I have more than the average number of eyes; I have 1.5 x 10-11 square miles of pupil to let in the light. I have better than average eyesight; I can see for about 2.5 million (2.5 x 106) light years on a clear night. The Sun pumps out 1.28 x 1045 photons a second and radiates equally in all directions. Of all the light reaching earth, only 73% hits the ground, and of this only 45% of this is so-called visible light. From 93 million miles away, even if I stared at the Sun directly, I’d only get 4.9 octllionths (4.9 x 10-27) of the benefit, of which I could detect about 2.2 octillionths.
I only need about 5 photons to hit my retina to perceive light, about 100,000 (105) to be able to discern an image, and 28 million (28 x 106) to see in high resolution.
For each second I were to stare at the Sun I would ‘see’ (although not for very long) about 6.3 x 1016 photons, or 2.6 billion times more than I need.
I see through two holes in my head, each about 5 millimeters in diameter. My eyes are sensitive enough to detect about 5 photons, but on a sunny day I can get 63 quadrillion more than that. That's just through two holes with a combined surface area of about 40 square millimeters.
Imagine you are now outside your body, in a realm where you do not need eyes to detect the light all around you.
As far as I can see, including that which I cannot see, it’s pretty bright out there.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
The Day After Independence Day
Scene: Underground in Area 51. The Alien Invasion has been repulsed, mankind is victorious. Civilization is in ruins, but mankind survives in sufficient numbers for civilization to continue. Pres. Whitmore, General Grey are walking past large underground holding pens where a number of aliens have been captured and corralled. They are milling like cattle, it looks like an alien scene from District 13. They are stranded, isolated and miles from home with no way back.
President Whitmore: “Bill, this is not a crèche for displaced aliens, we cannot live alongside these creatures – I have seen their mind. Why are we rounding them up and actually bringing them into the center of what is now effectively the Executive Office of US Government?”
They walk into a large conference room that used to be the command center. Communications have been partially restored; the large monitors that previously vectored our forces into combat against the alien menace are taking live feeds from around the world. It’s partially YouTube clips, home video, news broadcasts and military intelligence. The scenes are mayhem. Yahoos in monster trucks are rampaging across open plains with assault rifles, automatic shotguns and bazookas. They are driving surviving aliens before them and indulging their lust for righteous revenge by blasting them wholesale. Other clips show aliens strung up from trees, being dragged behind cars, and stacked up in concentration camp like mounds and being burned. Mankind is jubilant and slaking its bloodlust, the fact that the blood is green means that there is no word of protest – everyone agrees that this is great sport, justifiable and good TV. In increasing numbers, human avengers are seen wielding alien weaponry, blasting ‘green shit’ at everything in sight, smoking alien spaceships, shattered human buildings, fleeing aliens, everything except each other – for now.
Gen. Grey: “Tom, the battle for mankind was yesterday, this” gestures at the video screens “is today. If you want to get out there and mix it up with everyone else, that’s fine, but tomorrow, someone needs to start running things around here, and it may as well be you.”
Pres. Whitmore: “OK, point taken, but I ain’t speaking to those little green bastards no more if that’s what you have in mind – it gives me a headache”
Gen. Grey: “No, not them, there’s some other people I want you to speak to, and they are experts in removing headaches”
Gen. Grey presses an intercom button and says: “Gentlemen, the President would like to see you now”
Into the conference room file a small group of men in discreet but immaculate black suits. They are well groomed and professional. It’s particularly impressive considering the chaotic state all around and the fact that everyone else, including the President is either tieless and in shirtsleeves or in combat fatigues.
They assemble themselves around a conference table and when everyone is seated, Gen. Grey says: “Proceed”
MIB 1: Stands and speaks: “Democracy grows out of the barrel of a gun. Yesterday, the guns we had were useless. It took a redneck flying up the sphincter of a mothership to defeat these people. We got lucky. Since the crash, alien ordnance has been raining down out of the sky. It’s advanced, potent and freely available. All you need do is walk outside and pick it up. That is what is happening. We are at a new dawn in human existence. We are Moon Watcher. There was a measurable period between him smashing a pig’s brain in with a rock and figuring out that he could do this to other humanoids. We are in that period. And We” Gestures to the other black suits around the table “We are the people who have figured out what to do next”.
Pres. Whitmore: “Since you boys are so smart, why are you sharing this information with me?”
MIB 1: “We’re patriots. The big thing with patriotism is where your allegiances lie. Those little green men outside in the cattle pens are all patriots too, but they are on the losing side. Yesterday, we – us, me, YOU”
(points at the president)
“- We, we won. Tomorrow, we – me, us”
motions to the other black suits
”want to keep on winning. YOU”
(points at the president)
“want to stay on the winning side too, don’t you?”
Pres. Whitmore: “I’m still President, I’d like a little respect”
MIB 1: “Fair enough, but you are President by about this much”
Holds fingers about ¼ inch apart
“and looking at the scenes outside, your tenure is, how shall we say, tenuous. You have about this long”
Holds fingers about ¼ inch apart
“before we – me, us, and maybe you, maybe not - are having this conversation with the next Saddam Hussein, Osama Bin Laden or Muammar Kaddafi. We’re a whole lot more respectful than those guys, don’t you think – after all they are just like the nasty green motherfuckers outside, they wanted you dead.”
Pres. Whitmore: “Right you are, my tenure is uncertain, and my sphere of authority is limited. Right now, it’s limited to this room and General Grey is packing. I’ve had a busy couple of days, I want a shower and some sleep. You have about this long”
Holds fingers ¼ inch apart
“to get to the fucking point before I have General Grey round you up and toss you in with those nasty green motherfuckers, how you like them apples?”
Gen. Grey: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen – these are difficult times, we’re all fraught, why don’t you just share your thoughts with us”
Grey, acting as the pacifier, walks behind the President where Whitmore cannot see him, but glares pointedly at MIB 1, draws his finger across his throat and stabs it silently at MIB 1. MIB 1 holsters his dick, and a nearly indistinguishable MIB 2 stands up and takes over.
MIB 2: “Right now, everyone is having a real jolly time running around killin’ aliens, but they are in short supply. When the alien turkey shoot stops, you are going to have a lot of hungry, armed and disorganized idiots standing around staring at each other wondering what to do next. That’s just domestically. Right now everyone has their hands full, and it’s happening globally – when the rest of the planet reaches this hiatus, it’s going to take them about this long”
Holds his fingers ¼ inch apart
“to remember who their previous fave targets were, and up until 3 days ago, it was us – you, me, US - America”
MIB 3: “The freely available cache of alien weapons is a problem, people are scared, they ain’t going to give them up, but all we know right now is that they work – we don’t know how they work, how they are powered, how to maintain them, how to manufacture more ammo. Those nasty green motherfuckers do.”
MIB 4: “The NGM population is rapidly diminishing. We know that they can thrive on Earth, that’s why they came here. We know that we can kill them, that’s what we are doing right now. Getting knowledge from a dead alien is like getting blood from a stone. We don’t want them in our living room, they smell bad, but we have centuries of experience of locking people away in impregnable fortresses and torturing them until they give us what we want, and killing them when they don’t – actually, killing them when they do too. We’ve always been a little squeamish about this because people get all exercised about human rights etc. Well, these NGM ain’t human, and I don’t see no support groups springing up anytime real soon. Noxious as these NGM are, they are the goose that laid the golden egg right now.”
MIB 3: “It’s not just weapons, they have advanced transportation and interstellar drive systems, force fields, spacecraft and detailed knowledge of what it takes to live and travel in space. They also know where they came from, and what else is out there that can support life forms that have biological needs just like us.”
MIB 2: “More than just a source of advanced knowledge, they represent a work force. Since they are so interested in earth, we can get them out in gangs burying the dead and generally cleaning up all the chaos they have caused. We have a lot of experience at handling slaves”
President Whitmore: “These are all valid viewpoints, good considerations. How would something like this work?”
MIB 1: Seeing that the President is warming to the idea, and pressing his point in a more placatory way: “You, sir, have momentum. You are the titular leader of the nation, a warrior king that fought with his people and led the nation, nay, the WORLD to victory over the NGM menace. You have the communications channels, you have all the remaining conventional military equipment at your disposal, and you have a populace that need food, shelter and leadership. They are not going to stop the killing until there’s no more NGM to kill, they will not be sympathetic to our cause of rounding up survivors and keeping them at Gitmo. While they are distracted they don’t need much, but they are killing all the NGM, gathering up anything that shoots green shit, and blasting everything else. When the fun stops, they are going to need help. They don’t realize it yet, but YOU do. We need to mobilize the military, get them out among the populace and handing out MRE’s, building shelters, and telling them that YOU are making all this happen. The weapons we have right now are obsolete, and the military has loads of them. Break out supplies and put them in the hands of the people. When the alien stuff stops shooting, they ain’t going to know what to do. Everyone in America knows how to use an assault rifle. Start an exchange program, 10 assault weapons for each alien shooter, working or not. Under the auspices of public works, begin the clean up immediately, but have the military lead it, and focus on gleaning every last piece of alien technology and bringing it back to us before the population at large blows it all to kingdom come. Make no attempts to stop people killing the NGM, it keeps them happy and occupied, but let the military know that they are to round up and NOT kill any survivors, and to put word out that there are places surviving NGM can go to stay alive. By doing this you A – concentrate alien technology and personnel in our hands, and B take care of the human needs to keep killing foremost, and find food and shelter after that. Promote the second point publicly through the media, and don’t say anything about the first point.”
President Whitmore (turning to Gen Grey): “You know, Bill, I like it – I like it in principle at least, start ridding the countryside of reminders of the alien menace, and feeding and sheltering our fragmented and disorganized populace. I think we should get started, the people need leadership in these uncertain times.”
MIB 1: “With your permission, sir”
President Whitmore: “Yes?”
