spam

___


It's amazing.

The spam I receive in my e-mail, every bit of it, is for things I do not need and will never buy.

One of those 2 things is software. I'm a Linux user, which means there is no application I'll need that I'll ever have to pay for. Games? Maybe -- but I don't get spam advertising games.

The other is a pharmaceutical product that I've been assured is completely unnecessary, and which I'd rather not mention.


I guess I should treat spam just like the junk mail that the postal service delivers...

...but unlike junk mail, spam can't be bundled up and burned in a woodstove.

The South Park Connection

__________________

[Blogger's note 03_21_07: I've come close to deleting this post on several occasions, but it DOES offer a sideways glance into my mind -- as it was at the time. I look back now and see that when I've gone off the deep end, so to speak, it's been when I've placed blind faith in something...]
__________________

Comedy Central's South Park, a stop-motion animation cartoon using construction paper cutouts, is as inspiring to some as it is offensive to others. One thing that bugs me about it is that the character named Kenny gets killed in, as far as I know, EVERY SINGLE episode.

“Oh my God! They Killed Kenny!”

“Bastards!”

As it happens, my late father's name is Kenneth Deane Smith (AKA 'Kenny' or 'Smitty'), and I came to the realization within the past couple of years that his death was quite likely not a natural one. He was an electrical engineer working for the military contracting arm of Westinghouse in the 1960s. There was a certain circuit that caused trouble with the Minuteman missiles in which it was installed, as it was outputting more energy that was put into it and blowing out other circuitry down the line. http://www.cheniere.org/misc/minuteman.htm (scroll down past the references for the remainder of that article)

Dad's life went quickly downhill somewhere around 1970. We, his family, up and left him in 1971. He was given an 'experimental anti-alcoholism drug' that resulted in severe neurological damage, rendering him officially (and permanently) 'disabled'. He was in our lives somewhat, but had a palsy and slurred speech, which sort of made him appear drunk even when he was not.

Since his death, Dad and I have been closer than we ever got a chance to be during his sad and tortured life. I think his greatest regret was that he never got to know me, his youngest son. I feel that he is here with me right now, approving of this post as I write it...

Also, I feel he has helped me to connect with certain people over the 'internets', especially the dowser whom I have had several revealing sessions with, and whom Dad used to work with. My intuition (perhaps fed by Dad's knowledge) and the unusual questions I pose, plus my dowsing friend's answers and his questions that fill in the gaps, result in some astounding revelations.

Sometimes we get sidetracked into tangents that seem silly at first, which then turn into evidence that truth is very very much stranger than fiction. These are wild stories that no one would ever believe – yet there they are. They unfold quickly and with much detail. There is no reason for them to exist except to reveal secrets – BIG secrets.

To make a long story short, we found out that South Park is a show with a target audience of exactly one – ME. I thought he was joking, but he was dead serious. Apparently Trey Parker and Matt Stone were given the opportunity to air their show only if a few conditions were met, among them creating a character named Kenny that would get killed in every episode. [Bastards.]

In case you were wondering, the character of Philip is also a jab at me, though I have no idea who Terence is supposed to represent.

Now of course you are asking what makes me so important, that someone would go to so much trouble just to cause me a slight amount of consternation.

Perhaps there is some shadowy group within the tentacles of would-be world-dominating powers that recognize that I'm a threat to their plans.

I have a vision of a future wherein war has become a thing of the past and people are finally free from government oppression. I share that vision with anyone who will listen. I've recognized my mission in life, and it is to work toward full disclosure of the secrets 'they' have been keeping, and to show the way toward dissolution of government.

DISREGARD THE ILLUSION – THE SOLUTION IS DISSOLUTION

I've founded a global nation for this purpose, and adopted a powerful symbol – the Flag of Earth – for that nation, the Unified Settlement.

Dad was not only involved with that overunity circuit – he designed it, using knowledge gained during a secret government project. I'm sure it pissed 'them' off when he regained that particular bit of his supposedly 'erased' memory. When he wouldn't stop trying to share his knowledge, 'they' poisoned him with a dose of radiation and finished him off with another dose of it in a Veteran's Administration hospital, making it look like lung cancer.

I was one of the people he showed his circuit to. At the time, I had no knowledge of electronics whatsoever – he had to explain to me what a DIODE was, for Pete's sake (a one-way gate) – so all I ever knew about it was that it was IMPORTANT, until my own research into 'free' energy led me to that page on Tom Bearden's site, and I began to connect the dots.

If we'd had more time to spend together, I'm sure he could have taught me how to build circuits like the one he showed me – and then I would most definitely have been a major target, and would probably not be sitting here right now.

