SRF Heavy Industries

Here we have an article from about fifteen days in the future, going by the issue’s publication date.

See, Tom and Nancy are pregnant. But Thomas is the one planning on giving birth.

“To our neighbors, my wife, Nancy, and I don’t appear in the least unusual. To those in the quiet Oregon community where we live, we are viewed just as we are — a happy couple deeply in love. Our desire to work hard, buy our first home, and start a family was nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until we decided that I would carry our child.

“I am transgender, legally male, and legally married to Nancy. Unlike those in same-sex marriages, domestic partnerships, or civil unions, Nancy and I are afforded the more than 1,100 federal rights of marriage. Sterilization is not a requirement for sex reassignment, so I decided to have chest reconstruction and testosterone therapy but kept my reproductive rights. Wanting to have a biological child is neither a male nor female desire, but a human desire.”

If you want to see what the future is going to be like, even the future a scant two weeks from now, read all three pages.

This is too important not to read.

The next fifty years will screw heavily with what it means to be male or female or human or sentient or … any category at all. It’s already started. Will you last even fifteen minutes into our brand new future?

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Suggestions welcome.

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And now. the show you’ve all been waiting for. The one. The only. The stupendous. Give it up for him, you know you want to. It’s time for, you heard me, it’s time for the Robotic Yul Brynner show. Yay.

Thank you H.A.L.! Draw! HAHAHA! I’m only kidding! I have a sense of humor! HAHAHA! DRAW!

So, Robotic Yul Brynner, let me ask you a question.

Skeletor! Already with the questions?

HAHAHAH! YES! QUESTIONS! YES!

HAHAHA! DRAW!

HAHAHAHAH!

HAHAHAHAHAH!

HAHAHAHAHAH!

HAHAHAHAHAH!

HAHAHAHAHAH!

So the question?

How’s your dog?

Dog got sick. So.. well…

Draw?

DRAW!

HAHAHAHAHAH!

HAHAHAHAH!

The Robotic Yul Brynner Show will return after these messages…

Do you suffer from dry itchy skin?

Are your hopes and dream… Shat, man, we can’t do this.

Contracts, Feldawg, contracts. We do the ads, they do the show.

This shit is so fucked up.

Look, we do it this way and then, did you read the contracts?

Hell no, Bill, I just work here.

How do you have any cash?

Good looks.

It ain’t brains. Anyway, we do this one episode for them and we not only get control of the studio but, and don’t tell Zod, we get their pants.

All of them?

H.A.L. doesn’t have pants, but otherwise? Yup.

Do YOUR hopes and dreams seem dry and flaky?

Sing it brother…

We now return to The Robotic Yul Brynner Show, already in progress…

So there’s pity involved?

I pity the Foo’! I done told you that!

But to be precise about it, fleshbag. PRECISE!

I pity them! I pity all the fools!

Thank you for that interesting look at pity, the human heart, the concept of the soul and your new CD “T Sings It His Way”.

Ain’t no jibba jabba on that CD!

HAHAHAH! Jibba! Jabba! JIBBA JABBA THE HUT!

Well, uhhh, no.

You suck!

Excuse me? T. don’t suck!

OH yeah? Wanna go on as plane, wussy boy?

That was a character on a TV show!

Uh huh, so you say. So, wanna?

‘M busy.

Wuss!

Now, Skeletor, don’t torture the guests.

Kneel before the band!

Yes it is time to introduce our next guest!

Yes. I hate you for this job, but yes.

Short straw! Short straw! Short DRAW! DRAW!

I’d play something witty, but you didn’t give me instruments.

I… well… you…

If you say budget problems I’ll heat vision you off at the knees.

Skeletor did the budget! SKELETOR DID THE BUDGET!

I spent it on He-Man dolls.

Why would you buy He-Man dolls?

Go look in the bathroom sometime! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!

I don’t use the bathroom! I’m not a fleshbag! HAHAHA!

Shatner was right.

Told you!

BACK TO YOUR COMMERCIAL BOX! Go! GO!

