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.

Despite the fact that he's an avowed atheist, a convicted murderer, and a card-carrying member of the KKK and proud of it, KY's really a nice guy most of the time. Like me, he's been trying to get Amy to give up her horrible lifestyle. Unlike me, he has ulterior motives.

He's a few years older than me, and his nickname, which everyone uses, comes from the fact that his home state is Kentucky. "I haven't had a hard on for five years, but damn that girl gives me wood!" he told me.

She was in rehab after she and her new husband had been staying at the Salvation Army homeless shelter. To stay there you have to attend church services, and her husband, who was as atheist as KY is, found God there and kept going to church even after he no longer had to. I've been trying to bring Amy to God for years, with little apparent effect.

One Saturday while she was in rehab, which KY had been happy to see, he and I were in Felbers having a beer. "I'm gonna break her out of rehab," he said. Only half jokingly, of course. But he got his wish when Amy called. "I'm on your porch," she said. "Where are you?"

"Why aren't you in rehab?" I asked. She was supposed to have been there for three months, after being hospitalized for a mental breakdown and spending two weeks at McFarland's, a looney bin on Springfield's far south end.

"I just left, I'll tell you about it. Come get me!" So I did.

"We're not supposed to have phones, but a guy had a smuggled cell phone and let me use it, and I called Tim's work and they told me they fired him for no call no show. I know he's out on a binge..."

"Yeah? So now you have to, too?"

"Take me to the bar and buy me a beer!"

She crashed on my couch most of the week, unable to find her hubby. I mostly listened to her sob stories and of course asked if she'd go to church with me on Easter. By the time Easter weekend came around she'd made the choice to be baptized. She finally found Tim, who had indeed gone on a binge (he's as bad as she is) and lost his job, but had another one at Gabatoni's by the third street tracks.

Friday after work we went to Felbers -- I wanted some reefer and there's usually quite a few potheads there. I couldn't find any, so after two beers we went home. Going up Ash street a black fellow in a minivan decided he was going to pass the car in front of him and swerved into me, not bothering to see if anybody was there. I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right, but since there's a curb and a sidewalk he still hit me.

Amy got out of the car when I did. "My neck! I'm hurt!"

"Bullshit," I said. "Shut the fuck up and get back in the car!"

The black fellow was profusely apologetic and said that it was OK and that he had insurance, but he seemed really nervous, and I got the sense that he didn't want any police involvement. "Should I call 911?" he said.

I shrugged. "That side of the car's already messed up anyway, so it's up to you." The look of relief on his face was indescribable, and he started thanking me profusely, putting out his hand. I shook it and he asked if there was anything he could do. "Are you a Christian?" I asked. He answered in the affirmative, so I said "visit West Side Christian Church this Sunday." He promised he would, and Amy and I went home and put a movie in.

I was home before I realized he'd knocked my mirror off. Shoulda called the cops...

The next morning was the Saturday after Good Friday, and I make it a tradition to watch Passion of the Christ on that day, since it spans Good Friday to Easter. Easter is, after all our holiest of days.

As usual, when they were beating the shit out of Jesus with the cat-o-nine-tails and blood was splattering everywhere and his poor mother looking on (damn but that woman is a good actress) I had tears streaming down my face. Few movies have ever brought me to tears, but that one always does. Amy ran to the bathroom and puked.

That is the most intense movie I've ever seen. What other movie has no sex, no nudity, no vulgar language, yet still carries an R rating? Gibson's good, but he outdid himself on that film. Pity he's such an anti-Semite.

Amy had a hard time with the scene in The Jackal when Jack Black gets his arm blown off, too.

Stomach emptied, she came back to the couch watching the crowd screaming "crucify him!" and said "I wish I had something clean to wear to church tomorrow."

"Don't worry, God'll make sure you're ok. Just pray," I said. She bowed her head.

Five minutes later the door knocked. "I'll bet that's Tim," she said. I opened the door, and Connor was there. They had been together before she met Tim, and had a lot of her belongings -- a WHOLE lot, and was holding them hostage. He'd wanted her back.

But not any more. He was cursing and screaming at her as she brought in half a dozen trash bags filled with clothes, shoes, purses, makeup, and stuff like that. He left.

"I didn't expect that!" she said, grinning ear to ear.

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition" I replied.

