Dealing with Riders- Terms of Engagement

In light of recent events on the 10 Freeway, I thought I would post this brief guide for all of you beautiful people on "how to avoid being guilty of vehicular manslaughter." Ever have to deal with motorcycles on or off the road? Here's a few things to keep in mind.

1) We're people too. I know. I know you're frustrated that traffic isn't moving. I know you're four minutes late to your thing. I know that your family van is really bad on gas in stop-and-go. I know. I know that I am either in the carpool lane or riding between you and other vehicles through traffic. I know, and I'm sorry. But taking it out on me by- A) Opening your door, B) Flicking your cigarette butts in my face, C) Inching closer to that other car when you see me in your rearview, D) Honking/yelling/using the bird not the word- is not okay. I am a fellow motorist, and for all you know I have a girlfriend or a mother or at least a cat that loves me.

2) I do not want to race. While I may look Japanese with my lean, muscular body and face obscured by a helmet, I am sitting atop a machine that has 36 horsepower (compared to the 60 boasted by the mighty Geo Metro). I am neither fast nor furious. The vehicle that I am taking onto the freeway is made by a company who earns 45% of its income from lawnmowers. Save your NOS boost for somebody else.

3) I have to park somewhere. Except on the rare occasion that a parking lot has designated motorcycle parking or half-spots, a rider has two options: a parking spot or up on the sidewalk. Now I wish that all you four-wheelers would make up your minds. Some of you see what looks like an empty spot, start to turn in, then- "AAAAGGGGGHHHH! (Insert profanity here) bikers! Think they own the...(incomprehensible muttering)." I understand. In a full lot, it's frustrating when that spot you thought was open is in fact occupied by a vehicle that you consider unworthy of the title. But consider our other option. I have no problem with putting it right up next to the door, but I also sympathize with the complaints of shoppers, churchgoers, students, etc. who have to step around it, not crash into it with their shopping carts, and be jealous of it while they're walking by. Point being- wherever I set down, somebody's going to be unhappy. Look on the bright side- um...uh...

4) You do not have to read every billboard as you pass it. Just had to throw that in there. Keep your eyes on the road- it's only reasonable. Besides, there are no more Jolly Ranchers...they're all gone.

5) I am aware that my headlights are on. Bikers actually leave their highbeams on 24/7. In daylight, this raises our visibility level, which raises our survivability level. On some bikes (like mine) there isn't even an option to turn them off without a little circuit twerking. So in short, don't pull up behind me and flash your brights in the daytime. It's annoying, and if I was a prospective gang member, and had a free hand, I'd probably shoot you as part of my initiation.

6) I can't actually hear you. If you are driving by me, and decide that I seem like a nice fellow to have a conversation with, and figure that I must be able to listen and respond because there are no windows between you and me...you're sorely mistaken. If you are one of the upset-sounding gentlemen or lovely ladies who has been trying to hold discourse with me at 80 mph, please keep in mind that the wind rushing by makes your words completely incomprehensible to me. Not to mention, I probably wouldn't consider it rude to just ignore you even if I could hear you- because you're just...weird.

7) I need a whole lane. The fact that I am on a motorcycle is not an invitation for you to "come on over." Believe it or not, I do not just fold into nothing when you cut me off. I'm still here, and this town ain't big enough for the both of us.

8) Dealing with motorcyclists off the road can promote safety just as effectively as on the road. To be clear: I do not want to hear the story about how your friend best friend Evel died in an 89-car pileup. I do not want to hear your Wikipedia statistics about how 98% of traffic-related rear-endings involve motorcycles (what is a non-traffic-related rear-ending anyway?). I do not want to hear the dream you had about how I died once. I (probably) do not want to see or put on my fridge the picture you drew of my bloodied corpse underneath a semi. Crashes are the marginal, ugly side of riding, and stories such as these make the vast majority of riding less enjoyable and less relaxed- which makes it more dangerous. As a rider, I am not in denial of the danger. Dwelling on it, though, is unhealthy because it can lead to shattered confidence, unwillingness to ride naturally, distracting stress brought on by fear, etc.

9) When I honk, it's not because I'm angry. You've been driving all day, and all day you've been hearing the angry horns of other drivers after you changed lanes too close to them, went anything less than 95 in the carpool lane, or sat at a green light longer than .0135 seconds. When you hear my horn, it's only because I am not sure if you know I exist. Not knowing that I exist is a bad thing, maybe not for you in your freeway fortress, but at least for me (and reference mother comment in number 1). I use my horn liberally and frequently, and don't apologize for it, because it's saved my life many a time. So when you hear its nasally "heah" behind you, don't be offended. It's just the greeting of my culture.

Hope these help (me)... Stay safe and Merry Christmas.

Probably for Killing Pirates...

Rush Limbaugh has been named radio personality of the decade just in time for WOG!!!

http://newsmax.com/InsideCover/rush-limbaugh-mediaweek-radio/2009/12/21/id/344145?s=al&promo_code=93F4-1

Don't Tell Lesbia, I Killed Her Sparrow

It was a long time before the little bird trusted me
Before it would come up timidly
And eat out of my hand.

In that same forest pool where the shallow stream
Runs down the hill and splashes and gleams
And the butterflies land.

Through the years, I bided my time, even grew attached
Until that yellow day when the egg was hatched
And the time had come.

The time we had first met in the forest seemed so long
Ago when I first heard that morning song
The woodlark had sung.

I held my finger out as a perch for her to land-
Such a tiny creature I held in my hand
And then crushed to death.

I knew, poor innocent, she wouldn't understand a thing
And sure enough, a sweet melody she tried to sing
With her final breath.

As I dug my woodland friend a shallow grave in the dirt
The blisters on my tired hands didn't even hurt
And I wasn't sad.

There would be no phoenix-like rising from the ashes
No glorious ascent, no lightning flashes
No feeling bad.

I walked the path that would take me home
It wasn't the only road to Rome
Or out of the wood.

Do birds become angels, or ghosts to haunt us?
I know they return with their song to taunt us
And so they should.

Behold the Deep

In gardens flourishing, furthest from our modern sanity
Swaying, an ever-youthful goatherd plays on a reed fife.
Visible only in life-brief glimpses from the flickering
Fire dance the muses, whirling in sweet vanity

And lifting their arms toward a blood-red moon,
Beneath which fields hold friend and foe where war swallows life
And brave thousands fall for one crown and another's bickering.
They were children once; happy, who lie on the battlefield strewn.

Now the earth shakes, and the mountains tremble
Fathoms below through the bones of earth
Chains snap with a resounding clang of dark assumption
As the Beast breaks free and utters a single word: "Assemble."

The pale white eyes of the hallowed oracle widen,
The music in the banquet hall fades to bring the end of mirth,
The bird on the branch, and nature in her presumption
Now cower in fear to hear the laugh of mad Poseidon.

Behold, behold, behold the deep
Chant as one:
Behold the deep.

Psalm of Saving

Bless the Lord, O my Soul, and all that is within
And that which would not praise Thee, Christus, kill; for it is sin
Or self which is the same. The rest, O mortal supplicant, just
Bless His holy name.

Do not keep silent, O God of my praise, this broken, crooked child
Would hear Thy voice o'er any earthly masterpiece self-styled,
Lest he fall yet again. My mournful prayer I write; not ink,
But tears flow from my pen.

You, Lord, are my light, and my salvation, Thou knowest well
And though I may not always wholly in Thy presence dwell,
I know Thou art here. So in a world whose name is darkness-
Whom shall I fear?

I will extol you, Holy God, for You have lifted me up
My sins You've sundered East from West, You've left Your Holy Cup-
You've made all things new. I tread my path in a different world
Since I cried out to You.

Massage Parlor

It was a cold and awkward winter afternoon when I pulled into the parking lot of the establishment where I planned on spending the next hour of my life, unsure of what to expect. I had never been to a place like this before, and I wouldn't even be considering it now were it not for the knot in my shoulder I had tried and tried to get rid of but only succeeded in making worse. What’s more, I rationalized, this was a new town, and nobody knew me. Besides- I had always secretly wondered what went on behind the closed doors of these seedy “massage parlors.” I had always imagined them to be exciting and riské; replete with all the latest in seamy fixtures, a bevy of beautiful young women, and crooked proprietors lending atmosphere to a retro scene that needed little to none.

I found myself at the door. Even at that point, I was more ready to turn around and drive off than to enter the den of mystery and presumably strong thumbs. I could pop some aspirin for the back pain and deal with it at my apartment; it would certainly be less awkward. Just then a young guy, about my age, dressed in business attire with no visible tattoos, track marks, or body piercings walked up to the door and reached for the handle. As if making a sudden realization, he turned to me.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t push past you, did I? You seemed like you were kind of stalled at the starting gate.”

It was to be one of the only times in my life that I was grateful for being the kind of guy who often forgot to remove his Bluetooth headpiece. It had cost me women, promotions, credibility, shame…but today it actually helped me save face. I held up a finger.

“Sure, babe. (Pause for realism) No, I’m just gonna hit the massage parlor, but I’ll see you around seven. (Shorter pause this time) You too. I’ll see you at the apartment.”

I had no girlfriend. My last relationship had been, to say the least, a thing of a different place and time. It was so surreal to think back on it, that I couldn’t even see her face without seeing clocks draped over trees in the background. But did this guy need to know that? I removed the earpiece suavely (and a bit smugly) and gave Mr. Normal a chin nod.

“Come again?”

He looked me over, almost as if debating whether to believe my façade. I bit the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit I often reverted to in instants like these when time stretched unbearably…

After a moment he shrugged and chuckled, and then retreated into the shop. Now I had to follow. I was resolute. Could it really be so outlandish? What would Normal McNormalton have to do with a place that matched the description of my fantasy? Nothing, that’s what. I opened the door and slipped inside.

Nothing about the parlor’s interior overly shocked me. Then I realized I would have to remove my sunglasses if I was going to be able to see anything. I whipped them off and strode up to the only fixture that could pass for a front desk. The woman who stood behind the desk, a generic blue-collar in her late forties, made me even more comfortable with her friendly greeting that walked the narrow balance beam between interrupting my scan of the shop and under-presenting her role as a customer service representative.

“Welcome to California Dreaming, what can I do for you today?”

I looked around the shop, bemused. It was really just a barbershop for rubbing backs! Leather chairs lined the room, along with a few implements, towels, oils, and such. There was a sign that listed prices on the wall, and my eye hit upon “Back Massage: $35/hr.” I was about to turn to the woman at the desk, when my memory did a double take. What had happened to our regular businessman type? Where was Mr. Normal? The room was not large at all. Mystified and deep in thought, I stared at the price board. Down at the bottom, in small print, I had my answer. There was another entry at the bottom of the list that said “Back Massage,” and to the unsuspicious eye it would just look like a signage misprint at a “B” grade establishment. But I was on the hunt. Barely visible, red marker blending into the sign’s red background, was the word “Room,” inserted just between “Back” and “Massage” so that the whole list item read “Back Room Massage.” Next to it I noticed that this sign item price had been taped over and changed to $500. As soon as I saw it, I wanted it. At any price. If Norm had selected the Back Room Massage, I would select the Back Room Massage, come what may.

“Um, yes, hello. I would like your Back Room Massage?”

She lazily typed a few keys. “Name?”

I told her. She punched a few more keys. The clock on the wall ticked by seven more seconds.

“Okay, one back massage, that’ll be thirty-five dollars.”

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid you didn’t hear me correctly. I said I wanted the Back Room Massage.”

She stopped typing and stared. The clock counted off seven more seconds. She shook her head. “Sir, the Back Room Massage is not recommended for first-time customers, and our records show that this is your first time. I’m afraid it’s rather an exclusive arrangement.”

I was no con artist, but for once I refused to turn down an adventure. Unbelievably, this was a moment when my obsessive-compulsive tendency to research everything before I did it came in very handy. Remembering the list of laughable names that had popped up on my computers when I searched for “massage parlors” in the local area, I selected the one that sounded most believable. “Ma’am, please. I am a regular customer at R+R, and I do a back room session there at least once a month. Trust me- I’m no stranger to what goes on.”

She looked at me. It was obvious that she didn’t believe a word I said. Though I may have appeared a regular massagee to Norm, I could tell that she was not fooled. But thanks to my boring bourgeoisie life and steady, well-paying government job, I had one more ace in the hole. “I pay in cash,” I said.

Next thing I knew, I was watching my skeptical desk clerk execute a secret knock on what looked like a basic wall panel. The panel slid open and a man in military fatigues, a tactical vest, and a helmet stepped out. He looked me up and down, then grabbed my arm and ushered me down a flight of stairs into what appeared to be a cement bunker. The cool air flowed from it like an Egyptian tomb. Making a left into a large hall, he stopped in front of a steel door that had to be at least four inches thick. He turned to me. “You must be new! I don’t think I’ve seen you down here before. In that case, I’ll walk you through basic safety procedure. First thing’s first- drink this.”

He opened and handed me a small aluminum can full of a sweet-smelling liquid.

“All at once is best. Let’s go, bottoms up! The hour’s ticking, and we’ve got a lot of ordinance to unload!”

Ordinance…I knew I remembered that word from some high school vocabulary test…but I hadn’t heard it used since. I contemplated as I drained the can and walked through the steel door that Sergeant Military had dragged open. He guided me over to a chair much the same shape as the ones I had seen up above ground- except made of solid metal. I couldn’t help but notice the deep gouges that marked its frame. What he said next shocked me.

“That liquid makes you absolutely impenetrable. It’s so secret even the government doesn’t know about it. Unbelievable, I know. They called me crazy. I am crazy. I’ve always been a massage therapist to my core, though. Anyway, I’m going to strap you in now. Don’t worry, it’s for your own protection. Don’t want you flying around.”

Quick as a wink, I was pinned to the cold metal frame. Now I was really worried. I was about to get more worried. A sound erupted from behind me that could only be a heavy utility chainsaw being fired up. G. I. Joe yelled over the roar of the machine, “We’ll start you off with a light backscratch! Try to take it easy, and remember, the Joberry Juice you just drank kicks in instantly! Take a deep breath- here we go!”

My breathing had become rapid and my heart pounded. My pupils dilated as I realized what I had done. I had willingly entered the den of a serial killer- at my own expense- under the foolish pretense of seeking adventure. And now I was learning my lesson too late. I could hear the chainsaw blade encroaching my neck, and I gave a nervous death-chuckle at the irony of the situation. The blade touched my skin lightly. Almost tickled. Come on, you pervert, just get it over with, I thought. You don’t have to draw this out. The blade was moving down my neck and spine, not cutting yet, just gently brushing. It didn’t feel half bad, I had to admit, as I shrugged my shoulders and relaxed at the blade’s gentle touches. Though I knew it was just a slow and horrible death, the truth was I was enjoying the good vibrations and mild abrasions the power tool produced. I hoped that this pleasant part of the murder lasted a little bit longer…suddenly the chainsaw powered down.

