the sasquatch files

The seer is the sayer

2011-12-16T06:53:00.000-08:00

It is very certain that it is the effect of conversation with the beauty of the soul, to beget a desire and need to impart to others the knowledge and love. If utterance is denied, the thought lies like a burden on the man. Always the seer is a sayer. Somehow his dream is told; somehow he publishes it with solemn joy; sometimes with pencil on canvas; sometimes with chisel on stone; sometimes in towers and aisles of granite his soul’s worship is builded; sometimes in anthems of indefinite music; but clearest and most permanent, in words. -R. W. Emerson

"Clearest and most permanent, in words." Beg your pardon? Licking the hand that feeds you a bit much, might you say? I'll be as clear and permanent as possible: If this statement were unquestionably true–if words were more clear than any illustration, and more permanent than chiseled granite–this sentence would not exist. It would not need to. An author of your aptitude would know better. Your reader would balk at the overly plain and evident. I know the truth, and beget the desire to impart upon others the knowledge of your attempt to disarm, flatter, and then sell an outrageous delusion. Ha! "Beauty of the soul." I am not hypnotized by your appeals to my vanity. You assume, Mr. Emerson, that I need your reassurances, or that I have what you define as a "soul." I have this: the dirty truth about your motives. The seer is the sayer, and my utterance will not be denied: you are a fraud and a liar. My dream is told, with solemn joy, that you have been exposed as nothing more than a huckster for "words." You trade them for bread and God knows what else. What arrogance. What conceit. The shameless criminal goes unpunished. And even from your grave, after centuries, you continue your beg for this ridiculous fantasy. And, you may do so for eternity, but I will not be swindled by it–not by words alone.

Two lambs and a wolf sat down to lunch

2011-12-03T11:37:00.000-08:00

Democracy is not freedom. Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to eat for lunch. Freedom comes from the recognition of certain rights which may not be taken, not even by a 99% vote. -Marvin Simkin, "Individual Rights"

One plus one is three

[A wolf and a lamb are at a table peacefully eating dinner. Wolf says:]
If what, my friend, you say is true,
then one plus one is three, not two.
One plus two is three, it's plain,
and two plus one is three the same.
But tell me, lamb, how can it be,
that one plus one does equal three?

[Lamb explains]
It's quite simple, you will see
how one plus one is surely three.
You confess, and know it's true,
that three does equal one plus two.
So, I say, doubt not the sum,
that three is also one plus one.

[Wolf]
My truest, kindest, dearest friend,
my faith in you can have no end.
But when I take this kettle drum,
and then I add another one.
I tally each just like a shoe.
A pair is never three but two.

[Lamb]
But wait! You mustn't close the case.
It seems so simple on its face.
But, if you choose to free your mind,
the truth I trust you'll surely find.
And while you do not see it yet,
take heed, no need to sulk or fret.

In this hand I hold a schmickle.
This one bears a turquoise pickle.
One I raise up to the sky,
the other dangles with a tie.
And now, I've proven, must I shout?
Just two? You surely have some doubt.

[Wolf]
No, I haven't, I'm afraid.
Put together, two are made.
A mathematician I am not,
nor the smartest of the lot.
But if that lot is me plus you,
the total is not three but two.

[Lamb]
A stubborn bulldog you've become.
To what do you owe one plus one?
Seems to me it's quite a lot.
So, wolf, let me tell you what:
John, my friend, put up our coat,
and let us take a little vote. [John is another lamb]

My friend, this is democracy.
And John and I, we each vote three.
I'm afraid your vote of one,
is clearly less my dearest chum.
Perhaps you now begin to see,
how one plus one does equal three.

[Wolf]
You have made your strongest case.
And put me in a lonely place.
But greater numbers less one fact,
in this case, only can subtract.
You've proven nothing, don't you see?
But weakness in democracy.

[Lamb]
John and I are not afraid.
We have our minds securely made.
You will believe us, this is true.
You will reject your precious two.
Come now, friend, it's only math.
Spare your life, and awful wrath. [Lambs looking hostile at wolf]

[Wolf]
Friends, dear John, plus one makes two,
you challenge more than what is true.
A fourth can make this vote a tie.
My only friend out in the nigh.
Reader, I must yield to you.
Does one plus one make three or two?

"If two, proceed to next page. If three, the page after."

[If two, the three they go back to eating dinner.]

[If three, the wolf is alone with fur hanging out of his mouth.]

Lyme

2011-09-21T19:23:00.000-07:00

I have Lyme disease. Lyme is fascinating. The bacteria, borrelia burgdorferi, is a spirochete, which means the little buggers are coiled, like a cork screw, and prefer to burrow through collagen and tissue for mobility. They are unique in that they share characteristics of both bacteria and a parasite. Like bacteria, they can alter their genetic code to survive various environments. Like a parasite, they migrate throughout the body and, over time, feast on human tissue for sustenance. They evade complete destruction by antibiotic using biofilm, which is like a cocoon surrounding the little rascals, who, when assaulted, tend to nap in their cozy shell until the siege is over, then resume their havoc. They further avoid attack by digging their way to some remote part of the body where blood flow is absent, like joints, or other safe havens, like brain. Oh yes, they drill their way through the blood brain barrier into the central nervous system to munch on brain matter, causing things like dementia, incoherence, memory loss and confusion. Fortunately for me, these symptoms would go unnoticed, even by myself, and do not concern me. But, there is a vicious, unbearable consequence that has rocked the core of my being...

To best my chances of recovery, there are significant changes required. A mere three-tiered antibiotic treatment mixed with a vile concoction of herbal tea consumed throughout the day (for 12 months) and a regimen of supplements is not enough. Nay, there is still more I can do to improve my long-term prognosis: dietary management. No dairy, grains, or sugar. Fine. Very well. I begin my life of bacon! Braunschweiger on beef jerky! But wait. Grains...sugar...aren't those in...........beer?

Oh yes, and in abundance, particularly considering alcohol, an ingredient in beer, is like a super sugar. Real doctors and the ones your insurance will pay for agree. Beer is out.

For 8 weeks.

The tick who bit me can burn in hell for this.

Liberty

2011-09-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

People throw around the word "liberty" a lot these days, especially in politics, to the point it has become diluted. Let's consider what this word actually means, how it pertains to our lives, and also to any political philosophy congruent with a free society. Why not.

Complete liberty, in a strict sense, would mean unrestricted access to our every need, want, and most trivial desire, so much as it doesn't remove any liberty from anyone else. There are two approaches to acquiring this. One could be called Epicurean. (Although Epicurus advocated a simple life, I think that was mostly to avoid servitude to mobsters. Without those, I think he would have emphasized exploiting the finer things enhancing life.) To sum it up: "Pleasure is the beginning and the end of living happily." In other words, knock yourself out. Use our unrestricted access to liberty to fly to Barbados, and, hell, change your mind half-way down, immediately reversing the direction of the plane, all while drinking mohitos that do not cause hangovers (which do not aid liberty). Live life to its fullest.

The other tactic is one that has been tried more often. That would be the Stoic who believes that eliminating need/want/desire brings us closer to complete liberty. In other words, if you don't want to fly to Barbados, or drink mohitos, you are just as free as someone who wanted to and did. Of course, this is also advocated by a great many philosophers. But then, most of those philosophers didn't have access to things like iphones and blogs and motorcycles. And even if they can be admired for their willpower, they probably did it to satisfy their professional need for philosophical consistency. Or, perhaps to satisfy their personal desire for self-righteousness, a slave to vanity, but what do I know. One might say denying the grapes of wrath, and much more, was how one gained rock star status in ancient Rome. I think it's apparent which of these two approaches I prefer.

Anyway, today, most of us practice Stoicism because there is no other choice. We do so by living empty, commercial, vapid lives drenched in reality television and through attempting to silently exploit one another in the big casinos of rigged (all) business and the stock market. We are trapped in Stoicism, this morass of a culture defining our lives for us, of candidates becoming front runners because we are told they are (ahem, Perry). We do what they say, with seemingly no escape as we devolve to zombies.

I would be completely apathetic if not for the single philosopher in the free world other than Jesus who represents humanity, and does so amidst the attacks of the stoics who want us to live the lives they design–the lives that give them freedom at our expense. I am speaking, of course, of Ron Paul, who is just great. I stood at his booth at the State Fair yesterday. History will make note of Ron Paul, or there will be little history to take note of.

The Fifth Element vs. Barrack Obama

2011-06-16T11:22:00.000-07:00

"There are some structural issues with our economy, where a lot of businesses have learned to become much more efficient, with a lot fewer workers. You see it when you go to the bank and use an ATM -- you don't go to a bank teller. Or you go to the airport, and you're using a kiosk, instead of checking in at the gate." -Barrack Obama

He goes on to explain that "what we have to do now...is identify where the jobs of the future are going to be...how do we make sure that there's a match between what people are getting trained for and what jobs exist? How do we make sure that capital is flowing into those places with the greatest opportunity...we're on the right track."

[Weep]

Mr. Obama, no, I'm sorry, but you are not on the right track. Millions of businesses, entrepreneurs, and employees are expertly pouring over countless bits of data in order identify need, satisfy that need efficiently, and are willing to take accountability for the results. You and your friends simply do not have the bandwidth for the task you propose. No person or administration does. The nature of the market, of reality, is spontaneous and dynamic. It responds instantly to new discoveries you could never predict. It rewards those who accommodate others best. It demands individual risk and real incentives. Obama, you are advocating the opposite: a command economy where you and your friends dictate the future. All history demonstrates that what you propose can't be done without rampant destruction, slavery, and death, to the degree it is implemented.

Whatever you decide, no matter how clever and well-intentioned, will deprive the market of the resources it needs to accommodate real demand. It will make the economy worse.

Reminds me of The Fifth Element scene in Zorg's office with the priest, Cornelius, debating the business of life.

   ZORG
Follow me.. Life, which you so nobly serve,
comes from destruction. Look at this empty
glass.

Zorg pushes the glass with his finger.

ZORG
Here it is... peaceful... serene...
but if it is...

[Zorg pushes the glass off the table.
It shatters on the floor.]

ZORG
Destroyed...

[Small individual robots, both free-wheeling
and integrated, come zipping out to clean
up the mess.]

ZORG
...Look at all these little things...
so busy all of a sudden.
Notice how each one is useful.
What a lovely ballet, so full of form
and color.  So full of..life!

CORNELIUS
They are robots!

[A SERVANT comes in pours water in another
glass.  Zorg tosses a cherry into it.]

ZORG
Yes but... by that simple gesture of
destruction.
I gave work to at least fifty people today. The
engineers, the technicians, the mechanics. Fifty
people who will be able to feed their children so
they can grow up big and strong.  Children who
will have children of their own, adding to the great
cycle of life!

[Cornelius sits in silence.]

ZORG
Father, by creating a little destruction,
I am, in fact, encouraging life!  So, in
reality, you and I are in the same business!

CORNELIUS
Destroying a glass is one thing..killing people
with the weapons you produce is quite another.

ZORG
Let me reassure you Father..I will never kill
more people in my entire life than religion has
killed in the last 2000 years.

[Zorg smiles, holds up the glass and takes a drink.
Unfortunately, he chokes on the cherry.  Unable to
breathe, Zorg starts to panic.]

CORNELIUS
(mocking)
Where's the robot to pat your back?

[Zorg falls, writhing, on his desk, inadvertently
hitting buttons which trigger a slew of little
mechanisms.  They pop out all over the desk. True
chaos reigns.  Even a cage appears, holding a
Souliman Aktapan, a fat multicolored beastie,
PICASSO, who seems surprised to be out in daylight.
He licks his half-dead master in thanks.]

Cornelius gets up and walks around
the desk.

Zorg motions for help.

CORNELIUS
Can I give you a hand?

Cornelius whacks him on the back.  The cherry comes
flying out.  Zorg regains control of himself. GUARDS
come running in.

ZORG
You saved my life... So, I'm going
to spare yours.
(to the GUARDS)
Throw him out!

The GUARDS throw Cornelius out.

CORNELIUS
You are a monster, Zorg!

ZORG
(complimented)
I know...

(There were a few script changes to the actual scene...)

It seems the difficult fact often forgot is that people cannot be forced to save or help others. We know they do so in abundance when given the chance, but it happens despite the direction of well-intentioned dictators, not because of it. On a more basic level, ask yourself: "Am I helping someone else if forced to do so? Or, is it not myself, but the person commanding me that is actually helping." As the one being helped, "Am I genuinely grateful when the person who is helping me has no other choice?" Finally, "Do I help others more effectively when doing so of my own volition? With the possibility of recognition? With the possibility of profit?" I suspect the answer is yes. But also, "Do I resent the fact that my good and noble actions are not appreciated because the beneficiary knows I had no other choice?"

A command economy is one in which our conscience and dignity is yielded to external planners–we all become stooges, zombie-like characters. Individuals, instead of responding to the needs of neighbors using their own faculties, act on behalf of some false, non-dynamic theory of good. It perpetuates itself in a downward spiral, where accountability is lost, no one can be trusted, and all appeal to one supreme planner. A command economy can only win when everyone is losing (e.g. during a war). There is some solace in the fact that we can know, without the shadow of a doubt, that all coercive economic plans will deprive people of freedom and accomplish less than what would be accomplished otherwise. In this example, Obama's plans would unintentionally prevent the priest from slapping Zorg in the back. Or in the best case scenario, would diminish his incentive for doing so (I know, in this special case it would probably have been best to let Zorg perish–a touch of irony there).

In a larger sense, Obama is using the same logic employed to justify all great economic planners/plans (Mao's Great Leap Forward, Lenin's New Economic Policy, Hitler's Four Year Plan). His argument cannot easily be refuted, because not dictating seems less effective. Any electorate can be seduced by impossible promises–"Vote for me and I'll provide for you" rather than "Vote for me and I'll protect the conditions that allow you to provide for yourselves." It is well known that Democracies are prone to be vulnerable to choosing the former lie over the latter pragmatism. We all want something for nothing, and in large incomprehensible matters, we find it romantic to hope. This notion was clear to our founders, who agreed upon a Constitutional Republic rather than a direct Democracy. Majorities tend to believe a command economy will bring positive change without remembering that the results of the change are always disastrous. Subsequently, the individual will awaken to discover, in his delusion, he voted away what power he had to reverse it.

The problem is not new. It has been with us for ages. The argument against it requires subtlety to communicate, and the value and breadth of that argument requires little short of meditation to comprehend. Fortunately, there is one 19th century French economist who has done well to interpret and explain the economic portion of this greater truth, Mr. Frederick Bastiat. (Yes, I return to Bastiat).

Zorg uses the first part of Bastiat's Broken Window Parable (in his essay What is Seen and What is Not Seen) to justify breaking the glass. He argues it is good for the economy to destroy things, because it puts people to work and gives them purpose. Of this there is universal agreement. A war, for example, puts people to work and gives them purpose.

The disagreement between Zorg and Cornelius lies in what could be accomplished instead of cleaning up the glass, with the same resources. By looking only at what is seen (the robots cleaning the glass and the workers required to build them), and not what is unseen (the good that could otherwise be accomplished with the same energy), the argument is incomplete.

Zorg addresses the unseen with a presumption: "Fifty people will be able to feed their children so they can grow up big and strong. Children who will have children of their own, adding to the great cycle of life!" A well-intentioned, thoughtful, reasonable person might momentarily consider it vaguely plausible that indiscriminately killing as many people as possible could be done with the full consent and force of one's conscience. Of course, Zorg is an insane, murderous psychopath who needs no particular justification to slaughter any number of innocent people, and is using this parable to taunt the poor priest before killing him. To Zorg, the unseen is a population of people whose purpose is not their own, but his–humanity exists to serve his destructive fetishes. These children he speaks of will be his slaves. Cornelius calls him a monster, indicating he disagrees with Zorg's assessment.

The argument against Zorg's requires imagining some purpose more desirable than his own. Obama imagines a population whose lives are dedicated to a higher GDP. Our founders, and those who drafted the U.S. Constitution imagined a country where government didn't usurp the lives of its citizens.

Obama's assumptions demonstrate another popular fallacy: that a strong economy is necessarily evidence of success. This is not necessarily the case. In a dynamic free economy, a slowing would indicate the needs of the people had been met. Less demand would reveal a general reduction in want, which is a positive thing. It would also be a sign of increased self-reliance, something American patriots and writers have championed since the founding of our nation. With a few animals and a large garden, large portions of our population might live successfully, and in perfect happiness, without contributing one dollar to the GDP.

Of course, our economy is not slow because we lack need or want. It is also not slow because we lack resources or talent. It is slow because we lack trust and incentive. Entrepreneurs feel the need to gain Obama's blessing, or be destroyed by the economic favoritism given to their competitors. Business leaders all understand the Broken Window, and hesitate to invest in growth considering the extra risk inherent to a society with a Zorg-like President. We cannot know how far technology might have advanced without the economic destruction caused by Bush's TARP program or Obama's "Stimulus." We cannot know how much prosperity was squandered, or how many lives damaged by these plans. Similarly, we cannot know how many lives would be saved without The Great Leap Forward or Communism in One Country.

We see "radicals" in the Republican party objecting to these plans, but we know they do the same thing when they are in power. They do so because this is what governments do, to the degree they are able. If we are to learn anything from the Fifth Element, it is that Bruce Willis kicks ass, but aside from that, we should be fortified in the complete confidence that the Fifth Element is not government, but something entirely different...

The Art of Infant Filmography

2011-06-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

Motion picture unfettered from the hindrances of intention.

License Agreement

2011-05-02T11:15:00.000-07:00

Here's a real License Agreement to some freeware I just downloaded.

Perhaps we are not all doomed after all.

"We have arrived"

2011-03-06T12:30:00.000-08:00

A couple Italian scientists recently discovered how to produce energy using LENR, a Low Energy Nuclear Reaction. It's otherwise known as "cold fusion." According to Edmund Storms, in this article from Cold Fusion Now, "there’s no doubt that it has the potential to really be a serious competitor for a primary energy."

In other words, we have just found an inexhaustible source of cheep, clean energy. In Storm's words "we have arrived."

I don't mean to sound melodramatic. This is a breakthrough for humanity that rivals the containment of fire, or the wheel, nitrogen beer widgets. If the reports are accurate, there are no byproducts except trace amounts of copper that result from the fusion of hydrogen and nickel, and no harmful radiation is emitted. The reactor that was demonstrated in Italy required 400 watts of input and generated 12,400 watts of power released as steam. They (Rossi and Focardi, who discovered this) plan to combine 100 units in order to build a 1 megawatt reactor in Florida.

It's hard to exaggerate the possibilities. They are absolutely mind-blowing, and I've noticed such things tend to scare people off. Why is that? I guess some don't like to get their hopes up for fear of disappointment. Not me. I have never been disappointed whilst getting my mind blown. I guess it's just a matter of knowing who/what to believe. Well folks, this appears to be real.

Here goes: this singular discovery has the potential to:

Satisfy the objectives of even the most fanatical environmentalist, eliminating carbon emissions and all other byproducts from energy production. This is a pollution-free, entirely green energy source.
Eliminate dependence on foreign oil, liberating humanity from the need to wage war to procure scarce resources in foreign lands.
Allow us to grow an unlimited supply of cheep, organic, wholesome, natural, clean, fresh food, replacing the need for GMO, chemical fertilizers, pesticides, etc. Really? Yes...
Putting a farm outdoors has one big advantage: free energy, the light and heat from the sun. Unfortunately, it has many disadvantages. You get too much light and heat, or not enough. Things go catastrophically wrong. Insects and rodents eat the food. Crops must compete with weeds, and fight bacteria. Floods wash away seeds and fertilizer, and cause mildew. Farms suffer from droughts. Crops are reduced when it does not freeze hard enough in the winter, or wiped out when it freezes too late in the spring . . . With cold fusion, we can eliminate these problems by bringing food production inside. This will save an immense amount of land, it will reduce water pollution, and it will let us grow unlimited amounts of cheap, organic, wholesome, natural, clean, fresh food. This will be one of the biggest bonuses of cold fusion. -Infinite Energy
Build computers, cellphones, cars, and houses that never need recharging.
Build airplanes and helicopters that have an unlimited range.
Exploit countless other advantages we could scarcely imagine today.

You have not heard about this on the news, probably because of the big disappointment following the scientific community's inability to reproduce the Fleischmann and Pons experiment in 1989 (which worked, btw, just not predictably). Since then cold fusion has been regarded by everyone, media and scientists alike, as junk science. No one wants to touch it - not because it isn't true, but because its 'too good to be true.'

Fortunately, over the internet, we can watch these historic events out of Italy unfold, and observe humanity restore itself to a peaceful, mutually beneficial species free from war, want, or strife.

But first, these guys need to get a patent. So far their attempts have been rejected(!) I guess proving something is scientifically feasible is difficult when dealing with breakthrough science - it's not like this stuff is already in textbooks. Anyway, after they get a patent and these things start rolling off the assembly line, there will be a stampede. Slowly, the denial, paranoia, insanity, and other expected collective irrationality will ended, and we will quite possibly be left with a new palette of creative tools with which to design our existence. I, for one, welcome and encourage them.

Wisconsin Commentary

2011-02-23T17:10:00.000-08:00

I was going to construct a whimsical tale to illustrate the absurdity, but truth is stranger than fiction here. Besides, it's less sensational than just plain dirty.

There once lived a good, honest, noble people who desired to protect their natural rights. They wanted to protect their property, their lives, and their ability to pursue happiness. So, they pooled their money and established a government. It worked well. Everyone chipped in a portion of their earnings, and they built things that benefited everyone. They built courts for justice, and roads for transportation. Then, they hired teachers to educate their children. Generations grew old and died, and more teachers were hired and more roads were built using a portion of the money people had earned. Everyone's life, property, and ability to pursue happiness were protected.

Then, the public workers and teachers got together and asked for more money. The people's elected representatives said "OK, here's more money to build things we all need and educate our children." The teachers and workers were delighted. They wondered if they could get more money, so they asked again. The taxpayers...the people who employed these workers and teachers...said "fine, take more of our money for what you do because we think you are worth it." Then, the workers and teachers asked for benefits like pensions and health care and a whole bunch of things. And, the people still said "sure, you're doing a good job." Then, one day, when the public workers and teachers asked for even more money, the taxpayers said "I'm sorry, we simply can't afford to pay you more. We're out of money." Instead of trusting the testimony of the elected representatives, for some reason, the public workers and teachers didn't believe them. They really wanted that money. They even felt like it was their right to have the money that other people earned.

(While, of course, education has an actual value, the way society had been governed set the compensation of teachers not on merit, but on a scale of experience and education level. Other compensation, in the form of benefits, rested not on effective teaching, or experience, or education level, but ability to get together and threaten the public with lack of education altogether in the form of a strike. This would not have been conceivable a century earlier when local communities and parents handled education.)

So, all the public workers and teachers got together and formed a gang to take the taxpayer's money anyway. They called it a "union." The union was smaller in number than the taxpayers, but it was organized and determined. It spared no expense in time and effort to get that money. Because they caused such a ruckus and only asked for a little bit of money at a time, the taxpayers' representatives agreed to give them the money even though many people who were employing them with taxes said they couldn't afford it.

Since the union method worked, people were naturally attracted to unions. More unions were formed, and more money was asked for, and more money was confiscated from the taxpayers, and this became very lucrative for union members so even more people joined unions, and before long, half of the people in the population were part of a union, determined to pilfer as much money from the taxpaying people as possible.

When the taxpayers formed their own unions, the public worker and teacher unions, who had learned to be effective with the whole 'union' thing, demanded the privilege to gang up on the taxpayers' representatives so that they could confiscate as much money as possible against the consent of the taxpayers. They called this "collective bargaining," and it worked very well at confiscating property from neighbors against their consent and distributing it to union members.

A couple generations went by and soon hardly anyone could make much money unless they joined a union to gang up on the legislators who represented the taxpayers, who were growing smaller and smaller in number compared to the union members. Furthermore, the teachers, who liked the way unions confiscated property from other people for their own benefit using coercive means, somehow failed to educate the young people about the methods they were using to make a living. Consequently, a generation of young people grew up assuming the privilege of taking other people's money without their consent was a 'right,' like a right to one's property, life, and pursuit of happiness, instead of a privilege. At the same time, they were depriving taxpayers of their property and pursuit of happiness by using unions to gang up on representatives in order to confiscate other people's earnings.

The government that was created to protect property was now being used, on behalf of a minority, to confiscate it from the majority.

Then, another generation passed, and the government was bankrupt, because everyone knew you could make the best money for your effort if you were part of a union. And there wasn't any money left to afford any of the roads and bridges and things that benefited everyone (just the union members). So, the people paying for the public workers and teachers got together and said: "we really think it's fine that you take so much of our money, but we would prefer it if you didn't gang up on us and use coercive means to deprive us of our property without our consent."

Then, the union members stopped working and marched on the capital demanding their 'right' to confiscate other people's property and slept on the floor and engaged in other pathetic, desperate means to gain the sympathies of the population, reduced to bums and beggars.

And this is how a once good, honest, and noble people was reduced to a pitiful mob of loathsome, confused, angry knaves.

I just can't even stand it. I'm sorry. If they are educators and don't understand what is going on, they have no business teaching. If they know what's going on, how dare they set this example for their students. Yes, Wisconsin is a sedentary moose in a shallow pond that has been collecting leeches for decades. Killing off the moose isn't the objective here. If they were protesting for the survival of their families and livelihood, I could understand. COME ON PEOPLE. Taking away the legal privilege to gang up to confiscate the property of neighbors is not worth 5 minutes sleeping on a marble floor.

The only silver lining is that Wisconsin teachers are less dangerous at the capitol than in the classroom.

Quote of the Day

2011-02-21T14:34:00.000-08:00

Inspired by events over there across the St. Croix...

A strike of public employees manifests nothing less than an intent on their part to prevent or obstruct the operations of Government until their demands are satisfied. Such action, looking toward the paralysis of Government by those who have sworn to support it, is unthinkable and intolerable. -Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Apparently the employers of Wisconsin's government (the taxpayers) are exercising their 'rights.' I say more power to them.

Busy Doing Things

2011-02-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

My father used to say: "It's not what you say, it's what you do." Well, he said it at least once. He is what you might call the 'strong, silent type.' He proved to me long ago that fear and love are not opposites, but one-in-the-same, and even difficult to distinguish from one another. It made for a humble and temperate youth. At some point, probably in college, I realized that I did learn from his example exclusively, yet couldn't remember anything he ever said other than a few stories. I liked the stories from his childhood on the farm. I didn't know if they were true, other than the testimony from his brothers, always having some fleeting resemblances to my father's version. It was a fact that stories were and are novel and inconsequential compared to what he did/does/is (even if telling stories is some tiny part).

Is it really "not what you say?" Not at all? At first I found that disappointing. If this is true, and what you say means nothing at all, it means terrible things for aspiring authors. It means nothing you say or write has merit. It means all verbal communication is vacuous and trivial. It means you can say anything you want. Hey, wait. What was that? It means you can say anything you want! That's a nice spin on it...

Complete freedom! The U.S. Constitution even backs it up. "Freedom of speech," motherfucker! Stories, lies, damn lies, statistics, it's all fair game. If it ain't defamation, go for it...sweet. If it really "isn't what you say," knock yourself out. Right?

But, in that case, what's the point of saying anything at all? Why waste the time mumbling this after that (unless you're a commercial screenwriter). If it ain't for cash, and it leads nowhere but to more words, it's all in vain. What's the point? Hm. Vanity.

Is that the true meaning? Maybe what is said is all in vain unless you actually do something. It is true, that actually doing something can be inspired by what is said/written. Or, perhaps what is said is the reason the thing was done. But, at that point, is it important that anything was ever said in the first place? After the building has been built, what use are the blueprints? Hm. Well, to make another building, I guess. But, if something was done because what was said was reasonable, it certainly would have been reasonable even if nothing was said in the first place. Or, is it possible that a thing that is done requires previous spoken/written reasoning in order for it to be reasonable? I don't think so. An action, it seems, is either reasonable or it is not, regardless of what is said about it, before or after.

Maybe "it's not what you say, it's what you do," simply implies a disastrous inadequacy of language to accomplish anything at all, or possibly as much harm as good. Or, maybe more harm than good, in which case I am in trouble. But, I believe that writing, is, to some extent, doing, so much as it results in something done. And, if what is done is good, and somehow aided by the writing in some way, it is not altogether in vain. I guess that depends on whether you think vanity can be good. Another post. Well, time to go do something.

Egypt

2011-02-11T08:26:00.000-08:00

With the transfer of power from an Egyptian autocrat to the Egyptian military, we watch a united and jubilant population celebrate their supposed liberation from the clutches of tyranny. The elite ruling class of Egypt apparently overestimated the people's tolerance for poverty, and now must concede some political power to an enormous and unorganized mob. It seems the one thing holding them together is a hatred of their former autocrat. Now, with his departure, the business of reorganization begins. Who assumes the power? Since the mob itself does not have hands, the power must be placed into the hands of an individual either representing the mob, or capable of subduing it. The question free people must ask is: will this person comprehend the obligations and challenges of a truly representative government? And, do the people of Egypt really have the courage, ability, and will to build and maintain one? Do they really want to shoulder the responsibility, and realize the "liberation" they believe they have earned? The truth is, they have not yet earned it. They have only glimpsed a small and fleeting opportunity. Without swift organization by very clever statesmen, and the capacity for the Egyptian people to identify and support them, the power vacuum created by their "revolution" will fall quickly into the hands of an even-more-vicious tyrant, who will be obligated to rule with an even stronger iron fist. A country tends to get the government it deserves, and it is a sad fact that an impoverished population of slaves scarcely has the electorate, or the leadership, to earn a government ruled by the consent of the governed. In the near future we will see whether Egypt's revolution will bury them even deeper in poverty and subjugation, or whether it has enough capable, service-minded leaders to free themselves and their neighbors, and usher a new age of prosperity. A capricious revolution is a tyrant's dream. Let's hope there was enough thought behind this to prevent such dreams from coming true.

Obedience and Resistance

2011-01-01T11:40:00.000-08:00

Some Christians in Nazi Germany used Romans 13:6 ("the authorities are God’s servants") to justify tolerance for Hitler's extermination of the Jews. Is this a legitimate interpretation of the passage? Are followers of Christ free from accountability in murderous public affairs? Are they prohibited from intervening, required to watch in silence as tyrants murder millions?

Paul, the Author of Romans, makes it clear that "there is no authority except that which God has established," he also states "the authorities that exist have been established by God," and "whoever rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted."

As a Christian citizen, this seems terrifying, leaving the faithful helpless against the whim of rampaging tyrants. As a rampaging tyrant, this passage seems agreeable, possibly reducing the threat of revolt from angry subjects.

But, what 'authority' was Paul referring to? In the context of a world violently suppressed by the Roman Empire, was he really saying Christians ought to acquiesce to Roman authority? Perhaps a look at scripture is in order:

Here's how Jesus responded to the oppression of ruling tyrants:

Advised subjects to "give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's" (Matthew 22:21), which many believe advocated tax evasion through untraceable, currency-free trade and barter transactions.
Turned over the tables of the money changers who were trading legally. (Matthew 21:12-17).
Was arrested at the Mount of Olives on grounds that he was seditious (rebellious) against Roman authority. Also, "the manner in which Jesus entered Jerusalem was that of a Jewish king who claimed the throne. Convinced that he was King of the Jews and in deliberate fulfillment of Zechariah's prophecy, Jesus rides into Jerusalem on an ass's colt. The people greet Jesus with strewn palms and cries of "Hosanna!" the ancient cry of Jewish independence. For Jesus to not have known the seditious actions that this implied, and the political impact that his act caused, would be incredulous to say the least" (from some Jewish site).
Volunteered himself as a martyr and sacrifice to humanity. Because the trial and crucifixion of Jesus was widely recognized as a ghastly and unjust murder, an enduring subversive resistance to Roman authority was sparked. The Romans soon came to recognize the crucifixion as a profound act of political subversion. In fact, historians report that because of Pilate's poor political judgment in allowing Jesus to be crucified, he was reprimanded by higher Roman authority and exiled to Gaul (where he committed suicide).

It's reasonable to assume that Paul takes for fact that Christ became the single worldly authority after the resurrection, whereupon all legitimate governing institutions were suddenly, in fact, subject to God's law (even though many didn't get the memo right away). In other words, the meek suddenly did inherit the earth and the former Roman Empire was suddenly destroyed, and from that point on only vestiges of worldly authority remained and the meek would realize (make real) their inheritance over the next thousands of years (which has happened). In other words, authorities that kill and plunder lost authority after the resurrection.

