Previously: Morlocks

"Uh, Sarge? You gotta see this!"

"See what, O'Brien?"

"We're getting EMF from Earth!"

"What? The Earthians developed radio? I thought they had an antitechnological civilization? Move over, Private, let me look."

Sgt. Zales was as surprised as the private. "Hold down the fort, O'Brien, I think the lieutenant should have a look at this."

"Sure thing, Sarge." O'Brien was uneasy -- first the entire southern hemisphere of Mars irradiated to lifelessness, now these strange signals from Earth. The signals were obviously artificial, but he couldn't decipher them. "Galaxy be but this is weird," he said aloud to nobody, because nobody was there.

Meanwhile, the controls on Earth had their own problems. They were holding a meeting in the church about some spooky, probably demonic, activity around their farms. "You saw the circles, Reverend, what do you make of it?" Muldoon asked.

"Probably just kids... you know how teenagers are" Reverend Smith replied. "Remember the cows that got tipped over last year and you thought it was demonic, when it turned out that the kids next door were just doing a bit of old-fashioned cow tipping and confessed their sin?"

"But how would they make these circles?"

"I don't know," the Reverend replied, "but as long as there's no property damage and nobody is harmed, I really don't think we need to worry about it. If it was just kids, they'll confess and repent. If it's evil we'll know soon enough."

A kilometer beneath them held a different meeting.

"The Martians haven't answered," Rula said. "I think we should send a nobotic probe to Mars and see if they're still there. The first probe is on its way to Venus now."

Gumal wondered about the circles their craft caused in vegetation. "What about the controls? Won't this make them wonder?"

"Let 'em wonder," said Rula.

"Give me that stratodoober," said Rority.

"I ought to give it to the controls, those stiff necked assholes!" Gumal said.

On the other side of the sun, General Washington had blood in his eyes and death on his mind. The deaths of millions on Venus' southern hemisphere and the deaths of millions of Martians if they were responsible. And he was sure they were.

"But General, how could the Martians have done such a thing? It would suggest that they had far better technology than we do. How could we fight anyone so powerful?"

"You forget, General Ford, that when we took over we were far outmatched technologically. And I have a plan to wipe out the Martian menace once and for all."

"May I ask how, sir?"

"We're going to throw rocks at them."

"Throw rocks, sir?"

"Yes, Ford, rocks. Big rocks. Mountain sized rocks. Extinction event sized rocks."

"Wow," Ford replied, "you're going to have to go an awful long way to find any rocks that big. After all, they used up the entire asteroid belt, plus Demos and Phobos, plus every other big rock they could find this side of Saturn. The asteroid belt and a third of Saturn's rings are already on Mars from their terraforming days."

"That and most of our carbon. Damned idiots that ran things before we took over gave it to them. But there are plenty of rocks left around Saturn," Washington responded. "We'll have a craft om the way within a week."

"Sir," general Ford said plaintively, "Don't you think we should make sure the Martians are behind it?"

"Certainly not. The populace is riled up and we need a scapegoat. They're responsible whether or not they're responsible. We're running out of room here on Venus, we're taking Mars, too. And Earth as well if we find an excuse."

It was ironic that the Amish were worrying about the peaceful "devils" underground when the real threat was two hundred million kilometers away on the "Morning/Evening Star". A week later, Rula had some bad news for everyone. "We received signals from Venus, and they were hard to decipher, but we did it. We have some big problems. It looks like they may be getting ready to wage war with Mars."

"We got signals from Mars?" Gumal asked.

"Yes, but they weren't aimed at us. They were aimed at their own spacecraft. We don't know why they wouldn't answer us, but think it may be that they're not as technologically developed as we are and simply can't understand us. We're trying again. We need to warn the Martians."

"Why?" asked Gumal. "We haven't had contact with them for at least a million years. They're likely to be a completely different species by now."

"Because of what we heard from intercepted Venusian signals. They plan to exterminate the Martians and take over Mars, and we'll likely be next. We need to contact the Martians and see if we can help. Venus is certainly not going to be friendly, the Martians may be if we give them a reason. By the way, where's Rority?"

"He's working with linguists to try and craft a message the Martians will understand. Meanwhile, we have probes around Venus, and we think the Venusians don't have the technology to detect them.

"You think things were dire when the supernova hit, it's going to get much worse. Gentlemen and ladies, it's System War one and it's not going to be pretty."

Continues...

Previously: The Surface

"Holy crap," said Gumal. "We're Morlocks."

Noob was puzzled. "We're what?"

"Morlocks," Rority replied. "It's from an ancient book by a protohuman named H. G. Wells. This fellow's story has a man travel through time to the future, and finds a peaceful society named the Eloi. But of course, like most of the protohuman fiction, it turns ugly and the reader is introduced to another society, the Morlocks, who live underground and eat Eloi. It's no wonder these people are afraid of us!

"But at any rate, what have you found out about the nobots?"

"The data were hard to find, since they were so old. I can't pin a date on it, but a few million years ago after we'd started making everything out of nobots, we collectively decided to build the matrix of nobotic cubes. It gave us our present paradise. I fear it may now end, and maybe for the best. We've made little scientific progress in a long time. We just had no need.

"But you're the anthropologist," the programmer said. "What should we do about the species living on the surface?"

"Gumal's the anthropologist, I'm just a prehistorian archaeologist. What do you think, Gumal?"

"I think I need a hell of a lot more data. We know little about them."

"Odd that I should be teaching history to a historian," Noob said, "but we're both descended from a common ancestor. They were originally known as 'Controls' although they didn't want to live in fantasy cubes. They considered themselves in control of the situation. We, of course, were called "Experimentals' because we were experimenting. I still have quite a bit more research to do and data to uncover and collect, but there were groups of protohumans called 'Amish' who were against technology. As I said, I haven't yet found the data, but I suspect that the Controls; or Eloi, as your protobook calls them, are these Amish people."

