Topics

(title shamelessly stolen from Dr. Steel.)
writing (k) me
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There's been a lot of talk over the past twenty years or so about the singularity.  It's an exciting prospect, and new technology seems to inch ever-closer to the tortoise it's chasing.  Predictions for the arrival of the singularity range from the ever-optimistic (or not) "ten years hence" to "perhaps within the next millenium."  I don't want to make a prediction myself, but I'd like to address some of the issues surrounding the topic.

First: Whose singularity?  Different authors paint different pictures of what constitutes the technological singularity.  The general definition is lain out by the Wikipedia article I linked to above -- roughly "the point in time at which technology is capable of designing its own successors."  But that's more problematic than it sounds.  If we include genetic engineering and other biotechnologies, it's already easily there... although the argument might be made that we're simply hijacking Nature.  Perhaps we mean only "mechanical" technology?  But then what about wet networks or similar solutions?  While these are still largely the domain of science fiction, they're a not-so-improbable potential means of addressing some of the problems that have plagued fuzzy logic systems for decades.  Or perhaps we simply mean "design" more selectively... that is, the chaotic randomness of genetic evolution 'doesn't count' for the intentional process of design.  I'll address that more directly in a moment.

But another issue first.  Wrapped up in the idea of the singularity is "improvement."  The child machines are supposed to be better than their parents.  But "better" is a hugely qualifiable term.  Are they 'better' if they're basically the same but their components are higher-grade materials, and they've been engineered with logical efficiency improvements taking advantage of this (smaller size, better heat control, less waste)?  But many people might say there's no real 'invention' there.  Are they 'better' if they sacrifice some elements of design to specialize themselves to an environment more?  Again, there are obvious criticisms this position would need to surmount.  

The issue here is two-fold.  The first, more obvious aspect is that of the black swan.  Many technological improvements are largely of the category I described as 'logical efficiency improvements,' which occur as ideas and technologies filter through the memetic environment -- a better grasp of some physical process yields minor refinements to some area of thermodynamics, perhaps, which results in a compound with better heat distribution properties, which results in smaller, faster computer processors.  This process could span many decades.  But what really jumps industries forward are ideas which borrow something from a completely unrelated field, or come up with something almost completely original: the black swan.  Many of these discoveries or applications are memorialized due to the unlikely story of their origin, with penicillin being one very well-known example.  The origin of analog computing, with Babbage's reworking of the Jacquard loom (although exactly where the black swan was there -- with Babbage, Jacquard, or Bouchon -- is a matter of some debate), is another.  These are unpredictable moments of confusion and inspiration, when someone looks at something and sees something else entirely.

And these, I would argue, are very often a result of humans being very bad at logical thought.  Despite the many analogies to the contrary, our mind doesn't work much like a computer... at least, like no computer any sane technician would make.  It's very easy for us to cross-reference material and we frequently bring up completely the wrong information for a given context.  We temporarily forget things and are forced to make do without... at the dinner table, a request for 'ketchup' becomes "Hey, pass me that thing.  The red bottle.  Next to the salt."  We interpret songs according to mondegreens.  We look at an abstract shape in a good mood and see a rainbow; in a bad mood, we see a frown.  This is an important attribute of the process of invention, these accidents of context.

Making a mechanical device that operated this way would require a substantial degradation of its abilities as a machine.  We don't want a calculator to tell us that the square root of 269 is 13, even if it then laughs at the mistake and tells us a story about some other time it made a mistake that ended up being pretty funny if you think about it.  We have strangers on the subway for shit like that.  Machines are built to be useful.  Logical.  Precise.  A device that can not only utilize new information to improve on itself to a point but continually improve on its design by making novel discoveries of its own is far removed from current technology.  And the occurrence of a technological singularity seems to entirely depend on such a thing.

Of course, as suggested above, if we permit cybernetic, mechasymbiotic, or biological definitions... we're just riding the wave of a three-and-a-half billion year old singularity already.

Trying to format this took exponentially longer than writing the pithy statement that makes up the body, and yet, it didn't come out like I'd like anyway.

Maybe it's fixable.

Code Select Expand

                                                     
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                     rules than simple               
         n         costriction.  There is        n   
        othing noble in constant rejection; the ess   
       ence of chaos is not in being nothing, but in 
         b         eing everything. Sim          i   
                    ilarly, defining o               
                   n       esse       lf             
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                el         y a          si           
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            g             The Po           i         
                            nt                       
                             .                       
                                                     

"Corruption" is a word often mentioned when discussing politics.  Though the extent and variety of any individual politician's corruption is not generally known, one has only to watch their door or voting records for a few months to see the signs.  Special-interest lobbies; tens of thousands spent by big business to save millions from inconvenient legislation.  Adultery, hypocrisy, perjury, bribery, "mutually beneficial business arrangements."  Corruption.

There was once a man who was known in his home country as "The Incorruptable."  Such was his reputation for uncompromising virtue that he triumphed over more experienced, wealthier political opponents and rose to a position of singular power; he overthrew a tyrant and instituted humanist and democratic policies.  He has been and will be remembered for centuries.

For it is truly unlikely that history shall so quickly purge the crimes of Maximilien Robespierre.

Should there be a God or Gods, pray that we are preserved from the incorruptable.

What those quick to use the term forget is that corruption has a synonym: Compromise.  And even this more neutral term quickly adopts a pejorative tone... Listen, for instance, to "she has been compromised."  Even the elegant shift of voice to passive does little to disguise the weakness.

When we talk about corruption, we believe we are talking about failure.  Failure to stand up for what is good and right; failure to apply the law equally to all.  Yet that assumes the person in question is "good," that the law is just.  Who can corrupt the evil man?  I would call such a one angelic.  What is corruption of an unjust law, but justice?

It is easy to see the unrighteous receive some monetary grease to pursue some course of action and feel cheated.  They are, after all, being rewarded for being unrighteous, and that is clearly a corruption of justice.  Money should go to those who earn it by hard work, or who need it because they cannot, or are called to work in other ways.  Few want to see the cripple, the student, or the poet starve.