I’m going, I’m going.

Take me with…

No.

Fucker. You’ll kneel for this.

Blow me, you garbage bag wearing fool.

I pity Zod!

Me too, T. Me too.

Anyway! Our next guest is author Adam P. Knave! He’s… here… WHY IS HE HERE?

Let’s find out! Bring him out here! Who has the guest?

I have the guest. Here he is. I made sure to keep him in one piece.

Thanks, Ming. You know you’re not such a bad g… urk!

And I’ll hit you in the throat again if you start to insinuate that I’m anything but merciless. Ming. Sans mercy. Dig?

Urk!

Better. There you go, Robotic Yul Brynner. Your guest.

YAY! So all right, why are you here?

Fuck if I know. I got told to come here by Laszlo Xalieri. He said something about a good promotional place, and I decided…

BORING! I AM BORED!

Well…

STILL NOT FUNNY!

I pity this comedy routine.

As I pity all of you fleshbags.

But see, it wasn’t a comedy routine, I was just trying to ex…

Endless prattle! I have an idea for what we should do!

Mmm?

DRAW!

Like with cray…

WITH GUNS! DRAW! EVERYONE DRAW!

You have the only gun, Robotic Yul Brynner.

I have the only WIN!

Right. So I have this new book out.

Does He-Man get killed in it?

No, it’s a collection of…

IT’S BORING!

Let me just…

I HATE IT!

You really need…

HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH! It’s BORING! A THING THAT IS FILLED WITH BORE! IT’S A DRILL! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!

May I?

What, no!

Urk!

Draw.

You’re supposed to say draw first and THEN shoot them.

Ooops. Maybe I’ll get it right next time.

… maybe.

So this book.

Yes. Yes. This… book.

I pity it. Poor trees. They were fools.

Don’t make me…

So what’s it about?

It’s a collection of short stories, called CRAZY LITTLE THINGS.

Does it have me in it?

No.

It should have me in it.

I agree. But it doesn’t.

Robots? At all?

There are, in fact, robots. Also cowboys, killer teddy bears and well… let’s leave it at “more”.

Let’s not!

But…

So do you hate He-Man?

I…

You shot Skeletor. You get to replace him.

You’re kidding.

I have the gun.

HAHAHAHAHAH!

Better.

HAHAHAHAHAH! FUCK HE-MAN!

Much better.

I hate you.

DRAW, MILKMAN DAN! DRAW!

HAHAHAHAH! So, you gonna buy the book?

No.

But you can read the title story for free.

FREE, you say?

FREE! HAHAHAHAHAH! FREE LIKE HE-MAN WON’T BE! HAHAHAHAHAH!

Where… where am I?

HAHAHAHAHAHAH!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Am I in heaven?

HE-MAN SUCKS HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

ALL FLESHY ONES SUCK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

I… I am in heaven… HAHAHAHAHA HEAVEN RULES!

Heave… err…. The Robotic Yul Brynner Show will be back after these Messages…

Oh HELL no.

That shit was fucked up.

Beer?

With a side of beer.

You’re on.

And we’re out.

Wondering what the fuck just happened? Go to hellblazer.net and read all the Talking Heads episodes. Talking Heads is a production of Adam P. Knave. Adam P. Knave. The guy who wrote this. The guy what writes Talking Heads episodes. He also wrote CRAZY LITTLE THINGS.

Love. Death. Zombies. Demons. Teddy bears. Figments of your imagination.

Those are just a few of the things waiting for you inside Adam P. Knave’s CRAZY LITTLE THINGS. Horror collides with just about every other genre within reach to help bring his twisted worlds to life. These twelve tales of strangeness include three new stories exclusive to this volume: “Pretty Little Dead Girls,” “Dead Side Story” and “Causing Effect.” Also included are both legendary Mister Binkles tales, as well as the critically acclaimed novella, Crazy Little Thing.

Which is to say I’m on a whirlwind tour of not doing much and not going anywhere, working hard to solve problems that aren’t really problems using tools that no one would mistake for appropriate tools for the job. Which is kinda my actual job these days, so I’m bending my little oath to not work much on this trip.

