Spartacus

I Wish The Alchemists Would Leave Us Alone.

2006-11-12T07:49:00Z

I've been Reading Neal Stephenson, who is a brilliant, brilliant author, and thinking about Alchemists. I wish they'd leave us alone.

I might be saying something stupid because of my lack of familiarity with the subject, but Chemistry might be the science that has done most for humanity. Fire was one of our first and most powerful tools to manipulate the environment. In turn, fire gave us bronze, iron, and eventually steel. The industrial age was basically made possible by various interactions of iron and carbon. Today we have fertilizers and pesticides to produce enough food to freakin' feed all of us, we synthesize our medicines, we build impossible things out of plastics and polymers, and we rode to the moon on chemical rockets.

So, we owe a lot to the people who got us started down that road, and quite a few of them were Alchemists. This was in the days before double-blind controlled experiments, before safety precautions, before a formalized notion of objective evidence, before accurate clocks. What the Alchemists had were the inexact tools of the day, and a variety of techniques to try on whatever they could get their hands on.

Chief among these was distillation. Now, distillation is great: you can produce clear water, extract interesting chemicals from silt or pee, and it's an important part of the process for producing Vodka. However, the Alchemists didn't have a sound way to construct theories; and I think the ease and usefulness of distillation and similar techniques led them to naturally assume certain things in their metaphysical worldview. I'm going to call it the Alchemical Fallacy: "For a given X, there is something extractable in it that 'makes' it X, that is not present in Y." There is something in this water that is making people sick, and I can take it out. There is something in beer that makes people drunk, and I can isolate and concentrate it. Wood burns because it contains elemental fire (Phlogiston, it came to be called,) and ashes and stones, say, don't. There is something in gold that I can extract, and mix with lead. There is something unique to living things, as opposed to inorganic matter, that I can isolate, and drink to become immortal.

I call it a Fallacy here, because it's obviously recursive (What is elemental fire made of?) and it's also... well, wrong. Science eventually got invented, along with better instruments, and we learned that wood actually gains mass when someone sets it on fire. We built X-rays, and explored the atom, and learned (more or less) why it is that gold and lead are so different. The Alchemical Metaphysics turned out to not be the right way of thinking about science, and it more or less got peeled away. But the Alchemists weren't just scientists, they were philosophers- and in places where there aren't double-blind experiments, the Alchemical Fallacy sticks around today.

I'll start small. Take the Lie Detector. Now, the polygraph test has (believe it or not) been rigorously debunked. You can train someone to produce false positives and false negatives at will; it can't tell the difference between a lie and a sex act, it's well documented. When pressed, law enforcement types have said that its mostly useful for the psychological edge during interrogations. They're building more complicated machines, on different principles, but I believe the flaw is on philosophical grounds. A Lie Detector assumes something inherent to the human speech patterns, pulse/sweat rate/state of mind, something extractable from a lie that makes it differentiable from a truth. And that may or may not be the case, but what *really* makes a lie is context: The facts are different from what you just said, and you know it. A lie is, I think, only properly understandable in terms of the outside world.

In the same vein, while listening to Dad swear at the computer one day, I once idly wondered if there were a way to build a machine that would respond to cursing. Would it accept swears any language? Filthy words mumbled in a perfectly neutral intonation? If I can't build a lie detector, than this machine is obviously wrong, but this particular application of the Fallacy has societal repercussions as well. Is there something intrinsic to obscenity or pornography that can be recognized by a judge? That is intrinsically harmful to children, that society needs to be protected from? If a swear word can't be intrinsically defined, it can't be intrinsically toxic- but if we called it based on it's intended response in a listener, say, then maybe there is somewhere to stand to call to prevent deliberately hurtful language. I'm not sure.

Consider the IQ test. People talk about Intelligence and Creativity as if they were 'things' possessed by intelligent and creative people. It's supposed that these are things you can observe, isolate, and test. Is this right? Does the SAT test anything more than your ability to do well on the SAT? Is creativity a thing you have, rather than a thing you do?

Here's where I get political, and you knew it was coming, but part of the reason the Gay Rights movement is having difficulty in the states (Aside from the unholy alliance between Big Business and Crazy Christianity that the Republicans created) is actual philosophical disagreements on the nature of the beast. Is Homosexuality genetic and therefore can't be helped? Is it learned, and can it therefore be manipulated, or stamped out entirely, through cultural engineering? Can it be repressed in an individual, or does that necessarily have disgustingly unhealthy results? In a way, these are all arguments that assume that homosexuality is a 'thing', something that makes gay folk different from straight folk, something that can be boiled out into a metaphorical test tube and given to the fangirls to sprinkle on, say, Johnny Depp. And that might not be the way to think about a group of people that exhibits variations on a set of behaviors at all.

Take abortion. Whether the procedure is murder or surgery depends on whether or not the zygotic cell cluster is a human being. The law of the land says the third trimester. Some want to say that life begins at conception; and various religious sects disagree as to when the soul enters the body. (There's a jewish tradition that holds the body does not become ensouled until it takes his first breath- as Gd breathed life into Adam, etc.) But a lot of this debate talks about when life begins, when potential begins, what Humanity truly is, and it all sounds as if we have the Philosophic Mercury in our veins; as if being human were a thing that people have and stem cells don't.

And I just want it said that we may be completely freaking wrong. That there are a thousand examples, trivial and scandalous, where we've absorbed the Alchemical Fallacy into our culture, our society, our philosophy, our personal way of looking at the world. And while I don't know what there is, if anything, to replace it, it is starting to ring completely false to me.

No, Seriously. Fuck 'Em.

2006-09-05T15:23:15Z

What the fuck is up with those K-selectors? What the goddamn-bloody-fuck is wrong with them? You do everything you can to understand 'em, and you know what you get to show for it? Fuck all, that's what!

Goddamn K's.

Maybe if I call it a 'homage'...

