Archive for December, 2009

The Never Ending Battle (Part Eighteen)

He paused, thinking.  ”If birth was possible, and I don’t really see how that would be possible, there is the issue of how the procedure might have affected the child’s development.  There are some serious possibilities of cellular …”  He paused again, engrossed in an aspect that hadn’t been considered.  Finally, he sighed and said, “On the whole, as a physician, I’d seriously recommend against trying for a child after the procedure.”

“I understand,” she replied, gathering up her coat and purse.  She apologized and left.  After a beat, one of the enlisted women followed her out the door.

We were down to seven possible applicants without a single test being performed.

“Actually, I wouldn’t want to get too graphic,” Daniel continued, with a somewhat perplexed and rather alarmed look on his face, “but I’d also recommend against any sexual activity whatsoever after undergoing the procedure.”

“What?!?”  I’m not sure who was louder, Chuck or I, but I noticed that we both drowned out Wanda.

Daniel shrugged and reminded us of the entire “Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex” line of reasoning, pointing out that it also worked as “Woman of Steel, Man of Kleenex.”

“After all, both genders are subject to involuntary muscular contractions during orgasm.  Frankly, I’m not sure if the traditional viewpoint of the super powered man gutting his sexual partner with a involuntary thrust is any more horrible than the possibility of the super powered woman de-manning her partner with a particularly hard vaginal squeeze or snapping him in half with a thigh contraction.”  I looked at Wanda then quickly looked away.  That much anger is hard to face.

“Holy Crap!  Doc, you never mentioned anything about this!”  Chuck blurted out.

“Trust me, Chuck,” I replied, disgusted, “it never occurred to me or else I would have.”  Daniel and Wanda were already leaving, but I knew I’d be hearing from them soon.  “Well, there’s another check mark in the ‘Why I don’t want to be augmented’ column, ladies.  No children and possibly no sex … well, none with any partner, at any rate.  To the good side, however, you’ll be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, bend steel …”

“No they won’t,” Chuck interrupted, distracted.  I asked him what he meant and he blinked.  “Oh … sorry.  I mean they won’t be able to leap tall buildings with a single bound.”  He looked around and saw nothing but puzzled faces.  “Cratos tried,” he amplified.

I finally asked him what he was talking about and the entire story came out, one that I hadn’t heard before.  Apparently, early on, Cratos had found himself standing on a sidewalk in New York after a group mission.  He admitted later that the classic television phrase “leap tall buildings with a single bound” came to him as he stood there, gazing at the skyscraper in front of him.  The urge was too great and he tried to leap the building.

“Anyway, he only cleared around two stories, smacked against the side of the thing, just missing a window and scaring the crap out of the lady inside, and fell back onto the sidewalk.  We can fly, but that isn’t leaping.”  We were all laughing too hard to care by that point.  “You shoulda seen his face as he tried to explain it to us.”

“Okay,” I continued, once the laughter had died down, “leaping tall buildings is out, but you all get the basic gist.  The only other bad aspect of being augmented is that you can’t tell anyone.  Not your family, not your partner, not your best friend or priest; nobody.  I believe this was explained to you when you were originally approached about being a candidate?”  A chorus of agreement answered me.  “So I can safely assume that nobody here mentioned even being considered for the program, as per their instructions?”  Another round of muttered agreements.

I pulled a piece of paper out of my suit pocket and check it.  “Pardon me if this is one of the ladies who have already left, but is there a Patricia Van Allen in the room?”  A muttered curse identified her among the civilians.  As one, the military women turned a scornful look at her.  “Your little sister has already blogged about your ‘maybe becoming a superhero,’ so I gather it’s safe to assume that you mentioned something to your family?”

After Ms. Van Allen had left, I asked again if anyone had informed anyone – boss, co-worker, commanding officer, taxi driver – anyone about becoming a candidate for the procedure.  I waited a few seconds and added, “Please believe me that our background investigation will reveal it if you have, no matter how well they might keep the secret, which will lead to your immediately dismissal when discovered.  Anyone?”  I gave it another couple of beats and then congratulated them for becoming official candidates and opened the floor for questions.

Predictably, most of the questions were aimed at Chuck, who was more than pleased with the attention, if slightly befuddled at trying to explain what being enhanced felt like … especially what it was like to fly or how it was done.  Once five minutes had gone by without anyone addressing any further questions to me, I formally excused myself, introduced the technician who’d guide them through the first round of tests when they were ready to begin, and took my leave.

I now had to repeat this performance with a room full of paraplegics at a different building, halfway across the city.  I recorded messages for both Daniel and Wanda to meet me that night so we could discuss the entire sex thing and walked outside to the waiting car.

Y’know, when I decided it was time to take humanity to the next evolutionary step, among all the various pitfalls and dangers I foresaw, and planned for, becoming a monk wasn’t one of them.  On the cosmic scales of things, I’m not really sure “father to the next generation of humanity” balances out “never getting laid again.”

Is that selfish?

The Never Ending Battle (Part Seventeen)

But all that was in the future.  I walked out of the meeting, the Force still tossing ideas around with Johnny, because I had two other meetings that day.  The first was being held on the first floor (our public floor), where ten young women were waiting in our conference room.

“Good morning, Ladies,” I called out when I walked in, smiling.  Everyone turned to look at me when I did so; five deadly earnest faces and five with professional smiles; half from the military and half from NASA (I’ll leave it to you to figure out which was which).  ”I suppose I don’t need to tell anyone why I’ve asked you here today?”

I walked to the front of the hall and waited.  One of the military women stood and said, “Lieutenant Janice Reynolds, Doctor Socks.  I don’t know about our civilian counterparts, but we were informed that you were in need of some new team members for the Force.”