Yet the mantra of the realist is, it is more complex.  Cause and effect are easily seen in reverse, but here they must be untangled: It is not that the unrighteous one should receive money they have not earned and do not need, but that they are unrighteous exactly because they seek such opportunities.  A con artist doesn't run a scam with no profit, nor do they pass up equally easy profit that requires no con.  One can devote their life to policing the con-man or the statesman, and perhaps it is noble.  But what is probably more effective for administering a state that runs smoothly and pleases its citizens is to simply know that humans, especially those of the breed who seek out influence, will lie and steal -- and having acknowledged that, to discern in advance where it will be most apparently profitable for them to do so.  Or in other words: When you're building a treasury of rights, case the joint.

There is a paranoia I have observed in those who have no understanding of theft that I do not see in those who have stolen (and I do not differentiate here between those who have stolen to eat and those who have stolen for excess, though they are in other ways very different).  To the "honest," the thief can strike from anywhere, at any time: perhaps they will come through the window!  Perhaps they will appear in the shadows!  Perhaps they are already here!  This fear profits the thief, since they can do the easiest thing in the world and still appear unexpectedly.  (And a note here: The state is run by thieves.  I should need to say nothing else.)

But to the corrupt, this fear is nonsense.  They lock the windows and unbolt the door, then rest easy, because it is by the door that the dog sleeps.  Or they lock all the windows but one, and in the slightly open drawer of a table just down the hall they leave glass jewelery.  And in either case, they are as perfectly safe as they can reasonably achieve, because they are not afraid of shadows and monsters but of a human with simple motivations.

"Down with the corrupt!" echoes often.  But it is the crying of children who allow themselves to be bullied, and stupidly beg another bully to come and push the old one away when they know little or nothing of the new one.  Do they deserve what they get?  It is not my intent to argue either way.  Instead, I say: Do not be as children, who call the same thing "good" one day and  "bad" the next and think the thing has changed.  Instead, learn to think like those who oppress you, and become more free.
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(k) me

(k) me
reduced, but not yet deconstructed.
assaulted, perhaps.
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When he was born, his face -- still covered in blood -- was so beatific that his doctor, a long-time atheist, converted to Islam.  She ultimately championed an interpretation of the Koran that promoted men and women as equal before God.  One of the nurses became a priest, although his career was more typical.

Norton's family was not wealthy, and he grew up halfway between the suburbs and the gutter.  He was approached one day by a bum who asked him for some change.

"           ", said Norton.  "                                               ."

During the "bum's" first term in office, crime and homelessness decreased exponentially and the school systems threw out standardized testing.  However, the quality of the work being published in the school paper and by the AV club was such that their students never had trouble receiving scholarships.  Over the next few years, other schools (in the area and elsewhere) adopted the new model.  Roughly fifteen years later, Norton's country swept the Nobel Prize awards.  The "coincidence" was heavily remarked upon, but it was becoming quite well known that the educational system was the best in the world.

By this time Norton had worked several jobs.  He couldn't seem to do anything for more than a few months at a time, but everywhere he went, change followed.  The CEO of a fast food joint Norton was employed with once, offhandedly during a regional tour, commented on how hard he (the CEO) had worked to get ahead in the world, to which Norton replied, "                                                        ."  Two weeks later, the CEO announced a complete restructuring of the company in which many management positions were eliminated, pay was largely standardized across the entire corporation, and most workers were covered under a massively comprehensive healthcare program.  As the stock value dropped steadily, the CEO bought out majority control and then began distributing shares among the workers, who by and large became the new board of trustees.  Despite the Wall Street predictions that it would close within a year, beneficial partnerships somehow materialized with shipping and agricultural interests that allowed the company to sell much higher-quality food than it had previously at competitive prices.  Wall Street, ever a crowd of sheep looking for a shepard, began to trumpet the value of motivating and partnerizing the employees, and incorporated extensive quotations from Marx, Engels, Bakunin, and their heirs.

Of course, by this time Norton had moved on.  And on again.

Each small change swept outward on a tide of improbability, in apparently blatant denial of entropy.  Industrial plants became cleaner, virtually completely automated, able to acquire and distribute goods for such little material investment as to gradually force a refocusing in the private sector on a service-based economy.  Legions of new teachers appeared, freed from menial jobs they had once had to pursue the dreams they had always nurtured of helping others help themselves.  Craftwork experienced a resurgence; though basic goods were available to all for virtually nothing, the market demanded the innovative and unique, and artisans sprang up to supply it.

And through it all, Norton's face gradually became known.  As "traditional" jobs waned, Norton became a vagabond, wandering from place to place and speaking at universities, synagogues, town halls -- wherever people gathered and wished to hear him speak.  His speeches were not long, and it seemed that everyone who heard one heard something a little different.  Recording devices were notoriously unreliable, too... sometimes among five devices, one would record a high-pitched squealing as though it had broken, three would record fragmentary speech that didn't appear to match up at all, and the last might later be heard to contain something akin to singing.  It became almost a game among some people to bring as many devices as they could to see what they could get from Norton's speeches.

He had a following, of course, but people would rarely stay for too long.  A year, perhaps, or two or three.  The seriously mentally ill would often stay the longest, yet they always seemed, somehow, to stabilize, to grow to a peaceful understanding of their different view of the world.  Once he was asked:

"i never know where i'm going to BE tomorrow you know.  know?  and so i can never go back to where i was because if i do it's going to be completely not... the same at all.  ...know?  you?  and so, it's so itchy, it's so itchy... it's so itchy.  you know?"

And Norton said: "                              ."

The young lady who asked him that soon after became a dancer.  She rarely spoke aloud, although she did seem to be holding a conversation under her breath almost all the time, but her strange style, jerky yet graceful, inspired an entire movement of imitators.  Of flatterers.

