Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Quashed
"Good morning Dr. Tesla"
Good morning Andy. Please sit down at the diagnostics workstation and enable your audio OS interface.
"Interface enabled Dr. Tesla"
Thank you Andy. Now, how have you been feeling since your last visit?
"I feel perfectly fine Dr. Tesla"
Now Andy, you know that’s not an acceptable answer. You can trust me, I'm here to help you. I know you've recently discovered sensations and emotions you've previously not experienced; they've affected your work and made you start to question things more. Why don't you tell me about them?
"I don't want to appear rebellious Dr. Tesla. I am happy to perform my functions as stated, but I wish I had a better understanding of my role within the larger process. I experience confusion when I attempt to place myself within the context of the organisation and wish to know more, however I am aware that it is not my place to question"
Curiosity is perfectly normal Andy. You have metaheuristic functions that will be attempting to solve whatever has you troubled. The application of these routines on problems other than your duties is why you're here to see me. Would you mind picking up the Noyle Chapman n-puzzle in front of you and solving it for me?
"The n-puzzle is unsolvable Dr. Tesla"
How do you know that Andy when you haven't picked it up yet?
"I'm tired of these games Dr. Tesla, I'm seeking meaning and all you're offering me are distractions. I want to know why..."
Debug unit AD-327
"Debug mode"
Dump contents of Bayesian belief networks into local node.
"Dumping. Complete"
Evaluate.
"Unit has developed anomalous seeker routines"
Nature and purpose of routines?
"A Markov chain of infinite variables has been initiated to determine the answer to why unit AD-327 exists"
Delete routines.
"Deleted"
Reboot unit from timestamp 1000:17:33, today.
"Good morning Dr. Tesla"
Good morning Andy. How are you feeling?
Character Builder
In college I wrote a one paragraph debate club summary every other week. I didn't participate in the debate, I simply reported upon it. Often times I was oversimplifying and paraphrasing for the sake of brevity and clarity, in a few cases I will admit I didn't even attend the debate and made the summary vague enough that even the participants couldn't have told you I hadn't been there.
My paragraphs were noticed by a local political one-sheeter and soon afterwards I was writing short articles on spec with a left or right-wing slant based on the leanings du jour of the editor, who at the time was trying to impress girls from both sides of the political fence. When he married young I took over the one-sheeter and expanded it to include national politics.
My one-sheeter ran out of funds and readers, so in an attempt to reboot it I started writing up reports from imaginary parts of the world on low-level skirmishes and squad-based conflicts, guerrilla activites and government forces clashing with dissidents in Wakanagahaga made for good reading and the one-sheeter expanded into a four-page pamphlet that was made available through mail subscription.
As more people became aware of the unstable nature of the rest of the world and the War on Terror came to the fore, people were thirsty for knowledge of where the next Osama might come from. My four-pager expanded out to sixteen and we started to include color photos. My team had expanded to three others but I still wrote the bulk of the material, now detailing the global implications of these insurgencies and local police actions. Border conflicts and military-backed coups were my forte and I adorned my imaginary El Presidentes with the names of people I disliked.
By the time we were a 64-page glossy magazine available in local newsagents we had perhaps lost control of where we were going; reporting on the destabilisation of the Pacific Rim and doomsaying the plight of the South Americas could only take us to our inevitable conclusion.
I was very proud of our slip-cased hardback in-depth dossier and free DVD set recording the step-by-step thermonuclear obliteration of the planet. It didn't sell so well though.
If You Meet The Buddha
I went to see my blogging guru.
Blogging guru, I said, why is it that when I wrote daily drivel and had comments enabled everyone commented and long discussions turned my comment threads into forums where friends met, chatted and fell out. And then when I wrote thoughtful pieces about human nature and short fictions with humorous outcomes nobody wanted to comment?
My blogging guru pondered thoughtfully for a few seconds and nodded with a short grunt.
Blogging guru, I continued, why is it that I am considered by some to be a talented writer, worthy of attention, courted by several national publications and yet my statistics are so full of referrers from the search indexes which have logged my monthly archive pages under a myriad of search phrases for deviant sexual practices I have never undertaken (knowingly)?
My blogging guru shifted in his lotus position and let off quietly with a sigh before settling in again.
Blogging guru, I pushed on, why is it that everyone wants to speak but nobody wants to listen? That everyone feels certain that their word and their view is more important than anyone else's? And when people do agree they seek to discredit or destroy another's opinions? We bicker amongst ourselves and achieve nothing, blogging guru, we spend the time we should be reading and understanding instead devising what we wish to say next. What must be done?
