Analysis Paralysis & Normalcy Bias as a means of social control

Tags

politics, iran, middle-east, saudi-arabia, turkey

I’ve been paying extra attention to the broadcast news over the past few weeks trying to reconcile what I see on the Glass Toilet vs. what I read as “news” online. Mostly I’m paying attention to the general topics presented and the amount of time each topic is allocated in the 30-minute or 60-minute show. Along with these observations, I ask myself why does Topic X matters to the program’s target audience. None of these observations are scientific. I didn’t put a stopwatch on any of it. I’m only making observations.

ABC Nightly News with David Muir presents itself as a show about world events, and it is true that they do lead with some light and fluffy international news, but the reporting often leaves me wondering why I care that these events are being reported at all.

Do I really need to know that there are Islamist immigrants rioting in France?

Why do I care that some poor unfortunate was knifed in Germany?

War in Iran? OK, maybe. I guess. Big Oil gets an excuse to price gouge, but short of an invasion by U.S. Armed Forces, this really isn’t news.

Then they switch to a weather report for the Left Coasts. Why does Flyover country care about wildfires and storm flooding on either side of the country? They waste about 15-20% of their airtime yacking about weather.

CNN (Celebrity News Network) – The Mrs. occasionally turns this channel on to see “what is going on in the world”. I only hear people whining about inane topics and rendering their opinion on some random topic when their only claim to marginal credibility is the presenter’s celebrity. “I’m widely regarded to be an expert on <something /> you should listen to me!” I’ve listened to multiple hours of this and learned nothing beyond people are being paid to argue with each other.

Fox News – Good ol’ Faux News. They fell into the celebrity argument trap and lost their way. The biggest indicators were Bill O’Reilly, Tucker Carlson, and Sean Hannity. At least Gutfeld has the honesty to present his show as entertainment instead of news.

Online it is no better. Young people getting flooded with information as entertainment via TikTok, WhatsApp, ad nauseam. Older people on Fakebook, X, Substack, WordPress, and the rest.

The corporate information machine has long served to obfuscate and conceal real events.

Ex: The Houthis supposedly hit Riyadh airport yesterday (10/10/26) killing 12 and wounding 300. It was hit again today (10/11).

I read about that on ZeroHedge.com, but it barely blipped on broadcast media. Wonder why that is. It should be a big story that the Saudis are in big trouble. More disruptions to the oil supply should be gold for the Left going into the midterms, but it is suspiciously silent. Why?

Ever heard of the Mecca Joint Defense Agreement? Apparently it is a NATO-like agreement among Saudi Arabia, Turkey, and Pakistan for mutual defense. Turkey has sent “defense support” into Saudi Arabia to help against the Houthis.

In case you missed it, Turkey is a NATO member and a member of the Mecca Joint Defense Agreement. Both organizations have the “An attack on one is an attack on all” language. In NATO that is called Article 5.

The Houthis are “Iranian-backed militia” operating out of Yemen. Now the U.S. has an open conflict with Iran that the Euros are staying well clear of. Turkey has put their people in the line of fire for “defensive purposes”.

How long before we have Turkish casualties triggering an Article 5 call from the Turks that brings NATO into this circus? Should this be news?

The silence is deafening.

Returning to the title of this essay, “Normalcy Bias” is a recognized behavior where people faced with a catastrophe carry on as normal in the belief that the situation will be resolved by “somebody” and life will continue as before. Normalcy Bias got a lot of folks dead when the planes hit the twin towers. They stayed at their desks waiting for reality to reassert itself.

This condition is also described using a frog in a pot of cold water.

I would suggest that the literal storm of information, deliberate misinformation, deliberate omission, and general inane stupidity flooding our reality is specifically intended to induce a Normalcy Bias response. People are so swamped by contradictory information they go into a state of Analysis Paralysis. They are so completely overwhelmed and unable to understand what they are being told, so they simply stand still waiting for it to all go back like it was.