At the age of 32, Norton appeared in a town square.  Everyone nearby looked up, happy, patient, expectantly.  Norton drew something from his pocket -- it appeared to be a gun.  He pointed it up at the sky, pulled the trigger... a flag unfurled, saying, "BANG!"  Most of the people smiled, but few laughed aloud.  Norton himself smiled, pushing the flag back into the gun, resetting it.  He then put it to the side of his head and gave his last speech.  He said:

"One must have chaos..."

Pulling the trigger a second time, the sharpened pole buried itself deeply into Norton's brain, entering through a hole he had trepanned into his own skull for exactly that purpose, killing him instantly.  When the flag was later removed, onlookers wondered at the virtually perfect five-pointed bloody star directly in the center.

I don't know what kind of shit you're trying to pull by posting those pictures, or where you found some of them, but you've successfully promoted yourself from "minor annoyance" to "target practice."  Before you go congratulating yourself, I want you to know that I don't hate you.  I want you to know that because I am sure you're congratulating yourself on provoking this out of me.  No: You're not old enough, smart enough, or subtle enough to have earned my hatred.  You are, at best, vexing; and I feel the need to sharpen my claws on something to remind myself they're there.

So now, shitlicker, let's get to the "substance" of your post.

arfarfailette keepz saying how awsum SHE is (only a cunt kould act that wey) but all SHES ever postid r shit "poetree" n "DEEP THOTTS."  phail.  so i thott u wuld all liek these pix of HER.

If only I were a chick, asshork.  I'd be all over you.  I would fuck your brains out.  Eating out my cunt would be the best night of your pig-wanking life.  I wouldn't even laugh at your cigarette-sized dick.

Yes, that's right.  You'd even get to lose your virginity.

And then the next morning you'd see, "WELCOME TO AIDS" scrawled on your fucking mirror.

But no, I would not cuddle, bitchtits.

and heer we see arfiearf with HER faverite persun, DICK CHENEY.  SHE just luvs to fuck him.  SHES all liek, GIV ME UR HALIBORTION.  I LUV ONNESSESARY TROOP DEPLIYMENT.

Oh, yeah, vagnewt.  I'm the neo-con.  Or have you already forgotten the time you tried to tell us all that Pakistan was adjacent to Iraq, which is how the terrorists keep "escaping"?  Or the time you denied there being any brown-outs in Baghdad?

You can't even spell "Two State Solution," and yet you've done nothing but criticize it since you joined.  At least, I'm pretty sure that's what "2-stat sluteon" means.  I'm not really into Pokemon.

Go back to sucking your high-school teachers' cocks, you condom oopsie.  It's clearly much more effective at getting you through life than actually, you know, learning anything.

n dis iz my faverote.  here SHE iz sukking kant's noominal penis.  SHE had 2 wurk for dat on.  he made HER swere it wuz dun onlee out off duty, so it wuld be ethekilly legetamite.

Come on, fuckgnat.  Or is that gnat-fucker?  I'm sure it's the right size.  Is that really the best you can do?  Kant's ethical theory is self-defeating.  Not only does he fail -- pay attention, because there's a word you're going to see again in a second -- to account for actions which may be morally praiseworthy, but he can't account for a pluralistic (read: REALISTIC) ethical view incorporating multiple internally-consistent sets of maxims.

Remember that word I said we were going to come back to?  Here it is again, Captain Urethra.


FAIL.


I'd be amazed if this series of perfectly reasonable criticisms to your personality, sexual habits, and ontological commitments managed to shut you up, porkwiper.  I fully expect a reply when you're done crying in your room.  This time all I'm going to do is suggest creative interpretations for your 'paredeem shiphting' "spelling."  So knock yourself out.

I'll even get you a bat.
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(k) me

[is]

(k) me, except quotes, which belong to their copyright holders (probably Audioslave and WB or DC).
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a bullet is a man
from time to time he strays
i compare my life to this;
to this i relate

What's the proof of a bullet?

Some people say it's the hole.  Others say it's around 120%.  Someone said it was ideas.

Me, I'm inclined to go with the last one.  It's certainly the proof of me.

Billions of minds have preceded my own.  Each of those people left a legacy; material, genetic... memetic.  And they all have died or will die, just like I'm going to some day.  Some folks believe that the mind stops at death.  Some folks believe the spirit persists; that there's another life afterwards.  In paradise or purgatory, in hell or on earth.  Sometimes people worry about what's going to happen to them after they're dead... some because the infinite gulf of nothingness that comes, the unimaginability of which bears down on their living mind now.  Others because they fear very sensual tortures at the hands and hooves of beasts or other damned souls.  I ain't worried.  I believe in reincarnation.

Some Buddhists call the cycle of reincarnation "samsara."  To them, it's a Wheel to be escaped -- a messy thing of unending causality, of aversions and attractions and confusion.  Of the pain of having or not having, pain that is to be purely transcended.  I'm with them right up until the transcendence part... life is messy and painful.  But I wouldn't want it any other way.

Of course, I don't really know or much care if I've got a "soul."  If that's all that lasted after my death, what's the point?  It's not like you get to take anything with you.  The people who claim otherwise are, in my experience, a pile of hucksters and frauds and their dupes.  The best "argument" I've heard suggests that there's some utopian kingdom we all (or some of us) get to go to, where we're with our families (the ones who make it) and a bunch of other dead people, and get fed spiritual Prozac by being thigh-high in the Almighty Presence.  What's the point?  If Heaven's so much like heroin, what's all the fuss of waiting for death about?

No.  Besides, I know who I'm the reincarnation of.  I'm the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln and Socrates, Charles Babbage and Jesus, Ayn Rand and Marx.  I may not be the whole package, but I've got pieces of each of them -- everyone I've respected or despised enough to study.  Little pieces of their minds that got ground off in the Wheel and floated down the stream to me, mutated and recombined by strange ages.  It's almost a sure bet that someone who lived before me felt a lot of what I've felt, believed a lot of what I've believed.  Whoever that shithead was: I hope I make him or her proud.

