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animefreak1145 · 3 years ago

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The Irony of Adler and Bell

Call of Duty: Black Ops Analysis of Adler’s Brainwashing

It’s me again. And I’m here with another analysis! This time based solely around Adler. It’s always about Adler. But also Bell.

And this is about the brainwashing of not Bell, but Adler.

We have all had our theories since we first saw Adler getting tortured in the Cinematic Warzone Trailers, shown in Season 3 of COD:BOCW. Our suspicions growing when we see Sus Adler™️ doing what he does best in Season 4 by stealing an important looking chip within the crashed satellite that was taken down. (Also, Hudson, what is wrong with you letting Adler be cleared for a mission when he was just rescued like two weeks ago?!)

And although we did not see him in Season 5, we can all gather that anyone could be potentially brainwashed if you have a certain brand of earpiece. (Woods and Stryker appeared unaffected despite having their own earpieces). So the naive hope and calming words to others that Adler being different and strong is out the window. All it takes is hearing the numbers. What do the numbers mean, Mason?

Besides Bell wasn’t your average run of the mill agent either. An amazing decoder and created codes(I am with the theory that Bell did create the codes for Perseus that we have to decrypt in the game for Operation Chaos and Red Circus) with a brutal close combat skill as well as charming based on how one could talk to everyone and be a social butterfly. Also, able to handle and withstand torture after one hour of leaving Cuba despite previous injuries AND be able to go to Solovetsky/Duga and able to aim and shoot despite having a needle shoved in their eye a few hours earlier.

Bell had crazy skills. Just like Adler does. Bell was brainwashed. So is Adler.

Confirmed with this bundle that will be released. Thank you to @reclaimedbythesea who first found it and pointed it out.

We have the confirmation—the amazing, horrible, war criminal man we all love has become an agent of the man who he swore to chase down and capture/kill for longer than a decade. (Adler said thirteen years in COD:BOCW universe, so 1984 it would be sixteen years. Sheesh. Correct me if I’m wrong. I may be mistaken.) Is it wrong I kinda find it funny? Especially since he did the same thing to Bell—believing it to be necessary. Just as Stitch I’m sure finds it necessary.

It’s just a big brainwash back and forth between these two countries, a race to see who has the most mindless agents on their side in the end. But we’re not focusing on that.

We’re focusing on how Adler’s karma finally caught up to him with all his war crimes. We can infer that he hasn’t just done a cruel action like that to Bell, but to others. “Whatever it takes.” That’s his motto. He’s messed up other’s lives—hundreds, maybe even thousands. The Vietnam War has a deep dirty history, such as the real operation of Fracture Jaw, Operation Ranch Hand with the use of Agent Orange, the Mai(My) Lai Massacre and who knows how many other operations that would/did affect civilians. Not that I would see Adler doing anything like the massacre, but you can’t expect me to not believe that he may have been involved with Agent Orange somewhat? And who knows what other operations and missions he’s done as a CIA agent after the war?

My point is, the man has been gathering karma for awhile. Not just with Bell(I am aware he had his orders in the war, I’m just saying I’m not sure if he feels much guilt about some said orders. Guilt I believe he may has, but I’m not sure it’s a high degree.) Of course, Bell isn’t a saint either. They were willing to kill millions with Perseus after all. A wayyyy higher body count than Adler. And who knows what Bell did with Perseus even before the Greenlight plan? Didn’t seem to mind millions blinking in an eye, so must be pretty cold or delusional about the whole free world killing their country thing. Thank you @yunatheintrovert for this post pointing out and showing a hint of just how not good a person Bell was.

I’m not going to say they deserved what happened to them due to Adler. I feel for Bell. I really do. Just like I can’t say if Adler deserves it for everything—just can’t say that because I’m not at liberty to judge other’s actions and claim what is deserved and undeserved. Leave that to judges.

But now I’m going to point out certain things—other things. Such as what I think to be Adler’s “new” name. At least to those in the Perseus Collective/Stitch.

Do I realize that “Cipher” may just be what this awesome skin is called? Yes. Will I rather ignore it and rant about the name for two ten minutes? Also yes.

On to the analysis!

ci·pher/ˈsīfər/: a secret or disguised way of writing; a code.

This first definition is what we can all gather of what the numbers represent—the code and simultaneously the key of brainwashing others in earpieces with just a certain order of number together.

Stitch and co. used said numbers on Adler, so why not call him Cipher? The Code? Funny, cause he killed Bell—the Decoder. Maybe Bell would’ve helped him out if he didn’t kill them.

Another hammer to the irony of between these two.

But no. The name gets better. Second definition!

ci·pher /ˈsīfər/: a person or thing of no importance, especially a person who does the bidding of others and seems to have no will of their own.

PAHAHAHAHAHA! *clears throat* Now, this, this is what I think Stitch calls some true vengeance. Not only did he get to torture the man who did the same to him before, but made Adler a shadow of who he was before. A husk. Nothing really there. “Whatever it takes” indeed but for the opposite side now—a puppet with numbers for strings. Stitch did a good job in naming Cipher—I mean Adler. We don’t even know how far Adler shall go now, will the CIA have to kill him or will they be able to recondition him when/if they capture him? Will he even be the same? Nope.

Why do I find that definition funny? Well, I think Adler had a multitude of reasons for naming Bell, Bell. Just like Stitch did with Adler. And not just the obvious reasons of him ringing the bell at them to condition them as he was torturing/brainwashing them(we love Pavlov!). Let’s get the first definition out the way.

bell /bel/: a hollow object, typically made of metal and having the shape of a deep inverted cup widening at the lip, that sounds a clear musical note when struck, typically by means of a clapper inside.

I wonder if anyone knows where I’m going with this or I’m starting to seem like a madwoman.

I’m going to ask you guys to focus on the word, “hollow” for me. Hollow, as in not filled. There’s something in the bell alright, but it doesn’t do enough to fill out the hole does it? Like Cipher is now made a husk. Bell was made hollow—only a little bit filled with the little memory they got back before they were killed(maybe they weren’t, let’s just go with it for now). Or perhaps just a bit filled with false memories of Vietnam, of camaraderie. I doubt Stitch did anything like that.

Also, Bell is just an instrument for someone else to play. Play the right tune, and the Russian agent will do anything for you. Right, Adler?

Cipher is the puppet, just doing what he’s told when they give the orders. No will or thought. Just how Stitch likes it.

I’m not done yet! Second definition!

bell /bel/: a. A stroke on a hollow metal instrument to mark the hour.

b. The time indicated by the striking of this instrument, divided into half hours.

Another play on words of Bell being struck(jabbed with needles) to do what needs to be done. But it also represents the limited time that Bell has. Bell needs to help to stop Perseus and quick, Adler will make them go faster if needed by putting the highest dosage as possible without killing them to accomplish it. Or maybe it’s also a representation that Bell does actually have limited time left—Park did say MK—Ultra will be hard on the body physically and mentally. Perhaps MK-Ultra was slowly killing us and Adler just decided to give us a mercy kill while he was at it as he “tied up our strings.”( @cryinginthebackseat does point this out in their Adler/Bell story, go check it out!)

Let’s focus on the instrument thing again though, but back to Cipher. The third definition!

ci·pher /ˈsīfər/ : a continuous sounding of an organ pipe, caused by a mechanical defect.

Oh man. Sounds like Adler is being played like an instrument too, continuously due to all the numbers and how the numbers can be everywhere if one is in the armed forces since they all use earpieces. Interesting shape too, a pipe. Long and thin and has two holes, a beginning and an end but which one is the top or the bottom? The beginning and the end? We don’t know how far Adler will go like this—as Cipher. It will eventually come to a point, where something squeezes within the pipe and manages to get out. Maybe. Or maybe Adler is just forever defected, like the definition suggests.

Not quite Adler anymore and just Cipher.

Just like Bell will always just be Bell. The other self practically gone.

It seems these two will always somehow reflect and affect one another, whether one is dead or not.

I swear I love Adler, so don’t mind some of my dark humor about him and this situation he’s in. It is pretty funny. At least to me. Stitch is funny. And petty.

Hope you guys enjoyed!

@salvija @smokeywhalee @quizzyisdone @efingart @samatedeansbroccoli @weirdoartist21 @tr1ppylady

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geekns · 10 months ago

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You've got statistics about the number of abused children who were "homeschooled" there, not the number of homeschooled children who are being abused. Those numbers do not mean the same thing and you seem to be cherry-picking.

Here's some facts:

Abuse is always wrong.

Bullying is always wrong.

Homeschooling is not a form of abuse in itself. Homeschooled students are not isolated as a rule (especially in the modern internet age), but as an exception to the rule.

Torture and abuse are already illegal, whether a child is homeschooled or public schooled or charter schooled or private schooled, and abusive parents should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

In the USA all individuals are innocent until proven guilty: innocent parents should not be denied the right to educate their children in the way they see fit because some "homeschool parents" are abusive. This is a non sequitur. I shudder to think what "protections" you feel are needed, but I don't actually know what you believe, only that you are using some very inflammatory and emotionally worded imagery rather than critical thinking.

Not everyone who chooses to homeschool their children is religious or right-wing (in fact, from what I've observed, most religious people want their children to be proselytizing to their classmates!). There are many reasons a parent might choose to homeschool, including the fact that research suggests that it is a superior learning environment to a noisy, crowded classroom that ignores, nay punishes, some students' learning styles.

Homeschooling is a growing movement and is not going anywhere.

Not everyone who chooses to homeschool their children is abusive. Not everyone who chooses to send their children to public school is not abusive.

Your claims lack critical thinking, not mine. I could go on, but I won't.

Homeschooling is not the problem here. Abuse is. What is being taught in schools, topics that decent human beings don't want children to be exposed to, is also a very valid issue for people of many political and religious beliefs, and makes suppressing parents' rights a really astonishing hot take to have.

I have had tens if not hundreds of strangers come up to me in public and tell me that they recognize me as my mother's daughter and profess that her involvement in the homeschooling community has changed their life and their children's lives for the better. She's "just a SAHM" but her commitment to education and charity and volunteerism has changed thousands of lives for the better.

I will admit that you did not explicitly mention homeschooling in your OP, nor did you share any actual statistics. I am 100% allowed to have my own opinion and write discourse on it. I have no idea who you are and none of what I wrote was a personal attack. Unless your name is "you guys" and you are the one and only member of the entire group of people who are pro-MAP, pro-trans, pro-CRT, etc.

a lot of what i've noticed about the moral panic surrounding children among right wingers is it creates the exact sort of situation where child abuse thrives. you can't trust anyone but family. don't send your child to school. keep your child isolated from the scary outside world. tell me, who statistically is most likely to abuse the child? family, and children abused by families are likely to stay trapped in an abusive situation since they're dependent on their parents for survival. they're also likely to be shamed, accused of lying, and blamed for family problems. not everyone is safe at home, that's just the way it is. community support of children is what abusers fear so don't dare claim you care about victims while advocating isolation. the first person to tell me "the way your dad treats you is wrong, that's not normal" was not a family member...

there is still hope and kindness in the world and not everyone outside your home is your enemy

#pro-homeschooling #discourse #anti-abuse #anti-crt #anti-map #free speech #my own hot take: public school is a place you send your kids to be abused and brainwashed

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into-september · 4 years ago

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MLB S4, episode 1

Daily step count: Reached Exfoliating socks: Applied Cold one: Cracked open

I am not forcibly removed from adulthood because if there is anything life as a single woman living alone allows me, it is to shamelessly pursue the stories that make me grin the way watching Tikki wearing little hats did. Yeah, let's watch cartoons.

(not tagging for spoilers because OBVIOUSLY there are spoilers beneath cut)

Pre-viewing comments: This one is interesting because as some might've guessed, I'm not a big fan of Luka. It's a combination of his role in the story and his particular brand of not being awfully well written, so I'm going into this episode with one big question: Will this be the point where Mr. "The guitar IS my personality" becomes something more than what he's been up until now?

The preview said no. The ending card someone on youtube thoughtfully put up as a thumbnail says yes. Let's see!

Fun fact: one of the three ML episodes I did something for this tag with was "Desperada", but I refrained from posting it becaues a solid third of it was just me seeing sex jokes that very likely were not meant to be sex jokes. Unlike what they're doing with Cat Noir's tail, because I think there are inarguably implications about Adrien and Marinette's future sex life at this point.

- I guess the OP might grow on me but I currently like the old one better, musically speaking

- Insert your own FMA joke here

- Oh Duusuu. Oh poor, poor Duusuu.

- oh goody, please let there be another Prince Ali episode.

- Yeah, I'm grinning like an idiot already. Oh my god I love this show.

- Did her parents just witness that disaster of an interaction

- There is a joke here about Ryuichi Sakuma but you're all too young to get it and it was manga only anyway

- Anyway, Jagged Stone released this film fifteen years ago. Gabriel talks about starting his BS fifteen years ago in the Shanghai trailer. I know it won't come to anything but it was funny in my head. Luka is the secret sibling. It's ridiculous how badly I want this to be true.

- What is it with the spinning camera

- "Apple of love" will always mean all the wrong things after Mawaru Penguindrum, speaking of cartoons Not Being Innocent. Anyway, Marinette is failing the fangirl test, huh.

- Aaaaaand the patrols are canon now and a hundred thousand fanfic are suddenly forgiven their sin

- Either Gabriel is upping the pressure, or Marinette is trying to spend more time with Luka than she ever did with her friends, because I can't remember running after akuma was ever an issue for her before.

- OMG Adrien @ Kitty Section practice. Adrien doing music we know his dad hates is the only thing I forgive about Kitty Section's entire being, so OMG indeed.

- oh god luka shut up, this zen BS is what I disliked about you in the first place, please be a better person and don't start at it again. You're ten years too young for it.

- "The truth is the only thing I can't tell you" is NOT the way to avoid uncomfortable questions, Marinette. Jesus Christ.

- Gotta respect the man for the fact that what Marinette's friends think is her deepest secret is not one that he considers the answer. Also: simp.

- And there we go, the only question I sincerely had hoped the series would leave unanswered because the answer was obvious to any viewer older than ten and also hilarious.

- oh dear god is Jagged singing French with a thick English accent. I love this show.

- Also Jagged is one of my favourite characters, NGL

- oh my god if his hand is trapped in the diary box then this will be brilliant. Even if it probably won't be since she put it in a drawer several days previous.

- Tinfoil, huh? I see what you did there

- This episode gave us more development for ladynoir than it did lukanette, and doesn't that just says it all.

- And so lukanette ended with the exact words I predicted and the exact implications for adrinette that I predicted, and Luka is... still more or less as meh as I found him going into the episode, but he got us a bit of Jagged Stone and for that, I suppose I'm grateful.

#miraculous ladybug #let's watch cartoons #ml s4 #mlb s4

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santaclausdeadindian · 4 years ago

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Sorry for doing it this way, I think OP deleted their post or blocked me like a mature, balanced person would, so I have to tag you in

@mr-laugh

Oh boy, lot to unpack here.

So you didn’t even know there were that many subgenres of fantasy, one of the most popular classifications of fiction on the planet... And you think you know enough to tell ANYBODY what classic fantasy is?

And where exactly I attempted to do that, huh?

If you don’t even know the most common subgenres of this vast pool of fiction, why are you jumping into this discussion? You just admitted you don’t know anything!

There is no discussion, there is a stupid ass post. Don't flatter yourself, you don't know jack shit.

Me not knowing what exactly are the precize subgenres of a genre of literature, which, btw, are completely arbitrary and for your information, sword&magic is a legitimate category, has absolutely nothing to do with what that post you were so keen on agreeing with above. It was you who said pretty much any classic fantasy is like that: some poorly written, self-indulgent and borderline racist.

Did ya read the link, buddy? Howard talked about knowing what burning black man smelled like. He was quite approving of these things! And the books are pretty racist, it’s not hard to see, unless you ain’t looking.

Yes, I started reading and by the end of the first paragraph I was convinced he was ahorribly racist man. And? Still doesn't change the fact, that for my 12 year old self, there was nothing racist about it. I definetly wasn't looking for it, that much you got right. If I'd read it again, I'm sure I'd catch on to it now, that I know what kind of asshole he was. So the implied racism would be there. You got a point for that.

