On Purpose

Wednesday

Dear Stacy Garcia's Diary,

Today was an ace day. Woke up extra early and managed to liberate a cherry 89 Nissan Civic from the slums of Calabasas. I tell ya, best car to come out of Dayton, Ohio since the Mitsubishi A6M Zero. After my lucky find, I freshened up at my local Target; they've got all the soap I could need, and it really cuts down on my water bill. I was gonna take a trip over to Santa Monica, the desert air there always helps with my halitosis, when I saw her.

She was driving this cute little Excursion in the lane next to me on the eastbound 405, singing to no one in particular while hiding behind a pair of sunglasses 3 sizes too big for her face. I had to get to know her, and I did so in my usual way. I got in her lane behind her, and waited until we hit traffic. Hitting traffic is the only thing you can rely on in Los Angeles, apart from Communist Raids and the Government Food Drops. Once we slowed down, I gently tapped her rear bumper; as softly as a scorpion kisses her newborn young. We both pulled to the side of the road, it was time to make a new friend.

She was all kinds of excited to meet me. Kept going on about how she "only had a permit", that the car was for her "sweet-sixteen", and how her mom and dad are "going to kill her when they get back" Apparently, I wasn't the only one being naughty on the 405. I told her not to worry, that it was "only a minor accident." that "there was no need to get insurance involved." You know, the standard crap you say when you're trying to pick up women. All I needed was her "information" so I could cut her a check. Of course I didn't have my check book, what kind of nut carries those around? She gave me her name, address, and telephone number. It was a date!

After a day filled with executive reports and business meetings, I visited Stacy in the early evening. Just as I thought, she was living in a four-story mansion in Winnetka. She was probably trying to score drugs in a  Bel Air project when I hit her car, what a stuck-up little bitch! I walked up to her front door and let myself in, rich people never lock their doors. It was a nice place; hardwood flooring, pool table, gun locker, indoor pool, nativity scene, bowling alley, hair salon, car dealership, Chinese foot massage, library, underground garage, public storage, amphitheater, carrousel, dome, launch pad, mausoleum, brass throne... Living here, no wonder Stacy grew up to be a fine, upstanding 14 year-old.

She was even more excited to see me this time, and boy, was she shouting. Jumping up and down, talking about calling the cops. I used the tire iron from the Nissan to help quiet her down some, and shut up that godawful music of hers. Seriously, you think giving a guy your number is crazy? Stacy lay on the bed, eyes wide open and shaking like a leaf. I caressed her head and told her that everything would be alright, that I was there to help her, that everything would be alright, and  I'd be right back. I went down stairs and grabbed a knife from the kitchen, it looked kinda funny, but I figured it would do the job. Would you believe that I caught her trying to sneak out the window? Silly girl, with a head wound like that, she was in no condition to sneak around. I used the tire iron to calm her down some more.

I used the knife to cut Stacy open. She whimpered a little and made a mess on her bed, but didn't complain, what a trooper. From her I took 3 hearts, 1 lung, 17 spleens, 5 ovaries, 2 brains, a sense of satisfaction, and 3 arms; the stuff would make for a hell of a BBQ. Why are they loading kids up with all of these extra parts nowadays? She's laying on the bed next to me as I'm writing this. She doesn't look too good, but I'm sure she'll be fine once the bleeding stops and her breathing starts. Anyway, I'll be taking this diary as a memento of our date. I don't have permission, but I'm sure Stacy won't mind. Anyway, I've got to get out of here and catch the fireworks tonight. It is, after all, It's Guy Fawkes Day here in the U-S of A! I'll be taking Stacy with me, I'll even let her ride in the passenger seat of the Nissan! Just waiting for her to get out of the bathroom. Anyway, until next time, diary!

Love

Your Typical Los Angeles Commuter 

Love Story

There you are!

I know this is crazy, and I'm not usually like this, but you're the prettiest boy I've seen around here in a long time. Or girl, you're a girl, right? I'm sorry, I haven't been able to see too well lately, something's wrong with my eyes...Where are we?

Anyway, I really like the way you smell. There's something about you that's...irresistible. You mind if I come a little closer? Mind if I reach... Oh, hey, I didn't mean to startle you like that, it's just, your skin...Hey, don't be frightened. I know I'm not much to look at anymore, but I'm sure I know how to treat a delicious, I mean beautiful girl like... Where are you running off to? Playing hard to get, huh? I like that. They've all been playing hard to get, it's my new favorite game.