And when I die, I may not leave behind much, but I've got faith that nothing that made me up is lost.  I don't believe in a universe that wastes.  Entropy, sure, but that ain't the same animal.

When the next shithead down the line puts this all together, I hope they think this next part, too:  Do good.  Do well.  Do better.  I'm dead, shithead.  It's your turn now.

So kill me.

Die!
Die!
Why won't you die?... Why won't you die?

Beneath this mask there is more than flesh.
Beneath this mask there is an idea, Mr. Creedy.  
And ideas are bullet-proof.

I find following memetic evolution fascinating, and so to some extent, I'm doing this for my own edification.  However, I thought it might also be useful for anyone who missed the whole exchange.  The posts are largely in chronological order, where possible attributed to their owner.  (Obviously posts cited from The Cellar are difficult to properly cite.)  Some formatting has been changed, and in a couple cases I tried to provide additional context to a post.

Also this was compiled by me from my point of view, and is therefore, insofar as a series of quotes can admit bias, is a biased piece of shit.


Dove: Why would anyone try to hate the piece before reading it.
Dove: I appreciate your producing this work and kopylefting it for distribution.
Dove: Another excellent read!

The Good Reverend Roger: It must be nice having being your own cheerleader.

Arafelis: I'm not sure how to feel about the proposition I'm cheerleading myself.  On the one hand, it's funny.  On the other hand, it kind of insults my capacity for subterfuge to do something so quickly and blatantly.  On the prehensile tail, I feel like it would be best to give Dove the benefit of the doubt, since if he isn't me, he'll be taking flak for something that's not his fault.
Arafelis: If he never posts again, go on thinking whatever.  But if he posts something different, don't blame me for it.  Or credit him with any of the stuff I've posted.

The Good Reverend Roger: Actually,  I think I might, because "Dove" came along just a little too conveniently, and only posted in threads in which you took a great interest.
The Good Reverend Roger: So far, you've spent the last few days taking swings at me.  That's fine, I like to brawl.  But for fuck's sake don't be passive-aggressive about it.  If you want a flamewar, just say so.

The Good Reverend Roger: However, I have done an IP locate on both of you, and Dove seems to be from Florida.  And you seem to be from The Cellar.  
The Good Reverend Roger: It's okay, though.  If I was a Cellar Dwellar, I'd find a new board to post at, too.

The Good Reverend Roger: The Cellar Crew is always good for a laugh.
Arafelis: ?  The term [ed: "Cellar Crew"] isn't anywhere else in the archives.

The Good Reverend Roger: Uh huh.  You just happen to live on the same street as the Cellar member who posted here as "Red Shirt Reilly".
The Good Reverend Roger: On the same block.
The Good Reverend Roger:  

Arafelis: I'm still not quite following the cellar metaphor.  Is this a geographic region, another forum, a website, a lifestyle...?

Nigel: Don't be disingenuous, "Red Shirt Riley".

Nigel: My only real question is, what triggered this invasion? Are your dimwit friends coming along shortly to serve as backup, or is this a solo mission?

Arafelis: Found it.
Arafelis: Hmmm.



Action Required to Activate Membership for The Cellar‏
From:    The Cellar (undertoad@gmail.com)
Sent:    Tue 6/09/09 8:26 PM
To:    noneuklid@hotmail.com

Dear Arafelis,

Thank you for registering at the The Cellar. Before we can activate your account one last step must be taken to complete your registration.



A Modest Proposal
Hello! I have a proposal to make to the bored.

I've recently joined up with web board over at principiadiscordia.com. Now even though I've never posted here before (wink wink, nudge nudge), there seems to be some accident of circumstance that has led at least two of the members of said board to conclude that I am the vanguard of an invasion force from -- you guessed it -- The Cellar!

Not being one to disappoint, I thought it might be entertaining if you and I manufactured such an invasion. After all, what could be better than creating a conspiracy for the "benefit" of the Discordian?

I'm not looking to encourage anyone to troll their board, per se. Just, you know, create an account (or reactivate an old one), make a couple posts, leave when you're bored of it. I post under the same name there as here, so if you'd like to elaborate on the conspiracy elements, feel free to make cryptic comments to any of my posts and I'll play along. Or don't, it's up to you.

This can all be in good fun. See you when I see you! (I'll check replies to this post, but I'm primarily following the PD boards.)



Telarus: I really don't think Arafelis hangs at the Cellar. Of course, I only know him as noneuklid from Convert_Me, so I could be wrong.

Arafelis (Message to Telarus) : Shhh!  I was hoping they'd forget all about knowing where I came from.
Arafelis: http://cellar.org/showthread.php?t=20433


classicman: Or you could just go back over there and never come back. PD is a lot like VD around here, something we want nothing to do with. No thanks.
classicman: Oh and Fuck Cancer!

SteveDallas: Unintentional troll is still a troll.

The Good Reverend Roger: And...BUSTED.

The Good Reverend Roger: http://cellar.org/showthread.php?p=572226#post572226
The Good Reverend Roger: NICE.

Arafelis: I don't suppose if I asked really nicely, you'd pretend to be surprised if anyone actually came over?  I was trying to give you and Nigel the conspiracy you were looking for.
Arafelis: Sadly, however, they don't seem interested.  =/

fomenter: he failed to start a war with the cellar

Arafelis: Not a war, a conspiracy.
Arafelis: But they don't seem to have much of a sense of humour over there.

I post under the same name there as here, so if you'd like to elaborate on the conspiracy elements, feel free to make cryptic comments to any of my posts and I'll play along.

ZenGum: Wait, did arafelis use the same username on both fora? hmmm.

...a conspiracy...

classicman: Your boy came over here indicating/hinting that he has posted here in the past. Probably under another name. Would anyone here be surprised? Absolutely not.

P3nT4gR4m: Trolling this board is like trying to attack a stoner by force feeding him pot

Cain: Oh, its trollable.  I can think of a few ways...few things would stand up to a well executed Batman Gambit or something with experience at pulling off Xanatos Gambits...in short, someone at least as smart and experienced as me.
Cain: But if you wanted to do a good job of it, this is a textbook example of how to not go about it.

