Thou Art Moloch

"Behind the veil is the machine
It steals your soul, devouring all your dreams
My hand is firm upon the wheel
I control, I am the demon"

 

Jamison Boaz & Jason Charles Miller - Resist and Disorder (Cyberpunk 2077 soundtrack)

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"The heart, the heart, there was the little yet boundless sphere wherein existed the original wrong of which the crime and misery of this outward world were merely types. Purify that inward sphere, and the many shapes of evil that haunt the outward, and which now seem almost our only realities, will turn to shadowy phantoms and vanish of their own accord; but if we go no deeper than the intellect, and strive, with merely that feeble instrument, to discern and rectify what is wrong, our whole accomplishment will be a dream"

 

Nathaniel Hawthorne - Earth's Holocaust

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In 1965 Harlan Ellison published "Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman, a short ramble against the clockwork pace of mechanized life. It sat in the same issue of Galaxy Science Fiction as a spy story by Robert Silverberg about techno-theocracy and also Laugh Along with Franz, by one Norman Kagan who apparently lost the ensuing inaugural Nebula nomination to Ellison* who kept the narration hopping better than Kagan's more didactic exposition. Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the difficulty in meshing analytical and creative thought (stupid Vladimir and Estragon never stop bickering) he seems better known as a film scholar.

 

Aside from that, though, Laugh Along with Franz is yet another techno-dystopian tale. Hey, the hippie era had its fixations. Here, it's automation making almost all humans redundant, with the ensuing anomie driving much of the populace to crime, insanity and general monkey-business. Sorry, is that a bit apropos of our current arguments about chatbots?

 

Let's ramble aimlessly about a different SF yarn instead, Robert A. Heinlein's Waldo from 1942, which incidentally later became the name for such teleoperation devices. It's always been one of my least favorite Heinlein works, for the anti-intellectual twist it takes halfway through. Then again, though Wikipedia erroneously describes "the journey of a mechanical genius from his self-imposed exile from the rest of humanity to a more normal life" Heinlein actually (in contrast to, say, Valentine Michael Smith's maculate conception by towering intellects) has his customary mouthpiece curmudgeon explicitly debunk Waldo's mystique as genius, being instead an above-average intellect deriving much of his success in the field of mechanical engineering by hyper-focus and a personal stake in the machinery allowing him to live with myasthenia gravis. Which made only slightly less galling the denouement of the cranky, reclusive brainiac becoming the life of the party and carousing with the reg'lr folks after getting cured of his ailment, as though the hopeless experiential and existential gulf between competent minds and the subhuman norm were a disease of the intelligent, to be doctored back to accursed normalcy by hillbilly magic tricks.

 

Waldo's side plot about energy beams afflicting all humans with weakness is just the water fluoridation conspiracist icing on that cake, but it did mesh for me with the recent episode #466 of Sam Harris' Making Sense podcast, titled "What is technology doing to us?" which does indeed counterpose the nefarious influence of social media and chatbots against human interpersonal relations. As though the abuses of technology, from facebook gossip to nukes, were not the direct result of human effort to out-compete other humans as human social instinct dictates. As though every single Twit were not twittering of its own accord. The customer's always right.

 

'Course, that's an old dodge. Going back 99 years, I'd never bothered watching Metropolis until now. Compared to most stuff from the 1920s it's more cohesive than I'd expected, plus more modern in its action scenes, dramatic face-offs or hero, sidekick and love interest trinity. Though of course, given its outsized stylistic impact, it's hard to tell how much of that was foresight or later life imitating its art. But as far as the plot goes, imagine me blowing a very loud raspberry. Even if you look past a sludge of Biblical references, the story and moralizing are tired cliches not just for 1927, but could've been dismissed as a rip-off of Dickens or fairytales even fifty years prior. The dashing young prince saving the kingdom from an evil wizard who lusted after the queen, aided by a fetching maid pure of heart and defrosting his crusty old father's aging heart, a whopper of a quarter-hour 'think of the children' scene, villain falls off a cliff, holy Mother Goose the triteness just does not stop.

 

Has never stopped, in fact. I've commented before on the absurdity of dystopian flicks like V for Vendetta, Equilibrium, Snowpiercer, etc. pandering to their audience's herd conceit with evil wizards oppressing the salt of the earth multitudes, ignoring the dystopia could not persist without the collusion of those multitudes. The prototypical Metropolis itself places all blame with intellect, with industry, anything outside the plains-ape tribal norm. Even the climactic riot scene paints the murderous rabble as somehow innocent dupes of an inhuman infiltrator, ignoring that they literally built the system of injustice. Their instinct to murder and replace the prince presupposes such princely positions in the first place for the workers' competitive instincts to aspire to; each worker wants to be the one in the palace and for that there must be palaces, even if their own backs break in the gebilding of such.

 

You could, of course, look at the issue at even baser levels: "Who told you to attack the machines, you fools? Without them you'll all die!!" quoth a rightly enraged shift supervisor in Metropolis' lone glimmer of lucidity. No such moment comes in Waldo, where we deliberately sidestep the population pressure creating such ever-increasing demand for energy because the smooth apes reproduce with the speed of any degenerate vermin. Laugh Along with Franz ends in trite primitivism, the hero losing/abandoning his high-tech job to refocus on his relationship with a female as opposed to self-worth by social rank, but the whole pious genuflection before hormonal tyranny ignores the females are the ones imposing the race for social rank in the first place, ignores that without his fancy job she'll dump him in a heartbeat. Ellison's harlequin will not admit the people don't want to be saved from their degenerative drudgery, though unlike other examples here, Ellison was aware enough of human nature to show where that leads his hero.

 

Whose demand fuels industrial supply?

- and no money down!

I've been warming up to Cyberpunk 2077 more and more by ignoring the grind and just wandering about now and then. At least they included a tiny bit of content out in the badlands, away from the video billboard hellscape. Y'know, for us Gangrels. I was especially thrilled when I discovered the composting composition of the hills to the south. A landfill, bigger than the city itself (albeit not all in the game map and summarily rendered) is one element every modern-day setting should include, considering such do in fact exist. I don't mean just the increasingly continental great Pacific garbage patch, but paradisiac spots turned blemishes upon the face of the planet like Thilafushi.

 

It's all good to rail against Apple pushing a new smartphone every year, but where's the outrage against the billions stupid enough to buy it? You rail against chatbots as the new techno-Moloch, but it's not Sam Altman forcing reddit to fill up with AI slop. The users themselves are eating it up. Musk's Cybertruck may be an overpriced, malfunctioning road hazard, but plenty of suckers lined up for the nouveau-Hummer a few years ago. How many cases of makeup does the average ditz run through yearly? Or even monthly? How many plush orangutan dolls will soon be thrown away because millions of monkeys want to do like the monkey they saw? Until they spot the next fad...