Woosh. She's not a Monty Python fan.

"Wow... just wow. God sure does work in mysterious ways!" she said. I smiled. After the movie we went to Felbers for a couple of beers, and she excitedly talked to anyone who would listen about the miracle, minor that it was, that she'd just experienced. And I found someone with a bag of pot for sale.

I was looking forward to getting her dunked the next day.

We got to church and sat down at a pew, filled in the cards; it's a huge, rich church on the town's west side and unlike a smaller church where the preacher sees all twenty of the people in his congregation, thousands attend West Side, and the cards are their only way of telling who comes regularly.

Before I found West Side I went to church because I felt I should. At West Side, it's the highlight of my week. If it were a house of mammon rather than a house of worship, tickets would go for a hundred dollars each and the place would be even more packed than it is. But of course, it's free. As is the coffee there. You can't help but smile and be in a good mood in that place!

The professional stage lighting came up and the professional (except on Sunday, when they work for free) singers and musicians started playing, and every song seemed to be aimed at Amy. I had tears of joy, and I don't remember that ever happening before.

"Good morning, West Side," the preacher said. "Good morning, Eddie," the congregation replied. The sermon that week was "when life doesn't go like you planned," and Amy's life sure hadn't. Not ever. It was as if his sermon was directed at her personally, just as the music had been.

When the singing before communion started, we made our way to the waterside room to see about getting her baptized. I went back for communion as she talked with Chip, one of the church's staff, who gave her a bible, a DVD, and other materials (one of which was West Sides 12 step program).

As we walked back to the car, she said "Wow. Just wow. That was really something! I really like Abundant Faith" where she and Tim had been going, "but wow. I REALLY love your church!"

The baptism will be next week, God willing, and we're hoping it will be a double baptism, with both her and Tim.

She hasn't been drunk yet this week.

The Lord works in mysterious ways -- and nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

Composer and orchestra baton twirler Aaron Copeland wrote a piece that was printed at the RIAA web site fragging file sharers and defending his RIAA masters against allegations of greed with a hastily penned ditty that you can't dance to called "Are Record Labels Greedy?"

        What's the difference between a bass player and a pizza? A pizza can feed a family of four.

        I mentioned on April Fools day that Copeland's article was a rebuttal of my piece, but it WAS April fool's. Actually, I think he was arguing Courtney Love's celebrated Salon piece from early last year (or the year before?) titled "Courtney does the math" which I unfortunately can't find; if one of you kind folks will send me a URL I'll link it here. The gist of Love's treatise was that after expenses, she'd be better off working at Hardees while her label and its executives were making millions of dollars a year. And backed up her allegations with numbers.

        Copeland (or his ghost writer) writes, "The amount of accusations of greed and ineptness leveled at record companies recently is only half as shocking as the record industry's meekness at defending itself."

        Meekness? At defending itself? Is there anybody in this industry that can't tell a bald faced lie with a straight face? Sheesh, compared to Hillary Rosen's diatribes and legal warfare, George Bush is "meekly" defending the nation against terrorism. WTF has Copeland been smoking? Perhaps he's talking not about the music industry but about the gun or tobacco companies?

        "The public has been led to believe that CDs are highly overpriced by greedy companies who are also stealing from the artist in their thirst for profit."

        Led to believe? No, we don't have to be "led to believe" it. All we have to do is buy a stack of blank CDs for the price of a single RIAA offering, then buy an indie CD for a fifth of the price to know that the label's CDs are overpriced.

        Copeland seems to think that his industry's usary prices are the reason for p2p song swapping- "Therefore it is quite okay for everyone to download freely on Napster or some other vehicle to redress this 'evil.'"

        No, it would be ok even if the industry could somehow sell CDs for two bucks each. MP3s are worthless; Copeland's rant is worthless, this site is worthless. The entire internet is worthless- from a financial point of view. There is no money to be made s obscene raps and Ringo's and Cher's "singing".

        He babbles on about how these bands are only being teenagers (or some such nonsense)- "The world of rock & roll has always played on its anti-establishment origins. Rich rock stars are a somewhat 'embarrassing' phenomena, so they want to retain their popular roots and revolutionary anti-establishment ethic."

        So why is the heavy metal, "antiestablishment" Metallica for his cause? If what Copeland says wasn't utter bullshit, Metallica would be on Courtney's and The Offspring's sides, not Copeland's.