Lies on the part of the Oligarchy can be discovered.

Light can shine on their corruption.

People can march in protest.

It’s awfully hard to object to something when you’re not entirely sure what that something is.

“All warfare is based on deception, meaning you must control your opponent’s perception so they cannot figure out your true intentions.” ~ Tzun Tzu, The Art of War

PB&J at Midnight

Tags

life, parent child relationships

A true story to lighten the mood…

Another purple stain on the kitchen counter. Martha May wiped up the sticky mess with her finger and sniffed. “Grape jelly,” she murmured to herself. She leaned over to check the counter against the faint light of dawn coming through the window. No breadcrumbs. The peanut butter jar stood undisturbed in the pantry where she’d left it. No unwashed dishes. This was the third morning she awoke to grape jelly stains on the counter. There’s a crumb snatcher loose in the house! Sneaky, but nobody’s perfect, she thought.

“Hi Mom,” Roger was the first one to emerge. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starved.”

“Didn’t you get enough to eat during the night?” Martha May gave her son the eyebrow of inquisition.

“What are you talking about?” Roger took his seat at the table and looked quizzically at his mother.

“The grape jelly on the counter.” Martha May pointed. “Right over there where someone made a peanut butter sandwich in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t make a sandwich last night,” Roger insisted as he poured himself some orange juice. “Did you ask the girls?”

“Ask the girls what?” Maggie demanded as she came from the back hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“Have you been eating sandwiches in the middle of the night?” Roger asked. “Mom is accusing…”

“I am not accusing anyone of anything!” Martha May insisted. “I’ve found grape jelly on the counter three mornings in a row, and I want to know who’s eating after bedtime.”

“Maybe it was Daddy,” Martha Adrian offered as she joined the others at the table.

Martha May sighed in frustration. “Now, why would your father be getting up in the middle of the night to eat peanut butter?”

“He’s old. Maybe he’s getting senile?” Roger offered.

“Your father is only fifty-two and far from senile,” Martha May grumped. “It doesn’t matter. Your breakfast is almost done. Does everyone have their books and homework packed for school?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” chorused the table.

Martha May carried the skillet of scrambled eggs and a plate of freshly cooked bacon to the table. “Eat like normal people, Roger.”

“Why pick on me?” Roger sounded offended.

Martha May ignored him. “We have plenty of time to eat and get everyone to school.”

***

After the kids went to finish getting dressed for school, Martha May stacked the dishes, put away the eggs, and lifted the paper package of raw bacon from the counter.

There it was. A purple stain of Welch’s Grape Jelly. She turned the package over. It too was stained with jelly. She opened the refrigerator. The shelf where the bacon lay had jelly too.

Gradually it made sense. On Monday everyone had been running late. She was cooking breakfast while her oldest daughter, Martha Adrian, was making the school lunches. PB&J. A wayward drop of jelly on the counter. The bacon package placed on top. Her husband had a long commute, so he left for work before everyone else was up, and every morning he fried two strips of bacon… Martha May wiped the stain away, chuckling to herself.

---

The End

This is a true story involving my grandmother that has circulated since I was a kid. Martha May was a highschool Spanish teacher for twenty-odd years. She was an outdoorswoman. Gardening, camping, hiking, and most of all learning, were her passions. We lost her to lymphoma when I was fourteen. We miss her, and we still tell stories about her.

Front Runners

Tags

adventure, books, boy's adventure, fantasy, fiction, middle grad, Sci-fi, science fiction, short-story, writing

A Test Run for a Boy’s Adventure novel I am writintg…

1st Place Winner 2026 North Texas Business Council for the Arts “On My Own Time” Literary Contest – Creative Short Fiction (Professional) Division

Front Runners

by

Michael Morgan

Darius studied the line of dark, blue clouds stretching across the horizon. Light wind was coming from behind him. The storm front inhaled, climbing higher and higher. When those anvil cloud tops reached the cold air, the storm would break loose and the race would be on.