“Exactly,” I confirmed.  ”Before we start, I just want to make sure … did everyone sign the non-disclosure forms and agree that this meeting is in strictest confidence?”  Daniel, sitting in the back, waved a sheath of papers.  ”Ah, good; so it’s safe to explain exactly what the situation is, then.”

I informed them that we needed a replacement for Bia and three new members, to even out the Force to an even – and gender balanced – eight members.  The replacement for Bia would have to carry on as if she was the original Bia, so that individual would, in part, be chosen due to her physical likeness, but the other three candidates would be chosen solely due to being medically and psychologically perfect for the job.  We already knew that everyone in the room was, as far as their medical records indicated, a good candidate for the procedures, but now we would test to fine tune that.

One of the civilians raised her hand and asked what had happened to Bia?

I paused for a moment and made eye contact with both Daniel and Wanda, then shrugged.  ”I have a really nice cover story about how she was injured and so forth, but the truth is that she decided that her personal agenda was more important than her oaths, so I terminated her powers and fired her.  If any of you have any problem with that or with the hard truth that anyone approved for the process will never be permitted to use their powers in any way not approved by this agency, which is to say by me, then the door’s back there.”

An enlisted woman stood and asked, “Will we still be members of the armed forces, or will we be discharged to become members of the Force?”

I explained that any and all government contracts would be terminated if they were accepted into the Force; military personnel would either be discharged or retired, depending on time in and/or rank, and civilians would be outright released or retired, depending on their agencies rules.  One of the officers stood, gathered her things, and walked out of the room without a word.  A couple of applicants watched her with expressions that openly stated they were half tempted to do the same.

I fished out my com unit and asked Chuck to join us when he had a chance.  Another hand went up from the civilian side of the room.

“After we become … what is the correct term, doctor?”

I frowned and asked, “For what?  For the procedure?”

“No; for what we’ll be after the procedure.  What is the agency approved way to refer to the status of Force members?”

“I’d say it was ’stupid,’ generally,” Chuck replied, walking into the room.  ”Or is it ‘bloody morons,’ doc?”

I laughed and explained that we really didn’t have a specific expression or word.  Some of the technicians used “meta’ and others preferred ‘augmented,’ but many simply said ’super heroes.’  Chuck pointed out that many of the techs were comic book fans, which might explain a great deal.

I laughed again, agreeing, and introduced Chuck to the room.  ”Ladies, this insolent young man is Chuck Nabori, Artist.” I added, grinning at Chuck.  ”I asked him to sit in and answer any of the more difficult questions you might have.”

One of the military asked if Chuck was a technician.  ”Actually, no; Chuck is Uniman.”  Chuck, obligingly, floated into the air a couple of feet before sitting down.  ”In that Chuck doesn’t have any family or friends that can be threatened to use against him, he’s decided to unmask publicly.  Consider this an advance showing.  I thought you might have some questions about what it’s like to go through the procedure or be a member of the Force.”

The woman who wanted to know what we called the members raised her voice slightly to be heard over the murmur of the others.  ”My question was really of a more medical nature, doctor.  I wanted to know if we’d still be able to have children after we became ’super heroes.’ ”

I blinked and admitted that I didn’t really know.  I asked Daniel if he had a professional opinion and took the moment to introduce him to the applicants.

He stood and, shrugging, admitted that the matter had never come up.  ”Off the top of my head … if Bia was a good example, the process doesn’t alter the body chemistry enough to halt ovulation, so eggs are produced as normal.  However, the invulnerability of the individual might either make it impossible for sperm to fertilize the eggs or, if a zygote is possible and normal development follow, might make it impossible for the child to escape the mother at term.  A cesarean section would, certainly, be impossible.”

He paused, thinking.  ”If birth was possible, and I don’t really see how that could be, then there is the issue of how the procedure might have affected the child’s development.  There are some serious possibilities of cellular …”  He paused again, engrossed in an aspect that hadn’t been considered.  Finally, he sighed and said, “On the whole, as a physician, I’d seriously recommend against trying for a child after the procedure.”

“I understand,” she replied, gathering up her coat and purse.  She apologized and left.  After a beat, one of the enlisted women followed her out the door.

We were down to seven possible applicants without a single test being performed.

The Never Ending Battle (Part Sixteen)

“Because I can’t create art from behind a mask.  I’ve been trying, just to see what would happen, and what comes out is not art.  It’s … I dunno … it’s the difference between a photograph and a painting of the same item.  Both can be art, but photographs are more along the lines of records, while paintings are closer to art.  As Uniman, I can tell people what it’s like, but as Chuck Nabori, I can make them feel what it’s like.”  He paused and looked me in the eyes.  ”Does that make sense to you?”

I smiled and admitted that it really didn’t, but added that it really didn’t have to, in all honesty.  “It only has to make sense to you, Chuck.  All I ask is that you don’t harm your teammates or this agency, that’s all.  So, seriously, do you have any plans on how you’re going to do it?”

We talked about it at length, only pausing when my secretary walked in with my com unit.  I introduced her to Chuck, adding, “You’ve actually met already, though, Helen … Chuck is Uniman.”

Her reaction was astonishing.  She was shaking his hand while I introduced them and, at my announcement, jerked her hand back like it had been burnt, gasping.  She looked from me to Chuck and, when he laughingly confirmed what I’d said, stared at his chin as if trying to place that one area of his face.

Chuck obligingly made a makeshift mask of his hands and covered the rest of his face.  Helen’s gasp of recognition made us all laugh, starting with Chuck and ending when Helen, no doubt realizing the silliness of her response, joined in.  I told Helen that Chuck was going public and she immediately asked if he’d told his wife and parents yet.