I can't reproduce that circuit, but I know people who can... Understand, this is 'forbidden' technology.

I actually enjoy South Park and recommend Parker & Stone's puppet movie, Team America: World Police. Maybe 'they' thought I would latch onto the whole Kenny thing and self-destruct in a cloud of half-baked conspiracy theory. Maybe they thought the show would be instrumental in driving me stark raving mad. Perhaps 'they' hoped I would be committed to a mental institution, where I could be closely monitored and drugged into a drooling stupor.

No such luck. Anything 'they' attempt against me will backfire.

Am I really that important? I don't think so, but I know that my WORK is.

I would like to thank everyone who lends their support to the movement, and everyone who shares my vision. Our future is much brighter than most would have us believe.

Phil Smith

December 27, 2005

Redirection

____________




Since shortly after the demise of the Unified Settlement website, I've been writing for a new blog, Nation of Earth.

As the novel Starliner is set in the near future, recent developments keep making me rethink the story. I've put it on hold for now, but may soon publish a couple of the chapters that have been gathering virtual dust here soon.

Meanwhile, 'their' efforts against me have only spurred me on to create incendiary posts for the Unified Settlement blog -- and this is where my creative energy is being spent these days.

In other news, a Miss Unified Settlement has been crowned, and I hope to meet her later in the week. It's a long story. Stay tuned for future posts on that subject.

Oh yeah, and I'm now officially an anarchist...



_______

PRELUDE (not a Honda)

Here on the western edge there was no one, not a soul. There the car sat, on the rise, in the middle of this curve in the track.

But what track was this? Where had he gotten the unfamiliar helmet hanging from his left hand -- and the car, was that really...?

Yes, it was. Great Googly-Moogly, it was. Lines more impossibly crisp than anything else out there, unfinished brushed aluminum gleaming in the not-quite sun. The Brubeck. The car Max had designed and...

...but he hadn't finished building it yet. This couldn't be.

This could only mean Max was dreaming, and that this was one of those tenuous moments where he realized he was dreaming -- which meant he could do anything he wanted, as long as he didn't let it slip away.

He looked around. Hills with trees. No yellow or white lines painted on the edges of the track, and no red-and-white berms on the insides of the corners. A nice bit of architecture -- a house -- at the end of a driveway that met with the track.

Okay, that's pretty interesting, Max thought. Yet, he'd better not dwell on it, or he'd lose control and this would no longer be a lucid dream. What do I want?

I want to drive that car... was the answer. Funny -- that thing has been in my daydreams for years. It's less than half finished, on my garage floor... And yet there it was, even better than he had pictured it. Its otherworldliness extended beyond the fact that it was part of a dream.

In an instant he was behind the wheel, only vaguely aware of the experience of donning his helmet, opening the door, and climbing in. His right hand hovered over two red START buttons. There was no key, as he knew there wouldn't be. Max pushed the left one in, lightly pressing the left throttle pedal down. 1000cc's of motorcycle engine barked to life, belching propane exhaust out the upper pair of pipes in the tail.

Max played with that throttle a bit, then eased his foot over to the right and pressed the other START button. Another thousand cubic centimeters of motorcycle engine came on, exhausting through the lower pair of quad pipes out back...

Just as it should be.

He rocked his right foot back and forth over the thin twin accelerators, playing motorcycle music from behind the wheel of a sports car.

His car. Not just a car he'd bought, not merely one he'd meticulously rebuilt and modified, but one he'd designed and built from the ground up.

Just as it should be.

He engaged twin clutches and the Brubeck jerked a bit -- but neither engine stalled and he was on his way. Down the short straight into a decreasing-radius bend that took him back uphill into gentle esses -- but just as he passed the unlikely driveway Max realized he'd forgotten to fasten his belts...

...and the dream was over. He was awake -- but not before finding himself out of the car, standing at the entrance of that driveway, peering toward the house.

That image was the one he woke with. His mind was too foggy to be sure he'd been driving his Brubeck, and he had no idea the dream would be the cause of a serious case of deja vu while scrambling to fasten his belts, foot off the throttles in 3rd gear, on a secret track in the middle of nowhere, months later.

In the Garage

Readers, dear readers...

The process of coming up with a novel, as with any creative endeavour, is as individual as the writer. As it happens, I possess very little training in any area beyond my own self-education...

...and so, on any given project, I take my own approach. I haven't read any manuals on the craft, haven't taken any classes since I attended WVU, nearly 20 years ago -- and the few short-short stories I wrote back then (for Creative Writing, and for Science Fiction As Literature, or whatever it was called) represented the extent of my literary work (unless you count the abandoned, disjointed, roughly illustrated Spaceman Smith stuff I began in the Army) until I was inspired to hack out BROADCAST and AIRWAVES, both found on these pages.

