MOTHERSHIP NEW CHICAGO

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MOTHERSHIP NEW CHICAGO

Jane hadn't been abducted, exactly. Things had been explained to her, after a fashion. She had known what she was getting into, sort of.

She looked around the main room, still unsure whether she should call this place her 'quarters' or her 'apartment'. Over on the desk were her MacBook and iPod, the two things she was most glad to have been allowed to bring along. One small bag, she had been told, and those had been stuffed into her backpack first.

There was a cover story Jane was supposed to keep using while in contact with friends in ‘Old’ Chicago and elsewhere on the surface, but her disdain for dishonesty kept her offline most of the time and caused a shortage of details in her instant messaging and e-mails. She was somewhat out-of-touch. Her blog page had been virtually abandoned.

Maybe it was time for a new blog. The mental question was sent out, and the immediate answer was yes, as though they had been waiting for her to ask. Maybe it was to be one of her duties all along. Jane couldn’t be sure.

In the background of that answer were what could be referred to as a set of instructions. Jane immediately sat down at her computer and created a new Google account to work from, then went to Blogger and began to compose her first post to the Mothership New Chicago blog, calling up a playlist after deciding on a title. With some of her favourite music to keep her company, she was soon finished. Then she asked another mental question and contacted the half-dozen other Earth Humans on board, inviting them to become contributors and alerting them to her alternate address.

It was nice, after three months, to be able to honestly share some of her experiences. Her only complaint, really, about life aboard the mothership was the veil of secrecy. Who would believe her, even if she were to try to tell them?

As the replicator produced a flip-top bottle of Grolsch at her request, Jane asked another question. Yes, there were three, but only three, of her previous contacts that she could e-mail with her alternate Gmail address and new blog URL. The replicator had to produce another pint before that message was complete, but it was soon sent...

...and then they would know. Meanwhile she had gotten responses from a couple of her shipmates, who both wanted in on the blog action. Awesome, but then she had to arrange for them to do so while her buzz intensified. No big deal, done and done.

With the absence of a proper day/night cycle, Jane’s body clock had set her on a 30-hour day -- twenty hours awake, ten hours of sleep. She’d had to check her computer clock for Chicago time and date before publishing her blog post, and now realized her e-mail had been sent out at a crazy hour. She made a mental note to tell them about her new schedule in the next message, then rocked out to the sounds of her iPod docked into the incredible sound system her place had come with, losing track of how many Grolsch bottles she’d put in the sub-molecular recycling unit.


Ten hours of sleep are a big help when you’ve reached a point of near-oblivion with alcohol. As Jane made use of her alien-alloy lavatory, the details of the previous ‘night’ slowly came back to her. Showering could wait. Her replicator produced black Columbian coffee at the perfect temperature for drinking. She powered up her MacBook, signed in with her new account, and re-read her blog post.

This ‘morning’ was a good one, one to go down in the books. Virtual windows around her simulating a beautiful post-dawn, Jane cupped her mug lovingly and basked in the telepathic approval of the beings who had brought her here.

It was a wonderful moment.

Soon, the silent voices in Jane’s head began to speak again. Her role in upcoming events became more clear. She was compelled to message her shipmates again, to stress the responsibility they had all taken on with the blog. Her mug drained, Jane got up to get another and mulled things over.

She was here on Mothership New Chicago for more than one reason. To begin with, as a former resident of ‘Old’ Chicago she was expected to be a barometer for what Chicagoans would expect from an orbital (and incredibly mobile) version of their city. Also, with her telepathic abilities, she was expected to be a sort of ambassador between her people and the rest of Galactic Society. As it turned out, the blog she had just created was to be the first of many.

Soon Jane was online with the contacts she had been given from other motherships. She sent messages to New London, New New York, New Tokyo, on and on until the silent voices finally shut up about whom she ought to alert. Though the messages were all in English, all the recipients instantly understood. Within hours, pages in many languages were published, recounting the experiences of those involved and giving the people of Earth a taste of what was to come.