Chuck, still smiling, explained that he was unmarried and had been raised in an orphanage.  Helen, true to her nature, was more concerned over his emotional pain than the mere fact that he was a meta going public and invited him to attend her church next Sunday, promising to find him a nice girl to meet.

After she’d left, Chuck, still amused, said, “Perhaps that’s how I should do it, huh?  One person at a time until everyone knows.”

I pointed out that the world wasn’t made up of Helens, more the pity, and that the next person he confided in might run screaming into the night.  Chuck glanced at the window and noted he’d better wait a couple of hours before starting, or else they’d have to stand around waiting for sunset to run off.  He glanced at the window again and, with a massive jerk, I found myself standing on the sidewalk.

Along with a couple of dozen other employees, more and more popping into sight each second.  Then we were all treated to the sight of Cratos and Chuck plastered to the underside of a DC-10, forcing it upward enough that it missed the building by feet.  They were joined by Zoran and Buzz, the later only wearing his mask … literally.  (Brad later told me that he’d been showering when the alarm went off, which explained the super-powered mooning that Washington received.)

Between the four of them, they easily forced the plane down at Andrews Air Force Base a few minutes later.  The plane was empty except for the pilot, who claimed he was on a mission from God to stop the Antichrist.  Buzz, who flew him into custody, asked him why he thought any of them were the Antichrist.

Apparently, I’m suppose to be the Antichrist.

Hi.  How ya doing?

In the Bible, the end of days is earmarked by the rising of a charismatic leader who surrounds himself with underlings so powerful that they’re believed to be angels. Looked at from one viewpoint, it’s rather flattering.  I’ve been called a lot of things, but “charismatic” hasn’t, to the best of my knowledge, been one of them.  When Buzz recounted this to us at the next day’s meeting, it was a bit of a toss up who among the Force was more embarrassed at being mistaken for angels.

Johnny, who was sitting in (necessitating masks be worn … except, of course, for Chuck), laughed at their discomfort and, pulling out his laptop, asked the room at large if any of us had been on the web lately?  He pulled up website after website dedicated to new religions based on either all of the Force, a specific member of the Force, or – I’m sorry to say – based on my ability to create the Force.  He told us that, at last official count, there were over ten thousand different sites dedicated to either new religions, fan clubs, or hate groups, all based on the Force.

“Hate groups?” Cratos echoed, disbelievingly.

“What?  ‘Everybody loves me, baby; what’s the matter with you?’ ” Johnny replied in a sing-song chant.  “You guys are the new Boston Celtics … either they love ya or they hate ya; nothing in-between.  There are people around the world that are looking to you to save humanity, while others are just as sure that you’re here to destroy us.”

“How about you?”  Chuck asked.

“Who?  Me?  Hey, I work for you guys and know better.  You’re just a couple of guys who Doc Socks, here, made into comic book heroes; no better and no worse than the rest of us,” he replied, grinning.  “But then my people had good lessons about worshiping false idols before the rest of you, so we’re a little harder to fool.”

Bob cleared his throat and announced that there was no other choice, that they had to make a public announcement and make people understand that they weren’t angles, demons, or anything supernatural.  I agreed that it would be a good idea, in theory, but doubted there was any way to do so without possibly giving away their identities.  (None of the Force had given any interviews for that reason; no matter how well made, no mask would hide their identity from loved ones or even those who’d known them well at college.)

Johnny said he wasn’t sure about that and suggested an interview with the Force, one where Chuck could publicly unmask, where their masked faces were digitally blurred and their voices altered.  Everyone was all for it, but I pointed out that the original tapes would still have their faces and voices.  Johnny countered that we could do the technical work ourselves – “After all, how hard is it to run a camera or microphone, right?” – and thereby protect the tape, even destroy it the instant the doctored version was done.

Zoran pointed out that if we blurred the faces, then those who already distrusted them because of the masks would get even more paranoid.  Chuck added that he’d already heard about people who claimed to be various members of the Force, and others who’d been identified – incorrectly, of course – as members, a few of which had been attacked afterward.

I pointed out that our agency publicly disavowed anyone who either claimed to be a member or was outed as a member by anyone else.  As a matter of fact, Chuck’s public unmasking would prove what our agency had always stated, that when one of the Force was ready to go public, we’d be the ones to announce it.  Buzz said I was missing the point, that people had been injured due to idiots thinking they were members … so what would happen once they were on television?

I don’t know who thought of it, but somebody mentioned seeing old video records where people were interviewed in silhouette, with their faces completely in darkness.  If the interviewer sat in the light and the Force sat in silhouette, then nothing could be given away.  They all already altered their voices whenever on missions (via an electronic device in their masks), so everything was covered.  The original tape wouldn’t help anyone, since there would be nothing on it that could be used.

We all agreed that Zoran had a point, however.  There was a healthy part of society that distrusted and disliked anything or anyone that didn’t fit into their narrow understandings and nothing we did, short of saving each and everyone of them personally, was going to change their minds.  We had to aim at the people who were open to change, open to new concepts and idea; we had to hope that, by showing the Force to be fairly normal people, we could reach those individuals who could be swayed.

Of course, we all know now that the interview worked beyond our wildest imaginings.  Seeing the four of them sitting with an interviewer, just telling silly stories and laughing, constantly interrupting each other to point out something or the other that was embarrassing, talking about how helping people and the way everyone reacted to their showing up to – ta-da! – save the day, and overall acting like the college kids they were deep down … well, the ratings went through the roof and the Force somehow became less of a scary thing and more of a sort of new celebrity class.  The vast majority of humanity tucked the Force neatly into an available pigeon hole in their minds and that was that.