For Starliner, a much larger and more daunting project, there came a point where I had to simply jump in and start writing. Sure, I knew anything I put on the page was going to be subject to revision or deletion -- the question was, how much time and effort would be wasted?

When my computer crashed, I was saved from the fate of plodding down a temporary plotline. Given a bit of distance, I began to revise, expand, and flesh out the story, if only in my mind. Every day I dream up something new -- and so it has seemed imprudent to actually write anything. After all, what's the point if I just have to go back and change this, rewrite that, and throw out the other?

However, the time has indeed finally come for me to 'get my hands dirty' once again, as story elements have begun to sprout scenes, settings, new characters, and dialogue, all tenuously floating about in my head.

Max and Bob are going to have to spend more time at Max's place, so that Bob (and we) can take a look at Max's small but extraordinary collection -- which includes his own kustom kreations and one krazy (but tasteful -- and tasty) hot rod built by his late father -- before hitting the road, and then Max will have to spend a night or two at their destination.

Max's garage is filled with a few of my own vehicular fantasies, and it will take him some time to show Bob their features. As Bob is a certified gearhead himself, it makes no sense for him to whisk Max away without first checking out the machinery.

We may also do away with the extensive list of rolling stock to be added to Bob's clients' collection. Instead, he is given an inventory of it along with a short wish list, and will be asked his opinion on what may be missing... Good thing the diner serves breakfast all day.

And so, you see I'm going to have to go back to the beginning. I think the changes will mostly be insertions, though, not outright revisions.

Back to the drawing board!

The Day After Yesterday

The Day After Yesterday is the name of the novel Miles has written in the movie Sideways. If it is to ever be published, however, it will be with the help of his friend Jack -- the publishers just won't take the risk...

I've just finished watching Sideways, along with all the special features -- an excellent film, and one, as a budding novelist, that gives me pause...

Of course, I can't let anything like that get to me. I KNOW it's a cutthroat world out there, and that it's not easy to get published as an unknown author. WHAT THE FUCK EVER. This novel is in my head, and has been for some time, and it has to get out.

It's been a while since I've committed anything to the page, but even though my big excuse for that was a computer crash, can I say the interruption derailed the project completely? NO! The story keeps developing in my head, and soon I'll get back to it.

Apologies to those who were hoping to read more soon. As with any project, I feel it's best to work on it only when I'm inspired...

...and I feel the inspiration coming on -- so, patience, please...

STARLINER, Chapters One and Two

Yep, these chapters are short. Chapters, like paragraphs, can be of just about any length, right? Right. In any case, this is what I have so far, and y'all are free to read away as I drink more Columbian coffee and jump into writing the next chapter, which I think will be longer than five pages. Fasten seatbelts... (and bear in mind that this is still a first draft, subject to revision)

IGNITION ON

Out in the middle of nowhere in the high hills and low mountains of West Virginia, there is something utterly remarkable and as absolutely right as it is totally out of place. It is something that a relative few people gave a good deal of effort to create.

Elsewhere in the Appalachians, where the Potomac forms the border between Maryland and the eastern panhandle of West Virginia, a relatively young man lives and works in a century-old brick building overlooking the river. His late father wasn't nearly as into cars as he is, but still managed to name his son after a V8 engine.

This is the story of part of the life of Max Wedge. We will begin with the morning of the arrival of a special vehicle, and follow Max's journey from there. Sure, his life has been fairly interesting up to this point, but it is about to get much more eventful and more wonderfully strange than his most pleasant dreams...

TURNING THE KEY

Several late nights in a row had led to an all-nighter, after which Max had given up, showered, and gone to bed shortly after dark. Now here he was, up much earlier than usual and not sure what day it was or what to do with himself.

A splash of cold water to the face, clean jeans and T-shirt, steel-toed workboots and a warm coat -- out the door on a cold March morning to the corner store, as there were not enough grounds left in the coffee can to brew a pot (When did they stop putting scoops in?) and only two cigarettes left in his last pack.

Max liked this little town, liked being able to walk a short block to a family-owned place that was once a general store, where they never stopped carrying all the little things that people needed or liked to have. He crossed in the middle of the street without looking, because it was quiet enough to hear traffic coming from a good distance.

The stack of papers on the counter told him it was a Monday, which seemed about right, he guessed. The girl at the register looked much less ready to face the day than he felt, didn't ask why only one pack instead of his usual carton. He was glad not to have to explain how he was planning to switch to organic tobacco, and didn't mention that this was the last can of the Columbian coffee he'd asked them to stock -- he'd just remind the owner next time the old guy was in.