The line of colorful sails luffed in the gentle breeze, but Dragon Wing barely vibrated.

The teardrop fuselage sat on three wheels in the waist-high prairie grass. The articulated wings stood folded tightly to the sides of the fuselage like vertical fins waiting to spread and take the wind.

“Windjammers! Take your positions!” The cry through the speaking trumpet was repeated in the other direction, sending ‘jammers scrambling into their machines.

Darius slid into the narrow cockpit and tested his control levers. Dragon Wing’s sails operated like umbrellas and looked like giant bat wings when fully spread.

Long ago, lone teenagers on horseback linked distant settlements. Now they rode sail powered vehicles called Windjammers, and this race would decide who would ride the prairie again.

The wind died and Darius tensed.

The sail of the ‘jammer next to him popped taut as the wind reversed and the vehicle rolled across the chalk starting line earning a disqualification. The race was about selecting the best ‘jammers, and the betting was furious. Hail doubled the odds. A tornado made everything twenty-to-one.

The storm exhaled and the ‘jammer line strained against their brakes. Darius heard the pistol shot and pushed both hand levers fully forward. The wings extended and spread outward, instantly seizing the boundary front in a death grip.

Darius was not the first off the line, but Dragon Wing spread more canvas than any other ‘jammer in the county and he quickly came abreast of the others. Now it was piloting skill.

Holding close to the wind and avoiding obstacles hidden by the high grass. White knuckle driving in the teeth of a raging storm.

Rain broke over the prairie like a waterfall. Darius took his hand off the wheel to wipe his goggles and saw a ‘jammer ahead of him tumble end-over-end. He passed too quickly to see if the driver was safe.

Up ahead, he knew there was a creek cutting northwest to southeast. If he could not see it in the rain, he might meet a similar fate. If it was flooded things might be a lot worse.

A glance at the compass in the dashboard made Darius angle his course to the south to take the wind from the side. The ancient automobile speedometer crept from fifty to sixty-five, then seventy.

I can’t go much faster through this grass. Darius grouched to himself as he trimmed the wings to take advantage of the new angle of attack. I have to find that hill!

The world was going black as the clouds devoured the sky. Darius strained to see the hill with the lone tree in the gloom. Lightning flashed in the distance. Darius started counting down as his eyes jumped between the speedometer and the distance to the tree. He turned to pass to the left of the tree, and he released the wheel to pull the hand levers for all he was worth.

The sails rotated to horizontal becoming real dragon wings as the ground vanished beneath Darius’ wheels. He looked over the side to see the rain swollen creek passing beneath him as his ‘jammer was buffeted by swirling wind currents above the water. He faced forward holding his breath and watching the opposite bank rushing toward him. If I make this, I can win…

The Business Cards

Tags

entrepreneur, philosophy, psychology, race, work, work life

1st Place Winner 2026 North Texas Business Council for the Arts “On My Own Time” Literary Contest – Creative Nonfiction (Professional) Division

The Business Cards

By

Michael Morgan

Happily, my age continues to advance, but age-related physical maladies have begun to

make themselves felt, and now I discover I am a hater. I didn’t start out as a hater, but something has changed, and I’m not sure why.

For years, the Mrs. has been telling me it is too hot in the summer, and it is “bad for my health” to be pushing a lawnmower when the temperature is above ninety degrees. My knees and sciatica would certainly agree with her, but I cannot surrender my task without worrying I’ll become a villain for hiring the “wrong kind” of person.

Every week between March and October I open my front door and a business card for some lawn service drops to the mat. I try not to take these cards as an insult to my landscaping skills. Instead, I study the names on the cards before tossing them into the recycling bin because I can never quite convince myself to employ these go-getters trying to make an honest living.