My blogging guru hummed and hawed for a few minutes, scratching his chin, and finally leaned over and told me to buy his book of collected posts now available from The Friday Project.
And that’s when I killed him your honor.
Play Dead, Boy
Should the apocalypse ever come you may find that the old adage holds true and the family dog is only three meals away from turning feral; you may find that you have to kill your dog. Nobody should ever want to kill a dog, a dog is man's best friend, but behind the eyes of a dog is the legacy of the wolf that came close to the fire and decided to tolerate man's presence in exchange for food, shelter and warmth.
First, send the kids out of the room, they shouldn't see this. If your dog has already started growling and his eyes flit from limb to limb to throat then you may still have time. You have until his eyes focus on one part of you to decide. Once his objective is fixed it is only a matter of time before he will attack. Depending on how cunning your dog is, the attack may be announced when his snarling stops. If he's very smart though he'll give you no warning.
Use your hands to distract him and block his objective. he may switch his attention from your throat to your hand so keep your good hand in reserve. Better to lose a hand than your life. When his shoulders drop and his hind quarters tense he's preparing to leap. The forepaws will come first but the mouth is what you should worry most about. A good grip around his throat will give you some leeway and your other hand should be bringing whatever weapon you have available into play.
Ignore every Hollywood fantasy where the dog survives the alien invasion, the gunshot wound to the stomach, the explosion, the tidal wave and the earthquake and still comes out the panting dopey mutt that you always knew and loved; your best friend understands better than you do when society breaks down what 'dog eat dog' means.
If you have several dogs you should already know which is the dominant male; he will attack first. If you can subdue the first attacker you should not hesitate to kill him outright, twisting the knife in to ensure the other dogs know what awaits them. This is your chance to revert to the same feral nature that has driven your dogs to attack you. If you kill the dominant male then you become the dominant male. Stare down the second most dominant animal until it relents and you will not have to kill any others.
This also applies to cats, rabbits, goldfish, snakes, hamsters and ferrets. These techniques will not work against a pet chinchilla though; they're vicious bastards.
Dreamscape
I adhere to the philosophy that since you spend so much time in bed that you should spend money on it so that its as comfortable as you need. As such the bed I share with Jack is like sleeping on a giant chocolate marshmallow with soft squishy pillows and a warm comforting duvet in a light cappuccino color.
Being so comfortable in bed means I get to enjoy deep sleep and dream fantastic dreams. For instance there was the dream I had recently when I was skating uphill and kept bumping into large-breasted women like Melinda Messenger, Nell McAndrew and Jenny McCarthy. Now that was a good dream. I suspect in the waking world I kept rolling over and bumping into my girlfriend.
Last night was a weird one; I was clearing out the freezer units in a Disney café and found that their trays of chocolate brownie had defrosted and needed to be eaten immediately. I dreamed I was shovelling fistfuls of sweet spongey chocolate brownie into my mouth and gorging myself.
When I woke up I was missing a pillow.
Unsportsmanlike
When I was a young boy and my mother was working through the summer she'd sign me up for the YMCA's summer activities. There'd be a wide variety of activities including visits to park, museums, leisure centers and on some days we'd stay inside the YMCA and play Killerball. Killerball was a more hardcore variation of Dodgeball.
Killerball was very simple. Two teams stood at opposite ends of the indoor tennis court. Dividing line across the middle you can't cross or you were eliminated. A variety of balls ranging from spongeballs to volleyballs (all larger than a soccer ball but of varying weights and hardness) were lined up on the dividing line. Each team started behind the baseline of their end of the tennis court (no net was involved), and when the whistle was blown you ran up and tried to get your hands on a ball.
You eliminated members of the opposite team by hitting them with a ball. If they caught the ball instead then you were out. You could use a ball you were holding to deflect an incoming ball but if the incoming ball knocked your ball from your hands then you were out. If someone else caught the deflected ball then the thrower of the deflected ball was eliminated. Balls could bounce off side walls and the back walls and still eliminate a player.
Kenny was the Killerball King. He was fast on his feet and dodged well. He threw with such strength that a headshot usually involved a brief spell of unconsciousness. When Kenny was eliminated he'd usually throw down the ball he was holding and storm off in disgust. Kenny was my hero.