On the way home, dawn was just a bit more evident, a bit more bluish light making the fog glow, a bit more sparkle to the frost.

Upstairs in the kitchen, a heavy sigh as he spooned (Why had they stopped including scoops with coffee?) both fresh and not-so-fresh grounds into the last filter. It was always something, wasn't it? While the rich aroma began to waft about, Max walked over to his desk, started his computer. He found no new e-mail, shrugged his eyebrows, got back up and poured a cup, decided to watch the sunrise while he sipped.

The spot he chose to do this from was back downstairs, in his shop. Cocking his head to see past the steam his coffee put on the garage door window, Max played a game he used to share with his father. His brow furrowed, however, as this approaching pair of headlights and acompanying silhouette didn't match any 'headlight signature' in his mental database.

Now, this was really saying something, because Max had spent his life around cars, both up close and in magazines, compiling a rich compendium of automotive knowledge that served him well as a broker of collectible cars. Maybe he just wasn't awake enough yet, he thought, and gulped the rest of the mug down.






"You win this time, Dad," he muttered as the '53 Studebaker cruised up and pulled into the small lot in front of his building. Setting his cup on a shelf, Max thanked himself for placing the coatrack he'd made from exhaust header mistakes near the door.

Still, with the haste he was making to get a closer look at the Stude, the cold morning air got a good chance to bite one of his bare arms as he flailed into his coat.

Blue. A nice, soft, light blue, matching the original colour perfectly, as did the much darker shade of the same hue on the roof -- but in a pearly suede instead of the simple gloss finish from five decades ago.

A deep, mellow rumble which could only be a 'nailhead' Buick V8. Interesting choice, Max thought, as his eyes found actual magnesium wheels (Halibrands), bumpers without guards, and curiously enough, headlight dagmars, clear bullet-shaped covers that matched the half-dozen custom bullets in the grille. Max had seen a few Starliners in his day, but most of them were either bone-stock or mercilessly modified into drag cars. This was a tastefully done mild custom, its sleek, low lines undisturbed. Just about perfect.

Twenty seconds or so was plenty of time to survey the vehicle, and for its driver to put the transmission in Park and shut the engine down. The click of Max's Zippo as he lit the day's first Camel, fished from the near-empty pack he'd slipped in his coat pocket before heading out earlier, coincided with the much, much smoother sound of the Starliner's door mechanism. A large pair of black wingtips met the pavement, and a tall, silver-haired man in a grey suit and black overcoat angled himself up out of the low-slung Stude.

"Nice car," Max said, high praise coming from him, even if he felt he was stating the obvious. The man smiled.

"Glad you like it," the man replied, closing the door with a gentle click. They both stood admiring it for a moment, as the fog began to clear in the morning sun. Then he turned, offered his hand, and said "Bob."

"Max." Firm, brief handshake. "Coffee?"

"Why not?" Bob countered, but still they stood there, hands in pockets, listening to the slow ticking of the cooling V8 and gazing at the car for another moment, despite the cold, until Max finally took one last drag off his cigarette, tossed it in the iced-over sand bucket by the door, and, with a shiver, waved his visitor in.

Max watched as Bob hung his overcoat on the exhaust pipe coatrack, to see whether he would react to it as others did, but Bob appeared to merely acknowledge it. Instead, what drew his attention was the work in progress in the middle of the shop floor. Both men walked over to it, Max stealing sideways glances at Bob's face as his eyes scanned the square tubing, fully independent suspension, and dual motorcycle engines.



Just as they had done a moment before, however, the two merely stood in silence, gazing, without a comment from either of them. After a bit, they both looked up from it and headed to the stairs. Max led the way to his balcony office, gestured toward a chair, and ducked into his kitchen for the coffee. He'd left his mug down by the door, on that shelf (dammit) but managed to find two more clean ones.

He set one mug in front of Bob on the desk, without having asked whether he took cream or sugar. This was not an oversight, but a test. Max had guessed right, it turned out, that Bob took his coffee black. He just picked it up and sat there, legs crossed, warming his hands with it as Max took his seat and slid his laptop aside.

"I suppose you're wondering what brings me here, so early and unannounced," he said, drawing the steaming brew up to his face.

"Now that you mention it, I guess so," Max replied, "though anyone driving a car like that is always welcome. A '53 Starliner, right?"

"Exactly right. Quite perceptive of you, Mr. Wedge. I know, I know," he continued, as Max held a hand up and began to correct him, "you prefer 'Max'. I've gone to certain lengths to find the right broker for my clients, so I already know a bit about you -- enough to know you're the man for the job."