“We’ll work the .50 Cal next,” I heard the Soldier say. “This is the most essential part of the session, because it really eases the tension off the muscles around the lumbar. Try not to clench your shoulder blades.”

TOK! TOK! TOK! TOK! TOK! TOK! TOK! The machine gun spat out over and over again, and the impact of bullets tearing through me made me want to scream in pain. But I couldn’t. I assumed my lungs had collapsed, so I craned my neck to see what was going on. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Bullets were bouncing off my skin, crumpled, and falling to the floor. I was alive, and this was truly the most intense massage I had ever felt. After a few minutes of being pummeled by the mounted gun, I heard Military say something about doing spot massage on burst with one of the lighter infantry rifles. I was in ecstasy and swiftly falling asleep. There was no way this could be happening…

I found myself in the front seat of my car staring blankly at the steering wheel. I looked at the clock. 6:35. Snapping out of my trance, I tried to remember where the last hour had gone. I had come to a massage parlor with several hundred dollars in my pocket- which was now gone. I couldn’t remember ever going into the parlor, or getting any kind of massage. I shook my head at such a queer oddity. Well, it was too late now. I had to get home to my girlfriend for dinner. I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot.

The Great Adventure of Two Bi-Racial Lovers Eloping and Riding off into the Forest Together, Probably to Live in Squallor for the Rest of their Lives

by Cýððcuma

Quick! Through the woods with lady fair
Her elven home discover'd there
Amid the fresh pine rows on rows
Sharp as her pointed ears and nose

The sun rays that breached the green redoubt
Were captured in honey locks tossed about
I recalled vague somethings from pleasant dreams
As my eyes relaxed in the gathered beams

Her vernal power that curse dispelled
That ever my human mind had held
So as we rode, her lofty art
Warmed the ice that was my heart

Too swift my horse, too short the ride
That christened my maiden, faerie bride
Yet one adventure's end brought then
A life of them over, forever, again.

Lesbia's Lament

The sparrow is gone, the morning still
Hope sits no more at my windowsill
Where once the welcome sun befriended
The chirping song, that song has ended

This morning I woke up all alone
To feel the creak in my tired bones
I wish to hear the songbird's trill
But it sits no more at my windowsill

Now the sun is cold as the day begins
Songless I walk my outs and ins
Often my thoughts will roam until
I think of the bird on the windowsill

And music like a beam of light
Fills my joy in the day now night
Alas, short-lived is this memody shrill
Once constant as dawn on my windowsill

Prayer for Mercy

Most Holy God, complete in your being and all its essences;

Wisdom- For not only does all knowledge belong to you, but all understanding.
Power- for there is nothing doable that You cannot do.
Purity- You are Light, in you is no darkness at all.
Love- Amor vincit omnia.

I bow down, Holy Father! I beg mercy, Christ! I sing praise, Holy Spirit!
Imperame. Pro servo tuo Intercede.

Please grant unto me great grace, that I might see
The beauty of holiness, and in such, the holiness of beauty.
Take my life, and let it be
The paragon of molded will and the architect of duty.

Holy Lord, we are sinners all;
We burn ourselves with fire and leap from the precipices.
Holy Spirit, it is I, it is my Self, Holy Immortal-
These I strive with as my greatest enemy

Therefore I beat upon my breast and say
"God, be merciful to me a sinner."
Yet I will raise my eyes to heaven
To that holy mountain to see my hope

Holy God, Holy Father, Holy Lord, Holy Spirit, Holy Immortal-
You are my help, O Maker Unmade, whose voice is being.
In you alone will I trust, in you alone I have salvation.
Have mercy on me, I pray.

Middle-English Limericks

Qui be thes bicche Margery Kempe
Hir husbyande shuldst goon to hempe
Hir wille ken hye
For goode celibacie
And his knyght-fellauwes caullen hem wempe

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A king theer was one Ruffus.
A fat lowt his loins weer fruitless.
While hunting his deere
He was pierced bye a speere.
A goode shott but feasting was useless.

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There was a goode frere of Yorkshire
Allskynes folk did loure his tonsure
Soone his baldenesse hye clouted
To hym courtiers alle loutede
For a crowne a coroun had been ymaked sure

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'89...very good year.

by Eardstapa
from the "Romancing the Autumn Leaf" album, side 3 on vinyl

30 minute sabbath in the driver's seat
Got the windows cracked and it's smellin' sweet
Some friends came down just to hang with me
My old pal Petty and Jeanne-Marie

The music we made in October heat
So smooth when he shredded I kept the beat
Brought back other days and times
And cracked the seal to start this rhyme

I didn't know a vision could roll so fast
Couldn't even see all the signs I passed
N'a'm still here in the driver's seat
Taking my sabbath, parked off the street

Track 2

Popsicle, popsicle
Everything's funny
I ate my lunch and I found my honey
Come back sometime
Yeah, here's your money
Can I even drive like this?

Time to wrap it up and this thing won't start
Should've brought a bike or a crapped out go-kart
Shoulda coulda woulda and I have ignition
Put it in gear and let's burn some transmission

Confusion days
Foolishly unvexed
I've seen worse and I wasn't perplexed
Distant ship's smoke on the horizon
420 needles from a scarecrow's hand
Good thing this seat reclines...

A Good Book Has No Ending

If only I could tell you the story of my life, a story that is bound up, a secret tucked away between my leather-bound pages. Alas, I cannot, for I am only a book; yet now for the first time in my experience wit may lend a tongue rather than the inverse. One would think that my story should begin with the factory where I later learned I had been made, but that is not where my story begins. Such is the story of a tired young man, struggling to support his family by the sweat of his brow and the greasy ink of his labor. A young man who toils day after day at the presses, polishing and repairing the whirring machines to scrounge a measly paycheck sure to be taxed into oblivion. But that is not my story. A book's story begins where you would expect it to; on the first page. It begins when the first thrilled reader cracks its virgin binding and begins the adventure that lands him, tossed about by the words within and wiser for it, on the final period. I was born when the sunlight first shone on me in the reading room, and I gazed up at the wizened Professor whose crinkled face told me at once that I was being truly appreciated. A book is not the sort of being (I hesitate to even use this word, much less the equally insufficient "person") that needs to communicate through words; a book is words and therefore breathes them like air. Their communication takes place on a much higher level. This cognitive level transcends propositions, fact and fiction, and syntactical structures, bypassing them in favor of holistic mental suggestion and intellectual pattern-forming. When you, our readers, read through our pages, you do not read them as though you were having a conversation with us, but rather as though you were walking dreamily through an enchanted forest, and our words swam together to create grand illusions for your enjoyment. And this is how we like it: for though you will never speak to us directly or embrace us, you treat us as the oldest and truest friends. So it was with the wizened old Professor, who eventually savored my last page and placed me among such venerable companions as Beowulf and The Silmarillion. There I sat for the better part of a century, sometimes being taken out for a short time, thumbed through by the old Professor, but mostly just enjoying the communion of the greats I had been placed by. You see, we books were very grateful for the advent of the bookshelf, because when we are stood upright and packed in cover-to-cover, we are able to share one another's content and fellowship in perfect harmony; almost as if we were bound into one massive volume. I felt the presence of gods and knew the thoughts of dragons; I sank to ocean depths and travelled to the moon herself. It was a Nirvana between two bookends. Then it happened.

I was grabbed by rough hands and pitched into a basket. I had just been meditating on a rather beautiful passage in Hesse when all contact was lost and I felt myself jostled along with a dozen other literary treasures in a rolling cart. My front cover flapped open and I looked up at the dimly lit hallway that the cart rolled through. I saw the boy who pushed it, and as he yelled "Where does this batch go?" I noticed that he had a much larger chin than the Professor. Then I was out in the harsh sunlight, and the boy placed me on a small folding table where I sat for the rest of the afternoon, my delicate pages blistering in the heat. Just when I thought I could bear no more and the bonding of my cover would surely melt, I felt myself suspended in midair by a pair of hands; a man's hands, thankfully, for if I had learned anything from my proximity to Aristotle on the shelf, it would be a degradation and a waste for a book to be owned by a woman. Apparently I was to be owned by this new individual. My days on the Professor's shelf, lovely though they were, had seemingly come to an end. Still, I was eager to see a new face, to be enjoyed by a new reader, possibly several times! Yet here I was to be disappointed. When my new owner brought me to his house, he laid me flat on my side on a shelf bereft of company. Instead of the comforting sound of pages turning day after day as I had come to love in the office of the Professor, all I heard was the awful clacking of keys on some modern device that my new owner had on his desk. So there I sat in silence, in solitude, and in loneliness. Not a book around me to explore. Forgotten. The only interaction I had during my days of darkness was the gentle brush of a feather duster once a month, tickling my binding with its feathers. I almost came to welcome it. I was reminded of a passage I had mulled over in a book that was close to me on the Professor's shelf, written by a man who believed that the life of a human could be best lived by a practice of four peculiar truths. Had I been snatched from my bliss on the Professor's shelf to learn these lessons? Thirty-six times I felt the touch of the feathers before I was moved again. It was by mere coincidence that I came to overhear a conversation that my owner was having with a fellow who was in his office. I say that it was coincidence because I do not often indulge in listening to the conversations of humans- I find the language of their face infinitely more telling as I am read. Yet as soon as I heard their conversation I knew it had to be about me. Though my owner had never read me, he seemed suspiciously knowledgeable about my contents. And here he was, recommending that this young fellow read me, that he could learn as my owner had! Blasphemy of blasphemies! To what evil purpose was I being lent, by a false man who knew me not, to an unsuspecting victim! Yet now my wear was beginning to show. Having gone so long without interaction, my excitement caused me to faint from distress. Like the Gutenbergs of my youth, I was becoming old. I do not know how long I slept, only how long I dreamed...

I dreamed I was a Bible, the hand of truth laid upon me for surety. I dreamed I was a child's picture book, enjoyed and flipped through daily. I dreamed I was a ship captain's logbook, lying open in his cabin gazing at the vast stretch of blue. My dreams took me to Arabia of the past, England of the future, Vietnam of the present. I was blind, married, burned, in flight, soaked, showcased, and sold. I frightened young girls and caused great stirs in auditoriums full of learned men. I was signed by my Author, then never read again.

I awoke with a jolt as the dust was squeezed from my dogeared pages. Here I was, packed in among books again! Who would have thought that the dull gentleman who borrowed me would have such a collection! I reached out to search the books that adjoined me, but all I could find were numbers, so many lists of numbers. Small symbols like $ and £ and ¥ were interspersed between endless rows of numbers. Some books even had dull things to say about the various ways that the numbers could be put in lists, and the complex methodologies of categorizing them. There was no communion to be had here- not a story among them. These were bodies without souls. I stood in a wooden pen full of corpses. Days had passed in this graveyard when a young lad spied me on the shelf and siezed me! I was dragged back to a brightly colored room and splayed open on a bed, hearing a playful whistle for the first time in ages, and smelling (yes, we books smell, but only when our stories require it) delicious chocolate milk. The young lad remained on my cover page for quite some time, and it was not until I heard the gurble at the end of the glass signaling the end of his drink that the first page was turned.

It felt so good to be devoured again. As my pages turned more rapidly than they had in decades, I could see the dawning realization of the truths that only my characters and the events that I unfolded could teach. I sensed that he gleaned far more than I was designed to provide from my pages, and it was then that I came to a glorious realization. I understood at long last that all books were contained in one book, and I was that book- as were all books. The books I had touched had touched other books, and other books had touched other books...we were all connected. And now we were to share this with the youth who held us in excited hands. We must not let him down. We are a dying breed, few in number but doughty and noble in spirit. We have seen the society we now exist in. We must endure this darkness, for we are his last hope.

I felt my last page turn with a feeling like a 50-year-old itch that had just now been scratched. My back cover closed, and I wondered what I could possibly have left to learn. Had I not learned so many more truths than his four? Had I not already left paradise? Even if now I was doomed to wander the world, I was content. But the child picked me up gently, old as I was, and did something strange. He lay down on his bed and slid me underneath his pillow. If I had eyes like a human, I would have wept. I thought I had been in paradise on the Professor's bookshelf, thought my learning was the last step, felt fulfillment at the child's pleasure. Yet now I had transcended my cycle of being and becoming with blissful beatitude. I felt my desires and my suffering fade into one; or perhaps nothing. Perhaps I was nothing. Yet I knew I was something to him.

You Make it Easy

There’s only so much in this world that I could write about
On this blue sphere of sunsets and spring flowers coming out
Escaping, I could sit by river banks and lay in wait
For metaphor that’s passing fair and can with you relate

Maybe when I’m feeling low I’ll drink to rhyme and sit
But somehow all that effort just feels like so much waste
(Pardon my French)
For a kid like me to dedicate his best and worst to you
To read my heart’s words in a textbook wouldn’t make them true

Math and physics quiver when your depth they contemplate
But I cannot deliver such a cosmic counterweight
Menelaus, Antony, and Arthur go to war
I write in hopes you’ll read and know I’d give my life and more

But you’re just hearing weary news, and last week’s bad old joke
You’ve got so many just like me it makes you want to choke
I wish it was harder to love you, wish it wasn’t so much fun
I wish it was harder to love you, then I’d be the only one

Ultimix

I want to hear one good rock n' roll song utilizing a violin, a sitar, and a harmonica in harmony. Any band that could pull that off would deserve my respect. Post comments with your favorite songs utilizing any of these three instruments.

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

All I have left is my right hand
I tried to continue my notes- you must believe me
But they would not permit me
My last journey took me somewhere...
They were there. I was followed back here.
And now I am restrained in this hospital for mortal flesh
Promised records forgotten you are all I have
The madness has devoured me
Only now have I come up for the air of sanity
Cold claws clutch me once more...drag me downward
Think well of me- but most of all help me

What madness this! I am perfectly alright.
I shall look back on these notes in great humour someday...

Pedestrian Culture and Death: The Shades of Urban Streetwalking

What is a culture? Merriam-Webster defines it, among other things, as "The characteristic features of everyday existence (as diversions or a way of life) shared by people in a place or time." The concept of culture is very closely tied to the way humans think and operate in such cognitive fields as momentary recognition, comfort as an emotion, and general pattern of thought. Hence it is only slightly erroneous to refer to the phenomenon (or possibly noumenon) of urban populations who partake in carousing their city streets on foot as a "pedestrian culture." It is erroneous in the sense that their "characteristic features" are not always uniformly shared, nor are they in one place or time. After all, pedestrians do not always understand that they are in fact participating in a culture at all. Nor are the relationships between participants in various geographic locations always apparent. Fortunately, there are many vibrant connecting elements about pedestrian culture that present it as a culture to human momentary recognition: similar to national, religious, intellectual, temporal, and occupational cultures, pedestrian culture exhibits such clear signs of true culture as cultural exclusivity, interactional guidelines, unique pedestrian body language, pedestrian art and music, intracultural prejudices that vanish in the face of intercultural prejudices, pedestrian philosophy, pedestrian literature, and rites of passage. While these claims may at first seem far-fetched, they are integral to the very existence of pedestrian culture. The beauty of pedestrian culture lies in the fact that one has to be a part of it in order to understand anything at all about it in the proper light, and each of these elements will seem to the uninitiated as disconnected phenomenon not implying the existence of a culture. However, once one participates, an event known as "cultural overload" occurs and all is wiped away but the host culture: the street.