2006-07-05T02:10:55Z

Let's write some high-concept scifi, and try not to steal from anyone! Woo!-

Our protagonist is an intellectual/academic type, in some obscure field, that I haven't decided yet. Any branch of science can be made future-and-awesome soundy by the prefix 'crypto-', btw. Maria is a crypto-geneticist. Jane is being studied by the crypto-zoologists. The Da Vinci Code features a crypto-art-historian. Fischer is a crypto-sociologist, or a crypto-linguist, or a crypto-cultural anthropologist, or something.

(Unless his name isn't Fischer, because I think I stole that from Starfish. Damnit.)

Anyway. Someone close to Fischer commits suicide. Haven't decided if it's friend, family member, peer or wife. He's already slightly nutty, but being unable to deal with the event in an emotional manner, goes crayons and newspaper insane.

(I seem to be imagining his behavior pretty much exactly like A Beautiful Mind. That's not a good sign.)

Suicide, you see, doesn't make sense to him. Not just this specific instance, which he's not even capable of dealing with, but the concept in abstract. It's a concept that pretty much everyone in the civilized world is familiar with: Shakespeare knew about it, Imperial Japan had it, Socrates was a fairly major proponent of it, and no one seems to have come up with it on their own.

Fischer forms the theory that the only people at risk of taking their own lives are the ones who have been exposed to the 'suicide meme', which seems to be floating freely around in our culture. This then, is an idea that kills a proportion of the people who think it. And to him, that doesn't make any sense. Where did it come from? When did it start?

Fischer goes digging, investigating psychology and prehistory, and the more he researches, the more he convinces himself that the suicide meme, universal interconnectedness, maybe as few as a half dozen but possibly uncountably many ideas have an external source, that there is a security hole in the human psyche. Whether it be aliens, or God, or demons, or something beyond human understanding (Oh no, Arthur C. Clarke's Monoliths, damnitall), someone or something has haxx0red humanity.

I suppose I'm allowed to be vague about what the breach is, but I ought to come up with specific rules for what the breach does. Something simple, like a technique for implanting an idea into a listener's brain, or a page of poetry that will destroy any chance of future happiness, or... Hmm. Details. Later.

Now, when you find a security hole, there are a few things that you can do. The Hacker community is actually in arms with itself over what is ethically called for.

1) You can contact the makers of the software, inform them of the hole, and then shut up, sit on your arse, and wait for them to devote time and resources to fix the problem, if they are even able to, or give a damn.

This approach, for various reasons, is not an option for Fischer.

2) You can shut up about it, and use your knowledge to crack security systems, destroy lives, and make millions.

Fischer isn't interested in this, but perhaps there are others who know about the breach, and have been quietly making their fortunes off of it. (Or, fuck me with a shovel, because that's the plot of Vitals.)

3) You shut up about it, and close the breach yourself. write the necessary code, and either pass it to the people in charge, or write your own virus that installs the fix on every machine that runs the bad code.

This, of course, requires incredible technical knowledge that Fischer doesn't have. Wouldn't put it past him to try.

4) Tell the world, publicize the breach, even and create a 'sample' that demonstrates the destructive potential. Let the whole world know, and everyone will put their resources behind finding a fix.

Everyone except for the 'script kiddiez', of course. These are the punks who delight in destruction, have no technical knowledge for themselves, but will download a pre-made virus, worm, or other black-hat code, and use it to create random chaos, simply because they can.

If Fischer goes public, if he tells the world that there's a way to sabotage the human mind, well, the vast majority of his listeners will think he's bugfuck insane. (Maybe he is.) Some will refuse to believe in the breach, because they've been programmed not to believe in the breach. Some will be well meaning, but won't believe until they try it out, first. And some will use that knowledge to piss their names in the metaphorical snow.

I think these will be fun scenes to write, and might not have been done before. Still have to read Snowcrash and Neuromancer, just in case.

More on possible fixes and the ethical/moral debate surrounding them later. I think it's time to write some smut.

Haxx0red.

2006-07-03T19:07:36Z

I've been thinking, a lot, about memes and suchlike. Maybe this will go into my novel, or a propaganda pamphlet, or maybe it will just live here. Either way, better on the page than in my head.

Here we go.

Computers store memory in a remarkably simple way. Essentially everything is stored in one giant line; a linear array, they call it. To look up something in memory, perform an instruction, or do anything at all, all the computer uses is an address, indicating where on the line it is.

The easiest way to hack a computer is what's called the 'buffer overflow attack'. Find a poorly written bit of code, and throw more input data at it than it can handle, and you can overwrite things that are nearby in the linear array. Then, simply hand the computer the address of your 'garbage', and the machine will execute literally whatever you want.

An external source, going through normal input channels, implanted data into the machine, and forced it to run. This is the ultimate goal of hacking, and after that first step, you can compromise that machine however you'd like. That is Power.

Enough about machines. How would you hack the human brain?

The buffer overflow doesn't work, for obvious reasons. When it's receptive, the computer writes any input it receives into its memory, but hand a person a page full of ones and zeroes, and he will look at it for a moment and then forget.

As best as we understand them (Unless I've missed a breakthrough in psychology somewhere, which is possible), human minds aren't arrays, they're networks. each memory doesn't have a fixed address, it has a web of connections relating it to other thoughts and ideas. Memories that connect to more memories are reinforced more often, memories that have no context and are never reinforced simply fade away. Even if it were possible to crack open a brain (drugs, torture, sleep deprivation) and shove something in there, if it's not reinforced, it will evaporate. So, how to go about it?

This is speculation at this point, but here's how I'd hack a human.

What you want is something I call a 'sticky thought'. In abstract, almost mathematical terms first, a sticky thought is something that can be stored in human memory that can and will relate to anything else that can be stored there. Once it is in, therefore, it is constantly reinforced- subject thinks about penguins, subject is reminded of the sticky thought. Subject thinks about golfing, is reminded of the sticky thought. It goes in the same way any other idea is absorbed; verbally, through books, a certain smell, any perfectly normal input channel, and in principle, can be extracted by nothing short of brain death. It permanently warps the subject's world-view and thought processes. A recursive loop like that would render a computer useless, but human brains are more durable, flexible and better capable of multitasking. It's a guess, but a human could probably carry around a sticky thought and still be functional.