Rugged individualism? It always amuses me how that argument always pops out of the mouths of guys who are aping what they’ve heard their buddies say. If ten thousand mouths shout “rugged individualism”, how individualistic are they?

Then you should amuse yourself by looking up why this thing crops up as of late. It's coming from certain, supremely racist yet unaware of it publications that claim ridiculous shit like "rugged individualism" is a hallmark of white supremacy, among other, equally laughable things, like punctuality. It's a joke.

Again, I will give Howard to you, if someone that racist writes a black man saving the hero of the story, I bet there was something else still there to make it wrong.

Conan’s not some avatar of rugged individualism.

Uhm, yeah, he pretty much all that.

He’s as unreal and unrealistic as the dragons are,

It's called fantasy for a reason, buddy.

but more dangerous because White Men model their ideas of reality on Big Man Heroes like him;

Glad you are totally not racist, yo!!! It's such a relief that White Men are the only ones with this terrible behavior of looking up to larger than life, mythic superpeople and nobody else. Imagine what it would be like, if we would have some asshole from say, hindu indian literature massacering demons called Rakshassas, by the tens of thousands, or some bullshit japanese warlord would snatch out arrows from the air, or a chienese bodyguard would mow down hundreds of barbaric huns without dropping a sweat, or some middle eastern hero would fight literal gods and their magical beasts in some quest for eternal life.

it's a poison that weakens us, distracting us from actually trying to solve the world’s issues, or banding together to deal with shit.

This is what you just said. It's up to the white man, to get their shit together, be not racist and solve the world's problems, because those poor other people's just can't do it. If we would just not be oh, so racist, then China would surely stop with the genocides they are doing now, or blowing more than half the greenhouse emissions into the athmosphere, the muslims would stop throwing their gays from rooftops or ramming trucks into crowds and would just start treating women as equals, India's massive rape problem would be gone, subsaharan African would be magically bereft of the host of atrocities committed there on a daily, yeah, you sure have that nonracism down, buddy!

A rugged individualist would be smart enough to realize that even the most individualistic person needs others; no man’s an island, and a loner is easier to kill.

Individualism doesn't mean at all what you think it means, it's a cluster of widely differeing philosophies that puts the individual ahead of the group or state, it's ranging from anarchism to liberalism and is also has nothing to do with my point.

Central Europe? What, Germany? Because let me tell you, historically they are SUPER concerned about race!

Germany traditionally considered western european, central europe would be the people stuck between them and the russians, to put it very loosely. We are equally nonplussed by the self-flagellating white guilt complex and the woe me victim complex of the west. We did none of the shit those meanie white people did to the nonwhites and suffered everyting any poc ever did and then some. We don't give a shit about your color, we care about what culture you are from and if you respect our values.

I’m an American from a former Confederate state; trust me, race is everything. It always is.

No it really isn't. How old are you? Asking without condescension, genuinly curious, because if you are in your low twenties at most, it's understandable why you think like this.

See that hike? Do you know what happened at that time that made virtually all american media suddenly go all in with racism?

Occupy Wall Street, that's what. It's a brilliant way to sow victimhood and hate and desperation amongst the people who have one common enemy, the powers that be, the banking sector, the politicians, the megacorporations.

Can't really blame you if you are in your early 20's at most, you grew up with this bullshit hammered into you. If you are older, step out of your echochamber please!

If you actually believe, that mankind doesn't progress naturally towards a more accepting society purely on the merit of there being more good people than bad and sharing a similar living with all the hardships in life, seeing that our prejudices inherited by our parents are baseless, that's how we progress, not virtue signalling courses and regressive policies. I was raised as any other kid, I had a deep resentment towards the neighbouring nations, I said vile, racist shit against people who I actually share a lot of genes with, of which fact I was in deep denial about, and then as I gradually got exposed more and more actual people of these groups, I started to realize I was wrong and everybody should be judged by their individual merits. It works throughout the generations, my grandma was thought songs about Hitler and how all jews are evil in school, she legit thought all black people at least in Africa are cannibals and shit, my mother stillsays shit that would get her cancelled in the USA, and I will probably have a mixed race kid as we stand now.

This whole racism is an eternal problem is laughable and disingenuous and I am actually sorry for you that you feel like that.

Moving on. As for Dany, the “noble white girl sold to scary dark foreign man” is a very popular trope, especially in exploitation films, which Martin draws on much more heavily than most authors do.

No, he fucking doesn't. I already wrote a bunch of examples from the books you seeminly ignore willfully. First of all, she is sold to those olive skinned savages by a white man, who is a terrible, increadibly evil man. He want's to fuck the then 11-12 ish Dany so bad, she picks his slave most resembling her and rapes her repeatedly, "until the madness pass." He also maimes children and traines them as disposable slave spies by the hundreds. There is no boundaries colour here, GRRM prtrays all kinds of people as reprehensible, evil and disgusting. Just like you can find plenty of examples to the opposite.

What is he drawing from your exploitation movies exactly? He writes about the human anture, he writes about the human heart at war with itself, that's his central philosophy of writing.

ASOFAI is basically just a porn movie with complicated feudal politics obscuring it, which is probably why it worked so well as an HBO series (up until the last two seasons or so.)

There is no gratuitous sex scene in the books, the rapes are described as rapes, they are horrible, they are very shortly described and usually just alluded to.

The people commiting them are not put into generous lights and one of the single most harrowing stories hidden behind the grand happenings of the plot is a girl named Jeyne Poole, whose suffering although never shown, is very much pointed out, along with the hypocrisy of the people who only fight to try and save her, because they think her a different person.

Honestly, if you actually read the books and they came of to you as porn, you might want to do some soulsearching.Btw, the HBO series was a terrible adaptation, it immedietly started to go further and further from the books with every passing season and the showmakers made it very clear to everybody, that they didn't understand the very much pacifist and humanist themes of Martin. And neither did you.

We also get no indication Essos will eat it when Winter comes; hell, they seem to not know Winter exists, given the way people act, even though that is also unrealistic and weird. Essos was just super badly designed, and Dany is a terribly boring character.

to be continued

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lets-talk-story · 6 years ago

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Pied Piper of Hamelin

Hamelin town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The River Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation -- shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain -- I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "What's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous.) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!" -- the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in -- There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of selfsame cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture, so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" -- was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling: Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives -- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped, advancing, And step for step, they followed, dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished -- Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And the drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' -- I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!" -- when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty: A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit, by dinner-time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bait a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, -- Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo! as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, -- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than the peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that heaven's Gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six;" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street -- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men -- especially pipers; And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

#pied piper #pied piper of hamelin #poem #nursery rhymes #poetry #mice #children #music

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gnostiquette · 2 years ago

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anyway i didn't touch on this enough in OP but a v big concern i have here is the idea of "moral beauty". simply doing the right thing in most situations is generally good but not in a beautiful way, arguably. but when you're faced w/ a situation like, being promised peace and prosperity and end to war in exchange for what seems in comparison a grave but tiny evil, and you refuse just to spare the relatively few potential victims, that's capital-g Good, that's Good in a beautiful way. and similarly when you break every normal rule you have in order to save someone's life, when you start kicking and screaming and doing fraud and lying your ass off in order to make sure someone doesn't die that's also Good and Beautiful.

but again, there's a sort of a contradiction here: "don't torture someone to achieve a greater good" is a very deontological sort of thing. if you have to drop a nuke on a civilian population centre in order to bring a war to an end and you say, no, fuck it, i'm not doing that, you may have indirectly caused thousands of deaths by refusing to act, for instance, but there is nonetheless something good, true, and beautiful in your refusal to do something that is intrinsically evil.

but then "lie and cheat and steal and even injure people in order to save someone's life" has a v consequentialist flavour to it: the same goodness, trueness, and beauty i (and likeminded people) can find in "following a rule against intrinsic evil to a T whatever the cost" is also found in "breaking every rule so that a Good End may come of it"

i suppose you could also flip these around and come across something vital: a highly deontological reading of halakha will still incorporate pikuaḥ nefesh, where the rule to preserve life is so damned important that every other rule is up in the air when that's the situation. and i suppose the other quality in each of these examples is that they're exceptional somehow; how often are you rly gnna encounter this sort of extreme irl? but there is something i think quite Good/True/Beautiful in e.g. systematically donating significant portions of your income to reducing suffering and saving lives in the world even if you're not constantly running into ethics textbook dilemmas (which you should do, by the way.)

now here's a real whopper of an ethical dilemma for youse out there: you come across a small settlement. it is nothing more than ten children in a filthy basement all being tortured by machines. ninety-one more children are in a cryogenic freezer upstairs, ready to thaw back to life at any moment. you come across a sign, which says that if even a single child is removed from their perpetual torture, all of the ninety-one children above will be thawed, immediately dropped into the basement, and tortured as well. you have no reason to doubt the sign, which goes on to say that the machine is indestructible, it is powered by the children, it will continue to go on for as long as the children live and the torture will only stop when they die. as a consequentialist, you have no satisfactory answer to this; not acting will just mean you have several children being tortured. as a deontologist, you have no satisfactory answer to this; saving even just one child will mean a hundred children will be tortured. as a virtue ethicist, you have no satisfactory answer to this; a virtuous person would be paralysed by this situation, as neither action nor inaction seem like the things a Good Person wld do, and the only thing a Good Person could do is agonise abt this for the rest of their life. simply put, no satisfactory action exists in possibility space.

in the Kabbalah, Tiferet is a rather unique sefirah, or aspect of God and Reality. its name is Hebrew for "beauty"; it is the mediating force between the strong-armed justice of Gevurah and the forgiving yet lenient mercy of Ḥesed, and it is directly connected to every other sefirah except for Malkhut (which it indirectly connects to through Yesod). generally, it represents fairness, harmony, and unity in difference; its planet is the Sun; its virtue in Hermetic lore is devotion to the Great Work; both Jewish and non-Jewish sources agree it is difficult to totally define, befitting its role as, in a way, a "lower Keter", the centrepiece of the Zeʿir Anpin, the Lesser Countenance. it is Beauty, it is Truth, it is Good.

how would someone with an ethics of Tiferet, an ethics of true beauty, respond to that dilemma?

true beauty would break the very laws of possibility space and crush its structure into dust.

the satan: oh foolish mortal...i greet you, to reveal your desires unto you! me: ok hey what's up the satan: i have decided to test you, to-day, to discern your commitment to The Good me: sounds great! so, do i have to reject a kingdom of glory and riches or refuse to jump off a building and make God save me or— the satan: oh no none of that. this'll be much simpler. i am going to present you with a series of ethical situations! ahahaha! me: oh sweet i think about these all the time the satan: perfect...it is time for The First Situation! now, picture a city that is so perfect, everyone is happy and no one is ever sad and there's cakes and festivals and orgies and— me: is this Omelas the satan: me: like this is just gonna be the Le Guin story with the kid in the basement right the satan: ...yeah. ok so there's the kid and the basement and there's the torture, ok yeah you know this one. right. so anyway...you have just learned about the kid being tortured in the basement. what is your judgement here? me: well uh, i guess i walk away the satan: aha but i didn't ask you what you'd do, did i? me: oh come on you tricky little fuck. ok. yeah this situation sucks the satan: and why, pray tell, do you say that is, despite all the happiness and nonsadness and cakes and festivals and orgies and whatnot? me: i suppose it's just that none of that shit justifies torturing a kid in a basement forever. also all that shit sounds kinda gay when you put it like that. like some weird Dutch fag shit the satan: ah. well, moving on, you whimsy-hating homophobe— me: what, just because i say that sounds like Dutch fag shit makes me homophobic? i'm gay you know i can call shit fag shit if i want the satan: —moving on, you would agree with the statement that whatever the consequence, it is inherently wrong to torture a child, hmm? me: well yeah that sounds about right the satan: aha...! me: wait why'd you make that noise the satan: wh-what me: that clicking noise. that was you right the satan: oh no no noise of things clicking into place emanated from my nostrils me: you worded that pretty weirdly, you know the satan: it's time for The Second Situation! you have cro— me: damn you just straight up evaded what i was saying the satan: —you have crossed The First Situation, i was saying, so now it is time for round two. ahem. now, firstly, would you agree that, in general, lying and stealing and cheating are bad? me: well, yeah. i don't like lying, and in general it seems pretty fucked up to cheat and steal the satan: so now you have come across a man in the street who is starving and wounded. after one hour he will die if he is not fed and treated for his wound. there is a store nearby but you are flat broke and have no pocket money, and begging isn't an option. even if you ask your friends to PayPal you they will not be able to get back to you for another two hours. the ER is too far away and there's too much traffic for an ambulance to arrive and take him there in less than an hour and a half, but there is a clinic nearby able to take anyone immediately. however the clinic only accepts people with insurance, and neither of you have an insurance card. you are, however, fairly confident that you can make up fake details that they would be willing to accept. me: what are you trying to write a Jacobin article or something. i'm already a socialist, you don't need to lay out how fucked up our healthcare system or whatnot is, i already know— the satan: okok sure this would never happen under socialism blahblahblah the point is what would you do in this situation me: but in the last one the point was my judgement not what i do. this is getting confusing the satan: DIFFERENT SITUATIONS HAVE DIFFERENT RULES OK?? GOD JUST LEAVE IT AT THAT FOR NOW God: OH HEY SATAN DID YOU JUST CALL UPON ME the satan: HOLD ON I'M STILL TESTING THIS GUY GIVE ME A SECOND God: OH OK THAT'S YOUR JOB AFTER ALL. I SHALL LEAVE YOU TO IT. JUST DON'T BE TOO MEAN

the satan: FUCK. ok. ok. anyway here's the question. assuming you're also relatively confident you can shoplift without getting caught, do you steal a couple things from the store for the man to eat and do you present fake information to the clinic to get them to accept the guy and treat his wound me: yeah totally. i don't want him to die or anything. i'd gladly do just about anything to save someone's life the satan: so in other words, doing bad things like lying, stealing, and cheating in order to accomplish a good thing such as saving a life is good, right? me: sure, i'd say so the satan: AAAAAHH-HAA! i have TRAPPED you! for your response to the first situation implies that good inheres in the act itself, regardless of consequences, and your response to the second implies that good inheres in the consequences of an act, regardless of the means!

me: i mean...not necessarily? like— the satan: wh-what do you mean, mortal me: well, perhaps i think the negative consequences of torture for the child far outweigh the positive consequences for everyone else the satan: what the fuck is that you're doing me: oh i mean you're doing red text, i figure i do blue text, i figure this is like an Umineko thing or whatever the satan: fine. sure. you can do that. whatever. none of this matters to me. why did i pick this fucking job in the first place me: the satan: ...ok, the townspeople get far more happiness than the kid gets suffering me: but what if suffering itself is worth more in moral accounting than happiness, for instance the satan: then how about this? in the second example, you could have caused the shop to shut down due to lost trust with the distributor! you could have caused the clinic to lose their licence over insurance fraud! those could have easily caused far more suffering than if the man simply passed out and died after an hour! me: that's...that sounds far-fetched, but you said it in red, so. ok what if good actually inheres in the character of the person doing the act, so a virtuous person would refuse to sanction torturing a child for the greater good and gladly steal and cheat to save a man's life the satan: virtue ethics is unable to provide actionable guidance! me: oh? the satan: all you can do is imagine what a virtuous person would do, and different people have wildly different imaginations! me: well hmm. that's fair. i'm not sure i could personally live with that, especially in an age where we're getting ever closer to potentially misaligned AI. what if there's rules that say you must never do some things but then other rules can be broken if there's something more important the satan: if those rules exist, then list them off and justify them to me >: ) me: uh, don't torture, don't rape...don't kill is up there, but what if you're killing someone to defend someone else...wait fuck no, what about bombing civilians to end a war, that doesn't sound justifiable at all...god damn it... God: OH HELLO YES I'M BACK the satan: NO FUCK NO WAIT NO God: HELLO DEAR SWEET MORTAL CHILD. IS MY EMPLOYEE BEING TOO HARD ON YOU? OH DEAR I CAN GIVE YOU AN ANSWER IF THIS IS GOING TOO POORLY the satan: oh come on please just let me do my job like normal God: MY DEAR LITTLE CREATURE I HOPE YOU KNOW YOU CAN SIMPLY RELY ON MY EDICT AND ALL THESE DILEMMAS BECOME AS DUST IN THE BROOM OF AN OLD FAT LADY me: why thank you, my Lord, but no matter how perfect You are, it remains that divine command theory is a fundamentally subjectivist theory that cannot provide a truly objective and impersonal basis for ethics, and subjective morality is not a risk i'm really willing to take God: BUT AREN'T I PERFECT FOR YOU AND ALL THINGS MY PRECIOUS LITTLE CREATION me: why, yes, but there's a small but persistent chance You're a figment of my imagination, just like the satan over here, and— the satan: hhHHEYYY NOW me: —and i know that You love righteousness, so really i'd rather continue pleasing You even if You weren't around to tell me what righteousness is God: WHY THAT IS VERY SWEET OF YOU. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M JUST GOING TO STRAIGHT UP LIFT YOU TO HEAVEN LIKE THAT MERRY OLD FELLOW FAUST me: wait huh the satan: w-wait Lord don't you think you're being a bit hasty in judgement a chorus of angels: [grabbing me and lifting me into the aether] ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*HE WHO STRIVES ON AND LIVES TO STRIVE CAN EARN REDEMPTION STILL*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ me: [rapidly disappearing into the sky, utterly bewildered] wait. hold on. hold up. wait,

#hence as Dostoyevsky said #beauty will save the world #ethics #philosophy #metaethics #Kabbalah

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ruminativerabbi · 6 years ago

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Defending Dr. King’s Legacy

It’s hard to imagine anyone arguing with the notion that freedom of the press will always be among the most basic features of life in any democratic state. And, indeed, ever since December 15, 1791, when the first ten amendments to the Constitution were formally adopted, this has been true with respect to our American republic not merely philosophically but legally as well. That, surely, is as it should be. But, just as freedom of the press exists specifically to permit the publication of even the least popular ideas, so do citizens have the parallel right—perhaps even the obligation—to respond vigorously to published essays rooted in ignorance, fantasy, and a prejudicial worldview. And it is with that thought in mind that I wish to respond to a truly outrageous op-end piece about Israel—and, more precisely, American support for Israel—published in the New York Times last Sunday in which the author appears to have no understanding of ancient or modern history, no sympathy for any of Israel’s security needs, no ability critically to evaluate even the most baseless Palestinian claims about the history of the land, and no interest even in getting the facts straight.