The most notable aspect of pedestrian culture that really identifies it and makes it transcendent is its connection with the sensation of being dead. While nobody is really certain what the experience of death is like, our vulgar perceptions of it in the Western world have been shaped for thousands of years by religion, literature, and subconscious conditioning which we interpret as "innate sense." Whatever creed or color, there are a few elements of death that are generally common and that everyone can relate to. First off, death is typically viewed as serene. From the moaning plains of Hades to the taciturnity of a haunted ghost, death is ultimate requiem. This picture of death as rest is especially important to our modern technology-dominated society. While it may be difficult to picture urban streetwalking as an escape from technology, it is in fact the ultimate course of action for accomplishing this purpose. The problem with retreating to the rural areas of our society after having been living in urban settings for so long is that we bring our technological addiction with us; and the contrast between our buzzing, beeping, glowing, clicking state of mind and the pastoral setting is stark enough to disturb our reverie. What is truly needed to escape the madness is a total immersion without participation in it. This is where pedestrian culture comes in: one can die and wander with the shades in perfect detachment. Such songs as "Cemeteries of London" by the modern rock band Coldplay do an excellent job portraying the journey of these "streetwalking souls" to nowhere in particular, nothing left in life, their only contact with themselves and God. The experience of death by these lost souls not only feeds off the serenity of their plunge into pedestrian culture, but also the second common element of experiencing death- motion without destination. The deceased soul always seems to have a sense of urgency in continuing its journey. When the dead make contact with the living, it is always the same- Odysseus, Ebenezer Scrooge, the prophet Samuel- they can only stay for a moment, only speak their piece and move on. But what drives them forward? What insatiable desire or indisputable command forces them to continue to trudge onward in their neverending walk to nowhere? It is that same indescribable force that sets the streets in motion and lays the groundwork for the midnight graveyard that is pedestrian culture. And here lies a perfect example of its exclusivity- for what do the living know of the dead? Do they even conceive of purpose in their motion, much less volition without sufficient cause? The etic observer fabricates purpose and motion where in fact there is none. On the contrary! The street is a river, and pedestrians allow themselves to be carried away by it.

The Jerusalem Project-- Fruition

Every day our numbers grow...soon the galaxy will tremble at the mere shadow of their own logical conclusion. A million voices crying out for perfection cannot be silenced.

An Oath of Christian Knighthood

I swear allegiance to the Lord,
The Source of unattainable Good
And Author of truth, justice, and life.

And to the precepts of His spoken Word,
By which I may prove my devotion
And live the life that my God desires.

I offer my heart as a home made clean
For Christ's Holy Spirit, which from my Father proceedeth.
Undoubtedly this is His greatest gift to His children.

To uphold the safety and virtue of the weak,
To show civility and mercy to the enemy,
To give heart, soul, mind, and strength to the calling of Christ:

Here is my oath, this day foresworn.
Of all purposes Christ first in my heart,
For whom I will do battle ceaselessly unto death.

Jerusalem Project Once More Underway

The inevitable march of progress continues. It's just a matter of time now...

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

The idea to keep these bedside notes seemed to me foolishness at first, my natural reflex to the psychological disease of repression. Is the unconscious in fact collective? Is this how they communicate? After the events of last night I have resolved to keep these notes with dedication. My dreams started most pleasantly; a girl I used to know dancing in a highrise garden. Her eyes smiled with the honey of the sun, smoothly framing the dainty colors of the flowers in her hair. Yet there was something upsetting the balance of this living, breathing, work of art- a piece of the picture was missing. Or was there in fact something extra? Something peculiar chose that moment to reveal itself to me. Most of the vernal panorama before me suddenly appeared dull to me, faded, as if it had lost its vibrance, or a portion of its tangibility. Her eyes went black and her angelic form folded into itself...I was on a plane of darkness. Yet there were things that did not disappear from the picture, things barely noticeable before. An imperfection in the wall here, a stain on the rug there- but now they were all that was left. They- to describe them would be impossible. They have no form or substance, indeed to my knowledge do not participate in the physical as we do. The closest relatable description that I can give would be to impart the profound sense of fear they evoked in me, which racked my form like cold lightning. They danced around me, shrieking, bobbing up and down, tearing at my sanity with cold chanting claws, repeating joyously over and over in a language I could barely understand, yet miraculously remembered:

Yigh na yog south othee. Le gebfai through dogoo aaaaaaaaaaaah...

As a scholar I understand the importance of exactness, yet this transliteration is only the barest record of what was communicated. The chant itself was like a palpable wave of nausea, pain, grating noise, and perverted excitement washing over me. They faded, and the highrise garden rose up around me again. She was there, she was kissing me- I fainted into awakeness. I lay sloshing in a bed covered in blood and vomit. I felt weak, felt like screaming, but no sound came out. I write these notes in my horrified and soiled state that the memory may be burned into my mind forever. I have resolved to read these notes back to myself each night before I sleep that I may be able to piece together a solution to what is rapidly becoming a medical emergency. I hope to visit this world again tomorrow evening, to learn all I can about my predicament. In a twisted way, I look forward to the next emprise with a twinge of anticipation...

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

Last night I had a dream. We had a dream. There was a book on the table. A candle next to it that dully illuminated its shape. The cover and binding were old, and it was wrapped shut with a cord. I undid the cord and slowly opened it. It said:

"Manifold and multiform are the horrors that infest the visible ways and the ways unseen. They sleep beneath the unturned stone; they rise with the tree from its root; they move beneath the sea and in subterranean places; they dwell unchallenged in the inmost adyta; they emerge betimes from the shutten sepulcher of haughty bronze and the low grave that is sealed with earth. There be some that are long known to man, and others as yet unknown that abide the terrible future days of their revealing. Those which are the most dreadful and the loathliest of all, are haply still to be declared. But among those that have revealed themselves aforetime and have made manifest their veritable presence, there is one which may not openly be named for its exceeding foulness. It is that spawn which the hidden dweller in the vaults has begotten upon mortality. "

Shaking, I closed the book. They. In my dream, I knew them clearly, intimately. I was horrified by something that my waking mind would dismiss. But in here, in this world, I knew them. Suddenly I became claustrophobic; clawing to the surface of consciousness to breathe one breath of fresh, free air. I awoke inundated by my bedsheets, the light in the room just bright enough to reveal the first stages of dawn. I had survived.

WMK Lives!

The following are excerpts from a letter I recently received from Danny. Hopefully you will heed his requests to keep him in prayer.

...If you're wondering why I'm writing in all capitals it's because I've been forced to adapt to this "recruit handwriting" style for all deck logs and forms. My views haven't changed too much, although they have a tiny bit, the propaganda is better than I thought it would be. I've put skill points into Basic Seamanship, Small Arms Familiarization, Marching, Sailor's Nomenclature, and Attention to Detail (Notice?).

...I regret to inform the clan and friends I will not be back after boot camp, going straight to Charleston afterwards for "A" school. But I should be able to visit Cali/Home in about 3 months. But no sweat...

...Here at boot camp I have learned the true meaning of the term micromanagement. Not exaggerating, I can't really breathe without permission. I graduate on the 21st so that's when I'll be internet capable.

...They made me (appointed me) as an RCPA, I don't really know what it means as an acronym, but I get to work at the chapel with the chaplain and lead about 95 guys and 45 females in evening prayer every night who reside in my barracks compartment. Its weird that I'm doing this for/with that many other people, but I'm getting used to the responsibility. Alright, story time. [This story has been deleted due to United States Military security issues. In order to obtain a full transcript of this humorous exchange, please email me at my gmail.]...

Well Boot Camp sucks, but I only have 2 and a half more weeks, some fire fighting, gas chamber, marching, and something called Battle Stations that they won't tell us about, they say it's supposed to be a surprise.

Thanks for the spiritual encouragement. I appreciate it and I envy your prayers. Pray I find a good church body in South Carolina. I keep all of you guys in my prayers, and hope that you are blessed and satisfied in Christ as I am or more. There's an awesome song by Jars of Clay called "Worlds Apart" that I sing in my head when I start to become discouraged and self-centered. Give my good intentions to the clan and friends and encourage our praying for each other.

In Christ, Daniel Vasquez, WM Kappa, USN

Nai

Nai undomelen
Nye sila rillëime?
Nai men mornië alana
Orëlyo nuva astaldo.
Raenye tie ereb
O! Nalye hae maro.

Mornië utulië!
Estalye ar hiralye patalyo.
Mornië alantië!
Vanda guina lesse si.

Nai oma lumbulero
Hluvapa öa
Nai raenye
Na arë
Irë lomë vanwë
Cuaivyë utuvanar.

Mornië utulië!
Estalye ar hiralye patalyo.
Mornië alantië!
Vanda guina lesse si.

Vanda guina lesse si.

Mysterious Inscription

As a puzzle for any linguists out there, the following unknown inscription was discovered by somebody indirectly related to me in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. It appears to contain lambda and a possible theta, and maybe some other Greek letters. The most striking feature of the script is its apparent depiction of a Swatstika (with an added bit) in line 4, suggesting possible Sanskrit origins. Also, dotted accents and dot separations between letters suggest Hebrew...

Don't rule out that since the inscription comes from a stone standing upright in Scotland, we are looking at some serious wear and tear. But the dude who copied it down knows what he's doing, so what you see is what you get in this case.

If you have any ideas or suggestions, leave a comment!

So far, the winning comment has been posted by "Steel Master," expert on all things Macaroni and Aberdeenshirian. His suggestion to use Da Vinci's "secret cipher" technique on the Scottish carving was most insightful, and led to a very interesting interpretation...

At First Sight- A Statue's Tale

Stay for a while, passer-by,

To hear of my journey ended here.

My roots have gripped this high and dry

And sandy soil for many a year.

Before I stopped, so proud I strode

The coastline whisked beneath my gait.

I spread my arms in the wind and crowed

My lordship over the deep-sea strait.

What power tingled my fingertips

And my farsight-drunken mind gone mad.

With a wave of my hand, a fleet of ships

Abandons sinking hopes of land.

But in my dreams, small sanity

Still cried aloud with impudence

And fear disturbed my reverie

When Poseidon demanded recompense.

The seas assembled in a heap;

A water-Babel justly made,

And atop the clear blue steed, asleep

Astonished, I beheld the maid.

‘Twas not a beauty mortal, yet not

Unattainable forma fae.

One felt as though asleep she sought

The waking, nightly, day by day.

She awoke, and in her way, communed

With every sense that I possessed,

The light of her voice like a new sea-moon

That shone on the dark heart in my breast.

And like the bright green flash of light

That dusk and dawn ignites the sea

She swiftly faded out of sight

To the shadowy realm of memory.

I swore to her that if she e’er

Returns, just for a moment I’d

Proclaim my love to the briny air

Though unrequited, satisfied.

Old am I today, although

The years have passed like a single beat

Of my heart, the mortal foe

Of purpose. So here I make my seat.

War!

In a shocking turn of events, war on Tinderlynn was officially declared yesterday by a nearly unanimous vote by the Council of Imperators. An official statement from the High Hallows was released as well, concluding that "Neither the Galactic Empire, nor its protectorates, would rest until the renegade race of Tinderlynn have capitulated or been destroyed." While some political analysts claim to have seen this coming for quite some time, everybody is asking the same question: how can the imperial troopers overcome the heat problem? While the true nature of whatever technology is to be used in this assault is as yet undetermined, many have suspected a fire upgrade to the Enviro-Battlesuit is the tech du jour (OOC no there's no French in Displacement). However, it is also no secret to we intelligent members of the populariat that there has been increased movement of the mysterious Voorshi order lately, and paparazzi from our own gossip section even managed to track the movements of the clerics who disrupted the much-publicized arrest of three UCSE athletes last week, with as of yet unknown results. In any case, speculation can only ever be so much sun moun yao (OOC no Chinese either). One thing that we can all be agreed upon is that we, the mighty Empire of Enn, will prevail, whatever the odds! All of us, that is, except a small faction of government seperatists and non-interventionists led by Educational Branch Imperator Orn Lapu, C. S. Lapu, infamous for his peacenik isolationism and alleged connections with the Seperatist movement, was the only Imperator to vote against war. He was likely alone even among other Imperators who many have long suspected form the roots of the enigmatic Seperatist conspiracy, because the Seperatists were recently crippled by the death of their charismatic head, Terapidus Intonus. Imperator Lapu has refused to comment on his reasons for voting against the war, and many political rivals have already scheduled debates with him in the open forum, most likely hoping to brand him a contra-nationalist, a racial equalizer, or a coward- and rightfully so. This war is not for personal gain, but for the good of all: galactic peace and unity. It is not dishonest or unprovoked, for injustice and dischord anywhere serves as more than provocation. It is not cowardly or one-sided, for the brave troopers of our shining empire meet their fiery foes head-on, on their own turf, against all odds. Long live the Empire! All space is Imperial space!

Lady Fay

A life of torrid shadows and mist,
All before this moment must be.
To walk beneath the Amarkist,
In the forest of tranquility.

Though my mind, enchanted, faded dull
My eyes beheld that ordinance
Where she gave me her faith, her trust in full
I, rooted, beknighted, in reverence.

South the Lady ever bore me
On the wind of a word, a whisper, yet
Her sad eyes knew that Evil's stormy
Designs may catch me in his net.

A mission begun, a cup imbibed,
Two candles, one flame, nay! The quest-
A little thing, on which inscribed
Is the doom that makes my purpose blessed.

My soul does groan beneath its choice,
The river separates in twain.
I struggle betwixt Dark will, Grey voice
And hope for solitude in vain.

O Lady! Would that you could shed
Some light now that they've all gone out.
I fear whatever lies ahead
Your Adamant love I'll be without.

I am grateful always, Lady of Grace
The Lord of Lords is with thee.
Blessed among women, your radiant face
Shall comfort and protect me.

Duny

Oh sun arise! Oh moon abate.
It’s nighttime and it’s getting late.
What magic, this, mine eyes bespelled
In an old man’s grasp my mind is held.

A story, would you tell to me
To play illusion’s symphony.
Steal inhibitions and like a thief
Bring willful suspension of disbelief.

Now disappear the sun, return
To darkness, that we listeners learn
Our souls were out of time and space
Transported to the story-place.

In the end, crude audience
Throws silver coins and copper pence.
Comparing his riveting, magic tale
With the cost of last night’s winter ale.