Raised by my grands and great-grands, I learned the lessons of the Great Depression and a pair of World Wars. “Bootstraps” were something everyone knew about, and everyone was expected to use at least once in their life. There was no shame in this. Overcoming adversity was an admirable trait.

Those lessons led to my first regular customer for my lawn mowing service when I turned twelve. By the end of that summer, I had six more. It made for long, hot summer days, but I was making money. Later, I parlayed my Red Cross First Aid certificate into regular work babysitting for special needs kids. Not being of age to get a formal job, I took work where I could find it. I was a bootstrapper, earning my way.

Today, I am faced with a growing need for a bootstrapper to handle my physically demanding chores. I have the means to pay a fair price, but today’s social climate discourages me from employing a person demonstrating exactly the kind of initiative I was taught to admire.

You see, the names and faces on those hopeful business cards are not like mine. They are Persons of Color.

Will I risk being labeled an “oppressor” by “forcing” the bootstrapper into a menial job at a pay rate someone claims isn’t “equitable?” Shall I be labeled a racist for hiring a bootstrapper of my own race and denying a Person of Color an opportunity to earn a living?

When I hear public figures suggest People of Color cannot compete on merit alone and emphasize the number of careers that depend on Affirmative Action, I have to wonder what that message is telling our young people. How does that message inspire or build confidence and selfrespect?

A sure sign of an abusive relationship is one party constantly putting the other party down and breaking their confidence. How does the current social messaging encourage young people to be self-starters, innovators, and bootstrappers?

No society can survive this way. People need to work. They need a role in society. It is critical to our individual mental health to be recognized by our peers for our contributions. One of the oldest lessons from my ancestors is: “There is no shame in honest work, no matter how humble. The only shame is a person who can work and refuses to make any effort.”

“Hi, Mister. I own a lawncare business. I have fifty happy clients. Would you like to make that fifty-one?”

Compliance is Death

Tags

crime, martial-arts, rape, self defense, sexual assault, violence

A conversation regarding self-defense and the question of whether an active defense vs. compliance with the assailant would improve the odds of survival

The office didn’t seem like the place to share my opinions on this topic, so I thought I would present my arguments as a special post for my esteemed readers.

Note: This is written with the assumption that the would-be victim is not carrying a concealed firearm due to poor judgment or legal constraints they are unwilling to ignore.

Our office Martialist correctly asserted that:

• The survival rate for abductees is really small
• The survival rate for victims of gunshot and knife wounds is pretty high considering modern trauma care.

With many documented cases of the first point, compliance seems like a guaranteed loser, so the decision to run, or fight at the initial contact with the bad guy makes sense. You won’t get any more dead at the scene of the assault than you would be later, but the “later” may be a long, unpleasant time coming.

The lessons I taught the Wrench Maiden early on were:

• You never know when the person next to you is going to decide to have a bad day and share the experience with those nearby.
• Watch what is happening around you, and DON’T be afraid to be impolite. (A lot of women are way too nice.)
• If things seem sketchy, feel free to leave the area abruptly.
• If someone intrudes on your space, a loud “Back off!” is often the best and most appropriate response.

A person trying to murder you with a gun can stand well outside of arm’s reach to do it, BUT distance is on your side. Criminals are not known for marksmanship. If you hear a news story about a shooting, compare the number of rounds fired to the number of casualties (killed or wounded). The hit rate is really low.

Lesson: Run laterally to the gunman’s line of fire and try to put something big and concrete/brick between the two of you. The lateral movement is harder to track than running directly away. The critical point is MOVE. Get out of the area. Check yourself for injuries you might not have felt. Call 911.

A person trying to rob/abduct you must get very close to do so.

If its a robbery, give up your car or throw your junk on the ground, and run. All of that property is replaceable.

If it is an abduction attempt or assault with a hand weapon, and you cannot run, it is time to create Hell in a very small space.

This means ANGRY screaming, striking, biting, clawing, kicking, stomping, etc. ad nauseam.