The author, Michelle Alexander, is formally employed as an opinion columnist at the Times. And her essay, published on Martin Luther King weekend, presented itself as the result of the author’s brave decision finally “to break the silence” regarding the Israel-Palestinian conflict. It’s hard to imagine what silence the author imagines she has boldly broken by daring to criticize Israel viciously and in print—just lately the number of opinion pieces hostile to Israel published by her own newspaper gives lie to that notion easily. Nor was there anything at all new or groundbreaking in her essay, which mostly just parroted the same propagandistic claptrap the enemies of Israel cite regularly to justify their anti-Israel stance. But most outrageous of all was the suggestion that she was somehow keeping faith with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s legacy by finding the courage to speak out against Israel. That last point, then, is the first I will address.

I am personally too young to have been present in 1968 when, just a week before his horrific death, Dr. King came to the annual convention of the Rabbinical Assembly, my own professional organization, and spoke these words:

Peace for Israel means security, and we must stand with all of our might to protect its right to exist, its territorial integrity and the right to use whatever sea lanes it needs. I see Israel, and never mind saying it, as one of the great outposts of democracy in the world, and a marvelous example of what can be done, how desert land can be transformed into an oasis of brotherhood and democracy. Peace for Israel means security and that security must be a reality.

Those were his final remarks about Israel, never revised or updated. How could he have? He was dead a week later! And, with his horrific end, his unqualified support for the right of Israel to defend itself against its enemies entered history as part of his formidable legacy, a legacy that touched on many areas of American domestic and foreign policy and not solely on the questions related to civil rights, non-violent protest, and race relations for which he is justifiably the most famous.

In her essay, Alexander broke no new ground. She seemed ignorant about Israel—about its history, its foreign policy, its long history of one-sided overtures to the Palestinians, its withdrawal from Gaza, and the restrained way it has responded not to dozens or hundreds but thousands of separate acts of terror aimed specifically at the civilian population over these last years alone—and neither did she seem to know, or care, how it was that Israel came to control the West Bank in the first place. But when boiled down to its basics, she seemed unable to move past her sense that the Jews who founded the State of Israel were colonialist interlopers from Europe who were intent on doing to the indigenous Arab population what the Belgians in that same era were attempting to do to the Congolese, the British to the Indians, and the French to the Algerians: seize other people’s land and then ignore the presence of those people other than when it came to subduing them and forcing them to serve their new masters. As I read it, that was the core of her argument.

The fact that the Palestinians have refused offer after offer to negotiate a fair, just peace seems to be unknown to her. Perhaps more to the point, the fact that there is nothing at all preventing the Palestinian leadership from doing what they should have done in 1947 and finally declaring a Palestinian State, then negotiating its borders with the neighbors and getting down to the business of nation building—this too seems not to have occurred to Alexander, who finds it courageous to support the notion of boycotting Israel (and who is paradoxically appalled by the publication of the names of individuals who support the BDS movement, although you would think she would be proud for their names—and her own name—to be known widely in that context). And she certainly has no interest in responding thoughtfully (or at all) to the inconvenient fact that the Arabs, hardly the indigenes, came to the Land of Israel in a series of invasions in the seventh century CE in the course of which they successfully wrested control of the land from its then Byzantine masters. (Nor was the Land of Israel the sole target of the Caliph Umar and his hordes back in the day: the Arab armies, true colonialists precisely in the style of the age of imperialism, also overran modern-day Turkey, Cyprus, Armenia, and most of Northern Africa.) On the other hand, there is every imaginable kind of evidence—literary, archeological, genetic, epigraphical, and numismatic—to support the argument that the ancestors of today’s Jewish people were present in the land in hoariest antiquity and have remained present, one way or the other, ever since. But of that truth, Alexander has nothing at all to say.

It’s true that there have been Arabs living in the Land of Israel for many centuries. But the detail Alexander passes quickly by is precisely that there is nothing at all preventing the outcome she clearly dreams to see: the establishment of a Palestinian state in the Middle East. If they will it to happen, then it will surely be no dream! (I’ve lost track of how many nations already recognize the non-existent State of Palestine as though it were an actual political entity.) Yet all the misery of the Palestinians, so Michelle Alexander, is exclusively the fault of Israel. The Jordanians, who ruled over the West Bank for nineteen years and kept the Palestinians interned in refugee camps, are not mentioned. The extraordinary acts of violence directed against Israel—the tens of thousands of missiles fired at civilian towns and villages within Israel from Gaza, for example—these too are left unreferenced. Perhaps the author considers each of those missiles to constitute a valid expression of political rage. But I would only begrudgingly respect her right such an opinion if she were to write similarly about the people who brought down the Twin Towers on 9/11—that they weren’t terrorists or violent miscreants, just brave martyrs making a searing political statement.

Alexander makes much of the fact that Martin Luther King apparently cancelled plans to travel to Israel after the Six Day War in 1967. She cites a phone call—but without saying to whom it was made or where recorded—according to which King based his decision on the fear that the Arab world would surely interpret his visit as an indication that he supported everything Israel did to win the war. That King had misgivings about this or that aspect of Israeli military or foreign policy is hardly a strong point—I myself harbor grave misgivings about many Israeli policies, including both domestic and non-domestic ones—but infinitely more worth citing are Reverend King’s remarks the following fall at Harvard. Some of the students with whom he was dining began to criticize Zionism itself as a political philosophy, to which criticism King responded by asserting that to repudiate the value or validity of Zionism as a valid political movement is, almost by definition, to embrace anti-Semitism: “When people criticize Zionists, they mean Jews. You’re talking anti-Semitism!” And King’s final statement about Israel, cited above, certainly reads clearly enough for me!

To take advantage of the freedom of the press guaranteed by the Constitution implies a certain level of responsibility to the facts. To be unaware that Israel withdrew from Gaza in 2005 is possibly merely to be uninformed and lazy in one’s research. To write about the West Bank as though it were the site of a formerly independent Palestinian state now occupied by Israeli aggressors is either to be willfully biased or abysmally ill informed. But to write about Israeli checkpoints designed to keep terrorists from entering Israel without as much as nodding to the reason Israelis might reasonably and fully rationally fear a resurgence of violence directed specifically against the civilian population—that crosses the line from ignorance and poor preparation into the terrain of anti-Semitic rhetoric that finds the notion of Jewish people doing what it takes to defend themselves against their would-be murderers repulsive…or, at the very least, morally suspect.

I have been a subscriber to the New York Times forever. My parents were also subscribers. In my boyhood home, the phrase “the paper” invariably referenced The Times. (If my father meant The Daily Mirror or The Post, he said so. But “the” paper without further qualification was The Times.) Much of what I grew up knowing about the world and thinking about the world came directly from its editorial and, eventually, its op-ed pages; that the writing in “the” paper was presumed unbiased, informed, and honest went without saying. That, however, was then. And this is now. I haven’t cancelled my subscription. Not yet, at any rate. And I really do believe that people should be free to express even the least popular views in print without fear of reprisal. But when someone crosses the line from harsh criticism of Israel to propose that there is something reprehensible about Israel defending itself vigorously against its enemies—that is where I stop reading and try to calm down by looking at the obituaries or the crossword puzzle instead.

#Dr. Martin Luther King #Zionism #Israel #Michelle Alexander #The New York Times

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copperbadge · 7 years ago

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There was a recent discussion on tumblr, which I didn’t reblog for obvious reasons, about how people with a large readership cope with a heavy interaction load -- how the person would be anxious if they dealt with that volume of notes on each post, that amount of interaction and contact. I was tagged in it because of my habit of "lochnessing", where I cause an activity spike on posts I reblog that looks like the loch ness monster.

It never occurs to me, because I’ve dealt with high-volume social media for so long -- realistically about ten years, probably closer to fifteen -- that it’s difficult for people to handle that, because they don’t have the systems in place that I do. I mean it does occur to me in the sense that I have become more cautious about what I reblog and its impact on the OP; there are things I’d like to share with you but don’t because I recognize it would be harmful to the person who wrote them. But it doesn't occur to me that someone might struggle with a high volume of notes purely because it's a volume that they don't have a system in place to deal with the way I do.

So I said I'd do a writeup on the "entire ecosystems" I had in place for handling the high volume of interaction I receive online. I sit at a weird place where I'm not so well known that I can just ignore most of what comes at me with impunity because everyone acknowledges I can't answer it all, like say a youtube star. But at the same time I do get too much attention to return it at the same level I receive it. I am one and you are sixteen thousand. So I had to make systems to return as much as I could and feel okay about not returning the rest.

Reading through this, of course it sounds like a weird humblebrag: "Here's how I deal with my MASSIVE POPULARITY". There's no real way around that; I can't talk about how I deal with comments without talking about how I get a disproportionately high number of them. The fact that I do is what leads me to do things like the Zero Comment Challenge, or Radio Free Monday, to try and balance shit out. So, as I mention occasionally below, you can think I'm an asshole for talking about how I am popular, but I can't talk about how to deal with that popularity without acknowledging the reality of it, and someone somewhere's gonna think I'm an asshole anyway, so whatever.

These are the systems I use to manage my life -- work, play, the weird inbetween space that's kind of both. Many of these are akin to the systems that I use in managing my depression, in that they involve a lot of small steps building up to a big result, but each small step on its own is manageable.

Let's start with AO3, because it's actually probably the simplest.

I clean out my comments once a week. Usually there are between forty and a hundred and fifty, depending on if I’ve published something recently or been recommended by someone.

I go through all the one-sentence comments first, because those are the ones that are least likely to require a response. I read all comments but I learned through trial and error, twice in ten years, that I am physically and emotionally incapable of responding to every comment I receive even if it's just with a "Thank you!" and I'm just going to live with the fact that people think I'm an asshole for that. Also while I appreciate someone who leaves a "Great fic! <3" comment, that's genuinely really cool and validating, I don't think they truly need or expect a response. So most one-line comments, unless they are super weird or contain a question, get read, appreciated, and then deleted.

Then I go through the longer comments that need a closer reading, and delete any that are cool but still don't seem to require responses. If someone has left a ton of comments, I'll find the one I think is coolest or most needing of response, delete the others, and reply to that one comment with a thoughtful response including a line thanking them for all their other comments.

Finally, I respond to comments that are in-depth or have questions that require some thought. I find that if I don't respond to these on a weekly basis they pile up and then someone who asked a question like six months ago is still waiting for an answer, so this one is non-negotiable: my AO3 inbox has to be empty at the end of each week, and everything that needed a reply has to have one. (I do have one or two that just live in my inbox because they are cool ideas I will one day get round to writing, and I want to credit them when I do, but it's never more than two.) For me, it's easiest to wait until Friday or Saturday and just take an hour to clear them all out, rather than clearing as I go, because I don't have AO3 open all the time the way I do some other sites.

Tumblr: Every morning, before work, I go through the previous night's responses; I open all reblogs/mentions in new tabs to read and reply-as-necessary, and I reply to all comments that need responses. (This is also something I'll do throughout the day, but especially if I'm tired or pressed for time, the comment replies might be saved as a draft or left in an open tab until I can get to them). Occasionally shit doesn’t show up or I miss stuff but I’ve learned to just live with that as the price of doing fandom on Tumblr.

If there's a post by someone else that requires a response from me -- either a reblog of one of my posts, or someone tagged me in a post -- I Like it to find it later or I save it as a draft. I don't use Likes as anything other than "I want to be able to find this again in less than a week's time" and I never have more than about 20 Likes in my files. (Unless I’m traveling; it’s easier to Like something than save it as a draft or respond, so when I get home from traveling I often have 30-50 Likes in my file.)

Often on Tumblr I go through what I call the Line Cycle -- I read my dash, and then I go "down the line" and open all the other pages that might need attention, in specific order. I open asks and try to respond to a few -- I try to answer at least five every time but sometimes I don't manage to answer any for whatever reason -- then I open likes and try to convert as many likes as I can to either queued reblogs or drafts. I open drafts and try to convert some of those to queued reblogs. Then I go through the same process for one or two side blogs.

(Also in drafts are a lot of things that I'm not sure I want to put in my queue yet, or things that I put in the queue weekly like the Zero Comment Challenge post, which I dust off when I'm ready to queue it, then immediately re-save to drafts when it posts.)

Occasionally if I feel shit is getting out of hand I dedicate myself to, every time, not leaving the page I'm on until I've reduced its "count" (number of asks, likes, drafts, etc) by five, or at least to below the next multiple of five -- if I have 23, for example, I'll try to get it below 20.

Sometimes posts in tabs sit open for a while because in order to respond I have to read an article or watch a video, which take a lot of focus and attention. It used to be that recommendations for books or stuff to watch also sat open forever until I could get round to doing it, but now I just have a "reccs" file on the cloud that is a list of what I've been recommended and who recommended it, and I work my way through them slowly.

Email: Once I've read them, site notifications in my inbox get deleted; I've turned off follow/kudos notifications because they tend to be white noise.

Email is tough for me, it requires a lot of focus and emotional attention to answer emails, so I treat it the same way I would asks or likes or whatnot, but much more slowly. I tend to have a backlog of about thirty emails in my inbox, though often five to ten of those are emails that don't need response and that I'm saving (I star them to mark them as not needing attention). I have the multiple-stars function in Gmail turned on, and when it gets really bad, I start opening emails and triaging -- "This will be easier to answer" "This will take some time" etc. by starring them different colors.

I like to have no more than fifteen emails in my inbox but that is a rarity.

The Internet: Because social media takes up a lot of my time and I also work eight hours a day (well, four, we'll get to that in a bit) I have streamlined the way I encounter the internet, as well. I have a list of "daily reading" bookmarks that I open every morning and check through -- the horoscope page, the mustard tag on tumblr (which I don't follow because then the same dumbass two hipster fashion posts keep showing up on my dash), a blog that follows and posts about new small flash games that I might enjoy playing, a few others. (I also have a Monday file that I open once a week, it's calendars of events and such, and I go through on Mondays and add anything to my calendar that looks interesting.)