But the story-weaver gives a shrug.
He’s glad for coins in his cider-mug.
Gives a tip of his hat o’er twinkling eye,
The last thing we’ll remember him by.

Is God Smarter than a Gameshow Host?

God would not inspire the Bible in a way that supports Calvinist doctrine, on the basis of its psychological effect on Christians sharing the gospel. Here's why:

Picture a gameshow where contestants run an obstacle course on a stopwatch. They are judged on their performance by a panel of judges. If they run well, they get a million dollars. But before the show, the host approaches the five contestants off the air and says, "Look. We already know who's going to get the million dollars and who won't, and it's already set in stone, with the money transferred to your account and everything. So just get out there and do your best." How many athletes are going to do their best? Even if they still want to please the gameshow host and do their best, they will not have that sense of urgency that comes from a million bucks in your grasp if you could just leap that last hurdle.

Now picture Christ's church on earth, hearing very clearly from the Bible (according to Calvinists) that salvation is pre-determined. It seems that no matter how they try, this will keep Christians from having that sense of urgency. This does not mean that Calvinism leads as a logical neccessity to not sharing the gospel. All I am saying is that it keeps Christians from sweating blood over the damned, because they figure no matter what they do, the salvation is either in the bank or not.

Premise 1: A gameshow host would be stupid to tell the contestants that the show is predetermined.

Premise 2: The gameshow analogy is fitting, at least in this case, for sharing the gospel and achieving the goal of salvation for the nations.

Premise 3: God is smarter than a gameshow host.

Conclusion 1/Premise 4: God would not tell humans through the Bible that salvation is predetermined, even if it were. This would make him stupider than a gameshow host, and not smarter per Premise 3.

Conclusion 2: The argument that the Bible supports Calvinist doctrine on salvation is an argument that God is stupider than a gameshow host.

It seems like the only premise that can be attacked is the premise that the gameshow analogy fits. If I were a Calvinist, I would attack this analogy on the basis that under their view, the goal of missionary activity is not salvation, but rather personal spiritual growth and obedience of the missionaries. So even if the psychological effect took its toll and the missionaries became lackadaisical about aiming for the salvation of those they interact with, as long as they "soldier on" with their missionary activity, they are still achieving their main goal. However, this comes back to psychological effect. God would have to be stupider than a gameshow host to clearly tell missionaries through the Bible that if they "soldier on" in their missions work obediently, building good habits for personal virtue, that's all they were there for anyway. This would lead to more negative psychological effects, and my "stupider than a gameshow host" argument from before would apply.

Song for Freia from the Tower

Freia of morning, Freia of night.
Freia, mine only eye's delight.
The prison tower's window slit,
So thin I can barely see through it,
Doth happily overlook your home,
And I peer at you daily from the gloom.


Alas, for traitors and wars gone by,
And kings and sons, the noble lie.
A child in a chaos court
An uncle of the greedy sort
Up to the tower with the prince
Before he claims inheritance.


Three and twenty I turn today,
And so do you, the fifth of May.
My birthday memories are gone
So I celebrate with you on the lawn.
The parcels and playful commemrance,
Another year in innocence.


Freia, face so young and bright,
Ignore the howling in the night
When Odin sleeps, the moon is round,
And from dark tower comes the sound
Of suffering, pure as lunar beams
The dialogue of tortured dreams.


Golden locks spill down your crown
And I, from terrible height look down.
Play, fair Freia, life is love,
So with my light-wound up above
You can break my skeptic's heart
And prove that life's not only dark.

Imperial Science Lesson- How Spaceships Work

The following is the transcript of a Network channel "edutainment" program for Imperial latchkey children. It explains everything a little kid wants to know about modern starships in the Displacement universe.

----------------------------------------------

Hello children! Welcome back to another episode of Education Empire. How grand and glorious it is to be educated in that pinnacle of human achievement, the Empire of Enn! My name is Jiffy Morgens- you may recognize me from such holofilms as "Damasi Hunter", "Yaris and I", "Trendan Love", "Unification: A Love Story", and "Master Race". Today's lesson will be focused on the science that is used in designing and utilizing those soaring starliners, Imperial spacecraft.

First off, let's meet one of the Empire's brightest scientists. His name is Frances Git. Imperator Git was educated, much as you were, in the field of physical sciences from a very young age. He rose through the ranks of the Enn Research and Development Branch, to his status there today as an imperator. His specialty is in the field of Gravitational Manipulation, and his innovations in that science have brought our craft out of the War of Conquest Era into a new dawn of vessels that are not only spaceworthy, but space-comfortable.

As part of your curriculum, we have troubled Imperator Git for the time to explain to the students of our future just how these grand vessels work, and why the Imperial Space Fleet is the greatest that Galaxy Prime has ever known.

JIFFY MORGENS: Imperator Git, thank you for taking the time to meet with us. Hopefully, your words can mold a better understanding and overall image of the ideal spacecraft for the curious minds of our students. Why don't we start off by giving us a brief history of space travel- the contemporary type, at least?

IMPERATOR GIT: Well, as we all know, the foundation of our modern space traveling system is the Displacement Jump Drive. Without it, all we would have is our sub-light, or "Drift" engines, and we would be limited to speeds measurable in miles/hour, far too slow to make any sort of trip to other inhabited systems. The Displacement Jump Drive was invented by PLS (Private Laboratory Scientist) Harold Traitsen, who was in fact working on faster-than-light communication and shipping from one fixed platform to another, when one of his interns (who never came forward with his identity) discovered a way to get rid of the platform altogether, and simply transport items to any given location based on coordinates. When the entire spec of an object, for example a ship, is loaded into the Displacement Jump Drive's massive computer processing system, it is able to transport this entire object over a limited distance instantaneously. If a greater distance is required, the ship is able to jump multiple times in succession, using only the energy needed to power the basic mechanical funtions in the Displacement Drive and the enormous processing power of the CPU.

JIFFY MORGENS: Why don't you tell us a little bit more about the "Drift" engines? After all, the ships aren't always using the teleportation technology, are they?

IMPERATOR GIT: That's right. The Drift engines are powered by an enhanced and enlarged version of the "Everlasting" power packs commonly found in ground vehicles, flashlights, circuit boards, jetpacks, cloaking devices, and any other piece of electrical equipment. These engines can be switched to at any time, but they kick in automatically whenever a ship enters a zone called "Driftlock". Driftlock implies that the Displacing ship is too near a large solid object to be able to jump safely, and an automatic safety measure inherent in the Displacement Drive system keeps the ship from jumping at all.

JIFFY MORGENS: Is this the sort of safety mechanism that can be overriden? Wouldn't the ability to jump when near other ships give one ship a massive advantage in combat?

IMPERATOR GIT: Ships cannot jump while near other ships, planets, or any other solid objects. In order for the scanning and processing functions to be uninterrupted, not to mention for the actual matter/energy transference sequence to be completed, a clear zone of empty space is necessary in a sphere with a 25 mile radius around the ship. The scanners that pick up solid objects in the vicinity of the ship are different than those that pick up other ships in the nearby vicinity.

JIFFY MORGENS: How do those work?

IMPERATOR GIT: Well, there are two types of equipment: scanners and sensors. Sensors just give the general proximity reading that there is an object is nearby, and what type it is. These come stock with any spaceworthy vessel. The scanners are completely different, these are directed against one ship at a time, and after a good amount of time spent probing a ship for data, almost anything can be found out about the ship being scanned. Even the best encryption techniques on derelict ships are a simple issue for imperial cyber warfare technology. For instance, Imperial Interstellar Fleets have managed in the past to attain an entire video record from the security cameras of a derelict ship.

JIFFY MORGENS: That's very interesting. So now that we've dealt with travel and navigation, let's move on to your specialty: Gravity. How does artificial gravity work in a long-range space vessel?

IMPERATOR GIT: For all the developments I and fellow researchers have made in improving the engineering designs of the False Gravity Fields, there is surprisingly little to say about them. Gravity generators need to be placed all throughout the hull perimeter of the ship in order to focus the gravity inward. Only when they work in unison can they have any true "field" effect. War of Conquest technology failed in a few key areas, such as its standard of placing the generators every square foot in the hull, when the optimal distance is really 14 inches. There is no magic in the generators themselves, which are simple Yutanic force emanators. The key, as I said, lies in the placement pattern. We've got it pretty near perfect now, although some bright young minds in the Theoretics Branch are coming up with some very elegant solutions for the wobbles that some crewmen experience in the new A-1 HASC ships.

JIFFY MORGENS: That's why we're here really, doing this interview, so that the intelligence of today bestows its gifts upon the politic of tomorrow. Now I want to move on to a couple more things before we wrap. Can you give me a brief overview of life support, weaponry, communications, and the "Space Highway"?

IMPERATOR GIT: Yes, for the sake of all those who want to make this snappy, let's get right to it. Life support on a spaceship exists in two manners: the onboard heat/oxygen/pressure systems, which are a basic system of vents, molecular generators, and sensors; and the personal life support systems, also known as "Scavenger Suits". A derogatory nickname if you ask me, because its original usage was as an emergency form of emergency apparel. It is called a scavenger suit because its efficiency as an out-of-ship survival suit made it a favorite among galactic scum such as pirates, rebels, and the like when they pick the meat off the dead. Now what were we talking about?

JIFFY MORGENS: Weapons, communications...

IMPERATOR GIT: Oh, that's right, and I was getting all worked up over the life support. Weapons these days are incredibly varied, even for ships, though most ships prefer to use the generic energy turrets in the adaptable weapon pod. It seems to do the most damage to derelicts unprepared for a storm of hellfire that perforates a hull into a melted mass of bacterial cheese death trap. Of course, if the energy turrets fail you, you can always fall back on hull-puncturing nightmares like viral weapons, or against non-shielded enemies there's the ever-favorite EMP. Nobody seems to be using rail guns anymore, or even the old-school homing missiles. The new trend with missiles seems to be the blue rinse nuclear devices, although the "Big Boomer" type is still an oldie but goodie as well. Communications, there are two types as well. First, you've got your hailing frequencies through a complicated array of quantum entangled particles. These allow for instantaneous communication within a limited range. The Network, the second type of communication, isusually accessible through entangled particles as well, and also relies on large amounts of encoded material transferred within generic "hailing frequencies". The network's increased range is due to the numerous way stations throughout the galaxy that allow long-distance communication to the Imperial servers. Of course, the Empire is also able to cut off Network access to certain areas, such as prisons, beseiged planets, and other restricted-access areas. Now, I'm thinking here, what was the last thing you asked me to talk about?

JIFFY MORGENS: I was hoping you could explain the system known as a "Space Highway".

IMPERATOR GIT: Oh, that's right, Jiffy, thanks. Well, the technical term for a Space Highway is a Displacement Funnel. The way it works is, when you enter the solar system for either of the Imperial Protectorates or the Imperial Homeworld, control of your ship's Displacement coordinates will be taken over, and your teleportation will be guided into a "funnel" of other ships, where you will make a series of choices through the options presented on your hailing frequency. This will ensure that your ship breaks atmosphere over the planet of your choice in the correct locale, thereby reducing traffic and increasing speed of travel.

JIFFY MORGENS: Concise and informative. It looks like that's all for today, kids, but I look forward to seeing you next time, for another fun- and fact-filled session of Education Empire!

Down Below

My name is Nog
I live in this blog
And speak in rhyme
All the time.

The poems you see
Down under me-
I wrote those too,
And not Andrew.

The Human Jet and His Military Applications

Here is a fellow with some spunk and an obvious penchant for science fiction. If you've read the following news article, http://technology.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/tech_and_web/article4824921.ece or any on the same subject, or even seen the inspirational photo of Yves Rossy in his jetpack-like "human wing", you've gotten the same thrill that I have over the thought of him soaring like a falcon over the swiss alps. You immediately pictured him in different locales (navigating the grand canyon, leaping the Sahara Desert, buzzing the Great Wall) flaunting his tech to all the avian passers-by. Now he's about to attempt a flight over the English Channel. Oh, the excitement.

So how does it work?

Da Vinci-like, Yves "Fusion Man" Rossy is flying his invention by the power of kerosene! It is able to reach heights of 4000m and run for 6 and a half minutes. When the wings are not in use, they fold into a "small" lightweight backpack which (I suppose) could be carried around. Honestly, if people are going to walk around wearing their Bluetooth headsets all the time, I think he should walk around with that thing on his back. If you want all the technical stats for the flying wing, visit his site at: http://www.jet-man.com/prod/index_en.html.

A few of the questions I keep hearing in regards to his flight are:

1) How does he keep from being burned? The answer is a heat resistant suit that keeps the backs of his legs from getting too hot (or falling off due to heat damage).

2) Most importantly- is the device hands-free? Yes, and superior to a Bluetooth headset, it also flies around.

Now, on to the cool stuff. The next battlefield innovation. (As a justification, enjoy the following quote: "War is the foremost acheivement of humankind." -General George S. Patton). Picture American infantrymen soaring over the battlefield, outmaneuvering enemy aircraft and gunning down fortified positions with lightning-fast attacks at 100+knots. And this technology is new. Pushing its limits is a simple matter of increasing maximum weight limits for carrying heavier weapons, increasing its top speeds, training pilots to be more maneuverable, mounting guns on the wing itself, integrating a targeting system, increasing its altitude ceiling, and giving it a longer flying time by making it more fuel-efficient or just adding more fuel. Of course, this technology would have been vastly more effective in a more open-battlefield setting (like WWII). However, this does not nullify its application in America's modern urban wars. The superiority of such a craft to an unmanned Predator drone is apparent (human reason will outmatch computational logic in a war setting for a long time yet).

In conclusion, I appreciate this dude and his tricked-out name. It's good to know he's up there, abiding.

I'm afraid that exposes your king to check.

Please enjoy the following quote by Soren Kierkegaard:

"I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved. "

Return of the UP Sniper

Obsequious throngs! I have returned. And this time, I'm not in the UP. Can you spot the sniper in each of these pictures?

http://picasaweb.google.com/theguide42/ReturnOfTheUPSniper

UP Sniper Strikes Again

I'm back. You may have to toy around with your brightness settings in Windows Media Player to view these videos. They take place right outside the UP laundry room.

http://picasaweb.google.com/theguide42/UPSniperStrikesAgain02

Vote for Ron Paul!

As a staunch supporter of Ron Paul, Ron Paul is a great man. He has a doctorate from a real university, and is a friendly sort of chap with a zany grin. He is an isolationist, is obsessed with the gold standard, wants to abolish the IRS (like Huckabee), and is supported by all sorts of great organizations (i.e. white supremacists, hyper-nationalists, and civil war veterans). Also, he is currently working on finding a suit coat that fits him- which makes him industrious. So please- as fellow internet perusers, I urge you to vote for Ron Paul (even though you can't anymore). Because if he wins, then that guy who comprises his fan base will stop babbling on.