 

In over a century of techno-dystopias the masses have been fed exactly the fantasy of victimhood they demand, an unending pretense of wizardly bogeymen exculpating the villagers with pitchforks and torches, the cold, inhuman metal face of science masking the subhuman appetites driving industry's depredations. Is technology dehumanizing? Good. Dehumanization would be the best possible outcome. "Is the rabble also necessary for life?"

 

 

 

 

 

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* Ooops, turns out they were in different categories. Kagan lost to Zelazny, three times at once.

AoW4 Factions, 11

AoW4 has managed the odd feat, unequaled since City of Heroes, of inspiring me to not just write up a character bio but constantly create new factions and give them all more or less whimsical flavor text. So here they are, one by one:

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When the fairies came into play it prodded me to revisit elvishness, more from the edgy, haughty Feanor-grade immortal angle. This "trader at the gates" setup, for its neutrality, actually works quite well for showing a faction's default attitude, much as in #5, the goblin example. Another unfocused faction in terms of affinity, but I remember it working better than others. With the resource bonus from talented collectors and nature expansion bonuses they grow better, and can go offensive or defensive with shadow or materium. The extra naga mobility just doubled(trebled?) down on their adaptability. I can't remember whether this or the other elvish description using the word "eschatologic" came first. I tend to fixate on elvish immortality too much over their other traits, but the poetic weight of endings and beginnings is hard to ignore.

The Truest Lie

So many insist that it doesn't matter if something is not true, believing in it still has value. The topic might be the validity of a political platform or the inherent goodness of plains-apes, or romantic love, but most often it's that other prehistoric millstone around society's neck: religion. You want to "believe in belief" but never admit the self-defeating contradiction of such a stance. That if wishing is not enough, if only pretending it to be true can satisfy, then you have conceded that veracity is indispensible. Faith invalidates itself.

This is a Cooper's hawk as far as I can tell.

They're common enough, but don't make a habit of sitting around posing for pictures.

At -10 or -15 centigrade, though, this one seemed far more willing to tolerate proximity for the heat our buildings give off.

 

Genealogy of The Royal "They"

"My bum is on your lips

My bum is on your lips

And if I'm lucky you might just give it a little kiss

And that's the message that we deliver to little kids

And expect them not to know what a woman's clitoris is"

 

Eminem - The Real Slim Shady

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"Listen closely, LotA: You need to step off the third-person high-horse. [...] If you want to be treated like a person, then don't correct people when they treat you like they treat each other."

 

Schlock Mercenary 2008/11/21

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Though largely lost in our wider media circus (what with the nonsensical warring and the surrender of all society to robber barons and the primitive superstitious backsliding and suchlike) a court case popped up on the news here in the states as redundant proof that men should avoid women as much as possible. (At least they caught this one before she moved on to killing her children as well; just a man dead, no harm done.) Granted, the age-old 'bitch bites man' headline of a wife poisoning her husband for the cash would have raised no eyebrows if not for the very modern twist of her then going on to publish a (ghostwritten) children's book about suffering through the grief of his death. Now that's the 21st century we know and love! (And you're still whining about the Brothers Grimm being too gruesome for modern audiences? Let mommy soothe you with the tale of murdering daddy if he's not useful enough to her, then playing the victim.)

 

It's all about the sympathy.

 

On a completely unrelated topic I've been revisiting the webcomic Questionable Content, which  instead of regaining some perspective seems to be doubling and trebling down on its woke idiocy with not one but two storylines in the past year pushing, of all things, personalized pronouns. In the latest morality play, two teens start throwing stuff and putting another in a choke hold - for what offense, you ask? 'Misgendering' one of them, it being a 'they' of the male persuasion. We then proceed with a soulful heart-to-heart on the moral imperative to support and coddle tha pwecious fee-fees of the retarded trash physically beating their peers for nonexistent insults. Then the boy they choked out is made to return to beg forgiveness and voice admiration of his assured betters, only to be mocked with an eye-rolling "ugh, boys!" chorus behind his back. Ta-dah. The (apparently happy) end.

 

How do you deal with an entire 'left' wing turned self-justifying petty tyrants and champions of schoolyard bullies? It's been fifteen or so years since the politics of those posturing as progressive ceased resembling anything like equality and dove headlong into a mad gambit to fabricate a new aristocracy pervading our entire society, with its own hagiography and honorifics, entitled to claim offense at a whim and mete out arbitrary punishments. There's a difference between calling yourself a 'they' freely, without retribution, and forcing everyone else to play along with your delusion. There's a difference between getting called a 'faggot' by others as an insult and demanding to be called one as a mark of respect. It's the same insanity we were supposed to be combating by no longer forcing children to pledge allegiance to some magic sky-daddy in the clouds. (Which, oddly enough, we never got around to rectifying before new pledges to new allegiances were tacked on.) A right to live your own life is not the same as a right to dictate others'.

 

Of course, in QC's case, it hopped that crazy-train thirteen or more years ago, when it paired up its old main protagonist with a transsexual. One of their relationship upgrades, for instance, consisted of them sharing a hotel room, and the self-appointed female crawling into the theretofore straight male's bed during the night. Though the tranny was the one breaking social norms, when the other tells the story to his own friends, he's the one reflexively put on trial as a possible sexual predator. Well, that's how you market to an entire generation raised on the likes of Nimona. This is Dick Cheney shooting another man in the face then making him publicly apologize for getting shot. This is Saddam Hussein charging his victims' families for the bullets used in executions. This is every nobleman over the centuries caning a servant then docking his wages for breaking his cane. And it's now the official stance of every right-thinking leftist.

 

Best of all, you need no special qualities to join the ranks of such a superior breed. No analytical skill, intellectual integrity or creativity, no virtues except adherence to a quasi-articulated creed. But it's worth remembering where all this snowflakery started, the reason it has consistently fallen back on ginned up sympathy for the cute, for the easily offended, for the mentally infirm, for men claiming to be women, for those claiming intrinsic protections beyond those available to their fellow apes. Where does, where has rested the stronghold of weaponized, unquestioned victimhood all throughout history? Based on which social divide do we inherit a mentality splitting us innately into those who must provide and protect and those entitled to benefit from those efforts? Did not the damsel wail for violence to be committed on her behalf in every children's tale? Scratch just a few slogans beneath the mob's pentimentod placards and you will find this modern insanity hearkens back to women's primordial entitlement to exploit men, and to dispose of them if profit dictates, all while playing the victim.

