“Autopsy found a large fluid buildup in the pericardial sac. By the time of admission, the effusion made it grow three times its regular size that day.”
Brian Switek: We should start thinking about this now: when there’s no more ice at the North Pole, where will we say that Santa lives?
“Santa? Why, darling, everybody knows that Santa lives with Cain and Abel in the Lord Shaper’s domain of the Dreaming. He makes a list, checks it twice, and if you’ve been naughty, you’ll fall asleep and wake up, and wake up again, and again…”
Continue reading Planning Ahead
Reading what people write as they try to cope with the assault on our common humanity known as Fifty Shades of Grey is weirdly addictive. Midway through one recap/critique, I realized that given the “hero’s” character, this “love story for the ages” would honestly have ended a few chapters in, and very badly. Then I realized just what TV show Christian Grey—rich, arrogant, with an opinion of his own intelligence far exceeding the evidence—would have been a murderer on.
“The officer outside said it looks like an accident.”
“Yes, well, any time a person dies not under a doctor’s care, my department gets involved. Usually it just comes down to paperwork. Always the report, we have to file.”
“And she had just graduated college, you say? Such a shame. A lovely, bright young woman like that. She had her whole life ahead of her. I hardly knew her, but I can’t help… Such a tragedy, and so unfair.”
“It never is fair, sir, you’re right about that.”
“If you don’t need me any longer, Lieutenant, I’ll be on my way. You can reach me through my office.”
“Oh, I think we’re about done here. We’ll give you a call if anything turns up.”
“Please. Good afternoon, then.”
“Oh, Mr. Grey, just one more thing! For my report, you know….”
Thought for the day:
Darth Vader being Luke’s father did not have to mean that Vader was Anakin Skywalker.
Continue reading Because It’s Not Like I Have Work I Should Do Today, Or Anything
…to the most thoroughly awesome movie ever.
I’m seriously proud of this one:
(Filed under EXT. CITY – NIGHT.)
The following is the first chapter of a novel my father began about fifteen years ago. He never finished it, and thanks to the way the Endless are, he never will — but at least it provides evidence that I come by my expository style naturally.
Reading it now, after all this time, I can’t help but feel that Joe Bob worked for the Discovery Institute.
BAMM!!! Then, again, BAAAAMMMMM!!
Then, one more time, hard, BAAAAAMMMMMMMMMM!
The echo pounded back and forth off the walls of the dingy little hotel room. And damn near made my ears bleed.
Finally, I’d done it. That asshole Joe Bob was downright dead. But it wasn’t over.
I smelled as much as heard the other one, off to my right. I didn’t think. I just dropped down on my right knee and swung the barrel over on a shape hunkered in the corner…. But — even in the evening shadow — I could see the body language didn’t say “ambush.” It was more like cowering.
I know. I shoulda just blown that other muther away, too. Those two lowlifes had given me every reason to blow them both straight into dogshit heaven.
There were four rounds left in my fist. And the sick hate boiling up in my gut — and the adrenaline rush — wanted to flat out kill the other one too.
But she just looked so damn pathetic.
So, I’d regret it later. That’s how it always seems to go.
She just moaned: “Ohhhh, shit! Ahhhhh… heeeey…. whyja havta do that fo’ … Whoa…. ”
Like I say. Pretty pathetic. Right?
I’ll grant you, that cheap little room was quite a sight. Impressive ugliness. Well, $12.50 a night doesn’t buy much to begin with. A 10-foot by 12-foot worn-carpet space with a saggy twin bed, a beyond-scuffy dresser and a dirty two-foot-wide window view of the brick across the street. And now…
Continue reading Down-Home Cyber-Pulp Baggage
Argh. Somehow I’ve become the rewrite guy for a paper on modeling the United States healthcare system. Big chunks of the material we have so far is a direct transcript from somebody’s talk, so it has to be thoroughly revamped. Also, the people we’re writing it for have apparently forgotten everything junior high school taught them about logarithms, which makes explaining why a power-law distribution looks like a straight line on a log-log plot rather, well, interesting. I’ve been told to exile all actual equations to the sidebar. While I get on with my head-impact-wall moment, here’s something I found on my hard drive. I promise some juicy and weird stuff about statistical physics and neuroscience, once I regain my esteem for humanity.
SPECTRE UPON SCIENCE: A VIGNETTE
â€œThese are dark times, my fellow Americans.
â€œDo you know what is happening across this country? Dawn is sweeping from one coast to the other, mothers are rousing their children from bed, and children are walking and bicycling to school, where they are being taught how to lie with statistics. In math class, little Johnny is learning how the axes of a graph can be distorted, the dangers of selection bias and that correlation is not causation. He and Mary go to English class, where they’re trained in today’s tool from the ‘baloney detection kit‘. They learn that ‘All the aggressor’s attempts to advance beyond Baghdad have failed‘ is a cover for the loss of Baghdad. I’ve just received poll results showing that for the first time, seventy-two percent of Americans know that electrons are smaller than atoms, seventy-eight percent believe that human beings evolved from a common ancestor shared with apes, and ninety-two percent know that the Earth travels around the Sun! These figures shock us all, I know, but they are only the most visible edge of a phenomenon which threatens the continued existence of our organization.
Continue reading Spectre upon Science
And now, we return (momentarily) to Earth, where Warren Ellis has found a particularly inane screed from the Science Fiction Writers of America’s current vice-president. Quoting just a little bit:
Iâ€™m also opposed to the increasing presence in our organization of webscabs, who post their creations on the net for free. A scab is someone who works for less than union wages or on non-union terms; more broadly, a scab is someone who feathers his own nest and advances his own career by undercutting the efforts of his fellow workers to gain better pay and working conditions for all. Webscabs claim theyâ€™re just posting their books for free in an attempt to market and publicize them, but to my mind theyâ€™re undercutting those of us who arenâ€™t giving it away for free and are trying to get publishers to pay a better wage for our hard work.
The comments on Ellis’s site are, for the most part, scathing (although one person already wonders if it’s all a joke). Snide remarks about “webscabs” are just the sort of thing which make me want to give words away for free. Unfortunately, I don’t have too much science fiction sitting around in such a state that I would call it ready for release. . . .