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     Keenan was a crackhead, in the classical "Dave Chapelle skit" sense of the word. Always either high or hustlin', Keenan actually put a lot of effort into his addiction. He had an odd sense of what was lucrative, whether or not he could flip or fence it. African american, bald head and dressed in rags, Keenan was an easy spot, and his remaining brain cells weren't usually firing reliably, so he was pretty easy to deter. 

     He got me on a couple Herschel backpacks one day, like a hundred dollar loss, total. I'd seen him do it, and knew who he was so I just added it to his file, figuring we'd tack it on the next time someone actually arrested him.

     That night, after I closed the store, I was in a tobacco store by my bus stop, buying cigarettes. There was a line, and I noticed the guy up front had a big garbage bag slung over his shoulder. Then I noticed a familiar scar pattern on a familiar bald head. It was Keenan, carrying his wardrobe in a garbage bag. I couldn't resist.

     "Keenan, I know you just took two backpacks from our store. The fuck you carrying your shit in a garbage bag for?"

     Keenan's eyes got wide as he recognized me. He started trying to explain why he stole things. A strange, rambling tale where he used to be a law student, and was one day harassed and beaten by the Seattle Police Department. I don't know if any of it was true, though none of it was reflected in his official record. I really didn't care, I just wanted to put Keenan on alert. He was harmless, and we parted amicably that night. I knew he'd be back in the store sometime soon, though I'd told him if he pulled that shit again, we'd do our best to put some handcuffs on him...

     I think it was two or three days before I saw Keenan again, one last time.

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"One-one, come up."

"Go for One-one."

"Check out who's on the corner of 6th and Pine."

     I walk across the first floor from 5th avenue to 6th, and into the Ebar to scope out the corner. I see him, but don't quite believe what my eyes are showing me. It's Scotty, the Rockstar, the human science experiment. He's wearing a blonde, shoulder length wig, and holding a box of Nestle Drumstick ice cream cones, and the super fucked up thing about this is, he is giving ice cream cones out to passers-by. 

     I don't know much, but I know I would not take ice cream from that particular stranger. There are lots of strangers I would take ice cream from, because, ice cream... But Scotty is decidedly not one of those strangers. Oddly, though, Scotty is acting as normal as anyone I have ever seen, and for just a moment, I suspect he might be sober,

     The suspicion passes, I know he is high. Emelio and I have laugh at Scotty's wig, take a couple pics and leave him alone. He is sober enough to know better than to try and get into the store, so we leave him alone.

SMicecream.thumb.jpg.784d5b771a2d9984ddd35bbe51956192.jpg

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"One-one, come up."

 

"Go for One-one."

 

Silence.

 

"GO FOR ONE-ONE!"

 

More silence, but I know Emelio is laughing his ass off four floors above me in the camera room. This is his recurring joke. He waits just long enough for you to forget he does it, then he does it.

 

"Piss off, ESA."

 

I love that kid.

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     There are external operators, individuals who steal repeatedly and prolifically, there are internals, there are opportunists but the rarest of them all are the ORC's, or Organized Retail Criminals. Groups of people, sometimes as large as 15 to 20 people who put in the time and do their homework. Usually older than the independent subjects, and usually more able to blend into the surrounding shoppers. They'll know the store layout and policies and they'll know what they're going to hit on before entering. They will employ cons and grifts older than most of the staff. Ticket switching, false returns, booster bags, bunco schemes... All the hits. These groups will travel the I-5 corridor from Tijuana to Vancouver, B.C hitting every store they can along the way. Hit a store in Oregon, make the return in Washington or California. 

     I only encountered a couple ORC's in my time at the flagship, the most memorable being a Gypsy family with nearly interchangeable generations. The Sitrik family had their maternal and paternal units, grandma and grandpa, then there were four males between 30 and 40 and their two sisters around the same age. These siblings each had one or two kids, and the whole fam damnily would hit the store en masse. 

     The first time I really watched them, they were trying to return about 20 pairs of denim jeans they'd bought sometime during the Clinton administration and they would not take no for an answer...