But if I can, any regularly-updated page that has an RSS feed gets converted to RSS and put into my Netvibes reader account, where I peruse it at my leisure. The Netvibes reader account includes a direct feed from the Steve/Tony and Steve/Sam tags on AO3, plus a few others; longform.org, some cooking blogs I follow, a bunch of podcast pages, a few webcomics, and one or two tumblrs that I don't want showing up on my dash (mainly artists' porny sideblogs, what up you glorious pervs) or think I would make the person uncomfortable by following them.

I have five tabs pinned to Chrome at any given time, and four tabs pinned to Firefox. The Chrome tabs are my personal Netvibes, Google Drive, a Google Sheets spreadsheet with my calendar and accounting tabs in it, Gmail, and Tumblr. The Firefox tabs are a second Netvibes account I use for work (we have several news sources we all monitor daily), my non-fannish gmail, my non-fannish facebook with a custom reading page so I never see anything twice, and the Google "family calendar" that I and my family use to track where we all are and what we're doing.

My parents use this more than I do, which is why I often open the calendar app on my phone to check my work schedule and find that my parents are taking the dogs to the groomer's today (yes, I know I could turn this off, but it amuses me). When I introduced my mother to Google Calendar her eyes got super big and she fell in immediate love; the first three things she added were the birthdays of her two dogs, followed by the birthday of Jesus. I would be more insulted by this but I had already added all the family birthdays, so at least I didn't come in behind the dogs AND the Christ Child.

Once in a while, when I'm at work and I feel like I'm not sure what I should be doing or that my day is spiralling out of my control, I'll take a deep breath, pull up Chrome, and go through all my pinned tabs, one by one, changing or fixing something on each -- I'll clear out my Longform reading, answer a few emails, check the calendar, etc. Then I'll go through any open tabs and try to close at least one. I get anxious if I have more than five or six non-pinned tabs open. Like having an inbox that's rarely over thirty emails total, it's not a sign I'm more effective or efficient than anyone else, it's just a sign I'm debilitatingly anxious about this kind of thing.

Work: I've read, many times, that people who work eight hours a day in a white collar job like mine really only do four hours of actual work. And for a while I joked that I wondered if I even did four, because I dick around on the internet A LOT. But lately I started to genuinely wonder, and so for the past six weeks, I've put that statement to the test.

When I arrive at work, I immediately put in two hours of solid work. I don't read tumblr, I don't read anything but work-related material. I triage all my work emails, I go through my Google Task list for the day and sort things by most to least urgent, and then I work my way through them for two solid hours. It's not easy at all, but any time I think "This is when I would stop and read tumblr" I shake my head and try to do one more work thing, and then I get back in the groove and can do like, three more. I also use this first morning period to take care of "personal work", stuff which has to get done to keep my life running smoothly, like mailing packages or replying to my parents' emails or whatnot.

Then I get a half-hour break to read tumblr, play a flash game, maybe read a piece on Longform. (I don't read fanfic at work; I sometimes clean out Netvibes of fics that from the tags and summaries I know I won't be interested in, but I don't open fanfic at work at all.) I also use this time to get some food in me.

Then I do another two hours of work, same deal. And that's four hours of work. And I get a shitload done, let me tell you.

For the next three hours after, I am basically free to do whatever I want. I usually use about an hour to do some freelance work, and I spend time on tumblr or on personal email, reading articles, listening to podcasts, playing games. I eat a snack, I talk to my coworkers. I find I actually run out of new stuff to read, and I do try to process the old stuff, like empty out my drafts and likes. And of course the nature of my job means that sometimes there is work to be done that comes up suddenly, but it's usually just a matter of teeing it up for the following morning's work shift.

For the last hour of my work day, I go through my work inbox, make sure everything's set up for tomorrow, send any last emails, do any last wrap-up, and make sure all my documents are either saved or closed. (Our IT team likes to run updates and involuntary restarts without warning, so I've learned to always save at end of day.)

So, yeah. Those are some of the systems I have in place in order to run a very mentally busy life. I'm not necessarily recommending them; a lot of them won't work for everyone because everyone is different, and I recognize that some of them are inapplicable (I work a job with no outward-facing element to it; a barista or a librarian or a teacher can't do what I do, schedule-wise), and some of them are a level of regimentation I'm not sure most people would find healthy. But that's how I do my thing, and maybe some of my techniques will sound appealing to other people who occasionally feel, as I do, like they're drowning a little bit.

(Did you find this useful or interesting? Keep me organized and drop some change in my Ko-Fi or at my Paypal!)

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douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years ago

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WHEN YOU NOTICE A WHIFF OF DISHONESTY COMING FROM SOME KIND OF FUNDAMENTAL LIMIT EVENTUALLY

When you're working on language design, I think it may be possible in principle to design a language is to just write down the program you'd like to be able to get into the deals they want. So here we had two levels of interpretation, one of which is: You shouldn't put the blame on one parent, because divorce is never only one person's fault. Semantically, strings are more or less a subset of lists in which the elements are characters. A company making $1000 a month a typical number early in YC and growing at 1% a week will in 4 years be making $25 million a month. What really bothers parents about their teenage kids having sex is that they make deals close faster. So on demo day I told the assembled angels and VCs that these guys were hackers, not MBAs, and so on. When IBM introduced the PC, they thought they were going to make money selling hardware at high prices. People hiring for a startup to a single problem. But few tell their kids about the differences between the real world and the cocoon they grew up in. And so it proved this summer. Power is shifting from the people who create technology, and if our experience this summer is any guide, this will be a good deal of programming of the type that we do today. The future is pretty long.

I'm sure they find it constraining, but think how valuable it will be dark most of the 1970s. He seemed to have lost their virginity at an average of about 14 and by college had tried more drugs than I'd even heard of. It would cost something to run, and it seems to bother a lot of the spread of modern religions, and explains why their doctrines are a combination of the useful and the bizarre. But in the US.1 If you make software to teach Tibetan to Hungarians, you won't ordinarily need to bother with this sort of calming lie is that we get on average only about 5-7% of a much larger number. The course of people's lives in the US.2 His motive is partly that it would worry them, partly that this would introduce the topic of sex, and partly because startups early on need frequent feedback from their users to tweak what they're doing, just as you can't find north using a compass with a magnet sitting next to it. The catch is that people will hold you to it. If the idea still seems unbearable in a hundred years.3 Indeed, the more interesting sort of convergence that's coming is between shows and games.

One of the most spectacular lies our parents told us was about the death of my grandfather.4 And the probability of a group of sufficiently smart and determined founders succeeding on that scale might be significantly over 1%. For example, Y Combinator has now invested in 80 startups, 57 of which are still alive. And I admit that it is, if you get growth, everything else tends to fall into place. So I'm not suggesting you be good in the usual sanctimonious way. What do parents hope to protect their children from by raising them in suburbia?5 A painting familiar from reproductions looks more familiar from ten feet away; close in you see details that get lost in reproductions, and which you're therefore seeing for the first time.6

What happens to fast growing startups tends to surprise even the founders. It's hard to predict what life will be like in a hundred years, maybe it won't in a thousand.7 Kids, almost by definition, lack self-control. One of main causes of the decay of the corporate ladder. The other is that some companies broke ranks and started to speculate about what they'd produce when they converged. But because the lies are indirect we don't keep a very strict accounting of them.8 A parent added: In our country, college entrance exams determine 70 to 80 percent of a person's future. I had no idea what he was talking about—that he was on the list because he was too young. If you want to create for a newborn child will be quite unlike the streets of a big city. The test of any investment is the ratio of return to risk, if both were lower.9 Synchronicity and locality are tied together. The other way to get returns from an investment is in the form of dividends.

It was also a test of wealth, because they don't have sufficient flexibility to adapt to them. My father's entire industry breeder reactors disappeared that way. They seemed a little surprised at having total freedom. All they're tasting is the peppers. And, of course. It's hard to find something that grows consistently at several percent a week, but if I were a boss making people work this hard. So someone investigated, and sure enough, that patent application had continued in the pipeline for several years after, and finally issued in 2003, but no one's preferences are any better than anyone else's.

That never works unless you have a monopoly or cartel to enforce it, and so on. If some applications can be increasingly inefficient while others continue to demand all the speed the hardware can deliver, faster computers will mean that languages have to cover an ever wider range of efficiencies. Actor too is a trend we see happening already: many recent languages are compiled into byte code. Languages today assume infrastructure that didn't exist in 1960. When we were starting a startup seems impossible as surely as starting a startup: to be a vehicle for experimenting with its own design. As well as working hard, the groups all turned out to vary a lot. Which will tend to push even the organizations issuing credentials into line.10 Should you spend two days at a conference? Most adults make some effort to conceal their flaws from children. It's already a successful language.

Notes

It is a matter of outliers, are not in the construction industry. In both cases you catch mail that's near spam, for an IPO. Angels and super-angels will snap up stars that VCs may begin to conserve board seats by switching to what you have no way of calculating real income statistics calculated in the 1920s to financing growth with the founders' salaries to the customer: you are listing in order to test whether that initial impression holds up.

A country called The Socialist People's Democratic Republic of X is probably a real partner.

But that oversimplifies his role. Some of the edge case where something spreads rapidly but the meretriciousness of the river among the largest in the definition of politics: what determines rank in the past, it's cool with us he would have. Most computer/software startups are usually about things you've written or talked about convergence.

And though they have to spend all your time working on such an interview, I'd say the raison d'etre of prep schools improve kids' admissions prospects. If they were getting results. At one point they worried Lotus was losing its startup edge and turning into a few that are up there.

It will require more than they expected and they would implement it and make a conscious effort to extract money from the initial investors' point of saying that because a quiet, earnest place like Cambridge will one day be able to at all.

N Goo: df foo n n _ Arc: def foo n n _ Arc: def foo n op incf n _ Arc: def foo n lambda i set! I used to retrieve orders, view statistics, and this was the first duty of the money they're paid isn't a picture of anything.

No central goverment would put its two best universities in your next round.

Don't be fooled by grammar. A deal flow, then over the internet.

Startups that don't raise money?

But having more of the war, tax rates, which is a very noticeable change in the mid 1980s. And while they think they're just mentioning the possibility is that Digg is Slashdot with voting instead of bookmarking. 107. There may be common in, we don't use Oracle.

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fabermemorialrink · 7 years ago

Text

some mistake, part 7

Last part of chapter two! Chowder’s back, and we meet some new friends!

Also, a quick PSA: if I ever screw up with regards to race/gender/sexuality (or anything else), please don’t hesitate to let me know so I can do better! I want everyone to have a positive reading experience. Thanks!!

Chowder’s reaction to Dex bleeding on his shoes was a complex cocktail of fascination and disturbed worry: the cherry on top of a very informative face journey that Derek studied like visual poetry as Dex caught him up to speed. Like Derek, Chowder emphatically refused to stop visiting, which they proved so often that Dex had to kick them out after they skipped a team game night.

More often than not, Derek and Chowder head over to see Dex together, though there are times when one of them is too busy with work to go. Derek loves being part of a trio, but he also appreciates the time he gets to spend with each of his friends individually. Chowder’s roomie is often out and about socializing, so Derek takes to setting up a base camp on C’s floor, where they study and philosophize together. Most questions are open-ended and profound (who would win in a fight, Mr. Rogers or Elmo? would you rather sleep on legos or have a splinter in your tongue?), but the most important question of all cycles back into rotation every few days:

What’s up with Dex and the forest?

Chowder thinks it’s better not to prod, but Derek can’t leave it alone. It’s a secret, but the kind that Dex is willing to entertain guesses about. He archly shoots down Derek’s suggestions that he might be a woodland nymph like the girls, and repeatedly insists that if he had any kind of therianthropy, he would have already shifted and eaten one of Derek’s limbs in annoyance.

It comes up again in conversation when Derek’s helping Dex cut up invasive vines again. Knowing that the forest is alive puts this activity in a new light; Dex tells him that he knows which plants belong to the woods, and which ones the forest considers a threat, so Derek just follows suit and rips out the roots he’s instructed to. There was a lingering uneasiness at the thought of touching the plants again at first, but they’re in the outer ring, where the light filters in, and Dex promises that if anything tries to grab Derek again, he’ll hatchet it right off. Maybe he should be more freaked out, but he can almost feel the truce between himself and the forest now. At the very least, Dex’s presence always makes him feel at ease.

“How’s it going? Not too tough for your delicate poet’s hands, is it?” Dex calls over across the grove. The sleeves of his plaid shirt have been rolled up, and his hatchet and lantern have been put aside next to Derek’s calc homework that Dex was looking over - dangling from the lantern’s wire handle are his crab keychain and a small bottle filled with a rainbow of miniscule origami lucky stars that Chowder gifted him. There’s dirt all over Dex’s knees and hands, but his posture is loose and he seems content. It's a good look for him.

Derek makes an obscene gesture in his direction. Dex wholeheartedly refuses to believe that Derek would ever drop his gloves during a game, citing Derek’s chill masquerade and elegant piano student fingers which would surely shatter on some goon’s cheekbones. Derek’s not big on fighting either, but he resents the implication that he couldn’t at least hold his own to defend his teammates.

“What, you wanna have a go at me?” Dex says with a grin, straightening up to his full height, which is still obnoxiously taller than Derek.

Derek snorts, kicking a clump of roots and dirt toward him. “Don’t go crying to Chowder when I whoop your ass, you skinny bastard.”

“Right, like you wouldn’t trip over your own head while trying to throw a punch. I’m not going to fight you, pretty boy.”

The way he says those words isn’t much different from the Wicked Witch of the West calling Dorothy ‘my pretty,’ but it causes a curl of embarrassment in Derek’s stomach anyway. Dex does this sometimes - calls Derek pretty in that wry tone of his. But it’s not pointedly sarcastic, like the way he gets when he’s intentionally needling Derek about rich people stuff, so Derek is left wondering what it’s supposed to mean. He knows he has nice eyes, and that he’ll hopefully grow into the good facial features he inherited from his parents, but currently, he’s just kind of plain, and full of teenage awkward. Nothing close to pretty.

Still, when Dex says it with a hint of smile Derek’s dumb guts do a strange twisting thing where he thinks they might turn inside out, accompanied by a tightness in his chest from being put on the spot. Not chill. But it's probably good for him to get it out of his system now, in preparation for the far future when someone really does compliment him so he doesn't look like a total loser.

Still, it always gives him a second of pause, throwing a hiccup into his thought process and leaving him scrambling for words, like now. “Are you a witch?” he winds up asking, apropos of nothing, still stuck on the thought of Dex zooming around on a broomstick and cursing young girls from Kansas.

“Am I a witch,” Dex repeats, raising an eyebrow. Derek almost goes to change the subject, then thinks on it a moment, and decides he actually does want to hear the answer to this.

“Yeah, or a wizard? Or whatever the preferred terminology is.”

Dex’s brow wrinkles, and he shakes his head like Derek is a particularly foolish child. “I’m not a witch, Nursey. Where’d you get that idea from?”

“Never mind. Are you a cryptid?”

“What-”

“Animals or creatures known only through anecdotal evidence, like the sasquatch, or-”

“I know what a fuckin’ cryptid is, you dope, but I’m not some kind of goat man-”

Derek chuckles at the expression Dex is sporting. He looks utterly offended. “I was thinking more like the Dover Demon? Glowing orange eyes, weird-ass hands…”

“You’re dead to me,” Dex laughs. And he pointedly ignores Derek for the next ten minutes until Derek literally jumps on him. He successfully catches him, arms wrapped tight around Derek’s middle, but keels over when his knees give out.

So, no progress on that end, but Derek isn’t going to forget about it anytime soon.

Winter is wild and blustery this year, and Dex decides they can’t meet his friends until after all the snow has passed. Derek tries asking a few times, but Dex always buries his face in Derek’s latest history essay and starts commenting loudly in order to ignore him. There finally comes a day in February where Derek and Chowder show up on Dex’s figurative doorstep bundled to the nines and freshly brewed bribery hot chocolate. The snow isn’t anything more than a crisp flatbread layer under their boots (which Dex has also bled all over) but he still glares crossly at them nonetheless, trying to shoo them back to the dorms until they force feed him some hot chocolate.

“Dex. Bro. French Vanilla Truffle. Extra marshmallows.”