MIB 2: “We already have the mobilization orders for the armed forces, they are awaiting your command. They are sitting on their hands right now, wondering what we are going to do next, and champing at the bit to get out their and ‘whup ET’s ass'. They are disciplined, they ain’t going to get out there right away and start blasting, but it’s just a matter of time, We need to get them active, give them orders to follow. We need to share parts of the plan, not everything mind you, with the military leadership – there’s logistics, mobilization, a whole lot that needs doing. It will give our boys something to do, orders to follow, but it’s going to take time. Immediately, you need to start addressing the Nation – leadership in wartime type stuff – reassure the people. Let them know that you share their suffering – you lost your wife, that type of stuff – let them know that you are in control, let them know that you are going to be taking care of their needs – food, shelter, leadership. Let them know to expect the military, and prepare them for what will be going on – clean up of toxic alien artifacts, allude to the fact that that green shit is leaking out everywhere and fucking up the planet, and you are just doing biohazard remediation, looking out for them, that type of thing. Focus on the food and shelter and reinforce the message that you are looking out for them. We have your speech right here, Sir”
Hands over a sheaf of papers. President Whitmore takes them and starts scanning quickly.
President Whitmore: “Nice, nice – good rhetoric, simple short sentences, Pathos, Ethos, Logos – this is good stuff, good stuff. I think we should get this out as soon as possible, but I’m confused, If this alien technology is toxic and causing all sort of environmental problems, why would we want to start gathering it up, that sounds kinda dumb to me”
MIB 2: “It’s not toxic, at least as not as far as we know, but they don’t know that, do they? If I may say so, you should not appear before your people in a sweat stained shirt with rolled up sleeves, we have something for you that is a little more appropriate.”
MIB 3 comes forward with a black suit hanging on a coat hanger that looks just like the suits they are wearing. President Whitmore strips off his shirt and uses it to wipe himself down and starts putting on his new MIB gear.
President Whitmore: “Now, this is an excellent start domestically, we are dealing with a sympathetic audience – they expect action, and we are talking directly to their immediate needs. What about internationally? I’m sure we’re not the only people having these discussions, and not everyone is as sympathetically disposed.”
MIB 1: “Excellent point sir. You say not everyone is favorably disposed, but some are, and talking of now obsolete conventional human weaponry, we’ve done a mighty fine job of keeping it out of the hands of those that we don’t like, and those that don’t like us. It’s not going to be long before they get to the point where they can mobilize a new military equipped with green shit firing spaceships, so, may I ask you a question?”
President Whitmore shrugging the shoulders in his new black suit and shooting his cuffs: “Sure, go ahead”
MIB 1: “Do you still have the football?”
President Whitmore: “Sure do, General Grey has it with him right now, definitely don’t want that falling into the wrong hands do we?”
MIB 1: “Absolutely not – still works, yeah?”
President Whitmore: “Far as I know, we’ve never really had the opportunity to try it out.”
MIB 1: “Ahhhh, why don’t you take a look at this?” slides a sheet of paper across the desk.
President Whitmore: “What’s this?”
MIB 1: “Targets and launch codes – this shit is all going to be obsolete anyway, might as well get some use out of it.”
President Whitmore: “Are you fucking kidding, start a nuclear war, after all the shite we just went through, you guys are fucking nuts!”
Gen. Grey: “Not exactly sir. What our friends have been saying is even in the face of racial extinction that binds us in a common cause, there is still an element of humanity that just hates America. We’ve been dealing with these scumbags forever, and had to put up with their shit because they float on a sea of oil. We don’t need that oil anymore – we have Green Power. Right now they just represent a bunch of malcontents. Pretty soon they will be malcontents with their own Green Power, and America is a damn sight more appealing place to live than where they are – all them mountains and rocks and sand and shit. It’s just a question of time, so this is like getting your retaliation in first. The great thing is that international communications and relationships are shattered; nobody has a real clear picture of what is going on. We could nuke these fuckers before anyone knew what was happening, and when the shit starts flying we can tell everyone it was the NGM toxins leaking out of weapons and spaceships that was responsible. Those on the receiving end ain’t gonna be in a position to argue, and we tell everyone else that the reason it didn’t happen to us is that we had the foresight to clean this shit up before it did – a win – win, don’t you think”
President Whitmore: Thoughtfully “Good thinking, good thinking" He turns and looks at the MIB "Now who exactly do you guys represent?
MIB in chorus: “We represent the United States of America, Sir!”
President Whitmore: “Bill, this is not a crèche for displaced aliens, we cannot live alongside these creatures – I have seen their mind. Why are we rounding them up and actually bringing them into the center of what is now effectively the Executive Office of US Government?”
They walk into a large conference room that used to be the command center. Communications have been partially restored; the large monitors that previously vectored our forces into combat against the alien menace are taking live feeds from around the world. It’s partially YouTube clips, home video, news broadcasts and military intelligence. The scenes are mayhem. Yahoos in monster trucks are rampaging across open plains with assault rifles, automatic shotguns and bazookas. They are driving surviving aliens before them and indulging their lust for righteous revenge by blasting them wholesale. Other clips show aliens strung up from trees, being dragged behind cars, and stacked up in concentration camp like mounds and being burned. Mankind is jubilant and slaking its bloodlust, the fact that the blood is green means that there is no word of protest – everyone agrees that this is great sport, justifiable and good TV. In increasing numbers, human avengers are seen wielding alien weaponry, blasting ‘green shit’ at everything in sight, smoking alien spaceships, shattered human buildings, fleeing aliens, everything except each other – for now.
Gen. Grey: “Tom, the battle for mankind was yesterday, this” gestures at the video screens “is today. If you want to get out there and mix it up with everyone else, that’s fine, but tomorrow, someone needs to start running things around here, and it may as well be you.”
Pres. Whitmore: “OK, point taken, but I ain’t speaking to those little green bastards no more if that’s what you have in mind – it gives me a headache”
Gen. Grey: “No, not them, there’s some other people I want you to speak to, and they are experts in removing headaches”
Gen. Grey presses an intercom button and says: “Gentlemen, the President would like to see you now”
Into the conference room file a small group of men in discreet but immaculate black suits. They are well groomed and professional. It’s particularly impressive considering the chaotic state all around and the fact that everyone else, including the President is either tieless and in shirtsleeves or in combat fatigues.
They assemble themselves around a conference table and when everyone is seated, Gen. Grey says: “Proceed”
MIB 1: Stands and speaks: “Democracy grows out of the barrel of a gun. Yesterday, the guns we had were useless. It took a redneck flying up the sphincter of a mothership to defeat these people. We got lucky. Since the crash, alien ordnance has been raining down out of the sky. It’s advanced, potent and freely available. All you need do is walk outside and pick it up. That is what is happening. We are at a new dawn in human existence. We are Moon Watcher. There was a measurable period between him smashing a pig’s brain in with a rock and figuring out that he could do this to other humanoids. We are in that period. And We” Gestures to the other black suits around the table “We are the people who have figured out what to do next”.
Pres. Whitmore: “Since you boys are so smart, why are you sharing this information with me?”
MIB 1: “We’re patriots. The big thing with patriotism is where your allegiances lie. Those little green men outside in the cattle pens are all patriots too, but they are on the losing side. Yesterday, we – us, me, YOU”
(points at the president)
“- We, we won. Tomorrow, we – me, us”
motions to the other black suits
”want to keep on winning. YOU”
(points at the president)
“want to stay on the winning side too, don’t you?”
Pres. Whitmore: “I’m still President, I’d like a little respect”
MIB 1: “Fair enough, but you are President by about this much”
Holds fingers about ¼ inch apart
“and looking at the scenes outside, your tenure is, how shall we say, tenuous. You have about this long”
Holds fingers about ¼ inch apart
“before we – me, us, and maybe you, maybe not - are having this conversation with the next Saddam Hussein, Osama Bin Laden or Muammar Kaddafi. We’re a whole lot more respectful than those guys, don’t you think – after all they are just like the nasty green motherfuckers outside, they wanted you dead.”
Pres. Whitmore: “Right you are, my tenure is uncertain, and my sphere of authority is limited. Right now, it’s limited to this room and General Grey is packing. I’ve had a busy couple of days, I want a shower and some sleep. You have about this long”
Holds fingers ¼ inch apart
“to get to the fucking point before I have General Grey round you up and toss you in with those nasty green motherfuckers, how you like them apples?”
Gen. Grey: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen – these are difficult times, we’re all fraught, why don’t you just share your thoughts with us”
Grey, acting as the pacifier, walks behind the President where Whitmore cannot see him, but glares pointedly at MIB 1, draws his finger across his throat and stabs it silently at MIB 1. MIB 1 holsters his dick, and a nearly indistinguishable MIB 2 stands up and takes over.
MIB 2: “Right now, everyone is having a real jolly time running around killin’ aliens, but they are in short supply. When the alien turkey shoot stops, you are going to have a lot of hungry, armed and disorganized idiots standing around staring at each other wondering what to do next. That’s just domestically. Right now everyone has their hands full, and it’s happening globally – when the rest of the planet reaches this hiatus, it’s going to take them about this long”
Holds his fingers ¼ inch apart
“to remember who their previous fave targets were, and up until 3 days ago, it was us – you, me, US - America”
MIB 3: “The freely available cache of alien weapons is a problem, people are scared, they ain’t going to give them up, but all we know right now is that they work – we don’t know how they work, how they are powered, how to maintain them, how to manufacture more ammo. Those nasty green motherfuckers do.”
MIB 4: “The NGM population is rapidly diminishing. We know that they can thrive on Earth, that’s why they came here. We know that we can kill them, that’s what we are doing right now. Getting knowledge from a dead alien is like getting blood from a stone. We don’t want them in our living room, they smell bad, but we have centuries of experience of locking people away in impregnable fortresses and torturing them until they give us what we want, and killing them when they don’t – actually, killing them when they do too. We’ve always been a little squeamish about this because people get all exercised about human rights etc. Well, these NGM ain’t human, and I don’t see no support groups springing up anytime real soon. Noxious as these NGM are, they are the goose that laid the golden egg right now.”