What the sticky thought does, though, is act as a security hole. Once someone has been marked with the thought, he will accept any idea whatsoever, as long as it has a strong and explicit attachment to the sticky thought. It will go in, and even if it has no other context, even if it's completely insane, it will still be reinforced. Subject thinks about penguins, subject thinks the sticky thought, subject thinks What You Tell Him to Think. You've won.

What does the sticky thought look like?

This is speculation on top of speculation, but I think I might be right, and I believe it is important to say.

The simplest, easiest and most logical sticky thought, the idea that connects to all things, is the idea that all things can be connected. Subject looks at a tree, thinks about trees, and starts thinking about ecosystems, the interconnectedness of trees and all other things, universal harmony. You can dress that up however you'd like. Subject thinks about Penguins, about Merciful God who created the penguins and all other things, subject thinks about donating 10% of his money to the Church. Or patriarchal monogamy, or beating on faggots and jews. Subject thinks about tables, about the universal-life-spirit that suffuses her table and all things with its energy, subject thinks about her disdain for modern science.

What if our spirituality is a security breach in our brains?

It's a natural enough thought- but of course we'd think that! It might have occurred naturally in our culture, fueled by our pattern recognition, and our evolutionarily-reinforced drive to find connections between things, but it has the form of everything I would use if I were to sit down and deliberately compromise a mind. It honestly makes me a tiny bit paranoid.

What if, sometime deep, deep in the history of our culture, all of us were haxx0red?

Today on: Belligerent, Bile-Fueled Hatred,

2005-12-19T02:57:08Z

Korean farmers!

I want to be sympathetic to the plight of the poor, I really, really do. I think the WTO has done a lot of things in absolutely the wrong way, and a whole lot of people are getting screwed over.

But you know what? If you're earning $50,000 a year, are putting two kids through college, and are able to buy a plane ticket to Hong Kong at the drop of a hat, you're not one of the victims of the new economy. I'd like to refer you towards Africa, Indonesia, and the homeless everywhere.

That's just fine though, I'm not going to invalidate the worth of your opinion. You're entitled to one, even if it's one I disagree with, and especially if its one the people in power disagree with. Even if it's an oversimplification, or if it's just plain wrong. It's absolutely your right, and I will defend it to the death.

You're allowed to express that opinion. You're allowed to demonstrate, rally and protest, pull together as many people as you can and try to get someone, somewhere to listen to you. Also a right.

You know what you're not allowed to do? Rip apart a fence and use it as a battering ram on a line of policemen. Chuck giant bits of metal at security workers and our boys in blue. Steal their motherfucking riot shields.

That is what completely invalidates your opinions. In the modern world, violence is not an acceptable means of expressing your opinion, and sure as hell not violence against the police of another fucking country. You are guests here, and these are the people who protect our city, fight our crimes, and save our lives. And if you beat on them, you will be tear gassed, yes. Why are you surprised? Also, nine hundred of you have broken the law, so yes, they will go directly to jail, do not pass motherfucking Go, do not collect 200 motherfucking dollars. And if the rest of you want to protest and demand their immediate release, you're going to be disappointed. And if you vow to stay, well, we'll wait until your visas expire and deport your asses.

...

HULK SMASH!

A Parable

2005-12-01T08:15:26Z

This happened a while ago, but it felt relevant today.

It was a cold morning, and the bus had been idling at the stop for a little while now. The driver was a gruff, middle-aged man, bundled up in a coat that sort of fused with the seat under him. He didn't talk much, normally, but scowled a lot, and had a tendency to jump through the tail end of yellow lights. The clock on the dashboard turned to 10:16, and he shifted a little in his seat. He reached for that awkward looking lever that controls the doors- and someone called out from a little behind him: "Sir, somebody's running."

And sure enough somebody was. Everyone in earshot on the bus turned to look out a window, and saw one last kid running down from the entrance to the doors, coat flapping in the cold air. I'll never know who he was, where he was going, or what had made him late, but I know for sure that he was tearin' up pavement. He didn't make it though. The bus driver said three words, pulled on the lever, pressed down hard on the gas, and we were off.

"Somebody's always running."

Fuckin' K-Selectors.

2005-10-29T07:38:43Z

Fuck them, man. If it weren't for K's, everybody's life would be so goddamn easier, amiright? I mean... Jesus!

K-selectors. Fuck 'em.

Screw it, time for some Beatles.

2005-08-26T18:46:41Z

Paperback Writer!

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
Based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer!

It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Daily Mail,
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer!

*Instrumental break! Tambourines!*

Paaaaaaper-baaaaack wriiii-iteeeeeer!

It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a week or two.
I can make it longer if you like the style,
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer!

If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer!

Paperback writer- Paperback writer, etc.

((In a later interview, when asked about this song and its obvious symbolic value, they shrugged and collectively confessed that they didn't think anyone had ever done a number about a paperback writer. Rock unapologetically, ladies and gents.))

"They went to their maker impeccably shaved!"

2005-08-24T20:07:44Z

http://www.forbes.com/lifestyle/health/feeds/hscout/2005/08/24/hscout527596.html

So... I ran into this article through Google News. The discussion is being bounced around between reporters, pundits, scientists and 'scientists,' and... well, it just got my wheels turning.

The articles deal with a recent study on when the fetus develops the ability to feel 'pain.' Certain Anti-Abortion/Pro-Life lawmakers want to use the issue of fetal pain as another lever against the practice. Three states (One of which is Georgia, damnit) already have a law on the books that requires doctors to inform anyone considering an abortion of not only the medical risks, but the ethical concerns of 'hurting' the developing organism. The most recent study says that the fetus just doesn't have the neurological circuitry in the first 20 weeks, and that it seems unlikely that it feels 'pain' until week 30. Predictably, the study is drawing fire concerning methodologies and conflicts of interest: One author of the study apparently did not disclose to the publishers that she worked at an abortion clinic. I can understand why that might cause people to cry foul, but it can also be argued that those are the sort of people who would be most interested in these studies, and know their way around a fetus. Perhaps, if you're authoring a study dealing with abortion issues, you should also reveal if you've ever refused to work at an abortion clinic? A discussion for another time, I think.