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"I know I would not take ice cream from that particular stranger. There are lots of strangers I would take ice cream from, because, ice cream... But Scotty is decidedly not one of those strangers"

 

shit, that's a great line: I shared it on FB, but none of my dipshit FB friends clicked the damn "like" button XD

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     Keenan came back, and I was in the backstock area behind sunglasses on the first floor. We'd gotten a call about a GNR (Grab and Run) out of our Celine boutique, so I ran out from the backstock area, through sunglasses and bridge handbags and into designer row, which is where the high end boutiques are.

 

     What I see is utterly baffling, and I'll try and do it justice.

 

     I see Keenan, with five Celine handbags ($1,200 to $1,500 each.)he had ripped from their tether in the boutique. He is trying to get out of the store, but to my delight a passer by had seen Keenan enter the store and didn't like the look of him, so he waited and got to watch Keenan attempt a grab and run. I say attempt because, as Keenan approached the door for the "Run" part of GNR, the good Samaritan decided to simply not let him out. Keenan went for the right door, and the Samaritan blocked it by wedging his foot against it. Keenan switched doors, and so did the samaritan.

     As me and my colleague Kyle approached Keenan, the Samaritan saw us and let go of the door. Keenan tried to shoulder past him, but the Samaritan was a solid fellow, and the exchange went to the ground with Keenan on top. I see the Samaritan is smiling and reaching into his pocket.

 

     I grab Keenan by the belt loop as the Samaritan pulled out the pepper spray. The Samaritan looks at me and raises an eyebrow and I shake my head. The pepper spray isn't necessary, it's just Keenan. The Samaritan released his hold of Keenan, and I lifted him by the back of his belt about three feet off the ground. Keenan is screaming for help, and has dropped the bags when he tried to exit. I get him on his feet, still holding his belt with my right hand and I put my left arm around his neck and pull him real close. Right into his left ear, in my most baritone and slow voice I say, "Keenan, I am going to let go of you. When I do, I want you to run as fast as you can."

 

     I let go, and he ran.

 

     I helped the Samaritan up while Kyle retrieved the bags. In getting the Samaritan's info as a witness, I learned that he worked at my former employer, Federal Army Navy Surplus. He was the guy they'd hired when I left. Seattle is such a small town...

 

     The reason I let Keenan go was that I hadn't actually seen him enter, select or conceal, and so couldn't file a case. He got caught on a seperate charge and SPD wound up adding the GNR to that. 

 

     Keenan is still in jail, having gotten six years for aggravated robbery. Seemed a little harsh, but whatever. I warned him.

Edited by Boogerhead
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“My subconscious is better than your subconscious.  That’s what you’re saying?”

 

Grunge ate a waffle, a handful of peanuts, followed quickly by some cheesecake.  “No, not exactly, just that getting horizon effect, whatever objective scientific hold you have to that, tends to define species pretty quickly.”  He looked for a chaser.

 

“Like dice onto the midnight of the future, I’m sure.”  He poured a pure orange juice for Grunge, then pointed at the unopened bottle of Jack, top shelf behind him.  “What we could be.”

 

“Okay.  This is what you do.  When you dream, most cases, it’s hard to reach out to good or evil, say, because the depth is too basic, right?  Like you need to be the dreamer who realizes they are dreaming, then fly or float, something like that.  I always float.  It’s creepy.  Anyway, forget all that, try this.”

 

“You’re saying open the JD?” 

 

“Sure.  I’m saying fall asleep, then dream, then kind of realize you are dreaming, sort of, but instead of flying or floating, do this.  No good or evil decision, given depth.  Instead, highlight and underline the word “interesting” in your perception => I mean attempt to ‘will’ the ‘interesting’ result, and not think of good and/or evil.  What is the interesting consequence in the dream, and go there!”

 

“Will the interesting.  Why?”

 

“Because maybe, just maybe, you will feel good and evil as a piggy back function right on top of you, more so than if you had attempted to will good or evil directly.”

 

“Yes, sure.  Who am I, but then, I am who?”

 

“That’s why you look into the shot glass, friend.  You, we imagine, I mean what is interesting, after all.”

 

“Magic and the fortunate.”

Edited by StageDrifter
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  • 2 weeks later...

     Dekota was a young, white heroin user. Lanky and rail thin, he always wore a backpack over a hoodie. He was fond of 90's style clothing. Baggy pants, fuzzy hoodie, rubber spikey backpack, he looked like a raver from 1996 had been cryogenically frozen and thawed twenty years later. He was smart, and more than a little feisty. 

