Tuesday, January 28, 2020

Fragments


Realistic mode
There was an ape outside the house, a quaint CountryCottageTM made of cellulike, all dolled up like a dollhouse with casement windows and a chimney and stuff.

The woman in the kitchen didn’t notice – too busy listening to the FirestoveTM tell her how to bake pies and whatnot like they did in the old days. She’d already baked twelve pies. One was cooling in the window now, which is why she’d left one of the windows open. Duh.

The ape noticed the pie.

The ape ate the pie. Smiled. Messy face.

And decided he wanted more.

Pie on window. More pie inside.

Logical.

The ape got his stubby fingers under the windowsill and pulled up, grunting and squinting his eyes. The casement window moved with a grating noise. Inside the kitchen, the woman finally noticed the ape.

“Hey! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Ooooh!”

“I said get the fuck out of here!”

“Ooooh! Ooooh!”

The ape kept struggling to open the window. Fought. Finally got it up.

“Goddamnit to hell anyway!”

The woman grabbed a rolling pin and mashed the ape’s fingers. The ape was unhappy.

“Eeeeee! Eeeeeeee!”

The ape yanked its hands out. Pissed off as hell, it started punching the window.

“Agggh! Anghhh! Oooh! Ooooh! Annngghghhhh!”

Nothing happened. The ape kept punching. But the glass didn't shatter.

“That’s N-glass, you dumb, hairy ape.”

“Engh?” said the ape.

“Close,” she said. The window slammed shut.

“Now,” she said.

An N-fiber net descended on the ape, shrouding around it like living shrinkwrap.

“Ennggh! Ennggh!” said the ape. The stuff would allow the ape to breathe, ‘course. Still, it’s likely the ape’ll wind up with some claustrophobic reaction, wind up hating small rooms and confining vests. Probably never ride one of them tiny little motorcycles.

“Ennnggh!”

Poor damn ape.

Inspiration, yes. Perspiration, no.
Nikola Tesla related in his autobiography that he experienced detailed moments of inspiration. He could even operate an invention in his brain. From an early age Tesla would visualize an invention in his brain in precise form before moving to the construction stage; a technique which is sometimes known as (eidetic) picture thinking.

Boy's Adventure Story
Like Santa, Admiral Robert Peary was headed for the North Pole. Unlike Santa, he wasn't jolly. He was stuck on Ellesmere Island freezing his ass off. No way to turn back now, not after he'd shot his mouth off to every stupid apple-cheek reporter from every bloody paper in the world about his bloody historic expedition. Stupid, just stupid. Hell isn't hot. Hell is cold. But that's the thing of it. No way out now, eh? I'll keep going. I'll die. Or I won't. Either way, they'll write a bloody boy's adventure story.

Admiral Robert Peary looked up at the sky prepared to mouth a silent, yet awfully witty blasphemy to God or bloody nobody.

Then the sky lit up like fire.

Not just Aurora Borealis. So much .. More.

Crackling sparks of livid complexity. Like a living thing. A spidery magnificent creature ...

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He was filled with holy awe.

Even so, Admiral Robert Peary dutifully returned to his tent and recorded the inexplicable incident in his diary.

30 June 1908. A strong orange yellow light became visible in the north and northeast...

Theology 101
The year was 1301. A year without spring or summer. A year of cold and death in the village.

God was killing them, that was the only logical conclusion. The crops were dying, the glaciers advancing, winter didn’t want to end and, when it did, there was nothing but rain. And, just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, the plague began. God must be angry.

He went to the village square and joined the other villagers, who had reached the same conclusion. They tried to show God how sorry they were. They ripped off their clothes and began whipping themselves. The villagers edged closer and closer to each other; the knot of flagellation tightened. It made it easier for the fleas to jump from body to body.

The plague spread even faster.

Pierce Arrow
Peter followed his uncle into the garage – really just the back of an old farmhouse barn about 20 miles from Buffalo. In the center, there was a gleaming black Pierce Arrow. Dr. Tesla popped the hood. There was no engine inside. There was an AC motor in its place. Dr. Tesla began fiddling with it. He could see a cable snaking out. He knew his uncle would be irritated. But he kept asking questions.