Pain is a difficult thing to study, because it is an extremely subjective experience. Your doctor can tell you that your arm isn't broken, but can't tell you that it doesn't hurt like hell. I know what causes *me* pain, I can look at other human beings and guess when they are in pain, and there are certain neurological and chemical indicators a scientist can look for, but the experience itself isn't measurable.

Pain seems to be an experience for the benefit of the mind, not the body. When you first touch a hot stove, or a pin, or otherwise put your physical body in danger, it sends a signal up the nerves and into the spine. Completely bypassing the brain, a signal goes back to the arm, leg, or other endangered body part, and causes you to flinch. This is the reflex arc: the part of the pain response that the body uses to protect itself, and the part that does not 'hurt.' If you like analogies, this part is your mother pulling you from the street, out of the way of a speeding car: 'pain' is the lecture, screaming or spankings that tell you to never do it again.

(Fear is the mental equivalent of pain, I think; the mind's signal to the consciousness that something isn't right, that 'we should get out of the way now, and not do this again.' I'm afraid that we're evolutionarily hardwired to be motivated by fear; if you weren't scared of the leopard, it'd take your genetics out of the competition. Hence, it is 'good' to be afraid and survive it, which in turn produces roller coasters, horror movies, and Republicans.)

There is anecdotal evidence that premature babies, at around the 23rd week, have a reflex arc. Some say that they flinch when their feet are pricked for a blood sample, or that they cry, or that they learn to flinch when someone approaches theyr feet after several samples. A reflex arc in and of itself is different from 'pain,' especially when, at that stage of development, 'crying' is pretty much the universal response to any damn stimulus at all. It's just hard to accurately empathize with something not human, since everything that lives has mechanisms for taking care of itself. Plants will twist around corners, growing away from the dark and towards the light: Are they in 'pain' when they're not getting enough sun?

Yesterday, I was trying to avoid stepping on an ant, and failed. My foot landed 'near' it, but there was a tiny crunching sound. The ant started moving erratically, slowing down and stumbling. After anly a few seconds, it curled itself up into a ball, shook, and was still. I think I managed to crush the end of one of its antennae, scrambling its sense of smell and breaking the most nerve-filled part of its body: it reacted like it had taken a shot to the groin. Was it 'in pain,' or was it suddenly blinded, unable to navigate, and leaking fluids? I don't know, and I don't have any way of saying.

More interestingly, would it have been 'better' if I had just stepped directly on its belly and killed it instantly?

Aforementioned lawmakers hope that if a woman hears that a procedure will cause 'pain' to her unborn child, she'll avoid it. But if said operation is an *abortion*, hasn't she already decided she's going to have to *kill* the thing?

My sister's class regularity holds events for charity: One term, they decided they were going to give their donations to a group protesting the ill treatment of cats and dogs in China. Dogmeat, you see, supposedly tastes a lot better if the animal has been beaten to death: it's the adrenaline and tense, wounded muscles that do it. Said group thought this was horrific and inhumane, and that it should be stopped... although the weren't opposed to the act of butchering and serving a canine.

If the dog is going to die, cease to be, depart from this world, join the bleedin' choir invisible, does it fundamentally matter how it spends its last moments? Is lethal injection more civilized than the gallows, which is in turn more polite than a stoning? Is "let's fill the fetus with anesthetics before we kill it, just in case," a logical thing to force a doctor to say? Or are we all just fucking kidding ourselves?

I don't believe in an immortal soul. Although I would be eager to see it, there is no evidence whatsoever to currently suggest that consciousness extends beyond the death of the body, and more specifically the death of the brain. All I know points to the fact that death is the End, of perception, of though, of being and of self. To me, that suggests that there is no way to call one death inherently better than any other. Peter Jennings isn't 'brave' for facing cancer, especially on the amount of medication they had him on. Euthanasia is well meaning, but silly. Suicide is the ultimate act of folly, and murder the ultimate act of destruction and theft. What there is, ultimately, is your life and how you live it, and what remains is how you are remembered. The exact circumstances surround the final act, 'humane' or no, almost always add nothing to either.

... Does that make me a mortal relativist?

*Ba-psching!*

Pop Culture 3/3

2005-08-22T19:26:07Z

Before we begin, I'd just like to take a moment to say that Quidditch is a silly game. I'm sure it's fun to watch, but 14 players are flying around, essentially wasting time until one of the Seekers does his thing and, all together now, Wins. The soccer/basketball element is a distraction from the 150 point game of Golf going on. Or possibly Catch.

Snape agrees with me.

It was so absolutely vindicating to hear Harry being lambasted in the opening; all of my beefs with the runt
right there on the page in front of me. He's a lucky bastid of thoroughly mediocre skills, prophesy and Parseltongue or no. Very cathartic chapter.

... which is why I was a little bit disappointed when the Harrywins started flying thick and fast. What's this? Purely by chance, Harry overhears *another* Secret Evil Plot? A book that contains enough spells and secrets to make Harry a Potions God? Felix Fe-Fucking-Licias?!

The whole chapter introducing 'Liquid Luck' just made me cringe. On one hand, it's great to see Potions classes start living up to Snape's introductory speech and become scary, powerful stuff; it was a nice touch to have the kids actually *brew* a Drought of Living Death after it had been name-dropped in book one. But on the other hand, the moment Harry lays eyes on the cauldron of Felix Felicias, you knew what was going on. Harry has entered a contest where the prize is a Harrywin. Does he use his skills, bravery, and quick thinking win the day? No, he reads the instructions in his little book, that he picked up by chance. Harry Wins. You bastard.

It was like that all the way through the book, or at least it felt like it. After this personality trait seemed to have healed itself in book five, I was expecting Harry to be a more active force... and he still isn't. Things happen around him, and his friends and supporters take care of him. I think it's very significant that he spends important junctures of the book paralysed and with an invisibility cloak over him. And the few times that he does take control of the situation, it just comes out as activating a Harrywin.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the book, despite the density of Wins. There are some fantastic one-liners that still make me laugh thinking about them, (Yes, Sir.)and Hogwarts is still a vibrant, detailed and wonderful world, with amazing characters. Luna, in particular, continues to establish herself as Really Awesome, most of the new characters go above and beyond justifying their existence... and of course, there's Ginny.