But all that was in the future.  I walked out of the meeting, the Force still tossing ideas around with Johnny, because I had two other meetings that day.  The first was being held on the first floor (our public floor), where ten young women were waiting in our conference room.

Black cat and white snow

It snowed again, icing the porch and turning the outside into a Normal Rockwell painting.

Tiger, our little tom, has decided that he’s a basement cat, as per the requirements set forth in icanhascheezburger.com.  He’s decided that lurking in the basement, glowing eyes beaming up the stairway on a moment’s notice, is what he wants to do … that is, if he cannot be the yard cat he once was.

Y’see, he remembers the farm and the delight of laying on on a roof and watching the birds swoop, the frantic scattering of little furry things trying to escape, and the warm delight of their blood coating his mouth.  Now he has window to watch the bird from, the frantic scattering of little foam balls across hardwood floors, and the so-so pleasure of an occasional can of gooshy food.

It’s a bit of a come down, in all honesty.

Which is why he lurks near doors during those times that Dian and I come and go, and – occasionally – springs outside the instant he can.  The problem is the weather.  He’s a southern cat in a northwestern winter and he hasn’t quite figured it out, yet.  He’s experienced cold, but the gentle cold of the south, not the below freezing cold of the northwest.  (One of the reasons he opted for the basement cat position is that the finished basement rooms are around six degrees warmer than those upstairs.)  And snow …

He’s already slid into one snow bank and, on the whole, decided that it wasn’t fun.  That was back when a couple of feet dropped on us, early in the season.  It’s all since melted away, to be replaced by lighter dustings and the occasional heavy clump, which melt away in turn (it’s been a rather gentle winter, according to our neighbors) and is later replaced.

So Tiger sits in his window and watches the snow dance in whirls as the wind whips it across the lawns and streets, then sees it all disappear when the temperature rises above freezing.  Slowly but surely, the lesson he learned when he slid across the porch and into that snow bank has become the distant past and he’s, once again, making the occasional dash out the door to savor the heady delights of nature.

Right … so we bushwhacked him today!  The porch was a solid sheet of ice and the snow had piled up nicely all around the perimeter; time to reinforce the lesson!  He was sitting in the window when I came back from classes, only to disappear from sight when he recognized me getting out of the truck.  I knew he was somewhere around the door, crouched down like Hobbs awaiting Calvin, except he wasn’t going to leap on me, he was going to make a break for it.

So I waited, rattling the keys and taking my time unlocking the door, then pushed it open with my free hand and stepped back.

Sure enough, out came a small black blur, legs pumping for all they were worth.  Shooting past me like a special effect and hitting the ice on the porch like a slapstick comedy.  He immediately realized his mistake and turned, trying to get traction to run back inside, so he spent the final foot or two of his short journey into the frozen wastelands sliding backwards, yowling and helplessly running without effect like a cartoon cat.

Off the porch and into the snow … only to bound up from the snow bank and leap two feet out further into the yard.  Then he got his bearings and headed back, bouncing through the deep snow until he reached the porch and then frantically running in all directions, trying for traction, until he manged to snag the carpet inside the front door and – zip! – disappear into the basement.

Where he now lies on his sheep skin that we got him to stay warm.  I imagine that there’ll be several more attempts to ice skate across the porch before he understands winter and I’m hoping to get at least one of them on video before the winter is over.

At the breaking point!

It’s the Monday after Christmas and Dian is still under the weather, feeling bad enough to call in sick for the day, so I headed out around noon to do some grocery shopping.

Okay, before I go any further on this, let me admit that this is yet another in a series of rants regarding cell phones and the assholes who use them.  Feel free to pass on this if I’m beginning to bang on a bit on the subject, maybe check out the next installment of “the endless story that has no point,” instead.

Anyway, I drive to the market and it’s like every driver I end up behind, every car that’s being driving like by remote control, is talking on a friggin’ cell phone.  The one sitting at the green light that I have to honk at to get moving is chatting away.  The one who’s sitting in the middle of a totally empty street, not moving but signaling for a left, is engrossed in her conversation.  The one who’s parked in the middle of the parking lot, blocking everyone else and not either pulling into one of the several open parking slots or driving away … yeah, he’s laughing and having a jolly chin-wag with somebody.

I manage to get into the store without accident or incident, grab a cart, and start shopping … but I have to keep changing direction because of aisles blocked by somebody standing there talking on a God Damned Cell Phone!  I keep my cool and simply turn around, go somewhere else.

I’ve been shopping for around a half hour (for items that I should have been able to simply walk in and buy, but for all the human chatting bits of cholesterol in the arteries of the damn store), when I end up in a aisle behind yet another person lost in her “private” conversation.  ”Really?  What did he say then?  Really?!  What did you say then?  Really?  What did he say then?!?”  I roll my eyes and try to turn around, but there are three more shoppers behind me, all of us slowly advancing down the aisle behind this woman.  ”And then what did you say?!?  Really!”  She’ doing what all of them do; push the cart one handed while holding her cell phone to her ear, weaving and occasionally gently bumping into displays, moving at about one step every minute.  ”My God!  Well, what did you say to him!?  Really!”

There is a line of shoppers behind her like the train of a comet, I am trapped behind the meaningless conversation from hell, and I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!

“What did he say to you, then?”