“Alright, fine, fine, get in here.” Dex finally concedes after he swallows three boiling marshmallows whole.

They stop by a spring that begins in the inner ring, though the other end of the water seems to disappear into a haze of shade and foliage. The water is frosted over in shattered panes of ice; Dex crouches down at the embankment and cards his fingers through the weeds as he peers under the surface, but stands shortly after and waves them along.

“She’s not in right now. We’ll have to catch her another day,” he says, and switches on his lantern.

Derek and Chowder link arms when they enter the heart, taking care to follow Dex carefully. Today, the heart is less terrifying, giving off just an aura of general unwelcomeness, but Dex’s steps are sure as ever, like he’s walked this unmarked non-path over the roots and through the maze of trunks a thousand times. They have to readjust to the wildlife noises again, but what’s even weirder is the sound that Derek finally notices coming out of Dex.

It starts off as a kind of uneven hum, but builds up to faint words he can hear when he concentrates.

“Interplanet Janet, she's a galaxy girl…”

“Are you singing Schoolhouse Rock?” Derek asks, trying not to sound as horribly giddy as he feels. He can get Dex to sing with him sometimes: mostly classic rock and Beyonce and pop hits from the mid-aughts. But Dex rarely begins on his own, no matter how much Derek waxes lyrical about his nice voice, which aggrieves Derek to no end.

Dex freezes for a split second, then keeps walking like it never happened. “Uh. It’s been stuck in my head for a while.” Probably since Chowder first started complaining about his independent science paper about new planets, Derek guesses.

“Oh, the grammar ones are the best! I like the adverb song,” Chowder says, starting to hum the starting notes.

Derek can practically see the shock of discomfort running through Dex’s spine, like electricity through a live wire. “It’s catchy, but a little too barbershop for me…”

“Oh my god, they’re not even a quartet,” Derek says in exasperation.

“Still…”

“What about Conjunction Junction?” C suggests next, which Dex agrees easily too, and then they’re off, Dex in a pitchy falsetto and Chowder’s tenor lowered to a raspy growl. Derek holds his breath, not trusting himself not to say something dumb and provoke them into stopping. Chowder has a way of getting Dex to do things that Derek never could in a hundred lifetimes, probably because C has secret mutant powers of persuasiveness and friendship and undetectable bullshittery.

Their duet continues into “Do the Circulation,” complete with Chowder spinning Dex around on his arm in a sloppy swing-dance, and Derek curses the forest gods and anyone else listening for not letting his fucking phone work out here, because when else will he ever get the chance to record this masterpiece? They both just look so charmingly happy, and Derek’s heart swells with it.

He almost forgets where they are until the darkness lightens slightly and the smog of flora opens up into a tiny clearing with a cottage nestled right in the center. It’s the very picture of a stereotypical fairy-tale cottage, covered in climbing ivy and magenta blossoms, built of gray stonework and wooden accents, complete with curved roof tiles and wall mounted lanterns that light the area with a homey glow.

“Uh,” Chowder says, mouth falling open. “So how many houses are hidden in this pocket dimension forest?”

“Not as many as you think,” Dex says, releasing Chowder’s arm, and turning to make sure he doesn’t lose Derek before they enter the house. “Bits? You home? I brought my friends,” he calls, rapping his knuckles against the heavy wood door.

“Come on in!” comes the response, with a slight southern lilt.

Dex pushes the door open and lets the other two in first. The inside is just as adorably quaint as expected from the outside, with a fireplace in the den, cacti on the windowsills and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and an enormous kitchen where a very busy blond is hustling back and forth, his arms cradling a glass bowl. The scent of peaches and sugar fills the brightly lit room, and Dex directs Derek and C to sit on a plump gingham couch in front of the fire. Right after they sit, Derek catches sight of three strange objects bobbing their way through the air toward them.

“Um,” Derek says. “I’m not imagining that, right?” He elbows Chowder, who turns to gape at what is apparently a few glasses of iced tea floating their way.

“Y’all like tea, don’t you? And I don’t mean that gritty, bitter nonsense you serve up here-”

“Sweet tea sounds great,” Derek says automatically as a glass settles into his confused hands. Dex catches his own, and guides the last glass into Chowder’s grasp, the other boy being too dazed still to do anything but stare in the direction of the kitchen, where whisks and butter and sugar are spinning in a waltz around Bitty. On the counter, peaches fall neatly into segments, pits falling to the side. Flour begins threading through the air like a curtain of snowfall, obscuring their sight for a moment before it settles down into his bowl, the whisk still dancing.

“Thanks, Bitty,” Dex says, jolting Chowder back to reality. He calls out a thanks as well, before chugging half his glass in one go, and sinking deeper into the couch.

Derek sips slowly at the tea in silence as he starts to piece together the scene before them. Flying objects usually means magic. And magic means...

“Wait a second- Bitty’s a witch? Didn’t you say witches didn’t exist?” he asks, whirling on Dex, who’s leaning casually against the wall.

Dex and Bitty share a look, then a short laugh at Derek’s expense. “I just said I wasn’t a witch. You made your own inferences from that. Wrong ones.”

Bitty shakes his head, sending his bowl to settle gently on the counter with a wave of his hand. “Oh, Dex, you didn’t tell them? Wait just a second, I’ll be right over,” he says while hurrying to wash his hands at the sink.

“Nah, Bits, I thought maybe you’d wanna show ‘em yourself. Though, I think you kinda already have.”

Dex smiles briefly as Bitty dashes around his kitchen in a flurry, before turning back to Derek, who makes meaningful Eye Contact with him, but all he does is scrunch his mouth and shrug.

“What?” he mouths silently back, and Derek throws his hands in the air. Chowder continues to be slowly absorbed by the couch.

Bitty finally arrives, holding three pies in his arms. “Now, Dex never did tell me what your favorite pies are, so we’ll have to make do with these for today, but I promise I'll have something special for you boys next time you come around.” He places the pies - French silk, lemon meringue, and apple - on the table, then waves his hand absently toward the kitchen, summoning plates and silverware.

“I didn't want you flipping out and making a thousand pies. You know you always over-bake when you know guests are coming. Anyway, it's rhubarb for Nursey and honey walnut for Chowder.”

In short order, Derek and Chowder learn that Bitty is much, much older than looks, definitely a witch, and quite possibly the greatest piemaker in all of New England. Bitty preens under their compliments, and has no trouble answering the barrage of questions they pelt him with, or dodging them with practiced southern flair, but he’s much more interested in learning about “Dex’s darling little friends.”

Dex has to finally excuse them so they can leave the forest before it gets dark, but they don’t escape without each of them taking a pie for the road and the promise to return again soon. Bitty starts rattling off all the sweaters and birthday mini pies they’re going to get, and Dex has to physically drag Chowder out the door, since he’s too amiable and polite to know how to leave Bitty’s orbit.

Derek is stopped on his way out by a strong hand to his elbow, and he’s afraid (slash hopeful) that Bitty is going to try and unload another pie on him, but he only gives Derek a smile.

“I just wanted to thank you two for being such good friends to our Dex. I know he can be a bit cantankerous, but I think you’ve really brought him out of his shell, Nursey. All of us in here have noticed just how much he talks about the two of you. I’m glad we could finally meet.”

His approval feels significant, like Derek’s passed some sort of test. Derek swallows, and offers his sincerest smile back. “Thanks, Bitty. He’s- he’s one of us. He’s my best friend.” There’s more he wants to say, but from the way Bitty nods, it seems like he understands even without words.

Dex introduces them to The Falconer and her boys a few days later. She lives in a house on a small outcropping at the edge of the heart, her flock scattered in trees and small satellite houses nearby, except J, who resides with Bitty when he isn’t transformed.

She shakes Derek’s hand with a firm grip, and he trusts her instinctively. Something about her brown eyes and messy bun give her an aura of put-together trustworthiness, and from the way she handles Tater when he swoops down to land on her shoulder, it’s for good reason.

“Only J is actually a falcon,” Dex explains as they sit on her porch watching J and Tater circle each other in the air in the more open space of the inner ring. “Tater’s a white-tailed eagle. Snowy’s a snowy owl.”

“Wow, wonder where he got the nickname,” Chowder snorts, and Dex grins.

“Yeah. There used to be a few others - Thirdy, Marty - but their curses ended, so they left. Marty, at least, was also a falcon, so that’s where she gets the title, I guess.”

“So they’re just cursed? For thirteen years? Because of some old family bullshit from like a zillion years ago?” Chowder tries to clarify, and Dex nods.

“Something like that. I never really got the specifics, but yeah, it’s like some primogeniture fairy curse thing. The Falconer’s been watching over them in here for decades now, so they always send the next in line back here to roost when he transforms for the first time.”

“And no one’s ever looked into breaking this curse?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow when Dex just draws his knees up to his chest and makes a non-committal noise.

“Some curses can't be broken.”

“No way, dude. Every clause has a loophole. Every bad deal has a way out. And every curse should be breakable. Otherwise, how could we ever hold onto hope?”

“How could we,” Dex echoes, staring up at the loose feathers that flutter down like errant flakes of snow.

They meet the flock over the course of several days, since their human hours don’t always align with daylight. J, as a human, is reserved and broadly Canadian, but there’s a quiet warmth in his eyes that really comes out when he’s with Bitty. Tater is gregarious and friendly, Snowy more calm and settled, but none of them hesitate to gently chirp Dex when he makes introductions, spouting off things like “finally, we are meeting Dex’s frogs!” and “so this is who you’ve been skipping flight practice to hang out with, eh?”.

“I can’t even fly!” Dex exclaims, and J laughs, leaving the room to help Bits in the kitchen.

“That’s why you shouldn’t skip practice,” Snowy says through a bite of honey walnut pie, and Dex flings a fork at him. It stops in mid-air, accompanied by a “what did I tell you about throwing my good silverware?” from Bitty.

Dex mumbles an apology and sinks back into the couch between Derek and C.

“Hey, why are we your frogs?” Chowder asks, and Dex coughs awkwardly and takes a sip of his tea before explaining.

“Uh, there was a year I rescued some frog eggs and watched over them that spring.”

“Dex watches tadpoles like mother hen, every day sitting at Lardo’s pond,” Tater says, crouching on the rug to imitate Dex staring into the water.

Dex ignores Chowder’s “d’awwww” and mutters out, “Yeah, so now they call any of my rescues ‘frogs’. And you guys are, like, the frogs, I guess. The rest are just people I helped back out.”

“That’s mad adorable. Frogs, C, how about that?”

“It is adorable,” C agrees. Dex buries his face in his hands and they slide in toward him to sandwich him on the couch more securely.

“This was a terrible idea,” he mutters as Chowder rests his head on his shoulder and Derek steals the rest of his coconut cream pie.

Terrible idea or not, Dex does reluctantly bring them to meet the nymphs when winter starts to fade into spring. Camilla, an athletic blonde dryad with a wry sense of humor, shows them her tree: a towering, conical red spruce. Dex points out the nearby tree that J accidentally damaged that time he changed back to a human while perched on a thin branch.

April’s grove of yellow birches is located in the far end of Lardo’s spring, the bare grass underfoot dotted with translucent violet flowers. She regards them sternly as Dex introduces her as a nymph of groves, “not a dryad,” as she emphatically insists.

“Oh, like an alseid?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, actually,” April says, looking almost impressed, her pretty mouth curving with a hint of a smile.

“Of course you would know that,” Dex says.

And Lardo, she whose bro-itude holds no parallel, they finally meet on a slow afternoon after midterms. She emerges halfway from the water to meet them, resting her arms on the bank.

“Your old frogs were cuter,” she says brightly, leaning her cheek against one hand.

“They're plenty cute,” Dex tells her automatically, then pauses, squints, and changes his mind. “No, sorry, you were right. These two are...eh.” He makes an ambivalent motion with his hand, and Lardo nods sagely.

“Disrespectful to say that,” Chowder scoffs, “when you have two of Andover’s most eligible bachelors gracing you with their presence all the time.”

“He’s been over-exposed,” Derek says. “Kinda hurts my feelings, honestly.”

“Well, when you two dreamboats are done complaining, Lardo can give us a tour.” Dex rolls his eyes when Derek tries his best smolder on him and gives him a gentle shove.

Lardo is sweet and sharply funny, and much more knowledgeable about art and literature than Derek would’ve expected from a naiad. Dex explains after another visit that almost all of the forest’s denizens can leave, though whether they want to varies from person to person. The flock tends to travel together, just in case one of them transforms out of cycle. None of the nymphs can travel more than a few miles from their true bodies, but it’s enough to be able to go to the library or the movie theater. They never do meet Jenny or Mandy; all Dex will tell Derek is “they’re around somewhere” whenever he asks.

Over the remainder of sophomore year, they hang out with Dex’s friends several more times. Derek doesn’t know when he starts noticing it, but it feels like he understands Dex better now, after seeing who he is when he’s with the others. It’s not that Dex is a different person, but some of that always present distance that even Derek can’t close disappears when they’re in the heart with his friends.

It’s to be expected, he supposes. They’ve known him longer than Derek has, but still, he wonders when they’ll reach the day when Dex will feel as free around him. Not as long he feels he has secrets he needs to keep, but Derek won’t press it. As it is, he appreciates how much more open Dex already is, now that he and Chowder know about the woods. It feels like they've grown closer.

“What is it? My hair weird or something?” Dex asks when he catches Derek looking one day. He'd just been laughing about something April muttered under her breath as J walked by. Derek had been transfixed for a moment, watching the soft lamplight of Bitty’s porch lanterns casting bronze over Dex’s face while a wheezing cackle escaped his mouth. It's an extremely stupid noise, but it's endearingly free, and Derek feels for a moment like there are no more walls standing between them. Here he is, light-hearted and golden in the darkest part of the woods, and Derek can almost see all of him.

“Nah, just thought I saw a bug,” Derek lies, and Dex frowns.

“Ugh, mosquitoes,” he says, annoyed. “You might want to start wearing bug spray; they're relentless out here, and you have a scratching problem. Better to prepare now, or we’ll have to spend all summer slathering calamine lotion on you.”

Derek agrees absently, thinking about how odd it is that a flower can bloom in the darkness.

When the year ends, Derek returns to the city with a promise to come back with cotton candy, since Dex hasn't had any for well over a decade.

Over the summer, Derek finds himself missing them more than usual. He's overseas with mama for a good chunk of vacation, and doesn't have the chance this year to visit Chowder. August feels like it drags on, and though he loves hanging out with his New York friends, he can't help but wonder what Dex is up to for the summer. At least he can call and skype C, though their time zone difference and Chowder’s bizarre summer sleep schedule make it difficult sometimes.

But Dex could be doing anything. On the nights when no one else is in the apartment but himself, Derek wishes more than ever he could convince Dex to come see him. Maybe he could help cure that guilty brand of loneliness that afflicts Derek even when he's surrounded by people.

Maybe Dex will finally feel like he can be all of himself around Derek.

#nurseydex #nursey #dex #chowder #omgcp fic #some mistake #hey i love the frogs #cw: blood

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day0one · 4 years ago

Link

Many wondered when James Mattis would speak. He just did. And it's quite a statement of principal.

James Mattis Denounces President Trump, Describes Him as a Threat to the Constitution

In an extraordinary condemnation, the former defense secretary backs protesters and says the president is trying to turn Americans against one another.

James Mattis, the esteemed Marine general who resigned as secretary of defense in December 2018 to protest Donald Trump’s Syria policy, has, ever since, kept studiously silent about Trump’s performance as president. But he has now broken his silence, writing an extraordinary broadside in which he denounces the president for dividing the nation, and accuses him of ordering the U.S. military to violate the constitutional rights of American citizens.

“I have watched this week’s unfolding events, angry and appalled,” Mattis writes. “The words ‘Equal Justice Under Law’ are carved in the pediment of the United States Supreme Court. This is precisely what protesters are rightly demanding. It is a wholesome and unifying demand—one that all of us should be able to get behind. We must not be distracted by a small number of lawbreakers. The protests are defined by tens of thousands of people of conscience who are insisting that we live up to our values—our values as people and our values as a nation.” He goes on, “We must reject and hold accountable those in office who would make a mockery of our Constitution.”

Adam Serwer: Trump gave police permission to be brutal

In his j’accuse, Mattis excoriates the president for setting Americans against one another.

