Sci Fi for 2013

THE COURIER—A SPACE OPERA

Jack Bragen

The Space Couriers were an elite breed of human on New Venus, trained to deal with any and every situation that might arise.  They were skilled to the utmost in numerous forms of combat, had extremely fast reflexes, and could survive seemingly impossible situations.  Venwick proudly wore their emblem.  Venwick was on an assignment. 
     Venwick, for the umpteenth time, ran a system check on the checkable parts of his tiny spacecraft.  He traveled alone, and the one person ships were known to be inimical.  Radar continued to show no obstacles in the ships path, and indicated that no ship, projectile or guided missile followed. 
     He took a bite of synthetic cheese and sat facing the control panel of his spacecraft, although this wasn’t necessary, as the ship was on autopilot.  To his back was a bunk to sleep on and a small nook in which to sit and eat, read, or view videos.  There was not much living space.  (The ship had an exercise machine, designed not to take up much space, it worked through electronic stimulation of the pilot’s muscles.)
     And Venwick was alone.  He would continue to be alone in this tiny ship for the next few years (and then for a few more years on his return trip).  It was enough to drive mad any person who lacked the same level of fortitude. 
     The lone space traveler was carrying documents from the Chief of his home planet, New Venus, directly to the head of a recently constructed outlying military base that had been built to deal with the threat of several star systems further along in its vector. 
     Venwick heard a low rumble that pervaded his ship, which as a reflex, gave him a painful knot of apprehension in his gut. The spacecraft had encountered a dense pocket of interstellar gas.  An alarm from the autopilot system told Venwick that action was necessary.  At these extreme speeds, encountering a pocket of gas could melt the skin off of his ship within a matter of minutes.  He had to decelerate and had to do so immediately. 
     Something going wrong when traveling in deep space was universally terrifying.  Venwick’s training had taught him to put his fear aside so that he could function.  He put down the piece of cheese he had been working on.  He pressed a button to automatically strap him into his piloting seat. 
     He pointed the ship’s nose to the rear, activated his ship’s inertia reducer at maximum, and fired the engines at the maximum thrust that he could tolerate without the G forces incapacitating him. 
     He was using up a lot of propellant with the deceleration, and he was losing valuable velocity.  Venwick worried that he might not arrive at his destination, except maybe fifty or a hundred years hence because of his reduced velocity.  His ship emerged from the opposite side of the cloud of gas, and another series of scans indicated that his ship’s outer hull was intact. 
     Venwick’s ship’s computer instructed him that he was in a dense gravity field that would not have been an issue had he not unfortunately lost a lot of his interstellar velocity.  The ship was being diverted toward a neutron star.  Venwick asked the computer for solutions.  The computer told Venwick that he could point his ship on a vector just to the side of the neutron star and use its gravity field to give him momentum that would then be used to get out the other side of the star’s pull.  This would use ninety percent of his remaining propellant, and he would likely die while adrift in the interstellar void, according to his ship’s computer.  The computer recommended this course of action, since it would make him die later rather than sooner. 
     Venwick gave the computer permission to perform the piloting.  He reached into a cubbyhole to the side of the control panel, and removed a bottle of red capsules, and swallowed one of them.  He put on a facemask that would help him breathe during the extreme acceleration.  And then his ship began to accelerate, pinning him in his chair and making it impossible for him to raise his arms.  His fate was in the hands of his ship’s computer. 
     The extreme G forces affected his blood circulation, and he began to hallucinate.  Venwick was suddenly at the Sugar Plum Diner sitting across from Gina, a woman with whom he had a one night stand ten years earlier and with whom Venwick had fallen in love, only the feeling wasn’t mutual.  And yet had been an almost magical time. 
     “You’re a very handsome young man.  Almost any woman could fall for you.  I’m in love with Arnie.  A one-night affair won’t change that.  What we have is just physical…” Gina took his hand.  “Try to enjoy it.  Don’t glom onto me.  Have a good time.” 
     And then Venwick was in the kitchen of Gina’s apartment, it was New Year’s Day and he was getting a goodbye kiss.  A beam from the setting sun leaked in through the kitchen window and illuminated Gina in golden light.  Venwick would never forget. 
     A moment later, Venwick’s consciousness returned, and his mind was again in the cockpit of his tiny ship, and he was drenched and shivering with a cold sweat.  The star pattern on his screen indicated he had gotten past the vicinity of the neutron star. 
     The ship was on a completely different course than the one he needed to be on, and he had almost no propellant—enough for a safe landing and no more than that. 
     Besides that, it was a billion to one unlikelihood that he would be fortunate enough to drift to a habitable planet. Venwick contemplated opening his bottle of emergency gin.  
     The ship’s radar detected a large object directly in the ship’s path.  Venwick needed to change course again.  He pivoted the ship so that the engines could fire perpendicular to the vector the ship was on.  He fired the thrusters enough, he thought, so that the object would be avoided. 
     The ship’s collision alarm sounded again, jangling Venwick’s nerves.  The object had moved and was again directly in Venwick’s ship’s path.  Venwick resigned himself to death.  He did not have sufficient propellant to get anywhere or to land safely if he did. 
     Venwick sent a radio transmission aimed at New Venus detailing his situation and what had happened.  He had an hour or so before impending collision with the object.  He hadn’t given any thought to wonder why the space object had moved. 
     The ships radio transceiver powered up, apparently in response to a pending transmission—it jolted the space traveler out of the sad reverie that he had begun to have. Venwick pressed a button allowing the transmission to come through.  There was some risk involved in accepting an unknown signal, yet at this point, Venwick had nothing to lose. 
     A face appeared on his ship’s main video display of a creature that had mottled green and yellow skin, three eyes on its face, and bat-like ears set very high up on the sides of its head.  It had a gaping mouth encompassing large yellow pointy teeth, and it had a large trio of nostrils in the middle of its face.  A knot of panic wrenched Venwick’s gut.  A human from New Venus had never before encountered a humanoid of non-terrestrial origin.  Venwick hoped he was dealing with someone friendly. 
     “Prepare for docking,” said a voice in Minglish, which was the main language spoken on New Venus.  The non-terrestrial’s mouth hadn’t moved, and it was probably speaking through a translation device. 
     The ship’s computer indicated that the unknown object was no longer headed for collision, and had approached and was flying parallel to Venwick’s ship at a very close distance.  The obnoxious collision alarm ceased, to Venwick’s utter relief. 
     The courier was uneasy about the prospect of interacting with non-terrestrials.  And they were docking with his ship.  His mind went back to his education of fifteen years earlier, when he had been taught the likely dangers of alien microbes.  For that reason as well as the likely difference in air pressure, Venwick needed to wear an atmosphere suit.  There was one in the ship’s small storage closet, that would have gathered dust, had dust been permitted aboard a space vessel.  Venwick slipped into the suit, forcing himself to recall the details about putting it on and adjusting it, as well as turning on the air processor.  It would not do to suffocate for want of pressing the correct button.
     A small jolt in Venwick’s small spacecraft, and a brief hiss of air told him that the alien ship had docked with his, and air pressures had equalized.  Venwick stepped into the airlock of the alien vessel, and noted the similarities in construction to New Venus technology.  A video display showed incomprehensible symbols, green against a white background.  And then, the door to the main part of the alien vessel slid open, to reveal two strange looking creatures bearing weapons. 
     “Bacteria are not an issue with us,” said a voice in Minglish. After a pause the alien said, “Please divest of spacesuit, surrender to us, and beg for mercy.  We might not kill you if you beg well enough.”  
     Venwick stepped forward from the airlock into the main part of the alien vessel. 
##