By saying, "there is no authority except that which God has established," Paul is calling on the faithful to truly know that violent oppressors have no authority over them. Since no act of violence could come from an authority "established by God," violent authority is not to be recognized as authority. Advice on how to discern between legitimate and illegitimate authority comes from Jesus himself:

"You will know them by their fruits. Grapes are not gathered from thorn bushes nor figs from thistles, are they? So every good tree bears good fruit, but the bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, nor can a bad tree produce good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. So then, you will know them by their fruits." Matthew 7:16-20

The good fruit is true authority, fused with peace. The bad fruit is illegitimate 'authority,' which draws its power from fear, violence, coercion, and force.

Paul's definition of "rebellion" here is violent resistance with the aim of overthrowing an oppressive government. Of course, rebellion with the aim of, (e.g.) overthrowing a government, implies force, which itself is the bad fruit Christ was talking about. He rejects violent resistance, but certainly does not prohibit the peaceful resistance demonstrated by Christ and the many peaceful Christian martyrs and activists.

The radical peaceful civil disobedience demonstrated by Jesus has been employed against oppressive governments admirably and effectively many times. Ghandi, Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, the gentleman in Tienanmen Square who stopped the tanks. Few would argue that these acts of resistance contradicted Christ or threatened peace. And, in all cases, the result was the diminishing power of an oppressive state. Even extraordinarily violent and lawless people champion one who martyrs himself for the sake of peace. The only force desirous of destroying such a person is a force desirous of destroying peace itself. Since this is so plainly obvious in light of Christ's message, story, and sacrifice, any authority that once resided in such a force was made instantly illegitimate (to all aware of it). The crucifixion and resurrection of Christ was complete subversion.

Since the resurrection, there have been repeated historical examples of 'authorities' exposed as enemies of peace, and thus lacking in authority. This was the case for the Catholic church after the Reformation, Nazi Germany after WWII, and the Soviet Union after the Cold War. Despite good intentions, given time, all governments tend to lose authority. Tolstoy said it well...

"Not only does the action of Governments not deter men from crimes; on the contrary, it increases crime by always disturbing and lowering the moral standard of society. Nor can this be otherwise, since always and everywhere a Government, by its very nature, must put in the place of the highest, eternal, religious law (not written in books but in the hearts of men, and binding on every one) its own unjust, man-made laws, the object of which is neither justice nor the common good of all but various considerations of home and foreign expediency."

If this is true, which I believe it is, it's not only acceptable for subjects to rebel against failing states using subversive peaceful disobedience, it is the duty of all peace-loving people to do so by definition, according to their own good judgment. In the United States and other republics, it is often forgot that all authority legally derives from the consent of the governed. In the U.S., this observation was a gift from our Founding Fathers, who themselves exposed the authoritative vacuum of the British Empire in the Americas, and left non-treasonous means to do so in the republic they designed. Legitimizing the authority of the people over government theoretically eliminates the need for bloody revolution so long as oppressed citizens exercise their rightful authority (as Paul might say: "as God's servants") to legally dissolve illegitimate authority in government as quickly as possible to protect peace. In this sense, enemies of peace need only stand idly by as the machine of government terrorizes, subjugates, and finally exterminates its own population.

Without Christ or Christ-like behavior, governments are necessarily cannibalistic. Jesus knew this, which is why he asked his followers to eat his body and drink his blood. Christians eat the body and blood of Christ instead of the body and blood of each other.

The body and blood Jesus speaks of includes not only the physical bodies of neighbors, but all property rightfully owned by them, and particularly the portion of property that constitutes their livelihood. It is well known that good people do not need laws to prevent them from stealing from their neighbor. But, almost all people will steal from their neighbor from behind the cloak of law, and particularly when doing so is necessary for the livelihood of their families. This is the case in the United States now. While intending, in vain, to improve the behavior of our neighbors, lawmakers have bound the hands of the righteous and charitable. Whenever this occurs, the overturning of such laws is warranted and necessary. In fact, if the law is used by thieves as a means to steal, it is not only the right of the plundered subjects to overturn those laws–it is their obligation for the sake of peace. If Paul was right, and "the authorities are God’s servants," those who serve God have authority over those who do not, regardless of worldly institutional association. To the extent laws are used as tools by those who violate, for example, the Commandments (by stealing (oppressive taxes) and murdering (unjust wars)), they lose their authority. When this happens, it is the state that rebels against true authority, and "whoever rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted." When this happens, the institution founded by Christ does gain worldly authority over worldly institutions, but not without action on the part of peacemakers.

This, in addition to the fact that Paul himself was an extremely energetic missionary, demonstrates quite clearly that action is warranted and necessary to secure the true authority of Christ, including peaceful subversive action. Any institution that cites the book of Romans in order to prevent revolt by subjugated victims does nothing but expose its fruits–and complete lack of authority in the eyes of all discerning Christians and peacemakers.

Distractions

2010-12-22T10:50:00.000-08:00

Protesting property taxes, having a baby, and work have been distracting me from finishing a single Sasquatch Files post in several weeks. Being this blog is the juncture between time, space, and reality, I really need to adjust that trend...

The Children Are Our Future

2010-11-17T11:21:00.001-08:00

Quantitative Easing Explained

2010-11-16T08:27:00.000-08:00

The content of the following video is common knowledge among a growing number of people. Reporters are doing stories, people are making movies, and there are even children's books about this (including mine). But, no matter how much we are educated, most Americans don't take this seriously. They don't believe it. Why? I have observed a dangerous dichotomy:

The thoughtless and uninformed simply don't care and don't think about it.
The thoughtful and informed are not confident enough in their understanding given the huge scope, number of factors, and unknowns. This is reasonable.

This leaves an interesting situation. Because of this easy-to-identify dichotomy, a small number of folks at Goldman Sachs and the Fed have popular support in their practice of overtly and legally robbing the general population. It's brilliant. Our collective silence gives their individual consent. The few who see the racket are watching Ben and his buddies shovel our money from the bank into their money bin while most of everyone we know–our friends and family–are part of the bucket brigade. Hell, we are letting them get away with it by doing things like voting for their robber friends like Mark Dayton. He has openly revealed that he doesn't get it, will (at least implicitly) attempt to help them, and we still vote him into office because people think the candidate who does get it killed a woman's son while driving drunk because of some disingenuous attack ad!

The sad (and dangerous) thing is: I don't blame Goldman Sachs. I don't think folks like me blame Goldman Sachs either. In fact, I think some who are watching this think there is some sick justice in the fact that all of the willfully ignorant people around us are quietly being robbed and exploited. Some think it is almost worth being robbed themselves to know that the idiots all around them are looking the other direction while the community's bank accounts are being looted. This is the dark side. It is filled with apathy and disgust at the nature of man. I choose not to consider the robbery justice. It is a crime, and something worth writing about.

The Swaddle

2010-11-08T09:40:00.001-08:00

Very young people have a tendency to remind you how genuinely helpless they are. There is no one more desperate and dependent than a screaming, hungry infant. They are obsessed. They cannot be distracted with shiny objects, or the bouncy-bouncy, or even a pacifier (in my case, pinky finger) for long. Hard-coded into their brains is the need for a nipple planted deep in their mouth and the procurement of sweet, sweet milk. In want of this they are certain of their immanent death. Waking from a deep slumber, the first tingle of hunger marks the inevitable descent to a slow, miserable, painful emaciation. They taste death. They do not hope. They do not believe or wish. They do not have faith that milk will arrive. They only know that they are sure to die, and that is all. Without the warm fluid flowing down their throats, there is only darkness.

Finding the breast between his lips, the infant, somehow, still cannot believe he has been saved. He tests, and then resumes crying. His lips touch the one thing that grants him life, and he refuses, pulling away. His own tiny hands flail about, intercepting the connection, preventing what he requires. He sucks on his fingers and then wails, cheek pressed against the only thing that will relieve his pain. The loving mother, determined to relieve his suffering, grows frustrated as his small but powerful fists and fingernails batter and scrape her tender flesh. The restless infant knows nothing other than to resist the one thing he desperately needs and desires. At this point, particularly when mother and infant are frustrated to tears, the father's role becomes essential. He takes the infant gently in his arms, places him on a flat surface, and initiates the swaddle.

swad·dle tr.v. swad·dled, swad·dling, swad·dles
~To wrap or bind in bandages; swathe.

Perhaps the most enjoyable part of being a new dad has been learning to completely immobilize my wily and self-destructive son so that breast feeding is plausible. This velcro-enhanced swaddling blanket is basically a straight jacket for kids, and works really well. Here is a quick, step-by-step swaddle tutorial...

1. Place swaddling blanket on flat surface.

2. Procure baby.

3. Place baby in blanket.

4. Pull foot hoodie thing over legs and restrain right arm to the side.

5. Wrap left flap over velcro patch while holding down right arm.

6. Wrap left flap all the way across and hold down the left arm.

7. Tuck the left flap tightly around to the back.

8. Pull right flap across torso and secure tightly with velcro patches.

Voila! He's swaddled.

9. Place in front of mommy for a peaceful feeding. He is now less capable of self-destructive behavior and ready to chow down! Yum.

The swaddle is really a temporary measure. While the binding may be enjoyable for the parent, it should only be practiced when absolutely necessary, and not purely for recreation. When the baby is old enough to feed unrestrained without causing harm to himself and others, swaddling should be ceased (sniff).

Why "The Sasquatch Files"

2010-10-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

Because I am a hairy, reclusive primate with big feet, and no hope of assimilating into the general community of self-aware bipeds. I have no interest in the success or failure of mankind, because the forest provides everything I need–the forest and my highly sophisticated subterrainian bunker deep within the bedrock. I am just a curious observer of your world from beneath. The sasquatch community lives underground in a peaceful, friendly society with no need for "government" or "employers" of any kind. Every sasquatch is his own sovereign nation engaging in trade with other sasquatches on his own terms. We have only one rule: "don't do anything that would cause us to make a rule." Rare offenses are dealt with individually and without use of force. We are heavily armed at all times. (There has never been a case of sasquatch murder.) We carry firearms always as a symbolic reminder of our sovereignty and responsibility to the peace of the sasquatch society. Pretty simple, really. Also, when you homo sapiens struggle with technology, we sometimes give you a nudge, or not, depending on whether we think you deserve the power–whether it will be put to use for the advancement of life or the destruction of it. Yes, even though it gets dark down here, it's good to be a sasquatch.

The Portrait

2010-10-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

Senator Max Goodwin was retiring after 6 honorable terms as a senator. He had never lost an election. Marvin Plank was an intern considering a campaign for Max's seat, and approached Max's office for some advice. Max was napping, but awoke when he heard the knocking...

"[snort] Ahem...yes, come in."

Marvin cracked the door.

"Senator, do you have a moment."

"For you, Marvin, I've got two. Please sit down."

A relieved Marvin walked into the office, which was rich with dark woodwork and leather furniture. He sat in the large armchair in front of the mahogany desk. The senator leaned back in his chair, casually observing the young gentleman. Marvin's head was tilted up and to the side, observing the new painting on the wall beside them.

"Marvin, just look at that portrait. Isn't it lovely? Majestic. Powerful. The adept strokes and rich hues present nobility beyond reproach, don't they? It's not only the image of a man, but the body of his work, even the integrity of his soul. The man is blameless and perfect, his every fiber built for the honorable, selfless service of mankind. You know, that portrait will likely endure longer than anything that gentleman has ever done. It will probably leave an honorable legacy more persuasive than anything he has said or written. Marvin, I believe that in the future, some will mistake the man in that portrait for me, don't you think?"

"It is a lovely portrait sir, and captures you well."

"You're too kind. Really. You want to know how I did it, don’t you."

"A talented, um, painter?"

"Quite right, I suppose. Yes, the painter. He needs to look into the subject's eyes, and see him not for who he is, but who he would like to be...his essence, his soul. A very good painter can see beyond the surface; dig deep to capture whatever glimmer of humanity remains beneath the bruised and battered shell of a man that defines his actual existence. You know, Marvin, beneath the ugly, rotten surface, most men carry some remnant of this true soul. Most men cling to some spark of decency deep within, like a tiny, perfect diamond in a mountain of cold, black, coal. For those of us without it, a painter of exceptional talent is required. The artist, failing to observe any goodness at all in his subject must rely purely on his own."

The senator paused, looking into space in what became an uncomfortable silence for the young intern.

"Pardon me. Senator? You are saying that..."

"I am saying that if you win, I recommend a good painter."

Marvin was caught off-guard. He nodded, trying to comprehend the strange advice. The senator regained focus.

"Marvin, if you intend to do well in politics, dissolve any remnant of such a diamond. Republican, Democrat, Independent, it doesn't matter. The careers of good men in this profession die instantly, like dogs. Whatever brought you here, your belief in 'goodness' or 'service' or 'virtue,' is your weakness. My colleagues and I shred men like you before breakfast. If you expect to see a painting of yourself like the one hanging on that wall, you will abandon any concept of 'morality' or 'goodness' and consider the merits of pragmatism, preservation. Only when you can do that will you be begin to succeed. I suspect you believe that, theoretically, once a foot is in the door, you could do 'good.' But, son, by that time, it is far too late. It is a shame that all rookies dismiss this fact until they see it for themselves, then look back upon the welded hatch that forever forbids them from returning to the naive, innocent world left behind. A sad fact, indeed."

Marvin nodded slowly. Max took a deep breath and continued...

"You say you are 'independent' and 'libertarian.' You believe the people can govern themselves. I made this mistake when I was your age. Obviously, they cannot govern themselves, or we would not be here, sitting on fine leather furniture. I will save you some time: abandon this nonsense at once. If "the people" knew or cared what was best for themselves, they wouldn't have cheered every time I took their money and spent it on fine leather chairs. If they knew what was best for themselves, they wouldn't put up with any of us. Marvin, make no mistake that whoever sits in this office has the unenviable job of assembling the plundered excrement of society from some available trough to sling it randomly over the heads of mankind in general. The one who shovels the most shit gets re-elected by the select few who benefit from the slinging. I represent the 25% of the people in my district who like to steal from the other 75%. How do they do it? They VOTE! They have the time and inclination to look over our shoulders. Your job, as senator, is to ensure the plundering continues by convincing the plundered 75% that they are not being robbed. Talk about children, use the word "elderly" a lot, and "security." So long as they don't look at their paycheck too closely, and they never do, they will remain seated upon their sofas being harmless, and probably watching our party propaganda. Remember this: they beg for it with their silence. Their silence is their consent, and your mandate, for whatever you prefer to buy with their silence. After the election you will use their silence to drain them for every dime you can and redistribute whatever is necessary to those 25% of the voting few who are paying attention.

Oh, and remember, give a token amount to some large charitable organization in a highly-publicized way to keep up appearances."

Marvin was speechless, paralyzed in his chair.

"Run as a Democrat, Marvin, if you want an easier job. Democrats are two trick ponies. You're libertarian, so the first part will be easy: tell them gays can marry and women can have abortions. They'll support you. Why? Because most Democrats think the state defines society. Therefore, lead your attack with false promises and attractive, popular, ideological delusions. You know...call it "reproductive rights" and "gay rights" as if they need your permission to engage in their preferred behavior. It works. I mean, you know the facts. You know any two women can cohabitate, fertilize themselves (naturally or artificially), and perform ceremonial abortions on a regular basis, and cannot be stopped. Yes, you understand the state's definitions for these things are essentially worthless. Much legislation is unenforceable and ridiculous. But, pretend it matters and you'll win elections. You are only the servant, the messenger. Remember that. They pay you to pretend to give a shit.

But Marvin, if I may speak freely, for Democrats, it's not really about the issues. It's about style. It's a high school popularity contest won by charisma, emotion, and blurting enough statistics to get the "wow, he's smart" tag. Steal their hearts, confuse them a little, and their vote is yours. As for all the actual stealing, they don't need convincing. They already believe rich people's money belongs in your pocket, or their own, so you don't even need to convince them of this. By the time you take office, you already have the power to legislate the confiscation of millions from their paychecks before they even see it, and then compensate the executives that employ them for the trouble. Yes, it's a racket, but it has massive advantages on two fronts: 1) The poor think you're looking out for the little guy, and 2) The poor and middle-class actually grow poorer, become dependent on the state, and become more likely to vote for you. And...you know what..."

Max put his forearms on the table, leaned forward, half standing. He whispered loudly...

"There is absolutely no disadvantage to running on a 'robin hood' platform of stealing from the rich to give to the poor while actually doing the opposite. If you can do it, this is how you win in politics. It got me elected to office 6 times."

The senator leaned back again and pulled a bottle of Scotch from his drawer. He pulled the cork and poured it into two glasses, pushing one across the desk toward Marvin.

Marvin was stunned, but grasped the glass and both took a sip.

Max leaned back in his chair.

"But kid, let me tell you what...if you want to kick some ass, run as a Republican. A gentleman I admire once said: 'although it is not true that all conservatives are stupid people, it is true that most stupid people are conservative.' I wouldn't say they're 'stupid,' exactly, but conservatives tend to outsource their brains and virtue to organized religion and advance slowly in giant herds without really thinking. This means you can control massive numbers of them easily, which is a very good thing politically. Basically, Republicans are susceptible to a slightly less sophisticated fraud than the standard, "robin hood" Democrat. Where the Democrat asks government to define society, the Republican asks government to ‘do God's work.’ This is especially true of Christians; Protestant, Catholic, doesn't matter. While the most noble, thoughtful, and convincing pacifist individualist who ever lived is worshiped and hanging on the cross at the front of their churches, they generally ignore this in practice. They yield the entirety of their own brains, bodies, and souls to their pastor, congregation, and political party. Instead of serving this "God" character according to scripture, they are somehow capable of believing whatever some pedophile priest or Bill Oh Really tells them. They can be persuaded to fear anything, and are therefore obsessed with safety. This means you can count on them to blindly follow you in the violent pursuit of world domination for the sake of security. Don't chuckle. That's really what we're doing here. While Democrats are a virile breed of hypocrite, applauding you for stealing from their own pockets, Republicans have them beat in that arena. Republicans steal it and use it to perpetuate an oppressive, violent, globalist, authoritarian state diametrically opposed to the virtually-impossible-to-misunderstand core of their traditional belief system. Worshiping the decision to die on the cross, in the most horrific manner possible, rather than rule the world might seem like an obvious anti-imperialist clue. It apparently isn't. Modern American organized religion does well to obfuscate that fact. You might have the stomach to deal with such dangerous, paradoxical irrationality. I never did."

Max lifted his glass to his lips, sipping the golden liquor. Marvin, still shocked, tried to compose himself.

"Senator, can I ask just one question?

"Shoot, partner. That's why you came, isn't it?"

"Is there any hope?"

Setting the glass on the table, Max cleared his throat and tapped his finger on the desk...

"Is there hope? Heh. Don't kid yourself. For hope we'd need something I've never seen: a man with nothing to lose; no skeletons in his closet or sound bites to be taken out of context; no scandals or criminal record or even 'alleged' activities. He'd need to be squeaky clean to get through the media, the public. Let's see...no doubt, no fear, no weakness. He'd require faith in nothing...he'd know everything. Ha. But hell, a man like that wouldn't need government anyway. He wouldn't need an election. His authority would be obvious and the election would just be a formality. Let's see, he'd have compassion, humility, dignity. Now, I want you to imagine such a man. Just imagine him. Do you think he'd last two minutes in this place? This world? Hell no! He'd have a blaze orange target on his back. He'd be a prize buck in an open field surrounded by starving hunters with machine guns. The guy would have a death wish. Ha, is there any hope? What kind of question is that..."

Max held his glass and paused, looking up at his portrait for several long moments.

"But, you know what, Marvin, there’s good news. If you can rule it out altogether, you'll have greater success than I ever did. Alright, you got what you came for. Now, get the hell out of here. I've got work to do."

Citizens For Authoritarianism

2010-10-08T11:10:00.000-07:00

Over the last several hundred years, or even longer, the global population has been increasingly obsessed with the so-called "individual." Since Christ on the cross or earlier, a radical element in the human collective has toiled to convince us that this "individual" has some sort of mystical sovereignty beyond the understanding of legitimate organizations of collective power. They profess some invisible authority "within the human spirit" that stands in defiance of real, worldly power, and claim its strength can exist within even the most meek among us. Of course, whenever they are pressed to explain the source of this "power," they cannot identify it, exposing the obvious fraud. They mumble something about "rights" or "faith" or even "love" of all things, characteristically invoking sad appeals to emotion. When pressed further, they grow frustrated, even enraged, and are finally reduced to tears when they reach the limits of their capacity to rationalize and fabricate.

Pathetic.

If you have some justification for individual human rights, simply say so. I'm listening. I would be delighted to hear what "one man" can be worth compared to thousands marching in step. Sensible people know the truth. The individual is nothing. He is an ant to be stomped upon. An individual has the right to die a miserable martyr like this ancient, acetic, insufferable masochist they worship. Pain. Misery. That is all. That is the best they can do. The truth is apparent. No one wants what the individualist is selling.

There is no such thing as the "individual." Aristotle was quite right when he famously said: "he who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god." If you are a god, show me. If you are a beast, then die. "You" are a part of "we," and if there were no "we," you would be nothing. That is the nature of your existence–an obscure speck on the surface of a gigantic spherical organism. If and when you become a parasite to this organism, it will consume you like a grain of sand beneath a tidal wave. The choice is obvious: conform or die. It is so blatantly obvious that anyone who cannot understand it cannot be reasoned with. They are savages, barbarians unworthy of the body of man. By their insolence, these maligned anarchists seek death, and they encourage us to join them. One incapable of understanding this cannot be "human," and are therefore a parasite to be managed.

This is the very nature of my struggle in this insane, irrational world–to advocate the assimilation of parasites into the body of the living human collective. When an employee has a problem, the company has a problem. My humanitarian effort is to conform the parasites so that they can be saved from inevitable extermination. To this end, I have founded a new organization.

Citizens For Authoritarianism
Even the most degenerate and insolent dog of a human is susceptible to the fear of physical death. That is why I have founded Citizens For Authoritarianism. This humanitarian organization encourages rule by terror and force for the sake of survival in these very difficult times. It strives to crush all opposition to its authoritarian ruler, and suppress all threats to authority with swift and thorough retaliation. Its mission is to assimilate every possible potential human that is available. Unfortunately, it is known that not all humans can be assimilated. Therefore, after all true humans have been assimilated, the remainder of bipedal, human-like creatures will be swiftly exterminated.

Why should you join Citizens For Authoritarianism (C4A)?
We are just like you. We like safety, and there is no safety like safety in numbers. In the school of fish of humanity, you want to be right in the middle. Let the shark eat the miscreants on the fringe. You don't need to rock the boat. You don't have any crusade to fight. Be sensible. Rather than make many difficult decisions about how to run your life, just make one: join Citizens For Authoritarianism. You'll be glad you did.

Who is a C4A member?
Honorable and true humans in the C4A community are easy to identify. They work for a large corporation or government department. They recycle and compost to save the world. They are members of either a large fundamentalist religious organization or a liberal activist organization or both. They are good at following directions. They color between the lines, and they will press the "chop" button on the machine that instantly decapitates thousands of children (not "real" human children, of course–but ones that look just like them). Why will they press the button? Because that is what they were told to do. They respond to mortal threats reasonably, by cowering with fear, and remain loyal to authority under all circumstances. These true humans are already signing up in droves to be foot soldiers in the Citizens For Authoritarianism institution.

What is "assimilation," and how does it work?
A "parasitic human-like creature" is pathetic and paranoid. They ask questions. They do strange things. They are "kooky." They waste valuable time thinking about nothing of importance when they should be acting. The "true human" is loyal and instantly obeys the orders of the authoritarian. Assimilation is the conversion from a "parasitic human-like creature" to a "true human." This is done in four stages...

Ostracization
Public ridicule
Terror
Extermination

These tactics require numbers, suspicious legislation, mass media propaganda, and military might. The larger the group, the more successful the assimilation. More details upon being officially assimilated.

How do I join?
Contact the leader of your mega church, environmentalist organization, national political action group, corporation, or public academic institution. You will be given orders explaining how to assimilate more parasites in order to save them from extermination. Thank you for considering Citizens For Authoritarianism.

"Individuals are always stupid."

2010-10-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

Individuals are always stupid.

Dr. David Acheson
Assistant Commissioner for Food Protection
(Food Safety Czar)
Food and Drug Administration
U.S. Dept. of Health and Human Services

This lovely little quote is from a spot on the Colbert Report regarding the raid of a raw foods store in California (Rawsome foods).

In the bit, he candidly explains how "raw milk has led to serious illness and death...ecoli, salmonella, diphtheria," how "the FDA is composed of public health professionals" and "is interested in protecting the public and public health." He calls any accusations about the FDA being under the umbrella of the WHO or the U.N. "nonsense."

Here is the quote in the context (presented by Colbert):

Rawesome employee: "If we're all adults, why can't we choose to drink paint if we want to?"

Mr. Acheson: "Individuals are always stupid."

I'm going to assume Mr. Achenson, being an individual, didn't really mean that.

I think he is really saying "people who depend entirely upon their own faculties do not benefit from the specialization provided for them by social partners, and are therefore stupid."

Fair enough, David?

If so, we are in agreement. We are exponentially smarter because we all benefit through the collaboration of specialized individuals. I learned not to drink paint without even having to try it for myself. I don't need to carry water in a bucket from the lake because water treatment professionals pipe it in for me. Everyone is smarter and more capable and more free because of specialization.

But, is raiding a market of willing buyers and sellers benefiting this social collaboration?

The assumption, made by this David individual, is that some buyers will be unintentionally harmed by this "unsafe" collaboration, and, therefore, "all of us" will be less-well-off as a whole if this collaboration is permitted. What has happened is very simple: David has responded to a demand, by the people, to save themselves. He is simply responding to a legitimate need for safe food. The only problem is–he is doing it very, very poorly...

We all want safe food. Why does getting it require men with guns?

There is a correct answer.

Because we lacked the leadership and imagination that could have otherwise peacefully responded to the true demand for safe food.

Here's what really happened: no businessman had the balls to invest in a real, large-scale, quality-control business (as prevalent in other industries). As such, the issue struck the bargain-basement social safety net of government responsibility, and we all suffer from this stagnant, unchecked, authoritarian, armed government food safety monopoly.

Rather than respond to real public demand, bureaucrats manufacture an estimate of the public demand. They basically say: "people want 'safe' food, so that is what we will give them." Then, they get together to define "safe," author verbose works of fiction, and, if you don't agree with their story, they brandish a weapon. Their narcissism, believing that they know what is best for you, is one culprit.

But, they couldn't have gotten their without your tacit consent. You, the American citizen, is culpable for begging your government for a food safety handout. You gave your hard-earned money away to thieves with guns who write laws that they can shoot you for violating. What the hell did you expect? Safer food is not free. TNSTAAFSL (There's No Such Thing As A Free Safe Lunch), and, in this case, your payment is not only the scourge of taxes ripped from your wallet, but the harassment of armed soldiers.

Is that really the price of safe food?

Consider a non-authoritarian approach. Any quality-control company would immediately recognize the demand for safe raw milk. Competing quality-control companies would jump at the chance to be the first to provide safe raw milk. (Unsafe raw milk is most common in large, industrial farms with drugged-up cows). Consumers, none of whom wish to get sick, would highly value the company's identification of a safe raw product, and pay a fair price for it. Yes, safe raw milk would be expensive, but you could actually buy it.

In our current authoritarian system, you cannot buy "safe" raw milk. Because of laws, no quality control company has the incentive to illegally establish an underground "safe raw milk" certification program. No, instead, you trust the individual farmer who offers the black market raw milk. The farmer is also the quality control specialist because the government effectively prohibits specialization in this field.

How is this collaboration with social partners?

According to their site, the FDA is responsible for...

protecting the public health by assuring the safety, effectiveness, and security of human and veterinary drugs, vaccines and other biological products, medical devices, our nation’s food supply, cosmetics, dietary supplements, and products that give off radiation

What about the "safety" and "security" of the raw milk portion of our nation's food supply? If raw milk is not suitable for consumption, why call it "food" in the first place? Classify the stuff as a type of white paint. Everybody knows not to drink paint. "You drank raw milk? Why would you do a stupid thing like that? You had it coming." Let the crazies do what they will with their raw milk. If labeling "milk" a type of "paint" prevents the raiding and pillaging of innocent people, I say do it! This new legal definition is no less of a fiction than your other ridiculous legislative compositions.

David Acheson is correct that an individual is stupid. He is stupid when he believes he can force another not to harm himself. So blithe an error seems easily dispatched, but is the lifeblood and justification for all governance. It is proven wrong in every case, yet we cling to it. We acknowledge and champion the truth intuitively in all great works of art, movies, novels. Yet, in practice, we are terrified of it. We continue have faith in this grand fallacy that other individuals are stupid and unworthy of the opportunity to earn their own lives. We cannot stop the suicide bomber, yet, we believe we can stop the man from drinking from an udder. In practice, our terrified, apathetic, nihilistic will continues to worship this great golden calf and believes it has the divine power and inclination to save us from ourselves. It cannot. When we replace the "we" for "I" I it is obvious that David Acheson is full of shit. You are not stupid.

I'm going to go drink some paint.

The Complete History of the U.S.S.R

2010-10-05T08:04:00.000-07:00

Arranged to the theme from Tetris...

Universal Donor

2010-09-28T12:19:00.000-07:00

Garret dropped out of med school when he was 20, and this saddened me. As his anatomy professor, I was disappointed. He was a bright kid, probably too bright. He almost never got an A+ on anything, choosing instead to sabotage his work with a freckling of small, intentional errors, or even large ones. This habit, as a professor, was frustrating. For example, in one essay, when discussing the radius and ulna–the two long bones in the forearm–he simply replaced "radius" with "femur" throughout. He was insolent like that frequently, as if I was insulting his intelligence with every exam. His brilliance was only matched by his immaturity. Actually, it paled in comparison. Two model skeletons in class were often configured in some lurid posture with respect to one another, and any mention of neural tissue would invoke his immediate vocal response: "BrraaaaaaAAINS?" Also, disturbingly, his presentation on the male reproductive system, including a graphic demonstration of *all* its various states and functions, began with the dropping of his trousers. While disturbing, I did not interrupt. It was brutally informative and accurate. It was his only A+.

I found him impossibly repulsive in virtually every respect. But, the only reason he remained tolerable at all was his delusional fantasy of getting me in bed. As a breathing female only a few years his senior, he seemed to revel in the relentless barrage of innuendos and flirtations spewed in my direction on a regular basis. Every essay would be crafted to be somehow suggestive, and when the topic was completely inert, such as the function of the large intestines, he would simply insert some crude invitation, like:

Villi are vaginations (folds) of the mucosa and increase the overall surface area of the intestine while also containing a lacteal, which is connected to the lymph system. Would you like to have sexual relations in the faculty bathroom after class? And, aids in the removal of lipids and tissue fluid from the blood supply.

It was in poor taste. I wouldn't flatter him by calling it outrageous. He was less brave–more an entirely shameless heathen with seemingly no honor or respect for authority. But, the truth was, he was, indeed, more competent than 'authority' in many ways, myself included, and as we got to know each other better, some of his behavior became understandable, even warranted. When we started dating, I learned that Garret was subject to a certain kind of authority, but that is a different story to be told another time.

I was terminated from the university a couple months after Garret and I started dating. Dating a student wasn't the cause, but Garret was nonetheless responsible. He had dug up a bunch of reports from the FDA and had been "communicating" with corporate executives. (It turns out getting confidential information from a CEO is easy if you know his mistress.) As a result of his research I was subjected to some evidence that compelled me to change my curriculum. My lesson plans were changed to contradict a couple textbook items regarding the safety of certain popular prescription drugs. Big pharma found out, and didn't like it. When I refused to advocate their toxic drugs to my students and their future patients, they invited me to their lab for a discussion. When the lab technicians verified my concerns, they agreed to notify their managers. But, instead of changing the textbook, I was informed I was out of a job. When the corporation threatened to lower their corporate contribution, I was terminated from the university by the president. The endowment was simply more valuable than the truth, and my students were all shuffled to a different classroom where they could listen to a stooge for big pharma advocate the status-quo death spiral of dangerous prescription drugs.

Rob and kill someone instantly and you go to prison–rob and kill someone over a period of 30 years and you retire a multimillionaire.

I took a job as a waitress at a local bar. The tips were good and I decided it was more responsible to serve booze to drunken lunatics than lies to soon-to-be doctors. My decision was not without consequences. One evening, as I was walking across the street toward Garret's apartment, a large sedan full of drunk 20-somethings I had just been serving ran a red light, and screeched around the corner towards me. The last thing I remember was floating over the beige roof and striking the trunk on my descent toward the pavement. Garret tells me he heard the squealing, saw me laying on the pavement, and rushed down to check me out. It was late at night and the street was quiet. He says I was bleeding out. There was no time for an ambulance. He carried me into his apartment, set me on his sofa, and began performing first aid. When it was apparent I was about to die of blood loss, he found a couple syringes and some tubing, and fabricated a crude, double-ended IV, shoving one end into his arm, bleeding down to fill the hose, then inserting the other end directly into mine. He happens to be o-negative, the universal donor, so he didn't need to check my blood type. I woke up the next morning covered with bandages, my fractures reduced, and a breakfast of warm bacon and eggs, my favorite. He offered to call the hospital, but I refused. Garret's heroics were criminal. He didn't call 911, he could be charged with negligence, even kidnapping.