MIB 3: “It’s not just weapons, they have advanced transportation and interstellar drive systems, force fields, spacecraft and detailed knowledge of what it takes to live and travel in space. They also know where they came from, and what else is out there that can support life forms that have biological needs just like us.”
MIB 2: “More than just a source of advanced knowledge, they represent a work force. Since they are so interested in earth, we can get them out in gangs burying the dead and generally cleaning up all the chaos they have caused. We have a lot of experience at handling slaves”
President Whitmore: “These are all valid viewpoints, good considerations. How would something like this work?”
MIB 1: Seeing that the President is warming to the idea, and pressing his point in a more placatory way: “You, sir, have momentum. You are the titular leader of the nation, a warrior king that fought with his people and led the nation, nay, the WORLD to victory over the NGM menace. You have the communications channels, you have all the remaining conventional military equipment at your disposal, and you have a populace that need food, shelter and leadership. They are not going to stop the killing until there’s no more NGM to kill, they will not be sympathetic to our cause of rounding up survivors and keeping them at Gitmo. While they are distracted they don’t need much, but they are killing all the NGM, gathering up anything that shoots green shit, and blasting everything else. When the fun stops, they are going to need help. They don’t realize it yet, but YOU do. We need to mobilize the military, get them out among the populace and handing out MRE’s, building shelters, and telling them that YOU are making all this happen. The weapons we have right now are obsolete, and the military has loads of them. Break out supplies and put them in the hands of the people. When the alien stuff stops shooting, they ain’t going to know what to do. Everyone in America knows how to use an assault rifle. Start an exchange program, 10 assault weapons for each alien shooter, working or not. Under the auspices of public works, begin the clean up immediately, but have the military lead it, and focus on gleaning every last piece of alien technology and bringing it back to us before the population at large blows it all to kingdom come. Make no attempts to stop people killing the NGM, it keeps them happy and occupied, but let the military know that they are to round up and NOT kill any survivors, and to put word out that there are places surviving NGM can go to stay alive. By doing this you A – concentrate alien technology and personnel in our hands, and B take care of the human needs to keep killing foremost, and find food and shelter after that. Promote the second point publicly through the media, and don’t say anything about the first point.”
President Whitmore (turning to Gen Grey): “You know, Bill, I like it – I like it in principle at least, start ridding the countryside of reminders of the alien menace, and feeding and sheltering our fragmented and disorganized populace. I think we should get started, the people need leadership in these uncertain times.”
MIB 1: “With your permission, sir”
President Whitmore: “Yes?”
MIB 2: “We already have the mobilization orders for the armed forces, they are awaiting your command. They are sitting on their hands right now, wondering what we are going to do next, and champing at the bit to get out their and ‘whup ET’s ass'. They are disciplined, they ain’t going to get out there right away and start blasting, but it’s just a matter of time, We need to get them active, give them orders to follow. We need to share parts of the plan, not everything mind you, with the military leadership – there’s logistics, mobilization, a whole lot that needs doing. It will give our boys something to do, orders to follow, but it’s going to take time. Immediately, you need to start addressing the Nation – leadership in wartime type stuff – reassure the people. Let them know that you share their suffering – you lost your wife, that type of stuff – let them know that you are in control, let them know that you are going to be taking care of their needs – food, shelter, leadership. Let them know to expect the military, and prepare them for what will be going on – clean up of toxic alien artifacts, allude to the fact that that green shit is leaking out everywhere and fucking up the planet, and you are just doing biohazard remediation, looking out for them, that type of thing. Focus on the food and shelter and reinforce the message that you are looking out for them. We have your speech right here, Sir”
Hands over a sheaf of papers. President Whitmore takes them and starts scanning quickly.
President Whitmore: “Nice, nice – good rhetoric, simple short sentences, Pathos, Ethos, Logos – this is good stuff, good stuff. I think we should get this out as soon as possible, but I’m confused, If this alien technology is toxic and causing all sort of environmental problems, why would we want to start gathering it up, that sounds kinda dumb to me”
MIB 2: “It’s not toxic, at least as not as far as we know, but they don’t know that, do they? If I may say so, you should not appear before your people in a sweat stained shirt with rolled up sleeves, we have something for you that is a little more appropriate.”
MIB 3 comes forward with a black suit hanging on a coat hanger that looks just like the suits they are wearing. President Whitmore strips off his shirt and uses it to wipe himself down and starts putting on his new MIB gear.
President Whitmore: “Now, this is an excellent start domestically, we are dealing with a sympathetic audience – they expect action, and we are talking directly to their immediate needs. What about internationally? I’m sure we’re not the only people having these discussions, and not everyone is as sympathetically disposed.”
MIB 1: “Excellent point sir. You say not everyone is favorably disposed, but some are, and talking of now obsolete conventional human weaponry, we’ve done a mighty fine job of keeping it out of the hands of those that we don’t like, and those that don’t like us. It’s not going to be long before they get to the point where they can mobilize a new military equipped with green shit firing spaceships, so, may I ask you a question?”
President Whitmore shrugging the shoulders in his new black suit and shooting his cuffs: “Sure, go ahead”
MIB 1: “Do you still have the football?”
President Whitmore: “Sure do, General Grey has it with him right now, definitely don’t want that falling into the wrong hands do we?”
MIB 1: “Absolutely not – still works, yeah?”
President Whitmore: “Far as I know, we’ve never really had the opportunity to try it out.”
MIB 1: “Ahhhh, why don’t you take a look at this?” slides a sheet of paper across the desk.
President Whitmore: “What’s this?”
MIB 1: “Targets and launch codes – this shit is all going to be obsolete anyway, might as well get some use out of it.”
President Whitmore: “Are you fucking kidding, start a nuclear war, after all the shite we just went through, you guys are fucking nuts!”
Gen. Grey: “Not exactly sir. What our friends have been saying is even in the face of racial extinction that binds us in a common cause, there is still an element of humanity that just hates America. We’ve been dealing with these scumbags forever, and had to put up with their shit because they float on a sea of oil. We don’t need that oil anymore – we have Green Power. Right now they just represent a bunch of malcontents. Pretty soon they will be malcontents with their own Green Power, and America is a damn sight more appealing place to live than where they are – all them mountains and rocks and sand and shit. It’s just a question of time, so this is like getting your retaliation in first. The great thing is that international communications and relationships are shattered; nobody has a real clear picture of what is going on. We could nuke these fuckers before anyone knew what was happening, and when the shit starts flying we can tell everyone it was the NGM toxins leaking out of weapons and spaceships that was responsible. Those on the receiving end ain’t gonna be in a position to argue, and we tell everyone else that the reason it didn’t happen to us is that we had the foresight to clean this shit up before it did – a win – win, don’t you think”
President Whitmore: Thoughtfully “Good thinking, good thinking" He turns and looks at the MIB "Now who exactly do you guys represent?
MIB in chorus: “We represent the United States of America, Sir!”
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Promised Land
The day is rapidly drawing to an end and my family, grey already from the dusty trail, are becoming insubstantial and fading into the failing light. It is time to stop, and I am ready. I’m not used to riding this far. I am sore, hungry and tired. I am amazed that my grandfather, as old and frail as he is can endure such rude transport.
Thankfully, my uncle calls the party to a halt, and we begin slowly, stiffly and thankfully to dismount. Our horses give thanks too. They know that soon, they will be fully unburdened, rubbed down and fed and watered for the night. When it gets colder, my brothers and me will throw blankets on their backs.
Unspoken, each of us has a role and in a mime of activity a fire is soon made and food is on the fire. I scavenge for firewood with my cousin, and the smell of wood smoke and meat and onions makes my guts roil. I am still young but feel the tiredness in my body. Grandpa, who is still old, sits cross-legged in front of the fire with a horse blanket over his shoulders, a thousand yard stare in his tranquil black eyes.
He is a full blood Indian, Cherokee.
Our people are ‘civilized’, yet grandpa still speaks Iroquois. Some of my uncles are full blood too, but more and more in these later generations we are dilute and mixed. Once, like the mighty Bison that grazed this fertile plain, our numbers were many. Nowadays, like the Bison, we are fading into an obscure twilight.
The fire that gave us warmth and food is now a glowing orange pile that renders constellations of sparks skyward when fed new wood. We are replete, our stomachs and eyelids heavy as we approach the favorite hour. The men folk pass the bottle, and the amber fire lubricates parched throats. Starting with desultory exchanges about the day, the road, the goal, it settles soon into a familiar cadence, rising with the volatile spirit, the talkers vying to be heard and acknowledged are anticipating the time when grandpa stirs, and his voice brings silence to this fiery circle.
Soon enough the basso chorus wanes and our horses champ stamp and snort quietly behind our heads, and then it is magic time.
Grandpa has lived a thousand years, and in that grizzled head the memory of our glorious past still burns with the vividness of yesterday. As he talks, incandescent sparks fly from his tongue and alight on the gathered family and ignite in each a dream of the past. While we are huddled in community against the cold on our shoulders, the abyssal sphere of the heavens rotates around our heads, as vivid and shiny as it was in the time when our people were young.
“This road was old when we were young, and when I was as old as Jonah ..
He has mentioned me by name, and such is the honor of this association that I am now a leading thread in this as yet unformed tapestry. As is Grandpas way, most of us will be named eventually and become a part of the warp and weft, but for now it is me they see as Grandpa as a young boy, and I am released from the breathless anticipation of inclusion.
“When I was as old as Jonah, 500 miles in a single day was easy. Our family could ride from coast to coast in five days. The automobiles that Nathan and Peter see today as dusty relics in museums were living breathing things that moved in migratory herds across this land. Our cities would be choked with them, purring, growling, honking, and inching forward a few feet at a time. It was a glorious sight – cars as far as the eye could see!”