Breakfast. Brunch. Lunch. By teatime Jane’s inbox was full of messages containing links to new pages where people could learn about how Humanity was to enter into Galactic Society. As she went out to tour the robotic construction of New Chicago’s interior, Jane was filled with the unparalleled sense of accomplishment that can only come from the approval of an entire telepathic delegation of a more-advanced race.

Dinner? Forget dinner. Time to send out a telepathic invitation to the few other Human residents of New Chicago for a party. Might as well invite the Syrians too. Jane is told to move the event to a larger space, and a mothership connection ensues.

Fortunately, Jane has ample George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic available on iPod for this extraglobal celebration...




Phil Smith
May 23, 2007
Earth (just west of Appalachia)


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Phil of the Future

Am I a 22nd Century man?

(For those of you blissfully unaware of cable television, there is a show on the Disney Channel with the same title as this post...)

Anyway yes, I do expect to live until the year 2114, so I will be a 22nd Century Man -- or if you entertain the idea that time is only linear from our current, limited perspective, maybe I already am.

Does this qualify me to perhaps be in some sort of contact with my future self, in order to lay down a few foolproof predictions? In a word, no. My writings on the future are merely based on my personal impressions of how things will go, extrapolations from the information I have at the moment...


While I find it quite annoying that people began to discuss the 2008 election even before November 2004 and have barely taken a break since, I can't help thinking about it myself. Never mind that I've never voted and don't plan to -- unless they bring up a vote to dissolve the Federal government. Looking at the candidates, and having gotten a better feel for the pulse of the American people, I have a prediction.

A prediction, I might add, that I made in November 2004; During an instant messaging session, or in an e-mail, can't remember which (nor to whom I was typing), I said, "looking forward to the Giuliani Presidency"...

It's not that I'll think he'll do the best job, or that I like him better than all the other candidates, but simply that I think he has the best chance of getting elected. It seemed inevitable 2 1/2 years ago.

I look for John Edwards to either win the Democratic primary or repeat his role as Dem VP candidate. As for Giuliani's running mate, I won't venture a guess at this point...

...But you know what I'd like to see? I think it would be only fair if the 'first loser' in the race got to be VP. Second place, second-in-command makes sense, yes? And then maybe the Prez and VP should take turns making Cabinet appointments, like team captains in dodgeball...


Next elections after 2008 will be in 2012, and since "the end of the world as we know it" is scheduled for the Winter Solstice (December 21st) 2012, it might not matter. Our next President -- or at least whomever holds office at that time -- will be the one to deal with it all. Perhaps Giuliani will gain reelection...


My thoughts on the future are many and varied. The above represents but a single aspect. If anyone out there has a question for me about the future, please leave it as a comment on this blog. If so inspired, I'll answer as a subject of the next post here...


Yours in time,


Phil Smith
May 17, 2007


PS Today is the 37th anniversary of the day Jim Cadle first flew the Flag of Earth...

http://www.setileague.org/general/whatflag.htm



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Who Needs 3 Blogs?

The image above is a capture from the Pinzgauer factory video.


There's no denying it; The Pinzgauer 710K definitely played a part in the inspiration for EXOVAN (it's a 710M in the capture, but never mind that). Other vehicles that can be credited are: the Tesla Roadster, various extreme rock-crawlers and, believe it or not, Grave Digger...


Now to the question posed, "Who needs 3 blogs?" Well I'm sure lots of people feel they do, though a couple of years ago I myself would've thought it excessive. This one here was my first, and then my baby Unified Settlement / Nation of Earth needed its own, and now with the advent of a concept that just begs to be built, all of a sudden we have the Tellurian Motors blog as well.

Last night found me at work on my 3D CAD model of EXOVAN. I cropped screenshots and posted them along with some text. There are people out there who are excited for me, in that I've realized I AM an automotive designer and am now applying myself in that field as never before, so if nothing else the 3rd blog represents a link I can provide to them for updates (having 2 Google groups helps here as well). The main reason for the Tellurian Motors blog, however, is to give me a web* presence as a designer.

Now, if I want to contact someone in the business about one of my designs, I have a URL to direct them to. I can even provide a specific link to the post I'd like them to view. Suddenly, 3 blogs doesn't sound like too many.