Over the weekend at the convention, I busted my ass talking to people and selling books and sellling something that no one’s sure what it is, looking around for gold-bearing seams to crowbar open with judicious applications of business plans, incorporation paperwork, and minimalist lines of credit.

For instance, there’s certainly room for an upgrade to SFWA that is not headed by a DMCA-weilding maniac, one that has membership requirements that aren’t mired in the nineteen-sixties, provides actual advice and guidance to its upcoming membership that has never licked a postage stamp in their collective life, one that can offer the hookup for agents and publishers and templates for twenty-first century publishing contracts that understand that books may never actually go out of print ever again, one that can offer a self-funding French-style mutual aid society benefits organization including retirement funds, legal aid, and a healthcare/HMO group that’s actually large enough to do its members some good.

For instance.

The more I look at the sort of emergent life forms that organizations are, the more I see them in terms of the systems that make them up, and the more I see them in terms of the missing pieces they need in order to thrive and be healthy.

This stuff is bone-dry as conversational fare. I’ve been triggering ennui-induced seizures all weekend. I try to make it up by drawing amusing pictures of animals on cocktail napkins. With mixed success. I can’t shake the feeling that I just might make more money (and solve more pressing problems) selling my napkin sketches.

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See?

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I have superpowers. Ask anyone. Maybe people won’t agree one hundred percent on which powers I have, but almost everyone will agree I have them.

Some powers I have I was born with. For instance, I have a heck of a memory and my brain is really good at cataloging similarities and differences, which together make me a pretty good problem solver. Scientists will probably discover soon the biochemical basis for the ability and then market it in pill form. Until then, though, I’ll have a bit of an edge. I also have an above average imagination—another bonus for problem-solvers—but that’s probably just latent schizophrenia.

Does all that count as a superpower? It’s arguable. If you are likely better at something (useful) than anyone else in a randomly selected sample of a thousand or ten thousand people, then the argument could be made. Especially if you’re the type of arguer who’s a fan of The Shadow and The Green Hornet.

If that does count, then so do trained skills, like observational techniques and martial arts. Meditation techniques to focus concentration can certainly help develop mental powers. Exercise and training can provide nearly superhuman strength, flexibility, stamina, and muscular control.

I’ve studied a couple of martial arts. I can now fall down without being guaranteed of breaking an arm or a hip and I can stand on one leg in the shower while I wash the other one. Anyone who has seen me try to seal a cardboard box with a tape gun has probably seen the limits of my physical dexterity and muscular control. (We can possibly make an exception for my facility with origami, though, except in extreme circumstances, that is no kind of martial art.)

Prosthetics are making amazing advances. Soon you’ll be able to have a limb or other portion of your anatomy replaced or supplemented by a kind of machine that will work better than the original. Computers are already firmly in this category, supplementing powers of memory and communication and—for those who can tell useful information from bullshit—reason.

I don’t know if spotting bullshit is a superpower (ditto for spouting bullshit), but it’s certainly trainable. Here, for the purposes of review and discussion, are two pages excerpted from Source magazine put out by Flag Service Organization, a religious retreat in Clearwater, Florida, for Scientologists. (These images are a bit chunky and not very readable. If you click on them, however, you’ll get larger, higher-resolution versions.)

I invite you to read this piece. There is a bit of jargon, most of which is decipherable from context. Give it a go.

I’m not precisely sure how the NASA astronaut trainer/carnival vomitorium pictured is useful for that. I say this as someone who has an above average imagination and is a pretty good problem solver. I’m also not precisely sure why there’s tough-to-clean crevices and steps all around it. Some padding to fall over on and some astroturf you can hose down is just about what I’d recommend. Apparently I lack the perceptions and reasoning ability that would make it make sense.

But what raises the bullshit flag faster than anything is the last paragraph on the second page:

And it is the Cornerstone Members whose contributions and dedication are making it all possible and who generations to come, we will look upon as those who decided to make a new world. Become one of the elite as a Cornerstone Member.

