Before the clock strikes 12,
remember to remember
your grievances and gripes,
your pitfalls and pains,
your sores and sorrows,
because there will be many more to come.
Before the clock passes 12,
realize where you are,
and where you came from,
because it is not you.
What you are,
what makes you
is your smile,
your cheer,
the twirl of your hair,
the
gleam of joy in your eyes
when you see what makes you happy.
Resolve for nothing but
what tickles you,
what pulls you,
what drives you,
because there is
nothing else that you need.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Things I want to do before I'm 30
1. Play a music set in front of an audience and only screw up maybe 2 or 3 times.
2. Publish something.
3. Get another master's, maybe.
4. Climb something big.
5. Start a nonprofit.
6. Get my back fixed. And my left hip. And my knees. And my...
7. Get a black belt. I'm really close, but now I have to find a new dojo...
8. Take a trip anywhere without regard to timing or desire to travel there.
9. Live in a completely foreign place, like in East/South Asia.
10. Learn to swim, finally.
2. Publish something.
3. Get another master's, maybe.
4. Climb something big.
5. Start a nonprofit.
6. Get my back fixed. And my left hip. And my knees. And my...
7. Get a black belt. I'm really close, but now I have to find a new dojo...
8. Take a trip anywhere without regard to timing or desire to travel there.
9. Live in a completely foreign place, like in East/South Asia.
10. Learn to swim, finally.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
No, Mr Prime Minister. No.
I was listening to NPR this morning and I heard a snippet about how David Cameron believed that the public was 'on his side' in his desire to renegotiate the British EU treaty, that he wanted to restrict immigrant flow from within the EU (and, of course, from without), and his usual xenophobic rhetoric.
Unsurprising? Definitely. However, this is more than just the usual conservative nonsense; this takes the ire of the press and populace away from the spying infrastructure, with its flimsy arguments for 'national security' and incessant dissemblance, and onto an issue that nationalists and racists everywhere can agree on: that immigrants are bad.
No matter who they are, what their credentials might be, what their economic situation is, immigrants are bad. Except, you know, when the majority of immigrants to the UK are students.
Besides, stopping the flow of migrants to the UK won't precisely help the UK's economic situation, especially with Cameron's rhetoric about renegotiating the entire treaty. The UK has a large enough outflow of citizens and migrants as it is (check the statistics), and besides, if you want to solve a problem that originates from a distant (or not so distant) place, the problem must be solved at its origin, not at its periphery. If you want to stem the tide of immigrants from Romania or Bulgaria, then you encourage them to grow economically and develop a home structure that can support vast swaths of skilled and unskilled workers.
Cameron has always struck me as a man whose sight oversteps his reach. Perhaps he's pandering to the right-wing Tories in his party, or perhaps he's trying to convince himself that his protectionist and overtly illogical bunk is, well, not bunk; or, maybe he just wants to think that Britain is still in a partnership with America that somehow extends its empire and affords it to stand on its own in the international system.
Whatever the case, I hope that most Britons are keen to his style of equivocation and realize just how much of an obdurate, narrow-sighted man he has made himself to be.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
P.S. I'm trying this social media sharing thing now. I have no idea how it works, but click one of the thingies and something might happen. There might be a free car in it for you, who knows...
Sunday, November 10, 2013
In response to someone asking me, "How was your weekend?"
My weekend was a maelstrom of emotions and incisions into the very
nature and fabric of normality, through which I delved into the deepest
regions of my being and tore out, with every bloody drop, the center of
my heart and threw it upon the ground. It was for this reason that the
incisions came to show, came to express the very being which wishes to
exude itself from those incisions, deeper than the superficiality they
bear. If I could redact it all, pull back the skin of them and expose
the seeping ruins of my life upon the world, I wouldn't, for that would
only end the long, arduous struggle that is the very essence of
consciousness.
How was yours?
How was yours?
Monday, November 4, 2013
The Taste of Green
While driving, I started thinking about how a blind person might understand a color. Obviously, there isn't a way to say "green is, uh, green!" So, instead, I thought of how a color might feel. Yeah, strange, I know, but strange thoughts make my days of unemployment less dull.
Red is the burn of your skin after being out in the sun for too long, or the uncomfortable thump of your heart after leaning too far back on your chair and nearly falling over.
Orange is the taste of an orange (original, right?), or the tingle of the first autumn breeze.
Yellow is the taste of a banana, or the feeling of springtime sun on a cool day.
Green is bare feet in the grass in the summer, or shade on a summer's day.
Blue is cool water running over your feet on the shore.
Violet is the smell of flowers at first blossom, or the taste of blueberries.
Brown is cool dirt beneath your feet.
I'm guessing black is what most blind people would experience normally. Or maybe they're like Daredevil and have some odd sense of echolocation? Now that would be cool. Blind people, if you're reading this, please tell me. And maybe dress up in a red leather suit and fight crime.
Red is the burn of your skin after being out in the sun for too long, or the uncomfortable thump of your heart after leaning too far back on your chair and nearly falling over.
Orange is the taste of an orange (original, right?), or the tingle of the first autumn breeze.
Yellow is the taste of a banana, or the feeling of springtime sun on a cool day.
Green is bare feet in the grass in the summer, or shade on a summer's day.
Blue is cool water running over your feet on the shore.
Violet is the smell of flowers at first blossom, or the taste of blueberries.
Brown is cool dirt beneath your feet.
I'm guessing black is what most blind people would experience normally. Or maybe they're like Daredevil and have some odd sense of echolocation? Now that would be cool. Blind people, if you're reading this, please tell me. And maybe dress up in a red leather suit and fight crime.
Friday, October 18, 2013
The Earl
It's been nearly a month since I last drank Earl Grey. I can say that, after a month, tasting that luscious, brown liquid drew me to a verdant field, a cool, soothing breeze on my face, clouds only partially spotting the crystal blue sky above, where I lay in the grass and recollect all my cherished and beloved memories all at once. It holds my hand in a warm grasp, guides me along an oft-traveled route of complexity and brilliance, where the galaxy shines in my eyes and the air tastes of love and care.
It's safe to say I like Earl Grey.
It's safe to say I like Earl Grey.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Love: It's All You Need!*
That's what we've heard, at least. We've also been told that we can accomplish anything as long as we put our minds to it, that we are all unique and special, that America is the greatest country in the world, that we should finish our food because starving kids in Africa don't have any, etc. etc. etc. I'm willing to bet that anyone living in most of the western hemisphere of the Earth has heard all these aphorisms over and over again to the point of them becoming ingrained into our solipsistic viewpoints on the world.
For most of our adolescence, these phrases hold a bit of water: we're the center of our parents' attention (mostly), the country in which we live is the greatest because we live in it, that we are so smart and wonderful because we're unique, that those starving kids in Africa don't really exist because they're so far away, and so on and so forth. It's an easy and narrow life, and some people really do have it that easy and narrow because they have the means by which they can procure all those ephemeral promises.
But then we grow and realize that, in fact, the world is so far away from centering on us that we might as well be any one of the millions of trans-Neptunian objects orbiting the sun. We aren't unique and special and wonderful and smart; in fact, most of us fall right on the mean of intelligence. That's fine, really, because we all have our own specialties and abilities, except a few million other people have those abilities too, probably. It's just probability: with 7 billion people in the world, 1 million is less than 1% of the population, even though that number is unconscionably large to us. Those starving kids in Africa? They exist where you live, too, and maybe they once had a life just like yours.
As for your country being the best in the world, whether it's America or not? Well, sorry to say, but in most western nations (Russia and India included), fewer than 10% of people control around 90% of all wealth. The number of millionaires, for example, living in London have nearly doubled from 10 years ago due to the rise of the banking sector, while middle-class wages have decidedly shrunk, and the poorer have gotten, as one would expect, poorer.
This is life, but not what many would focus on in their daily lives. Most people only care for their hellish bumper-to-bumper commute, their meetings, their plans for Friday night, getting a date, getting laid, getting a drink, getting a raise, getting a promotion, getting a big house, getting a new phone, getting a new car, getting a job, getting a sense of existence by way of self-indulgence. That in itself is not necessarily a bad thing, regardless of how it connotes in society; having things is nice. A computer is infinitely preferable to a typewriter (regardless of what some think; a typewriter won't correct your spelling mistkae), a fuel-efficient, functioning car is better than a lemon, more money is more comfortable than less. Especially in America, more money affords more opportunities, especially when it comes to education.
In many ways, however, it is bad, though that sense of 'bad' comes when we value the things rather than people, or turn people into 'things' themselves. Valuing the objects over a person or superimposing an object into a person is, as one might expect, sociopathic in the sense of non-empathy on the part of the one objectifying the other. The most common use of 'objectify' is, as one might expect from a million and a half television shows spouting the phrase at us, used in terms of sexuality, i.e. one person seeing another person as a bin of emotional and physical output rather than as a human being whose emotional and physical status holds repercussions for the first person. That's not what I'm talking about, however.
This is more an appeal for empathy, even from those who view others as adversaries or competitors in this grand scheme of existence. Nothing in this life is granted by birth except for the certainty of death. That is tautological to a point, but it then derives to a more basic question: how will one spend one's limited time?
Thinking that we're special and unique and that we can do anything if we just try is hokum. Think of the business and political world: it's not what you know that matters, but who you know. You can have achievements streaming out of your ears, but if someone has a better connection than you do for employment, there is a good chance that your achievements will continue streaming out your ears as you pound your head against a wall for not getting your desired position.
Why? Because connections will always be more important than strangers. It's difficult to tell a friend that you chose a stranger for a job over them because it almost seems like a breach of friendship, even if the stranger is strongly qualified.
At the same time, the stranger is strongly qualified. It isn't a personal statement about your dearth of abilities, it's a testament that you were even considered for such a position. Take it in stride and walk on, because the other person worked just as hard for that position, if not harder. Losing with grace is more important than winning, even if you think you are a special snowflake in the vast sea of a blizzard.
So, consider others. One of the most common platitudes is "put yourself in their shoes." It's good advice for all, considering that we all think we're unique and wonderful and living in the best country in the world. Maybe we don't know why some people overseas act the way they do, and so we think it's because they hate our way of life. Or, put yourself in their place, and think of how they see the world. Or, more simply, because we're all special and wonderful and living in our own minds sometimes, we neglect to consider how everyone else would act when we do. Taking yourself out of the center and gaining perspective is perhaps the best method by which we can understand why things happen.
So while there may be one million or so people like you, you still have the ability to be unique and wonderful and special just by caring. Go out and care. Go. Your life might just be improved for it.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
For most of our adolescence, these phrases hold a bit of water: we're the center of our parents' attention (mostly), the country in which we live is the greatest because we live in it, that we are so smart and wonderful because we're unique, that those starving kids in Africa don't really exist because they're so far away, and so on and so forth. It's an easy and narrow life, and some people really do have it that easy and narrow because they have the means by which they can procure all those ephemeral promises.
But then we grow and realize that, in fact, the world is so far away from centering on us that we might as well be any one of the millions of trans-Neptunian objects orbiting the sun. We aren't unique and special and wonderful and smart; in fact, most of us fall right on the mean of intelligence. That's fine, really, because we all have our own specialties and abilities, except a few million other people have those abilities too, probably. It's just probability: with 7 billion people in the world, 1 million is less than 1% of the population, even though that number is unconscionably large to us. Those starving kids in Africa? They exist where you live, too, and maybe they once had a life just like yours.
As for your country being the best in the world, whether it's America or not? Well, sorry to say, but in most western nations (Russia and India included), fewer than 10% of people control around 90% of all wealth. The number of millionaires, for example, living in London have nearly doubled from 10 years ago due to the rise of the banking sector, while middle-class wages have decidedly shrunk, and the poorer have gotten, as one would expect, poorer.
This is life, but not what many would focus on in their daily lives. Most people only care for their hellish bumper-to-bumper commute, their meetings, their plans for Friday night, getting a date, getting laid, getting a drink, getting a raise, getting a promotion, getting a big house, getting a new phone, getting a new car, getting a job, getting a sense of existence by way of self-indulgence. That in itself is not necessarily a bad thing, regardless of how it connotes in society; having things is nice. A computer is infinitely preferable to a typewriter (regardless of what some think; a typewriter won't correct your spelling mistkae), a fuel-efficient, functioning car is better than a lemon, more money is more comfortable than less. Especially in America, more money affords more opportunities, especially when it comes to education.
In many ways, however, it is bad, though that sense of 'bad' comes when we value the things rather than people, or turn people into 'things' themselves. Valuing the objects over a person or superimposing an object into a person is, as one might expect, sociopathic in the sense of non-empathy on the part of the one objectifying the other. The most common use of 'objectify' is, as one might expect from a million and a half television shows spouting the phrase at us, used in terms of sexuality, i.e. one person seeing another person as a bin of emotional and physical output rather than as a human being whose emotional and physical status holds repercussions for the first person. That's not what I'm talking about, however.
This is more an appeal for empathy, even from those who view others as adversaries or competitors in this grand scheme of existence. Nothing in this life is granted by birth except for the certainty of death. That is tautological to a point, but it then derives to a more basic question: how will one spend one's limited time?
Thinking that we're special and unique and that we can do anything if we just try is hokum. Think of the business and political world: it's not what you know that matters, but who you know. You can have achievements streaming out of your ears, but if someone has a better connection than you do for employment, there is a good chance that your achievements will continue streaming out your ears as you pound your head against a wall for not getting your desired position.
Why? Because connections will always be more important than strangers. It's difficult to tell a friend that you chose a stranger for a job over them because it almost seems like a breach of friendship, even if the stranger is strongly qualified.
At the same time, the stranger is strongly qualified. It isn't a personal statement about your dearth of abilities, it's a testament that you were even considered for such a position. Take it in stride and walk on, because the other person worked just as hard for that position, if not harder. Losing with grace is more important than winning, even if you think you are a special snowflake in the vast sea of a blizzard.
So, consider others. One of the most common platitudes is "put yourself in their shoes." It's good advice for all, considering that we all think we're unique and wonderful and living in the best country in the world. Maybe we don't know why some people overseas act the way they do, and so we think it's because they hate our way of life. Or, put yourself in their place, and think of how they see the world. Or, more simply, because we're all special and wonderful and living in our own minds sometimes, we neglect to consider how everyone else would act when we do. Taking yourself out of the center and gaining perspective is perhaps the best method by which we can understand why things happen.
So while there may be one million or so people like you, you still have the ability to be unique and wonderful and special just by caring. Go out and care. Go. Your life might just be improved for it.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Bit of an Oddity
I've been in the United States for two and a half weeks now, and I can't help but notice how different things are after my year in London. First, food tastes...different from what I remember. It's also massively larger. For example, all bread that I've eaten in America now has a distinctly sweet taste, whereas the bread I bought in London tasted like, well, bread. Sweet potatoes in America are at least 2 times as large as the ones I had in London, and they taste a bit like metallic plastic, if that makes any sense. Same goes with aubergines (eggplant): they're massive and taste a bit off.