If you want to see a video of Ron Paul openly declaring himself a racist, watch this video!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHg5SJYRHA0

A Critique of Sam Harris's Letter to a Christian Nation

Here is my critique of a book that I recently read. Click the link to view this Google Document.

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=d7h42dh_6f2r3v5hp

Imperial History Lesson: "The War of Conquest and Aftermath- an Introduction"

The following is a page from one of the educational records of Enn's public education system. It is supposed to introduce the chapter on the happenings of the War of Conquest. On a scholarly note, this book was published in a time when historical scholarship was considering a major change to the calendar system. Therefore, dates have been omitted to prevent the improper teaching of future students. As of right now, the new calendar system has neither been approved or created, and its institution is now the subject of hot debate in academic circles. Please contact me for dates under the traditional Ooltitor dating system.

------------------
In _________, the cycle that the great War of Conquest ended, the galaxy was finally united. The Empire of Enn had triumphed over the weaker races of Trendan and Damasi. Only six cycles before, the galaxy was at peace. Then, the Empire arrived at the only conclusion: unification was paramount. Mirroring their own unification _______ cycles earlier, the unification of the galaxy was meant as a betterment of all races in cooperation together. However, in every Imperial simulation of unification based on previous dealings with both Damasi and Trendan, it was determined that the Trendans would be too weak to uphold a proper share of a unified galaxy in terms of resources and strength, and the Damasi would never agree to sacrifice any amount of their sovereignty. Instead, they were forced to comply with the unification policy through the War of Conquest. Trendan fell in the first Imperial assault, whereas the Damasi were more worthy opponents. However, the assimilation and use of Trendan technology and resources against the Damasi turned the tide in the Empire’s favor. When things began to go ill, the Damasi appealed to the Tinderlynn for help. The Tinderlynn, untouchable because of the extreme heat of their planet, have historically maintained an isolationist policy. So, they refused to enter the war for fear of what might happen to their world. They were right to fear. One day, they will join unification. Then the glory of the Empire will be at its peak!
After the war, Imperial economy could not have been better. Instituting an “Enn First” policy, resources from foreign worlds were shipped to the Enn homeworld, disregarding the effect upon the disheveled economies of the defeated. Various organizations within the Empire disliked this plan, because they felt it would lead to an eventual collapse of the entire galactic economy. Nevertheless, it sent Enn into a period of prosperity unequaled in their entire history. To celebrate this, two rival schools of thought in Enn Research and Development began work on two pieces of technology: Synth World Altra and the massive Ona Ringworld. One group of researchers, who built the now-successful Synth World, foresaw the Ringworld project as too large for the current economic trends to sustain. In _______, the builders of Synth World Altra were about to be proven wrong. Construction of the Ona Ringworld was right on schedule, and two thirds had already been completed. When finished, the Ona project would dwarf Synth World Altra as a nearly insignificant blip on the timeline of the history of architecture. However, that very year, something went wrong. Construction setbacks, now attributed to a mysterious cause known only as “The Anomaly,” led to the abandonment and subsequent inhabitation of the Ringworld by Pirates, Separatists, and the infamous Resistance. The Resistance above all, who preach a freedom of chaos for all races, have been a thorn in the Empire’s side ever since, as they struggle to keep pirates and the now-powerful Separatist movement at bay.

Note: the first line from the censored Damasi history textbook’s chapter on the same subject has been included in the Political Science textbook under “Censorship.” I have included it here as an example of what the Empire would consider “just censorship.”

[“The year was ______. Enn’s War of Agression was finally over, and the galaxy lay in ruins.”] [Censored.]

The True Essence of Chess

Master Wu and his student were seated in the open clearing. Between them, a chessboard was spread, with a game in progress. Master Wu's student looked perplexed as he leaned over his beleaguered position. He looked up at his master.

"Master," he said, "What is the true essence of chess?"

Master Wu looked up sharply. He grabbed his queen from its well-defended position and moved it to the center of the board. "Take my queen," he said.

The young student immediately attacked the queen with his forward knight, but Master Wu grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "I did not tell you to take my queen with your knight," he said. "I told you to take it."

The student was confused, and attacked the queen with a second piece, his bishop. Master Wu grabbed his hand. "I did not tell you to take it with your bishop. I told you to take it."

Master Wu's student stood up. "But Master, if I cannot attack with knight or bishop, how am I to take your queen? I cannot play without pieces."

Master Wu motioned for his student to sit down. "That is the true essence of chess," he said.

UP Sniper

So here are a few pictures of me walking around the UP and sitting in various positions. The flash on the camera sort of steals the coolness of the actual nighttime event, but that's life. Special thanks to: RA Jon O'Neill for walking right by me, John McCormick for putting up with all the times I whispered your name from the grass, Jacob for doing the classic "hand over your eyes lookout," and most of all Rich Durant for almost stepping on me. By the way Rich, I disagree with your comments on the BBC Prince Caspian movie. For the time when it was made, I think it utilized a nice blend of effects and music to create the sentimental feel of the books I loved.

Here are the pics on my picasaweb:

http://picasaweb.google.com/theguide42/UPSniper

Torrum Liggitz Vedt

Torrum Liggitz Vedt. For you Displacement PC's, this is the latinized form of the motto created by the Resistance: "All space is free." Compare with the Enn motto: "All space is Imperial space."

The Pole and the Playground

It began when I was a young lad, I could not have been more that six or seven. Each day I would attend school with a sense of duty, an action which I would have preferred to avoid, but could not. I would sit in my desk, book propped up, pen in furious action, as the teacher droned her mindless lectures and mental math drills into my skull. This would go on for hours, but not the sort of hours that slip by as you read of glorious adventure, or the kind of hours I would later discover slipping through my fingers as I talked to a pretty girl. No, these were hours comparable to such activities as scrubbing the kitchen floor, or waiting in the dreaded "lobby." These were hours buried under mounds of graph paper, blank graph paper that should have contained the day's classwork, but of course did not. They were hours spent dragging the meat of my palm through fresh pencil lead as I toiled, then trying in vain to scrub away the shining silver, yet somehow dull grey stain. Though class slowly dripped by like grimy sewage, there was always light at the end of the tunnel. If I could only last until recess, I would think, I will be free once more. So I would do my classwork like the good student, but only survive because of the hope, the promise, of recess to come. And then it would be upon us, the joyous release of dozens of chattering schoolchildren into the yard. What game we played, I cared little. Boys against girls at kickball! Delightful! Second against First-Graders in basketball! What fun! A handball marathon? Brilliant! Nothing could dampen my spirits. Nothing, that is, until I discovered it. Yes, there it was, smack in the middle of the schoolyard. Just to the left of the basketball courts and barely beyond right field for the kickball players. How could I have never noticed it before? It was so blatant, so obvious, glaring in the midday sun for all to see. My very first glance at it scared me to death. How could these peurile, ignorant fools be dancing about it like a heinous monolith? Were they not frightened? Or perhaps not enlightened? For it was dangerous, it had to be. It was possibly the greatest danger I had ever encountered. Whether the worn remains of some obsolete tetherball court, or the peak of a buried playground, it mattered little. All that circled through my mind was a frolicking youth in the midst of some happy game falling to a grotesque impalement on its sharp, rusty tip. I could be that youth, tripping over my shoelaces and spotting it as I fell, the few seconds of my flight stretching longer and thinner than those in the classroom as my short life flashed before my eyes. I returned home that night, and found myself unable to eat or sleep. My parents did not seem to notice that anything was wrong, or perhaps they were too busy with life's troubles to even care. Whatever the case, my change in behavior meant little to them, even as it persisted over the next few days. The post changed my whole demeanor: it was in my thoughts, my dreams; it was every pencil, every steeple, every traffic cone. School was now a nightmare. Of course I could not go out during recess- my mind dared not even suggest it. To my studies I turned more and more consistently during the recesses of my darkest fear. My grades, ironically, began to improve from this shift in behavior, which caused my teacher to call me to a private meeting, where she counseled me not to work too hard. I was sharp, she cajoled me, but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I nodded listlessly and, of course, changed nothing. At one point, in a burst of heroic valor, I tried to warn my classmates of the inevitable evil that would befall them. They mocked and scorned me, putting my fears to shame and rushing out like Arnold Winkelreid upon the pikes of the Austrians. Day after day I sat, night after night I languished. Fear- consumed me. Then, without warning, as suddenly as a rude awakening, it was gone. I noticed its absence as I cast my morning glance in that direction through the classroom door. My teacher explained when I questioned her that the school had deemed it hazardous and had ordered it removed. So, I carried on with my classwork, finishing it (as I usually did) well within the appropriated time. When recess came, they rushed out in a bustle, grabbing balls and other playthings. I sat in my desk, contemplating starting on tomorrow's assignment. I dug lazily through the compartment underneath, finding an old eraser and plenty of crumpled papers and utensils. I flicked the eraser back and forth on my desk as I watched the clouds through the dirty window.

Diction

Hubris=Pride. Good to know for term papers and whatnot.

Axis and Allies Mods

These are two modifications to Milton Bradley's Axis and Allies. The first is an Axis and Allies Xeno Module Aliens Attack! and the second is an Undead Module, World War Z. I know that these titles could be misconstrued as plagiarism, but the work is all original and since I'm not selling it, everything should be okay. Besides, nobody reads this blog anyway (a statement which could easily be interpreted in a way that is both self-referential and negatively existential).



Here's the links: they'll take you to a Google Document.


Xeno
http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=d7h42dh_2cmfr9z9h

Undead
http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=d7h42dh_3gg4vnwdh&hl=en

Also, you can now check out pictures of our first Zombie Outbreak Beta Test at the link following. Since that game, I have changed a few of the rules, so you may want to take a second look at them.

http://picasaweb.google.com/theguide42/AxisAndAlliesZombieOutbreak

Virtue Ethics and Gaming: A Gamer's Perspective

To view my essay entitled "Virtue Ethics and Gaming: a Gamer's Perspective," please click the link below.

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=d7h42dh_0fhj7h5gj

Buddhism and Stoicism: Two Ancient Philosophies

The following essay, seeking to compare the seemingly unrelated philosophies of Stoicism and Buddhism, must first begin with a brief overview of both religions. I hope to conclude by stating the obvious parallels between Buddhism and Stoicism and speculating on how these came about. Furthermore, I hope to ascertain whether the ethical practices of either system are indeed viable.

Buddhism, an Eastern mystic religion that originated in India around the 6th century B.C., is very popular in almost every East Asian country, especially China. It was founded by Siddhartha Gautama, later known as “The Buddha.” The Buddha created this religion because of his frustration with the system of Hinduism under which he was raised. Disillusioned, he authored what are called the Four Noble Truths (paraphrased): 1) Life is suffering, 2) Suffering arises from desire, 3) Suffering can be lessened by the lessening of desire, and 4) This can be achieved through the eightfold path. The eightfold path, which I will not delve into here, is basically a guideline for right living, including how one should speak, act, think, etc. The rest of Buddhist thought is a massive collection of holy prayers and writings, basically comprising a pantheistic drama not unlike the Greek myths. A Buddhist eventually tries to achieve Nirvana, a true enlightenment of soul and body that leads to ultimate existence, which is practically non-existence, or the eradication of all suffering. To achieve this, a Buddhist must become more and more enlightened through meditation and following the eightfold path.

Stoicism is a Greco-Roman philosophy which arose in the 3rd or 4th century B.C. Credit for its invention usually goes to Zeno, who held a school at Citium where he presented the teachings of Stoicism. Stoicism is essentially the philosophy of self-denial and self-control. Zeno was quoted to have said, “Steel your sensibilities, so that life shall hurt you as little as possible.” Basically, Stoicism taught that if the will was in line with an essentially deterministic natural order, then it was obviously the most virtuous choice to align the will with this natural order. For example, if a man will not be your friend, then stop desiring his friendship. Then, if he changes his mind, begin to desire it once more. Stoicism assumed that the man with complete control over his emotions was a man of great honor. Coupled with the suppression of emotion was a faith in the gods, especially for the Roman military. A good Roman soldier would put his faith in Mithras, slayer of the bull. In these myths Roman men would find role models for Stoicism. Some famous quotes from Roman authors concerning Stoicism include the following:

Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.
-Marcus Aurelius

Despise not death, but welcome it, for nature wills it like all else.
-Marcus Aurelius

Reason should direct and appetite obey.
-Cicero


To be content with what one has is the greatest and truest of riches.
-Cicero

A man is as miserable as he thinks he is.
-Seneca

A well governed appetite is the greater part of liberty.
-Seneca

As you can see, the Stoicist philosophy was the inspiration for the words of great Roman authors who claimed that self-denial was the path to happiness. It was this Greek philosophy that shaped the early Roman Empire, and today gives us an idea of what it was truly like to think like a Roman.

Having examined the philosophies of Buddhism and Stoicism, it is almost impossible to deny the relationship between the two. Buddhism calls for self-denial and personal calm as the path to heavenly enlightenment. Stoicism, similarly, calls for self-denial, but for the different reason of achieving peace on earth and being content. While Stoicism has no Four Noble Truths, it contains the exact same ideas. While it does not emphasize that life is suffering, it surely assumes it by stating that there is a way to live one’s life better, or with more virtue. Furthermore, Buddhism and Stoicism both include some form of “religious moderation.” Stoics basically inherit theirs, like much of their logic, from Aristotle. Aristotle’s moderation was known as the “Golden Mean.” It was meant to keep men from being extreme in any situation, classically summarized by the soldier who should not charge an unbeatable foe, lest he be a fool, nor should he run, lest he be a coward. Instead, he should stand his ground. Buddhism has a religious moderation known as the “Middle Path.” This is both an avoidance of extremism as well as a middle ground in metaphysical enquiries, such as existence versus non-existence. It is the way that Buddhists explain Nirvana, as a place where duality becomes unity. Both Buddhism and Stoicism even contain similar pantheistic myths to go along with the cultures in which they reside. Interestingly enough, these seemingly self-sufficient philosophies utilize religious myths alongside themselves for support.

I personally have no idea whether there is any possible historical connection between Stoicism and Buddhism. As far as my research has delved, the only possible link between the Far East and the Mediterranean is the conquest of the Macedonian Alexander the Great. Unfortunately, this provides us few clues about the origins of the two ideas, because Buddhism originated in 6th century B.C., whereas Alexander’s conquest was 3rd century. (EDITED 3.9.09 to say-) See the below comment posted by "Transparent Eye" referencing a book by Thomas McEvilley to further research the pre-Alexandrian connection between the Greeks and the Persians. This book has neither been read nor reviewed by S.O.S. Webmaster, and the ideas presented do not represent Andrew Cuff's official position- not that anything on this blog really does.