“HEY LADY!”  She turned around at my shout, shocked.  ”PLEASE TELL ME HE SAID, ‘HANG UP YOUR FUCKING PHONE AND START SHOPPING, YOU SELF CENTERED BITCH!‘”

She fled from her half full cart, running from the people applauding my outburst, so I moved it to the side and we got on with our lives … or tried to, because I hadn’t gone twenty feet before she returned with the manager, crying and loudly complaining about my “assault” on her.  I started to explain to the manager that she’d been holding up an enter row of shopper, not paying the least bit of attention to anything but her precious conversation, when a sweet old lady who’d been behind me by a couple of shoppers interrupted with:

“Assault?!  Silly bitch is lucky I left my damn gun in the car, or she would have really been assaulted!  Sit there on the fucking phone like some daft teenage twat from the fifties and keep me from shopping … damn it, I’m old!  I don’t have much time left and this asshole bitch was wasting it!!”

Everyone within earshot was basically doing the same thing; standing there with our jaws limp and staring at the sweet old foulmouthed lady.  Then somebody laughed and somebody else yelled out, “Atta girl,” and the lady with the phone runs off again, crying, and the manager heaves a massive sigh and starts to try and calm the little old lady down.

And I grab what I needed and head for the checkout.

On the way home, I stopped to get a soda for Dian and myself.  Of course, the lady in the SUV in front of me in the drive-through is on her cell phone, but she’s taking orders to pass on to the clown and otherwise driving well, so I just sigh and wait my turn.  I get the sodas and pull up behind the lady in the SUV, who’s not on her phone, but who is signaling for a left and waiting for a break in traffic.  The lights at both ends of the block are green, so it’ll be a while.

I hit my own turn signal for right and settle in for a wait, glancing around … then glancing again.  Then staring, my left foot compulsively pumping the air.

The fast food place I was using is one of those where there is a drive-through and around two dozen places to park and order.  The people who pull into the park and order slots have to merge with the drive-through traffic to get back on the road.  The intersection between the two traffic flows, for lack of a better description, was marked with a “Yield” sign and, currently, had a woman in a red pick-up.

Who was happily and animatedly chatting on her cell phone, and not stopping.  She was moving slowly, around five miles an hour or a little less, but she was definitely moving right at the middle of my pick-up!

“Brakes.”  I muttered, to myself, my leg involuntarily pumping.  ”Brakes.  Brakes!”  I finally laid my big right hand on my car horn and screamed, ‘BRAKES!!”

When I hit my horn, both her hands flew into the air, the cell phone bounced off of her back window, and then she slammed on her brakes.  I sighed, turned off my engine, and got out of my truck.  I walked around to the passenger side, where the corner of her bumper was indenting the door panel by about an inch.  I glanced up at her and walked to her door.  She turned wild eyes on me, panting, and I said, “Did your phone break?”

“What?!”

“It cracked your rear window when it hit,” I pointed behind her.  She glanced in the rear view, then twisted in the seat to closely inspect the damage.  ”So I thought it might have gotten broken or something.”

She looked back at me and, still shaking and wild-eyed, denied having been on the cell phone.  I pointed at it where it sat on the passenger side of the bench seat, still connected to whomever she’d been speaking to.  She snatched the phone up and snapped it closed.

“Okay, here’s the deal:  Put your truck in reverse and back up.  Right this instant, your truck is about an inch into the side of mine, so I can’t go anywhere until you do.  Since I don’t want to deal with the police or insurance, and because my poor old truck is covered with various dents anyway, I’m just going to drive away from here.  Okay?”

She stammered out an agreement.  ”Fine, so back up and I’ll leave.”  She started to start her truck back up and I snapped, “Put it in reverse, first!”  She froze.  I explained that if she hit the gas with it still in gear, then we’d end up having to deal with the police and insurance, so – please? – put it in reverse, or at least neutral, before turning on the engine, huh?

She shifted and I smiled.  ”Thank you very much.  Now, if you’ll move back a few feet, I’ll leave.”

I turned back to my truck and was looking the other way when she apparently slammed on the gas and, with a brief squeal of tires, shot backwards about ten feet and slammed into the car behind her.  I stopped, winced, and then heaved a sigh, but resolutely kept walking.

I got in and started the engine … then noticed that the lady in the black SUV was still sitting in-front of me.  The street was completely empty, but she wasn’t moving.  I looked carefully in her side mirror … ah, yes.  Of course.

I got back out of my truck and walked up to her door, tapped on the window - interrupting her conversation with somebody unofficial about the accident, from the sound of it – and asked if she’d mind hanging up and driving so I could leave?

She hufted a bit, but left by the time I’d walked back to my car.  A couple of employees were standing outside, chatting about the accident.  Seems it wasn’t the first time she’d hit somebody and she might have already had her license pulled.  I got it into gear and, the street still clear, drove home.

God gave me a small break on the way and kept all the cell phone abusers out of my path.

I swear the little old potty mouth was right.  We have raised ourselves a entire sub-civilization of people who really belong in an old Gidget movie.  Men and women more wedded to their cell phones than a stereotypical 1950’s teenage girl; people who carry on as if the rest of the world totally disappears whenever the damn thing is in use and, for reasons I have yet to understand, seem to feel that doing so is some sort of Constitutional right!  Selfish, self centered, jerks who seem to believe that they’re right to talk on the phone supersedes everyone else’s right to shop, enjoy a quiet meal in a good restaurant, read in a library, watch a movie they paid twelve bucks to see, or drive in relative safety.

Mark me now and remember I said this:  The cell phone, and the attitudes that it inspires in even the most civil of people, is the thin edge of he wedge in the downfall of humanity.  First came the people who wore their transistor radios, boom boxes, tape players, CD players, and MP3 players everywhere they went, oblivious to the world and humanity around them.  Now we have children of all ages constantly connected to each other, either with cell phones pressed tightly to ear or with Blackberry device flashing like a Borg creation on the side of their head, immersed in conversations, totally lost to everything else they should be paying attention to.