“What’s the horsepower?”

“80.”

“Where does the cable go?”

“To the dashboard. A 12-volt storage battery.”

“The power source?”

“No. Storage.”

Uncle indicated a six foot antenna at the back of the car.

“This is the power source. Excuse me.”

Dr. Tesla stepped into the passenger side at the front of the car.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to make adjustments to the power receiver. But first things first.”

He opened up a box and took out twelve vacuum tubes.

“It looks like a short wave radio.”

“These are not conventional radio tubes.”

“I should think not, Uncle.”

Uncle Tesla laughed to himself and fitted them in. After that, he added two contact rods.

“Peter. Would you care to go for a ride?”

Peter smiled and started to get in. But Uncle was sitting in the passenger’s seat and wouldn’t move.

“Go around.”

“What?”

“Go around Peter. I want you to drive.”

“You want … all right.”

He walked around the car and got in.

Tesla held out a key. The sight of it filled him with an odd excitement.

“Take the key.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

He took the key, put it in.

“Start the engine.”

“Yes, yes.”

Peter promptly turned the key. He felt a vibration. Yet there was no sound.

Dr. Tesla nodded.

Peter pushed his foot to the accelerator and the car moved.

He drove about twenty meters, out of the garage.

“Keep going.”

“What?”

“It is safe. On city roads, country roads. Keep going.”

Peter reached the road and started to turn right.

“Left,” said his Uncle. “Away from the city.”

He turned left.

Peter drove away from the city.

The car was utterly silent. A few cars passed them but no one seemed to notice. The strange exhilaration stayed with him. Uncle, too, seemed to be smiling, but he remained as silent as the Packard. Before he knew, Peter was 50 miles away from Buffalo. They were deep in the countryside now. He looked at his Uncle.

“How fast can it go?”

Dr. Tesla shrugged.

“Do you mind if I …?”

The speedometer went up to 120 mph. At a nod from his Uncle, he tested it up to 90 mph. The car responded effortlessly. Still there was no sound.

Peter decelerated. The car that is. His heart was still going thump-thump-thump. He laughed out loud, like a boy.

“You like the car?”

It was the first thing his Uncle had said since they’d left.

“I like what’s in the car. Uncle. What is in the car?”

Dr. Tesla looked around. But there was only the countryside of a Washington Irving story. He felt free to speak.

An enormous smile broke out across his uncle's face.

“It’s not a radio.”

“Of course it’s not a radio. What … I mean … How long could we keep going before the car goes pfft?”

“Forever.”

“Forever?"

His Uncle nodded.

“The device you saw? It could supply the needs of the car, forever. It could supply the needs of a household, forever. With power to spare.”

“Where does the power come from?”

“Ah-ah-ah.”

“How does the device work?”

“This is not the time, nephew.”

“When is the time?”

“I don’t know. But this isn’t it.”

“But what if …”

“What if what?”

“What if … What if Edison sends his thugs to …”

“You worry too much, nephew. Enjoy the drive. Just enjoy the drive.”

A Wall of Power
Today the most civilized countries of the world spend a maximum of their income on war and a minimum on education. Progress is impossible while nations persist in the savage practice of killing each other off.

We cannot abolish war by outlawing it. We cannot end it by disarming the strong. War can be stopped, not by making the strong weak but by making every nation, weak or strong, able to defend itself.

Hitherto all devices that could be used for defense could also be utilized to serve for aggression. This nullified the value of the improvement for purposes of peace. But I was fortunate enough to evolve a new idea and to perfect means which can be used chiefly for defense. If it is adopted, it will revolutionize the relations between nations. It will make any country, large or small, impregnable against armies, airplanes, and other means for attack. My invention requires a large plant, but once it is established it will he possible to destroy anything, men or machines, approaching within a radius of 200 miles. It will, so to speak, provide a wall of power offering an insuperable obstacle against any effective aggression.

If no country can be attacked successfully, there can be no purpose in war.
—Nikola Tesla
Liberty Magazine, 1937

On second thought, today is not a good day to die

“God,” he said. “I feel so guilty. I don’t think I can live with myself.”