Venwick stood before the two, weapon bearing, green and yellow mottled skinned humanoids.  “I didn’t hear you very well, what was it you said?”
     “Take off spacesuit, surrender, and beg for your life,” the alien gestured with its weapon and pointed it at the headpiece of Venwick’s spacesuit, adjacent to the temple. 
     “What do you mean, ‘beg’?  I’ve never heard of that before.” 
     The alien on Venwick’s right side said, “First you get down on your knees…”  The creature extended an arm, thinking he was stronger than Venwick and would force the human to his knees. 
     Venwick sacrificed a portion of his agility by being in a spacesuit, but decided to fight, anyway.  He believed there was no chance of the aliens sparing his life, and that begging would simply humiliate him before death.  His motions surprised the aliens, and he was able to knock the weapons from the hands of both, with some lucky jujitsu moves.  He was also able to punch and kick both creatures, and knock them both down and silly.  He was on the verge of picking up a weapon from the floor when he was surprised by the presence of a third alien. 
     “Don’t move,” said the creature, as it stood in a hatch with a weapon, several feet from Venwick and out of reach of his moves. 
     Venwick’s response was to stand straight up and show the alien an upper thrust middle finger, as a last gesture of defiance.  “Screw you,” he added in his native Minglish. 
     “Step into that box over there, or I will shoot you—why be dead any sooner than you must?”  It seemed that the life form of extraterrestrial origin would beg the human, even while holding a weapon on him. 
     “You’re weak,” said Venwick.  He stood facing the alien and made no move toward obedience. 
     “Please remove your spacesuit.  I’m asking you nicely.  I will shoot you if you don’t.”  The alien stood too far from Venwick to disarm, but close enough that a shot fired would probably incinerate or blow a hole in him, depending on the type of weapon.  Venwick thought of his mother on New Venus who awaited his return, and obliged the alien by getting out of the spacesuit.  He was now dressed in no more than a pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt. 
     “Well muscled,” commented one of the two aliens who Venwick had beaten, as it got up from the floor. 
     The other replied with “Shut up.” And it too arose from the floor. 
     They each grabbed a side of the human.  They tried to shove him into the box, which was tall enough for Venwick to stand in, which apparently was some kind of restraint device.  He didn’t resist on instinct that he might get a chance at some future point to escape.  He felt their strength as they put him in the box, and it wasn’t nearly that of the human, highly trained and conditioned in combat on New Venus. 
     The force field inside the box was uncomfortable, and Venwick struggled against it to breathe.  Even eye movement was difficult.  He wondered if he had made a mistake by finally surrendering, since now the strange humanoids could do with him whatever they wanted.  Venwick wondered how long the aliens would force him to be in that box.  There was nothing he could do.  He began to regret his decision because it had deprived him of a clean, probably painless death. 
     “We think we can sell you for profit.  Get used to obedience—it will soon be your life.”  The creature drank a glass of green refreshment in front of the human, making Venwick realize he was fairly thirsty. 
     The second creature said, “They’ll probably use you as a gladiator.  Your death will come soon enough.”  After a pause, the humanoid said, “That box is also a cryogenic box.  Maybe we’ll freeze you for the rest of the trip.  Would you like that?”  The humanoid nodded at Venwick in sarcasm.  (The gesture angered Venwick.)  Cryogenic treatment tended to be extremely uncomfortable, and space travelers avoided it whenever they could.  “Ok, I’m gonna freeze you now,” said the humanoid. 
     Venwick struggled against the force field; the restraint prevented him from shouting a series of obscenities at the alien.  
     Chill gases began to fill the box Venwick stood in, and it was painful.  Venwick wanted to scream.  Soon he lost consciousness and was in the oblivion of suspended animation.   
##