In addition, food is extraordinarily more expensive in the US, at least where I've been doing my shopping: Stop & Shop. A tin of nuts at Stop & Shop goes for somewhere around $5, whereas the same amount of nuts at my local Tesco in London would have gone for anywhere from £0.80 to £2 (around $1.50 to $3.50). I've noticed this with just about every other food I've bought in Stop & Shop: Tesco wins out, even with the exchange rate.
I make it a habit to avoid the most common sweetener in just about every food in America, high fructose corn syrup, but even so, the strangely sweet taste is still there. It's disturbing, because it is a repulsive taste in bread, and I'm actually surprised that I was able to eat bread in America for so long without noticing the taste.
Is it psychosomatic? I admit that is a possibility, but at the same time, I still find the supposedly "fresh" vegetables I buy at S&S to be disgusting.
In addition, food is extraordinarily more expensive in the US, at least where I've been doing my shopping: Stop & Shop. A tin of nuts at Stop & Shop goes for somewhere around $5, whereas the same amount of nuts at my local Tesco in London would have gone for anywhere from £0.80 to £2 (around $1.50 to $3.50). I've noticed this with just about every other food I've bought in Stop & Shop: Tesco wins out, even with the exchange rate.
I make it a habit to avoid the most common sweetener in just about every food in America, high fructose corn syrup, but even so, the strangely sweet taste is still there. It's disturbing, because it is a repulsive taste in bread, and I'm actually surprised that I was able to eat bread in America for so long without noticing the taste.
Is it psychosomatic? I admit that is a possibility, but at the same time, I still find the supposedly "fresh" vegetables I buy at S&S to be disgusting.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
An Open Letter to David Cameron
His eyes likely won't see this, nor will his ears hear of this from his aides, but I'm going to write it because it matters to me.
Mr. Prime Minister,
I'm not going to address your subservience to US policy, as I would typically do. I'm not going to talk about the iniquitous decisions you've made regarding the public services in the UK. I'm not even going to mention your party's eschewing of the EU regardless of the benefits it confers to the UK. Instead, this is personal.
I'm an Anglophile. From a young age, I fed myself a steady diet of British culture, starting with Harry Potter and continuing with Monty Python to the works of Charles Dickens and the daily morning cup of Earl Grey. That wasn't the simplest thing to do, as my father is an immigrant of Argentina (and was once deported from the UK years ago, or so he says), but I was luckily a self-sufficient kid in the ways of the Internet. I imbibed it like the holy grail it was to me.
Understandably, I wanted to go to a university in the UK. I was accepted to several, though I ultimately ended up at the London School of Economics, an extremely prestigious institution, as you know. I was overjoyed, I can tell you that. I had high hopes of obtaining a job, work visa sponsorship, and in good time, UK/EU dual citizenship with the US. Hell, I've even mapped out my dream retirement options: getting a cottage in Cornwall where I could grow vegetables in the garden, or opening a small, friendly pub in London called the Drunken Ass (with a donkey on the sign) where I could serve patrons a tall one without the annoying music or overbearing noise of a match. It would just be a place for friends to congregate and enjoy each other's time, except on karaoke Thursdays. That's a special day.
What's wrong with that dream? Like any other cherished photograph, it has chipped away with experience. I had several interviews in London, very good ones, I might add, but when the conversation turned to my work availability and visa issues, a dark, foreboding silence befell the room each time before I was told that my prospective employers don't do visas.
Here I am, back in the desolate suburbia of New Jersey where I passed through my adolescence in relative ennui, and all I can think about is being back in London. It's unfair to allow someone to become so enamored with a city and then tell them that, because they aren't a native, they haven't a chance of staying there. I'm not unique in this respect: other Americans from my Master's program are trying to stay and are riding out the extent of their visas (until January), after which point they'd have no choice but to return to the United States. I had the misfortune of having to move out of my flat, and since I had no job, there was no point in paying for an ephemeral hope of a job that would sponsor my visa.
I believe that the old visa rules, since you so dutifully decided that immigrants were "bad," dictated that students who obtained a degree with a UK university could stay for two years past their graduation. Now, it's six months, which is a troublesome time limit because renting a room or a flat for six months is harder than one might think.
All we want to do is work to improve both our own lives and the lives of those around us. We want to pay taxes, support the social system that you are so ardently privatising, and enjoy the cultural gravitas of England. Instead, you and your xenophobic lot are making it harder for even EU immigrants to come to the UK.
You're not an empire. You're an island that is part of a greater federal entity that is the EU. Give up the illusions of your past delinquencies and accept that you no longer have influence without the EU. What's more, without an influx of skilled migrants, you only hurt your own economy. If someone with an advanced degree wishes to work within the UK, why shouldn't they have the chance to do so? To keep jobs "British?" What of those who want to become British? Should they not have the same chance to do so?
Mr. Cameron, you're not unreasonable. Your surprising adherence to the Syria vote in Parliament shows that. I only wish that you'd realise that the UK is no longer in a position to exclude people who want to become a part of your society. We are skilled and we want to bring our abilities to you, whether we're doctors, or lawyers, or entrepreneurs, or engineers, or political strategists, or the like.
Don't punish us simply because we're not native-born in the UK or the EU. Borders now mean very little. If a migrant such as myself, who paid my £750 a month in rent (not including utilities, mind you) and my £17,000 in student fees, wishes to stay and live in the UK, what reason is there for not allowing me to do so?
I'll pay the bloody Council tax. I'll gladly pay into every single social service that deducts from my paycheck through taxes because those social services are integral to the functioning of the state. I'll work a terrible entry-level job that hardly pays above the visa minimum salary. I only ask that you give us, the lot of us who want to stay, the chance to do it. We aren't a drain on your society, like so many conservatives would say; that's anodyne and illogical. Why would we drain something we so desire?
Mr. Prime Minister,
I'm not going to address your subservience to US policy, as I would typically do. I'm not going to talk about the iniquitous decisions you've made regarding the public services in the UK. I'm not even going to mention your party's eschewing of the EU regardless of the benefits it confers to the UK. Instead, this is personal.
I'm an Anglophile. From a young age, I fed myself a steady diet of British culture, starting with Harry Potter and continuing with Monty Python to the works of Charles Dickens and the daily morning cup of Earl Grey. That wasn't the simplest thing to do, as my father is an immigrant of Argentina (and was once deported from the UK years ago, or so he says), but I was luckily a self-sufficient kid in the ways of the Internet. I imbibed it like the holy grail it was to me.
Understandably, I wanted to go to a university in the UK. I was accepted to several, though I ultimately ended up at the London School of Economics, an extremely prestigious institution, as you know. I was overjoyed, I can tell you that. I had high hopes of obtaining a job, work visa sponsorship, and in good time, UK/EU dual citizenship with the US. Hell, I've even mapped out my dream retirement options: getting a cottage in Cornwall where I could grow vegetables in the garden, or opening a small, friendly pub in London called the Drunken Ass (with a donkey on the sign) where I could serve patrons a tall one without the annoying music or overbearing noise of a match. It would just be a place for friends to congregate and enjoy each other's time, except on karaoke Thursdays. That's a special day.
What's wrong with that dream? Like any other cherished photograph, it has chipped away with experience. I had several interviews in London, very good ones, I might add, but when the conversation turned to my work availability and visa issues, a dark, foreboding silence befell the room each time before I was told that my prospective employers don't do visas.
Here I am, back in the desolate suburbia of New Jersey where I passed through my adolescence in relative ennui, and all I can think about is being back in London. It's unfair to allow someone to become so enamored with a city and then tell them that, because they aren't a native, they haven't a chance of staying there. I'm not unique in this respect: other Americans from my Master's program are trying to stay and are riding out the extent of their visas (until January), after which point they'd have no choice but to return to the United States. I had the misfortune of having to move out of my flat, and since I had no job, there was no point in paying for an ephemeral hope of a job that would sponsor my visa.
I believe that the old visa rules, since you so dutifully decided that immigrants were "bad," dictated that students who obtained a degree with a UK university could stay for two years past their graduation. Now, it's six months, which is a troublesome time limit because renting a room or a flat for six months is harder than one might think.
All we want to do is work to improve both our own lives and the lives of those around us. We want to pay taxes, support the social system that you are so ardently privatising, and enjoy the cultural gravitas of England. Instead, you and your xenophobic lot are making it harder for even EU immigrants to come to the UK.
You're not an empire. You're an island that is part of a greater federal entity that is the EU. Give up the illusions of your past delinquencies and accept that you no longer have influence without the EU. What's more, without an influx of skilled migrants, you only hurt your own economy. If someone with an advanced degree wishes to work within the UK, why shouldn't they have the chance to do so? To keep jobs "British?" What of those who want to become British? Should they not have the same chance to do so?
Mr. Cameron, you're not unreasonable. Your surprising adherence to the Syria vote in Parliament shows that. I only wish that you'd realise that the UK is no longer in a position to exclude people who want to become a part of your society. We are skilled and we want to bring our abilities to you, whether we're doctors, or lawyers, or entrepreneurs, or engineers, or political strategists, or the like.
Don't punish us simply because we're not native-born in the UK or the EU. Borders now mean very little. If a migrant such as myself, who paid my £750 a month in rent (not including utilities, mind you) and my £17,000 in student fees, wishes to stay and live in the UK, what reason is there for not allowing me to do so?
I'll pay the bloody Council tax. I'll gladly pay into every single social service that deducts from my paycheck through taxes because those social services are integral to the functioning of the state. I'll work a terrible entry-level job that hardly pays above the visa minimum salary. I only ask that you give us, the lot of us who want to stay, the chance to do it. We aren't a drain on your society, like so many conservatives would say; that's anodyne and illogical. Why would we drain something we so desire?
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Electoral Monkey Business
A few days ago, while working my muscles with some intense lifting of weights, I got to thinking about American electoral reform. The damned blood in my body went to the wrong muscle.
Anyway, I started thinking about how campaign contributions have become such a hot issue, which is why they should be removed entirely. Yes, that's right, no more Super PACs or 501s or any tax-deductible contributions to politicians. Here are my thoughts in gist:
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Anyway, I started thinking about how campaign contributions have become such a hot issue, which is why they should be removed entirely. Yes, that's right, no more Super PACs or 501s or any tax-deductible contributions to politicians. Here are my thoughts in gist:
- Remove campaign contributions entirely. Instead, a candidate with a net worth higher than x (say, $1 million) funds his own campaign in addition to a set budget from the federal government that is inversely proportional to his/her net worth. So, for a candidate who has a lower net worth, they would receive more federal funding for campaigns.
- Proportional representation rather than winner-take-all in each state. Simple enough.
- Stipulations for re-election:
- had to sponsor a certain amount of legislation in D.C. with a certain percentage passed. Obviously can be used to oust members whom some may not like, but a minor point.
- had to demonstrate bi-partisanship (needs specifics, obviously)
- had to show a willingness to compromise with other (probably too much to ask, but might as well mention)
- Can't be ignorant of simple science, especially if they sit on a scientific committee
- Pecuniary penalty for citizens who don't vote. Nothing too steep (probably less than $100), but enough to encourage people to vote.
- After losing a house/senate seat, a former congressman cannot become lobbyists for 5 years. Hell, 10 years. Go be a teacher or some other productive member of society.
- Remove federal restrictions on third party funding. (Needing 5% of the electoral vote to qualify for funding)
- Ban on campaign commercials.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
A Trekkie's Review of Star Trek Into Darkness
I hated it.
What's more, I hate that I have to justify hating it, just because it fails on so many film-making levels that I'm surprised it's not more hated. Anyway, short list of things I liked (SPOILERS FOR THE FILM):
Kirk gets demoted because of his interference with an archaic culture and loses the Enterprise to lovable Admiral Pike. Pike gives him his character's theme for the entire movie in a speech, at which point I smacked myself in the forehead. Pike then got killed right after he had a nice father-son moment with Kirk. Cliche? Yes. That's two smacks on the forehead.
Kirk and company get sent to Qo'nos, home of the Klingons, by menacing Admiral Batmanvoice, where one Benedict Cumberwhatsit somehow teleported himself from Earth after killing a bunch of high ranking people. Instantaneous transportation across more than a dozen lightyears in more than a second? Who the crap needs ships? Just teleport- oh, right, plot device.
The Enterprise sits at the edge of Klingon space and somehow sends a message only to Cucumbersandwich that they'll launch torpedoes at him if he doesn't surrender. First, how do the Klingons not hear the transmission? Second, how do the Klingons not notice the Enterprise sitting so close to their homeworld? That's kind of, I don't know, aggressive? Maybe they were all out hunting targ or waiting eagerly for Worf's birth.
Admiral Baritone arrives in a giant ship after the Enterprise tells Starfleet that they've captured Crumblebumble, who reveals that he's the infamous Khan, except no one on board ever heard of him. Plot twist revealed: Admiral Smoothvoice put Khan's genetically-enhanced friends in those torpedoes, and when they were to land on Qo'nos, they would awaken and incite a war between the Federation and the Klingons. Why? Because "war is inevitable," says Admiral OldManSexyVoice.
But wait, that's not all: Admiral TonytheTiger found Khan in cryo-freeze on the derelict ship Botany Bay and unfroze him to help said Admiral build a new arsenal of weapons. Keep in mind that Khan was frozen for 300 years, so if the Admiral wanted to learn about bullets and maybe some nice compound bows, it would be most edifying.
Fuck it, I'm skipping ahead.
Admiral BoomBoom shoots the hell out of the Enterprise, which somehow doesn't explode even though there are large, gaping holes in what looks like engineering. Fine, containment fields, or whatever, but don't then tell me five minutes later that shields are down to 6%. WHAT SHIELDS? The first damned shot on the Enterprise made a section explode in a giant space fireball. There were no shields, J.J. Abrams. There were no shields.
They end up next to the moon, and somehow, the lunar colonies don't notice anything. Somehow, there are no other ships near Earth. Somehow, there are no space stations with sensors to see "hmm, what are those two ships doing there? Is that the Enterprise about the blow up?" Later on, the two ships start falling to Earth instead of the giant body next to the two ships, i.e. the giant white orb we on Earth see at night. Someone needs to learn about gravity.
And then there's the giant rip-off of Wrath of Khan, not to mention a deus ex machina ending so contrived that it gave me a concussion. I won't even bother mentioning it.
The whole film is character-driven, but really, they all have nothing to offer aside from Crumbcake's Khan, who is basically a stale, one-sided bad guy that, while he does have nice character moments, is underutilized and monotone.
I don't know who vets these scripts for internal logic and consistency, but dear god, hire some interns to put a red pen to every stupid plot device. Please.
And dear god, J.J. Abrams, stop with the lens flares. You're liable to induce a seizure with those damn things.
