Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The lazy river waters silently glide by
Bird wings catch light and flash as they fly by
Time drifts slowly as the day goes by
Thoughts and plans meander as ideas come by
New memories and hopes form as life passes by
Other times and places are recalled with a soft good bye
I’m addicted to people watching. People fascinate me. The way they move, talk, walk. Too often I only know their surface. So, I love it when they share me.
Today, one of my favorite baristas informed me that Monday is her final day. That surprised me; she’s been here for a while and went through the training to become a Starbucks manager. Now she’s moving on to the Medford Police Department as a community liaison officer.
Since she engaged me and made the revelation, I pecked at her with questions. She willingly volunteered that her family is part of the law enforcement community. Mom is a homicide detective with twenty-seven years of experience. Dad is the chief of police. Like, wow. Her ultimate goal is to be a forensic psychology. She’s in a master’s program to that end, although it is an online course. She ultimately wants to help people traumatized by crime and testify as an expert witness.
I’ll miss her, yes, but it’s wonderful to learn more about people and witness them reaching for their dreams.
A Democratic Party insider told me who the party supports as candidate for the 2028 nominee for POTUS.
“John F. Kennedy.”
I raised a salient objection. “He’s dead. Worse, he’s been buried.”
“True, true, true.”
“You’re not talking about a clone.”
“Of course not. That’d be silly. No, we’re thinking, AI.”
“Articial Intelligence?”
“What else? Listen, if corporations are people, why can’t AI be people?”
“I need to think about that,” I answered.
“Okay, let me tell you more. See if I can convince you. What we did is create an AI that’s modeled on President John F. Kennedy’s thinking. We fed all the interviews which we could find, all his papers, speeches, books, diaries, and journals, along with biographies about him, into a quantum computer. It then developed the ability to replicate JFK’s thinking and speaking, giving us a virtual entity who is just like him. It’s uncanny. Wait until you see it.”
I was shaking my head in skepticism. “It’ll never work.”
“We think it will. He polls very well.”
“I don’t think people are ready for AI to be elected to any office.”
“No, no, turns out that almost 80 percent of likely voters who were polled said they could support AI for president. A majority of voters think that AI is more principled and intelligent than many politicians holding office or running for nomination. In fact, more people are willing to vote for AI than a woman.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, but what about his assassination over sixty years ago? Surely, that’s a drawback.”
“No, no, no. Many people have always believed that JFK wasn’t really killed, that all of that was just a fiction to get him out of office.”
“Even if they believe that, it’s six decades later. He’d be over a hundred years old. Do you really think that people will support a candidate who is over hundred years old after what we endured with Joe Biden?”
My source grinned. “We told them that JFK was cryogenically stored. He’s only fifty years old.”
“They believe that?”
“You’d be surprised what they believe. Just to seal the deal, Elvis Presley is endorsing JFK.”
“Presley?” I laughed. “He’s been dead since — “
“No, no, he wasn’t dead. He was in storage, too. Trust me. We’ve done the research. The numbers support this idea.
“Presley and Kennedy are still alive. Along with Walt Disney and Jackie O. All are alive. They’ve all just been frozen. The time has come for the truth to be told.”
My source leaned forward. “The people are ready for Camelot’s return. JFK will kick Trump’s ass. Remember, you heard it here first.”
“What did you do?” my wife asked.
Sixteen million slapdash responses plied my mental waters. I decided that caution should be employed. “About what?”
“Your face.”
I felt like I’d walk in on a conversation already in progress. We were the only people present. My wife definitely meant me.
“What do you mean?” I checked a nearby mirror. “I look gorgeous.”
“Your mustache looks wrong.”
“How?” My mustache looked perfect. Well, as close to perfect as I can get it. Let’s not dive too deeply into those waters.
“One side is different than the other.”
“How?”
“It’s just different. They’re not the same. Look in the mirror.”
“I did. It looks fine.”
My really good mood soured, I went to the coffee shop.
A good friend was the barista on duty. I asked her, “How does my face look?”
Eyebrows quirking up into questioning arcs, she looked at me. Shrugged. “Same as always. Why?”
I told her what my wife claimed. She studied me. “I don’t see that. You’re very well groomed. You always are.”
“Thank you.”