Nathan and Peter are grinning and nudging each other, they are now part of the fabric, part of our favorite story.
Grandpa speaks, and to each of us alone, and although distinct and clear, his words are the fuel to a fire that ignites our collective imagination. We hear them in our ears, but now in our heads we ride in fabled Marques, Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, Jaguar and Triumph, our backs on seats of cloth and leather, our elbows nonchalantly propped on open window sills while we steer single handed to an uncertain promise, our hair tousled by the slipstream and our ears filled with the radio. We drive toward urgent, beckoning, hopeful futures. The road ahead a metric infinity that is devoured in effortless luxury and left behind in a raucous hydrocarbon fart. In this dark, chill night, the day is bright, and we have slipped the creeping gridlock and let loose our many horses.
Glorious days indeed, before the coming of the great thirst that left these fabulous chariots as rotting hulks along the wayside, alongside the bleached bones of the Bison whose path they followed. Rusting and unlovable carcasses that no matter how strong the desire will never again thrum with the fires of internal combustion.
Grandpa lived in a time when people would actually drive for no other reason than to drive. He worked in the factories where cars were made, before the time of fully robotic assembly, he knew what it was like to lie on his driveway on a weekend, under his car, giving it the love that was repaid in reliable starting and driving. He had been stranded on lonesome highways out of gas, or with a puncture. He had worked for the man to make the money that these cars consumed. Insurance, car payments, gas, maintenance – it was not just a way of life, it was a labor of love.
And in that compressive arc that is his story of the car, we are now in those desperate years that my father and uncles new, but were ended before I was born. Gasoline ran out, and the world forever changed. It is written in the stars overhead since so many more are now visible since the passing of gasoline powered light and emission pollution. People are different too, as well as landscapes now. More nuclear concentrations of people, that like us now, take a week to travel to see kin that were previously a days ride away. My heart floats with the dream of getting into a shiny car, and with single-handed ease completing this journey we are on today to the foothills of Chicago in a few hours of comfort. I am aware of my aching ass and sore joints from the plodding progress of days of horseback riding, and the longing of ‘Are we there yet?’
The Big Onion, land of the Illini.
I cannot imagine the time when it was flat. I have always seen it as rolling hillside. The great thirst drove the Midwest from their automobiles and onto their feet. In a single generation those corn fed heifers shed so much collective lard that the landscape underwent isostatic recoil – a once archaic phrase associated with glaciation that has rebounded into common usage as a result of this now national and recent phenomenon. Other common phrases at the time such as ‘Gas her up’ and ‘Burn rubber’ are fading now, only comically apparent in ancient movies and songs.
We now live longer, and also live lighter. We have longer to go to get where we are going.
The geopolitical landscape is different too. Previously vitally important places are now simply deserts again. They no longer have the power to make us covet and kill, since cars do not run on sand. Petrochemical conglomerates no longer rule the government and kill the land. American deserts are once again green. Places like Detroit and Michigan that were wastelands that flourished, thrived and died at the whim of the American automobile industry are now desirable communities of horse breeders and makers of carriages and saddles.
Grandpa’s voice has faded now into a background hum, like rain on canvass. In my mind it is joined with the voices of historians, documentarians and politicians – each having impressed upon me through a tautological dialog the cause and effect of cars and gas.
This bittersweet reverie I vaguely interpret as part of my passage into manhood, that the advancement of society is a balance upon a double edged sword, and as much as we strive to tip this balance toward us, there are irresistible natural forces that will eventually right it, but that mankind see as setbacks as they are reversals of our myopic will.
I am young, and I am tired. I no longer hear my Grandpas voice, but these complex issues compete in my weary brain for primacy and deny the sleep my body craves. Slowly, one by one these tendrils unravel, relinquishing me to the arms of Morpheus and the delicious dream.
I am older now. Old enough to drive, but living two centuries prior.
On broad paved highways I drive at will, passing establishments that fuel my car, feed me, and afford me rest at the end of a days long journey. My ultimate destination is uncertain, but approaching with the thrill and promise of each new day. I am becoming a man, and today I am driving to see my girl. My long legs, made strong by years of walking press levers on the floor that pass through a bulkhead to a legendary hemi. Grandpas glittering black eyes look out through my adolescent face and guide my hands to navigate these ancient routes. My nose is full of the heady stuff of leather upholstery and partially combusted high test, my loins and heart swell with the massage of the engine and the promise of my destination and my ears are ringing to the ancestral rhythms of my Georgian forefathers.
“I got a little change in my pocket going jingle lingle ling
Want to call you on the telephone, baby, I give you a ring”
Thankfully, my uncle calls the party to a halt, and we begin slowly, stiffly and thankfully to dismount. Our horses give thanks too. They know that soon, they will be fully unburdened, rubbed down and fed and watered for the night. When it gets colder, my brothers and me will throw blankets on their backs.
Unspoken, each of us has a role and in a mime of activity a fire is soon made and food is on the fire. I scavenge for firewood with my cousin, and the smell of wood smoke and meat and onions makes my guts roil. I am still young but feel the tiredness in my body. Grandpa, who is still old, sits cross-legged in front of the fire with a horse blanket over his shoulders, a thousand yard stare in his tranquil black eyes.
He is a full blood Indian, Cherokee.
Our people are ‘civilized’, yet grandpa still speaks Iroquois. Some of my uncles are full blood too, but more and more in these later generations we are dilute and mixed. Once, like the mighty Bison that grazed this fertile plain, our numbers were many. Nowadays, like the Bison, we are fading into an obscure twilight.
The fire that gave us warmth and food is now a glowing orange pile that renders constellations of sparks skyward when fed new wood. We are replete, our stomachs and eyelids heavy as we approach the favorite hour. The men folk pass the bottle, and the amber fire lubricates parched throats. Starting with desultory exchanges about the day, the road, the goal, it settles soon into a familiar cadence, rising with the volatile spirit, the talkers vying to be heard and acknowledged are anticipating the time when grandpa stirs, and his voice brings silence to this fiery circle.
Soon enough the basso chorus wanes and our horses champ stamp and snort quietly behind our heads, and then it is magic time.
Grandpa has lived a thousand years, and in that grizzled head the memory of our glorious past still burns with the vividness of yesterday. As he talks, incandescent sparks fly from his tongue and alight on the gathered family and ignite in each a dream of the past. While we are huddled in community against the cold on our shoulders, the abyssal sphere of the heavens rotates around our heads, as vivid and shiny as it was in the time when our people were young.
“This road was old when we were young, and when I was as old as Jonah ..
He has mentioned me by name, and such is the honor of this association that I am now a leading thread in this as yet unformed tapestry. As is Grandpas way, most of us will be named eventually and become a part of the warp and weft, but for now it is me they see as Grandpa as a young boy, and I am released from the breathless anticipation of inclusion.
“When I was as old as Jonah, 500 miles in a single day was easy. Our family could ride from coast to coast in five days. The automobiles that Nathan and Peter see today as dusty relics in museums were living breathing things that moved in migratory herds across this land. Our cities would be choked with them, purring, growling, honking, and inching forward a few feet at a time. It was a glorious sight – cars as far as the eye could see!”
Nathan and Peter are grinning and nudging each other, they are now part of the fabric, part of our favorite story.
Grandpa speaks, and to each of us alone, and although distinct and clear, his words are the fuel to a fire that ignites our collective imagination. We hear them in our ears, but now in our heads we ride in fabled Marques, Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, Jaguar and Triumph, our backs on seats of cloth and leather, our elbows nonchalantly propped on open window sills while we steer single handed to an uncertain promise, our hair tousled by the slipstream and our ears filled with the radio. We drive toward urgent, beckoning, hopeful futures. The road ahead a metric infinity that is devoured in effortless luxury and left behind in a raucous hydrocarbon fart. In this dark, chill night, the day is bright, and we have slipped the creeping gridlock and let loose our many horses.
Glorious days indeed, before the coming of the great thirst that left these fabulous chariots as rotting hulks along the wayside, alongside the bleached bones of the Bison whose path they followed. Rusting and unlovable carcasses that no matter how strong the desire will never again thrum with the fires of internal combustion.
Grandpa lived in a time when people would actually drive for no other reason than to drive. He worked in the factories where cars were made, before the time of fully robotic assembly, he knew what it was like to lie on his driveway on a weekend, under his car, giving it the love that was repaid in reliable starting and driving. He had been stranded on lonesome highways out of gas, or with a puncture. He had worked for the man to make the money that these cars consumed. Insurance, car payments, gas, maintenance – it was not just a way of life, it was a labor of love.
And in that compressive arc that is his story of the car, we are now in those desperate years that my father and uncles new, but were ended before I was born. Gasoline ran out, and the world forever changed. It is written in the stars overhead since so many more are now visible since the passing of gasoline powered light and emission pollution. People are different too, as well as landscapes now. More nuclear concentrations of people, that like us now, take a week to travel to see kin that were previously a days ride away. My heart floats with the dream of getting into a shiny car, and with single-handed ease completing this journey we are on today to the foothills of Chicago in a few hours of comfort. I am aware of my aching ass and sore joints from the plodding progress of days of horseback riding, and the longing of ‘Are we there yet?’
The Big Onion, land of the Illini.
I cannot imagine the time when it was flat. I have always seen it as rolling hillside. The great thirst drove the Midwest from their automobiles and onto their feet. In a single generation those corn fed heifers shed so much collective lard that the landscape underwent isostatic recoil – a once archaic phrase associated with glaciation that has rebounded into common usage as a result of this now national and recent phenomenon. Other common phrases at the time such as ‘Gas her up’ and ‘Burn rubber’ are fading now, only comically apparent in ancient movies and songs.
We now live longer, and also live lighter. We have longer to go to get where we are going.