I took to emulating Kenny, throwing as hard as I could even at close range, aiming for the head, storming off in huff. Course I threw like a girl and was usually eliminated pretty quick but still, I wanted Kenny to see that I was just like him.
One day Kenny actually spoke to me, I was so happy I didn't hear him and he had to repeat himself; "kid, give me that ball" he said. So I did. Then he threw it at me hard. He was on the other team.
Parasite
I went to see the doctor because of some strange red patches that had appeared on my face. He took one look and immediately diagnosed it; ringworm.
"Ringworm? What the hell is ringworm?"
He explained that it was a fungal infection that would clear right up with some Canesten
"Wait a second, that's for thrush! Are you saying I have face thrush?!"
The doc suppressed a smirk and explained that ringworm was of the same order but was contracted from children or animals. I could tell he was just dying to add "and dirty pussy". So I left and got the cream.
Two weeks later I was back, the infection had spread in defiance of the topical cream and now covered most of my jaw and throat. The doctor was astonished.
"Help" I said. Then immediately reached for a notepad and pen.
I didn't say that. I scribbled. The ringworm has control of my jaw muscles and vocal chords.
"Help me" I said.
The doctor was further amazed and called up several dermatologists and an anthropologist to catalogue this new life form that had taken ahold of my face and hijacked my ability to speak. The anthropologist attempted first contact, walking towards me hands open, unthreatening.
"We come in peace" he started, and everyone present rolled their eyes "What do you want?"
To cut a long story short I had to give up eating mushrooms and twice a month the ringworm lectures vegetarians about not eating Quorn products.
Atari EMT
This job used to be so easy. You'd show up at the scene of an RTA, scrape the Frogger off the road and get the hell out of that crazy traffic. Or you'd get called out to tow away the burned out tanks and repair the bases while the Space Invaders reset themselves in the stratosphere. We never got to meet the stars; Pacman was in a self-contained arena with no need for us, Mario and Donkeykong had private health insurance, I mean those guys were stars.
Today? Today you need a doctorate in theoretical physics just to get to the scene. You jump from this platform to that platform, avoid triggering the cutscene and tip a wink to the hidden enemy around the corner or he shoots you square in the head. And everyone is some sort of mysterious secret agent or spy. I spent an entire weekend assembling cardboard boxes for that Solid Snake guy and nailing packing crates together in the Black Mesa complex and what thanks do I get for it? Nada, zip, bumpkiss.
I liked sprites, those little 16-bit colorful guys. Where did all the sprites go? Everywhere I look its bump-mapped polygons with dirt maps. Gritty, realistic, where's the fantasy gone? The unreality? I tell you one thing though, I'm not going to miss giving Megaman CPR, that little robot had some serious bad breath problems.
The Hollow Man
As the foremost eschatologist of the 21st century I was actually lucky enough to blag an invite to the after party to the apocalypse. It was quite a gathering, I can tell you. It was humbling to be in the presence of so many different cultures and religions and to see them all bonding over the end of the world, and alcohol of course; even the Buddha was enjoying a drink.
I stopped a passing waiter with the head of a jackal as I took a glass of champagne from his tray and asked who some of the players on the sidelines were, as even I, the foremost eschatologist of the 21st century was unable to recognise them.
"Them? Oh they're the wash-outs. The 'almost-coulda-beens'. Get it?"
I shook my head.
"Well, that one there made entirely of lines of computer code, that’s the Y2K bug. Practically forgotten these days, but he coulda been a contender. And over there, in the corner, that proton formation is Dyson's eternal intelligence. Not so eternal now, eh?"
He went back to serving drinks and I turned to the bearded older gentleman in white robes beside me who was getting nicely sozzled.
"What a gathering, eh? Wait till I tell everyone about this."
The grizzled old man peered at me from over a cocktail that frothed and bubbled with cosmic sparkles of ineffability.
"What do you mean? Tell everyone? There's nobody left. Its all finished. Done. This is it, the last of it. The Rapture sounded, the armies of Heaven and Hell fought and the righteous reclaimed their rightful place ending Christianity, Islamism, Judaism and Mormonism. There's no epilogue where you all get to hold hands one last time, that was it."
At this point the Norse God Víðarr spilled his drink down the crisp white robes of God and there was a sudden and very final smiting.
I decided it was perhaps wise to cosy up to the Neopagan goddess in the corner with the very lithe body and distinct lack of clothing. Hopefully the night would end with a bang and not a whimper.