Venwick returned to consciousness and opened his eyes to see a tiled ceiling.  He tried to sit up and realized there was gravity, unlike the weightlessness that was usually the condition in space.  He lumbered up and realized he had been sleeping on a hard steel bench, looked around and realized he was in some kind of jail cell.  He licked dry lips, and realized there was a water faucet and toilet within the cell.  The plumbing and steel bars were constructed differently enough to tell him he was in a strange place, but similar enough to those on New Venus that he could recognize their purpose.  Venwick availed himself of the water faucet and toilet, and realized he was trembling as an aftereffect of being cryogenically frozen. 
     A humanoid appeared plainly wearing an armored suit.  It opened the steel-barred door of Venwick’s cell, and made a motion indicating he should step out of his cell and through a doorway in the adjacent wall.  Not having any better plan, Venwick did as he was bid and found himself in the middle of a stadium, standing on a rubberized surface.  Venwick noted the high walls and the fact that there were no exits presently available from the middle of the stadium where he stood.  A cool draft within the stadium nipped at Venwick’s skin, and he recognized the smell of blood.  Battles had been recently fought here. 
     He jumped at the sound of a metallic “thud” and realized that a very large sword had been dropped near him.  Venwick picked it up and realized the blade wasn’t too heavy or too light for him to use effectively. 
     What followed was a series of contests in which Venwick had to fight a number of creatures, humanoids, monsters and other things, all of which he dispatched with his sword, in one fight after another.  Venwick was exhausted, but the audience cheered.
     Flowers and wrapped candy were thrown at the human, and he realized he was now a popular person among this race of beings. 
     The same armored humanoid appeared in the stadium, and greeted Venwick with a thumb up, with its three-fingered hand.  Venwick realized that some gestures apparently were universal.  Or perhaps this race of creatures had some familiarity with humans from New Venus—which seemed unlikely.  The armored humanoid escorted Venwick back to his cell; in the cell was a scantily clad woman, a human one.  Venwick saw that a mattress had been tied to the steel bench in the cell.  Venwick had been in space, alone, for three years before his capture and didn’t have any idea how he could survive if he continued to be a gladiator. Venwick did not hesitate to take what was offered. 
     After lovemaking with Venwick, the woman said, “You’re better at it than the others before you.” She paused and Venwick said nothing.  She said, “I might know a way out of here…”
##

     “Let’s hear it,” said Venwick.
     “They may invite you to a party, you’re that popular.  They hold the parties in a room adjacent to their launch pad.  They get under-the-table drunk.  You might have a chance to shoot them all and escape in a ship,” she said.
     “Before we proceed any further, what’s your name?” asked Venwick.
     “Sherry,” she replied.  “And yours?”
     “Venwick Cooke,” replied Venwick.  “Now, if we both die at the hands of these assholes, we will know each other’s names.” 
##

A guard came the next afternoon for Venwick.  The human was subjected to another round of contests, and he again dispatched several beasts and humanoids in a row.  It seemed he was unbeatable in a fight.  He even surprised himself. 
     On the way back to his cell, the alien in armor refrained from locking the door to Venwick’s cell, and handed the human a blaster weapon.  He made an incomprehensible gesture, which the human thought might signal appreciation.
     “Some of us believe it is unfair how you are being treated,” the guard said through a translation device.  “Here is your chance at life.  Don’t say a word.”  The alien then said, “It should not be too hard to make an escape, considering your abilities.” 
     The guard had taken a huge risk on behalf of the captive human.  Venwick wanted to say thanks, and shake the guard’s hand, but the guard immediately exited.
     (Venwick took a quick look at the weapon he had been given, and realized it functioned similarly to weapons from his planet.)  Venwick and Sherry walked out the cell door and into the hallway.  The doors were marked with symbols that were unfamiliar to Venwick, but Sherry could read them. 
     “The exit is this way,” said Sherry, pointing at one of many identical doors. 
     Another guard approached from down the corridor, and Venwick aimed his weapon and incinerated the alien on sight, before the humanoid could react. 
     Venwick and Sherry found themselves to be outside the building on a purple and yellow lawn.  A building about two hundred yards away appeared large enough to be a launch dome, and it also had a roof that looked like it could slide open.  Venwick and Sherry walked toward it and were not bothered by any of the passersby.  They walked nonchalantly into the launch dome and Venwick spotted his spacecraft, parked among numerous other space vehicles. 
     Another guard in the launch dome put up a hand, which apparently indicated that the two humans should stop.  Venwick shot the guard, incinerating it with his weapon.   Venwick’s luck was holding up. 
     They were at the point of getting into Venwick’s ship, when a loud siren sounded.  Venwick opened the hatch of his vehicle and climbed inside, and Sherry followed.  He took a seat and the control panel and discovered that the propellant tank had been refilled.  The ship rocked and thudded, as it was being fired upon with handheld weapons.  The ship’s video display showed several humanoids with three eyes and green and yellow mottled skin, and they were angry.  Without hesitating, Venwick applied thrust, and moved his ship upward, on a course to collide with the closed door of the launch dome.  Venwick fired his ship’s weapons at the door, a dangerous stunt.  A hole was blown in the hanger, through which Venwick’s ship could exit.  Before he exited, he fired on several spacecraft that were parked in the dome, which could otherwise be used to pursue him.  Venwick’s ship gained altitude above the launch dome.  The launch dome became engulfed in flames. 
     Venwick’s ship got into a low orbit of the planet.  No ships from the alien planet followed, and Venwick concluded that his own ship’s weapons might work a lot better than theirs, and they might not want to be blasted into oblivion. 
     They rode Venwick’s spacecraft into deep space.  Venwick continued to head for the military outpost in order to complete his mission, although now he had built-in entertainment for the rest of his flight.  Venwick fulfilled his mission, carrying the secret documents to the commander of the outpost.  The documents were concealed in a one-centimeter-long metallic rod that had been implanted under the skin on Venwick’s wrist. 
     Venwick parted ways from Sherry upon their return to New Venus. 
     He went home to his mother’s house, and his mother (now more than ten years older than when Venwick left) gave Venwick a big hug. 
     Venwick believed that one should never give up on oneself; and that if you just keep trying, including when a situation seems hopeless, you might find that the obstacles are surmountable. 