What's more, I hate that I have to justify hating it, just because it fails on so many film-making levels that I'm surprised it's not more hated. Anyway, short list of things I liked (SPOILERS FOR THE FILM):
- Simon Pegg as Scotty and Karl Urban as Bones. The two big Trek fans know their characters, and it shows.
- CGI ships look cool.
- Benedict Cumberbatch can deliver any line with bravado.
Kirk gets demoted because of his interference with an archaic culture and loses the Enterprise to lovable Admiral Pike. Pike gives him his character's theme for the entire movie in a speech, at which point I smacked myself in the forehead. Pike then got killed right after he had a nice father-son moment with Kirk. Cliche? Yes. That's two smacks on the forehead.
Kirk and company get sent to Qo'nos, home of the Klingons, by menacing Admiral Batmanvoice, where one Benedict Cumberwhatsit somehow teleported himself from Earth after killing a bunch of high ranking people. Instantaneous transportation across more than a dozen lightyears in more than a second? Who the crap needs ships? Just teleport- oh, right, plot device.
The Enterprise sits at the edge of Klingon space and somehow sends a message only to Cucumbersandwich that they'll launch torpedoes at him if he doesn't surrender. First, how do the Klingons not hear the transmission? Second, how do the Klingons not notice the Enterprise sitting so close to their homeworld? That's kind of, I don't know, aggressive? Maybe they were all out hunting targ or waiting eagerly for Worf's birth.
Admiral Baritone arrives in a giant ship after the Enterprise tells Starfleet that they've captured Crumblebumble, who reveals that he's the infamous Khan, except no one on board ever heard of him. Plot twist revealed: Admiral Smoothvoice put Khan's genetically-enhanced friends in those torpedoes, and when they were to land on Qo'nos, they would awaken and incite a war between the Federation and the Klingons. Why? Because "war is inevitable," says Admiral OldManSexyVoice.
But wait, that's not all: Admiral TonytheTiger found Khan in cryo-freeze on the derelict ship Botany Bay and unfroze him to help said Admiral build a new arsenal of weapons. Keep in mind that Khan was frozen for 300 years, so if the Admiral wanted to learn about bullets and maybe some nice compound bows, it would be most edifying.
Fuck it, I'm skipping ahead.
Admiral BoomBoom shoots the hell out of the Enterprise, which somehow doesn't explode even though there are large, gaping holes in what looks like engineering. Fine, containment fields, or whatever, but don't then tell me five minutes later that shields are down to 6%. WHAT SHIELDS? The first damned shot on the Enterprise made a section explode in a giant space fireball. There were no shields, J.J. Abrams. There were no shields.
They end up next to the moon, and somehow, the lunar colonies don't notice anything. Somehow, there are no other ships near Earth. Somehow, there are no space stations with sensors to see "hmm, what are those two ships doing there? Is that the Enterprise about the blow up?" Later on, the two ships start falling to Earth instead of the giant body next to the two ships, i.e. the giant white orb we on Earth see at night. Someone needs to learn about gravity.
And then there's the giant rip-off of Wrath of Khan, not to mention a deus ex machina ending so contrived that it gave me a concussion. I won't even bother mentioning it.
The whole film is character-driven, but really, they all have nothing to offer aside from Crumbcake's Khan, who is basically a stale, one-sided bad guy that, while he does have nice character moments, is underutilized and monotone.
I don't know who vets these scripts for internal logic and consistency, but dear god, hire some interns to put a red pen to every stupid plot device. Please.
And dear god, J.J. Abrams, stop with the lens flares. You're liable to induce a seizure with those damn things.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Big 'ol Narrative
I can officially say that I'm 4/5s of the way through my dissertation. I never thought I'd be able to write around 10,000 words about economics, but apparently I can surprise myself on occasion.
To finish it, however, that's a bit too much of a leap. When I'm done, I'm done with London. The companies I interviewed with weren't willing to sponsor me for a work visa. It's a bit ludicrous, this new conservative position on immigration that David Cameron has espoused. Reducing the amount of qualified immigrants (I think I fit under that term) is only detrimental to the country. Besides increasing genetic diversity (a funny point to make, but a valid one), larger influxes of qualified immigrants can help grow business sectors due to better qualifications and international experience (language, international business, etc.).
Besides that, I just want to live here. It's a nice country, never too hot nor too cold, the people are pleasant, etc. I've had a few interviews where I could have gotten the position except for the one looming elephant in the room: a work visa. It's not as if I'll be working illegally and not paying taxes: hell, I welcome taxes. It helps fund the NHS, social services, police, fire brigade, etc. So why shouldn't I get the chance to live and work here?
This is always one of the reasons why I can hardly ever get behind any conservative position, whether it's in the US or the UK: it's jingoistic. It's overly nationalistic to the point of narcissistic nihilism. Let the rest of the world be damned, we are the best! Let us pound our chests until we cave in our bones just to show how dedicated we are to our countries and our "own!"
The UK is part of the European Union. Without European Union membership, the UK would be worse off economically. Hell, the US depends on the EU so much that if the EU were to completely embargo the US, the world would shut down. Nationalism falls when you realize just how much you need the "others" in order to survive.
A fine flow of qualified immigrants is not a detriment in any sense of the notion. For those ardent Milton Friedman followers, allowing immigrants to live and work within a country should increase the competition of the native workforce and, if it stands to reason, the native workforce should increase its own quality to keep up.
I just wish we didn't let borders determine who is "us" and who is "them." It's a piss-poor way of defining a person.
To finish it, however, that's a bit too much of a leap. When I'm done, I'm done with London. The companies I interviewed with weren't willing to sponsor me for a work visa. It's a bit ludicrous, this new conservative position on immigration that David Cameron has espoused. Reducing the amount of qualified immigrants (I think I fit under that term) is only detrimental to the country. Besides increasing genetic diversity (a funny point to make, but a valid one), larger influxes of qualified immigrants can help grow business sectors due to better qualifications and international experience (language, international business, etc.).
Besides that, I just want to live here. It's a nice country, never too hot nor too cold, the people are pleasant, etc. I've had a few interviews where I could have gotten the position except for the one looming elephant in the room: a work visa. It's not as if I'll be working illegally and not paying taxes: hell, I welcome taxes. It helps fund the NHS, social services, police, fire brigade, etc. So why shouldn't I get the chance to live and work here?
This is always one of the reasons why I can hardly ever get behind any conservative position, whether it's in the US or the UK: it's jingoistic. It's overly nationalistic to the point of narcissistic nihilism. Let the rest of the world be damned, we are the best! Let us pound our chests until we cave in our bones just to show how dedicated we are to our countries and our "own!"
The UK is part of the European Union. Without European Union membership, the UK would be worse off economically. Hell, the US depends on the EU so much that if the EU were to completely embargo the US, the world would shut down. Nationalism falls when you realize just how much you need the "others" in order to survive.
A fine flow of qualified immigrants is not a detriment in any sense of the notion. For those ardent Milton Friedman followers, allowing immigrants to live and work within a country should increase the competition of the native workforce and, if it stands to reason, the native workforce should increase its own quality to keep up.
I just wish we didn't let borders determine who is "us" and who is "them." It's a piss-poor way of defining a person.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Bradley Manning was found not-guilty of aiding the enemy, but guilty of just about every other charge against him. This could mean, if given a maximum sentence, 130 years (also know as "life" by any other standard human metric) in prison.
All of this because he exposed wrongdoing by the US military.
The law, in the case of the military actions, is not subjective. The US cannot escape culpability simply by deeming the incident "classified" or "off-the-record" or by labeling those innocents killed as "terrorists."
This is a poor, poor precedent.
All of this because he exposed wrongdoing by the US military.
The law, in the case of the military actions, is not subjective. The US cannot escape culpability simply by deeming the incident "classified" or "off-the-record" or by labeling those innocents killed as "terrorists."
This is a poor, poor precedent.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Boy Meets Anachronistic World
I, like just about every other hormone-addled boy, grew up watching the many exploits of James Bond in his many incarnations. From Connery to Brosnan, I was always excited to see a fun, if not somewhat campy, spy adventure that almost always featured the archetypal arch-rival of the west, the USSR. The first Bond film made after the Cold War ended, Goldeneye (featuring a resoundingly suave Pierce Brosnan), had one very simple line of dialogue that fit that new era:
Bond is a relic of the Cold War. The USSR fell, deflating the military tensions between Russia and the west, and ushering in a time of what some may call "Big Power Peace," simply meaning that there are no wars between the large powers. So, if there is this peace, then why do they still need to spy on each other?
As just about the entire world knows, Edward Snowden, former NSA analyst, leaked information that the US had a massive spying program. That, in and of itself, is not surprising. The kicker, however, was their largest target: Germany.
I was gobsmacked, to use local British parlance. Germany, of all countries, was the target of more spying than Iran, or China, or North Korea, or any of the US' so-called "enemies." Why? Well, there hasn't been any real clear answer, but I can dare to speculate: the US wants to know what will happen with the Euro. Whatever the intention of the US is to do with that knowledge, whether it is used for undermining or attempting to corner the currency swap market, only those in the US intelligence community can know. Again, it's speculation, but I can't fathom any other reason as to why the US would spy on a reputable ally.
Then we come to the very notion of spying on allies, something presumably thought of as unconscionable and unethical. It is a notion stuck in the 1950s, held back by myopic thinking and government bureaucrats still old enough to remember when they were appointed under the Nixon administration. These soulless minions of orthodoxy take a singular form: the aged, commonplace, almost ubiquitous elite in the Pentagon, the State Department, Congress, and the White House. Do they still hold the notion of US hegemony over everyone to be the end-all, be-all?
These men and women (though there are exceptions) grew up in an extremely simple time in terms of foreign policy: good and bad, Capitalism and Communism, us and them, etc., whatever it was the propaganda dictated. Can we truly expect these people to understand a new multipolar world where the machine is greater than the sum of its parts? In other words, can these people see anything aside from power politics where the US is king and premiere?
Possibly not, possibly so: there is evidence for both. On the one hand, the US still has the most technologically advanced military along with the most expensive professional army in the world, and yet they were stymied by guerrilla fighters using weapons from WWII. Clearly, it is not the size of the army or the strength it holds that truly matters anymore, but its ability to adapt to the changing character of war that truly displays its might.
On the other hand, there are senators, such as Elizabeth Warren, who have demonstrated a keen understanding of new age domestic politics, especially in her dogged pursuit of those who perpetrated the financial collapse of 2007, along with her support for aid to university students, where tuition is liable to bankrupt the average student. But, and this is the unfortunate reality of it all, she is the minority.
The men and women now in government had it easy, at least comparatively: tuition prices were exponentially lower when they attended university, and getting some kind of job right out of college was more common than not. The government scandals coming from these neo-Reaganist administrations is enough to sour politics for the younger class, especially those who find their ideals placed in someone who, like Janus, shows one face to the public but a wholly different one when it comes to governing.
So what can we expect of those youth who still want to enter government? Do they work under those who perpetuate orthodoxy, who still believe in Cold War machinations of politics? Do they adopt those beliefs and erase whatever preconceived ideals they might have had, just because they do what is expected of them rather than what is better? The answer is that, well, I don't know. My generation never knew the Cold War, and we have yet to truly enter government and make a difference. We would have to literally let the old guard die to completely understand whether or not we can think outside the realm of defunct notions.
And so, like a boat tethered to shore, we wait for the ideal opportunity to remove ourselves from those anachronistic beliefs of the past and pave our own paths in politics and diplomacy, because otherwise, we will rust and fall apart.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Bond is a relic of the Cold War. The USSR fell, deflating the military tensions between Russia and the west, and ushering in a time of what some may call "Big Power Peace," simply meaning that there are no wars between the large powers. So, if there is this peace, then why do they still need to spy on each other?
As just about the entire world knows, Edward Snowden, former NSA analyst, leaked information that the US had a massive spying program. That, in and of itself, is not surprising. The kicker, however, was their largest target: Germany.
I was gobsmacked, to use local British parlance. Germany, of all countries, was the target of more spying than Iran, or China, or North Korea, or any of the US' so-called "enemies." Why? Well, there hasn't been any real clear answer, but I can dare to speculate: the US wants to know what will happen with the Euro. Whatever the intention of the US is to do with that knowledge, whether it is used for undermining or attempting to corner the currency swap market, only those in the US intelligence community can know. Again, it's speculation, but I can't fathom any other reason as to why the US would spy on a reputable ally.
Then we come to the very notion of spying on allies, something presumably thought of as unconscionable and unethical. It is a notion stuck in the 1950s, held back by myopic thinking and government bureaucrats still old enough to remember when they were appointed under the Nixon administration. These soulless minions of orthodoxy take a singular form: the aged, commonplace, almost ubiquitous elite in the Pentagon, the State Department, Congress, and the White House. Do they still hold the notion of US hegemony over everyone to be the end-all, be-all?
These men and women (though there are exceptions) grew up in an extremely simple time in terms of foreign policy: good and bad, Capitalism and Communism, us and them, etc., whatever it was the propaganda dictated. Can we truly expect these people to understand a new multipolar world where the machine is greater than the sum of its parts? In other words, can these people see anything aside from power politics where the US is king and premiere?
Possibly not, possibly so: there is evidence for both. On the one hand, the US still has the most technologically advanced military along with the most expensive professional army in the world, and yet they were stymied by guerrilla fighters using weapons from WWII. Clearly, it is not the size of the army or the strength it holds that truly matters anymore, but its ability to adapt to the changing character of war that truly displays its might.
On the other hand, there are senators, such as Elizabeth Warren, who have demonstrated a keen understanding of new age domestic politics, especially in her dogged pursuit of those who perpetrated the financial collapse of 2007, along with her support for aid to university students, where tuition is liable to bankrupt the average student. But, and this is the unfortunate reality of it all, she is the minority.
The men and women now in government had it easy, at least comparatively: tuition prices were exponentially lower when they attended university, and getting some kind of job right out of college was more common than not. The government scandals coming from these neo-Reaganist administrations is enough to sour politics for the younger class, especially those who find their ideals placed in someone who, like Janus, shows one face to the public but a wholly different one when it comes to governing.
So what can we expect of those youth who still want to enter government? Do they work under those who perpetuate orthodoxy, who still believe in Cold War machinations of politics? Do they adopt those beliefs and erase whatever preconceived ideals they might have had, just because they do what is expected of them rather than what is better? The answer is that, well, I don't know. My generation never knew the Cold War, and we have yet to truly enter government and make a difference. We would have to literally let the old guard die to completely understand whether or not we can think outside the realm of defunct notions.
And so, like a boat tethered to shore, we wait for the ideal opportunity to remove ourselves from those anachronistic beliefs of the past and pave our own paths in politics and diplomacy, because otherwise, we will rust and fall apart.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Imminence
"So ends the last will and testament of both the planet Earth and all its inhabitants. Should this video log somehow survive, beyond the chance of an astronomical bit of apathy from the laws of science, then please, seek out those of us who might still be alive out there. If they didn't make it..."
