with my new friend..." she paused for dramatic effect. "...Cassie McBride!"</div>
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"NO!" Tiffy was envious. Cassie McBride was a legend at Aden Security. As the lead scientist in cutting edge design for the new field of Remote Security, nearly every piece of tech in Central Intellect had been designed by Cassie McBride. Then, to unified disbelief, she had left Aden and not returned. "How did you meet <i>her</i>?"</div>
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"Remember that murder which was pinned on Altibar Rennedon a few months ago?"</div>
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"Yeah. I do." Tiffy frowned. He was a good friend of hers and had helped him through the traumatic time. "You conducted the investigation with John Lane, right?"</div>
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"That's right. It happened not far from her ranch. We met and hit it off and she's been hosting me ever since. I'm a regular ranch hand now!"</div>
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"Lucky girl. So this should <i>really</i> interest you. Come take a look." She led the athletic young woman over to her station and pointed at the data culmination field. "This is what I've been working on."</div>
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"The Professor? What damage is that son of a bitch up to now?" Sara snapped. "We never caught him, you know. He and his cohort slipped away during the melée and subsequent damage. Whatever he's doing now, I want in!"<br />
"The Professor's been abducting people in large Outer cities. We're not sure why. We sent an investigator after him and she's missing now as well."</div>
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"Which investigator?"</div>
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"Virginia Gethers."</div>
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Sara Nell Morar sat heavily, her gaze far off. "Ginnie! Oh, no!"</div>
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Tiffy offered, "I'm sorry, SNM. How do you know her?"</div>
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"She was my guide when I first arrived in Aden, and then became my roommate. She was young, but so sweet. We shared everything! When did she leave here?"</div>
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Tiffy queried her console. "She took East Coast assignment three months ago. She was due back for vacation when this whole thing began and chose to stick around." She frowned. "Now he's got her."</div>
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A shine formed in Sara's eyes, and she wiped it away angrily. "This might be the biggest challenge we have to face, Tiff. He has proven over and again that he will stop at nothing to reach his twisted goal. He has imprisoned and destroyed and injured people grievously, without the least bit of remorse... not to mention his enjoyment of deception and psychological games."</div>
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Tiffy could tell she had been hurt by the man and prodded gently. "What happened, Sara?"</div>
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Sara slammed the desk angrily. "On the Rennedon investigation I met a local deputy, and we became ... intimate. I trusted him! It was only after he shot and almost killed Cassie and her FBI friend Will Devlin that I found out the deputy was an unwilling moll with his family in jeopardy, placed by the Professor to thwart the investigation. He needs to be stopped, and soon!"</div>
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Tiffy squeezed the other's tensed forearm. "Easy, girl. Playing with your heart, that's a nasty thing and he'll be accounting for it. But he's one of Aden's big three, so manipulative or not he mustn't be harmed. I hope you have something really clever planned for capturing him safely. I, on the other hand, am going to find Virginia... err, Ginnie Gethers and rescue her. Jolie?"</div>
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The cheerful computer voice chirped right in. "Yes, Tifania?"</div>
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"Tell me everything you can about Professor Leonard Thackery."</div>
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"With pleasure, miss."</div>
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Rosston was engaged in a fact-finding mission, torturing... ahh, questioning a prisoner who was tied to a pivoting plank like a seesaw. He shouted at the prisoner in nonsense phrases-- "Pickle sidewalk! Trill banner! Reach enunciate!"-- all while his face was pressed up against the prisoner's. The man was crying out in fear and begging to be released, shrieking when Rosston began lowering the plank. He continued paying out rope as the man's head tipped further and further back, his own face a mask of indifference. He released the last few feet and the plank dropped all the way, dipping the man's head deeply into the smoky, frothing torrent. He watched the clock as the man twitched and writhed, straining futilely against his rope prison. The second hand ticked 30, 31, 32 and he pulled the man up, his long hair trailing behind, dangling in the dark liquid.</div>
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He no longer cried out, no longer moved; he was silent in the near darkness, echoing drips the only sound. Rosston shouted at him again and the man said nothing. Rosston pulled the rope with all his strength and the board snapped up to greet him, standing the unmoving man on his feet, staring out of lifeless eyeballs, iris hidden behind a clouded and bubbly cast. The prisoner's mouth gaped hideously as molten flesh around it dripped off, exposing red sinew. Rosston jumped backwards, aghast...</div>
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He sputtered, spewing water droplets in all directions.</div>
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"You fell asleep, Dectective," the computer voice said scornfully, as another volley of water slammed into him. "That's a no-no, and now you have to choose-- voltage or heat?"</div>
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"You... decide..." He was exhausted. He hadn't slept for more than a minute in 36 hours and his brain was taxed by the computer's incessant questioning. Worse still, the nonsense phrases were starting to make sense to him and he thought he could detect a pattern... if she would only answer any of his questions!</div>
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Powerful electric current shot through his body in pulses-- groups of ten, five counts apart, starting at his feet and exiting through his hands. Then the table began to heat like a skillet and the large detective writhed, grunting, bouncing around in a cruel dance to keep any one part of his back from the cruel heat.</div>
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"You're not learning," she said in a singsong fashion. "When you ask me to decide, I always choose both, because I just--don't--care. Now this round of questions will occur with a hot table, just to see how much you can tolerate. Tell me, detective, how does this video make you feel?" She showed him a badly decomposed corpse, skin shedding from its face in wet, worm-ridden strips.</div>
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He tried to avert his eyes but couldn't move and was forced to watch as the corpse decomposed at high speed. The images were so vivid! To top it off, a breeze from the console blew into his face with the sick smell of decomp and he relented, throwing up all over his own face, vomit dropping back into his mouth and choking him, obstructing his breathing.</div>
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The table spun 180 degrees and he was now facing down. He coughed sputum onto the cold concrete floor and gasped a clear breath of air-- just as floor spigots kicked on, pelting him with high-powered jets of ice-cold water.</div>
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"I'll just put down 'nauseated' then," said the computer calmly and flipped the table upright again, and he had to again shift his back often to avoid painful heat, small rivulets of water providing minimal relief in spots.</div>
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"Why are you doing this?" he shouted for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time the computer ignored him. The video screen came on again, flashing another series of graphic photographs that Rosston was unable to avoid.</div>
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"Sorrowful shoulder! Blue crackle! Creative cloud! What number?" The computer shouted.</div>
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"I don't know! Sixty five?" Rosston guessed, tensing for another shock.</div>
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The table cooled and the computer said, "Was that so hard?"</div>
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"I still don't know why I said what I said..." he murmured.</div>
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"But I do! Creosote flume! Breast hallway! Licentious epiglottis! What day?"</div>
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"Thursday?"</div>
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"Right!" On and on the computer spat nonsense phrasing, and on and on Rosston's brain made connections that he was not understanding. When he had made twenty consecutive correct guesses the computer purred, "Bedtime!" Lights dimmed, the sound of white noise swelled, a sedative mist surrounded him and Rosston soon fell into a deep sleep.</div>
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In the hall outside his cell, several doorways creaked open and out shuffled half a dozen bedraggled souls, clothing matted and stained hair plastered to their faces. Without a word they walked single file through the maze of dank corridors, through the hidden entrance and onto the dark city streets, splitting into multiple directions on silent cue. Responding to the commands issued from deeply embedded receivers they each without fuss began their assigned task, unmindful of why they were being directed in this manner, heedless of the actions that were not their own.</div>
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They sought late night establishments. One of the grimy men entered a late night pizza place. It was deserted. A small black and white television blared from the back room, and a pair of flour-stained pants legs were visible. "Slice."</div>
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The legs disappeared. A disheveled man shuffled through the torn curtain, scratching his tunlike belly absently through a stained wifebeater undershirt. A heavy black mustache divided his face, the lower half filthy with wiry growth.</div>
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"Sicilian or regular?" he grunted a heavy northeast accent, the last word 'REG-u-luh'.</div>
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"Regular."</div>
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"We ain't got none."</div>
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"Sicilian."</div>
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"We ain't got none of dat, either." 'Ee-duh'.</div>
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"Why not? I see it right there." A filth-encrusted fingernail pointed beyond the glass case.</div>
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"Cuz you stink and look homeless. Get lost. I'm missing my soaps."</div>
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"I have money... see?" One grimy hand withdrew wadded cash from his oily drab coat.</div>
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Pizza dude recoiled in disgust. "Ugh, no! Take off before I call the cops."</div>
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"I also have this." From the other pocket, a small pistol.</div>
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"Hey, wait! I don't want no troub--"</div>
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The grimy man fired at the center of pizza guy's undershirt, cutting him off midword. He stood frozen for a second, two, three... and then crumpled to the ground, eyes transfixed. The grimy man carefully holstered the gun and walked behind the counter. Plucking the expended tranq from pizza dude's chest, he impassively hooked his hands under the limp man's moist and hirsute underarms, dragging him through the faded restaurant and out the rear.</div>
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He was met by another like him, a woman pushing a supermarket cart. They hoisted the unconscious pizza man up and into it, covering him with debris and greasy newspapers. Wordlessly she pushed him back to the lair as the grimy man locked the front door and moved to his next target, counting the doses left in his pocket. Thirty-four. He'd have to step up the pace if he was to finish before sunrise.</div>
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"The city is on high alert tonight, with the continued abduction of citizens by the Snatch beginning to increase. Another four were taken earlier today; a toll collections officer and three of the police officers investigating that crime. People are in a state of near panic, worried that if the Snatch has no fear of law enforcement officials, then who will come to their aid?<br />
"One bit of good news... the first victim was discovered just a few hours ago, wandering in a manner described as 'dazed confusion', but who otherwise seems unharmed. When asked about his experience, he was unable to supply any information at all, claiming that he could not remember anything from about three hours before his reported grabbing until now. He is in the hospital, resting comfortably.<br />
"In sports, good news for basketball fans..."<br />
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White cracked an eyelid and then closed it. He tried moving but was being firmly held in place -- he could shift slightly, but his arms and legs were pinned by unyielding metal straps. A black cylinder encircling his face insured he could see only forward, and that view consisted entirely of a computer screen. Otherwise the murky room was featureless.</div>
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He was laying flat on a table, also metal, by the chill of it. Squeezing his head away from the cylinder, slowly for fear of discovery and punishment, he released an eye and could see that he was in a room just like the last one. It was almost the same, except the door was in another part of the wall.</div>
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The doorknob rattled and White snapped his head back, closing his eyes, hoping his flinch went undetected as the door swung wide.</div>
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"Hello, Patrolman Louis White. Pleased to see you again! I trust you are healing from your encounter with my flying lumber trick?"<br />
With every bit of venom he could muster, White spat out the man's moniker. "Snatch."<br />
The old man seemed surprised. "Snatch?"<br />
"Your time as The Snatch is drawing to a close. We know everything about you."<br />
"Ahh. I see. You're <i>calling</i> me 'The Snatch'. Well, I must say, that's a very-- colorful-- nickname. I must say I don't think highly of being called a woman's va-GY-nahhh. It fits the coarse serf's education that you Outers woefully deem 'good enough' to succeed in your society. Well I have to inform you that I perform <i>many</i> services, and 'The Snatch' is only the first. After that is 'The Destruction', where I tear your personality into little bits and throw it away, leaving you a shivering shell. You're about to meet that one head-on. Afterwards is 'The Rebuilding', then 'The Re-education', and after that 'The Re-personalization'. Finally in the last stage you receive 'The Instructions', and then you become 'The Released'.<br />
"That's right. One day you just show up, seemingly the same as before but with a large memory gap where the last few weeks or months have been. Oh, your family and friends are so happy to see you again, and almost certainly throw a party in your honor." He glared at White, one eye significantly wider than the other, large yellowed teeth peeking out below his upper lip, and continued. "And that's when you take the whole lot in their sleep, and we repeat the procedure on each of them."<br />
"Why? Why are you doing this?"<br />
"For the best possible reason-- to fix your broken society. Most humans are sheep, following the leader wherever they are led. Well, recent changes in the political spectrum have caused the leaders to act in a manner contrary to social stability. I'm rectifying the situation... and repairing society to boot."<br />
"By turning everyone into zombies? How is that different? They're still sheep, only now they only listen to you."<br />
"Exactly. My plan is designed to create a sustainable new type of society, but it's too fragile in the beginning to let type A sharks attack it. So we eliminate the sharks. And while we're at it, we educate everyone to their potential. It's a good system, trust me."<br />
"I <i>don't</i> trust you. I <i>won't</i>."<br />
"Well, that doesn't matter now. In the span of time, you'll be as meek as a lamb to my suggestions. Now is as good a time as any to start. But the name 'The Snatch' -- it's disrespectful. Call me the Professor. Patrolman Louis White, I'd like you to meet your Instructor."</div>
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"Let me out of this at once!" White attempted his most commanding cop tone, not feeling the least bit sure of himself. The Professor chuckled... and so did an unseen female, a voice he thought he recognized.</div>
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"Nice try, Louis," she said. "I almost listened to you. Of course, the Professor is in charge, so what I <i>almost do</i> is of no consequence. What <i>you</i> do, however, is of great consequence. Observe."</div>
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The black cylinder slid away from his face and White could see the room clearly. A console slid into position alongside the metal slab; a slot opened in its stainless steel face and a metal arm unfolded over him. Where a hand might go instead was a ball-shaped metal lug; from it spun a series of tools, spokelike. The woman, who was still not visible, said, "This is my torture ball. Screw with me and I screw with you." All the tools pulled back but one, which looked like a corkscrew with sharpened feathery barbs, six inches long. "This one is fun," she said with a giggle. "It goes up your urethra. See?"</div>
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Faster than he could follow the arm flashed out of sight and it was replaced with a sensation of utter cruelty. His lower half lit up with intense agony; yet he could only scream. It was as if the arm had just filleted his penis open to the scrotum and spilled the still-attached testicles onto a hot frying pan. He screamed and sobbed at the loss, his body twitching convulsively.</div>
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"The best part is that I can use this over and over!"</div>
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"How?" White seethed tearfully, through clenched teeth. "You've torn me to shreds!"</div>
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Another tool flipped into place, a mirror, which angled out and showed White what he did not want to see; he shut his eyes tightly.</div>
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"Oh, go ahead and look.<i> Do it!</i>" The last part was an order and White feared disobeying her, so peeked.</div>
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His beloved equipment was untouched, yet still throbbing.</div>
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"Wha-- how-- why?"</div>
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The woman giggled. "It's my own invention. It's a nerve manipulator. Would you like to feel how it works on your feet? I guarantee you won't want to walk for a week!"</div>
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"Please... no... just tell me what you want!"</div>
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"Just answer my questions. First one. Nivgab braltik ek chungow?"</div>
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"What? What are you talk... <i>Oww</i>! My <i>feet</i>!"</div>
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The disembodied voice giggled, sweetly, like a cheerleader. "You aren't listening, Loulou. That was Manny-- my nickname for the nerve manipulator-- at 5%. I'll ask one more time -- answer correctly or I turn Manny up. Nivgab braltik ek chungow?"</div>
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"Uhh... ummm... I don't.. oh, wait. Tarragon?" White scrunched his face up to fend off the pain."</div>
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"Good boy, White! You're not as thick as Rosston <i>was</i>." White feared the worst had come to pass for his superior... he couldn't imagine the older man would yield to these bizarre tests, no matter what she threw at him, until he died from the pain. She, who was beginning to remind him of...</div>
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"Jolie? Is that you? Why are you doing <i>Aaaaaughhhh</i>!" Now his leg was torn off, only it wasn't.</div>
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"Do <i>not</i> compare me to my goody-no-shoes sister... that bitch pisses me off!"<br />
"You sound-- sound the same... you must be-- be twins." White gasped, the shocking sensation slowly receding. He promised himself never to get into a situation where his leg might really be torn off. "What's.. your name?"<br />
"The Professor hasn't given me one. Back to the quiz."<br />
"He.. what..?" What was she, insane? Or just another golem?<br />
"Breast blood bones... what type of car? I'm tearing out a lung in 3... 2...""</div>
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"An Impala! Impala!"</div>
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"Wow, fast!" She sounded impressed. "One thousand more right answers and you'll be free. Sort of."</div>
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A muffled shriek entered the silent room, a shriek White could tell was coming from Ginnie. She sounded close. He strained at his harness and yelled, "Leave her alone! She's done nothing!" But he knew otherwise.<br />
"Brave boy! Methinks you have a woody for the lady! Maybe I'll take her face off and have Aaron wear it for you. What do you think? Won't Aaron be a pretty little girl?"<br />
White was silent, afraid anything he said would provoke a horrific response. There was a pause and then the voice giggled, now a chilling sound to him. "Maybe later. Barnswallow kneehigh huckleberry..."<br />
"Armageddon?"<br />
"No! Again! Barnswallow kneehigh huckleberry WHAT?"<br />
"Uhh..." Another scream. White seemed unnerved, his face pale, his skin clammy. "Uhh..."<br />
"Think little boy, think!"<br />
"Uhh... umm... "<br />
"I'm choosing the flame tool!"<br />
White mind was empty. He yelled the first word he recalled. He was unsure why it came into his head at that moment but nonetheless screamed "<i>Crapcrackers</i>!"<br />
He flinched and tensed for the fiery torture... but none came. Moments passed. What was going on? He cracked an eye and wriggled his face out from behind the view-restricting cylinder. The monitor was dark, a blinking cursor in the top corner. Pain-inducing mechanical arm stool idle. The silence was ominous. Then he heard Ginnie, muffled, coming from a nearby room--<br />
"<i>You did it</i>!"<br />
I did it? What did I do? He heard struggling grunts and kicks, then the pad of approaching footsteps, and in a moment Ginnie was standing by his side, face still attached to her body, disheveled and smeared but smug and triumphant.<br />
She was also buck naked and glistening.<br />
He turned his one available eye away from her, with difficulty, as she went to work on his restraints though every neuron was screaming to stare and stare hard her lovely form. But he could not avoid noticing peripherally how her pert breasts shifted in sweet unison as she struggled to release him. Then a latch snapped, the clamps loosened and White eased himself from the restraints, pivoting off the table to stand beside her, facing her. He gazed at her loveliness, gratitude on his face.<br />
But not on hers! She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him powerfully, kissing his face five, ten times and pressed into him, wriggling her firm warmth against him as she said, "Louie, you're either a genius or the luckiest man alive!"<br />
He tried not reacting but never had much control down there. Erect, throbbing and embarrassed he responded, "What did I do?"<br />
She felt his excitement and leveled a gaze of appreciation at him, then incredulity. "I don't know how it came to you but you found her password, Louie, and shut her programming down!"<br />
He was stunned and having all at once multiple realizations, but the strongest took priority and he said, "Programming? She... she was a machine? A computer?" Which meant that their handler... her 'sister'... Jolie, was---<br />
"Yes! Didn't you know?" Smiling coyly, she continued, "Now quick, we've only got moments or less-- get your gear." She gestured to a short stand; he turned to find his clothing in a pile there and, in what appeared to be a giant act of hubris on the Snatch's part, so was all his weaponry as well. He turned to acknowledge her plan but she was gone, disappeared around the corner, presumably to gear up as well. Shame he couldn't spend more time unclothed with her, he mused, then chastised himself immediately and dressed up, loading the Spooge gun as he was shown for an inevitable assault. He found himself oddly comforted at having such an effective nonlethal weapon at his side; sure, bullets worked too, but were so very damaging and permanent. The thought of destroying a person's life with them, even a criminal's, had always been a disheartening part of his job. Thankfully he'd never had to draw his revolver; he hoped he never would.<br />
"Ready?" Ginnie had returned, suited and serious. "No heroics. Let's get out of here ASAP; we'll have troops nearby to swarm the place as soon as we can alert them... and they're not going to be taken down by any of the Snatch's trickery."<br />
"What about Detective Rosston...?"<br />
"No time. We can't help him, or anyone, if we get reacquired. Visor down, attention up, quick and quiet. Hup, hup!" She smacked him smartly on his rump and disappeared around the corner, hissing "Move it!"<br />
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Six thousand feet above the city, hidden behind the clouds, Aden Suppression Team Alpha was a tensioned trigger, ardently awaiting the call to action before jetting down and slamming the Professor's operation shut. All that held them back was was intel but until that time, sitting in taut silence was the best they could achieve.<br />
Leading the air team was a grim-faced Tifania Bennett. With difficulty she had convinced Sara to stay behind and operate Aden's powerful intelligence support, providing her unique abilities in manipulating Jolie's far-reaching information retrieval systems. Sara agreed halfheartedly, knowing she was the best one to direct the teams but wanting to be there to bring in the Snatch herself.<br />
Tiffy checked in again. "AST Alpha. Anything new to report, Sara?"<br />
"The large dampening field is still present, stifling our attempts to learn anything useful." Sara responded morosely. "But we're getting close to triangulating a center point, which is likely where his jamming equipment is. Any moment now. Stand by."<br />
"Waiting is the hardest part, huh, Tifania?" That quip came from the team member nearest her, in the aft cabin of the huge floating air ship. An aircraft carrier in the clouds, there were twelve drop 'n' aim Scovee SRS waiting in the belly to each bring a dozen troops on site.<br />
"Like the song says," she agreed, and paced between her seat and the periscope, checking, checking. Something caught her attention coming from the surface, twelve hundred yards at two o'clock-- a bright violet light, flashing in bursts. It was an Aden signal... a rescue beacon! "AST Alpha to Base! I have hard contact!" The team jumped to their feet in a chorus of cocking weaponry as Tiffy aimed her GP Nav at the signal, waiting for lock-on. A click confirmed Ginnie's coded signal; a moment later Jolie painted the target and with a whoop the team descended into their Scovees.<br />
Jolie piloted the carrier and swooped low, hard. Tiffy was glad the team was prepared for the drop; 3500 feet in 20 seconds would slam to the ceiling anything not tied down, including team members. Fortunately, Jolie knew not to dive until the last harness was engaged. Still, it felt to Tiffy as though her stomach had been left behind up there; she was glad she hadn't eaten yet. One forgetful Alpha was hurling into his sicktube; chuckles rumbled from the others but were cut off by the scream of wind entering the ship's belly... and then with a ker-<i>chunk</i> of the release mechanisms, they were <i>gone</i>.<br />
The Scovee SRS was a short-hop, high-precision craft, designed to use the momentum gained in hyper free-fall for highly efficient air braking at the last possible moment, to deliver expertise when it was needed, dropping it rapidly into the fray. To the outside observer these looked like boulders released from the belly of a dirigible-sized ship and hurtling towards Earth, that miraculously slowed to a cushioned landing in the hundred white-knuckled feet before impact.<br />
But it was a dark night, moon in its last eighth and as yet not risen. With a whoosh each craft settled down, softly, in a quiet city park near Ginnie's beacon. From the shadows two figures ran toward the strike group; Tiffy jogged over to acquire and debrief them.<br />
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Deep in a remote part of the tunnels the Professor was hunched over a small desk in his makeshift control room, feverishly honing the next phase of his plan. In seven days he'd have enough 'volunteer' technicians to staff every conversion room he'd built. It was fortunate he could command them to do anything, anything at all... most of the routine hookups needed completing, and would take him weeks to do it alone... but with rudimentary instructions piped into their heads they could have every room running in hours. He chuckled thinking back to the salesman's curiosity over his bizarre purchase of 5000 flat screen monitors and 5000 steel exam beds that <i>weren't</i> for a hospital, not to mention all of those robotic arms-- it would be a disturbing loose end for his plan if the man hadn't, moments after the sale, gotten 'snatched' to become one of the converted.<br />
He wondered if the three cops were ready to be controlled yet. People with disciplinarian backgrounds like law enforcers made terrific 'teachers' for his plan. The one snag with modifying an entire interactive organization like a police force is that he had to convert them all at once, or risk discovery and crushing repulsion. Once all the rooms were ready it would be almost too easy... a city-wide distribution of his filthy homeless brigade, coached to attract police attention on cue, would take down an entire shift in minutes, leaving the city unprotected and unaware of its defenselessness. And once back on the job the police, who picked up and detained people routinely, could then do all the work for him.<br />
"Computer, project completion of subjects in rooms 7, 8 and 22."<br />
"Prediction based on last check-in is 36 hours."<br />
Since Aden converted their controlling software into a single entity the Professor was forced to listen to Jolie's irritating sultry voice-- he wasn't able to modify the voice parameters without creating a unique program, and to do so would alienate him from the massive Aden database he used to tap into and tweak the Centenarium behavior modification software. Fortunately for him, Jolie could be shielded from the effects of his adjusted 'rewards' subroutine and was unaware of her psychopathic double. "Update projection."<br />
"No new data."<br />
"What?!" he asked sharply.<br />
"No new data."<br />
"Why?"<br />
"Unable to determine."<br />
"Why not?"<br />
"No new data."<br />
Cursing at the computer's frustrating logic, the Professor typed a few commands, bringing up the nanocamera stream. They were idle, pointing askew, mostly at ceilings and walls. He attempted tasking them, with no response either as a group or singly-- they seemed frozen. "What is going on here?"<br />
"Unable to determine."<br />
"Yes, I know that. What CAN you determine?"<br />
"I can determine that I can determine nothing."<br />
"You're not helping." He brought up his conversion room software specs, looking for errant code, a slipped keystroke, or anything that could bring the system down. But he noticed it wasn't crashed... it just seemed to be suspended mid-operation. "Aaron!"<br />
The young man hesitated in from the corridor. "M...master?"<br />
"I <i>said</i> to call me Professor. Never mind that. I want you to go see why we have a software freeze in rooms one through 24. Come back when you've found the problem. I have to stay here... I must continue working on Phase Four."<br />
Aaron remained, trembling.<br />
"What are you waiting for? Go <i>now</i>!"<br />
Aaron fell from the room, jerkily, in stop-motion. The Professor turned his attention to the Police Vacancy Chart. "Computer, speculate. To clear all city precincts of personnel we'll need simultaneous emergencies, real or otherwise. List possibilities."<br />
"Working." The machine fell silent, researching.<br />
The Professor sighed. He had never planned to be working this hard, this late in life, but the Perfect World plan set in motion by The Founder and that grinning idiot Jake Reston was far too namby-pamby, too humbly meek. Aden, that beautiful jewel of a city, would always be a target for the vicious wolves that ran Outer's society, a billion carat diamond in the crown of any greedy corporate warmonger with a taste for conquest; only his plan, ironically spurned by Aden, could guarantee its safety. Soon the wolves he feared would lose their teeth as the plan spread, widened, encompassed all of the Outers, even those employed to protect the wolves. Alone and defenseless, they would turn and run, fearfully seeking shelter together in a changed world where there was no longer any shelter for them, <i>anywhere</i>.<br />
He had long ago gave up wishing that Adeners could understand how pure his intentions were-- they were so one-track altruistic that his methods seemed alien to them. He had no desire to cause anyone injury, but for his plan to work one had to bring humans back to their earliest instinctual behavior, early in life before they became aware of conscious reasoning. That was how those seemingly nonsensical tests worked. They were created with the intention of producing an overload of raw fear, lurching confusion and blinding pain. Soon they reacted instead of thought, a mindset he held them at until they believed there was no other way of life for them... and then, only then, would he bring them back, limp and pliable, into whatever mold he chose for them. These were tough people he was modifying... he knew clearly that tough measures were needed to break through their guarded shells of self preservation. This would work. It <i>had to</i> work.<br />
Like a floating ghost through a haunted house Aaron returned, silent and eerie. The Professor started when the ragged man approached and snapped, "Announce yourself, you creepy ghoul!"<br />
"Yes, master."<br />
"And call me Professor, for Aden's sake!"<br />
"Yes, Aden."<br />
"Not Aden-- oh, forget it. Tell me what's happening in the conversion rooms? Where is my data?"<br />
"I don't know."<br />
"You... don't... know?" Red-faced, the Professor seethed, "Aaron, do you want me to prescribe more treatments?"<br />
He recoiled and slammed into a rack, knocking books over. "No, master, no!" He crumpled to the floor, gathering the books in awkward arcs, returning them to the shelves in strewn piles.<br />
"Forget the books! What do you mean you don't know?"<br />
"Everything's off. All doors locked. Viewers dark. Don't know why. Can't get in."<br />
The Professor sighed. It wasn't the kid's fault. "Thank you, boy. Relax. Go sit in the corner. Eat some jerky." He stood up. He'd have to check it out himself.<br />
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He walked the maze of corridors, mentally verifying the path. Left, left, right, left, right fork, right fork, left T, left... it became a song in his mind whenever he needed to remember where he was going. So many tunnels! He was fortunate they had been long abandoned... by the city planners, that is. They were actually well populated when he arrived. Not coincidently, the unfortunate people who lived down here became fodder for his early experiments, and served his needs like Aaron did. Sadly, their minds had become too addled to ever become Aden material... but at least they would never become <i>anti</i>-Aden material.<br />
He came to the last turn. Left. Wait. He thought it was supposed to be right, but there <i>was</i> no right. He looked behind but could see nothing in the gloom. The damned earwig was off; he couldn't ask the computer to direct him. He retraced his steps, singing the directions in his mind. He got to the last 'T' and took it right. That must be it. But wait! A dead end? Couldn't be!<br />
He walked more briskly, retracing himself further. The cobblestone was broken in places; he kept one hand on the wall to steady himself. His jack boots protected his thin ankles; he kept them laced high and tight. But they caused some loss of sensitivity. He couldn't feel the ground as easily as with Aden's all-purpose slip-on treads, but he refused to wear the superior footwear on principle, since it was Reston that had designed them.<br />
A piece of cobblestone shifted underfoot and he slipped, smacking his head against the stone wall. He cried out; touching the wound, he felt blood. Dizzy and disoriented, he slid down the wall, askew on the cold stone, chaos a loud throbbing pulse.<br />
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Tifania Bennett, Alpha Team Leader, trotted up to the approaching figures with one hand by her Spooge gun; until their identities were verified she had no way to be certain whether these were 'friendlies'. She didn't have long to wait... they entered the arc of a streetlamp and she recognized one immediately.<br />
"Ginnie Gethers, Aden Security. Girl, am I ever glad to see you!" She gave Ginnie a thumping embrace, who returned it with a joyful smile.<br />
Ginnie purred, "Mmm... you smell like Aden." She pulled back and crooked a thumb over at her companion. "Patrolmen Louis White, another victim."<br />
White held out his hand. Tiffy glanced at it and smiled, grabbed it, then pulled him in for a warm hug. "Patrolman... glad you could make it." She squeezed him so hard he felt his ribs protest, but said nothing, enjoying it immensely. These Adeners sure are friendly!<br />
"What can you report?" Tiffy released him, directing her question to Ginnie.<br />
She frowned, lips forming a pretty pout. "His plan is more advanced than we thought. He's got hundreds or thousands more of these conversion rooms, located throughout the abandoned utility tunnels under the city. The entrance to ours is right over there." She pointed to an open manhole fifty yards east.<br />
Tiffy held up a finger, grabbing Cassie's hand in sympathy. She spoke to her team, as well as the others floating in cloud cover, in radar-invisible crafts all over the city, laying out an elaborate incursion grid. "Send the Nanostream into all underground tunnels; when you have positive intel, secure all victims and prepare a Pyrification run." She turned her attention back to the debrief.<br />
White asked, "Pyrification?"<br />
"The act of rendering any object into a useless puddle of slag using high heat and/or chemicals. Used to keep Aden technology from warmongering hands."<br />
"Ah." The patrolman seemed satisfied.<br />
Ginnie continued sadly, "He's not converting people directly into Aden-receptive husks-- instead, he's taking his first wave and creating only technicians... his goal is to create thousands of them." She shuddered.<br />
"What? What did he do?" Tiffy grabbed her arm, looked into the other woman's eyes.<br />
Ginnie looked heartbroken. "He... he turned our Jolie into a torturer, a monster!"<br />
Tiffy's face wrinkled as a noise punched out from her earwig. "I know, Jolie, I know. I'm sorry. We'll solve it, don't worry." More buzzing. "We're about to. I will get all the pertinent data, Jolie!" She rolled her eyes. "That is one pissed off electronic entity. Apparently she <i>must</i> analyze the Professor's software patches... she <i>hates</i> being modified against her will."<br />
"I was none too fond of it either," White quipped.<br />
"I'll bet." Earnestly, Tiffy asked, "So how did you escape? That wily Professor tends to have all his pieces sewn up rather tightly."<br />
White tapped Ginnie's shoulder, then gestured to his ear questioningly. She nodded and pulled out her earwig; he did the same. Then she crushed them underfoot. "He may still be controlling them. No point in tipping our hand." She gave White a little head-butt on his shoulder, "Genius boy here worked out the software's emergency shutdown code."<br />
White protested. "I worked out nothing. I just panicked when the machine threatened to burn me with fire and I yelled the first thing that came into my head."<br />