I see you running into that cabin in the clearing, the door slamming shut behind you. I shuffle up to the door as best I can, tripping over a root in the process and landing face first into the most, soft earth. It's alright, it didn't bleed, didn't even hurt. My arms and legs have been all stupid lately, I haven't been able to walk right or use a door handle for some time now. Lucky for me, the adjacent window is open. I let myself in with a thud. It's alright, it didn't bleed, didn't even hurt.

I know you're in here. I can hear the soft panting of your breath through your luscious lips, I can smell the delectable blood in your meat. I know my words aren't coming out right, that's been happening a lot lately. What's important is that you know, above all else, I'm in love with you, and I'll show you just how much as soon as I can get into this closet you're hiding in.

I can't open the closet using the door knob. Did you know that? I'm trying to force it open by knocking it down. What the hell, it's not my door, right? I hear your whimpering on the other side of the door, in the lulls between my strikes. It's driving me wild, you're so cute! Suddenly, I'm on my back. You clever little devil, did you open the door in my face? I see you standing there above me in all your majesty, like some sort of foam bat wielding angel. It must be foam, because it doesn't hurt no matter how hard you swing it. It feels like you're hitting me in the head with a pillow full of fog. Where are you running off to now, back to the woods?

I hear you running through the cabin and out the front door. I hear a sudden yelp followed by a lovely crack and a thud. Looks like you hit the same tree root I did. I hear you scream and start to cry. I'm at the front door looking out you, though my cloudy eyes I see you, a beautiful mass on the ground. You see me and go silent, in a flash you begin to frantically claw at the ground, still trying to get away, eh? One of your legs drags behind, looks like you won't be running anymore. I begin to shuffle toward you.

 After what seemed to be an eternity, I've finally caught up to you. I fall on your back and you begin to thrash and sob violently. Your tears, the cracking of the bones in your leg, and the blood under your skin, have all combined to seduce me completely. I love you more than I've loved anyone or anything else, more than life itself, in fact. Despite your thrashing and clawing I've managed to get my mouth up to that gorgeous shoulder of yours. Now, time for the first taste. We are now one.

I love you.

Unknown Person: Chapter 1

I want to tell you my story. I'm the only one who can.

I stepped out of the Yupster's apartment feeling like a million bucks. He spent the weekends at his girlfriend's overpriced downtown apartment, and as such, I was making use of his pad. It was always good to spend a night with a roof over your head and a bed, even if it wasn't your own. Besides, I thought, he'd never know. I was feeling especially creative and decided to take his out clothes for a spin too. I was walking down the street wearing khaki corduroys and a pink oxford; I even had his backup wayfarers on. Why not? Far as I knew, I could do it regardless of what I was wearing. Even glasses couldn't mess me up. "Hipster Bank-Robber Strikes!", read the Times headline in my mind. I chuckled at the thought. It's a mixed blessing that the things I do rarely make the news, I suppose.  

I walked over to First Imperial, the closest bank to the apartment. I was always walking, on account that I had no car or place of residence and had no way of getting either. However, getting money was easier for me than most, as I was about to demonstrate to the movie audience in my head.

I stepped into the First Imperial bank branch. The interior walls were painted a revolting golden brown that clashed poorly with the stone facade outside. The branch was nearly empty, save for two tellers, a guard, and a few poorly dressed immigrants seated opposite a banker. I always found the contrast between the clean, cheerful, youthful bank workers and dirty, depressed, middle-aged bank customers interesting; it always reminded me of medieval times, with the beautiful royalty and the shit covered peasants. It's the sort of thing you notice if you work at banks. Regardless, the small number of people would make this job a piece of cake. Both tellers greeted me, the guard, a chubby, balding middle-aged man, had his mind on other things.

I walked up to the teller, the one with the prettier smile. She was college-age and on the short side, but was fit and had gorgeous curly brown hair. Her teeth were textbook, she must have been a dentist's kid.

"Welcome to First Imperial Bank! My name's Jenny, what can we do for you today.", she greeted. I smiled in response. She seemed happy to see me. Couldn't have recognized me, must have been my hipster threads.
.

You have to believe me when I say that I always tried to make sure nobody got hurt. Sure, I could come in here guns-blazing and get away with the money all the same, but if I was careful, everyone would get to go home. Or go to a hipster apartment, in my case. In any case, I wasn't armed for today's festivities.  