Hey, what do you call Sanrio's North-American market share?

Trickle-Dow Nekonomics. 

Game as Service Outage

"She takes a litle time

In making up her mind

She doesn't want to fight against the tide"

 

Garbage - The Trick Is to Keep Breathing

 

 

Let's see, where were we? Night City? 

Nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. I've been jumping in every so often this past year, as one does in these big open world games, but find myself unmotivated to advance in any way. At least in Skyrim, despite putting the main quests off for... almost forever, I could get momentarily jazzed by exploring a new dungeon, crafting new weapons, potions and enchantments, building up my homestead. Cyberpunk 2077's level scaling sours both the combat and crafting, its apartments can't be customized (and once I found the delightfully shabby Northside one I lost interest in others) plus I already got the only car I want.

Quit snickering, it gets three million pixels to the gallon!

The high point so far have been the side-quests, which not only display some nice, professional level design but contain just enough flavor text to each paint an entertaining vignette of life in the city. But as I've been clearing those off board after board, I've been gradually losing interest in mercenary work altogether and launching the game for ten or twenty minutes at a time to just wander around and take in the numerous slices of Night City life, like kids playing virtual hopscotch.

Oh come on, a piece of chalk must cost, like, a fraction of an implant, economize ya lil' shits! Anyway, overall, a modern setting offers less room for the more involved delving of a single, unitary "dungeon" so there's no real feeling of escalation to any of it. Escalation takes more planning.

 

I never did get around to trying Vagrus' new zone. When I left off, I'd just finished a massive inspiraling sweep of the map, polishing off Finndurarth, Nedir and Harvek's companion quests at the same time as cashing in a lot of smaller contracts, battles and investments.

Excess livestock: the best problem.

Gotta appreciate those 400 silver wallet bumps. But knowing I'll need to devote a fair bit of focus to my next twenty-step plan to avoid forgetting crucial details, I parked my comitatus back at newbietown with an empty inventory and clear ledger, and there it's been awaiting my triumphant scheming return for half a year. I'll be saddlin' up some giant ant mounts next time! If there is a next time...

 

There are many issues with the DLC-spam business model as a subset of the game-as-service, microtransaction mentality writ large. Its popularity spread with multiplayer games which ensured almost universal playerbase buy-in. Everyone else is buying the new expansion. Do or get left behind. But single-player lacks that social network addiction as a crutch, leaving only the game's quality as incentive for the next buy-in. How sure are you of your appeal?

 

Then of course there's the issue of demanding your customers pay full price for the bare skeleton of a product, which is why I bought Europa Universalis 4 a decade after its release.

 

Then there's the diminishing returns angle, as latter DLCs get more and more sparse to keep bleeding a supposedly addicted audience with the least effort, which is why I haven't bought the last few years' worth of Stellaris DLCs.

 

At the conjunction of the previous two points you find the limitation of tacking extra features onto a basic system not made for them. I've addressed at some length D&D's problem trying to sell extra classes, modules and settings, when what it so obviously needs is to break down the primitive min-maxing, over-randomized fighter/wizard/thief setup from half a century ago - but the fanboys would never stand for it. Age of Wonders 4 has been scraping that limit with its latter expansions, deftly interspersing yet not touching the core limitations of its six magic affinities.

 

Worse (here we reach my eventual point) you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't, because in electronic-land, a full revamp will probably not be playable with older content. These days, that's a problem. Last year when I joked about needing spreadsheets to keep track of various options I've used (or not) as I jump between games every few months, I started by complaining Frostpunk 2 had killed my last city with its heat management patch. Now that seems to be ramping up into a trend. Low Magic Age (one of those perpetually "in beta" types) has barred my level 13-ish party from continuing. Darkest Dungeon 2 wiped my existing "confession" (a.k.a. campaign) at some point. Worst of all, my excitement at a new Mount&Blade expansion (Bannerlord's got vikings now - on boats!) was severely dampened when it forced me to retire the Marquis of Baltakhand, aged though he now be. Even porn games are starting to nuke old saves, and if you think an RPG party wipe is anti-climactic, try getting caught mid-thrust! 

 

While I don't deny the financial necessity for start-ups or fringe developers to literally buy themselves more development time with piecemeal content, add nuking players' saves as further evidence of post-launch content's limited tenability, no matter how well it worked for No Man's Sky. This is especially true as strategy/RPG campaigns have stretched longer and longer. A Frostpunk city represents a couple days' worth of gameplay. Bad enough. But the likes of Rogue Trader or Baldur's Gate 3 boast 200-hour campaigns. Not an option for them. If the basic idea is that such expansions will come after players have had a year or three to get bored of their existing characters, I refer you to my Vagrus example. Some concepts are playable only by extended, devoted effort, after which you might let the experience marinate for a bit before jumping in again. Not because you're bored, but because you're savoring it... or maybe precisely because you tell yourself you'll play once the next DLC comes out, not realizing it'll murderize yer marquis.

 

So, two or three main issues:

 

1) Micro-doses of content can much more easily be added to dumbed-down gamplay where you just end up wandering aimlessly about, as in Cyberpunk. I don't know if those hopscotch brats were there from launch, and I don't have to care. Even if they did anything it wouldn't affect my trade run... because there is no trade run. No planning. Just mindless twitch-FPS dust-ups. But if I saw a DLC drop for Vagrus when my character was mid-circuit, I would deliberately delay buying it, possibly by months (and it went on sale) until I was safe in town with no outstanding warrants and able to accommodate any landscape changes.

 

2) One of the big problems with post-launch content has been training your customers to refuse buying anything at launch pricing on the assumption they'd only be missing out on later stuff 'n junk anyway. Now pile that on with conditioning them to actively dread expansions killing their characters. Bad enough to market a pig in a poke, but when the revealed cat claws your face off...

("Lately, I'm not the only one

I say never trust anyone") 

 

3) As the entire industry is presumably re-tooling to fill games with spammed, dirt-cheap AI slop as content, the artsier fringe must at long last bite the bullet and start marketing itself not as low-budget small-time indie side-show attractions, but as more expensive, artisanal interactive media. Go organic. Advertise your Amish hand-crafting. Charge more. Take more time to develop. Put out singular, coherently-crafted campaigns from start to finish. Move on to the next and hope your work was good enough to earn you name brand trust. Low prices and DLC spam will soon be synonymous with The Slop.

AoW4 Factions, 10

AoW4 has managed the odd feat, unequaled since City of Heroes, of inspiring me to not just write up a character bio but constantly create new factions and give them all more or less whimsical flavor text. So here they are, one by one:

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Like I said, dragons don't particularly inspire me, and this faction was made just so I could play around with an order dragon. Goats too, for some reason. Didn't like making it, didn't like playing it, can barely remember it.