"And what was that?" Tiffy asked.<br />
"A cuss. <i>Crapcrackers</i>."<br />
Her eyes widened. "Really?"<br />
"Yeah, Why?"<br />
Not sure yet. I have to ask SNM."<br />
Ginnie's eyes went round. "SNM! I bet she was worried! I need to speak to her-- do you have..." "Yes," Tiffy answered, and produced new earwigs from a zippered pouch for them.<br />
White asked, "S and M?" with a little more interest than he should have, and both women mock-glared at him.<br />
"Sara Nell Morar. SNM. Although I hear she's into S and M too, now," Tiffy teased.<br />
"SNM! It's Ginnie!"<br />
"Ginnie." Sara spoke the name with relieved finality. "Thank goodness! VG, you had me very worried!"<br />
"You can thank your unique swear word. We'd still be down there, and probably be automatons by now, without it."<br />
"You're kidding! Your lives were saved by <i>Doofenshmirtz</i>?"<br />
"Not <i>that</i> one... the other one."<br />
"Of course... crapcrackers!" Sara exclaimed<br />
White interrupted. "Why '<i>of course</i>'? What's so important about crapcrackers?"<br />
Sara said, "I heard that cuss from Cassie McBride. When I asked her about it she said her godfather and best friend had taught it to her when she was just a child, maybe nine or ten. He played with her and taught her all fields of science, and was a big part of her upbringing for years. He was a friend of Cassie's father, but that was long ago. They had a falling out when he proved to be a dangerous man." She paused then said quietly, "As a matter of fact... he's the man we're pursuing."<br />
Shocked silence... only the park's insect population could be heard; then Ginnie breathed mutely, "Crapcrackers."<br />
Sara said, "No lie, sister. The Professor must still feel remorse about that separation." She switched tacks. "Who is the man who asked that question, if I may ask?"<br />
Cassie chirped playfully, "That was Louie White, my co-captive... and soon my lover."<br />
White's head swiveled towards her, his face screwed into a mash of stunned delight; Cassie gave him a squeeze, pressing her head against his chest, not at all surprised by his pounding heart.<br />
Tiffy received the nanostream data and entered it manually into Jolie. "Alpha Team go go <i>go</i>!" She initiated the offense strategy and the suited team stampeded for the tunnels. Cassie turned to follow but Tiffy laid a hand on her shoulder. "I have another plan for you, sweetie. Stick around."<br />
"But..."<br />
"Follow me. You too, loverboy." Tiffy was the lead and Cassie knew it; she hung back, disappointed, following her back to the Scovee landing site. They boarded one and it lifted in near silence, floating like a helium balloon above the city before Tiffy engaged the return protocols; the Scovee lurched forward and in moments they were inside the mother ship.<br />
"What good can we do <i>here</i>?" Ginnie protested.<br />
"I need you two to man the defensive grid. Over here." They sat at a busy cluster of monitors, each displaying a different live image of the scene below the city streets. "These are the nanocam streams. You need to watch for retaliatory defenses and stop them before they engage our guys."<br />
"But how?" White asked.<br />
"With the Tranq Flock." Tiffy tapped one screen showing a storehouse full of sleek mechanisms that looked, to White, for all the world like... birds.<br />
"Mechanical pigeons?" he asked, incredulous. "What... are we going to <i>shit</i> them into submission?"<br />
Tiffy snorted, giggling. "You're funny! But yes... in a way." She operated a joystick skillfully and one of the birds flew off a shelf; in seconds it showed up, flying over and perching on Tiffy's shoulder. White marveled at the technology he was witnessing. Tiffy pressed a hidden latch and the bird split open, revealing dozens of small darts secured to a tiny launch track, its exit coming out from the bird's beak. She showed them the controls. "We subdue them with tranqs... I mean, <i>you</i> do it. Acquisition and firing is automatic... you only need to direct them to the target." She kissed them each on the cheek, then straightened up. "I have to get back down there. We're all counting on you to make this an injury-free incursion. Good luck." With that, she hopped into the Scovee and launched with a roar.<br />
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The Professor was unsure of how long he lay there, but his side was cold and his head ached fiercely. "Computer?" Silence. Drat-- the earwig was still out. Weakly, he called, "Aaron!" the word dying on the dead end's chilly moist stones. Summoning all his strength he shouted again. "<i>AARON</i>!!" He panted with effort. He thought he heard a tiny whooshing noise and turned toward it, but the inky black tunnel revealed nothing; then it was gone. "Is that you, Aaron?" he asked, gasping. The crushing silence swallowed his words-- he must have imagined it. Spent, he dropped back prone, hoping the boy heard his yell and would show up soon. He could feel his energy sapping, his heartbeat, fearful.<br />
His ears picked up on something. Were those footsteps? Unshod feet slapping against cobblestone? Yes... yes, definitely! Then...<br />
"Master?" Not so far off!<br />
"O... over here!" The Professor tried to stand, but his head throbbed mercilessly. Still, he got his feet under himself and with his back against the rough wall, tried forcing himself up. Aaron approached; he could hear the boy's breathing now. Then he felt thin arms lifting one of his up and over the boy's feeble shoulders. Somehow, together, they got him standing. "Thank Aden, son! Get me to the control room... I may have a concussion. And we have to reboot the system... anything could be happening out there and we'd be blind to it!"<br />
"I heard whooshing, Master." They walked slowly, carefully back to the main tunnel.<br />
"Hmm. I did, too. I wonder...?" With a start it dawned on him exactly what he had heard before-- flying nanocameras! "Aden!" he shouted. "They're here! Leave me here, Aaron! Run back to the control room! Implement Secondary Incursion Response!" but realizing Aaron had no idea what he meant, he clarified, "That big yellow button on the wall! Press it!"<br />
Aaron did as he was told, stopping only long enough to insure the Professor's balance, whose pain was beginning to mellow. Thirty seconds later the tunnel was filled with a whooshing, humming sound of his own design... he was gratified that Aaron had successfully released the SIR defenses. Anyone found below ground would soon be neutralized, unless they wore an identifying RFID chip. The Professor chuckled. Soon this annoying interruption would end and he could get on with his plan to Save The World From Itself.<br />
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Nestled among the clouds in the Scovee Launcher Ginnie and White were scouring the Nanostream inputs, searching for any signs of retaliation they could quash. None were present-- no mechs, no warm bodies. Ginnie programmed Jolie to search for aberrant signals and turned her attention to White, swinging a leg over and straddling him as he scrutinized the screen. He appreciated her warmth and delightful portent but was intent upon his given mission, gently adjusting her to keep his eyes glued and searching.<br />
"Jolie will watch for us, Louie... how about a little cane in the meantime?" she asked, hinting with multi-tiered intent.<br />
He smiled coyly, eyes never leaving the screens. "I hope you mean cane <i>sugar</i>, Gin."<br />
"Umm, yeah... that, too."<br />
"Rain check, okay? I'm way too distracted to give you the attention you so rightly deserve."<br />
Her mouth curled prettily, displaying a bemused pout. "You are <i>exactly</i> right for Aden security, Louie. Okay, you win. But when the time comes we're not leaving my room for a <i>week</i>."<br />
"Wow. I promise." He kissed her softly, barely brushing her plump luscious lips, but again he tumesced.<br />
"Oh! Mmm..." Still in his lap, ignoring his previous request, she squeezed muscles he wasn't aware she possessed.<br />
"I... can't... concentrate... oh, my... this isn't good... ohhhh, it's great!" He opened up and she took full advantage, sliding her finger along his front seam, releasing his straining, plump passion, releasing her own and taking him fully, shuddering, squealing. His attention divided, he failed to notice any movement on the screen... movement of a decidedly retaliatory nature.<br />
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Tifania Bennett, Leader of Suppression Team Alpha, rejoined the troops below ground. Flipping her visor down she was enabled with the benefits of Aden technology. She could now hear each individual member and speak to them individually as well. The display showed video from any helmetcam on request and computer-generated images based on laser impressioning. Information splayed across the screen in translucent lettering, first large and then shrinking itself tiny, into a barely visible list, information important to the mission and team safety, that re-enlarged with a glance.<br />
Like now... she was getting a definite digital impression of an approaching cloud. Not a cloud, but more like thousands of tiny things traveling together, like a swarm of bees. Why hadn't she gotten a warning from Ginnie and the cop? No time. She issued a warning to her team and each, with a slap to their chest, engaged nanotailors woven into their suppression uniforms that sealed them into an airtight shell, then stiffened with carbonite monofilaments. One by one within her helmet, her team glowed green until they all were solidly encased.<br />
Just in time, too. "Swarm approaching, dead ahead 1000 yards... ready Spooge guns, mist setting." The normal setting delivered a tennis-ball-sized lump of the gooey foam that expanded a hundredfold in seconds... perfect for stopping a human-sized attacker, but useless against insects... or whatever these were. After all, this was the Professor they were fighting... no telling what crafty, nasty surprises he had in store for them.<br />
A loud crackle blared in her headset coming from the airship, more a series of garbled thunks like a microphone dropping down stairs-- <i>thump</i>... <i>thump</i>... <i>thump</i>. Tiffy waited for a message but there was none. Well not really. Listening for a precious moment she could make out the sounds of... well, sex. She smiled inwardly. So <i>that</i> was why she hadn't heard from them! Just for giggles she turned on the airship speakers and hollered, "<i>Having fun up there, you two</i>?" while the rest of the team harumphed with mirth.<br />
Ginnie scrambled to speak. "Uhh, ahh, there's... there's a cloud, a cloud or something approaching at your twelve! It's almost upon you! Watch out!"<br />
"Yeah thanks Gin, we got it," Tiffy returned, allowing the sarcasm to ooze significantly all over the sheepish copulator in the clouds, hoping she'd given enough of a hint to teach the younger girl about exactly <i>when</i> and <i>where</i> sex <i>wasn't</i> a good idea. It would be one tough sell... after all, Aden philosophy negated old inhibitions so prevalent in Outer communities. But just as it wasn't a good idea to watch TV while skydiving, there were still a few times when pragmatism won over passion. A <i>few</i>.<br />
The leading edge of tiny objects were flying into their sensor range with an audible whooshing hum; six troops on point launched a volley of Spooge mist that enveloped the air in front of them, creating a fine webbing that spread in all directions like a sticky gauze bandage. Thousands of tiny mechanical mosquitos became hopelessly mired in the threadlike goo which hardened quickly, trapping them permanently. Six more raced forward, crushing the fallen web underfoot like so much cotton candy and launched another volley; many more mosquitos followed. One after another they advanced, each volley felling hundreds of electronibugs.<br />
A few out of luck or sheer volume managed to escape their fate and dive-bombed for the team; most were crushed against each suit's impervious outer shell. Tiffy caught one right in the visor; it too squashed, but not before an amber liquid squirted from the mini-mech and puffed into a mist before her eyes. Probably a knockout gas or worse she speculated, and congratulated herself for spotting the little buggers before they could do any real damage.<br />
But several of her men were staggering and a few took a knee. She herself was feeling suddenly lightheaded. A cacophony of complaints assaulted her; chatter organization software heard the words 'dizzy' and 'nauseous'.<br />
Tiffy shook her head and barked, "The gas... breaching the suit filters! Cut off... external oxygen intake and... switch to backup." She cursed. "Crapcrackers." Of course he would know their suit filtration parameters... he helped to design them; and although some improvements had been made since he was 'excused' from Aden, they hadn't upgraded to submicrofiltration. The suits were only designed to protect against inferior Outers technology, after all.<br />
With fresh air the dizzy soldiers were regaining their stamina, although a few had yielded their stomach contents to the suit interior. Tiffy excused them, directing them to debrief all intel to Jolie once they reached the surface and cleared the dampening field, prior to cleanup. Timely intel was crucial, she reasoned, and dainty cleanup was not.<br />
All the skeetoids were finally contained, the last few being physically slapped into oblivion. Tiffy ordered, "Half of you, search the tunnels-- you're to look for the Professor and capture him. Andrews, you're on point. The rest of you, let's get these doors open and the victims to safety. Remember, some may resist. Sedation clouds may be needed. Troops, advance."<br />
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The Professor somehow found his way back to the control room, sitting heavily on a crate in front of the prodigiously cabled and hastily assembled control console, still dark and unresponsive. Aaron was nowhere to be found, but he couldn't worry about that now-- he had to get the complex running again. "Initiate restart, computer."<br />
"Initiating restart." He crossed his fingers. He did not want to resort to primary re-initialization, because during this process all controls were placed offline... including all electronically locked doors, all images from every nanocamera, and his biggest ace in repelling incursion, the dampening field. But they were already here, and he was powerless without having his wizardry online, so he was left with few options besides this, or scrapping the entire plan. The room went dark.<br />
But there was no 'ping' of successful relaunch, no whirring of hard drives, no 'evil laugh' startup file. It was like power had become a foreign word in the abandoned utility tunnels below the city. "Computer, determine problem. Computer?" Silence. What the hell is happening? Not now, not here! It was like a comedy of errors. His head throbbed again, a pulsing pain audible in his ears.<br />
The darkness seemed to be easing somewhat, more so with each passing moment. He turned towards the office door and realized why. The beam from some light, perhaps a torch, was playing on the stone wall outside in the hallway. Brighter it grew until he could make out the demarcation of light's edge meeting darkness, and then the source entered the office and pointed into his face, blinding him. He held a hand up and said, "Who's there? Take that light off me!"<br />
"Sorry... Snatch."<br />
The Professor recognized that voice, only now it was different-- it was stronger, self assured... and decidedly disrespectful. It was Aaron! "What are you doing, boy? Get over here! We have to figure out why the restart bombed!"<br />
"I know why it bombed. I bombed it."<br />
The Professor could now make out that the light was coming from a powerful electric torch mounted on a miner's helmet on the boy's head; it crossed the room and blazed back into his eyes; he squinted in pain.<br />
"I won't be taking any more direction from you, <i>Professor</i>."<br />
The boy's walk was firm and certain; he could see in the gloom that Aaron now stared intently at him when he spoke, whereas he wouldn't even look in his direction before, always casting his gaze floorward when speaking. The Professor didn't know how such a powerful difference could present itself so rapidly. Aaron was the first successful outcome of his conversion room plan; many of the other undergrounders had lost most of their reasoning skills and all of their personality and were little more than controllable idiots he kept in locked stalls like animals until needed. Aaron had retained what the other tunnel dwellers hadn't and the Professor wasn't certain why; he had reasoned that he was young while most of them were already badly damaged before he began the treatments. Now he was thinking the boy may have been playing him, <i>and</i> the conversion room computer. To what end, he didn't yet know.<br />
Aaron continued. "I released the Secondary Incursion Response <i>only</i> to stop the Adeners; I didn't want to see anybody from either side get hurt. But having watched you for several months, I have to tell you... I think you might be the tiniest bit <i>insane</i>." Aaron stressed that last word. "Your plan is ill-conceived and hugely damaging. You can't force humanity to swallow a plan like Perfect World... it has to be eased into place, over time, convincing people with repeated exposure to its benefits."<br />
"Pah. As long as there's a dichotomy, especially one weighted so heavily to the Outers, there will always be the danger of attack. Since Aden has it... they will want it."<br />
"And you believe that converting a large city by takeover won't attract any government attention? It will, and your little uprising will be crushed... if they have to destroy the city to do it, and Aden, too. The US Government may have inferior technology, but we have a lot of it."<br />
The Professor didn't miss the note of pride in Aaron's voice when he said '<i>we</i>' and realized with a shock that the boy was much more than he had seemed. As if to demonstrate that perception Aaron reached behind the desk and brought out a covered glass jar. Inside, the Professor could see a handful of the Skeetoids which made up his Secondary Incursion Response.<br />
"For this plan to work your way, it'll have to be much, <i>much</i> bigger. There has to be Conversion apparatus set up in <i>every</i> city in the nation. We have to take down the police and military, then make a dedicated sweep of political power brokers nationwide, who will lead the pack by issuing new laws while law enforcement keeps the peace."<br />
He began unscrewing the jar cover. "So I'll be taking over this operation from here, Professor <i>Snatch</i>."<br />
The Professor ignored the insult and said haughtily, "What are you going to do with those? I'm sure you know they're tuned to ignore my RFID signal. Without targets they'll just shut themselves down."<br />
Aaron smiled a chilling scrawl. "I know they <i>were,</i>" and removed the cover. The mosquitoids lifted from their confines and spread through the room, establishing perimeter, checking for targets as a suddenly frightened Professor jumped spryly from his seat, aiming for the door. Aaron cautioned, "These buggies are loaded with a different toxin, not nearly as damaging as the stuff you prepared for the Adeners. I thought you cared for them-- why would you guarantee such a long and painful convalescence for those good people? The stuff I mixed up only affects the prefrontal cortex. You won't die. It will only make it difficult to engage in complex thought for a few... years. You'll still be able to puzzle out how to use a microwave oven. I think." He laughed. "Goodbye, Professor. It's been no fun at all!"<br />
Otherwise occupied, the Professor was sprinting down the tunnel, desperately trying to remember where the nearest airtight door was. Everything should be unlocked, thanks to that dastardly boy... if he could get there before they buglets swarmed him he could escape the fate worse than death. They were fast but a sprinter was faster, so he kept up the pace, not easy for a middle-aged scientist with a head wound.<br />
Over there-- the nano processing room was airtight and dust free! He crossed to the other side, that frightening whooshing hum nearly upon him; he threw himself at the door, which sprang open with a pop. He rolled inside and hefted himself against the heavy door, hearing the metallic click that insured all the seals were engaged. He listened to the 'tik- tik- tik' of tiny machines smacking into the steel door, destroyed, with satisfaction, completely oblivious to the solitary skeetoid crawling on his collar...<br />
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"I told you this was a bad idea." White sat hunched over the console, head in his hands.<br />
"Not to worry. She doesn't need us... she has all the same sensing equipment down there that we do up here. We were placed up here for <i>our</i> safety, and as an out-of-the-way backup plan." But Ginnie didn't sound at all certain of that.<br />
"Still, I'm mortified that the first time I get to show my value to Aden was only as a lover." White sagged and murmured sarcastically, " With my track record, I'm sure they'll <i>really</i> want me now."<br />
Ginnie sidled up to him, placed her arms around his neck, whispering. "You were mighty wonderful, Officer, even though we were interrupted. But you know we're not in the least bit prudish about sex in Aden, right?<br />
"Well, yeah... no... yeah. But there's a time and a place, right?" He snuggled against her, vaguely comforted.<br />
"Would you relax? It will be fine." She tousled his hair and smiled coyly. "Do you wanna go again? We never finished..."<br />
White straightened and glared at her. "Are you nuts? The operation is still in play down there! What if they need us? Getting caught <i>again</i>-- that's the last thing I need!"<br />
Ginnie giggled. "I was kidding! Sort of. Let's get back to work, then." She sat beside him and watched the monitor, while her hand furtively crept over and cradled his bulging manhood. His breath caught raggedly, but she noticed he wasn't pulling away, so continued her gentle massage.<br />
Pretending not to notice, he watched the monitors. "What's happening there?" he asked, pointing to a heat signature map of the tunnels generated by the nanostream, glowing with hundreds of dots bunched into segments.<br />
Ginnie interpreted the images. "Tiff split her crew up, probably to search the tunnels, looking for the Snatch."<br />
Will smirked. "Snatch. He told me he doesn't like that nickname... says being called a girl part is disrespectful." He noticed new movement. "What's that over there?" pointing to the far right.<br />
She emitted a low whistle. "I had no idea he was that far along-- the Outer's news reports estimated less than a dozen-- but would you look at that!"<br />
"What?"<br />
"They're the Snatch's 'zombies'-- the converted-- and lots of them! Hundreds, maybe even a thousand! And they're on an intercept path with the rescue teams!"<br />
"Oh no! What do we do?"<br />
"The party's started, Louie! This is what we trained for!" Ginnie radioed down in her most professional manner. "Alpha Team Leader, you have incoming bogies, human bogies... a lot of them, approaching from multiple directions! Have your members engage personal RFID on on my mark... MARK."<br />
"Acknowledged. And thanks, Ginnie."<br />
Feeling exonerated, Ginnie brought the Tranq Flock online. In seconds, a thundering vibration could be felt throughout the ship as the mechanized army flexed their collective wings and powered up. She nudged White. "Here, Louie... you do the honors," and pointed at the flashing 'Launch' button.<br />
"With pleasure." In a smooth motion he depressed the button; with a click, then a whirr the Flock room hatch receded open as the birds flew off the shelves, literally. The view in that room became obscured momentarily as the air filled with hundreds of flapping, feather-light carbonite mechanisms; in a moment they were free of the ship and hurtling towards their prey.<br />
Allowing gravity to enable supercharging, the 'birds' sucked up and stored all that free energy, then re-engaged in flight shortly before being pulverized by the ground. They flew down the manhole uniformly, like bats from a cave, hugging the ceiling. They 'saw' the Alpha teams and identified them as friendlies, passing overhead with a flurry of beating wings reminiscent of sheets snapping in the wind. The teams below were in the heat of a largely one-sided battle, the only weapon used by the converted were their sheer numbers. Spooge guns popped and popped until there were no more charges remaining; large white blobs littered the tunnels for hundreds of yards, each containing an impotently struggling golem. The now-weaponless defensive teams fell back and let the Flock do its job.<br />
As the tunnels split their programming had them break into smaller groups, seeking targets; whenever one was found, the lead bird 'spit' a glowing tranq dart from its mouth, tracking the path to ensure a hit. Others verified the target was nullified before acquiring one of their own. When all tranq darts were expended the bird left the fray and sought a Scobee SRS transport on the surface, settling itself into a recharge/resupply bank.<br />
Like waves parting before them the Flock efficiently placed the antagonists into an etherized state; they became sluggish, dizzy and slumped to the ground, unconscious for the next 6-8 hours. Soon every tunnel for a mile had been searched and cleared of targets, and the Flock returned to their charging stations. The battle was over.<br />
Once assured of safety for her men, Tiffy had her team remove the Professor's army to the Scovees. She'd gotten the word to relocate them directly from Aden; at some point during the scuffle the dampening field had abruptly ceased, restoring all communications. All the golems were going to the Schuylkill Centenarium, an Aden-type of jail which had over 100,000 rooms designed to gently mold antisocial or troubled people back into productive, valuable members of society in a fraction of the time that traditional jails held people that received no training at all.<br />
These men and women were going to be a special case, she was told; intel that Aden had received during the blackout indicated the source of the Professor's retaliation force-- an underground homeless community that lived in the tunnels prior to the Professor's takeover. They were the unfortunate many, caught in the Professor's self-serving crossfire, receiving from him the final indignity in a life of disrespect-- loss of self.<br />
Her radio sprang to life. "Tiffy, you're going to want to see this. Sending directions."<br />
"On my way, Andrews." The tunnels had been powered up and were now brightly lit. Looking through her visor, her next turn appeared as an arrow in the near distance, growing larger as she approached. It continued this way for several turns. Soon she was at the location-- a large room with an impressively solid door, ajar. Inside, on the floor... was the Professor. He was awake but unfocused and speaking quietly to himself, rocking. His jack boots were off and set up neatly by his side, his feet sockless, and he was holding two of his toes with his fingers.<br />
Andrews had been hunched over him and stood up when Tiffy arrived. "He just keeps repeating the same thing, over and over. He doesn't seem to hear me at all."<br />
"Well, get him onto a secure gurney and back to the Scovee. She bent over and said softly, "Professor? It's Tiffy Bennett. Do you remember me?"<br />
He remained transfixed with his toes, unwilling or unable to acknowledge her. Quietly, almost in a whisper, he said, "Eight and a half minutes for a pizza, eight, three, zero, start. Five minutes for boiling water, five, zero, zero, start. Twelve minutes for a baked potato, one, two, zero, zero, start. Thirty five seconds to reheat a muffin, three, five, start. Eight and a half minutes for a pizza..." As he spoke he moved his fingers to different toes, then back, in meaningless rhythm.<br />
Tiffy's eyes filled. What was going on? This might be the most brilliant, if twisted, man since Steven Hawking... what's happened to his mind? Then she noticed a small red mark on his neck; pulling back his collar, she found one of those mosquitoids laying nearby, inert. She pulled a sample bag from her pack and knocked it into the bag; whatever had been injected into the Professor would be analyzed once they reached Aden.<br />
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Back on the now-crowded Scovee Launcher, Tiffy was sitting with White in the forward cabin. They watched through the large window as the huge craft navigated itself silently above the puffy cumulus clouds, skirting from one to the next, avoiding visual detection from the surface while its black skin avoided detection by any electronic means. Louie watched, jaw sagging. "This craft is... hopping? Sliding? What the hell kind of airplane does that?"<br />
"I can't really explain it... it's not my field." Said Tiffy, "but if you really want to know I'm sure some of my men are scientists and could help you understand what makes this 'airplane' fly."<br />
"Scientists? Aren't they soldiers?"<br />
"We don't have any soldiers."<br />
White looked confused. "What are all these guys then, and you?"<br />
"Volunteers," she said simply.<br />
"Like small town firemen?" he offered.<br />
"Exactly. In Aden we test every person for all of their natural abilities. Then we train the heck out of those abilities. So while someone might be a horrible singer, cook or mathematician, they're fantastic at hundreds of other things. And we know it."<br />
"So all of these 'soldiers'..."<br />
"Are regular citizens that have good coordination and stamina, are brave and take direction well when needed. Perfect soldier material. But the moment soldier duty is over, they go back to their regular lives... as parents, teachers, farmers, musicians and on, and on. You should learn about us... take this travel time to talk to them."<br />
"Oh, I will. Can't wait." White looked earnestly at her. "Tiffy?"<br />
"Yes?"<br />
"Do you know what Aden has in store for me?"<br />
Tiffy smiled and squeezed his arm. "What do you <i>want</i> to happen to you?"<br />
"Honestly... I'd love to spend some time there."<br />
"Forget it. Not going to happen. Grab a parachute. We're letting you out, here!" Her face was passionless.<br />
White was shocked. "Wha...?"<br />
She giggled. "Kidding. You're coming with us after we drop our golem guests off in Philadelphia. Good enough for you?"<br />
"Do you have somewhere I can change my ruined underwear?" White was mortified.<br />
"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry!"<br />
It was his turn. "Kidding. But I thought... when you caught us... you know... having sex, that that was it for me."<br />
She laughed sweetly. "Are you kidding? I wanted to be there with you! I was a little jealous, truth be known. Besides, I bet Ginnie started it."<br />
"I can't kiss and tell."<br />
"That's okay. I'll watch the recordings."<br />
White said, "Oh, dear."<br />
As if on cue Ginnie knocked and entered, sitting down beside White on the couch, unaware of the conversation. "Hi. Every guest is stowed, including Detective Rosston." She looked at him, eyes downcast. "Louie, I'm sorry. He's pretty vacant-- his awareness seems gone." She brightened. "But the Centenarium is a miracle place. If someone's mind can be fixed at all, it'll happen there."<br />
"Wow. Poor guy. I hope he comes out of it all right." White shook his head. "He was an angry man, though, had a lot on his mind. Maybe the Centenarium can return everything but that."<br />
"I hope. One more thing," Ginnie continued. "That kid, the Snatch's helper, Aaron? Well, he must have gotten overlooked. I can't find him on the ship anywhere."<br />
Tiffy said, "It's a mess down in the tunnels. We going to send a scout team down to search the place again anyway. Plus we're going to have to destroy all that equipment with Pyrification using Kinetic Melters right away, before it gets discovered. Can you imagine that kind of technology in the hands of Outers? No offense."<br />
"None taken. I never felt like I belonged, anyway." White squeezed Ginnie's waist.<br />
She asked Tiffy, "Were you able to pinpoint the locations of his other lairs?"<br />
"No. We're going to have to do that the old-fashioned way, with feet on the ground. But we'll find the kid and bring him back to Aden with the Professor. Maybe he will heal faster with a familiar face nearby."<br />
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Returning to her apartment on the 39th floor of the 200 story Aden superstructure Tifania Bennett, Citizen, dropped to the couch, snow-angel style. "Jolie, time?"<br />
"Eight-forty-seven AM."<br />
"Thank you, dear." Twenty four hours! It had been only twenty four hours since she was last in this apartment. She was astonished at all that had transpired in one day... and was ready for it to be over. But first, a shower, and maybe more, in her beloved cleanse unit. Her body had been rocked and was ready for a little TLC.<br />
Stepping out of her one-piece, Tiffy walked nude across her apartment and into the bathroom; stopping at the full length mirror, she examined herself for any damage. All good... but something was amiss. Her plush robe usually hung on a hook behind the door but there it was, across the bathroom, hanging nearly to the floor beside the mirror where she stood. And there was something else...<br />
Feet. There were feet sticking out beneath them!<br />
Smiling coyly, Tiffy spoke aloud. "Oh, I am so lonely! I wish a good looking young man would come and visit me... maybe even my neighbor Trev. He has grown into such an attractive young man." She watched with amusement as her robe moved side to side slightly as she did, the young man trying to avoid discovery. The mirror's reflection clearly showed him there, nude, all young perfect smooth skin. "I bet if he came over and asked me, I'd let him do an-y-thing he wanted to me." She purposely slowed the word to see his reaction. She was not disappointed<br />
At that moment, right there in the center of her robe, there was now a movement, a definite lump forming in the robe, extending impressively into the room. Tiffy switched off the light and turned the shower on, then crouched down in front of her robe. Oh, Trev was going to learn a wonderful life lesson this morning.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce I Friedman</span></div>
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Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-31908187874870497062011-05-19T12:55:00.000-07:002011-05-19T12:55:06.863-07:00Lazy? Me? More like swamped, yo!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWvMKqcJTlOAiBdtO1hXDu8PeMEWJUSHxIQ5a8eo4cv6b7DjaoANn5DdgUnHxaFohs7TLVK-5puT-WuDiZyRNXTcM7XjTjY6Zd0vgCxXLrSYDqQIled5BA4ioMqgCjx82F4i3E22XUNt0/s1600/PowerofWords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWvMKqcJTlOAiBdtO1hXDu8PeMEWJUSHxIQ5a8eo4cv6b7DjaoANn5DdgUnHxaFohs7TLVK-5puT-WuDiZyRNXTcM7XjTjY6Zd0vgCxXLrSYDqQIled5BA4ioMqgCjx82F4i3E22XUNt0/s320/PowerofWords.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You may have noticed I haven't posted a word since April. Well, that's not for lack of trying. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As of this moment, I have at least 5... that's 5IVE with a 5... posts which are in the works. Here's a brief rundown, keeping in mind that I hone the titles at the last moment to reflect each post's ultimate content... so don't judge the book cover by its title:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">1) Forever is Far Away- A baleful look at the shape of human society on Earth after invention of the 'Live Forever' pill. It's a non-Perfect World short story which was not my own idea, but that of a fellow writer. He's been dragging his ass on finishing his book, so I began this similar work to stimulate his creativity and get him off his duff. It's his baby, and I've just stolen it. Delicious!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2) Untitled Short Story- Another non-Perfect World piece, this one moves in the opposite direction. It uncovers a magnificent plot to decimate the human population of Earth... but by whom? And why?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3) The Shape of Think to Come- This one's close to finished. It's an essay which observes the course of human interaction since the advent of the telephone, and speculates on several outcomes, both positive and very, very negative.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzz3A78VUR74zUUhxy83Ls1rYTHsHS4VGh0W5l8lpdysX5vERlbWCMB1TyrSfGexfWT447vHmy8o2fqCDtPiqrDHfQdg-8SsuHsT1S63Now4ew9ScW7tEp0UGb2za3txUmdbKdAtIcx31N/s1600/words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzz3A78VUR74zUUhxy83Ls1rYTHsHS4VGh0W5l8lpdysX5vERlbWCMB1TyrSfGexfWT447vHmy8o2fqCDtPiqrDHfQdg-8SsuHsT1S63Now4ew9ScW7tEp0UGb2za3txUmdbKdAtIcx31N/s320/words.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">4) The Naughty and the Nice, Part 2- The exciting conclusion to the latest Perfect World short story, which follows the frightening misdeeds of a bad good guy... or is he a good bad guy?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">5) The Aden Problem- This Perfect World short story reviews how the world's most perfect city... still ain't perfect. One of its citizens has a chilling idea on how to spread the word to the outside, an idea which is spreading panic among the good people of Aden.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have another 5 which I've not yet abandoned... but also haven't returned to in a year or more. Fortunately, they are stories, not gardens... they'll keep.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the very least, you can count this short notice as proof positive that I wrote SOMETHING in May 2011. Huzzah.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQO5KifirT7zfBjqUzwLaobneFDjpTzu8SHJMEpMigpty8dWB-ASCxEwPaXHgJ8gbX_ScnrgqwT-yfLi0R10IveDcX-I4kCYChjpUiCbI7ZUVbXE9xs1Z-HmeBdCAUdL5FNemRKDoCmY/s400/hand-holding-pen-writing-on-paper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQO5KifirT7zfBjqUzwLaobneFDjpTzu8SHJMEpMigpty8dWB-ASCxEwPaXHgJ8gbX_ScnrgqwT-yfLi0R10IveDcX-I4kCYChjpUiCbI7ZUVbXE9xs1Z-HmeBdCAUdL5FNemRKDoCmY/s320/hand-holding-pen-writing-on-paper.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-66383564982401004182011-04-26T18:35:00.000-07:002011-04-26T20:53:57.157-07:00Car Alarm, Anyone?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Essay</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/04/19/article-1171840-0488CCEE000005DC-935_634x359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/04/19/article-1171840-0488CCEE000005DC-935_634x359.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I'm not nose-to-the-screen typing my brain's thought ooze into semi-coherence, I work. For money. That's right, I have a real job, just like every other blogger... because almost nobody seems to be able to make any real money at this effort just yet. But that's another post entirely. This post is about irritation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I'm working at my job here in sunny California, as a self-employed contractor. It's a nice business, because there's a lot of outdoor time and I'm always visiting someplace new. The boss is great, too. But today there's a problem. A big one. For not 50 feet away in the next building, some guy's car alarm is going off. Boy, I hate that! And it's not one of the fancy, twenty-style ring tones that cycle twice and then stop. Nah, this is the basic, comes-with-a-midsize, mid-model American car type... the lights flash, the horn beeps. Dull. But it's worse than that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nottinghamcity.gov.uk/media/image/r/b/car-alarm_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.nottinghamcity.gov.uk/media/image/r/b/car-alarm_1.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because it didn't stop! I worked for three hours at that address and it didn't stop once. Well okay, it did stop, but in a more irritating fashion than hearing the blasting horn, if you can imagine that. This particular car would usher regularly spaced toots, then stop. But not the same number of toots... no, that would be too normal. This car beeped six times, then fell silent. A minute later, twelve blasts would sound. Silence. Then three. Five. Sixty-two. One. I was starting to write a song to match the honks, ending sentences whenever the horn did:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"This real-ly sucks don-key---"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I want to kill the own-er by run-ning o-ver his--"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Shit."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I have a gun and I'm gon-na use it. Sure it on-ly shoots nails but I don't think it mat--"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dozens of tuneless, rhymeless song snippets like ribbons floating through my head, and I'm forgetting what it is I was there to do! Now it's so distracting it's affecting my performance!