He paused for a second, looking somewhere beyond the small green light of the webcam.
"If they didn't make it, well, just know that we existed. I suppose, I suppose that's enough."
With that, he ended the video and saved it to the flash drive. The few clicks of the computer's mousepad echoed through the empty flat much too loudly for the maintenance of sanity. He ignored the daunting emptiness of the world around him as he placed the flash drive into the heavy iron ball on the floor next to the computer and snapped the latch shut. The world was quiet once again, save for the gentle tremble of the ground.
He stood up from the couch, brushing away the ashes of all the history he tried to recall, grabbed his coat and cricket bat, and left the flat. False footsteps of others echoed around him as he made his way down the building and out the door.
"Right," he said, turning his head.
"Left," he said, looking the other way. The sounds of the Thames and gentle hum of the wind were the only other indicators of sound on the deserted cobblestone street. With a sigh, he trotted down the street.
The cricket bat clunked off the ground several times, testing the air for any muggers or raiders or signs of life. Nothing. He entered Covent Garden, tapping the cricket bat against the cobblestones just loud enough for the world to hear. Nothing came running to or for him during his casual saunter through the abandoned and derelict marketplace.
For a moment, he stopped and looked up, trying to peer through the darkened cloud cover to see something spectacular. Unfortunately, the London weather hadn't left with most of its population.
He walked, unfazed by the nagging screams and shouts of fear between his ears caused by the gentle tremors, until he reached his destination. It was the only place whose lights were actually on, shaking with the gentle wobble of the ground. He entered and the bell above the door greeted him with false familiarity.
"Whaddya want!" screamed the balding man behind the bar. Only the top of his head and his eyes were visible above the counter.
"A drink," said the man. He took a stool and leaned the cricket bat against the counter. The barman glared at this stranger, his eyes becoming miniscule with his squint.
"Whaddya want?" asked the barman, still hidden behind the bar. The man rubbed his cheek. The bristles of his facial hair lent some white noise to the air.
"Don't know, never been much of a drinker. Something strong. I don't need my brain cells anymore."
The barman stood up straight and rubbed his stubby jaw.
"Whiskey?"
"Sure."
He grabbed a glass and a bottle of brown liquid from behind him. Before pouring, his large brown eyes glanced up to the man.
"On the rocks?"
"I have no goddamned clue what that means."
"Ice?"
The man shrugged. The barman poured the drink, stopped for a moment, and pulled out another glass. He poured himself one as well and raised it up.
"To the end of all," he said, his hairy-knuckled hand shaking with a modicum of sadness. The man raised his glass as well.
"To better business," said the man, looking around at the empty stools, chairs, tables, and couch.
"Amen to that."
They both downed their drinks, though the man immediately scrunched up his face. The barman chuckled.
"You're right, you're not much of a drinker."
"Never was," said the man, shaking his head and wiping his mouth.
"Before this mess, I was a vegetarian too. And pretty healthy. Didn't eat candy, or ice cream, or damned near anything with processed sugar."
"Tha' right?"
The man nodded and took another sip.
"Pretty much as soon as it was announced, I gave it up. Well, I was in denial for a bit like everyone else, kind of hoped it was a sick joke or a miscalculation or something, but after a week, I said, 'fuck it,' and gave in."
"Mm. American?"
The man nodded.
"I was a student."
"And you didn't drink?" the barman asked. The man shook his head, and the barman laughed.
"You Americans, always fockin' crazy."
The man ran his hand along the cool, sleek wood of the counter. A bit of dust accrued on his fingers.
"So how come you're still here?" asked the man. The barman downed his drink and poured himself another.
"Well, not much of the church-goin' type meself. B'sides, I've run this pub since I can remember. It's better than my fockin' wife, throwing her caution to the wind and runnin' off with some bloke who came in here every night. Plus, not really of the cultist, 'pray to the oncoming planet and hope for the best' type. This pub is all I have, and I've got some decent drink here. Not going to let this go to waste before we're all blown to high hell."
The man chuckled and looked around the pub. Its softly lit, wooden brown interior led him to believe that, in its prime, this had been the comfortable house of forgotten sorrows for many, and had likely seen and heard much more in its time as a silent listener than anyone still on Earth.
"We're not getting blown up, actually."
"Whaddya mean?" asked the barman in a somewhat upset tone.
"The oncoming planet won't cause Earth to blow up like the Death Star or something like that. First, we've got the earthquakes. They're light now, but they'll get heavier and heavier. Along with the earthquakes will be the unstable tides. I'm willing to bet that the Thames will flood more often than not in the final week. That's just the effect from the gravity of the other planet at a distance somewhere between our moon and the orbit of Mars. Then, assuming that the other planet doesn't collide with the moon, and I don't believe it will, as the planets move even closer together, think between the moon and the Earth, the gravitational forces that caused the initial earthquakes will break the planets. Literally, think of the ground beneath you cracking and crumbling.
"That's not the end of the planet yet, though, because the same thing would happen if the rogue rock skirted right by us. The real end comes when the planet comes into contact with our atmosphere. It'll only be a second or less, but the sheer speed of the planet along with its gravitational pull will disperse our atmosphere, and then," he clapped his hands together, "the planets collide. There'll be some ejecta, something you might see in an explosion, but otherwise, the intense heat from all the kinetic energy will melt both planets and," he interlaced his fingers, "they'll combine into one. Kind of like two people who wander around all their lives searching for each other, except they don't know it: it'll be sudden and intense, and it will be hot, goddamn it will be hot, but two will become one. Of course, all life on Earth will cease to exist, and we'll have a new planet in Earth's stead."
He took a drink from his glass and downed the last of it. The barman poured him more without asking.
"Didn' know all that, really. Not much of a science guy meself. You think the ones who left can ever come back?"
"If they survive and last for a few billion years while the neo-Earth cools and possibly becomes habitable, though it won't be the same planet. It might have a different orbit, it might have some new moons because of ejecta, so who knows. They'll have to find a new home somewhere, the lucky twats."
"Think they'll make it?"
"Better chance than we've got."
The barman sighed and downed the rest of his drink. He smacked his lips and wiped them.
"I don't know much 'bout science, like I said, but I know about drinks. Otherwise, I wouldn't be who I am, would I?"
"Of course," said the man with a small bow. His cheeks turned pink.
"I can tell you, with my very specific and narrowed knowledge, that the swill we are drinking isn't the best bottle I've got in the house. This, this," he said, holding up the glass and inspecting it, "this is aged for only twelve years. It's a damn baby. It's not go experience, it's got no years in it, it's got no, no..."
"Wisdom?"
The barman snapped his fingers and pointed at the man.
"Tha's right, sonny, no wisdom. I was savin' it for the last few days, but I lost track of when that was gonna be. When is that, by the by?"
The man pulled out his phone and checked the calendar.
"Thirteen days."
A bit of color drained from the barman's cheeks.
"Thirteen...thirteen...my, how time just comes up and kicks ya in the arse. I'll be right back." He trotted to a door adjacent to the large bottle store behind the bar and disappeared behind it. The man looked at the various filled bottles in their respective holders, each one's contents vibrating with the gentle rhythm of the Earth. He drank the last of his drink as the barman emerged from the door holding a simple dark bottle.
"This, my friend, this is real scotch whiskey. Brewed in Glasgow over three hundred years ago by me great-great-grandfather and handed down, specifically deigned for the day when our name became the premiere whiskey name in the world."
He chuckled and popped the cork off of it.
"Never happened, of course. Brewery was burned down by some fockers. Great-great-grandad never recovered from it, but the rest of the family kept the bottle in the hopes of some special occasion of the sort. Well, just as me great-great-grandad deigned this bottle for a special occasion, I deign this the special occasion for which," he poured some in the man's glass,"this bottle," he poured some in his own, "shall be used."
The man picked up the glass and smelled the contents. It was pungent and stunk of a river of urine. He raised it up and the barman met his glass.
"To the end," they both said, and downed the viscous liquid. The man gagged and coughed as the barman howled in surprise at the taste.
"Woo!" he shouted, looking at the bottle. "That, that," his face turned a tinge of purple, "that was terrible. Want some more?"
The man, still coughing, tapped his glass.
"Good man," said the barman, and he poured a bit more.
"It's not -cough-, it's not all bad though," said the man, recovering himself from his near asphyxiation.
"How so?" asked the barman, taking a sip and struggling to get it down.
"Well," said the man, shaking his head with the unnatural feeling of warmth. "When the two planets collide, all living things will be incinerated. Poof, everyone and everything is atoms and molecules. But!" he yelled with a bit of spit. "But, the neo-Earth will have a decent chance at reconstructing life."
"Why's that, eh?"
"Because we already existed!" said the man, a drunken smile creeping across his face. "Because we were here, our nice, complex genomes within those molecules will be spread around the new giant rock and have a good chance of creating new life on the new big blue ball that will hopefully emerge within a few billion years. So, really, should those fuckers who got lucky enough to leave all die off, there's still a chance some offshoot of humanity will still exist. That's why I made the video."
The barman raised an eyebrow.
"What video?"
The man shook his head.
"Don't worry about it, it's stupid. It won't survive the cataclysm."
The barman leaned on the bar with a curious grin.
"No, really, tell me."
The man leaned forward.
"Well, I made a video. Kind of a eulogy of the Earth and humanity. Summarizes human history, has accounts of language and species diversity, all that good stuff. It's on a flash drive inside a big iron ball that's reinforced with just about every plastic and metal that I could scrounge together. Thing is the size of a football and heavier than the hope I've got."
"You think it'll survive?"
The man shook his head.
"No, it'll incinerinerate like everything else. Even if it somehow defies the laws of physics and survives, the data on it won't last that long."
"So why do it?"
"To have something that acknowledges that I lived. To acknowledge that humanity existed. To highlight everything we did right and wrong, just to show that we weren't perfect, but we weren't evil. That we didn't destroy ourselves; probability did that for us."
The barman took a drink.
"Here's to you, my friend. Makes me feel like I'm doing shite keeping this pub runnin'."
The man shook his head.
"No, you're doing everything. You're being human and not stupid like the people who think that the power of prayer can divert a planet. You're telling me that my video wasn't wrong."
A sly grin found itself on the barman's face.
"So what's your name, sonny? I don't recall ever hearing it."
The man smiled and finished off his drink with the face of an imploding toddler.
"I am...I am...I am drunk."
He laughed an acknowledgement of idiotic stupor and simple enjoyment. The barman laughed as well.
"Jack," he said, extending his hand to the barman.
"Miles," said the barman, clasping Jack's hand in his hairy own.
"Well Miles, it's good to know you on the edge of infinity."
Miles poured both of them another glass.
"To...death?" said Miles.
"Death!"
Their glasses clinked together, the sound of sweet synchronicity, and they downed their drinks, laughing and smiling at the abyss on their doorstep.
He paused for a second, looking somewhere beyond the small green light of the webcam.
"If they didn't make it, well, just know that we existed. I suppose, I suppose that's enough."
With that, he ended the video and saved it to the flash drive. The few clicks of the computer's mousepad echoed through the empty flat much too loudly for the maintenance of sanity. He ignored the daunting emptiness of the world around him as he placed the flash drive into the heavy iron ball on the floor next to the computer and snapped the latch shut. The world was quiet once again, save for the gentle tremble of the ground.
He stood up from the couch, brushing away the ashes of all the history he tried to recall, grabbed his coat and cricket bat, and left the flat. False footsteps of others echoed around him as he made his way down the building and out the door.
"Right," he said, turning his head.
"Left," he said, looking the other way. The sounds of the Thames and gentle hum of the wind were the only other indicators of sound on the deserted cobblestone street. With a sigh, he trotted down the street.
The cricket bat clunked off the ground several times, testing the air for any muggers or raiders or signs of life. Nothing. He entered Covent Garden, tapping the cricket bat against the cobblestones just loud enough for the world to hear. Nothing came running to or for him during his casual saunter through the abandoned and derelict marketplace.
For a moment, he stopped and looked up, trying to peer through the darkened cloud cover to see something spectacular. Unfortunately, the London weather hadn't left with most of its population.
He walked, unfazed by the nagging screams and shouts of fear between his ears caused by the gentle tremors, until he reached his destination. It was the only place whose lights were actually on, shaking with the gentle wobble of the ground. He entered and the bell above the door greeted him with false familiarity.
"Whaddya want!" screamed the balding man behind the bar. Only the top of his head and his eyes were visible above the counter.
"A drink," said the man. He took a stool and leaned the cricket bat against the counter. The barman glared at this stranger, his eyes becoming miniscule with his squint.
"Whaddya want?" asked the barman, still hidden behind the bar. The man rubbed his cheek. The bristles of his facial hair lent some white noise to the air.
"Don't know, never been much of a drinker. Something strong. I don't need my brain cells anymore."
The barman stood up straight and rubbed his stubby jaw.
"Whiskey?"
"Sure."
He grabbed a glass and a bottle of brown liquid from behind him. Before pouring, his large brown eyes glanced up to the man.
"On the rocks?"
"I have no goddamned clue what that means."
"Ice?"
The man shrugged. The barman poured the drink, stopped for a moment, and pulled out another glass. He poured himself one as well and raised it up.
"To the end of all," he said, his hairy-knuckled hand shaking with a modicum of sadness. The man raised his glass as well.
"To better business," said the man, looking around at the empty stools, chairs, tables, and couch.
"Amen to that."
They both downed their drinks, though the man immediately scrunched up his face. The barman chuckled.
"You're right, you're not much of a drinker."
"Never was," said the man, shaking his head and wiping his mouth.
"Before this mess, I was a vegetarian too. And pretty healthy. Didn't eat candy, or ice cream, or damned near anything with processed sugar."
"Tha' right?"
The man nodded and took another sip.
"Pretty much as soon as it was announced, I gave it up. Well, I was in denial for a bit like everyone else, kind of hoped it was a sick joke or a miscalculation or something, but after a week, I said, 'fuck it,' and gave in."
"Mm. American?"
The man nodded.
"I was a student."
"And you didn't drink?" the barman asked. The man shook his head, and the barman laughed.
"You Americans, always fockin' crazy."
The man ran his hand along the cool, sleek wood of the counter. A bit of dust accrued on his fingers.
"So how come you're still here?" asked the man. The barman downed his drink and poured himself another.
"Well, not much of the church-goin' type meself. B'sides, I've run this pub since I can remember. It's better than my fockin' wife, throwing her caution to the wind and runnin' off with some bloke who came in here every night. Plus, not really of the cultist, 'pray to the oncoming planet and hope for the best' type. This pub is all I have, and I've got some decent drink here. Not going to let this go to waste before we're all blown to high hell."