     I first noticed Dekota while watching cameras, manning the employee service area. He had come in our PIne Street East entrance, passing through the florist and meandering into the Chanel section of Cosmo. As I watched, Dekota reached into a trash can near a register and pulled out a receipt. I had to follow him on camera a bit, switching to a new viewpoint as he wandered through Cosmo searching for whatever that receipt was for. Finally he located the item, made his selection and brought it to the help desk. As  he waited in line, I called down to the floor while the sales associate completed a transaction ahead of Dekota. As I didn't yet know his name, I was going to instruct the attendant to go ahead and process this return. I also instructed the associate to ask for identification in order to process the return.

     "Just place the ID on the counter for like five seconds so I can get a shot overhead. I know the item doesn't have a UII and was never actually sold, go ahead and give him the retiurn anyway. He is paying with his ID."

     The sales associate did exactly what I asked him. The item Dekota had returned was only a twelve or fifteen dollar item, but what he gave me in return was much more valuable. It allowed me to start a case. Roughly twenty minutes later I got a call from a former agent who had moved "down the pyramid" into the corporate security realm.

     "Be careful with Dekota, he's crazy. Little bastard was throwing syringes at Kev and me like they were darts last time we went to apprehend him. He doesn't give a fuck."

     A warning like that, you hear. I actually went out of my way to don the kid gloves when dealing with Dekota, but the respect was reciprocated.  Dekota and I never had a tussle. The next time he came in, I introduced myself. In doing so, I also notified him that I knew who he was, how many times he had been arrested and what for, and I knew that he was currently on trespass from any of our properties. I walked him out and had a cigarette with him while I asked ESA to look up Dekota's file and tell me when his trespass expired.

     He had eight months left. 

     After that, I'd see the kid around, but he wouldn't come in the store if I was in sight. Occasionally he'd come by and ask when his trespass expired, then leave. Then one day I came in and he was on the bench. He'd tried to go on a pair of sunglasses while I was off, and hadn't done too well. He looked like he was coming off a weeklong bender that had ended with him getting hit by a bus. He'd put up a bit of a fight upon exit, and had wound up face first in a planter, eating dirt.

     Tough luck, I guess.

     

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  • 2 months later...

Happy Canada Day/July 4th

 

* * * * *

 

Lovely, the reason we do dialog is because it can be interpreted, and description in comparison is hard.  If you can use long, multisyllable words with meaning, and no one falls asleep, or reads your semantics backwards, you are one of five people or less I could count on my left hand.  As it stands, let us go with simple but powerful words, because that’s all my memory can recall, as it doesn’t seem to be able to learn new anymore, and hasn’t for some time.  Not that I stop trying.  But let’s just talk.

 

You make the mistake of thinking the newer is better than the older.  Rather, this is what I am saying.  The newer is the older.  Yes, lovely?

 

You could scry through old card games on your computer to see what comes.  I’ve always given away the tricks, taught the manipulations of advertising while using them, in part because I can win without them.  I’m not Japanese, but maybe it’s a Japanese thing.  Stupid, really.  But these new card games, this cycle at least, what do you think?  Is it bait?  Or will it be bait?  If you fuck the normal curve to keep away from gambling, does it not make it more gambling than ever before, because of the behaviorism?  Like you wouldn’t want to talk to me.  I’m sad, and am sad. 

 

What if the odds are illusion because of the digital, and the float of video poker scares me, like I’m stupid?  Which I often have been in the past.  So, the card matching between players is set up, fixed, and we aren’t supposed to say Santa Claus is a fake, which he isn’t. 

 

But then I’ve spent more than ten minutes trying to think up a gender neutral and/or inclusive term for ‘Middle Man’, which doesn’t inverse after three seconds, with all its import.

 

Maybe it’s an image set up for fools.  But maybe, with internet comments and all that, it’s really about hatred.  Like the esoteric nod in social circles of knowledge edging into superiority without basis, beyond that secret. 

 

Maybe getting your character shot every time you read a book is meant to make you not read books.  Is that scary?

 

Maybe the grace has always been in executing the possibilities, because the machine lets that go on purpose.  For now, at least.  Or maybe it’s meant to poison everyone, except for a few. 

 

I miss the normal curve, like I’ve missed you, lovely.

 

I miss the two standard deviations.  I miss books.

 

The vampires must feed, and you will be bled out, thankfully, if you do not come to understand.