        "With the advent of Napster and other downloaded technology, we all - artist, record company and the public itself - have to take a step back and say 'What does this all mean?'

        It means a free ride for that dumbass Copeland- except he is there, like Metallica, and no longer needs a ride, free or paid. Mp3s are free advertising. MP3s are better than the radio. MP3s sell CDs! The only trouble for the record industry is that they sell as many or more indie CDs than label CDs.

        "For the artists, biting the hand that feeds them will soon mean that the hand won't be there to bite anymore. For the public, there will always be music, but the music available will change its content and quantity. Live bands will survive, but those that are largely studio animals depending on record sales will become an endangered species. When sources of income diminish in variety, music variety will also diminish."

        You know, after fifty damned years of the same lies, from "cassettes will kill the music industry" to "VCRs will kill movies" the lie is getting pretty danmned old. Again and again this bullshit is shown to be the same stale stinking pile of hardened cow turds and they keep expecting us to swallow it. If the "record industry" dies than good riddance! They are morally bankrupt, greedy, indicted felons who hire the likes of Snoop Doggy and Ice T and call them "artists".

        What about "largely studio animals?" You mean the studio musicians playing sax and cello that bands used to hire before the sampling midi synthesizers put them out of business? Or are you referring to the likes of Milli Vanilli who need a "ghost singer?" Or those pop sensations my daughter Leila listens to who need a computer to clean up their lack of range, dynamics, and to splice out the bad takes?

        If you can't play live you shouldn't call yourself a musician. Hell, I decided against a music career in my youth, after learning guitar, when I decided I liked weekends off and didn't like working New Year's Eve- because THAT is what it means to be a musician.

        Besides, who are these bands who never play live (besides Steely Dan?)

        "The accusation that record companies have been slow to respond to the Internet may be a valid one, but there is good reason for this. We can't figure out how to make a business out of it, pay royalties (honor the contracts we already have with the artists) and not lose our shirts. The funny thing is, NEITHER CAN ALL THE INTERNET GENIUSES. They are going bankrupt, left, right and center. Most Internet companies seem more like stock market scams than real businesses. I have a strong suspicion that the Internet revolution will turn out to be like the French Revolution. The revolutionaries will spend much energy and talk about overthrowing the "old regime," only to soon find themselves with their heads in the guillotine."

        I don't expect the lame Mr. Copeland to understand business any more than me, as he is a conductor and not an MBA, but it doesn't take a business genius to understand that not every business expense has to bring revenue directly.

        They can't "figure out how to make a business out of" advertising, either. But they pay millions for it. They pay all sorts of incidental expenses to help sell product, from electricity to Armani suits. And the thing about the MP3s is an MP3 costs nothing for the label to produce. The record has been cut and sold, one person spending ten minutes in front of a PC turns those big CD sound files into MP3s.

        They were "slow to respond" because they didn't have to. Napster went strong for two years before the Labels sued them, likely cheering them on, as Napster sold millions of CDs for them. During the time Napster flourished, so did CD sales.

        The industry only "took notice" of the internet when the bands NOT tied to the labels started selling- without industry help, and at a greatly reduced price. Suddenly, despite rising sales, Napster was somehow hurting business.

        Now you know HOW it was hurting business.

        Notice he mentions "pay royalties (honor the contracts we already have with the artists)". Tell me, Mr. Copeland, why didn't the label allow The Offspring to post their entire Original Prankster CD on their web site as MP3s?

        No, the record industry is run by a bunch of greedy scumbags who make way too much money at the expense of me, you, and the musicians we support with our ticket and CD purchases. The industry as we know it will die (barring their ability to buy their way out with political bribery), and no one will miss them or the trash they call "music" one bit.

  4/4/2002 Springfield Fragfest

Previously...

"I don't know what this is going to mean," Gumal said, "but the number guys say something's terribly wrong. As wrong as two plus two equaling five and having it be the correct answer. Something to do with reality not agreeing with itself."

Rority laughed. "You mean like going back in time and shooting your grandfather before your father was conceived?" He laughed even louder.

"No, seriously, that's exactly... well, not exactly it, but close. Things that happen didn't, and things that didn't, did. Like, their maths say that I don't mind being noboticly manipulated into a protohuman."