Angry is the key. Angry is empowering.

Fear is very helpful. It tells you something is wrong. Embracing Fear brings with it feelings of weakness and despair.

Anger says, “This is NOT going to FNG happen to me!”

Try it for yourself. Say it out loud like you mean it. You’ll feel the adrenaline kick in.

Abduction Mechanics:

A person trying to abduct someone by physical force must use their hands to control that victim. This means their hands are not available for anything else.

If the abductee must be lifted off the ground and carried, the kidnapper must use a lot more effort AND spend extra strength to adjust their balance to account for the additional burden.

The abductee they are trying to move is not under these limitations. They have their hands, feet, head, teeth, elbows, and knees to thrash around with. This violent movement increases the abductor’s balance problem.

All of the thrashing could cause the abductor to drop the victim or possibly to fall down themselves offering the victim a chance to break free and run.

If the victim can find some soft fleshy bits, they can be pinched, crushed, bit, gouged, and hit repeatedly. If a joint is accessible, it can be attacked interfering with the kidnapper’s balance or possibly causing the kidnapper to drop the victim.

Key Thought: He may have hold of me, but now his hands are busy, and it’s MY TURN!

Thoughts on Techniques:

Martial Arts teaches the practitioner to move in prescribed ways while concentrating on performing the movement. This instills a level of focus on what is happening during that moment in time. Dojo sparring translates that focus into a high-speed version of tag. This is useful, but because you are not really trying to hurt your opponent, it limits your “creativity” is target selection and how hard you can really hit them.

When fighting for your life, you are hitting as hard as you can as quickly as you can until your opponent falls down and you can escape. That’s it. That’s the only thing that matters.

My favorite technique for untrained people is to strike with the pinkie side of a firmly closed fist. This is usually called a “hammerfist”, and this blow delivers solid impact with minimal chance of injury to the hand.

Targets are the bridge of the nose, collarbone, temple, side of the jaw, Adam’s apple, genitals, or my fave, the side of the neck where it meets the shoulder. The neck shot works like this.

You can also strike with the back of the hand, but you risk cutting your knuckles on the opponent’s teeth.

Extending the thumb across the top of the hammer fist makes a good gouge to apply to the eyes, throat, armpit, sides of the neck (see above), and inner thigh. Get in the soft spot and really DIG FOR GOLD. If one spot isn’t working, go for another.

If I can grab the fingers of one of my opponent’s hands with both of my hands, I can pull hard sideways, and rip the web of skin between the fingers. Maybe I dislocate or break the fingers as well.

Elbows are very useful. Use the “front” of the elbow and strike with the ulna bone. Striking with the humerus side risks hitting the funny bone and paralyzing the arm. Sometimes required, but that is a risk factor. Put your hip into the swing for added force.

Targets are the same as the hammer fist, plus the sternum/solar plexus and back of the head where the spine joins the skull. If you are quick and flexible, you can apply this to the inside of the knee.

These are preferred techniques because they are simple, instinctive, and leave your feet firmly on the floor. Kicking and sweeping attacks with the foot can be useful, but balance and mobility are far more critical.

All of these techniques are intended for use at bad breath distance. If your opponent falls on you, and you end up on the ground, they are still effective. Just keep going.

If you can add something moderately heavy (beer mug, sturdy water bottle, folded mini-umbrella) or sharp (pen, hair stick, rat tail comb, screwdriver, knife) to the hammer fist, the game changes dramatically.

All of the above represents a mindset. The goal is to get you thinking about options for dealing with a situation nobody ever wants to face.

Sometimes the best option is to run.

Sometimes you give up your car, or throw your purse on the ground.

Sometimes you just have to get REALLY nasty.

OR, maybe you pull out a can of pepper spray, and in the sage wisdom of John Correia, “Bless the deserving with the hot sauce.”