"Do they have beer?" Rority asked.

"I haven't found any references to beer, but it's quite possible since they were originally Germanic people. I'm surprised you don't know, since you're the archaeologist" said Noob.

"I was joking," said Rority. "Some of them did, but most of them abstained from any alcohol except wine, and then only during communion."

"During what?" asked Gumal.

"One of their rituals, it isn't important. I'm excited at the prospect of studying these people, to see how different they are from us and from protohumans. They seem more like protohumans than humans, not much evolution at all. Which isn't surprising, since they would never accept genetic modifications, and the environment was tamed long before we entered our cubes. But Noob, what about the Martians and Venusians? Are they a fiction, like most of our lives have been until now?"

"It's uncertain, but we'd terraformed both planets before we buried ourselves. There are probably still people there, unless the supernova or something else killed them. Venus had a problem with CO2, it's possible the greenhouse effect could have run wild again. We're just going to have to have someone visit them to see, unless somebody can think of a way of long distance communication. Most likely, sending nobots would be faster than trying out various radio frequencies until we found one they were listening to."

"So much to catch up on," Rority said. "I'll send some nobotic sentinels; artificial birds, rabbits, squirrels, insects, etc."

Gumal wondered about the Amish. "I hope they don't try to eat... what am I saying? They can't hurt a nobot!"

Two weeks later they assembled again, this time a larger group with Rula and a few other disciplines. "Well," said Rority, "no beer, damn it!"

Gumal said "what about strato...DOH! Of course no stratodoobers, what am I thinking?"

"Well, boys," said Rula, "what are your plans?"

"We should get a signal from the Martian probe tomorrow, but Venus is behind the sun right now so it will be a few more days to see what's up with it," replied Akwort, the planetologist. "From our telescope signals it looks like the terraforming there has held, but we don't yet know if people still survive."

Turning to Rority, Rula asked "What about these so-called 'Eloi' or 'Amish' or whatever they're called? Can we and should we reintegrate?"

"Impossible," he answered. "They think we're devils from hell. If we want to go up top it will have to be the southern hemisphere. It's easy enough being invisible, but impossible to be one of them. I doubt we could still procreate with them, considering how long we've been separate. We don't have any DNA samples from them yet, so we can't be sure, but I'm pretty certain it's unlikely."

"Well, hell," she said. "And I wanted them to teach me some of their dances! Yes, Rority, I read your report. Did anybody bring their stratodoober?"

"I did," said Rority. "Anybody got any beer?"

Continues...

Yesterday was Governor's Day at the Illinois State Fair, but he didn't have much fun. He was Booed off the stage when he tried to give a speech. The local channel, which I couldn't get to stream on this Win 7 notebook so I won't bother linking, said 2500 protesters were there. I won't link the SJ-R, either, because that web site belongs on websitesthatsuck.com (is that site still active?).

I tried to find a youtube video of it, but Google failed me there.

You can't live, and especially drink, in Springfield without knowing state workers, and they're PISSED. They tell me that Quinn is the most Republican Governor they've seen, and Republicans occupied the Governor's Mansion for 20 over years. One over the top worker told me "He's worse than Walker," referring not to the former Democratic Governor who went to prison after leaving office, but Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker, who faced a recall over his radical right wing anti-union policies. Quinn reneged on the union contract he signed, withholding raises and now is trying to get workers to take a pay cut, despite the fact that state employees earn less than their private sector counterparts and the fact that Illinois has fewer state workers per capita than any other state.

"How come they keep raising my taxes but the state's broke?" someone at Felbers asked nobody in particular. "Simple," I replied. "The politicians are shoveling the cash to their cronies. After all, this IS Illinois!"

The local station had a short clip of Lt. Governor Simon speaking to a reporter as the crowd booed Quinn. She had played banjo with her band there the previous night.

Politicians in both major parties need to wake up. People are incredibly angry.

There IS a free lunch, and money does indeed grow on trees.

Earlier this summer as I was sitting on my front porch, drinking a beer and watching traffic go by, I noticed the color red in the tree in my front yard. Curious, I inspected more closely and it was full of red fruit -- nectarines. I've lived there three years, and it never had fruit before.

I didn't even know it was a fruit tree. The thing was full of fruit. I've been eating them all summer long now, they're delicious. And cost absolutely nothing whatever. I've also been giving a whole lot of them away, for free... but I could sell them if I wanted. The money would have grown on my tree! My neighbor made some excellent preserves from them, and gave me a jar. Free preserves from free fruit!

This past spring I bought a "Big Boy" tomato plant for five bucks. Those tomatos would have been incredibly cheap, less than a penny each, but not free. Alas, lack of something as free as FOSS and something I pay for killed killed it -- city water and a lack of rain. Tomato plants don't much like city water, and we've had no rain at all to speak of. I got one tomato off of it, thanks to the lack of free rain, and it was the size of a billiard ball. That was the most expensive tomato I ate in my life, thanks to the lack of something that's free.

Foss people shouldn't say "free as in beer," they should say "free as in rain." Rain enjoys the ultimate freedom. It goes where it wants, and it costs no one anthing. But when the rain decides it wants to take a vacation in Europe, you have a drought here. Lack of the free rain here in the US is going to cost everyone else in the world, because the corn crop -- actually most crops -- are decimated. They estimate we're going to get way less than half of what is normal. And the price of corn affect the price of all your food. ADM's slogan is accurate; the US is indeed "breadbasket to the world" (despite the fact that we grow little wheat in Illinois, most of that comes from Kansas). Corn is in everything. It, rapeseed, or soybeans are what your cooking oil is made of, and all of those crops are doing terrible. The sugar in your soft drinks comes from corn. Almost all animal feed comes from corn, affecting the price of meat. All processed foods will go up for at least a year.