"Okay then." This was an odd morning, Max thought, but business had been slow and he wasn't about to object to the prospect of moving a few cars. He pulled his laptop back over and opened up a new file, fingers at the ready. "What can I find for you?"

But Bob was holding out a disk. "The list is on here." Max accepted it and slid it into the drive. "Before you go over it, let me tell you -- it's extensive. My clients are putting together a collection, one that should take a few months to complete."

"Okay then," Max said again, smiling. "You do understand that I review each vehicle's history, to make sure I'm not trafficking in stolen goods? Of course you do," he added, taking another sip, "As you said -- you know a bit about me." He put his mug down and stood. "Excuse me for a moment." Coffee being a very effective diuretic, Max suddenly felt a semi-urgent need that would allow him a moment to collect his thoughts.

At the urinal (one advantage, for a man at least, to living in a converted warehouse, small as it may be) he could tell he wasn't still dreaming. This was, indeed, his own bathroom. He hadn't had any trouble finding it, none of the fixtures were overflowing, and there wasn't a pictogram on the door indicating the other sex. No one walked in on him, either. His image in the mirror was quite clear and all too real as cold water ran over his hands. Nope, not a dream.




Back at his desk, he saw that Bob had drunk half the mug and set it back down, precisely where Max had put it a few minutes ago. "You were saying?"

"Go ahead and take a look at the list. I'll wait."

"Okay then." As promised, it was an extensive list, suitable for an impressive collection. "Some of these may be a bit difficult to acquire... but then I see that many of them are fairly common, if not here in the States... Looks like someone has done his homework."

Another slight smile from Bob. "We have a modest collection as it is, if you see any gaps in the list. Perhaps you would like to see it for yourself?" Somehow this stranger, from some strange land as far as Max knew, seemed to be aware of just how slow things had been.

"Sure. I don't suppose you have it in a photo gallery, on a website?" No, Max didn't suppose that at all.

"No, but it's not far. We could be there by noon, and you could be back by dark." Bob didn't say that he meant today, but that's what Max inferred, somewhat uncomfortably. There was something about this man's ease that made one uneasy. He was a bit too familiar, too assuming, but at the same time completely non-threatening, and this whole thing was moving way to quickly.

Yet there was no reason other than distrust not to go along with it, and Max could see no reason not to trust this mysterious representative of his new, even more mysterious clients. "Okay then," he said for the fourth time, starting to feel like a broken record, and not the kind one might witness at the Bonneville Salt Flats -- though at the speed these dealings were progressing, Max half expected to hear a sonic boom at any moment.

All he heard, though, was a stomach grumble, telling him that breakfast would not be a bad idea. "There's a diner up the street. Mind if we continue our conversation there?"

"Not at all."

Eggs over medium, buttered toast, and sausage links were soon placed on the table at Max's favourite booth, along with four glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Apparently, Bob wasn't hungry. Either that, or there was nothing on the menu that he would allow himself to eat. "Just the juice for me, two glasses please," was all he said after the waitress, with a wink, rattled off Max's usual.

Bob gave him a few details, among the small amount of small talk, answering pertinent questions that Max found he didn't have to ask. Subjects such as payment arrangements and other incidentals were covered, and after Maximillian Oscar Wedge learned that he was to deliver the vehicles personally, which is why Bob wanted him to visit the collection's location, one last detail almost made him choke on his juice.



"As part of your advance, if you like, we can include the Starliner." Bob revealed this very matter-of-factly, as though it were a completely normal thing for someone who was amassing a collection to give what could be considered an important part of it away. "If you decide to accept it, that will simplify our transportation for the day."

"You mean, we both drive down there, we transfer the title, and then I drive it home?" Max considered this. That Studebaker was a damned nice ride, he had to admit, and would be a welcome addition to his own small collection. "...and the trip down can be a sort of test drive?"

There was that slight smile again. "Is today good for you?"


[ ...It has occured to me, that by living out certain daydreams in the novel and sharing the chapters as they are completed here, I may be giving readers a better 'sideways glance into the mind of Phil Smith' than I could otherwise... ]

AIRWAVES

AIRWAVES
sequel to BROADCAST
by Phil Smith
Sat, 11 Sep 2004

X sat in front of his monitor, staring at the blank e-mail window, trying to put his thoughts in order -- what on Earth was he going to say? He typed 'sixdegrees2' into the Send to box, backspaced over the 2, then instead of hitting shift+2 for the 'at' sign, hit clear. Maybe later.