BAD BLACK AND DECKER TOASTER OVEN

Black and Decker is another example of the decline of venerable brands.  My wife bought a toaster oven at Fry’s, a Black and Decker unit similar to one that had served us well for several years before it finally burned out.  The new unit is without several of the safety features and usability of the previous, similar model.  This unit has a sleek black paint job and a fancily curved front glass plate.
     To begin with, the markings of the controls are unreadable without a lighted magnifying glass.  The numerals are a pastel gray against a black chassis, and they are quite small.  The unit is without a shut off feature when the door is opened, something which the old model had.  When the timer knob is twisted counterclockwise to manually shut off the unit, you had better be careful—if you twist it a bit too far it goes into the “stay on” mode.  The previous unit had very visible markings, had a door switch that shut the unit off when opened, and had controls that made much more sense.  The only improvement in the new unit is an easily removable crumb tray.  However, the problem with this is that the unit can still be turned on when the crumb tray is completely out.
     This is an unsafe unit for numerous reasons and ought to be recalled.

Here's something the meditation magazines wouldn't publish

A “TAKE” ON SUFFERING FROM A STRUGGLING MEDITATION PRACTITIONER
JACK BRAGEN

Through the ages, humans have sought an answer to the predicament of suffering.  Various religions are built around having an answer to this, including both Buddhism and some varieties of Christianity.  There have been numerous cult groups that have claimed to have an answer to the question of suffering; it usually turned out to be bait to reel in more customers. 
     I have thought a lot about suffering.  In some situations, suffering can’t be avoided--if you try to disconnect, you do not survive.  This is applicable to some work situations as well as some situations in which we must put out maximum effort to survive, such as incarceration, illness or war. In other instances, it is possible for us to give relief to ourselves by means of changing our minds. 
     Introspection is something most people are unused to having.  However, a person can learn to look inside their mind.  And when they do they will discover that there are numerous discernable structures and there are perceivable phenomena. 
     A person can learn to look within and make maps of what they see.  Looking at internal phenomena and events is a difficult skill to master, and can take years.  However, there could be some meditative shortcuts to relief from suffering. 
     Rather than the attempt to blank the mind and experience “nothingness” like in Zen, or count the breath to shut off the internal dialogue, I have methodically analyzed my mental innards in order to make changes using an internal sense.  With this analysis, I have discovered several important truths. 
     Suffering is ignorance.  If you are suffering, you are not aware that everything is Ok.  If you are suffering, you are not aware that your suffering is inconsequential.  If you are suffering, you incorrectly believe that there is something to fear.  When you suffer, you lack the bigger awareness.  You are blocked from “thinking outside the box.”  Once you “think outside the box” of suffering, the suffering vanishes. 
     Suffering is, in part, a lack of awareness.  In part it is a holograph-like projection of the mind.  Suffering says falsely that you are not Ok, and that life is not Ok.  Suffering, to continue existing, needs to maintain a monopoly in the mind.  It must exclude the perception that you are Ok, and it can’t coexist with that perception. 
     I have meditated on and off since 1983, with the technique of changing my attitude toward suffering.  When I began, I called it “consciousness realignment.”  It was a matter of re-perceiving suffering in such a way that it was not a threat. 
     Later, my effort changed toward more of an acceptance of suffering without modifying it.  This was a more difficult vein of meditation, but it eventually seems to have paid off.  If a person can make the suffering mechanism of the mind transparent, which means that you see what suffering is. And when you see beyond it, then you can overcome your own human suffering.  If I halt the objection against my suffering, in other words, if I eliminate emotional resistance toward painful emotions, then I will move through the pain, and a part of the suffering will not come back. 
     If you are not engaged in your life, your surroundings, and threats to your existence, you can not survive.  Being engaged in life seems to inevitably entail being uncomfortable.  We can eliminate a part of our suffering without ruining ourselves. 
     Suffering is also a part of the healing mechanism.  If something is damaged, and this includes damage to the astral body, we often need to go through pain and suffering to fix it. 
     The pain that we can eliminate without negative repercussions includes instances in which the suffering mechanism is in a “runaway” mode, and includes instances where there is an irrational, and at the same time unnecessary, fear or pain. Most of the suffering that people generate is irrational and at the same time unnecessary. 
     Let’s look at jealousy, for example:  It can turn a nice man or woman into a monstrous beast.  There is no biological or practical necessity for a person to imagine that their mate is “cheating.” If a mate in fact turns out to be unfaithful, which does happen, it will become apparent in the long run, and it is fine to leave that person if monogamy is part of the agreement.  However, many people have become evil as well as abusive because the Neanderthal impulse of runaway jealousy has gotten hold.  It ruins people’s lives. 
     Let’s look at taking offense to an insult:  it is not needed and allows our minds to be manipulated or controlled by the insulter. 
     What about anxiety over finances:  it can turn an ordinarily nice person into a wealth-hoarding fanatic.  No amount of money is ever enough.  And when a fellow human is in need and asks for help, they will often be rebuffed—even though the wealth hoarder can well afford to help. 
     These are three examples out of thousands in which suffering fulfills an unnecessary and impractical role.  It can take a lot of time and effort toward self-mastery to quell these irrational impulses.  But in the long run, it is a worthy effort. 
     Let’s look now at necessary suffering.  If a person hasn’t reached enlightenment, then it is necessary that they encounter existing suffering.  This describes this author as well as most meditation practitioners.  If I pretended I didn’t have attachments and tried to fulfill a role of enlightened being in advance of doing the work, I would become a phony enlightened person. This is a less advanced position than that of owning my problems.
     Encountering existing suffering, rather than trying to jump ahead past it, allows me to deal with what needs to be dealt with on my path.  It would be nice to think a person could painlessly get to enlightenment without having to deal with all that messy stuff, but that is not so.  A person must proceed from wherever they currently are. 
     Encountering existing suffering helped me heal my feet when they were in pain.  At first I had pain in both feet, and then the pain in the right foot subsided.  To heal the left foot, I had to walk on it while processing the pain through an acceptance filter. 
     And then there is the matter of paying off karma.  When I became a more aware person, I discovered that not everyone has a good impression of me.  In some instances I can make amends, while in other instances, it is a matter of dodging bullets (not literally). 
     Many of the painful events that take place in my life might be attributable to karma.  And it can be used to feed the meditational fire.  I almost didn’t send this manuscript because of my unenlightened status. But I decided I would be able to withstand the “ouch” of rejection, should it take place--and it would become more fuel to use for my continued evolvement. 
     A good meditation practitioner is not afraid of suffering. 