</Sermon>

Addendum 9/22/26: Sadly, the local news just proved my point: https://www.fox4news.com/news/affidavit-reveals-victim-bit-suspect-chest-escape-attempted-kidnapping-irving-park

Bottom of the Fifth

Tags

books, fiction, short story, short-story, writing

An Honorable Mention winner in the North Texas Business Council for the Arts “On My Own Time” Literary Contest for Fictional Short Story (Professional Division).

My hangover is pounding even before I opened my eyes. Once they are open, I realize it is somebody intent on murdering my front door, so I sit up and reach for my robe on the chair knocking over the mostly empty bourbon bottle on the nightstand. One of the two dirty glasses rolls off and breaks on the floor.

“What’s wrong with you?! We’re gonna be late!”

The big man on the stoop pushes the door wide almost knocking me down. “Joe, you have no respect for the dead.”

“Get a move on.” Joe collapses in an armchair. “You’ve got five or I leave you here.”

I make placating gestures as I head for the bathroom. “Let me wash my face and shave.”

I hear Joe ruffle a magazine as I flip on the bathroom light and see the girl in the bathtub.

***

“Who is she and what is she doing in your apartment?”

“I told you. I had dinner with her last night at Tripoli’s.” I light a cig and take a drag. “She said she wasn’t feeling well, so I took her home. Left her place around nine o’clock. Then I went home and drowned my sorrows in that fifth on the nightstand.”

“If you dropped her home, why did we find two dirty glasses in your room?”

“Don’t glasses normally come in pairs?” That joke landed flat. “I don’t know why there were two glasses. Maybe I forgot a glass from the night before.”

“Maybe the broken one with her fingerprints on it?”

“She’s never been in my place.” I put may face in my hands. I look up. “How’d she die?”

“The lab found traces of Nembutal in the broken glass.” A greenish glass bottle clicks on the table. “And this mostly empty bottle in your medicine chest. Wanna explain that?”

“I-I can’t.” I stub out my grit. “Never seen it before.”

“It’s got your prints on it,” the bottle returns to the evidence envelope. “Mike, c’mon. We can’t help you if you won’t come clean. Did you mean to kill the girl?”

I light my last smoke. “I’m playin’ this straight. You guys have known me for seventeen years. I didn’t hurt the dame.”

“Maybe candy is dandy, but a Mickey for a quickie? You wouldn’t be the first, but this time she got too much.”

I sigh in defeat. “Book me or let me go.”

***

It takes three days before Joe appears outside my cell.

“Hey, Mike. You know who that dame was?”

I’ve been over every angle, and I can’t figure it. “Thrill me.”

“Carey Boyd’s widow.”

I realized why she looked familiar. “Didn’t Boyd…”

“Yep. Day before she turned up at your place.”

Joe lit a cigarette and passed it through the bars. I take a welcome drag and speak through the smoke. “He dies in the gas chamber, and she suicides at my place to set me up.” I chuckle grimly. “That’s a new one.”

Joe shakes his head. “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“No proof. I’ll be seein’ you, Mike.” Joe turns and walks away down the cellblock.

*****

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May I Check Your Coat?

Tags

books, fiction, mystery, Sci-fi, science fiction, short story, short-story, writing

Many companies in the Dallas-Fort Worth area in conjunction with the North Texas Business Council for the Arts sponsor an annual Visual and Literary art competition called “On My Own Time”. This contest provides the sponsor’s employees who moonlight as amateur and professional artists/writers an opportunity to showcase their work.

The visual arts winners have their works displayed in a special gallery exhibit in Dallas’ NorthPark Center, and the Literary winners are honored at a reception hosted by Dallas College.

This year, I was recognized for several pieces that I will be sharing in the coming weeks. Hope you enjoy.

2026 Honorable Mention – Fictional Short Story (Professional)

“Remember folks, the enemy is always listening, so let’s all do our part to help the boys over there finish the job and come home. Until next week…” Lois turned off the radio with a loud click and stepped into her low-heel black pumps. One last check in the mirror and she hurried out the door.