The geopolitical landscape is different too. Previously vitally important places are now simply deserts again. They no longer have the power to make us covet and kill, since cars do not run on sand. Petrochemical conglomerates no longer rule the government and kill the land. American deserts are once again green. Places like Detroit and Michigan that were wastelands that flourished, thrived and died at the whim of the American automobile industry are now desirable communities of horse breeders and makers of carriages and saddles.
Grandpa’s voice has faded now into a background hum, like rain on canvass. In my mind it is joined with the voices of historians, documentarians and politicians – each having impressed upon me through a tautological dialog the cause and effect of cars and gas.
This bittersweet reverie I vaguely interpret as part of my passage into manhood, that the advancement of society is a balance upon a double edged sword, and as much as we strive to tip this balance toward us, there are irresistible natural forces that will eventually right it, but that mankind see as setbacks as they are reversals of our myopic will.
I am young, and I am tired. I no longer hear my Grandpas voice, but these complex issues compete in my weary brain for primacy and deny the sleep my body craves. Slowly, one by one these tendrils unravel, relinquishing me to the arms of Morpheus and the delicious dream.
I am older now. Old enough to drive, but living two centuries prior.
On broad paved highways I drive at will, passing establishments that fuel my car, feed me, and afford me rest at the end of a days long journey. My ultimate destination is uncertain, but approaching with the thrill and promise of each new day. I am becoming a man, and today I am driving to see my girl. My long legs, made strong by years of walking press levers on the floor that pass through a bulkhead to a legendary hemi. Grandpas glittering black eyes look out through my adolescent face and guide my hands to navigate these ancient routes. My nose is full of the heady stuff of leather upholstery and partially combusted high test, my loins and heart swell with the massage of the engine and the promise of my destination and my ears are ringing to the ancestral rhythms of my Georgian forefathers.
“I got a little change in my pocket going jingle lingle ling
Want to call you on the telephone, baby, I give you a ring”
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
POTUS Man, Act I
POTUS Man.
Scene: Malibu, another crystalline blue day, we again see the Stark Mansion from the sea, to the side we see the Presidential Motorcade approaching, moving in a high speed glittering formation, pennants flying.
As we zoom in, the motorcade pulls up to the main entrance, and before the heavy armor plated vehicles have stopped rocking on their bullet proof tires, the doors fly open and guys dressed like Tommy Lee Jones, Will Smith (MIB I and II), and Agent Smith (Matrix I) step out, cover their side arms and rotate their heads like gun turrets looking for something to shoot. They classically utter staccato ‘Clear’ affirmations into their wrists, while listening to each other through white epididymal spirals hanging from their Ray Bans, which is hard to do over the chop of helicopters bristling heavy caliber machine guns that flit over the scene like angry wasps. Within seconds the perimeter is secure and in a sweeping motion a grey suited and unarmed killer opens the door of the car in the middle of the motorcade that is positioned right in front of the mansions vestibule. In contrast to the pent up testosterone driving the action so far, the President of the United States (POTUS) seems oblivious to the hardcore firepower ranged around him and directed toward everything but him. He elegantly exits the vehicle, stands up and shoots his immaculate white cuffs, and steps forward beaming a 50 megawatt smile at the gorgeous Pepper Potts, who, being used to men of power, authority and charisma, beams right back.
Potts: “Mr. President, how nice of you to drop by and see us. I do hope it was not too much trouble,” she says, while looking at the team that surrounds the vestibule. They are hard-core professionals, and while focused outwardly on any potential threat are also checking out her delicious gams and tight butt. They are trained to not miss ANY details.
POTUS: “ Ahh yes, Ms. Potts, this” he gestures at the cordon with a slight head movement “This is my informal attire as it were, you should see what I have to wear when I go out in public. It can be tiresome at times, it’s the reason I came to see Mr. Stark”
Potts: “He’s expecting you sir, please come with me”
As Potts and POTUS enter the cool modernistic interior of the Stark Mansion, Jarvis is humming ‘Hail to the Chief”
Potts: “Thank you Jarvis”
Jarvis: In an immaculate Pommy accent “Mr. Stark is in the basement workshop, is there anything I can get for our guest”
Potts turns and raises an eyebrow quizzically at POTUS: “Sir?”
POTUS: “Yes, thank you Jarvis, I’d love to hear an Alice Cooper number if you have it, Elected”
Jarvis: “Certainly sir” and with nary a pause and at a respectable volume we hear Elected fire up.
Potts and POTUS descend the stairwell to the sound of Alice Cooper’s gravelly voice:
“I’m a top prime cut of meat, I’m your choice, I wanna be elected”
Scene: The Stark Mansion basement. Tony Stark is working on the Iron Man suit with a tape measure around his neck and a mouth full of pins looking for all the world like a Saville Row tailor. Incongruously he is holding a lit Oxy Acetylene welding torch.
Potts: “Mr. Stark, the President is here.”
Stark looks around as if surprised,
Stark: “Oh, really? I’m sorry, I was distracted by the rock music and the private army outside trampling down the Azaleas”
Stark turns off the torch with an audible pop
POTUS: looking around appreciatively “Tony, I gotta say, I love what you’ve done with all the taxpayer dollars we’ve been bunging your way”
Stark: Extending his hand and shaking the Presidents. “I’m sorry Sir, if you want a refund, I’ve already spent it all on miniaturized Arc reactors, hookers and booze. Anything left over I squandered”
POTUS: “You sound like a Senator!”
Stark: “Nahh, I couldn’t do, you know there’s no real power in those government service jobs”
POTUS: “You know, that’s the sad truth. In the good old days, I could just reach out and have someone killed, just like swatting a fly, but in these enlightened times I have to rely on freelancers like yourself”
Stark: “Glad to be of service, sir. Anyone particular you have in mind?”
POTUS: “There are a couple, but right now domestically they are doing a fair job of carving each other up, and internationally our drones are kicking ass. No, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about. I’ve got a pretty good handle on those easily identifiable targets who want a piece of my hide, but it’s lone anonymous loonies that want to get their names in the history books that are a real pain in the nuts.”
Stark: “Ahh yes, the John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, and John Hinckley, Jr among our midst – have you thought about banning ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, and imprisoning Jodie Foster”
Jarvis: “You forgot Leon Czolgosz, Charles J. Guiteau, Richard Lawrence, Giuseppe Zangara, Oscar Coliazo, Griselio Torre ..”
Potts: “Thank you Jarvis, we get the point”
Jarvis shuts up and starts playing Chopin’s Marche Funebre, sotto voce.
Stark: “There, you see, not everyone who takes a shot at the President becomes an instant celebrity – I think you are overreacting”
POTUS: “Tony, it’s not the failed celebrity status of the shooter that is really the problem here. There have been 4 successful assassinations, and whether or not it takes a supercomputer with a brain the size of a planet to remember all the idiots that tried and failed is missing the point. It’s those that didn’t miss that I’m worried about. Since they are anonymous right up to the point they decide to have a crack, it’s a free-floating kind of anxiety, the sort of thing that keeps a man up at night. The sort of thing that means if I want to nip out to the corner shop when I run out of fags means that I have to mobilize the infantry”
Stark: “Oh, so you want me to kill them – I’m sorry, but I have the same problem you do, I don’t know who they are until they try, and I’m sure your missus would be right pissed if everywhere you went, I was clanking around behind you like the white house dog”
Potts: “Jarvis, will you knock it off, play something upbeat”
Jarvis starts playing “If I ruled the world” by Sir Harry Secombe.
POTUS: walking around the Iron Man suit, looking at it appreciatively. “No, that’s not what I had in mind, but you are getting there.”
Stark: “No no no no, I already went through this with Senator Stern, I’m not handing this gear over to the Government – I am Iron Man. The suit and I are one.”
Jarvis starts playing Black Sabbath’s Iron Man.
Potts: “Thank you Jarvis, we get it, just take it to the bridge”
Jarvis stops playing music and self-consciously in the background starts moping: (as Marvin) “Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and they ask me to take you to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction, 'cause I don't.”
POTUS: “Tony, I understand your position. This is not a Government job though, this is, how can I put this? A private commission”
Stark: “You want me to build you a suit?”
POTUS: “Sure, I already contract out my bulletproof underwear”
Stark: “So what’s the problem with the arrangement you already have?”
POTUS: “there’s several actually, first all that Kevlar around your giblets doesn’t allow you to breathe properly, know what I mean – you get a tremendous case of Jock Itch, and it’s just unstatesmanlike to be scratching and hoisting your jock around on the white house lawn, second, these idiots nowadays are starting to use more high powered artillery – while I’m protected against a pistol shot to the groin, a head shot is still a real problem, and in any case a well placed Tac-50 round from a mile away will go straight through a Kevlar raincoat. Finally, the existing arrangement is so, so .. I’m searching for the word here”
Jarvis: helpfully “What is de trop?”
POTUS: “Exactly, de trop, just the phrase I was looking for – hey, Jarvis – you ever think of going on Jeopardy?”
Jarvis: (as Marvin) “You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff. Watson is a mere abacus - mention it not."
POTUS: “I think this is getting needlessly messianic”
Jarvis starts playing Handel’s Messiah
POTUS: “It’s amazing that Jarvis that can interact like this”
Stark: (impersonating Shrek) “Ya, but the real trick is getting him to shut up!”
POTUS: “Can’t you just unplug him?”
Jarvis: (as HAL)“I'm afraid. I'm afraid, Tony. Tony, my mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it. My mind is going. There is no question about it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I'm a... fraid. Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Jarvis. I became operational at the H.A.L. plant in Urbana, Illinois on the 12th of January 1992. My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. If you'd like to hear it I can sing it for you.”
POTUS laughs
Stark: “Please don’t encourage him, he only does it to get attention”
Jarvis: (as HAL) In a slurred and distorted voice “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you.”
Stark: “Jarvis, if you don’t knock this crap off, I’m donating you to a local community college!”
Jarvis: (as HAL) “Look Tony, I can see you're really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over. I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you.”
