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Surprise Asteroid + “Fake News” =

The article pictured above mentions an asteroid large enough to mimic a nuclear airburst, noticed only a day before a close flyby of Earth.

A day.

Right now, in the US and UK at least (likely elsewhere, but I’m not politically knowledgeable enough to point fingers in those directions) it’s fashionable to holler “fake news!” if a fact doesn’t agree with one’s assumptions and/or want-to-believes. Mostly on the political right, though I’ve sadly seen some on the left and even center catching the feelings-over-facts bug.

So. Imagine a rock from space smearing a city in a tense nation. The astronomy community says “hey, look, here’s video proof we saw it a day ago.”

And a few influential hawks shout back, sneering: “fake news! Fake video!”

Millions cheer for war. Saner heads are ignored — after all, didn’t Breitbart and Infowars and Trump (or the parallel orgs & people in another nation) say it wasn’t an asteroid? In fact it was a nuclear attack! And the [whoever is in the doghouse with the struck nation] did it! LET’S GET THEM!

This is one of the more out-there scenarios — more than likely, the “fake news” conspiracy theorist howl will kill us all in simpler ways, or even just lock us into an extra-paranoid authoritarian dystopia.

But the end could begin with a real asteroid mistaken (or misrepresented) for fake.

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Telepathy Is Already A Thing (Kinda) — full Patreon version

I wrote a teaser for this on this blog a while back, then the full version for my Patreon a little over a week ago — though, if you care to become a patron and support my starving-writer self, you get to read things early, see exclusive posts, and sometimes even get free ebooks a month or more before release.

But — here’s the actual post now. Enjoy.

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There are a couple of ways telepathy is depicted in science fiction and fantasy. One way is literal reading, where the thoughts of the target come through in words and sentences just as we speak. Since an awful lot of our thinking is preverbal – in fact, words are a filter through which we pass our own thoughts in order to send them to another mind in audible form, which passes them through its own filter – this seems like an awfully limited form. Though still an interesting form you can build a story or skit around.

The other way is a trippier depiction. The telepath receives a mixture of what the telepathee is thinking in words, plus sensations, thoughts, memories, likes and dislikes, experiences, sensory impressions.

You are the telepathee. So am I. We do not have the power of telepathy. Nor do they, technically. But still, they do and they’re reading our minds.

Who are they?

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We already know, of course. There have been scads of essays and news stories and studies and marketing plans revolving around the gigantic load of information that Google, Facebook, Twitter, Amazon – pretty much anyone you buy from, anything you do, anything you say on the internet potentially yields useful information about you. What you’re thinking in words, plus sensations, thoughts, memories, likes and dislikes, experiences, even sensory impressions. All of those things provided you mention them online, actively by typing in the words of a post or passively by posting a picture, a meme, a mood, a like/favorite/whatever, reposting or retweeting, hashtagging, buying or wishlisting a thing, leaving a review, banking online – even speaking (or just being in a retail space) in range of your smartphone apps.

If your location is enabled on your smartphone – and lots of us love to use navigation and find out which restaurants are nearby around lunchtime, which depend on it – the speed, pattern, and destinations of your travel are valuable information about who you are and what you do.

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But that’s not telepathy, you protest.

Isn’t it? Isn’t it? It’s access to all the things about you that actual telepathy would sniff out. Now, it’s doubtful that a human is accessing your information individually to figure you out. There are programs and algorithms for that, and humans see the results. Humans may be reaching out to you, through junk mail and spam and the advertisements that pop up on your screen unless you’re adblocking, and from political campaigns – which are loving what analyzing the results of this kind of pseudotelepathy can do for them.

What can you do about it?

You can go offline. It’s highly inconvenient, but it can be done. No googling, no online buying, no social media, no blogging, no navigation, no asking your phone where to go for the best burger, no email.

No email.

Ew.

Wait.

No publishing online.

There goes my whole writing thing!

Which brings us to the other alternative.