***

“You’re late, Lois.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grigsby.” Lois quickly unpinned her hat and stashed it behind the counter. “The bus again.”

“I see,” Grigsby brushed off the excuse. “Ellen won’t be coming in. Her husband leaves tonight.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure I can manage.”

“See that you do,” Grigsby turned on his heel and walked away.

Lois began to take stock. Eleven coats already hung on the rack. She slid each one to the side to make sure it had a ticket stub pinned to the collar. The last one was a long navy blue double-breasted A-line wool coat with large brass buttons. Lois ran her fingers along the velvet collar. Such a beauty.

A strand of loose thread and a missing button caught her eye. Lois pushed the coats back and forth until she saw a yellowish gleam. It was the kind of button with a metal loop on the back and a decorative cap on the front. She turned it over in her hand and the front face came off, spilling several postage stamp-sized squares of film into her palm. Lois stared in shock. Is this that spy film in the newsreels?

“Miss?” A man’s voice made Lois jump.

Lois looked over her shoulder to see a tall man in his thirties waving a claim ticket. “Just a moment, sir.” She stuffed the button and film into the pocket of her uniform jacket and hurried to the counter to take the ticket. “Back in a moment, sir.” She returned to the rack and located the man’s hat and coat. “Here you are.” She handed him his coat and hat before accepting the man’s dime. “Thank you, sir. Good evening.”

An elderly couple approached the desk, “Good evening. May I take your coats?”

***

“Hi Ellen,” Lois took off her hat and hung up her coat. “Did Bill get away on time?”

Ellen looked glum, “Yeah. He’s gone.”

Lois wrapped an arm around Ellen’s shoulders, “This’ll all be over soon, and he’ll be back safe and sound.”

“Yeah,” Ellen nodded. “Oh, a man came looking for his wife’s coat. Navy blue with big buttons…”

Lois missed the rest of Ellen’s words. Her hand slipped into her pocket to make sure the button was still there. She realized Ellen had stopped speaking. “Oh! I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“The man showed me where a button was missing, and he asked if we had found it. He seemed really upset. I told him I’d ask you and have you call if you knew where it was.” Ellen passed over a slip of paper, “He left his number.”

“Oh.” Lois felt a creeping chill. “I-I’ll take care of it…”

***

“Excuse me.”

Lois looked up to see a middle-aged balding man in a rumpled gray suit with an old-fashioned watch chain stretched across too much belly. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m here about my wife’s coat. Navy blue with large brass buttons.”

“Yes, sir.” Lois nodded. “I know the one.”

The man smiled thinly, “Excellent. I picked it up earlier today, and one of the buttons is missing.”

“I have it here, sir,” Lois smiled back as she reached into her pocket and set the button on the counter. “We usually drop things like that in the pocket of the garment, so it goes back to the owner.”

Lois looked past her customer into the intense blue eyes of the square-jawed detective stepping out of the phone booth behind him. “Freeze, mister! You’re under arrest!”

The End

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Need An Escape?

Tags

author, books, ebooks, novels, Sci-fi, science fiction, short story, stories, story, writing

The Based Books Sale is still on! All ebooks $0.99 or free!

Basede Book Sales Starts Tomorrow (9/9)!

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book, book sale, books, reading

All eboooks $0.99!

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Forgetting Everything

Tags

AI, artificial intelligence, books, censorship, computers, corporations, politics, writing

In 1975 a prescient little film called “Rollerball” starring James Caan, Maud Adams, and John Houseman hit the theaters. It told the story of the world’s top sports hero Jonathan E (played by Caan), who was the star player of the Houston powerhouse team.

The backdrop of the story is a world firmly under the control of mega-corporations that have subsumed the various world governments and now control the planet from several specialized cities around the globe. In the case of our hero Jonathan E that is Houston presented as “the Energy City.”