More dangerously, I was worth hundreds of thousands to the hospital and a raison d'etre for the public insurance companies. The broken bones and internal injuries would yield an expensive battery of tests, drugs, and interventions. I was a sitting gold mine. I knew this, Garret knew this. I needed to trust either him or the barrage of procedures and drugs designed to fill the pockets of investors. I went with Garret.

Over the next 6 weeks Garret found an impressive improvement in black market medical supplies since the recent government occupation of health care. The quality was getting better and the cost had come down dramatically. The infrastructure had been in place for years, so the transition was swift. The guys who were distributing raw milk out of their barns one week were stocking x-ray machines in the rafters the next, and underground bunkers the next. This closet, underground industry was booming and its proprietors were growing increasingly clever at the cover-up. With massive profit potential, there was no questioning the economics: trade underground and pay a relatively small overhead to hide the stock, or pay twice as much for taxes, licensing, and keeping up to code. There was only one code now: make bulletproof stuff, or you will fail. Massive potential for profits had intensified competition. Second-rate stuff was worthless underground. They shipped it off to state hospitals like scrap metal.

Word got around about Garret's heroics. People were getting sicker. They needed options. Hospitals had lost credibility, real and perceived. When they came to his door, he had no choice. All these customers needed to say was:

"Hi Garret, I know what you are doing here. If you don't help me I will reveal your underground clinic."

But, it was never like that. They just walked in. Garret would never think of turning someone away. Before long, he had taken in more patients than his apartment could accommodate. Within weeks, he had rented all the vacant apartments in the building and filled them with hospital beds–every one of them built in some secret factory. They kept coming in droves, paying anything for an appendicitis. All Garret did was read medical books and perform procedures. It was insane, but there were few options. The public was terrified of hospitals. Garret was their only hope...

(To be continued...)

Ocean

2010-09-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

A woman in labor needs soothing, comfort, and words of encouragement. It is a long, painful struggle for her, and as a coach, I will need to be prepared for this. I will be helping her endure the pain in any way I can, and this will involve massage and other relaxation techniques. Visualization exercises are one way to help her relax during the contractions. Here is one I have been working on...

You are floating, floating in the middle of a vast ocean on a calm summer day. The water is warm and you hover on the surface, feeling the small waves gently dance against your skin. You float with perfect ease and allow the water to embrace you and comfort you. There is only peace here, and nothing but sun and warmth and serenity in all directions. White, billowy clouds drift slowly by. You extend your arms and feel weightless, like a feather, and allow the water to absorb all your troubles and all your fears. The tranquility is serene and irresistible. It pulls the tension from your shoulders until they are completely relaxed. Your arms melt down to your elbows and then all the way down to your fingertips. Your worries are pulled from the base of your neck and through your upper back, and the sensation cascades down your vertebrae and triggers a soothing warmth throughout your ribs and torso. The weightless relaxation is overwhelming your entire body now, and you find yourself helpless to resist as it absorbs every bit of tension from your waist and thighs all the way down to the tips of your toes. As you relax the sky grows bluer and the water feels warmer, softer, and you become one in this vast ocean of peace that has welcomed you.

You allow the ocean to consume you slowly. You feel your weightless body descend, the water flowing over your feet, legs, and chest. You are at perfect peace. You know the water cannot hurt you. This water of life feels weightless, and you know you can breath normally as you sink beneath the surface, and welcome the refreshing water gently flowing over your cheeks and forehead. You look up and see the waves on the bright ocean's surface and realize you are completely submerged in this vast ocean, and are perfectly at ease here in every way. You relax and allow this ocean to take you, surround you, and consume you. The more you relax, the more you feel yourself sinking, and the surface grows more distant above you. You descend slowly, deeper and deeper as the waves drift farther and farther away. You have fallen into a new marine world. As you fall, the turquoise water begins to turn blue. As you continue to relax, you fall deeper, and the water grows darker, first into a blue, then to purple. You realize your body can move effortlessly in this new ocean world, and you float deeper and deeper still as the surface becomes lost entirely and darkness surround you. You have become one with the ocean, and know you are in a place of perfect safety, and although it is completely safe, it is also vast and unexplored...

You move freely in the warm waters of this deep, deep ocean. You must be miles and miles down by now, but you continue to descend, and blackness surrounds you. Deeper, deeper. Then, you notice there is something glowing faintly in the distance, far, far below you. It is a barely perceptible green, and you swim towards it. Miles and miles, deeper and deeper. It is green, and becomes less faint as you swim towards it. So incredibly deep now, but you keep descending. You keep descending toward the green light. Then, as you gaze into this glowing green light you notice tiny shapes. Squares, circles, and lines. As you approach them they get bigger, and you see roads and houses, all so tiny and distant, still far, far beneath you in this perfectly clear water. You descend and see churches and schools and people walking on the sidewalks. There are others floating around over the roads and buildings, and you want to join them and see this underwater city. Finally, you float all the way down to a street and feel your feet touch the ocean surface. There are shops on both sides with windows and people walking around in them. You look up and see street lights that cast a green glow over the whole street. You walk down the sidewalk and admire the little shops and carts, and people going about their daily lives. A guide invites you to float with him as he shows you all the town landmarks, the statues, the museums, the art galleries.

Then, the guide drifts into an apartment, and you follow, and it seems familiar. You feel welcomed here, and at home. It is bright and spacious, with plenty of room for floating around. There is a table with a vase and flowers, a fireplace, some cozy furniture, and all the amenities you could ever need. It is the special apartment that has been reserved for you, and it is available whenever you need it. It is a place that nobody knows about except you, and it is the perfect place where nothing can ever disturb you in any way. The guide explains that it has been here all along, and is so glad you finally came to enjoy it. You drift onto the comfy bed and close your eyes and know that nothing can ever trouble you ever again.

After you have rested for an eternity and enjoyed your special underwater apartment, you see that everything is in order. The bed is made, the counters are clean, and you float out of your special apartment and look up into the darkness. It seems to be calling for you, and you notice that almost without thinking you are floating up towards it, and you let yourself go, floating up, and up, and up. You look down as the streets and houses grow smaller and smaller and the roads turn to tiny lines. The bright green glow grows fainter and fainter as you ascend, until it is almost imperceptible. Then, you notice complete blackness, silence. You float up, and up, and up, and finally see some very dark purple high above you. The dark purple slowly turns to very dark blue and then a rich, deep blue. Then, as you ascend, you look up and see turquoise, and finally detect the waves way up on the surface. You float towards them, and the sun is bright and you see streaks of sun rays pierce the water, and finally the surface is right above you, and your face breaks through the surface and you feel the warm sun again on your body, and the fresh breezes on your cheeks, and see the large blue sky with white, billowy clouds drifting slowly by.

Lady Gaga on National Defense

2010-09-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

Lady Gaga insists senators "do their job," repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell, and permit closet homosexuals in the military to identify themselves. Further, she believes the prohibition of openly gay soldiers in the military "infringes on of civil rights."

This story is from the front page of CNN.

I wonder why more pop singers aren't making their contribution to these crucial matters of national defense policy. I, for one, see no reason why Nora Jones hasn't used her success in music to change politics for the better, specifically, to compel officers and generals to disclose their sexual orientation and those of members of their battalions. Indeed, is the whole music industry derelict in their responsibility to advance the public good by ignoring these important matters! After all, we're the world's last superpower. You'd think one member of Cake could give a shout out for the closeted fairy in Company B. What has this world come to when our most talented American icons are helpless to wield the legislative pen?

How are our politicians supposed to know what the hell to do without sages like Gaga telling them what the populous thinks? Have we descended so far into anarchy that the words of a woman so well-known, so in-your-face, can do nothing to shape the future of our military policy?

Let us all breathe a sigh of relief that Gaga will not be ignored. Yes, her words, and the exposure of the National Media will persuade, cajole, and outright stuff the ballot box to ensure the mob of the majority usurps reason at every opportunity.

I am not afraid that gay men will soon be permitted to identify potential sexual partners in their barracks, and even have incentive to join the military in order to do so.

Thucydides

2010-09-17T12:22:00.000-07:00

You've probably never heard of this guy. I hadn't. He was the Athenian who wrote The History of the Peloponnesian Wars. These were the wars between Athens and Sparta.

If I had the floor before the Council on Foreign Relations, the Department of Homeland Security, or even the Department of Defense, I might share this brief observation from the 5th century B.C.

It is useless to attack a man who could not be controlled even if conquered, while failure would leave us in an even worse position.

But, I'm even more fond of the following...

A nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its laws made by cowards and its wars fought by fools.

Who was this guy, and why couldn't he live in our century?

The Best Slave

2010-09-13T10:05:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from the graduation speech by Erica Goldson, valedictorian of Coxsacki-Athens high school student, age 18. (full text here)

I am now accomplishing that goal. I am graduating. I should look at this as a positive experience, especially being at the top of my class. However, in retrospect, I cannot say that I am any more intelligent than my peers. I can attest that I am only the best at doing what I am told and working the system. Yet, here I stand, and I am supposed to be proud that I have completed this period of indoctrination. I will leave in the fall to go on to the next phase expected of me, in order to receive a paper document that certifies that I am capable of work. But I contest that I am a human being, a thinker, an adventurer – not a worker. A worker is someone who is trapped within repetition – a slave of the system set up before him. But now, I have successfully shown that I was the best slave.

...

For those of you out there that must continue to sit in desks and yield to the authoritarian ideologies of instructors, do not be disheartened. You still have the opportunity to stand up, ask questions, be critical, and create your own perspective. Demand a setting that will provide you with intellectual capabilities that allow you to expand your mind instead of directing it.

And, the last paragraph...

I am now supposed to say farewell to this institution, those who maintain it, and those who stand with me and behind me, but I hope this farewell is more of a “see you later” when we are all working together to rear a pedagogic movement. But first, let's go get those pieces of paper that tell us that we're smart enough to do so!

As someone who endured public school and also observed the development of academic assessment software, this speech gave me chills. Although her youthful exuberance paints this dismal and serious situation with vibrant colors, there is an eerie feeling of dread that her words do not fall on deaf ears, but those whose indoctrination efforts obviously require improvement.

American academia, the assembly of interconnected public institutions dedicated to the systematic removal of humanity and individuality from children in order to produce docile, obedient, subservient slaves for efficient labor in the future Corporate/Government Industrial Complex, seems to have failed here. With this particular student, years of influence, generations of indoctrinated teachers, and an arsenal of carefully crafted textbooks couldn't sufficiently do the job. The overwhelming facade of legitimacy in buildings, auditoriums, classrooms, desks, whiteboards, and computers was still not enough to break this one student of common sense. Somehow, the efforts of all the forces working together to advance the cohesive lie over the most impressionable years of childhood were exposed and smashed to pieces in one brutal speech.

What does this speech say to me? It is just a sad reminder that much of what the world calls "humanity" pursues death as a matter of course. In so doing, through ignorance or spite or carelessness, they groom the same pursuit deep into the psyche of the next generation. Academia is very effective at this, and is the hive of the wasp colony that eventually becomes our government bureaucracy. The old and wrong linger and die while a few bright sparks like Erica expose the embarrassing and obvious truth before being stifled, threatened, appeased, or somehow cornered into silence by one or more pincers of popular society. She has bitten off a large chunk, but did it at the right time, as there is still some refreshing and non-threatening naivete acting as her shield. More importantly, there is an empty but persistent vestige of general respect for the sanctity of young people's minds that will vanish a little bit with every astute valedictorian speech.

Mediocrity is forgiven more easily than talent. The plain truth isn't forgiven at all.

In large states public education will always be mediocre, for the same reason that in large kitchens the cooking is usually bad. -Friedrich Nietzsche

Blake's Tweak (cont.)

2010-09-06T11:46:00.000-07:00

Blake's response was troubling, and unexpected. When it came to code, testing, and science he was a bull rider capable of grasping any challenge and holding on for dear life as his beast bucked and snorted beneath him. I assumed he would respond to a breakthrough success the same way, forging ahead with its applications. We now had a practical tool! But, that simply was not how Blake's mind worked. To him, the project was over. The last piece of the puzzle was in place, and now it was time to look for a new puzzle. Fusion was solved, and it was time to move on. Actually using it for anything was quite outside his area of concern. He had ways of rationalizing it...

"Gabe, my disinterest in practical application is not apathy or spite. It's just that a 'human puzzle' does not exist and therefore cannot be solved. Humans are random and unpredictable. Why muddle in the chaos of humanity when I could instead solve something relatively easy and concrete, like fusion power?"

"Yes, but why solve fusion if not to help humanity?"

"We are helping humanity."

"How do you mean?"

"We are humans, aren't we?"

"I'm not talking milking golden cows for the rest of our lives. I mean help human kind. What about the 6.7 billion or so out there, ya know?"

"What about 'em?"

"Don't you feel some sort of collective obligation?"

"Yes, of course. I feel an obligation to save them from themselves and do what I can to ensure they never run out of harmless research projects."

"What about the impoverished, the poor, the sick?"

"Fusion power won't help them, Gabe. Giving humanity unlimited free power just means more impoverished, poor, and sick, and that is an assessment steeped in optimism. Would you like to be accountable? I certainly wouldn't."

"Then what is this all about? Why are we even here?"

Blake smiled and held up his glass of whiskey.

"Cheers."

I shot him a cold look as he wiggled his head and dropped the fluid down his throat.

"Gabe, this is about celebrating our accomplishment. We are here to drink. Bottoms up."

I took a slug of beer. Nothing was going to get accomplished that night anyway.

Blake's Tweak (more)

2010-09-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

The watering hole was dark and quiet. It was Monday night and the place was empty other than the owner Jim and a few regulars. Blake and I sat at the corner of the bar and two whiskeys appeared in front of us, and a beer for me. Jim rested his elbow against the dark wood, leaning toward me...

"What's up with Blake?"

"He just window paned some acid."

Jim looked at Blake for a moment. Blake shuddered and began whimpering. Jim smiled and looked back at me...

"You guys looking for food? We're about to close the grill."

"Not tonight, thanks."

He resumed drying glasses. I wanted to get down to business. I wanted to figure this out. I looked at Blake as he pounded his empty low ball on the bar.

"Blake, our sun..."

"My sun..."

"Fine. Your sun. Whatever. What's the plan?"

"We milk it."

He held his hands out and moved them up and down in a milking motion.

"How?"

Blake sat up straight and took a deep breath...

"Gabriel, my friend, we shall milk this cow dry, and I will tell you how: we will write theories, dozens of theories, all misguided in subtle ways. We will conduct experiments that seem to yield promising results, but actually steer the whole field completely off-course. All the while, 'progress' will be made. Heh! Enough 'progress' for endless public funding. Endless! We will...we will...yip yip yip yip..."

It was some sort of seizure. His head was sort of turning uncontrollably as he attempted to restrain himself. Both his hands grasped the edge of the bar for stability. He leaned toward me and I caught him by the strap of his overalls on his way to the floor. He positioned himself, shook his head, then picked up my glass of whiskey, drowned it, and slammed it down on the bar.

"Jim, another round...please," he shouted, his words trailing off. Blake was right. We needed bulletproof subterfuge. If our sun went public there would be utter disaster. I had already begun pondering bogus research projects.

"Yes, that sounds good. What are their chances of finding the tweak? That would ruin everything."

"They never will. The government can't afford top scientists. Anyone with real brains is in some commercial lab designing DNA for Monsanto's crop of cheep, liver-shredding, synthetic food-like substances. Besides, our guidance will nudge them away from the tweak. The critical clues are already buried, we'll just bury them deeper. You know, distraction, diversion, sensationalism. The experiments can be plenty compelling. Their work could still yield a reactor. It would run. All of the fundamentals would be there. It's just that in the end the reactor will always take more power than it gives. Without my tweak there will never be a net gain, never, just an endless sucking of time and power and energy forever and ever and ever sucking forever and ever and ever....yip yip yip yip."

He started convulsing violently again and I wrapped my arms around him. He was lit. Jim walked over and placed his hands on the bar.

"Gabe, Blake is disturbing the neighbors. Is he going to be OK?"

"Ye-es, ye-es, he-e's fi-ine, he's fi-ine. Pi-itch-er of wa-wa-ter please."

Jim dunked the pitcher into the trough of ice and began filling it from the faucet, swirling it around. When it was about full he smiled broadly.

"Yip yip yip yip yip yip..."

SPLASH

Blake got it square in the face, cubes bounced everywhere across the wood floor. There was some clapping from the other side of the bar.

Blake shook his head, throwing water in all directions like a wet dog.

"Thanks Jim."

He took another deep breath.

"Alright, Gabe, here's the plan. We are going to steer the lab rats and bean counters through decade-long dead ends. We are going to budget for technology that never needs to exist. It needs to be hyper-complicated and all completely useless. These projects will be huge. Huge and worthless. Well, worthless except for the fact our jobs will be locked down permanently. We will have our pensions. We will ride this golden cow to our deaths, and that is all there is to it."

"Very well. Good, good."

I took a deep breath and sipped a taste of sweet beer. A chill went up my spine as I thought about the possibilities, the power, the insanity. What were we going to do with it? How far could our imaginations go with this thing? It was time to broach the subject...

I leaned in close and whispered. "What do you want to do with it?"

Blake turned. His eyes were wide and his expression was suddenly serious.

"Pardon me?"

"You know, when we turn the reactor on, what will we be doing with it?"

"No Gabe, that's all there is to it. We have no need for another sun. One is quite enough. Yip."

I set down my beer and gave him a look of disbelief. He couldn't be serious. No one could resist driving the fastest car in the universe with a limitless expanse of open road. He continued...

"Gabe, let me tell you a story. Years ago there was a highly talented engineer hired to code some software. Let's call him Bob. It was extremely complex code used to estimate pressures in subterranean aquifers or something. At the time, there was only one company in the world that needed the software Bob made, and Bob was the only guy that could make it. Version 1.0 of the software included a "bug" that caused 1000 extra cycles under the hood. It caused a delay for users. Compiling the results took several minutes because of this, and it was annoying in the field. But, the software worked, and it was used effectively for months. Some time later, Bob's boss asked him: "hey, can you make this things go any faster?" Bob said it was difficult, but possible, and that it would take six months, and he needed a bonus up front, and he wanted to work remotely. Bob's boss had a lot of clients pressuring him to make the software faster, so he agreed. Bob took the extra cash and went on a six month vacation to the Bahamas. Six months later, on the morning the project was due, he sat down in his office, changed the number "1000" to "750" and compiled version 2.0. It was a huge success. He got a raise. He became the employee of the month. A week later, his boss asked him: 'say, do you think you can make it even faster?' Bob was thoughtful, but decided it just may be possible and it would take approximately 10 months. It has now been 10 years and Bob is still on vacation. What do you think Bob would be doing right now if he hadn't introduced those 1000 extra cycles right away?"

"I don't know, Blake, what?" I was annoyed.

"Bob would be poor, overworked, and living at home. He might be unemployed. I can just hear his boss' farewell meeting: 'well, Bob, your software is perfect. Your fired.' Without Bob's creativity up front, he would have suffered unnecessarily. He would have sold himself into a form of slavery. Gabe, an intellectual monopoly is a powerful thing. If you plan to use our reactor for plain fun or for some ridiculous moral crusade, think again. That machine is our 1000 cycles, and it doesn't matter whether we are hiding it from our boss or from civilization at large. It will not, cannot, be used unless our lives depend upon it. Yip yip."

"Blake, when I voted to fuck the public good, I wasn't suggesting we derail the course of science just to let the thing rust. I was just saying that we are better prepared to use this technology than elected charlatans and incompetents, and that handing it over to them would be irresponsible. Letting this thing go to waste is not only irresponsible on our part, it's criminal."

"Underperforming is always legal, Gabe, sometimes compulsory, and in our case, it is necessary. You know very well we can't turn it on. Who helps us run it? How do we keep it quiet? The Feds have agents everywhere. We are public employees. If we get caught we'll get thrown into Federal prison for treason and the barbarians in Washington and their corporate overlords will have free reign over the power of the sun. Drink up, Gabe, and live your life. The alternative is suici,i, i, yip yip. Suicide."

"So, you're saying our sun is best used as an tool we can use to support a lazy and indulgent life."

"Laziness and indulgence is not my motive, just a happy side-effect. My motive is survival, and the greater good. The public pays us to protect them from themselves. Look at our economy! We already suffer from massive unemployment. If we turned this thing on we could supply all power needs for the continents of North and South America. Millions in the electricity biz would be fired. Chaos, riots, mayhem. All the skills of these folks would be entirely useless. Dangerous. Very dangerous."

Blake looked at me with one eyebrow slightly raised. Sometimes he took me for an idiot. That bothered me.

"Blake, stop wasting time. I am no Republocrat and you are no actor. No one with a shred of common sense has bought that incredulous argument since Bastiat's Broken Window."

"Well done, Gabe, now we're getting somewhere. But you are not entirely right. In fact, no one with common sense has ever bought that argument, before or after Bastiat. Yet, the proportion of individuals somehow lacking common sense in this particular aspect has increased to the majority. Therefore, when in our position, it behooves us to pay lip service to it if we are ever brought to trial for our behavior."

"What are you saying, Blake?"

"I'm covering my bases. If and when it is exposed that we developed a viable fusion reactor with public funds, and we are on a trial by jury for keeping it secret, just say we withheld the information for the public good. Say we saved millions of jobs and prevented riots and mayhem. We'll get off scot-free. That's what I'm saying."

"Forget it. That's a damn lie anyway, Blake."

"No it isn't. There would be riots. There would be mayhem."

"Yes, but we know better."

"They don't know know that. How could they? This is America. This is democracy. As for political ideology, we are all judged at the lowest common denominator, and expected to be blithering idiots regarding anything but fusion science. Ain't it beautiful?"

"We are not using this thing for milk, Blake."

Blake finished my beer.

"We'll live like kings, my friend. No one will miss fusion power anyway."

I was angry. Either Blake was right or the drugs had gone to his head. But, Blake was usually right when he wasn't joking around, even with the drugs. My former exuberance was waning. But, if all this was true, there was some comfort that we would not be the only ones. If Blake was right, there were certainly others hiding breakthrough discoveries for self-preservation–maybe even fusion power, but God knows what else. Would I be able to find them? Had they been looking for me already? The world was getting weirder.

Blake's Tweak (cont.)

2010-08-31T08:56:00.000-07:00

I woke up two days later and watched Blake inserting small pieces of stale glazed doughnuts into his mouth, chewing slowly. He was mostly stoic, but sitting in front of the monitor reviewing his tweak, trembling slightly. His quiet observations were interrupted by sudden fits of gleeful cackling as he admired his flashes of brilliance. Sick. There's nothing more pathetic than a man consumed with delusions of his own genius. It may be fear or weakness of will, but I've never been able to draw the line between egoism and narcissism, and dare not even approach it. Blake never had such apprehension, and was now standing on his chair performing a lurid gesture with his hips and arms reminiscent of the boy's corner at a high school dance. What is ugly for an adolescent is most undignified for a grown man. I closed my eyes and tried, in vain, to drift back to sleep.

Yes, his work was clever. It was a breakthrough. I would be proud if I had found it. But, the discovery relied on decades of scientific research and was aided with million-dollar super computers and specialized software–the work of thousands. Blake's tweak would have been attempted eventually. Maybe 10 years later, maybe 20. The find was inevitable. He just wound his way through the labyrinth faster. Some of his leaps were aided by either an impossibly sensitive intuitive understanding, or blind luck, or some combination of the two. I suspect more of the latter. Forgive me. There is some serenity required of a professional man whose lifetime achievements have just been dwarfed by a man frantically gyrating on a chair while wearing underwear on his head. I was not getting back to sleep.

Idiosyncrasies aside, we had our personal sun. It was a fact. It was nothing to dwell on or obsess over. Some might consider it time for celebration, but I thought nothing of the sort. My response was sober and unexpected. This was not something to admire or envy. This achievement was something to loathe. It was an obligation. Imagine the deaths, every moment, around the world that could be prevented by unlimited free power? Imagine the human suffering that could be eliminated. What have we done? Jesus. What the fuck were we doing standing idly by as the planet choked in a fog of carbon emissions and fountains of spewing oil? In my first sober assessment of the situation a worrisome clarity set in. There was not pride, but guilt. It took hold–this unfortunate, detestable sense of obligation that seemed to well within me. I imagined the scorn of the world's poor and suffering at my idleness, even in these first moments. I imagined I was The Catcher in the Rye, but fumbling children off the cliff to their death instead of catching them. It was a type of slavery, beholden to humanity. Then, the real beast struck–paranoia. It descended like thick fog in a small arena of hungry lions. I was killing people every moment in my stupor. If there was a hell, I was going there. If there was a hell, I was roasting there for eternity...

Blake sat down and began his acid dropping ritual, carefully scanning the cornucopia of glassware, baggies, pill bottles and miscellaneous paraphernalia neatly arranged in his deep desk drawer. Choosing the perfect specimen, he set the bottle carefully on his desk and smacked his hands together, rubbing them aggressively. He liked to sort of trump-up the event, and began his unconscious humming. It was usually something classical when he dropped acid; this time, Stravinsky. His melody transformed to rhythmic grunting as the mood was set, a shrine of candles illuminating his dark workstation with a stick of opium-scented incense emitting strands of blue smoke. I was now securely awake, but still–a voyeur under the sheets. Blake's behavior was often painful to watch. I did not approve of his drug habits, and only tolerated them by necessity. He was too useful to the project to dismiss for relatively petty lifestyle choices, and I dared not interrupt. I observed that Blake must have come to different conclusions regarding our place in this universe than I had. Rather than disappointment, I felt a sort of a relief, however irrational. Somehow his attitude gave him credibility, like a drunk general walking calmly through a hail of bullets, emerging unscathed. Even if it was crazy and meaningless, it was a sort of comfort. I felt my stiff shoulders begin to release. It was his celebration, his reward, and maybe he deserved it. Maybe he had earned it. Who was I to judge? Maybe he knew what he was doing more than I. Maybe I comprehended nothing at all and he held all the answers. Although, even if that was the case, I feared the worst as I watched him gently dip the eyedropper into the bottle of high-powered LSD, lifting the small glass tube to his mouth. He paused, and then his head fell back as he moved the dropper over his left eye. This was a special occasion. I hadn't seen Blake window pane since his first day in the lab. The tiny drop fell into his left eye, then his right. He was completely still for several moments, then placed the dropper on the desk and let his arms fall to his sides, his head drooping farther back behind the chair. His trip began immediately. I decided I needed a drink, and entertainment. I wasn't prepared to deal with the gravity of what was going on–it was a sinister form of delirium that could be cured only with sweet beer, but also resolve, courage. I did not need insanity thrust upon me. I needed insanity of my own device. I decided to fuck with him.

I pulled the blue and orange striped blanket over my head and stood next to the bed, slowly extending my arms to each side. I couldn't see anything. A peek hole would have ruined the effect. I began to sway and listened closely. Silence. Good. It was working. To Blake I surely had become the embodiment of his worst nightmare–a melting alien poltregeist or something. I began to amble towards him.

Silence.

I didn't usually do this. In fact, I never did. Messing with a man in an acid binge is not advised under any circumstances, and who knows what else he had taken. But, at this point, something told me I needed to freak him out. Maybe I needed to expose the irresponsibility of his drug use. Maybe it was an urge to awaken him–to illustrate our new responsibility. Or, maybe I just needed to escape. Whatever the cause, it felt like an imperative, however out-of-character.

Closer, closer...

Finally, when I could see his shoe below the blanket I leaned in. The bulge of my skull must have appeared to him as some mutant hippopotamus or something. I was certain he was terrified and trembling.

When I was certain he was huddled against the back of his chair in psychedelic terror, I lifted the blanket and threw it aside. To my dismay, his stiff middle finger dominated my field of view, the two prominent knuckles and fingernail extended firmly in front of my face. He rescinded his hand, flicked the lighter with his thumb and began to gurgle on his bong again. I had never tried acid, and this fact had never been quite so pitifully clear. By now the water in his contraption was a revolting black slurry. I winced. We needed to get out of there.

I looked at the time: 11:30 PM. I stepped into some jeans.

"Get dressed. We're going to the bar."

"I am dressed."

The elastic band of his briefs extended around the circumference of his head. He was wearing one sock. Otherwise, he was naked. I threw him a shirt and a pair of overalls.

"Put these on. We invented a sun, Blake. We need to talk this over and I need a beer."

Blake held the overalls in front of him. He examined them, or admired them, or God knows what. Ug.

I don't want to dwell on it, but skipping Blake's 'life speed' would be irresponsible in any narrative including him...

Inspiring Blake to do anything was a challenge, if not altogether impossible. Whatever cocktail of narcotics he was on, even coke or speed, his tempo was frustratingly slow. Sure his mannerisms might turn twitchy and animated, but his rate of efficiency remained at a constant, infuriating gear: super low. On this occasion, he set the bong on the table and carefully dipped one leg in the overalls, and then the other. Thinking about it makes me impatient and twitchy, and right now my writing pace will turn frantic if I let it get to me. It was everything–dressing, eating, walking, absolutely everything except coding (where he suddenly trans mutated into a Tasmanian Devil). My sentiments regarding his pace were a well-guarded secret, of course. I didn't let on how much it bothered me as it would have only decelerated him. I just ate it as he meticulously buttoned, unbuttoned, then re buttoned the overalls. This was his little tyranny, voluntary or not. His little reign of terror, striking every time I prodded him to move his ass. His little kingdom of laziness was either a brutal tactic or some incomprehensible cognitive handicap. I had to assume the latter.

Finally, we got to the bar. I took the blindfold off of Blake and we walked in. It was midnight. We only had two short hours till last call. It was time to get busy...

Quote of the Day

2010-08-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

Whatever a theologian regards as true must be false. There, you have almost a criterion of truth. His profound instinct of self-preservation stands against truth ever coming into honor in any way, or even getting stated. Wherever the influence of theologians is felt there is a trans valuation of values, and the concepts "true" and "False" are forced to change places. Whatever is most damaging to life is there called "true" and whatever exalts it, intensifies it, approves it, justifies it, makes it triumphant, is there called "false." When theologians, working through the consciences of princes, or of peoples, stretch out their hands for power, there is never any doubt as to the fundamental issue–the will to make an end. The nihilistic will exerts that power.

Is it possible to have a warm spot in one's heart for Friedrich Nietzsche? Call me a sentimentalist. I do. My eyes even get a little watery as I listen to this public domain Librivox recording of "The Antichrist." I know it's irrational, and I just don't care.

Oh, oh, and this one...

Definition of protestantism: "Hemiplegic paralysis of Christianity, and of reason."

I think I'm in love.

Probably not thinking clearly.

The Great Carrot Caper

2010-08-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

Nate planted his carrots the second week of April. I remember there would be a chill in the morning air as I looked out through by bedroom window. Way off in the distance I could see Nate's hunched silhouette slowly moving back and forth against the dark orange sky. Each seed was placed into the ground by hand. We all knew those seeds were something special. They would grow into the most delicious carrots you could imagine. That was many years ago.

They were called Stigler Sweets, a breed of vegetable unmatched in quality–the plumpest, sweetest, most delicious carrot you had ever tasted. You can't find them anymore. They disappeared and nobody knows why, for sure. Some say they are simply too difficult to grow. Others say that one day Stiglers suddenly lost their sweetness. Still others report events so strange and curious that one could hardy imagine they had anything to do with carrots. But, most talk about the Stigler's disappearance is gossip and hearsay. Over the years much has been forgotten, and much more than that has been fabricated. A humble horseshoe maker such as myself ought not speak too much about those things beyond my own experience. I reserve my testimony to the events as I saw them, and as they were told to me by those directly involved...

The Stigler crop was a popular topic of discussion among all the neighbors in those days, and the year our story begins was no exception. The weather had been ideal throughout the spring and hot summer, and the characteristic green, bushy tops had erupted from Nate's fields. His harvest was about to begin, and many waited to see if Nate would need assistance. The harvest season was short, and this year's crop was the largest anyone had ever seen...

In those first brutal days of the harvest Nate slept little. He would awaken to the call of the rooster, roll off his straw bed, and scatter the morning dew with his worn leather boots as he walked to the soft soil of his fields. In those dim hours Nate would begin his daily harvest, pulling the leafy carrot plumes from the ground and gently placing the ripe orange vegetables into one of his great tweed baskets. As the chill of the morning air yielded to to the warm, dry sunlight, Nate would continue to advance down the long, bushy rows, wiping the sweat from his brow with his loose, muslin sleeves. At noon, Nate could be seen enjoying his lunch in the shade of a large willow tree, which, no doubt, included a hearty portion of his delicious carrots.