The Truth about Compact Flourescent Lamps

The Folly of banning incandescent bulbs in favor of CFL's to save energy is primarily that these florescent lamps are a hazard.  If they break they will emit toxic substances.  Many of them will end up in landfills, where they will be a hazard for generations to come.
     The law that requires safe disposal of CFL's does not mean that these items will get recycled.  Most people will not go to the trouble of taking their CFL's to a recycling site; they will throw these items into the trash for convenience. 
     The CFL's that are currently being marketed do not last much longer than incandescent bulbs because they are not of quality.  CFL's do not work with the dimmer switch in your diningroom.  People ought to be given a choice rather than being told what to do by Big Brother. 
     This is another example of passing a law that has unanticipated ramifications, and in which the supposed intent of the law is never fulfilled. 

More Tips for Saving Food

TIPS FOR SAVING HALF A JAR OF SPAGHETTI SAUCE

Jack Bragen

Do you often cook for only one or two people?  What do you do with that half jar of spaghetti sauce that was left after you made a pot of frozen ravioli? 
     First of all, get a paper towel and wipe sauce off of the rim (inside and outside) and the inside of the lid of the jar.  Screw the lid back on.  Get a permanent marker pen and write today’s date on an available part of the label of the jar.  Put it in the refrigerator.  You can store this for up to two weeks, only if you follow the procedure I will outline for using the rest of the sauce. 
     For using the second half jar of spaghetti sauce; Check the date that you wrote on the jar.  Make certain that not too much time has elapsed, such as, no more than three weeks.  Open the jar and make certain that you do not see any colonies of mold.  (If mold colonies are present, they will be visible at the top surface.) Smell the contents of the jar and be certain that it smells OK.  If you see mold, and/or if the smell is off whatsoever, stop there and immediately discard jar of sauce.  If the sauce passes both tests, proceed to the next step which follows:
     Pour contents of jar into a pot, and take it to a full boil for at least ten minutes.  This will kill any microbes that were growing in the sauce. 
     If you follow these steps exactly, it is my opinion that you will not get food poisoning.  I have done this numerous times and haven’t gotten ill.  

How About Some More Sci Fi

Is it Good Writing or is it Dribble?  You be the Judge...


THE WAITING ROOM
Jack Bragen
I parked the Toyota after much difficulty finding a parking space in the downtown area.  We (Sally and I) had to walk quite a distance from the opposite side of a giant parking garage.  Sally could barely manage a moderate pace and wheezed heavily because of her two packs a day habit.  Despite the difficulty keeping up, Sally was holding up very well—especially considering the amount of pain she must have been in from a botched root canal. 
     We finally arrived at an ornate, double door marked 300.  When I reached for the door handle the door automatically opened.  The waiting room was giant, with numerous plastic chairs; on them sat miserable people.  A woman whose face was purplish and badly swollen sat in her chair and wept while trying to talk to someone on her cell phone.  An un-showered teen whose hair was stuck to his forehead, and who already appeared toothless, sat and leafed through a sticky-paged National Geographic.  The room was packed with people in various types of dental disrepair.  The harsh brilliance of the fluorescent lighting was an assault on my retinas.  The air in the room was hot, odorous and humid. 
     The receptionist’s counter was on the opposite end from us and was encased in thick, apparently bullet proof glass.  From behind the glass a perfect-looking, Caucasian, female receptionist glared at us. 
     I walked up to near the receptionist’s glass and saw a small metallic intercom device.  I pressed a button.  “Excuse me, madam,” I said.  “I was told over the phone that you handle dental emergencies.” 
     The receptionist scowled and said, “Sir, you’re supposed to take a number and be seated.  Can’t you read?  Look at the sign.” 
     I looked to my right and discovered a dispenser for the paper numbers.  I reached for it and realized that it must have been empty; the little pieces of paper with the numbers weren’t coming out of it.  I turned back to the receptionist who was putting on some cosmetics.  “Excuse me…”
     She shook her head and said, “I’m on break, I can’t help you, sir.  Please don’t interrupt my break.” 
     I turned back to Sally, thinking it was time to ditch this place.  I realized that she was sitting in a chair and was doubled-over and sobbing with pain.  She needed to be seen.  I had no choice but to put up with the bullshit of this dentist.  I turned back to the receptionist’s glass and was doubtless visibly angry.  The receptionist then reached under her counter, and I heard a buzz from behind a door that was marked “security.” 
     That’s when things got really twisted…