"Wow Jenny, those are nice nails you got there!", I said. I couldn't tell you anything about Jenny's nails, but what I can say is that this trick worked with most female teller, and some male ones. It was a good way to keep them from hitting silent alarm with their hands.

"Oh, you think so," she said, placing all ten of her fingers within view, "I had them done at this new place down the..."

"This is a robbery." I said, cutting her off, as my smile transformed into a scowl. "Give me all the money in your drawer and keep your hands where I can see them." She paused, as though my words had taken her to a new reality, which was a good thing, I had a minute or two to fill out and it's damn hard to blabber on for that long while you're robbing a bank. She began to turn her head.

"Don't look at her." I said calmly yet forcefully. "Get the money out of the drawer, Jenny. Put it into some envelopes!" She snapped out of her days and began pulling the money out of the drawer and into envelopes, just as I had asked. I could feel the gaze of the other teller and guard on me. I they must have known something was wrong. It didn't matter, it was almost time.

"Hey, calm down." I said cracking a smile. "Everything's gonna be alright." I said as she handed me envelopes. "By the way, anyone ever tell you that you have a lovely smile?"

"Huh?" She said, a response to me flipping the script yet again. Suddenly, the teller closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake, almost as though something had unexpectedly hit her between the eyes. She opened them, blinking. The guard, who was once at the door, was now standing a half-step behind me. He looked puzzled, it was a look I've grown accustomed to. I looked over to the other teller, she was already filing paperwork at her drawer. The Banker's speech on loans wasn't interrupted.

"Hey, you really snuck up on me there, Sir. Welcome to First Imperial Bank! My name's Jenny, what can we do for you today?" She said, as though the last few moments had never happened.

"Oh no." I said, "I've got everything I need, you have a nice day, Jenny."

I walked passed the guard, who was now a statue of confusion, and left the bank. Sure, she probably got fired for being short a couple of hundred dollars, but hey, that's capitalism. Maybe I'd come back in five minutes and do the same with the other teller, assuming no one had hit a silent alarm, of course.

I had plans to come back to First Imperial tomorrow, and City National, and all the other banks in this area over the weekend. The Hipster-Bank Robber was still on the loose, after-all. Of course, unknown to me, plans were about to change.

Life, Blizzard, and the Cessation of Communication

I wanted to write this week. Really, I did! I wanted to write a scree on how people like you were spending too much time fawning over Joss Whedon's Avengers as the State stands ready to sodomize you sans lube through your student loan's interest rate, or about how the President's change of heart over Same-Sex Marriage is ultimately much to do about nothing, if not a noble gesture. Perhaps I was even going to introduce you to your new favorite college football team.

Alas, the pseudo-truth is that my job, my side project, and my family obligations have all conspired to leave me too tuckered-out, and frankly stressed-out, to properly express myself via your local LCD screen. The real-truth? I just downloaded a copy of Diablo III and am about to hit "PLAY." See you next week, you sexy bastards!

Destinations Pt.4 Finale

"I'm Sorry..."

Read the message prompt that flashed across Sarah's Tablet, interrupting her reading and her peace. It was from Brad. Her finger rose to slide the prompt open, but a tic stopped her. Dubbed by some as "Good Sense", the tic kept her from quitting her post and leaving GSRSI 3 at a myriad of opportunities, as well as keeping the weak from opposing the strong and the meek from screaming in the dark. However, the beast would not be denied; Sarah second attempt flung the message open with such ferocity that it surely left millions of electrons dizzy. She began to read:

"I'm sorry I've been ignoring you..."

Images of gorgeous women, other women, began to fill Sarah's mind; Brad's past acquaintances and girlfriends, along with women as yet unknown to her. This time, the Tic proved useful, and she continued:

"But I've been in a really dark place lately. To tell you the truth, I'm still in a dark place..."

She knew that Brad had taken John's "accident" very badly, "Is that what he's talking about?", she wondered as the message continued:

"But things are gonna get better, Babe. I'm leaving LA. I took a contract job with the GSRSI security detail..."

All the anger in the world couldn't keep her heart from fluttering, her spirit from raising. Not only was Brad talking to her again, but he was actually going to be floating over the surface of Io with her. She continued:

"It's only gonna be for a year, but if they like me, the recruiter says that they'll keep me. Isn't that great?"


She concurred. However, the next sentnece sent a chill down her spine and froze the blood in her veins:


"There's just one little thing I need to take care of."


"No...", she thought, "He couldn't mean..."