In spite of the violence inherent in the sport of Rollerball, the real conflict is the contest of wills between Jonathan E and a corporate executive named Mr. Bartholomew, played by John Houseman. Mr. Bartholomew has ordered Jonathan E to announce his retirement from the game because the game is not really a game, but a means of controlling the populace and an ultimate lesson that individual greatness and accomplishment have no value in the modern society.

One particularly entertaining scene comes from Jonathan E’s visit to a “library” where he attempts to obtain books on “how corporate decisions are made” and “the corporate wars” that presumably resulted in the world he knows. The “librarian” admits she is not a librarian, but just a clerk, and there are no books any longer because they have all been “edited and summarized.”

When Jonathan E persists in his request, the woman suggests he visit the central repository in Geneva. Upon his arrival, Jonathan is introduced to the “Librarian”, played by Ralph Richardson, who confirms the clerk’s earlier assertion. During the conversation, the Librarian is fiddling with computer keyboards and punch cards and complaining about the central computer named “Zero” who keeps losing information.

All of this brings me to an experience from the 21^st century.

Earlier this week, I attempted to have our corporate AI handle a simple collation task, and I received this error:

Hmmmm.

Interesting.

AI went offline.

The same AI controlled by corporations that are buying up massive quantities of used books, chopping off the spines, and feeding them into high-speed scanners to train the AIs.

Mankind began the transfer of information through oral traditions. Old folks told stories and taught the younger generations to survive. Nothing was written down. If the older members of a tribe were lost, the history of the people and many critical skills could be lost with them, and those skills had to be relearned.

Writing solved part of this. Now knowledge was persistent and bulky, but transmission was slow because the records had to be hand-copied. Errors crept in and were perpetuated across generations.

Gutenberg solved part of this with the printing press. This one invention allowed knowledge to be preserved and spread with ease and mankind saw the benefits.

When computers emerged, mankind gained immediate access to information from around the globe. Since then, data has been pushed back behind a mostly inaccessible wall. With the exception of lingering copies of old books, the cognoscenti control the knowledge of the world. All we have is the information we are ALLOWED to see, with no ability to cross-reference anything except another electronic version of a document that might, itself, be a summarized, sanitized, and approved version instead of the real thing.

Now the cognoscenti are actively destroying old books. When these final tangible records of mankind’s knowledge and thoughts have gone into the shredder, what will be left?

More importantly, who will create the new knowledge that mankind MUST have in order to survive, much less conquer the stars?

We are already seeing a rapid decline in cognitive skills associated with the amount of screen time our young people experience. With AI to “recommend” solutions for everything, how will people know how to reason through a solution to a problem?

Rollerball was not the only warning.

John Dalmas wrote The Regiment, a philosophical treatise loosely disguised as a military science-fiction novel. In this story, the government declared that “Everything discoverable has already been discovered, and everything knowable is already known.” The society has been intellectually and spiritually stagnant for generations.

The main character is a journalist who has been embedded with a group of soldiers from a harsh, barren planet who’s only export is mercenary soldiers. His assignment is to report on the progress of an interplanetary war where the central government is employing these offworld mercenaries. Gradually, the journalist is exposed to the mercenaries’ philosophy and inducted into a conspiracy to break the “we know everything” façade that has kept humanity frozen in time.

I suggest we are at a crossroads ourselves as human knowledge is increasingly centralized and access is increasingly restricted through censorship, “editing,” paywalls, or just “lost.”

What will we do if someone “trips over the extension cord” and AI goes dark?

How will we regain our knowledge?

Will we return to being brutes living in the ruins of our civilization and wondering at the odd relics we find as we starve to death because food no longer arrives in neat plastic packaging? Could a 1970 editiion of Encytclopedia Britannica left to moulder in an attic become the salvation of an entire planet?

Hold onto your physical books. The information in them may soon be worth more than gold.