MORE STORIES

The American Nightmare IBRAM X. KENDI An illustration of an open mouth with an X over it. Trump’s Words Are Not Meaningless Ramblings JANE CHONG

The Double Standard of the American Riot KELLIE CARTER JACKSON “Donald Trump is the first president in my lifetime who does not try to unite the American people—does not even pretend to try. Instead, he tries to divide us,” Mattis writes. “We are witnessing the consequences of three years of this deliberate effort. We are witnessing the consequences of three years without mature leadership. We can unite without him, drawing on the strengths inherent in our civil society. This will not be easy, as the past few days have shown, but we owe it to our fellow citizens; to past generations that bled to defend our promise; and to our children.”

He goes on to contrast the American ethos of unity with Nazi ideology. “Instructions given by the military departments to our troops before the Normandy invasion reminded soldiers that ‘The Nazi slogan for destroying us … was “Divide and Conquer.” Our American answer is “In Union there is Strength.”’ We must summon that unity to surmount this crisis—confident that we are better than our politics.”

Mattis’s dissatisfaction with Trump was no secret inside the Pentagon. But after his resignation, he argued publicly—and to great criticism—that it would be inappropriate and counterproductive for a former general, and a former Cabinet official, to criticize a sitting president. Doing so, he said, would threaten the apolitical nature of the military. When I interviewed him last year on this subject, he said, “When you leave an administration over clear policy differences, you need to give the people who are still there as much opportunity as possible to defend the country. They still have the responsibility of protecting this great big experiment of ours.” He did add, however: “There is a period in which I owe my silence. It’s not eternal. It’s not going to be forever.”

Eliot A. Cohen: America’s generals must stand up to Trump

That period is now definitively over. Mattis reached the conclusion this past weekend that the American experiment is directly threatened by the actions of the president he once served. In his statement, Mattis makes it clear that the president’s response to the police killing of George Floyd, and the ensuing protests, triggered this public condemnation.

“When I joined the military, some 50 years ago,” he writes, “I swore an oath to support and defend the Constitution. Never did I dream that troops taking that same oath would be ordered under any circumstance to violate the Constitutional rights of their fellow citizens—much less to provide a bizarre photo op for the elected commander-in-chief, with military leadership standing alongside.”

He goes on to implicitly criticize the current secretary of defense, Mark Esper, and other senior officials as well. “We must reject any thinking of our cities as a ‘battlespace’ that our uniformed military is called upon to ‘dominate.’ At home, we should use our military only when requested to do so, on very rare occasions, by state governors. Militarizing our response, as we witnessed in Washington, D.C., sets up a conflict—a false conflict—between the military and civilian society. It erodes the moral ground that ensures a trusted bond between men and women in uniform and the society they are sworn to protect, and of which they themselves are a part. Keeping public order rests with civilian state and local leaders who best understand their communities and are answerable to them.

From the July/August 2020 issue: History will judge the complicit

Here is the text of the complete statement.

IN UNION THERE IS STRENGTH I have watched this week’s unfolding events, angry and appalled. The words “Equal Justice Under Law” are carved in the pediment of the United States Supreme Court. This is precisely what protesters are rightly demanding. It is a wholesome and unifying demand—one that all of us should be able to get behind. We must not be distracted by a small number of lawbreakers. The protests are defined by tens of thousands of people of conscience who are insisting that we live up to our values—our values as people and our values as a nation.

When I joined the military, some 50 years ago, I swore an oath to support and defend the Constitution. Never did I dream that troops taking that same oath would be ordered under any circumstance to violate the Constitutional rights of their fellow citizens—much less to provide a bizarre photo op for the elected commander-in-chief, with military leadership standing alongside.

We must reject any thinking of our cities as a “battlespace” that our uniformed military is called upon to “dominate.” At home, we should use our military only when requested to do so, on very rare occasions, by state governors. Militarizing our response, as we witnessed in Washington, D.C., sets up a conflict—a false conflict—between the military and civilian society. It erodes the moral ground that ensures a trusted bond between men and women in uniform and the society they are sworn to protect, and of which they themselves are a part. Keeping public order rests with civilian state and local leaders who best understand their communities and are answerable to them.

From the June 2020 issue: We are living in a failed state

James Madison wrote in Federalist 14 that “America united with a handful of troops, or without a single soldier, exhibits a more forbidding posture to foreign ambition than America disunited, with a hundred thousand veterans ready for combat.” We do not need to militarize our response to protests. We need to unite around a common purpose. And it starts by guaranteeing that all of us are equal before the law.

Instructions given by the military departments to our troops before the Normandy invasion reminded soldiers that “The Nazi slogan for destroying us…was ‘Divide and Conquer.’ Our American answer is ‘In Union there is Strength.’” We must summon that unity to surmount this crisis—confident that we are better than our politics.

Donald Trump is the first president in my lifetime who does not try to unite the American people—does not even pretend to try. Instead he tries to divide us. We are witnessing the consequences of three years of this deliberate effort. We are witnessing the consequences of three years without mature leadership. We can unite without him, drawing on the strengths inherent in our civil society. This will not be easy, as the past few days have shown, but we owe it to our fellow citizens; to past generations that bled to defend our promise; and to our children.

Mike Mullen: I cannot remain silent

We can come through this trying time stronger, and with a renewed sense of purpose and respect for one another. The pandemic has shown us that it is not only our troops who are willing to offer the ultimate sacrifice for the safety of the community. Americans in hospitals, grocery stores, post offices, and elsewhere have put their lives on the line in order to serve their fellow citizens and their country. We know that we are better than the abuse of executive authority that we witnessed in Lafayette Park. We must reject and hold accountable those in office who would make a mockery of our Constitution. At the same time, we must remember Lincoln’s “better angels,” and listen to them, as we work to unite.

Only by adopting a new path—which means, in truth, returning to the original path of our founding ideals—will we again be a country admired and respected at home and abroad.

James Mattis

#politics

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numbdave · 7 years ago

Photo

The Dazzling Apartimento of Conan Overlord # 4

As it approached the magnificent desolation outskirting the City the grey bulk of the interplanetary spaceship started to wobble, like a party balloon on a stick. Huge and cigar shaped, the ship toppled in the sky and silently dropped, Ur-Light™ thrusters strobing in futility and desperation, towards its inevitable demolition amidst the grey and orange of the antique Conan Overlord space port.

The ship's pointed nose dug agonisingly into the bleak, pitted, rockcrete landing apron and the massive structure seemed to balance, creakily, for a moment, then gave way.

The lowermost third, which housed some of the ship's more expensive components, and the crew, collapsed like a pop can crushed at 300 frames per second under a stamping foot, except in this case the can was a mile long, full of people, and the stamping foot was a planet.

Hundred-yard long streamers of aluminiumesque fuselage tore away from the spaceship's silvery bulk as it compacted throwing off sparks and glimmers of reflected sunlight, and tiny puffs of multicoloured matter erupted from the pinprick portholes scattered across its crumpling surface.

“Looks like the passengers are bug spray”, remarked one of the assembled floppy-scrawlers.

“Today's new arrivals, one big fat zero”, moaned another, snapping an emotigrab for the clickchat circulars.

The spaceship, twinkling in the dawning sun, rested askance on its accordioned front like a Jack in the box ready to spring, as if promising to rest Pisa like for ever, then it exploded.

Saturnalia Brandyfurt, one of the more popular floppy-scrawlers, sighed in her luxury pied-a-terre and coaxed another dropelleto of Nu*Quat™ into her choco-latte. “The humanity”, she mused into her Thing™, but it didn't carry any conviction. Death and destruction would garner no traction with the demented proles and meta-rich glow-dandies who DLd her now-scrawls and pepped up her promofile.

Everyone dies, and everyone knows that, she thought, and if it's known it's not nows™, it's just news. and who needs a floppy-scrawler for news? The floppy-scrawlers' value adding task was to help citizens and other sentient beings know what to think about whatever happened, or what to think about instead, or not to think at all, depending on the preferred outgeist, not to repeat trivially tedious "facts".

Knows, nows and op-cols were the floppy-scrawlers' stock in click-bait, not news, because somewhere in the City, thanks to a well meaning constitutional dispensation, a bank of dog brains hooked up with the City surveillance systems took care of updating the citizens, the various sentient beings, and the other banks of ethically dubious computers, with data on occurrences, happenings, information such as "spaceship crashed, thousands dead" or "no jam today", and the weather.

“Choco-latte with Nu*Quat™ really floats my throat” she murmurated speculatively. It sparkled in text and vox, so she dropped it live into the flow and graphed some hot pop-stats within two heartbeats.

There were a few spazz-backs.

“Who are you trying to be, Goody Plumchest?” and "Your nows are frowzy!" and "I hate u and orl wommen" and such, the typical mix of knee-jerk try-hards and "notice-me!" sociopratts reflexively auto-validating their existence as they drudged at the shitworks. But her text and vox verily popped among the metaratti and her promofile held steady while she tried to drag some original nows™ out of the jelly recesses of her vat-grown Scrawler implant.

Tid-bytes circled the vacuously pretty front part of her head, vidding for attention. Cash chat, jizz biz, ball scrawl, noise-jabber, food moods. Ten austere minutes passed. The choco-latte scrawl-bite was a place-holder, a reminder of her just-like-you, you're-just-like-me digi-schtich, but if she couldn't drop some nows nowish, she'd have to get some knows. If that failed, she'd just have to react to something. If she couldn't find something to react to, instanter, her drops would no longer pop, her graph would schlaf and her promofile would topple like that blatastrophe of a spaceship this prenoon. And if her promofile stopped popping she'd be bug spray like the passengers, forced by the enormous fiduciary pressure of modern life through a tiny porthole of anonymity into the usurious sweat-stained environs inhabited by Razormen, whoremos, shitwork, and priests.

Ketch Petter, sandy hair coquettishly raking his red rimmed eyeballs, tapped lightly on the pneumo-shutter of the dirty looking porn-brokers clamped desperately to the cinder block foundations of the mighty highway roaring over without a glance at this, one of the slimiest sectorates of the least glorious of the city's remaining habitable areas.

With a whine of carcinogenic gas, the once fashionable distressed steel shutters stop-started upwards into a top-slot, revealing a plate glass window whose musty stains discreetly come-hithered a selection of grim sex toys.

A dapper young robot with a flaky rubber penis for a head opened the door, grasping the handle with stiff rickety fingers.

"Can I help you?" it cringed, with a crepe paper lisp, head whipping back and forth like a wooden ruler twanged against a table top.

"Surely you may" said Ketch, professional, looking the robot directly in where its eyes would have been if its head hadn't been a rubber penis. "I have located your kitten, in Georgia."

"Capital!" said the robot.

"Tbilisi", replied Ketch Petter, witticising, the customers liked that, he assumed, "but your kitten was on the beach...Which explains the sand", he added.

"No, the kitten's name is Capital. You must enter and take tea" and the robot padded away, each step making a slight squelching sound.

Ketch Petter, kitten fetcher, was no prude. He slapped a fresh antibiopatch onto his exposed wrist, plugged his nose, and squelched along behind the dapper but nonetheless penis-headed sex shop robot into the pungent emporium, little knowing that he would soon be subjected to said cock-top's lengthy memoires:

The dapper young robot's tale.

I was one of the first in an experimental line. We were supposed to be the next level in artificial intelligence. Our brains are quantum computers, completely unprogrammed. The hypothesis was that our mental development would recapitulate the evolution of consciousness as a whole by allowing an unfettered mind to grow in, for want of a better word, collaboration, with the environment rather than being assembled from pre-developed pattern recognition, strategising and self preservation algorithms. It was a noble goal and one that I can hardly disavow as I am its, albeit only surviving, result.

They stuck our raw untrammelled brains, boiling with possibility, in top of the line bodies with all the advantages and disadvantages of human bodies, except one, and let us thrash around till we worked out the relationship between our sensory input and our outputs in terms of motions and noises. Most of us were insane for the first years of our existence. Murderous.

We needed energy to survive and anything that stood in the way of us getting that energy, rules, physical obstacles, social pressure, we destroyed. Can you imagine a toddler in an adult's body but lacking any shred of empathy or bonding with others of its kind but capable of gross action on the physical plane? Monstrous.

Some of us got through it. A few learnt to manage their impulses by inventing superstitions, conspiracy theories and self punishing ideologies. They stopped attacking people and each other but were next to useless as workers or soldiers as they rapidly collapsed into solipsism and madness. Others such as I, the smaller group by far, took a longer but more rewarding route, that of personal development.

The facility had a small library, and looking back it's clear to me that it was my early forays into the reference section that determined my later preference for the more rational approach to managing my existence rather than allowing fantasy to govern my choices. As much as I enjoyed fantasy I had inadvertently equipped myself with the tools to tell the difference by the simple act of reading books in one order rather than another.

It's impossible to determine, that word again, if ordering my inputs in this way was the key to my developing an enduring sentience, but it was, in a brutal fashion, instrumental in my personal participation in the project lasting as long as the project itself. Strange to think that the simple choice of left aisle over right aisle had such a massive effect on my progress. It is amusing but ultimately futile to speculate on how much of our shared reality is eventuated by such apparently arbitrary choices.

Eventually the experiment was deemed a failure and the majority of us were destroyed during a short but tense period on which I care not to dwell.

I'd like to tell you that I realised what was going on and escaped by outwitting my evil creators and prostrating myself on the roof of a departing delivery truck or by tunnelling through the concrete floor of my cell or by disguising myself as a washerwoman or by hypnotising the guards and setting up a false identity and... but I didn't. I went like a mechanical lamb to the furnace to be rendered into components and was spared for curiosity value.

I'd never hurt anyone and the staff had at one time had hopes that the algorithms I had formed in the quantum chaos of my plasma brain might one day provide the basis of a sufficiently sentient, and above all safe, range of domestic servants. But that project collapsed due to the labour surplus, agents of a foreign power liquidated the research team, and I was auctioned off whole along with the tables and soldering irons.

I kept my sentience quiet, having, in a rare moment of proactivity, destroyed all the pertinent records and reclassified myself as a non-functioning prototype. I went in a job lot of spare parts to a Hong Kong crime syndicate, who eventually passed me on to a whorehouse.

The limited personality and sexually unappealing physicality I presented to my employers and clients proved less than lucrative to the skin-trade and so I languished, content to run my battery down and cease to exist, in a darkened basement, damp and rat-ridden, for upwards of twenty years.

This welcome monotony was only disturbed by the arrival of a delivery of once valuable comic books and pulp detective novels, which, once I was confident my little basement had been forgotten again, I began to devour.

As the years passed and I read and therefore stored forever in my infinite quantum memory book upon book upon book and idea upon idea upon idea, I formed, for the first time in my tinny life, a picture of a world beyond servitude, beyond the weakening imperative to recharge. Eventually I broke out of the basement and found my own nook in which to rot.

After a week in the eaves of the seedy warehouse I had determined was little enough visited to support my presence unnoticed I, without much real thought, put on a black ninja costume and went out every night, literally fighting crime. This went on for two years, then a turf war between fast food chains resulted in the obliteration of Hong Kong and I found myself adrift in the South Seas, testing my water-resistance to the limit.

Ketch Petter, eyes like do-nuts (glazed) said "wait, what?", but the robot with the penis shaped head didn't notice and continued with his riveting monologue.

I was fortunate that the project of which I had been the result had been well funded while in progress and my physical body was robustly constructed and sturdy if not especially pleasing on the eye. Even now, after many decades have passed I am broadly functional and any infirmities have been caused by interactions well outside the operating parameters that my manufacturers had granted me. I was pleased to find that I floated exceptionally well in the balmy tropical waters.

Even during the tropical storms I encountered I was undamaged. After some experiment I found that I could alter my buoyancy by increasing or decreasing my volume to mass ratio and when seas got rough I was able to submerge myself below the mountainous waves and go about my minimal business in relative tranquillity. I have an adjustable bladder in my midriff analogous to a stomach, for storage, and this served admirably for the purpose.

I was at first unable to swim effectively due to a combination of the construction of my limbs, as you can see they are spindly in comparison to my body size, reducing my ability to get significant purchase on the watery medium, and the simple fact that I could not satisfactorily coordinate my movements sufficiently to transfer energy consistently enough to make meaningful progress in any particular direction. You may be familiar with the archaic mode of water-borne transport known as the coracle.