Arriving home later, I carefully watched my wife. I was worried. She’d obviously been replaced by a robot, cyborg, or alien. Robot with AI made the most sense. A lot of AI is not all it’s cracked up to be.
What I will need to do is observe her and develop a series of test questions to verify my wife’s identity. I mean, trust but verify, right?
Especially in this messed up Age of Trump.
“Priscilla wants Peeps. She’s providing them.”
My wife informed me of these things as we shopped for Easter Brunch ‘garnish’ last week. Chocolates, jellybeans, Jordan almonds, gummi Easter treats. Quite a cornucopia of sugar.
I was glad we weren’t buying Peeps. I dislike the marshmallow concoctions. Recent flavors like Dr. Pepper doesn’t sell them to me. My sister loves them. Especially stale Peeps. Gads.
I joke about Peeps flavors with friends. None of them like them, either.
“What if they were beer flavored?” I asked.
My friends seem horrified and mystified. “How will that work?” one asks. “Will they be sweet?”
“Yes, marshmallow beer,” I answer.
Eye rolling and groans meet this answer.
Priscilla provided a bowl of neatly organized Peeps. She’s always organized. Just her way.
I was staring at the bowl. She joined me. “I don’t see any of the new-flavored Peeps,” I said.
“No.” Priscilla frowned. “I only buy traditional Peeps.”
Hours later, clean up began at the Brunch. It looked like the bowl of Peeps had lost one. I had not seen anyone eating any.
“Want to take some Peeps home?” Priscilla asked.
“No, thanks,” my wife and I sang together.
Priscilla nodded. “We’ll probably just throw them out.”
But I wondered: will she really eat them in secret later?
Time for some first world blues. I’m in the coffee shop. Music is playing. Business is booming and the baristas are scrambling, shouting out order details, clarifications, comments. Machines grind, hiss, and whirl with energy. Other customers are set up to chat, read, type. Conversations rise and fall.
Above it all is a man with a baritone theater voice. He’s on his cell phone. Although he’s across the room from me, his voice echos above all other sounds. Maybe it’s a matter of acoustics. He’s calling to different businesses to make purchases and complaints. He’s pedantic but polite. His first three calls are flavored with a condescending attitude toward the people on the other end.
“Do you have my email address?” he asks again and again.
“You have a screen in front of you, don’t you?” he asks. “Look at the screen. Does it have an email address? What is that email address for me? And my phone number. No, this is what you should have. 541111111.” This is repeated. “Yes, it’s seven ones in a row after the area code.”
I respect that it could be worse. I could be at home, typing on my computer, responding to my wife and cat, becoming annoyed with them. I could be trapped in an airport, waiting for a delayed flight, or in traffic somewhere, wondering why traffic isn’t moving. I could be sweating it out with an injury or disease, or fretting over a loved one’s health. I could be poor and homeless, hunting for a meal and a little relief from the elements.
I’m normally effective at filtering sounds out of my awareness. His voice and conversations are just one of those things annoying me today. That’s my problem, though.
That’s why I rant.
The cat is sitting across the room by the open back door. His name is Papi. He’s either orange or a ginger. I’ve never given it much thought.
Smiling, I cross to pet him. He shouts out a plaintive and loud three-syllable meow.
I stop and looked at him. “That was annoying.”
His eyes shift. He’s making a mental note.
That confirms for me, that meow was part of Project Irritation.
I’m still putting Project Irritation together. I believe its overall scope is for the cat to try things and then document how I react. He can then put his findings to use to control my behavior.
I offer this with all seriousness. It’s the only idea that can explain the many meows he’s been employing in the last week.
Besides the Meow Phase of Project Irritation, I believe he’s also testing the limits of how often I will let him in and out of the house. He’s also conducting experiments on me by using differing reactions to his food. No doubt, he’s attempting to steer his food choices by indoctrinating me based on how he reacts to his food. He’s long sussed out that I’m his feeder and care giver.
Now he just needs to study me and take control.
It’s probably part of a more extensive cat project: “How to dominate the world”.
They already have the Internet close to completely in their paws. It’s only a matter of meows before they control the rest.
Do not click on this post unless you enjoy cat humor. Otherwise, it’ll be wasted on you. But as a cat guy, I laughed. Thanks go to the Bluebird of Bitterness for collecting and posting some humor. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 