“Oh,” said Nick. “In that case.”

Nick put his hand inside his coat. His cousin fluttered his hand like a ninny.

“Stop!"

"I thought you couldn't live with yourself."

It’s an expression of fucking speech, asshole.”

"You sure?"

Nick slide his hand inside his coat again.

"Fuck you."

Nick laughed his ass off.

The Future Fair
The curved wall of the Bell Telephone Pavilion were adorned with a graphic that resembled an Art Deco caricature of Rudy Vallee: curved hair, closed eyes, and a circular megaphone mouth (half dark, half light) radiating concentric sound waves. 

A radio announcer spoke into a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I’m coming to you live from the Bell Telephone Pavilion at the 1939 World’s Fair. Today … today … Ladies and gentlemen, today we shall be demonstrating one of the astounding wonders of the human mind which purports to create a better world of tomorrow through the power of science. Ladies and gentlemen, I speak of the “Voder.” This invention, a product of Bell Telephone Laboratories, synthesizes the very dulcet tones of human speech with a keyboard, yes, ladies and gentleman, a keyboard, manipulated by a highly skilled technical operator – the very lovely lady I see before me. In a very few moments, we shall demonstrate its wondrous facility. We’re just about to …

“No, ladies and gentlemen, the lady says not yet. I should say the theory behind this device is, uh, simple. Voder actually produced only two basic sounds: a tone generated by a radio valve to produce the vocal sounds and a hissing noise produced by a gas discharge tube to create the sibilants, the “Ss” sound, ladies and gentlemen. The sort of a sound a snake makes, haha. These basic sounds are passed through a set of filters and an amplifier that mixed and modulated them until what emerges from the loudspeaker sounds something like … well, we’re about to hear it, ladies and …”

The crowd screamed.

Appearing out of nowhere, a Pierce Arrow screeched into the hall, headed straight for the radio announcer at 90 mph. Was this part of the demonstration?

If not, he was surely dead.

But there was no point in panicking.

Unlike the announcer who had covered the Hindenburg crash, he was not a weak sister. He maintained his professional composure, whatever the circumstances might be. The Pierce Arrow flew at him; such were his circumstances now. The crowd gasped. He stood his ground. The Pierce Arrow flew within a foot of his face, affording him a brief glimpse of two swarthy faced men inside — and then it was gone. He thought he heard gunfire, but the sound had vanished with the Packard.

The crowd gasped, applauded.

The announcer spoke without tremor.

“It seems that sight as well as sound is on the menu. What will the boys at Bell Labs think of next?”

The crowd laughed.

He shot a glance at the blonde behind the keyboard.

“For the benefit of our east-coast listeners, would you please make the Voder say, ‘Good evening, radio audience?’”

She fiddled with the keyboard.

The Voder said, “Good evening, radio audience.”

The crowd gasped, applauded. 

MyMime Personality Talent Round-up

Keitarou Aizawa is a personality talent with personality plus. The original “cutegirl,” her personality has been recorded (and tweaked just a leeeetle bit) and used in the creation of such popular Agents as Nexxy “the goto gal” What’s next? Word is she really hits her stride with Slash: the fashion detective. (Nexxy says she’s like so nextthing – like she’s rilly objective!) Available soon at a headspace near you. Peace.

Luminous arch

A strong orange yellow light became visible in the north and northeast... causing an undue prolongation of twilight lasting to daybreak. There was a complete absence of scintillation or flickering, and no tendency for the formation of streamers, or a luminous arch, characteristic of auroral phenomena. Twilight on both of these nights was prolonged to daybreak, and there was no real darkness.

Coda
On June 30, 1908, a massive explosion devastated over 800 square miles of forest near the Tunguska river in Siberian Russia. The area of the blast was extremely remote, but the devastation was immense. An estimated 80 million trees were flattened and whole herds of deer wiped out. There were no eyewitnesses. And no survivors.