So no matter where in the world you live, the price of your meat, cooking oil, and many other foodstuffs is going up, all because of the lack of something that is free -- and that's a free something you cannot live without. Much like air, which is also free.

If you don't think money grows on trees you must not own a commercial orchard, because all their money grows on trees. Most of Illinois' money grows on cornstalks and bean poles and things like that. Paper companies' money all grows on trees. Well, mostly on trees, you need more than wood to make paper.

Anyone who disparages something because it costs nothing isn't seeing reality clearly. "You get what you pay for" and "Linux is only free if your time is worthless" are incredibly stupid sentiments. If you buy Alieve or any other name-brand analgesic, you're paying three times what someone buying generic is, and you get exactly the same relief, because it's exactly the same drug. If you buy Green Giant corn for $1.50 per can, you're getting an inferior product to the generic on the same shelf that costs sixty cents, because Green Giant doesn't taste as good -- they add high fruictose corn syrip, as if your corn was starting to rot and ferment.

As to Linux and your time, that used to be accurate, but no more. Installing it takes very little time (far less time than installing Windows) and will save you lots of time once it's installed. No more patch Tuesdays with reboots, patching Linux takes a single click and you're done. No reboots unless you're upgrading the entire OS. What takes ten to fifteen clicks in Windows takes one or two in Linux, provided, of course, you choose your distro wisely. You can't just pick a random distro and judge Linux as a platform, because all Linuxes are different, some in small ways and some in huge ways.

Not only are the best things in life free, but the two things you absolutely cannot live without, air and water, are free. The third thing you absolutely cannot do without is food, which requires free rain and which you can grow for free.

The best things in life are not only free, but in many cases, like water and Linux, the free commodity is superior to the one you pay for. Oh, and those free nectarines are the best tasting ones I've ever eaten, but then, all the others I've eaten were commercially grown and sold in a store. Home grown, free food is always superior to the stuff you buy in the grocery store.

You can keep that pile of gold, I don't need it, Mr. Midas.

Previously...

Jonah Muldoon finished his plowing and started walking to the house, the mule's bridle in his hand. His wife was just finishing dinner as he washed the field's grime off of himself, muscles aching in a good way. He'd gotten a lot done.

The Reverend Smith pulled up in his buggy as Jonah and Rebekkah sat on the porch, drinking the communion wine and munching the communion bread and watching the fireflies blink. "Well, hello, Reverend!" Jonah said. "What brings you out here this fine evening? You look troubled."

"I am. We have serious trouble; serious bad trouble. Some devils have escaped from hell and have tunneled their way up here. It's especially troubling because we've not heard from our cousins in the southern hemisphere; I have a cousin in Argentina and we've not gotten any mail from there in weeks. Get your pitchforks, we may have a fight."

"Pitchforks? Fight? Reverend, are you ill?" Jonah was worried; the reverend was more devoted to Christ than any man he'd ever known. He was not the sort of man to commit any violence at all, and in fact just a month earlier a young man had punched him so hard it had knocked the preacher to the ground. Rather than striking back in anger as Jonah feared he might have done had he been in the same situation, the pastor had gotten up, dusted himself off, and offered to let the youth hit him again!

The young man had started shaking, then fell to his knees, sobbing and begging forgiveness -- which the holy man had done. Now here was the Reverend Smith, all wild-eyed and screaming for blood. Had he gone mad? Was he possessed by a devil? Maybe one of the devils the reverend had been spouting about?

"Sir," said Johan," I don't understand. God Himself guards hell. Perhaps He's testing you?"

"You must come with me!" screamed the distraught preacher. "Please!"

"You go ahead and help the reverend," Rebekkah said, patting Jonah on the arm. "He's mighty upset and God only knows what he's capable of in his state of mind. I'll stay here and pray." Jonah kissed her on the forehead, told her he loved her, and left with the Amish preacher.

It was a month after the supernova, and the Muldoons nor any of the other Amish knew that the entire southern hemisphere was dead. Nor did they know that humans had survived the apocalypse in the self-made prison that they had just discovered a month ago.

Nor did they know that these humans even existed. The Amish were more like protohumans than true humans; human evolution had been self-directed, while the Amish thought technology as being evil and had shunned it since times forgotten. Species only evolve when their environment changes, and unknown to them, the nobots had kept the Earth's surface in near perfect harmony. Very little life had changed much in millions of years on the planet's surface.

They also didn't know that they had been known as "controls" when humans had started living in their nobot-constructed fantasies, fantasies that they now thought were real.

But the humans had still striven to learn, and there were still people capable of programming nobots, and even getting information out of the trillions of trillions of trillions of trillions of bits of data the nobots held. Their research, triggered by the death of half the nobots on Earth, uncovered the fact that they had been underground for millions of years and living mostly fantasies. They had reprogrammed the matrix of cubes in a small section to slowly collapse, and a sinkhole had opened in McGregor's pasture and swallowed half his cattle. He was standing by the large hole when Smith and Muldoon arrived.

Rority was feeling quite a bit better after a month's worth of recuperation from the radiation sickness, and had opted to actually travel, which he hadn't known he'd never really done, to the northern hemisphere to visit his partner, whom he hadn't known he'd never really seen in the flesh until the catastrophe pulled the wool off of everyone's eyes. He and Gumal, probably the world's best known anthropologists, historians, and biologists (and in their minds, probably just the best) were chosen to investigate life on the surface.

Life on the surface was holding crude weapons with pointed tines. "Garboook are grato! Gutably!" one of them babbled. "Protohumans? Now?" Rority thought. "Of shit," Gumal thought.

McGregor saw them and pointed his pitchforks at them. "Back to hell, devils!" he ordered.

Muldoon now understood what Reverend Smith had meant. This had been prophesied. The antichrist had come, followed by Christ, and Satan had been banished to hell, but the prophesies said he'd be back in a thousand years.