In that moment, the station, like Sarah, floated ineffectiually in space and time. Unlike Sarah, GSRSI 3 was unaffected by the violence of Io's sesmic activity, Jupiter's Storms, or one man's hate.

The End


"

Destinations Pt 3

The heat of the summer sun hovered above the dusty earth like hateful, shimmering fog; high noon. Rico was fleeing on horseback toward the Mission, and Sheriff Bradley was in hot pursuit, almost close enough to smell the varmint's cigar. Dust assaulted the Sheriff's eyes, causing them to water and his vision to blur. Rico turned in his saddle and began to fire. For a man riding a horse at full gallop, his aim was frightening. Bullets screamed past the Sheriff: One to the left, one to the right, the next took Bradley's hat, sending it tumbling off the horse's backside and onto the ground below. Colt Frontier in hand, the Sheriff fired back. The first two sailed harmlessly onto the either. The third, however, found it's mark, as the Sheriff could barely make out a Rico jerking in his saddle and flailing his arm, and a shining speck flying into the air; Rico's gun. Rico braced himself on his saddle and was nearly thrown off by his galloping horse. His right-arm seemingly debilitated, the Sheriff figured that Rico would not be to fire a weapon or ride a horse at full speed. He'd be able to give that bastard a proper neck-tie, thought the Sheriff. Through the dust, the Sheriff could barely make out Rico, his horse still at full gallop, reaching into his saddlebag and putting it up to his face.

They were quickly nearing the Mission, it's wall and bell coming into relief through a filter of dust. The Sheriff was gaining on Rico, despite his best effort to ride a galloping horse with one hand. With his left hand, Rico flung an object behind his body. Transfixed, the Sheriff saw as It disappeared into the dust and midday heat before passing under the Sheriff's horse. Just as the sheriff looked back at his quarry, both he and his horse were thrown forward and slammed onto the hard-scrabble ground, the rocks tearing into their flesh with the like a wild animal. The Sheriff rose off the ground and released a groan audible to all but him, the blast deafening him before enshrouding his bloodied battered frame in dust.

"Blasted dynamite!"

The Sheriff grabbed the reigns of his concussed horse and practically jerked it to it's hoofs. Trying to capture Rico had become too dangerous, thought the sheriff. If Rico had more dynamite, there wouldn't be enough of both of them to fill a spittoon. Sheriff Bradley mounted the horse and tried his damnedest to coax it into a gallop. The beast wobbled and stumbled, still shaken from the blast. Scraped, bruised, and with blood running out of his ears, the Sheriff took aim with his three remaining shots. The first went wild and ricocheted off a rock, back at the sheriff. The Sheriff took again took aim and the fleeing criminal, trying as best he could to synchronize his movements with the awkwardly undulating creature under him. He pulled the trigger and completely missed his target. The Sheriff did, however, did manage to inadvertently fell Rico's horse, leaving it in a heap upon the wasteland and it's injured rider crumpled beside it.

Sheriff Bradley came to a stop, lowered his revolver, and gazed at his now stationary target. Rico could still manage to blow the both of them up if an attempt at an arrest was made, no sense in risking that. Instead, the Sheriff was perfectly content with taking shots at his target from a distance. Bradley reached onto his bandoleer, took out five cartridges, and began to reload his revolver. Sheriff Bradley looked down just in time to catch a glimpse of the bullet entering his neck.

Bradley never heard the rifle crack, and never saw the figure duck back behind the Mission's Wall. There was a warm, wet sensation from the fluids rushing out of his body, but strangely, he thought, no pain. His neck severed, the Sheriff fell off of his horse and onto the ground with a crash, his blood staining the parched earth. He was dead to all sensation, and would soon be so in all respects. The Sheriff landed on his face, such that he could see Rico approaching. Part of him which that he'd die before Rico could get his hands on him; all of him still wished to see Rico dead, but, try as he might, the Sheriff could not move. Rico mounted the Sheriff's horse and rode off to the Mission. Rico the Horse Thief stole yet another horse, and this time, the Sheriff caught him red handed. The sheriff exuded bloody laughter at the sight. What's more, the Sheriff thought, the Son of a Bitch didn't even bother to gloat!