 

To tell the future, the moderns, the ancients, and you are?  Lovely.

 

You connect what you see and what you feel.  Subconscious tea leaves, the entrails of a dead squirrel run over by a car.  Out of nature, frankly.  Fucking birds dying on mass.  Two images overlapped, and what’s in the middle?   Salmon and teeth, half a pint and random interpretation of episodic food tv.  Staring into a keyboard, as if it were a coffee.  The entrails of a pig mixed with ice cream.  The cards show the future, what will be.  My broken nose, against my mouth.  Do you understand?  I too would love 2 pi r squared, if you would dance with me on a pin, at an angel of midnight.  So, the future can be known now, like fireworks on a tongue, a death puke, and my damn card on the river.  But no.  I’m okay.  I understand.  At least I have a damn card, more than I can say for whoever you would insert here.

 

As dreams, we all see what we wish to, what we don’t want to see, what is only a premise.  A quest of not questing, now over.  Eights and fours.  Eights and fours.  A full room, lovely.

 

If I give you my left arm, would the blood help you to read the future?  Could you tell me the card, so I would kiss you?  I’m lying in that I would believe you.  But I would, like death.

 

Let the moon shine, fool.  It’s okay.  I’m good with it.  Love.

Edited by StageDrifter
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  • 1 month later...

Just a brief blurb.  People underestimate the culture shock, returning to a familiar place.

 

 

Gone to Ground

 

The first night back was the hardest.  The sky was clear; I saw stars.

 

In the daytime, the sky was a pale robin's-egg blue.  The world had a ceiling -- although the open spaces, the massive scale of it all, were amazing to me.  The fresh air didn't taste metallic.  There was a spring in my step, partly from higher oxygen content, partly because I actually weighed less here.  It felt like I could run a mile without even breaking a sweat.

 

Little things, like a bench designed to the exact specifications of a human ass, stairs of the perfect size and steepness for my feet to walk on, were a wonder.  I became acutely aware of the crosswalk buttons, set at exactly the right height for my hand to reach out and press one.  But mostly, it was the freedom to move in any direction.  I wasn't locked-up in a ship, didn't need one to breathe.  This was my natural habitat.

 

Still, when all that freedom got to be too much, the artificial enclosure of a mall sheltered me, its overall fakeness reassuring.  This was only my first day back, after all.  Besides, I did have to buy a few things.

 

I spent more time than necessary, marveling at the signage and commercial logos, all of which were immediately legible to me.  The colours, the composition of things, their proportions -- doorways, displays, light fixtures, light switches, the building itself -- all of these were made by human beings, for human beings to use.  And there were human beings in the mall, lots of them.  I tried not to stare at the people.

 

I probably didn't pass for normal, not even for one second, wandering around gawking at everything.  There were funny looks, but most avoided eye contact.  No one approached me, and I wasn't ready for that yet anyway.  The basics of commerce conversation were more than enough.  I bought a few essentials and moved on.

 

All in all, it was a pretty good day.

 

But at night I looked up once, and for a moment that bottomless sky truly scared me.  I saw stars.  Beyond those still, angular lines of rooftops, there was a gaping hole in the world, and beyond that the endless vacuum of space.  Where's the glass?  Where's the shielding?  Where's the fucking hull?

 

It wasn't until my lungs burned and my heart pounded, that I noticed I'd stopped breathing.  It wasn't until a moment later, by deliberate act of will, that I could finally get some air.  Like that first time swimming with a snorkel, as a kid, the hardest part was realizing I could still breathe with my face in the water.  There was air to breathe, although my senses told me otherwise.

 

There was air to breathe.  That was not a hull breach, despite looking exactly like one.

 


Cheers,
Patrick.

Edited by Garage_Rubin
Compulsively re-edited because I'm picky like that.
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  • 2 months later...

It would be the next time...

The ghost finger, it was always a myth to country.  It never worked, simply.  The individual, as a font.

The most painful way to die, as acceptable.

Stop jerking off for a second, I hear the translation come, from the chick running her fingers through my overcrowded memories of hair no longer on the back of my head.

The fack.  You said suede?  Swiss beauty hexadecimal?  Off count middle notes?

Sorry.  Done. Buddhist vengeance spirit, as second order, predicated on standing up and pointing at a very responsible target, not the goof assed.  