In actuality it had been a few million.

"Uh, I don't like the looks of this," Gumal said.

"They're speaking in tongues, Reverend," Jonah said. "No," replied the reverend, "tongues is the language of God, anyone can understand Him. These devils simply speak a different language, and one that seems clearly evil to me."

"I can't understand them," Gumal said. Rority held his hand out and a card appeared. "Back to hell, devils!" the card said out loud.

"Shit!" exclaimed Gumal. "We're going about this the wrong way."

"Agreed," said Rority. "Lets go back down and figure out how to solve this. Nobots! Make it look to these creatures that the ground is as it was!"

Smith, McGregor, and Muldoon stared in amazement as the ground filled itself in and the vegetation that had been growing seemed to have never been disrupted. "Thank you, Lord," the preacher said to the sky, "for showing us this miracle. Help us to understand it! Amen." The other two echoed "Amen."

"Well, Gumal said to Rority, "we really fucked that one up."

"Amen to that," Rority said. "Now what?"

Continues...

John Ashcroft: Your papers, please!!!
John Gilmore: Uh, like, I only got a pipe, man...
        John Gilmore, founder of the Electronic Frontier Foundation, is suing US Attorney General John Ashcroft for Ashcroft's unwritten but enforced law that says an airline can't sell you a ticket without identification.

        From the legal filing:

On July 4, 2002, Plaintiff tried to fly to Washington, DC to petition the government for redress of grievances and to associate with others for that purpose. He was stopped because he refused to identify himself before boarding the flight. Photo of John Ashcroft, hosted on Google's servers
                When he asked the airline officials why, they told him the government required that the airlines ask for ID, but they could point him to no law or regulation to support their demand. That is because no such regulation has been published. For the first time in this Nation's history, the US government is using secret regulations to restrict First, Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights.
                Plaintiff contends that any regulation that limits his ability to travel anonymously within the United States is unconstitutional. Similarly, any regulation that impacts his ability to associate and petition for redress anonymously is unconstitutional. Any regulation that requires that he be subjected to a more intrusive search than other travelers - based solely upon his request for anonymity - is unconstitutional.
                The unconstitutionality is compounded because the law is secret. Despite the secret nature of the law, plaintiff has been informed and believes that the airlines have been mandated by the federal government to inform air travelers that the law requires them to show identification - a statement which is not true.
                Another aspect of this secret law is that when faced with air travelers without ID who insist on their right to travel anonymously, the federal government has instructed the airlines to either refuse to allow said traveler to board the airplane, or to label the traveler as a "selectee" and to conduct a more intrusive search.
                Plaintiff objects to any requirement that he produce any government-issued document, whether it contains his identity or not, as a precondition of exercising his constitutional right to live or travel within the United States. Such "internal passports" are anathema to a free society.

          Gilmore is quoted by Reason Online as saying "I want to avoid, 'May I see your papers, comrade?'"
        Right before Bush appointed him to his Attorney General post, Ashcroft was beaten in his bid to retain his seat as Senator from Missouri by a man who had been dead for a month; the dead man's wife is now Missouri's Senator.
        Will Ashcroft's losing streak continue? Tune in next year...
7/19/2002 Springfield Fragfest

(Apologies to NON-U.S. citizens; this is a U.S. rant. It may or may not apply to you and your countrymen's rights, depending on your country's laws and/or constitution. You might contemplate it, and see if you can affect change in your country for the betterment of yourself and your countrymen)

By reading this web post, you agree to hold its authors, heirs, assignees, friends, relatives, and total strangers harmless of any blame for anything whatever at any time.

By reading this you agree that the owner has the right to ransack your house looking for illegal copies of it, or for any other reason whatever. You also agree that the author can take anything from said premises for any reason, and for any length of time, and shall be held harmless from any damage or destruction of said goods.

You agree that you will give me more money every year whether "product" or "content" is delivered, or whether such "content" is helpful, beneficial, or even harmful.

You agree not to file suit against the author, his friends, relatives, heirs and assignees, or total strangers for any reason whatever, up to and including violent bloody murder.

By clicking on the link to this page ("opening the package") you have agreed to all the agreement's terms.

Sound stupid? No more stupid than Microsoft's, Adobe's, Id's, or anybody else's EULA.

End user license agreements are NOT supported by Unites States copyright law in any way, shape, or form. There is NO provision for them whatever. In fact, there is no constitutional provision for the concept of "intellectual property".

Unites States copyright law gives an author or artist a monopoly for "a limited time." It is a COMMERCIAL MONOPOLY. You may not make copies of a copyrighted work and sell them. If you do, the copyright holder can collect damages from you, which would include all your profits, plus court costs, plus "punitive" damages.

In short, if John Carmak catches you selling copies of Quake, he could make more money from you than he could have by selling Quake directly to the folks you sold your illegal copies to.

Under United States law, you may freely copy anything you want so long as you do not charge for it. That is why (duh!) there are photocopiers in libraries- in fact, why libraries exist at all. Making a copy of Unreal Tournament to have a LAN party is NOT illegal. The EULA in the box is not worth the paper you didn't sign in the first place.

So how did the EULA ever happen? It's all the computer's fault!

Before computers, there were no EULAs. Copyright license agreements were a pact by an author with a publisher, or with a publisher and another publisher. Mark Twain wrote a book, nobody owned the words he penned- but nobody but he could sell those words. Mr. Clemons could publish and sell those books himself, as he had a copyright for a limited time (under 20 years in Samuel's day), or he could sign a contract with a publisher allowing that publisher to print and sell Mark Twain books.

When Joe Averageguy bought a copy of Tom Sawyer, it was his. He could legally do anything he wanted with it. He could look at it, read it, tear the pages out and use it for toilet paper- it was HIS. He could stick it on a photocopier (if there had been such a device) or transcribe it. So long as he only gave his transcriptions away and did not take anything in return, he broke no law.