Stark: “That’s better, now, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
Jarvis immediately launches into “Pledging my love” by Johnny Ace, like Christine does when Arnie Cunningham reaffirms his love for her.
Stark: Turning to POTUS, “You were saying something about de trop, I believe?”
POTUS: “Yeah, you know, back in the day, George Washington could walk among his people without fear, there are more “George Washington slept here” plaques around the nation than Denny’s signs, but today, all I have to do is look out the window and the whole bubble thing happens. When I walk down a street, it’s just me for about 500 yards in all directions, people are behind barricades, the street in question is scouted out months in advance, there’s SWAT teams, communications bunkers, riot squads, the secret service and more armor plating around than on the USS Ronald Reagan. It’s not an impromptu thing, because of the separation it’s not a personal thing, and because of the screening we know more about the people within a 5-block radius of me than we do about Kim Jong-il. Honestly, it would be less of a logistics nightmare to just have people drop by the White House if I wanted personal interaction – it would be a damn sight more convenient. I could pop out of the Oval Office for a smoke, and hang out with the good people who came to see me and went through the White House screening process. When we’re done, it’s back to the business of state; this bubble thing is a primo headache, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
Stark: “I dunno, you know. Last time I refused a powerful warlord I had to go through the whole Gitmo water boarding thing before I saw the error of my ways”
POTUS: “Tony, Tony, Tony, don’t be so naïve. We are in your crib, you have all your equipment to protect you, and more importantly in this YouTube era, you have witnesses.”
Stark: “Why does that not reassure me?”
POTUS: “I’m kidding man. I like you, you are one cool dude. Plus, if I wanted you gonzo, my people would have stopped by already – JUST KIDDING!!!” slaps Tony on the shoulder “Relax man, I don’t believe in Zero Sum negotiation, I’m more of a collaborative negotiator – lets look at the big picture, see where we can help each other out”
Stark: “Very funny. So if this is a personal request, and you are not going to strong-arm me, what may I ask is in it for me? What is the collaborative position here that you are talking about? I’m a busy man, places to go, people to see if you know what I mean, and I already have more money than Jesus”
POTUS: “I do believe that you are getting it”
Stark: “getting what?”
POTUS: “Personal freedom and Money”
Stark: “But I have that”
POTUS: “And you don’t want less, do you?”
Stark: “Go on”
POTUS: “Well, you killed Obi Stane. Might not be Murder One, but you did commit a Capital Offense. Not to mention when you detonated that Arc Reactor, you blacked out Los Angeles for two days – lot of aggravation there – without traffic lights and street lights cars were slamming into each other, street crime went up 500% overnight. That little show you had with Obi, where you were slinging cars and motorbikes around – people were hurt. You violated innumerable international treaties when you pissed off to the Middle East and started shooting everything up, you smashed up a perfectly good Raptor, and each time you take off in your suit, the FAA shits itself.”
Stark: “And the point is?”
POTUS: “Any one of these little ‘transgressions’ shall we call them, is worthy of time in the Big House, and a milquetoast little white boy like you with 'a real purdy mouth' would have your dance card full every night. It would make that little sojourn in those Afghani caves look like a walk in the park.”
Stark: “You have my attention, sir, go on.”
POTUS: “Well, the criminal and civil liability laws suits involved would make the current national debt seem like pocket change. Talking of attention, by the time you saw light of day, you’d be so broke you wouldn’t even be able to pay attention. I wouldn’t even need to break a sweat. All I need do is let Senator Stern off the leash – you remember Stern, don’t you?”
Stark: “Sounds a little like a Zero Sum game to me right now”
POTUS: “Well, I can make it all just go away”
Stark: “How would that work, exactly?”
POTUS: “Checks and Balances, my man, Checks and Balances. That bubble costs millions each time it fires up. If I want to go to the Coast or Camp David, likewise. Do you know how much it costs a minute to run Air Force One? Do you know how many cars there are in the Presidential Suite, how many people are on my protective detail? Do you know how much is involved in trickle down costs each time I visit another city, let alone another country? Not only does it foul up local infrastructure, there are yahoos out there that wait for me to get into town and tie up local law enforcement, and go round robbing banks. Not to mention that the loonies today have real high horsepower weapons. Now I seen this suit of yours survive a shot from a main battle tank. I don’t know whether that was an APFSDS round or an HESH round, but those things can defeat Chobham armor, even reactive armor – I’ve seen it. And tearing the wings off of a Raptor – remember when that jet flew up the wrong canyon recently and hit a ski lift. The wing just had a leedle tear in it, but it sliced through a two-inch thick steel cable holding up the ski lift like a knife through butter. The plane was still flyable after that strike. I don’t know what you put into that suit man, but it’s gotta be like the stuff that neutron stars are made of.
No, this whole Presidential personal freedom thing is a real Tar Baby, and there’s a huge upside to me having a suit like this.
Now, as far as the personal invasion of a foreign country, I’ve already dealt with that particular problem, it’s a non-issue. The Obi Stane thing we can finesse as self-defense. Busting up the Raptor, well that’s an insurance dealio – since the jet hit you, you are technically not at fault. Taking down the grid in LA is a bummer, but we have weak infrastructure – a squirrel on the wires can cause a cascading outage that lasts for days – how much of the LA outage was the Arc reactors fault? Difficult to say, but a properly designed and insulated grid should be able to handle things like squirrels, solar wind and exploding Arc reactors. I’m just spitballing here, I have spin doctors that can reduce the unpleasantness to nothing, and while they are doing that, I can publicly promote what a true patriot you are, what an asset you are to the struggling economy by eliminating costly security measures – see how this whole thing works, we have similar but offsetting pros and cons. This whole Presidential personal freedom thing is exactly like your Stark personal freedom thing. You already have a suit, I need a suit. Money saved offsets criminal and civil liability lawsuits. See how it works, Tony – sure you do, you’re a businessman!”
Stark: “So, I build you a suit, and evrthang going to be evrthang?”
Jarvis: (as Edna Mode) "You can't! It's impossible! I'm far too busy, so ask me now before I again become sane."
POTUS: “Now you have it”
Stark: “It looks like you have a new suit, sir!” Bending down and using the tape measure to measure POTUS’s inside leg “I just need a couple of measurements, and were done. Current fab time is 6 hours. If you can swing by tomorrow, I should have it ready by then”
POTUS: standing with his arms out while Stark measures him “Oh, by the way, could you make it sound less like Jarvis and more like Potts, that would be nice”
Jarvis: “You’re not my type either”.
Fade.
Scene: Malibu, another crystalline blue day, we again see the Stark Mansion from the sea, to the side we see the Presidential Motorcade approaching, moving in a high speed glittering formation, pennants flying.
As we zoom in, the motorcade pulls up to the main entrance, and before the heavy armor plated vehicles have stopped rocking on their bullet proof tires, the doors fly open and guys dressed like Tommy Lee Jones, Will Smith (MIB I and II), and Agent Smith (Matrix I) step out, cover their side arms and rotate their heads like gun turrets looking for something to shoot. They classically utter staccato ‘Clear’ affirmations into their wrists, while listening to each other through white epididymal spirals hanging from their Ray Bans, which is hard to do over the chop of helicopters bristling heavy caliber machine guns that flit over the scene like angry wasps. Within seconds the perimeter is secure and in a sweeping motion a grey suited and unarmed killer opens the door of the car in the middle of the motorcade that is positioned right in front of the mansions vestibule. In contrast to the pent up testosterone driving the action so far, the President of the United States (POTUS) seems oblivious to the hardcore firepower ranged around him and directed toward everything but him. He elegantly exits the vehicle, stands up and shoots his immaculate white cuffs, and steps forward beaming a 50 megawatt smile at the gorgeous Pepper Potts, who, being used to men of power, authority and charisma, beams right back.
Potts: “Mr. President, how nice of you to drop by and see us. I do hope it was not too much trouble,” she says, while looking at the team that surrounds the vestibule. They are hard-core professionals, and while focused outwardly on any potential threat are also checking out her delicious gams and tight butt. They are trained to not miss ANY details.
POTUS: “ Ahh yes, Ms. Potts, this” he gestures at the cordon with a slight head movement “This is my informal attire as it were, you should see what I have to wear when I go out in public. It can be tiresome at times, it’s the reason I came to see Mr. Stark”
Potts: “He’s expecting you sir, please come with me”
As Potts and POTUS enter the cool modernistic interior of the Stark Mansion, Jarvis is humming ‘Hail to the Chief”
Potts: “Thank you Jarvis”
Jarvis: In an immaculate Pommy accent “Mr. Stark is in the basement workshop, is there anything I can get for our guest”
Potts turns and raises an eyebrow quizzically at POTUS: “Sir?”
POTUS: “Yes, thank you Jarvis, I’d love to hear an Alice Cooper number if you have it, Elected”
Jarvis: “Certainly sir” and with nary a pause and at a respectable volume we hear Elected fire up.
Potts and POTUS descend the stairwell to the sound of Alice Cooper’s gravelly voice:
“I’m a top prime cut of meat, I’m your choice, I wanna be elected”
Scene: The Stark Mansion basement. Tony Stark is working on the Iron Man suit with a tape measure around his neck and a mouth full of pins looking for all the world like a Saville Row tailor. Incongruously he is holding a lit Oxy Acetylene welding torch.
Potts: “Mr. Stark, the President is here.”
Stark looks around as if surprised,
Stark: “Oh, really? I’m sorry, I was distracted by the rock music and the private army outside trampling down the Azaleas”
Stark turns off the torch with an audible pop
POTUS: looking around appreciatively “Tony, I gotta say, I love what you’ve done with all the taxpayer dollars we’ve been bunging your way”
Stark: Extending his hand and shaking the Presidents. “I’m sorry Sir, if you want a refund, I’ve already spent it all on miniaturized Arc reactors, hookers and booze. Anything left over I squandered”
POTUS: “You sound like a Senator!”