By the way, I've decided to alter the EXOVAN concept a bit by moving the forward portal (a 2-part hatch, much like the ones on the sides, with drop-down pneumatic steps and a glass upper that slides electrically up between the body and exoframe) over toward the passenger side. This offset is meant to allow better visibility for the driver. As a welcome side-effect, EXOVAN becomes somewhat asymmetrical, adding to its outlandishness. Expect the next Tellurian Motors blog post to show this feature...


Phil Smith
May 1st, 2007


*I refuse to capitalize 'internet' and 'web'.

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Design of the Times

All my life, I've been an automotive designer. In public school, no one ever encouraged me to pursue it as a career. Had I been encouraged, I might have lived a very different life thus far.

Just because I wasn't, and just because I didn't pursue it later, doesn't mean I'm not still an automotive designer. And, just because I do not hold a degree in Industrial Design, that doesn't mean I don't have the talent and passion for it.

There is nothing that holds my attention more than automotive design. I continue to think about it every day, and I continue to come up with new designs of my own. Can I be forgiven for not being interested in employment? The one thing I'm meant to do, I've been unable to. It's not an easy industry to crack your way into, now is it? And, at this point in my life, there's no way I'm going back to college.

HOWEVER.

However, having recently come to terms with this dilemma and realizing that I should make it a definite goal to get at least ONE of my designs built, I've come up with something new...

...and this latest design just happens to be something that a couple of companies may be interested in building -- and so, if I can present it to them well enough, I just may be able to finally break my way into the world of professional automotive design. Better late than never, right?


EXOVAN

It's a vehicle designed specifically for Mattracks -- rubber tracks made to replace wheels and tires on four-wheel-drive vehicles. To my knowledge, no one except the Mattracks company has built a vehicle with those tracks in mind -- the Gladiator. I actually didn't know about Mattracks' little TUV until after my own tracked utility vehicle concept had taken shape in my mind.

The other company I'd like to involve is Tesla Motors. They are demonstrating, with their Tesla Roadster, how well electric vehicles can perform. I understand they're working on a sedan, but haven't heard of anything for off-road.

It's important for EXOVAN to be electric -- I've given up on internal combustion for new vehicles (though not, it must be said, for customs and hot rods I'd like to build). The Brubeck twin-engined sports car (conceived while listening to Dave Brubeck albums on vinyl) may be the last of my designs to use internal combustion. The future is electric, and Tesla Motors is leading the, um, charge.

My concept is called EXOVAN because it's a van with its frame on the outside. For me, and for this vehicle, the term 'exoskeletal frame' is shortened to 'exoframe', and it's more than a rollcage added to the outside of a rock crawler's sheetmetal. Any serious off-roader can expect a certain amount of body damage -- this vehicle is designed with its frame on the outside to minimize such damage while avoiding the extra weight of a body-on-frame or unibody with an external rollcage added on.

The name also refers to the outside, as in 'the great outdoors' and/or 'outside the realm of experience'. Photovoltaic panels in the roof may offer only a very slow charge, but a properly outfitted EXOVAN could theoretically travel far into the wilderness, having been charged perhaps at home but returning on power harvested from the Sun -- or for that matter travelling a great distance without once having its charging port opened.

One area in which the Tesla Roadster excels is in its range -- up to 250 miles per charge. For this and many other reasons, you can see why Tesla Motors is the company I want to deal with.

And what about the other company, Mattracks? Just take a look at the videos presented on their site. Vehicles can do astonishing things when their wheels are replaced with Mattracks. Plus, they look really cool...

This vehicle represents a real challenge, as there are two distinct layers of exterior design. I intend for the exoframe to stand on its own (which will be a good thing, as one version of EXOVAN has no body at all, open to the air for the dunes) with sweeping curves of tubular steel -- while the body, in stark contrast, will be comprised of flat glass and flat aluminum panels, and flat solar panels. Now that I think of it, the open version will have the option of some roofing, in the form of those solar panels.