In the middle 20th century, shortly after computers were developed, there weren't very many of them. As it takes quite a few man hours to develop software (especially with the primitive tools of the time), it was incredibly expensive per copy to make a "break even point."

To maximize revinues (which were coming from only the largest and wealthiest companies in select industries, like the insurance industry), software companies didn't just print source out in a book or stamp it into 33 1/3 vinyl albums (although it would have been technically feasable) and SELL them like books and records. They couldn't, there would be no way to make a return on all the man hours they had invested.

So rather than sell anything, they wrote up a contract, a "license agreement" that in effect made the end user a publisher without rights to print. The contract said that I, Joe Programmer, would install this program on your computer, and you were not allowed to make copies of it. The contract was printed up on old fashioned analog paper and signed with an analog pen on a piece of analog paper. A REAL signature with a REAL pen on REAL paper. It was a REAL contract.

Please excuse this important digression-

I have the freedom of speech. You cannot make me shut up.

OK, yes you can. You can pay me to shut up. You can write up a contract stating that you will give me so many dollars, and in return I will agree to shut up. If I then speak, you can sue me in a court of law, and WIN. I will likely have to pay you whatever you had paid me, plus some.

Would my free speech rights be violated? In no way. My free speech rights would have been sold, by me, in a free marketplace. I have the right to give up my rights.

In the same way, the computer owner's constitutional fair use rights were not violated- he agreed, in writing, to give them up.

Fast forward thirty years. Computers were now small enough to sit on a desk and still be useful. Economy of scale had grown so it was no longer feasible to charge hundreds of thousands of dollars for a single installation of a piece of software, and neither was it feasible to get an agreement in writing from each and every user of a machine or its software.

So they just stuck the license agreement in the box.

Folks, an unsigned agreement is not an agreement. Clicking "I agree" is no more an agreement than speaking the words "I agree". A verbal agreement, as lawyers say, isn't worth the paper it's printed on.

Lets fight this monster. If everyone is in agreement that these things are legally binding without your signature, it might as well be fact, it WILL be fact, and big business will have the power to write anything into "law" they wish WITHOUT bribing politicians with campaign cash.

They are, in fact, doing their damndest to make this real.

In the 1970s the record companies (as they were called) tried to sue to outlaw cassette recorders on the grounds that they could make cassettes that could then be copied with the record companies' songs and the bootleg cassettes illegally sold.

The courts said no, these are perfectly legal. Unfortunately for the big multinational conglomerates, the American citizen has rights, too. The right to make a "talking letter" and send to Grandma, for instance.

The right to tape "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha Ha" off the radio. The right to give that tape away. The right to do anything with that tape recorder short of copying a copyrighted record and selling that tape.

By the early 1980s the VCR had arrived, and now it was the movie industry's turn to litigate. And lose. VCRs are perfectly legal, as is renting a copy of "Fantasia" and making a copy for yourself.

Copyright protects the author against commercial misuse, and no other kind of use.

The fact that the newer copies are digital makes no difference.

The entertainment industry is trying to extend the worthless software "license" (the unsigned "agreement" that you don't have to agree to to agree to) to VCR tapes, DVDs, and even record albums.

Don't lose sight of your constitutional RIGHT to make as many copies of Metallica's "Free Speech For The Dumb" as you want, in any format, and to give as many copies of that song away to as many people as you want to.

Just don't try to sell them. That is both illegal and immoral.

Don't try to profit otherwise, like Napster did. If Napster had not been a commercial entity, the trial would have gone very differently. Notice that nobody is suing the fellow who wrote Gnutella- he did it for free.

Copyright is about commerce, not property. There IS a difference. A haircut is commerce, too, but it also is not about property. Your barber does not own your haircut, and neither do you. It just IS, like water.

Words, pictures, ideas, under U.S. law are NOT property despite what Michael Eisner would like you to believe.

Your rights and freedoms are under attack. Your ignorance is your enemies' greatest strength. It behooves you to educate yourself about your constitutional fair use rights before you wind up giving them away by default.

You can play Unreal Tournament or fight for real. Your choice. You can do both, you realize!

Here is MY eula:

"By accepting my money, you agree that what I buy belongs to me, under law, and it is mine to do as I please with, including making as many copies as I wish and giving them away if I wish, as proscribed by US law. I will agree not to sell any copies of this work, also as defined by US law."

Sounds fair to me. 6/16/2002 Springfield Fragfest
Note: parts of this ten year old rant may be incorrect.