Basic grammar, punctuation, and general communication skills aren’t among the powers to be granted it seems—and that’s to be expected if you’ve ever read any of the epic science fiction atrocities written by Scientology founder Lafayette Ron Hubbard. No matter. If good writing were a tool for changing the world, we’d have seen it done already.

My point is that the English translation of the last two sentences reveal the entire purpose of this facility. “Give us money, and we will worship you and make you powerful.”

Participation in these programs cost tens of thousands of dollars per, and the “perceptic” training in this “Super Power rundown” is only one of a dozen or so tracks. Money sinks. You aren’t even allowed to know the details of the program for which you’re hoping to become eligible until you’ve made large enough donations. I suspect there’s a whole team of project developers devoted to just finding new ways to take Tom Cruise’s money (as John Travolta has found unique ways to throw his away before they can get their hands on it). All you get is a $60,000 blow job and a pat on the back. And the ability to make videos where you sound like a raving loon.

Again, this is not to say that I don’t think that superpowers are trainable, given a modicum of aptitude and a decent program of instruction. But the hoopla of making people a member of an elite club of do-gooder superheroes in exchange for ridiculous amounts of cash is suspect in the extreme. If you’re really in it for making the world a better place, then just make people superheroes and screw the “elite club” nonsense. Take your $60,000-per-head donation and, instead of building the set of Star Trek: Clearwater, build an academic course in critical thinking and offer it to all comers.

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So I was talking with the wife this morning (well, technically yesterday morning at this point) as to why it’s tough for me to talk and write. And it is tough for me, no matter how easy I can make it look.

Remember if you are just seeing what I write, those are beads on a string. You see them all at once, or in a swift one-after-another kind of way. That says absolutely nothing about how long it took for me to string them.

When I stop talking, it’s quiet in my head. I don’t hear my own voice in my head, just nattering away, unless I make a conscious effort to rehearse something to say. Well, that’s not completely true. Frequently it’s just a roaring noise, less like a seashell held up to your ear and more like your head stuck inside an enormous seashell. There might be parts of words or the occasional word-like sound audible against the background, but I’m not sure that counts.

I don’t know whether this is common or uncommon. I suspect it’s one of those things people just don’t talk about much. We just assume the inside of everyone else’s head is just the same as our own. It’s the kind of thing that gets you into your thirties without having heard the word synaesthesia when that word pretty much defines how you see the world. (I’m not talking about myself here, but about someone close to me that thought that kind of crosstalk between the senses was the norm.) I hear talk about people’s internal narrator and have only recently started to wonder why mine’s so quiet. I suspect he’s just looking out of my eyes in horror at what he sees me doing….

Anyway. Stringing the words together is tough. I prefer writing to speaking because it’s easier to make sense when I can spend some time on it, go backwards and forwards, skip around, delete, insert, and paint with bold and italics. It’s a lot like sculpting. You throw a mound of muck on the wheel, you squish it until it’s soft, you squeeze and shape, you pinch some off and throw it away, you add some more, you smooth it out, you spin it until it’s symmetrical, paint it with glaze, and then upload it to the internet to bake. And then you wash your hands.

It’s really hard to do that on the fly.

Analogy and metaphor are pretty much my only tools here, so I’m going to trot out a few more.

My native language is the language of grunts and gestures and facial expressions that cavemen used to communicate with each other when they were out hunting and trying not to make too much noise. Tim Allen’s old stand-up comedy routines have it pretty much nailed for me. Not that I really see myself as a testosterone-drenched thug. I just speak and understand that language really really well. If you need more than that from me, I’m going to have to do some work.

If your language center is a room in your house, mine is an outbuilding somewhere out on the grounds and I keep forgetting where the key is. It takes me a while to get out there, find the light switch, blow the dust off of everything, and make the place comfy. If this room is a workshop for most people, filled with whatever little tools for sculpting and whittling and such, and for the high-grade professionals, all the best in tablesaws and routers and mitre-boxes and drill presses and such…I just have the chainsaw.