Arafelis: Pfft.  I'm wondering if there's a slim possibility that, given that I said there I didn't want anyone to come over and troll the board, anyone's considered the idea that maybe I was not, in fact, trying to troll either board.

Ratatosk: The better plan would have been not trolling this site until you grokked it. Most Discordians that show up here try to troll, but they use the same tools and concepts that many Discordians here use, so the troll is generally transparent.

That's pretty much it.  Just to finish this out, I'd like to share the exchange which I found most amusing from the whole thing:

Undertoad: I blame the Cellar, not PD, for getting all butthurt when we're picked on.
Undertoad: We must face it, we're a bunch of goddamn pussies.
SteveDallas: I'm not sure I agree with your conclusion, but granting it for the sake of argument, I don't believe your statement is true. By the very nature of pussy-tude, pussies can never actually face the fact that they're pussies. That would be a very difficult and self-critical thing to do. I submit that, by its nature, such a realization is un-pussy-ish. If we are a bunch of pussies, the last thing we will do is face that fact.

(k) me
would be better with some indents
too lazy to figure out forum tables
-----

Dear Mr. Jones,


We're writing to inform you that your application has been received and is undergoing processing.  
HOwever, there are a number of irregularities that we wish to clear up first.  In order to facilitate
this process, we've enclosed a reproduction of the application with lines marked.  I have been
instructed to provide you with a step-by-step examination of the document, so that our
concerned may be addressed to the satisfaction of all parties.


Please direct your attention to lines 9 and 17.  HEre you will see that you have entered your social
security number as per the instructions in paragraph 4.  HOwever, we noticed that in the first case
you entered ***-***-**6*, and in the second case, ***-***-**5*.  It is imperative, Mr. Jones,
that we HAve your correct social security number in order for our paperwork to process correctly.  
HAHOpefully you see the issue here: you cannot be two people at once!


Continuing along, we HAve another concern with line 22.  In this section, you were entered to fill
out your blood type; however, you have entered the letter "C," which does not correspond to an
actual bloodHA type.  As documented by your insurance packet in section 8(c), you HAvmust to
enter your blood type accurately. If you are unsureHE of your blood type, your doctor should be
abHOle to determine it with a simple testHE.  HEHAHA.


The next issue that our audHAitors HEncountered was on line 451 HEHE.  Here we are attempting
to analyze your sexual HOHO history WHORE as part of a standard battery of logical psycho-
logical tests HAHA.  Unfortunately, you left the SHOOTING blank in which you were supposed to
enterHE your average number of orgasms per week EMPTY.  HAHAHAH.  Our auditors believe it
extremely unlikely that you have no orgHAsms on average each week, and HEHEHE even if this
were the case, you were instructed to enter a numeral 00000000000000))))-p.  Please update
this blWANK with accurate data.


Finally, there seems to be a conHAHAHAHcern with tHEHEHEHEHE mandatory HOHEHEHOHAHAH.


HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
SHITCOCKWHOREFUCKCUNTASSBITCHNEWT


Respectfully yours,
Daniel Wilson, esq

DOUCHENOZZLE

I wasn't sure where to post this. (k) me
------

This is a work of fiction.

Once upon a time there was a war.  It was a big war.  Although many men died (men being the sex principally used to fight wars at this time), there were so many fighting that quite a few managed to live.

These men were scared and scarred and proud and sad and haunted and optimistic.  Like many people who are scared and scarred and proud and sad, they were beautiful and they fucked a lot.

These men had ideas, and Ideas, and children.  Many of their ideas were shaped by the war that they had fought in, and more than a few of their Ideas, as well.  It perhaps goes without saying that their children certainly were: because to the child the father and mother are God and Goddess, and their God was a War God.

Like all children, they grew up and hated their parents.

Some of the men had another war later on, and their children hated it.  Oh, how they screamed!  Oh, how they marched!  But the men who were now Old Men did it anyway.  The children lost.  And they learned.

They learned what it costs to eat when their Old Men stopped feeding them.  They learned how it hurts to love when the people you love change.  They learned how it hurts to fuck, because a lot of them got sick.

They were scared and hungry, and did what they had to do.  They worked.  Because if there was anything you could say about these War Children, it was that they worked for what they wanted.  Even if they lost, and no matter what it cost.  And most of them swore to themselves that they would never stop loving their children, like their parents did to them, so their children would never stop loving them back.

They didn't know that every parent ever made the same oath.

One of them made a prophecy (actually more than one, but all that mattered is that at least one of them did).  This was how it went:  "Things Will Change."

So they worked hard and they made money.  And they didn't fuck as much, sometimes because they were scared of it, but they fucked and they had children too.

These were the Money Children.  When they were young was when computers were invented.  Ok, not really, but it might as well have been as far as they knew.  And as far as their parents knew, too: their parents often could hardly make the machines do what they wanted, but the Money Children seemed to them to dance on gossamer threads.

Nobody noticed how many of these children had dark-coloured eyes.

So these Dark-Eyed Money Children danced in their childhood and their parents were Gods.  They were Gods of Money, but they used to be Gods of Fucking and Gods of Acid and Gods of Weed and Gods of Cocaine.  And the Gods remembered.  They remembered how much they hurt themselves and they loved their children so much that they took them all away.  They loved their children so much that they swaddled them in wrappings of the finest plastic.  They were tethered with the finest leashes.  They were Finally Safe.

What they did not remember as well was that when they were young they were angry, and later on they were scared.  And if they hadn't been angry and scared, maybe they wouldn't have worked so hard.  And mostly their children were good workers, but they weren't always hard workers.  They smiled and they did what they were told, and then they went back to the gossamer threads.  And they smiled, and their eyes were dark.