The Sheriff had often been told that righteous men like himself would see the light or Jesus as they lay dying, where as scoundrels would see nothing but darkness. That didn't happen. Instead, all of Bradley's thought's turned to his Princess far away. He missed her, he missed her more desperately than he hated Rico or anybody else. The thought that he had abandoned her in her time of need to go on a fool's errand ,and what's more, that she would never know that he was truly dead, was too much to bear. In his pathetic state, he wept. He could feel her last gift to him, a classic, but he couldn't read too good. He wished he could pull it out and read the message she had left him, but he couldn't move. Her name, Sarah, left his lips as though it was an appeal to a vengeful God. No one answered.

Destinations Pt.2

The charger came around the corner and parked along the sidewalk, it's tires rolling to a stop upon the hot black-top. The night was sweltering, almost as though the sun had merely surrendered it's luminescence rather than retiring, and had become a invisible ball of hate in the sky. The Charger was not a late model, as such, it was not the product of some misbegotten merger between German Neo-Liberals and American Scumbags. No, she was a Black 71, and like her new driver, she was an perennial LA Resident. However, unlike her new driver, she was going to survive the night.

Detective Bradley sat in his newly "liberated" charger and waited. Down the street he could see a house. This house was no different than many other houses in that time or place. It had been foreclosed on during the Great Recession and had been left abandoned, another empty monument to crony capitalism, it's electricity being drawn from the homes around it. It's lights just went out. Bradley was going to wait for it's resident to fall asleep. In that time, Bradley allowed his thoughts to wander. He wondered, for instance, how it was that a society could build a mult-billion dollar security state, complete with data mining and storage operation in Sister Fuck, Utah, yet could not keep a single smack dealer locked-up. He thought about how his partner Johnny screamed bloody murder as his entrails oozed out of his abdomen and about the asshole that made him that way, Rocco. He wondered how those douche-bags at the DEA and that cunt in the district attorney's office could make a deal with a cop-killer. He thought about all those other instances in which members of the LAPD had to exact justice by other means, be it knuckling down on a suitcase pimp or disposing of the Black Daliah Killer. But mostly, he thought of Sarah. Their relationship had become strained since she went up to Berkley for the Seismology job, but once Johnny was killed, things became infinitely worse. Bradley knew that Sarah would be able to suss this revenge plot out of him and convince him not to follow through with it. In order to counteract this, Bradley severed all ties with Sarah. For all he knew, she might be texting him right now. Unfortunately, his cellphone, and it's pulled battery, wouldn't be sending or receiving signals to or from anyone. He loved her deeply, but hated his partner's killer even more. It had been a half hour, and Bradley put his plan into action.

Bradley took a plastic baggie out of his pocket and emptied it's contents, cigarette-butts, out of the driver-side window. The butts and the charger both belonged to a drug dealer Rocco had had run-ins with in the past. Bradley figured that the drug dealer would take the fall, and just as well, one less pusher on the street. Bradley turned the key and the charger sprang back to life, it's 340 rumbling to life, and drove down the street to Rocco's house. The plan was to get in their and blast him, nothing fancy. Rocco had ducked his Marshall detail 5 weeks ago, in order to get his operation back up and running. Since turning State's Evidence, Rocco had been avoiding his fellow reprobates like the plague. Thus, there would be no one to deliver Rocco from his wrath. Bradley was supremely confident in both the righteousness of his cause and the soundness of his plan.

The charger rolled up to the house, it's rumbling engine quickly killed upon it's arrival. Bradley pulled on a ski-mask and stepped out of the car, sawed-off in hand, a nifty little number he had found in the trunk earlier. He was going to use this shotgun on Rocco's abdomen, he was going to make Rocco's guts ooze out of his abdomen, he was going to make Rocco scream bloody murder. Bradley crept to the side and around the back of the single story ranch house. Just as he expected, no sign of a security detail, legal or otherwise. He found a large bay window to the living room, which was filled with the soft blue glow of a cathode ray-tube television that had been left on. These things were actually pretty rare in the 21st century, and just as anachronistic was the program, some western. Bradley was able to prop the bay window open with a screwdriver he had brought with him and gently nudged the window open, thus gaining entry into the house. Bradley crept down the pitch-black hall and peered into each of the rooms. As the search continued, Bradley could feel the beating of his heart in his ears and agoinized of his skin under the ski mask. As he searched each of the rooms and found nothing, Bradley had to beat back an ever growing panic that he had made a mistake; perhaps Rocco had spotted him and ducked out before he got there. Perhaps Rocco was laying in wait for him. Bradley finally came to the door of the master bedroom. He wanted Rocco, but only Hell was behind that door. The door was opened. The TV continued to blare...