##

I had been abducted for no apparent reason.  I was tied down to a dental chair.  Two burly guards had manhandled and overpowered me and had put me into the chair.  The dentist’s bright lighting was directed straight at my eyes, and I had to keep them shut.  I still saw the bright red of the dentist’s light getting through my eyelids.  I did not bother to protest; clearly, these people weren’t playing by the rules. 
     I felt a pinch in my shoulder of someone injecting something.  These people really weren’t playing by the rules. 
     But why me?  Was I dealing with some unknown enemy I had made from my past in the secret service?  Couldn’t be, I thought.  Ex employee’s identities are very well protected.  Were they planning to kill me?  No, because if so, they wouldn’t be wasting this amount of time on me. 
     “This one could make an excellent drone,” someone said, as I began to drift. 
     Hang on, it’s going to get rough; I braced myself. 
     Another voice said, “It behaved like a cop.  This one might be good for some action.” 
     Headphones were put on me and so was a visual device that fitted over my face.  With what mental defenses I could muster protecting parts of my mind, I watched and listened.  This was despite the apparent mind control serum that had been injected in my shoulder. The serum apparently made me woozy and at the same time, gave my senses hypersensitivity. 
     According to the mind control media, I was expected to be loyal to a “Baba Squire Wilson.”  A picture of him was displayed through my eyepieces and loomed hugely in my visual field.  He had long white hair in a pony tail, bad teeth, a gray beard, glasses, he wore an immaculate white outfit—and he sat in a wheelchair.  A deep, resonating voice repeated, “This is your master, obey him to all ends of the earth.  Obey every command. Obey to the death…Through obedience to the Master comes all hope, comes salvation…” The audio track abruptly paused.  
     “Who is there who knows your whereabouts?” a voice pierced through from outside my headphones. 
     “Why do you want to know?” I asked.  “Am I going to disappear?”
     “No.  If the programming goes right, you will be changed into a part of something far bigger and far better than anything you know.” 
     I realized that my captor’s voice was monotone and that he spoke and had mannerisms like a heavily sedated psych patient. I guessed that he was brainwashed and controlled by someone higher in the chain of command.    
     “All right, then.  There is no-one other than the patient who I came in with to your dental clinic,” I said.  I was feigning cooperation so that they would believe their brainwashing was working.  (In fact, my whole office knew where I was taking my client, and I had jokingly said to a coworker, “If I don’t come back, call in the FBI.”) 
     I was glad now that I had once worked closely with an obscure but great hypnotist, and had learned from him exactly how to buffer my mind against most mind control techniques.
     The brainwashing attempt continued for what seemed like hours.  I wasn’t given anything to eat or drink, and I wasn’t given a break to get any rest.  It was starting to get to me.  I was becoming highly irritated.  Squire Wilson’s name and the fact that he was a super hero began to permeate the corners of my consciousness.  And then, there was nothing…
      I found myself looking at an all, completely black visual field and listening to a complete absence of sound.  My thirst and parched throat were dominant sensations.  I cried out, so I thought, although could not hear my own voice.  I shouted, “Squire Wilson is supreme!”  I repeated this over and over, with anger at first, and then with despair. 
     The mask and earplugs were lifted from my head, and the brightness and sounds were an assault on my fatigued psyche.  I turned my head with effort—my neck hurt—and looked at my surroundings.  I appeared to be tied down to a plywood table.  I assumed I was in the backroom of the supposed dentist’s office, albeit my surroundings resembled warehouse space.  A man sat quietly on a stool next to me.  I noticed that he had a moustache and longish hair, both of which were out of style for men.  I looked for his tattoos and saw none.   He also wore a muscle shirt of the kind that was no longer popular.  I wanted to make some joke about him being out of touch, and realized that this man was my tormentor. 
     “Not to worry—we’ll reset you and release you in a few more minutes.  You’ll be back at your job tomorrow and will have no idea that something happened,” said the man.  “We’re not as cruel as you think,” he said. 
     “When can I see Father Squire?” I asked.  “I need to see him.” 
     “You can see Mr. Squire as soon as your mission is completed,” replied the man.  “For now you will be dormant.” 

