Cyber Security: A Love Story

It was a Saturday afternoon.  Or maybe it was last Sunday.

I think it started out as a bar hop.   Someone had the foresight to rent a bus.  But there were no buses left.   So the driver asked if we would mind riding on a mobile carousel.  Why not, we thought?  After the first couple of wineries we visited, nothing seemed to matter anyway.

By the time the sun set, it was all a blur: the flashing lights, the wine spilled on the backs of the horses, and the endless spinning.  We eventually switched the carnival sound track on the carousel to Django Reinhardt and Edith Pfaff.   That seemed to help.   However, by midnight, I noticed that most of the travelers had left the ride.  It was just down to four of us:  Ellen DeGeneres, her Phant, me, and this Free Entity AI with blonde hair and blue eyes.

Ellen seemed intent on getting the Free Entity AI to join her and the Phrant in some kind of tryst.   But the Free Entity was not interested.  Instead, she seemed more interested in scribbling on her notebook. The Phrant was nonplussed and waited for new instructions from Ellen.   I attempted to strike up a handshake protocol connection with the Phrant.   But my cerebral monitor indicated the Phrant had no public certificate and she was password and copyright protected.  And of course, I didn't have access to Ellen's virtual private network to mount a Man in Middle assault.

Moreover, it seemed my query to the Phrant aroused the attention of Ellen, who broke off her conversation with the Free Entity and scowled at me.   Ellen instant messaged me that the Phant was her property and that any further query's on my part would be trespassing, an invasion of privacy,  a public and private nuisance and that she would contact her lawyers to obtain a temporary restraining order.    So even in my inebriated state I got the message.  Ellen and her Phant then went to the far side of the carousel leaving the Free Entity and me alone on a pair of white trojan horses.

I asked the Free Entity AI what she was writing.  She said it had to do with her thesis on neuroaesthetics.  She was studying symmetry in art and how it was related to unconscious processes in the brain.  She believed that anytime there was symmetry in art (or nature) it suggested that the subject matter was either prey, predator, or mate.  Which made a great deal of sense to me.   If I were walking through a forest in India, I could imagine that seeing the symmetry of the design on the head of a cobra would attract my attention.  The symmetry of the hourglass design on the black widow also signals the danger of a predator.   Similarly, if I were a female Peacock, I would imagine the design on the male Peacock would arose my interest.   As such, the AI believed that if the artist wanted to construct art that resonated with the viewer, she better include some symmetry of shapes and/or colors, etc.

I thought that was really cool.  Because look, I was wearing one of my shirts that had a 3D Mandala design on the front.  Given that I was wearing one of  my mandala tshirts, I thought the AI would take an interest in my subject matter.  So I sent her my private certificate key.   But she just got off her horse and sat on one of the the couches on the carousel and began to smoke one of her token rings. She asked if I wanted to join her.   We ended up smoking together on the couch until the sun came up.

Rodrigo y Gabriella, dry eyes, basketball scar on the forehead.  What more is going to happen to me?

Fun With Synesthesia

My first experiments with synesthesia occurred fairly early in my cognitive development.   Like maybe when I was two or three.   This was about the same time I wrote my first treatise comparing Hegelian Dialectic with Marxian Dialectic Materialism. (As an aside, that treatise is still looking for a publisher in case anyone is interested).

My experience with synesthesia began as my mother would position my Fisher Price Zen Collection High chair in the bathroom next to running bath water.  It still makes me all tingly this day.   Even though I now have eschewed the familiar trappings of my high chair (more or less), the sound of running water will instantly attenuate any existential anxiety that this post-modern age has inflicted on my consciousness.  I recommend it highly.

Lately, I have been experimenting with new forms of synesthesia.   These involve late night forays into abandoned graveyards and obscure rituals involving toasts and the incantation of other Dionysian rituals. The elder spirits thus summoned appear to have invaded my body and settled into my tanden.  There,  inside my guts, the elder spirits have been churning around proving little relief--except of course, they too are soothed by the sound and vibration of running water.   In fact, come to think of it, I wonder how many world conflicts could be assuaged by bath water?  Its certainly worth a try.  Maybe the Voice of American could broadcast the soothing vibrations into the world's hot spots?   Ukraine?  Syria?  Ferguson?  Its certainly worth a try.

All this churning in my tanden makes we wonder if the churning will produce any butter?   You know how I have been digging the Bulletproof Coffee and Bulletproof Yerba Mate these days.  Think of all the money I could save on Grass Fed Butter if I could produce my own.  Of course, would the butter produced from my own internal churning be considered Grass Fed?  I don't eat alot of grass.   I'm not planning to move to Colorado anytime soon, so I doubt I will have any significant amount of grass in my diet.  Consequently, as my diet does not consist of any literal "grass," my own internally produced diet will have to be metaphorically grass fed.  And I can categorically attest to the fact that each one of my concepts and thoughts are gluten free and completely organic.