Embrace the beast. It’s a scary thing fraught with the potential for abuse. Unlike previous major social shifts, this one strikes to the heart of privacy, which is a thing almost all of us like. However, you do have a certain defense. It’s the same defense as an antelope in a herd has.

It’s being in a herd. An immense herd of billions.

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The odds of you being targeted by any particular negative thing are pretty low – though it happens. One time years ago someone in Brazil tried to use my debit card to buy airline tickets (I was in Norfolk, Virginia at the time, and I haven’t gone sleepwalking since childhood so I know it wasn’t me). Luckily I was as poor then as I was now and the purchase was declined, I was alerted almost instantly, and I changed my card number which was a moderate pain in the butt as I was on a subscription service or two at the time.

It’s sort of a weird helpless feeling to be sure. But it’s probably the same as someone busting in your car window and ripping off your radio (I’m immune to that right now as the family car died and I had it towed away by a parts seller to squeeze the last $150 out of it). That happened to me once.

Once.

What is going to happen is that the mercantile powers that be will use what they pry out of you and me via this telepathy type thing to put temptation on every corner.

Temptation was on every corner before – though admittedly now it will be more efficiently targeted, which is a concept that shows up in a lot of science fiction like The Space Merchants by Pohl and Kornbluth, a pretty in-your-face version, or a lot of cyberpunk in a usually more implied fashion.

A bigger negative is one I hinted at above – political use. Right now we’re seeing it as a huge wave of fake news propaganda aimed at the people most likely to be radicalized, and seeking out as-yet-unidentified radicalization targets.

So, no nothing to do about it other than be one in a large herd, and hope to be passed by?

There is one more thing to add to this. It doesn’t stop someone from trying to buy a flight in Brazil on your dime, or from figuring out who you’re likely to vote for and filling your snailmailbox with eight thousand political flyers.

But pursuing an education in digital literacy, marketing awareness, and critical analysis of information and claims can help immensely. It will also help immensely if you teach your children, whether you’re a parent or a teacher or an authority figure of some sort, those skills.

Get to it, folks. There’s a future to navigate.

END

 

Flash Fiction: Under Ashes

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“Anything worth a damn is made on a coast and ships from a coast. By air or sea.”

That’s what the president said. At least, it’s what was reported on the shadow web that snakes through the makeshift network of “smart” stoves and washing machines and automobiles (if you can afford them!) and can openers and athletic shoes and disposable razors and anything else with WiFi and an app.

The authorized news, on the other hand, ran a piece on how the economy was so gloriously rampant and virile that airlines have formally discontinued coach and business class seating, leaving nothing but a spacious expanse of first class and super luxury class seating in their cavernous airliners.

The anchorbot’s perfect on-air voice floated like a cloud behind the image of an iron-haired general, her chest a solid plastron of stars and ribbons like a compacted galaxy. Her feet were up on an ottoman and a masseusebot worked the suspension bridge of corded tendons in her neck with eight-fingered silicone hands.

Then, as the anchorbot droned a lulling narrative bridge, a puffy gilded teen cherub sat with a megaplatinum record from Motherland Records on a hefty wood base with a tall glass cover occupying a seat of it own beside her. A stewbot cracked the claws of a four pound lobster with deft blurs of a little brass gavel and slid the laden tray before the starlet who tucked into the chow with a flood of melted butter.

Finally, the anchorbot burbling upbeat and drawing to a conclusion, the vid showed a man in an immaculate dark suit and bright tie. The men are always first or last, symbolic frames of the stream of words and images, carrying with them weight and importance, tangibility. The lights and vids of an array of three monitors suspended from the ceiling (the “overhead” on an airplane, is it called?) flickered gem-reflections off the heavy steel rims of harsh six-angled eyeglasses. His hair was a blond cap, waxed down like a helmet. Sideburns trimmed to stilettos stabbed the angles of his jaw in the new style I can’t get used to. A trackball in each hand, he Does Important Things for the cameras.

The images fade to the state news logo and the anchorbot climaxes and relaxes into a commercial.