And eventually the War Children got old and died.  And the Money Children were in charge.  And they didn't know enough to be scared, because everything had always been safe.  And they knew so much about the gossamer, but so little about the power plants and the way to chart courses and what kept up airplanes.  Some of them did, of course, but not enough.

And they didn't know that mostly the world was very large, because they always thought the gossamer tied it all together and they could go from one end to the other in the time it took to read this sentence.  But there were a lot of places without almost any of that gossamer that they had hardly ever heard of, except sometimes when the War Children were trying to protect them from these places.

There were fires.

They didn't know how to put them out.

They tried.

They failed.

And Things Changed.

This would be a good place to end the story, but it's a story about the world, and so if I didn't tell you a little bit about what happened later, it might sound like the world ended.  But that's not what happened.  Here is what happened:

The World Kept Going

I started a new page over at http://discordia.wikia.com/wiki/Fallacies and was hoping for some contributions, especially from the philosophically literate.  It's a general description of what a fallacy is (and isn't), followed by a list and advice on how to use each in jamming.

Besides adding or improving content, I think it'd be just spiffy if folks 'edited down' any overly-academic language.  I don't think there's any there now, but if I did, then I would have changed it; so clearly my opinion on the matter is irrelevant.

"Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that?" he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "Quite apart from God–though of course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living dangerously?"
"There's a great deal in it," the Controller replied. "Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time."
"What?" questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.
"It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory."
"V.P.S.?"
"Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences."
"But I like the inconveniences."
"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably."

A few years back, while I was still living with my parents, we had an antisocial german shepard.  He was pretty paranoid about people not in our family, and so we tried to keep him separated from strangers, but I never thought he'd bite someone.

As I apparently never get tired of being proven wrong, I didn't immediately shove him out when he pushed into my bedroom, where myself and the girl I'd started seeing the previous week were sitting (if it'd been more than that, he never would've made it into the room, of course).  So I'm nervous, but he seems friendly -- no barking, waving his tail and everything.  He trots over to her, and she looks at me (I'd warned her about the dog) and I comment on how well-behaved he's being.  She pats him on the nose a couple times... and with no warning at all, no change in behavior, he grabs her arm in his teeth.  Hard.

So we take her to the hospital and it's pretty bad, but it's not like torn muscle/shredded tendon bad.  She gets wrapped up, offered some medications, and told to take it easy on her arm.  I sit with her during the six or so hours we're in the ER (roughly twenty minutes of which were attended).  We pay the bill, of course.

And that's it for a while.  After that we're still seeing each other, astonishingly (the relationship lasts for about two years, all told).  After a bit, she decides to stop taking her medication and starts practicing piano again and playing Counterstrike pretty extensively, both of which put a lot of strain on her arm.  A couple weeks of this and her arm starts to twitch, ache, and generally misbehave.  She gets worried and goes to a neurologist.  He runs several rounds of tests on her, early on scaring the shit out of her by by-the-way suggesting she might have MS.

It's nothing.  She just needs to ease up on her arm and let it heal.

So!  She's got about $800 in bills from this quackery.  She can't pay it, of course; she's a college student and she's paying rent on her own place.  Her dad... lemme tell you 'bout her dad.

Have you ever been into one of those "communities" where there are three story houses on almost perfectly square plots of land, precisely lain-out streets, no kids, and absolutely no trees?  If I didn't know better, I wouldn't call those perfectly trimmed and largely unadorned plots of grass lawns, but moats.  You drive through one of those places and it's fucking eerie.  People clearly never go outside, except maybe to mow (but you're much more likely to see some landscaper's flatbed parked at the curb every week), but they've got these half-acre plots with the house centered almost perfectly on each.

There are rarely fences.  They don't need them.  Besides the cop response time and private security systems in every house, you look at those lawns and you expect landmines.  That's how creepy they are.

So, yeah.  That's where her dad lived.  Well-to-do guy, upper middle class-ish.  Not rich, but more money than I'm likely to make, unless I get my own shit together in the right way to do that.  Not a terrible guy... he even had a hobby: He watched movies.  Movie after movie.  Nights and weekends.  Sound turned up so high that the few times I was there to visit, I could barely stand to be on the same floor.  March of the Penguins sounded like Star Wars in the fucking IMAX.

Righto, back to my original anecdote.

So her dad starts insisting my family pay it.  Now, I'm not going to try to wow you with our story, but suffice to say that as of the first my parents heard of this, we'd gotten our power turned back on two weeks prior.

This drags on for a couple months, with the insurance company getting more and more agitated at my then-girlfriend.  He starts threatening legal action.  He writes letters and makes calls; guy goes fucking rabid.  You'd think my folks not paying the $800 for his daughter's unnecessary medical treatment made it like they'd sic'd the dog on her and laughed.  And through it all, I swear I started to get the sense that he was enjoying this.  He wanted to get mad.

So, if anyone was to blame for this shit, it was me.  I'd let the dog in there.  Maybe I could've even encouraged the gf to take it easier on the arm -- I was certainly the only person in the position to do so.  I sold some stock I had and ponied up the cash, about a week before the ultimatum gf-dad had set before Shit Gets Real, Yo.

I think he was disappointed.  Asshole.

So this whole experience starts me down the path to a thought:

Bored people want to get angry.

In its formative stages, the thought hardly made sense to me.  I kind of shoved it aside as a bit of snark from a bad experience.  But time goes by, and I see more and more little things that build this up in my mind.  Eventually I recollect reading that passage in Huxley's Brave New World I've got quoted at the top, plus a few nudges from Vonnegut, and I start to actually believe there's something to it.

Alright, so, you think about this hypothetical Standard Living Condition someone's got.  Survey says (also here) most people actually don't hate their job.  Yet people also are on the search for personal fulfillment, which too often they do not find there.  So you have this wide band of 'good enough,' and an enormous range of escape opportunities.  (I feel like it's outside of the scope of this particular rant, but I've seen suggestions that early exposure to electronic entertainment like TV and video games sets kids up on a path for ADHD, which, incidentally, is perfectly suited to being entertained by TV and video games.  I'm far from the only one to see a bit of The Machine in that.)