I had indeed worked up a preliminary sketch of a flat-panel van with Mattracks before, and not too long ago. It made me think of a van design I used to draw way back in the 8th grade, and it was yet another thing I'd like to see and own and drive -- but it didn't have the cachet of the EXOVAN.

Since it IS a van, EXOVAN can be built in any number of configurations. It can be an ambulance, a party car, a small camper, or a cargo hauler. Anything you want. And, it can go anywhere (if relatively slowly, since Mattracks can't take sustained highway speeds). The layout I keep thinking of, though, is 8 seats with the rear 6 on swivels, packed to the rafters with electronics.

At least 2 more companies can be brought in on the project, those being Skyjacker for the suspension and Rhino Linings for the tough coating (in any colour) that the exoframe should have.

This is a vehicle that should be the star of SEMA and gain attention at many other auto shows, attention that will be beneficial for any company involved.

It is a vehicle for these times, the early 21st Century. It is the very model of mobility and eco-friendliness (one thing about Mattracks, by the way, is that they scar the landscape much less than tires do).


I've got much work ahead, doing pencil sketches to scan and manipulate with a few graphics programs before I actually approach Tesla Motors and Mattracks. An image or two may show up here on this blog before I send them anything at all.


It won't be for everyone -- no vehicle is -- but if I'm right about it, it will damn well get built and cause a minor sensation. If it ever reaches (limited) production, my guess is that each example will go for somewhere over $100,000 and be greatly prized by each and every owner.

It's up to me to turn this dream into a reality. I've left a few details out of this blog post, partially because of the time it would take to describe them. EXOVAN may not be the best design I've come up with, but it's the ONE that will get me noticed as a designer.

Slacker I may be, but this is my life. Automotive design is one thing I truly care about, and this is (finally) my chance to make a contribution.

This is something I feel strongly about, something I have to pursue. Someday I'll be designing flying saucers, but EXOVAN is the thing that will have people asking me to pen those space yachts for them.

Nation of Earth? Will anyone ever credit me for thinking of something that is inevitable? Do I even THINK of being credited for things? No, I only want to CREATE, which in the world of automotive design is not an easy thing to do. I've built furniture of my own design, which was immensely rewarding in its own right, though a few projects got left undone. Over the decades I've drawn countless automotive designs, but only several furniture designs.

Automotive design is my passion. Maybe, just maybe, I've come up with something that someone else will care enough about to build. I was barely able to build wooden furniture of my own design -- no way I could construct an entire VEHICLE myself.

This is it, this is my chance. Wish me luck.



Phil Smith
April Fourteenth, Twenty-Oh-Seven

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The Great Indoors

_____


Lately (and again) I find myself guilty of escapism.

There are e-mails from caring friends that I've left unopened, but I can tell from what I see of them in my inbox that they're in the category of small bright things in this dark dark world -- and not wanting to be reminded of the dark dark world, I just don't want to look.

Instead I visit other realms, chief among them The Sims 2 for PC and Gran Turismo 4 on PlayStation 2. While I'm playing God, creating and controlling Sim-ulated people, and when I'm racing cars I could never afford in events I could never attend, I can forget...

Forget about politics and the politicians themselves. Forget about what capitalism has done to this world. Forget how hard it seems it will be to fix everything. Forget that a major part of the problem is the LCD, lowest common demonitator of human intelligence -- I keep having to remind myself that the majority don't have the capacity to think for themselves, and that's seriously depressing...

No, I disable my connection and load the disk, or in another room I insert a different disk and grab the controller. Hours of fun can be had.

Should I feel guilty? Oughtn't I be out in the world (or at least online) trying to make a difference? Or am I merely preparing myself for a future in which gaming is how we occupy our minds, when everything is running smoothly so long as we're all in our respective saucers in orbit and not down on the planet damaging the ecosystem?

My son coined a new term: "disencouraging". To me it means, instead of a youthful alternative to "discouraging", a negative effect on the ability to be encouraged. This, to my mind, puts a mirror up to the state of Humanity. There is so much to put us DOWN that it's hard to see the UPside of things.