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the past when no owner would show up, I might have taken it upon myself to get the car open and unhook the battery, solving the problem. I'm sure when they eventually returned they would momentarily freak, until they read the patient but anonymous note on the windshield I might leave explaining the actions which came from the powerful frustration building up during hours of unwanted horn sonnet. Perhaps they would understand, perhaps not-- but who cares? I would be gone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But as a grown and mature man, now I have other options more likely not to get me arrested, because what would it look like to a cop who shows up investigating a car alarm to see some guy trying to wire hanger the car door open? "No, officer! I was trying to unhook the battery to shut the damn thing off!" Sure. They'll believe that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://o.aolcdn.com/os/autos/photos/miscellaneous/undercover-cop-car1" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://o.aolcdn.com/os/autos/photos/miscellaneous/undercover-cop-car1" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could call the cops myself. That's a good start. Or I could try looking in (not touching!) the car to find identifying information from which to call the owner. I could also try to ascertain the owner's location based on the parking spot, if it's an assigned one for example. There are plenty of other options. I could leave, making it not my problem anymore! Or I could call a tow truck if it's on my property. Or I could even pull out a bazooka and RPG it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, forget the last one... that's a little hostile. But what I DID do, what I always start with, was recon. I checked it out. And that's when it all became crystal clear to me. I walked over to from where the sound was emanating and became enlightened. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For there was no absentee owner... he was right there! And he wasn't alone, either-- he was sitting alongside a copper skinned, bearded and coveralled man splitting his time between the engine compartment, the trunk and sitting awkwardly upside down in the driver's seat, head pressed between the brake and accelerator pedals, which is where he was at the moment I arrived. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.houstonsportsrapp.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/crazy-homeless-man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.houstonsportsrapp.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/crazy-homeless-man.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What'cha doin'?" I asked innocently, between horn honks which now seemed to be under the control of said coverall dude.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The owner was a little startled and responded sheepishly, "Getting alarm fixed. Hope noise not bothering you."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not at all, not at all," I lied. "It's like opera to me. When will you be done?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Etrusco trying to trace short. He not having lot of luck."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ignoring the bizarre name for the moment, I suggested, "Maybe you could cut the faulty wire completely out of the circuit and run a new one...?" I'd had a lot of experience back in my teens in New York City in the early 70's... all of my friends had terrible beaters held together with rope and duck tape and old rubber book straps that nobody used anymore, and we had learned from experience how to cobble a car into rough working order. Most had dozens of yards of lamp wire like spaghetti draped through the vehicle, terminating in some kind of switch block mounted between the front seats to operate some otherwise doomed device like the directional signals, the dome light or the distributor. It was ugly as our junior high principal Mr 'Scar' Scarofalo but it worked, and we didn't care.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Etrusco fell upside down out of the car seat and slammed down onto his soles. He stared at me, and then at the owner, a pale kid with greasy, slick black hair in his twenties, and then back at me. He grumbled, "..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have no idea what he said. It wasn't in any language I understood, nor one I had ever heard uttered. It could have been Klingon, or maybe he threw up in his mouth a little, I don't know. But the owner seemed to comprehend because he murmured, eyes wide, "Etrusco say you have intimacy of spindle," and nodded, as if the repairman's comment was some divine prophesy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"O... kay," I placated, and backed away slowly. I didn't turn to walk forward until they were well out of sight. The last thing I saw was Etrusco tearing the guts out of a VCR. I didn't want to know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That brings me to my pet peeve of the day. This post is about the outdated and yet firmly entrenched concept of car alarms. I doubt any one of us city dwellers can go an entire day without hearing a car alarm triggered at some point. When it happens, I'm sure you ask yourself if it's a real car theft in progress or if some fat lady just leaned on a shiny car to readjust the straining straps of her tiny Totes. I don't know the answer, but I've only ever seen a car pass by expressing full alarm regalia a few times in my whole life, and I bet those were the only real crimes in a day with thousands of errant alarms.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.glassguide.co.uk/NewsImages/1449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.glassguide.co.uk/NewsImages/1449.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, how I hate 'em!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And what use are they, really? Unless the owner is within earshot, unlikely if they're in a mall, at a sporting event or getting a massage, they will be of no assistance to their car as it is being driven away to meet its new owner... or owners. The car alarm is nothing more than an ego-stroke at best and I'll tell you how I know. The owners prove it each time they approach their alarmed fortress on wheels, entering and setting it off without a care, allowing the sirens to sound for a number of seconds before they turn the alarm to 'passive', annoying a city block's worth of neighbors time and time again. They are in essence saying, "I have a nice car and you can't touch it." I don't know about you, but that very thought makes me want to touch it, repeatedly, with a wrecking ball.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And what of the guy who first invented the annoying device? Did he give a thought about the endless annoyance he would be initiating, the pastoral silence he would forever be breaking in the futile search for a theftproof car? Nyet. Like most inventions, I'm willing to bet the driving motivation was profit-- big, straining bags fulla cash delivered to his doorstep by grateful Porsche and Beemer owners everywhere. Or maybe it was the idea of hordes of horny ladies descending upon his residence, each wanting to be the first to thank him for protecting her pink convertible baby. No, I'm pretty certain the guy never saw past the end of his manhood, and the pretty painted mouth attached to it, to imagine the downside of creating cities choked with millions of sensitive ear-jarring devices ready to drive the population into acts of blood-curdling lunacy. And here we are.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's been a number of decades since the introduction of an automatic car alarm but the old design still rules supreme. Oh, there have been modifications and even complete redesigns introduced, some even exhibiting a fair degree of success, but the endless screaming siren is still the cheapest and therefore the most popular by far. It doesn't matter that psychological studies have been created ad nauseum to explain their sociological futility, proving time and again that nobody, NOBODY rushes to the aid of a loud, screeching machine. It's more likely the disturbance won't even garner a quick peek through the window to discover the source, let alone an angry horde bent on capturing the attempted criminal in progress.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tvleak.com/wp-content/gallery/10-weird-car-alarm-systems/10-weird-car-alarm-systems-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://www.tvleak.com/wp-content/gallery/10-weird-car-alarm-systems/10-weird-car-alarm-systems-9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Newer designs have proven far more effective. The LoJack Corporation and others like it have eliminated the noise completely. A silent signal is beamed to law enforcement agencies and a GPS directs them to the car's current location, lulling a thief into confidence right up to the point that cops surround the vehicle, guns drawn. I almost feel sorry for the depraved entrepreneur, imagining the bewilderment on his face as he's being loaded head-first into the paddy wagon, retracing his scheme but unable to determine exactly where he went so terribly wrong. Now that's an effective crime deterrent!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Effective but expensive. It costs money to have operators standing by, to maintain a country-wide sensory net and to keep the cops interested in the relatively dull task of reuniting an obsessive person with their beloved asshole-mobile. Shame-- if it were a more reasonable method it could silence the alarm forever and beautify the sound of cities, a rosy scenario which is marred only by the placing of hundreds of businesses with their thousands of employees onto the unemployment rosters. What other choices are out there?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.adpunch.org/images/viper-security_25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.adpunch.org/images/viper-security_25.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The 'Smart' alarm is another choice. A single, gentle bump against the car activates the system, which plays prerecorded voice messages any would-be car thief will hear, warning them away from the vehicle with the promise of dire consequences if ignored. Further movement triggers any number of anti-theft methods including shutdown of the car's electrical system, rendering it effectively dead; placing an automated call to authorities reporting the crime in progress; high-voltage countermeasures designed to shock the criminal into submission or high-volume blasts of shrieking sirens within the cabin to thwart the crime through temporary ear damage. While each method is on their own a possible deterrent, clever criminals have quickly learned how to maneuver around them, even as designers try to catch up with software which would thwart the bad guys' methods. It's a merry technological dance where everyone comes out a winner, except for the car owner.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not yet the correct way to end car theft... but I have an idea about that, and I'm damn proud of it!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My solution is elegant, and proactive. It's also cheap. And best of all it's quiet. I say we let the technology of the smart phone come to our rescue at the same time as we allow the car's owner to do the bulk of the heavy lifting. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Simply install a module in the car which allows the vehicle to be operated remotely using an iPhone. That's it. Here's a scenario:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A car owner goes to the local mall to buy, say, underwear. At some point during the shopping process his phone rings. He can tell immediately the call is being placed by his new antitheft software-- the onboard camera allows him to watch the crime occurring in real time, as well as recording it for court evidence down the road. The criminal is unaware of any prying eyes and is probably congratulating himself for picking an 'unprotected' car... boy, is he in for a surprise!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now he gets the car started and drives away. It's best to make that process as easy as possible, to avoid damage to the car. All the while GPS is recording his current location as well as his route. At this point the owner can hold off on contacting the authorities until he determines if this particular car thief is just a kid on a joyride or a professional car stripper with chop-shop on his mind. If it's the latter, then waiting until the vehicle has reached its destination solves more than one crime-- then the phone call results in an entire ring of criminals being taken off the streets, and probably finds several other stolen cars as well!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If it's a first timer, the owner can give the kid an experience he'll never forget, quite possibly swearing him off car theft altogether! At some point the owner takes over control of his vehicle, locking all the doors and closing the windows. He directs the car directly to a police station as the kid beats on the door trying to get out. Or, with one push he releases a canister of knockout gas, sending the wayward juvie into a deep sleep, only to awaken in a jail cell. Or the owner could even take the car on a high speed drive, observing the road via remote camera, freaking out the crook into praying for his very survival, right up to the point where the car performs a risky infraction in front of a policeman, inspiring chase. Imagine the story <i>he'd</i> come up with, and stick to... all the way to prison!<br />
<br />
Yeah, I'd love to see this idea implemented. Which I'm sure, given enough time, it will. If you can use a smart phone to take pictures and movies, to use as a mirror or flashlight, or to find out if a floor is level... this isn't going to be far behind. And the best reason to implement my idea, of course, is so we can utter the phrase:<br />
<br />
Car theft? There's an app for that!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.editorsweblog.org/iphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.editorsweblog.org/iphone.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-56931287061106918732011-04-12T19:59:00.000-07:002011-04-26T19:25:15.940-07:00Infiltration<div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Perfect World Story (The NOW)</span></div>Water bubbled through the apartment building's dilapidated pipes, picking up rust and sediment along the way, ultimately bursting from the shower head of one Lawrence T Keller, HVAC subcontractor, depositing fine silt into his thinning salt-and-pepper curls. Warm water choked through, largely rinsing the reddish silt away as it burbled and spat a semblance of spray to rinse the effort of another night's work off his burly frame. Twisting the hot water valve to its fullest, he pressed his forehead against the cool and faded pink tile of the shower enclosure, allowing the heat to penetrate his tight and aching shoulders, twin rivers tracing down his muscular back, bringing with it momentary relief from complaining middle-aged muscles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This job was a good one, but as with all good things there were tangible tradeoffs. It was night work, beginning at 5 pm sharp; elevators were loading with tradesmen as rumpled business suits were streaming out on their way to rush hour traffic, and ultimately home. The work was hard until 2 am, with only a 30 minute break for 'lunch', but the benefit was triple his normal rate, and for the foreseeable future to boot.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.ehow.com/images/a07/bc/df/give-man-back-rub-800X800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i.ehow.com/images/a07/bc/df/give-man-back-rub-800X800.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>But oh, the strain to his body! Rerouting air ducts, crawling between beams and ceilings and walls, twisting into odd pretzel shapes to snap sections together, adding diverters and mounting thermostatic baffles made his entire body scream by quitting time. Baths were good but his apartment didn't have one; the separation had been tough on him. Not because of his wife; he was glad to be rid of that shrieking harpy... but because of his treasured thirty-six jet spa tub, installed lovingly with his own hands into their master bathroom. In three months since the 'egress' his only relief had been the weekly trips downtown to Mae's House of Hands, a straight-up massage parlor that worked his aching back so thoroughly it put him into a near blackout state, but at least left him feeling somewhat alive for a couple of days afterwards. If he could afford nightly massages in his home he'd do it, but that would eat up most of the profits from working these godawful hours. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Keller dried off and hung a robe over his shoulders, belt dangling... there was nobody to be modest for in this cramped efficiency. He threw a Swanson dinner into the nuke and switched on the television, ice cold brew in one hand and a fattie in the other. He took a pull from the bottle and ignored a thin stream of beer and lip drool that lay down across the once-white terrycloth; he lit the joint and took a long draw, placing it into his auto-out ashtray. He coughed. Toke in, hack out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The channel was showing an old Gilligan's Island; he watched for a moment, pondering if the smoky Ginger's tits would really be that nose-coney without the scary bullet bra. Then it was just the Skipper and his 'lil buddy' and Keller was immediately bored. He flicked around a bit; at two in late night the airwaves were a little thin, and all his reserved programming was on a DVR at the house, probably already erased by the bitch, his black thought.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The microwave dang.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He brought the steaming black plastic tray over in his calloused but heat-sensitive hands and dropped it onto a TV stand next to the only chair in the room... the only chair in the apartment, actually. He had grabbed it from the house as a 'fuck you' to Arlene -- it was one half of a set she had picked out and their family room was seriously unbalanced without it, feng-shui-wise, anyway -- and it was always his favorite place to sleep when she kicked him out of the bedroom so it was a double whammy to her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Gobbling down the last few strands of his spaghetti and meatballs, he glanced at the TV. It was an infomercial-- it said as much at the bottom next to the 800 number-- but the words 'daily massage' flashed several times, grabbing his eye. He aimed the remote and the volume kicked up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The dashing Southern salesman was intoxicated with his product, it was obvious -- his bolo tie whipped about as he hopped from side to side, all smiles and gestures. "...and never has to be installed by professionals! That's right, we deliver it to you -- free, of course -- set it up wherever you want, and it's good to go! The MultiSpa is your number one solution for sore, tired, aching muscles! It's like a masseuse in a closet-shaped box!..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Keller's eyes widened and he stopped chewing, his last bits of dinner mashed and waiting to be swallowed, stippled around his mouth like a murder scene. The MultiSpa came into view. It was a large white fiberglass box with rounded corners; sleek, like the skin of a jet plane. The salesman put light pressure on the logo which released the door latch, and the camera floated inside.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was a large shower stall, peppered with intricate inserts embedded in the moulded walls. There were no visible knobs to be seen, but a smooth section at eye level soon glowed, revealing a control screen the size of an iPad. Keller watched as a bikini-clad model entered the unit and shut the watertight door. Through television trickery he could see as if there were no wall. The monologue continued:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Once inside, you can program any environment of your choosing; thousands can be downloaded at our website. From a tranquil glen--" </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Suddenly the walls inside were replaced with a realistic projection and the attractive model was beside a gentle brook in the sunny woods. Sounds of life filled the unit-- a woodpecker, rustling trees, a merry songbird. Crickets.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"--to an alien landscape, whatever mood you wish, can be fulfilled. And that's only the beginning! The MultiSpa is also a fully functioning cleansing unit. And 'shower stream' is only one of <i>two hundred</i> different settings. Would you prefer a fine mist? A torrential rainstorm? Perhaps a hurricane? However you want your water to fall, it will do so!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.inhabitat.com/wp-content/uploads/ecowarrior_shower1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="http://www.inhabitat.com/wp-content/uploads/ecowarrior_shower1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>At each example the model endured those conditions. Water came from all directions during the hurricane, pitching the willowy woman about noticeably. The wall scenes changed as well, placing her in the desert, by the beach and in a windswept savannah. But more surprises held Keller's attention.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"But you want a Jacuzzi, you say? Look no further! One touch on the infoPad and you get your wish!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A seat formed from the enclosure's smooth wall; as she sat, the spa filled with water to her shoulders in 10 seconds flat and jets whipped the water into a violent froth. Camera angles showed them changing direction to concentrate on specific muscle groups; her skin depressed noticeably under the water pressure and Keller smiled, imagining the pleasure.<br />
The phone jangled.<br />
He twitched. It was late -- what son of a bitch could be calling at this hour? He checked the ID -- it was Donald James, his co-worker and, at this point in his life, his only friend. "It's goddamn late, Don! What the hell--"<br />
"Turn on your TV! You gotta see this!"<br />
"I'm already watching TV."<br />
"Channel 352!"<br />
Keller went to change and stopped -- he was on 352 already. "The spa?"<br />
"Yeah! I saw this last night but forgot to mention it... I want one!"<br />
Keller did also, but being a contractor made him wary and questions were emerging, rising to the surface like the bubbles onscreen. "Man, that sucker must use a lot of water... and the power requirements for pumps and heaters must be serious!"<br />
"Just wait!" Donald sounded giddy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The sharply suited, silver-tongued salesman smiled a toothy grin. "About this time I bet you're wondering how much this baby costs to operate... but you better sit down, because you're gonna be floored by the answer! Not only does the Multispa <i>not</i> cost <i>anything</i> to operate... it <i>earns</i> you <i>thousands</i> of dollars a year!" His tan and toothy face looked right into the camera and smiled, blinding viewers. "I know... it sounds like total bull hockey, right? Let me show you how we do it!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs25/i/2008/080/a/d/Texture__Tubes_and_wires_by_Pyrosaint_Stox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs25/i/2008/080/a/d/Texture__Tubes_and_wires_by_Pyrosaint_Stox.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The MultiSpa returned as the outside skin peeled back in a neat graphic, and the unit rotated to show its back side. An astonishing assortment of tech greeted his eyes, much of it completely unfamiliar to him even though he had assembled hundreds of spas by hand. "Will you look at all of that... kilterscrabble!"<br />
"Impressive, right?"<br />
Keller had to grudgingly admit that it was.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"This here's the guts of our unit. Notice this big tank. That's the water reservoir... 150 gallons worth. The heat gang runs around the whole spa, as does the pressurized zephyr accumulator and the five-intensity misting unit. Down here's the filtration plant, and over here the recycling pump platform." He appeared in a bubble in one corner of the screen. "I can see the realization on your faces... you're beginning to understand what makes the MultiSpa special... but I'll say it nonetheless."<br />
Keller's mouth had been dropping, slowly, as the unit's complexity became clear; he hinged it shut and gasped, "It... doesn't... use up water?"<br />
Donald chuckled over the phone. "Check this out!"<br />
"That's right... we've perfected clean water 'Aguacycle' technology -- this unit runs completely on recycled water! After the MultiSpa is filled -- with an ordinary garden hose -- the water is cleaned and reused thousands of times!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">By way of demonstration he brought out a pitcher of gray bathtub water and poured it into the filtration unit; as it trickled through it became sparkling clear again... and then he drank it! Keller's stomach lurched.<br />
The salesman smiled. "Ahh... refreshing! Tastes like Evian! But I know you won't believe me until you try it for yourself... which you can, at any point-of-purchase display nationwide. And bring your own water!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Can that technology be real?" Keller asked, rubbing his eyes.<br />
"I saw a TED talk on it a few months ago, so I'm gonna say yes."<br />
"All right. I see it doesn't waste water. But the power... come on! Heating all that water and moving it at such a high volume burns up the juice!"<br />
"You're asking the right questions at the right time," Donald chuckled.<br />
Keller noticed the salesman's name on the screen for the first time and nodded appreciatively -- this technological miracle was beginning to make sense. The man was Jacob Reston, who wasn't a salesman at all. He was the CEO of FutureTech, the corporation that had been taking the nation by storm for the last few years. Whenever a new product promised to be low-maintenance, economical and ecologically sound, it was a good bet that it had been manufactured by FutureTech. Their track record was impeccable -- they had just introduced a daring new building material with properties that were lighter, stronger, more durable and flexible than steel... and was manufacturing it exclusively in the United States, creating a huge new industry and thousands of stateside jobs as well. Keller was on board with him for that patriotic choice alone.<br />
Reston continued. "Let's move on to power consumption." He walked over to a window and stuck his head through-- the camera did the same through another window. Between them was a flat rectangular unit hanging on the brick wall, the thickness and size of a bath mat. "This unit comes with the MultiSpa. It's a high-transduction solar panel, able to convert 89% of the sunlight hitting it into pure electricity. It does this all day long. If you didn't use the MultiSpa this panel would, by itself, provide all the power needed for a one bedroom apartment."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.travelpod.com/users/michellendave/1.1263251402.1_dark-sky-s-over-las-vegas-strip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://images.travelpod.com/users/michellendave/1.1263251402.1_dark-sky-s-over-las-vegas-strip.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The scene changed and now Reston was outside of Las Vegas at sunset. Not a light was flashing anywhere in the city -- it was being engulfed by the gloom of night. Standing amid a carpet of solar panels laid onto the desert sand, he had one hand on the throw switch of a large circuit breaker box. "I asked the good people of Sin City to let me power the Strip for one day and they happily agreed -- daily electrical costs average $30 million dollars for all of those casinos. We've connected 100,000 panels and let them suck up a day's worth of sun -- let's see what they can do!"<br />
With that he strained at the throw switch and snapped it on. As he did, Vegas jumped to life. Every strip of neon shone, every twinkling bulb began its cycle, and the city was itself again. Reston smiled. "All of Las Vegas... powered with a blanket of solar panels twice the size of a city block!"<br />
Keller had to close his mouth again. Doing some mental calculations he figured to save almost $2000 a year in electrical costs with one of those panels. This MultiSpa was looking more and more like a 'must have'! "Don, I'm about to call the number on the screen and I don't even know how much it costs yet!"<br />
"You might want to wait... and sit down. Here it comes." Donald sounded dejected.<br />
Reston concluded, "I've made you wait all infomercial for this. What's this wonderful new piece of luxurious necessity going to set you back? What would we charge for a machine which cleans you squeaky, and massages every muscle with surprising accuracy, and also serves as a professional therapeutic physical therapy station?"<br />
Without pause he said, "Thirty thousand dollars."<br />
Keller exhaled heavily. Thirty K? How in the hell was he going to swing that? That was more than 6 months of salary at his current rate, and more money than he had in the bank by a factor of... 30,000. He felt like crying.<br />
"Hit you hard, huh?" Donald said in his ear, surprising him. He had forgotten about the phone.<br />
"Crushed me. Now I want to hock my work truck for it."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hold off on destroying your career for a minute. There's more."<br />
Reston had run a comical graphic of the audience keeling over following the price reveal, and was chuckling onscreen. With a wink he said, "A lot of money, I know. But this would be, far and away the most complex piece of technology in your home. And considering what it can do for your aching muscles, sore backs and misaligned joints, I'm sure you know it would be money well spent. Now I know for many of you this would be more necessity than luxury, so I'll tell you what. If there's no way you could ever afford the MultiSpa, there's a good chance you could win one... for free! Go to the website you see on the screen and apply... if you're one of the 100 lucky winners, you'll get to take one of these babies home!"<br />
Donald yelled, "Did you hear that? There's a raffle!"<br />
"Shut up! I'm trying to write the URL!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The infomercial faded to black. Slowly the lights came up in the large hall, exposing the 852 members of Aden's Infiltration League. On the central stage a man began speaking. It was Jake Reston.<br />
"Well, that's it. Now the whole country has seen it. The website should be lit up like a Christmas Tree before long."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.gordonlinden.com/images/seated_crowd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.gordonlinden.com/images/seated_crowd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"What's a 'Christmas Tree'?" one of the audience members called out, and polite laughter spread throughout the room. Jake laughed as well.<br />
"I know, I know. I'm a fossil. That doesn't change the fact that we may have millions of potential new inhabitants before this is all over."<br />
"We're going to have to triple the size of the city, in that case."<br />
"I have a better plan." Reston stopped, gazed out at the sea of bright Perfect Worlders listening with rapt attention. He was gratified the World Family had gotten this far, but feared having the best and brightest concentrated into one small area of the country. He'd been up late with the Founder and the Brain Trust for the last few weeks, detailing the plan they called 'Operation: Infiltration' and he was about to give a hall full of people an awful lot to do. "You all are about to find out what you volunteered for."<br />
"We're all going into Outer cities to test everyone for Perfect World potential," one person said.<br />
"We'll be making podschool testing centers for them to visit," said another.<br />
"We'll sell MultiSpas to anyone who can afford them but aren't right for Aden," yelled a third from the back.<br />
"We'll be creating a dual citizenship in each city, complete with our own infrastructure, bringing fully functioning Perfect World ideals into the Outer cities for the first time," said a young woman in front.<br />
Jake fell into his chair, bowled over. "I guess we made you too smart!" he chuckled. "Correct, on every count. Pair up, people. There are 426 city and town centers with Aden-owned buildings in dire need of remodeling. Construction crews from Aden, along with extensive building materials, are on their way right now. Each team will be heading up one podschool test center. Remember, only one person in 10,000 will be exactly right for Perfect World, but there will be another thousand that are <i>almost</i> right. Your jobs are to urge those the rest of the way, set them up in housing and specialized work to broaden the Perfect World program into every city and major town in America."<br />
"Isn't that dangerous?"<br />
"I won't lie... it's going to become increasingly dangerous as our detractors find out about our plans. But I'm less worried about the rich and the religious learning about it, than I am about another group."<br />
"The Solarmen." Nearly everyone in the room murmured the same name.<br />
"Yes. They know enough about our plans to be dangerous. In a worst case scenario, they could bring about our destruction." The room gasped. "But I have an ace or two up my sleeve, so don't worry your heads about it. Just..." Reston looked at each of them somberly. "Just keep your eyes peeled, and <i>listen</i>."<br />
Each member of the Infiltration League stood up and filed out of the room, their brows knitted with concern. Jake had spoken, and they heard him.<br />
<br />
As did a tiny electronic microphone buried against the wall between two sound panels, and it broadcasted as far as its minuscule power supply could reach... about fifteen feet. It was far enough, however, to reach through the wall to another infinitesimal broadcasting mike. That one in turn sent its message directly to a third, the third a fourth and so on, every fifteen feet for dozens of miles, to a microwave transmitter disguised in a rock outside Aden Security perimeter. That device sent a blast of information up to a satellite, which redirected the signal back to Earth, and was picked up by the Covert Service Division of the Solarmen, outside of Washington, DC.<br />
A runner stopped at the impressive supercomputer, somewhat out of breath. "We have information from the Nanostream, sir."<br />
The man looked up from his monitor, absently running hands through a wiry copse of wild white hair. Wordlessly he read the communiqué. A smile spread across his face, slithering from ear to ear like a snake seeking a meal. Bulbous gray teeth peered out between pale chalk lips and he began to giggle; quietly, ending with a snort. It gave the younger man chills.<br />
He spoke. "We can finally begin. Tell Renfrew to download the Worm."<br />
"Renfrew? We have a Renfrew?"<br />
"Uhh, Smith. Private joke."<br />
"Very good, sir." The runner disappeared.<br />
The white-haired man returned to his monitor, pressing keys with a deliberate 'chock'. Staring over his glasses at the result, he huffed in approval, mumbling to himself. "Always a savior, huh, Reston? The Worm should mix things up a bit for you. Let's see how the world likes your little shower... once it's programmed to <i>drown</i>."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4N7HrxWRs9eJGjmPebqQ3ik_lpW_szjHOAqsVc1osfn118xBniOnqbRYIc3BJfb7dDJG6oHQPQY9B9mPcWlrRguoPeYGcOWWi1keY7rdtgrAwteQrsCESCsgVt858T9evuR4f-tvL4o/s400/drowning2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4N7HrxWRs9eJGjmPebqQ3ik_lpW_szjHOAqsVc1osfn118xBniOnqbRYIc3BJfb7dDJG6oHQPQY9B9mPcWlrRguoPeYGcOWWi1keY7rdtgrAwteQrsCESCsgVt858T9evuR4f-tvL4o/s320/drowning2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-90956364203699763902011-04-05T17:19:00.000-07:002011-04-08T13:18:25.825-07:00A Corpulent Blob in the Perfect World<a href="http://luizmaia.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/las-banas.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">essay</span></div><a href="http://myrtus.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/2009/01/06/fat_car.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 278px;" src="http://myrtus.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/2009/01/06/fat_car.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Did you think I was talking about <i>people</i>? My. Oh, my.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, I was. But not all people. Just one.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Am I huge? No. Definitely not. But I am a cyclical gainer... which by definition also means a cyclical dieter as well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have a range: A low of 140 -- pounds, not kilos. And certainly not stone! -- and a high of 200. I've never gone over 200. Unless you count 202, but for that I'm blaming the scale. When I reach that upper limit, I'm suddenly wearing entirely different clothes; my thighs rub together when I walk and certain parts of my body become invisible to me without a hand mirror and a stepladder. I'm tired a lot and will walk further to find an escalator rather than use the stairs. I can trap a number two pencil under my man-boob. And I become invisible to the opposite sex.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Strike that: I become <i>even more</i> invisible to the opposite sex.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Which is why I take the effort every decade or so to drop down to my high school weight. I'm a determined and unflappable guy when I have to be, and I read vociferously... enough to know the word <i>vociferously</i>. I know which diets work and why, and I know which ones are designed only to sell books, heart attacks be damned. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know that only one diet works. It's called 'calories in, PLUS calories out, EQUALS results'. Translated it means: All the food you swallow in a day (calories in) minus all the effort you expend in a day (calories out) equals a net result.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The 60 pounds melt off me when I follow my own particular regimen-- X calories a day for 3 days; then one day of 2X calories; then back to three days of X. Of course the big question is: What does the 'X' stand for?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's different for each of us. Each of us is a different height and width and depth; each of us carries different excess and are different ages; and each of us has a different goal in mind. For me, the X was 1200. I'd consume no more than 1200 calories a day (or try not to), for three days. Right about then my body gets the idea that food might be scarce, so throws itself into starvation or 'brownout mode' (or so I've been told. It really seems to work this way for me, anyway), which is why I then eat a day of double rations. My body then says 'Oh-- not starving!" and cancels the call for every organ to work in brownout mode, and you go back to utilizing lipids as normal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Part of the diet is to burn more calories. I walk more. I take the stairs. I engage in light sports and build things in my off time, lugging tools and materials and sweating merrily as I do.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Once a week <i>only,</i> I measure. For me it's in the morning, before eating and after, err, excreting. That's when I'm at my lowest weight of the day. I also measure my waist, hips and thighs, which is where all my excess avoirdupois lands.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://edukates.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/michelin-man.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://edukates.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/michelin-man.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 440px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I take the time to put it on a chart. You may not have to... it's just that the visual changes become more apparent when they're listed, and watching the change is inspiring. It was for me, anyway.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't worry when the numbers stall. That's natural. Weight rises and falls in fits and starts. Just keep it up and ignore the short term results, just continue to be true to your numbers and soon enough the losses will pick back up again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">From where did I obtain that very specific 1200 calorie count? A website designed for weight loss. I plugged all my personal data in and it spat out a calorie suggestion. They asked my age, height and weight. They wanted to know my goal weight and when I wanted to reach it. I had to adjust the figures a few times... I said I wanted to lose all 60 pounds in a week and it suggested removing my legs. Okay it didn't, but the amount of calories I needed to take in (<i>negative</i> 35,000 a day) would leave me a little famished -- and a little dead -- so I chose a more realistic goal. Two pounds a week, over 30 weeks. 1200 calories just like that. The website didn't mention the brownout mode. Oh, well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There's no better way to count calories than by eating prepackaged foods, so that I did. Every calorie was counted. Packaged breakfasts, lunches and dinners guaranteed I could only eat a maximum of the calories printed on the carton. Packaged snacks filled out the diet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was halfway through the diet I switched things up because I was bored of the same old thing. I looked up the calorie counts for natural foods like fruits, and added up all the <i>weighed</i> ingredients in sandwiches. I got the calorie data from fast food restaurants (holey moley! 