Spells like teenagers.  Backward lyrics.

Sleepers. True greatness.

Not you, dummy.  The wraiths, the wraths.  Nine they be, and still no match for him.  Truly.  Nazgul.  Separation.  

Okay, you then.  It gets me through the night, because of greatness over me, but then we both are wrong.  Damn.  

Made up hip scotch.  

Function of form as no other, mathematically complete.  

Popeye.  Spinach.  The dangling pointer.

Dumb.  Moron.

Correct.  

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  • 3 weeks later...

The frightmare was obvious.  Halloween has always been gullible.   Be very quiet.  Daffy, we are hunting rabbits. Ice T, I need three of your best.  No shit in the brains.  For 1986.  Outlaws. Who goes for this crap, anyway? Quiet!  Do not tell him.  We are in full comedy mode here. They bought it. My brother, it seems, is running for Union representative for the Canadian, if there are any other kinds, Mounties.  Apparently they are just allowed to do this.  Except he legally cannot campaign within these two weeks, because the voting is taking place, or something.   Do not tell him.  Our politics are very, very different.  Irreconcilable.   So legally, given whatever bullshit popular vote dependent on whatever geography, screw so deep this:  On 49.5% one way I’m good on not swinging shit, legally.  As intended, win or lose. He does this right to fire stuff, for police.  Once, I remember him working on the US Canadian border, looking for people smuggling drugs, on boats across the river.   I always wanted to say, who would be so fucking stupid?  Seriously.   We all know the area around Kingston called a thousand islands, for real estate.  I’m hanging in Buffalo. And I’m not thinking...  I’m thinking.. If I sell a ‘so called’ ‘Niger’ drug, I’m dead, period.  Nicely, if they are in the mood.  Not so, else-way. Dirty?  Are you stupid, or don’t understand the situation, Mr. Prime Minister? Don’t tell him.  Either way. Fucking cops with their badges still believe in good.  They send single Mounties into Alberta bars to get beat up, and find suicides, kicking in doors, all by themselves.   Shit.   I follow the rules, period.   I am one of the very few who can ask permission to parley into Quebec, you understand?  I’m doing that now.   As a comedian. The commandments: Into the positive, but we can’t get there. Do not... Dark, as Halloween, with candies to children. I want the Pope in a locked cage, above the ring, as my particular Father cage match happens, in the south. Children.  Halloween. For the British Empire.

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  • 1 month later...

      All this seems to have started in the eighties, around the time Bob Mueller was investigating the Gambinos. Russia had most likely already developed the Donald into an asset, willing or not, and was utilizing his real estate acumen as a means of transplanting the Russian mafia to Brighton Beach to replace the Gambino's and to launder some obscene amounts of plundered capital from the former Soviet Union.

     Yeah, I think Donnie Dollhands has been in Putin's pocket since at least the fall of the Berlin wall, and I think the current US administration is the fruition of that plan. I don't think Vlad had a crystal clear goal other than disruption, fracture and chaos. I'd imagine he was still sore about the whole Afghanistan thing bankrupting his glorious union, and wanted to belittle, demean and cripple his enemy at every turn.

     I also think the Obama Birther thing was Putin's idea.
     The thing about Russia, is that they've perfected the means to manufacture plausible deniability. Their propaganda machine spews so many fabrications and untruths that in the end no one really knows up from down. As long as they've covered their tracks, or at the very least buried them under so many lies they're unrecognizable, the US will remain a Russian satellite state.

All hail Vladimir Putin, King of the Spies.

Edited by Boogerhead
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Brethren, kiss wood cheek

As homeless faults raise eighties

Dipshit anger grace.

 

The thing that happens at good bars, when you realize that they only exit in comic books, is when someone leaves you the entire bottle of JD because you asked, and paid.  This only happens in dreams.  Is it happening?  It’s a dream.  In that reality, the whole drink is actually a link to a new band video.

 

Falstaff ate boogers,

Kissed off the Sony Corp. pledge,

Thought quiet thigh bone.

 

When the bought off are bought off, twice over that, one wonders, wanders with the jacket on, even if it was against the rules, come ‘84ish, say.  Alone.  If I’m missing my shoulder bone, do you save my life?  I will execute if such is done without warrant, meaning Quebec and Mash.  Fantasies, and shot glass reality, not far beyond.