I was bitter going into it; all of the scenes with Cho Chang in the earlier books were absolutely spot on, and I really hated to see her pushed aside the way she is. When I read the chapter in which Ginny Wins the Quidditch match, and The Kiss occurs, I groaned, figured I'd have to accept the inevitability of the story arc, was about to write it off as another Harrywin... until I ended up bursting with laughter at the discussion of tattoos on the very next page. Ginny's character development snuck up on me: While I wasn't paying attention, she became a lot more than another foil for Harry, and I was continually surprised by how much I suddenly liked her, all through her masterful handling of the plot's endgame. She's smart, funny, talented, and unashamed about having fun and getting what she wants. A much more well-developed character than I had realized... and also a leggy redhead.

Anywho. Moving on, rapidly.

Let's talk about that endgame! A big part of this book was setting up for book Seven and the end of the series. Harry knows Voldemort's weakness now, and he seems to think he has the skills as well as the duty to go fulfill the prophesy and put the smackdown on him. In many ways, all of the dicking around at school is just slowing him down now: when he announced he wasn't coming back next year, it was a surprise, but not unjustifiable. The Plot has moved itself out of the school, and that's where Harry's got to go. I'll miss Hogwarts, and it's a bit convenient that wizards 'come of age' at seventeen (snark), but I'm ready to see how it turns out.

I'm also looking forward to the last book, because it will finally, *finally* mean an end to the "Is he evil, or just a meaniehead" tomfoolery with Snape. Every single damned book, Snape's been set up as the 'faux-villain,' his allegiances have been questioned and validated so many times, and I'm just fa-reakin' tired of it. Now he's gone and committed an act of cold blooded murder, but the jury is still out. Dumbledore has been foreshadowing his death since the very beginning; when Harry is mildly disturbed at the fate of the owners of the Philosopher's Stone, he makes that remark about Death being "simply the next adventure" for those of a certain mindset. It's entirely possible that, comfortable with his own mortality and the nature of his enemies, he made sure Snape understood that his own survival was less important than the victory of the forces of good. Or, Snape's just a right bastard who has always, *always* resented Dumbldore, and the Headmaster made a spectacularly 'clever' mistake in trusting him.

And that's not counting the 'Gandalf' theory.

There's more than enough evidence for whatever you want to believe about Snape, which speaks of JKR's amazing skill as a writer, but makes it pointless to speculate... which makes me sad. I like to speculate.

For example, I think Harry is the sixth Horcrux.

Doesn't it work? It's been noticed Harry and Voldy have a lot in common, magically speaking. They're both Parselmouths at a time when very few people are, and the wands they have an affinity for are related and unique. It also might explain the freaky mind link they have that occasionally let them see each other's thoughts. Voldemort killed Harry's parents, in cold blood, in front to their infant son, and after they had been betrayed by their best friend, which probably counts as an act evil enough to initiate a soul-split. Plus, it's been awkwardly foreshadowed: Dumbledore suspects Nagini is a Horcrux, which prompted a shocked exchange about how it is possible but very dangerous to imbue part of your soul into something that can make its own decisions. Finally, it just makes oh-so-much dramatic sense.

The one flaw I can see is that Voldemort doesn't seem to be aware that Harry is housing his soul, given how many freaking times he's tried to kill him. It's possible that dropping his soul into a human being went wrong in a way that Voldemort doesn't understand and can't detect, given that it's probably never been tried. It's also possible that it was an accident, perhaps his sixfold-soul was unstable, and fractured into the magically-significant seven pieces at the first available opportunity. Or perhaps Harry is an eighth part, and that drove the Dark lord over some sort of critical mass, robbing him of his powers anddriving him underground.

Whatever the details, if Harry is a Horcrux, the implications are delicious. Voldemort himself, or rather, the last part of his soul that resides in his body, can't be finished off until the Horcruxes are destroyed. The Book, the Snake, the Ring, the Locket, the Chalice... and Harry. The prophesy about the pair of them being destined to kill each other takes on a whole new light, doesn't it? We know that there are a lot of people who want Voldemort dead, R.A.B being one of them. My sister, who is smarter than I, thinks that stands for Regalus A. Black; once a strong supporter of Voldemort like all the Black family, but committed some sort of slight and was killed. I think he may have pulled a Pettigrew and faked his death; He might show up in Book Seven to 'help' Harry on his quest. But at the end of the day, in order for the Dark Lord to go down...

Heh. Harry Wins.

Muahahaha!

Pop Culture 2/3

2005-08-02T01:34:02Z

Having finished Harry Potter 6, my sister and I have been talking about the books, and that curious phenomenon of the 'Harrywin.'

The Harry Potter series is an absolutely wonderful one, creating an amazingly fantastical, magical, and detailed world... but... but...

One of the consequences of this, is that Harry himself very seldom gets to *do* anything. He starts out the series as an 11 year old kid, and almost consistently has never been the 'actor' in the events of his books. Things happen to him, and around him, but are almost never of his doing.

Which is fine, but after six books, it's getting a little old.

In Book 1, Harry, who has a really sucky life, discovers that he is, in fact, a wizard, and a damn good one. He's got potential, fame, friends he's never known in high places, ludicrous wealth, and a chance to get away from it all at good old Hogwarts. Once there, he discovers that he's inherited his father's skill at Quidditch, as well as an uber-powerful magic cloak, and despite his very short training and complete lack of experience, he goes in to kick ass in his very first game.

In short, Harry Wins.

But what's this? There's trouble afoot! There's an item of great magical power that evil people are looking for, and it's guarded by powerful magic and dastardly puzzles... that Harry sort of stands around and lets his friends solve. But, he goes and displays amazing courage and honesty, and accidentally steals the Stone from the clutches of Evil and the head of the school decides to arbitrarily give Gryffindor house 1500 points. Harry Wins.

In Book 2, there's another conspiracy afoot, with students narrowly avoiding getting murdered because it's a kid's book. Harry's friends make an awesome potion, Harry finds an awesome book, and comes tantalizingly close to solving the mystery, but doesn't. Predictably, this ends with Harry bravely stumbling around like an idiot until a phoenix drops by to give him an uber sword. The headmaster arbitrarily cancels exams, and Harry Wins.