"But 'paradoxes', as the ancients called them, don't exist in the real universe. They can't. No matter how hard you tried, even if you could go back that short of time without the feedback destroying your ship, no matter how hard you tried you couldn't kill him. It's a law of physics."

"Not being able to go faster than light was once a law of physics," Gumal answered.

"Yes, but the protohuman Einstein got his math right, it was just that we discovered ways around the roadblocks."

Rority's Guiness hit the floor with a crash. "What the... Gumal! I can't see!"

Gumal didn't answer. "Gumal? Where are you?"

As bad as going blind is to protohumans, it's even worse for neohumans. Neohumans don't get sick; not any kind of sick. The nobots repair any damage to any cell before it has a chance to cause real damage, so going blind is unthinkable for a neohuman. For the first time in his life... indeed, the first time in anybody's lives for millions of years, Rority was scared. Not just scared, terrified. He got up cautiously, and it seemed his chair felt different than it did when he could see. He stretched his arms out and groped in the direction Gumal had been sitting -- and hit a solid surface.

Well, almost solid. It felt kind of like cloth, sort of soft. He heard what almost sounded like muffled screams on the other side of the barrier. He pushed harder and the obstacle gave way. "Gumal?"

"Who's there?" a voice said in the darkness. And... it seemed to Rority that it wasn't quite as dark now. There was a tiny bit of greenish light that he could almost see by. He saw that he was in a sort of cube, maybe five meters to a side, and there was a hole in it where he'd pushed through.

"It's Rority, is that you, Gumal? I can't see!"

"No, my name's Gromwel. I don't know any Gumal. I can't see, either. You say your name's Rority?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I was sitting here drinking a beer with my partner Gumal and everything went black."

"Same here, I was playing Babel with my friend Ornda and it went black and she's gone!"

"What in the spacetime continuum could have happened?"

"I don't know, but I think the nobots stopped working. Do you know any good programmers?"

Rority said "Dunno, maybe programmers wouldn't be any help. The nobots seem to be completely gone. And so is the world."

"The world's not gone, but I don't know where we are. I was outside and now apparently I'm not. And I think I can see now... a little... but it seems really dark in here, wherever 'here' is."

They both started tearing at the fabric, which sparked faintly with every tear. An hour later they'd discovered a dozen other people in similar cubes. One of them was an expert in nobotics, who said his name was Noob. "I'd think it was an EMP that did this, but how in the hell could an EMP blast through this? At any rate I don't have the tools I need to research it. It also appears that they didn't teach me everything about nobots, and I hold a PhD!"

Gromwell snickered. "Everybody holds a PhD!"

"Yes," Noob said, "but mine is in nobotics. What's your field?"

"I'm an ortholinguarian."

"Really? You study the language of birds?"

"Yep. Not much use in this situation, is it? What should we do? The air doesn't seem to be getting thinner, and there's a tiny bit of light. Find more people?"

As they discussed the situation, Gumal stared at Rority, who sat there like a stone, not even breathing. "Rority? You OK?" He got up and walked over to him and lifted Rority's hand -- which came off in a shower of nobotic dust before disintegrating, along with the rest of Rority.

"Shit!" Gumal exclaimed. "Rority's a nobotic robot! Newspaper!" he ordered, and a "book" appeared in his hand, risen from Rority's ashes. The headline read "supernova almost wipes out life in southern hemisphere." Gumal swore again and read on, not thinking of the conversation he'd been having with the apparently now-deceased Rority, only how much he was going to miss his friend and partner. Then he realized where he was -- he was visiting Rority at Rority's place. Why was there a robot impersonator? And why did it stop? He called Ragwell, a nobot programmer he often drank and stratodoobed with.

"I can only talk a second," Ragwell said. "Really busy. Half the nobots on the planet are dead, and we're starting to learn that reality isn't real."

"Huh?" Gumal asked, puzzled. "Isn't that the math boy's domain?"

"No, that's not what I meant," Ragwell said. "I mean that you're not where you think you are. The supernova unearthed evidence that millions of years ago we stopped face to face communications and all live in nobot fantasies that are actually just cubes containing us. Nothing you've ever done in your life is real. Nothing. It's all a farce!"

"So, what do we do?"