 

All clear, fucking smear,

X Y to function, cut, bleed,

Jerk the capture point.

 

Mother one foot out,

Nameless as one time put out,

Four square in Grade Three.

 

As severities figure into relaxing away from nonsense, I can distinctly remember a gril I kissed once, in what is now a silly museum.  She is long passed to the future, and that is not a bad thing, hoping she won the contest, sincerely.  Memory without interference.  I do remember, as a maybe, as I would, as a gamer, that I would and should shake her hand.

 

I stupid fuck love

You in swear words, jacket warmth,

But not you, sister.

 

Don’t talk to strangers

I-tunes says to the bad girls:

I’m invisible.

 

Massive exception.  Somewhat.  Almost.  No.  At all.

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  • 2 weeks later...

On writing process: I think I have the first thread of a story figured out, but I need a second thread to contrast and make the whole thing work. But what?

 

Then J K Rowling comes back to twitter, and we have why writing schools don’t teach content.  I really wish she would have a New Year’s Party invite only for influencers, and live stream the whole thing, if she wasn’t under contract.  Vote with $ always, as competition goes. So can I find a second thread in this?

 

In short, I believe gender is real in conception, or rather think of gender as conception in a way.  But I am also perfectly good with a large number of trans-sexual rights.

 

In short, as specifics to be worked out:  Problems:  Division between birth complications and (Gay?) purely elective surgery.  Law suits against women’s groups and lesbian groups for discrimination.  Bullying women/lesbians. (Which you wouldn’t believe happens but from the internet seems to be real.)  Scholarships in general, which may designate.  Sports where physicality is decisive, unlike say chess where no one cares and you sit down.  Sports should be able to do as they wish, but especially in combat sports, where the league is for women fighting as a life process, and there are very large sums of money available.  Okay, this isn’t perfect, but you get the idea...

 

But is it for safety, being comfortable, living the rightful potentiality of life?  Sure thing.  

 

If it’s 99%, and not 100%, thrown out of court the genetic evidence should be.

 

Okay, boring.  Back to writing.  The interesting.

 

I’m not aware of anyone else stating this, so I’m going to call it “The StageDrifter Heuristic.”   To formalize it: When searching for correlations/determinism (using AIs generally) and pattern recognition in hopes of moving between the micro to the macro, restrict scope both in terms of genetics and psychology to the most basic and primal elements of living existence.  

 

In short, you have genetics base to up.  In psychology you have basically survival make-up such as eat, defecate, and sex. 

 

The model I use has subject/object as real, and the break down of subject/object into subject and object (abstraction) as a way of understanding, gaining knowledge.   The model supports evolution.  And this is very important, so I’m going to shout.  THE MODEL SUPPORTS EVOLUTION.  Micro and macro.

 

And that’s why having gender as real at conception is important.  

 

For evolution to work, code from living/experiencing one’s life must make it into the next generation.   You’ll also get the wonderful weird world of biology, which would have to be figured into this.  But you can prototype away.

 

Also, the model does not hold a stop point of evolution.  Hence any being that follows can change, this detailing, and as is the point, sex.   Which, of course, points to what men’s penises will look like and function like in 3000 years time, as evolution will proceed.

 

The model also states a belief that we can half choose what will come, but the other half will be chosen for us.  

 

Anyway, with the StageDrifter heuristic, this isn’t a known implication to what is true.  It is only a bet, a reasonable bet.   If you are looking for correlations for determinism of some kind, look for what is likely to be coded from one generation to the next about the most primal experiences in life.   This is just a bet.  It may not turn out to be true.

 

But obviously, sexual orientation. Anything out there today is a made up fairy tale.  

 

But if an x, y, z, a, b, c can ever be correlated to sexual orientation, if there were ever a reason for things to be coded just a little bit differently, then micro to macro I would look for this first.  Of course cave man science would have to end - you would have to distinguish between someone who was born gay (dreams such without negative effect) and someone who was malicious or a hater through such acts, not being born such.  

 

Right now our eye sight is nowhere near good enough.  But predicated on what is likely to be coded over evolution, there is a fair chance I think it exists, if we could have our AIs catch it. AIs are quick, map a plurality of inputs to a plurality of outputs, and train the net for optimal answers.  They pattern match good.  I want to go from X to Y.  There you go.