In Book 3, which is clearly the best one, there's another complicated mystery that Hermione solves, several connections that Harry just doesn't get, an awesome magic map that just sort of gets given to him, which enables him to very bravely bumble around close to being a hero until he gets saved by a Patronus. A brief space-time paradox occurs, enabling Harry to Win, and the various murderers all turn out to be Good Guys. I think Harry's greatest accomplishment in this book is some more Quidditch.

In Book 4, Harry gets entered into a competition, which is rigged for him to Win. A variety of tests of magical knowledge. skill and bravery occur... and Harry's friends all end up supplying the actual knowledge and skills. Mad Eye Moody 'accidentally' tells Harry how to beat the Dragon, and tells Neville how to tell Harry how to beat the Merfolk, and rigs the maze so Harry gets there first. But no! It's a setup, and Harry's about to be killed by Lord Voldemort... except that their wands do something randomly stupid and completely unintroduced.

This activates the Harrywin. Argh.

In book 5, it happens a little differently. Harry is left to his own devices. The staff are unwilling or unable to help him, he doesn't 'find' any more magical Harrywins. No, Book 5 is all about Harry acting under his own power. He raises his own little Defense Against the Dark Arts Task Force, teaches them skill and bravery, helps them pass their exams, and ends up leading a team into extreme danger. This is Harry's book, these are his abilities and skills, without his tendency to randomly Win.

What happens? Sirius dies, and so would everyone else if Dumbledore didn't show up and start lighting up Death Eaters like fireworks. Way to go.

So... yeah. I've secretly thought, and especially with the movies, that Harry's world is much more detailed and interesting than he is. And that even though he's the main character in his stories, he's never the driving force. This is surely a conscious artistic decision, but every now and again, it leaves me a little cold. I love Hogwarts... but I feel like I don't much like Mr. Potter. I don't really empathize with him, I don't really imagine people gossiping constantly wherever he goes, and I'm a little annoyed at his Wins. My sister agrees with me.

And it's also just fun to say "Activate Harrywin!"

Pop Culture, 1/3

2005-08-01T18:17:36Z

Last weekend, my mom and sister came to Chicago, and we were looking for something fun to do that Dad wouldn't object to missing. We ended up seeing a new nature documentary, March of the Penguins. Excellent movie, with fascinating subjects, brilliant photography, many cute baby chicks... and a fairly high body count, simply because of the realities of life in the Antarctic. Watching a dropped egg split open and freeze just makes you go "Eeeugh."

The other weird moment of the movie was an elaborate sequence shortly after the penguins had paired off in the breeding grounds. In the narrator's words, Emperor Penguins are monogamous, sort of. They pick one partner each year, but they will stay with their mate, fighting the impossible odds to care for the egg and the resulting chick, when and if it comes. The movie showed the process of picking a mate, (Which involves several slap-fights among the girls, much to the amusement of the males), and a little bit of what happens afterwards.

There was an absolutely gorgeous sequence of the new couple getting to know each other; beaks were played gently across each other, as the couple gently cooed over a drippily romantic orchestral score. The camera zoomed in to see the lovers' eyes, and at the fine detail of the shimmering feathers around their necks. It was strange, but beautiful, and sensual... until you begin to realize that you're watching softcore penguin porn.

Those penguins were making out outrageously, as the camera was staring at the fine detail of their expressions and bodies... there's really no other word for it. And then, in the next shot, she's down on her belly, craning her neck to stare adoringly at her mate, and he's leaning down close to her...

And then he pinches a tiny beakful of his lover's neck.

It... was tasteful, very well filmed, and weirdly sexy, but still.

Penguin porn.

Ew.

Dude. Whoa.

2005-07-24T21:53:51Z

So, yesterday I was reading something on the Internet about Lucid Dreaming,

And last night I had one.

I started off just sitting on the front porch of a house, sitting in the grass under the blue, sunny sky. But when I looked up, something seemed a bit odd: I started seeing seams in the texture of the sky, if that makes any sense. I followed them along with my eyes, until I found the corner, a junction in the upper left of my vision, where three polygons met to form the top of a cube. The seams radiated out of that point, one straight downward to the horizon, and the other two went off in directions 3 and 6, just like on Mark Keistler's Draw Squad. It sort of hurt to look at: not like staring into the sun, but as if there was some sort of pressure on the front of my eyes.

"Hey," I thought, "I know what that feels like: I must have fallen asleep wearing my glasses; I'm probably lying on my pillow weirdly." That turned out to not be the explanation, but it was enough to prompt the next thought; "Hey, cool, I'm having a lucid dream!"

So, now that I was aware that I was in an environment powered only by my own mind, I set about making with the magic. If this was my dream, wanted to fly, darnit, and I wanted a kitten. Nothing especially happened, and I was left petting air and looking mighty foolish. I tried again, putting all of my mental effort into getting off of the ground, and I managed to turn off Gravity for a while.

This was bad. I lost contact with the ground, and floated, spinning helplessly for a while, with no concepts of up or down. The loose polygons that made up the ground, my house, the fence, and more distressingly, the sky, started to slip, sliding out of their place in the universe like... some sort of gigantic snow globe. It was... bad.

After I got everything put back together, it was pretty obvious that I couldn't just mess with the fabric of 'reality' that blatantly. Lucidity and Rationality only make sense in a mostly logical framework: In a system with some sort of rules and order. Especially on my first try, it was just too much to go and break all the rules in one go. After a little bit of thinking, I decided that rather than try and will things into existence, I'd pick a direction, start walking and eventually arrive at... where they already were. Dream Logic, but it was worth a shot.

So, I set off towards the low-polygon-count fence around my house, and decided that I was good at climbing things. This was a simple, useful trick, and I was able to pull it off easily without destroying the universe, fortunately. I just pressed up close to the wall, and wherever I needed to put my hands or feet, I 'found' a crack in the mortar, a small pipe, or any other insignificant handhold. It was fun. I hopped over the top of the fence, and found another wall to climb, so I just sort of threw myself at it for a while.