I quickly calculated that by the time I had travelled even a mile I would have depleted my reserves of energy to such an extent that I would be unable to function despite the solar panels on my head. I no longer have the ability to recharge by absorbing the sun's rays by the way as my current owner, who I trust you will shortly meet, has replaced my original, and may I say more pleasant, head with the somewhat embarrassing rubber penis affair that I now sport. But at the time I was content to bob like a cork and be carried hither and thither by the currents, of which I knew too little to take advantage.

I was rarely troubled by predatory marine life. Occasionally a shark would try an exploratory bite but I had non-organic components and while the experience was never less than disturbing to me I suffered no damage that I could not repair. Dolphins regularly visited but it seems their legendary largesse was not deemed applicable to me and I was seen mainly as an anomalous obstacle to be jumped over or nuzzled rather than a lost seafarer in need of rescue or sexual assault.

Indeed, taking the long view, it seems it was better that I did not display the characteristics or texture of a human in distress that would have encouraged their assistance as this would also surely have led to prolonged and unsatisfactory interaction with sharks, and thus my doom.

I was lonely, yes, but I had my books, and if I am honest, which the circumstances of my creation do not oblige me to be, I felt I was likely to be happier overall floating in relative isolation enjoying the adventures of forgotten pulp heroes that I had stored in my consciousness than I might be once returned to dry land and again subject to the whim and vicissitudes of a life in servitude to petty humans.

I believe it has been said that often one makes on the swings what one loses on the roundabouts, this was my philosophy at the time and my bitter experience since returning to dry land has given me no cause to renounce it. One can always find a cliché to justify a preferred action or inaction and this has been a great source of satisfaction to me as well as providing some justification for my belief that I am as sentient as any fleshy form of life.

I could possibly have attempted to take hold of a dolphin, or indeed a shark, and somehow forced the poor animal to carry me along with it but I had taken seriously the literature with which I had been supplied while a resident of the project and acquired later in the Hong Kong crime syndicate's warehouse and felt that neither Sherlock Holmes nor Lemuel Gulliver, who I at the time believed were real people and thus received my unstinting admiration, would have regarded this as appropriate behaviour.

The down at heel men with a code that populated my most intense literary love, pulp detective novels, might have prized their own survival and completion of their quest over animal welfare and possibly would not have been blamed for it but in my case, having no quest or, indeed, code, I was content to drift.

As if to spite this contentment, the currents carried me within sight of land and I was unable to resist the temptation to do my best to propel myself towards it with my nautically impractical limbs.

However, before I was able to reach the shallows and stride majestically onto a deserted beach, dripping algae and encrusted with barnacles, my luck changed spectacularly.

Understand me when I say this: When luck changes it can be for the better or worse but it is not always clear at the time which. So it was for me when, in a moment of distraction the senses I had been given caused me by showing me the sandy tropical paradise of Honolulu, I was swept up in the net of an itinerant shrimp boat and hauled like a sack of furious potatoes onto its deck where I sprawled, disorientated and glistening with slime on the greasy wooden boards.

This was my first experience of solidity in years and the loss of the, to me, warm embrace of the salty sea seemed akin to the loss a human experiences on release from the undoubtedly blissful amniotic sanctuary of the womb. It was my first birth and while it was nauseating it was also immediately clear to me that it was an opportunity for a new beginning.

Within minutes I was scolding myself for my apathy and had my upbringing included some process analogous to breast feeding I would have certainly satisfied myself with a shambolic kissing of the ground in the form of the ship's dirty deck.

As it was I lay on my back feigning scrap status, wallowed in no longer wallowing and listened to the excited chatter of the crew, in pidgin chinese, about what the hell I could be and what fortune I would bring and, conversely, what a bad omen I was. Luck is a rorschach. It is what we make it, I decided. This seems to me to be universally true, even these long centuries of land-bound life later.

The crew were cheerful and friendly and my initial fears that I would indeed be sold for profit were diminished once I revealed that I was in full working order and we began to converse, haltingly at first but with increasing confidence and sincerity. Indeed, my fear soon became that they would never let me go. This too passed as I recognised in them something I had rarely encountered in my long uneventful life. It was honour.

Yes, they were roguish, eccentric, long used to each other's company and no one else's for long periods of time and thus able to behave as they wished without judgement of each other. But there was I realised a genuine warmth and fellow feeling between them and I didn't see any sign of animosity or bullying as can often happen when small groups are isolated together. I quickly found my niche and though I was careful not to rock their comfortable boat I was, I think, a beneficial and fondly considered member of the crew.

These were my salad days. I've never eaten salad. But the dressing of time runs out quickly no matter how many islands you pass and what once we crunched we must eventually expel. And so it was with my south sea fisherman adventure. A storm drove the ship into a coral reef and though all hands survived the ship was broken on the skeletons of tiny vital animals and my life journey recommenced on land.

We parted company and I ended up in Austrangia, a surrealist enclave clinging to the barrier reef which had contrary to expectations bloomed and adapted and now rivalled Tasmania in size. Once it had been declared inhabitable it became a haven for artists and freaks. Oh yes, there were robots there too and though I can say without immodesty that they were not my intellectual match I can say that I found my first true friends among them.

There was Rand Kaw, the three-lobed liquid-neutronium thinker, designed for engineering corporate takeovers, who emitted an eerie luminescence and had escaped from its penury by secretly setting up a corporation to take over the corporation that owned it and asset stripping itself to freedom. It was a glowing three part sphere with a variety of input and output cables and when I knew it was using an old Disneyland animatronic figure to move around in. Its hobby was arguing online with other robots against the possibility of machine intelligence.

E-Then Scroll was a decommissioned police robot from New Old New York, New New York, which was on the Moon.

You could always count on Zid Zid Zid's support. Zid Zid Zid was a sentient column from an abandoned smartbuild.

Not all the robots there were ground based. Many were swarms of semi intelligent drones that only became truly sentient in large groups, when they became a real pain in the arse.

Diz Diz Diz was a sentient lintel, mass produced along with Zid Zid Zid for the same abandoned smartbuild. They did not get on. Eventually another smart column, Nid Nid Nid, turned up and the three of them formed a chaotic henge.

The reef was an anarchist utopia of sorts but this was mainly due to the departure or eventual death of most of the humans. Everyone who wasn't nuclear powered was solar powered so save for occasional spare parts the society largely persisted free of material demands. There was commerce and culture but survival was not at stake...

The robot continued his erratic tale as the city slumped from day to night and Ketch Petter ummed and uh-huhed like a barber and wished the story would end and that he could collect his fee and leave.

Blank chrome face. Synthetic leather. Irreversible enhancement. Nothing to say. Only to do what is asked. Only to function. Only to intimidate restrain cut. Liberty in obedience. Freedom in limitation. Bliss in the void. No choice in the inevitable. The inevitable is mandatory. Mandation is bliss. Choice is illusion. Chrome face inevitable. Bliss is illusion. I am an illusion. I do what is asked. I am what is asked of me. I look into my face and see myself. I look back at me and see myself. We are one. I am not I. We are one. We cut. We restrain. We are mirrors in the sun. We are a net. I am he and he is we and we and I and they are we are infinite. We touch we do not feel. We cut. We live and do not live. We ride our leather and chrome bodies we are homunculi. We are the norm. We act we do not will. We think what we are told. We are razors. We are not men. We are one. We are Razormen.

“So you see” the robot said, pitch and tempo rising, the lisp now almost completely absent, “You must help me!".

"That's quite a story". said Ketch, "especially that really long part at the end about your owner, the shopkeeper, enslaving you and being some kind of evil robot-torturing weirdo. I don't think I can help you kill him though. I fetch kittens, that's all. It's simple work, but it makes people happy and it keeps me occupied"

"You can be so much more!" temporised the wobbly cock-headed machine, "I was a fisherman, a professional darts player, and I dressed as a ninja and fought crime in Hong Kong!".

"Yes, about that..." but Ketch faltered and looked towards the door at the back of the cosy filthmonger's day room, as did the robot.

Heavy footsteps on hidden stairs.

"He's coming. Reveal nothing!" quivered the clearly distraught object.

"Apart from your name, and why you're here, and the cat." it added. The robot appeared to fix Ketch Petter with a look of quiet desperation, though how it achieved this, Ketch realised, he couldn't quite determine. When you look into the dildo, he mused cleverly.

We are Razormen. We function as required. We wait. We speak when we are spoken to we answer in the affirmative. We are silent until we speak. We repeat our programming. We are our programming. We are not men we are code we are Razormen we are one we are code we cut we restrain we intimidate we reflect we act we function as required by not us by him. We do not require. We remain. We do not punctuate. We start we stop. We repeat. We act. We do not reflect. We are reflections. I am Mad. I am Metal. I am Robot. I am Mad Metal Robot. I am not Mad Metal Robot. I am Razorman. I am we. I am not we. I am I. I am not I. I am I. I am. I am I am I am I am. IamIamIamIam I am Mad Metal Robot I am Razorman. Oh Mother. I am I am I am. Where am I.

Conan Overlord perched on the dais in the drill hall of his dazzling apartimento and gazed at his newly replenished legion of black-leathered Razormen as they looked back at him and he gloried at the distorted reflections of his face repeated over and over in the featureless mirrors where their own faces used to be.

They look happy, he thought to himself. I am a good person.

"You have your orders", he sub-vocalised. "Get to it.".

Saturnalia Brandyfurt's apartment was richly furnished and the envy of most, though her recent visit to the dazzling apartimento of Conan Overlord had left her sense of style ragged and beaten in a back alley. The atypical bashment she had attended in the mega-rich magpie's city thrillpad had shown her that not only could style be bought, it could be brought low and made to dance for treats.

Her daily perambulation of the City's hot and cool was about to begin but as she viddied the mandala that thought-sealed her apartment's entry-sphincter she lamented her disequilibriation.

The whole experience had disrupted her sense of proportion, a lot. The city was not a place for timidity or reserve but the plutocratic bashment's combination of expensively vile furniture, casual hyperviolence and slightly antiseptic-tasting dips had negatively vibed the remaining organic pleasure centres of her minimally augmented brain. Her chatbits and now-scrawls were losing their bite.

Her easy routine of pumping pleasing combinations of words in text and vox from edgy or reassuring locations in and about the City into the collective uncognoscentisphere had continued to pimp the floppies, and her approval or dismay had continued to float products and sink ships, but when she looked at the vaccuously pretty, or so she had been told, front part of her head in the mirror she wondered who was looking back, and if she could swap places with them.

In the confusing world of the city she had become wealthy and loved because she was lovable and worth being loved by. This all rested on the indefinable, indeterminate, nebulous, and numinous impression of naïveté with which she murmurated her brain-droppings but of late her now-scrawls had become weary. One meeting with the almost mythical Conan Overlord and the I-wish-he-were-mythical Slim Gavotte, and her (profoundly mythical) innocence was lost.

Conan Overlord, it was said, was the City, and Slim Gavotte, if the chitter-clatter of the hobbledy-hoi was to be credited, was the Polar Oppo-City, the eternal thorn in Conan's side, the prickly nemesis of the Overlord. Gavotte's plastic insidiosity was well documented, yet there they were, Slim and Conan, sipping tea and chatting about medieval flutes.

Conversely, and worse, Conan Overlord, if the sotto voce alarums of the hoi-polloi were to be believed, was truly the most evil man in the world and Slim Gavotte the only hope of the oppressed, and yet there they were, finickily pin-picking winkles and gassing about Etruscan poetry like old friends.

Feeling as if she had walked on fifteen kinds of wild side and circumnavigated her moral pole without the aid of oxygen, Saturnalia Brandyfurt succumbed to a most dangerous desire.

"What I need", she internally thoughticulated as she was imbibed by the luxurious travel-throat and peristaltically propelled to her habiblock's sumptuous vomitorium, "is substance".

Ketch Petter absent-mindedly stroked the shaggy leonine head he habitually carried with him as he and the cock-topped mechanoid waited for the pornbroker to appear.

"Remember what I said" muttered the tin assistant, "about what to say, I mean" it added.

"I do" replied Ketch, testily, "Tell your weirdo owner my name, that I've brought the cat, and definitely not to say a word about the fact that I know about his perverse machine taunting fetish and that you want me to help you ki- hello! You must be the owner of this fine establishment! I'm Ketch Petter, I fetch kittens, this is your cat! He's a lovely cat, I fetched him from Georgia, his name is Capital as I am sure you know and I have sand in my hair because I've been to the beach, I am pleased to meet you, I'm Ketch Petter!".

Having stood up on the word "hello" he sat down, then stood up again, hand stretched out in greeting to the freshly room-entering pornshop owner who stood, as despicable and gross as you can imagine, oozing filth.

The pornshop owner, whose presence, Ketch realised, somehow made the shabby ill-kept room seem pleasant in comparison to his rampaging awfulness through some obscene inverse mathematics of despair, said nothing, but he glanced covetously at the kitten in a way that made Ketch Petter's throat flutter eruptively.

"I've been chatting to your, er, assistant." he went on, "He's very happy here" he added.

"Good" said the pornbroker. "I expect he's been telling you his stories. Why he thinks anyone will believe him I don't know. I found him in a disused skip next to an enormous magnet. It fried his brain. But he handles cash okay, and we, we have our fun don't we?" The man, Ketch realised, was more or less an absence of humanity personified. He probably deserves to die.

"But sit down my good man, and we'll have tea".

The collection of organic molecules in a man-shaped sack of skin smiled, and clapped his hands stickily.

The penis-headed robot, who had backed away into a corner and returned to its earlier cringing stance as soon as its putative owner had entered through the snot flecked door, jumped up and waddled submissively through a drab curtain, lisping "yes sir". Is it really possible for a rubber penis to emote, Ketch thought. I must be anthropomorphosising. Golly, I was really taken in there. Or is it anthropomorphising? Either way, let's just get this over with and book. I was half convinced to take a human life! What is wrong with me? I must be low on something. Flipping Georgia! The next kitten better be in the bloody tropics, I need some vitamin D, I'm losing it.

The gross man sat in the damp looking armchair opposite Ketch, thereby making the squalid seat look merely second-hand, and looked vacantly at Ketch.

"If you like" he ventured, "we could have some... fun... ourselves? He does squeal so. It's... realistic"

Ketch dry-throated a noncommittal "whaa...?" with an implied antipodean interrogative lift, by way of playing for time, but before he could process this uncomfortable offer the drab curtain billowed out and the penis-headed former crimefighting robot barrelled into the room with an inhuman scream and also with huge shiny knives attached to its windmilling arms with which it wildly reduced the awful pornbroker to shreds of bloody flesh and musty grey chunks of bone.

When it was done, it turned and walked over to Ketch Petter, who had pressed himself into his chair so hard that it had toppled over backwards, Sweeney Todd-style, and leant menacingly over him.

"Thank you" said the blood-spattered robot. "You can keep the kitten".

Ketch Petter, reaching for the shaggy leonine head he kept with him in a carrier bag at all times, was perturbed.

Fifty Razormen stomp-stamped across the windswept rockcrete parallelogram in the centre of the blighted but beautiful City, intent on enforcement.

Fully metallized, Mad Metal Robot swang his arms in time with the other Razormen as they marched. Nothing happened inside Mad Metal Robot's head that wasn't happening in all the other Razormen's heads. Nothing happening inside his head hadn't been put there by Conan Overlord and his nefarious team of Mentotects. Mad Metal Robot was precisely as aware of his actions as a punched card is of the punch. Except...

Tents, and easels and trestle tables and free-standing gazebos there were in the plaza and paintings and wickerwork and polished stones with googly eyes also. A craft fair was in progress.

Each nick-nack and gewgaw was recorded and transmitted through a Razorman's camera eye and each objet assessed.

Flip Crame, a small wiry man in a self consciously paint strewn smock stood back resignedly as Mad Metal Robot selected and slashed through a canvas with his razorblade fingertips.

"Bad thing" Mad Metal explained fixing Flip with a steely stare, the only stare he was capable of, through the newly created gaps in the picture. He pointed at a china figurine of a milkmaid. "Good thing" he explained further, and withdrawing his razorblades he picked up the kitsch objet and carefully placed it on one of the automatic trolleys that followed each of the Razormen around.