"Now? Study. Live nobots are already rebuilding the matrix on the southern hemisphere and we hope that even though the EMP from the nova knocked the nobots out, maybe they were enough of a shield to keep radiation harmful to us out. Now I have to go, I need to get trillions of nobots to the other hemisphere so if there are survivors they'll have food, drink, and medical attention for the radiation poisoning they may have suffered."

"Wait! How do I get out of the fantasy? What do you mean by 'matrix'?"

"It's a matrix of cubes made from nobots. Getting out is what we're working on now. I'll call."

Continues...

Note: I was going to post a new chapter to "Everything You Know Is Wrong" today, but I can't find the thumb drive it was on. I hope I left it at work. If so I'll post it Monday, if not I'll have to rewrite it and it will probably be a few more days. Sorry. Here's a ten year old post about Linux to hold you over.

        Yes, the newest game I've been playing lately is Linux.
        So far I have it fully installed (kinda) and running (mostly, I think).
        Linux is most definitely NOT "harder than Windows". There seems a bit of nonsense is being regurgitated by people who haven't even tried Linux.
        One is that it's more like DOS than Windows, and you have to use a command line and memorize a bunch of arcane commands.
        Nope, I haven't seen a Linux command line since I installed Mandrake 8.1. I could if I wanted to, but so far there's been no need.
        I discovered a "Mandrake Control Center" (actually, it was an icon on the desktop) that configured my DSL pretty much automatically. Windows won't do that; you have to run SBC's program to make DSL work in Windows.
        When I said "kinda sorta" working, I mean I haven't got the local network working. But that's more Windows fault than Linux.
        It's set up to use DHCP, which is a dynamically configured host (what, in fact, "DHCP" stands for). The Windows network is set up with a static IP address for each machine, and I don't want to have to reconfigure every machine on the network whenever I want to switch from Windows to Linux or back on the DSL computer.
        So far, there have been no nasty surprises; I imagine I'll need Samba or something to get the networking right.
        CRAP, as soon as I said that the cursor jumped to yesterday's topic on this XP laptop. Plenty of nasty surprises in Windows.
        There are a lot of things I've discovered about Linux that have no Windows counterpart.
        I have an on-board video chip, which I superseded with a TNT card. When installing, it asked me if I wanted to choose one, or just use both. You can't do that in Windows!
        When I first bought Windows 95 I set it up to not use a password; it wasn't connected to any other machine. When I got WWWed, I had to enter a password again. With Windows you have to password in. Linux figures it's possible this isn't a corporate machine, and lets me configure it to enter the password for me; so not only do I not have to remember a password, I can use a super strong one I could never remember If I were forced to! I can plug in the PC, pour a cup of coffee, and have Netscape or Konquerer (or any of half a dozen other browsers installed by default) open Spew or Sgt Hulka's for me without as much as touching the mouse, let alone the keyboard!
        When it boots, it checks the atomic clock at a university and sets my PC's clock to within a millisecond. The other two computers are always off by a minute or two, as you have to log in to the atom clock manually with them, so they only get set twice a year.
        But perhaps the nicest thing is I don't have to reboot to make a change take effect.
        One down side to Linux I've found is- it's a damned good thing you don't have to reboot. It takes forever to get to its desktop.
        One more thing- no damned registry! WooHoo!!!

Springfield Fragfest 3/24/2002

Sorry there haven't been any good, new JEs lately, but life gets in the way. Patty's cat died, and she blames me for the elderly cat's demise. I'm not going to write about that, it's painful to think about. Calie was always by the door waiting for me when I got home, and I miss her. Been trying to shake the blues.

I could never be a professional writer. A pro sits down and hacks out something readable, and on demand. I can't. I have to have the muse hit me, or at least a new idea, I have to be in the right mood, then when I write, well, I don't know how to write. I just do it, and then read it, change what I don't like, rinse, repeat, until I'm either satisfied with it or bored of it.

The time travel stories have hit a dead end. They're to the point that they're not as much fun to write as they kind of almost write themselves, boringly, they are contradictory so fitting them into a book would be hard... an the muse seemed to have left for a while.

And then last night in a reefer and beer haze, a story that had been rattling around my head unwritten for a long time came to the surface and I realized that it would fit Rority's world perfectly, explain the contradictions, and take the story to a whole new place. A real plot twist is coming.

New time travel story tomorrow; it's almost done now.