Destinations, Pt.1

The alarm-clock buzzed to life at 7:00am GMT, awakening Sarah form her zero-g slumber with a shock. "Shit!", she exclaimed, as she realized that she had forgotten to deactivate the alarm. She vainly fumbled for the clock, her clumsy fingers pushing the weightless box out of her grasp and causing it to bounce back and forth wildly along it's tether like a yo-yo in the clutches of a small child. After several failed attempts, a new strategy was needed, and she began reeling the clock in, like a fisherman would a prized bass, and shut off the alarm with a click. "Great!", Sarah thought, still secured in her bunk's harness, "So much for sleeping in." Sarah released the harness and gave herself a push toward the hygiene station in her quarters.

Today was supposed to be Sarah's day-off, her first one since she started working on GSRSI 3. (Geo Synchronous Research Satellite Io #3) It had been a tough stint, because while Sarah enjoyed her work as a Seismologist, she was not getting along with her Colleagues. The reason for this was two-fold. Firstly, Sarah was from Earth, whereas many of her co-workers were second and third generation colonists. These uncommon experiences made Sarah seem insular and aloof to her coworkers, making her the loner in an otherwise tightly knit crowd. While this isolation caused no small amount of stress on Sarah's part, it was nothing in the face of her heartache.

Brad, Sarah's boyfriend prior to her coming to GSRSI 3, did not like the idea of a long distance relationship. For two people who had never been separated by more than a rail ride for 5 years, they were now separated by no less than 3.8 million miles of hard-vacuum and lethal radiation. Although he pleaded with her, Sarah didn't have much choice but to leave; Extraterrestrial Seismologists were in high demand, and a off-planet tour was considered critical for professional advancement. To her credit, she tried her best to keep in contact with Brad. Commiserate with his demands, she changed her schedule repeatedly, interrupted her work to talk to him, and probably made herself famous among seedier segments of the internet with some of the things she did for him during their regular video chats. The thought of him distributing compromising videos of her on the net made her stomach turn; it made her want to throw him out of an airlock. But maybe she was giving herself too much credit? Seeing as he hadn't responded to any of her messages for 2 weeks, perhaps he didn't distribute anything because he simply forgot that she exists?

Sarah certainly wished she would forget Brad existed. Much like the violent storms of Jupiter constantly alter the surface of the planet, she wished some colossal force would scour Brad from her mind. But this was to no avail, because as much as the thought of him hurt her; as much as she now hated him for ignoring and embarrassing her; her body tragically lagged behind her mind and spirit. She still longed for his touch, his scruffy chin, his hands through her hair, his lips against her's, and so much more.

Staring out her window at Jupiter, a massive red sphere floating on a sea of stars, she wished his arms were millions of of miles long, long enough to embrace her as she floated next to her view port. She knocked the idea out of her head with a shake, and resolved to enjoy her day-off, regardless of how lonely and pathetic she had become. She grabbed her Data Tab and opened the book file for her latest acquisition, figuring she'd get in another chapter or two of this early 21st Century gem before breakfast. She began to read.

Sickness and Food Printers

I'm sorry folks, I've got too many fluids coming out of my head to spit out anything approaching a narrative. I would, however, like to delve into the realm of gastronomic speculation for a moment, and talk about something I heard about on the Freakonomics Podcast.

This week's episode compared on contrasted the views of the Slow Cooking Movement (the folks who put organic foods on the map) and advocates for Molecular Gastronomy (Think band-saws, centrifuges, and liquid-nitrogen in cooking). at Intellectual Ventures. While the comparison was informative and amusing I was struck by an idea an Intellectual Ventures employee had: The 3D Printing of Food.

I've always had an interest in 3D Printers and Additive Manufacturing, although more so lately (more on that later.), so this gentleman's idea of "printing" food really stuck with me. What is a 3D printer, you ask? Well, imagine a inkjet printer that continously stacks layers on ink, thus creating a 3D image. Better yet, take a look at this:

But what if, instead of a plastic part, you could get yourself a hamburger? It's not outside the realm of possibility. Just as the 3D printer sprays a layer of plastic and immediately cures it, the very same could be done with particles of freeze-dried meat.

The impetus? As stated in the podcast, up to 1/4 of all groceries go straight from the shelves and into dumpsters, never to be consumed by human beings. Not only does this produce tremendous waste, it inflates the cost of food. The Food Printer, it's believed, can make our food supply better by making that "Last Mile" of distribution more efficient.  This increase in efficiency should make meals less expensive across the board.