What’s next?  People watching television on eyeglass lenses while they move through the world?  People constantly hooked into the web, broadcasting everything they see, hear, say, or do at all times and only paying attention to those who comment in reply?  Are we really that fucking far from a voluntary version of the damn Matrix, one where we gladly pay the price to be wired up into purely virtual lives, constantly in touch with everyone else?

Is the hive mind really that preposterous an idea?  In an age of “me, me, me,” we are rapidly heading to the totally and absolute loss of individual identity in favor of group existences.

Look … I’m ranting about this on a blog, for fuck sake!  Screaming into the void that is modern electronic existence my outrage on the trappings of modern electronic existence.  In my own way, I’m as bad as those self centered idiots with crap stuck in their ears so they can chat at a moments notice.  If I was really dedicated to the philosophical point of view I profess, I’d be out on the street, telling people face to face about how this crap is going to destroy us.

Can you hear me now?

Good.

Anyone ever hear of this?

I was writing an interview with one of my metas for The Never Ending Battle,” when I had him admit that, due to the process that made him super, he no longer could get drunk.  That the process had changed his body chemistry enough that booze no longer affected him.

A few lines later, he complained that he missed watching football on the weekends with a bag of chips and a six pack … and that, in that it didn’t even get him slightly buzzed anymore, that beer was more or less pointless.  One of his teammates agreed, pointing out that he used to love vodka, telling people how much he enjoyed the taste, but – now that it didn’t get him intoxicated – he discovered that he’d been bullshiting them and that vodka didn’t really taste all that great.

I mentioned this to Dian and she asked if people even made non-alcoholic booze.  I checked the web and, while I was able to find several non-alcoholic beers, I didn’t find a single non-alcoholic vodka, scotch, whiskey, or rum.

Does anyone know if anybody ever tried to market such?  I mean, I suspect that chemists could, if asked, duplicate the taste with little difficulty, but would non-alcoholic scotch even sell?  I don’t see why and I used to drink like a fish.

The Never Ending Battle (Part Fifteen)

It was a crappy little lab, mostly full of cages, and my desk was always covered in papers and ratshit.  The only thing in the entire office that wasn’t geared to the experiment was the sign, a needlepoint sampler that read, “Nobody every asks the eggs if they like the idea of omelets.”

I reminded him that I was still cooking and, until the omelet was done, I had to do my best to keep the chickens from figuring it out.

He just shook his head with a sigh and left, stopping at the door to warn me to stay in bed for the next couple of hours, at least, and that I’d have to pretend to be sore for a couple of weeks.  I leaned back and, finding the remote, turned on the television that was suspended from the ceiling.  I watched a couple of reruns and then the news came on.  The lead story was my attempted assassination following my first public interview since the agency opened.  The film from the security cameras was grainy, but they’d added a sound track of sorts and I could hear the crack of the pistol as I was shot, followed by muted screams.

They repeated the assault in slow motion and I watched my performance with a critical eye.  A tad over the top, actually, but I’d never actually seen anybody shot, so I only had movies to base my performance.  Still … the clip repeated again even slower as the announcer reminded the viewers that there had been no actual injury involved … still, it wasn’t all that implausible a performance.

Then they aired the interview.  They’d edited out the beginning byplay between Walter and myself, keeping the rest more or less intact and in order.  Following the interview, the station manager gave a brief editorial regarding my plan to help the handicapped, which supported the concept, but slightly vilified me for not somehow doing more.  He didn’t bother with any constructive suggestions as to what could be done, but strongly implied that I could – if I wished – change the face of modern medicine and perform miracles with little effort.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and, on a whim, turned the channel to see what  Mathew Peck had to say about the interview.  He sat in front of a video backdrop of Nazis marching through flames … actually, I realized, he always had a video backdrop of Nazis marching through flames playing behind him, no matter what the subject matter.  (It lent an rather eerie air of surrealism to his Christmas broadcasts, especially when he insisted on reciting The Christmas tory, something he did every year, generally sandwiched in between rants against using any greeting but “Merry Christ Mass” during the holidays.  Apparently, saying anything else, such as a simple “hello,” was a direct philosophical attack on Christians all over the world.)

However, his traditional flaming Nazis somehow fit his rambling and illogical rant regarding his brave and public rejection of any offer to be a participant in any unchristian-like and undemocratic experiment of mine.  He urged all decent Christian Americans, in or out of wheelchair, to follow his lead and remember that only God had the right to heal the lame.

I snapped the television off with a snort and laid back.  After a few minutes, I used the phone on the side table to call my secretary.  First assuring her that I was fine, just bruised and sore, I asked her to locate my com unit and ferry it up to my room.  While I was explaining where it might be, the door opened and Chuck walked in.  He was out of uniform and looked upset, so I got off the phone and asked him to have a seat.

After a little small talk, he got to the point.  ”Does the loss of Barbara and these attempts on your life change anything about my coming out?”

I assured him that it was still entirely his affair and that nothing which had occurred since my decision had changed that in any way.  He nodded, distracted, so I asked how he intended to handle his unmasking?  A press conference, perhaps?  Or did he simply intend to no longer wear his mask and let the press do the donkey work?

He looked at me and shrugged.  ”Actually, I sorta assumed that you’d handle all that, that you’d have a plan of some sort for this all worked out already.  I mean, you’ve anticipated everything that’s happened so far …”  He let the sentence trail off, watching my face carefully.