I ended up in a recursive loop, I think; entering the 'flow' state while dreaming is a weird experience. I lost all sense of time and space, and just kept making my way up a seemingly endless series of hurdles. Brick walls, chain link fences, concrete hill reinforcements, never looking upwards, never looking down, just pulling myself up under my own power.

Thankfully, my left eye started hurting again, and I looked up to see the corner of the sky. That obviously wrong reminder of my dream-state snapped me out of it, and I vaulted over the top of the last wall, into a smallish town.

The rest of the dream is a little bit indistinct. I wandered around the town, met some people and impressed them with my amazing climbing skills, and essentially left the fabric of reality alone. But I think I managed to pick up a few tricks for the next time it happens, if it does. It was a remarkably cool experience, all in all.

No flying though, and no kittens. Damnitall.

So... War of the Worlds is on...

2005-07-22T18:48:33Z

... and I have a dilemma.

His name is Tom.

I've heard some really good things about this movie, and if it weren't for one Mr. Cruise there'd be absolutely no question about going to see it. I love Science Fiction; whether it's hard or soft, epic or pulp, and even if the movie turns out to be crap there's always plenty to talk about afterwards. Mission to Mars was absolutely painful to watch, but it's always a fun exercise in Schadenfreud to tear it to pieces with my geekier friends.

And hey, it's Stephen Spielberg! He is one of my favorite directors of all time; I would easily sit for an hour and a half of a movie about a corner grocery store directed by that man. Extraterrestrials destroying the world and a handful of humans struggling to survive against impossible and alien force? I can only imagine how much fun he had putting this movie together, and how awesome the end result is.

And dude. I loves me my explosions.

So... it'd be a shoe-in, if it weren't for those pesky three words; "Starring Tom Cruise."

Tom's not an especially good actor, in my eyes. Cute, I'll give him that, but there's really no sense of *craft* to his work. At this point in his career, he's really just another one of those interchangeable Hollywood Superstars who are famous for being famous and rich for being rich. I've always found that distasteful, but it's the way the system works, and nothing to do with the movie individually. The standard response to cardboard-cutout actors in big-budget films is just to shrug and eat your popcorn.

The problem is Scientology. Tom's an active member of that illustrious 21st century Church of Lies and Extortion. Scientology fights the good fight against possession by millennia old alien ghosts, merrily engages in classical brainwashing techniques, diagnoses medical conditions with an ammeter and treats them with vitamins. Using the publicity and interviews about 'his' new movie, Tom's been doing his damndest to convince the public to abandon faith in all of modern physics, medicine, and psychiatrics, and throw their money and brains into the hands of these charlatans.

If I go and see this movie, my statistic adds up to the row of numbers that make people pay attention to this idiot. I validate his popularity, and indirectly justify his cult to the next innocent mind he reaches. And of course, part of my ticket price goes to buying the bastard's next yacht.

But that's juvenile, isn't it? Hollywood is a massive industry, touching millions of lives and billions of dollars; anything I do on the matter is just going to be spitting in the ocean. Tom, I'm sure, doesn't actually care if I have seen his movie or not... and he probably doesn't give a damn that I'm bothered enough to write a rambling essay on it, and calling him names.

But really, the more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I feel about criticizing someone's work based on their religion. In principal, his ideas are separate from who he is as a person and what he does as an artist, and I feel like I have to respect that. If I ever make it big as an actor or writer (Don't laugh so hard), I certainly wouldn't want people giving me crap about my plays just because I'm atheist. (Or agnostic, or psychotic Catholic, or whatever turn of events requires me to be successful in the hypothetical future.) Look at what they did to Kerry, after all.

It'd be wrong to make a decision about the merits of the movie based on one actor's wacky belief system; is it wrong to elect not to see it on the same grounds? If a man's opinions are really and identifiably wrong and harmful, is it wrong to call him on it? Is it fundamentally childish to say that you allow someone to believe whatever he wants, and then make a fuss when he tries to make converts? Is there a way to selectively endorse only a few of the creators of a team effort?

Shit. This was easier when it was Orson Scott Card and homophobia.

I have been playing too much Final Fantasy VI.

2005-07-19T14:58:37Z

On my phone at work is a large, tempting button labeled "XFER."

I press it when I'm stressed out at my co-workers... but it doesn't seem to work.

Maybe I should complain to Maintenance.

On the other hand, Bacchus was just a drunken pervert? Stupid Romans.

2005-07-05T23:36:33Z

Dionysius, according to the Greek/Indian tradition, and depending on who you believe, was the god of a damn lot of things. He had a minor cult that worshipped him in an immortality-aspect, and their myth of his birth was used to explain Man's dual nature as both divine and capable of evil. He was one of the four gods associated with Madness, and would blast the mind of any mortal who crossed him. As the god of the Theater, his followers created both Comedy and Tragedy. Y'know, in between the drunken orgies.

Yeah, and he was the god of wine.

What interests me most, though, is his how that relates to another of his aspects, as the god of masks and illusions, of adopted personas (Yeah, he did that, too). Dionysius was the god, and you'll have to be patient with me because the English Language hasn't made it into the postmodern era yet, of pretending to be someone else, especially when that persona is more like 'you' then the one you normally use.

And to me, that's what drinking is all about. It's not about the wine, the rum, the vodka, or whatnot, it's about the resulting mental state: letting go of inhibitions, and doing whatever you damn well please, confident in the fact that while you are 'not yourself,' your friends will all understand, and not ask too many questions if you deny all knowledge of the night's discussion in the morning. It's about spending just a few hours being the philosophy major/sex god/unapologetic nerd/furious bastard that is absolutely, completely, 100% different than the way you really are, honest.

Alcohol does actually alter your chemical mental state, and your behaviour. I've never drunk enough to blank out, and I've never drunk enough to completely lose control of my actions, and I never intend to for the foreseeable future. But when I do decide to drink, it is a conscious letting go of... a lot of things, and sometimes an embrace of parts of my personality that I'd really prefer not to think about. I'm not proud of it, but I know I'm not the only person that does it.