Saturday, January 18, 2020

Incident at Geostationary Orbit #473


Earth, spinning outside. The planet. It doesn’t look like a big blue marble. It doesn’t look like CGI. It doesn’t look like it does in Gravity or 2001 or ...

It looks so goddamn real. 

Beautiful, subtle. But random, weird. This isn’t a map, this isn’t an image. This is the real deal.

This is ground control to Major Tom ...

Oh no. No. Fuck this shit.

You've really made the grade.

Oh fuck no. That song keeps playing in his head. Stupid song. Fuck you, David Bowie. Nobody gives a shit what shirt we wear. Shut up, shut up ...

The Earth spins. He's going to die.

Beep. Two minutes of oxygen remaining.

He always knew he was going to die this way. 

He had the nightmare. Recurring. Every astronaut does. 

Firemen probably dream of burning alive. Sex workers dream of being fucked to death. Astronauts dream of dying in space watching the Earth spin.

Why the fuck did he want to be an astronaut?

What was he thinking?

He'd worked so hard. Practiced in his kids’ desk pretending it was a space capsule, getting used to cramped positions. He pumped weights. He ran and ran and ran. Read up. Learned to hold his breath. The whole nine yards.

Beep. One minute 50 seconds oxygen remaining.

Fuck you suit. That’s so fucking helpful.

Earth spins. 

Africa. Madagascar, under a smear of clouds.

Recurring nightmare continues. 

Then he woke up.

He was 23 years old, in bed. Still on the base. Still in training. 

It hasn't happened yet. 

"Fuck this astronaut shit."

He said it out loud. Nobody there in the base. Just rows and rows of squared-away cots. But he said it again.

"Fuck this astronaut shit."

He dropped out of the training program. XO chewed his ass out. He stood there and took it. Like Grissom in The Right Stuff. 

He finished his service, went back to engineering school Graduated. Got a job at Yoyodyne. Took a kickback from a defense contract. Expensive widget, just a prop. Dead circuitboards inside. Did nothing. Cost ‘em nothing to make. Cost NASA a shitload. Until they caught on. Defense contractor killed himself. He almost went to jail, but they fucked up at the trial and he got off. His first wife left him. He wrote a book. Grounded. Sold a few copies, running joke on late night TV. His next wife left him. He sold used cars, copier paper, toner, self-help seminars, insurance, real estate, marijuana, pizza. Day after day. Shit happened, but nothing to write home about.

One day woke up in a hospice. He was 73 years old. His brain had blown out like an old bicycle tire. Tubes and machines. Hooked up. Clicking, whirring. Going beep, beep, beep. Just like ...

Beep.

Opened his eyes. And there he was again.

Stuck in the suit. Looking out at.

The blue planet, spinning in space.

Beep. One minute oxygen remaining.

This was all just a dream. Or not.

What fucking difference does it make?

He'd know soon enough.

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Either way, at least that stupid song would shut up.

The Earth kept spinning.

Saturday, January 11, 2020

Dr. Whom?


Hello, I'm the Doctor. What I need right now is a script doctor.

I’ve been a Dr. Who fan since I first viddied shit-quality broadcasts on WEDU in 1989, and filled in the gaps via VHS tapes from Video Renaissance. The show's flaws were dead obvious. But I loved its panache, its imagination, its cheek, and its unabashed intelligence, so I kept watching. The 2005 reboot was a dream devoutly to be wished. You'd best believe my fanboy eyes stayed glued.

But ...


But the latest season has pissed on the fire of my love. I’ll keep watching, sure. But something’s off. Something's wrong. Something’s missing. Or someone.


Why is the new Dr. Who not quite Dr. Who?


Tough question.


The new show looks like Dr. Who. There’s inventive set design, great cinematography, decent dialog, heartfelt acting. But it misses the mark. Somehow. The Tardis is out of gas. Dr. Who is out to lunch. The show has the energy of a wet noodle in a vat of molasses. It sags, it bores, it fails to grip. Why?

What the hell is wrong?


Glad you asked that question, me.