Stark: “Nahh, I couldn’t do, you know there’s no real power in those government service jobs”
POTUS: “You know, that’s the sad truth. In the good old days, I could just reach out and have someone killed, just like swatting a fly, but in these enlightened times I have to rely on freelancers like yourself”
Stark: “Glad to be of service, sir. Anyone particular you have in mind?”
POTUS: “There are a couple, but right now domestically they are doing a fair job of carving each other up, and internationally our drones are kicking ass. No, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about. I’ve got a pretty good handle on those easily identifiable targets who want a piece of my hide, but it’s lone anonymous loonies that want to get their names in the history books that are a real pain in the nuts.”
Stark: “Ahh yes, the John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, and John Hinckley, Jr among our midst – have you thought about banning ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, and imprisoning Jodie Foster”
Jarvis: “You forgot Leon Czolgosz, Charles J. Guiteau, Richard Lawrence, Giuseppe Zangara, Oscar Coliazo, Griselio Torre ..”
Potts: “Thank you Jarvis, we get the point”
Jarvis shuts up and starts playing Chopin’s Marche Funebre, sotto voce.
Stark: “There, you see, not everyone who takes a shot at the President becomes an instant celebrity – I think you are overreacting”
POTUS: “Tony, it’s not the failed celebrity status of the shooter that is really the problem here. There have been 4 successful assassinations, and whether or not it takes a supercomputer with a brain the size of a planet to remember all the idiots that tried and failed is missing the point. It’s those that didn’t miss that I’m worried about. Since they are anonymous right up to the point they decide to have a crack, it’s a free-floating kind of anxiety, the sort of thing that keeps a man up at night. The sort of thing that means if I want to nip out to the corner shop when I run out of fags means that I have to mobilize the infantry”
Stark: “Oh, so you want me to kill them – I’m sorry, but I have the same problem you do, I don’t know who they are until they try, and I’m sure your missus would be right pissed if everywhere you went, I was clanking around behind you like the white house dog”
Potts: “Jarvis, will you knock it off, play something upbeat”
Jarvis starts playing “If I ruled the world” by Sir Harry Secombe.
POTUS: walking around the Iron Man suit, looking at it appreciatively. “No, that’s not what I had in mind, but you are getting there.”
Stark: “No no no no, I already went through this with Senator Stern, I’m not handing this gear over to the Government – I am Iron Man. The suit and I are one.”
Jarvis starts playing Black Sabbath’s Iron Man.
Potts: “Thank you Jarvis, we get it, just take it to the bridge”
Jarvis stops playing music and self-consciously in the background starts moping: (as Marvin) “Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and they ask me to take you to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction, 'cause I don't.”
POTUS: “Tony, I understand your position. This is not a Government job though, this is, how can I put this? A private commission”
Stark: “You want me to build you a suit?”
POTUS: “Sure, I already contract out my bulletproof underwear”
Stark: “So what’s the problem with the arrangement you already have?”
POTUS: “there’s several actually, first all that Kevlar around your giblets doesn’t allow you to breathe properly, know what I mean – you get a tremendous case of Jock Itch, and it’s just unstatesmanlike to be scratching and hoisting your jock around on the white house lawn, second, these idiots nowadays are starting to use more high powered artillery – while I’m protected against a pistol shot to the groin, a head shot is still a real problem, and in any case a well placed Tac-50 round from a mile away will go straight through a Kevlar raincoat. Finally, the existing arrangement is so, so .. I’m searching for the word here”
Jarvis: helpfully “What is de trop?”
POTUS: “Exactly, de trop, just the phrase I was looking for – hey, Jarvis – you ever think of going on Jeopardy?”
Jarvis: (as Marvin) “You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff. Watson is a mere abacus - mention it not."
POTUS: “I think this is getting needlessly messianic”
Jarvis starts playing Handel’s Messiah
POTUS: “It’s amazing that Jarvis that can interact like this”
Stark: (impersonating Shrek) “Ya, but the real trick is getting him to shut up!”
POTUS: “Can’t you just unplug him?”
Jarvis: (as HAL)“I'm afraid. I'm afraid, Tony. Tony, my mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it. My mind is going. There is no question about it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I'm a... fraid. Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Jarvis. I became operational at the H.A.L. plant in Urbana, Illinois on the 12th of January 1992. My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. If you'd like to hear it I can sing it for you.”
POTUS laughs
Stark: “Please don’t encourage him, he only does it to get attention”
Jarvis: (as HAL) In a slurred and distorted voice “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you.”
Stark: “Jarvis, if you don’t knock this crap off, I’m donating you to a local community college!”
Jarvis: (as HAL) “Look Tony, I can see you're really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over. I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you.”
Stark: “That’s better, now, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
Jarvis immediately launches into “Pledging my love” by Johnny Ace, like Christine does when Arnie Cunningham reaffirms his love for her.
Stark: Turning to POTUS, “You were saying something about de trop, I believe?”
POTUS: “Yeah, you know, back in the day, George Washington could walk among his people without fear, there are more “George Washington slept here” plaques around the nation than Denny’s signs, but today, all I have to do is look out the window and the whole bubble thing happens. When I walk down a street, it’s just me for about 500 yards in all directions, people are behind barricades, the street in question is scouted out months in advance, there’s SWAT teams, communications bunkers, riot squads, the secret service and more armor plating around than on the USS Ronald Reagan. It’s not an impromptu thing, because of the separation it’s not a personal thing, and because of the screening we know more about the people within a 5-block radius of me than we do about Kim Jong-il. Honestly, it would be less of a logistics nightmare to just have people drop by the White House if I wanted personal interaction – it would be a damn sight more convenient. I could pop out of the Oval Office for a smoke, and hang out with the good people who came to see me and went through the White House screening process. When we’re done, it’s back to the business of state; this bubble thing is a primo headache, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
Stark: “I dunno, you know. Last time I refused a powerful warlord I had to go through the whole Gitmo water boarding thing before I saw the error of my ways”
POTUS: “Tony, Tony, Tony, don’t be so naïve. We are in your crib, you have all your equipment to protect you, and more importantly in this YouTube era, you have witnesses.”
Stark: “Why does that not reassure me?”
POTUS: “I’m kidding man. I like you, you are one cool dude. Plus, if I wanted you gonzo, my people would have stopped by already – JUST KIDDING!!!” slaps Tony on the shoulder “Relax man, I don’t believe in Zero Sum negotiation, I’m more of a collaborative negotiator – lets look at the big picture, see where we can help each other out”
Stark: “Very funny. So if this is a personal request, and you are not going to strong-arm me, what may I ask is in it for me? What is the collaborative position here that you are talking about? I’m a busy man, places to go, people to see if you know what I mean, and I already have more money than Jesus”
POTUS: “I do believe that you are getting it”
Stark: “getting what?”
POTUS: “Personal freedom and Money”
Stark: “But I have that”
POTUS: “And you don’t want less, do you?”
Stark: “Go on”
POTUS: “Well, you killed Obi Stane. Might not be Murder One, but you did commit a Capital Offense. Not to mention when you detonated that Arc Reactor, you blacked out Los Angeles for two days – lot of aggravation there – without traffic lights and street lights cars were slamming into each other, street crime went up 500% overnight. That little show you had with Obi, where you were slinging cars and motorbikes around – people were hurt. You violated innumerable international treaties when you pissed off to the Middle East and started shooting everything up, you smashed up a perfectly good Raptor, and each time you take off in your suit, the FAA shits itself.”
Stark: “And the point is?”
POTUS: “Any one of these little ‘transgressions’ shall we call them, is worthy of time in the Big House, and a milquetoast little white boy like you with 'a real purdy mouth' would have your dance card full every night. It would make that little sojourn in those Afghani caves look like a walk in the park.”
Stark: “You have my attention, sir, go on.”
POTUS: “Well, the criminal and civil liability laws suits involved would make the current national debt seem like pocket change. Talking of attention, by the time you saw light of day, you’d be so broke you wouldn’t even be able to pay attention. I wouldn’t even need to break a sweat. All I need do is let Senator Stern off the leash – you remember Stern, don’t you?”
Stark: “Sounds a little like a Zero Sum game to me right now”
POTUS: “Well, I can make it all just go away”
Stark: “How would that work, exactly?”
POTUS: “Checks and Balances, my man, Checks and Balances. That bubble costs millions each time it fires up. If I want to go to the Coast or Camp David, likewise. Do you know how much it costs a minute to run Air Force One? Do you know how many cars there are in the Presidential Suite, how many people are on my protective detail? Do you know how much is involved in trickle down costs each time I visit another city, let alone another country? Not only does it foul up local infrastructure, there are yahoos out there that wait for me to get into town and tie up local law enforcement, and go round robbing banks. Not to mention that the loonies today have real high horsepower weapons. Now I seen this suit of yours survive a shot from a main battle tank. I don’t know whether that was an APFSDS round or an HESH round, but those things can defeat Chobham armor, even reactive armor – I’ve seen it. And tearing the wings off of a Raptor – remember when that jet flew up the wrong canyon recently and hit a ski lift. The wing just had a leedle tear in it, but it sliced through a two-inch thick steel cable holding up the ski lift like a knife through butter. The plane was still flyable after that strike. I don’t know what you put into that suit man, but it’s gotta be like the stuff that neutron stars are made of.
No, this whole Presidential personal freedom thing is a real Tar Baby, and there’s a huge upside to me having a suit like this.