I'll let you know if I wake up tomorrow next to a pile of butter and if so, whether it would qualify for Bulletproof Coffee.

And Now a Message from the Greater Boise Metropolitan Chamber of Commerce

We at the Greater Boise Metropolitan Chamber of Commerce  (GBMCC) understand that global business has a choice on where to live and where to operate like never before in human history.  In short, cities and countries are in constant competition with each other to entice corporations to do business within their friendly confines.  Our future plans include breaking away from the albatross that is America and setting up a new country with ties to Ireland and other tax havens to bring back multinational corporations like Apple and Google to North America.  

You may think that Boise is too cold.  But we support global warming.  If present trends continue, we can expect Boise to become a tropical paradise within the next century.   Think of all the benefits that Boise can bring to your business:  a clean healthy environment for you employees, good schools with an above average college football team, low taxes, and most importantly, low crime.

And speaking of low crime, we expect all of our citizens to adhere to the Ninth Rule of Fight Club.   Indeed, we teach it as part of our standard indoctrination of all Boise high school students:

The Ninth Rule of Fight Club:

Don't shoot at a policeman, even if that policemen happens to be off duty unless you are prepared for and can accept the inevitable consequences of the foregoing action. This rule has universal application to all countries on this planet.  This rule also applies even if the aforementioned policeman is being a total dickhead, asshole, and is otherwise being unreasonable.  If you shoot at a cop, you better have an army behind you, or you better be planning a rebellion with many confederates.  Otherwise, you are on your own, douche bag.

Note:  Starting in 2014 the GBMCC will start a national outreach program to less fortunate communities, especially those in the Midwest, who seem to have recent difficulties attracting business and jobs given their proclivity to violate the Ninth Rule of Fight Club articulated above.

Purple is still the color most like Poop--except for Brown, or maybe Orange if you have eaten a lot of Oranges the day before

Ok, so where were we?

Oh, that's right, we were in the folds of the giant orange tulip ship sinking down into the earth--all the while escaping the alien invasion.

There was a soundtrack to this you know.  Maybe as part of the cultist spell I was under, they played music so that I wouldn't be hearing the explosions overhead.  Anyway, the music I heard in booming surround sound was Jerry Garcia singing Pink Floyd's "Mother."  I couldn't help thinking that Jerry Garcia wasn't in Pink Floyd, but as the giant tulip descended deeper into the darkness, I went with it, thinking that maybe Garcia's sang similar to Roger Waters after all.

And it just wasn't the music, but there was a light show going on all around me as well.  Outside of the folds of the tulip, there were comets and constellations and stars zooming by above and below me.  I started feeling a little sick to my stomach.   I steadied myself a bit by focusing on one point to reduce the vertigo I was experiencing.  Where was that giant tulip taking me?

Several hours later, my tulip came to an abrupt halt on the surface of a giant desert planet.   I didn't know where the hell I was other than the planet was barren and had a giant sun overhead.

After I met some of the natives, who called themselves "Fremen," I learned that the planet was called "Arrakis."   The Freeman called me "Muad Dib" which had something to do with a desert mouse.   I don't know where they got that idea--especially because they told me that it was foretold that "Muad Dib" would lead them in a great battle against the Sardukar Army of some great evil Empire.

Of course, I had read all about Arrakis and Muad Dib in Frank Herbert's "Dune."  So I told the Fremen that they would indeed defeat the Sardukar and all would turn out great for them--at least in the short term.   When I told them this, they started shouting my name and proclaiming that it was a miracle and that I could foresee the future.   So I went with that and life was very good.   They even hooked me up with some hot indigenous woman named Chiani.

So I guess I'm supposed to lead them into battle now.   We'll see how that goes.  But first Chiani insists that I eat or smoke a bunch of this spice that is some kind of drug for them.   I'm taking it now, I'll let you know how that all turns out.......

Purple is the color most like Poop--except for Brown

The alien invasion unfolded with unrelenting effectiveness and efficiency.

The earth's armed forces were destroyed in the first day, having found the aliens resistant to both conventional and non-conventional arms.

On the other hand, any proximity to the alien's energy beams was instantly lethal.

On my part, I was luckily saved due to my proximity to an obscure religious cult's convention at the Reid's Harvest House in Chester, Illinois.  As fate would have it, I was in day three of an expected two week trial at the Randolph County Courthouse when the invasion started.  We were all told to seek shelter, so I scrambled into the basement of the Harvest House.