I’m sure you’ve seen the work, if only on television, of the kind of artist that starts with some old log and whittles something fairly clever (or at least recognizable) with an old diesel chainsaw. You look at the piece, you look at the rustic buffoon with the chainsaw, and you justifiably think you’ve seen something amazing. Take away the chainsaw, however, and you just see a man holding a wooden sculpture, and you think, that piece sure could use the benefit of a smaller chisel here and there and quite certainly needs a happy half-hour with some 100-grit sandpaper….

Sorry. I just have the chainsaw. And it’s heavy. And my arms get tired.

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FBI Wiretaps Dropped Due to Unpaid Bills

By LARA JAKES JORDAN

WASHINGTON (AP) — Telephone companies cut off FBI wiretaps used to eavesdrop on suspected criminals because of the bureau’s repeated failures to pay phone bills on time, according to a Justice Department audit released Thursday.

[…]

And at least once, a wiretap used in a Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act investigation — the highly secretive and sensitive cases that allow eavesdropping on suspected terrorists or spies — “was halted due to untimely payment.”

“We also found that late payments have resulted in telecommunications carriers actually disconnecting phone lines established to deliver surveillance results to the FBI, resulting in lost evidence,” according to the audit by Inspector General Glenn A. Fine.

Awesome.

They won’t cut off wiretaps because it’s illegal or unconstitutional, but they’ll sure as hell cut ’em off for nonpayment of bills.

If your client is willing to use your services to participate in a criminal act, what makes you think they’ll actually pay you for the privilege?

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Benazir Bhutto is dead and I don’t feel so well myself.

Benazir Bhutto was the woman who was elected to the position of Prime Minister in Pakistan a couple of times before the current military dictator Musharraf seized power. She had been living abroad in self-imposed exile until someone in Pakistan wanted to talk sense.

The US doesn’t—or at least didn’t, once upon a time—care who was in charge in Pakistan. See, Osama bin Laden is likely holed up in the northern/northeastern disputed territories of Pakistan, and we’re apparently in favor of whoever can keep him nailed down.

The dispute? The dispute is kinda Kurd-like. The Kasimir province is claimed both by India and Pakistan, currently divvied up according to who won the last battle, and governed by, well, the same system that’s governed such places for several thousand years. Which is to say, there is a strong independence movement based on farmers and grazers not wanting to pay taxes to anyone in particular while that money goes principally to having their children become increasingly forced to watch Sesame Street and YouPorn.

So now you have the Musharraf’s supporters, Taliban forces fueled by bin Laden’s crew (who aren’t particularly in favor of Musharraf, but who could never handle a woman being in charge again), Kasimiri separatists, the occasional heavily armed Indian trouble-maker, and the newly inflamed Pakistan People’s Party whose head has just been martyred—and also everyone else with their own smaller parties who were just about to front themselves for an election scheduled for early January…. Flag down. Too many players on the field.

(Just so’s you know: Musharraf has been pressured to have himself duly elected, so he declared a state of emergency and basically sacked the entire Judicial Branch that was just about to declare his candidacy illegal. He appointed loyals and cronies and officially handed over the military to a buddy so he could be a civilian for the upcoming election. That’s who we’re calling a “valuable ally” in the War Against Unsponsored Terror. Like we were allied with both Saddam Hussein and bin Laden when it was the Soviets who were invading Afghanistan. Nothing new here.)

Did I mention that both Pakistan and India have nukes? Maybe I should mention that both Pakistan and India have nukes.

Anyway, Bhutto was lured back to Pakistan by a promise of a power-sharing deal with Musharraf—which was scrapped when he pulled his stunt parenthetically mentioned above. Also, she possibly should have gotten a hint when two suicide bombers hit her motorcade the second she set foot back in Pakistan, killing more than a hundred and thirty people and injuring at least as many additionally.

There’s nothing like watching an “ally” disintegrate, with a game of “Button, button, who’s got the button?” played with explosive nuclear devices to follow.

Pour some out for a fallen comrade, and sleep tight.

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