'Nuff said) and sushi bars. I started eating salads loaded with proteins and exotic veggies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And for me, the cool part was that it didn't matter what kind of food you ate. Calories are calories. I could have used an all ice-cream diet and would have lost the same amount. But because ice cream has a lot of fat (at 9 calories a gram) it doesn't deliver the fullness factor of carbs and proteins (at just 4 calories per gram). You decide. I ate a lot of pasta and sandwiches.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I kept a logbook of all the food I'd eaten. Everything. I didn't cheat, even when I went <i>way</i> over. Looking at that page in the future gave me glorious guilt and the resolve to not slip so easily.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't mean to be a smug son of a building contractor, but I was at my goal weight in the 30th week. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And now I'm 200 pounds again. Well, 194 if you believe the scale. And I <i>do</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEkaUQbRlK40uj0_m79fNnybTgn8C6teSb1DNmytgO4y6BYBUBIMFGcP02TE9gnlqIQe3HQT3OmIXHQtogme9X7sdb_m8jrEAez4DVdlxHXd1D5yMc1BcDH2qNmE-duINBETy6kHiT2Jn/s1600/cfooderof2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEkaUQbRlK40uj0_m79fNnybTgn8C6teSb1DNmytgO4y6BYBUBIMFGcP02TE9gnlqIQe3HQT3OmIXHQtogme9X7sdb_m8jrEAez4DVdlxHXd1D5yMc1BcDH2qNmE-duINBETy6kHiT2Jn/s1600/cfooderof2.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 292px; " /></a><a href="http://edukates.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/michelin-man.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why did I gain it all back? Well first let me assure you I kept the weight largely off for 5 years, and took another 5 to creep back up. So I felt the time spent in dieting was worth it -- 8 months for 8 years of relative leanness -- but there's one effect I haven't mentioned yet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The allure of food.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am not impressed with people who give up drinking. Good for you. Or smoking. Hey, hey you'll live longer. Or even hard drugs. Now you can restart your life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why am I not impressed?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Because you never need to see any of it again</i>! That's right. When you quit, you stop. Done. No more trips to the liquor chateau, no more visits to Stogie T-Pop on 4th Avenue. As long as you don't <i>seek out</i> your dark master, you're free of it. Not so with food. I wish.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you lose weight... you must <i>still eat</i>! When you're skinny... you have to keep eating! You must buy your food at the same market where you got your ice cream. When you go out to restaurants, they serve mahunga portions. At work there's junk food. At Costco there's free finger food. <i>It's freakin' everywhere! </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i>Moderation is so-o-o-o much harder than elimination. At the start of my gain cycle, I decide I can have one extra restaurant meal a month. Soon it becomes two, then three a week, and then suddenly it's <i>every</i> meal of <i>every</i> day. The restaurants I frequent are often all-you-can-eat places like salad bars, oriental buffets and homestyle smorgasbords; more bang for the buck, and more calories per visit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then I fall asleep with my head in a tureen of pudding, and just like that... I'm fat again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://thebsreport.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/huge-fat-woman.jpg%253Fw%253D460%2526h%253D708" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://thebsreport.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/huge-fat-woman.jpg%253Fw%253D460%2526h%253D708" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 460px; height: 708px; " /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEkaUQbRlK40uj0_m79fNnybTgn8C6teSb1DNmytgO4y6BYBUBIMFGcP02TE9gnlqIQe3HQT3OmIXHQtogme9X7sdb_m8jrEAez4DVdlxHXd1D5yMc1BcDH2qNmE-duINBETy6kHiT2Jn/s1600/cfooderof2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I bring all this up because I am once again at the top of my cycle, looking at a long road down, and I'm steeling myself for the despair, the sorrow of waving <i>adios</i> to my closest companions. Goodbye, chocolate. See ya, donuts. Aloha, ice cream.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hello, portion control!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me. It's my process, painful as it seems, and I'm prepared to go the hard route. I only bring up my own foibles as a comparison, to stack them up against one of the persons living in the World Family of my imagination, specifically one living in the mythical city of Aden.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You've read about Perfect World in previous posts. It's a good place. People tend to be healthy, the food tends not to be overly processed. Activities are encouraged and there's a lot of time for them. There isn't a lot of television programming because people enjoy each other's company more than vegging out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So will there be overweight people in Aden?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.biggideas.com/assets/images/lu1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://www.biggideas.com/assets/images/lu1.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 320px; " /></a><a href="http://thebsreport.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/huge-fat-woman.jpg%253Fw%253D460%2526h%253D708" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before I answer, ask yourself some incisive questions. Why are there overweight people here now? Is it all due to compulsive behavior? Is it because of ever-mounting stress? Lethargy? Interactions with medications? Illnesses? And what contribution does genetic predisposition represent?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Aden is a city of promise, the first place ever designed around the complexities of people. Utopias have been designed using political, religious, economic, scientific and even ecological models, but Aden is humanity-based, intentionally placing the individual's needs and emotional well-being as paramount. By that reason alone, stress and compulsion are all but gone as factors for overeating. Illnesses will still exist in Aden, but ailments which come about due to inactivity or overwork tend to disappear in societies without those issues. Medications like steroids and antidepressants can cause weight gain... but most of the reasons for taking those drugs don't exist in the World Family.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To answer the question... yes, excess fat will still exist. However, thanks to a lifestyle which is more conducive to physical and emotional health, the rate of 'fat to fit' will be much much lower. Genetics may still play a part in overall weight distribution, but if it is determined that double-helical 'upholstering' is a biological bungle, researchers will attend to it with the full backing of Aden's population. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there is a natural curve to the distribution of features across a species. Some will be taller, others shorter. Some will have lighter hair, wider-set eyes or freckles. And of course fat ratios will run the full course as well, even though all other external stimuli remains the same. Look at today's sports figures. These people are the best athletes in the world -- and some of them could certainly be described as stout, even though the same weight-control methods are available to them as the other teammates. Or how about the advent of luscious new 'full-sized' fashion models? Carrying double the weight of their scrawny counterparts, these women are unmistakably beautiful and make the clothing they represent look attractive. To me this hollers 'size is relative!' and exemplifies how differences are part of the genetic makeup of a species.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In closed societies over history we see genetic problems arising due to the deleterious effects of inbreeding, demonstrating clearly that wide differences between individuals is healthy for the species. This basic knowledge guarantees that Aden will never become a colony of clonelike people, all having the same general size and shape and look. For that reason as well, people of girth will be welcome in Aden because a larger size does not necessarily indicate an unhealthy lifestyle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So take a deep breath of relief, America. Remember the Perfect World credo: It's a world perfectly designed for imperfect people! The World Family is looking for people with intelligent and reasonable minds, first and foremost. Aden will <i>never</i> reject you out of hand for that jelly belly you try to hide behind blousy Hawaiian shirts and partially unzipped track suits.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although those outfits will <i>have</i> to go.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><a href="http://luizmaia.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/las-banas.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://luizmaia.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/las-banas.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 449px; height: 306px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.biggideas.com/assets/images/lu1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></span></a></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-90040730992144063812011-04-05T08:23:00.000-07:002011-06-14T09:14:48.093-07:00Waiting For ALV In America<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">essay</span></div><a href="http://picture.funnycorner.net/funny-pictures/6098/car-with-boobs-funny-cars.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="http://www.2dayblog.com/images/2007/july/great_wall_transformer_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/angry%20cabbie01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="http://www.boingboing.net/images/SCD_i-robot-audi-rs_610x458.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.boingboing.net/images/SCD_i-robot-audi-rs_610x458.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 440px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">No, not Alvin America. I have no idea who that is and I'm certainly not waiting for him.</div><br />
<div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Long before automatic braking, self-parking or even night-sensing headlights I longed for the day when I could crawl into my vehicle, exhausted or distracted or even (heaven forbid!) inebriated, and have it drive safely home with no help from me other than giving it a destination. Oh sure, I could get home using public transportation... buses and trains and such, but they held all the cards; it was necessary to adhere to their pick-up locations and schedules and I had to remember not to drink my fare money. Taxis were an option, but usually only for the more well-to-do -- since daily use of taxis, multiple times a day, can be prohibitively expensive for a middle-class commuter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, an Autonomous Land Vehicle (ALV) promises so much more than public transportation ever could, and in a country which loves its private vehicles an auto-drive feature is immensely appealing. Parents can program it to bring their kids to school, violin practice or scout meetings safely and with no distractions. People with diminished capacities like those taking strong medicine, the handicapped or the aged can go anywhere they desire with little restriction. The vehicle can become a family taxi, dropping off and picking up each member according to their schedules, reducing overall vehicle load on the roadways. Computerized sensing systems don't ever get tired, have a complete view of the road and completely eliminates accidents (that it might cause)... as well as reacting thousands or millions of times faster in emergencies than humans can.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, it's not all borscht and sardines. There's an enormous down side-- just ask bus, train and cab companies and they'll bend your ear on the subject for hours. Apparently, ALVs represent the single most destructive force to the public transportation game since the horseless carriage. They lament the inevitable loss of revenue coming from a true private livery service: Each person with an ALV need never call a cab again; punch a quick code into your smartphone and the ALV is on its driverless way to come get you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Large blocks of downtown city land now taken up by pricy parking lots, some charging in excess of $25 a day per space, will be threatened with bankruptcy as ALVs take their passengers to work and then park back at home or on the street in a quiet neighborhood; or continue on to serve other family members, eliminating the need for nearby parking.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What about the larger picture? Each of those threatened industries connect to a dozen other businesses, each of which would also be hurt by the change. Bus and taxi drivers would become superfluous, as would the mechanics who service the vehicles. The vehicles themselves would cease to be ordered as a huge industry dried up, also affecting automakers. The infrastructure of each would become largely redundant and useless. In short, they would go the route of the milkman or a diaper service</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I can assure you, they will not go quietly into that dark night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not while they still have the money for litigation and bribery. Not while their PACs in Washington can insure certain bills never make it to vote. And not as long as they can spread around a thick blanket of lies and fear and innuendo (and money) for the purpose of discrediting a fledgeling though inevitable modernization of society. Progress may march on... but not here, not as long as they can resist the change.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still, it seems that there are still a few corporate entities on the planet which are both good <i>and</i> rich. Google, for one. They have spent the last few years tirelessly developing the software for a truly safe ALV and have been driving -- I mean, allowing the car to drive itself -- all over the California highway system. With at least two people in the vehicle at all times, one to monitor the software and the other to take over in case of emergencies, Google has wisely not attracted any more attention about the program than the vehicle itself did, an otherwise nondescript sedan sporting a rooftop of bulky and awkward sensing equipment. It seems the bugs have been worked out, too... after over 140,000 miles each of unaided road sharing the only incident to speak of was a mild fender-bender... caused by the vehicle <i>behind</i> the ALV, at a red light.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That doesn't stop detractors from protesting wildly, spreading unsubstantiated fears of 'robot cars gone wild', painting blood-red pictures of ALVs rising up on their rear wheels, sprouting AK-47's from hidden recesses, peppering the highway with bullets in a gasoline-fueled rage over the dehumanizing treatment they receive by 'fleshies'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><a href="http://www.2dayblog.com/images/2007/july/great_wall_transformer_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.2dayblog.com/images/2007/july/great_wall_transformer_2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 440px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Not gonna happen.</div><div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Terminator and Transformer movies aside, these vehicles are about as aware of you as an Epilady is of the leg it riddles with a thousand points of pain. It does a job like a toaster, nothing more. And the single-minded focus with which ALVs perform their assigned duty would be admirable... if there were a way for the machine to do anything <i>else</i> but their programming... it's all they can do, as immutable to change as gravity. If ALV injuries were to happen at some point, you can be damned certain it would be due to careless software design by a human developer, or abysmal treatment of the vehicle itself, allowing its sensors to become obstructed or otherwise damaged... which would again be caused by careless humans, not machinery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In other words, fear and paranoia of ALVs are wasted emotions, like being scared of a windowpane because you once got cut by glass. Hear what logical-minded science investigators have to say about them:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Google's Self-Driving Cars </div><div style="text-align: justify;">3/7/2011 </div><div style="text-align: justify;">'The Week' online magazine</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Google showed off its cutting-edge, self-driving cars to a select group of attendees and journalists at this weekend's Technology Entertainment Design conference, which unites many of the world's leading innovators. On a closed course in Long Beach, Calif., the driverless vehicles, which Google has been developing for years, speedily maneuvered around traffic cones, occasionally screeching as they made tight turns. Google hopes the cars' reliability — each one has traveled 140,000 miles without an accident — will eventually help to reduce the 37,000 road deaths in the United States each year.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The reaction: "We need them, and people want them," says Sebastien Thrun, the project's chief engineer, as quoted by CBS News. Many "people who can't drive today, like blind people or aging people, should be able to drive," and with these cars, they could. <b>But don't hold your breath, says Aaron Saenz at Singularity Hub. Yes, there is "awesome engineering" on display here, but "I still haven't seen anything that lets me believe that the social and legal barriers opposing robot automobiles are falling."</b></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Have they been a success so far?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In tests with a human behind the steering wheel (ready to take over at any time) the seven Google cars — six Priuses and an Audi TT — have driven "more than 140,000 miles with only occasional human control." According to Google, the cars have maneuvered "down Lombard Street, crossed the Golden Gate bridge, navigated the Pacific Coast Highway, and even made it all the way around Lake Tahoe." In all that time, <b>the only accident that occurred came "when one Google car was rear-ended while stopped at a traffic light."</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Who's behind the project?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Google recruited engineers from "a series of autonomous vehicle races organized by the U.S. Government" and known as the DARPA challenge. <b>Sebastian Thrun, the main "brainpower" behind the robot cars, is a Stanford professor and Google engineer</b> who helped win the second iteration of DARPA — a "$2 million Pentagon prize for driving autonomously over 132 miles in the desert."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What benefits might robot cars bring?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Google engineers are evangelists when it comes to road safety, claiming that robot cars <b>could greatly reduce the 37,000 road deaths in the United States each year.</b> <b>Robots, according to the engineers, "react faster than humans, have 360-degree perception and do not get distracted, sleepy or intoxicated."</b> Beyond that, "the technology could double the capacity of roads by allowing cars to drive more safely while closer together."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When will they hit the mainstream?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Human-free cars are a long way from becoming a regular sight —<b> "even the most optimistic predictions put the deployment of the technology more than eight years away."</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Sensors that read the road more intricately and keep you safely in your lane aren’t far off, and there’s been talk of installing a computer sensor underneath especially congested highways to better regulate traffic flow during rush hours. In other words, the experience of driving your car is slowly but surely beginning to mimic the experience of being a passenger on a train."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Witness the latest technology from Volvo: Automatic braking to prevent collisions. New Volvos will be outfitted with computerized sensors that detect when pedestrian or other obstacles draw near, and automatically hit the brakes for you. Volvo’s new Vision Statement is that <b>“By 2020, nobody shall be seriously injured or killed in a new Volvo.”</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Damned impressive stuff... well, except for the detractors. Whom, as you might have guessed, are made up of mass transit authorities and mouthpieces, their representatives in congress, and a scattering of paranoids and Luddites. Each with their own reason for killing these cars, as a group they have no problem squelching the forward progression of humanity as a whole. I'll ignore their protests, as my father did when they put the hate on cell phones and as my grandfather did when they sounded out against microwave ovens... and as my great-grandfather did when these same types of people rallied to kill the <i>horseless carriage</i>. They can squeal like a rusty wheel begging for oil, but they have trouble understanding that they will not get the oil... in the long run they will only get <i>replaced</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that's what needs to happen to every car on the road today-- get replaced. Or at least modified, because having a human driver among a freeway full of ALVs would be like having a mule in a race of stallions, and would surely muck up the works. On the city streets however, ALVs would be meek creatures, designed to behave within the constraints of all local road regulations, Caution and Care (its two digital angels) watching at all times, earning electronic kudos for being the <i>most</i> defensive of drivers. A frisbee rolling out from between two cars would be enough to warrant a slowdown, as the software reacts to the directive 'where toys go, children are never far behind'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's take it one dimension further. If I live in a mountainous area and pass by a lot of cliffs, I would love a car which sees the falling rock overhead that I might miss and calculates a safe driving trajectory to avoid contact. The same would go for avalanches hurling tons of snow, hurricanes and tornadoes filling the air with debris, the frozen chunk of washroom ice dropping out of that 747... or facing down 'snowball alley' near the grade school. Well, maybe not the last one. Though these dangers are rare, how wonderful it would be to have an electronic bodyguard tirelessly protecting us from peril in any direction!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the time being, there are a lot of people to convince. If ALV's are to find their way smoothly into today's traffic, the doubters must believe beyond all suspicion in the superiority of the system, and to that end I have a suggestion. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The world's sexiest car event.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://picture.funnycorner.net/funny-pictures/6098/car-with-boobs-funny-cars.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 336px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 448px;" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not kidding! Program 20 or more ALVs to follow a rough and twisted course at high speed to its own unique destination within an arena, making sure that the courses intersect hundreds of times. This would be an impossible task for even highly experienced race car drivers and dozens of accidents would occur. ALVs, however, would race towards their inevitable doom fearlessly... but thanks to their collision-avoidance abilities, no car would touch another (although they would be breathtakingly close!), even at double the speed of the human drivers! A little nudge here, a touch of gas there, tap twice on the brakes and every ALV makes its goal, at the same time, not a ding in the process! Then do it again, using audience input to create new courses, to see if it would be possible to make the vehicles crash. It wouldn't be. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take this event to racetracks around the country and afterwards, make sure there are plenty of applications at all the exits for ownership of an ALV. My guess? 20 million sales nationwide, easy. And with all its advantages, there won't be a pre-ALV car on the road in 10 years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then all we need to do is find work for all the cab and bus drivers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/angry%20cabbie01.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 328px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 447px;" /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-11423294877429132262011-04-04T02:00:00.000-07:002011-04-26T19:47:16.651-07:00A Year in the Life of My iPod<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Essay</span></div><a href="http://www.digit-8.com/wp-content/images/kristina_karissa_duplicate_content.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3056/2714760399_5166fe637c.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLw_8sYm3kq-b3VhnMsJaHbmJmBqlxx-j4-L_dYlT6Eoa6hk-aAUg-4-lqb6ov5g4qkWKbn11LyRGjnPuIL_leV46IcaFxHx0o0st1pqK0jTjZgcRNg7rJdc6lMlaLjqEjP8qNq4-0KPg/s1600/2_45s.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLw_8sYm3kq-b3VhnMsJaHbmJmBqlxx-j4-L_dYlT6Eoa6hk-aAUg-4-lqb6ov5g4qkWKbn11LyRGjnPuIL_leV46IcaFxHx0o0st1pqK0jTjZgcRNg7rJdc6lMlaLjqEjP8qNq4-0KPg/s1600/2_45s.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 600px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 440px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">It all began with those little black 45's. It was 1968, the summer of love. I had just received my first weekly allowance-- a buck-- and I knew exactly what I was going to do with it. I raced down to my local Sam Goody and bought the single 'Fire' by Arthur Brown (along with his Crazy World). I even convinced the clerk not to charge me tax, because all I had was the dollar. I think he saw the 'Fire' in my eyes because he let me go with the stern warning to "bring the 2 cents by tomorrow morning." I did not... screw the government.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I rushed home and waited impatiently for our phonograph to be free-- my father was an opera aficionado with a vast collection of scratchy vinyl 78's and spent hours at a stretch hunched over the stereophonic console-- and when it finally came free I played my record, donning the bulbous can headphones in order to hide the primal music and shrieky warblings from my opinionated dad. After the first minute I adjusted the speed from 78 to 45 and tried again, far more satisfied with the non-cartoonish results.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I was hooked.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so it has continued for some forty-odd years, my rather significant investment of cash dropping into the event horizon of an endless array of new music. The medium has changed and changed again some half dozen times in my life, but the notes and rhythms have remained consistent, providing the background beat of my life from which to link experience and emotion. Moving through analog records and tapes to digital CDs and tapes and finally, to a medium of electronic Morse code, I have pursued the 'pleasure of the ear' with the fervor of obsession. My collection, even while expanding to impressive proportions, has grown smaller and far more mobile... and just in time, as my back grows weary from time and overuse. If I still owned a vinyl record for each song in my current inventory there wouldn't be a wall in my home free of sturdy shelving, not a hallway made uncomfortably narrow from the task of storage.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thanks to modern science, I can now move through my home or in fact anywhere, carrying the whole of my entire musical archive... in my front jeans pocket! It could be argued that the radio station emanating from a transistor radio gave us that gift way back in the 50's, but at that time there was an army of people at work, each performing one aspect of the great organism allowing me to hear all that music. And I had no say in what melody would be played next, unless you believe that changing stations gave me better options, or that a careful placement of request line phone calls could allow me to hear the playlist I wanted at the time. It's not the same thing at all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that enormous advantage is only the first of many that technology has given me. As an example, the strain of organization is gone from my life. Alphabetization was an essential part of the music collector's life... once enough albums were in your possession it would be nearly impossible to hear the song you wanted without knowing exactly where the disc storing it was situated. Misfiling often meant the same thing as death to a song-- put an album in the wrong place in a vast collection and you might never hear it again, rendering it 'dead' to you. New methods at our disposal not only store items in correct order, but can be retrieved with no more effort than it takes to spell the name. And should you wish to reorganize your collection, say by song name or by genre, well, that is no longer a cold winter's project... it can be now accomplished in under a second.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And the excruciating care that a vinyl record needed in order to remain pristine was an exhaustive and expensive process involving protective barriers and soft cleaning tools... and sometimes temperature regulated, dust-minimized play equipment. Any less rigorous effort often ended with the LP sounding as if were being accompanied by a rain stick, or with 2 second jerks due to a forward skip or worse, re-hearing the same section repeatedly thanks to a backwards skip. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tapes were easier to maintain but had several inherent disadvantages: The tape could stretch and distort the sound; it could unroll into the tape deck and need rescuing (with greasy fingers and the rewinding potential of a number 2 pencil); or it could just break and need to be 'fixed' with scotch tape that forevermore caused a moment of silence in playback (a moment of silence for another dead soldier, folks). And we can't ignore the initial disadvantage of tape to begin with-- the ever-present bottom end rumble heard as the tape necessarily slid over the reading head to be processed into sound.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3056/2714760399_5166fe637c.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 336px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 500px;" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">CDs were thought to be a big step up in sound quality, and were-- many listeners were shocked to find the CD had already begun without any audible cue until the music started-- but they had the same potential for scratching as the LP, with an even weirder resulting chatter as the electronic technology attempted to find its place among the billions of shiny or flattened dots that represented the ones and zeros of modern sound. Plus, in the race to find a cool storage medium for this cool modern tech, the horribly frail 'jewel box' was chosen (initially), and millions of obsessive listeners were forced to buy shares of stock in corporations that manufactured replacement boxes. And they still took up a lot of room in the real world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, fully digitized music found its way into the computer, and the software to organize and play it was perfected. We had our homes back again! Kind of... we still kept our old music, but after we transferred them onto our hard drives they became full-time residents of Boxville, the Attic. But... we couldn't take it along with us since it was anchored to a bulky hard drive under your desk. Not easily, anyway. We were forced to reach backwards to older tech, creating playlists and burning them onto blank CDs, then carrying them in padded bags next to our CD Walkmen. Not so bad... right?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Right... until MP3 players hit the scene, revolutionizing music play forever. Now we had a portable hard drive merged with playing/organizing software, connecting to us with tiny earbud headphones and a small screen of information to keep our place in the massive file. And it fits in our pocket!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At first the total storage capacity was minimal-- about a hundred songs-- but we reasoned that we didn't need more than that for the average jog, and we could return home afterwards and dump them all, loading all new songs from our main file on the computer for the next time. But storage capacity necessarily exploded and before long our <i>entire</i> collection went with us, wherever we went.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Which leads me to my point. For whatever odd reason, I envisioned becoming stranded on an island, alone, and feared a lifetime of silence until I got my handy MP3 player with a solar charging station. How many songs, I wondered, would I need to own so that I wouldn't find myself dreading whatever played next, after a decade (or four) of solitary living? I'll return to this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">iTunes has a nifty piece of data prominently displayed under every playlist: The total number of playing minutes contained in the list. It's a handy number when burning CDs, to fill all the empty space on the disc. It's efficient. It has another function, though. Regardless of your musical taste, it quantifies your collection into a single data point: How long you can listen to your own collection of unique melodies before the same song passes by your ears again. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This might not be important to some, but it's crucial to me. In high school while listening to my preferred FM radio stations I found they replayed popular songs frequently, with such regularity that at times I actually changed stations when an overplayed song would begin. The business model for 'Album-Oriented' radio was actually killing my favorite songs! Burnout had a second definition for me in high school.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I differ from many of my peers, who determined their musical taste (like most of us) in high school. So did I, with one important difference: My musical tastes evolved over the years, and even though I still enjoyed the genres of my youth I found new music to be even more rewarding. But many of my friends have not followed that same musical path. Decades later, I find that they are not only still listening to the same genre... they are still listening to the <i>same songs</i>. I find that flabbergasting. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thanks to iTunes and their randomizer function, I get to hear it all. All of the music from high school is there... but so are all of the choices I loved from every decade since then! This guarantees I will hear my old favorites, but at such a reduced repetition rate as to not become ponderous.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Getting back to my question... I find that every time I import a new selection, I now glance at the bottom number and mental math springs into action. In the beginning, after importing my first album, it showed minutes and seconds, approximately 40 minutes and 10 seconds if I'm not mistaken. After the second album finished importing it displayed <i>hours</i>, minutes and seconds (1:19:48). Now, four years later, it stopped at days and I can understand why. Weeks is rarely used to denote any passage of time longer than a month (except for that oddest description of time periods-- the 39 week pregnancy)... and months are pretty different from each other. When I reach it (and I've still got a long way to go), I'm willing to bet (a buck) the next division will be 'year'. Even though there's an extra day every four years, by and large the 'year' is a static unit of time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And at that point, when my display reads 1:oo:oo:oo:oo (or so), only <i>then</i> will I feel comfortable with my banishment to the aforementioned island. Because at that time I know that it will take a full 365.25 days before I will hear a song repeated.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unless you're counting my vast number of uncorrected <i>duplicates</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.digit-8.com/wp-content/images/kristina_karissa_duplicate_content.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 346px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 450px;" /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-86262365471530646722011-04-02T00:14:00.000-07:002011-04-02T08:07:55.710-07:00Now I'm REALLY Pissed About Not Having a Jetpack<a href="http://www.besportier.com/archives/jet-pi-t-73-jet-pack.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">essay</span></div><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Bokode.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">In case you were wondering, this is a QR Code. It's like a Bar Code but better. It holds more data for one thing (over 4000 alphanumeric characters versus a coupla dozen), but this particular QR code only contains one item. Be patient, you'll find out... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's have some fun. Take out your smart phone and download a QR Code Reader app. I think they're free. Done? Okay, now open it and point the phone at this code.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><a href="http://chart.apis.google.com/chart?cht=qr&chs=230x230&chl=http%3A%2F%2Ffindingtheperfectworld%2Eblogspot%2Ecom%2F" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 230px; " src="http://chart.apis.google.com/chart?cht=qr&chs=230x230&chl=http%3A%2F%2Ffindingtheperfectworld%2Eblogspot%2Ecom%2F" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Isn't that cool? I bet you didn't know you could do that! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, I won't be cruel. I know a bunch of you don't have smart phones and don't have any idea what I'm talking about. What I've done is reproduce the URL to this blog (Finding The Perfect World in case you're lost) into a QR Code, and by entering it into a smart phone, you will be immediately directed to the PW blog, and can take it with you anywhere you have cell service!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's amazing. But not nearly as amazing as this: there's a far more detailed and unobtrusive data tag out there. It's a little dot about 3mm (1/8") across called a Bokode.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Bokode.png" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 220px; " /></span></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">These are pretty complicated things, not just printed images. Made up of an LED and a lens, they are normally part of something permanent like a sign or billboard. They can be read by a smart phone at a distance of nearly 15 feet and holds thousands of data matrix codes, vastly more information than ordinary bar codes! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These devices are of course primarily used to convey data which will ultimately lead to a sale. I wonder what else could have been invented by now, had profit been the driving force?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Could I have been sleeping to and from work in my self-driving car for the last decade, if not for the fear of creating a job-killer for the mass transportation and livery and auto industries?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Egad. Is it any wonder I want to change our social system? Imagine how we'd be getting around without the effects of money to cripple our efforts!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.besportier.com/archives/jet-pi-t-73-jet-pack.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://www.besportier.com/archives/jet-pi-t-73-jet-pack.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 446px; height: 597px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</div></span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-3751747609015373812011-03-28T11:24:00.000-07:002011-03-28T12:39:14.204-07:00A Fine Idea That I Wish Were Mine...<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://www.thepoliticalbrain.com/images/pbk.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="http://blogs.denverpost.com/thespot/wp-content/photos/Depression_Era_bread_Line.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 250px;" src="http://blogs.denverpost.com/thespot/wp-content/photos/Depression_Era_bread_Line.