But guess what? I hate the idea. Don't get me wrong, I think getting a steak out of a printer is pretty badass and vaguely reminiscent of Star Trek, which makes it even better. On the other hand, I think there will be two net negative effects of the Food Printer: It will further homogenize food and will further monopolize the food market.

While the ability the Food Printer to bring "fresh" food almost on demand will be a enormous time-saver for people living in first-world nations, it certainly won't do for their pallets. One could envision that a small number printer manufactures, and their limited number of food templates, will reduce the overall variety of food being consumed. While it was argued in the podcast that people might someday be able to "cook using CAD software" one would be hard pressed to argue that using CAD software to edit a steak's template file will be simpler than using a grill and a spice rack. As a guy that regularly uses all three of those items, I certainly wouldn't.

But more disturbing than the erosion of variety will be the further concentration of the global food economy in the hands of fewer and fewer people. As people's concerns regarding GMOs, hybridization, and the carbon footprint of food continue to increase; what will adding a handful of Food Printer manufactures and suppliers do to the situation? My money says that these manufactures will further intrench the status quo vis a vi agribusiness, a status quo that many believe is already unsustainable.

Now, I'm not telling all of you to be Luddites or anything. I'm certainly not one, and as I stated previously; this technology, if viable, can get food into the hands of people who are currently deprived of it. But what about the ramifications? That's for another person, with less mucus coming out of their head, to figure out.

As always, I hope you enjoyed the read.

Rick Santorum's History!

Former Penn State Fratboy turned hateful catholic blowhard Rick Santorum's days as a Republican Presidential Nominee are numbered. As it stands, Santorum will have to win 80% of the remaining delegates in order to clench the nomination outright. Having already antagonized homosexuals, the educated, non-christians, and most women, and perhaps finding even longer odds desirous; Santorum has sought fit to lash out at yet another segment of the American populations: Attendees and Graduates of Colleges in the State of California.

According to PolitiFact, Santorum told a Wisconsin audience:

"I think it’s seven or eight of the California system of universities don’t even teach an American history course. It’s not even available to be taught," he said. "Just to tell you how bad it's gotten in this country, where we're trying to disconnect the American people from the roots of who we are, so they have an understanding of what America should be."

Now, anyone whose actually attended college in California knows this is utter nonsense, as does anyone else familiar with California's Title 5 requirements. The veracity of the statement is not an issue to me. The implcations, however, are chilling:

1) As an attendee or recent graduate of a university in California, you have been made intentionally ignorant of U.S. History. Brain-washed by omission.

2) Being disconnected as such, you are not capable of shaping the country's future.

In four years time, no one is likely to remember who Rick Santorum is or what he told a pack of morons in Wisconsin. However, I believe that when someone denigrates you for what you are, as opposed to who you are, that person reifies that sentiment. In a sense, by making dispersions against me, my blood-relatives, and many of my friend and co-workers for being CSU and UC graduates, Santorum makes those dispersions true on some level.

So, what's to be about this? I think it's important for UC and CSU students and alumni to speak out, lest we become perpetual political punching bags. Remind some people that, while we are more educated than most and live in a place with better weather, we're Americans too, Dammit! So get out there and make yourself heard! Preferably on twitter:

#ushistorylessonforsantorum: Show Santorum what you know about US History!
#ushistoryaccordingtosantorum: Repeat what Santorum said!

After a year of absolutely nothing comes...

The worst writing that's fit to read!

That's right folks. After starting this blog more than a year ago I've managed to write: Not a goddamned thing! Well, that's gonna change. I've committed to writing at least one something (be it a short story, essay, or humorous quip) every week, and by committed, I mean mildly engaged at best.

So what can one expect from this virtual Viper's Nest of voluptuous and nettlesome verbiage, other than crappy alliteration? I really don't know. Perhaps I'll tel you the tale of H.P. Lovecraft's favorite back-up quarterback. Maybe I'll provoke and outrage with counter-alternative political commentary (i.e. The President of the United States is immensely powerful, regardless of what Freakonomics Radio wants to tell you.) There's even an off-chance I'll post a playI wrote, Videodrome: The Musical. (Disclaimer: No such script exists, and probably never will.)

All I know is, there's only one way to catch it. Right here! Lackadaisically and on a pseudo-weekly basis!

And for now and always. Thank you for reading.