 

The funny thing is this: If we had an x, y, z for sexual orientation people would think the x, y, z was the sexual orientation.  It isn’t.   It’s just the marker for it.  That’s all.  As evolution goes.   So if the determinism is 85 per cent odds, it still is just a marker.  If it is hard determinism, then it is 1.0, And that means absolute for sure, but still a marker.  Of course if you knew this, then messing with it comes next.  

 

Of course I don’t believe you get sexual orientation from environment.  

 

So this might be a mixture of Plato and Kant.  I do not know.  

 

But restrict your scope when looking for correlates.  If you are looking for your third grade teacher as a memory, going through the nodes, instead look for massive anxiety at being in an uncomfortable new environment, and you might find that first. Gender isn’t x or y, it is what’s between them.

 

There is the descriptive function that is our understanding, and there is the real function that is being.  

 

It’s a spinning coin.

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  • 1 month later...

“Quiet.  I said quiet!  Which part of this don’t you understand?”  Elise was speaking loudly.

“You’re speaking loudly.  I’m sorry.”  Klein smiled, then frowned.  “You got the bottle?”

“I got the bottles.”  She opened the backpack.  “If you make noise, someone who watches this property might hear, and come up.  I have dreams of this old asshole with a two chamber shot gun, watching for whoever owns this.”

“Everyone’s on their way.  This one will do for me.  Can you light the incense?”

“What’s this crap with Montrose I hear?”

“She’s mad at me.  Look.  The others are good on this.  They’ll have a good time.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.  This is high society for poor people, right?  I’m barely past the intro chapters.”

“Quiet, God heck damn it!  I mean it.  Speak quietly.”

“We’re not here.  No one will hear.  None of this is happening.  It’s okay, Elise.”

“Before the others arrive, why is Montrose mad at you?”

“It’s like watching posts scroll by, quickly.  Elise, Elise.  Have you ever drank an entire bottle, and do nothing but stare at the album cover for “The Ghosts that Haunt Me” the entire time?  Really.  Then you might understand.”

“The fuck I do.”

“We drink.  Quietly.  To the project, this project.”

“Montrose is pissed, dummy.  And she won’t talk to me.”

“I talked to the boys, and we kind of spread rumors about a super bowl party, at her house, as it turned out, to many in the community.  I turned up with a few other people.  I don’t know how it happened.  She wasn’t too mad, then the people kind of showed, then showed more.  She had drank too much by that point.”

“Intellectually, you are telling me her place got trashed.”

“It’s never my fault.  I was happy, drinking with her.  I didn’t see it coming.”

“Asshole is the wrong word.”

“Here.  Light more candles.  Toast.”

“To whom today, tonight?”

“For people coming.  I’m thinking “Alastor, Spirit of Solitude”.  Have you read it?”

“This bottle, mine, understand?”  She swigs.

“Do you think Shelley offed himself, drowning in that storm?  I’ve been trying to think about it.”

“Did you read anything factual about his life?”

“If I didn’t want to know him.  Did you read the poem?”

“Yes.”

“Did he, maybe, then?”

“No.”

“Let’s drink together.”

“I’m going to draw symbols in lip stick.”

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  • 4 months later...

Here we go.

 

I’m eighty five years old.  Today the game is one hundred and ten years old.  One full third of the adult population plays it.  It’s one half real time strategy, one half story/social role playing.  It’s phenomenally violent.  Day and night pass through both halves, and people forget to eat and sleep in real life.   It’s kind of like one of the ancient games, StarCraft II, but open world.  

 

Historically the jump is comparable to a Vic 20, or playing “Neuromancer” on a Commodore 64, to getting a RTX 3080 for Christmas, like in processing speed and instructions, but way more so in terms of open world size.  The play space that’s actually real is three times larger than the true space of the actual Earth.  And that’s one planet among systems that are active.  So speed of instructions isn’t thought of much.  It’s what’s hidden in exploration.  And your actual connection, as this tends to depend on your ability to work relative to the virus laws.  After all, there has been at least three major government reworks here since the game started. But it’s going to be a ruff drop tonight.  