Hacking into the National Weather Service had been simple. Hacking into his local network affiliate's telepromptor was more of a challenge -- and more of a risk. He'd been lucky that no one seemed to notice his alteration, and was glad for the inspiration to have made it such a small one.

X cued up the tape again. As he did so, his resolve to take it to the next level was reinforced. No, messing with telepromptors and trying to organize a satellite hack were futile -- and possibly dangerous -- endeavours. He had a new plan: Celebrities must be contacted, educated (enlightened), and recruited for the cause. Time on the airwaves could be paid for -- what local affiliate or cable company would refuse payment for airtime?

...Yet the disclosure campaign must be carefully orchestrated, so that the message could reach the populace before the propaganda/censorship machine had a chance to quash it. Several spots would have to air within a short time frame, each with a powerful bit of truth for the public to consider. Then, if the operation were shut down, the spin doctors would nevertheless be making themselves dizzy with all the explaining they'd have to do.

If there was a reason that X could see for his plan to fail, it would be his own inaction and/or lack of dedication to the cause -- therefore he had to overcome his inertia and, as this was the next step, write that e-mail.

Operating on the questionable principle that there are only six degrees of separation between any two people, X had managed to gain the private electronic address of a celebrity. Ironically, it happened to be the star of the film, Six Degrees of Separation. He ran through yet another test of the game, "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" in his head, becoming more convinced that this was possibly, for various reasons, the best celebrity to approach.

~o~

He wrote it, sent it, then sweated over it. Called it up from his Sent folder a dozen times, looking for reasons for it to be disregarded, hoping he would be taken seriously. Nothing left but to pop open a pint of Grolsch and put on some vintage Dave Brubeck vinyl... X dropped the needle carefully in the groove of Time Further Out, lit a candle, and sat back in his recliner. Weary from another week of slogging away at his job, one pint, one album, and one pull of the lever on the side of his chair was all it took...

~o~

Late Saturday morning shocked him rudely. He wasn't in his bed, and an empty Grolsch bottle rolled off his lap as he sprang up to answer the telephone. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this X? Did I wake you?" asked an oddly familiar voice. What time was it?

"Yes, and um, yeah -- but that's okay..." he replied, trying to ignore what his bladder was telling him.

"I got your e-mail. Brilliant. Count me in." Suddenly X remembered having included his phone number in the message, and realized who he was talking to...

~o~

[This is a work of fiction. No Kevin Bacons were harmed (or even contacted) in the process of its composition, which was completed 11 September, 2004. If this becomes a series, dear readers, you will know that the plan is being put into action... Feel free to distribute this story widely, but please keep it intact, with no insertions.]

BROADCAST

BROADCAST

A short, short story

By Phil Smith
Thu, 5 Aug 2004

He started by hacking into the National Weather Service's Emergency Broadcast System, waiting until a severe thunderstorm loomed to insert a single word into the text that was to be spoken by the computer's synthesized voice. Pacing back and forth while the sky darkened and his television blared, his thumb aching to press the 'record' button on the remote in his hand, he mumbled incoherently, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

There it was! Regular programming was interrupted with the storm watch notice, and he almost forgot to begin his recording. He sat down on the edge of a chair and waited for the computer to utter the single, innocuous word that would prove his success. When it was over, he played it back time after time, finally sinking back into his chair as the adrenaline subsided.

He had no one to share his success with. That night, he celebrated alone with a select microbrew and a DVD of The Lone Gunmen, laughing despite himself at the pilot episode, which originally aired in Spring 2001 and featured an airliner being flown into the World Trade Center.

The beer calmed his nerves enough to allow him to fall asleep before dawn.

~o~

X (as his friends called him) awoke in early afternoon to a ringing telephone. He hit the 'talk' button, and hearing only silence after saying "Hello?" twice, knew it must be another recorded sales message, or a telemarketer waiting to key in. He hit the button again, cursing the depths such people had sunk to, before the spiel could begin.

Ruminations and reminders in a hot shower. Coffee brewing as his computer greeted him with a custom WAV file and a black-and-white image of an odd-looking fish by a microphone on the desktop. Steam from the small glass mug briefly fogging up his glasses as he sifted through posts from radical message boards...

He knew what the next step was, and steeled himself for the task. X brought up an mp3 of the Beatles' Why Don't We Do It In the Road? and began to hack into his local network affiliate's system. Luck! There in front of him, telepromptor files for this evening's news program, ready to be altered.
He searched for a single word in which a single letter could be changed, that would change the meaning of the sentence or even the entire paragraph, as he'd seen typos do in the past. It was found. The change was made. He watched the local news, and recorded the strangely attractive anchorwoman cluelessly bending to his will.