The man chuckled and looked around the pub. Its softly lit, wooden brown interior led him to believe that, in its prime, this had been the comfortable house of forgotten sorrows for many, and had likely seen and heard much more in its time as a silent listener than anyone still on Earth.
"We're not getting blown up, actually."
"Whaddya mean?" asked the barman in a somewhat upset tone.
"The oncoming planet won't cause Earth to blow up like the Death Star or something like that. First, we've got the earthquakes. They're light now, but they'll get heavier and heavier. Along with the earthquakes will be the unstable tides. I'm willing to bet that the Thames will flood more often than not in the final week. That's just the effect from the gravity of the other planet at a distance somewhere between our moon and the orbit of Mars. Then, assuming that the other planet doesn't collide with the moon, and I don't believe it will, as the planets move even closer together, think between the moon and the Earth, the gravitational forces that caused the initial earthquakes will break the planets. Literally, think of the ground beneath you cracking and crumbling.
"That's not the end of the planet yet, though, because the same thing would happen if the rogue rock skirted right by us. The real end comes when the planet comes into contact with our atmosphere. It'll only be a second or less, but the sheer speed of the planet along with its gravitational pull will disperse our atmosphere, and then," he clapped his hands together, "the planets collide. There'll be some ejecta, something you might see in an explosion, but otherwise, the intense heat from all the kinetic energy will melt both planets and," he interlaced his fingers, "they'll combine into one. Kind of like two people who wander around all their lives searching for each other, except they don't know it: it'll be sudden and intense, and it will be hot, goddamn it will be hot, but two will become one. Of course, all life on Earth will cease to exist, and we'll have a new planet in Earth's stead."
He took a drink from his glass and downed the last of it. The barman poured him more without asking.
"Didn' know all that, really. Not much of a science guy meself. You think the ones who left can ever come back?"
"If they survive and last for a few billion years while the neo-Earth cools and possibly becomes habitable, though it won't be the same planet. It might have a different orbit, it might have some new moons because of ejecta, so who knows. They'll have to find a new home somewhere, the lucky twats."
"Think they'll make it?"
"Better chance than we've got."
The barman sighed and downed the rest of his drink. He smacked his lips and wiped them.
"I don't know much 'bout science, like I said, but I know about drinks. Otherwise, I wouldn't be who I am, would I?"
"Of course," said the man with a small bow. His cheeks turned pink.
"I can tell you, with my very specific and narrowed knowledge, that the swill we are drinking isn't the best bottle I've got in the house. This, this," he said, holding up the glass and inspecting it, "this is aged for only twelve years. It's a damn baby. It's not go experience, it's got no years in it, it's got no, no..."
"Wisdom?"
The barman snapped his fingers and pointed at the man.
"Tha's right, sonny, no wisdom. I was savin' it for the last few days, but I lost track of when that was gonna be. When is that, by the by?"
The man pulled out his phone and checked the calendar.
"Thirteen days."
A bit of color drained from the barman's cheeks.
"Thirteen...thirteen...my, how time just comes up and kicks ya in the arse. I'll be right back." He trotted to a door adjacent to the large bottle store behind the bar and disappeared behind it. The man looked at the various filled bottles in their respective holders, each one's contents vibrating with the gentle rhythm of the Earth. He drank the last of his drink as the barman emerged from the door holding a simple dark bottle.
"This, my friend, this is real scotch whiskey. Brewed in Glasgow over three hundred years ago by me great-great-grandfather and handed down, specifically deigned for the day when our name became the premiere whiskey name in the world."
He chuckled and popped the cork off of it.
"Never happened, of course. Brewery was burned down by some fockers. Great-great-grandad never recovered from it, but the rest of the family kept the bottle in the hopes of some special occasion of the sort. Well, just as me great-great-grandad deigned this bottle for a special occasion, I deign this the special occasion for which," he poured some in the man's glass,"this bottle," he poured some in his own, "shall be used."
The man picked up the glass and smelled the contents. It was pungent and stunk of a river of urine. He raised it up and the barman met his glass.
"To the end," they both said, and downed the viscous liquid. The man gagged and coughed as the barman howled in surprise at the taste.
"Woo!" he shouted, looking at the bottle. "That, that," his face turned a tinge of purple, "that was terrible. Want some more?"
The man, still coughing, tapped his glass.
"Good man," said the barman, and he poured a bit more.
"It's not -cough-, it's not all bad though," said the man, recovering himself from his near asphyxiation.
"How so?" asked the barman, taking a sip and struggling to get it down.
"Well," said the man, shaking his head with the unnatural feeling of warmth. "When the two planets collide, all living things will be incinerated. Poof, everyone and everything is atoms and molecules. But!" he yelled with a bit of spit. "But, the neo-Earth will have a decent chance at reconstructing life."
"Why's that, eh?"
"Because we already existed!" said the man, a drunken smile creeping across his face. "Because we were here, our nice, complex genomes within those molecules will be spread around the new giant rock and have a good chance of creating new life on the new big blue ball that will hopefully emerge within a few billion years. So, really, should those fuckers who got lucky enough to leave all die off, there's still a chance some offshoot of humanity will still exist. That's why I made the video."
The barman raised an eyebrow.
"What video?"
The man shook his head.
"Don't worry about it, it's stupid. It won't survive the cataclysm."
The barman leaned on the bar with a curious grin.
"No, really, tell me."
The man leaned forward.
"Well, I made a video. Kind of a eulogy of the Earth and humanity. Summarizes human history, has accounts of language and species diversity, all that good stuff. It's on a flash drive inside a big iron ball that's reinforced with just about every plastic and metal that I could scrounge together. Thing is the size of a football and heavier than the hope I've got."
"You think it'll survive?"
The man shook his head.
"No, it'll incinerinerate like everything else. Even if it somehow defies the laws of physics and survives, the data on it won't last that long."
"So why do it?"
"To have something that acknowledges that I lived. To acknowledge that humanity existed. To highlight everything we did right and wrong, just to show that we weren't perfect, but we weren't evil. That we didn't destroy ourselves; probability did that for us."
The barman took a drink.
"Here's to you, my friend. Makes me feel like I'm doing shite keeping this pub runnin'."
The man shook his head.
"No, you're doing everything. You're being human and not stupid like the people who think that the power of prayer can divert a planet. You're telling me that my video wasn't wrong."
A sly grin found itself on the barman's face.
"So what's your name, sonny? I don't recall ever hearing it."
The man smiled and finished off his drink with the face of an imploding toddler.
"I am...I am...I am drunk."
He laughed an acknowledgement of idiotic stupor and simple enjoyment. The barman laughed as well.
"Jack," he said, extending his hand to the barman.
"Miles," said the barman, clasping Jack's hand in his hairy own.
"Well Miles, it's good to know you on the edge of infinity."
Miles poured both of them another glass.
"To...death?" said Miles.
"Death!"
Their glasses clinked together, the sound of sweet synchronicity, and they downed their drinks, laughing and smiling at the abyss on their doorstep.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Rules for Being a Tourist in Another Country
1. Bring an expensive, unwieldy, large camera. If you don't have an expensive camera, bring something equally expensive that can double as a camera. After all, what better way to say you're a tourist than to take a picture of a great landmark with something that looks like a dinner tray?
2. When buying anything, first buy something that no native in their right mind would buy, i.e. a mug with the queen's/president's/prime minister's/national animal's/great athlete's/television character's face on it. You want to stand out, after all.
3. As a corollary to purchasing, always argue with the cashier either in a choppy version of the native language or in a louder version of your own language. This still applies to American English vs. English English.
4. When walking anywhere, take steps no larger than that of the average toddler, and pay no attention to anyone walking in front of, behind, or to the sides of you. Remember, a tourist's job is to soak in the culture, and what better way to do that than to bump into natives and absorb them via osmosis?
5. If you are to take a picture of a great landmark, have a subject (friend, family member, stray orphan) stand at the one end of the walkway while you stand at the other end. This way, the natives will be forced to stop and wait while you take your picture, and you will get one completely unimpeded!
6. Walk everywhere with your rolling luggage. You know why.
7. Always compare everything to your native country. What's the point of going to another country if you can't openly boast about how much it stinks in comparison to your own?
8. After trying some local cuisine from a chain restaurant that also exists in your country, decide that you don't feel like eating anything aside from hotel food. The local food "makes your stomach ache."
9. Pay way too much for everything. Not because you necessarily want to, but because you can.
10. Don't actually indulge yourself in the finer points of the culture. It's all boring music, plays, and history anyway. The big buildings are what matters, and of course the ability to brag to your friends after the trip counts the most. "Oh yeah, we had a great time in London! We saw EVERYTHING."
2. When buying anything, first buy something that no native in their right mind would buy, i.e. a mug with the queen's/president's/prime minister's/national animal's/great athlete's/television character's face on it. You want to stand out, after all.
3. As a corollary to purchasing, always argue with the cashier either in a choppy version of the native language or in a louder version of your own language. This still applies to American English vs. English English.
4. When walking anywhere, take steps no larger than that of the average toddler, and pay no attention to anyone walking in front of, behind, or to the sides of you. Remember, a tourist's job is to soak in the culture, and what better way to do that than to bump into natives and absorb them via osmosis?
5. If you are to take a picture of a great landmark, have a subject (friend, family member, stray orphan) stand at the one end of the walkway while you stand at the other end. This way, the natives will be forced to stop and wait while you take your picture, and you will get one completely unimpeded!
6. Walk everywhere with your rolling luggage. You know why.
7. Always compare everything to your native country. What's the point of going to another country if you can't openly boast about how much it stinks in comparison to your own?
8. After trying some local cuisine from a chain restaurant that also exists in your country, decide that you don't feel like eating anything aside from hotel food. The local food "makes your stomach ache."
9. Pay way too much for everything. Not because you necessarily want to, but because you can.
10. Don't actually indulge yourself in the finer points of the culture. It's all boring music, plays, and history anyway. The big buildings are what matters, and of course the ability to brag to your friends after the trip counts the most. "Oh yeah, we had a great time in London! We saw EVERYTHING."
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Curls of gold and silver shimmer with the violins as they play a maudlin melody, bemoaning a falling of fellows past and future. No urgency comes with their deliverance, for the piano softy soothes her falling torrent of salty sea. There are broken threads throughout the symphony tied up only by the hatred and lust for the end of it all.
Discretion denies what some may a call a remonstration of past follies. Memory has served its use through and throughout all of what we desire, but that which yearns for us peers around the corners of vexing temptation. A swift glance from the bursting dam means only that sparks won't spark.
Striking melodies clash with their counterparts as crescendos build deep within the chasms of the heart and cease, searching for the light in the darkness of it all. Granted the most within the time of flight cannot elicit the birdsong from the lips of man given that she is everywhere.
Tonic for the mind relays itself with vibrations throughout the body, ceasing when the hands are done striking the notes of the correct chords. Hatred of the fingers is not a common ailment but stares through the silence of unknown qualifications, destroying what should be and creating what is.
Discretion denies what some may a call a remonstration of past follies. Memory has served its use through and throughout all of what we desire, but that which yearns for us peers around the corners of vexing temptation. A swift glance from the bursting dam means only that sparks won't spark.
Striking melodies clash with their counterparts as crescendos build deep within the chasms of the heart and cease, searching for the light in the darkness of it all. Granted the most within the time of flight cannot elicit the birdsong from the lips of man given that she is everywhere.
Tonic for the mind relays itself with vibrations throughout the body, ceasing when the hands are done striking the notes of the correct chords. Hatred of the fingers is not a common ailment but stares through the silence of unknown qualifications, destroying what should be and creating what is.
There is no me. There is no I. There is the collected interactions and indescribable absorption of every single other person, character, and being that has been talked to, listened to, or interacted with, but there is no me. There never was a me.
Me is a finite recursion of intellect and incredulous suppositions. I is the interpersonal scheming of the daily sunrise. We are naught but the assiduous machinations of others who contain naught but the assiduous machinations of others, ad nauseum. They are what we are because we are what they are.
In eyes do we feel the trickling of a stream of thoughts of others. Ears do not give us sight for food or dire straits, but instead the durable astuteness of thousands of recollections. For with a mouth can we become us or me or I or we or nothing, by which we create the juncture of malignancy and delight of wonder.
Wandering produces effects similar to joviality. Arriving tends to accrue mileage between the cracks of two branches of a tree through which light creeps around and tickles the shy boy sitting underneath. A field is a field until it decides it doesn't want to be a field, but the field cannot decide for itself because it is a field.
Red and blue and green are buzzes in the fingers of a deaf man and words in the eyes of the blind. Music like fire and velvet enraptures the unknown relaxation and causation of the universe, as it should be, for there is no known cure to the sight of a woman with her arms open to the wind.
Footprints in the dirt create shockwaves throughout the Earth and the Earth adjusts because it always has and always will, not because it desires to, but because that is what it does. Strings like light dance through the sun and project themselves in the hearth of the heart of the person who can see the happiness in others.
There is no me, nor an I, nor an us, nor a they, nor a we, because there never can nor ever will be. There is something that cannot be described or ascribed to a vision of an old man sitting among trees in the springtime air with no thought of anything else except the next second warmth.
Me is a finite recursion of intellect and incredulous suppositions. I is the interpersonal scheming of the daily sunrise. We are naught but the assiduous machinations of others who contain naught but the assiduous machinations of others, ad nauseum. They are what we are because we are what they are.
In eyes do we feel the trickling of a stream of thoughts of others. Ears do not give us sight for food or dire straits, but instead the durable astuteness of thousands of recollections. For with a mouth can we become us or me or I or we or nothing, by which we create the juncture of malignancy and delight of wonder.
Wandering produces effects similar to joviality. Arriving tends to accrue mileage between the cracks of two branches of a tree through which light creeps around and tickles the shy boy sitting underneath. A field is a field until it decides it doesn't want to be a field, but the field cannot decide for itself because it is a field.
Red and blue and green are buzzes in the fingers of a deaf man and words in the eyes of the blind. Music like fire and velvet enraptures the unknown relaxation and causation of the universe, as it should be, for there is no known cure to the sight of a woman with her arms open to the wind.
Footprints in the dirt create shockwaves throughout the Earth and the Earth adjusts because it always has and always will, not because it desires to, but because that is what it does. Strings like light dance through the sun and project themselves in the hearth of the heart of the person who can see the happiness in others.
There is no me, nor an I, nor an us, nor a they, nor a we, because there never can nor ever will be. There is something that cannot be described or ascribed to a vision of an old man sitting among trees in the springtime air with no thought of anything else except the next second warmth.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Hullabaloo for a Speedbump
For the past 4-5 years, much of the western world has been in the throes of a recession. The European Union in particular has come under fire for allowing countries with high debt or risk levels to join the Euro, i.e. Greece, Ireland, Portugal, Italy, and Spain. There has been much speculation (mostly from the Euro-skeptics) that, because of these "toxic" countries, the Euro will break up, the countries will revert to their old currencies, and possibly the EU itself will break up.
