Their lips are moving.
Their lips are moving.
Although he’s been gone a couple years, I just found out my favorite college professor– a man who inspired my interest and love of economics– passed away. He was one of the last remaining free-market economists left in state-funded, socialist academia. Very, very sad day for me. He was one of my heroes.
I had many classes with him. My final class was “Advanced Monetary Theory” and because it was part of my graduation agreement, the course had to be offered despite my being the only enrollee. I would sit in the front row and he would lecture me and 150 empty desks about Keynesians and Monetarists. I loved every minute of it. Never missed a session.
Contrary to what globalist, mainstream propaganda feeds you, the Yellow Vest riots in Paris are not just about gas taxes and are very much about the loss of sovereignty to the EU-soviet and their policies of banksterism, cultural eradication, and open-spigot immigration designed to drive down wages.
I find it quite brazen that EU tanks are being used to crush French resistance against globalism.
Thomas Luongo relays a government-funded plan to reverse global warming with injections of smog:
The latest is the patently insane idea of dimming the sun by dispersing sulfate particles into the atmosphere to reflect and absorb some of the energy coming from it to slow the rate of global warming.
I would hope, at the very least, they are thinking of something thoroughly inert like barium sulfate, but they aren’t. They are talking about injecting SO2 into the atmosphere. Another word for SO2 is SMOG. This is the very compound we have been regulating power plants to not emit.
So, that’s it folks. That’s our choice now. Smog or a nice cozy, warm home with abundant food and mild weather for most of the planet.
My novel Gaiastan predicts this (along with catastrophic consequences.)
“Indigo watched as their brick shanties and broken glass and smoking chimneys flew by as his train puffed and chugged and chugged and puffed towards the Overtown precinct. Those pathetic undermen in their rags, he thought. Thank goodness Gaiastan is here to provide for those wretched souls. Where would they be without Gaianism?
Big Mother passed through the outer serfdom and into the industrial zone. Ash from the coal fired power plants and mills vented upwards from hundreds of kilometer high fabric smokestacks. The haze of aerosols obscured the dim orb of the sun, casting the earth below in shade.
Aerosols! Aerosols! They were the great savior of mankind! Once considered an evil pollutant, the microscopic specs of sulfurous soot found broad scientific acceptance. Aerosols were the antidote to global warming which had elevated earth’s mean temperature a whopping .8 degrees in the shockingly rapid time span of 300 years.
Aerosols! Aerosols! They saved mankind from the catastrophe of a global winter foreshortened by 8 days. Upon the arrangement of scientific consensus, national directives were issued, public works projects were launched, scientistic bureaucrats were deployed, methanol powered bulldozers were ignited. Financial alchemists were tasked with designing new instruments and derivatives to turn reality into abstraction. Trading exchanges began listing Aerosol Debit Derivatives… symbol: ADD. The economy was completely rearranged in a more enlightened, earth-friendly, sustainable manner.
And the amounts of particulates pumped into the atmosphere by kilometer high smokestacks held aloft by zeppelins rose and rose and rose. The aerosols filled the stratosphere where they reflected the sun’s infra red light that had fueled the pernicious, relentless advance of global warming that threatened to raise sea levels a catastrophic 8 centimeters. It took far less time to reverse the ravages of a degree of warming than the Thirty Year Plan computer model predicted. Almost immediately, the apocalyptic global warming began to reverse.
And as the coal ash aerosols increasingly obscured the sun’s rays, Gaia was finally cooled…
And cooled… “
“You don’t just need one way of looking at the world. Maybe you need two ways…
There’s no reason to assume those questions can be answered using the same approach.”
Two ships, 150 men trapped in arctic ice for two years.
Vainglorious leadership, months of darkness, native mysticism, spoiled food, alcoholism, scurvy, lead poisoning, and a creature picking off the men one by one, growing bolder in its forays.
The series really gets going when the amber twilight of the last meager autumn day– lasting but a few minutes– winks out, leaving the crew to fend off the creature and weather the darkness and cold in their crooked, heaving ships.
The men lose their minds. There is slow starvation, mutiny, suicide, and omnipresent fear.
When desperation pushes them off their ships, they attempt to cross a frozen hell, lugging their boats over the ice. Landfall and daylight brings no respite from the blinding, night-less desolation.
Some men falter, others rise to the occasion. Great conflict and drama ensues.
I loved it.
Well acted. Well directed. Well paced. Check it out.