The basement was already filled with of a bunch of people in tie dyed clothing gathered around their leader, a middle aged woman with flowing  long grey black hair hair wearing a tie dyed dress.  These people did not seem to be concerned about the alien invasion going on outside--instead, they appeared to be involved in some sort of weird religious ceremony.    The woman, who I took to be some sort of priest,  was pirouetting around the symbol of a natraja drawn in chalk on the basement floor.     When she saw me,  she motioned me forward with beckoning fingers.  I initially hesitated, but soon followed her direction and stepped on the natraja.    When I did this the woman and the other cult members started repeating a mantra that started out quietly but increased  in volume at each repetition:

Om me padme Priorat, Om me padme Grenache,  Om me padme Rhone, Om me padme Priorat, Om me padme Grenache, Om me padme Rhone

Though all hell was breaking loose above us, cities were being destroyed, and aliens were landing in every human town and hamlet, I felt strangely at peace with all the chanting going on in the basement.  I was transfixed by the attractive priest drawing circles in the ground around each member of the cult and then inexplicably the cult members sinking into earth all the time while doing this little hippie dance.  It was if the priest was opening up some sort of portal in the floor that was sucking up all the cult members.  

Soon everyone disappeared with smiles on their faces save for me and the woman priest.  She came to me, put her arms around me and then disappeared into an orange shimmering light which enveloped me like the folds of a giant tulip closing all around me.   I felt the floor beneath me opening up and I descended down the earth in the clutches of a giant orange tulip ship (which as we all know is a very unconventional way to travel).  As I sank down into the orange colored darkness, I looked up and saw the aliens above me with their bug eyed faces and ray guns and I knew that I had escaped their evil plans with the help of my new cult friends.

End Part I.

Infinite Guest

I had to keep reminding myself that my friend John actually died ten years ago--because he remained with me, both literally and figuratively, almost 24 hours a day.   True, he did often disappear in the afternoon.   And I had no idea of what he did late at night other than the fact that I never saw him sleep.

At first I thought I was schizophrenic, or seriously hallucinating, when John appeared suddenly on the third anniversary of his death.   But as I quickly discovered, I was not the only one who saw him.  John, true to his personality I knew when he was alive, carried on detailed conversations with almost everyone I encountered.   He even became somewhat of an obstacle to any romance I undertook at the time.  But as time wore on, he quickly engendered himself to any girlfriend.  Some never knew that he was actually dead.  One of the more interesting episodes during this time period involved John falling asleep while driving his car after we watched a Yankees game at the bar.  John had a lot to drink that night, and the officer thought that he was intoxicated.  But John passed the breathalyzer in flying colors.   The fact that he had no alcohol in his breath should not have been surprising because he didn't actually breathe.

Of course, when he had to, John could also be very convincing that he was alive.   Once, on what would have been his fiftieth birthday, he was hit by a car.   He was taken by ambulance to the hospital (I was at work at the time and was not present).  The doctor who pronounced him dead in the ER was surprised when John opened his eyes, sat up on the gurney and proceeded to walk out of the hospital.   To this day, the doctor believes that there must have been a power surge which disabled all the medical monitoring equipment.

During the last two years of his life, John voraciously read David Foster Wallace.  So I guess it really did not come as much of a surprise that one evening when I came home from work, I saw John and David Foster Wallace chatting amiably at the kitchen table.  It appeared that they had reached a consensus that my life could be improved if I took up tennis again and discarded my red wine consumption in favor of smoking pot.  We invited Foster Wallace for dinner, and later he became a regular house guest.   I considered myself fortunate to live with two dead people.

John and David Foster Wallace had a lot in common.   They were the same age, their parents were teachers, and they both grew up in the Midwest.  They both liked sports, TV, sarcasm and writing. They both took the same anti-depression medication.  Of course, even though John was a former Leisure and Arts Editor at the Wall Street Journal he should have kept his editorial criticisms of Foster Wallace's novels to himself.  John was always given Foster Wallace "helpful" suggestions on cutting some of the length of his novels and making some of his ideas clearer.  Foster Wallace would inevitably retort that at least he had attempted the "great American" novel, while John was just a critic at a business journal.  I usually exited the conversation at that point as things invariably got nasty.

Eventually John and Foster Wallace asked a favor of me.  It seems they both were stuck on this planet because of the way they had attempted to exit this planet, namely by taking their own life.  For reasons that they could never explain to me, suicide victims are stuck on earth after their death because of the heavy energy states released during death. If you die by other means, the human energy potential is released skyward, and accounts for the lights of the aurora borealis.  They were eager to exit this planet once and for all.   But to do that, I had to take them to the north pole by air, where, on a clear night, they could jump out of the plane and their energy could assimilate into the aurora borealis.

I readily agreed to help them out, but it did take some advance planning on my part.  First, I had to learn how to fly a plane, then purchase a plane, and finally plan our mission.  This took me all of several weeks to accomplish.  Then, on a bright clear night in October, I opened the hatch door at 20,000 feet, and watched my two friends leap into oblivion.   Of course, I captured the entire event on my new Iphone 6, which they both appreciated:-).