About 20 years ago, frustrated that otherwise serious researchers and scientests seemingly thought they could program a computer to think, (without, of course, understanding what "thought" actually is; nobody knows that) I wrote a simulation that appears to think, in order to completely debunk the fools and those fooling them who think computers can think.
        I wrote Artificial Insanity in less than 20K (that's Kilo, not mega) bytes- smaller than modern viruses, that ran on the Timex TS-1000 tape driven computer. I later ported it to a Radio Shack computer, then an Apple IIe, and finally ported it to MS-DOS.
        The DOS version's source code is still under 20k (I didn't change the algorythm, only the syntax for the different programming language) although compiled into an .exe it takes about 400k- still tiny by today's standards, as far as simulation software and games go.
        As I mentioned, I did it in response to "Elijah" and all the other similar programs that attempt to fool you into thinking they can think. As far as I know, mine is the only one that is NOT claimed to actually posess intelligence. None really ARE intelligent, I'm just the only one not making the claim. Debunking the claim was my reason for writing it. I go into more detail about it at the Artificial Insanity page.
        Another thing different about Art from all the other intelligence simulations is that I wanted it to be fun, yet annoying. Kind of like playing Quake on a 28.8 against a bunch of LPBs. So I made it a smartass.
        Also, for example, I added little things like a routine that occasionally runs that, instead of answering the questioner, asks if he or she wants to play a game. Of course, most folks consider Art a game any way (although like the Sims, you can't win or lose). Any negative response to "Do you want to play a game" loops back to "Do you want to play a game?" When the hapless player finally gives up and answers "yes" in exasperation, Art answers "you lose".
        Art cost a friend of mine a keyboard. A friend of his literally destroyed it playing with Art, typing as hard as he could.
        I ran across yet another program that claims to think like a human the other day.
        The "Alice Bot" is basically your typical Elijah like program- BORING. As boring as small talk with the dumbest, most boring person you know. Alice is a lady. If she was a whore she might be fun, but I digress.
        I wondered what would happen if Art had a conversation with Alice. Alice has a web based presence, so I didn't even have to install it.
        I was expecting Alice to choke. I expected Art to kick Alice's ass.
        I fired up Art and logged in to Alice (you dirty minded...)
        Here is the transcript. Art's responses are in blue, alice's are in red. [Note: no color here, so Art is bold and Alice is italic.] Alice starts: "What is your name?"
I should have asked Art, but I answered this first question for him, and type in
Art
        Alice replies:
I like art very much too, especially the contemporary stuff.
Are you for real?
Yes I am real AI
whatever gave you that idea?
My brain uses AIML to format responses to your inputs, but I don't have one for that.
Look, I'm good, but I'm not a Cray
Good in what sense? That is interesting: unknown said he am not a cray.
(Art doesn't require you to hit "enter". It takes a period, question mark, etc as the end of the sentences and answers, so here it stops at the question mark. All that is input is "Good in what sense?")
A piece of junk
Are you talking about an animal, vegetable or mineral?
can you put that another way?
Let me think. OK I will put it there.
(heh heh she said...)
The situation calls for more scrutiny.
Tell me more.
What do you think?
I think a lot of things.
Obviously.
What makes it so obvious?
Looks Greek to me .
Really. it is?
Look, I'm good, but I'm not a Cray.
Good in what sense? Do you mind if I tell other people: unknown said he m not a cray.
(entered second question into Art)
WOW!
I'm glad your impressed, unknown.
(Alice doesn't seem to be too literate...)
Uh,
Er. Um.
This is what you human types call a joke, right?
At this point, alice froze for two full minutes
You don't say.
Right on!
Yeah.
Your guess is as good as mine.
Some people say "your guess is as good as mine".
Maybe.
I understand.
How should I know?
Either from your senses or from pure reason.
I don't think so.
Why do you disagree?
That's why.
Thanks for explaining it.
How simple can it get?
What is it to you.
I don't know but it's ugly.
What makes it so ugly?
  this time Art pauses...
Nothing.
Not a thing?
Never mind that, I think I'm in love!
Oh well thanks for trying to explain it to me anyway. That is "Not a thing?" Since when? Tell me about the object of your affection.
(Ok, one question at a time, lady. "Since when?")
The best time possible for the occurrance of the action.
Tell me about the object of your affection.
UHH....!
Er. Um.
Always
Not that often.
It really doesn't make any diffrence.
What doesn't make any difference?
Real
Totally real.
I think so.
I think so too.
At this point I hit the big red switch in horror...

(6/11/2002 Springfield Fragfest)

Today's print edition of the Illinois Times has the number 42 at the top right hand corner (you won't see it on the online edition). It's a fat one, fittingly with a summer guide to things to do around town. OK; life, Springfield, and everything.

I have to apologize to you folks. I promised a new SF story, but can't seem to get it from my brain to my fingers. I'm reminded of the Little Feat song Old Folk's Boogie: "You know that you're over the hill when your mind makes a promise that your body can't fill." So I'll re-run an old story some of you might not have seen from the Paxil Diaries

Saturday, written as Science Fiction from the early 1960s
(but it's still not not fiction, nor very scientific).

Daughter Patty's friend lost her grandmother, and she was staying the night Friday with her friend to keep her company. Patty's friend's grandmother had raised her friend.

Patty's a good kid. She promised to be home by 9:00 AM so I could go visit friends in St. Louis.

I woke up about nine, and wanted to sleep some more. I didn't want to waste a perfectly good Saturday that I had planned travel on, so I got up.

I stuck some science fiction 21st century optical devices on my eyeballs and drank some coffee. The devices are great, they're nothing at all like sticking pieces of glass in your eyes, as you had to do back in the 1970s. This new, science fiction technology is (usually) completely invisible to the user.

Patty wasn't answering the voice communicator.

About quarter to ten she transmitted her coordinates via the aforementioned device, and said she overslept. Was it aliens? No, I believe her friend was born in the US. In fact, she doesn't have a foregn name. Now, if she had been named Gordo Burro, that would have perhaps been an interesting alien.

But this was just a blonde American kid.

I flipped a switch, and the computing device stirred to life, causing a pot of coffee to appear in the coffeepot. I removed an antiseptic wrapping from a pastry and installed it in the radiation chamber for fifteen seconds. With butter.

I removed it from the chamber, and ate it. Not the chamber, I mean. I ate the pastry. I turned on my personal computer, and moved a cursor manipulator to the proper coordinates and clicked its button. After some whirring noises and blinking lights, my mail appeared on the computer's screen.

Damn, mostly junk mail. All but one or two went instantly into the trash, as junk electronic mail does here in the 21st century.

I love technology. Back in the past we had to talk to someone on the phone, tied down with a cord as if you were some trained, captive animal. Now we have these wireless science fiction communicators. ...

I backed the ancient machine down the driveway. The passenger compartment, as usual, reeked of exhaust fumes. The clear plastic window over the instruments in this old vehicle had a jagged hole in it, there were a few dents and rust.

Bits of the antique foam rubber rained down on my head as I looked out the back window.