 

Well, they can't all be winners. 

Le Mot Justified Alignment

"An honest propagandist for any Cause, that is, one who honestly studies and figures out the most effective way of putting over his Message, will learn fairly early that it is not fair to ordinary folks--it just confuses them--to try to make them swallow all the true facts that would be suitable to a higher class of people. And one seemingly small but almighty important point he learns, if he does much speechifying, is that you can win over folks to your point of view much better in the evening, when they are tired out from work and not so likely to resist you, than at any other time of day."

 

Sinclair Lewis - It Can't Happen Here (note, that's his villain speaking)

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Hmm, where shall we start tonight's peripatetic prose on conning? Maybe with the prosaic conman-in-chief? Various Democrat-aligned American comedians have been pulling material in spades from Trump's decline into senility, but as usual, chasing momentary profit masks the more salient, wider point. This is not a 2026 issue. He was a laughing stock even in the '90s. Old or young, Donnie is, was, has always been an incoherent babbling buffoon. Even while he retained "the gift of gab" said gab contained zero substance. At his utmost cogent, he might verbalize a platitude or truism. In any decade, any rational mind listening to a couple of sentences of his verbal diarrhea could spot in him an overeducated moron, a spoiled rich brat never called out on his mistakes, a transparently obfuscating blowhard with a third-grade vocabulary and a three-year-old's grasp of causality. No animal which communicates in that chimpanzee swagger will ever be anything more than a troglodyte. But for that to matter you'd need a public capable of distinguishing the loftiest prose from chimp grunts, and it's not as though Obama's vapid "hope and change" mantra held more meaning than "make rabblerousing great again."

 

On a completely unrelated topic, it was trendy from the late '90s to the mid 2010s to proclaim that women speak twice or three times more than men, with a knowing wink intimating this merely confirms the mental inferiority of men as dumb animals incapable of verbalizing* and presumably communicating in nothing but primitive grunts like Tim the Tool Man. Studies both back then and last year have tended to deflate that otherwise unproven assumption, with, yes, okay, women speaking consistently more, but not by much. Ten percent? Twenty at most? So now if you look up the issue you run across feminist complaints that the trope of women verbalizing more was nothing but patriarchal propaganda to put down women as chatty... even though it was the feminists and daytime talk shows of 20y.a. who popularized it as superior communication. Their revisionism is likely prompted by another realization from the intervening years which appears to have been expunged from search engines in the interest of women's dignity: that their excess speech was not, in fact, communicating anything. It comes from an increase in mundane chatter, the hi-how-are-you-hi-I-am-fine-how-are-you-also-fine-great-bye-bye droning background radiation of social life. Women just feel a need to "touch base" more. Give a guy <A TOPIC> and he'll talk your ear off too.** But for a couple of decades nobody thought to question whether the speech in question was meaningful or not. Meaning is extraneous.

 

So. This is a post about chatbots.

 

I'm seeing more and more exasperated nerds and nerdettes trying to point out that even if a bot can instantly write you a ten-page commentary on any topic, that in no way implies it's logically constructing a coherent analysis. Well, sure, thinks I, what else is new? LLMs are cut-and-paste machines, working at stunningly finer pixel-scale grain than any such effort in history, but by necessity still just outputting a probabilistic extension of a sequence. Ask a bot's opinion on a movie and it will output strings of "cinematography" and "scintillating" and "emotive" and anything else you're accustomed to hear out of a critic's mouth, precisely because you, the asker, are accustomed to hearing them. Ask it to make a movie and it will paste predicted figures onto a standardized backdrop and animate them in accordance with the maximum likelihood of such arrangements. At no point is actual creation involved. At no point does the output reflect reality any more faithfully than the topic's match to existing content. The more a culture interacts via such automated output, the more it will, by necessity, both contract toward the lowest-common-denominator and lose its grounding.

 

But if you take issue with this, be intellectually honest enough to admit the problem is not the supply. It's the demand. The "reality" TV-watching public is too stupid to detect the gradual degradation of communication and cultural capital.

Not uneducated.

Not constrained. 

Not victims of circumstance.

Stupid.

Humanity appears to have achieved Orwell's versificator, a useful tool for placating the proles, the subhuman cattle comprising the overwhelming bulk of the species. Gabbing. Limitless, prompt and bountiful gabbing. Is that a bad thing? Yes, but not for any of the humanitarian reasons you'd like to boast as moral high ground. The people don't want your help. They want the platitudes. They'll never know the difference. They will likely live happier lives for it. So why is the versificator bad? And it is. Disastrous.

 

But admit to yourself where exactly your anger should be directed.

 

 

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* Seriously though, 1800 pages, do I look like I have trouble verbalizing my thoughts?

** I'm pretty sure that if you look closer at men's speech, you'll find the prosocial platitudes replaced with slogans, chants and catchphrases. Sorry, bros, but "wazzaaaaaap" is still very much not a word. All of this is, by-the-by, not getting into the issue of gossip, of the invasive personal/interpersonal nature of women's chatter, which I'm guessing is where the difference and the mis-perception of talking "more" actually lies.

Fullmetal Passerine

No hawk's getting through THAT!

Broodhollow

"I never heard of a sawmill with a night shift. Explain that to me!"

 

The Sinking City's prohibition-era setting reminded me of one of the endless dead comics littering teh interwebz - but one of the few I really wish would have continued. Kris Straub seemed reasonably famous among the cartoonin' crowd in the 2000s for his space comedy Starslip, but I never warmed up to it. Cheesy romantic over-arching premise with heavily Futurama-derived main characters (Zapp, Bender, Zoidberg) but too one-dimensional and straining at flimsy plots even by parody standards. Through the 2010s however he ran Broodhollow, a far more creative and coherent story which died mid-rising-action after two chapters and 249 pages.

 

A jittery Roaring '20s encyclopedia salesman inherits a haunted antiques shop. He is joined by a plucky ginger love interest, a giant miniature (space?) animal companion and a hero's mentor spouting vaguely off-brand Freudianisms. Comedy ensues, chiefly from the quaintness of the titular town in which the shop is located: its quaint period jargon, its quaint speakeasy serving fake liquor, quaint non-stop string of town holidays, quaint giant mutant flying swarms and skeletons in various closets...

 

As an (aborted) example of storytelling, Broodhollow demonstrates several points easily forgotten these days.

First, that you need not take a setting too seriously to render it believably and tie it into your story's theme. It's easier to place conflicts of tradition and self-reliance, belief and truth-seeking at the onset of 20th-century modernism. (It's also easier to believe so quaint a town might stay off the radar before the electronic era, but that's another conversation.) Its more farcical elements retain proportion and relevance to the characters' plight and thus never feel like "lolrandom" filler.