I kept my face placid and emotionless as possible at this little bombshell while I considered the implications.  Finally, I raised my eyebrows and grinned.  ”Actually, my paranoid Machiavellian machinations only extend as far as the experiment, in all honesty.  I have nothing prepared for any truly human emotional decisions, such as your desire to barefacedly bask in the glory of humanity.”

Chuck barked an abrupt laugh and asked if that how it stuck me?  I waggled a hand and reminded him that, aside from pointing out his lack of connections that would be endangered by his actions, he’d never explained exactly why he’d wanted to unmask.

He leaned back and studied the ceiling for a little while.  Without looking down, he asked, “What did it feel like to accept a Nobel?”

“What?  Oh,” I nodded.  ”You want acknowledgement for your efforts?”

“Don’t try to guess where I’m going, just answer the question.  What did it feel like to accept a Nobel Prize?”

I thought about it for a moment and then tried to explain what it was like, from the moment I was notified, to the instant I walked out on the stage and accepted the award, to the splendor of the banquet, the riotous fun of the NightCap, and when the grant money was finally deposited.  I explained that the Nobel’s for physics, chemistry, and medicine require that the significance of the achievement being recognized be “tested by time,” generally resulting in the Nobel being awarded twenty years after the achievement, which made the relatively short period between my breakthrough and award, only five years, controversial and quite unprecedented … and that much more special.

He simply sat there throughout my halting explanation, listening and nodding until I was through.  ”So you know what it’s like to labor in relative anonymity, but then to be celebrated for your efforts.”

I permitted that I did, not bothering to point out that I was fairly well celebrated prior to my winning the Nobel.  ”So it is about being recognized?”

“No, not really,” he disagreed.  ”Being Uniman isn’t to my credit; all I did was respond to a ad for student volunteers, one of several hundred, and lucked out.  Everything I’ve done since then isn’t all that special, either.  I can’t be hurt, so I can’t claim to be particularly brave; I can’t be stopped, so I can’t claim to be particularly skilled, either … however, I am an artist and I can, through my art, let those less lucky understand what it’s like to be able to do the things I do, but I can’t do so without revealing who I am.  I want to give those who are still nailed to the Earth a little of what it’s like to soar through the air, to give them a small part of the wonder you felt when you were set above all other scientists.”

“Huh.  Okay, so why can’t you do your art as Uniman?  Why does it have to be as Chuck Nabori?”

“Because I can’t create art from behind a mask.  I’ve been trying, just to see what would happen, and what comes out is not art.  It’s … I dunno … it’s the difference between a photograph and a painting of the same item.  Both can be art, but photographs are more along the lines of records, while paintings are closer to art.  As Uniman, I can tell people what it’s like, but as Chuck Nabori, I can make them feel what it’s like.”  He paused and looked me in the eyes.  ”Does that make sense to you?”

Google Chrome

I’ve been playing around with Google Chrome the last few days, sometimes using it instead of my usual Firefox to compare the two (as a matter of fact, I’m typing this using Chrome right now), and it’s actually a pretty good browser.

I don’t know if I’ll replace Firefox with Chrome for good, frankly, it doesn’t seem like anything particularly special to me one way or the other. but just the fact that it’s newer than Firefox (and, thereby, perhaps less of a target than the other browser for hackers) makes it somewhat attractive.

Does anyone reading this use Chrome?  What’s your opinion?

Odd realization

I bought a new vacuum today.  Our old one didn’t make the trip in very good condition (my fault, I packed it oddly and a bookcase shifted onto it … it still worked, but never as well as it once did) and it was time.

So when Dian, still slightly under the weather, asked me to go out for a couple of sodas, I decided to buy a new vacuum while I was at it.  Off into the wilds of post-holiday shopping went I, a man on a mission to … huh.

Odd thing, actually.  When looking for most things, say a new sofa, you want to find one that fits your lifestyle, one that’ll look good and perform well; in short, one that doesn’t suck.  You want stuff that doesn’t suck as badly as the other stuff; you want stuff that sucks less than any of the other choices; you are looking for the item that sucks the least.

Then there’s shopping for a vacuum, where you want to choose one that sucks more than any of the rest.  You want the most suck for you buck that you can get, so you deliberately shop for something that really, really, seriously, sucks.  It’d be nice if it looks nice and fits into your decor, but the most important thing about is that it has to suck in a major way.

(I have a cousin who believed the same criteria applied for choosing one’s future wife, but that’s a different story and one that ended in several divorces.)

Anyway, out into the world of suck I headed, determined to return with something that sucked worse than being a professed Democrat in Texas, traveling through the crowds of bargain hunters and present returners in search of that most mythical of critters: A Good Deal.  After checking out the various department and discount stores (and getting pretty fed up with all the rude crowds packed into them), I finally bit the bullet and drove the couple of hours needed to reach the big Air Force Base in Colorado.

For the price of a smallish suck-broom at a civilian store, I was able to buy a serious suck machine.  Not quite the top of the line, but way more than we need to keep our place neat and clean (if we had more than one cat, I would have popped for a Dyson, but why buy an elephant gun if you’re only hunting rabbits).

I returned home with my trophy around four hours after I’d left … to buy a couple of sodas.  I remembered to pick up the sodas on the way home,  but Dian’s expression when I explained that I’d gotten a little carried away with finding a new vacuum suggested a new definition for suck was on the horizon.

Duh-ammmmn!

Dian didn’t have a very good night last night (perhaps too many visions of sugar plums and the like, but I’m betting on the sinus draining, myself) and, after we had a nice Christmas together, went back to bed with a sore throat and low fever as soon as we came home. I checked our larder and decided to go out for a few provisions and some cold meds.