Let's assume, for a moment, that a country does decide to leave the Euro and revert back to its old currency. What would happen? Well, because that currency is not collectively backed by the other 16 members, the old currency would face severe inflation because of its speculated buying risk on the international market. The currency itself would fall in terms of exchange rate, and there would probably be austerity within the country, leading to higher unemployment, possibly the rise of nationalist parties, etc. There is little to no incentive to leave the Euro.
For a "smaller" country (always use that term lightly), the Euro and the Eurozone is a treasure trove. Not only is there equal footing for interstate trade within the Eurozone, but there is also a free transit for both people and companies. It also protects the smaller countries from highly unfavorable exchange rates in the international market.
But what about the current crisis, you ask? Won't the other Eurozone members want to boot the countries who are bringing the Euro down?
The answer, in simple terms, is no. The countries rated lower in international credit standards keep the Euro at a stable trading level, unlike the pound, which British Exchequer Osborne refuses to devalue (currently worth $1.53). Should the endangered countries leave the Euro, purchasing on the currency will likely rise, leading to an increase in its price, making exports of goods more difficult.
As for the legal side, crises such as these in a currency's infancy lead to a consolidation of the currency itself, such as in a set of new banking rules unveiled in December of 2012. Obviously, no currency is ever flawless: the dollar had more than its fair share of crises in its infancy, including individual states' desires to return to their own individual currencies.
I can only say it so many times: the European Union will not break up. Even if, on the strange and unlikely contingent that the Eurozone dissolves, the EU will remain. It is too deeply entrenched in the laws and trading regulations of its member states (especially in the original six) to suddenly dissolve, or even dissolve over time.
As one can always expect, recessions do not necessarily cure themselves in five years' time, or ten years' time, or even fifteen years' time. What matters, however, is wondering for whom is this a recession? Those who make from half a million (in whatever currency) to one million or more a year, or everyone below them?
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Let's assume, for a moment, that a country does decide to leave the Euro and revert back to its old currency. What would happen? Well, because that currency is not collectively backed by the other 16 members, the old currency would face severe inflation because of its speculated buying risk on the international market. The currency itself would fall in terms of exchange rate, and there would probably be austerity within the country, leading to higher unemployment, possibly the rise of nationalist parties, etc. There is little to no incentive to leave the Euro.
For a "smaller" country (always use that term lightly), the Euro and the Eurozone is a treasure trove. Not only is there equal footing for interstate trade within the Eurozone, but there is also a free transit for both people and companies. It also protects the smaller countries from highly unfavorable exchange rates in the international market.
But what about the current crisis, you ask? Won't the other Eurozone members want to boot the countries who are bringing the Euro down?
The answer, in simple terms, is no. The countries rated lower in international credit standards keep the Euro at a stable trading level, unlike the pound, which British Exchequer Osborne refuses to devalue (currently worth $1.53). Should the endangered countries leave the Euro, purchasing on the currency will likely rise, leading to an increase in its price, making exports of goods more difficult.
As for the legal side, crises such as these in a currency's infancy lead to a consolidation of the currency itself, such as in a set of new banking rules unveiled in December of 2012. Obviously, no currency is ever flawless: the dollar had more than its fair share of crises in its infancy, including individual states' desires to return to their own individual currencies.
I can only say it so many times: the European Union will not break up. Even if, on the strange and unlikely contingent that the Eurozone dissolves, the EU will remain. It is too deeply entrenched in the laws and trading regulations of its member states (especially in the original six) to suddenly dissolve, or even dissolve over time.
As one can always expect, recessions do not necessarily cure themselves in five years' time, or ten years' time, or even fifteen years' time. What matters, however, is wondering for whom is this a recession? Those who make from half a million (in whatever currency) to one million or more a year, or everyone below them?
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Friday, April 19, 2013
Don't Drink the Blue Cup: Chapter 1
After deciding not to comment on any news this week, I have decided to put the first chapter of a very odd story I came up with off-the-cuff. Enjoy.
1
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
Jason shifted around in his seat as if he
had irritable bowel syndrome. His eyes darted every which way, from the
waitress held together by a tortured corset to the obese man on his third
shrimp sandwich, trying to see if he could see it too.
“So you know everything I’m going to say?”
“Everything.”
“Bullshit,” we spoke at the same time. He
raised his eyebrow and crinkled his nose.
“Yabba dabba doo. Skittle-lee-winks,” we
said in perfect stereo. His fingers wrapped around his fork and prodded his
half-eaten chicken sandwich. The poor thing would never get eaten by him at
this rate.
“I fucked your sister!” we yelled, and
sadly, I knew it was true. A few eyes turned our way. Jason slouched back in
his seat and eyeballed the room.
“Do her,” he said, nodding to the obese
waitress. I turned to look at her; she was collecting cups from a group of old
men in bowler hats.
It’s
not like I had to really focus or anything for it to work; it just worked. I
gazed at her refrigerator-shaped form, and in an instant, she broke off into a
million different people, some clearer than others. This was the part I hated:
discerning which one would happen.
The
clearest one traveled along, some ghosts in tow, as it clomped towards the kitchen
with the tray in hand. One of either two things would happen based on the
actions of the flirtatious bowler hat men around her: she would skid over the
bit of spilled water on the tacky yellow tiles, or she would fall on her back,
the tray would fly in the air, and her corset would burst apart like two people
who made a drunken mistake but don’t much care for each other. I was hoping for
the latter.
“She’s going to skid over that water
spill,” I said to Jason with a frown. They never do the ridiculous falls. Jason
looked over my shoulder as the sound of the rhino’s heel squeaked on the water.
“Oops!” said the waitress with a nervous
chuckle. The cups shook on her tray. “That would have hurt.”
Jason’s golf-ball sized eyes turned to me.
I had the sickest urge to throw one of my fries in his mouth just to close it,
but that would result in him choking. Probably a bad idea to kill my best
friend.
“Dude.”
“Yeah…”
I looked out the window. The goddamned
Doopers were out again, trolling around on the sidewalk. It’s not that I mind
their presence; hell, they’re great, but I hate the way they look at me and at
skyscrapers. They look at me like I’m their goddamned savior, and they look at
skyscrapers like that fat guy a few seats down looks at a sirloin steak.
“How’d this happen?” asked Jason,
scratching his idiotic rapist mustache. He’ll shave in three days once he gets
the nursing job.
“You remember that day a few weeks ago when
I brought home that bag of carrots by mistake, and we already had that first
bag of carrots in the fridge?”
Jason stopped scratching. Just shave it
now, god damn it.
“Of course not.”
I sighed. This was going to sound
ridiculous.
“Well, I figured that it would be better to
eat all the old carrots since I brought home that bag of new carrots-”
He’s going to interrupt.
“Wait, you’re saying that you can see the
future because you ate a shit-ton of carrots?”
I hate when I’m right.
“Let me finish.”
Jason slouched back in his seat.
“So, I ate all the carrots we already had.
That was like, thirty carrots man. That night, I started seeing weird shit. I
started seeing all these ghosts and stuff walking out of my body and doing
things, and ghosts walking out of your body and doing things, so I freaked out,
just like one ghost did, which is when it hit me: I was seeing the future, but
not just the most certain future: I was seeing all futures.”
He leaned forward again. At this rate, he
might actually get in a decent workout.
“So dude, what you’re telling me is that if
I eat a ton of carrots, I’ll be able to see the future?”
Being patient with conversations is the
worst.
“No, and trust me, I’ve seen the future
where you eat a lot of carrots. You just end up with orange-colored crap.”
He leaned back again, but rebounded
instantly.
“Wait, you saw that future?”
Okay, I’m cutting this conversation short.
“Yes, and before you ask, I’ve seen every
possible future for the next four days, no I don’t know how exactly my brain
sorts it all out because it just does, and yes, there is a future with you
eating a crap-ton of carrots and subsequently crapping orange the entire night.
It wasn’t just the carrots, it was something in that specific batch of carrots,
though I don’t know what and I don’t see any future, at least not yet, telling
me that answer.”
His eyes searched the table. There were
actually multiple questions that were probable at that point, but they all
depended on whether or not I spoke or if the monster truck of a waitress came
by just in time. To not speak would probably be better; after all, he’d just ask
me about the goddamned Doopers if I mentioned them, and they’re too goddamned
intense. At the same time, I have no idea what to do with them.
“You boys doin’ okay?” asked she-Hulk. I
should stop being so mean. Her name is Alberta, as in she comprises one-fifth
of Canada. That poor, poor corset. If it had a mouth and lungs, it would
scream. I turned to her and smiled.
“Yeah, thanks ma’am.”
Jason was still searching for a question.
He only nodded and she clomped away to go terrorize Japan. Jason finally found
his question, just like I knew he would.
“So does this mean that you know lottery
numbers?”
Shit, it leads to the goddamned Doopers
anyway.
“Yes, and no, I’m not going to game the
system more than I already have.”
Jason’s eyes went wide and he grinned.
“That’s how you’re fucking all those
girls!” he yelled, pointing a finger. Eyes turned once more, though I couldn’t
help but grin as well.
“You see the future, you clever bastard,
and you talk to them in a way so that they respond to you. You clever bastard.”
He leaned back in his chair, shaking his
head with that stupid mustache extending with his smile. Leave it to Jason to
completely ignore the philosophical and scientific implications of this ability
and focus only on the fifty-seven women I’ve slept with since I gained this
ability. Oh, don’t worry, I foresaw no happy ending with any of them.
“You’ve got to wingman for me, you clever
bastard you. But why not play the lottery, man? You’re a sure thing!”
I bowed my head. God damn it, he wasn’t
going to let this one sit.
“Because there is so much more going on
right now,” I said, leaning on the table. My food was getting cold, but it
sucked anyway. Jason leaned in close like he wanted to hear a secret. He wasn’t
going to hear about my minor lottery playing.
“Like what?”
“Fuck. It’s the goddamned Doopers, man.”
A nude mariachi band could have walked up
to Jason and started blaring Besame Mucho in his ear, and he still would have
stared at me with his confused ogle.
“Doopers?”
“Yes, the goddamned Doopers. Look outside.”
He turned his head to the bustling street.
A few people in suits argued on something over their phones. Only one of them
was getting laid that night.
“What do you see, Jason?”
His eyes danced from person to person, from
building to building, from car to car, but he had no idea what I was talking
about.
“Of course you don’t see them,” I said,
preempting his obvious quip. “They’re one second in the future.”
He turned back to me, still the look of
baffled consternation on his face. At this point, I would have preferred the
naked mariachi band.
“They’re what?”
“They’re these aliens, see, and they’re
like, three feet tall. Gray skin, three eyes, four legs, some of them look like
kids who have had too much LSD. They’re called the Doopers. Those little
fuckers are here protecting us.”
“From wh-”
“From the Asheeyo.”
“The wh-”
I look forward to my quiet masturbation
time tonight.
“These big dickhead conqueror aliens who
come to planets and fuck shit up.”
I popped a fry in my mouth. No use in
letting this shitty diner food go to waste. Jason was still trying to wrap his
head around what I told him. It would take him a few seconds, so I picked on
some of the chicken on his plate and ate it. Not too terrible, actually. I
might get that to go.
“Wait wait wait,” said Jason, shaking his
head. His mustache looked like a speedy caterpillar. “There are actual aliens
on Earth?”
I nodded and ate more of his chicken.
“And they’re here protecting us from other
aliens?”
“Yep,” I said.
“And you’re cool with this?”
Of all his possible responses, I didn’t
think that one would be the most probable.
“No, I’m not.”
I grabbed his entire sandwich and bit into
it. Pretty nice. It’s got a hint of paprika. I should definitely get this to
go.
“But, if they are here protecting us, why
aren’t you cool with it?”
This sandwich was too good. I don’t know
why Jason wasn’t eating it. There really is no way for him to understand the
magnitude of what’s going on with me. God damn it, there has to be someone more
intelligent I can talk to in the distant future.
“Becauf,” I said with a full mouth, “they’re
not being totally honest wif me.”
A bit of chicken flew onto Jason’s plate.
“About what?”
I shrugged and ate more of the sandwich.
“I ‘unno.”
His next question would possibly open him
to greater philosophical possibilities, or he’d just let it go and not bother
to think on it. Being patient sucks.
“So, wait,” he said, leaning forward once
more, “why not game the system more than you already have?”
I swallowed a bit of chicken. There was
still some bread stuck to my teeth. Worst feeling in the world, man.
“You need to imagine all lives as taking a
pre-set course along a planned route, kind of like a road trip. All your
decisions are already made for you, all that’s necessary is to drive it. That’s
kind of what I’ve discovered about individual human timelines. We are, on this
Earth, pre-ordained, and I hate to use that word, to make every single decision
in our lives the way we have in the past and will in the future.
Jason stared at me, bug-eyed.
“Now, because I can see every single
possible decision someone could make, including my own, I can choose the
least-probable decision, meaning that I’ve drastically changed that
pre-ordination. That means I’ve upset the natural flow of the world, because
there most certainly is one. Just the other day I stopped a kid from wandering
into the street, where he would have gotten hit by a car and died. I created an
entirely new timeline on this Earth. Do you understand that?”
He probably didn’t, though sometimes I give
him too little credit.
“Now, these timelines intersect where we
meet others,” I continued without looking into his ridiculous face. “Because
I’ve chosen to interact with timelines I would not otherwise, in all
probability, have interacted with, I have, again, upset the natural future of
the Earth.”
I wouldn’t have been surprised if Jason had
shit his pants.
“So-”
“Yes, I’ve seen all outcomes of this
conversation, yes I am extremely patient with everyone, though sometimes it
wears on me, to be honest. There’s no easy way to really describe it except to
say that I’m omniscient when it comes to the immediate future.”
He leaned back and stroked the pedophile’s
watermark on his face. Come on, Jason, I know you can come up with the right
goddamn question with me prodding you.
A
car honked outside and I glanced at it while Jason ruminated on his existential
quandary. Two young, attractive people, very much in love, put their luggage in
the trunk of a cab, and in the moment before they entered the back seat, I saw
the end of both their romance and their lives. I turned back to Jason.
“Before you say anything, look outside.”
Jason turned his head, expecting to see
some goddamned Doopers.
“See the cab?”
He nodded.
“Ten seconds after the cab driver takes
off, the brakes will fail and all three of the people in that car will die
because they won’t be able to stop at the light.”
Jason turned a sickly pale.
“Now, I have two options here: I stay here
and talk to you or I go out there and perpetuate three timelines that wouldn’t
otherwise exist past fifteen seconds from now. What do I choose?”
“You, you save them?”
“Why?” I asked, and if Jason’s jaw had
dropped any lower, he’d have to go to the hospital to get it reattached.
“Why? Why? Because, because it’s right!” he
yelled, and some eyes turned to us. I smirked. The cab drove away, and Jason was
ready to explode.