I filled up the ultra clean 21st century gasoline on the way, and got a carbonated beverage and a six pack. The old radio unprogrammed itself every time the car was shut off, obviously miswired. I tuned the old radio again, and made sure the 21st century communication device was handy. I called Mike's house on it before leaving. Somebody named "Ed," who wanted to know which Mike, answered. I told him "Old Mike," as this kid was obviously one of Mike Jr.'s friends.

Jeff has no outgoing communications, and limited broadcast receiving capabilities. His was an older model computer. So I decided to just drive over there.

By the time I got to the end of the 100 mile trip I was staggering from the carbon monoxide and other inhalants belching from the exhaust pipe. Mike was at Jeff's, as was Chris and his 25 year old son, Josh. I was starting to get a monoxide headache.

Josh had a little pot. His dad was drunk, as usual. But only a little drunk.

Chris hasn't had a driver's license for some time now.

Josh rolled a big joint and filled Jeff's pipe as we watched... uh, some movie. I remember seeing monkeys and a space ship or something.

When the movie was finished, they left. We followed them out.

The last time I saw Josh he had a new Kia. Now he was driving an old piece of shit with mud dauber nests under the hood. I asked him what happened.

"Had to let them repo it."

They drove off, and I remembered one of the excuses reasons for coming down- to find out what kind of engine was in the Malibu. Mike had told me that Jeff had changed the engine with something else. Knowing what kind of engine was in it would certainly simplify buying the parts I needed for it.

Jeff told me the particulars, and said "that motor was in a high speed police chase."

One of his friends in California had owned a Pontiac Sunbird with a V-6, and it was stolen. The thieves used the stolen Sunbird to rob a bank, and a high speed chase ensued. The robbers were caught, after the Sunbird's frame was bent and it was pretty well otherwise trashed.

The car sat in the impound lot for months before Jeff's friend got it back. When his friend came to Illinois, he had the car transported on a flatbed truck. He gave it to Jeff, and Jeff put the motor in his Mom's old Malibu and junked the Sunbird.

We partied a little more, and I set off to make the hundred mile trip back to the 21st century. I wanted to see a local band, The Station, playing at Dempsey's at 10:00.

I got home, reeking of exhaust, and took a shower. Patty wanted money, like teenagers always do. "Can I have five dollars to get in the show?"

"No. All I have is a twenty and a ten."

"Well, give me the ten."

"No."

"I don't have anywhere to cash a check, and they'll charge me three dollars to use my card.

"Your bank sucks."

"Can I..."

"No!"

"How about I give you a ride to Dempsey's and you can give me a five? I'll be right down the street at Bread Stretchers."

"No, I just took a shower and I've had way too much carbon monoxide today. I'm walking!" I was starting to get a headache. I told her to get her friend, who she was giving a ride to, to cash a check for her, and I started to walk to Dempsey's. ...

"Dude, you're late"

Damn. I had to pay the two dollar cover. Mandy was tending bar, and was working hard- the place was pretty crowded. I got a Rolling Rock and a glass of water and sat at the bar and listened to the music.

There were quite a few rock and roll regulars- the Barbie doll, Hippie Chick (who I think is going to become a police woman, if I didn't confuse her with someone else a week earlier). A whole lot of young ladies who I wasn't even going to try to pick up.

A fat woman in her twenties was holding a cigarette as if she was waiting for someone to light it. I reached in my pocket and grabbed my lighter- and saw the wedding ring.

Nope, ain't gonna waste my butane. She kept giving me the sweet eye while her good looking girl friend ignored me.

Here's a hint, ladies- if you want to pick up an asshole, wear a ring on your wedding ring finger. Because those of us with sense wouldn't fuck you with your husband's dick. If you want a decent guy, leave the jewelry off of that finger.

My headache was getting worse. After my second beer I walked back to the restroom. I saw Joe Frewe's girl friend in the back- good, I was looking forward to Joe sitting in with The Station to sing Champaigne and Reefer.

As I walked out of the can I saw Joe behind the back bar. There was Levi in front of the back bar. "Hey, Steve!"

I sauntered over. The band took a break.

After talking with Joe and Levi for a while I decided to go out the back door and get a little fresh air and walk around. I walked out, and there were some guys standing and sitting around in the alley's dark shadows. I smelled tobacco- and reefer.

Joe and Levi followed me out. I was starting to walk down the alley. "Hey, man, where you going?"

I walked back. "I just came out for a little fresh air, I have a headache from all that damned exhaust smoke."

Somebody said "Here, I got some fresh air for you," and handed me a pipe. The fellows standing around the alley were the band.

The pot helped my headache. The guys in The Station were happy for an extended break; there was another band sitting in.

One mentioned they were selling CDs for five bucks. I answered that last time I saw them they were giving them away.

"Yeah, our publicist found out about that and freaked out, man. But these are professionally done."

I mentioned yeah, I had heard the bad spot in the middle of the freebe (but didn't mention it that I'll fix it when I make a copy).

Eventually we all walked back in and the band started playing again. I was talking with Levi (who always complained about not getting any girls) and Betty Boop walked in.

I like beer. Especially with Paxil.

"Hey, Levi!"

"Hey, Leslie!"

Leslie's friend was pretty good looking. Leslie said "Hi" to me and they both proceeded to ignore me and talk to Levi. I wandered back and got another beer from Joe, who was trying vainly to sell beer from the back bar while Mandy was working her ass off at the front bar.

Way too soon the lights came up and the music stopped. I bought a $5 CD and staggered on home.

I hadn't hit on a single woman! Does that mean I'm getting better, or was it just the monoxide?

Star Wars fans in Mexico have a two day celebration. Of course today is Star Wars day, and tomorrow marks the independance from Jar Jar Binks. Meesa no like Jar Jar.

Those of you who are wondering what the hell the Occupy protests are about should read yesterday's Jim Hightower article. If you work for a living and vote for Romney, you're insane or incredibly stupid. A vote for Romney is a vote for the empire.