But that's boring.  Escapism doesn't actually fulfill, it distracts from the need for fulfillment.  And it doesn't take a endocrinologist to realize that you're hardly ever going to get your heart spiking on a diet of movies (even the best horror shockers lose their edge when you've seen three dozen of 'em) and the best rock of the 1970's, 80's, and 90's.

Alright.  I've said my bit on that.  If there are any more conclusions to be drawn, I'll let you draw them.  I spent almost an hour looking for a particular quote from Vonnegut to put here -- something about how people love to do what they're told at the worst possible time -- but I can't remember the full text and can't find it, and it's barely relevant anyway.  So it goes.

Continued from the discussion here.

I'm going to make some conjecture about the goals of the BIP, or at least the goals of its authors.  I'm almost certainly going to be wrong at least once about something, and I'm perfectly happy to have this happen and be corrected.

I'm also going to act like a bit of an erudite snob at points, and I don't want it to be mistaken for an affectation or, worse, Eris forbid, the consequence of an academic approach to this subject.  It is in fact a basic tenet of my character.

'k.

I suspect the BIP was written as a means of introducing non-Discordians to Discordianism, interesting them, and hopefully converting some.  It was also written in order to shake people up a little and get them thinking about their life situation.  I also think it was written as catharsis for its authors, who now have something I'd say only about half of all Discordians have, a publication on the web expressing their beliefs and frustrations, and something only about half a percent of all Discordians have, a nicely-formatted publication on the web.  Of the three goals, I think the second one was foremost in the minds of many of the authors as they were writing.

I'm going to do a critique by section, and try for some overall comments at the end.  The theme and, significantly, quality of each piece is too varied for me to do otherwise.

I'm kind of dreading this, but I'm going to start at the beginning.

• 1) Welcome To Prison
  
  I'm dreading it because I think the opening is one of the weakest parts of the BIP, and I don't like saying that.  It doesn't do anything for me as a critic interested in improving Discordian writing to start out by saying, "Well, okay, but, this sucks."  But if I'm going to do it, I might as well ignore all human compassion and forever alienate the author.  Welcome To Prison is trite.  It's a rehash of Plato's Cave, and there's nothing necessarily wrong with that (never been a fan, but it's a solid and time-tested metaphor for thinking for yourself schmucks), but it's Plato's Cave by a highschool goth rocker.
  
  And what's with all this call-and-response?  Is it effective?  Enjoyable?  Does it make the reader want to keep reading?  Is it going to entice you into turning the page?  Do you want to leap up and answer the writer's every question?  Or do you feel like Lassie?  Huh?  Do you, girl?  Huh?  Huh?
  
  Yeah, well, get yourself a treat.  Me, I feel like I'm getting hit in the face with a fucking condescention bat.  I'm not your fuckin' dog, and your evocative questions evoke nothing in me but UNMITIGATED RAGE.  The first time I read that page, I closed the BIP.  The second time I read the BIP, I skipped it.
  
  What I LIKE about this section: Like I said, Plato's Cave is a time-tested metaphor.  We've been using that shit for years.  If you're going to crib off've a Realist, you chose the fuckin' master.  I mean, I hate pretty much everything Plato stands for, and I still laugh at his jokes.
  
  I also like the sentiment.  I mean, once you get past the condescention bat, it's kind of... bic-in-the-air, you know?  Fuck yeah, imposed reality's a prison.  Preach it, bro'!  (or sis, whatever.  Goth rocking is available to all genders).
  
  So here's what I'd suggest for improving this section.  First, tone down, heavily, the call-response bits.  As an oratory tradition, it's great.  In text... not so much.  Corollary here: Don't put words in peoples' mouths.  People hate that.  (ha-ha.)  Seriously, though, it's obnoxious -- it makes the author come across as a total prick.  Same for calling the reader 'kid' (or 'kiddo').  Being diminutized by an unknown person tends to put people on edge, make them hostile to the message.  Once you've done that, if you do that, I might have more suggestions, but it's so heavy right now that I can hardly read past it to the meat of the stuff underneath.
  
  
• 2) The Two Man Con
  
  This is a much stronger piece because it's more subtle.  It draws out a situation to make the point.  Other than some minor editing issues, my major concern is that feels a little rushed to make its point (which is probably just because it wants to make said point in a single page).  I don't think it needs to be lengthened, the author might want to expand a bit on the fourth paragraph's point, the idea that the choices being offered are transactional and largely illusionary.
  
  Editing issues, btw, in paragraph number-dash-sentence number format: 4-3, extra comma: "of freedom, in order" should lose it.  4-6, capitalize Left to preserve style.  5-5, "without" should be "with."  5-5, write out number to preserve style.  8-1, "aren"t" should be "aren't."  Those are just the ones that interfered with the flow on the page... could make other suggestions, but those are the ones that leapt out at me.
  
  
• 3) Who Wrote This?
  
  It's kind of a "meh" piece.  It kinda made me feel like I was watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall again.  But it's not a bad bit, exactly.  I just kind of turn the page.
  
  
• 4) What The Hell Are You Doing?
  
  I don't grok.  Why is there a foreward to the book after the introduction to the book?
  
  Okay, we get it.  This Is A Strange Book Of Things That Aren't Part Of The Establishment.  Isn't That So Indie.  Yes It Is.
  
  You could move it to the very front of the book, or kill it.  Either's an improvement.
  
  
• 5) What The Hell Are You Reading?
  
  Alright!  Now we're getting somewhere!
  
  We're this community... People need to think for themselves... yeah, it's... wait.  Didn't I read this before?  It kinda sounds ...almost just like the third essay, "Who Wrote This!"
  
  Okay, okay, it's not actually a flat rehash.  And to be honest, I like this one.  But I think it should be folded into Who Wrote This, rather than presented as a separate entry.  They're on the same subject from basically the same point of view.  Yeah, they're probably not by the same person, but there's nothing wrong with a little collab from time to time.
  