This time, he slammed the beers down so fast that he couldn't concentrate on any films or television shows, and drifted off to a Foo Fighters CD.

~o~

Another phone call woke him, but he simply turned off the ringer after checking the caller ID, reminding himself to flip the switch back later. More sleep seemed like a promising option while he swayed to and fro over the porcelain fixture for a length of time that he found dimly amazing, but moments later X found himself sitting in front of his television again with an open, dry, sour mouth, reviewing the tape of his subtle crimes.

What to do now? He knew, but the task was too monumental. There was a message to be relayed, but first he had to find a way to hack major communications satellites, figure out exactly what must be said, and determine the best time, the proper format, etc.

His computer, X left dormant. The endless questions, the enormity of the implications and consequences, swam furiously in his head as he dropped backwards onto his bed, wondering how he was going to face his stupid, pointless job the next day, Monday, the beginning of another useless week of participating in a capitalist society...

~o~

What will happen to X? What is his message? Will he manage to get it to the many millions tuned in to whatever it is they like to watch? Apologies, dear readers, but these are questions you will have to ponder for yourselves. Please do so, and respond with your thoughts...

Multiple Outlets

1953 Studebaker Starliner

Starliner is the title of the novel I'm working on. The premise and title have been in my head for a few short years now. I dabbled in composition in my youth, decided to give it up until such a time as I had enough life experience to work with...

'funkmaster fil' WAS the name applied to the music I've begun to do, using the free editor found here: http://www.beaterator.com/ -- the name is terribly cheesy, so I'm changing it to Phil's Mythos, same as this blog [this edit was made July 3, 2005]. I'm listening to Arrival at this moment, cranked up in my headphones. I had no idea of the depth of the bass as I was piecing it together... To fully appreciate it, I'll have to plug my bass amp into the computer... At some point I imagine I'll do one called Departure, and put it at the end of my CD... (getting way ahead of myself, as usual)

Maybe I can figure out how to share the mp3 here... Sharing my writing is no problem, though, so the next few posts will be a pair of short-shorts followed by the two short chapters that begin Starliner. Please bear in mind that earlier posts are found at the bottom of these pages, latest at the top...

Dee Hunter

Well, here we go.

Hunter S. Thompson was suicided this weekend -- how poetically ironic that he would die on the same day as Sandra Dee...

I cannot think of anyone less likely to commit suicide. You would think he'd go down with the ship, cursing the shitstorm loudly with his last breath. If you've never read his ramblings, copy & paste this URL into your browser: http://espn.go.com/page2/s/thompson/010918.html

I doubt one will find a single example of his writing, however, that would have tipped the scales in favour of his termination. No, my guess would be that there were semi-private conversations that prompted the decision.

Then again, he may have actually done himself in -- a surprise move that he must have known would create exactly this sort of speculation.

Either way, he's martyred now, and there are many, many who will never forget him -- and his fans will doubtless insist that their friends read his latest (last) book, Fear and Loathing In America.

Perhaps the whole thing was faked, and HST is alive and well. Truly, there is no way to know, at least for the above-average guy on the street...

These are indeed very troubled times, and reality itself is in question, more than ever before.

Been There, Done That, Got the T-shirt

It's official -- I've become an entrepreneur...

Early in the run of Vehicle Magazine, an e-mail 'publication' I used to send out (still planning on a farewell mailing), one issue was titled 'Inevitable Merchandizing', wherein mocked-up images of Vehicle Magazine T-shirts were presented to the couple of dozen readers I had at the time.

Now, once again, I've mocked-up some T-shirts, but this time the images are available on the Web, @ http://www.unifiedsettlement.org/apparel.html . On Thursday the 13th of January, 2005 (today to me, but technically yesterday, especially considering that post times here are recorded in UTC), I contacted not one, but two local printers about Flag of Earth / Unified Settlement T-shirts. The first offered me a great price, and the second promised to match it -- and thse prices are competitive with what I would get from large Internet-based companies...

Now, all that stands between me and a half a gross of shirts is a sum of $522 -- and demand for these shirts, at least among the few I've 'spoken' with about them, is high.

This is how I'm to be somewhat reimbursed for my time spent developing the Unified Settlement. One in each of the 4 colours of the Flag of Earth for me (I'll wear them often), a few given away, and the rest sold at a profit, sent around the world, generating income.

People like T-shirts, sometimes treasuring the ones that show everyone else what they believe in, often loving the ones that are comfortable and have colours and designs that make them feel good... The Flag of Earth is a design that we should all feel grateful to Jim Cadle for authoring way back in 1970 -- a simple, geometric representation of where we are from in the larger sense. I've felt for months now that it would look great on a T-shirt, and that those shirts would sell much better than actual flags -- those flags (sewn, not printed, in 2 sizes), lapel pins, and window decals being the only merchandise Jim offers on www.flagofearth.com ...