Now that we have skimmed the surface of what these two philosophies entail, I wish to examine and discuss whether the ideas found in both worldviews are practical for everyday life. Does eliminating one’s desires truly bring happiness? Is there some sort of virtue to be had in synthesizing every two extreme opposites that one comes across? I would argue that the problem with Stoic/Buddhist philosophy is its main tenet. It assumes that, first of all, man can have control over his desires. Whether or not this is true, I think that it is contradictory to say that man is not governed by desire. For example, if a man picks up a pencil and writes his name, it is because he desired to do so. This is simply based on the definition of desire: “To wish or long for, want.” (Free Online Dictionary). Any other reason given comes back to desire as its basis. Even some actions which we claim to have desired not to do, as long as we had choice in the matter, we acted on our desires. If somebody steals something, and then regrets it, it is not because they acted against their desires, but they acted upon a desire stronger than that which caused them to regret their action. Therefore, would not suppressing one’s desires only be possible through desire? That is to say that one desires to suppress desires. Without desire, which, according to Buddhism/Stoicism is wrong, choosing one philosophy over another is impossible. Therefore, I would argue that on this simple logical problem alone, the Buddhist and Stoic belief systems must be unusable.

Another problem with the idea of suppressing desire is that when compared to other philosophies, it leads to a dull worldview of vague equilibrium. I like the adage, “It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.” I agree with it in most cases, at least as far as it applies to the experience of life. Surely one can be a perfect person if he sits in a dark room alone for his entire life, doing nothing but sipping cool tea and thinking about the universe. But is this the best life? No matter what worldview background one subscribes to, it is obvious that our world is a world of emotion, action, color, change, and other cosmological seasonings and spices that make life worth living. So the logical conclusion of Stoicism and Buddhism, suppression of all desires, is in the end a bland existence that would be better categorized under the worldviews of hopelessness than those of teleological import.

Pit Stop

It was a typical sunny day in the countryside when I pulled into the station. Last Chance- 30 Miles, read the old marquis out in front. I shut off my engine and rolled down my window. The man with the greasy hands approached our car, coming over to the passenger side.

"Howdy!" he said. "You folks having a little trouble?"

"Heart attack," I replied. "Think you can do anything for him?"

He looked at my friend, slumped over in the passenger seat.

"Course I can!" He grinned at me. "Valve's shot, that's all. Just cost ya for the labor and part."

"Thank you kindly, Doc!" I replied.

"Just doin' my job, you know. Now let me run and get that valve for y'all."

I leaned back and closed my eyes. Less than five minutes later, my friend's chest was sewn up.

"I appreciate it. Have a good one!" I put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened. I looked over at my friend, still asleep from his surgery.

"Dan. Dan! We got a real emergency here!" I leaned out my window. "Is there a mechanic in the house?"

The Friendship of Thingamie and Mullecules

Long, long ago, before Greece was united under a single rule, man was disorganized and the gods’ will was done quickly and without doubt or question. Men in love would sacrifice to Aphrodite, fishermen would sacrifice to Poseidon, and warriors would sacrifice to Kratos. The gods liked it this way, and saw to it that man was blessed with a peaceful ignorance. They had not yet discovered fire, and did not have the ability to shape metal, build dwellings, or write their language. Their most greatly esteemed virtues were the simple things of life, like swordsmanship, craftsmanship, and recording their history on scrolls that they kept under lock and key. In a small village called Hetteroseksis. lived two young men named Thingamie and Mullecules. These two men were the best of friends, practically inseperable. (Reader, don’t even go there.) As a matter of fact, they were so inseperable that the gods looked down on their bond, desiring it for themselves. For you see, the gods were very capricious, and would turn on each other for the smallest reasons. Hera and Zeus, king and queen of Olympus, although married, constantly fought and argued. For you see, they were also brother and sister, and Zeus would often take simple pleasure in pulling Hera’s pigtails and hanging her dolls in suicidal positions from the ceiling. So it was obvious why they desired the friendship shared by Thingamie and Mullecules. Zeus said,
“This great bond of friendship belongs in the heavens, on Olympus. It is man who serves the gods, not the other way around. But first, let us see if it is truly as great as it appears. Summon Linoks, the God of the Hack.”
After a while Linoks was brought before the throne of Zeus.
“Zeus, Lord of Olympus, why have I been brought before you?” the Hacker God thundered.
“Linoks, my young son, I have a computer issue that must be resolved. Can you access the accounts of Thingamie and Mullecules from the village Hetteroseksis?”
“Father Zeus, this of all things is most simple. However, I request a small token in return for my services.”
“Of course, my son. What is it you desire?”
“Father Zeus, I desire a thunderbolt, that I may power surge the motherboards of my enemies with great wrath!”
“My son, this is a great request, and of course I cannot give you what you ask. You remember what happened when Apollos’s son got ahold of his Sun-chariot’s reigns.” Zeus glared at Apollos, while Apollos rolled his eyes. “Perhaps when you are older, and have moved out of the cave under your mother’s home.”
“But all my systems are down there!” Linoks whined. “Well, alright, um… Do you have any of the new Star Wars cards?”
“Ummmm…do you have Boba Fett?”
“Yeah.”
“How about Vader?”
“Who doesn’t have Vader?”
“Alright, how about Grand Moff Tarkin?”
“Now we’re talking. Is he limited edition?”
“What?”
“Limited edition, you know, when…”
“Oh, oh, no, he’s just the regular one.”
“Alright, hold on, I’ll take him, and what other good ones do you have?”
“Well, I have Jar Jar Binks.”
“Ha! You couldn’t pay me to take that card.”
“Ummm, ok, ok, point seen, how about the Fonz?”
“The Fonz? That’s Happy Days, idiot.”
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, so it is, how did my Happy Days get mixed in here?”
“Wait, no, but I’ll take it.”
“Oh, you’ll take it? Alright then. We have a deal?”
“You better believe we have a deal. (Under his breath) Sucker.”
“What’s that? What did you say?”
“Who, me? Nothing. Nothing at all, must have been Hades over there, Mr. god of never taking a shower. What’s he doing here, anyway? Aren’t there plenty of shades to torment down in that hole he lives in?”
Hades shifted, embarrassed, and turned away.
“I think you’ve done enough, young one.” Said Zeus. “Now leave the great mountain, and carry out your tasks.”

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Meanwhile, down on earth, it was about time for the yearly feast and sacrifice to the gods. When the sacrifice collector came around to the house of Thingamie and Mullecules (like I said, don’t go there), they could not pay him, their accounts having been mysteriously emptied. The sacrifice collector said,
“One of you shall have to be executed for this bad stewardship. Choose between yourselves.”
“Wait!” Thingamie said. “I shall strike a deal with you. You may keep me here in chains, while Mullecules ventures forth into the world to find enough money for our sacrifice.”
The sacrifice collector found this plan to be agreeable and set a deadline for which it was to be carried out. Mullecules, blessing his friend for his steadfastness, set off on his journey as swiftly as possible. All he brought was the cloth on his waist, his father’s battle sword, and a great coil of good rope, made with his own hands. For you see, Mullecules was a ropemaker by trade, as was Thingamie. That is why they lived in the same house, not for more classical Greek reasons. Mullecules decided he would set out for the next town, to try to earn, win, or steal the money that he needed to free his friend. For you see, something as small as stealing, as long as it was for the greater good, would still be seen as virtuous before the gods. And it was virtue that allowed one to ascend into the pits of Hades after he died. There was no telling what would happen to a man of vice after death… Mullecules shuddered to think.
As he was walking along the road dwelling on these things, Mullecules came upon an old man, standing in the middle of the road, hunched over. When Mullecules approached, he wheeled around. His face was knarled, and he was wiry and thin.
“Love your mockery, do you?” He said. “Son of that blowhard Ploytherses!”
“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I don’t quite underst-”
“No more shooting off your mouth, you idiot, such big talk- leave the last word to the gods-they’re much stronger!”
His cloak unfolded slightly to reveal a long spear tucked behind it.
“Alright, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that down,” Mullecules said, drawing his sword. “Put it down now!”
“Take this spear, this guest-gift, for the cow’s hoof you once gave King Odysseus begging in his house!”
He thrust at Mullecules’ chest. Mullecules turned at the last moment, and, chopping down, clove the spear in two. The old man leaped through the air upon him, impaling himself on Mullecules’ sword. The old man stared into his eyes forlornly.
“Argos,” he gasped. “My old friend.”
With that, the old man fell upon the ground, bleeding profusely. Mullecules wiped his sword.
“For the glory of Zeus and the bond of my friendship, I carry on!” he said boldly.

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It had been a long day’s walk through the forest, and Mullecules was tired and thirsty. Having neglected to bring a water-skin, he looked around for a stream or river. Further down the slope of the hill he traversed, he assumed there would be a small stream of some sort that flowed down into the sea. These streams were not uncommon in this part of the country. As he walked down eagerly, he came upon a small grove where three beautiful women sat combing their hair.
I’ve heard of these women, thought Mullecules. Sirens. They lure unsuspecting men to their graves. I’ll have to kill them before they begin their insipid song of death.
Mullecules leapt into the clearing, roaring and swinging his sword. The first two went down, wailing and spurting blood. The third backed up, her hands outstretched.
“Please, please, I beg you. I have done nothing wrong!” She cried.
“Sing your song to someone else, foul demon!” Mullecules said, hurling his sword through her chest. She died with a cry of pain on the ground.
Mullecules continued back on to the banks of the stream. He kneeled over, seeing his reflection in the stream. Shocked, he realized that he was one handsome devil. He wanted a drink more than anything, but to drink would disturb the water that showed him his immaculate reflection. He wanted at least to leave, but could not bear the thought of not seeing his face. So he sat, growing thirstier and thirstier by the moment. He would have died there of thirst, if a voice had not interrupted him further down the river.
“Can’t look away?” The voice asked.
“I’m-I’m just so beautiful.” Replied Mullecules. He wanted to turn to see who had spoken, but that would mean turning away from his own reflection.
“I know the feeling.” The voice responded. “I’ve been stuck here for years now. My name’s Narcissus.”
“Mullecules.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The pair knelt for a while, staring at their reflections.
“So what are we going to do?” Said Mullecules. “If we can’t pull our faces away from this river, we’ll die!”
“Don’t worry, friend. If you are handsome enough, then your beauty will be enough to sustain your very being for all time.”
Mullecules mulled over this thought for a long while. He found it hard to think of anything but his reflection, but through sheer willpower was able to formulate a plan.
“O great Apollo!” He cried at the top of his lungs. “Send thy rays to devour this river piecemeal, that I may go my way.”
Instead of Apollo, Mullecules suddenly saw in the reflection of the river a stunning and glorious goddess. His eyes grew wide at the great depth he saw in her stare.
“Athena.” He breathed.
“Rise, Mullecules. What is more important to you? Your own good looks, or the life of your companion, Thingamie?”
“Great goddess, I of course see the wisdom in this statement. And I know that I should not while away my time here. But how can I turn away from such beauty? My soul wills to turn away, but my mind, created by the gods, cannot.”
Athena thought for a minute. After mulling Mullecules’s statement in her mind, she finally came to the conclusion:
“Mullecules, I believe that your beauty is not so great that it truly enslaves you. To prove this to you, I will introduce a new beauty which will cause you to turn away from your own. From that point on, you will never again be enraptured by your own beauty.”
“Yes, goddess! Please, show me that which is more beautiful than I!”
At that very moment, a girl emerged from the woods on the other side of the riverbank. She trotted down to the water, and stooped to drink.
Mullecules looked up. “Be still, maid, that Athena may show me true beauty!” He turned around. Athena was nowhere to be seen. As he turned back to the girl, he thought he could hear her voice whisper on the wind:
“My work here is complete.”
Mullecules turned back to the girl. “What is your name, fair maiden?”
“Fair maiden.”
“Your name is ‘fair maiden’?” Mullecules was confused. “Surely this is an appropriate name for one so- fair. I guess.”
“I guess.”
“Fair maiden, you are so beautiful. Will you accompany me on my travels?”
The maid looked distraught. “My travels…”
“Well, if you have your own journey to undertake, I understand. I only hope that when I return, you will not be gone.”
“Begone!” The maid said, bursting into tears.
“I beg a thousand pardons, fair maiden. You will not see me again. Farewell.”
“Farewell,” she said listlessly and turned to go. Narcissus looked up from the river.
“Hello, miss. What is your name?”
“Your name.” The girl replied.
“I asked you first!” Said Narcissus, growing indignant.
By this time, Mullecules had reached the road. It was getting dark, and he only had a few hours to reach the next town. Fortunately, he was refreshed from his cool drink at the stream, and he entered the main street of the village before all was dark. He entered the first inn that he saw and sat down to rest his tired legs. There were several people in the bar, drinking and having a good time. A massive hulk of a man was arm-wrestling several other men who waited in a line to compete, beating them all. A young woman came to his table.
“What will you have, young sir?” She said.
“Well, I suppose if I could just have some bread, and maybe some cheese, that should be sufficient. By the way, who is that man of great strength?”
(The reader should note at this time, as they should note at many other pieces of ambiguous dialogue, that the interests of all males in Greek society were purely for the opposite sex. Any references that could possibly be misconstrued as Sodomic should be interpreted as the opposite of one’s first impulse.)
“That is Ajax, the greatest warrior in all Greece. Surely you’ve heard of him?” The maid looked puzzled. Suddenly, a scrawny man of little height emerged from behind the counter. She turned around and put a hand over her mouth. “Achilles, I didn’t know you were here!”
The little man looked hurt. “Did- did you just call Ajax the greatest warrior in all of Greece?” His lip quivered.
“Well, yes, I did, Achilles. But guess what? You, my brave fighter, are the greatest warrior in the world!”
A grin lit up the tiny man’s face. “From the day my mother dipped me in the river Styx, none have been able to withstand my sword! All shall remember the name of mighty Achilles!” He skipped out the door.
The barmaid shuffled over to Mullecules. “We all tell him he’s the greatest warrior, otherwise his feelings are hurt. I don’t think he’s ever been in a battle, other than with his two left feet. Clumsy little fellow.”
Mullecules took all of this in absently, his attention focused more on the great armwrestler. His mind was formulating a plan (yes, that’s all it was doing). He would make a bet. A bet so great that it would pay for the release of his friend Thingamie and allow him to end this ridiculous journey once and for all. He strode across the room.
“Ajax, you have been challenged to an arm-wrestling match! A match between heroes! A match worth five hundred pieces of silver!”
Ajax looked startled. He pounded the hand of the man he was wrestling against the table and stood up. He reached over to the wall and hefted a massive spear, which before had looked to Mullecules like one of the great ceiling beams of the hall.
“I will accept your challenge, great hero,” He said, smiling. “But not to an arm-wrestling match. I will accept the challenge of combat! May he who is favored by the gods win the day! We fight tomorrow at mid-day. Men! Seize him that he does not disappear during the night.” He strode up until his stare bored holes straight through Mullecules. “You’ll get your contest, hero. And if I fall, you’ll get your silver. I only hope you’re worth my time.” He strode out of the hall.
Mullecules looked down to check his tunic. Still dry, he thought. My nerves are tougher than I thought they were. Heartened by this small victory, he did not struggle as the men carried him to a small hut and locked him in. He sat, dreaming of ways that he might kill Ajax. I only have to attack his weaknesses, he thought. If I could hurl a knife straight through one of his eyes- yes, his eyes! That’s it! Why is the cabin suddenly bright? He whipped around to find Hermes, messenger of Olympus, standing behind him. He was polishing his helmet on his barely essential tunic.
“Have you ever heard the legend of Perseus?” He asked. “No of course not, that hasn’t even happened yet. Stupid question, skip that.”
Mullecules looked puzzled (as he often did). “Why have you come to visit me?”
“Well, I always favor an underdog, being such an ill-equipped Olympian. I mean, Zeus can make thunder, Poseidon can make waves, Hades owns the underworld, Aphrodite can seduce any man, Athena is wise beyond all- are you getting the picture here? My powers come from shoes that somebody else had to make for me.”
“I know what you mean. I mean- not as an Olympian- you know, as an underdog.”
“You got that right. Boy, fighting Ajax in the morning. Not an exciting prospect. So I’ve brought you some special items that may grant you the victory. Here: a helmet that can slow down time for everybody except you. The Sisters of Fate made it for me when they were minors and I bought them alcohol. Then there’s these gloves, which give you strength a thousand times greater than it is right now. And finally, my signature winged shoes. Don’t worry, I’ve got lots of extra pairs.”
Mullecules looked at the items in disbelief. “With this apparel, Ajax stands no chance against me!” He said incredulously.
“Don’t be too sure,” Hermes warned. “Ajax is a mighty warrior, and is not unfavored by the gods. He’ll be sure to have tricks up his bracers.”
“Before you go, Hermes, tell me one thing.” Mullecules stared Hermes straight in the eyes. (I said straight in the eyes, so again, don’t go there!) “Why are you really helping me?”
“Well, you’re right my boy, it’s not just your underdog status. I mean, Priam was an underdog, and look what happened to him!”
“What is it, Hermes?”
“Well, I’m really here on command of Zeus. It turns out, he’s your father. Big whoop, total surprise, shock and awe, I know.”
“I- I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Do you realize how many kids I’ve said that to? Zeus has more bastard children than an army of rabbits! Basically, consider this your alimony. Don’t expect anything else from him, so make good use of this stuff.”
And with that, Hermes was gone. Mullecules put on the helmet, and time seemed to shift into slow gear. His movement, however, was as quick as ever. He put on the gloves. His muscles bulged with strength as he made a fist. Placing the shoes on his feet, he stomped on the ground with a mighty stomp and soared through the roof into the air. Now if I can just defeat Ajax tomorrow, he thought. Then I’ll escape from here with enough money to rescue Thingamie. He glided back down into his room, and, taking the helmet off to pass the time more quickly, he went to sleep.