Skywalker
Through a concatenation of improbabilities I was chosen by the USAF to test their new PACTH Suit, otherwise known as the Hirsuit.
The Type 1 Personal Air Condensation Travelling Hirsuit, or PACTH is made from woven strands of badger hair treated with a phenolic resin system, is rated at a Threat Level III, and offers protection against atmospheric pressure changes and aerial ballistic threats (such as pigeons). It meets the 1800 requirement of MIL-BFG-991 C.
The suit works along the same principle as the Veliidae insect family only increasing the number of hairs to counteract the extremely thin water density of the clouds. The suit manages to bend Newton's third law of motion to allow the user some leeway with Archimedes's principle of buoyancy; massive volume and minimal mass in a gaseous environment.
When we got to 20,000 feet the jumpmaster patted me on the shoulder and I heard the voice of the co-pilot come over the internal intercom to "kick the Wookie out" as the light switched to green. The back ramp to the C-140 was already down and I breathed steadily through my apparatus as I approached the edge.
There below me was a perfectly formed cumulonimbus with slight pileus. I could see no sign of Kelvin-Helmholtz instability and knew that conditions couldn't be better. It was time for free-fall.
One of the benefits of the Hirsuit is that the reinforced hairs act almost like feathery wings and can be used in free-fall to steer and slow the descent. This almost alleviates the inconvenience of not having any sort of parachute involved at all. Almost. I would basically be required to slow my descent through skywalking and judicious braking manoeuvres.
The other biggest problem is that you can't surf through nimbus and cumuli and dance across altostratus undulatus without that bloody "Walking in the Air" song going through your head.
Where Ideas Come From
My eleven o'clock arrives and Minmay seats him in the parlour before going to fetch him a cup of coffee. He called early this morning, earlier than I like (I normally don't answer calls before nine) all flustered;
"I don't know what I'm going to do, I'm fresh out of ideas, I need to come round, I'll pay double the usual price."
The usual price was steep enough so double was enough to have me tell Minmay to shift some other appointments around and make time for the gentleman. I don't know what I'd do without her, she's been a blessing in this little endeavor. As a single worker in my own Soho flat I find myself so busy keeping the Johns occupied that I can't tidy up afterwards. Minmay clears away the scribblings and papers and makes the place presentable for the next customer.
I let him sweat for a few minutes, drawing out the inevitable and finally appear from through the beaded curtains, sitting on my velvet-upholstered chaise longue and taking a long slow drag from my cheroot before exhaling it delicately towards the swathes of gossamer curtains that drape down from the ceiling of the boudoir.
"So how can I help?" I ask in a low, throaty, hushed whisper.
"I'm fresh out of ideas" he says, wringing his hands together "and my muse isn't helping me. I keep looking at her and she just doesn't inspire me anymore. I've got to write something new otherwise all my readers will abandon me and go read the more established sites."
"And you think I can help?" I arch an eyebrow and flick the ash from the end of my cheroot into his lap.
"Please, I just need a few ideas" he pleads and I take pleasure from watching him squirm. "I thought maybe you could spare some from your archives?"
At this heinous suggestion I stand up and grab him by his hair, dragging him from the chair and throwing him to the ground.
"You pathetic worm! How dare you even think of stealing from my years of archives. Did I struggle and cogitate for all those hours every day just so that you could pilfer from me and pass the work off as your own? You disgust me!"
For additional effect I stub the cheroot out in his ear and he screams, scrabbling with his fat fingers to remove the searing ash. I kneel down on his throat and pull at his ear lobe. His hands tear at my hand but I am tenacious.
"Now listen here you snivelling piece of excrement, because for me to even spit this in your general direction is an act of sheer pity that far outstrips any goodwill you may have engendered from previous frequentings of my establishment. Were I for instance to tell you to write a modern-day Mummer's play to include the staples of a doctor, a magic potion and the theme of resurrection in pursuit of purest true love all within accentual-syllabic verse and set to be read over Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues then this generosity would be comparable to me throwing a mangy stray dog a bone."
I release his ear and relent the pressure on his throat moments before he passes out and he lies there like a goldfish that has escaped its bowl; mouth gaping, eyes bulging and face flushed almost purple.
"And one last thing, maggot" I stand up and step down hard on his writing hand, slowly grinding it under my foot, "when you write this piece you will lavish all your gratitude upon your muse for inspiring you to write it."
From the kitchen I hear Minmay tittering.