The fact of the matter is that it's so much easier to hear your friends say "OMG she's such a scary bitch when she's drunk," than it is to say the things on your mind and have everyone know it's your own opinion, rather than your good friend Jack's. (Film Noir joke.) It's so much easier to put on another mask, than it is to take off all of the ones underneath. I think the Greeks understood that. That topmost mask is Dionysius' gift to mankind.

... Of course, by the same logic, he's also the god of goths, Everquest attention whores, transvestites, and furries.

Fuckin' furries, maan.

Words and music by the Immortal Tom Lehrer

2005-06-29T17:31:03Z

Sharks gotta swim, and bats gotta fly,
I gotta love one woman till I die.
To Ed or Dick or Bob
She may be just a slob,
But to me, well,
She's my girl.

In winter the bedroom is one large ice cube,
And she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube.
Her hairs in the sink
Have driven me to drink,
But she's my girl, she's my girl, she's my girl,
And I love her.

The girl that I lament for,
The girl my money's spent for,
The girl my back is bent for,
The girl I owe the rent for,
The girl I gave up Lent for
Is the girl that heaven meant for me.

So though for breakfast she makes coffee that tastes like shampoo,
I come home for dinner and get peanut butter stew,
Or if I'm in luck,
It's broiled hockey puck,
But, oh well,

What the hell,

She's my girl,
And I love her.

(I don't know why I've been listening to this song so much lately... but I have. Blah.)

From an e-mail I sent, to a motherfucker.

2005-06-02T16:56:47Z

Mr. Randall Kremer, of the Smithsonian Public Affairs Department (Who can be reached at giving@si.edu)

No.

Since before I was old enough to remember, I've been fascinated with Museums, with Knowledge, and with Science. I was fortunate enough to live in Chicago, nestled between the Field Museum, the Shedd Aquarium, and the Museum of Science and Technology. These places shaped me. They made me who I am today, and infused my with my great sense of wonder at the marvels of the universe, and inspired my to try to direct my life towards furthering that knowledge, and maybe, just maybe, finding something to go in there someday.

No.

This summer, for the first time, I made it to Washington D.C., to see the Smithsonian itself. I was awestruck, once again; instantly reminded of my childhood among the collected discoveries. I lost myself in there, for fully 3 days of my week long vacation, learning about things far away and long lost, seeing fantastic discoveries, paying pilgrimage to the sample of Smithsonite behind glass, and standing by the Apollo capsule and staring in silent wonder. I owe you and those like you so much, and have nothing but respect for the Smithsonian and their devotion to the increase and diffusion of knowledge.

No.

In exchange for a donation of $16,000 from a group that dares to call itself the "Discovery Institute," the Smithsonian is airing a film on Intelligent Design.

No.

Intelligent Design is not a theory. It does not make predictions, it cannot be disproved by experiment. It is not science. It has no place in a museum.

Intelligent Design is a cancer, a philosophy dressed as science by politicians, to justify a worldview that keeps our society, *MY* society, caught under a million invisible thumbscrews. It is poison.

No. I will not allow it. I will not have you teaching lies to innocents. I will not be satisfied with you hiding behind your wonderful legalistic disclaimers. I will not allow real discoveries, real wonder, cheapened by being displayed alongside this filth!

I am literally unable to write anymore. My hands are shaking. James Randi and his Educational Foundation have offered you $20,000 in exchange for not showing this film. If your organization is who I once believed you were, you will take his offer. I hope to remain,

Yours,

Aye, There's The Rub.

2005-05-08T13:05:52Z

Lately I've been having these really, really bizarre dreams.

One night I was visited by an avatar of Athena, goddess of war and wisdom, carved of ebony and inlaid with gold filigree. It's little known, but Athena apparently has a really high nasal, whiny voice that is just plain painful to listen too. She didn't want anything specific from me, I think, but the goddess just wouldn't stop nagging. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I stopped listening a little while into it, which was probably a mistake.

Another night, I dreamed of Quentin Tarantino's next film. Sam Jackson (Sam's the man), two gruff looking white guys, and a duffel bag filled with a million dollars are trapped on a boat, after having escaped from prison together. They're stranded, slowly drifting down the Mississippi, swapping stories about pop culture, their lives, and nothing in particular, as they are casually pursued by the world's largest alligator.

Then there's my recurring dream, holding hands with my special yet indistinct someone, as we ride a train, heading towards the last few stops. The dream varies a little; sometime's it's more affectionate than hand holding, but it's never the same girl twice. Freud would have a field day with that one.

Still doesn't top the time I was visited by the Space Bunnies, though. Just so you can't say I didn't warn you: Our childish belief in an absolute time frame is what's preventing humans as individuals and Humanity as a species from achieving Enlightenment. I have it on the highest authority, too.

This is why the best philosophers were German.

2005-02-04T05:37:53Z

Every now and again, I stumble upon an idea which the English language just has no words for. For starters, we need an 'active negative.' There's a subtle, but very real difference between, say "I do not want to ride the train," and "I want to not ride the train." There are better uses of this hypothetical word, but right now, they escape me. Regardless.

Here's another thing that doesn't have a word, which is really irritating, because I grow more and more convinced that it is a basic human urge. Consider the 'Selfish Gene' theory, in which everything that lives secretly wants the future to look more or less like itself. So you have kids, either a lot of them, or you take good care of them, and in extreme cases do things like look after your grandchildren or nephews and nieces, or go out and smash the other tribe's face. Food, Sex and War.

However, these days, who you are is a heck of a lot more than what your genes are. We learn, and that sort of defines who we are. So, if you're going to be immortal and pass on your identity, you need to do that; I think this is at least part of why we put grandchildren on our laps and tell them stories of the 'old days,' teach classes, show magic tricks to babies, and smile when someone asks in awe, "How did you do that?"

That urge is probably the same reason why people publish, write on bathroom walls, stand around waving protest signs, put anything on the Internet, sound our barbaric yawps over the roofs of the world. Sometimes you just have a thought, an opinion, and want to wave it around. There's really not a word for it, but it's why I have a livejournal now.

It's a bit nasty, if you think about it being two degrees from sex.