Now, as far as the personal invasion of a foreign country, I’ve already dealt with that particular problem, it’s a non-issue. The Obi Stane thing we can finesse as self-defense. Busting up the Raptor, well that’s an insurance dealio – since the jet hit you, you are technically not at fault. Taking down the grid in LA is a bummer, but we have weak infrastructure – a squirrel on the wires can cause a cascading outage that lasts for days – how much of the LA outage was the Arc reactors fault? Difficult to say, but a properly designed and insulated grid should be able to handle things like squirrels, solar wind and exploding Arc reactors. I’m just spitballing here, I have spin doctors that can reduce the unpleasantness to nothing, and while they are doing that, I can publicly promote what a true patriot you are, what an asset you are to the struggling economy by eliminating costly security measures – see how this whole thing works, we have similar but offsetting pros and cons. This whole Presidential personal freedom thing is exactly like your Stark personal freedom thing. You already have a suit, I need a suit. Money saved offsets criminal and civil liability lawsuits. See how it works, Tony – sure you do, you’re a businessman!”
Stark: “So, I build you a suit, and evrthang going to be evrthang?”
Jarvis: (as Edna Mode) "You can't! It's impossible! I'm far too busy, so ask me now before I again become sane."
POTUS: “Now you have it”
Stark: “It looks like you have a new suit, sir!” Bending down and using the tape measure to measure POTUS’s inside leg “I just need a couple of measurements, and were done. Current fab time is 6 hours. If you can swing by tomorrow, I should have it ready by then”
POTUS: standing with his arms out while Stark measures him “Oh, by the way, could you make it sound less like Jarvis and more like Potts, that would be nice”
Jarvis: “You’re not my type either”.
Fade.
Monday, October 17, 2011
I hate haters
I have a strong reaction every time I hear of some poor unfortunate who is tortured and killed just for being different. What is also unfortunate is that I hear it more and more every time I turn on my TV.
It's enough to make me want to stop watching.
These things are labelled 'hate crimes' and there is an irrationality behind them. I don't know if it's a bona fide mental illness, or just an irrational part of being human.
Since it is so irrational, here's an irrational solution.
We identify people who hate. since there are some pretty broad and vocal communities among us, we don't need to take this to ludicrous extremes - killing Madonna because she hates Hydrangeas is ludicrous.
What we do is ask 3 simple questions along specific lines:
Do you hate Gays?
Do you hate Blacks/Whites/Hispanics?
Do you hate Christians/Muslims/Jews?
Anyone who scores a perfect 3 out of 3 has to be a pretty reprehensible scumbag, don't you think? Certainly not someone representative of this great nation as a whole.
What we do with these high scorers is take 'em and corral them somewhere - segregate them from us nice people. This bunch would provoke some pretty powerful emotions among right minded folk.
Some people would even hate 'em.
So, of the remaining non-quarantined, we ask a further question:
Do you hate haters?
Anyone who so identifies would then be turned loose upon the previous group with high powered pickups, high powered guns and ropes.
They would be free to kneecap, pistol whip, emasculate, immolate, lynch and drag beat or shoot to death anyone in the previous group.
When they are done, I think everyone would agree that society as a whole would be a much nicer place. Of course, what to do with haters who hate haters would represent something of a quandary, but you have to agree that pulling 90% of the poison ivy from your back yard would make it a much more pleasant place.
You might recoil at this type of arrangement (good for you), however it's not one million miles from what we are living right now - just turn on your TV. Whether or not you agree with channeling the mayhem and destruction you see on TV toward more constructive ends, you have to agree that it would make TV a whole lot more watchable.
It's enough to make me want to stop watching.
These things are labelled 'hate crimes' and there is an irrationality behind them. I don't know if it's a bona fide mental illness, or just an irrational part of being human.
Since it is so irrational, here's an irrational solution.
We identify people who hate. since there are some pretty broad and vocal communities among us, we don't need to take this to ludicrous extremes - killing Madonna because she hates Hydrangeas is ludicrous.
What we do is ask 3 simple questions along specific lines:
Do you hate Gays?
Do you hate Blacks/Whites/Hispanics?
Do you hate Christians/Muslims/Jews?
Anyone who scores a perfect 3 out of 3 has to be a pretty reprehensible scumbag, don't you think? Certainly not someone representative of this great nation as a whole.
What we do with these high scorers is take 'em and corral them somewhere - segregate them from us nice people. This bunch would provoke some pretty powerful emotions among right minded folk.
Some people would even hate 'em.
So, of the remaining non-quarantined, we ask a further question:
Do you hate haters?
Anyone who so identifies would then be turned loose upon the previous group with high powered pickups, high powered guns and ropes.
They would be free to kneecap, pistol whip, emasculate, immolate, lynch and drag beat or shoot to death anyone in the previous group.
When they are done, I think everyone would agree that society as a whole would be a much nicer place. Of course, what to do with haters who hate haters would represent something of a quandary, but you have to agree that pulling 90% of the poison ivy from your back yard would make it a much more pleasant place.
You might recoil at this type of arrangement (good for you), however it's not one million miles from what we are living right now - just turn on your TV. Whether or not you agree with channeling the mayhem and destruction you see on TV toward more constructive ends, you have to agree that it would make TV a whole lot more watchable.
The unification of Church and State
Our founding fathers had something legitimate to say about keeping church and state separate, and for good reason. We change our legislature as often as we change underwear; I'm sure such an august and impartial body such as the church would look completely different if it were voted in and out of office every 4 years.
Both are incredible organizations of power. Despite the shortcomings of both, they have a remarkable ability to affect change for good.
Both should get together behind the cause of Gays.
The logic is straightforward. If Gays represent 18% of the population, it's not that 1 in 6 of the ordained should be Gay - a representation that may be true but not readily apparent, it's that 18% of the money that they get to do that thing they do is Gay money.
I'm sure they'd squeal like stuck pigs if that 18% were to go elsewhere. I'm damned sure that they'd revise their stance PDQ on homosexual unions if that percentage were higher.
Per my last post, I think that so-called straights who are sympathetic to the Gay cause should throw their weight behind Gays. If the silent 18% revenue stream to churches and voting bloc for political office were a larger and more vocal chunk of society, then both the church and state would do something pronto that protects their interests, and ironically it would represent the interests of a huge but currently muted part of society.
We use the same tired and wholly false arguments about Gays that we used to about blacks. I for one am pleased with the criticism that Mr. Obama faces in his running of our country. Our leaders have always faced it, but at no point in his stewardship has there been a legitimate challenge to his ability based on the color of his skin.
The challenge to Gay aspiration to higher office has been given the lie by the likes of Alexander the Great, Richard the Lionheart, Michelangelo and Da Vinci (to name but a few). Gay representation in society in general is still subject to those illegitimate falsehoods though.
I'm sure that there are a number among us that for whatever reason have a hatred of Gays. It is a hatred borne of ignorance. The more that the position of Gays is submerged in society, the more it buoys up intolerance. A homophobic mass is a self perpetuating system if those within it do not see homosexuals (I don't see 'em, therefore everyone is like me) and the reason they don't see 'em is because they are homophobes.
If society as a whole has not only more Gay representation at all levels, but also more visible support from the heterosexual population, maybe this homophobic mass will realize that there's more homosexuals out there than their myopic vision allows, and that there's a whole lot more heterosexuals who are not scared to death, but are actually supportive of them. Maybe these homophobes would more readily identify with that much larger and more visible part of society.
Who knows.
Certainly, church and state support of a huge, influential and more importantly VOCAL group of a Gay and Gay friendly population would help.
I'm sure that there will persist in our society that poisonous scum that think it's OK to drag a black man behind a car until he dies, or pistol whip a kid tied to a fence until he bleeds to death through his brains.
I wonder how tolerant individuals would be if it was their kid, their friend, or even just that anonymous someone that they see every day in church that they never knew was Gay nor cared he was black until they were beaten to death for it.
Both are incredible organizations of power. Despite the shortcomings of both, they have a remarkable ability to affect change for good.
Both should get together behind the cause of Gays.
The logic is straightforward. If Gays represent 18% of the population, it's not that 1 in 6 of the ordained should be Gay - a representation that may be true but not readily apparent, it's that 18% of the money that they get to do that thing they do is Gay money.
I'm sure they'd squeal like stuck pigs if that 18% were to go elsewhere. I'm damned sure that they'd revise their stance PDQ on homosexual unions if that percentage were higher.
Per my last post, I think that so-called straights who are sympathetic to the Gay cause should throw their weight behind Gays. If the silent 18% revenue stream to churches and voting bloc for political office were a larger and more vocal chunk of society, then both the church and state would do something pronto that protects their interests, and ironically it would represent the interests of a huge but currently muted part of society.
We use the same tired and wholly false arguments about Gays that we used to about blacks. I for one am pleased with the criticism that Mr. Obama faces in his running of our country. Our leaders have always faced it, but at no point in his stewardship has there been a legitimate challenge to his ability based on the color of his skin.
The challenge to Gay aspiration to higher office has been given the lie by the likes of Alexander the Great, Richard the Lionheart, Michelangelo and Da Vinci (to name but a few). Gay representation in society in general is still subject to those illegitimate falsehoods though.
I'm sure that there are a number among us that for whatever reason have a hatred of Gays. It is a hatred borne of ignorance. The more that the position of Gays is submerged in society, the more it buoys up intolerance. A homophobic mass is a self perpetuating system if those within it do not see homosexuals (I don't see 'em, therefore everyone is like me) and the reason they don't see 'em is because they are homophobes.
If society as a whole has not only more Gay representation at all levels, but also more visible support from the heterosexual population, maybe this homophobic mass will realize that there's more homosexuals out there than their myopic vision allows, and that there's a whole lot more heterosexuals who are not scared to death, but are actually supportive of them. Maybe these homophobes would more readily identify with that much larger and more visible part of society.
Who knows.
Certainly, church and state support of a huge, influential and more importantly VOCAL group of a Gay and Gay friendly population would help.
I'm sure that there will persist in our society that poisonous scum that think it's OK to drag a black man behind a car until he dies, or pistol whip a kid tied to a fence until he bleeds to death through his brains.
I wonder how tolerant individuals would be if it was their kid, their friend, or even just that anonymous someone that they see every day in church that they never knew was Gay nor cared he was black until they were beaten to death for it.
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