I'll be sending one in each colour to Jim -- and if he should choose to, he can order some from my printer to offer on his site, without having to pay the 'art & screen' charge. If he would rather not do this, I'll send him more shirts as a thank-you, along with a paid order for some of his stuff (I want to wear the pin, fly the flag, and stick the decal on my car anyway -- and I'll want more of these items to give as gifts).

Another shirt will eventually follow, with a large f.i.l. on the front, 'freedom is life' (and perhaps other f.i.l.
acronyms along the same vein) and the Unified Setlement URL on the back...

Click on the title of this blog entry to access my site, and please (if you have something to say) click on the number of comments at the bottom to leave a comment of your own.

"I'm Phil Smith, and I approve this T-shirt."

Time Out

The BRUTRUCK is meant to be a brute of a truck. Though its design elements are taken from my concept for a small sports car, the Brubeck itself is one tough-looking two-seater...

SKETCH

Once again, I started with MS Paint and moved on to Serif Photo Plus. Using these programs to create new images becomes easier with practice, and the results gradually come closer to the images in one's mind's eye. When it comes to angular designs, an image created on the computer can actually be superior in some ways to a freehand sketch.

The angular nature of the Brubeck and BRUTRUCK concepts makes them difficult to draw with a pencil and paper, but then there are subtle proportions that can get lost in the process of laying down straight lines. The image above, to me, seems awkward -- the wheelbase is a little too long and the front bumper (yes, it does fully surround the grille), along with the farside front wheel, are not in proper perspective with the rest of the truck. Then again, it could be the greenhouse (top of the cab) that isn't quite right...

In any case, I'm pleased to have been able to adapt the elements of the Brubeck -- which I haven't been able to get out of my mind for two years straight -- to a different type of vehicle. Now I have a second concept begging to be built (the flat panels make body construction a relative breeze), with a third in this theme forming in my head.

The next one will be a Brubeck sedan -- not to be called 'the Brubeck Sedan', but, I think, Time Further Out, as an homage to one of my favourite Dave Brubeck albums (the name also hints to transcending the 4th dimension).

But you ask, "What's with this angular, flat-panel design theme? Why do you persist with it?" All right then, since you asked...

Angularity was toyed with most successfully by Chrysler (plus Plymouth and Dodge) designers in the mid-Sixties -- I will point specifically to the Plymouth Fury, model year '64, but there are many others. One can also look to the original Willys Jeep Wagoneer and other purposeful vehicles of that nature, such as the Pinzgauer, even to a particular Voisin design from the late Twenties. Making a vehicle look good when all or even most of its panels are flat is not an easy thing to do -- it represents a design challenge. I like challenges.

Beyond that, while the trend is slowly reversing, there are so many vehicles out there these days with bloblike, amorphous forms that it's getting hard to tell them apart -- even for a lifelong automotive enthusiast like me. To be specific, BMWs, Mercedes, and even the formerly 'Boxy But Good' Volvos have gained sickeningly melted forms -- and don't even get me started on the dementia of the current crop from Chrysler...

To be truly different in these times, to really stand out among the crowd, a vehicle has to be as angular as it can be -- but then, as I mentioned, it isn't easy to make it look good with all flat panels. One has to take a geometric approach, playing the angles against one another, moving the lines by degrees, doing one's best to give a good appearance from any direction. This is quite different from working with curved lines and surfaces...

And yes, flat-panelled bodies are much, much easier to build, which brings the dream of seeing one (or more) of my designs realized as a drivable vehicle that much closer.

How does this tie in with the Unified Settlement? That will be covered in another entry, perhaps the next..

Now, if you will excuse me, this concept has kept me up most of the night (post times are Greenwich Mean, though I live in the Eastern time zone) and I need to get some sleep. I may lie awake thinking of various things for a while, but that is often part of the process. Give me 30-hour days, and I may be able to keep a regular schedule...

The Blur of Time

ABLUR

Yes, my son took the picture, with his new camera -- but the blurring was done on purpose...

Personally, I believe he has a bright future ahead of him in photographic expression. This is not only good alternative framing -- the car almost looks NEW. (Photo not cropped or otherwise altered -- only resized.)

Where does time go?

Time, the 4th dimension, is systematically being obliterated by the 5th...

Will entering the 5th dimension feel anything like drinking a fifth of vodka?

2005 is going to be INTERESTING.