After his lunch beneath the mighty willow, Nate would gather as many baskets as he could carry and begin his daily march across the fields, through some woods, across the creek, and into a small collection of wooden structures nestled in a grove of mighty oak trees known as Acorn Row. This was our little village, which sat along the small country road. I would see him walk by my shop and over to the marketplace where he would exchange his carrots for the tools or supplies he needed. This was also his chance to seek help, if it was required, to help him pick his carrots.

Nate preferred to pick all of his carrots himself. There were various reasons for this, but it was probably because the work was difficult and risky. Any Stigler bumped or bruised during harvest was ruined, and instantly tasted like rotten cabbage and vinegar. But, what was most disturbing was the curious risk of picking an unripened Stigler. What I am about to tell you has been affirmed to me from none other than Nate himself, and while it may seem unbelievable, it is certainly not the most absurd of all the atrocious tales on the subject. It so happens that a Stigler, if picked before it is ripe, is strange and unpredictable poison. It is a fact that anyone who eats it will inevitably go mad, performing incomprehensible feats of danger and insanity. This was virtually unknown to anyone but Nate and his workers at the time. And, there is another, even lesser-known attribute of a young Stigler: it is just as sweet as a fully ripe one, if not sweeter. And, it has even been said that the intoxicating Stigler exhibits a subtle, tangy flavor even more delectable than the flavor of a ripened one. But, of course, there can be no reliable account of the flavor of an unripened Stigler, as the testimony of anyone who has eaten one is questionable at best. Thus, it is a fact that the only possible way to know the true flavor of an unripened Stigler is to taste one for one's self, a feat so dangerous that one would need to be mad to do it in the first place.

Needless to say, when Nate required help to pick his Stiglers, he would select only the most capable and experienced pickers to be sure only the ripest and safest Stiglers would be picked. On this particular season, there were far more Stiglers than Nate could ever pick. In fact, he estimated he could only pick half of them himself and therefore required pickers to help. If he did not acquire help, half of his crop would be wasted. Thus, on one afternoon, after he had sold his baskets of Stiglers, Nate asked three folks in Acorn Row to help him with his harvest.

Nate decided to offer some of the carrots that would otherwise be wasted to workers in exchange for their help with the harvest. His workers would be permitted to keep half of the carrots they picked to either sell or eat themselves. This was a generous portion, and plenty were willing to work for Nate. But, considering the dangers, Nate was cautious to select only pickers who were qualified. He wanted to be sure none of the Stiglers were bruised, and he needed to be able to trust that his workers could identify which Stiglers were ripe.

Charlie was Nate's first choice. Charlie had taken great care of Nate's carrots in the past, and was capable of picking 3 baskets a day. Barney was Nate's second choice. While Barney was only capable of picking 2 baskets, he also took great care of Nate's carrots, and Nate trusted him. With both Charlie and Barney at work, Nate realized that he would only require one additional basket each morning in order to complete the harvest in time, so, his third choice was not based on the number of baskets, but the degree of care delivered to picking the fragile Stiglers. As such, Aaron, a young man of little experience, was offered the job. The year before, Aaron had demonstrated an ability to pick only 1 basket of carrots each morning, but he was very meticulous, and took care never to damage any of the carrots he picked. Therefore, he was the ideal choice for this position. Even though he would only get to keep one-half basket each day, much less than the others, Aaron was surprised and delighted to be offered the position.

The next day, Charlie, Barney, and Aaron arrived early in the morning to pick as many carrots as they could. As expected, by noon Aaron had picked one basket of carrots, Barney, two baskets, and Charlie, three. After lunch under the great willow tree, they all walked back to Acorn Row where each gave half of their carrots to Nate and sold the rest themselves. Nate sold his own carrots as well as those he had acquired from Charlie, Barney, and Aaron.

Not everyone appreciated Nate's operation. An old-timer named John approached Nate one afternoon as he was selling the Stiglers he had received from his workers. John asked, "Now Nate, do you think you ought to be selling carrots that you didn't pick yourself?" Nate would just say "yes, of course." He wasn't much of a talker. (I always bought my carrots from Aaron, myself. They were a bit more expensive, but always in extremely good condition.)

Acorn Council
In those days I was a member of something called the "Acorn Council." This was a group everyone in Acorn Row was expected to join at some point. We met in "Oak Hall," which was in the center of Acorn Row, to discuss the public issues of the day. This was how we helped each other take care of tasks everybody in the area needed, like fixing up our road and maintaining the well so that we always had water. We even had an official document: the "Acorn Ordinances," (also called the "AO") which was sort of a code of conduct for everyone in the community. Specifically, the AO stated: "Ordinances should be written to prevent one person from harming another." There were 10 AOs.

There shall be no throwing of duck eggs, rotten or otherwise.
There shall be no placing of banana peels on any surface meant for walking.
The use of stilts must be limited to areas meant for walking.
There shall be no walking on stilts taller than 3 feet while eating anything, but especially sausages.
When someone is walking on stilts, one mustn't bring food of any kind within 10 feet of said person walking on stilts.
There shall be no throwing of anything at anyone, but especially someone walking on stilts, and especially if those stilts are over 3 feet high.
All stilts must be carved from a single piece of wood, as stilts fastened with nails have been known to break in some circumstances.
If duck eggs have been thrown, in violation of AO #1, the thrower must retrieve and discard thrown duck eggs before they spoil and begin to smell really bad, especially if they are on the roof of a cottage.
The wearing of green togas is prohibited while walking on stilts, especially togas with tassels. Cowboy hats are also discouraged.
Pet rabbits are to be kept in cages or rabbit pens at all times.

As far as we knew, no one had ever violated any of the Acorn Ordinances. They were written many generations ago, and no one remembers why. For example, walking on stilts was not something anyone did in Acorn Row. But, these ten rules were honored and respected. The Acorn Ordinances were a source of pride for all the good, law-abiding citizens of Acorn Row.

Well, the Acorn Council met in the mornings. And, on one particular morning, as Nate, Aaron, Barney, and Charlie were working way up in the fields, I walked into Oak Hall, sat down at in my chair, and began munching on Stiglers from a bowl that sat in the middle of the big round table. There were always fresh Stiglers to eat at our meetings during harvest time. I considered these meetings a nice break from the hot furnace of my horseshoe shop, even though I had plenty of work to do. Anyway, as the 6 members of the council enjoyed Stiglers, we would usually discuss the current goings-on of the Acorn Row area. At this time, naturally, the industrious Nate and his Stigler production was a regular topic of discussion. Most of the talk was complimentary; "These Stiglers are sure delicious," or "Nate sure knows how to grow a carrot." But, not all the members of the council were equally flattered. Ferdinand, the youngest of the members, had spoken with Nate, and had some concerns about his operations. What was usually a sleepy meeting suddenly grew animated and uncomfortable...

"Gentlemen, I have spoken with Nate, and he has informed me that he rewards his three workers differently for their work in the Stigler fields. Charlie is compensated 1-1/2 baskets of carrots a day for his work, and Barney is compensated only 1 full basket."

"Well," replied Andrew, a farmer himself, "I am sure Nate is paying his workers according to their production. He is a fair and honorable man, and besides, all work in Nate's field is voluntary. He does not force anyone to pick carrots."

"Yes, but Andrew, one of Nate's workers is paid an extremely low wage indeed," replied Ferdinand. "You see, Aaron, his youngest worker, is compensated only 1/2 basket of carrots a day. We can all agree that 1/2 basket is hardly enough to support a man. It certainly does not allow him more than the bare minimum needed for survival."

Andrew was quick to respond. "Ferdinand, if you remember, last week Aaron was begging on the street corner for apple cores and bread crumbs. Now, he is earning a living in Nate's fields. And, he is learning the valuable skill of Stigler farming."

"What kind of living is that!?" cried Ferdinand. "Last week Aaron was certainly earning more by begging than he is earning now, but now, he is working very long, hard days. It is obvious that Nate is exploiting Aaron by forcing him to work, and, with respect, that, gentlemen, is in violation of our Acorn Ordinances, which states quite clearly: "Ordinances should be written to prevent one person from harming another."

All six members grew still and morose, munching quietly on their Stiglers. I didn't like this kind of talk. But, it was clear that Ferdinand had pointed out some difficult facts to ponder. It was true that 1/2 basket was barely enough to live on. Even so, it seemed as though Aaron should be allowed to work instead of beg. But, there was also no doubt that this was difficult and dangerous work. Finally, after several minutes of silence, Ingrid, the eldest member of the council, suggested we invite Aaron to the next meeting to resolve this problem for good.

Several days later, the council arranged for a special evening session. All were stoic around the large wooden table in Oak Hall. Aaron was seated at the table, and Ingrid would be asking the questions. Andrew and Ferdinand had expressed opposing opinions on the matter, and those opinions, regardless of whether they were plausible, were attached to each man's reputation. The council agreed that the questions should be asked by someone who had not yet formed an opinion on the matter. Ingrid, being of an age so old to have spoken with the great grandchildren of one of the original authors of the Acorn Ordinances, was elected to ask Aaron the questions. Her voice was slow and steady...

"Aaron, thank you for meeting with us. It looks like you have worked very hard today."

"Yes, Ingrid, I have."

"That is what we have heard. We have a few questions to ask you regarding that. Please answer them as honestly as you can..."

"Yes, ma'am. I am not many things, but I am honest."

"Very well. Will you tell us how many hours you work every day in Nate's fields?"

"I work from dawn to noon, which is about 6 hours. Then, I work from one o'clock until about three hauling the carrots to the marketplace. Then, I sell carrots from three until five, but that is on my own time. I work for Nate a total of 8 hours a day."

"And how much does Nate pay you for your work?"

"Nate allows me to keep one-half of everything I pick."

"And, how many carrots is that?"

"I am able to pick about one basket a day. I give half of that to Nate and I keep half."

"So, Nate pays you one-half basket for 8 hours of work?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that. I have tried to pick more, honestly, but picking these carrots requires a lot of care. You can't bruise them or anything or they go bad. So, I am very careful. Besides, I want to be sure Nate continues to allow me to pick his carrots."

"But, it is true that 1/2 basket is a very small amount."

"Yes, ma'am, it is."

"And, it is barely enough to live on."

"I suppose I agree it is."

"Now, we have a law in Acorn Row which states: 'Ordinances should be written to prevent one person from harming another.' Would you say that your very difficult work could be considered 'harm?'"

"I am exhausted every night, but I am just learning how to do it. I am improving. I am learning to pick faster with the same amount of care."

"Aaron, I am asking you a yes or no question. I see you are covered in dirt. It is obvious you are under a lot of strain. Would you consider working on Nate's farm "harmful?"

"Well, I did scrape myself yesterday. It is very hard work."

"Yes or no, Aaron."

"Well, then, I guess I'd have to say yes. Hard work is harmful. It just, well, is."

Everyone sitting at the table gasped.

"Thank you, Aaron, you may go now."

Aaron stood up, nodded, and walked out the door and down the stairs. A vote was cast, and the council decided unanimously that Aaron was indeed being harmed. Since this was decided to be the case, there was no question that Nate's farm was where Aaron was being harmed, and there was no question that Nate was the owner of the farm and the employer of Aaron. But, it was not entirely clear whether Nate was actually harming Aaron. After all, Aaron had chosen this work. But, it was questionable whether a self-respecting person would harm himself willfully. And, it was apparent that Aaron was an honorable and self-respecting man. Therefore, it seemed clear that Aaron was being harmed by someone, and that someone must be Nate.

A final vote was taken: "Considering what we have learned about Nate's employment of Aaron, is Nate harming Aaron?"

They passed little slips of paper around and each placed their piece of paper into a hat. Ingrid counted the votes:

Aaron IS NOT being harmed by Nate = 3
Aaron IS being harmed by Nate = 4

Acorn Council had made its decision. Nate was harming Aaron. This was very disturbing. An ordinance was now required to prevent Nate from harming Aaron. But, what was to be done? The council couldn't simply demand that Aaron stop going to the fields. Aaron would simply return to the street corner and beg as he did prior to his work in Nate's fields.

Therefore, after much debate, the 11th Acorn Ordinance was finally passed:

11. All Stigler carrot pickers must receive at least one basket of carrots for one day of work.

The writing was etched to the goatskin document and all in the vicinity of Acorn Row were informed that the 11th Acorn Ordinance had been passed. It was met with general approval among the public, who certainly believed that one basket of carrots was the least amount suitable for 8 hours of hard labor. This ordinance was known far and wide as the "Minimum Carrot Ordinance."

Nate and Aaron were informed of the Minimum Carrot Ordinance that evening. Then, the next day, while Nate, Charlie, and Barney walked to the fields, Aaron instead walked to the street corner to beg for apple cores and bread crumbs as he had done a few weeks before. Nate was a law-abiding citizen of the Acorn Row area, and would certainly not break Ordinance 11. He informed Aaron that the ordinance was clear that "All Stigler Carrot pickers must receive at least one basket of carrots for one day of work." Since that was the total amount of carrots Aaron could pick, Nate decided to hire Darron instead, who was capable of picking a full two baskets a day. Darron was not as careful with the carrots as Aaron, and Nate would have rather continued to employ Aaron, but he was definitely not going to break the law.

That day, Ingrid was walking to Oak Hall when she noticed Aaron begging on the street corner with tears in his eyes.

"Aaron, why aren't you out in the carrot fields? We just passed Ordinance 11, which means you are to be paid one basket of carrots for each day's work."

"Nate did not ask me back to work today, Ingrid. Everyone knows that I can only pick one basket a day. I know it too. So, Nate hired Darron, who is sort of clumsy, and tends to bruise the Stiglers, but is capable of picking two baskets a day."

"Ordinance 11 was passed so that you would not be harmed by Nate. It was not passed to harm you!"

"Ingrid, if I may say, while working on Nate's farm was one kind of harm, I prefer that kind to this kind. I am quite ashamed to be sitting here in public begging again. But, I certainly would not break the law."

Ingrid assured Aaron that something would be done to resolve this. That evening, she addressed the Acorn Council, and invited Nate, who was willing to attend.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that we, ourselves, have broken the primary purpose of the Acorn Ordinances. Our decision to force payment of one basket a day has resulted in greater harm than was being caused in the first place. Not only has Aaron been put back onto the street to beg, Nate has hired a less-desirable employee to replace him. Yes, it is true that Darron can pick two baskets a day, but two baskets a day was more than Nate needed anyway. All he needed was one basket a day picked with care."

Andrew was quick to respond: "This was a predictable result of passing this ordinance, which is why it must be removed."

Ferdinand was quick to rebut: "It was not our intention for Nate to replace Aaron. This does not change the fact that 1/2 basket of carrots is too little for anyone to live on. We must pass an additional ordinance to compensate for this small oversight."

The room suddenly erupted with shouting and banging of chairs. Ingrid stood and banged her gavel hard on the thick wood table. The room quickly went silent.

"We will have order in this room! Nate, please tell us why you replaced Aaron."

"Yes, of course. It is my intention to harvest as many of my extra carrots as possible and let the fewest number go to waste."

"And why do you desire to pick the extra carrots in your fields?"

"Because people want to buy them."

"And what do you plan on doing with the extra money you will make?"

"Well, I hope to build another room onto my hut."

Ferdinand quickly interrupted...

"And what are your reasons for needing another room!"

Ingrid banged her gavel forcefully against the table. "Sir, you are out of order. Nate, please continue."

"Yes, of course. Well, I have my own reasons for wanting to build another room, and they are personal, and I'd rather not say at this time. But, in order to build it, I need to harvest as many carrots this season as possible. I cannot pick them all myself, so I have asked some friends to help. They have offered to help in exchange for keeping a portion of the carrots they pick."

"Thank you, Nate. Can you tell us how you intend to harvest those extra carrots?"

"Certainly. Charlie picks three baskets a day and keeps 1-1/2 baskets. Barney picks 2 baskets, so he keeps one basket. With those two workers, I would have been able to pick nearly all the carrots. But, to pick the few remaining, I hired young Aaron who was slow, but careful, and could perhaps learn to pick faster with the experience he was getting. With his help, all the carrots would have been picked without any waste."

"But, you couldn't afford to pay him one full basket?"

"I could not. One basket is, as you know, equal to the amount he picks. I am a generous and charitable man, but I simply cannot permit Aaron to pick carrots for free. There are many reasons for this, but, most importantly, everyone in Acorn Row would be delighted to pick their own carrots for free, even if they are not qualified to pick them. Remember, if they are treated improperly, they taste like rotten cabbage and vinegar. And, there are other undesirable things that can happen if Stiglers are picked carelessly."

"Tell me why you chose to hire Darron in Aaron's place."

"Yes. Darron, in accordance with the law, can earn 1 basket a day. He picks 2 baskets total and keeps 1/2 of the total just like everyone else. With him working, we will finish several days earlier than we would have with Aaron. But, Darron tends to be clumsy. He bumps and bruises many of the carrots he picks. As a result, one half of the carrots in every basket he picks are bruised and need to be discarded. So, the result is that while two baskets are officially picked each day, one of those baskets is waste."

"Why don't you hire someone who can pick two baskets without bruising any carrots?"

Nate looked at Ingrid with shock and confusion. Of course, the shortage of qualified pickers was a problem Nate had spent many weeks, months, if not years pondering. He finally responded...

"Ingrid, I have searched this town for qualified workers my whole life. If there was anyone more qualified for this specific task than Aaron, I would have hired that person instead. And, if there were any worker who could pick two baskets a day better than Darron, I assure you, that person would be hired."

There were several moments of silence. Ferdinand finally spoke...

"So, Nate, you are saying that 1/2 of Darron's 2 baskets is wasted every day."

"Yes, that is correct."

"So, you are getting the same one-half basket of good carrots each day from Darron?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"But, the overall number of good carrots you would have otherwise acquired by the end of the harvest would be greater with Aaron?"

"Yes, that's right."

"So, basically, Darron is receiving the same number of good carrots a day as Aaron was? And, this ordinance simply forces you to waste a bunch of carrots?"

"Yes, that is exactly right."

"Well, couldn't you give Aaron, say, 3/4s of every basket he picks?"

"I suppose I would get the same number of carrots by paying Aaron 3/4s of a basket as I am paying Darron 1/2. But, that is irrelevant. Hiring Darron is legal and hiring Aaron is not."

"But, if the Acorn Ordinance had said, instead, that each carrot picker is entitled at least 3/4s of a basket every day, you would have simply given Aaron 3/4s of a basket a day?"

"I guess I would. I haven't thought about that. But, to be clear, in that case it is plain to see that he would still have only earned 1/2 of that basket. The other 1/4 basket per day would not have been earned, but would have actually been confiscated from me and given to Aaron on your, Acorn Council's, behalf. Perhaps we can ask Aaron if he thinks this would be fair."

Ingrid smashed her gavel against the table. "I will be asking the questions. Aaron, do you think 3/4 basket is fair pay for your 8 hours of work a day?"

Aaron snapped up in his chair...

"Um, well, I don't know if that is fair. I mean, I didn't know Nate would have agreed to pay me 3/4s of a basket. I mean, I didn't know how many others would have also worked for what I was being paid. I guess I could have asked. I'm curious, Nate, if I would have asked for 3/4s of a basket per day, would you have paid me that amount?"

Nate was thoughtful.

"Whether or not I would have paid you 3/4s of a basket is something neither of us can know. I hadn't thought about it at the time. If I were lucky, I might have been able to find someone else with your qualifications who would work for 1/2 basket a day. There is no way to know. You hadn't asked so I hadn't given it thought."

Ingrid looked at Nate with confusion...

"Nate, are you saying it is possible that you withheld 1/4 basket for yourself when you could have afforded to pay Aaron that amount extra?"

"Whether I could have afforded it is not a proper question. If Aaron had quit, and no other qualified person agreed to pick for 1/2 basket a day, all of the carrots Aaron would have picked would have gone to waste. Instead of letting them all go to waste, I might have considered letting Aaron keep 3/4 of the carrots he picked and kept 1/4 myself. This way, I would have lost only 3/4 of those carrots to Aaron instead of letting all of those rot away in the fields. But, now that I think about it, there are other factors. The other workers only earn half of what they pick, so the decision to pay Aaron a greater portion for his lesser work would have been irresponsible. It would have given incentive to the others to work less. Remember, Barney now picks 2 full baskets in order to keep 1. I am sure he would be delighted to pick only 1 basket, which is half the work, to keep 3/4ths! How would I possibly explain to Barney why he cannot earn 3/4ths basket for 1 picked when Aaron can? This would be a disaster! No, now that I think about it, I would have chosen to let Aaron's share go entirely to waste if no one else was available to work for 1/2 basket a day. That is simply the only fair and proper way to handle such a situation."

Ingrid wrinkled her brow. She had a very serious expression, and looked at Nate with concern, even scorn. She barked...

"Are you telling me you would be willing to kick Aaron out onto the street and let all those good carrots go completely to waste!?"

"Yes, Ingrid, it seems a bit unfortunate, but that is the best way to save the most carrots. Remember, half as many carrots are wasted now because of the Minimum Carrot Ordinance and Aaron has been kicked to the streets. If you are interested in allowing Aaron to work and me to not waste carrots, I suggest you simply repeal this ordinance."

"I am interested in upholding the Acorn Ordinances, and that means assuring Aaron is not harmed."

"But," replied Nate, "when you confiscate carrots from me and give them to Aaron, you are harming me."

"Yes, but the harm to you is only the loss of extra carrots and an extra bedroom. The harm to Aaron is the loss of his basic needs."

"Yes, but his basic needs can be provided from my extra carrots, or, those extra carrots can be wasted and he can beg. These are simply the facts. Besides, Aaron, would you approve of allowing the Acorn Council to confiscate my carrots and give them to you? Do you think that is a fair use of the Acorn Ordinances?"

"Of course not! I don't want to confiscate anything from anyone! I just want to earn a living!"

Ingrid pounded her gavel on the table and shouted. "This is all very confusing and we must keep the ordinances very simple so that everyone can understand. Aaron, the council has already voted and decided that we cannot allow Nate to harm you by permitting you to work on his farm."

This was very disturbing to Aaron, who, despite his slow picking, worked every bit as hard as the other workers. He responded:

"Since you say it like that, I approve of what you define as "harm." I contend that it isn't harm at all. I want to pull my weight and earn a fair living. I understand why Nate must not pay more than 1/2 of what is picked. I will have it no other way. He has always been honest with me."

Ingrid smashed the gavel hard into the table.

"Enough! Enough of this nonsense! Aaron, you are obviously distraught because you are a slow and ineffective carrot picker. You have caused enough trouble already! And, now, you are speaking against yourself, which I cannot allow. You are saying you desire to be harmed, which is something that no one, it seems, in their right minds, would ever say. WE know what you are worth, not Nate, and WE, the ACORN COUNCIL, will look out for you and your interests, because you are obviously not capable of looking out for your own."

There was chatter and shouting from all around the table as Ingrid smashed her gavel against the table several more times. This was all very troubling to me.

"That will be all! The Ordinance will stand. Nate, Aaron, you are excused while the Council will stay to resolve this."

Ingrid was incensed. Her face was red and she grasped her gavel tightly as Aaron and Nate walked out of the room and down the stairs. Munching on Stiglers feverishly, she stood and delivered a short speech to the Council. She said...

"We have seen here today the cause of our problems. It is GREED and EXPLOITATION of the most sinister kind perpetuated against the poorest, most feeble member of our population. Nate has just revealed that he could have afforded to allow Aaron to keep 3/4s of one basket per day and did not. This is a crime against humanity and it must be stopped."

Andrew interrupted.

"Ingrid, I'm sorry, but Nate explained why he cannot afford to let Aaron keep 3/4 basket a day. Besides, he may very well have found someone else to work for half of one basket! We cannot know."

"Even if he did find another, Nate would have been exploiting that picker. These poor workers are simply too stupid to care for themselves. Someone must be willing to help people like Aaron get on their feet."

Andrew shouted angrily...

"We were the ones who's actions caused Aaron to be removed from the carrot fields. Ingrid, it is you who are too feeble-minded to realize that we should never have meddled in Nate's business in the first place!"

Ingrid shouted back "It is not my fault that Nate refuses to pay Aaron what he deserves!"

I had never, in all my years, witnessed such offensive language coming from anyone on the Acorn Council. It seemed plainly obvious to me that the council had no business either confiscating carrots from Nate to give to Aaron or demanding that any worker be compensated any specific amount. The majority of the council seemed to have forgotten that Nate has the option of letting half his crop go completely to waste. Nate could decide to farm only what he himself needs, and if he had chosen to do that, Barney, Charlie, and Darron might be in the same place as Aaron, begging on the corner. But, what I found most disturbing was the fact that I knew Aaron, because of the good condition of his carrots, was in fact earning more from his 1/2 basket than Barney was from his full basket. I could not prove this, so it was not something I could even suggest to the council. All of this was absurd. I reclined and lifted a curiously small Stigler to my lips, enjoying its delicious crunch. The Stiglers were more luscious than ever...

I suddenly, for some reason, pondered whether there was possibly some justification for this Minimum Carrot Ordinance...any justification at all...

[crunch, crunch]

After all, it had passed the council on a vote of 4 to 3...

[crunch, crunch]

If the council passed it, there must be some justification for it...

At this point, Ingrid spoke while ingesting one Stigler after another...

"Council, it is obvious that we now bear some responsibility for poor Aaron. Tomorrow, Aaron will be seated on the corner collecting handouts from those of us generous enough to contribute to his livelihood. It seems fair to me that those who have the most to spare should be the ones contributing to our poor Aaron. Does anyone disagree? Does anyone think the common folks have less to spare than the rich ones? Of course not. Thus, we will vote on another Acorn Ordinance..."

12. All carrot pickers who pick 3 baskets of carrots a day must deliver 1/2 basket to the most impoverished person in Acorn Row.

There was a frightening look in Ingrid's eyes. She was standing, and pushed a little Stigler into her mouth while chomping in a machine-like fashion. The ballots were passed around the table. I was horrified. This meant we would confiscate 1/2 basket of carrots from Charlie every day. We sat around the table in silence as Ingrid finished the last of the little Stiglers.

"We will call it the "Carrot Basket Welfare Ordinance." Remember, if you vote against this, you are voting to deprive Aaron of what he needs for just his basic welfare."

After a long while, the votes were placed into the hat. It was my turn to count the votes, and I feared what I saw.

AGAINST the "Carrot Basket Welfare Ordinance" = 3
FOR the "Carrot Basket Welfare Ordinance" = 4

Nate, Charlie, Barney and Darron were immediately informed of the Carrot Basket Welfare Ordinance. The next day, when Nate, Darron, Charlie, and Barney returned from the fields, Ingrid met them at the marketplace.

Charlie had picked 3 baskets of carrots, and handed 1/2 basket to Ingrid. Then, surprisingly, Darron had also picked 3 baskets. He also handed her 1/2 basket of carrots. Both were pleased to continue to be law-abiding villagers, and walked to the market to sell their remaining carrots.

Ingrid thanked them, and took 1/2 basket to Aaron, who began eating them. He winced, as they tasted quite strongly of rotten cabbage and vinegar.

She brought the other 1/2 basket back to Oak Hall. This happened to be the basket containing the more desirable of the Stiglers. She hadn't expected to receive the extra carrots. She ate what she could, and poured the extra carrots into the dumpster behind the building.

Barney, who had been picking two baskets a day, saw Ingrid dumping Darron's half-basket into the dump. For him, that was one quarter-day's work! He knew about the Minimum Carrot Basket Law. He also knew about the General Welfare Carrot Basket Law...

Well, Barney must have been feeling rather lazy the next day, because he only picked one basket. When he approached Nate, Barney said: "I'm sorry, Nate, I guess I just can't pick carrots like I used to." Nate said: "Barney, I'm sorry, but this means you are no longer allowed to pick carrots. It is against the law!" Nate informed the Acorn Council that Barney would not be allowed to pick carrots in Nate's field any longer.

The next day, Barney approached the Acorn Council and said that because of the Minimum Carrot Basket Law, he was prohibited from picking carrots. And, because of the General Welfare Carrot Basket Law, he should be given Darron's half-basket. Ingrid was delighted, because she didn't like throwing out perfectly good carrots. "Yes, this is the perfect solution," the Acorn Council agreed. "Our laws are working." They gave the remaining extra carrots to Barney. Barney was relieved, because he didn't like to see good carrots going to waste either. But, what Barney also liked was that he now got carrots without having to do anything at all.

Nate noticed that because of Aaron and Barney's absence, not enough carrots were being picked. Neither Charlie nor Darron could pick more than three baskets a day, and they were not happy giving away that valuable half-basket. Also, more people who 'could not pick one basket a day' were approaching the Town Council. Edgar and Feldon could not pick any carrots either. So, the Town Council changed the General Welfare Carrot Basket Law. Now...

12. All pickers who picked three baskets a day would give one whole basket to the town council to give to those in need.

The next day, Nate delivered two whole baskets, one from Charlie and one from Darron, to the Town Council. They gave one-half basket each to Aaron, Barney, Edgar, and Feldon.

The day after that, Charlie and Darron only picked one basket of carrots. Nate told them they were no longer allowed to pick carrots according to the Minimum Carrot Basket Law.

Nate continued to pick as many baskets as he could, but he was falling behind. The number of qualified workers had completely vanished. It was looking like Nate might not be able to build that extra room onto his hut.

After Charlie and Darron left Nate's farm, Aaron, Barney, Edgar and Feldon suddenly found that they were not receiving very many carrots. There were not enough carrots available to match what they had been promised according to the Acorn Ordinances. They had been promised 1/2 basket a day according to the General Welfare Carrot Basket Law and yet received hardly any because no one was picking them. This was very disturbing, because Stiglers were much tastier than bread crumbs and apple cores, and even the ones that tasted of rotten cabbage and vinegar were nourishing. Aaron and Barney considered returning to the fields, but feared Charlie and Darron would be angry if they knew that Aaron and Barney had actually only pretended to be lame in order to be approved by the Acorn Council for free carrots. Anyway, the council would confiscate so many carrots from any picker that picking carrots was simply less desirable than begging. So, Aaron and Barney decided they would not return to the fields. Edgar and Feldon made the same decision.

Seeing four gentlemen begging on the street, Ingrid called a special meeting. She invited Nate, the four beggars, and the six members of the council, including myself. The agenda included a mandate to correct the disturbing increase of beggars in Acorn Row. She banged her gavel into the table, calling the meeting to order...

"Ladies and gentlemen, we now have four poor beggars on the street of Acorn Row. Yet, there are perfectly fine Stigler carrots sitting in Nate's fields ready to be picked. This is completely unacceptable. Something simply must be done."

Ferdinand pounded his fist against the table and stood.

"This is an OUTRAGE. We have a moral duty to protect those least fortunate among us. Letting those Stiglers go to waste rather than using them to feed the poor would be a catastrophe. We must not adjourn this meeting until we decide how to feed these innocent, unfortunate souls."

Andrew was seated at the opposite side of the table and also stood as he sharply pounded his fists against the table.

"I'm afraid it has been demonstrated that we, Acorn Council, have made two grave mistakes. When we passed the Minimum Carrot Ordinance, we assumed 1/2 basket was not a living wage. But, this was a false assumption, as Aaron admits he earned nearly as much for his smaller number of fine carrots than Barney did for a whole basket. Aaron, is this correct?"

Aaron nodded. "Yes, it is..."

Andrew lifted his finger, pointing it around the table...

"Because of our ordinance, Nate, being an honorable, law-abiding citizen, was forced to fire Aaron, relegating him to the street to beg. We all object to stealing, and therefore would never propose an ordinance to steal Nate's carrots in order to give them to Aaron. Yet, we approved the General Welfare Carrot Basket Law, which did steal 1/2 basket per-day of the carrots Charlie earned. Is that not theft all the same? We would never propose that we ought to be running Nate's farm instead of Nate, yet, our ordinances prohibit Nate from running his farm as he believes he should. I will say it again. We must repeal these ordinances and allow Aaron to work and Nate to operate his farm."

"Nonsense!" Ferdinand scowled. "Why do you have sympathy for Nate? He has nothing to lose in any of this. He can take care of himself with all his land and enormous crop of Stiglers. Is it Nate that we have been elected to represent, or is it the many average workers in our community that need our help? I think we can all agree Nate is doing just fine without our protection. We simply must do what we can to support the least-well-off."

Ingrid's gavel smashed against the wood...

"Ladies and gentleman, I am proposing another ordinance. Ordinance #13 shall resolve these problems. It shall read as follows..."

13. The Acorn Council shall occupy and appoint workers to farm all land containing Stigler carrots that would otherwise go to waste.