##

The gentleman was good to his word concerning my imminent release.  However, he was unaware that I was familiar with hypnosis and could program myself to have recall of the strange events that took place.  Even though the reset had included a small electroshock to the frontal lobes, I had been able to store the memory of events in an extra cache that I had previously installed in my consciousness.  It was part of my military training that was intended to make me resistant to torture.  I had been an information courier in the Secret Service in my twenties and had been forced to retire upon having a minor medical issue. 
     The issue at hand was now bigger than the welfare of the retarded girl who I cared for at my current job.  I had discovered a brainwashing cult, one that used evil and abusive tactics to control people and that might also be a threat to national security.  They had to be stopped.  Without speaking, I used a scanner to locate listening and watching devices in my apartment.  I found five of them, although I couldn’t be certain that they were related to the case at hand.  Without a word, I flushed them down the toilet.  And then I got on the phone with my old supervisor at Secret Service, Gibb Gray. 
     “This guy is organized,” I said.  “I wouldn’t put it past him to conceal evidence and feed the head agent with a line of bullshit to make us feel ridiculous.  And he’s got a lot of people, nasty people.  It needs at least thirty trained agents with weapons for the raid,” I said. 
     “What kind of equipment are we looking for?” said the voice of my old supervisor through my secure cell phone. 
     “He’s got audiovisual headsets, temporal brain stimulators, and exotic mind control drugs.  He also has torture equipment and ropes for tying people down.  And he has tables.  He appears to be using homemade plywood tables that have been fitted with wheels.” 
     “I assume you were intended to be a sleeper cell.  In that case, were there any specific instructions as to who to kill or what to sabotage?” 
     “I was supposedly set up to receive and obey the instructions that would at some point be given.” I paused.  “I’m pretty certain that there was no suspicion that their hypnosis wasn’t working on me.  I faked them out very well,” I said. 
     “Assuming you’re telling me the truth, we’re bound to find something suspicious.  OK, you’ve got your thirty men.  Have your suspects shipped to area 29.  And bring all the evidence to me.”  The connection ended with a hasty click. 
     It was one of those things in which I was expected to fill in the specific blanks.  My supervisors weren’t in the business of holding my hand while I worked.  It was up to me to set up the operation. 

##

It was one o’clock in the morning and the lighting in the supposed dental facility was shut off.  I was thrilled to be in command position, even if just for this one mission. I received word in my earphone that all entrances and exits were manned by our forces and that the entry force was ready to go in.  I counted down over my radio, “three, two, one, now!” and ten men with a battering ram handily demolished the front door and ran in. 
     I sat in a vehicle across the street, monitored communications of the invasion force and was prepared to give orders, as needed.  A couple of the men had video cameras on their helmets, and I had two screens to watch their transmissions.  What I saw and heard next did more than give me pause. 
     There had been no shooting so far, and no resistance had been offered.  Two of the invasion force stood, guarding a room while the third pointed his helmet camera at something they wanted me to see.  There was a row of strange and grotesque creatures sitting on floor mats with their heads covered by some sort of electronic devices.  A two-by-four wood beam ran above the row of meditating creatures and served to support a harness of wiring that led to the headpieces of the creatures.  The creatures appeared dormant, and had legs that were folded under them.  They were making an audible chant in some unknown language, a chant that through my earpiece made me lightheaded.  In front of the row of creatures, there was a wood cart on which my recent special needs student lay, covered from the neck down by a small blanket.  She appeared to be shivering or convulsing.  There was some electronic device on the cart next to her, and a thin cable from the device went to her left ear.  The young woman’s ear glowed where the cable was attached. 
     I pressed a button on my equipment to record the video.
     “Do you see all of this?” said Agent Smith, who was my second in command.  
     “Tell all the men to leave the building immediately and retake their positions at the entrances, Mr. Smith,” I said.  “Immediately.”  I paused.  One of the screens had gone blank.  “Where’s your video, Agent McKinnon?”  I heard nothing, and then, the second screen went blank.  I hit the transmit button:  “Invasion force, any member, respond.  Urgent.” My palm sweated as I clutched the microphone. 
     The only response I got was a burst of static, and then, the blank the sound of an un-modulated carrier wave.
     I was on the verge of picking up a weapon and running into the building to see what was happening, an act that I knew was foolish, when I saw a white haired man in a wheelchair appear at the front entrance of the building, and he stared straight at me. 
     In response I felt a surge of terror.  I was dealing with some sort of superhuman force, and I realized that I had lost control of the situation.  The only option open to me was to save myself so that, at least, these entities would get reported.
     I started the car, put it in gear, and floored the accelerator.  I barely could control the Hummer as it surged down the street.  I instinctively zigzagged as I headed for a corner.  There was a resounding, deafening explosion to my left and behind.  I skidded around the corner and approached a thoroughfare.  I turned on the standard police radio, and this was something a Secret Service Agent never did, unless they needed extreme embarrassment and possible disciplinary action.  There was no choice. 
     “Secret Service requesting local police as backup,” I said into the mike.  “Emergency.” 
     I headed up the main thoroughfare in the Hummer and attracted the attention of two patrol cars that saw me speeding.  The crippled cult leader was following in his wheelchair, and for gosh sakes, the wheelchair could fly! 
     “Dispatch, please tell your officers to apprehend flying object and to stop pursuing Hummer,” I said.  “Use lethal force as needed,” I said.  I paused, “On authority of the United States Government.” 
     One of the patrol cars began firing bullets at the flying wheelchair, and one of the bullets apparently hit.  The flying wheelchair that carried the gray haired cult leader seemed to have exploded in a giant fireball.  I looked at this in my rearview mirror, and hit the brakes on the Hummer.  I stopped the vehicle and was at a safe distance to observe.  I got my sunglasses from the glove compartment.
     No, it wasn’t an explosion, it was a launch.  An object had emerged from the top of the fireball and was accelerating upward. 
     I heard a tapping sound on my left, and turned to see a police officer who wanted me to roll down my window.  I opened the window and showed my Secret Service Badge to the patrol officer. 
     “You never saw this,” I said. 
     “What did I see?” the officer asked, dumbfounded. 
     “Send all available units to the dental office over there,” I pointed.  “Tell your men that the situation is extremely dangerous.  They are to use extreme caution.” 
     Soon, the area adjacent to the dental office swarmed with unmarked government cars, dozens of them that seemed to all show up at once.  My boss radioed me.  “You’re off the project as of now.  Good job bringing this to our attention.  This is over your head.  Go home and go to sleep, but first take your memory blanking pill,” said my boss.  “The video you took has been uploaded.  Once again, we appreciate your work.” 
     As I left the scene, a tank and a helicopter gunship were arriving on the scene.  It was now none of my concern or business.  I drove away.  I parked the Hummer in the special parking lot that was for secret government vehicles and went into a small building adjacent to the lot.  I had to urinate.  The building had restrooms, a room for coffee breaks, and an elevator that led downward.  My only interest at the moment was the men’s room, and maybe a cup of coffee.  A few minutes later, I got into my car while holding a cup of coffee that was old and nasty tasting but that did the trick.  I went home and took a memory blanking pill.  As I drifted toward sleep, I heard, residual in my head, the annoying words:  “Obey Squire Wilson…”