The biggest business in town that was open today was Walgreen. No grocery stores, no fast food, no restaurants; just gas stations/quicky marts and Walgreen. So I went to Walgreen. I mean, why not? They’re all about drugs and medications, and they have a little food stuff on the side … perfect fit, if you ask me.

The parking lot was packed, which really should have been a give-away for what I’d find inside. There was a policeman stationed just inside the entrance who kept stepping outside to tell people that they couldn’t park (or “just wait,” as he was explaining to one agitated driver as I walked by) in the striped areas. Inside, the store was a bit of a madhouse.

I walked around for a moment and counted several dozen people crammed into the smallish store, most of them either talking on cell phones, arguing prices with employees, or trying to get stock clerks to “check in the back” for items. Astonishing; I didn’t know there would be that many assholes running around on Christmas!

I walked to the food aisles and saw that there was a particularly dense crowd around the bread area, so I moved over an row and checked out condiments. I wanted some honey for Dian’s tea (honey and lemon in tea is seriously good for raw throats), but it looked like they were already out. Nothing visible, but when I bent over and looked, there was a little golden bear hidden in the back. I fished it out and a lady standing nearby shook her head in exasperation, explaining that she hadn’t thought to look.

I smiled and looked again, then fished out one more container, this one slightly bigger. I handed it over, my Christmas good deed for the day (or so I thought), and checked the bread area again. One of Dian’s favorite comfort foods, the one that she always asks for when she’s feeling poorly, is grilled cheese sandwiches. We didn’t have slice one in the house, but the crowd was still pretty deep, so I walked over to the cold meds.

I picked up some cough drops that Dian likes and a box of Theraflu (dynamite stuff if you’re suffering and need sleep), then checked the bread area once more. Only three people standing there, so I walked over, stopping to grab some shredded sharp cheddar from the coolers, and waited for them to move away.

Two of the people were guys and they were bitching about there not being any more bread. The younger of the two suggested they find a clerk and tell him to check the back and they left. The third person was a woman on her cell phone, complaining to somebody that she didn’t know what she’d do for sandwiches since she’d been unable to find bread at any of the open stores. She walked away in the opposite direction.

I walked up and looked down. The bread shelf was the bottom one and I couldn’t see any bread either. So I set my other items in an empty space and got down on one knee to peer into the depths. Aha! I laid down, reached a long arm in, and fished out the two remaining loafs. Not the bread that I usually use at home (I found a nice bakery in town that does a grand dark rye and have been buying all our bread there), but never look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

I stood up and dusted myself off, gathered the rest of my stuff and …

“HEY! Where did you find that bread!?” It was the older of the two guys who’d been there a moment ago, staring in disbelief at my find. I explained that I’d fished them out from the back of the shelf, having to lay down on the floor to do so, and he laughed in delight … and reached for one of the loaves.

I pulled it back and asked him what he was doing?

“Well, I was here first, right? You saw me looking for bread, so I figure that at least one of those loaves is mine! You can keep one, but I get the other.”

I took a step backwards and he quickly advanced, trying to snatch one of the loaves from me. I turned away and took another step back, saying, “Listen, pal; you walked away, convinced there wasn’t anything here. I went to the trouble to really look and then to get down on my belly to reach them. These are mine, period.”

He got good and pissed, exclaiming that he’d tried to be a nice guy and was going to let me keep one, but now he wanted both of his loaves of bread, so hand them over, now!

I stood my ground and told him what he could do with his demands.  He blustered a bit more and then started calling for his friend.  I turned to walk away and ended up face to face with the lady who’d been talking on her cell phone when I came up.

She raised a hand to forestall me and said, “I know that this is a little silly to ask, especially considering what you’re going through, but I have a house full of kids who are getting very loud in their requests for turkey sandwiches and it seems you have the only bread in town.  Do you actually need both loaves?  If you don’t, I’d appreciate it very much if you could find it in your heart to let me have one, please.”

I smiled and said, “Certainly, ma’am.  My pleasure.”  Then I handed her one of the loaves.

From the scream behind me, you’d think I’d just given away the last tank of oxygen on a doomed spaceship.  “WHAT THE FUCK!” Mr. Personality bellowed, furious.  His younger buddy was physically restraining him, or else I’d have been attacked (again) in a public store.  “Well, you can just give the other fucking loaf to me, you son of a bitch!”

I grinned at him and replied, “You demanded; she asked.  Try being nice next time and you might actually end up with what you want, amigo.”

He growled inarticulately, but loudly, and lunged forward …which is when the policeman from the front walked up and asked what was going on.

“HE’S STEALING MY DAMN BREAD!” was the immediate reply, so the policeman turned and asked me if that was true.

I explained what had happened and the lady I’d given a loaf to backed me up, which really set the loudmouth off on a tirade.  He started demanding that the cop take the bread away from both of us and give it to him, right this damn minute, or else he’d have his God Damned badge!  While the cop was trying to calm the dork down, I tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he needed me and the lady to stick around.

“No, not really.  Have a good day, sir.”

“Merry Christmas, officer, and good luck.”  I walked away, listening to the idiot’s screams grow louder and louder.  By the time I’d gone through the check out, he was bellowing for the manager to find more bread or he’d sue the store, damn it!  (While in the line, by the way, I turned down several offers of cash for the bread, explaining that I needed to feed my wife more than I needed ten bucks.)

I came home with my prizes and discovered that Dian had changed her mind and called out for pizza (yeah, Papa John’s was still open … darn clever people, those Italians).

Merry Christmas, everybody.