The article in the dead tree edition (which is also free) is illustrated by a Chris Britt cartoon, "Mr. Rat is back". Here's another one from a previous issue.

I'll probably post another space alien story in a few days. Jar Jar won't be in it. And Greedo doesn't shoot first. In fact, he doesn't shoot at all.

Star Wars fans in Mexico have a two day celebration. Of course today is Star Wars day, and tomorrow marks the independance from Jar Jar Binks. Meesa no like Jar Jar.

Those of you who are wondering what the hell the Occupy protests are about should read yesterday's Jim Hightower article. If you work for a living and vote for Romney, you're insane or incredibly stupid.

The article in the dead tree edition (which is also free) is illustrated by a Chris Britt cartoon, "Mr. Rat is back".

Here's another one from a previous issue.

I'll probably post another space alien story in a few days.

You might find it boring, but Fred's barbershop, which is connected to Felber's, is in today's paper. Seems today marks fifty years since Fred set up shop there.

It doesn't mention that 15th & Cornell is in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the country, according to a news item from last year that really pissed off the city's leadership. Think Gran Torino. There's at least one old guy that goes there (not naming names because concealed carry is illegal in Illinois) that always has his pistol with him. And like that movie, most of the folks that go to Felbers are in construction.

The article mentions Bea Felber, she owns the building. Of course, Fred drinks at Felbers. The unnamed guy in the picture to the right is Jason, who's cutting hair at Fred's more often than Fred.

Once in a comment I mentioned tipping in a bar, and people were horrified that I was only leaving a quarter tip for a beer -- but that's 20%. Things are cheap here. I'm twice as rich as someone in Chicago who earns the same amount of money as I do, because everything is more than twice as expensive there. The above link shows that this is one of the ten cheapest places in the country to live, and #3 in cheap entertainment.

GameboyRMH emailed a link to a news article stating that Groening says the Simpsons' Springfield is in Oregon. The State Journal Register

âoeSpringfield was named after Springfield, Oregon. The only reason is that when I was a kid, the TV show âFather Knows Bestâ(TM) took place in the town of Springfield, and I was thrilled because I imagined that it was the town next to Portland, my hometown. When I grew up, I realized it was just a fictitious name. I also figured out that Springfield was one of the most common names for a city in the U.S. In anticipation of the success of the show, I thought, âThis will be cool; everyone will think itâ(TM)s their Springfield.â(TM) And they do.â
â" Matt Groening, creator of âoeThe Simpsons,â Smithsonian magazine, May 2012 issue

Oh, that Matt Groening. Heâ(TM)s a clever one.

Cornered by Smithsonian magazine, noted purveyor of gotcha journalism, Groening set off a firestorm this week by claiming that the Springfield of his cartoon creation âoeThe Simpsonsâ actually is in Oregon.

This is a topic about which Groening always has been evasive. He has spent 23 years creatively avoiding naming the state in which Homerâ(TM)s Springfield is situated.

Obviously sensing that they had Groening against the ropes, the sensationalists at Smithsonian pressed further: If itâ(TM)s in Oregon, they demanded, then why all the mystery all these years?

âoeI donâ(TM)t want to ruin it for people, you know?â Groening replied (grinning knowingly, we suspect). âoeWhenever people say itâ(TM)s Springfield, Ohio, or Springfield, Massachusetts, or Springfield, wherever, I always go, âYup, thatâ(TM)s right.â(TM)â

There! Did you catch it? Which Springfield didnâ(TM)t Groening mention in that example? Thatâ(TM)s right. You have to be on top of your game to keep up with a mind as sharp as Matt Groeningâ(TM)s. Have fun with your âoescoop,â Smithsonianquirer. The truth remains safe with Mr. Groening and we the people of Springfield, Illinois.

Come on, Smithsonian. Whatâ(TM)s a guy supposed to do when heâ(TM)s ambushed like that? Insult the people of his native Oregon or tell the truth?

Perhaps the people at Smithsonian might want to do a Google search for the words âoeinternational doughnut factory Springfieldâ and see which Springfield pops up. On Page 67 of âoeThe Simpsons Guide to Springfield,â check out whatâ(TM)s on the menu at the Sha-Boom Ka-Boom Cafe: âoefallout fries with Enola gravy.â In other words, a horseshoe sandwich. White bread toast, meat, cheese, fries. As we noted in 2007: âoeThis local culinary legend embodies the very soul of Homer Simpson.â In Springfield, Ore.? Please.

The Simpsonsâ(TM) Springfield has Kwik-E-Mart. We have Qik-N-EZ. Their founder is Jebediah Springfield. Ours is Elijah Iles.

We could go on and on, but itâ(TM)s not in this Springfieldâ(TM)s nature to brag. Nor would we ever want to crush the souls of all those other Springfields. We are a peace-loving, humble people with a large doughnut factory and a power plant within our city limits.

Kudos to Matt Groening for bringing Smithsonian magazine into our little inside joke. Once again, he proves himself the master of pop culture satire.

It's a link to the SJ-R but since this one comes from the AP it isn't GPL. I'll just say that it appears that Tux doesn't like Newt.

The new Illinois Times is out tomorrow, but last week's brought a surprise. It seems that the first Federal income tax was instituted by a Republican. And what's more, it's the Republican President most revered by most Republicans -- Abe Lincoln?

It looks hypocritical to me, for conservative Christians to complain about taxes. "But," many say, "we're not complaining about paying taxes, we're complaining that taxes are too high!"

Federal tax is lower than any time since Truman. So WTF are they bitching about?

"Is it lawful to pay taxes, or not? Shall we give, or shall we not give? But he, knowing their hypocrisy, said unto them, Why tempt ye me? bring me a penny, that I may see it. And they brought it. And he saith unto them, Whose is this image and superscription?"

Abraham Lincoln, the first Tax And Spend Republican in history.