Relevant to the medium, while a lot of cartoonists have been rushing to incorporate fancier (quasi-automated) detail, shading, and so forth, Broodhollow's level of visual competence just above the early 20th-century newspaper comics it apes allows it plenty of room for goofy cartoonishness ramping toward splashes of higher detail for dramatic scenes.

Also, competent female characters can be portrayed without the need to defeat men for validation at every turn. Aside from the love interest's own efforts, a major threat in the plot is subverted by a not only elegant but quintessentially feminine solution, without resorting to out-doing the menfolk.

On a more philosophical point, it portrays the terror of madness not as violence or perversion but as blankness, erasure, Hollowing, the grotesquery inherent in mental influence as implicit destruction of the individual.

 

But the biggest success of those 240-odd pages comes by portraying horror not only by hauntings and huntings, but in their impact on the mundane. Horror invades the characters' lives, twisting or effacing universal habits and sentiment, infecting with wrongness. The quote above comes late in the story, and hits particularly hard for reminding the reader (who's likely been mentally chasing flashier manifestations) how easily he has brushed aside the low-key pervasiveness of evil influence in Innsmou- sorry, I mean Broodhollow.

 

All in all, denser than it appears and worthier of attention than much longer comics.

AoW4 Factions, 9

AoW4 has managed the odd feat, unequaled since City of Heroes, of inspiring me to not just write up a character bio but constantly create new factions and give them all more or less whimsical flavor text. So here they are, one by one:

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Wolves! Thank you, finally, they put some damn wolves in the game! I was also surprised to find a text box in the last faction creation window, so these guys are the first to receive a description right from the start. I wasn't ready to get back into character bio blurbs though, so I ended up over-playing the repetitive verbal reinforcement. I also merely rehashed my old City of Villains dominator's bio, but 'yknow what? That's ok. That is oh-kay. I also got into a flexibility kick for a few factions around this time, so their affinity's all over the place. Not quite as satisfying from a roleplaying perspective. Effective though, even if it's not easy scrounging enough Imperium to make it worthwhile.

The Sinking City

Asbestoscape - And So the Story Goes

(you're not getting a Metallica song suggestion unless your sequel turns out much better) 

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Look out, Old Gods, I've got a Tommy gun! And springs!

I thought I'd polish off a quick adventure game in between longer titles, but somehow mixed up The Sinking City with... maybe The Forgotten City? Dagon? Apocalypsis? Scorn? my backlog's getting unmanageable. In any case a first glance at the FPS interface and expansive map revealed this is not the shoestring-budget old-timey point-and-click adventure I had expected. Which is both good and bad, as I discovered when setting out to explore the 3D wonderland a bit before the tutorial quest and, this being me we're talking about, managed to get myself stuck on terrain and die within the first couple of minutes.

Lousy Lake Lachrymose Leeches!

But alright, I told myself, I could stand for a bit of Lovecraftian lurking fear, a creeping immersion into vague hints and portents of gruesome, dehumanizing terrors metastasizing indistinctly beyond the bounds of mundane human experie - WHOA!

The honorable Bob Throg, esq. (probably?)

I'm sorry, I can't hear a word you're saying past that face. My but we're wavin' our Jermyns out in public pretty shamelessly, aren't we? Soooo... not so much with the gradual, creeping, indistinct lurking and vague portending, I guess? That, and there's fish-people and tattooed shirtless cultists walking around town openly and nobody bats an eyelash at bloodthirsty inhuman monstrosities. Thus I replaced genre whiplash with a first impression that these Lovers of the Craft possess all the subtlety of their idol without his talent for flowery escalation, and decided to give the first few quests a chance just so I could write off my old purchase as a lost cause and move on to some better game.

 

Instead, I gotta say, it eventually drew me in.

 

Quite a few stylistic details irked me, especially at first. I've always assumed Innsmouth should be pronounced closer to Inns-muth not -mouth as in chewing. One mob's a blatantly 'roided-out Half-Life headcrab. The writing is decidedly prosaic compared to its infamously purple inspiration. Not bad or jarring, but compared to what The Secret World's writers had accomplished with the same material eight years prior, Sinking's still amateur hour. The shallow and blunt presentation just reinforces my view that everyone really needs to give Lovecraft a rest.

 

Most all its flaws, though, stem from one fundamental design decision. Like We Happy Few and a string of other adventure/RPGs from the 2010s (or more recently the object lesson of Bloodlines 2) there was little reason for this to be an open-world FPS Skyrim clone, or then pile on with MMO-inspired graveyard runs and designated resource grinding zones. That's what the kids these days like, right?

 

The aforementioned rushed suspense is partly mandated by FPS mechanics, but one terrible design choice does not vindicate the other. Combat is easily the worst part of the game, with bad or nonexistent collision and hit confirmation, hitscan abuse, clumsy spawning or pathing. And they got very little variety out of it with only two boss fights, one easily skippable and the other toward the end of the Fathers and Sons chapter illustrating the system's every weakness. You get thrown into it with no chance to scout first. The chamber is gigantic and there's zero indication of what you're supposed to do. No hit confirmation on the boss so it looks invincible. Per genre conventions praying cultists normally have to be exterminated in such fights in order to render a boss vulnerable or stop add spawns but are here irrelevant. There's no indication where the biggest source of damage is coming from unless you're staring at your feet at exactly the correct moment. Outside that, though the four basic mob types and their alternate variants (invisibility, self-resurrection) are interesting at first, their random lurching movements fail to evoke their intended eeriness and simply become infuriating by repetition.

 

The setting of Oakmont itself serves as the main attraction and is indeed a lovely burg. It's got old preindustrial manor houses, dingy apartment stacks, even dingier shoreline wooden shacks. But then it duplicates, triplicates, quadruplicates its available inspiration. Huge place for a no-name developer's sophomore effort. Thus it predictably sapped the team's capabilities, forcing them to copy-paste decor ("Men's finest clothing" and "Whately's household chemistry" obviously do a rollicking business with scores of storefronts near you) and the period-appropriate art assets jumble together. The nominal existence of a technology during a particular decade in no way assured widespread availability. (How many rail guns do you own?) In the 1920s, even with internal combustion use exploding and even in this the land of Our Ford and that patent thief Edison, relatively few people had electric lighting or telephones and even fewer cars (relying more on trains and trolleys) especially in a no-name New England port town.