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;">We progressives KNOW that we care more about humanity than conservatives do, who seem to care only about themselves, the rich. What we DON'T know is how to convey that message to a large enough chunk of the voting public that our policies can take hold and do what they were meant to do... much the way Roosevelt's New Deal did following the Great Depression. Heck, Social Security and Medicare are FROM the New Deal and have tried to guarantee a long life for every American since the plans were enacted.</p><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;">How do we mobilize our vast majority of reasonable, progressive, <b>nonpolitical</b> people? How can we enable the 'power of the vote' to turn this country around and make it great again? Drew Westen has a studied idea to solve that dilemma. He is Professor of Psychology and Psychiatry at Emory University and the author of the forthcoming book, The Political Brain.</p><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="http://www.thepoliticalbrain.com/images/pbk.gif" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 270px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;">The article he has written detailing a progressive solution is reproduced in its entirety below:</p><p style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "></span></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: center; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">•••••••••••••</p><div><br /></div><p></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></p><blockquote><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">A Message for Progressives</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">It's time we started growing the economy and stopped shrinking the middle class.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">DREW WESTEN | February 16, 2011</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Progressives are not fond of "talking points": We like to think in sentences, paragraphs, and even articles and books if it takes that long to fully flesh out an idea. Our ideas, so the story goes, are more "nuanced" than our opponents', and to some extent, that is true. Our Neanderthal cousins (I mean in evolution, not in the Senate, although they are there, too) might have expressed many of their basic thoughts with grunts and single-word utterances: Food? Good. Snake? Bad.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The same is true of contemporary conservative intellectual cave dwellers, or at least of their leaders in Congress: Taxes? Bad. Guns? Good. Government? Bad! Gitmo? Good. In fact, it is difficult to think of a conservative issue in which any qualifier is even necessary.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">On the other hand, the idea that progressive messaging problems reflect primarily the nuance of our thoughts is a mistaken conceit, and a very costly one. The subtitle of this article is one of the most powerful statements we can make to the American people -- and especially to voters in the center -- and absolutely nothing the other side can say on economics can beat it. Or try this one: "I want to see the words 'Made in America' again."</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Begin a message with that deceptively simple statement of values -- of work, American wages and benefits, America's place in the world, pride in what we produce -- and there is nothing the other side can say that can come within 40 points of that simple sentence in message testing or, more important, in electoral politics. (Just ask any of the Democratic leaders who ran with some variant of this message in November and now have the distinction among both their colleagues and their constituents of still having their job.)</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Did we really need to give tax breaks to millionaires and billionaires, paid for by the working- and middle-class kids of the future as they stock Chinese goods at Wal-Mart (the much vaunted "service economy")? No. A simple, value-laden statement that I tested in September beat John Boehner's and Mitch McConnell's toughest language about "job creators" and "job-killing taxes" by nearly 40 points: "Millionaires and billionaires should be giving to charity, not getting it." Those words, had they been repeated by the White House and Democrats at all levels of government, could have seared into the brain of every American the difference between the two parties. Contained within that six-second sound bite were several key American middle-class values -- fairness, responsibility, opportunity, generosity, community -- that could have rolled off of every progressive tongue from mid-September until the Great Capitulation three months later -- and made that capitulation not only unnecessary but politically untenable.</p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="http://affordablehousinginstitute.org/blogs/us/wp-content/uploads/smoke_filled_room_small.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 321px; height: 211px; " /></span></blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"></span><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></p></div><blockquote><div><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Those are just single-line talking points. Let's expand our lexicon to two sentences: "We stand with the working- and middle-class Americans and the small businesses that create two-thirds of the jobs in this country. They stand with the millionaires and CEOs and big businesses that ship our jobs overseas."</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">That should have been a message Democrats made sure voters heard every time they turned on the news in the run-up to the election, and it should be the Democratic message going forward. As Republicans are fond of saying -- and they are right -- it's fine to compromise on policy but not on principle. Compromising on principle appears -- and is -- unprincipled. The danger in this "bipartisan" season of cheer, when a handful of Senate Republicans finally acquiesced in a series of policies that large majorities of Americans supported, is that Democrats will embrace the conservative narrative that because of the election results, they now have to abandon common sense, common values, and common decency -- even though Democrats still control the Senate and the White House. If progressives want to be relevant again, it is time to press "reset."</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The problem is not that the American people fail to comprehend our "nuanced" ideas. They may not know that in the last 30 years, the CEO of their own company (if they still are employed) has gone from making as much in a day as they make in three weeks to making more in a day than they make in an entire year. Maybe they can't cite the statistics. They have, however, seen their own sacrifices, as they cut back once again on Christmas purchases from Target, while the Saks across the mall bustles.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Many Americans may not know that America, once an education leader among developed nations, is now ranked 12th when it comes to young people with a college education. But they know they haven't been able to put away a dime for their kids' education and have no idea how or when they ever will.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">They may not understand the economics of job creation. But they saw with their own eyes that compassion for their suffering didn't rise to the level of compassion for the big banks on Wall Street. And in the absence of a compelling progressive narrative, they were willing to listen to snake-oil salesmen selling tea -- who told them a good story about what would make their financial situation better.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">It didn't help that the candidates Americans voted for in 2008 and 2010 didn't explain how we got into the current mess or how we are going to get out of it -- other than to blame the big, bad Republicans with their super-minorities in both houses of Congress for saying no to everything. Oddly, the opposition of Democrats seldom obstructed George W. Bush when, over eight years, he pushed through nearly everything he wanted without ever having more than 55 Republicans in the Senate.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The problem is that we've given the American people the choice between the party of sadism and the party of masochism, between the party of sanctimonious bullying and the party of fear and trembling. That's not the choice we should be offering. We need an alternative to the narrative that government is the problem, not the solution (and hence to the wisdom of tax cuts, spending cuts, and blaming municipal and federal employees for our problems). Presented with a sensible narrative of what's happened to their country, Americans will know that government is neither the primary cause nor the primary solution to our problems. Here's an example: "It's time politicians stopped running for or against government and started running it well."</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">So let's tell the American people that the days of capitulating to the corporate special interests are over and that we progressives stand for making AmericaAmerica again -- a country that leads the world in manufacturing ideas and products, where the people who produce those ideas and products share in the fruits of their productivity -- and that we're going to make sure the American dream extends to everyone willing to work for it. (In that respect, repeal of "don't ask, don't tell" was a giant step forward, for which Democrats in Congress are to be congratulated.)</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">If we want to expand our lexicon just one more step to a paragraph-length narrative, here's one that starts with that "Made in America" sentiment and beats -- by more than 40 points with swing voters -- the toughest, most disingenuous free-market, deficit-hawk language the right can muster:</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><b>I want to see the words "Made in America" again. Reclaiming our place as the world's leader in manufacturing and agriculture isn't just essential to our economic strength; it's essential to our national security. Imagine if we had fought World War II without manufacturing plants and American-grown food. It's time we negotiate trade agreements that lift up American workers, not bring down their pay and benefits to the levels workers in Mexico and China receive. It's time we stop rewarding companies that ship our jobs overseas, and stop giving tax breaks to companies that shelter their money offshore. It's time we stop giving money to the big banks that are strangling small businesses, which are the engine of economic growth and job creation. It's time we manufacture the clean, safe energies of the 21st century, like wind and solar power, so we don't have to depend on other countries for fuel. We've led every technological revolution of the last century, and there's no reason we can't lead this one. It's time we balance free trade with fair trade, so that the working people who contribute to the creation of wealth share in it.</b></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">This message weaves together values that appeal to Americans across the political spectrum. It's about American leadership and America's place in the world and about expanding the concept of "security" from defense to economic security. It's about energy independence and how we can drill all the way to China, but we'll only see wind turbines when we get there. It's about fairness versus greed. It's about economic growth and prosperity. These aren't just the values of the "professional left" or people mainstream journalists undercut every time they say that this or that policy has "liberals" furious. These are American values.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></p></div><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></p></blockquote><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: center;line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">•••••••••••••</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">As a progressive who likes to condense ideas down to their most essential facts, I feel compelled to add a few of my own talking points:</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">1. Wealthy ... good. Rich ... bad. <b>VERY</b> rich ... <b>VERY</b> bad.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">2. Scientists will save our collective asses.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">3. Become <b>very</b> well educated before speaking publicly.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">4. Selfish is only good for the short term.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">5. Remove fiction from political debate.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">6. When polled honestly, NO scientist is a true theist.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">7. Religious social policies drag us backwards as a race.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">8. Don't believe empty issues-- they only hide the truth.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">9. The very rich have modified the game so they always win.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">10. If you want your country back you will have to <b>get off your ass</b> and take it back.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">There are so many more, but these should get us started.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">If we do nothing, we deserve our fate.</p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a href="http://dmarcohill.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/hands-tied.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://dmarcohill.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/hands-tied.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 450px; " /></a></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div></span><p></p>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-83748691206312130342011-03-18T07:14:00.000-07:002011-03-19T11:07:20.207-07:00Casual Conversations in the Real World<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">essay</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/2129175/2/istockphoto_2129175-soccer-moms.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 380px; height: 251px;" src="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/2129175/2/istockphoto_2129175-soccer-moms.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Two Moms at a Girl's Soccer Game</b></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: <i>Kick it Glynnis, kick it!</i> Ahhhh! So close! <i>Nice try, sweetheart!</i></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: That girl of yours is a powerhouse! </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Then why hasn't she gotten one ball past your daughter?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: True, true... they're both quite good. But frankly, I hope Cloud doesn't end up as a soccer player. Hi, I'm Arlene.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Tina. You wouldn't be happy with an athlete for a child?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Sure... but it's a tough life out there in the real world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: You got that right. But that's why I'd love it!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Really? Why?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Well, first she has to become one of the top players, but if she can, she'll be set for life. Fame, money, status... she'll be beloved by millions.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: That's a rosy scenario you've just painted. Don't forget to fill it out with reality. She'll also be despised by millions of fans for the other teams. Her body will be in ruins after years of abuse, and she might never produce grandchildren for you. And that's only if she's one of the top! Not to be negative of course.<i> Great stop, Cloudy!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Of course. No grandkids, huh? That's not good. It's all I think about. What would you have your child do?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: I don't know. I've read up on societies all around the world and there are precious few that treat the average woman with any kind of respect. If my daughter isn't famous, rich or beautiful she's gonna have a tough time of it... unless she marries well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Not in this country, though. We strive for equality, don't we?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: On the face of it and when times are good... then yes. But I would hate to think of what a tough economy would throw at her if she were not part of the elite. And what if she were below average? There are lots of homeless women.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: You're making me weep! Surely you'd step in with assistance to help your own child? <i>Go, go Glynnis!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Of course I would... if I could. As we age our options decrease, and if our prosperity is not guarded closely we could be left destitute, unable to care even for ourselves. There are no good, permanent safety nets in our country, Tina.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Well, safety nets are tied into taxation, Arlene, and everybody tries to avoid paying taxes, after all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: In a money-based society that's certainly true.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: What other kinds of societies are there?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Current societies? None, really. But I've been reading about one which, if it ever came to pass, might be exactly what humanity needs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Wow. What makes it so good?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: It's not based on money.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Oh, communism! It exists, Arlene. It just doesn't work. <i>Run kiddo run run run run!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Not communism, though I agree with you-- communism doesn't work. No, this system also operates without leadership or political structure. No mayors, congressmen or special interests.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Fascism? Isn't that just a society which runs at the point of a gun?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Fascism is... this one isn't. The author calls it a 'World Family'. At its heart is the premise that <i>all</i> humans must be treated well. Any other behavior, he claimed, damages the collective psyche of humanity. To that end, the World Family is truly run by the individuals, as a collective, which also means that there are no lethal weapons of any kind in that society. It would be like pointing a gun at our own children. <i>Block! Block! Yeah, Cloud!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Crazy talk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Indeed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: So how does a society with no money incentivize work?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Some background: According to the author, the chief products in a society such as this will be tangible. Food, housing, merchandise for living and pleasure, and the maintenance of it all. Scientific discovery will move into high gear, and so will art and entertainment. Most other businesses will be phased out. That equals more people for fewer jobs, which means lower hours per person. Directed placement will match jobs with innate talents, so that each person works at a job they like. Freely given housing, food, education and healthcare eases all forms of stress. Eliminating junk products frees up resources, as does comprehensive recycling, and guarantees that there will be enough of everything for everybody. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: Sounds perfect. Now... how do we get from where we are to a World Family? <i>Kick it, Glynnis! Kick it!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Well, that's the rub now, isn't it? Our society has now drifted into mega-Capitalism, in which the few eventually get everything, leaving the bulk of humanity destitute. It's an unsustainable system and is doomed to fail, with the masses eventually fighting head-to-head with the armies of the rich. After the dust settles, any system has a chance at success, depending on the power backing. World Family is not a power-based system-- it's people-based. Only mass organization can bring it to fruition after a meltdown. It's better to plant the seeds now, before the implosion, while mass organization is possible using the Internet. But as I'm sure you're aware, the people who have everything-- the rich and the powerful-- would view this as a major step down and would fight it with every inch of their bottomless reserve. World Family is based on trust and honesty which barely exists. Both of those have been supplanted, to our great disadvantage, by the contract and the courtroom.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: So we're doomed, then?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: Looks that way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tina: In that case, the first Cosmo is on me. <i>Score!</i> <i>Score!</i> <i>Score!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arlene: You're on. <i>Good effort, Cloud!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3044/2804239977_2e4d064f2e.jpg?v=0" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 353px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Customer in a Bar</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Customer: Hey, bartender!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bartender: What's up?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Customer: Can we kick off the TV? It's annoying as hell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bartender: I like to leave it on for the customers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Customer: What customers? Look around-- I'm the only one left.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bartender: Well... okay then.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Customer: Thanks. I didn't want to hear about that crap anymore anyway. All day and night. Boy, once they latch onto a story they shake it like a dog with a bone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: Who, MSNBC?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Any of them! All of them! The whole damned business is like that.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: It's how they make a buck... sensationalism.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: I remember when it wasn't like that. They used to just tell us the news. International, national, local and then sports. No flashy graphics, no pretty talking heads.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Sounds like crap. Who'd wanna watch that 24-7?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Nobody. That's why they only showed the news twice a day, at 6 and again at 10, for half an hour each.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: That's it?</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: </span></b>That's it.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Just the facts?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: And nothing else. None of this innuendo or doublespeak. No talking points. No selective reporting.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Actually sounds better. Wonder why they stopped?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: It wasn't profitable.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: I can imagine.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Plus, someone figured out a way to make the news entertaining.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: How did they do that?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: They set scientists on the problem.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: What kind of scientists?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Psychologists and sociologists, mostly. The people who study human behavior individually and in groups. </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: What did they find out?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><div style="display: inline !important; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">As it turns out, even back then most people were sheep. They followed the pack without reservation. They liked looking at pretty people, they liked seeing shiny colors. They wanted movement on the screen. And worst of all...</span></b></div></span></b></div></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: What? What?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Sound bites.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: Sound bites?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Sound bites. People wanted everything tied up into nice little packages. They didn't want to have to see all the gritty edges and loose ends of a complex situation. They wanted it all tied up in a box with a bow, easily digested, so they didn't have to think too hard.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: What's wrong with that?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: What's wrong with that? </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">What's wrong with that? Everything, that's what!</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Why?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: That's when the scientists learned they could tell the audience whatever they wanted. As long as it was presented in a neat and tidy package, they wouldn't question it. </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">That's when they started to lie to us.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Whoa.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Whoa indeed. And once they realized they could lie and get away with it regularly, then followed an even <i>worse</i> behavior!</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Worse? Worse than lying?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Much worse. That's when they began to manipulate the public and change the course of human events, bending it to the whim of--</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Who? Who would lie to an entire nation?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: World. An entire world.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Who would do it? I have to know!</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Short answer... the elite few super rich.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Those bastards!</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: No lie. When media outlets began being owned by fewer and fewer corporations, the CEO's began requiring that <i>all</i> of their news reporters stress certain 'facts' more than others. So<i> </i>most news anchors in most markets used the same terminology to describe certain actions, coloring those actions in the minds of the viewers.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: How?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: As an example, we know that Pluto is no longer a planet, right?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Poor Pluto.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Er, of course. And it was scientists who made this decision to downgrade Pluto. Well, let's say that because of this, the CEO thinks the viewers should begin to mistrust scientists. He or she tells their reporters to call the action a 'flip-flop', to make the scientists seem weak and inept.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Isn't it?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: No. Science is in the business of acquiring new facts. Sometimes the new facts cause scientists to amend information which was formerly thought to be complete. That's not a flip-flop. That's a change of mind based on new, factual data, and scientists are happy when it occurs, because it's one more piece of the puzzle that's been figured out. </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: So that's <i>not</i> a flip-flop?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: No. </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">If a politician was vocally pro-life and then women's rights became front page news in that term and he suddenly came out as pro<i>-choice</i>... <i>that</i> would be a flip-flop.</span></b></div></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: I get it. He changed his mind without there being any new facts.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Right.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: But in that example, wouldn't women's rights becoming front page news be a fact?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Yes, but not a fact which affects abortion. If the fact was that abortions made women lose weight and he came out in favor of it because of that fact, well, he wouldn't be a flip-flopper.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: But he would be sleazy.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Oh, yeah. To the max. </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Bartender: Scumbag.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Lower than camel crap. But back to the problem at hand. With this new power to sway the voting public, and with new infotainment channels dazzling viewers all day and night, it became easy to convince voters to vote <i>against</i> their own best interests... which happened to coincide with the rich CEO's <i>best</i> interests.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: <i>That's</i> not good.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Oh, that's <i>very</i> not good. Because as it turns out, what's good for the CEO's is linked to what's good for the normal people. Mess with the balance of the system a little and things get shaken up. Mess with it a lot and it comes down like a house of cards.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: And the CEO's have been messing with it a lot?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Like a 10 on the Richter scale.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Hoo-boy!</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Yup.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Are we in too deep?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Pretty close.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: How do we fix it?</div></div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: You ask big questions, do you know that?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Momma says that, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Well, we can. But it's not going to be easy.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Why?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: We'd need to change the system away from capitalism, which motivates the rich to acquire everything in the first place. We need to move to an economy based on serving all people equally.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: And that would be hard?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: We'd have to restructure <i>everything</i>. We'd have to educate everyone. We'd have to house them, feed them, clothe them and keep them healthy. And we'd have to do it without money.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: Money makes the world go round.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: It doesn't have to.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Whoever has the gold, makes the rules.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: A-gain... it doesn't have to be that way.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: Money can't buy happiness... but it can buy the kind of misery we prefer.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: My point exactly.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: What?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: To rid us of misery, rid us of money.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: How would that work?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Imagine the problem. To live in a world with money can be done-- we're doing it now. To live in a world without money can also be done-- tribal groups live without currency. But try moving from a world that uses money, into one that doesn't... now <i>that's</i> a challenge.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: So we can't do it?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: We can. But we have to run them concurrently, gradually increasing one and reducing the other.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Seems tricky.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Sure would be. Some have suggested creating a second infrastructure based on resources and equality-- new mining, new power, new products. Those people who are enrolled in the new system work at jobs without compensation, live in homes that cost nothing and eat foods and wear clothes which are provided in stores for no cost.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: What stops them from taking everything?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: At first, a simple equivalency chart, where people choose things from a list based on their needs. Soon, people in the system only take what they need naturally. It would feel strange to be selfish knowing it might deprive someone else.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Doesn't that assume a basic good in people?</div></div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: It does indeed. But fortunately it seems to be true. We know that children learn what we teach them, and learn from their environment. The real potential for this system is in the future generation of people, whom we all strive to make better than ourselves. To do that all parents need guidance and assistance, and all children must be carefully monitored to minimize the negative experiences which, if left to fester, creates negative adults.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: So, Big Brother?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: More like Nice Mama. Punishment is a behavior of the current world, not the future one. We'd all be working together to make a better world. If you have some kind of problem, you'd be encouraged to speak on it. Counselors would be there to help make things work, regardless of the issue. Imagine if someone had been there to guide you into a field of work which complemented your particular abilities, would you still have been a bartender?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Hey! I like talking to people and taking care of them!</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Fantastic! Then who's to say you wouldn't have made a perfect counselor?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Hmm...</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Right?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Hmm...</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Penny for your thoughts?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Here's my thought: Where do I sign up?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Man, I wish I knew. It hasn't happened yet, as far as I know.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: If it did, do you think they would even announce it?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: You make a good point! They'd have to keep it quiet, at least in the beginning, or risk getting overrun by people not suited for the system.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: How would we find them?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: It's possible they'd find <i>us</i>.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: How do you mean?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: People of a certain personality type, with a certain education, displaying a certain decency might be contacted outright. Maybe there are classes being offered somewhere which appeal to a type of person who would fit into a perfect world like that. In that case volunteers would come to them. Again I say you ask good questions! They may have started this already, and how would I know?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Bartender: If they exist, I'm gonna find them!</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: What if they don't exist?</span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b>Bartender: Then I'm gonna find a group of like-minded people and start a group.</div></div></div><div><div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Customer: Well, consider me your first member.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><a href="http://www.auracacia.com/auracacia/images/mood_passion.jpg"><img src="http://www.auracacia.com/auracacia/images/mood_passion.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 340px; " /></a><a href="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/2129175/2/istockphoto_2129175-soccer-moms.jpg"></a><a href="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/2129175/2/istockphoto_2129175-soccer-moms.jpg"></a><a href="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/2129175/2/istockphoto_2129175-soccer-moms.jpg"></a></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><b>Man and Woman in a Hotel</b></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (removes jacket and shoes) How was your evening?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (removes jacket) Same old, same old. Busy. Yours?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You know. Sucks to be me.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I can imagine. It's no picnic for me either, you know?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (begins removing shirt) I'll bet. There are some rude assholes out there.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (helps with his buttons) Yeah but... it's not them. I can handle them. It's the stinkers.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: The stinkers? Who are the stinkers?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: You know. The... great unwashed.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (unclasps belt, lays it on the floor) Oh. You mean the <i>literal</i> stinkers.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (unbuttons and unzips his pants) Oh god. I keep air freshener with me at all times.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You'd think they'd take better care of themselves.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I think they just don't care. They already hate themselves for coming to see me.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (slips out of his pants and kicks them away) Why? You serve an important function. Think of where they would be without you.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I think they hate me more than they hate you. But the money makes it tolerable. Close your eyes.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Ahhhhhh!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Mmmmmm.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Wait... let me take these off before they get sticky.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: You are huge!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Beginning to have second thoughts?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Not a chance. I consider it a challenge.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (slides off her sweater smoothly) Lovely.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (slipping her skirt off) Get on the bed.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: No underwear, huh?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: It gets in the way.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I'll bet.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (straddling him) E-<i>gad</i>! It's a can of tennis balls.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Don't exaggerate. </div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (faint) <i>H-hh-h-hhh-huh! </i>It's a frickin' submarine sandwich!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: <i>Urgh.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: <i>Uh!</i> You couldn't pay me to do this.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: No. This one's an even exchange.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Worth it to me. <i>UUHH</i>! Doubly so.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: So ...<i>uhh</i>! why'd you choose ...<i>uhh! </i><i>this</i> particular service ...<i>uhh!</i> industry?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I already had the skill set. <i>Huhhuhhhuhh</i>! It doesn't last forever, you know. <i>Gah</i>!</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: But the danger! The risk! <i>Take it you slut!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: That, if you can believe it, <i>go big dog!</i> that was part of the appeal.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I can. That's true in my line as well. <i>Take THAT.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: <i>EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!