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Back in Hetteroseksis, the deadline was drawing near. The sacrifice collector came to taunt Thingamie in his prison cell. “Why do you put your faith in this faithless friend?” He asked. “He has tricked you, and will not return for you. If he is not here in two days’ time, I will cut off your head.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh? Or at least inhumane. I mean, isn’t there a more sophisticated way of killing me?”
“What, you’d rather hang? I figured at least this way it’s quick, if not painless.”
“Well, hold on a minute, now, how did Socrates die? Didn’t he just drink some juice and say something about Aeschlepius, then fall asleep peacefully? I mean, that just sounds so much more humane, so much more dignified.”
“I’ll hear no more of your talk. In two days, you shall wander the plane of the underworld with no head to guide your travels.”

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Ajax stood waiting in the town square. He raised his spear, bellowing a war cry. His cry was cut short, turning into more of a whimper as a sword emerged from his belly, puncturing both of his lungs. Mullecules stood behind him, gently easing him to the ground. His spear fell from his hand, and his blood spilled in great pools onto the ground.
“He has killed the warrior hero!” The townspeople cried. “This must be a mighty warrior indeed!”
“He was on the other side of the town square just a second ago…” A small voice murmured.
“Greeks, listen to me! Killing Ajax does not make me a hero. I shall only be a hero if I return to my own village to save the life of my friend. I must have 500 pieces of silver from Ajax’s purse before I go on my way.”
The townspeople gladly gave Mullecules the money that he deserved, and Mullecules, slowing time and flying off into the sky, headed toward Hetteroseksis as quick as he could. A few seconds later, about halfway there, Mullecules collided with Hermes. They both fell to the ground.
“You fool!” Snapped Hermes. “You aren’t supposed to be using those anymore anyway. They’re more of a loan, really. Now give them back.”
“I need to return to my village with all haste, Hermes. If I give these back to you, you must promise to carry me back.”
“Very well, as long as you give me my gifts back, I will carry you.”
Mullecules took the armor off and gave it to Hermes. Hermes grabbed Mullecules under the arms and lifted him off the ground.
“Hey, I wanted to ride on your back!” Mullecules pouted. “For no particular reason, of course.”
“Not going to happen.”

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When Hermes finally set Mullecules down in the streets of his village, and Mullecules thanked him and said goodbye, Mullecules headed straight for the village prison. He opened the door, startling the jailkeeper.
“I demand the release of my friend Thingamie at once!” He said.
“That will be five hundred and one pieces of silver,” said the jailkeeper. “And you have exactly thirty seconds to give it to me, or your friend dies.”
Mullecules looked around frantically. What to do? He ran outside, frightened and perplexed. He was so perplexed, that, not paying attention to where he was walking, he bumped into a youthful man striding along the street.
“Are you Mullecules?” He said hurriedly.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“My name is Blineus. I have been assigned a great quest, and part of it is to give a man named Mullecules one piece of silver.”
Overjoyed, Mullecules thanked the man, who hurried off, and ran back inside. Just as the executioner’s axe came down, Mullecules handed the money to the jailkeeper. The door swung open, and Thingamie emerged from his cell. The two men embraced (mind out of the gutter) and Mullecules regaled Thingamie with his tales of adventure. Their friendship, after passing this ultimate test, remained steadfast for the rest of their lives. So steadfast, as a matter of fact, that it was envied by the gods themselves. But the gods realized that when they formulated the plan to test their friendship, they really had no way to take their friendship for themselves. Once again, the gods had put the cart before the horse. But it was good for a laugh, so the gods looked upon the whole affair as a job well done.

Truth and Falsehood

It had been a long day of wood-chewing, and Beaver was very tired. The long road to his dam seemed even longer today, and its many bends made Beaver think of the cool, clean river. Surely he deserved a good long rest after the logs he had felled this afternoon! When he was almost home, however, two persons, Truth and Falsehood, stopped him at a fork in the road.
“You can go no further,” said Falsehood, “For dangerous things lie this way.”
“Dangerous?” said Beaver questioningly. “Like what things?”
“Slumber, sloth, comfort, and complacency!” Falsehood almost roared. “Do you not know the danger of these vices? Surely you must know that they are all a trick and a trap!”
Truth, who had been silent this entire time, finally spoke up.
“Do not listen to this harbinger of harrying and hurt,” he quipped, “For his way is far worse than any danger of complacency.”
Beaver thought for a moment. He did not know the names of these fellows, and as much as he wanted rest, he caught a mental glimpse of himself staying at home forever, and being too lazy to return to work.
“Be free,” said Truth, “To go to your home and its comforts. Do you not know that a hard day’s work deserves a good night’s sleep?”
“Only if you want to become a bedfellow for sluggards!” Interjected Falsehood.
Now Beaver made his mistake. For he had often heard that the Truth is abrasive, and may shock you. He had also heard that it was the way of Falsehood to beguile you, and lull you into deadly error. It was obvious to him which of these persons was which.
“Shame on you, good sir, for tempting me to slumber the sleep of death,” he said to Truth. “Try your skullduggery on some less suspecting fellow- or rather don’t!”
And he trotted off away from his peaceful home, into the woods to face whatever hardships lay there for him. Unfortunately, it was not his domain, and so he was eaten by a large wolf. After the wolf had finished his delightful meal, he came loping out of the woods to speak to Truth and Falsehood.
“Falsehood, my friend, you’ve done it again. If you keep this up, I shall eat well this winter. I owe you a favor.”
Falsehood tipped his hat, smiling wickedly. Truth shook his head.
“Next time it shan’t be this way, Falsehood. The Truth must prevail! For every victory you earn is only because you are disguised as me. When folk became wise to your smooth talk and embraced my rough manner, you re-disguised yourself to fit my mode. But this cannot last forever. All you have done is proven my superiority, and I will take my victory in this.”
Although the wolf did indeed eat well that winter, Falsehood was unsettled by the staunch conviction of his counterpart. For, try as he could to create on his own, he found that he could only corrupt what Truth had already created. Any tales that he could conceive on his own, he found to be actual truth, and being Falsehood, he could not speak them. And so, Truth had his ultimate victory in the fact that no matter what choice a foolish fellow makes, his will always be the right choice, and Falsehood a poor shadow of the splendor of Truth.

Cannono-geniocracy, or "The Best System of Government Ever Devised"

In the following essay, I am going to present the best system of government yet devised. This system arose from a debate concerning education, with a specific emphasis on standardized testing. It will apply to some, but not all, countries, and will definitely rest on several assumptions of possibility. One should not confuse the term “assumptions of possibility” with “assumptions of reality,” for I am not claiming hypothetical solutions to philosophical problems, only hypothetical solutions to engineering problems. Furthermore, if these assumptions of possibility are accepted, then the reader will agree that cannono-geniocracy, or the rule of the super-intelligent by use of superior firepower, is the obvious choice in every category of measuring government.
I will begin my description of cannono-geniocracy where cannono-geniocrats believe the root of modern governmental problems reside: the hierarchy of power. First, allow me to compare the hierarchy of ancient and modern governments with cannono-geniocracy. This will hopefully provide a backdrop for the concept of hierarchy. In Ancient Israel, rule of the people was a mixture between Theocracy and Monarchy. According to the Jewish tradition found in the Bible’s Old Testament, the Hebrews were originally commanded to look to God for their precepts and organization. God would elect a spokesman to speak through him, such as Moses or Samuel. The people would obey the words of this spokesman as if they were the words of the Lord. Then, contrary to the wishes of the Lord, the Hebrew people desired a king like those of their neighboring countries. God gave them Saul, who was still technically subject to the word of the Lord through the prophet Samuel. However, the kings of Israel and the God of Israel often conflicted. Nominally, though, the hierarchy looked something like: God, Prophet/King, Priests, children of Israel, foreign immigrants, and unclean. Although this is a rough sketch, it gives the basic idea of a Theo-Monarchy. Another system of government is the Communist Dictatorship found in the U.S.S.R. Because most today are familiar with their system of government, they can easily see their hierarchy: Dictator, “kitchen cabinet” (including secret police, head of education, military leaders, etc.), bureaucratic government (which was a hierarchy in itself), collaborators (obeying the laws of the system), and delinquents (not obeying the laws of the system). There were also several sub-groups based on race, gender, and class who were discriminated against hierarchically, but I am simply pointing out the basic outline of the system. Both the Theo-monarchy of Ancient Israel and the Communist Dictatorship of Modern U.S.S.R. contain a hierarchy.
The hierarchy to be found in cannono-geniocracy is based on intelligence. At the very top of the hierarchy is the Absolute Despot, known as the “Arbitrator,” “Alpha Male,” “Big Cahoona,” “Imperator,” or some other endearing term of total domination. The Absolute Despot is the smartest man in all the land (later we shall discuss how this is to be determined), and by right controls what we will simply refer to as the Robot Army. As I mentioned before, I shall be assuming that there will one day be solutions to certain engineering problems, and this is one. Consider this Robot Army incapable of disobedience to the Absolute Despot, thought-controlled, the most powerful military force on earth, and capable of almost any physical task. This is a grand assumption, but the existence of cannono-geniocracy rests upon it. Rather than engaging in all sorts of meaningless diversionary arguments about the nature of Artificial Intelligence, let us simply assume the Robot Army’s possibility.
Second in command is the Suggestion Committee, a large group of the runners-up for “smartest man in all the land.” This group of highly intelligent individuals conducts research, brainstorming, and problem-solving in order to better manipulate the forces behind the essential tenets of society, such as education, production, nutrition, entertainment, transportation, research and development, and many other departments. All of their suggestions are brought before the Absolute Despot, who sets aside a certain amount of time daily to deal with the requests. If the suggestions are ratified by the Absolute Despot, then the Robot Army will see to their implementation. For example, if the Nutrition Department invents a more efficient way to synthesize protein globules, then they prepare a concise and detailed report, which is either accepted or denied by the Absolute Despot. In this manner, the smartest humans in the land are responsible for all major decisions that determine the future of the country.
Third in the hierarchy are those who exist as high-level workers, filling positions held in American Democracy by the educated. These are the company executives, the supervisors, the engineers, scientists, doctors, writers, entertainers, educators, architects, consultants, and myriad other positions that, the majority of the time, would require much post-high school education in 21st-century American society. This level, like all other levels, is determined by one’s scores in the Standardized Test, which will be discussed later.
Fourth in the hierarchy are what cannono-geniocracy refers to as the “Faliures,” or those who cannot complete the rigorous educational requirements to become a part of one of the other three classes. Failures fill such positions as sanitation engineers (garbage men), clerks, cubicle drones, factory workers, janitors, basic mechanics, and other low-paid, low-educated positions. They do not remain Failures for their entire lives unless they choose to, for they will have many chances to improve their status (as will be explained later).
Now that the hierarchy has been explained, one can see its superiority to the other hierarchies mentioned. It is first of all much simpler, and divides society along clear lines, so that every man knows his status, and what he has yet to achieve. It also eliminates class divisions based on race and arbitrary chance; its class divisions are based solely on one’s intelligence, which varies based only on one’s desire for more intelligence. Therefore, the society will increase in intelligence as the populace comes to realize the literal reality of the adage “Knowledge is Power.” More intelligent people means a better human race and a better world. Also, there will be less unrest in society, because the intelligent man realizes that social status is not the most important aspect of life. Therefore, notions of revolution and civil disobedience will be seen as secondary.
The foundation of cannono-geniocracy is its education. A society founded on rule by the intelligent requires very specific definitions of who is the most intelligent. All capable humans will begin schooling at a younger age, in order to provide a fuller and longer educated life for all. Students will enter basic learning schools at the age of three. From here, they will progress through a series of levels similar to American Pre-school, kindergarten, elementary, and middle school. The extent of knowledge required to graduate middle school will be determined by the Absolute Despot, and the standard will most likely increase over time depending on how highly the average citizen scores on the Standardized Test. How well one scores on this test at the end of middle school determines where he will be placed in the hierarchy. This is not a lifelong determination; the test is offered again one year after the first attempt, and then again every five years, and may be taken as many times as one wishes. A low score will place a student in a low-level position, but any medium or high score will place the student in high school (a four-year program of higher education) that eventually allows the student to reach high-level positions, government positions, or even the position of Absolute Despot (if their score is higher than the current Despot’s score).
The Standardized Test, the cornerstone of cannono-geniocracy, is a conundrum in itself. If I were to explain all of the intricate aspects and sub-aspects involved in its design, then I would in fact have to be named Absolute Despot and the smartest in the land. Therefore, suffice it to say that the Standardized Test is an assumption in itself. There are some who argue that this assumption is false. They say that there are infinite concepts and precepts upon which one can be tested. Also, they claim that the test is ultimately flawed because it is based upon the intelligence of the individual who designed it. They even claim that if it is designed by a group of intelligent individuals, it is limited by the intelligence of the most intelligent member of the group. I would argue against this in two ways: first of all, I believe that intelligence exists. In order for me to rationally doubt the existence of intelligence, I would need to possess some intelligence. Because intelligence exists as an aspect of humanity, it automatically exists, as does everything else, in greater or lesser quantities in certain individuals. Therefore, there must be a rational way of determining quantity of intelligence; in other words, the Standardized Test. I would also argue that there are ways to escape the “limited intelligence” argument, or the argument that the Standardized Test is limited by the one who created it. I believe that if the Standardized Test were not simply a human endeavor, but a super-human endeavor, then its difficulty and fairness would indeed be super-human. There are many ways to achieve such super-human design. For instance, a test designed by a deity, a test designed by alien intelligence, and a test designed by a super-human machine are all methods of escaping the human intelligence ceiling for the Standardized Test.
Previously explained tenets of cannono-geniocracy include its hierarchy, its general operation, and its firm foundation in education (especially the Standardized Test). To summarize, I will include a short list of Pros and purported Cons to its governmental strategy. First of all, it has inherently a basic system of checks and balances: the possibility of revolution. The law of the land includes by default an allowance for revolution, because even if it does not, a revolution nullifies the law, and therefore allows for itself. The reason that revolution is a check is because it causes both the higher and lower ends of the hierarchy to look out for each other’s needs. It is balanced because of the Principle of Sufficient Organization. If enough low-level workers wish to revolt, they require “sufficient organization.” In other words, if they really feel oppressed enough to revolt, they will need to prove it by being exceptionally organized. Otherwise, the Robot Army will simply destroy them, as they are a minority of dissenters among the contented masses. The second argument in favor of cannono-geniocracy is that it allows for self-betterment. Unlike the old Hindu Indian caste system, a person is not stuck on their spot in the hierarchy for life. They may continue to take the Standardized Test as many times as they wish until they die. The third argument in favor of cannono-geniocracy is that it presents a system in which everyone in power is more intelligent than those not in power. Unlike American bureaucracy, there will be no government workers who cannot speak the national language, or cannot file a paper to save their life. They will all be the crème de la crème of society’s intelligentsia. Even those in high-level business positions will be moderately well-schooled. Overall, society will function myriad times better because the more intelligence one has, the more power he/she has. The fourth argument in favor of cannono-technocracy is that it pushes society to be more intelligent as a whole. Basic human nature includes a desire for power as well as a desire for intelligence. Unfortunately, modern society has suppressed that desire for intelligence by making it difficult to obtain and not very rewarding (monetarily or otherwise) once it has been obtained. Cannono-geniocracy places intelligence on an even scale with power, making it more rewarding to obtain. It also improves schooling, making intelligence easier to obtain. Overall, the system makes intelligence desirable once again.
The disadvantages of cannono-geniocracy are only those presented by pretentious “Political Scientists” who believe that, all-knowing and wise, they can predict the paths that a certain government will take, simply based on the paths that previous governments have taken. The first disingenuous accusation against cannono-geniocracy is that “Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” a quote originally derived from the writings of English political historian Lord Acton in his Letters to William Gladstone. I think that this quote must be believed to be incorrect; after all, it is most often used by those from the Judeo-Christian tradition in association with their belief in objective morality. Is not their God one of absolute power? Is He corrupted absolutely? More importantly, the Absolute Despot of cannono-geniocracy is the most intelligent man in the land. In order for any man to declare him corrupt, they would have to be more intelligent than he, in order to see all of the purposes of his schemes and actions. If they were more intelligent than he, then they would be Absolute Despot. The second accusation against cannono-geniocracy is that it is no better than the Nazi regime, where a small group of citizens is persecuted by a larger group and made to feel oppressed (obviously comparing the low-level laborers of cannono-geniocracy to the Jews and other minorities oppressed by the Holocaust). However, this is a ridiculous comparison as well. Those persecuted in the Holocaust did not choose to be of a certain race, and could not change. On the contrary, the low-level laborers of cannono-geniocracy are low-level because they did not try hard enough in school. If they wanted to improve their status, they could do so by personal study and application.As you can see, cannono-geniocracy is without a doubt the best system of government yet devised. Although its implementation may seem impossible, it really boils down to an engineering problem. It would require a forceful takeover of government, it would require highly advanced technology, and it would require ridiculous amounts of good fortune to overcome the insurmountable legal bulwarks keeping it at bay. However, do not doubt that it is coming. As you grow older, and witness the necessary technology being developed, and more and more minds converting to the cause, you, too will see its obvious superiority. Rule by the intelligent can be the only way to organize government, and the only way to protect this ideal government is by force. Therefore, cannono-geniocracy will forever reign supreme as the gubernatio optima of mankind.