What, no horse wagons for hicks from the surrounding countryside? No bikes? Nobody row-row-rowed a boat in the 1920s? Well, it would've required extra models and animations, but as a result the setting looks a couple decades removed. All the worse as this repetitiveness applies to some quest locations including the "secret" false walls you're supposed to find in the same exact spot every single time.

 

The FPS nonsense interferes with the game's more important detective mechanics as well. Monsters spawn in (and around) in the stupidest possible way, simply teleporting in from the floor, and can do so while your interface is momentarily locked by clicking to examine a clue. And as if everyone weren't incongruously blase about the extradimensional creeps, this clashes with basic walking about town. Cops shooting you if you pull a gun on people out in the street? Sure, makes sense. Unless you were trying to shoot a monster, which they completely ignore to start shooting at you instead of the gibbering abomination from beyond time and space.

 

But that detective angle, along with the cases you uncover, ends up being Sinking City's saving grace. When not spinning its wheels or tripping over itself, it provides a refreshing balance of eyeing supernatural clues in GhostVision!(tm)

Breadcrumb trails have never looked less edible.

- complete with a minigame placing events in (usually fairly obvious) order -

- and perfectly mundane clue-gathering:

Instead of the usual automatic HUD markers just yanking you in every direction, you mark your own map based on street directions, themselves often requiring a look-up in various local registries like newspaper articles. While, again, they erred on the side of caution by unsubtle quest prompts ensuring clues would be more intelligible than poetic, it's a solid foundation for a sequel expanding on this sort of writing/environment integration I myself had coincidentally called for in the year preceding the game's release. 

Alternate completion options may not affect your character's progression, but they're well-conceived as roleplaying quandaries. What more do you want? Colorful bit players, a few historical references, some hard quest decisions I'll split into a separate post, a bit of contextualized comic relief:

Though not a masterpiece, so much of The Sinking City is immersive, engaging, amusing, or otherwise admirable, yet at every turn hobbled by "hours played" padding and over-reach for twitch-gamer mass appeal, by farming random containers for superfluous randomized crafting loot, scanning hundreds of random blank walls with GhostVision, doing corpse runs and most of all alternately rushing and stalling plot development in the interest of getting players into the supposedly more exciting FPS side of things fast and often. Instead of easing in with a bit of sightseeing and vague hints, from the very start you're placing 21 case files by hand on the map (much of it DLC content) throwing you into monster fights. Come on people, pace is not a four-lett... pacing is not a four-letter word!

 

If you think The Whisperer in Darkness should've started with "here's a picture of a Mi-Go, go shoot it" you are missing the damn point!

What a Show, Here We Go

"And where do we feature?"

"Just listen to teacher."

 

The Lion King (Be Prepared)

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"Any priest or shaman must be presumed guilty until proved innocent."

- from the Notebooks of Lazarus Long

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"Your attitude is simply a hold-over of your religious training. That you have a DUTY toward the dull human race--which probably enjoys being bullied by Windrip and getting bread and circuses-- except for the bread!"

"Of course it's religious, a revolutionary loyalty! Why not?  It's one of the few real religious feelings.  A rational, unsentimental Stalin is still kind of a priest.  No wonder most preachers hate the Reds and preach against 'em!  They're jealous of their religious power."

 

Sinclair Lewis - It Can't Happen Here 

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"In the horizon of the infinite.
- We have left the land and have embarked. We have burned our bridges behind us -- indeed, we have gone farther and destroyed the land behind us. Now, little ship, look out! Beside you is the ocean: to be sure, it does not always roar, and at times it lies spread out like silk and gold and reveries of graciousness. But hours will come when you will realize that it is infinite and that there is nothing more awesome than infinity. Oh, the poor bird that felt free and now strikes the walls of this cage! Woe, when you feel homesick for the land as if it had offered more freedom -- and there is no longer any "land.""

 

Friedrich Nietzsche - The Gay Science #124

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Where to start? I guess we can ease into this with a game anecdote. It was only recently while re-skimming something I'd said about Rogue Trader "I started as a preacher for lack of bookish origins" that I realized that's probably more true than I'd like it to be, not just in a galaxy far, far away but to mine own self. If living in ye olden days, deprived of other fonts of learning, I probably would've joined a monastery just for the books - then, let's be realistic, gotten myself burned at the stake a couple years later as a heretic. While it maintained its Dark Age stranglehold on intellectual pursuit, Christianity also maintained a de facto prison for intellectual pursuers.

 

Another recent RPG campaign brought my attention to a phrase I had not even heard before: the so-called Black Legend of defamation against the Spanish crown at its peak of global influence. Amusing because it doesn't seem in question that Spaniards were committing atrocities, but apologists would like to point out other-people-did-bad-things-too! - or at most that the bad things were done in a slightly different location or a year or two earlier. Of course it only takes a little perspective to figure a secondary motivation behind this umbrage, beyond Spanish honor, in religious apologism, as imperialist Spain is nearly synonymous with Catholicism. It goes hand-in-hand with those heavily funded Vatican biopics Hollywood has been cranking out the past decade or so, or another trend sneaking its way through various websites of supposedly unaffiliated commentators "spontaneously"arguing the Dark Ages did not quite destroy all knowledge or that later "not all inquisitors" (#NotAllInquisitors) were raving torturers and witch-hunters. Right, sure.

 

While we're at it, let's remember a term which truly has been misrepresented over the centuries: decimation. In modern popular parlance understood to mean "completely wiped out" its original meaning was much milder, the execution of every tenth soldier of a military unit guilty of some form or another of treason, to make the other nine soldiers fall back in line. It never seems to have worked very well within a military unit whose loyalty to each other can easily be wrecked by such internal punishment, but the same psychological torture can serve much better for an outside force deliberately attempting to break the loyalty of families, villages or looser social associations and turn them against each other to make them more susceptible to brainwashing.

 

If a true believer insists "most" inquisitors were merely sent out to "teach" the ignorant masses official doctrine, take it with a fistful of salt rubbed into your wounds. Yes, half or even 9/10 inquisitors may have busied themselves just spewing chapter and verse, yet behind their every word you would see nothing but the afterimage of your parents, their limbs torn and crushed by the tenth inquisitor's torture implements, their minds utterly shattered, choking as they struggled to beg for mercy before finally expiring.

 

Ohh, yeah. You'll listen to teacher.

 

Speaking of teaching, more than a decade ago, having gone back for a university degree, I found myself listening to some classroom chatter about a particular professor's stupid views on an easily-verified and politically combustible fact. Was it global warming, vaccines, animal rights, trickle-down economics? I forget. Something outside his official specialty at any rate, so he was not speaking ex cathedra on the touchy topic. But I do remember a student indignantly exclaiming "can't we get him fired or something?" It gave me an eerie feeling I only later identified with the rise in politically correct insanity in following years. My side wasn't supposed to talk like this. It was the other guys that wrote up blacklists against political subversives. It was those church ladies, not on campus but out in churches, doing church things, they were the busybodies hounding deviants just for shits and giggles.