First, the flaw is not the bloody fact that Dr. Who’s latest incarnation happens to be a woman. How dare you suggest that, sir! I’m not some shithead misogynist, you sniveling PC bastard. I don’t give a flying fig if Dr. Who is a man, a woman, a Smurf or a wedge of cheese!


Oh wait, I’m me. Sorry.


Anyway. Ah. Now that we’ve cleared the air, here’s a short list of what’s wrong.


First and worst. This latest incarnation is clueless about Dr. Who's character.

Dr. Who has many virtues. Humility isn't one of them. With Dr. Who, hubris isn't a flaw, just an accurate self-image. Based on their track record, the Doctor's overweening pride is justified. The real Dr. Who is the best and brightest and doesn't give a shit about your opinions. Dr. Who puts his/her bet on Number One. And it comes up every time. He/she puts his companions at risk of Lovecraftian cosmic horrors on the basis of nothing more than, "I'm Doctor Who. I'll think of something." This godlike, Gallifreyan gadabout is absolutely benevolent and loveably arrogant. The real Doctor Who, anyway. The latest Doctor Who would never say something like this ...

Basically, run.

The second flaw? Storytelling stupidity.


Dr. Who (the show) has always been a narrative hybrid. Aside from the unscientific science fiction, it’s part detective story, part horror story. Dr. Who tries to solve a mystery in a race against time. Simultaneously, Dr. Who and his/her companion(s) are being chased by scary monsters.

This only works if there’s actual tension—a real sense of threat.


But the new show is too lovey-dovey and cuddly. Dr. Who and his/her solitary companion (and occasional duo) have now expanded to a trio, precisely balanced in terms of age, gender and ethnic origin. The show loves them all. You know it’s not going to kill them. The scary monsters won’t win; no heads will roll. This isn’t Game of Thrones. 


Next? 

Well, at some point, Chris Chibnall and the current writers decided to make this an ensemble show. Hugs! Kisses! No more egomania! Every companion gets equal weight. Dr. Who doesn’t hog the screen time. Not anymore. No, no, no. We’re all important.

That earnest, egalitarian teamwork dilutes the power of Dr. Who’s manic character. You don’t get a sense of her furious mind sinking its teeth into an impossible paradox. You see glimpses of her mind at work, sure. But these alternate with shots of the companions and the latest guest star. The show cuts up screen time like a parent slicing up a pie for bickering children. We all get an equal share!


When you do glimpse the latest Dr. Who’s powers of ratiocination, they’re really not that good. And it's not that surprising.


Steven Moffat (the anointed apostle of Russell T. Davies, the 2005 reboot’s messiah) went on to do Sherlock—a circus act of logical contortions that defied the imagination. Davies and Moffat were good. Chris Chibnall isn’t. He isn’t that smart, either.


Along with Chibnall’s lousy grasp of logic, he has a moronic notion of military strategy and tactics. By way of example, in the first episode of the 13th season, Dr. Who hides out from the Big Bad in a mad scientist’s cottage in the Australian outback. Two human soldiers (with pitiful human firearms) guard the perimeter—against evil aliens with particle beam weapons who could strike at any time from any direction in the darkness. Instead of sensibly running inside, they keep walking around, fully exposed, just waiting to die. And they do. Then the evil aliens appear! Dr. Who responds to this challenge by strolling outside. Rudely, she doesn’t bother slapping a target on her forehead.


Expendable characters die. The lovable characters don’t. The Big Bad is never all that bad, the threat is never threatening.


Dr. Who isn’t the mad savior who’ll pull us through. Nah.


We’re all in this together.


Teamwork is what matters. That’s the big lesson—or one of them. And that points to the big problem.


When forced to choose between story and lesson, this iteration of Dr. Who kills the story every time.


Dr. Who (the story) bends over and says “Yes, sir! May I please have another!” Dr. Who (the character) takes a backseat to valuable lessons about peace, love, understanding and teamwork. Didactic diddling aside, the show has scary stuff. But not that scary. No nightmare fuel for viewers 14-years-old and younger. They’re the target, of course. And now we reach the awful truth.


It's a kid’s show, folks.


That’s what’s wrong.


Dr. Whom

The show doesn't make it.

It's a kid's show.