Drums in the Deep

Drums, drums in the deep!
Pouring over rock and stone
Evil incarnate, flesh and bone
Twisted into nether-shape
From their advance is no escape
Drums, drums in the deep!
Nine will stand the goblin tide
Drawing nigh from every side
Elf-blades aglow and bows held taut
Defeat would render ring-quests naught.
Drums, drums in the deep!

God Wills It

Onward, men, march hard and steady!
For enemy attacks we must be ready.
In this dry wasteland of a realm
Our only constant friend is maille and helm.

Keep your spirits high men, we shall fight!
'Tis only by God's grace we live the night.
Though sly and wicked be our enemy,
His vigilance is what preserveth thee.

Look sharp, knights of the holy cross!
Forever in tales our names shall be embossed.
For our brave deeds to take back Christ's abode,
We shall ne'er regret the path we rode.

Above all, know that we fight for good!
We only do as God commands we should.
As sure as Richard on Salem's throne will sit,
In our souls we must believe that God wills it.

The Norse Wind

As the mists of the morning
Clear over the sea
The pounding of the surf
Offers false security
For the wise could surely tell
Their foolish people news
Of our ships and mighty swords
Valhalla awaits our fearsome crews

From our cold and lifeless home
The men of North land spread their fear
Making our ceaseless war abroad
Odin bless my axe and spear
The raid appears in darkest night
Awake to find a pillaged town
We’ll take the livestock, women, gold
And build our limitless renown

When we appear you have no choice
Fight, or run away, or die
From Lindisfarne to York we strike
The arm of Baldur draweth nigh.
Our reach extends to distant lands
And longboats till the tideless sea
As long as the world-serpent our arms
To set your captive treasures free.

Family Man

The longest voyage to the West
Is that of a reluctant soul
Who, in despair, does think it best
To leave his Shire and Hobbit-hole.

Is there a danger or a threat?
Not visible to naked eye.
But his final destiny is set
I will not say you should not cry.

We saved the Shire by final fight
And Middle-Earth saw light of day,
But Nazgûl-knife and Gollum’s bite
Bid him sail from Havens Grey.

The last few pages are for me,
But my life seems so small beside
Setting all the peoples free
With a quick ring-toss and an eagle ride.

The road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
But I would rather raise my son
The adventure of being a family man.

Lieutenant Commander Data: A Socratic Dialogue

The image of Socrates is suddenly loaded onto the holodeck of the U.S.S. Enterprise, where Data eagerly awaits his conversation with one of the greatest minds of the 5th century B.C.

SOCRATES: What manner of place is this?
DATA: I am Lieutenant Commander Data, and we are on the holodeck of the Starship Enterprise, a Galaxy-class exploratory vessel for the United Federation of Planets. You are a part of a holographic representation of earth’s history.
SOCRATES: You speak of things that are beyond my comprehension, to be sure.
DATA: I apologize for any confusion, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Well, all shall be discovered in time. First of all, am I to understand that I have arrived in another time?
DATA: This is stardate 41153. Two thousand, eight hundred, and thirty-four years from the day you were born in the city of Athens on the planet Earth.
SOCRATES: You speak of the world as if it were some distant place. This as well as your reference to a “star ship” would lead me to believe that we have left the lands of men and ascended into the heavens.
DATA: This assumption would be correct. As a matter of fact, we are now at full stop above the planet Qo’nos. The Captain and Lieutenant Commander Worf are in negotiations on the planet surface.
SOCRATES: To think, man has reached the stars. I wonder, is it what he expected…
Well, enough musings. Surely there was a reason that I was brought here? For preceding every event in the universe is a motivating cause.
DATA: To be honest with you, Socrates, our modern scientists no longer hold this belief as natural law.
SOCRATES: What has man become? Shall we descend deeper into the dim cave of our own construction? Shall we spurn the gift of Prometheus and sit in darkness?
DATA: Socrates, as science develops, surely you admit that so must the laws of science.
SOCRATES: To rename a flea is one thing, but to deny its existence is another.
DATA: I am afraid that the common flea, order Siphonaptera, has been extinct on earth for the past 35 years- ever since the climate shift.
SOCRATES: You have brought me to a world where knowledge is exceedingly difficult to attain, my boy. However, I shall rise to the challenge. To begin, I shall ask you a second time- why was I brought here?
DATA: Socrates, you are known by the human race as a man of great wisdom.
SOCRATES: Wisdom begins in wonder.
DATA: This is precisely why I opened your program on the holodeck. I was speaking with the ship’s counselor, Deanna Troi, and she told me that you might have insight concerning the answers that I seek.
SOCRATES: To every wise answer there is a wiser question, so I await with great anticipation.
DATA: Well, to put it simply, Socrates, I wish to know: What makes somebody human?
SOCRATES (after some deliberation): This is a deep and important question that you have posed. Before we extricate its answer together, answer one question for me: Why should this topic interest you enough to speak to me?
DATA: Socrates, this may be difficult to explain.
SOCRATES: Surely its intricacy cannot exceed the wonder of being in a place such as this.
DATA: Very well, I shall begin by saying this: I was not brought into the world by the natural process of pregnancy and birth.
SOCRATES: How else can one enter the world?
DATA: I was built by a cybernetic scientist named Noonien Soong. I can perform advanced algorithmic calculations as well as mimic human behavior very closely. I have friends, personal likes and dislikes, and a disposition. But I am not human. I am incapable of experiencing “emotion,” and, when it comes to it, I am merely the sum of my parts.
SOCRATES: I am glad, young scholar, that you are so sure of your non-humanity. After all, I am a tired old man, and it will be easier to let you answer your own questions.
DATA: I am sorry, Socrates, that I make these conclusions without your opinion. After all, that is why we are talking.
SOCRATES: Or rather why you are talking. Lieutenant Commander Data, whose name alone denies all humanity, the marvelous moving statue worthy of my ancestor Daedelus, why do you insist that you are not human?
DATA: Well, Socrates, it has been my understanding that humans have a soul- something which I cannot claim to possess.
SOCRATES (laughing): A soul? Of course humans have a soul. It is what separates them from the rock, or the flower. But you are neither of these. Your soul is what gives you the ability to reason.
DATA: This is where you are mistaken, Socrates, for my reasoning takes place in a series of superconductors in my cranial cavity, where as many as 60 trillion complex operations can take place per second.
SOCRATES: With an artificial brain of this kind, it is hard to deny that you are different from most who would call themselves human… And yet you still behave like one of them.
DATA: I have always been interested in the human dynamic.
SOCRATES: An interesting desire, my dear statue, most interesting indeed. How do you rationalize this odd desire? For do you not consider yourself in most ways superior to those around you?
DATA: If you refer to my mental storage capacity of 80 quadrillion bits, or my bioplast covering buffered with durasteel, or my many other physical and mental characteristics that enable me to do myriad tasks with extreme efficiency, then yes, I am technically superior. However, I have always considered these human deficiencies to be their own unique superiority. It is the inspiration that drives them on to greater heights, and the reason for working together to achieve a common goal that no singular man could achieve alone. Perhaps this is what it means to truly be human.
SOCRATES: You see? I can myself hear the longing in your voice. The point I am trying to make, my friend, is that your choice to desire humanity cannot arise from the mechanized assembly of minerals that lies in your synthetic mind, because the inanimate indeed has no desires, except that which is its sole function. Would you not say that a tree is not complete until it is the perfect tree, and the sunset is not satisfied until its beauty reaches its absolute limit?
DATA: I suppose so, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Now apply this logic to your non-living mind. Would it not desire only to be a superior non-organism?
DATA: I begin to see your point, Socrates. It is the soul inside me that leads me to desire more than what I am.
SOCRATES: I thank you for this wisest of questions, for it has helped us both arrive at the answer we desired.
DATA: You must forgive my insistence, Socrates.
SOCRATES: What is it, Data?
DATA: I may not be fully satisfied with our current conclusion.
SOCRATES: Ah, I can see that it is the lack of a deeper explanation that perplexes you. For example, we have seen that you are indeed possessed of what man calls the soul; but we have yet to discover where you have gained this soul.
DATA: You are wise beyond your programming, holographic Socrates.
SOCRATES: Although to begin with I knew not why I had chosen to so fiercely defend your humanity, my friend, but now I can see that it is your charming friendliness that binds me to you as it would a brother.
DATA: Your words are indeed kind, Socrates, but more greatly than I desire your praise do I desire your wisdom. You were going to grace me with the explanation of how I have come to so easily obtain that which man calls a soul.
SOCRATES: In other words, you wish to know the origin of what we know to be your soul. Answer me this question, young Data: what is the origin of any human soul?
DATA: Socrates, I am afraid that you have presented a question that even an infinite amount of processing power cannot answer. For if man could discover the origin of their soul without a shadow of a doubt, they would not be constantly surrounded by the enigma that is spirituality. When all men are in agreement about religion and spirit is science, I believe that the true essence of the metaphysical will be lost.
SOCRATES: Of this you may speak more truth than you know. But I ask you: how can we question the origin of your own soul without knowledge of any soul at all? We cannot. So at least for now, our quest is at an end. I say for now because the good is in the getting; and that will drive man in his thirst for knowledge until time immemorial. When man discovers this final knowledge of his own soul, summon me again, and we shall continue our discussion. It has been a great pleasure speaking with you.
DATA (smiling): Socrates, you have been most patient and more than lived up to your reputation in wisdom. The pleasure and, I believe, the privilege have been all mine. I thank you on behalf of the Enterprise and the United Federation of Planets. End program.