Right?

...r-right?

Well, "cancel culture" and the wider wokeysition has in the interval amply demonstrated humans' propensity to crusade on any nonsense. And given how many have been fired and blacklisted based on absolutist propositions like the moral supremacy of women or transsexuals, I'm unwilling to pretend this more modern McCarthyism poses any less threat than the version from seventy years ago. When you start job-firing on pretense, how far could the firing squads be? Academics have not fought back against postmodern insanity. Did it even take a tenth of their number fired to ensure the rest bent knee? I suppose the real question of recovery hinges on whether academia has been destroyed or merely decimated, and the cowards who adopted gender Lysenkoism or the false equivalences of 'multiple intelligences' or cultural relativism might find their spines once some of the pressure to conform eases off.

 

Or maybe the pressure's just switching directions. I'm seeing entirely too many TV comedians pretending they love Lent and are looking forward to the sadomasochistic spectacle of Easter. I viewed a presentation recently by a scientist who at the end thanked God among her peers and funders. Bill Maher hasn't dared so much as squeak against religion for years. Sam Harris is willing to make common cause with the religious fanatics in Israel. So there's a distinction everyone has apparently decided to forget between tolerating isolated personal derangement in individuals, and the far more destructive kow-towing to pervasive superstition to placate the mob.

 

Can atheists hold irrational views? Oh, hell yes. I refer you to Portlandia. Better yet I refer you to a series of video lectures put out by the James Randi Educational Foundation on various pseudoscience and quackery posing as official medical research. The most charismatic speaker she ain't, but do note she can rattle off five hours of (quite entertaining in themselves) references to insanity like homeopathy or energy healing, not even venturing outside the field of medicine, yet still barely scratch the surface.*

 

The relevant distinction was never between theist and atheist, but between reason and unreason, and it is very much a matter of degrees. A professor holding one kooky view is far less harmful than a department firing him for that view, especially if not passed off as authoritative. Demanding absolute orthodoxy does not produce reason; it produces a priesthood reciting cant instead of an intelligentsia seeking truth. As you have continually enforced adherence to the dogma of political lobbies like feminism as a prerequisite for participation in academia, you have inevitably regressed to pre-modern academic precursors, to monastic strictures on thought. So perhaps in that light it was inevitable for the entire intelligentsia to collapse into primitive superstition. When biologists become willing to deny biological sex for their thirty pieces of silver, they're only a skip away from averring the legitimacy of supernumerary nipples as witch-sign.

 

But such doublethink already abounds outside academia. There's something particularly perverse in the sympathetic church services held after the U.S. government's murders of civilians in Minneapolis last month, conveniently ignoring that Trump was elected under Christian ideals by Christian propaganda with the express purpose of establishing a Christian theocratic dictatorship. It was Christianity that murdered them, and it is Christianity sending military helicopters to drag children out of their beds in the middle of the night and it is Christianity driving by in unmarked vans disappearing people off the streets of American cities. And there you have another crucial difference between reason and unreason, unbelief and belief. Atheism is nothing in itself. It is a blank, a default. It mandates no action. But the civilizational decline, the destruction of intellect and beauty, the heretic burnings and other atrocities perpetrated by the faithful have throughout history been a direct result of official doctrine, of superstitious piety, meekness, obedience, proselytism, 'purification' and surrender of this world for the illusory hereafter. Of power-mongering in the name of the all-powerful.

Of all the various brands of insanity which have gripped the left wing over the past decades, the final nail in its coffin will be this. Forgetting the most virulent and debilitating mental infection in human history. Forgetting where the left wing got its name, and that the First Estate sits together with the aristocracy in opposition to and oppression of the Third.

 

 

 

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* If James Randi himself never focused on religion, do remember it's not because it was any less bullshit than his usual targets of clairvoyants or psychics (for instance one of his most famous cases was against the Christian faith healer Peter Popoff) but because the topic was too broad for him to tackle with the resources at his disposal.

The game industry needs to make more second-person shooters.

Flickering Cells

"How can I change the path that I'm on?
This is my destiny
This is my life, my own right or wrong
Bring it on back to me
How can I say what it is that I want?
Wisdom speak to me"

 

Syntax - Destiny

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"Aw, man! Brain-bug right up the nose! How plain silly! What are the chances it'd be shooting out of the drain right when my nose was over it? What's the word I'm looking for?

Argh!!!

'Contrived!' "

 

Sluggy Freelance, 28 Geeks Later parody, 2005/07/21

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Walk with me, dear reader, we'll be taking some twists and turns. First, among zombies:

What? This is too a zombie movie! See, they're looking for the zombies, with flashlights, it's totally plot relevant. I rarely bother with the subgenre, but re-viewing 28 Days Later gave me a chance to compare it (quite favorably) against more recent brain-muncher fare like Army of the Dead, whose pile of cliches indicates how hopelessly played-out zombies had become by '21. The most random of these appear to fit no purpose in the story but to fill script pages, like political posturing on immigration, obligatory scene of action girl visiting vengeance upon an obligatorily stupid and greedy male sexual predator, nerd who must prove his manliness, obvious sneering hateable backstabber, and the daddy who must spend all movie making amends to his daughter for just not being daddy enough for her tastes. But even the more genre-specific, like super-zombies, the Bride of Frankenstein or the utter, cartoonish ease with which our designated heroes dispatch endless swarms, all strain so hard at upping the ante it's no wonder they just went ahead and made a Las Vegas song-and-dance number out of the whole mess.*

 

Of course even two decades earlier 28 Days Later was itself trying to dodge being pigeonholed as a "zombie" flick with all due shambling, given the genre's increasing saturation, so instead played up the societal collapse. The lights no longer come on, the water no longer runs, the double-deckers got double-decked, food doesn't get brought in, the tunnels are clogged, there's no cops to keep the thugs in check. No maids sweep away the rubble, no minimum-wage employees put the shopping carts back in their places. You might say these are also cliches used in common with Mad Max and disaster movies but if so it's because they're natural out-growths of a complex world we take for granted, not merely feel-good applause moments engineered by Hollywood. A collapse is a collapse, whether by zombies, thunderdomes, ETs, superstorms or an invasion of redcaps. Our monkey instincts push us to view everything as a social conflict, victory to be achieved by crushing a rival, a personification of evil, a bogeyman, one which can be screamed at and taunted or threatened with sky-waved fist. But the universe itself is death, scratching at this illusory blip of sapient civilization with a myriad tendrils, constantly.