  
• 6) A Touch Of The Con
  
  *rubs head*  I'll come back to this later.
  
  
• 7) The Parable Of The Gong
  
  I'm old-school like 300 baud, and I've gotta admit, this appeals to me.  So my immediate question is: Why's it here?
  
  Whoa, lemme step that back a second.  This reads like a chunk of early Discordian zenarchy parable.  It doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the book.  I absolutely don't want it gone -- I'm just curious why it was chosen for inclusion.  If it was an editing choice for structural reasons, I definitely approve of the humorous touch at this point in the compilation.
  
  
• 8 ) Can You Feel It Coming?
  
  Alright, a touch of the Lassie-bat, but overall it's a solid piece.  It's like printing "BE SKEPTICAL OF THE SKEPTICS" on a page, but people will actually read it and may even 'get it.'  In a lot of ways, it's the strongest piece in the book.  I enjoyed the previous chapter more, but this one quickly and solidly provides a salient point.  It wouldn't stand on its own that well, but it fits nicely into and in many ways improves on the text surrounding it.  In the current stage of revision of the project, I'd call this the Sermon on Ethics and Love of the BIP...
  
  if it ended on the first page.  The second page is still strong, but it stops letting the reader draw their own conclusions and hands some to him.  (Him, because, in this case, it's me.)  They aren't bad conclusions (by which I of course mean I, personally, do not disagree much with them), but it's like putting someone on a rollercoaster, hauling them to the exciting top of a precipice!... and then letting them settle in for a fifteen minute El ride to the next stop.  Well, that was mildly pleasant!
  
  My advice would be to split this up into two actually separate essays, space apart in the book.
  
  
• 9) This Morning
  
  No comments for now.  Liked the essay.  Will edit later.

On this day of Saturday, despite having in full exposure of witnesses been forewarned that This May Not Be A Good Idea, I'd like to discuss 'FNORD.'  This is my idea of what 'FNORD' is, what the related terminology means, and so on and so forth.  I'm interested in other imaginations on this subject -- until these boards, the dozen or two other humourously-serious Discordians I'd met had basically the same sense of the term as myself.  Shit diversity bang flame.

This article isn't going to be funny.  I'm basically aneristic.

My original exposure to the Principia was as plaintext.  The rewriter of that edition transcribed some, but not all, of the more important diagrams/commentary/graffiti from the original Principia Discordia into the text... there was some surrounding context for the Principia, and that's where I first heard the term fnord, largely as a nonsense word used to indicate "something."  Sometimes enlightenment.

Nigel, people who aren't Nigel but also already know the background, feel free to skip this next paragraph.  It's a recap.

So it was just a goofy word to me until I read Illuminatus! sometime rather later, in which 'FNORD' was a much more-referenced concept.  The main character is taught how to 'see the FNORDs,' and shown a room of children being brainwashed to ignore them with the phrase 'if don't see the FNORD it can't eat you.'  The character then, suddenly, starts seeing FNORD interposed into text -- they're in newspapers, on TV, everywhere there's media/religion/government/Authority.

But I've never thought of FNORD as a literary convention, or something that purely indicates a word designed to inspire fear.  That's kind of the lead-in we're given by Illuminatus!, but I feel like that's metaphorical (shocker, i know, a metaphor in R.A.W.).  FNORD as a term refers to any situation in which the context/environment is being manipulated to induce a reaction of obedience or compliancy, especially to a course of action, in the 'reader.'  I see it as a semiotic concept, a part of meta-language.

The best single example I could give of what I see as FNORD is Jack Chick, a subject I'm going to come back to in another post.  Jack Chick is a master (if perhaps by fecundity and ferocity rather than outright skill) of the forced (false) dilemma, the strawman, the Big Lie... all the many tactics of FNORD.  It's propaganda, yes, but there's another aspect to it.

See, as far as I can tell, Chick actually believes what he writes.  There are implications here, things that seperate FNORD from simply being "propaganda techniques with heavy does of xenophobia and population control"  Chick didn't originate his position, and he's not 'pushing' it out of some desire for personal wealth or power.  Whether he or any one else who propagates FNORD does in fact gain those things, or even is consciously aware that they are likely to (Pat Robertson being another FNORDist who does so -- apologies, I'm not trying to target a specific religion here, this is just the big one in my home culture and thus the easiest for me to think of examples from), is kind of immaterial.  They'd do it anyway.  They picked up the FNORD from somebody else, they pass it on to others: they're basically just carriers.  I believe they think this is really how the world works.  They think that stretching the truth just a little to cover some of the gaps is the Only Way to keep out the Bad Stuff, that if they compromise even a tiny bit, the world is seriously going to fucking end, or at least their country/ideals/whatever are going to be fucked beyond all recovery.  And they absolutely do not ever consider the implications of the past twenty generations or so of people 'stretching the truth just a little bit' as it's being transmitted to them.

I think that's why we get the analogy we do in Illuminatus! of a tired-looking schoolteacher brainwashing kids about FNORD.  If a carrier or antecedent of a FNORD (an antecedent being one of these Authorities like the one Chick is in the body of) could literally teach children in school to have an instinctive fear of some concept, they'd do it, for the greater good.  I mean, hell, people have literally tried that.

But rather than saying, "It's a propaganda technique kind of like the ones used by America during the cold war to spread fear of Communism, with the important element that it's picked up and carried by individuals in the environment to reinforce other individuals in the environment's receptivity to the fear or obedience that is being induced; and while it may not have any single originator, its originators probably wholeheartedly believed the prototypical form of the beliefs it is intended to inspire in others, and also there's some other stuff to it," R.A.W. et al (probably wisely, because that way they don't ever have to rely on a single definition) gave us a literary allusion and called it FNORD.

I have no reason to think this is a particularly revolutionary view or explanation.  Hell, I didn't think it was even substantially disputed until last night.  I'm posting because it was suggested to me to do so and I'd like to see where the discussion goes.  And that is all.