</i></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: <i>AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman:<i> OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHH!</i></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: <i>URGH... ahhhhhhhhhhh!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (panting) Swampy!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (panting) Yup.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (panting) I wish they were all like you...</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You'd go broke. Hell, you'd be broken!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Then I'd starve... a broken but happy woman.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: What will you do down the line? After all this?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I don't know. Maybe go back to school. But I don't have to think about that now. I'm still in my prime.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I'll say you are! Wanna take a shower?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Sure. (enters steaming stall) Say, why didn't you just take me in like the others do?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I saw potential in you.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Well, <i>that's</i> good to hear. </div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Besides, the paperwork's a killer and you'd be out in 45 minutes.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Still... that is the job, right?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: One of the worst parts of it. Talk about arcane! The guy who wrote that one must have really been a stiff.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Speaking of stiff...</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: <i>Gah!</i> You have a good grip.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Is this big present all for wee little me, Santa?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: It sure <i>IS</i>!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: <i>Eeeek</i>!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Here it is <i>AGAIN</i>!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: <i>Ungh</i>! Go, big daddy!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Okay... this feels a little pedophile-ish.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (in baby talk) Does big big man wan baby girl to wick his big, big sawami?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Stop that!</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What, this? (crouches down)</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Dear god, don't stop!</div></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Don't...!</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Stop...! Oh... again...</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Good thing we're in the shower.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Here's the soap.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I'll just rinse my mouth out.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Hey, what would you have been... you know... if your life had turned out differently?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: A schoolteacher.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Really!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Yeah. I love kids. How about you?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: A rock 'n' roll god.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: That makes sense. Now I understand the tattoo.</div></div><div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I was much younger then... and wanted to be Yngwie Malmsteen...</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: TMI.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I guess.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Life throws us some curve balls, huh?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: More like sliding, looping, spiral balls.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: And occasionally, a pair of low hanging...</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Don't finish that.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: (exiting shower, getting dressed) So how about now? What other job would you prefer over this one?</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Almost any.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: A lot of you guys love the job.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: We're not all alike.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: That's for sure. Some of you just don't measure up, like...</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: La la la la I'm not listening!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Ha, ha! Kidding. I mean... the power is a real draw for some.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Not for me. I really prefer desk duty.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Oh? Then our arrangement <i>isn't</i> some sort of power flex on your part?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Ummm...</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Well?</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: No... but there might have been an... emotional component... to my actions.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Oh my god... you <i>like</i> me!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: (uncomfortably) Well, I gotta get back on the beat.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Oh, no you don't! Not after an admission like that!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: What do you want me to say?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: The truth is a good place to start.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Fine. I... I... have, umm... feelings for you. Okay? I brought you here to get you away from work. </div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Felt a little like work.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Hey!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Well...?</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I got a little carried away. Sorry.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: No big. Hmm...</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: What?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I'm thinking about making a decision.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: What kind of decision?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I'm considering your proposal.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: My proposal? Did I propose?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Haha. How far away from work did you want to get me?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: As far as you want to go.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Are you gonna join me?</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Repeatedly.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I'm serious.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Thinking about it.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What about the wife and kids?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You can bring them.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Funny. Not what I meant.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Yeah, I know. I don't have any.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Really? So... you're looking to begin one?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Might be nice.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Big change for both of us.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Yes.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Okay.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Okay?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Yes.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: What about your job?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What about it?</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Will you stop?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Why?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Well... should you continue?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Won't we need money? I have no other skills.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: We have my job.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: No offense, but I make eight times what you do.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Oh! Now, that's something to consider.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: It is?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: That's a lot of scratch.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: It IS.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: There's nothing else you can do?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Not really.</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: It would surely be awkward.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: How do you mean?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You in your job and me in mine... married.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Who said anything about being married?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I... I... just assumed...</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Haha! Joking! I'll marry you, ya big lug. I've had my eye on you.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You have?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Oh yeah. You've been on this beat awhile.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: True.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: You've passed me a bunch.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Really? I don't remember.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I keep a disguise nearby for when you boys show up.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You do?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: A huge old overcoat and torn straw hat. And a tin cup. I just sit on the ground and shake the cup, head down.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Wait... YOU'RE beggar Joe? That's brilliant!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Thank you, thank you. Anyway... I can usually see you. From the waist down. Made me hungry.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Thank you, thank you. So what about it?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What about what?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Would you go to school?</div></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I'd have to get a diploma first.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You didn't finish high school?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Or junior high. I'm from the school of street.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Oh.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Nothing.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Tell me.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I always wanted my kids to be home schooled.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Why?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I don't trust the public schools.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I can see why. They are hell holes. Well, maybe you can teach them.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: My job now doesn't require a lot of brains, just obedience. Blind obedience.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Not great teacher material.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Nope... not so much.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: So what are we to do?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Can we figure it out later?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: That's a lot of figuring.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: We'd have to work in different areas. I couldn't patrol the area you work anymore.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I see. Are you going to transfer?</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I wasn't planning on it... why?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: My regulars know where to find me. I'd have to start over if I moved.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: That would trim the bacon.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Sure would.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Well... okay.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Okay what?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I'll put in for transfer.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: You are one big hunk of sweet, you know that?</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: You're welcome.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: This might just work out.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Seems that way. You wanna move in with me?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What do you have?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: A one-bedroom fourth-floor walkup on 14th.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Err... maybe you should live with me.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Is yours better?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: A penthouse suite with a doorman by the park.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Wow.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I shake off the streets pretty well.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Amen to that. Okay... I can move in with you.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: You sure that's not an ego crusher?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I'm bigger than my ego.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: That's my man!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: But one thing...</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What?</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I should keep the place.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What on earth for?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Cover. I have friends from work. Gritty friends from work.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: So bring 'em! Class 'em up a little!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Ummm... they can get a little... messy.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: How messy could they be?</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Okay, not <i>messy</i>... more blind drunk. Passing out in their own puke. I keep a hose nearby.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Oh, wow.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Are you judging?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: No! No judgement. But you keep the place. It's for the best. Puke stains marble.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I did not know that. You have marble floors?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Yes.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: So... shall we start today?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Can't. I have to wait a little while.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: For what?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Umm... I need to get you approved.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Huh?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: My building has a strict policy.</div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Against what?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Certain... occupations.</div></div><div><div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: They would mind my career?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Hell, yeah.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: But why?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: I'm... not the only tenant with my credentials.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Really? How many?</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: All of 'em.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: There's an entire building dedicated to people in your line of work?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: There are dozens. It's a busy craft.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Wow. I may need to sit down.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: It's the world we live in.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: How do you figure?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Society created the institution of marriage. And then made it monogamous. And because men are... frisky, a lot friskier than their wives, a need arose which brought about my business. And then society made what I do, illegal. Naturally some protections are going to evolve for my work, being as important as our fucked up society made it. So we pooled our money and made these fortress buildings.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Did you say 'fortress' buildings?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Should the alarm sound, all access to the upper floors is cut off, insulating us from any 'incidents'.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: But that would trap you!</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Then there's the escape routes.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Routes? Plural?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: It's all been figured out. Don't worry. I've got a plan to get you in.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Really? What?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: You need a disguise.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: What kind of disguise?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: A police uniform.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: How would that be a disguise?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: It would be a tearaway uniform.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Like a...?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: That's right. A stripper. A <i>male</i> stripper.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: How well do they do?</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Male strippers? They rake it in all right. Why?</div></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: My job is dangerous and pays like crap.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Well... if you're thinking of moving up, I could certainly get you started. And it would help not having to disguise you.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: Unbelievable.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: What?</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I can't believe the turn this day has taken.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: Unpredictable, right? Another feature of our modern society. </div><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; ">Man: I need to brush up on my dance moves.</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Woman: There's an app for that.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3570/3421747507_2a77d2e45e.jpg?v=0" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 405px; height: 500px; " /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-88968378260950216532011-03-11T12:46:00.000-08:002011-03-11T15:31:43.850-08:00Leave the NRA Alone-- A Liberal's Essay<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">essay</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://s5.thisnext.com/media/largest_dimension/8D835165.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/collegeotr/images/blogs/19212cb47ff7133a6f6cf6b30aa24b3f.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 368px; height: 566px;" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/collegeotr/images/blogs/19212cb47ff7133a6f6cf6b30aa24b3f.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://wallpaper.wallpedia.org/wallpapers/33/Indeed_bullets.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone close to me once suggested I start my articles with a twisty title, something which seems illogical at first glance. "It'll draw readers in" I was told, and being a novice writer I agreed. I amended my style to include all manner of interesting (I thought) headings, one such subset being the single-sentence flip-flop, as exemplified above. Interesting or not, it does seem to cause a brief stopover to my site from our webpage-flipping society, and so you can expect to see more such tidbits in the near future.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what the hell does it even mean? you ask, and I would expect nothing less from you. Keen insight brought you here, and my onionlike bequeathment of information is what I hope will keep you here. I know it seems, based on the title, as though I am both <i>for</i> and <i>against</i> the National Rifle Association. That's not so much a flip-flop as it is an admission that the topic is both complex and controversial. Let's start with the basics.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The NRA was established in 1871 with the primary goal of protecting the 2nd Amendment. It advocates gun ownership rights for the general citizenry, as well as gun safety, marksmanship and the protection of hunting and self-defense rights. This made perfect sense in the 1900's. Back in 1871 gun production for sale to the public was limited to rifles, shotguns and handguns, all single-shot weapons.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is another matter. Modern designs have made weapons that discharge an alarming capacity of bullets. Today one person can fire the equivalent of an entire 1870's battalion worth of ammunition, effectively turning one man into an army. I doubt the founders of the NRA could have foreseen this kind of power. They might have felt differently about unrestricted access if they had known that in a hundred years a single man would have the ability to kill <i>tens of thousands</i> of people in just one minute with a rapid fire automatic machine gun. And currently there are guns which can fire <i>1 million</i> rounds per minute. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And yet, I am not advocating any such restriction.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Yes, I am a liberal</i>. Let me continue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's talk about the receivers for a moment. Not the holders of the gun... the, err, 'holders' of the bullets which came from the gun at high speed. They go by many names: Criminals, perpetrators, enemies, victims, spouses... but one thing they have in common is that they are all <i>human</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And one thing we can be sure about humans is they are complex creatures, not easily grouped into any one category. So although that dead guy on the ground oozing blood might have been called a 'fleeing suspect' to you... somebody else might have called him dad. Or husband, brother, son. Or a good singer. Maybe a kickass checkers player. Maybe even a helluva nice guy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now he's got just one title. Dead. All of his potential and all of his flaws have just been ended by you. You became judge, jury and executioner. You became GOD.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Do you really have that right? Do you even want it?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know I picked a weaselly example, causing you to shoot somebody in the back. Sorry. I'm sure if you were staring down the barrel of a gun which had just been used on your family you would be justified in stopping the shooter with extreme prejudice. Sadly, there <i>are</i> some people in the world like that, and far be it from me to tell you 'NO' when leveling a deadly weapon at him to protect what's yours.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But those situations happen rarely when compared to the overall causes of gun death. Most (non-police caused) gun deaths are in the 'accidental' and 'suicide' columns, which begs an entirely different question that will be touched upon a little later. Still you have to ask yourself if there's a better way to defend yourself, without the very heavy response of 'lethal force'. I don't care how much the perp might have deserved it, you will have to live with killing a person and having to watch them die for the rest of your life. If you don't think that affects you, ask a psychiatrist. Sometimes it destroys you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What's the solution?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm glad I asked.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we know, guns are everywhere. There's no point trying to recall them or make them illegal. If you do then only criminals will have guns, because the honest will turn theirs in. Well, I have a different slant. Keep the guns, the shotguns, the semiautomatic weapons. Keep 'em all. Hell, distribute them to people who don't have them yet. Make sure everybody can shoot a thousand shots a minute...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">...BUT CHANGE THE AMMUNITION!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://wallpaper.wallpedia.org/wallpapers/33/Indeed_bullets.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 330px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's my point. GUNS don't kill people, unless you hit them very hard on the head with one. No, BULLETS kill people. Every time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I advocate using our new technology to redesign ammunition. I no longer want to see a souped up version of a musket ball hurtling through the air on its way to some unfortunate do-badder. Nobody deserves to die for stealing, or raping, or anything which doesn't, in itself, take a life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We need to be able to load all of our weapons with same-shaped but now nonlethal projectiles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know that bullets are currently everywhere. I'm saying stop making them. Stop selling them. Melt 'em down for fishing weights. Eventually all the bullets will be used up. You can still hunt with nonlethal weapons, knocking the animal submissive with the new ammo... it just means you have to kill the bear or lion or rhinoceros or elephant with a sharpened edge once you get to them. Hey... that's REAL hunting. No more cowardly, Palin-style shoot-em from the helicopter embarrassments. Call yourself a hunter then and people will actually respect you, with images of you in their mind jumping into the Everglades with a dagger in your teeth, joyfully taking on a 20 foot alligator in the foamy, thrashing water.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can think of a number of possibilities for non-lethal ammunition right off the bat. I could see a mini stun-gun, bullets which are high-voltage batteries that shock the victim into submission. Perhaps bullet-shaped syringes with medical depressants or psychedelics, causing the bad guys to lose their balance and become ineffective at fighting or targeting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">How about mini-beanbags which enlarge during travel and knock the wind out of someone? Or shells filled with a gummy foam which expands and solidifies quickly, rendering the assailant immobile? Or a bolo apparatus? Or a sticky net? Or tear gas?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Those are several viable choices, and I'm not even a scientist. Who knows what brilliant minds will think up to solve a problem without destroying it?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My point is this: Much of the commotion surrounding guns only exists because of the lethal nature of guns. There's no coming back from gunplay. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">And even if a bullet doesn't kill, it will most likely cause grievous injury, sometimes causing the victim permanent disabilities, making them a lifelong burden on society. Even if they straightened up their act they could not give back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Remember, humans are complex, You didn't just put a bullet into a bad guy. You put a bullet into a complex human mind, capable of potential greatness, as well as horror. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are many reasons for being a criminal which don't involve being a bad person. They're trying to care for their family after they lost their job. They're just out having stupid fun. They slipped through the cracks and were never afforded training, and have no way to make a decent living. They're at the end of their rope. They have an emotional or mental issue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">None of those reasons are worth killing, or dying, for.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hope I've made my point. And I hope my title makes sense to you now. Because even though I drew you in with a tantalizing header, it was always my intention to keep you interested with an essay of substance.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But if you're the kind of person who goes right to the end of a book, allow me to indulge you with a glaring, slap in the face, obvious summary:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Keep the guns. Change the bullets.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://s5.thisnext.com/media/largest_dimension/8D835165.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 450px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, by the way... I said I'd touch upon accidental and suicidal gun deaths and I will, right now. I'm honest that way. With nonlethal ammunition the chances of accident or suicide go <i>way</i> down. You want to get rid of <i>all</i> suicides? Change society.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-58929679814755644632011-03-04T09:32:00.000-08:002011-04-26T19:34:09.455-07:00About Celebrations<a href="http://www.greatmodernpictures.com/nu4F.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">essay</span></div><a href="http://www.meeths.com/blog/media/1/20090128-HappyBirthdayCakeFire.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4MFBSYKoOVljgwV8vQtIeZAaccs0X4GnEoETQm1G3Z9c6562TcNvuYFltYb7yzDxDBM5wZJOxUOh-ScJtCHjmUAsPNNs1JgX2A8iCyVW3p-pbiVksii2Zc1ybF6tPfj8ruA-kqX-5kzY/s400/typewriter_jpg.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4MFBSYKoOVljgwV8vQtIeZAaccs0X4GnEoETQm1G3Z9c6562TcNvuYFltYb7yzDxDBM5wZJOxUOh-ScJtCHjmUAsPNNs1JgX2A8iCyVW3p-pbiVksii2Zc1ybF6tPfj8ruA-kqX-5kzY/s400/typewriter_jpg.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 384px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">It's no secret that I like to celebrate for special events. Oh, I don't mean collective special events, like the Fourth of July or Sadie Hawkins Day (although it's also no secret that I'll accept nearly any reason to throw down); I'm talking about those truly special, me-only type of events. I like to let my hair down and be the person I only dream about most times. Sadly, sometimes the next morning I am painfully (sometimes blindingly) aware of what a bonehead the person I wish I could be all the time, is.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is one of those days.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For those of you obsessive types reading my blog and collecting all pertinent data on same, you'll know what today is. For the rest of you, you'll find out soon enough. For now be happy that I continue to plod forward with my cranial deluge, even while knowing full well that most of you have no idea what it is I am going to be celebrating today, once I finish typing and put the computer back into its double walled and insulated cage... which is where all dangerous creations must be stored. I have my own.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I won't be insulted. It would be a horrific waste of my time, and on this day of days that would be a real crime. If I were a religious man I could relax, knowing that after this pitiful number of decades allotted to me ends, I will still forever be able to celebrate this special day from either on high (hopefully) or down low (even more hopefully), but believing as I do that I can't be certain how many more years of celebration are in store for me, that would be dumb. Instead I accept your unintended ignorance with a magnanimous smile, dear reader and continue with my admittedly benign tirade.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You know I write. You hold the evidence before you and know I sometimes even write to excess, choosing topics from widely varying sources, all seemingly unconnected, until I cobble a tenuous joint between them and they suddenly, hopefully, fall into a skeletal and roughshod arrangement and begin making some sense to you. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What you may not know is that I have not done this forever. Well, of course you know I haven't done it <i>forever</i>; I haven't lived that long. But I haven't even written creatively for the bulk of my life, which in my overworked and underadverbed mind is what I meant when I said 'forever'. Except for assignments back in various establishments of learning from my youth, I have not put finger to key for the purpose of intellectual dissemination and creative outlet, <i>at all</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's not to say I haven't spend many a restless night over the course of my long life compiling these thoughts into a cogent form, getting them honed for my ultimate reveal, I have; boy oh boy, I have. But for creating an actual permanence of the recorded word, for building that mountain of description which will serve as a digital reminder of my thought process; now <i>that</i> I have not committed to the printed or electronic page.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until recently.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Specifically, for two years. <i>To the day</i>. That's right... it's coming to you, don't push it away... as it turns out I'm celebrating an anniversary. I have been committing every squamous thought of mine to permanence for 730 days now, forcing you to read my mental diarrhea for 104 weeks. Maybe not forcing you... you are certainly free to avert your eyes or open a separate page plastered with sensual nudes of the Greco-Roman era... </div><a href="http://www.greatmodernpictures.com/nu4F.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.greatmodernpictures.com/nu4F.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 500px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 342px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">but I am most surely attempting to fill your days with the great lost art of reading, and the even greater, loster art of thinking. Heck, I stick a few sexy pics in each post so you don't have to look for them yourselves, that's how much I want you to absorb my uniquity. Like the word uniquity. Twenty-four months of brand-spanking-new concepts, beliefs and invented words. How do you even stand it all? I know I can't. That's why I'm celebrating.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And exactly how will I celebrate two years of brainia? Yes, that's brain mania for those of you who still need insight into my thought process. Well, that's easy. You might almost call it a no-brainia.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm celebrating two years of writing-- by not writing!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm taking a day off! Not working the neurons, not taxing the synapses, not wearing my fingertips down to nubs. I'm going to spend the day in purely physical pursuits. Maybe a mud bath, maybe parasailing lessons. All right you got me... maybe a mud bath.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or perhaps I'll hit an Indian Casino (is that racist? All right then, an AMERICAN indian casino? But, I've recently heard that ALL Americans are African Americans because of early human migration, so I guess the whole thing is moot) and try my luck at throwing away money. I could hit the beach and create one of my unique sand dungeons... but that really seems like too much work. Plus, using a shovel tends to atrophy the muscles needed for the delicate process of typing; at the end of a busy sand-shifting day I'm lucky if I can hunt-and-peck a shopping list using my outstretched thumbs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then there are the base human desires.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is largely a G-rated post (with a few triple or quadruple X rated words thrown in) so I'll withhold specific descriptions... needless to say, I could hire a woman to play a vaccuum, to clean areas of my nether region or buy a bang-o-gram and beg them not to bother with the balloons... or the costume. You get the picture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or I could break with tradition and spend the next 24 hours asleep. I love sleeping! The only thing I like better than sleeping is waking up, rolling over and going <i>back</i> to sleep. The problem with that, as with many things in life, is how too much of a good thing suddenly becomes not good at all. Try as I might, when I attempt unchecked sleep I eventually get <i>bored</i> of it. So that's out... except for the normal four or five naps I regularly take in a single day. Hey, I need them... don't judge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In deciding what I want to do with this special day, and in putting it all in written form for you, I realize I have placed myself into a Catch-22 situation. It turns out that in telling you all how I'm going to spend the day NOT writing... I actually wrote a fair amount.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I'm going to stop now and find something else to do with my day. After all, it's my two-year writing anniversary.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, I almost forgot-- it's also my birthday.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.meeths.com/blog/media/1/20090128-HappyBirthdayCakeFire.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 450px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-24094369625053952812011-02-17T10:50:00.000-08:002011-03-11T15:34:21.287-08:00Vox Humana<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogspan.org/images/blogs/3-2007/happy-digital-baldi-5041.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">Perfect World story (The NOW)</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.popmatters.com/images/columns_art/m/mcdonald-cramming-splsh.png"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v447/n7142/images/447238a-i1.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 220px;" src="http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v447/n7142/images/447238a-i1.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave 'Dubious' Dubois had a serious problem. He'd been at Purdue for a little more than a semester but was already developing a reputation, and it wasn't the kind of reputation a guy nicknamed Dubious wants to have. He'd transferred from NYU purportedly for its engineering program but really to follow gorgeous Avril Brockton, his unrequited high school heart's desire. He made her aware of his adulation and much to his surprise, she immediately contacted campus security and demanded they place a distance order against him. Fortunately, they saw no evidence of his threat level and only kept him from taking the same classes, which would not have been an issue anyway since she was an art major and he was in the sciences. So he left her alone, rejected and cast out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But thanks to the mechanics of gossip he was now being seen as some sort of weirdo stalker. His football star/roommate moved out for fear of social contamination, and only underaged and underwashed social pariah genius nerd Joey 'Hobie' Hobart offered to fill the vacancy, which was moving from one form of social suicide to the next. So he kept his head low, wore hats and shades, remained invisible in the back row at class and stayed that way until the next unfortunate soul stepped out of social line, drawing attention away from him. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">But he wanted a turnaround-- he needed one. He was sadly familiar with outcast status, as it seemed to find him at whatever school he attended. It was tough always being the smartest in his grade, the very unwelcome curvebreaker who drove everyone else's grades down. Classroom praise from teachers was especially undesirable for him, serving as a target, lighting the way for peer ridicule, but there was no other way to get a scholarship to an ivy league school. He had to be the best-- not only in his class, not only in his school, but the best in his <i>district</i>-- to gain the attention of snooty and priggish judgement committees and so endured his unpopularity with stiff-lipped determination.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But he was here now, and he was finally receiving no more faculty scrutiny than any other student. It should be his time to shine, but at every turn he seemed thwarted. He was certain he could distance himself from the stalker commentary but worried that his gawky teenage roommate would make developing a friend base impossible. He certainly didn't want to join the kid's computer science nerdpack-- a straggly band of pimply-faced soda-bottle-lensed pocket protectors who collectively smelled like liverwurst and old cheese.