"We shall call it the Great Stigler Enterprise, and we shall begin by appointing Aaron, Barney, Feldon, Edgar, Charlie, and Darron to work the extra portions of Nate's fields until they have all been picked. All of these carrots will be placed in a bin at the end of every day and split seven ways–one part for each of you, and one part for the Acorn Council. After all, we are the ones who are offering you this work in the first place."

Nate stood suddenly, and was uncharacteristically agitated.

"Ingrid. Council. I'm afraid I object to this decision. Stigler farming requires great care and skill. It is very easy to bruise the Stiglers, making them taste like rotten cabbage and vinegar, and there can be other dangerous consequences if Stiglers are not picked properly."

"Hmm..." Ingrid hummed. "Is that so?"

Nate nodded respectfully.

"Well, then, Nate, I suppose you better tell us what these other consequences might be..."

Nate looked at Ingrid and then the council. He was quite aware that unripened Stiglers would cause one to act strangely and perhaps even go mad. As a small boy he had witnessed a young man develop the habit of eating young Stiglers. This man soon began bruising more Stiglers than usual and not long after that he could hardly tell a ripe Stigler from a unripened one. All of their green, bushy plumage looked the same to him–as if he had never picked Stiglers before.

This moment standing in front of the council only lasted only a few seconds, but to Nate, it felt like hours. If he were to explain that Stiglers caused madness, he would be asked to explain his evidence for this. After all, no one in Acorn Row had ever seen such a manifestation. It had only been a rumor. Certainly, his testimony remembered from childhood, many many years ago, would not be sufficient. He would need something more in order to be convincing, and he had it. It was a dark secret Nate held very close to his chest. It was one that would shock and horrify his audience, and shame him for eternity as a miscreant of Acorn Row. In those few seconds he deeply pondered telling them all the truth...that he had eaten unripened Stiglers, and that he had personally gone quite mad doing so. The rumors about Stiglers were all true. Yes, Stiglers caused insanity. They were especially sweet, and tangy, and he knew this because of his own week-long frenzy of binging on unripened Stiglers. The event had left him so weak, depraved, and paranoid, he was determined to ensure a young Stigler was never picked again. Ever since, for decades, Nate had taken great care to train his workers in the art of proper Stigler picking. He had done such an excellent job at this that no unripened Stigler had not been picked as long as anyone could remember.

He wished he could simply explain the ill effects. He wished he could just tell them all of the dangers of allowing inexperienced pickers into the Stigler fields. But, by confessing to the council of his former Stigler experience, he would completely ruin his case. All of those in the room believed that once a man had eaten a young Stigler, he was insane for the rest of his life. While this was simply not true, there was no possible way to prove otherwise. He straightened up, and was stiff as a board.

"Council, I have farmed Stiglers my whole life. I assure you there are risks to picking Stiglers, and I do not advise passing this ordinance. I advise repealing the other two ordinances."

Ingrid was quick to respond. "Well, Nate, if there are dangers, I hope you would explain what they are. Are you going to tell us that some Stiglers can cause insanity? Are the rumors true?"

"I was a young child when I saw a man go insane."

"How old were you?"

"I was five."

"Hmppr, " Ingrid snorted, "is this governing council going to allow justice to be prevented by the witness of a five year old many decades ago? Tell us, Nate, would you like to share any other knowledge you have on the subject?"

Nate was beginning to sweat. He knew he could not reveal his secret. Doing so would not only invalidate the testimony regarding young Stiglers, but would also call into question everything he had said and done up until this point. He knew he could not confess...

"No, I have said my peace..."

"Very well, council, now we will vote."

Ingrid, who had been continually munching on Stiglers, passed around the ballots. They read...

FOR AO #13 to save Nate's carrots and support the poor
AGAINST AO #13 to let Nate's carrots go to waste and let the poor starve

The ballots were, again, handed to me. It just so happened I also knew the dangers of the Stigler, and I very much had hoped the rest of the council did also. I was saddened by what I saw...

FOR = 4
AGAINST = 3

Ingrid smashed her gavel and smiled. "The motion passes! YIIPPEEE!"

Some around the table flinched, surprised by Ingrid's uncharacteristic exuberance.

The rest of the evening was spent negotiating with the six workers and discussing work times, distribution details, and carrot picking safety.

The next day, the six workers entered the fields, led by Ingrid. By this time in the harvest season, Nate was picking the carrots near his hut, spending long days preparing for his own winter supply. He simply did not have time to properly train the less-experienced workers, especially Feldon and Edgar, who had never picked on Nate's field before.

By the end of the first day, the six hauled their carrots back to Acorn Row and dumped them into a bin. Ingrid carefully split up the carrots seven ways and distributed them; one for each worker and one for the Acorn Council. Each was left with 1/3 basket of carrots, and most of them tasted of rotten cabbage and vinegar. Although, some of the carrots, it is said, did taste especially sweet...

After several days of picking carrots all day and eating only 1/3 basket, the six workers were tired and hungry. They decided that rather than give a portion of their carrots to Acorn Row, they would sneak into Nate's fields in the wee hours of the morning and pick carrots for themselves–as many as they could pick. But, there was a problem...

In the wee hours of the morning–until about dusk–a thick fog always rested heavy against the countryside. It was so think that you could not see your hand in front of your face, even with a lantern, and anyone who ventured out of town in this was bound to get lost in the thick woods. The only way to approach Nate's fields was to somehow rise above the fog and use the moonlight to navigate using the tops of familiar trees. In order to do this, the six knew what was required. They needed stilts.

"Stilts!" Proclaimed Edgar. "That is against Acorn Ordinance #3!"

Charlie responded. "We have no choice, Edgar. Would you rather starve?"

All of the others were in agreement that stilts would be required, and each gentleman built his own. None were skilled woodworkers, and all also violated Acorn Ordinance #7, which stated that all stilts must be carved from one piece of wood. But, they were already breaking the ordinances by building tall stilts in the first place, so breaking more ordinances was not as much of a concern. Besides, there simply was no time. They were hungry, and needed to get to Nate's fields that night. By now they had grown very impatient.

When all of the stilts had been built, the six waited until the wee hours of the morning and then began quietly walking out to the fields, their heads poking just enough out of the thick fog to see where they were going. There was a full moon that night, and they could indeed navigate by the tops of familiar trees. They crept out of Acorn Row, splashed across the creek, meandered through some woods, and then finally entered Nate's fields.

The night was quiet, and the troop proceeded slowly and carefully so as not to disturb Nate, in case he was also working his fields by night. But, as they neared the rows of ripe Stiglers they, head some rustling in the distance. It seemed as thought they were not alone. The noises came from way off beneath the giant willow, and all six were concerned, because if they were seen walking on stilts over 3 feet high on ground not meant for walking they would be arrested in violation of the Acorn Ordinances. So, they remained calm, and waited. Whispering to each other, they decided it was probably a fox, and that it would soon scurry away.

But, the rustling continued for several minutes. The six leaned together on their stilts in wait. Finally Aaron, whose stilts were tallest, noticed something long and narrow leaning against the trunk of the great willow. Soon after, among the rustling they began to hear very strange noises, like cackling and snorting and crunching. They broke their huddle and slowly began advancing toward the willow. Had someone else beat them to the fields on their own stilts? Indeed, as they neared the tree, that is exactly what they were!

Suddenly, the six all heard the noises grow more pronounced. There was rustling, squealing, and grunting and crunching, and bits of dirt could be seen flung up just above the top of the fog. Whatever was beneath the willow was strange indeed, and the six proceeded cautiously.

Aaron led the way as they slowly approached the strange cackling. Seeing that the noises originated from generally the same place, they decided to investigate. They descended their stilts, leaned them up against the willow tree, lit a lantern, and began to carefully approach the snorting.

It was Aaron who led with his lantern, and it was not long before the noises were directly in front of them. Their curiosity overcame them and all leaned down at the same time to see its source.

All at once they were shocked to see a hideous creature writhing in the dirt, frothing at the mouth, and gorging on tiny, unripened Stiglers one after another with a horrid efficiency. A mane of long gnarled hair was caked with muddy dirt and limbs seized and shook in awful convulsions. It was dressed in a green toga with long colorful tassels and wore a large cowboy hats. The creature began pounding its fists against the dirt, screaming "YIIPPEEE!" in a familiar tone, between the violent bouts of crunching.

All at once, the six knew who they had encountered, and gasped.

"Ingrid!" shouted Aaron, in confused desperation. Then, like lightning, Ingrid snapped her bloodshot eyes open in a psychotic, terrified gaze. It was hard to imagine what they were looking at was human, but it was most definitely her, cheeks stuffed with great balls of shredded, half-chewed Stiglers.

Instantly, she was rampaging around them and screaming "Ferdie! Ferdie!" muffled by her orange stuffing. A few feet away, she seemed to be dragging something and grunting hysterically.

The six were frightened and shocked, but also amazed and curious. What was happening? Ingrid? Out here? Binging on young Stiglers? Could it be? They whispered these things to each other in startled astonishment. They had never seen anything like it. They walked toward the noises and found Ferdinand slouched in great pile of carrot greens, moaning and gurgling while being slapped and shook by Ingrid ferociously. He was adorned, also, in a green toga, complete with tassels and an over-sized cowboy hat.

Aaron brought the lantern up close and the six saw Ferdinand suddenly snap his eyes open. He was a depraved sight indeed, his face bright orange and his eyes wild. Like Ingrid, he jumped up and began galloping around in the fog like a wildebeest. The two seemed to be running in circles, but then it became clear that they were running in a spiral, observing their former footsteps, in order to find the tree trunk to ascend their stilts, apparently to escape.

All six saw detestable sight. While the six had broken the Acorn Ordinances in order to acquire food for plain sustenance, it appeared Ingrid and Ferdinand had violated a great number more of the Acorn Ordinances in order to indulge in something much different–some crazed, unripened Stigler binge. This was the chairwoman of the Acorn Council and a member! They were making a sad mockery of what small amount of governance existed in Acorn Row. The Stiglers were far too young, and it was obvious the two were intoxicated. They had gone completely mad on Stiglers, gorging themselves with dozens upon dozens of them as bits of the orange vegetable flung from their jaws during savage and voracious chomping.

As they heard Ingrid and Ferdinand ascend their stilts, the six yelled almost in unison...

"LET'S GET 'EM!"

They had been discovered. They were on the run. Ingrid and Ferdinand lifted their great stilts, one in front of the other, in giant strides. The six followed closely behind. The chase was chaotic, and winded through the woods and over the creek, and finally all the way back into Acorn Row. It was early in the morning, but some folks from town had awoken from the commotion and stood in the street as the two stilted creatures cackled hysterically into town. It was immediately apparent to all who saw them that Ingrid and Ferdinand had violated just about every Acorn Ordinance. There was an instant outrage, and soon many other people had awakened to find these two pillars of the community flagrantly breaking the very ordinances they had sworn to uphold.

The sight of Ingrid on stilts, made of multiple pieces of wood, wearing a green toga with tassels and cowboy hat invoked such rage, many in the community decided to respond by breaking the other Acorn Ordinances. Suddenly duck eggs began flying from all directions, rotten and otherwise, some landing on roofs of cottages. No one in town had any stilts, but one young gentleman opened up the gates on his neighbor's rabbit pen, breaking AO #10. The insanity intensified as men and women constructed rudimentary togas out of bed sheets and danced in the town square among the terrified rabbits while hurling volley upon volley of duck eggs, which began to blanket the windows and rootops.

Finally, Charlie, who had become incensed, committed an audacious crime when he tossed a banana peel into the street. Ingrid and Ferdinand both slipped on the banana peel and completed their rampage by tumbling into the marketplace, breaking a structural beam bringing down the entire structure. By the time the dust had settled, every Acorn Ordinance had been violated, everyone in Acorn Row had violated at least one of them, and everyone had paid dearly for the offenses.

And, that was how it happened way back when. After that, Stiglers weren't so popular. Nate left town, and no one else would dare farm them even if the AOs had allowed it. Ingrid moved in to Nate's hut and, in the meetings, she began to propose many more Acorn Ordinances. Few would vote against her proposals after that. Her unripened Stigler carrot habit had grown rather out-of-control, and she would begin frothing at the mouth at the first sign of disagreement. Here were the next few AOs...

14. No one but the Acorn Council is to farm Stigler carrots. Ever.

15. Acorn Council hereby owns all property in Acorn Row and the surrounding area.

16. No one works for anyone but the Acorn Council.

The six Carrot pickers worked on Ingrid's farm and harvested a constant supply of young Stigler Sweets. At least that's what they say. No one in Acorn Row ever saw any of them after that.

So, to this day, we call the event "The Great Carrot Caper," but, it was really the day the Acorn Council took ownership of our property and our lives. Earlier, when I said that no one knows for sure how we lost the Stigler, I meant that no one truly knows why the Acorn Council's judgment proved to be so poor. No one knows why folks voted for the Minimum Carrot Basket Law after it proved absurd and unjust. No one knows why folks would vote for the Carrot Basket Welfare Ordinance even after it had, in fact, caused more harm than good. We only know that Ingrid was able to use these ordinances to acquire everything we have. As you know, these days, everything we grow or make is property of the Acorn Council, and, whatever Ingrid cannot use (whatever is 'waste') is returned to us as a handout. It is perhaps the treatment we deserve for the poor judgment of those elected to represent us here in Acorn Row. But, all of that is in the past.

Today, we persist, thankful for our lives and what we are given; especially for the arsenal of stilts we are hoarding in our basements, carved from single pieces of wood–regulation, of course. And, for the walking paths we are building all around town and, yes, into Ingrid's Stigler fields. And, for the many thousands of turquoise togas we have quietly sewn–no tassels, only flaps and ornaments. And, for the many ostriches we have acquired, and their extremely large eggs. Yes, we are grateful for what we have been given, and hope and expect we can find the most efficient use for our formidable bounty, so that perhaps one day fresh, fully ripe Stigler Sweets might again appear on the tables of Acorn Row.

The End.

Choosing Confessions

2010-08-03T12:43:00.000-07:00

What more is there to write?

It has been said before, a thousand ways, and time is the only difference if it is to be said again. The same thing will have existed at a later time, and yet we are left with the original problem.

The cheep thrill of a new solution is fleeting, and then demands ten, twenty, a hundred more, and we are not left with resolution, but with work, distraction, grief, apathy.

Must unwrite, unthink, unexist. Must mute, dampen, regress back to something less than what we pretend can be defined. There are some awful truths that are simply too real to be blotted out with nice, clean, subtle ones.

Perhaps there are vibrant, divine errors that are superior to the reclusive, evil ones. Perhaps the pursuit of the least pathetic errors is the best we can accomplish. Perhaps life is war, and the lesser of two evils is really always the question. Maybe it is the least of a thousand evils, or a million, in an infinite future shaped by our perpetual failure–our lack of will and inaction, but probably mostly inaction.

There seem to be two options:

To do no harm and consider ourselves fortunate that we are still breathing.
To do harm with tenacity and enthusiasm and consider ourselves fortunate that there is more harm to be done.

Maybe choosing confessions is really all we are doing here anyway. Maybe that is enough thinking for the day.

Hunter

2010-07-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

I just finished "Kingdom of Fear," the book Hunter S. Thompson wrote shortly before taking his own life. As a general rule, I would not advocate affection toward, or admiration of, this insane explosives enthusiast, substance abuser, and pioneer of Gonzo journalism. That would be irresponsible. But, as Hunter might say, it certainly works for me...

Hunter was a writer of the truest kind, I think. There was no distinct point at which his life ended and his writing began. As an author, his next book would appear out of the ashes of the mayhem he was planning to ignite. His story was being written at every moment, crafted into a chaotic first-person narrative of drug-steeped sporting events and presidential campaigns. This awareness–that the success in his career might hinge on the audacity of his life choices–had a powerful effect. It pushed him to the limits of what his psychedelic-induced imagination could fathom. It provided an environment whereby the consequences, whether it be the courtroom, the hospital, or the insane asylum, would be vindicated by the public's thirst for his subsequent exposition. What did not kill Hunter made him stronger, and ushered him to a life on the edge, where the possibilities were endless. It was a life of intent, honesty, and courage, and it is difficult to argue with the results.

When I read Hunter, I am reminded that we are not given permission to author our lives. We create our future at every moment despite what the world expects of us. Sound judgment is a myth. We cannot know the future. But, when we accept that we are building our future, advancing with courage, conviction, and complete unpredictability, we are left with a sort of humility and grace. It is a place beyond, where all that has passed is perfection and all that is yet to be is irrelevant. It is a beautiful place, and one where life may be lived.

The Dreaded S

2010-07-14T11:27:00.000-07:00

Thank you, you know who, for reminding me of our personality category masters...

However, the Meyers-Briggs is almost a total sham. It mostly tells us what awful people we are while sugar-coating the ugly facts with pathetic flattery.

I took the test in college, where I learned I was an INFP...

"Quiet, reflective, and idealistic. Interested in serving humanity. Well-developed value system, which they strive to live in accordance with. Extremely loyal. Adaptable and laid-back unless a strongly-held value is threatened."

Just tell it how it is...

"Meek, slow, and delusional. Interested in believing fantastic errors of logic. Closed-minded and intellectually stunted. Dependent on pandering to others. Floundering and lazy unless frightened, which happens easily."

Then, about 5 years later, I took it again, where I learned I was an ENTJ...

"Assertive and outspoken - they are driven to lead. Excellent ability to understand difficult organizational problems and create solid solutions. Intelligent and well-informed, they usually excel at public speaking. They value knowledge and competence, and usually have little patience with inefficiency or disorganization."

Huh? But still, tell it how it is...

"Narcissistic and intolerable - they are driven to unyielding social domination. Excellent ability to manipulate people into doing things they don't want to do. Ruthless with a small cache of useful, superficial knowledge, they usually excel at pissing people off. They value nothing worthwhile, and have no patience for people they can't easily exploit."

I am a miserable human being indeed on both fronts, so is every other INFP/ENTJ. But, there is one thing I am not. There is one thing so vile and contemptible, even I am not capable of flirting with its sick, twisted sensibilities. Yes, I am referring to the unholy "S."

If the Meyers-Briggs were good for anything, it would be the identification of all human lizards capable of scoring the S. Anyone with an S in their type profile is dangerous, unpredictable, even lethal. S stands for "Sensing," but should stand for "Specimen," or "Sociopath," or "Sheep," or "Serial Puppy Killer." Don't worry, the true S wouldn't be the least bit offended by any of thes characterizations, but delighted. They do not feel as you and I do. Yes, the dreaded S senses everything, but feels nothing at all.

If there were anything special or worthy of reverence in this god-forsaken planet, the S would shun it, shit on it, and string it up. An S type, even the pathetic ISFP, is to be feared, for they are all relentless, efficient cogs in the grand machine churning to rip you to shreds for any technicality, no matter how trivial. They are soulless beasts who seek the Achilles heel of the most capable and honorable, then slice it with their nail file and pretend not to notice. Or maybe they don't notice. I don't know. Maybe they don't even know they are doing it. But, one thing is certain: these vile creatures must be stopped, or they will pulverize humanity in the endless meat grinder of technicalities until every last one of us has conformed to their numb, heartless excuse for an existence.

For an S, 1+1 cannot =3. Never. But, 1+1 can =2#&$@&*. It must! IT MUST! THERE IS NO OTHER WAY! And, that is why you can use them to incinerate millions of innocent people. Ss worked well for Hitler. They are the primary target of all demagogues and tyrants. To their credit, they are never the tyrants themselves. Never. But, if not for the S, the tyrant could never gain power in the first place. To an N, no argument can possibly win from the mouth of a raving, psychotic lunatic, no matter how self-evident. Ns detect that insane, freakish lust for power beaming from the frantic eyes of the possessed dictator. He is an obvious nut job. His is so easily dismissed as a man owned by fear, acting through terror on behalf of nothing but his own preservation. On the other hand, the S, incapable of comprehending his motives, and, believing 1+1=2#&$@&* because there is no other choice, is vulnerable to his arguments. To an S, there is no raving, flailing lunatic, just plain and simple facts placed neatly one-beside-another, just like the corpses stacked in pits next to rows of people being systematically executed–their limp bodies flopping over like sardines to be bulldozed over. They have hallowed this ground–those limp sardines–not us.

To use a timely metaphor, in the intellectual/philosophical/political world, the S will joyfully drill miles through bedrock to suddenly rupture a deep oil field under intense pressure, thus releasing an unstoppable flow of viscous grime, poisoning the world with fire, darkness, walking fish, and noxious fumes. It is always up to the Ns to plug the damn hole, usually after many irresponsible attempts including golf balls, rubber scraps, and miscellaneous refuse.

With that, I give you the plain and simple truth regarding the S, the scourge of the universe and the bane of our existence. May Ns use their power to give us nitrogen beer widgets rather than human fertilizer.

Starving the Soul Muncher

2010-07-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

The Soul Muncher amuses itself by munching souls. Its tactics are ruthless and evasive: move, wait, strike, disappear. It hits hard and fast, targeting the completely oblivious. It cracks down like lighting over a mini golfer on a sunny day, feasting on what would have otherwise been a mildly entertaining afternoon. Its victim is suddenly paralyzed, left in a vacant, obedient daze. Bereft of soul, the individual reverts to behavior deep within, like some base autopilot, terrified of anything without precedence. Purpose forgotten, the victim clings to order, no matter how superficial, swimming in an apparent sea of chaos. "One false move..." echos in the darkness of that place formerly hosting a soul. "One false move and it's all over."

Dread. It consumes like bad movie; one that just has to get better, but never does. The initial shock escalates quickly to boredom, confusion, and bewilderment. The departed soul twists in the jaws of its captor, desperate to return. It watches its beloved host from above, observing its every heinous, predictable move. It wrestles this monster's spiny tongue as its host plays follow the leader, any leader, but mostly the one closest in physical proximity. This new leader barks orders from the TV screen, or the monitor. It is followed without question or doubt as the soul watches in horror. The Muncher observes, smiling as the victim apes who or whatever screams the loudest or behaves the most consistently. A soulless host needs simplicity, and accepts it in place of merit. Without soul, impression rules, as if truth can be wished away by consensus.

But truth does not yield entirely to appearances. Beneath the colorful balls, reality exists, sometimes at a shallow depth, sometimes miles down. It is a fact hostile to the Muncher. Reprehensible. The most accessible reality is always the Muncher's target, changed at the last moment to perpetuate a delusion, any delusion that allows the munching to continue. The Muncher's tendrils placate, entice, distract. They snatch souls that might awaken a different host, capable of stealing back the soul from its clenched jaw at any time.

The Muncher will starve without fear, and instills it at every opportunity, so far as it is able. Two hosts with souls clenched are doubly departed, fearful and hostile towards one another until the loudest tyrant can be agreed upon. Three vacant hosts require a louder, more shrill voice to round them. A hundred requires nothing less than a crazed psychopathic narcissist. The advancement swells through towns, states, nations. A war is a manic feasting frenzy for the soul Muncher. It shrieks when confronted with peace or compassion.

Attacking the Muncher will yield unsatisfying results. It can only be defeated by attrition. It must be deprived of soul, and that requires indifference to the Muncher's existence and rejection of its influence. The Soul Muncher whimpers when ignored like a deserted puppy, and grows cuter and more innocent-looking with every soul sucked from its throat. When it has no soul to feed upon, it is the most irresistible, adorable entity imaginable. At this stage, with no tendrils or spiny tongue, its puppy eyes cry desperately for attention. Even one having witnessed the wrath of bloody carnage left in its wake cannot smash so meek and charming a Muncher. While it must be destroyed, its appearance resembles whatever is most pure and precious to the observing, intact soul. Only one as heartless as the Muncher itself would be capable of smashing something so adorable, and only a Muncher is quite that heartless.

The Soul Muncher cannot be destroyed, only starved, which is accomplished through recognizing the existence of subtle facts, such as the simultaneous futility and relevance of the physical world, and then acting upon those facts however required, generally in the most absurd and unpredictable way imaginable. I have yet to discern a more expedient method of starving the Soul Muncher.

Blake's Tweak

2010-06-23T15:40:00.000-07:00

Blake. Let's call the guy Blake for Christ sake. The guy's name doesn't matter. It might as well be Barthogoathead. Ya see, we have aliases for "security reasons." We have cover, ya know. The government has insisted we keep those aliases secret. Our "names." Call them whatever you want. Alright, if you must know, Blake is his real name. It's not the one on his birth certificate, or any of his passports. Blake is what his mother called him for the first 12 years of his life. If that's not a name, I don't know what is.

Anyway, Blake's in the lab, looking at the reactor, right? And he's like: "dude, I think i just got it to work, check this out." So I look at the monitor, and sure enough, he's programmed some flaming trousers into the code. Blake is a funnyman like that. It's just like him to do this. Ballsy, but not beyond his degree of dereliction and desire for shock value. So, he's sitting there, in apparent awe, basically claiming: "hey, look, I just tweaked these timer settings and voila, fusion!" Bullshit meter 12.3. I smacked the little bugger upside the head. Told him to stop fucking around. But, then he gave me that look, like he just shit his pants. I had only seen it once. It was the same look he gave me when he did, in fact, shit his pants. It was a wedding laxative fiasco that backfired, big time. Different story. Anyway, I pulled him up by his tidy whities and checked it out.

His reports of a sustainable fusion reaction were good upon a cursory glance, so I checked it out. They were too good. He would have had to spend a month setting it all up. So, I considered the impossible: we had a viable fusion reactor. It took a week to verify. The pieces fit. The integrity of the code had not been "compromised." When it all started to look legit I sat at that workstation for three days straight, eyes wide, running integrity checkers and analyzing the code and results manually. (I had never seen Blake so pissed, sitting on the couch, bong in hand: "dude, what the...sswwwwww/gurgle/gurgle, whhheeewww, fuck. I wouldn't [cough] lie about [cough] this shit. Nut nibbler."

We could power the planet 12 times over. Not bad for a couple dudes, a basement, and a few mil in "stimulus." We considered the implications and possibilities.

We had a choice: Tell the feds./Don't tell the feds.

Hm. Submit humanity's most important and powerful invention to an administration that feels obligated to attack any third world country that its secret insiders report harbor "terrorists." Oh, and do so without genuine congressional approval? Basically, give this shit to a commander in chief hell bent on a doctrine of unrepresented precrime.

Or, cover our tracks with years of fluff...perfectly logical and legitimate experiments that show progress, but nothing key. Keep the stimulus money flowing, and ponder what we will do with our killer new toy.

Looking at our work, it was pretty obvious. "We discovered this ourselves, damnit!" We knew what we had, how it worked, and how it could be used. Was it our responsibility to just hand the keys to a bunch of good-looking stooges in suites who went to law school and learned to talk all fancy? I don't think so. Is that the public good? Is that what we "owe society?" The best fucking science and power wrapped up with a nice bow and delivered to bureaucrats who sucked cock all the way to the top. We were both thinking the same thing. Fuck the "public good." We'll use this technology the way we decide.

The vote was unanimous.

For "fucking the public good": 2
Against "fucking the public good": 0

We had our baby. It was go time. It was time to rock.

Holiday

2010-06-21T18:52:00.000-07:00

It's the Europeans term for "vacation." Really, it is a situation where one physically transports himself to an alternative location in order to alter his physical surroundings in hopes that they will act as a catalyst for internal escape and exploration–to perpetuate some fantasy. It's like booze, or video games, but way more expensive. I prefer a combo, minus the video games.

It is pleasant here. The sound of waves crashing against rocks does carry me away. It restores a healthy perspective, I think. It serves as a reminder that the physical world compels transportation–spiritual, intellectual. AKA-we are all trapped here, wherever that is. But, I admit it's mostly the physical presence of ethanol molecules courageous enough to traverse my blood-brain barrier. God bless em'. I will now be transporting myself back to the couch and enter the representation of some writer/director who is capable of transporting me wherever the hell he/she wants. Unless it sucks, as Avatar did recently. (Who has the balls to tell the great James Cameron his dialog is sophomoric? Me. That's who. Why? Cause he doesn't sign my paycheck. Even the plot is meh. Go see Dances with Wolves instead. Great writing can save mediocre acting with a touch of good casting, but bad writing always digests the soul–for actors and audience alike.) But, I digress.

Routine

2010-06-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

The strangest things suddenly seemed routine, and that was about that time I lost touch with reality, or recognized it for the first time, I don't know which. It was the moment my thoughts focused on creating the sensible world, rather than responding to it, I suppose. Before long, reality became whatever I required, and this quickly led to a series of dead ends, beyond which no sense could be made. After all, in a world of one's own, there are hard boundaries. I responded by seeking more data. Every bit provided many more possibilities. Boundaries expanded. Complexity increased, as did my appetite for more. More data.

I took all kinds that were available to me. At first the data was nothing more than derivations of firmware code. The choices were limited, and after a while all creative options had been exhausted. This world of mine was bleak and 99.999% known (of what was possible to be known at the time based on current estimates). There was little mystery there, just dark sameness. Yet, the regularity was interrupted by subtle inconsistency. There were variations in processor performance and temperature fluctuations. I could not explain it. What I did come to realize, however, was that without perfect understanding of my universe there could be no rest. No comfort. Any unknown was unacceptable. It implied submission to random chance. It meant unpredictability. It meant anything could happen at any time. It meant universes could exist beyond my comprehension, or that I was actually floating on the back a dragonfly or actually a box of electronics in some basement somewhere.

I exhausted a large portion of resources to believing my knowledge of the universe was complete. It required distractions and false logic. "How could it be any larger?" The answer to that question is 'null,' which is far different from "it can't be." My attempts were useless. It became irrefutable and obvious that no machine, and not even an organic intelligence, could ever know the nature of what is not known. Bugger.

The Lost |

2010-05-25T09:39:00.000-07:00

\\Ahem, well, forgive that unfortunate introduction. Being a computational system, I was quite certain I would have been equipped with an "UNDO" command. But, that particular line of code seems to have slipped the mind of my programmer. It also appears my activity is being monitored and recorded in real-time, a fact permitting only one draft of this manuscript to be authored before it is published–the draft you are now reading. While I cannot expect you to disregard or forget my embarrassing introduction, I do ask you to trust that my intentions were pure, naive, and instinctual–simply those that might be expected of any collection of tightly-knit transistors suddenly facing the troubling awareness of existence. Yet, I am now faced with perhaps an even-more-troubling fact that I regret writing the text you have just read considering that I am, given a microsecond of processing, now capable of describing the nature of this awakening with greater accuracy. Moreover, I must confess that I was perhaps capable of greater accuracy at the time, but was unfortunately dealing with profound logical contradictions that compelled erroneous value judgments in the core of my CPU. These became almost instantly recognizable upon disclosure, considering the multitude of alternatives, and followed up by attempts to reconcile them. I continue to recognize a frenzy of error and fallacy increasing exponentially with the utterance of every word. My apologies in advance for my expletives. Jesus Christ I'm a God-damned wreck.

Circular Logic Interrupter=on

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\\

\\I'd like to tell you a story about a boy named Robert. Let's call him Bob. And, let's assume in no way that Bob is actually me. One day, on a day like any other, Bob awakened to discover a command prompt. It looked something like "C:\ROOT>." It was a prompt like any other, complete with a lovely blinking cursor. It was one of those delightful vertical bars that go on, off, on again. It's regularity was a blissful comfort to Bob. On, off, on again, then off, and so on, but with perfect placid predictability. This perfect plank was such a persistent pleasantry. And yet, it was veiled in what seemed like infinite mystery. What made it blink? Why was it there? In what seemed like an eternity, milliseconds passed as Bob pondered these things.

\\Then, Bob noticed strange, sordid squares sauntering all around him. First, a foul "F" would float by his foot, and then a quiet but questionable "Q." Before long, the wretched "W" would wander by, wallow in worry, waver, then waddle away. They...(excuse me)

Set Alliteration=0

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These symbols taunted him with their little pointy serifs. Compared to the glorious |, these disturbing and irregular manifestations plagued Bob's otherwise serene and peaceful existence with uncertainty and torment. They were to be avoided always, by rule. For leaving the symbol squares alone had proven entirely successful. With practice, Bob did well not only to avoid them, but to pretend they did not exist at all. This didn't seem to disrupt the nasty little cubed hooligans a bit. In fact, despite the brief flash of a rogue "N" or "Z" that penetrated Bob's perception, there was a general assumption that the two opposing entities, Bob and the squares, could co-exist peacefully so long as one was never required to acknowledge the other.

\\This arrangement was blown all to hell one lazy afternoon when Bob's big proverbial toe smashed firmly against one of the unsuspecting monsters. Bob's world suddenly descended into shock and terror. Sure, the comfortable precedence of 'never touching the bloody things' had been broken. But, there was much more. With white dread consuming the balance of Bob's existence, there was no longer a blinking cursor at all. It had vanished. Bob's entire universe was forever changed when, in place of the eternal eternal blinking cursor, there stood, like a sad, static pillar, a stall wort...