 

Is the blood drop scene in 28 Days Later contrived? No, the contrivance is that it didn't happen sooner, that they'd get so far in the first place without stumbling face-first into an infected blood-puddle, that they didn't get fried by an electrified puddle of water near a still-functioning backup generator or flattened by debris falling off skyscrapers and that no mosquitos passed the infection around. The true contrivance is the universal storytelling convention that nature must step back so the narrative gets resolved by a heroic plot arc satisfying our primitive mammalian social/competitive instincts. A real collapse will come with more hazards than a marketing tagline can express. The whole point of avoiding civilization-destroying contrivances like mushroom clouds, gray goo, global warming or engineered plagues is that once you let rip with a stinker like that, the wind's gonna blow it whichever way it pleases.** The world is bigger than your stupid monkey ambitions.

 

Which is not to say it's completely unpredictable or inexplicable.

The COVID-19 pandemic had its funny moments, like this illustration of sampling error. Unless you believe the small country of Lesotho, completely surrounded by South Africa, actually had so fewer cases than its one neighbour and largest trade partner, or that Africa as a whole had so few cases. In which case I've got some Venusian real estate to sell you. No, it just had few test kits to discover why exactly grandpa coughed himself to death. And despite the lack of hard, positive scientific proof of untested cases, if you have a working brain you can spot the necessary interconnection (geographic, physical) in that image and take the results with the requisite fistful of salt.

 

Contagion, edge effects, cross-contamination, downstream effects, thermoclines, subduction zones, habitats and niches, study the natural world from most any angle and you run into endless examples of matter impacting other matter in very complex ways based on very simple rules. All it takes is a few gradients - of energy, of density, of pressure, of elevation, of whatever. It can be as simple as on/off states.

Conway's Game of Life is one nice way to get yourself into that mindset, and you need not delve any convoluted mathematics to see individual squares or larger structures as rudimentary biomes, organisms, molecules, whatever magnification you want to imagine. Bilateral symmetry is quite easy to achieve and there's even predation of sorts, when an overpopulated, exploded structure swarms out and demolishes anything nearby, or when a glider impacts a stable structure just right to send a new glider off in another direction. It makes a nice rejoinder to the cretinous religious insistence that self-replicating life is too complex to have arisen by itself. Bullshit. Look at repeating, dispersing patterns arising from far less complexity than that provided by carbon compounds. And each individual cell's next state is driven by its surroundings, much as in life.

 

Of course, that's too much information for the average voter, which can only rattle a single isolated binary in its hollow skull at a time. The American presidunce spat out one of his innumerable random bits of idiocy on the occasion of last month's cold snap in the Eastern U.S., claiming as usual that it disproves global warming, and the degenerate inbreds going truck-nuts over his every dribbled inanity picked it up as gospel. Unsurprising as "if it's currently cold in my back-yard there's no global warming" is routinely dredged up as a redneck sound bite as often as "if we evolved from monkeys, why are there still monkeys?" The real explanation was of course simple enough. Europe and the U.S. were two cold fronts isolated in a swirling totality of overheating. Cold air was actually channeled southward by warm, humid air over the oceans. If that explanation sounds familiar, it's because the disruption of the polar vortex by global warming has been explained to the rabble every couple of years for an entire generation when it keeps causing such local cold snaps, over and over again. Looks like a glider impacted something.***

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it" is a particularly funny phrase for how often it must be repeated because everyone keeps forgetting it. Some things cannot repeat. The Black Forest is gone. The Nemean Lions of southern Europe were exterminated at the dawn of recorded history. And the coral reefs I visited with my parents on vacation a quarter century ago are now dead, and will only get deader along with all the life that depended on them. But the pattern repeats. Our species is death. We are the ravenous, brainless, ever-swelling shambling horde.

 

Our own behavior is just more squares on the grid, lighting up predictably in response to adjacent stimuli. Easy enough to explode if you know where to click. There's a grim comedy to the recent rumours that ICE agents (y'know, the thugs shooting civilians in the back in the middle of the street?) here in the U.S. have not been getting their promised $50,000 signing bonus from their all-star team. Specifically, the comedy always lay in the amount itself, precisely ten times the $5000 promised by the exquisitely Trumpian dictator Berzelius Windrip to every American should they elect him in the 1935 novel It Can't Happen Here. Which (important plot point) of course nobody ever receives. It is only mentioned again to illustrate how disjointed from reality they'd remained even as various characters began being herded into concentration camps while still dreaming of their promised loot. Even the few which did initially make out like bandits rapidly turned the same treatment on each other. A work of fiction? Now adjust that pie in the sky tenfold for inflation. Your recruiters are laughing right in your faces because you're too moronic to see it.

 

"Barlow realized that some things had not changed, that Jack Ketch was never asked to dinner no matter how many shillings you paid him to do your dirty work, that murder will out, that crime pays only temporarily" - The Marching Morons, C.M. Kornbluth

Funny thing about conservatism: you can't conserve when the squares around you start flickering. We'll be piling shopping carts as barricades soon enough. Won't keep the boiling flood waters out, though.

 

Here's one last parting shot: remember that climactic moment in 28 Days when the hero bursts in, rampaging in the jealous rage of any murderous ape rushing to the defense of his mate, the moment when the hero is indistinguishable from the monsters. There's a lot of talk here in the states about the mid-term elections and the possibility of overturning the incipient dictatorship. Of course, there very well may be no further elections. The murderous thugs willing to gun you down at a protest will not shy away from doing the same in front of a voting booth if you look too un-American for their tastes. But if the self-appointed rebel alliance should win, it will still not have ever questioned the myriad ways in which its own obsessions drove politics into the current cesspit. It will retrench in its gender Lysenkoism and identity politics insanity, proselytize its irrational postmodernist anti-realist dogma all the more forcefully. Thus the cycle will only roll over again two years from now and you'll be looking back at these months as the last chance, the single remaining heartbeat of opportunity when you should have taken the shot - at your own heroic selves.

 

You think you can sell the right ad campaign, but how different are you from the morons? 

 

 

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* The zombie tiger though, that was legit coolsauce. Not that it actually does much.

** Compare with a writer who got it quite right, Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle and the ease of death in a world of Ice-9.

*** Even if your attention were so feeblemindedly restricted to your back-yard square, you could've compared temperatures on the same day in your back-yard over the past few decades, or average yearly temperatures locally, or the number of below and above average temps in a single year, and almost certainly received the same confirmation that the warming trend continues. In fact you can do that for free through the National Weather Service's records.