Upside is, once the technology is available we'll all be doing as we please, without ecological impact. We will have left the planet, orbiting or zooming off somewhere in everything from motherships to space yachts. Everything we could need or want will be either replicated or simulated. Work? Computers and robotics will take care of all the actual work, except where we want to do it ourselves, and except for those of us who wish to maintain the computers and robotics or get our hands dirty doing things they could take care of.

There will be room for a segment of the population to live like the Amish or similar agrarian societies, because we as a species need to keep in touch with the skills necessary to flourish without advanced technology, should advanced technology fail.

Meanwhile our personal environments will be as fantastic as we want, or as realistic as we want, or actually real -- and even our real environments can be rich with objects either salvaged or replicated, or even brought to existence out of our own original thoughts. Good thing, too -- because the preservation of this planet (and therefore the survival of our species) demands our removal. Cooped up in a flying Winnebago or in quarters aboard a floating city, we'll need to be able to entertain ourselves...

Which reminds me: Another escape I have is writing an as-yet-untitled science fiction short about a man who has spent ten years alone in space...


Phil Smith
March 23 + 30, Twenty-Oh-Seven
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A Slacker Looks at 40

Faded Memory:
Me at 23 or 24, looking toward the future.

Procrastinator? That's what I used to call myself; The public school system labelled me an "underachiever", which must be a "politically correct" term for SLACKER.

I meant to write this post before I turned 40 -- I'm about 3 months behind, so there you go. SLACKER.


What did I think my life would be like at 40? Didn't think about it, didn't set any goals. So I sit here in my Hawaiian shirt with a week's worth of stubble, idly musing -- and generally happy.

They say stress is a factor in male pattern baldness. My already-high hairline has receded a bit, and I can tell things are getting a bit thin up there, but I've hung on to much more of it than any of my brothers had when each of them were my age. I've got some grey, but who cares?

From my last post, you can see what I've been up to. I've also got a spoon in front of me that I began carving about a year ago. Now that it's Spring (I carve outside) I'll be getting back to that -- when I feel like it.

Stress is bullshit. I don't give in to it. That ends up pissing a lot of people off...

SLACKER.

A century from now, expect my autobiography: A Slacker Looks at 140. Margaritas will be served at the launch party.



Phil Smith
March 30, Twenty-Oh-Seven
(despite what the timestamp might say)
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Tat-Tuesday

Scott Lure is purported to be the best tattoo artist in the Mid-Ohio Valley. Since I've only had the one tattoo done, I have no reference for comparison. HOWEVER... If my experience is anything to go by, I'd say that's a fair assessment.

LURE TATTOOING AND PIERCING

He said it would feel something like a scrape or a sunburn for a while afterward, which it does -- somewhere in between those two. The process itself wasn't as painful as one imagines. Now, three days later, there is still healing to do, but thanks to liberal use of a salve called Tattoo Goo it's coming along quite nicely.

It was very odd to have a perfect rectangle of swelling on my shoulder, and it still sorta looks like something temporary, but I could tell when only about half of the black was done that it was going to look awesome -- and, it does. I guess I hadn't been able to imagine quite how it would appear, and so it exceeds any expectations I might have had.

I can tell it's going to peel soon, and the colours still aren't what they will be after that top layer of skin with blood in it has shed (the yellow is more orange than it will be, and the white is still dull and pinkish), so I won't try to photograph it just yet. I'll post a photo here soon.

As for the white band on my right arm for Arms Against War, it'll have to wait -- and then I might have to start with a thin black outline of it, as my skin is pretty white already. Time will tell, but as anyone who's been inked will tell you, tattoos can be addictive. This Flag of Earth on my shoulder may be my first, but it won't be my ONLY tattoo forever...


Phil Smith
January 19th, 2007

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The Lure of Ink

Today (which would have been my father's 72nd birthday) I finally went to the Lure website, called their number, and then sent them an e-mail.

http://www.luretattoo.com/

They used to be located just around the corner from me, and if they hadn't moved I might already have one if not both of the tats I've been wanting for months (and months and months, for the first one). I'll be entering another zip code, a drive that will take longer than my walk would've, but Lure is still my choice.