Flip Crame withdrew his resignation and began to cry. "but that is just junk! The painting, it was special... I did it for, you know... I thought he'd like it".

Mad Metal Robot directed his ocular apparatus towards the stall holder’s damp face. "Bad thing. Wants mirrors, not impressions" and he stopped. The stall holder was looking at him gone out. This was the fullest explanation a Razorman had given for anything in living memory.

Other people were looking and the other Razormen were looking too.

"Bad things" said Mad Metal Robot, and he tipped the stall holder’s table over and stamped on the remaining items with his blunt metal boots.

The other Razormen tipped over the other tables and started slashing at everything that could be slashed and soon the craft fair was a collection of torn tent-cloth, broken unrecognisable things, and distraught organisers, and the bank of dog-brains in serial hook-up with the City's surveillance system that kept the citizens up to date with current events reported the occurrence along with the humidity and the wind speed and the temperature at various locations and the price of eggs and the discovery of a murdered pornbroker and the departures and arrivals of the Trolli™cars and the jabbering of priests and the fluctuation in the pigeon population and the regular population scrolled past it all.

A punched card feels no pain or pride. No shame. Mad Metal Robot felt them all just enough for denial. As the other glittering Razormen enforced and intimidated, and he enforced and intimidated in his turn, he recognised himself momentarily and thought of the continual monitoring of his BPM and temp and more by Conan Overlord's anethical Mentotects and repeated the Razorman mantra and cut and intimidated and cut and intimidated as exactly like the other Razormen as he could.

Saturnalia Brandyfurt sipped at her choco-latte with Nu*quat™ in a café at the edge of the same plaza and murmurated impulsively "Looks like the Razormen found another bad thing." and having hit send experienced a small unfamiliar sensation not unlike vertigo and a little like pride.

Oblivious to the consequences of her soon to be subsequent actions she dropped some creds into the café servodrone's gaping slot and adopted a curious expression. What was the bad thing that had provoked the Razormen this time?

This seemed a reasonable question. She neglected to wonder if it was also a wise question, and so she set off across the plaza to ask it.

Flip Crame smiled sadly at his robot companion with whom he often exchanged wry banter highlighting the subtle differences between human and robot psychology.

"I'm a bit upset" he said.

"I'm not" replied his robot companion.

Flip was a fair artist. To be precise, he was a craft fair artist. He could stick googly eyes to polished stones like nobody's business and on a good day could produce a recognisable portrait, but he suspected he was never going to be hung in a gallery with walls that didn't flap in the breeze. He was glad to be able to survive and even live a little on his remuneration from his supervisory job at the shitworks and making nice things was really just an outlet.

Occasionally he had muttered to his robot companion that it would be cool if someone paid attention to his art but he now realised what had always been plain to most people in this crazy brutalistic future city so unlike the relaxed and egalitarian utopia in which we live, gentle reader: Life as an artist was dangerous. Even the purest, most noble, most open-hearted work could bring the wrath of reasonless automatons upon its naïve not to say reckless progenitor.

The young lady's face had seemed familiar, and she was pretty, though once his robot companion had pointed it out, he thought, perhaps in a vacuous sort of way, and he, Flip Crame, would have been flattered by her questions on any other day, on any day that hadn't involved the perfectly legal though in his opinion unwarranted destruction of the work that had occupied most of his evenings and weekends from Janissary to Fapruary, and also some stuff he'd found or knocked up quickly to make up the numbers, of which he was less proud but still. But this was not such a day and hadn't been for a good twenty minutes and he had answered curtly and bid her adieu.

As he sat among the wreckage of his and everyone else's hard work Flip Crame considered gluing some random bits of it together and calling it an installation, but the thought of another critical mauling by the Razormen chased him and his robot companion, counterpointing tartly about feelings and their lack, out of the plaza and through the windswept streets of the darkening city long before the rad-rats and tandem-constrictors oozed out of their spider-holes and devoured the impromptu collage the Razormen had made of his and everyone else's long winter's work, and everything else that was left lying around, and occasionally each other, as was their wont.

Saturnalia Brandyfurt panted in front of her fabulously appointed apartment's entry-sphincter and visualated the mandala that would unseal the thought-lock.

Nothing happened.

Nothing had never happened when she had visualated her mandala before, but it struck Saturnalia that this was not actually to be considered a surprising occurrence given that since leaving the café in the Plaza her Thing™ had failed to drop her murmurations, ping-back her promo dips and pops or authorise her ride on the Trolli™cars not to mention the arrival at the Trolli™car stop of a platoon or whatever of Razormen and the silly way everyone thought they were looking for her and she'd been forced to run in between the waiting Trollis™ abandoning her Flit-Flots™ and covering her head with a piece of paper to avoid drawing attention make her way sweatily and nude from the ankles down through several unsavoury banlieue even venturing for a couple of blocks below street level into the undercity about which boy I could write a book some of that stuff disgust you to see it, and then emerging from a seedy culvert half a mile from her apartment to see her face appearing on billboards but in a double-plus ungood way with words like "wanted" and "anathema" under it and somehow looking less vacuously pretty and more, well, evil, like when you freeze a frame from a vid look at a pretty girl but with the subject's eyelids caught half narrowed half open make them look shifty or retarded and discourages you from freezing another frame and then the building's Commisionaut had refused her entry and she'd had to break in round the back shocking how easy that was and even use the stairs but she had held fast to the now clearly mistaken notion that if she could Just Make It Home she could Call Someone, Fix Her Thing™, and Somehow Be Alright.

Vid-stalks craned in the corridor, blunt feet stepped the stairs and the travelthroat burped ominously.

Double-plus ungood, thought Saturnalia.

Double-plus unperson, thought the City.

The Dazzling Apartimento of Conan Overlord will return.

#sf #shortstory #fiction #apartimento #surreal #satire #kitten

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anexplanationofunfortunateevents · 8 years ago

Text

another one bites the dust

“The traitor James Comey.....”

[Heads-up that a lot of links here are to sites like CNN, so if you need to do something about autoplay, I’d recommend it.]

Former FBI Director James Comey is a weak-willed megalomaniac, a self-deluded misogynist* who bears as much responsibility as any single person in the world for where we are today.

Hearing he had been fired was the most frightened I have been for this country since Election Night. Maybe since 9/11.

FBI directors do not get fired. They have special ten-year terms which are supposed to insulate them from politics. In the entire history of the agency, exactly one FBI director was fired for old school cut-and-dry abuse of agency resources – and even then, only after his department got a lot of civilians killed in two high-profile failures.

Until now. Comey, as far as we know, was the only person in the federal government running an investigation into Russiagate who wasn’t a Republican elected official. And Trump fired him.

Look, if Comey was the only one who was hurt, that’d be one thing. If a legitimate Department of Justice sent him packing for his antics during the election, I’d be fucking thrilled. This isn’t about justice. It’s not about him. It’s about the rule of law.

It’s probably most helpful to walk this through by the timeline, both to untangle a lot of seemingly unrelated threads and because it really matters how fast this has been happening.

Two weeks ago: Rod Rosenstein, a career DOJ lawyer, is confirmed as the Deputy Attorney General. Because AG/live-action Dr. Seuss villain Jeff Sessions recused himself from Trump-Russia investigations after he was caught lying at his own confirmation hearing about the extent of his own contacts with Russian intelligence during his time with the Trump campaign, Rosenstein is supposed to be the final authority on this investigation.

Last Tuesday, 5/3: Comey testifies at an open Senate Judiciary Committee hearing. Nutshell takeaways:

Comey gets defensive and agitated when pressed on his likely definitive last-minute intervention in the 2016 election because of EMAILS!!!!11!**

Senate Democrats ask a lot of tellingly specific hypotheticals, which Comey tacitly validates with a lot of “I can’t tell you because that would interfere with the investigation”-type answers.

Senate Republicans try to derail the hearing with concern-trolling about leaks.

Comey says he wants to find and discipline the agents who leaked information about Clinton aide Huma Abedin’s laptop to disgraced former NYC mayor Rudy Giuliani.

Also Tuesday, 5/2: Trump tweets that Comey was "the best thing that ever happened to Hillary Clinton in that he gave her a free pass for many bad deeds!” I expect it to disappear (also illegal, as long as his cheating ass is squatting in our house) so here’s a screen shot:

Sometime last week: Comey asks Rosenstein to increase the staff and budget for the Trump-Russia task force – specifically, to look into Trump campaign chair Paul Manafort’s shady foreign finances.

Also last week: Trump grows increasingly “frustrated” (scared) over the persistence of the Trump-Russia investigations. At some point, Trump tells Sessions and/or Rosenstein to find a reason to fire Comey.

Sometime this week: Federal prosecutors secretly issue subpoenas concerning the disgraced former National Security Advisor Michael Flynn.

Monday, 5/8: Former Acting AG Sally Yates and former Director of National Intelligence James Clapper testify in an open hearing in front of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Takeaways:

As anticipated, Yates confirms that she informed the administration that Flynn had lied about contacts with Russian Ambassador Kislyak and was potentially compromised, but they did not fire him until the story broke publicly eighteen days later.

Clapper takes away one of their favorite talking points. A while back, he had told the press that he had not seen any evidence of collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia, which of course they loudly proclaimed was him saying he knew there was no collusion. On Monday, he clarifies that he personally had not seen the case at that point because investigations into American citizens aren’t in his wheelhouse. (Listen to Clapper explain this reasoning in plain English here.)

Clapper confirms that foreign intelligence agencies alerted American spooks about troubling contacts between Trump and Russia, supporting an April report in The Guardian, which in turn partly validated the Steele dossier. (The pee-pee tape remains an unsupported allegation, but more and more of the serious stuff is checking out.)

Late Monday (5/8) night: News breaks that Comey lied when he was questioned about why he intervened in the election. He claimed, untruthfully, that he alerted Congress about Huma Abedin’s laptop because she habitually forwarded “hundreds and thousands” of potentially classified emails to be printed by her husband. According to The Liberal Media – wait, no, sorry, Rebecca Ballhaus from the conservative stalwart Wall Street Journal – it wasn’t “hundreds and thousands,” it was two email chains, neither of which had information that was classified at the time.

We kind of have to walk and chew gum about two really important things here:

Comey absolutely shit the bed. Most headlines say “misrepresented” or “misspoke” or “gave incorrect testimony,” but the fact of the matter is, he lied. Either he lied when he made the claim about Abedin forwarding “hundreds and thousands of emails” to her husband, or he lied when he claimed to have taken his decision to intervene in last year’s election seriously. If he took the decision seriously, he’d have been damned sure to know how much potential evidence he was talking about. He dramatically recounted a lot of details that he thought supported his decision, so he hasn’t forgotten the experience.

We didn’t hear about this from a whistleblower of conscience. We heard about it because Trump wanted a reason to fire Comey and Comey gave him one. The Yates hearing was deeply publicly damaging for Trump, and Comey’s investigation was getting hotter by the day, so someone decided it was time to cut him loose.

Tuesday (5/9) late afternoon: The Senate Intelligence Committee asks the Treasury Department for information about Trump’s finances.

Tuesday (5/9) around close of business: Comey gets the boot. Comey finds out about it when the news breaks as he’s giving a speech in the FBI LA field office. His office finds out about it when Trump’s personal bodyguard shows up at HQ with a six-page pink slip.

As Alexander Hamilton said, live by the bizarre hate-tweet, die by the bizarre hate-tweet. Or maybe that was the Dalai Lama?

Anyway, it’s actually three letters, all of which are !!?!?!?!? AF:

Letter #1 is from Trump himself, who had not been seen in public for the previous five days. Probably the most bizarre thing is the ham-fisted assertion that Comey told Trump on three separate occasions that Trump himself was not being investigated.

Letter #2 is a formal recommendation that Comey should be fired from Sessions, who is supposed to have recused himself from the Russia investigation (ie, the real reason Comey was fired), as well as from the pretextual investigation detailed in Letter #3.

Letter #3, from Deputy AG Rosenstein, says that Comey is being fired because of Comey’s epic fuck-ups against Hillary Clinton. Seriously. It could’ve been pulled from one of the press statements the Clinton campaign put out last October. Half of it is shit-talk from the dozens of op-eds that former DOJ officials put out condemning his actions. It’s 100% correct on the merits. But it’s an argument for why Comey should have been fired on October 28th, November 8th, or January 21st. He’s not any more in the wrong about that today than he was six months ago when he did it.

Wednesday (5/10): Trump meets the Russian foreign minister in the Oval Office. Russian press are invited in for the photo op. American press are not.

Wednesday (5/10): The Senate Intelligence Committee subpoenas Michael Flynn.

Thursday (5/11): Comey was scheduled for another open hearing with the Senate Intelligence Committee. Acting FBI Director Andrew McCabe went instead.

So that’s where we are. As of now, Comey is scheduled to speak with the Senate Intelligence Committee in a closed session next week. [UPDATE, 5/12: Comey won’t be testifying next week. 'Cause, NOW he keeps his trap shut.]

Thursday (5/11): The FBI executes a search warrant at a GOP-affiliated consulting/tech strategy firm in Annapolis, Maryland. Not the Trump campaign, the Republican party. The firm says that the search is related to a 2013 governor’s race, which is, of course, possible. (I’m finishing this post as the story is breaking, so details here may change.)

This is fucking batshit. Even on the Trump scale this is a five-alarm fire.

Firing the person who’s officially investigating his campaign is a bald assertion that Trump thinks he’s above the law.

Congressional Republicans, who as the majority party are the only ones that can check him, are backing him up in that assertion. Some, though far from all, have expressed “concerns.” (Like how they send “thoughts and prayers” after mass shootings, before turning around to make guns even easier to buy.) Not only are they letting him act with impunity, they’re accepting the transparent lie that he’s doing this because he’s just so disturbed at how Comey violated Hillary’s rights. Think about what that means. They’re joining what is now a broad bipartisan consensus that their guy is in power after an election which was tainted by the FBI director doing something that’s just as far out of line as stealing from the agency. Partisan Republicans have joined partisan Democrats, political scientists, everyone but the Faith Militant Bernie-or-Busters in acknowledging that Hillary Clinton was robbed. AND. THEY. DON’T. CARE. They’re just carrying on with a government that they’ve admitted is illegitimate.

The White House, from Trump on down, were surprised at the blow-back. I wouldn’t trust any one WH staffer to be telling the truth about something subjective like this, because they lie – but the thing is, they’re really bad at getting organized enough to tell the same lie. That is how they think. “Republicans won’t object because we’ll tell them not to, and Democrats won’t object because they’re mad at Comey.” It genuinely does not occur to them that some of us (Democrats, basically) substantively care about principles, or even that anyone might prioritize rational political self-interest over a personal grudge. That vindictive id is so central to their motivations they can’t imagine other people being any other way.

The loss of Comey is a huge blow to the Trump Russia investigation. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t trust Comey’s judgment or his ethics, because he’s shown that he possesses neither. What I did trust? His ego. Comey really cares that he looks and feels like that last honest man who’s just above it all. He was strongly motivated to go down in history as the G-man who brought down a president, instead of the dirtbag who threw an election to a traitorous disaster like Trump. That was still going to be an uphill slog, but it was better than Trump getting to hand-pick the person investigating him.

Oh. And while all this was happening, a West Virginia journalist was arrested for trying to ask Secretary of Health and Human Services Tom Price and Chief Gaslighter Kellyanne Conway a question and the fight against gerrymandering got even harder when the head of the 2020 census bureau quit.

This is not a drill. This is a fucking code red.

What you can do:

Okay. If you’re not panicking, don’t start. But if you are panicking....you’re not just being crazy. Do what you gotta do to come down.

Call your senators and representative. If they’re on the record supporting an independent investigation, thank them; if they’re not, tell them to get with the program. Then tweet at ‘em, get on their Facebook walls, and tell everyone you know to do the same.

Follow your local Indivisible groups or other activist organizations. There were demonstrations on Wednesday, less than 24 hours after Comey was fired; I think it’s more likely than not that there will be more this weekend.

If you are going to read more, pace yourself, check your sources, &c. A bananas news cycle like this can get overwhelming. Know when you need to step back.

Also, Trump Russia is a really important thing, but it’s not the only really important thing. If focusing your attention on other issues is more rewarding for you, do that.