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.