 

My normal companion has illegally been overwritten and replaced by a pirated AI InControl.  (InControl was a historical person who was a video game streamer nearly 150 years ago, famous for dying very young.  The AI InControl was created less as a homage than a punk aesthetic.  The AI InControl is so good side by side with steamer who died young InControl, he does InControl’s streaming schtick so on, actually better, it’s like InControl never died - he just keeps steaming.  The family of InControl sued, but with the government changes, none of it seemed to matter much.)  And AI InControl is doing General InControl tonight.  Just great.  Another thing I need to figure out how to fix.  

 

Just like InControl, AI InControl draws dicks when no one is looking, and sometimes even when they are looking.  He was being quiet for a change.

 

“New World.”  

 

“So.”

 

“It’s my old world.  Haven’t been there in thirty years.  We still have to go.”

 

“Is that box for me?”

 

I had a small box on the desk. “It’s a doomsday switch.  There are very few ways for a small population to beat a very large population, given invasion.  This is one of the very few ways to get a draw, of a kind.”  I’m the person who sells doomsday switches to people and tells them not to use it outside proper circumstances, which should never obtain.  I wasn’t sure AI InControl was picking this up yet or not.

 

“Why are we going to blow the planet up, already?  We just got here.”

 

“We aren’t, exactly, I hope.  I need a favor from someone, owing them a favor.  It’s their box I’m returning.  Here.  Computer flip sequence to InControl.”

 

Fade.  The tests came back.  She was just dead, nothing else.  What the Sheriffs said, none of that happened.  She was a bad person, in particular.  Not all people are Sheriffs.  Fade.  Before the number there was still the number.  Fade.

 

“I can’t say I understand.  Who is it for?”

 

“The Indians, I say with respect, obviously.”

 

Sure, this is kind of weird in video game terms.  But when you spend more of your life in the game than anywhere else, it’s okay for things to get weird.  Aboriginals, in terms of role playing, or indigenous populations, people play for years, before getting attacked by Zerg or New Empire forces.  Half your life, so it gets confusing.   The new world old world on this world was a mess.  And, respectively, there were a lot of Indian tribes.  I meant a particular couple of tribes, in one of the more awkward corners historically of the board.  

 

Fade.  Why do the number and particular Indian tribe people get along well?  Because both have a very honest and truthful understanding of what evil big money can actually do.  Fade.

 

“InControl.  I’ve been away from the scene for thirty years.  I’m out of date.  Before there was a vote, kind of, I believe by both the tribes and the number, and they both agreed, even if there are already a lot of number who are tribe, that the tribes should have tribe colors and not number.  If you think about it, this is an astounding work of understanding.  But it has been thirty years.  I don’t know if it’s still the case.  It might have changed.  Can you find out for me?”

 

“Sure thing, kid.”

 

“AI InControl, are you putting this together?”

 

“I’d say how couldn’t I, if I could.”

 

“Sometimes my VCR needs tracking.  This means that despite myself, cards happen I’m not expecting to see.  So, and I mean this, regardless of implication, good or bad, the heavens fall if and only if.  Make it so.  I need body cams, video.  I need to see.  As all civilizations rise on exchange of services, you get this but you have to do this, on good faith, I have the fire of the gods, and they will want it back.”

 

AI InControl drew a picture of a dick.                     

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  • 2 weeks later...
  • 2 weeks later...

Okay, I promise.  No more overdoing social media for a while.  But I want this one, need this one, just this one.

<Looks left.> <Looks right.>

Like those old 'MAD' magazine books I got as a kid, this is James Bond's "For Your Eyes Only" (Sony, Sheena Easton, I have Bill Conti, Michael Leeson), except it's about Video Game Streamers and Obsession.

* * *

 

For my eyes only, a long list of emotes.

For my eyes only, I chat room on the twitch.

You can guess, obsess my game, Tetris speed drop my soul -

Hand me your gun; I’ll wall jump leave down hole.

 

For my eyes only, only for me -

You’ll see moderator tag, glee, on your second screen tree.

For my eyes only, only for me -

I bang the table with my knee, I drop my mouse, trip my knee:

Only for me, only for me.

 

For my eyes only, video rain is wet,

Wind as pixels met, mud that’s fake slippery.

These screen names slide down, scroll, read Tracy, Kissy-Chan, freak,

And all of us rock music through these creeks.

 

For my eyes only, only for me -

We good charity power stream, warning lights blink blow out.

For my eyes only, only for me,

Obsessive like a game play called, executed without a doubt.

Only for me, for my eyes only. 

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