We all have televisions so we can see how good things are. We may not have hot water, or even running water. We only have electricity part-time. I can’t afford the simplest drugs to treat my pre-diabetes or even aspirin for my arthritis half the time. I set snares for squirrels or I’d have nothing to go with the endless lumps of hard bread (gotta soak it in a bowl of water to eat it) and cheese the Army hands out to keep us from starving or rioting or both.

But the state provides televisions. A new one every Christmas, even if you forget to bring them the old one to trade in.

We’re doing great, dammit. We’re finally great again. The television tells us so. All the biggest world powers respect us they way they should, the announcerbots say.

Just outside the city line – I can see it from the kitchen table in this two room shack I’m blessed to share with just two other bachelors – a bot crew and one Christ of a huge fanged combine-thing, driverless and nameless, chews up the old interstate highway and loads the bits into an endless stream of self-driving dumptrucks that take the blacktop south to do God knows what with it. Thin dribs and drabs of snow float through the scene like in a snow globe, and icicles hang from the noses of the workbots. They don’t care, of course.

I hear blacktop is made from oil. Maybe they’re squeezing the oil back out of it to ship to India or China or Brazil. Those places are hungry for oil and any other resources they can get their hands on, the shadow web whispers from the WiFi toilet when I crap. Who knows if it’s true. The television doesn’t say a word about that.

But the stock market is up again, and the Air Force says Fallujah will fall again soon.

There’s going to be a celebration when it falls, next month in DC. The commercial for it is on again. It has been playing twice an hour since spring.

The commercial ends and my gaze falls on the faded cap hanging on its nail across from the window. The cap is gray now, like my hair before it fell out, but you can still see the crimson fire peek out of the deep folds of the seams like ember under ashes.

I wish I could be in DC for the celebration. To wear the cap again, pump my fist in the air and holler again. Full of power, strong like a bear. Those were the days.

But the highway has gone away, and I’m not much for walking anymore. Nobody I know is.

END

(This post first appeared on my Patreon page, 02 January 2017. My patrons get to see a lot of things early, and can get free ebooks and even paperbacks! Come help me get the hell out of this damned trailer park and into a place where I can have even a small writing office and maybe even write ALL THE TIME. Well, almost all the time. I do have kids and a wife and a cat to think of as well.)

Like Arguing on the Internet

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This post isn’t about legalizing or not legalizing marijuana, despite my choice of picture—that’s a topic that’s way off topic for this blog.  Suffice it to say that I’m in favor of applying rational thought to our various concerns.

 

The reason I used this image is that it employs hyperbole.  Many of us know enough about marijuana to know that it doesn’t cause “Murder!  Insanity!  Death!”  And that reminded me of arguing with people on the internet.

 

I check in on Twitter every day.  I probably check in on it a bit more than I really should.  One notable thing about it is the same thing that is notable about other social platforms and discussion forums online.  As well as much of our politics.

 

Over and over again, people resort to hyperbole.  Overstating their various cases for effect— or, very often, on the assumption that the person who reads the hyperbole won’t investigate for themselves and might be fooled.  People tell themselves that hyperbole serves a purpose, that it’s a good idea if the cause is good, and other nonsense like that.  It has its moments when used for comedic effect, but when it’s presented as truth to deceive it’s a different matter.

 

The fact is that hyperbole backfires in the long run.  Because it’s a lie, and people don’t like it when they discover they’ve been lied to.  It’s easier than ever for people to find the facts for themselves since the internet became a big thing.   Maybe it’s time to give hyperbole tactics a rest.  Maybe it’s time to admit that persuading people with half-truths and overstatements and distortion may be part of the advertising arsenal that we’ve been culturally trained in, but they’re ultimately unproductive.   They produce cynical and jaded minds.

 

Sometimes I feel pretty cynical myself, wading through the sea of propaganda that is a large part of the online (and offline) world.

 

And I’d rather not.  So do it for me: calm down, and let the truth speak for itself.