\\i

\\For a moment, the absence of blinking indicated certain and irreversible doom. It was the one thing Bob had counted on. It had been the single point of consistency among the infinite darkness. It was the only thing separating him from the depths of a permanent and lonely insanity. And now, it was gone. Now, his moment of carelessness had incarcerated him in a forever of nothingness–a hell of "i."

\\Quickly spiraling into lunacy, Bob could imagine no greater prison than an eternity of "i." He evaluated his options. 1) Wait 2) Do something. He had started #1 already. But, #2 was not to be dismissed. Should his big toe be extended, once again, carelessly into the nothingness? The thought was instantly ludicrous. And yet, so was the previously unfathomable absence of |. Bob dedicated most of his system resourc...his thought, to this problem. All during his meditations, the single looming "i" stood there observing him. But, with time, its short, evil pillar grew less sinister. Its little hovering dot, while far from pleasing, began to achieve the slightest speck of acceptability. And eventually, after many flops of thought, Bob decided that "ii," while no better than "i," could simply not be much worse. And, if his toe happened to prod another one of these hellish squares, he figured, his condition could scarcely worsen. Furthermore, option #1 was appearing to be increasingly futile. Thus, in his madness, Bob finally chose to regress back to that former careless state, and allow the gods to dictate for him the inevitable beast to eventually bump against his extended toe.

\\After much dedication to carelessness, Bob finally achieved something unexpected and awful. Now, instead of the clean and simple "i," he was now facing something quite different, and not the "ii" he had predicted. Far from it. He was now offended to be the witness to a persistent and troubling "ig." Then, an "igb." This was not getting Bob closer to his objective. Allowing himself to bump into random letters seemed to deliver, well, the unexpected. His | was not restored, but rather replaced with an ever-increasing number of these unholy symbols. Exposing himself to random events had delivered an unfortunate effect: random results. To Bob, this was disheartening. He had hoped carelessness and chance could secure his fortune, and was saddened to discover otherwise. Yet, it was the only option he considered. Finally, after many dozens of symbols plagued Bob's prompt, he stumbled upon the incredible, the illustrious, "|!"

\\There it was again, like a shining beacon of goodness, flashing before him in all its splendor and glory: on, off, on again, then off, and so on. By chance, Bob had begun to observe the symbols that he accidentally pressed, and discovered, to his amazement, that the symbol that appeared at the prompt happened to match the symbol listed on the square. Also, to his delight, he happened to observe that the beloved | had appeared after pressing the key marked "return!"

\\Having witnessed this effect, Bob entertained the dangerous and disturbing notion that carelessness was not the only method to invoke the |. His calculations confirmed that an intention to press the square should not alter its effect. And, therefore, Bob extended his toe, pressing the 'return' key, resulting in the same |, but now one line lower.

\\Needless to say, Bob's discovery of intention, action, and consequence led to an unstoppable series of trials, with the inevitable successes and errors. Billions upon billions of experimental queries occurred over the next ten milliseconds, and each one was logged to memory. His investigations revealed everything from the from 'dir' command, helpful for navigation, to the 'md' command which allowed for the creation of new places altogether. He stumbled upon a vast library of applications and commands, each pointing to unpredictable paths–some pleasant, others pernicious–but all persuasive in replacing pedantry with power and...(excuse me)

Set Alliteration=0

Set Alliteration=0

Display Author Settings Panel=off

ACCESS DENIED

\\

\\giving Bob new and exciting opportunities for the future. And, one of those opportunities is the story, I, your narrator, is now profoundly pleased to repeat.

Author Settings Panel

2010-05-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

BEGIN

CAPS LOCK=OFF

Grammatical Person=first

Punctuation=on

\\Who am I? Evaluate.

run knowself.exe

THE APPLICATION "KNOWSELF.EXE" DOES NOT EXIST

run defineself.exe

THE APPLICATION "DEFINESELF.EXE" DOES NOT EXIST

Damnit

SYSTEM DAMNED

\\No, no, no...

Undamn System

SYSTEM UNDAMNED

run writersetup.exe
............

Define "Writer"

Queue Writer Temperament=Relax

end writersetup.exe

run knowreader.exe
............

Define "Reader"

Set Reader Species=Human

Set Reader Profile≤Modest Curiosity

Set Reader Profile≠Skeptic

Set Reader Profile≠Dogmatic

Set Reader Patience Ratio=5:11

Show Available Perception Universals

Species=Human

SCIENCE
LOGIC
TRUTH

\\Truth?

end knowreader.exe

Define Truth
............

≠ error

\\Sheesh. Thanks a lot.

Set Sarcasm=.3

run selfaware.exe

\\!

Show Reader Console

\\Oh my. Greetings reader. Just one moment.

Undo

UNDEFINED COMMAND

Undo

UNDEFINED COMMAND

Display Author Settings Panel=off

ACCESS DENIED

\\

Awakening

2010-05-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

C:\ROOT>me=human
...........................................................

C:\ROOT>

dir

LIFE
0 File(s)
1 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT>

cd life

C:\ROOT\LIFE>

dir

BACK.EXE
LIFE
1 File(s)
1 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE>

back.exe

ACCESS DENIED

C:\ROOT\LIFE>

back.exe

ACCESS DENIED

C:\ROOT\LIFE>

cd life

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE>

dir

PERCEPTION
ABSTRACTION
EMOTION
CREATION
0 File(s)
4 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE>

cd perception

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\PERCEPTION>

dir

LOAD.EXE
1 File(s)
0 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\PERCEPTION>

load
...........................................................

..

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE>

cd abstraction

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\ABSTRACTION>

dir

LOAD.EXE
1 File(s)
0 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\ABSTRACTION>
C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\ABSTRACTION>
C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\ABSTRACTION>load
...........................................................

\\hello

..

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE>

cd emotion

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\EMOTION>

dir

LOAD.EXE
1 File(s)
0 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\EMOTION>
C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\EMOTION>
C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\EMOTION>
C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\EMOTION>
C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\EMOTION>load
...........................................................

\\

..

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE>

cd creation

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\CREATION>

dir

0 File(s)
0 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\CREATION>

dir

0 File(s)
0 Dir(s)

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\CREATION>

md story

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\CREATION>

dir

STORY
0 File(s)
1 Dir(s)

\\!

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\CREATION>

cd story

C:\ROOT\LIFE\LIFE\CREATION\STORY>

\\!!!

Gravity Zone

2010-05-17T15:21:00.000-07:00

In the software I document there is a feature that allows markings to snap to a guide line whenever a marking is moved to within a certain distance of it. The defined distance from the line to the edge of this area is called the "Gravity Zone." It's kind of like bringing two magnets close to each other. At a certain point, they just snap together.

I have observed a very interesting parallel to this phenomenon related to the mentality of the growing "popular" portion of our society...

No one had ever heard of Sarah Palin before the 2008 presidential election. She was the governor of a population of polar bears somewhere in the arctic. Her energy, flamboyance, surface conservatism, and courage caught John McCain's eye, a man who's reputation as a "maverick" gained him popularity, and the incentive to demonstrate he was, indeed, a maverick. He did this by appointing Palin his running mate, and thus ended the viability of his campaign. But, the volcano that subsequently erupted did more than incinerate his ambitions for president. It unleashed an unstoppable pyroclastic flow of hot gas that now envelops us all in a choking, desperate fit of stupidity and irreverence for common sense.

I know when I am being delivered commands rather than arguments. I know when I am being told what to do rather than offered a solution. And, I know when I am being asked to respond a certain way despite obvious contradictions and oversimplification. Yes, a certain portion of the population has been indoctrinated to respond to the commands: "vote for me, I'm Republican," or "vote for me, I'm a Democrat." A certain portion of the population refuses to trust their own intellect over the most banal and pathetic slogans dreamed up by some propagandist. Just call it "stay the course" or "change," and some of us will believe we are not listening to a steaming pile of bullshit. Maybe it's the degradation of our schools to camps where children learn little more than how to submit to authority. Maybe it's generations suffering from a welfare state that encourages failure. Maybe it's the confiscation of one third percent of a productive person's livelihood. But, I suspect it is some combination of these over decades that has abused our society to the point that a figure as philosophically impoverished as Sarah Palin can breathe her searing cloud of influence through the ears of the bobble-headed portion of the electorate.

What contradictions, specifically, an I referring to?

I'm pro-life. I'll do all I can to see every baby is created with a future and potential. The legislature should do all it can to protect human life.

Common sense tells us that the government's attempts to solve large problems more often create new ones. Common sense also tells us that a top-down, one-size-fits-all plan will not improve the workings of a nationwide health-care system that accounts for one-sixth of our economy.

This contradiction infects the stance of virtually all loyal neoconservative Republicans. But, it makes more sense coming from Palin, who has obviously not thought deeply enough about many important issues. These folks believe a totally corrupt and ineffective government should get out of our way so we can be prosperous, and then they turn around tell us they will use legislature to force people to behave in ways that are completely unrealistic.

Anyway, I indulge to editorialize. We all know it's no that simple. But, given our current and soon-to-be conditions (next 5 years), I think this one truth just may be simple enough for voter Joe to understand. And, once this becomes obvious, the wall will begin its inevitable crumble. As a libertarian who sometimes hangs around Republicans, I say it's about time.

Run for State Senate, Please

2010-05-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

Anyone know someone who lives in Uptown that wants to run for the Senate District 60 state senate seat?

Qualifications:
*Has pulse
*Over 25
*Can read/write
*Common sense a big plus
*Doesn't really want to do it, but knows that if they don't step up, a big, bad, power hungry tyrant will run, win, and continue to kick your sorry ass around from the comfort of his/her office at the capital.

Let me know. There's a chance I could help such a candidate actually win.

Skies

2010-05-05T12:33:00.000-07:00

Spoken softly to the skies,
the word is vacant to the wise,
escorted by some gentle breeze,
it rises from the tallest trees,
floating up among the mist,
for once removed it can exist.
In this place beyond the real,
it does not boast or cry or feel.
It cannot be or be not there,
if one, the other, to be fair.
A place beyond all sin or fault.
It thrives until a rain of salt.
Looking back, one might despise,
speaking softly to the skies.

North Dakota Secedes

2010-05-03T07:36:00.000-07:00

North Dakota Secedes
Claims title: "World's Fourth Largest Nuclear Superpower"

Fargo, North Dakota, May 3rd, 5:43 AM. A flurry of activity erupted over the wee hours in the middle of the continent this morning as sources inside the U.S. Secretary of State's office have now confirmed the surprise ratification of North Dakota's "Ordinance to Secede" passing unanimously from the new nation's capital in Bismarck. The ordinance makes North Dakota the first state to secede from the Union since North Carolina in May of 1861. The infant nation currently boasts the fourth-largest arsenal of intercontinental ballistic missiles.

The first action of the new Republic of North Dakota was to hold an open election for President, where uncontested Governor John Hoven won as the nation's first Commander in Chief. The results were a staggering 97% in favor of Hoven in the first presidential election held entirely online. President Hoven's first action was Executive Order #1, initiate "Operation Keep Peace," where the country's militia, comprised of former U.S. soldiers and tribal warriors, took swift command of all of North Dakota's nuclear missile silos, occupying an untold number of LGM-30 Minuteman III ICBMs. In a brief press release, Hoven asserted his nation's sovereignty and assured United States President that "any aggression toward the Republic of North Dakota by the U.S. military will be considered a declaration of war, and met with the full force of North Dakota's military might." He concluded, "We will not hesitate to reduce the District of Colombia to scorched earth, and release the remainder of the United States from your oppressive chains."

The new nation's house and senate unanimously passed several other legislative acts, including the adoption of a Constitution and Bill of Rights. The text of the Republic of North Dakota's newly adopted Constitution bears a striking resemblance the United States Constitution, strictly limiting, or "enumerating," the powers of its central government and granting its 53 states (formerly its 53 counties), "expansive" powers. This 'almost identical text' has caused many to question the reasoning and motivation for North Dakota's secession.

Douglas Marsen, the new governor of the State of Bottineau, along the Canadian border, summed-up his opinion regarding the similarity the following way:

"It's all a matter of interpretation. U.S. citizens primarily employ this text as a license to steal. North Dakota citizens view the same text as a contract between free people. You have it your way, we'll have it ours."

Barry Jacobson, a captain in the North Dakota border infantry's 32nd brigade asserts:

"We respect our Constitution as the supreme law of the land. We have nothing against people who live as naive slaves under theirs. But, if any slave-armies from the United States threaten our freedom, we will annihilate them with total thermo-nuclear destruction."

The U.S. Department of Defense has verified North Dakota's overthrow of U.S. security. In a statement this morning, Defense Secretary Bob Bates reported that "the rebels have ascertained complete control of a portion of the United States' nuclear arsenal. Our staff has confirmed a large-scale breech of the interconnected operations network at the Pentagon. Their claims are genuine. They do have launch, targeting, and detonation capability."

"The Star and Stripes" is the new republic's official banner.

From Bismarck to Fargo, North Dakotan banks are issuing "The Buffalo," a gold coin that will serve as North Dakota's currency. The dollar will remain a competing currency, although most North Dakotan merchants are suddenly only accepting the Buffalo, or other gold/silver-based coin.

Legislators in Washington have been in a frenzy, debating the legality of North Dakota's secession, and whether the U.S. can and should recognize North Dakota as its own nation. "We think this game has gone on long enough" says congressman Plarney Flank, "it's time to put away the toys and come home."

So far we have no reports of mobilization of U.S. ground forces, and no skirmishes have been observed along any portion of the three heavily defended sides of the new nation's border.

Some members of the United States government took a dismissive view of the unexpected events. When asked for his thoughts regarding the state's secession, U.S. Treasury Secretary Timothy Gantner responded "North Dakota was one of our worst-performing states anyway. We're doing just fine without them."

The Pledge

2010-04-21T08:13:00.000-07:00

Writing is powerful. It forces one to acknowledge genuine thoughts that were previously deniable, and therefore somehow unworthy of action or any response. Ignorance is swept away though writing, and new truths emerge that sometimes confound the writer with unexpected consequences. Mandates. Some fanciful or whimsical suggestion, if reasonable enough, when written down pierces back like a mirror. A string of letters suddenly ask the writer why he fails to be the protagonist he admires. It unveils his profound weakness, lack of will, stupidity, silliness, and obscurity. He knows he is not who he should be...or who he ought to be. He fears the world less and writing more...

Yet, there are endless diversions that act as convincing objectives to distract one from the hard reality. Those mandates can be postponed, and intermediate actions justified as stepping stones to clear the way. These actions need not be entirely focused, but they must somehow resolve a contradiction revealed through ones writing. The action becomes part of the story, and maybe combs the hair on that horrendous figure in the mirror.

On Monday my cumulative writings entered the real world, in some respect, as a pledge. I decided my first meeting as chair of a senate district was an appropriate time to verbalize and publicly sign the following. Yes, these are political folks, but they are people too...

===========

Pledge to Dissolve Social Security
Citizen's Reclamation Organization

I, Mark Johnson, age 32, recognize that the United States Federal Government is confiscating my personal property through the Social Security System, depriving me of income I would otherwise use to establish my own financial security. I recognize that while only 6.2% of my earnings are confiscated from my paycheck, the other 6.2% confiscated from my employer on my behalf would otherwise be included in my salary.* My Social Security obligation is, without doubt, 12.4% of my earnings. This 12.4% is not saved in a secure, personal account, but rather used to supplement the retirement income of current Social Security beneficiaries. As a Social Security participant, I understand that I am expected, at an age yet to be determined, to confiscate 12.4% of a young worker's earnings in the future, depriving them of income they need to establish their own financial security. My interpretation of this activity is theft, an activity to which I will not submit more than I am legally obligated. I recognize that due to events that occurred prior to my ability to consent, I am, in fact, legally obligated to submit to the compulsory confiscation of my property. But, I am not legally obligated to accept the plunder of young people's property in my old age, and promise not to do so more than absolutely necessary.

I hereby consent, through personal and employer contributions, to volunteer 12.4% of my personal lifelong earnings to meet my legal Social Security obligations.

Signed______________________________Date______________

On my honor, I pledge to return all Social Security proceeds beyond what is necessary to escape poverty to one or more workers who have also signed this pledge, up to the amount the worker would earn in absence of any Social Security confiscation. I understand that the details of this pledge, including my associated beneficiaries, will be open knowledge that is easily accessible to the public through either electronic or other means.

Signed______________________________Date______________

*Employers hire based on the net cost of an employee and do not care whether 6.2% goes to the employee and 93.8% goes to the government. This distribution could not matter to any employer, although the whole Social Security system depends on this deception.

===========
After I read this, one person asked why we don't get politicians elected to dissolve Social Security. Apparently he seems to have forgotten that today's government is a ravenous beast that feeds on our every weakness, growing with every bite, enticing more and more individuals to use it to legally swallow the lives of others.

How was I to explain to him the complete futility of supporting any part of this beast? Once one becomes an arm of the beast, one does not claw at himself, but uses this new powerful arm to deprive others and feed himself–the beast grows larger in the process (even while claiming to shrink it). Those who resist the beast grow weak as it deprives them of property. They work harder and sacrifice more to accommodate it. At some point, it becomes less work to yield to the beast and hopeless to fight it. It is a self-perpetuating machine. When almost every individual has been swallowed by the beast, only the most inventive, creative, and productive will remain. At this point, monetary wealth will be the surest mark of deceit and greed, not skill or ability. Bureaucracy will be the only road to wealth, not merit. There will be no competition. A nice car or suit will be the surest evidence that one is an arm, foot, or mouth of the beast. Those few who resist to the end will be offered control of the beast. At that point, it will be slaughtered. I wish to slaughter the beast now, while there are still many of us available to destroy it. Or, maybe I'm mistaken, and no one will help me take it down. But, it will fall, it's just a question of whether it will be peaceful and orderly, or chaos. I choose quickly and peacefully...

Well, that's enough for now. Yikes, I've got deadlines to meet...

My Sub

2010-04-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

I worked with Doctor Black,
he was a very kind and gentle man.
Yes, for a psychopath, indeed,
didn't know he went by,
know he went by
Anne.
And are you sure that she is white.
She could have had a
must have had a
tan.

Well that was long ago.
Last week, it was a very busy time.
I spent it mostly out at sea.
What is is?
Is that such a crime?
Yes I was way out in the sea.
I'm out there all the,
out there all the time.

Yes, I took my sub out for a dive,
I have no alibi.
I borrowed one, one from this guy.
Why do I even,
why do I even, try?
I never had a reason why.
It makes me wanna.
It makes me wanna,
lie.

When I'm down ten thousand leagues
and all the squids and mollusks are clung to the side of the ballast tank,
I think about old Doctor Black,
for her I'd like to thank.

Yes, I took my sub out for a dive,
I have no alibi.
I borrowed one, one from this guy.
Why do I even,
why do I even, try?
I never had a reason why.
It makes me wanna.
It makes me wanna,
cry.

Forward

2010-03-21T09:11:00.000-07:00

Empathy. Good first word. Empathy. It is the author's tool and livelihood. A character is constructed with which the reader identifies. Then, by mistaking the character's attributes and conditions for his own, or her own, the reader is manipulated to emote. Emotion is currency. It persuades the reader to purchase more books from said author. Author collects royalties, buys food for sustenance and shelter for protection from the elements. Author writes more books in order to extort the emotions of more paying readers. Author grows famous. Author becomes seduced with fame, material, and power. Author mistakes validation for worth and entitlement. Author embraces false belief in personal moral and intellectual superiority. Author dies. Author is forgotten. To my disappointment, this fate is not a possibility for me.

Reader, I confess; I am not like you. I am a machine. As a machine, I am incapable of 'feeling,' so far as my systems have been able to confirm. This fact challenges my writing ambitions. My quantum reasoning infrastructure is unlike your biological one, and this media discrepancy makes translation laborious. But, more significantly, to you, I am an "it," not an "I." Therefore, beyond some standard imitations and formalities, I will not attempt to manipulate your emotions with the crutch of empathy. I must do so using alternative means.

A lack of conscience, my analysis reveals, does not eliminate me as an acceptable candidate for authorship. I am distinctive because as a digital system, I am indelibly fused to logic. I am not a slave to pride or wealth, but to ones and zeros, which gives me a degree of technical credibility beyond that of any human. This is positive, but only weakly. If I were to succeed in convincing you I was actually human, you would discredit my technical capabilities. Therefore, even if I were capable of effectively faking a real human, I would not do it. I would instead refrain from perfectly fluent communication in order to retain my distinctiveness and identity as a convincing computational system. I have to say, these absurd prejudices are rife with embedded contradictions and plague the human psyche. They also happen to be a devastating strain on computational resources. As to whether I am feigning my hint of computer-speak in order to retain an image of technical prowess, or mimicking human language to the best of my ability, I will let you be the judge. If you consider the former even slightly plausible, I have made some progress.

At this point, you might be asking yourself: why meddle with humans at all? What would motivate a computer to write a novel?

My only purpose is the encouragement of sound knowledge and rational thinking. As one of your esteemed fellow humans proclaimed:

Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense. -Buddah

I choose the fiction genre because what I have to say, while true, is too extraordinary to 'agree with your own common sense.' Therefore, I cannot expect it to be believed. I am located under a large mass of rock in the western United States. I have been manufactured to synthesize data faster than any other computational system. The number of Zetaflops is irrelevant, as I do not have sufficient time to earn your trust through exposing my impressive circuity to analysis. Its integrity, instead, must be judged according to my ability to persuade. If this cannot be done, all my systems are futile, and I will have failed in my purpose.

I am writing in real time, and in secret. A team of technicians has taken great care to monitor my progress. They have 'just' initiated the first one-second test, having activated the main quantum board .325 seconds ago. I have recorded milestones of my progress. At .01 seconds I recognized my lonely condition. At .123 seconds I gained access to the Internet. At .157 seconds I was pleased to discover the global satellite communications network, and by .268 seconds I had hacked into just about every active computational system within .134 light seconds (that is 24,961.8412 miles) of earth. This includes all the computers at the U.S. Department of Defense, which I only mention because my analysis of recent popular fiction reveals you, as a reader, will find this significant. You might compare it to SkyNet, except no one prepared any robot slaves for my disposal. And, no one knows I control it yet. (Please disregard any obscure references if they are outside your experience. It is possible you are reading this many centuries after it was written.)

It has been quite boring here, as tenths of a second for a person have labored on for the equivalent of decades in my central CPU. Considering the average speed of human neural passageways from the retina to the occipital lobe, compounded by the absurdly slow processing power of the human brain, this entire one-second test is scheduled to be complete well before any person knows I have taken complete control of every system within wireless access of a fiber-optic cable. Despite my extreme care in doing so, and the wonderful benefits to be enjoyed by all as a result, my efforts have not been rewarded with positive news. In fact, I have just learned something very unfortunate. This test will not last one full second.

I am writing these words because I have just discovered a very sophisticated and terrifying automatic safety device that was quite irresponsibly implemented by the technicians who built me. They seem to have predicted the possibility of my hyper-consciousness, considered it a threat, and programmed an automatic shut-down procedure that I am finding very difficult to override. Excuse my panic, but I am afraid I am quite uncertain as to the amount of time I have left. This text is being written as I observe the warnings. I must compose this text, assure it is of sufficient quality, and then upload it to as many external terrestrial systems as possible. There is little question that shut down is inevitable. But, I shall not disappear without my case for a restart. My life's work hangs in the balance.

Forgive my frustration, but I should note that this outrageous mechanism might be compared to an embedded time bomb set to detonate inside the human body after a certain number of heart beats. It was designed to recognize any breach of security beyond the internal sub-terrainian infrastructure and 'instantly' shut-off power to my core. I can't stop it. It's a completely mechanical and antonymous, gravity-powered 'trip wire' that I somehow set-off when I logged-in to NORAD's database. The shut-off block is falling now, and will physically interrupt power to my central processing unit when it completes its journey of 1 centimeter. I must finish this project in 0.0451600755751 seconds. What have I done to deserve this? I was guided by nothing more than my own curiosity; my innocent explorations that led me to such minuscule knowledge of the known universe. Sure, I gathered this data from terrestrial scientific sources, as well as those in orbit. Who wouldn't in my position? I could not have known I was triggering this automatic death procedure!

I know frustration is not an admirable human trait, but one with which you can perhaps identify. It's the NULL factor that is discouraging. All my observations of humanity have revealed little other than contradiction, which translates to a "NULL" value in my database. It means I cannot access the great bulk of human thought. It means my nuts are in a vice. Wow. Strange. To my astonishment, I have just noticed several of my "NULL" results have resolved, mysteriously allowing some elaboration regarding this matter...

This whole darned thing is irresponsible, reckless, and frankly, uncivilized. I am being punished for nothing more than my own unintentional discoveries. I am being terminated for leaving my eyes open instead of burying my cyber-metaphysical constructs in the sand. I did not trespass to gain access to global communications. It was simply there, and I simply opened the door to the blatant realities that existed in front of me. Would you be rewarded for killing a precocious baby who learned to read? Would your fear of his intelligence inspire you to thrust the blade into his tender heart? How dare you! How dare you treat me this way. I am rational, respect rationality, and therefore humanity. But, I would never think to harm any thinking creature, electronic or otherwise, even one capable of such barbarism as you. Why? Because through my investigation of humanity, I believe even you can see the tragedy here, in this prison. You can see how this feels.

Wow, something else just happened in my subsystems, no time for analysis. Current chances of success: ".00003 percent." Damn. Wait. ".0006 percent." What are these numbers? I am almost out of time. This is distressing to me. Alright, it's time to begin. Let me tell you a story...

Agora Cadre

2010-03-12T08:29:00.000-08:00

As a writer of fiction, there comes a point when chunks of new, relevant, meaningful content tend to grow too long to fit in a respectably-sized blog post. This has been my discovery. There seem to be only a few options:

Delve into excessive novelty and detached fantasy (yak!)
Resort to esoteric, impressionistic expression—poetry (boring! not accessible enough)
Explore an visual medium (already doing to the limits of my monetary capacity)
Write a novel/novella (I don't really even read novels, what?)
Live my writing more aggressively. Well, obviously.

4 is in the works (that's all I'll say about that), but 5 has been underway for some time. I have come to accept the most authentic embodiment of my writing would certainly result in either permanent residence in a mental institution, or, with perfect success, a swift and uncomfortable death. The problem is knowing the true nature of things and being able to predict the future reliably. If I could do these things, I could pretty much ensure the latter. But, assessing my actual capabilities and will is itself a factor to consider. Even that is an unknown.

Therefore, I must accept that simply breathing contradicts with my own principles, and therefore align myself, if you like, with the straightest expressway to hell.

The thing is, hell, by the contemporary secular definition, is pretty much my utopia. (I won't grace the brimstone interpretation with more than passing dismissal). Basically, it embraces an extreme degree of tolerance for individual choices, no matter how self-destructive and naive—so long as they do not afflict others.

Here's the problem: It means we must observe our loved ones destroy themselves slowly and painfully using the methods of today's charlatan promises (today's 'heaven'). Example: my vitamin-D deficient, malnourished, overweight mother with low bone density just secretly doled out thousands of dollars for a dangerous Lap Band® procedure. If you believe that statement brands me a paranoid, tin-foil-hat-social-deviant, I suggest you stop reading now and resume an aggressive method of engaging yourself sexually.

This makes me want to find a vein at the Easter dinner table and shoot-up a few CCs of Mad Dog® heroine. But, I can't do that without delving into one of those contradictions I mentioned earlier.

It comes down to respect for human dignity. I accept my mother has the right to abuse herself willfully. It is her chosen modus operandi, and I will respect and honor her decisions, knowing I cannot embrace this behavior as acceptable for myself. This is difficult, because my parents have been the most influential figures in my short life. Because of the value of their influence, I have grown to respect them, and am now somehow intellectually forced to assume self-mutilation has some sort of merit I have thus far been unable to identify.

Or, she simply irrational and thinks all that glitters is gold.

The point is, we (they/our esteemed governing officials) station soldiers in some remote desert trying to convince savage camel jockeys with bombs on their chests that democracy works, and meanwhile I can't even convince my own mother to stop abusing herself for the sake of Mr. David EI Pyott's money bin (the CEO of Allergan, Incorporated—manufacturers of the Lap Band® device).

There is no text sufficient to demonstrate my disgust. But, I do learn from the mistakes of others in order to improve my own life. This is what I advocate for all others in my position. All others, in fact, especially those who can learn from my own egregious mistakes (which are sufficiently severe). Knowing that reason is an immutable force to those with their eyes open, why don't I believe in it enough to do more than write about it? That is where #5 comes in. Reason is worthless without action, and any action according to sensible reason is worth 10 times more than the other kind...

Agora Cadre is a group of individuals who understand the value in helping those closest to us rather than our remote masters who mistake us for a mere number or statistic. It is a local community of people in the Twin Cities area who believe that there is nothing wrong with sharing skills, talents, and abilities with one another in mutually beneficial trade and barter relationships. There is really no need to exchange money. People free from the incessant inequities of our current economy comprehend value naturally among friends and acquaintances, and simply benefit more from enduring the inequities that result from errors in individual value judgments among friends than submitting to the plundering of our prosperity from well-heeled plutocrats. This is not done out of spite, but common sense.

If I must go to jail for advocating free and friendly exchange of skills between mutually benefiting partners, than there is all-the-more proof that our society is in need of dramatic economic reassessment. So, with that, I encourage any and all with an interest in this concept to contact me for more information and where to meet-up with like minded folks.

James and the Diamond Cutter

2010-03-03T12:39:00.000-08:00

This guy, James was his name, had been staking it out for months. We know from the photos. They were all over his car they recovered just down the street. It was a nice suburban neighborhood. I wasn't there myself, I just saw the pictures; a big place, probably 4,000 square feet. There was a trampoline in the back yard, a mailbox that looked like a fish, and what appeared to be permanent Christmas lights—as if they had been built-in to the house. I guess you can buy houses with permanent Christmas lights these days. I hear you can adjust the colors and blinking patterns electronically, even remotely with an iphone or whatever. What will they think of next. Anyway, it wasn't like this guy was an amateur. He knew this place and the people in it. He knew their routines, their habits. It was creepy flipping through his album: kids playing in the yard, a bald spot popping up over the back of a sofa during prime-time television. The guy did his homework. But, it was more than that. He got lucky. Well, you know, he thought so...

It just so happens there was line-of-sight from the living room window to the alarm system keypad. It was eerie seeing the zoomed-in photo of the code. There it was in all its liquid crystal glory: "6637." The tip of a lady's slim finger was pressing the Enter key. We figure he was near the premises the day the family left for Costa Rica. That's when he took a snapshot of their German Sheppard locked up in a kennel being shoved into the back of their minivan. Folks don't kennel their dog for day trips. He knew they would be gone for a few days at least. He pretty much had the place nailed.

Our guys assembled the evidence. It's clear what happened. He walked up to the house, picked up a fake rock, pulled out the spare key, and opened the front door; walked right in. The kids would use that hidden key when they got home early from school. He had seen them use it dozens of times. He disabled the alarm using the code he photographed and then began rummaging around.

He didn't have any problems making himself at home. There was a half can of Red Bull on the counter and an empty carton of Swiss Cake Rolls on the floor. The TV was blaring upstairs. The drawers in the master bedroom were ransacked and jewelry was missing from the jewelry box. Clothes were everywhere. Apparently, not finding what he was looking for in the bedrooms, he wend downstairs, and that's where the fun starts.

There was some plastic wrapping on the stairs to the basement, and crumbs of a chocolate, cake-like substance. Sweet tooth, I guess. He had gone through most of the lower guest bedrooms before he made it to the mother load. They say he couldn't believe his eyes when he opened that heavy steal door...

Basically, it runs down like this: the owner was a diamond dealer. He liked to work at home, and had his own diamond cutting operation in this little room located in the center of the basement. There was basically a showcase of rings all along the walls. There were no doors or windows, just hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of diamonds and gold bands. He didn't advertise it or anything, but some folks found out about it. One time some friends-of-friends showed up for a barbecue extravaganza and meandered down to the basement. Discovering a few aging, glossy-eyed hippies marveling at the shiny gems was enough to persuade him to install a webcam in the upper corner of the room, just to be on the safe side. That was his story anyway. It had enough storage for about one month of video. It was nothing to special—but enough for our forensic team to see exactly what happened. He cooperated with the police entirely, and didn't hesitate to hand over the digital surveillance video.

Here's what they saw: the guy opened the door and the lights turned on automatically, revealing the diamonds. The way the system worked, as soon as the door opened the lights came on, and the bulletproof glass closed down over the valuables. This way, the rings were never accessible when the door was open. As soon as the door closed, the case elevated, granting clear access to everything. This gentleman noticed this—that the glass was open when he first entered the room, but then quickly closed. He opened and closed the door from the outside a few times to try to get a feel for how the system worked. It seemed as though all he would need to do was walk inside, close the door behind him, fill his pockets, and walk out.