“What makes it right?”
“You’ve got to, you’ve-”
The crunch of metal and screams from the
street interrupted him. A few people turned to look outside. Jason only stared
at me.
“You could have-”
“I could have, yes, but again, I’d create
unforeseen timelines. I saved the kid because it was a gut reaction and because
I thought I knew what ‘right’ was. But is it right to completely negate what is
supposed to happen to save a life that has unsure meaning in the future?”
He was confused. Understandable. A few
people ran past our window towards the accident.
“Do you believe in multiverse theory?” I
asked Jason. He still had no idea what I was talking about. “Do you remember
all those alternate-universe stories from sci-fi and comics?”
He nodded, his expression an unsure mixture
of constipation and shock.
“Well, I’ve come to believe in it. How can
I not? I see all the goddamned choices we can make. So, in another universe
where I have this ability, I made the decision to go out and talk to that
cabbie to tell him that his brakes were faulty. I apologized to the couple for
delaying them, and then I lied, saying that I was a mechanic and I realized
that there was a faulty alignment on the wheel, whatever that means. The cabbie
and I talked some more, and of course, I used my foresight to stop him, and
eventually he called a tow. The couple lived.”
Jason scratched his head. He should grow
his afro so he could be a funky man-nurse.
“But how do you justify all this?”
It always came down to this.
“I don’t. I try to maintain the integrity
of the future, but I’m capricious, kind of like Zeus, except I don’t hurl
lightning bolts and I don’t impregnate women. Sure, I use my ability to get a
girl to sleep with me, but that’s a minor alteration of the future. Reversing
death is a shockwave. It upsets the balance of our universe. Someone is alive
who shouldn’t be. That means that everything that person does will have an
unaccountable ripple effect throughout all time, even if it might be as minor
as the introduction of another genome.”
He sat back and folded his arms. I couldn’t
help but envy his position of utter ignorance, but at the same time, I’d rather
not have that ugly mustache. Sirens blared in the distance as still more people
ran towards the accident. They were already dead at this time, but at least the
last thing they saw was each other.
A
Dooper walked up to the window and waved at me, though only the top of his
prickly head reached the window. I waved back, and Jason tried to see what I
was waving at.
“What-”
“A goddamned Dooper,” I said as I smiled at
the stupid thing. Stop looking at me like that, asshole. It makes me
uncomfortable.
“This is heavy, man,” said Jason, sitting
back. Lady Juggernaut marched over to our table.
“Anything else, darlins?”
She glanced at Jason, who was about ready
to vomit.
“You okay, darlin’? You’re not lookin’ too
good.”
He looked at me with his sunken eyes for an
answer. Great, this is my new use: a personal Dear Abby. I nodded, only
thinking about what unpleasant dreams I’ll have tonight. That always happens
when I see death.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” said Jason, a meek
smile stretching out his mustache. I swear, I could have drawn that thing on
with a pencil.
“And you, darlin’?”
“Yeah, can I have what he had to go,
please?”
“Sure, dear,” she said with a grin. Her
cheeks were probably hiding nuts for winter. She wrote down my order and got
ready to go to the kitchens, but the sirens from all the police cars and
ambulances grabbed her attention.
“Say, you know what’s goin’ on out there?
Sounds like something big happenin’ on the street,” she said, pointing out the
window with her sausage of a thumb. For a second, my eyes dared to follow one
of her less likely decisions for later in the night. I no longer wanted to make
fun of her.
Jason
glanced out the window every so often and then to me, trying to come up with
some response that might accurately convey everything I’ve told him into a sentence.
There was no need really, because there was always just one word that ever
needed to be used.
“Life,” I said, and with a puzzled squint,
Alberta walked off to the kitchens to place my order.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Saddle Up, Lock and Load
In case you've missed it (somehow), North Korea has been ratcheting up their war rhetoric of late. Of course, any actual tactical strike made by Mr. Kim Jong-Un is likely to elicit an extreme response from the US and South Korea. North Korea is far outgunned, because at this point, it's unlikely that they have a capable nuclear arsenal, much less the ability to actually put nuclear warheads on intercontinental ballistic missiles. However, let's assume, at least for the moment, that North Korea is serious in its bellicosity and actually intends to strike at South Korea or Japan (because the US is probably unreachable). What should the international community (re: the US) do?
One obvious answer is, of course, retaliate. Why shouldn't we retaliate, the hawks would say. It's a good question, but there is also a good answer. It isn't the North Korean people who threaten the world with annihilation, it is its untested and frightened leader. Kim Jong-Un stepped into the leadership position not a military man, but a son of a respected leader (in NK) who has a history of enjoying western culture.
When looking at North Korea, one must also look at the military: the military rules, above all else. North Korea has the largest standing army on Earth, mostly due to the fact that its government spouts anti-west and anti-South Korean propaganda. The top generals also wouldn't want a respected leader replaced by someone who has no prior military experience and who has, at least rhetorically, stated that peaceful negotiations are possible. What better way to perpetuate military dominance than to remove the man who threatens their purpose?
Thus, this is likely Jong-Un's proving ground: seeing how far he can push the rest of the world before the clock stops on his decision to push the button or not push the button. Of course, there is always a point of no return for this sort of thing, and it was nearly crossed in the Cuban Missile Crisis; for Jong-Un, that point may be when he recognizes that the NK military generals want to proceed with military action, and he doesn't want to. That would almost certainly lead to the beginning of hostilities, or a coup.
So, let's assume that Jong-Un does decide to strike a target, without being too specific about its location. What does the US do? The US has a military umbrella protecting South Korea and Japan, two of North Korea's assumed targets, leaving it responsible to come to the aid of either country in case of attack. Should it retaliate immediately, however?
In my opinion, no. Even if the US military strikes can be carried out only on government targets, the US should not attack. Why, you ask?
First, let me state that I am not ubiquitously anti-war; if a nation is attacked, obviously they have the right to retaliate, but just because one has the right to retaliate, that does not mean that it should be the first option. Consider the military strength of the US: it is the most technologically advanced military in the world with the highest number of nuclear weapons, fighter jets, etc. etc. etc. Razing a country like North Korea would only be problematic, especially with China right nearby (though that is another story).
The US should, instead, give North Korea, and specifically, Kim Jong-Un, options: First, give him the option of ceding power and dissolving the government (obviously won't happen); Second, give him the option of fleeing North Korea (problematic, but Kim is facing a lot of backlash from the established military leaders, though it still likely won't happen); Third, in conjunction with both China and South Korea, open the borders and allow NK citizens to become refugees (definitely won't happen); Fourth, disarm completely, dissolve the government, place the military under South Korean command, and surrender to a coalition force (definitely won't happen); Fifth, give him the option of disarming and opening the economy AND government.
President Obama has avoided making any aggressive remarks against North Korea, and for that, he is smart. He knows the situation of the country all too well, and is much less likely to engage in any kind of strike, preemptive or otherwise, than his predecessor was. I'm hoping that he can carry this rumination with him should there be some sort of outbreak; otherwise, several million people may die in the process.
Any war instigated by NK would have to be an absolute war, i.e. an all-or-nothing game. Giving Kim the option of an escape from (basically guaranteed) annihilation will likely work, but of course, that doesn't say anything about his generals.
The situation, in itself, is complex, with so many different angles (I avoided talking about China completely, though it fulfills the strange love triangle between them, NK, and the US; the issue of famine in North Korea is also salient, along with the younger population, many of whom are less likely to believe the government propaganda, etc.) that it's hard to see viable options. I'm just hoping that the first option isn't the last one for the people of North Korea.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
One obvious answer is, of course, retaliate. Why shouldn't we retaliate, the hawks would say. It's a good question, but there is also a good answer. It isn't the North Korean people who threaten the world with annihilation, it is its untested and frightened leader. Kim Jong-Un stepped into the leadership position not a military man, but a son of a respected leader (in NK) who has a history of enjoying western culture.
When looking at North Korea, one must also look at the military: the military rules, above all else. North Korea has the largest standing army on Earth, mostly due to the fact that its government spouts anti-west and anti-South Korean propaganda. The top generals also wouldn't want a respected leader replaced by someone who has no prior military experience and who has, at least rhetorically, stated that peaceful negotiations are possible. What better way to perpetuate military dominance than to remove the man who threatens their purpose?
Thus, this is likely Jong-Un's proving ground: seeing how far he can push the rest of the world before the clock stops on his decision to push the button or not push the button. Of course, there is always a point of no return for this sort of thing, and it was nearly crossed in the Cuban Missile Crisis; for Jong-Un, that point may be when he recognizes that the NK military generals want to proceed with military action, and he doesn't want to. That would almost certainly lead to the beginning of hostilities, or a coup.
So, let's assume that Jong-Un does decide to strike a target, without being too specific about its location. What does the US do? The US has a military umbrella protecting South Korea and Japan, two of North Korea's assumed targets, leaving it responsible to come to the aid of either country in case of attack. Should it retaliate immediately, however?
In my opinion, no. Even if the US military strikes can be carried out only on government targets, the US should not attack. Why, you ask?
First, let me state that I am not ubiquitously anti-war; if a nation is attacked, obviously they have the right to retaliate, but just because one has the right to retaliate, that does not mean that it should be the first option. Consider the military strength of the US: it is the most technologically advanced military in the world with the highest number of nuclear weapons, fighter jets, etc. etc. etc. Razing a country like North Korea would only be problematic, especially with China right nearby (though that is another story).
The US should, instead, give North Korea, and specifically, Kim Jong-Un, options: First, give him the option of ceding power and dissolving the government (obviously won't happen); Second, give him the option of fleeing North Korea (problematic, but Kim is facing a lot of backlash from the established military leaders, though it still likely won't happen); Third, in conjunction with both China and South Korea, open the borders and allow NK citizens to become refugees (definitely won't happen); Fourth, disarm completely, dissolve the government, place the military under South Korean command, and surrender to a coalition force (definitely won't happen); Fifth, give him the option of disarming and opening the economy AND government.
President Obama has avoided making any aggressive remarks against North Korea, and for that, he is smart. He knows the situation of the country all too well, and is much less likely to engage in any kind of strike, preemptive or otherwise, than his predecessor was. I'm hoping that he can carry this rumination with him should there be some sort of outbreak; otherwise, several million people may die in the process.
Any war instigated by NK would have to be an absolute war, i.e. an all-or-nothing game. Giving Kim the option of an escape from (basically guaranteed) annihilation will likely work, but of course, that doesn't say anything about his generals.
The situation, in itself, is complex, with so many different angles (I avoided talking about China completely, though it fulfills the strange love triangle between them, NK, and the US; the issue of famine in North Korea is also salient, along with the younger population, many of whom are less likely to believe the government propaganda, etc.) that it's hard to see viable options. I'm just hoping that the first option isn't the last one for the people of North Korea.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
I've decided to drop out of school
April fool's! Wait, what, that was two days ago? God damn it, where does my time go?
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Foray to the Future: Chapter 5
I think 5 chapters is enough. It's not like you want to read them anyway.
5
Nathan
awoke with a start several hours later, covered in sweat and panting. He wiped
his brow with his gown, trying to slow his rapid breathing. What had he
dreamed? Garbled images flashed before his eyes, but he could not discern any
clear, coherent sequence that made any sense. He rubbed his face and, seeing
the dark ward, dropped his head back into the pillow.
The next day came uneventfully. No questioning,
no exams, no painful injections; just Nathan relaxing on his bed as the window
went from an opaque wall to transparent, filling the room with fresh sunlight.
Nathan was continually amazed by the technology; the wall faded away as the sun
rose, though it was still solid. Nathan tried thinking of explanations for
this, but in the end, his mind simply reverted to eh, it’s the future.
He
was allowed out of the ward, though he mostly used this time to look at himself
in the mirror in the bathroom. Since he had arrived, Nathan had not showered,
though one could not tell by smelling him. It seemed that the hospital gown
collected all the dead skin that would normally cause a stench and had somehow
removed it. He also had neither shaved nor brushed his teeth, and his patchy
blonde beard was very apparent, though it seemed that the food he had been
eating had taken care of any pungent breath he might have had.
Doctor
Baker, his facemask off, strode into the ward. He had his hands held behind his
back. He walked straight to Nathan with a pleasant smile.
“Good morning! I have a surprise for you.” He pulled the book Mrs. Gene
gave him out from behind his back and handed it to Nathan. Nathan took it
eagerly, his mood taking leaps and bounds over what it was before. He ran his
hands over the cover, feeling, if just for a brief second, the comfort of home.
“All of your belongings were delivered here this morning. I assume that
the Acclimation Officer will be here relatively soon too.” Doctor Baker paused
for a second. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“If I knew how the work the magical dispensary over there, I most certainly
would.”
Doctor Baker sighed. “One of the other doctors here should have offered,
but they always seem reluctant to be in here…”
“How come there are hardly any doctors for the other patients?” asked
Nathan. “I mean, it’s kind of noticeable, this being a hospital and all.”
Doctor Baker’s voice softened.
“They are all members of Silens Terra, deemed terrorists. They all
received some kind of injury when they clashed with members of the Defense
Forces. They’re recovering here until they are well enough to be imprisoned.”
Doctor Baker then headed to the small alcove, returning with another bowl of
mush.
“What is Silens Terra, exactly? I mean, the two officers mentioned it
when they were questioning me,” asked Nathan. Doctor Baker’s demeanor hardened
a bit, his face displaying an odd wrinkle or two.
“They’re a group of people who believe that humans should remain
separate from non-terrestrials. They use rather…unconventional means to get
their message across.” Doctor Baker then went silent. Nathan thought of probing
deeper, but Doctor Baker seemed rather sensitive on the subject.
“Anyway, I adjusted the ingredients slightly, so the taste should be
different, hopefully a bit better.” He handed the silver bowl and spoon to
Nathan. It still looked like moulding clay. Nathan sat up in his bed and
crossed his legs. He put the book down at the foot of his bed. For a moment,
Nathan thought he saw a bit of the food move on its own; undeterred, however,
Nathan grabbed a spoonful and ate it with delight. It now tasted a bit like
cinnamon and had no sickly aftertastes or embarrassing side effects.
“How is it?” asked Doctor Baker.
“Pretty damn good, actually. It tastes like real food,” said Nathan
through a mouthful. Doctor Baker went to get himself a bowl and returned.
“So how does that thingy make this stuff?” said Nathan, who then
realized how ridiculous his sentence sounded. “I meant-”
“It’s called the synthesizer,” said Doctor Baker, nodding towards the
small alcove. “It can create basically anything as long as you know the atomic
composition. Granted, to the layman such as yourself, that might be a little
intense, and oh, you’re right, this is good, but since most objects such as
food, clothing, and devices have been atomically mapped and catalogued, there
is very little that the synthesizer can’t make.”
“Can it make living things?” asked Nathan, quickly finishing off his
mush.