In a week I'll be turning 40, and I'm determined to have at least the Flag of Earth inked on my left shoulder by then. If I can get the white band around my right bicep (for Arms Against War) done within that time frame also, I'll be very happy.

An update will follow, with photos if possible.


I can almost feel them already, such is my anticipation...


Phil Smith
January 11th, 2007


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Return of the Grey Ghost

__

Got an e-mail today about an upgrade to a forum I'd almost completely forgotten I'd joined. My old Toyota Cressida is now officially a 'classic', and it's a damned shame it's had to sit for almost 2 years, shortly after sitting for about 5 before I acquired it.

Here's a link to my first post at the new Toyota Cressida Forums: http://forums.toyotacressida.net/forums/showthread.php?p=135031#post135031


Phil Smith
November 30th, 2006
__

things tend to continue

*

things tend to continue
(a body in motion tends to stay in motion)
(a body at rest tends to stay at rest)

*

Yep, I'm still a slacker -- or at the very least, an extreme procrastinator...

Then again, there are many interests pulling me in different directions...

...and that's the real problem.


However the Nation of Earth vision still stands, and I will (I promise) be posting again soon @
http://unifiedsettlement.blogspot.com/

Seriously.


Phil Smith

August 12, 2006

*

Dreamer

____________


What would you do if you won the lottery?

Some people ask that question to gauge character. I don't give a shit about that. I've always been a dreamer, finding fun ways to occupy my imagination. Some people like to keep their hands busy -- for me, it's my mind that always needs something to do...

...and the question of how to spend a sudden massive windfall is a fun problem to solve.

Many would just go crazy, buying all kinds of expensive stuff and partying until they soberly realize they'll have to sell most of it just to survive. Others (inexplicably) stay on at their jobs and try to pretend nothing happened. Sure, you need to provide for your future, but those people are occupying jobs they don't need, while too many go unemployed.

Those of you who know me well enough already know what's important to me. You can guess that I would spend time & money to further the cause of the Nation of Earth -- but you might also (correctly) guess that I could quickly amass an automotive collection more impressive than Jay Leno's, if I only had the resources.

Of course, not all lottery winnings are equal, and since the first thing I would do is get a divorce, whatever I might get would quickly be cut in half. The problem to solve now becomes, "What would I do with a large but LIMITED amount of money?"

The second thing to do is acquire some land -- because one of my dreams is to design and build my own place, on substantial acreage. The main building would not be a mansion, but more like a lodge -- because a small intentional community needs a center. New millionaires like to surround themselves with friends, and we would all certainly be living a good life, but there would be a lot of (satisfying) work to do. I'd like Airstream trailers for temporary on-site housing (one benefit of this is that people would be able to utter the phrase "I'll be in my trailer", just like movie stars), but RVs from other manufacturers would be considered.

The first building would be a steel structure, because they go up quickly. It would be used for a woodshop, and to store construction materials & equipment, and used for a garage later. There's no telling how long the lodge would take to build. Small cabins might be built -- they would give me something to practice on, for one thing.

Vehicles? There's a 1951 International pickup on a local lot that I've had my eye on, and I've wanted a Honda Ridgeline since they were introduced, but I don't even want to think about a possible collection right now. If I were to compile a wish list, I could go on for days...

In fact if I didn't have the Nation of Earth and my intentional community to think about, cars & trucks would probably be my main focus. In any case, one of the best things about such newfound wealth would be that I could finally build vehicles of my own design, and have my own private test course for them.

Yes, of COURSE I would travel, and of course I would help my family and friends. Charity? The Nation of Earth is my philanthropic measure -- perhaps it will include an organization that people can contribute to and volunteer for...

...but I would still be found in Levi's and Flag of Earth T-shirts most of the time -- and NOT along with a diamond-encrusted watch. I don't even WEAR a watch...

To sum it up, I wouldn't spend just to spend. I would spend CREATIVELY, and spend for the future -- mine, and Earth's.


Phil Smith
June 19, 2006



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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...