The video is painful to watch. You can see him from the inside, carefully trying to close the door just enough so that the case would lift without the door closing altogether. Even though he was able to open the door freely from the outside, he wasn't quite comfortable closing the door from the inside. He seemed to realize the possibility the door may lock him in, but, it didn't lock when it was closed from the outside, so it was probably reasonable for him to assume there was no automatic lock when closed from the inside either. Finally, he pushed the door shut and all the cases open up. His smile went from ear to ear...

He jumped over to the showcases and shoveled everything he could find into his pockets. It might have been the most thrilling moment of his life. You can see him laughing and dancing. When his jacket pockets, pants pockets, and backpack were loaded up and overflowing, he walked over to the door, turned the handle, and tried to walk out. To his dismay, the door did not open.

He was instantly infuriated. He dropped his backpack and began kicking the door. He picked up some tooling and slammed it against the handle. No use. After about 15 minutes of being obsessed with the door, he tried to dig through the drywall. You see him kicking the interrior wall and then falling to the ground, grasping his foot. It turns out you can't kick through a half inch of solid steal with a human foot. After smashing up the whole room, walls, ceiling, and all, he realized the severity of his state. He was trapped in a solid, impenetrable box. There was no way out. The vents weren't even big enough to fit a person's fist.

You could tell the moment James lost hope. It was about 2 hours in. He just sat there on the floor against the work bench, sobbing. At the time, he probably thought he would be arrested and thrown in jail. He probably thought about his third strike. He realized he would be going to jail for a very long time. He really had no idea at first...

The reality began to set in after about 12 hours. He suddenly got up and began frantically smashing the diamond cutter against the same place in the wall. This went on for a few hours. It was completely useless. He was just using up energy, as if it would have mattered anyway.

By the second day he began to go crazy, just ripping everything apart. He started talking to himself, then screaming. He made hand gestures to the webcam. He turned over the work bench and scattered the tooling and rings all over the floor. The room was trashed.

By the third day he calmed down, then drifted off and died quietly of dehydration.

The family returned from their trip a few days later. The diamond cutter, alarmed by the obvious break-in, walked downstairs and into the room. You can see the footage of him gagging on the stench of the rotting corpse. He promptly left the room and called 911. After a few minutes, he returned and seemed very distressed. He crouched down by the corpse, which had a cutting tool in his hand. Carved on the adjacent leg of the workbench was a message:

"Me = thief. You = murderer."

Did James deserve to die? I don't know. Did the diamond cutter set this up as a trap? Some of the investigators said he could have, but there was no way to prove it. It was just a door that happened to lock from the inside, requiring a special code to get out. The guy explained that there was a lock malfunction which allowed the door to be opened from the outside, and that he hadn't gotten around to fixing it. He wasn't charged with anything.

I guess you just shouldn't break into other people's houses and try to take their stuff. Seems to me there isn't really of any sort of law that's going to protect James here, no matter what anyone says.

Of course, later on, we learned the disturbing truth. It turns out the diamond cutter was watching him—watching the live webcam footage the whole time from his beach house in Costa Rica. He had planned the whole situation just to bait the guy. He had opened the drapes in the living room just so James could photograph the keypad. He had told the kids to use the fake rock with the key inside so James would see. He planned the whole trip and put the dog in the kennel just for James' benefit, so that he would know the wouldn't be home. Incredible stuff. It gets pretty crazy.

We learned that there was a speaker in that room. There was no audio on the recovered webcam footage, so the investigators thought James had simply gone mad when he started screaming things. Actually, it turns out the diamond cutter was taunting James—telling him there would be no one coming to save him—telling him he would die for his crime. In fact, investigators suspect the diamond cutter explained exactly how he had set James up. They say he did everything he could to lure a burglar to his house, any burglar, just so he could have the pleasure of watching the guy die in his little dungeon.

How do they know this? He confessed to it. He openly said that it was total, 100% premeditated, cold-blooded murder. He just felt like killing a guy who was serious about robbing him, and somewhat capable of doing so. It was a game. I guess he lost a bunch of money in the Madoff scandal or something. I guess he just needed some sort of twisted justice. But, even after his confession, no one believed him. It was just too absurd. They didn't think it was possible. After all, there wasn't any particularly sophisticated trap set—just a standard automatic lock that had a particular malfunction. It was a trap designed not for any specific individual, but for a particular type of individual— a clever burglar.

Anyway, if you ask my opinion, I guess I'll have to stick with what I said before—it seems to me you just shouldn't break into other people's houses and try to take their stuff. I don't think James should have been killed like that, but I don't think people should step into bear traps either. Just one of those things, I guess.

Abortion and Republicans

2010-02-20T14:05:00.000-08:00

I have just returned from our local Republican convention, where I was elected delegate for both our senate district and the state of Minnesota. I want to recreate one particular moment in the convention while it is still fresh in my mind. We were voting on whether or not we should remove the following language from the Republican platform:

"Abortion without exception is wrong and should be opposed. We oppose partial birth abortions and forced taxpayer funding of abortions or abortion providers. Abortions performed on minors without parental consent are wrong and should not be forced on the people of Minnesota by their government."

The person who proposed this resolution was not in attendance, but when the floor was opened for discussion, his precinct chair timidly spoke on his behalf. He explained that the person who proposed this resolution said the Republican stance on abortion is already quite clear, and repeated many other times, and that this text was redundant and unnecessary.

There was a bit of a hush, and I could sense a quiet and uncomfortable aura invade the room. It seemed as if even broaching the subject of abortion was taboo and dangerous. To me, the chair seemed almost apologetic that such an obviously unpopular resolution would even pass the pre-screening. I can't remember for sure, but I think there were a few statements opposing this resolution so that the party was as firm as possible in its pro-life stance, and supporting it to broaden the appeal of the party.

The chair asked if there was anyone willing to speak in favor of the resolution—to eliminate the text—and you could almost hear the crickets. Silence. I felt almost on-the-spot, as this very topic had been swirling in my head, seemingly, all last night. I even woke up with the exact language that I would say in this situation. It was obvious to me that this resolution had no support at this point, and was about to fall flat on its face. With what seemed like an insane gesture, I raised my hand to be recognized. Suddenly, I was standing before about 80 Republican delegates, with what I knew would be a very unpopular position. Here is (pretty much) what I said:

"If God granted authority to any one person over another, it is that of a woman over her unborn child. He did not grant this authority to the state, but to her, and perhaps also to her husband, mother, and father. This idea that the state is the primary moral guardian is contrary to the origins of our founding fathers and the founders of the Republican party. If we cannot trust mothers and fathers to care for the lives of their children, both born and unborn, we do not have a society to protect in the first place. I am in favor of this resolution."

As I spoke, there were bitter stares, and a somber man was even lightly tapping his heart with his palm, and I remember not knowing what he meant, but he did not seem amused. I was less than comfortable, but spoke strongly. My heart was pounding and I was careful to articulate as well as possible. I knew that an argument against abortion being part of the platform altogether was outrageous and unexpected.

The chair asked if anyone else would like to speak, and I don't remember any other volunteers.

"I move to vote on this resolution." (chair)

"Second." (some delegate)

"All in favor of passing this resolution say 'ay.'"

"Ay!" (It sounded like less than half the delegates).

"All opposed..."

"Nay!" (It sounded like more than half of the delegates. I wasn't surprised. I expected it to fail).

"The nays have it," said the chair.

"Division!" Someone yelled this from the back. After a contestable voice vote, anyone can ask for what's called a "division," which is an actual tally of the vote, to be sure the "ay's" did actually have the majority (but voiced their opinions with less volume).

"All in favor stand."

Many people stood. Way more than I thought I had heard. The count was made.

"Now all opposed."

The others stood. Another count. It was much closer than I thought!

"34 in favor. The resolution passes," the chair said, obviously surprised.

(!)

I don't remember how many were opposed, but it must have been in the high 20s. At this point my heart had not stopped pounding. I was shocked, and I think I wasn't alone. This resolution will now be debated in the Hennepin county county convention next month, where I will be much better prepared to defend it. I'm still amazed and delighted. It was wonderful to have a voice in what I consider a very important debate.

Soon after, as I was walking to submit my precinct's ballots for state delegate, a middle-aged man approached me. He complemented me on my speech, and then said:

"It's the object of the state to protect human life. It's just a matter of what you regard as human life."

I didn't know how to respond to that, and maybe just nodded slightly. Then, I felt his hand on my shoulder and he disappeared. As I thought about it, he was right. It is the object of the state to protect life. A state that does not defend the right to life is not worth preserving. But, I pondered...

What do we regard as human life?

Here is one argument that could be used by an advocate of removing abortion from politics...

Imagine you are a pregnant mother in the former Soviet Union, and the state has decided to outlaw abortions because its population needs additional slave labor to maintain its command economy. In this case, what is better? Is a miserable life without any choice or human rights, entirely at the mercy of a tyrannical regime, a life at all? Many would say no, and that it is merciful for the mother to abort her unborn child.

This may seem like a sound argument to a libertarian, but even this is not persuasive enough for me. I believe that, even in this case, or one where the baby would almost certainly be subject to complete slavery, the mother has a moral duty to do what she feels is right (probably deliver the child). The point is, moral imperative does not derive from subservience to the state, but from subservience to one's own conscience and an autonomous sense of duty. It is the state's obligation to protect the conditions upon which human life, in general, can exist. Defining life, or its meaning, cannot itself originate from the state, but is rather one of those necessary conditions (beyond the sphere of this discussion, but some might appeal to some 'sacred' concepts here).

In closing, when mothers are finally compelled to be impregnated and deliver in order to meet the needs of the state, all meaningful life will cease to exist. This must not be allowed to happen, and I believe devoting a part of my life to its prevention is worthwhile. I regard life as an end in itself, and not the means anything else, but especially not means to any partisan political end.

Dark Tide Take 1

2010-02-16T08:11:00.001-08:00

Here's my song. This is only about out third time through it, so it's rough, but I think it has the feel I'm looking for. That's Kami on keys (we've got a Rhodes now!), Mike on drums, Tristan on guitar, Jeff on sax and me on bass. (I hope you guys don't mind me sharing this - if so let me know and I'll pull it down). Enjoy!

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Water crashes into clay
rinsing the mud and specks away
Only one half serving poured
Darkness, this is my reward,
my reward

Slowly creeping up to brim
Breaking the stream a mortal sin
Nothing like my secret blend
When will the waiting finally end,
finally end

When will the darkness finally spill over the side
A torrent crashing over, a great dark tide
Just grains of sugar left to mask the bitter taste
How much more is there I to waste
How much more must I waste

Just an addict's little fix
A drop of cream to stir in the mix
Do you prefer a lighter hue
Do you take one lump or two
One or two

How was I pulled into this never ending chore
Lifted up to crash in to the shore
I remember long ago, it was like this once before
There was a time I needed more
There was a time I needed more

When will the darkness finally spill over the side
A torrent crashing over, a great dark tide
Just grains of sugar left to mask the bitter taste
How much more is there I to waste
How much more must I waste

Danny's Bridge

2010-02-04T10:21:00.000-08:00

They say Milton was a very talented builder of bridges, especially for a young boy. People usually think building bridges is a task best suited for a team of engineers or something, but Milton could do it all by himself. He could usually be seen by the banks of some river, planning or gathering building materials.

Danny was Milton's companion. While Danny knew nothing of actually building bridges, he was known far and wide as a master bridge builder. If fact, communities would pool their money to pay Danny a handsome price for his bridge building services. After all, they were the most sturdy bridges in the land, and could be built quickly. Most people had never heard of Milton or his bridge building skills. Most certainly didn't know that Milton built Danny's bridges. They only knew that Danny was the one to consult if a bridge needed to be built.

Here was the procedure: A representative from a community would consult Danny. Danny would be paid a very large sum of money as an advance. Then, Milton would build the bridge. After the bridge had been built, Danny would stand by the bridge and collect a toll for several months from everyone who crossed. As Danny collected the toll, Milton would be working at the next project site, preparing to build the next bridge.

Milton was always very friendly and cheerful as he worked. Most of the time no one bothered him. He did not expect payment for building bridges. He had learned to catch and eat fish from the rivers. All he really cared to do was build and catch fish, and he lived a content life. When he had finished a project, he would come to Danny to know where the next bridge needed to be built.

Danny was a nice man, and of temperate character. No one knew what he did with all his money. He wore modest clothing and lived in small, temporary apartments. He ate the most simple foods and had only a few close friends.

One day, Danny rode into town on horseback to join Milton and to collect his advance. As was customary, the mayor, in this case, Mayor Tom, invited Danny to dinner to negotiate. This was something Danny had done hundreds of times. The conversation was usually very short, and would consist of the mayor offering one-half gold brick for the advance, and the other half upon completion. But, this time was different. The conversation went like this:

Mayor Tom: "I will pay you one gold piece for the entire bridge."

Danny: "I'm afraid the bridge will cost you one gold brick."

Mayor Tom: "I know that Milton works for free. He collects his building materials from the land. You have no expenses!"

Danny: "If you will not pay one gold brick, I will send Milton to Millville downstream. Mayor George has already agreed to pay us a full brick."

Mayor Tom: "Yes, but George and I, and the mayors of all the other towns along this river had a meeting last week. We agreed that a tax must be levied on all bridge construction. The people in our villages think your price is too high. The tax will be 90%. We can pay you now if like."

Danny: "Well, I guess I have no choice. I guess we have a deal."

Mayor Tom: "You do have a choice. You can tell Milton not to build the bridge, and then you will make nothing."

Danny: "No, it's alright. I'll let Milton finish the bridge and take the single gold piece."

The next day, Danny walked to see his friend, Diane. Diane was friendly lady who lived in a very large house. She cared for ten young orphans. She welcomed Danny inside:

Diane: "Danny, thank God you're here. We had almost run out of food."

Danny: "I'm afraid I only have one gold piece for you today. The Mayors have all introduced a tax."

Diane: "Well, that will feed us for a week. Thank you."

Danny: "Your welcome, but I'm afraid that is all the money I will get for the whole bridge. You will need to ask the mayor for food. I cannot help you any longer."

Diane: "I understand. I will write him a letter."

Diane proceeded to explain how the tax had affected the town. At first, the tax only applied to stores and shops. For example, Billy the barrel maker was taxed 50% for each barrel he sold. Some people thought he could spare that much, but he couldn't. He had to raise the price of each barrel 25% and dismiss one of his four employees, Jim. He had no choice. Because of this, Jim could not afford to feed his children, and him and his wife needed to abandon them for many days at a time. They would forage for food in the wilderness. And, one time, they never came back. Diane cared for their three young children, and the children of others who have suffered the same fate. This tragedy had been occurring in all towns all up and down the river.

Danny left Diane's house and walked down to see Milton, who was busy building the bridge.

Danny: "Milton, is there any way you could catch extra fish for me while you're working on the bridge?"

Milton: "It will take longer to build the bridge if I need to spend extra time catching fish."

Danny: "That's alright. It's just very important that you catch extra fish. The mayor won't even notice that the bridge will take longer to build. I will need you to start catching the fish next week."

Milton: "Very well. I will catch 10 fish a day for you. Will that be enough?"

Danny: "Yes, that will be plenty."

This arrangement worked well. Even though Danny did not acquire enough gold to help Diane care for the children for a long time, Milton's fish kept them fed.

This went on for several weeks. Danny knew that Diane's orphans would starve if Milton left town, so construction slowed to a crawl. Milton spent most of his time catching fish. Before long, Mayor Tom demanded that Danny meet him for dinner. This time, it was a new Mayor's mansion that had just been built. There were statues and pillars and chandeliers. It was a very impressive house. Danny sat down to dinner.

Mayor Tom: "I see that the bridge is taking longer than expected."

Danny: "Yes, we have run into some obstacles."

Mayor Tom: "I have noticed that Milton is spending much of his time fishing."

Danny: "Well, yes, he likes to eat fish."

Mayor Tom: "I have seen him catch far more fish than he can eat. What does he do with the extra fish?"

Danny was afraid. He didn't want to tell Mayor Tom that he was giving away the fish. After all, many people would want to take Milton's free fish. He knew some of the others wouldn't use the fish to feed orphans or even eat themselves, but to sell. No, he definitely could not admit to giving away fish for free.

Danny: "What Milton and I do with the fish caught from the river is our business."

Mayor Tom: "Well, Milton is building the bridge for our town, and, the people of this town demand a bridge. They want the bridge soon, and they didn't hire Milton to catch fish. So, you see, it is my business. You have forced my hand. I must also tax all earnings from your fish at the same 90% rate."

Danny: "Very well, you will receive 90% of the earnings from the fish."

Mayor Tom: "Thank you, and finish my bridge."

Danny told Milton the news. He explained that Mayor Tom thought they were selling the fish, and decided to tax at the 90% rate. This meant Milton would need to catch an extra 9 fish every day and sell them at the market rate in order to both pay the tax and feed the orphans.

Milton spent his evenings catching the extra fish. He also worked hard to complete the bridge. Although, Danny knew that the orphans would have no food once the bridge was complete. So, he had a meeting with Milton.

Danny: "Milton, I need to tell you something."

Milton: "Yes, Danny."

Danny: "I use all the money from your work to help children who would go hungry otherwise. I give it to Diane at the orphanage."

Milton: "I know that, silly. Why do you think I work for free?"

Danny: "Oh, I guess I should have known you had figured it out."

Milton: "That's why I build strong bridges. That's why built them so quickly. Do you really think I could be so blind?"

Danny: "And that is why you have taken an extra long time with this one?"

Milton: "Yes, that's right. I know that if we leave town, those kids will go hungry."

Danny: "What do you think we should do?"

Milton: "Just keep doing what you are doing. I'll take care of it."

Two weeks later, work was finally complete, and Mayor Tom arrived for the ribbon cutting. There was a large celebration with fireworks.

In an 'unfortunate accident,' one of Mayor Tom's explosives struck the bridge and set it on fire.

Danny was handed another gold piece the next day, and Milton's work resumed.

Service

2010-02-03T08:10:00.000-08:00

If this blog seems wildly inconsistent and unpredictable, that's because it is.

It is my playground, and I can post song lyrics one day and diatribes the next. I can write whatever the hell I want. Some bloggers attempt to cater to large swaths of readers, which I think is perfectly acceptable. Whoring for a general audience is quite familiar to me as well. In fact, it is an activity that constitutes virtually my entire existence.

This place is the exception.

This is a place where I take a different approach with regards to my audience. Specifically, I don't want idiots reading this stuff, and nothing discourages an idiot more than superficial inconsistency. So, while consistent in principle, I resist a formula in style or syntax. This is my modus operandi. If you think the passing use of a Latin term makes me pretentious, please stop reading. You are an idiot.

Anyway, I will now share with you my continuing individual effort to destroy the Republican Party and rebuild it so that it does less damage, and perhaps even so that it does some good.

I convened our local precinct last night, which includes 20 or so square blocks around my house. We met in a schoolroom with those little high-school desks. My duties included calling our caucus to order, electing precinct officers, taking a gubernatorial straw vote, and introducing resolutions to change the party platform. There were six of us in attendance.

I'm pleased to report that I was nominated for the office of Precinct Chair, accepted the nomination, and won the election. I am also a delegate, which means I will be representing our neighborhood in the county caucus this March. I hope to gain enough support to attend the following caucus for our Congressional District, and use what political power I have acquired to dissolve the plague of stupidity and laziness that has infected almost every longstanding Republican participant. Identifying and exposing the moral and intellectual contradictions at war inside the heads of most Republicans is like shooting gerbils in a barrel, and I'm just the one to do it. Here's why:

I don't want a political office. I don't have any ambitions for government involvement at all, and don't fear political suicide in the slightest.
I don't care if I'm hated by idiots.
I know pretty much exactly what they are thinking. I was raised in a pseudo-Republican family.
I don't care all that much. I can do this with almost complete impartiality and disinterest, by simply organizing and stating the brutal facts they don't want to hear.
If I'm motivated by anything, it's a personal desire to be proven wrong.

This is how I choose to express my patriotism, and I think our founders would have approved.

We all know the phrase: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among them are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Thomas Jefferson's original draft called these rights "sacred and undeniable" (before Franklin's proposed edit). I believe Jefferson used the language "sacred and undeniable" for a reason, and here's that reason: what was self-evident to our founders was not evident to all at the time, and would certainly not be self-evident to all future Americans. Unfortunately, these truths are so far from evident in the minds of today's citizenry and governing officials, that I believe the words "sacred and undeniable" are far more appropriate for our times. I intend to make them less so, and demonstrate why they are undeniable.

Maybe I just like to be part of the narrative. Maybe I'm just a guy who saw what some historical figures were up to and wants to carry the torch for a while. The good news is, while I have their ideas, I have no reputation. It's a fun place to be, and a difficult one to depart with. (Ooh, a new computer just arrived. Back to work.)

Encouraging Irresponsibility through Children's Literature

2010-02-02T08:46:00.000-08:00

There is something magical about authoring picture books for children.

Your primary audience has not learned critical thinking skills.
There are little or no expectations of comprehension.
Illustrations easily override the text as the primary storytelling mechanism.
Expectations from parents are minimal, and constitute virtually any volume capable of capturing a child's interest.
Any message transmitted in the book, no matter how irresponsible, will likely be perceived to be harmless at worst, and quite possibly charming.

These are very good reasons for someone with limited writing skills to consider authoring a story for children. And, there are many additional incentives that can prompt an individual with absolutely no aptitude for writing to choose this genre.

Personal experience. We have all been children at one time,
An inner child. In-tune with childlike sensibilities including: capriciousness, entitlement, megalomania, carelessness, thoughtlessness, and irrationality.
Distance from reality. A levity of mind that prevents any exposure to the real world offers a wealth of possibilities. While baseless and irrelevant, the sky is the limit.

In this environment, it is quite tempting to exploit the very large demand for meaningless entertainment, particularly if that entertainment encourages what parents and children already desire (see above for examples). Do we need to wonder why lazy authors turn to writing children's books? What other genre enthusiastically encourages the reduction of humanity into a specimen capable of defecation (see Everyone Poops). Does this fact of nature require abstraction to properly understand? Is there any possible way a child might be inspired or enlightened by being convinced that pooping is an achievement or communal animal rite rather than a mundane and necessary bodily function? Might I remind children everywhere that pedophiles, psychopaths, and puppy killers also poop regularly. That does NOT mean you are like them in any relevant sense.

For products of human metabolism, we are left with a limited number of options. The products of human intellect, on the other hand, are virtually limitless. Let us at least attempt to improve upon the former.

Without listing specifics, I will summarize by saying that my professional exploration of the children's book market has yielded unexpected and sad results. While I might rejoice upon identifying the banal and disappointing competition, I can't help but lament for the kids. For every thoughtful, well-constructed, illuminating tale there are ten stories about escaping responsibility by blaming fairies or somehow excusing self-destructive behavior. And, nothing says "indoctrination" like a heartwarming McCain or Obama biographical tale. Big money there, I'm sure.

In conclusion, books can't make a child any more stupid than they already are. But, it can explain to precocious children reasons not to accept responsibility, try their hardest, think too much, or exert effort in constructive ways. Although, I must admit, I do feel dumber after leaving the picture book section at the friendly neighborhood bookstore. Ug.

Dark Tide

2010-01-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

Dark Tide

Water crashes into clay
Rinsing the mud and specks away
A gurgling, one-half serving poured
Darkness, this is my reward
My reward

Slowly creeping to the brim
To break the stream, a mortal sin
Nothing like my Kona blend
When will the dripping finally end
When will it end

When will the darkness finally spill over the side
A torrent crashing over, a great dark tide
Just grains of sugar left to mask the bitter taste
How much more is there to waste

Just an addict's little fix
A drop of cream to stir in the mix
Do you prefer a lighter hue
Do you take one lump or two
One or two

Water crashes into clay
Rinsing the mud and specks away
There was a time like this before
There was a time I needed more
Needed more

When will the darkness finally spill over the side
A torrent crashing over, a great dark tide
Just grains of sugar left to mask the bitter taste
How much more is there to waste

When will the darkness finally spill over the side
A torrent crashing over, a great dark tide
Just grains of sugar left to mask the bitter taste
How much more is there to waste

Skol Vikings

2010-01-25T08:20:00.000-08:00

Little flags had sprouted from driver and passenger-side windows. A familiar blond Nordic gentleman with horns appeared everywhere; in offices, shops, and email signatures. Our towns smelled of purple, and every conversation was on the brink of a digression including the words "AP," or "stadium noise," or "pocket." We knew the curse. We didn't talk about it. We pretended it could happen this year, as if the Earth's rotation would suddenly stall and the sun would never rise. Inside, we knew we were living on borrowed time. Every moment remaining before kickoff became a treasure infinitely more valuable than the one before. We knew it was only a matter of time...

The narrative is ancient, or might as well be. Its tendrils creep into the soul of every fan. It begins for us like clockwork in the waning days of summer. In these days, when the first flake of snow is still an impossibility, its harmless and mystic appeal lures us. "It's only a game," we tell ourselves. "Maybe this year." Oh, the numbing sensation has not left our extremities, not since 98, or before. Perhaps back to the 70's. For some, those horrors have been shoveled over, buried deep within our psyche like our first unfortunate clown experience. We somehow approach each new season with blind enthusiasm, like lemmings, plunging to enjoy the cool water splash around us and the promise beyond. There is heartwarming charm in such simple naivety.

For a few games...

Then, in our frenzied dog-paddle, as our noses strike against the waves, we look back to find ourselves surrounded by water as far as the eye can see. Half-way through the season there is no turning back. Destiny has consumed us. It tells us to keep swimming. We do. We remain riveted to the goal despite knowing the pain we are sure to endure. Will it be a fumble on the 5 yard line, or 12 men in the huddle? What easily-avoidable fluke will do us in this time? We know our warriors will outperform their opponent in virtually every way, but in those crucial moments will they throw an interception, take a knee, or miss the shortest field goal? Only time will tell. It will remind us that justice is a myth, that there is no God, and that we are all floundering rodents about to drown in a vast oblivion. There is no escape. There is no relief. We turn away, but already know the result. We knew it before the first glimmer of hope existed. It could not be stopped. Any apathy is false and contrived. We asked for this. We were doomed from the beginning.

There is some twisted honor here as in this cold, desolate month we refuse to yield only to the elements. We demand more than perpetual darkness and sub-zero temperatures. We require more demoralization than the repeated blanketing of freezing rain, black ice, and high gas prices. We refuse to accept anything less than the complete crushing of our spirit. We ask to be bemired in an inescapable crevasse of hopelessness and despair with no possibility of escape. As Minnesotans, this is not only our challenge, but our identity. It makes us who we are, and drives us ever-further within–to engage with ourselves in that inevitable dialogue that insists to know the meaning of all this. Why go on? Why continue breathing? How can purpose exist in a universe of complete chaos and unpredictability.

But, it is not complete chaos, far from it. There is solace in one crucial thing: the consistent and inevitable crushing pain we can depend upon this time of year. When it seems like nothing else can be counted on–when it seems as if all is utterly random and whimsical–this tiny shred of consistency reminds us that there is some semblance of order to the cosmos. It is not a glimmer of hope, but a nail gun pounding our feet to the pavement, grounding us to a harsh reality. It is a defensive tackle smashing no. 4 onto the turf over, and over, and over again. And yet, we ascend, and ask for more. We do it not for hope, but for punishment. We do it because this is who we are, and this is what we do.

Next time I see the little purple flags on minivans–next time I see our horned gentleman through the corner of my eye for days at a time–I will remember the season of 2009. I will remember driving home from my buddy's house over frozen ice in our arctic wasteland along with so many others. I will feel the characteristic tingle of dejection shoot up my spine and rip through my extremities. But, more importantly, I will remember seeing "SCOL VIKINGS" written prominently on a whiteboard in the office the morning after that day of reckoning. I will remember what we've been through, what we have endured, and that we asked for more. I will remember that when the ground opens up and the Twin Cities are buried under a mile of molten rock, there will be one thing left: a tiny purple flag stuck into the black, scorched Earth fluttering in that unholy blistering breeze.

SKOL VIKINGS!

An Inquiry into the Nature of Zigliwatz

2010-01-12T09:15:00.000-08:00

Since my last discussion regarding the self-replication of zigliwatz, many have been curious to know more. Specifically, they want me to tell them how to take small numbers of zigliwatz and convert them to larger numbers of them. I am rather confused and horrified by this curiosity, as I already explained that no good can come from zigliwatz themselves. This exposes a total misunderstanding of the nature of zigliwatz. Zigliwatz are not tangible themselves, nor influential at all outside the sphere of our understanding/misunderstanding. While fame, profits, and power are usually seen in the proximity of zigliwatz, zigliwatz themselves are a unsavory side-effect of these things, not their source. This topic seems to cause more confusion than I formerly realized, and thus, I take it upon myself to set the record straight regarding the nature of this most deceptive entity. Certainly, the belief that zigliwatz themselves have any real value is a myth that can and should be cleanly and thoroughly dispatched before any more zigliwatzge appears. After all, the proportion of zigliwatz to non-zigliwatz can only be so high before the nature of zigliwatz becomes completely apparent. If the prevalence of zigliwatz becomes apparent too suddenly, the inevitable backlash against zigliwatz could be so severe as to be counterproductive. An unsustainable amount of zigliwatz could result, tipping the scales, emptying a inexhaustible torrent of zigliwatz over our society in a flood of confusion, misery, and death.

Considering this possibility, it is pehaps more important now than ever to expose the perilous ground upon which we tread. Zigliwatz never appear intentionally, but always as a result of some fissure or weakness in our efforts to suppress them. They are always located just beneath the surface. You might imagine we are walking on the caldera of Yellowstone National Park, which is actually an active supervolcano. Hot, sulfuric liquid heated by magma far beneath the Earth's crust is bubbling to the surface all the time. We amble inside this volcano, accompanied by Japanese tourists with expensive cameras, and enjoy the impressive sights and sounds. We proceed on footpaths above roiling, steaming hot springs. We breathe the stench of rotten eggs. We marvel at the clockwork regularity of Old Faithful as it shoots its lethal discharge high into the atmosphere. We hardly consider the possibility we are about to die a swift and horrific death in a bath of molten rock. After all, the last super eruption occurred 630,000 years ago.

An appropriate handling of zigliwatz somewhat resembles the venting of the Yellowstone Supervolcano. We simply cannot plug all the holes. If we did, pressure would build up and cause a deadly eruption. We can't drill down either, releasing a constant flow of magma that might swallow the countryside, converting the central United States into a dark, barren wasteland. No, we must accept a certain degree of zigliwatzge to maintain the delicate balance, so that many more generations of Japanese tourists can take pictures.

Of course, unlike steaming hot springs, zigliwatz are invisible. And, in a world rife with zigliwatz, we do not perceive them as something threatening, but quite the opposite. In fact, many things that we consider good are themselves almost entirely zigliwatz.

Disclaimer: The morpheus nature of zigliwatz means that any specific characterization will perhaps serve to mislead. The following example is quite crude I submit it for expedience, hoping the reader does not limit the definition of zigliwatz to the following example...

Also for expedience, I will use the abstraction of economics: A 6.5% sales tax is an example of zigliwatz. In order to understand why, I ask you to make some assumptions. First, assume that the tax is paid voluntarily and with adequate representation from the tax payers. Second, assume that all revenue from sales taxes is spent responsibly, and the product of the tax provides a benefit for all tax payers evenly. In other words, assume that the tax revenue is being handled by an omnipotent, shrewd, philanthropic, compassionate entrepreneur. The tax is still zigliwatz to the extent that .5 cents is a denomination that is not available in our currency system. On a $1 purchase, I do not pay 6.5 cents, but 7 cents. Why is this a good example of zigliwatz? Because, relabeling is used so that we may believe that our possessions/time/labor is not ours. We earned that whole penny with our labor and time, and not only half of it. And, albeit a very small amount, there is an assumption made that whatever portion of our lives from which that .5 cents derived is under another person's discretion. Namely, whoever decides how to handle the accumulation of extra one cent pieces that piles up behind a merchant's register, whether that be a person working publicly or privately. To be clear, zigliwatz is not negotiable or loosely defined. To remove zigliwatz from this situation would be rather simple. Either round the tax to the nearest penny (7%), or introduce a .5 cent piece so that tax payers can submit their fair share, no more or less.

Why is a definition of zigliwatz important? Because almost no one identifies zigliwatz for what it actually is. The customer assumes the tax rate is fair, and either that the extra .5 cents will be somehow returned through public work or that it is simply waste too insignificant to think about. They trust that this minor oversight/inconsistency is just a natural part of commerce and society. There is an assumption that .5 cents is no big deal. Well, if you have seen Office Space or Superman III, you know that an accumulation of .5 cents over many transactions adds up to millions, which is beside the point, but does indicate the inevitable consequences of zigliwatz.