“Depends what you mean by living,” replied Doctor Baker. “It can make
seeds for a plant, it can replicate animal proteins for food, but it can’t make
a fetus. The human cerebral cortex, immune system, and nervous system are too
complex for the synthesizer to replicate, though there are researchers
attempting to do so even now. If they succeed, there will certainly be a
revolution in treating diseases that will be surpassed by, well, probably
nothing.”
“Amazing. How does it create things?” asked Nathan, rapt in attention.
“Haha, well, to put it simply, everything no longer needed is recycled.
By recycled, I mean that it is broken down into its core atoms which are then
stored, and those atoms are re-assembled into whatever you need them to be.
Empty bowls, tattered clothing, even human waste, they are all recycled. There
are a whole bunch of processes underlying that, but I’m sure that it wouldn’t make
much sense if I tried to explain it to you.”
“I’m not as dumb as…well, yeah, technically I am,” said Nathan
contentedly. “So, how do I work it?” Doctor Baker ushered Nathan over to the
synthesizer. It was an indented space, only about seven inches into the wall.
Just above the opening on the wall was a panel with a single blinking red
square light button. Doctor Baker pushed it and it immediately disappeared; it
was replaced by three oval buttons: a blue one that had “FOODSTUFFS” written in
black letters in the center, a green one that had “MATERIAL” written in black
letters, and a yellow one that had “RECYCLE” written in black letters.
“First, Nathan, place your bowl and spoon in the synthesizer,” said
Doctor Baker. Nathan did so, and Doctor Baker pressed the “RECYCLE” button.
Immediately, the bowl began disintegrating, its contents turning into small
blue particles that appeared to fall through the bottom of the synthesizer,
almost as if the bottom were another hologram. After the particles disappeared,
Nathan poked at the bottom of the synthesizer curiously. It was completely
solid.
“Well, now, obviously, you press the button that reads ‘foodstuffs,’”-he
pressed it- “and then this menu comes up.” Smaller buttons appeared in varying
colors, except they all had abbreviations that Nathan did not understand. Many
only contained one letter and one number.
“Yeah, um, sorry, this does not make any sense. We all learn from a very
young age about the codes. Here,” he pressed a green unmarked button to the
very right of all the coded ones, “this is the vocal command button. Watch.” He
cleared his throat. “Synthesize nutritional supplement Berringer R-CHHN24.”
Small blue lights began accruing together, almost the exact reverse of what
happened for recycling. A new silver bowl and spoon appeared, though this bowl
was full of the mush. Nathan could not help but stare in awe.
“It’s such a simple concept…” said Nathan as he trailed off. He grabbed
the bowl, examining it as if it was supposed to be different from his other
bowls. It was exactly the same, except it was full. He took the spoon, running
it through the mush slowly, examining if it had any differences from before. He
then picked up a spoonful, examined it, brought it up to each of his eyes, and
finally put it in his mouth. It tasted exactly like the bowlful he had before.
Doctor Baker placed his empty bowl into the synthesizer and recycled it, though
Nathan didn’t notice. He was still inspecting the bowl, as if it were composed
of small diamonds.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk. You have yet to look outside.” Doctor
Baker tapped Nathan on the arm. Nathan finished his bowl, placed it in the
synthesizer, and pressed the “recycle” button. He watched in delighted
amazement as the bowl broke down into small blue glowing circles, and as soon
as they all disappeared, he followed Doctor Baker out of the ward.
The
inside of the hospital looked like any normal hospital except for the abnormal
amount of white. Everything, from the incalculable number of doctors, to the
walls, to the floors, was the purest of pure white, and everything was
completely clean. Not a spot of dirt could be seen on the ground, though Nathan
did not have much time to look around as Doctor Baker led them directly outside
to the back of the hospital, through the solid-glass doors that parted for
them.
Seeing
the outside world felt like an epiphany to Nathan; the sky was the shade of
blue reserved for the most contented day in spring, and a gentle breeze
caressed Nathan’s cheek in a way that felt almost familial. The back of the
hospital was not at all what Nathan had been expecting; a widened circular
drive able to fit several large vehicles encompassed a circular garden of
flowers arranged in the typical flow of colors in a rainbow, except where the colors
might border, the flowers were mixed, giving a smooth transition from one color
to the next. Surrounding the drive on both sides was an expansive lawn where
many people were walking about, sitting on benches, or talking to others. It
was unusually calm for the typical hospital, at least in Nathan’s experience.
“Wow. This is…different,” remarked Nathan. He and Doctor Baker began
walking along the grass.
“Oh? How so?” asked Doctor Baker.
“Well, this type of set-up was usually reserved for the asylums for the,
you know,” Nathan whistled and spun his finger pointing at his head, “insane. I
read a pretty good book on this stuff back when I was in college. You never saw
this kind of thing in a normal medical hospital. Hell, you never saw this at an
asylum. They were never so nice.” Doctor Baker chuckled.
“Well, we’ve learned quite a bit about mental and cognitive conditions
since your time. We certainly don’t practice eugenics the way that it was once
practiced, nor do we dull the mind with narcotics. There is a greater
appreciation for the mind, which is recognized as separate from the brain. A
soul, if you prefer old religious parlance. The mind is the portion where
creativity and self is contained; you might think of it as composed of certain
portions of the brain, but not confined to the brain itself. Also, we now
believe that a bit of fresh air is necessary for a recovering patient, though
only for those who can make it outside, of course. Come, sit.” Doctor Baker
motioned to a nearby white bench.
“Fascinating. I feel like this pervades into some area of philosophy
that I may or may not have learned about, though more likely not, but that is
only because my philosophy class was composed of me staring at the incredibly
cute blonde girl in front of me who sneezed whenever the professor said
‘Heidegger.’ Made for a pretty entertaining week on German philosophers,” said
Nathan. Doctor Baker smiled, though he was obviously aching to say something.
“Look, Nathan, in approximately the next half-hour or so, you will be
completely out of my hands. I won’t be able to protect you anymore, and even
though the officers have assured me that they will no longer want you in
prison, I still fear that you may be in some danger. I can only offer you my
aid as a friend; if you need to contact me, simply use the wrist bracelet if
you are given one, or contact me via your living quarters. You’ll have a
computer terminal equipped with a communicator, so you will be able to find me
if necessary. I’m sure your Acclimation Officer will show you how to use the
basics of what you’re given,” Doctor Baker said reassuringly.
“Thank you, Doctor. If I sneeze, you will certainly be the first to
know.”
Doctor Baker stared at Nathan dumbfounded for a second, then guffawed
heartily.
“You’ve got quite the sense of humor. Come, let’s get you some better
clothes than the ones you have already.” Doctor Baker stood up from the bench,
and Nathan followed. It really was quite a beautiful day; Nathan could hear
several birds singing happily in the distance, and somewhere near those birds
were some patients, laughing heartily, while playing with what looked like a
slightly oversized silver volleyball. On a bench nearby the patients sat a
rather rough looking man wearing something similar to the officers, and from
the distance, it looked like he was staring directly at Nathan. Nathan could
almost swear that one of his eyes was unusually shiny, but Nathan turned away,
disregarded the man, and entered the hospital without a word.
The Doctor led Nathan to a room in the hospital
about half the size of his ward, though there was not much in the room aside
from a synthesizer and what looked like an empty, silver doorframe in the
center of the room. Upon closer inspection, however, this doorframe was longer
than it appeared. It was more like an opened box, the beams on each side wider
than Nathan. Several cables ran from the bottom of the doorframe to a standing
glass control panel that looked like a podium. Doctor Baker went to the podium,
the transparent display booting up at his touch. He looked up at Nathan.
“Step right into the imager right between the vertical beams.”
Nathan walked up to it and stood directly under the horizontal panel on
top. He had not noticed before that, on the sides of the panels facing him,
each panel was black with horizontal green lines spaced a few inches apart.
“All right, look directly forward, arms at your sides, try not to move
too much, and stand up straight; your posture is sagging a bit.” Nathan stood
like a soldier, looking directly forward at the wall. Doctor Baker pressed a
button on the glass panel, and a low hum of electricity began to emanate from
the imager. A red light emerged from the horizontal panel at the top, gradually
moving down the frame until it reached the top of Nathan’s head. When it did,
it paused, and then disappeared. Two new red lights emerged from either side of
Nathan, moving gradually towards him until they reached his shoulders, after
which they disappeared as well. Nathan looked around, wondering if the whole
thing was done. A blue light, right on cue, began to make its way up his legs,
scanning his entire body gradually. It felt like absolutely nothing was
happening; there was not even a trace of heat from the light. Finally, when it
reached the top of his head, the electrical hum stopped.
“You can step out now, Nathan.” Nathan walked out of the imager and
towards Doctor Baker. On the glass control panel was a diagram of Nathan’s
body, detailing his height, weight, and body classification. Nathan watched
curiously as Doctor Baker tapped a few buttons, the options on the sides of the
diagram changing each time.
“All right, what color do you want your clothes to be? Keep in mind that
you can change it whenever you wish.” Doctor Baker looked at Nathan for an
answer.
“Uh…blue?” said Nathan.
“What kind of blue?” asked Doctor Baker.
“I have to choose a kind of blue?”
“Well, yes, there are many various shades of blue. There’s navy, sky,
aqua, cerulean, steel, azure, electric, royal…”
“Okay, I get it,” interrupted Nathan. He thought for a second. “Fine,
just give me navy blue.”
“Navy it is!” Doctor Baker tapped one of the buttons on the side.
“Matching shoes? Or black?”
“Wait, shoes? You’re wearing shoes?” Nathan looked down at Doctor
Baker’s feet. He was, in fact, wearing white shoes that conformed perfectly to
his feet without having individual slots for toes. The shoes themselves
overlapped with Doctor Baker’s clothes, though Nathan could only tell because
he was looking so closely. He couldn’t believe that he never noticed that
Doctor Baker was wearing shoes.
Nathan had figured that the entire skin suit covered the feet as well.
“Wow, I’m dumb. Yeah, make them blue. Wait! Can I have a stripe?” asked
Nathan.
“You can have whatever you want on them,” replied Doctor Baker.
“Great, give me a black stripe perpendicular to the bottom of the heel.
For once, I won’t have to pay for these.” Doctor Baker tapped another button at
the side. The screen then wiped itself, completely blank. Doctor Baker walked
to the synthesizer, turned it on, and tapped a few buttons. He turned around,
and there in his hands were Nathan’s new clothes, his shoes on top. He handed
them to Nathan who took them eagerly; the fabric was nearly weightless in his
hands. He ran his hands over the clothes and the shoes; they all felt like
silk, smooth and embracing.
“I’ll get you a shaver so you can get rid of that bird’s nest growing on
your face.” Doctor Baker turned again to the synthesizer and came back with an
item that looked like a silver butane cigarette lighter, except that there was
a single blue button on it and the top was open.
“Just put the open portion on your facial hair and press the button.
Move it around your face and for the love of all that is sacred, do not put it
on your eye.” Nathan laughed and placed the item on top of his clothes.
“Also, go take a proper shower. While your gown might have absorbed a
lot of grime from you, it certainly doesn’t cover your entire body. The showers
are in the bathroom, just past the toilets on the left side. Just press the
panel and set the temperature. I’ll see you back in the ward. If you have any
problems in the bathrooms, please don’t call me; showering other people is not
in my job description.”
“I shall return cleaner than a priest after a long Saturday night. And
don’t worry, if I do happen to gouge my eyes out, I will call you. I believe
something about that is in your job description.” And with a wink, Nathan
turned and headed to the bathroom.
After
a very long shower, several poor renditions of an opera Nathan had once heard,
a shave, getting dressed, and being amazed at how the clothes and shoes quite
literally melded together, he walked into the ward a new man. His face looked
young and wholesome and the clothes fit him perfectly. Nathan thought he looked
almost like a super hero; the navy blue clothes matched his body shape almost
to the micrometer, though it left ample room for his privates. The light blue
Earth on his chest felt to him like a symbol of heroism; and I shall be called, ‘Earth-Man!’ Nathan thought to himself. He
walked up to Doctor Baker, who stood next to Nathan’s bed with Nathan’s
belongings.
“These clothes almost fit me too well. I feel like people are
continually staring at my ass.” Nathan twisted around a bit, attempting to get
a look at his behind. Doctor Baker grinned.
“Don’t worry about it. Actually, your Acclimation Officer just arrived.
She should be arriving within the minute.”
“She, eh? I just hope she doesn’t find my ass too unappealing in these
pants,” joked Nathan. A short silence then hung in the air, making Nathan feel
a bit awkward. He felt as if he did not know how to express all the gratitude
he wished to. Luckily, he didn’t have to, because Doctor Baker looked to the
door of the ward a second later and remarked “ah.”
Nathan
turned, only to have the wind knocked out of him. He was sure his jaw had hit
the floor and shattered upon impact. Standing there, at the entrance of the
ward, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen before, and what’s better,
he knew that she was there for him.
Her black security suit left just enough to Nathan’s imagination to make what
was underneath extremely appealing, but that was not what made his heart rate
spike. Her eyes were the color of sand mixed with a red fire, giving them a
strange, vivid tinge of brown; her hair was a light brown, tied in a
professional bun behind her head. Even though she was a security officer, her
face glowed with a white radiance, making it appear soft. She was neither too
tall nor too short, but just the right height for Nathan. He wanted to touch
her face, to caress it, but he figured that would not be the best way to make a
first impression.
She
finally reached him, standing up straight and looking Nathan in the eye. She
gave what might be called a forced smile and extended her hand. Nathan grabbed
it with his, a stupid grin across his face.
“Lieutenant Denara Stewart of the Office of Defense and Security. Mr.
Nathan Berringer, correct?” she asked in what sounded like a British accent.
Nathan gave what sounded like a small dog’s whimper as a reply. Doctor Baker
chimed in. “Yes, he is.”
“Very good. As you know, I have been assigned to you as your Acclimation
Officer, as mandated by a joint directive by both the Office of Defense and
Security and the Office of Vocational Placement and Aid. Are you ready to
leave?” Nathan replied with another whimper, though he quickly cleared his
throat.
“Mm, yes.” He stood eyeing her, while she looked at him expectantly.
“Do you need help moving your things?” Denara asked.
“What, oh, no, I’ve got it, no problem,” replied Nathan, quickly bending
over to gather his belongings, unable to wipe the foolish grin off his face. He
began to walk out, but stopped suddenly. He put his things down, turned around,
and walked back to Doctor Baker. Doctor Baker looked at Nathan approvingly. He
extended his hand and Nathan took it, squeezing it.
“Thank you,” said Nathan.
“Any time,” replied Doctor Baker. Nathan released his hand, standing for
a second; he knew there was infinitely more to say to Doctor Baker, to thank
him for being supportive, for protecting Nathan, but at the moment, a simple
“thank you” seemed to suffice. Nathan turned, picked up his things, and walked
out of the ward with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)