Set inside the Superbunker on the eve of nuclear war… Here’s a snippet from the draft of chapter 11:
The football game resumed. The Saxons had scored a touchdown during Jin’s interlude, but somehow the Normans had scored as well. The game was now tied at 17 with two minutes left in the game. The Saxons broke the huddle and approached the line of scrimmage which was their own twenty yard line. The home crowd quieted once more. The first play was a pass that resulted in an eight yard gain. The second play connected for ten yards. McGuinn signaled for a timeout. After commercials for lite beer, erection pills, and more pickup trucks, the game returned. McGuinn ran four plays, connecting with his receivers on each, taking the Saxons down to the Norman forty yard line. There were fifty seconds remaining in the game. McGuinn rushed up to the line while the clock ticked away. Forty-nine… forty-eight… forty-seven… He took the snap and spiked the ball into the ground, stopping the clock at forty-four seconds. The camera cut to the pot-bellied Saxon place kicker who kneaded a football, placed it on a tee, and with a look of furrowed seriousness, booted it into a practice net on the sideline. His longest-ever, career field goal was fifty four yards. From where the ball was placed, it would be a fifty seven yard try. The Saxons knew they had to gain a few more yards to have a decent chance.
Coach Fulbright took off his headset. His lips silently formed words on the screen. McGuinn lifted his helmet and his lips started to move. Then Fulbright, noticing that a camera was zooming in on his face from a hundred yards away, covered his mouth with his laminated play sheet that resembled a Denny’s menu. McGuinn stopped talking and just nodded every couple seconds. Then McGuinn turned and ran out onto the field and into the Saxon huddle. The huddle broke and the players assumed their positions. McGuinn took the snap on first sound and extended the ball to the halfback who cut towards the right side of the line… but it was a play action fake. McGuinn rolled out with the ball in the other direction. The Norman linebacker pursuing from the back side discovered the ruse and cut towards, preparing to murder him. McGuinn was just able to get the pass off before he was pile driven into the ground, face first. The ball wobbled out, fluttering downfield about ten yards before it was intercepted by the Norman safety who was already charging fast…
The referee watching the play unfold could easily discern that the interception would be returned for a touchdown. He glanced at the flattened Brock McGuinn, then over to the charging Norman defender who snatched the fluttering ball out of the air and continued, without breaking stride, towards the goal, then he looked back at McGuinn…
And as if he was perhaps overcome by some sense cognitive dissonance at the notion of the underdogs actually winning the game…
Or perhaps because he was subtly informed by his supervisor before the game that it would be best for television ratings that Brock McGuinn continue playing in the post season for as long as possible…
Or perhaps because he was of Anglo-Saxon decent and ancient blood rivalries are sub-consciously passed on through genetic inheritance…
Or perhaps it was a legitimate, objective, unbiased assessment of the situation that merited a personal foul call…
The referee reached into his pocket, withdrew his yellow hanker chief weighted by a roll of pennies and…
The Norman safety ran into the end zone and spiked the ball. His teammates followed him and embraced each other and celebrated the miracle play and good fortune, but they heard the Saxon crowd begin to cheer and they instantly knew something was amiss. They turned back toward the original line of scrimmage and their fears were realized when they spotted the yellow flag and they spotted the skinny-armed, villainous referee whom they now cursed, and they spotted their arch-nemesis Brock McGuinn, now up on his knees, tufts of mud and grass stuck in his facemask and a shit-eating grin scrawled across his face.
“Unnecessary roughness!” shouted the president with unrestrained glee. “Fifteen yard penalty! Fuck you Normans!”
The skinny-armed referee announced the call and the crowd went into a frenzy of approval. The chubby Norman coach protested and spiked his headset to no avail. The ball was moved to the twenty five yard line. There were thirty two seconds left in the game.
The Saxons called three halfback dives in succession, forcing the Normans to use their timeouts. With twenty one seconds left, the pot-bellied Saxon kicker pranced out onto the field in his spotless uniform. The teams took their pre-snap positions. The crowd fell silent, meditating on the field goal that would secure victory. The long snapper snapped the ball. The holder plucked it from the air and set it on the ground. The kicker approached, planted his left foot and unleashed his coiled right leg. The ball launched toward the center of the uprights, over the outstretched hands of the desperate defense. The kick started out true. The crowd’s roar built. But then the ball started to fade left. The crowd roared louder, as if they might will it through the uprights with their screams. The ball tumbled, hooking toward the left post it…
The screen went totally dark…
“What the fuck is going on?” screamed the POTUS.
The cabinet members stared at each other and at the blackened screen in confusion. Then the page poked his head into the situation room.
“Mr. President, you have a call on the bat line.”
Loved season 1. Season 2 is terrible. Plot is hopelessly convoluted. It’s awful writing is anchored in unnecessary, unending, over the top violence. The compelling metaphysical questions are completely AWOL. The episodes are relegated to repeated scenes of shooting and murdering through obstacles, backed by a cheesey, SyFy Channel-grade soundtrack. There’s no one to root for. It’s just terrible. This show has jumped the shark. Too bad.
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Software engineer, postlibertarian, sci-fi fan, Duke CS/Econ grad, IBMer. I blog about economics, policy, technology, and the impending zombie apocalypse.
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