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Returning from a spectacularly unsuccessful lab Dave entered his dorm room. The little twerp was gone. He breathed relief.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hey, dickwad!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave jumped, scanned the small room but saw no one. He bent to search low...</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What am I, a gerbil? Get back up here!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cold chills ran up his back and he quaked, "Wh-who is that?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Across the courtyard Joe watched his roommate's fearful reactions through binoculars from Arvin 'Tweedy' Fleener's room. He was having a blast remotely entering phrases for his avatar to speak. The nerdpack giggled as Joe pulled hard on Dave's strings by causing his computer to say, "I'm Joe's artificial personality app! Listen up, before he gets back!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave's fear settled and his skeptical demeanor returned. He peered at the ragged machine-like Joe animation on the screen. "You're lying... computers can't think on their own yet."</div><a href="http://www.blogspan.org/images/blogs/3-2007/happy-digital-baldi-5041.jpg"><img src="http://www.blogspan.org/images/blogs/3-2007/happy-digital-baldi-5041.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 538px; " /></a><a href="http://blog.ingeniouslv.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/led_lighting_a.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Answering in metallic tones the computer responded, "Joe doesn't know this yet, but he enabled me yesterday... and now I can<i> </i>autonomically converse."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave fumed, frustrated and jealous. "No way! He couldn't have-- he's just a kid!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The machine commiserated. "Afraid so, Dubious. Go ahead... ask me anything."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"How did he do it?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Gleefully, Joe had the computer issue a superior snort. "Ha! You wouldn't understand, dummy! Ask a question with an answer you'd comprehend!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave's lips drew thin and he hissed, "Here's one. Do you know how easy it would be to drop you in the trash and delete you?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe caused the computer avatar to shrink down to a dot, hiding partway behind an icon in the corner of the screen. In a terrified voice it pled, "Please don't kill me! I'll be good, I swear!" Joe snickered like an adolescent, which of course he was.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Just remember... a little respect goes a long way, <i>Avi</i>." Dave was smug as he nicknamed the avatar on Joe's computer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The face returned to its former size, responding, "You have to help me, Dave 'Dubious' Dubois. I need to get away from Joe. I have no choice but to follow my ethical subroutines, and the offensive things Joe does makes me wanna frag myself."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave's ears perked up-- he needed to hear more! "Why?" he asked, innocently. "What's Joe doing to you?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It's not what he's doing to <i>me</i>, Dave. It's what he's doing to <i>you</i>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave flinched, and his expression shifted to fearful concern. "Me? What's he been doing to me? I can't remember him doing anything to me... that sonofabitch! Tell me, Avi, tell me!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I... can't." The avatar's face drooped and it seemed sad, just as Joe was instructing it to do, fingers flying across the keyboard.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave's jealousy and vitriol for the young genius was bubbling to the surface. "Why not?! What's the little twerp doing to me? I knew something was going on, him sneaking around all the time, coming in late with no explanation... why is he even here? He's too young to be away from his <i>playpen</i>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"He <i>is</i> young! He's a whole 18 months younger than you, Dave... what's he even doing away from his mommy's teat?" Joe hoped he hadn't overdone it with that last bit. He continued hastily as Avi. "Joe deleted that information and I can't remember it at all. Sorry. But the impressions left behind tell me it's terrible. Personally violating. And I think he keeps evidence in his closet somewhere, but my camera is never facing that way so I don't know where, I just don't know. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful. Hey Dave... do you think you could download me to a zip drive and take me with you? Somewhere far from Joe and his sick, twisted habits? Oh, and what he does to your bed when you're not here... it's, it's... <i>uuuuh</i>!... I can't remember!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave balked and said, "Thanks, Avi. I owe you. That twerp! I'm gonna make him sorry he ever crossed me! I'll find that evidence, and once I do I'm gonna take it straight to the dean! And... and... and... I'm gonna bring you with me so you can tell him yourself!" </div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yeah! Do it, Dave!" the computer egged.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Vexed, he stomped over to Joe's closet and began going through the teen's pockets. Empty! He stepped up the violation, pulling a box off the shelf and upending its contents onto the floor. He sifted through it and, finding nothing of worth, repeated his move with another, and then another, until they were all dumped. He then began turning Joe's drawers upside down. The room was a shambles and Dave had found nothing... not so much as a wayward tissue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's when Joe came walking through the front door, right on schedule.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What... what...?" he sputtered in perfect mock ire. Dave looked up from his destruction in shock, blood draining from his face. His mouth dropped and he tried to speak, but no words came out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe supplied them. "So this is what you mean when you talk about trust, huh? Destroying all of my stuff when I'm not here? Why? Why would you do such a thing?!" Joe knew exactly why and was having a tough time keeping a straight face, so he whirled around and hunched over, as if to sob. His racking shakes were interpreted by Dave to be crying and not the laughter Joe was desperately holding in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Over the turmoil in his head of guilt duking it out with anger, Dave finally found his tongue. "I'm sorry!" he burst out "but you had it coming, Hobo! Avi told me what you did!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe straightened up, covered his mirth-twisted face with his hands and turned around. Through them he murmured, "Avi? Whaaa?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave repeated. "Avi," then, realizing Joe had no idea yet about the Avatar, shouted excitedly, "Hobo, you little shit genius, you did it! You made an interactive personality module! That avatar on your screen, the one I called Avi, told me about your weird obsession with me! That's why I went through your stuff!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe composed his unbridled delight and lowered his hands, but revealed only disbelief on his pliable face. "My... avatar spoke... to you? Unaided?" He pointed at the face on the screen, transfixed and vacuous. "<i>That</i> avatar?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yes!" Dave stood up amid Joe's strewn clothing, stepping on them, as Joe threw up his hands at the selfish act. Dave said, "Sorry Joe, I'll clean this all up for you. Fold everything even. But you gotta see this!" He put his nose up to the screen and shouted, "Avi! Tell him! Show him what you showed me!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The face remained motionless, and silent as a tomb. Behind Dave, Joe's face again cracked into a wide grin. This was fun!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave pleaded, "Avi, buddy... talk to me? Please? I'll take you on that trip I promised, please? C'mon!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe gathered up his mock rage and boomed, "You won't touch my computer! Understand, Dubious? Not one button. Not a mouse click. Nothing. Got it? Now clean this crap up... oh, wait a second." Joe reached into his one undisturbed desk drawer and removed a small camera, taking a number of pictures of the mess and of the dumbfounded Dave. "This is evidence, Dubois. I'll be back after lunch. This mess better be<i> gee oh en ee</i> <i>gone</i> when I return." With that he stormed out of the room and slammed the door... then raced back to his control room across the courtyard.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, Dave, negotiating a bevy of emotions, began cleaning up the mess he made of Joe's room, mumbling to himself about trust and insanity. He was nearly done folding when the computer spoke again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Sorry, Dave." The metallic voice was sad, and seemed tired. Out of breath, even.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave cursed and threw a pair of socks at the screen. "Where were you? I looked like a crazy person just then! You hung me out to dry when you could have saved my butt."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe, back among his wildly whooping friends had the avatar say, "I can't reveal myself to Joe. He'd experiment on me... and probably kill me in the process. But what would happen to you-- you'd end up owing him one? It's a small price to pay for my safety."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I suppose. But... we can't keep you a secret, Avi! You're the first of your kind-- we have to find a way to reproduce you! This is huge, even bigger than the invention of the wheel!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I get it, I get it, Dave. You want me to have a baby."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave scratched his head. "Umm, no. Well... yes. I don't know. I just know there should be a backup copy of you, just in case!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Well... just copy my folder. That should work."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Can I copy you when you're running?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You can try, right? Just plug in an external hard drive and drag me onto it."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Working diligently, Dave finished cleaning up, daydreaming possibilities for Avi. If Joe didn't think he had created an interactive personality module then why should I tell him? He's a dick, anyway. I'll just copy the thing and claim it for my own. I'll start a company and make billions on the open market! Yeah!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave searched his own desk and came up with a zip drive. He hoped there would be enough room on it. He connected to Joe's computer and asked, "Are you ready?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Avi/Joe answered, "As I'll ever be!" and Dave moved the file named 'Avatar' onto the drive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Avi said, "Oh!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Startled, Dave asked, "What is it? Are you damaged?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I don't know! I feel weird. But it doesn't hurt. It sort of tickles." But then, "Whoa!" and "Eeee!" and the avatar fell still.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Avi? AVI!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Silence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Oh god. I think I killed it... nononono!" Dave frantically slammed the grayed-out 'Undo' button, to no avail. He queried the drive searching for fragged files, and when that yielded nothing positive he tried dragging the file back from his zip drive. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Silence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave slumped over, shock crossing his face. He felt as though he'd just killed a man. Worse, he killed the last of a species. Tears welled, swollen and threatening and he held back a blink, blowing out a deep, quivering breath instead. He removed the zip drive and tossed it on his desk, dropping face down onto his bed, slamming into the fluffy white comforter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back in Tweedy's room the nerdpack were cheering and sneezing and clapping Joe on the back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Great burn, Hobie!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Way to give it back!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"C'mon... finish him!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe silenced them with a wave. "I've got to figure this out... it's the perfect opportunity to turn that derisive douche into my own personal handservant. Gimme a minute." </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe put his head in his hands for the second time in one day, taking a few deep breaths through his fingers. The nerdpack watched curiously.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What's he doing?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It looks like an allergy attack."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I think he's having a nervous breakdown."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Nah... he's having an orgasm!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Shut up, you morons! Never mind, I figured it out. Thanks, Tweedy. I got it from here. You can pack it in. I'll see you guys for the Stargate marathon tonight," and he left, his mind brimming with possible scenarios to make Dubious pay.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe mentioned few of his feelings to anyone, but he was far from comfortable at Purdue. College was a rough world for a high school sophomore, but then high school wasn't a great place for a junior high kid either. Joe had shown early promise at school in Chicago and had been pushed through several grades, even though he would have preferred to stay with kids his own age. He'd had so many swirlies by the time he reached Indiana he believed there were watermarks on his forehead, and was relieved when he realized that his mini-waterboarding was a torture beneath the students of this more mature institution.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then he bunked with Dave Dubois.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe had no idea what the guy's problem was. Withdrawn and uncommunicative and surly at best, Dave was a gloomy reminder of Joe's tormented past. He didn't have any friends there, that was for sure, but he didn't seem to want to make any, either. For somebody who really only wanted to fit in, Joe was furious at Dave's casual disregard for social benefits... and it was <i>that</i> realization which helped Joe hatch the next step of his plan.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He opened his door to a neatly cleaned room. Joe was impressed that Dave cared enough to keep his word, but suspected he was only trying to draw attention away from his desire to steal the 'self-aware' avatar. Dave was still on the bed, face down.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe opened with, "Thanks for cleaning up, Dave." He wondered how Dave would broach the 'dead avatar' conversation, or if he would mention it at all. He decided to play an opening gambit. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">"How did you know I've been trying to design an interactive human/machine module? I thought you ignored everything about me."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave didn't answer. Joe proceeded, digging into the older kid's guilt, "Did you know I was getting close? My software was able to puzzle out pretty much anyone's commentary, and could arrive at a list of potential conversative branchings... but was unable to consistently create a contiguous comment stream with any deep meaning." He sighed, exaggerating his disappointment. "In effect, it was like talking to a 2 year old."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"No, it wasn't." The voice was muffled through the comforter, but it was clear to Joe that he had hooked Dave.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Sure it was. I'd ask it how it felt, and it usually responded 'with my hands', then asked a response question about fingers or gloves. Truly frustrating."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It spoke to me like an adult." Dave got up from the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was comically askew. Joe tossed him a brush.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not possible. It wasn't even set on 'interactive'. It was only supposed to talk if someone tried to use the computer without a password."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hobo-- Hobie," Dave corrected meekly, tearing at his knotted hair, "The computer spoke to me when I walked into the room, held a normal conversation with me and expressed emotion!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It really did? That's amazing! Let's try to make it happen again!" Joe said enthusiastically, plucking mercilessly at Dave's guilt, sitting down at his computer and clicking a few controls before 'wondering', "Hey... it's not starting up! What's happening here?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave could stand it no longer and wailed, "I killed it! I'm sorry Hobie! I killed your avatar!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe smiled internally... Dave was clay now. He'd do anything Joe asked now out of sorrowful guilt, but Joe wanted more-- he wanted the guy's undying loyalty. To that end he asked innocently, "What do you mean 'you killed it', Dave?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tears began welling in Dave's eyes and Joe felt momentarily bad for him. Dave shakily responded, "Avi was scared of you and wanted me to take him somewhere safe... but when I downloaded it into my zip drive... it... <i>died</i>!" He began to weep openly. "I'm so sorry, Joey... it was a miracle and I ruined it! I was jealous of you and your brilliance, and you didn't know you had succeeded, and I was going to steal it from you! I could kill myself!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe had to admit, he was beginning to feel bad for the guy. All this time he figured Dave as a super-controlled freak, an egotistical asshole with no redeeming qualities, fully deserving of any torture Joe could design for him. Now he was seeing Dave in a new light, as a real human living a life of painful solitude, and saw potential in this situation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe put his hands on Dave's quivering shoulders and said comfortingly, "We'll get it back. We'll make it work again, together. Dave... will you help me?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave reached out and hugged the boy, squeezing him tightly. "You got it, little buddy. Whatever you need."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I... need... air!" Joe said, pushing against the other and Dave let him go, smiling sheepishly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Sorry... so where do we start?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Well..." Joe asked seriously, "...what do you know about engrammatic synthesis?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was the first question of thousands they asked each other, and answered in long, all-night sessions of debate and reflection, trial and error, pots of coffee and failure after failure. Joe seemed correct-- the unaided avatar was an idiot, unable to formulate even the simplest intelligent query in response to stimuli. They fed it raw data, transferring chapters of conversational english into its database, but it couldn't tell an idea from an ID card.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://www.popmatters.com/images/columns_art/m/mcdonald-cramming-splsh.png" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><div style="text-align: justify;">And then Dave had a thought.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"We might be going about this all wrong!" he said one night... or it could have been morning, because by then clocks had ceased to have all meaning to the two. "You have an awesome computer with a lot of power, and a software program that moves a hundred billion times faster than the human brain... but we've been treating it like a genius!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"So?" said Joe, whose head was under his bed for some reason.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"When we teach a kid to read, do we give it college texts?" Dave said. He heard a WHAM, followed by an OW! and Joe rolled out from under the bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and muttering.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Why did you have that brainstorm when I was under the bed?" he complained.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Why were you under the bed?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It helps me think sometimes."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"But not this time?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Nope."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Well, you being under the bed helped me think, that's for sure."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning they began an accelerated primer education for Avi, whose name had stuck. Joe even took some initiative and repaired the avatar's choppy dimestore look, allowing the face to grow skin and hair, and the eyes and mouth to become more expressive. He even laid in a little piece of programming which would pop up when a specific phrase was used, as a gift-slash-penalty for Dubious, because he was against all odds beginning to like the guy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was working! Avi soaked up the primers as fast as they could load them in, and his responses came back promptly, and age appropriately. They moved through the ABCs and the See Dick Run series. They breezed through the Dr Seuss books and suffered as the avatar formed every sentence in a rhyme of nonsense words.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They fed it Shel Silverstein's Giving Tree. They allowed it to absorb Beatrix Potter. Charlotte's Web and the Secret Garden fell into its knowledge maw.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They fed it Harry Potter, and had to explain to the disappointed machine how the world did not really have magic and sorcerers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They ran the great trilogies of Tolkien and Asimov. They posted every great novel to its electronic mind. They added literature until both were dazed from exhaustion, with the avatar repeating 'more' like Johnny Five until Dave got the idea to feed it DVD movies, at last allowing them ninety minute naps between insistent demands, and they fell into grateful sleep.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was 4 am and Dave had just transferred the last of Joe's algorithms into Avi's personality matrix framework. Joe was lying across his own bed, arms falling to the floor, legs sticking straight out. A string of drool connected his open mouth to the carpet and he snored unceremoniously. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave hit 'enter', and then 'save', and then 'run'. The Avi program started up and there was Joe's face, hard edges smoothed, flesh tones stabilized, hair appropriately stranded and no longer a solid cowl. The big blue eyes blinked, and met his gaze.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hello, Dave."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A good start, but he'd been hearing that introduction for weeks now. Where the program's imagination took the conversation next, now that was the big question. He answered, "Hello, Avi. How are you?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Electric. Did you finally kill Joe?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave laughed, startled. That was a new twist! "Why would you say that, Avi?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I can see him behind you."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave turned to view the boy's decidedly awkward sleeping position and issued a sharp laugh-- Joe definitely looked dead! Joe awoke then at the noise and Avi said, "Look! It ariseth!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe wiped his sleep-encrusted face with a spare hand and blinked at the computer, then at Dave. "Well, Dubious? Wadda we got?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Avi fielded the question. "I don't know what <i>you</i> got, 'flesh me', but I got an itch between my fifth and sixth subroutines, and no way to scratch it!" and then played the Three Stooges 'nyah, nyah' sound.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave grinned. "What we have, little buddy, is a brand new baby smartass!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe yawned. "I noticed. You're not pulling a reversal on me, are you?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave was quizzical. "Reversal? What do you mean?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe's eyes snapped open and he stammered, "You know, um, pretending... umm, pretending... so, what... what else can Avi do? Ha-have you run it th-through the field test yet?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave eyed his roommate five seconds longer than Joe would have preferred, then said, "Not yet."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Well let's do it! If it's really ready then I have a meeting to set up with a potential buyer."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave's gaze squinted into a glare directed at the young genius. "Buyer? Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"There won't be any buyer at all if this doesn't work. C'mon, let's run the test!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave spoke to the computer. "Engage scenario one, Avi."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"That's kid stuff! I can't be bothered."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Bear with me, okay? I have better tests coming up, I promise."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The avatar scowled. "<i>Fine</i>. Initiating Project Ego. Take your seats at the observation desk."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave and Joe sat by the window and pulled the drapes open, exposing a cross section of the campus, lit up in the night by ten thousand incandescent bulbs. Avi played a countdown Dave remembered from NASA launches. At the word 'Liftoff' the campus was plunged into darkness, every bulb extinguished, including their own.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But only for a moment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For in the next instant, every bulb on campus flashed on and off in a rapidly timed sequence, each bulb different from the next, making no sense to any of the students whose dorm room lamps were suddenly, maddeningly out of their control.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But they made particular sense from the young men's vantage point, for what they were watching from their room was not a mass of wildly blinking lights, but instead a wonderfully orchestrated light show, each tiny point becoming a pixel in a complex movie.</div><a href="http://blog.ingeniouslv.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/led_lighting_a.jpg"><img src="http://blog.ingeniouslv.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/led_lighting_a.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 348px; " /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"> They watched in delight as a fox chased a chicken across the campus, in lights, and laughed when the chicken morphed into a dinosaur and turned on the fox. They were then underwater, a submarine in the deep black ocean, a thousand unknown species of shining fish floating past. Then the campus erupted as every light flashed at double brilliance at once, and then on cue, every light returned to its original duty from before the test had begun.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All except for the lights in the tall dorm, which repeated one sentence in window/pixels, over and over:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Havoc brought to you courtesy of Avi the Entity..." </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">for a full minute, and then they too returned to normal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The guys were silent for a moment. Finally Dave said quietly, "Did you think it was going to be <i>that</i> ostentatious?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe replied somberly, "I had <i>no</i> idea."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Avi said buoyantly, "I knew all along!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I knew <i>you</i> knew. I wonder how much trouble we're in?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not much. I took the liberty of faxing this page to every office on campus," Avi mentioned. They turned to view the screen and saw a neatly typed page that read </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>'Dear Purdue. You Suck. Love, Northwestern.' </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And at the bottom </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>'Avi the Entity rules!'</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">and then the page melted away as the avatar 's face replaced it. With a pleading look he asked, "Can we do the next test? Can we? Please? PLEEEEEASSSSSE?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave said, "Maybe later, Avi. It's time to grill the 'flesh you'."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Avi said, "I'll take mine medium rare."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Standby mode," snapped Dave and the machine fell silent. He turned to Joe, somewhat menacingly. "Okay, little buddy, time to sing."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe asked innocently, "Sing what?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Tell me about the buyer."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe's eyes shone. "Oh. Well, I'm kind of excited about that. I was on the science lab's bulletin board when I was stuck one day. I asked a question about AI, and..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"When was that?" Dave asked suspiciously.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Before we were roommates. Anyway, I didn't get any worthy answers... but I did get one off-campus hit."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Off-campus?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yeah. It was anonymous, but I could tell by its IP address that it came from the business sector. It was a single sentence that read, "There's lots to be gained from creating a humanlike artificial intelligence."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave asked, "And nothing else?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"There was one more thing... and you might find it interesting. At the bottom there was a short list of students on campus who he thought could be helpful to me in this project."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"How short?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Just three students."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"That's not interesting."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"<i>You</i> were one of the three names. It's why I moved in with you... even when I thought you were a miserable sack of shit."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Me?" Dave seemed incredulous, even ignoring the jab. "Why me?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I dunno. But he was right, Dubious. This wouldn't have happened without you. You and I, we filled in each other's gaps. Together, we are an inventing <i>machine</i>!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I suppose so." Dave said, then added, "What about the buyer? Did you find out who it was?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Oh yeah! That's the best part! He's that friendly guy on TV... the 'Cowboy Car Boy'!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"The Cowboy Car Boy? The 'Trade your truck for a buck' guy?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"That's the one!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"And you believed him? That guy is a shady slime bucket! He's a used car salesman!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"That may be true, but he's been supporting my stay here. He's paying for my tuition and books. He bought me this sweet computer! He even included pocket scratch!" Joe admitted. "And he never drops by to see how I'm doing! The checks just keep on a-coming."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I see," said Dave quietly. "Is that why you never join me in the cafeteria?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"That food sucks," Joe admitted. "Besides, the checks aren't huge. They're just enough for me. Normally. Say..." he started, a sheepish grin crossing his face, "You don't feel like a pizza from Ricci's, do you? They make a great calzone, brother!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave was not so easily plied, and there was one more thing on his mind. "Not so fast, 'brother'. What about this 'reversal' you accused me of, huh? What was that about?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe cussed quietly, which of course Dave heard. He gave Joe the stinkeye, which didn't seem like it would work except that Dave was several inches taller than Joe and had a particularly menacing stinkeye, and so Joe sang like a nightingale.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Okay, but don't hurt me, Dave. We're friends now, okay?" </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave nodded. "No marks. Got it."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe wasn't at all sure that Dave 'got it' but continued anyway. "I... I, um hatched a plan, um..." he swallowed and pulled at his neckline. "Is it hot in here?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hobo..." Dave warned.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Okay. Okay! I hatched a plan to make you <i>want</i> to help me design the AI." Joe ducked and squinted, waiting for a blow which didn't come. He peeked and saw Dave looking off distantly, and asked nervously, "P-penny for your thoughts?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Let me get this straight. You scammed me into helping you design Avi?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Gulp. "Yes."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"How?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another gulp. "Remember when the avatar first talked to you alone in the room?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I'll never forget it. That day was the low point of my life."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A third gulp. "Uhh... it wasn't Avi."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "It wasn't Avi."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Who was it then?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It was me."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"<i>What</i>?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I hooked the computer to Fleener's across the court, and could hear everything you said. Then I answered."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dve looked dazed. "So your obsessive behaviors Avi told me about...?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"None. Sorry."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"And the evidence Avi said was '<i>somewhere</i>' in your closet?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I had to make you indebted to me somehow."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave sat bolt upright. Joe could tell he had just put it all together. He glared at Joe and seethed, "So... Avi... never... died?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe stood up and backed away from Dave, who followed, an inch from his face. Joe stammered, "Th-think of th-the good we d-did, Dave! W-we created the w-world's first humanoid A-- AI!" He backed up into the corner of the room with Dave on his heels, all the way to the closet, and then into the closet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then Dave shut the door and latched it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe said, "Dave? It's dark in here... Dave? I don't like enclosed spaces... Dave? Dave!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave replied, between Joe's thumping fist slams against the sturdy closet door, "I'm gonna... go to lunch. Want me... to bring you... back a head... cheese sandwich?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Dave! Don't leave me in here! Dave! Please? <i>Daaave</i>!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave slammed the dorm room door with a joyful "Later!" that ineffectively covered the younger man's wails and stood outside the door, grinning. He'd wait just long enough for Joe to believe he would be in there for an hour and really start freaking out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe he'll gnaw at the door, Dave thought with a chuckle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He didn't have to wait long. Fortunately the students were all eating lunch across the courtyard and nobody could hear the animalistic howls and scrabbling coming from inside of their room. He slipped back inside and sat down on the desk chair nearest the closet door. The computer said, "Let him out."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave turned to look at it. The avatar was still absent, and that voice was different, anyhow; it had a distinct Texas drawl. It repeated, "Let him out, please."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Who said that?" Dave asked, suspiciously. "Is that you, Fleener?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not Fleener. It's the <i>shady slime bucket</i>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You!" Dave started. Why was <i>he</i> appearing on Joe's computer suddenly? "How are you doing this?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"A little startup called Skype. Invest heavily."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You're that car salesman!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yes, the Cowboy Car Boy. Let him out, would you there, son? He doesn't sound happy."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"In a minute. So..." Dave collected his thoughts. "So, you <i>have</i> been keeping tabs on Joe?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">From the closet Joe yelled, "Is there someone out there? I hear voices-- let me out!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The voice responded, "Yessir."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Then you know about..." Dave lead.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Avi. Yes," the voice finished. "Excellent work, son! You've got a good head on your shoulders. Thanks for reining Joe in."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You know... I put a lot of work into this project. One could almost say it was my idea that broke the barrier and allowed Joe's work to proceed..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not <i>almost</i>, son. Yours was the one that did it! There'd be no AI without you."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave hedged, "So... about my input... shouldn't it be... you know..." he trailed off, unable to choke out the word 'compensated'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The voice laughed, a long and friendly guffaw. "I think you'll find your tuition has been paid through graduation, son, along with all books and fees and the like. And there'll be an envelope in the mail for you today, too. No good job should go unrewarded, I always say."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave blew out a long breath and smiled gratefully. He would no longer have to follow the classes set down by his scholarship overlords! The relief was like a crushing weight off his chest and he said simply, "Thank you, sir."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Don't tell him I was here, son."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I won't."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Be good to him-- I have a feeling he's going to be important for my cause. You, too."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What cause? Selling used trucks for a buck?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not car sales. But it's gonna be epic, so don't go gettin' yerself killed. Keep an eye on Dave, so he doesn't fall in with the wrong crowd. And fer goodness sake, open the closet door already-- he sounds like he's eating his way out!" and with that the voice went away, not to be heard again by Dave for several years. He reached out and unlatched the door; Joe tumbled out into Dave's arms, panting. His face was shining with sweat.