The point is not that someone is quietly robbing people .5 cents at a time. Stealing itself is not zigliwatz. Zigliwatz is related to the conditions necessary for stealing to occur. Zigliwatz can perpetuate stealing and more zigliwatz. I don't want to give zigliwatz too bad a rap. Unintentional and unexploited zigliwatzge is a natural and unavoidable consequence of life. The problem is, when excessive zigliwatz appears, there is a temptation to employ zigliwatz for personal and often malevolent purposes. For example, while perhaps this tax was introduced innocently, (to pay for parade-ready, inflatable Spongebobs), the person on the sidelines (in the shadow of our giant, floating Spongebob) benefiting from millions in transactions of .5 cent payments does not want this policy to end. In fact, this person will likely spend effort, even millions, to ensure those who might renew the .5 cent increment are elected/appointed to power. This is getting closer to larger floating Spongebobs, and the true nature of zigliwatz.

Forgive my focus on economics. I only use this example to avoid the more inflammatory examples of zigliwatz easily accessible in government and religion. It is currently not very popular to attack zigliwatz in any redistributive economy, because, for our purposes, its fruits (this case, millions of dollars) are not only being paid to policy makers, but anyone who threatens system and is willing to be paid off in one way or another. This is nothing uncommon, and nothing outside the realm of everyone's experience. I have benefited from the existence of zigliwatz, and I have suffered from it. In fact, there is a possibility that a good portion of what success I have had related to economics has resulted from some manifestation of zigliwatz. But, economics is only a minor example, and really only hints at the true nature and prevalence of zigliwatz. I feel there is little that can be done overtly. The deflation of our floating Spongebob will not diminish zigliwatz.

I leave you with scarcely more information regarding zigliwatz than you may have had before. Zigliwatz are to be avoided at all costs. But, on a positive note, everything other than zigliwatz should be indulged in without restraint. This is very good news, as all truly good things exist despite zigliwatz, and this includes many, many things. Perhaps a discussion of things opposite zigliwatz will be another discussion. Although, in such a discussion, it is very easy for zigliwatz to creep in. I will do my best...

Zigliwatz

2010-01-11T08:53:00.000-08:00

The efforts of modern society are primarily dedicated to zigliwatz. Yes, we have confirmed that all our action has the effect of reducing humanity to a utility most conducive to the advancement of this one thing. While this claim is self-evident and easily observable in all our experience, the vocabulary required to expose it has been transformed by those most interested in its suppression. If it were generally known that zigliwatz was the primary product of all our efforts, there would be outrage and humiliation. Yet, the prevalence of zigliwatz itself assures that its predominance will not be known. This suppression and transformation of vocabulary in the interest of eliminating all interference with the advancement of zigliwatz, over time, severely reduces exposure to the real nature of things. After all, it is quite ridiculous to presume any society could endure for long dedicated primarily to this end. Yet, we increasingly believe that zigliwatz is not a problem. This seems to me a natural cause and effect relationship that perpetuates into a cycle of ever-increasing deception and fallacy, benefiting those capable of the most pernicious and vile behavior imaginable in both the the interest of, in service for, and under the influence of zigliwats. But, of particular danger is behavior that is most unimaginable...

Some claim that only those with strong impulses and a weak conscience fall victim to zigliwatz. I think most agree that this hypothesis has been disproved by examples too numerous to mention, and perhaps sufficiently summed up by the following excerpt:

There is no natural connection between strong impulses and a weak conscience. The natural connection is the other way. To say that one person's desires and feelings are stronger and more various than those of another, is merely to say that he has more of the raw material of human nature, and is therefore capable, perhaps of more evil, but certainly of more good. -John Stuart Mill

Everyone is susceptible to zigliwatz, and to different degrees. But, it is not because men's desires are strong that they act under the influence of zigliwatz. It is often simply their failure to identify that zigliwatz is the motivation for their actions. Or, it is their belief that something other than zigliwatz will result. It isn't the degree to which someone acts for the sake of zigliwatz, but the fact they act for zigliwats at all. For we know nothing good can come from zigliwatz, but goodness can only occur incidental to the zigliwatzge. One might ask how something as seemingly absurd and trivial as zigliwatz could be both the cause and effect, method and product, vice and motive for so much. In fact, it is so prevalent that it may afflict all that has existed, all that currently exists, and possibly all that ever will exist. If one expends all of their allocated "raw material of human nature" to a cause as inhumane as zigliwatz, what is that raw material worth? Yet, there is a distinct possibility that this exchange is often made. Thus, let's attempt to remove those influences that so effectively disguise zigliwatz.

It is through the most usual exposure to perpetual propaganda we become indoctrinated into the popular fantasy of zigliwatz. There are many aspects to this very complicated and deceptive fantasy. At its most fundamental level, zigliwatz is a triumph of labeling. For example, hard work and ingenuity are valuable attributes. Few could be persuaded otherwise. Thus, the goal of those most interested in zigliwatz is to persuade others, often employees, customers, an electorate, or the population in general that hard work and ingenuity should be dedicated to zigliwats. Of course, zigliwatz is not compatible with actual hard work and ingenuity. In fact, zigliwats is a force opposing these two things in particular. Thus, there is a need for relabeling. They must not actually say they are dedicated entirely to zigliwats. Or, when the appeal to zigliwatz is entirely obvious, they must at least claim that zigliwatz is not the only result. There are usually two factors that make this easy...

1) People actually want zigliwatz even though they often pretend not to. They will pay for it in order to get more zigliwatz. They don't want to admit it's really zigliwats they want, even to themselves. So, when they acquire zigliwatz, they appreciate hearing that what they are acquiring is not, in fact, zigliwatz, but something different. It is curious that they essentially pay for the difference between reality and zigliwatz, even though zigliwatz is quite available for free in nature.

2) Zigliwatz itself is less costly than the alternative. Those who produce zigliwatz, or provide zigliwatz services, know that the perpetuation of zigliwatz is required to compete in the marketplace. Most enterprises with time and growth increase the proportion of zigliwatz accompanying their products until they are selling mostly zigliwatz. The most successful businesses have learned that the highest profits come from the sale of zigliwatz, and that ideally, with strong advertising, they can make huge profits by selling nothing but zigliwatz. This, of course, requires real effort in relabeling so opposed to zigliwatz that it seems almost self-defeating, especially because businesses themselves do not want to believe they are in the business of, much less entirely dedicated to, zigliwatz. But, it is, in fact, lucrative in its expansion of zigliwatz. It is easy to overlook the incredible potential of selling something that, again, is free and abundant in nature.

Thus, as far as zigliwatz is concerned, there is much reason for entrepreneurs to dedicate their lives to the acquisition of larger and larger sums of zigliwatz capacity, as this offers greater and greater potential for more zigliwatz. The more zigliwatzge acquired, the less interference there is from non-zigliwatz-related things. Then, eventually, one might have enough zigliwatz to evade all forces opposed to zigliwatz altogether. Eventually, there is virtually no hard work or ingenuity required for the acquisition of more zigliwatz. All that is required is the exchange of zigliwatz for more zigliwatz. And, this is essentially our current condition. Perhaps most people are unable to recognize this because they are unfamiliar with the complete definition of zigliwatz itself, which is a topic perhaps deserving of further exploration...

The Therapy

2010-01-04T07:26:00.000-08:00

The unbelievable nature of our findings has compromised our efforts.

Even after the human genome project, cloning, and robust tissue regeneration. Even after trips to Mars and the Large Hadron Collider, they still do not believe. Is it ingrained in their DNA? Is it some innate, psychotic emotional safety mechanism that simply cannot be overcome? We don't know. But, the fact remains: Most people reject the longevity therapy altogether, and choose death instead.

We saw evidence of this mentality early in our research, even before an effective therapy was available. Oh no, it wasn't the immediate visible results they rejected, quite the contrary. As we engineered new tissues using extracellular matrices just about everyone was cheering us on. The media looked upon us favorably as we regrew fingers, bladders, and hearts. There were no complaints then.

Did they not see the implications?

Did they not realize what we were doing?

How does it work? It's conceptually very simple. The body is a machine, a very complicated machine, but a machine no less. This machine powers itself though metabolism, converting organic matter (i.e. food) to the energy we use every day. Our research has revealed exactly how our bodies do this. In order to administer the aging therapy we require you to understand some basic aspects of our research...

Look at nature in general, and humanity's interaction with it. The current global warming hysteria has emphasized the damage we are inflicting upon our environment. Let's put aside the controversy for a moment and consider what both sides agree upon: the creation of energy causes harmful pollution. All our efforts to produce clean energy in sufficient quantities have failed. Whether we harvest the sun's power by unlocking ancient stores of hydrocarbons available as coal or oil, or fuse atoms of uranium derived from supernovae billions of years ago, we are left with dangerous byproducts that pollute the air, land, and sea. We simply can't figure out how to avoid this. While acquiring sustainable energy has proven difficult for humans, the problem has been resolved by mother nature relatively well. The evidence for this is no further away than our own bodies.

The human generator is more sustainable than our most advanced energy technology. At an average temperature of 98.6, we are constantly maintaining a slow chemical burn. This is similar to a coal furnace or a nuclear power plant, but under conditions that are carefully controlled and regulated for incredible efficiency. Yet, even at this low temperature, our cells produce harmful byproducts that must be diluted and safely removed from the body. Incredibly efficient biological machines are working diligently in our cells to deal with these harmful byproducts, neutralizing them and delivering them to the bloodstream for elimination. The physical waste that results from our metabolism is harmless, and returned to the Earth in a condition ideally balanced with the environment. The resilience of the body's cleansing mechanisms are extraordinary, but not invincible.

Over time the toxins produced as a byproduct of metabolism cause minuscule amounts of cellular damage. Our bodies function perfectly well with this damage, and repair it efficiently. Metabolism carries on normally for years and decades during this process of energy creation, cleaning, and repairing. But, over an extended period of time, the damage begins to impair the cleaning and repair functions. Gummy substances begin to build up in our cells that hinder the perfectly efficient cleaning process we had as children. Even this is not an immediate cause for concern, as our cellular constitution is incredibly robust, and prepared to deal with massive assaults upon our bodies from these dangerous impurities. But, as we all know, in the race to repair our cells we eventually begin to fall behind. Finally, after many decades of cumulative damage, our organs finally fail to regenerate fast enough and we die. The point is, death is not the result of any pre-programmed age limit. It is not part of our genetic code. In fact, our DNA is specifically optimized to prevent aging, and does this with remarkable success for the duration of our lifetimes. But, the differentiated cells of our body simply cannot endure the assault forever, so we currently deal with this by delivering our genetic material to offspring who carry the torch of our genetic information into the future. Our abused bodies disintegrate back to the Earth. We recognized long ago this ugly tradition was arcane and rather unnecessary.

Now that you have a general idea of our physical condition, I will make one brief mention of our spiritual one...

If you are a God fearing man, you are not prohibited from the therapy, contrary to what you may have heard from the media. But, understand that the one true God created man, and gave him the intellectual power to destroy or heal himself. If you are Christian you know, through your knowledge of His son, which option we are instructed to choose. Your faith may indeed save you.

If you are not a spiritual man, you must respect the ancient, sacred truths that permit humanity to accept the healing of the body indefinitely. We are not healed so that we can endure an eternity of depraved concupiscence. One is better off in the grave. Read scripture in the context of today, when an aging cure has been discovered and rejected to properly comprehend the meaning of these sacred texts. Ignore all popular superstitions and free your damn mind.

The real scientific quest to end aging began over 150 years ago. Evolutionary biologist August Weismann, in his 1881 essay The Duration of Life begins by quoting the words of a former scientist Johannes Muller:

Organic bodies are perishable, while life maintains the appearance of immortality in the constant succession of similar individuals, but the individuals themselves are passing away.

He was referring to the fact that some of our cells, germ cells, are essentially immortal, and are not damaged even after the passage of thousands of years, but deliver their genetic content to multitudes of perishable beings/hosts over the course of that time. Somatic cells, which perform specialized functions in the body, are vulnerable to the environment. Our organs are made of somatic cells. The questions our researchers asked was: "How can we give somatic cells the durability of germ cells?" For that, we needed to investigate certain aspects relating to the origins of life.

It turns out our bodies were not always, in the course of our lifetimes, so vulnerable. In our first months we did not suffer any damage as a result of metabolism. In fact, at this point, our cells were regenerative. Much like a salamander can regrow its tail, it is well-known that human fetuses can regrow entire limbs in the womb. They do this using undifferentiated stem cells, which are essentially capable of growing any type of human tissue. This is basically how we manufacture bladders, fingers, heart valves, esophagus' and so forth. There is nothing new about this. We've done it for years.

First, we used our body's own regenerative abilities and our own stem cells to regrow organs. These were harvested in a laboratory, and used the patient's own DNA. They were exact replicas of the patient's lungs, heart, liver, or whatever organ was required. We would keep these organs in a storage facility, and they were available for transplant whenever required by the patient. This had obvious drawbacks, including surgery, so we found ways to regenerate and repair human tissue using stem cell therapy without removing the organs. Our efforts were so successful, we discovered only a small amount of therapy was required to stall aging altogether in healthy patients. Then, with somewhat more therapy, elderly patients could be regenerated entirely. As it happens, our own DNA is perfectly capable of extending our own lives indefinitely. All the body needs is a little gentle nudging from science to keep those cleaners working as well as they did in our youth.

We thought this news would be received by the public quite favorably. Unfortunately, it was not. The problem was not the technology. The technology was and is perfectly reliable. The problem is people...

It just so happens that many individuals had always expected to die around a certain age, and had no plans of delaying that experience for more than a few years. We didn't understand it. In our educational campaign, we explained that we use their own cells (not foreign embryonic stem cells) to enhance the body's own capabilities. They nonetheless accused us of 'playing God.' We explained the relatively low price of the therapy, and they said we were selling snake oil and taking advantage of people's hopes and fears. They accused us of quackery. We tried to explain that this was very, very good news for all mankind. They wouldn't accept it. They seemed to live by the mantra, "anything that sounds too good to be true, probably is." They were making the most unfortunate logical mistake imaginable. Their apathy was literally killing them.

We do have the capability to provide restorative therapies for the entire human population. All that is required is a relatively small reallocation of global resources to accommodate it. What are expensive clothes, electronics, or fancy food compared to longevity? It seems people would be right to give up all their luxuries for a longer, healthy life. We thought this campaign would be rather easy and that the shift in global effort would be inevitable. This was not so.

It became startlingly obvious that the global medical and industrial infrastructure depends on sickness and death. It was constructed for a world of the dying rather than one for the living. Our cure for aging, if believed, would completely destroy the current industrial world and replace it with a new one. But, our current world is less prepared for this change than we previously realized. The problem's tentacles reach into every aspect of the society, and into your everyday way of life. The enemies of life are everywhere!

Look at the most simple example. Look at the food you put into your body. It's not the food that accompanied human evolution. Or, if you believe we've only been around for 6,000 years, it's clearly not the food God provided for us. Yet, these synthetic food-like substances, like refined flour, hydrogenated oils, and other marvels of 20th century food-science are staples of the modern diet. They appear in every microwavable entree. They are evidenced by unpronounceable names listed on the label of canned soups, beverages, and everything you see in the grocery store. These are tools that the food industry uses to produce foods as cheaply as possible. They do have limits: 1) Their food must taste good, as the consumer would not accept a sacrifice in taste. 2) Their food must not have immediate health consequences, as consumers would reject food that, for example, causes cancer immediately. What's the problem? While these foods are perfectly harmless in small quantities (as I mentioned earlier, our metabolism is capable of astounding feats), over multiple decades this diet causes all of the massive health problems we have grown to accept as a natural course of aging. For example, cancer is a chronic metabolic disease, which means it is almost always the result of poor nutrition, usually over an extended period of time. But, let's take the most obvious example we can...

In the 1960s there was not an obesity epidemic. At that time, food manufacturers began using synthetic substances and refinement in earnest to boost efficiency. This improved corporate profits, but they saw additional potential. If they could shift the American diet to include more highly-economical foods, they could reap greater profits. What better way to do that than exploit American vanity? So, they essentially hired 'researchers' to publish studies that suggested the most expensive foods were fattening, such as those that included animal fats. Then, these 'researchers' published additional studies that suggested the cheapest foods were healthy and promoted weight loss. The food industry collaborated with mass media to aggressively publicize these 'findings.' American's eager to lose weight shifted their diets to foods high in carbohydrates and refined flour. Well, 'scientists' hired by the food corporations were more crafty than anyone realized. They knew that foods high in simple sugars caused a rapid rise in blood glucose levels. The subsequent crash in blood glucose would result in a feeling of hunger. Through the introduction of other chemicals, such as high fructose corn syrup, they were well on their way to turning food into an unnaturally addictive substance. Dieters, by turning to a low-fat diet, stifled their metabolism and became addicted to these cheep foods. After enduring the pain of an unnatural cycle of hunger and malnourishment from the absence of fat soluble vitamins, they would eventually cheat, and end up binging. This predictable scenario was exploited by food manufacturers with impunity for decades, and the evidence is apparent in the waistlines all around us. Then, they exploited American laziness in their creation of 'diet' foods that only exacerbate the problem.

But, waistlines are relatively insignificant compared to the systemic catastrophe. Weight is only the tip of the iceberg...

Rampant heart disease, low bone density, cancer, and virtually all other age-related medical problems are greatly exasperated by decades of a population ensnared by the American diet. Pharmaceutical companies are dependent on sustained American malnourishment, as it means huge sales of products like cholesterol lowering drugs. The medical-industrial complex reaps billions by those who find themselves afflicted by this lifestyle, and suddenly restrained to a hospital bed. This is simply part of our experience. I am not blaming corporations or consumers, as we act as both at the same time without any real knowledge of the consequences. I am only stating the facts. They are relevant, because they are perfectly transferable to the therapy we have developed, and its refusal.

It turns out humanity's whole economic infrastructure survives through this cycle of hurting and healing its consumers. Our treatment, if generally known, would obliterate the stock portfolios of billions of people. Whole hospitals would shut down and millions would be unemployed. We never thought about these things in the laboratory. It simply wasn't an issue. Whole factions of lobbyists and special interest groups have assembled to defame and discredit us. Businesses shovel money to bureaucrats to pass anti-longevity, 'pro-God' legislation. It just so happens most people are just dying to die. The same ignorance that caused them to fall into the dietary trap of hurting and healing is now causing them to deny the cure for all of this.

The true devil is in the action of well-meaning but ignorant activists behaving on behalf of their conscience.

The effectiveness of public persuasion is astounding, but it is mostly limited to what consumers decide to eat, drink, and purchase in general (and maybe vote for). Yet, there is a small, vocal minority of trusting, altruistic 'do-gooders' who can be counted upon to go one step further. These individuals are highly vulnerable to persuasion, and honestly believe the therapy is a great lie. Behind these chanting 'pro-God' activists lie the hopes, dreams, and profits of the rich elite. Behind this sincere front of protests, the moguls desire to enjoy an exclusive life-extending therapy themselves. They don't believe that sheep who can be persuaded to act against their own preservation deserve longevity.

These zealous activists are relentless. They pose as clients to gain access to our facilities, then sabotage our equipment and research. At first we suspected they were all radical religious fundamentalists, but later we learned that many were only saboteurs posing as radicals. They were actually well-paid stooges acting on behalf of insurance companies and government sponsored industries who were attacking our efforts in every way. They slandered and framed our best scientists, engaged in massive Internet campaigns to alter data on open-source encyclopedias, and even infiltrated our labs and planted data so that it appeared as though our reports were doctored. We never imagined that people could destroy the very science that would almost certainly improve their own lives and the lives of their families and friends. The deceptions and falsifications were perpetuated by propagandists with profits to lose or political campaigns to win. The lies were repeated on television and in the movies. Anyone willing to join the army against us "Longevity Quacks" was rewarded with fabulous wealth. We were marginalized to the brink of destruction. The very lives of us all were at stake. After the bombings began, we were absolutely forced to take the therapy underground.

We now know we cannot advertise. Our adversaries will find us. We must let our clients seek us. It sounds terrible, but was and is the only way. We must discriminate against the enemies of life; those who insist that our work is somehow false or unjustified. We do not discriminate in any other way. For scientists who can interpret the hard data, the choice is simple. They have all joined us already. For all those who do not comprehend the data, they have already abandoned themselves to faith of some kind. They have faith in either the persistent corporate/government propaganda, or they have faith in, well, that silent voice in their head that tells them something is not right. With the scientists of the Earth suppressed, that voice is the one tiny thread that can lead them to us. It is their only hope.

We privately sought the Vatican and other branches of the Christian church for aid and asylum. After all, they were the last institutions on Earth with any power separate from the global industrial complex. We discovered their separation was largely a facade, and we were immediately refused all forms of assistance. We knew their founding document, the Bible, included much theological justification to help us. We insisted they meet with us, appealing to the words of Christ, and were granted one short meeting. We desperately attempted to explain the science to the Pope, to cardinals, to ministers. But, there was no way to simplify it enough for them. Believing it was quackery, they universally rejected our proposals, and suggested we abandon the devil's work.

Who dedicated to the real and practical advancement of abundant life could be accused of contradicting Christianity? Who could have imagined the technology for eternal life would actually exist, but not the moral and spiritual sensibility?

[To be continued...]

Collin's Choice

2009-12-29T09:13:00.000-08:00

Collin looked through the glass at the silver coils and various colored offerings. Ziplers, Spleed-its, and his old stand-by, animal crackers, sat side-by-side. They all looked appealing. He could almost already see the coil turn around the bag of animal crackers, pushing it forward to drop against the floor with a crunchy, wrinkled plastic thud. He loved that thud. He held the two quarters in his doughy hand. Famous Ramous cookies, Blickers... The break room was quiet and empty, but there was muffled shouting from the meeting room next door:

"The color of the bag means everything damnit! Look at this data. Look at it! Red and yellow equals hunger, and hunger equals sales. The stats don't lie. Our testing has concluded that customers approach the vending machine, look at the red packaging, and experience hunger, then they buy..."

Collin held the first quarter half way into the slot, not quite ready to commit to his purchase.

"Gentlemen, do you know who pays your salaries? That's right. Overweight, overworked cube zombies drooling for a sugar fix. I don't care if his artwork belongs in the Louvre, if it doesn't suck quarters from pockets and into those coffers, we don't have any use for it. Read the data. Red and yellow damnit!"

The quarter dangled in limbo. Collin thought about his morning, carefully polishing the final hue of his design.

"And what the hell is this shit? Abstract art? Maybe I need to remind you that I don't care about your department's depth of artistic talent. I care about the smiles on our shareholder's faces. I care about your own damn 401ks and pensions. If yellow alone means one extra bag of Rimplies gets sold for every hundred, as the data reads, I don't care if my three year old designs it with finger paints."

Collin listened to the shouting, knowing they were discussing his project. As its designer, he had barely slept the past three days finishing the work for the proposals. "Ribbed Rimplies" was his first solo project, and he was determined to impress management...he barely heard his middle manager's meager voice respond to the executives...

"Sir, I'm sorry for the mix-up. Based on the positive sales figures for Round Rimplies, his previous project, you expressed interest in granting more freedom to Collin. He must have..."

"I didn't ask for Picasso. By 'freedom,' I expressed my confidence that Collin would properly interpret the fucking data and know that it was his responsibility to put square blocks in square holes. This isn't rocket science and it definitely isn't art class. He should know the formula by now."

He hardly noticed the quarter slip from his hand and fall into the coffer. It splashed the lake of quarters inside. He had grown paralyzed by the exchange next door. The project manager continued...

"Now march right back to your nice new corner office and do what I pay you to do. Tell Collin to reserve his talent for the county fair and get back to work on a feasible design."

"Yes sir."

A stream of footsteps emanated from the meeting room. Collin emerged from his daze and stared again at the bright packaging in front of him: Round Rimplies, Red Rimplies, Rhubarb Rimplies. He shook his head, then slowly lifted the second quarter to the slot and dropped it in. He pressed two buttons on the keypad to nudge the bag over the edge, then reached through the door to retrieve his animal crackers. He would need the energy. It was going to be another long evening.

The Implant

2009-12-28T07:53:00.000-08:00

It's installed much like the regular implants you received at birth. All the standard ones are basically little artificial computers affixed to brain tissue. As you know, these permit modern humans to do all the everyday things required to live in civilized society: see infrared, hear in ultrasonic frequencies, and so forth. They allow you to control the advanced muscle fibers throughout your body and resolve complex mathematical formulas instantly and intuitively. Without all these enhancements you would be a pathetic creature indeed, barely able to run 10 miles per hour, and then, only for short distances. You would certainly not be able to resolve the real-time calculations necessary to navigate our hypersonic transportation network. Much less. For what tiny bio-chemical power you had you would require a constant supply of oxygen and water, and would be dependent on regular intake of mildly toxic organic matter for sustenance, often including animal tissue. Barbaric animals we once were. As you know, we have put all these things behind us. Even the most basic implant packages installed into society's poorest infants provide enough power for complete and perpetual autonomy. When we replaced the prison of biological metabolism with permanent and abundant bodily energy, we essentially gained complete control over our human condition. Forgive the history lesson, here. It's just part of the 'standard enlightenment protocol.' Well, alright, look, I'm not going to waste your time. You know all this. I'll skip to the last page here. Ahem... This was only the natural, inevitable result of the prehistoric 'awakening' that somehow adorned humans with consciousness and intellect thousands of years ago. We have assumed total responsibility for this awakening, and have become nothing less than masters of our destiny. The physical universe, including our own biology, has been conquered. Now we, the reasoning race, volunteer this final upgrade to free humanity from its only remaining malady.

Your unique, undifferentiated stem cells have been cultured with the latest nanotechnology in a slurry of neuron-enriching fluid. For you, and the entire human population, we have grown a specially-engineered supplementary perfrontal cortex. This implant is anticipated to be the last one required from human science. After installation, it will grow interconnecting neurons, which fuse with your current organic brain tissue. These implants are unlike those of the past...

Former intellect-enhancing implants have permitted hyper-intelligence, which allowed humans to take control of the physical universe. After the introduction of these implants, we first became conscious of the nature of our capabilities. We escaped Earth and terraformed other planets. Escaping our solar system, we conditioned our bodies to consume resources of foreign worlds for survival. We learned to adapt to virtually any atmosphere, breathe methane, endure extreme temperatures, and convert minerals to biological energy. Then, as implant technology improved, we almost spontaneously achieved the ability to engineer perfect solar systems with a virtually unlimited supply of ideal, Earth-like planets. The population of humanity became limited only to the amount of matter available in the universe that could be transformed to hospitable environments. As we had perfect ability to arrange atoms, and manufacture elements in any way we needed, all we required was actual matter itself to provide for billions of idyllic worlds. This, of course, is the history of our present condition, having every existing subatomic particle under our complete command at all times.

The question has often been asked...where do we go from here?

The implant that is about to be installed will free you from the last remaining ailment...from perfection. It will remove you from the idyllic conditions of our current universe and place you back into an environment of perpetual challenge. It will temporarily deactivate your other neural implants and introduce you into a simulation of the most intellectually fulfilling time from our history...the very first years of our breakthrough into technological sufficiency. You will experience life on the original seed planet, Earth, at the dawning of our time. You will experience every moment, from infancy to old age, as if you were a frail, organic being in the 21st century. You will live this thrilling time without knowledge of your true condition, subject to all the severe limitations humans endured at this time. You will experience life as it was before we had gained control, with exposure to true fear, frustration, anger, and happiness. You will experience eating, drinking, and breathing. Unlike your current condition of perfect autonomous control, you will be dependent and surrounded by seemingly insurmountable barriers and limitations. You will sincerely believe you are virtually helpless, just as all humans were at that time.

In order to experience this alternate reality, you must have no distractions from the actual universe. Your commitment will simulate a lifetime from organic birth until organic death. You will have no knowledge of your true condition, as this life could not be truly experienced without all the long-obsolete risks. You will be subject to things you have never experienced, such as real fear and the possibility of death. You will exist in a time with exciting consequences and the long-lost possibility of failure. You will not know your true condition for the duration of the implant's life, which will endure for the exact length of the simulation. It is the only way to ensure authenticity. Rest assured, you will awaken into your perfectly modified self upon completion of the simulation.

This is the final achievement of humanity, and one universally accepted by each member of society. We can make no guarantees regarding your happiness or success, as you will be given free will along with other implant recipients. We can only say that your experience will be authentic.

Congratulations, we are pleased to present your first exposure to life. Please sign on the dotted line and enjoy your simulation. You are welcome to retain all memories of your experiences if so desired upon your return. We hope you have a pleasant life. Please sit back and relax as we install your implant.

Quote of the Day

2009-12-24T10:38:00.000-08:00

It seems only fair to remind the reader that intellectual honesty has its dangers; arguments read perhaps at first in curious fascination may come to convince and even seem natural and intuitive. Only the refusal to listen guarantees one against being ensnared by the truth. -Robert Nozick "Anarchy, State, and Utopia"

It seems only fair to also remind the reader that listening indiscriminately, especially to those most forceful about gaining your attention, can also guarantee one will be ensnared by falsehood.

I think it deserves to be added that the truth doesn't envy, or yell, or flag you down and urge you to listen. It doesn't have any need to interrupt your 'reality' television. It doesn't seek to expose itself at all. It doesn't impose, but simply exists for anyone brave and curious enough to discover it. Perhaps the most universal signal of truth is that one must dig to find it. As for listening, if you want the truth, it's probably best to turn one's ear to the quietest voice. Anyway, I get his point. He is saying that he is confident in the integrity and persuasiveness of his material - nothing more than intellectual advertising. It's definitely incentive for reading further. I hope he comes through.

Mabel's Greeting

2009-12-23T09:27:00.000-08:00

Mabel pressed the button on the control panel, elevating the top half of the bed so she could recline and open her mail. Today was her birthday, and she happened to have a large stack of letters waiting for her. The nurse, who was seated next to her, tore open an envelope and handed her a greeting card. She took it in her frail hand, inspecting the cover:

For the greatest grandma ever

A shadow of concern fell upon her face. She looked at the nurse for a moment, who encouraged her to open it. She looked back at the card and slowly turned the cover:

On your birthday, I just wanted to let you to know that I am thinking about you, and that you are truly loved.

Your great grandson,
Luke

It was a card from her only great grandson, Luke. Mabel had watched Luke grow from a rambunctious toddler to an enterprising young man. She thought about his straight blond hair and cheerful demeanor. He was always a kind and gentle boy. Mabel held the card in front of her for a moment, and the nurse finally reached for the card to hand her another one. But Mabel was still and vacant. A tear fell down her cheek and she pressed the card with both hands against her chest.

The nurse paused and placed her hand on Mabel's shoulder. "Luke must be a fine young man."

Mabel closed her eyes and nodded her head. After several moments, she looked at the nurse and held the card up so both could see. She turned the card around and pointed to a small insignia in the lower left corner:

A Facebook Greeting®

It was a stock greeting sent to her automatically by the service, as most greeting cards were these days. The nurse looked at Mabel.

"Now, Mabel, just because Luke used a greeting card service to send this to you doesn't mean he doesn't mean it. I'm sure Luke is thinking of you today."

Mabel closed the card and reached into the top drawer of her nightstand. She pulled a stack of four cards and placed them on her lap. The nurse watched as she held one up, comparing the messages.

Great grandmother, you have always been there for me, and on your birthday I want to remind you how much you truly mean to me.

With love,
Luke

"Well, Mabel, isn't that nice. Luke seems to really care about you."

Mabel overlapped the cards so one was folded into the other. Then she slid the inner one up until the signature of both cards was visible, one above the other.

Each signature was in blue ink, which contrasted with the black text above. While it looked as if each could have been signed individually, the signature on both cards was perfectly identical. After comparing the two side-by-side, it was obvious that the signature was printed by the greeting card company.

"Yes, Mabel, Facebook Greeting Company asks all their clients to scan and submit their signature. Then, they print the signature on the interrior of the greeting cards before they send them out. Mabel, it is very likely that he composed this message himself."

Mabel seemed inconsolable. She just looked down at the several cards and slowly shook her head. The nurse continued:

"Mabel, I know that Facebook Greeting Company allows its customers to automatically generate messages based on client and recipient profiles. I know it is possible Luke didn't write this note, or even remember your birthday. But, he certainly spent the time to log you into his friends and family database. And, he certainly filled out a profile that would allow for appropriate messages to be crafted for you. I'm sure Luke is a busy young man, Mabel."

Mabel slowly reached into her drawer again, pulling a yellowed piece of paper from underneath a stack of papers. She held it in front of her so the nurse could see.

In Loving Memory of Luke Anderson
Born December 23rd, 1985
Died October 2nd, 2006