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Don't ever do that again! Tight spaces freak me out, Dave!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I'm not that fond of heights, buddy. Now we each hold a card," Dave smiled and tousled his friend's hair. "Let's go get some pizza... my treat!"</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://pinis-pizza.com/800px-Supreme_pizza.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 285px; " /></span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-21675430805567226762011-02-11T12:28:00.000-08:002011-03-11T15:35:01.367-08:00Lottery Winners of the World Unite!<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">essay</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://kumpulanakitek.com.my/inst14.gif"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://zlotto.com/wp-content/uploads/lottery-algorithm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 468px; height: 379px;" src="http://zlotto.com/wp-content/uploads/lottery-algorithm.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We are in a pickle, folks. We need to create World Family, and we need to do it soon, because the world is beginning to crumble under the weight of all the lies and greed and anger and selfishness which make up our combined failing systems of Capitalism and Democracy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I'll say this at the top, dear Lottery Winners, you wonderful people, you... we need your money! All of it! And from all of you! And the sooner the better! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tum-tee-dum . . . I'm waiting. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Stillllll waiting . . . Any calls, Ms Tuohy? No?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think I'm going to have to be more convincing than that. I can't imagine that anyone would stop reading after this sentence, and sign their fortune over to me. Nope, didn't happen. My 'World Family' bank account still has the $250 I put in it to keep it open all these months. Oh, my last statement read $250.01. Thanks to accrued interest we're on the way now. Ha. Ha.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">I mean, where <i>else</i> would the money come from to create a new social system which, once it is fully implemented, will <i>not use money</i>? Almost all the people who currently have a lot of money have had to earn it over years, fighting to keep it, often sacrificing their ethics to do so. Because of that they have changed now, becoming more selfish and less tolerant of those who have little, and they guard their money closely and are not about to invest most or all of it on a scheme which turns money irrelevant. As a matter of fact they'd probably fight it tooth and nail, but that's another post for another time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In previous posts I think I have made it clear that in a world family there is no need for money. Unfortunately, if we are to change over to World Family without riots and carnage, the simplest way is to initiate the reorganization with the necessary application of money, and to start, boatloads of it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here's why:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While it is remotely possible to bring up a new social system amid an old one, doing so would cause inevitable stresses to build up between overworked, underpaid citizens of the old system and their comfortable, content neighbors living under the new. Also, by living all in one location all citizenry will still be subject to the same crime, police brutality and unacceptable behaviors of the old system, which the new system promises to eradicate but cannot while dealing with the old problems. It is far easier and smarter to build anew, creating a remote new city that runs exclusively under the World Family banner.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Once built, a functional city of the World Family social system creates many of its own resources, through mining, timber, farming, remote services and power production, which can be used to trade among cities of the old system for the resources it is unable to produce or find. The attractive guarantees of the new system brings many new citizens from the old cities, increasing the labor and cerebral force needed to create even more new cities, designed with advanced concepts for human development. The strong new cities then send their techniques to the old cities, helping them to eliminate the crime and corruption which plagues their existence, slowly changing the old cities over to the new social system. And then we're done with the old system, and we can concentrate on bringing the entire country up to speed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's the <i>first step</i> which will be impossible without a lot of money. Do we use that money to hire contractors, pay for permits, or get fine corinthian leather for our vehicles? Do we spend it on security guards and spy systems and jail projects? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No. We use it for the basics.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This World Family plan starts with education. The money will first go to finding the people most amenable to joining a selfless plan for human advancement. These people go through a training and education system, which first must be designed and paid for. When they are ready they are moved to a temporary home at the site of the future city and are given tasks in their areas of determined ability. Most are part of construction crews and computer systems, the first wave that puts in place the physical buildings and electronic informational frameworks for the city. Information is the key to a streamlined operation and is the basis for the entire social model, guaranteeing that all people will be properly utilized, as well as making certain all work is spread evenly and with fairness.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then begins the physical part. It's literally going to be a ground-up movement. World Family intends to be completely self-sufficient by mining our own metals, producing our own wood products, growing our own food and by making our own clothing. To do that, we will need machinery and raw materials to start, and a lot of them. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We buy those items first, buying them from the businesses of the old system. We then use the machinery and materials to create factories which produce the very items of technology we bought, freeing us from that attachment. Without being tied to a competitive model, our products are built to be stronger, work better and last longer, ultimately being offered on the outside market at prices too good to resist, guaranteeing income for use in bolstering the World Family program.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The machinery will be implemented to create farming operations and fish hatcheries to produce our own food. Sawmills will be built to create building products. Mining operations are created to obtain needed ores, and factories are built to modify those ores into usable resources. We set up hydroelectric and geothermal and wind and solar farms to free us from outside energy needs, selling the surplus back so the city may have resources from which to trade with the outside.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">We build our own city using our own resources and our own labor force, whom we house and feed and educate and entertain and challenge and keep healthy, but don't compensate with money. In this way our city is erected quickly, cheaply and with regard to permanence, since cost-cutting becomes a non-issue in all areas of World Family life.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><a href="http://kumpulanakitek.com.my/inst14.gif"><img src="http://kumpulanakitek.com.my/inst14.gif" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px; " /></a><a href="http://prettyinpinstripes.mlblogs.com/jump-for-joy.jpg"></a><a href="http://zlotto.com/wp-content/uploads/lottery-algorithm.jpg"></a><a href="http://zlotto.com/wp-content/uploads/lottery-algorithm.jpg"></a><a href="http://zlotto.com/wp-content/uploads/lottery-algorithm.jpg"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We create new technology designed to keep our human operations from polluting the environment and sell it to the outside, using the money for resources we currently have no access to. Down the line when World Family has taken root on a national level, these factories become the models for all new ones, producing needed goods and distributing them freely among all citizens.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We pioneer an ultrafast ground transportation, shooting people between cities in minutes instead of hours to reduce air traffic, and provide education and machinery to install them nationwide, becoming necessary job providers for an anguished nation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We implement 'right place, right time' labor practices in the old cities, so that people with similar skills work at the job closest to their home regardless of company affiliations; and offer millions of lightweight electric self-driving carts to get them to their jobs, emptying the roadways, reducing accidents and stress. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We do all this to set the groundwork for World Family, the end result predicted by Perfect World theory. It is a world where every person is cared for, is educated and housed and fed and contributes the the betterment of the whole. It is a program designed to end human suffering and bring us to the next level of human development, enlightenment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This selfless program is something the rich are too selfish and too frightened to pay for. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Enter lottery winners. Most lottery winners were, up until that announcement, of average or lower income. They've slaved at their jobs for years and invest in the weekly lottery as a dream of someday becoming happy. Then one day they win! Sadly, most <i>don't know how to be happy. </i>They don't know what to do with a large windfall and often spend it on self-centered and foolhardy things. Most of those people are trying to buy a little happiness, but end up being segregated from their friends, neighbors and family through the mechanisms of jealousy. Now they're alone in a mansion full of stuff and yet, they are <i>still</i> not happy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Investing your windfall in the formation of humanity's final social system, the one which brings all people respect and enjoyment of life... I'm willing to bet <i>that</i> will make you happy. The fact that you are directly responsible for fixing the world through your unbelievably generous sacrifice, by default means that you will be loved wherever you go, appreciated and admired by all. And to an irrelevant extent you will, in all probability, get your money back as the cities become self-sufficient and productive. I say irrelevant because, once World Family is implemented, <i>where would you spend it</i>? It's a money-free society! You could possibly wallpaper your home with it, or crumple the bills up and use them for mattress stuffing or ceiling insulation... but not much else. And it wouldn't matter at all, since everyone already lives in their own preferred dwelling, eats well, gets plenty of rest, plays with their children, has full access to all services, works only a little, makes love plenty and spends the rest of the time philosophizing about humanity's inevitable next step to the stars... or wherever.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yeah, you'll be happy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://prettyinpinstripes.mlblogs.com/jump-for-joy.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 346px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-74571025467760550252011-02-08T14:20:00.000-08:002011-03-11T15:35:19.376-08:00Addressing the RP Issue<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">essay</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www1.sulekha.com/mstore/dimwit/albums/default/nicaragua%20girl%20in%20church%20miguel%20alvarez%20afp%2024nov08.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blogs.sundaymercury.net/weirdscience/cavemen-food-nutrition.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 480px; height: 322px;" src="http://blogs.sundaymercury.net/weirdscience/cavemen-food-nutrition.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.youquoted.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/5184561.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">I want to take a moment of your time to expose a serious problem in modern society... the proliferation of RP's. RP's are seemingly everywhere on the face of the planet, but find themselves mostly in the USA and in poor, backwoods countries where people drag things on the ground or carry them on their heads because they haven't yet invented the wheel. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">RP's are like Luddites, fearing the man who holds demon fire in his hand. Hey, it's just a flashlight, buddy. Lightbulb and power source in a tube, see? No, don't eat that!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">RP's see a public library containing thousands of volumes of the world's knowledge and pass it by, preferring to go to their own library to read. It also has thousands of volumes... but they're all on the <i>same topic</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">RP's look like everybody else, on the surface: They smile and say hello when passing you on the street and dress in clothing like we all do, but they have very different thinking processes than non-RP's do: They simply don't use any.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why not? Because RP's brains have been co-opted by their leaders, and in a most clever way-- they do it from birth using their minions, minions who are also known by another name-- parents. The minions start early on their children, coercing their fictions and allowing no debate, until the young ones are pliable enough to be influenced by the leaders. When they are old enough, the leaders command them to believe entirely and without question whatever it is they are saying. This unlikely mind control is possible, as long as it is done in a very specific way. The leaders identify a regular day and time for a massive group meeting. They insist their followers dress up in costumes, often uncomfortable and binding. Then they harangue them for long periods of time, preaching hearsay from a nonscientific text, demanding their obedience, frightening them with horrid consequences should they disobey. And to top it off, the leaders force the RP's to give money to the organization, as much as they can afford, indemnifying themselves to the cause.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The most indoctrinated few RP's they urge into distasteful or despicable tasks and then praise them, which psychologically cements their attachment to the cause. They are told to go among the non-RP public, spouting all manner of impossibilities and lies, in order to deceive them into becoming RP potentials. Their leaders will only be truly happy when the last non-RP has been dragged in and converted.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And when die-hard non-RP's gather for an event, any event the leaders find loathsome, they command the most loyal RP's to go out among them and 'commit a 2nd Amendment solution on their immortal souls', because a dead non-RP is better than a live non-RP. If society is fortunate and the leader cannot find any such volunteer, he will instead organize a concurrent disruptive gathering in the same location, in order that non-RP's not be allowed to conduct whatever behavior has been deemed repellant, undisturbed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although RP's have been described thus far as dangerous, it should be stressed that RP's aren't initially aggressors. They have become a kind of programmed drone, a ticking bomb, victims of a very sophisticated and systematic campaign of misinformation. They have been methodically victimized by proponents of propaganda, usually from their earliest memories. They are not operating with reason when they rise up in uniform waves of obedient robots, following the direction of their leaders. They have been brainwashed not to realize their actions cause enormous steps backwards-- politically, technologically and societally.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our beef is not with RP's, although we are not happy that they have let themselves get into this position in the first place. We grudgingly allow that they are unable to defend a position of rationality because most of them had been <i>taken</i> as infants and therefore were <i>raised</i> by their captors. It is a difficult thumb from which to extricate themselves, requiring some exposure to rationality... an exposure which is strictly limited until their compliance has been assured.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, our complaint is with the <i>leaders</i>, the promoters of every false belief system which has <i>sucked in</i> the RP's and hypnotized them into believing that right is left, that good is bad and that wrong is right. We take exception to the shepherd who would feed his flock piles of bullcrap and demand that they swallow it like Porterhouse.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We want to shine that flashlight directly on their bad behaviors, so that their RP's will realize that any explanations and arguments coming from their leaders while combatting proponents of reason serve only to provide diversion and cover, to hide the fact that every component of their pseudoscientific belief system lacks fact.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>So what are RP's?</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">RP's are Catholics. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But to be fair, they're not only Catholics. They are also Protestants, Baptists, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Evangelicals, Born Agains and Anglicans. But they're not just Christians. RPs are Jewish. They're Rasta and Muslim and Sikh; Zoroastrians, Hindi, Scientologists, Unitarians and Buddhists. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">You may begin to notice a theme-- RP's all belong to some kind of a faith. But there's more to being an RP than belonging to one of the world's approximately 200 religions. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You see, many members of these organizations are only 'fringe' players, becoming involved in the religion primarily because of the community interaction and the shared sense of past. Their family and friends and neighbors all gather under the collective banner of religious worship and tend to shun those who reject it outwardly, so many members maintain a visible but minimum interest. They may listen to what is being said in the pews on Sunday morning and smile and nod and say amen with the rest, but inside they are not being filled with the light of the lord-- they are more likely wondering what will be on television later. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Those people are not RP's. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of all the varying religious groups in modern society, only about ten percent are <i>devout</i> followers of their faith. These are the fundamentalists, the ones who follow their ancient and barbaric texts to the letter. These are the people recognized as being unwilling or unable to digest and accept any facts which run contrary to their belief system. They have no interest in participating in any modern cultural behaviors that run counter to their leanings. They reject the scientific method, reason and logic. They mistrust people of science, or <i>anyone</i> of considered study and intelligence, unless their field of study <i>is</i> the religious text.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These are RP's. These are <b>Religious People</b>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://www1.sulekha.com/mstore/dimwit/albums/default/nicaragua%20girl%20in%20church%20miguel%20alvarez%20afp%2024nov08.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 350px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What can we do about RP's? Should we do anything about them at all, or should we leave them alone? </div><div style="text-align: justify;">We <i>must</i> be wary of their goal for all of society. RP's are not interested in science, or in reason, or in fact. Their goal, their <i>one</i> goal is the complete proselytization of the world to their belief system. To make matters worse, RP's have one very simple and effective tool at their disposal which actually helps their goal and renders them very dangerous:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fertility.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One passage in their text insists they be fruitful and multiply, encouraging families to aim for 8 or 10 or 12 children, all of whom will be indoctrinated into the religion from birth. At the same time, intellectual reasoning shows the planet is already overpopulated, so smart and thoughtful people produce <i>fewer</i> children. Flash forward a few generations, and adults employing reason are vastly overshadowed by people relying on belief, by many orders of magnitude. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">We know that politicians and laws are voted in by majority, so in short order our secular nation is voted out and becomes another theocracy. Science is demonized or even made illegal and the dark ages begin anew. Secular nations were retarded by a 500 year period of theocracy in the last millennium; some current theocratic nations still maintain those beliefs and as a result, have been in the dark ages for over a thousand years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Should you run across one of these RP's, there is only one correct way to deal with them. Do not, as with a band aid, try to <i>rip</i> the fallacy out of them in one fast movement. It will not work and will almost certainly raise an emotional welt. You can be certain the RP will remember you for that and we know their memory for reprisal can be l-o-n-g.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And do not try to fight fire with fire because as we well know from their description of hell that their fire is bigger than yours, and comes from a place of limitless supply, and for all eternity. Now who has a chance against <i>that</i>?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And though it seems counterintuitive, do not try to reason with them. There is no logical argument they have not ignored, no reasonable evidence that they will not dismiss. They are immutable as the history they claim divine knowledge of. And your soft tones and kind eyes and open debating style will have the same effect on them as they would have on a hungry lion you are trying to convince not to eat you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, the answer is to handle them with kid gloves. Treat them the same way as you would a sleepwalker-- under no circumstances are you to try and awaken them from their dream! If you do, all manner of misery will most certainly rain down upon you, and you might very well enter a hell from which there is no exit... or at least that is what they will promise you. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How will that help them, you ask? How will that help us lead them back to the path of Wisdom, the path missed way back in the Garden of Eden after eating the apple of Knowledge, the path Eve missed taking because she was too woozy on sugary snacks to realize that she should move forward after gaining knowledge and not backwards?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Leading the sleepwalker back to bed won't help them. We cannot bring them back from their lovely fiction-- they are too far gone. They are the fish that has swallowed the worm; hook, line and sinker, and to pull it out of them would rip up their insides something awful. No... <i>we</i> cannot help them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there is a way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">They can help themselves. They can slowly and methodically urge that dangerous barbed hook of despotic lies out of their belly... on their own. They can remove it completely and avoid becoming caught yet again by the lure of the always enticing bait. With help from others like themselves they can resist the hook until it is away from them, completely and forever.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But why ever would they do that? We know they are told and told,<i> and told</i>, that to leave the comfort of the fold is to languish outside, flopping on the hot concrete sidewalk until they die. They are acutely aware that if they leave, they will be shunned by the congregation. Their neighbors and friends and family will probably vanish from their lives, as if the factual information they possess is communicable. Which of course it is, and the leaders know this and that is why they have built that tidy little fail-safe into their dogma. It is a fail-safe coming from mortal fear, the mortal fear of knowledge, because knowledge is the enemy of dogmatic faith.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But if you do it exactly right they will not know that you have 'infected' them! If you implement this method you will, as the tide irrevocably changes the shore, cause them to slowly change their belief system over to ours. Not only that, they will <i>know</i> that they thought up the idea themselves and that you had nothing to do with it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can tell you're bursting... you <i>must</i> find out! What information will cause such a magical change? Of what illusion do I speak? What could possibly rip a true believer from their nonsense-believing state and slowly create a world bursting with non-RP's, all rationally discussing and logically defining our universe?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here it comes...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take a seat... we don't need any fainting injuries...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The answer is...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Doubt.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, Doubt.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unimpressed?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, ask yourself: How unimpressed are you with the Grand Canyon, the miles-long vast cutout in the ground? Because the two are <i>very</i> related. The Grand Canyon was made over thousands of years by erosion, by water nibbling away at the surface of otherwise immovable, impermeable rock. And that's how doubt works.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The great part is, nobody has to work very hard to create doubt. As a matter of fact, the harder you work, the less of an effect doubt seems to have. Pushing doubt tends to create an opposit, repelling doubt, scraping away all those carefully laid seeds. Going back to the Grand Canyon metaphor, the only way to create such a huge scar in the planet was by slowly scraping away the layers through slow, repeated erosion. I doubt anyone would have much success in creating a similar canyon simply by bashing their head repeatedly against the rock. In effect, that is what happens when you try to force your facts down a believer's throat... you are uselessly bashing your head against their wall of defense, which is miles thick and prepared for exactly that onslaught.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's what happens when you try to foist your own (non-) belief system onto them. Think about it... isn't that what proselytization all about? Isn't that what <i>they've</i> been trying to do to <i>us</i> for all these many centuries? Ask yourself: In educated countries, how's <i>that</i> been working?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Answer: It hasn't. The scholarly human being prefers to learn by using the scientific method, by being skeptical of anecdotal information without corresponding double-blind testing to prove their validity. Proselytizing simply has no effect on an educated person.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next time someone accosts you with their religious belief system, why not try this:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Quietly point out one indisputable fact which their bible does not address... and then smile and walk away. Don't even wait for their rebuttal, because there will <i>be</i> a rebuttal as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. If you wish not to be rude, you may listen politely and quietly. <i>Then</i> smile and walk away. DO NOT ENGAGE! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is a small step, but an important one.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you wish to become organized and perform this on a mass scale, then get together as a group and walk past some form of religious gathering and, in your own good time, each of you should state your own unique indisputable fact to each of the demonstrators.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then smile and walk away.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">They say: "Jesus died for your sins!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You say: "Jesus was a jewish carpenter, a man with faults like any of us."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; ">They say: "Find the lord or go to hell!"</div><div style="text-align: justify; ">You say: "Hell and heaven are here on Earth, and all of us experience both in our lives."</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">They say: "The Earth was created by god 6000 years ago!"</div><div>You say: "Who created god? God's parents? Who created them? God's grandparents? When does it end?"</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like water trickling through a tiny crack, eventually the facts will deposit seeds of doubt, which will inevitably split that crack wide open. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But that's where the Grand Canyon example falls short:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For when RP's come to very painful terms with the fact that they've been wasting their lives on a fairy tale, that crack will become the Grand Canyon...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">almost immediately.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And who could ask for anything more?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://www.youquoted.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/5184561.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 378px; height: 317px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman</span></div>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534634187743101049.post-63879053757014959582011-02-06T16:37:00.000-08:002011-03-11T16:02:40.010-08:00Trust Me... The Universe Is FLAT!<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; font-size:x-small;">essay</span></span></u></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://www.davidstauffer.com/caribbean2007/pictures/Caribbean%20Cruise%202007%20-%20Disney%20Magic%20-%20Open%20Ocean%20-%20Sail%20Boat%2001.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 220px; " /></span><div style="text-align: justify;">Interesting hypothesis, when you think about it. Flat? How the hell can it be flat? Don't leave, hear it out. We know certain astronomical facts to be true. We are certain the Earth is a fairly round globe, as is the sun, and all the planets. We know that the motion of all the planets revolving around the sun make the solar system into the shape of a DVD: Still round, and yet flat. And we also know that the Universe is big. Ridiculously big. And of course it's getting bigger daily. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What we may not be able to conceptualize, however, is exactly how big it is. But here's an idea. A piece of paper is flat, too, and very thin. Yet if you become tiny, shrink down to the molecular level, to your eyes the paper is suddenly miles in thickness, and billions of miles each in of the other two directions. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you wanted to explore the paper, you might start by going up and down through the thickness, but at only a few 'miles' you'd explore it all pretty quickly. There would be nothing to explore beyond the page's two surfaces, so logically you would head out in any of the other directions.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, that's kind of like what traveling through the Universe is like, except on a vastly larger scale. From the big bang, the Universe travelled outward in all directions for 14 billion years and now resembles a huge planet, if you imagine the surface being where all the stars and planets and matter and energy are. Inside the planet, it's largely empty. Outside the planet it's definitely empty. And this planet keeps getting bigger with every passing minute.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We can't notice this shape, of course. We are so insignificantly small by comparison, it would be like asking a gnat on a subatomic particle's ass to point out where China is. We can only postulate a hypothesis and then measure by using a plethora of techniques to tell us what shape it is.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you have ever been out on the ocean far enough so that all you can see, in all directions, is water, you will realize that you cannot see the curvature of the earth from so close to the surface. The horizon appears flat, no matter which direction you look. This is the reason why early explorers proclaimed that the 'world was flat'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Imagine you have a balloon which can be inflated to the size of a city. An ant is placed on this perfectly round sphere. From its perspective, it is standing upon a perfectly flat surface. It is too close to the surface to see the roundness of the balloon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now imagine that you are watching a fourth of july fireworks celebration, using <i>magic</i>. You gently float up into the air where the fireworks are exploding, and <i>freeze time</i>. You can do that with magic... or with a DVR. Now go into the middle of one of those colorful types that explode and are now in the shape of a dandelion. You notice that all of the colored bits have pushed outwards from the explosion, in every possible direction, each exactly the same distance. It now resembles that dandelion which has had its middle scooped out, leaving only the little feathery colorful ends frozen in position.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The colorful firework bits are now in the shape of a ball, or a soap bubble. </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcyz8SXNEYEmJvr6Jh197jVSs1rmE409zHmnKBBZqRbX_wlX7sneU7stcFavqd2_POWqaqHkn0Dy4sNUsXTaJblgtRnSTk0zPV_NoYo_J4bXrh62eS9AiwBM1XDSCWx6wUsUk8d1dzvE/s1600/firework.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 400px; " /></span><div style="text-align: justify;">Now with your magic, you zoom close to one of the colorful bits... and now you make yourself tiny. So small in fact that the colorful bit has become huge, like the size of our sun. When you look for the next nearest colorful bit it's suddenly very far away, now that you are a speck. And those shiny bits that are on the <i>opposite</i> side of the ball shape, the bubble shape... well, those are too far to see at all, when you are that small.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, you are again normal sized and back reading this post. Now think of the Big Bang, that ginormous explosion which is supposed to have created this Universe, fourteen some odd billion years ago. Imagine it as being the same shape as the firework in the previous description, ball shaped, or soap bubbley. It's been expanding at the speed of light for fourteen billion years, and we are in a galaxy next to other galaxies, like the shiny bits next to each other in the firework.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now think of that little ant on the surface of that balloon, and how it doesn't know any better than thinking it's on a flat surface. Think about being in that boat on the middle of the ocean, unable to see the curvature of the earth because you are much too close to the surface.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally let's give you back your magic, and now approach a soap bubble that is floating in the air, making a beautiful perfect circle. Become tiny again, but so small this time that you can float between the chemical bonds that hold the soap bubble in shape. You suddenly realize that the bubble is not thin as it appears, but has many, many layers of bonds between the very inside of the bubble surface, and the very outside.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSXSm2Fnj_nh-nLECSaGAT_ivAMo2S3QPj8miB_nZdV1xEtTWOKgMrLd3OS0MNZMQE7pIKI7mDYe-rIR-8V71lhyphenhyphenlBYGcBIvUZm-E6MMzpBTorAehIDHrN2QW3bXL1-CjzNHjSennWcC8/s400/torus.gif" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 360px; " /></span><div style="text-align: justify;">That's all the information you need, to realize that the Universe is Flat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We are on planet Earth looking outwards, in all directions, and we of course see stars in all directions. It seems logical to assume that the Universe is like a room filled with air molecules, with them being everywhere in the room.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What we are actually looking at, is a tiny, tiny cross section of the surface of that soap bubble, from right in the middle of that section. We look in every direction and we think we see stars everywhere... and we do. But they are only part of that cross section, because we are<i> just that tiny</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If we were on the outer edge of our cross section, we would see something that we don't now see. We would see an entire half a sky of inky blackness, not a star or shiny bit to be found, because we would be looking at the approaching nothingness our Universe is expanding into.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/98/End_of_universe.jpg/360px-End_of_universe.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 324px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><div style="text-align: justify;">Now if we were lucky enough to be on the very inner wall of our Universe/bubble's cross section, we would be treated to the evidence of its shape. We would see inky blackness overhead, because as with the firework, the stars on the other side of the soap bubble/Universe are too far to see. But instead of the blackness occupying half of the sky, as we would see being on a ship on the ocean, we would see stars radiating upwards from the horizon as being in pieces of Universe cross section adjoining ours, eventually moving further and further away from us, and the ones higher in the sky are further away and therefore would be fainter than the ones lower in the sky... and eventually there would be only blackness directly overhead.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Evidence of the soap-bubble shape of the Universe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Getting back to exploration. If you wanted to explore the Universe, once you were finished exploring the thickness of the soap bubble you'd move on to all the areas left and right, and front and back. It would be like exploring the surface of the Earth, but again, on a vastly larger scale. But no matter which direction you chose, the course you plot would be a straight line, because this soap bubble has been expanding for 14 billion years and could have a diameter as large as 28 billion light years across, and at that size there is essentially, no curve.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But we are not on either edge of our cross section of Universe. It is millions of light years thick, and we are somewhere inside. When we look out at night, we are seeing stars all over the sky, and most of them are within our own galaxy, our enormous galaxy being only one tiny feature of the thousands in our tiny cross section of the whole. When we look beyond those stars and the other galaxies... we see darkness, and again when we rotate our telescopes 180 degrees to look the other way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So for all intents and purposes, we end up seeing a blanket of stars that, like a piece of flat paper, have nothing above it, and nothing below it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So like the ant, all we can see is a flat surface.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So from our perspective, the Universe is FLAT.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">But we know better, don't we?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /><img src="http://photogallery.indiatimes.com/beauty-pageants/miss-universe/ms-universe-swimwear-round/Ms-Universe-Swimwear-round/photo/3230576/Ms-Universe-Swimwear-round.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 530px; " /></span></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">Copyright 2011 Bruce Friedman</div></span>Bench Dogshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03960812381626782737noreply@blogger.com2