A Meditation Concept for your Perusal

IMPERMANENCE AND THE PATH OF MORE SUFFERING

JACK BRAGEN



The concept of impermanence is an essential part of Buddhism, and says that all things must change.  Buddhism says that change is the only thing we can rely upon.  People are born, they age, and then they pass away.  People and things are in a state of constant change.  Companies change into other corporations or go out of business; the trees wither away and die.  The mountains will eventually crumble into the sea.  The sea will some day disperse into outer space.  The sun will stop shining.  The universe itself will end some day. 
     This means that if we expect something to remain the same, we invite disappointment and suffering.  It also means that any source of pain we have at present will not always exist.  When we cling to persons, places or things, we are trying to hang onto something that, at some point, will no longer be.  Additionally, if there is a person, place or thing that is tormenting us at the moment, we know that this will not last indefinitely.  It means that all things and all circumstances, even the universe itself, are temporary and will eventually pass.  If you are in good health now, you will someday either die suddenly, or become ill.  If you are now wealthy, you will at some point lose all of your wealth, even if this happens through your death. For example, Donald Trump, at one point in his career, was broke and was also nine billion dollars in debt.  Jack La Lane, who was healthy his entire life, a rarity these days, eventually had to pass away.  Numerous rock singers diddled away their fortunes to become penniless.  Ronald Reagan, who at one point was thought to be fairly smart, developed Alzheimer’s disease, and couldn’t remember his own name.
     We are programmed to believe in a “happily ever after” once we get the current set of problems resolved.  We may get the job we were seeking or the relationship we wanted, but we soon discover that it didn’t fix our problems.  We may resolve the set of problems we have for now, but we discover that the struggle goes on:  a brand new set of difficulties arises.  This is life after “happily ever after” in which we may be troubled to find that suffering remains. 
     Buddhism teaches us not to cling to anything.  If you are in fear of losing a job, you should know that this job will not last forever.  Someday you will get fired, quit, the company will go out of business, or you will die, and thus lose your job through your death.  If you are hanging onto a relationship that you fear will end; the news is that this relationship actually will end.  If today you are famous, someday nobody will know you. 
     Because all things will someday end, including the person reading this text, you should not postpone enjoying life—not for one moment. The only enjoyment that you can get is that which is available right now, in the moment.  The only thing you can be sure of in life is the breath you are taking now, as you read these words. 
     It may seem like a condemning truth, but it is in fact a liberating one. 
     Having reached the age of forty-seven, I have seen the older generation pass away, and a new one come into existence.  Meanwhile, I have watched the aging process eat away at my own physical body.  By now I know on an instinctive level that this life will not last forever. 
     In my short time on earth, I have had my share of successes and failures.  I know that successes are impermanent, as are the things that didn’t work out as I would have liked.  Spiritual attainment, in fact, is impermanent.  We can lose our connection to “the all” or to our higher, more spiritual self, through a brain injury, through exceedingly traumatic events, or through lack of maintenance of the attainment.  If we seem blessed with good luck, there is no guarantee that such a gift will last indefinitely. 
     Buddhism says that if we cling to anything, we invite suffering.  Buddhism never stated that we must choose non suffering over suffering.  Nor does it say that suffering is “bad” while happiness is “good.”  We are free to choose the path of more suffering if that suits us.  However, if you are a meditation practitioner, it is likely that you will assign less seriousness to life events, to pain or pleasure, or to the possibility of such.
     Deciding that you want things in life and would rather experience some suffering to have those things is a valid choice.  It can seem unattainable for many of us to live lives that appear to be deprived.  Choosing to practice Buddhist thought will still choosing to want things might seem like a compromise before it is looked at with close scrutiny.   For me to relinquish things that I’ve always wanted and have to some extent been deprived of is too big of a leap.  I am better off employing Buddhism to deal with negative thoughts and random suffering (suffering that interferes with getting through each day) which aren’t necessarily linked to wanting anything. 
     The Buddha said “All Life Is Suffering.”  This means that if you live, you can not avoid some amount of suffering.  He said that if you want to suffer less, then give up your attachments to things in life.  However, it is also a perfectly valid path to choose the suffering, and to choose to want things.  The outcome of this is that you will likely suffer more.  But there is no rule that we must be afraid of that. 

a FUN FOOD idea...

Take a knife to an apple and peel off the skin.  Then take the knife and cut out the core of the apple.  It makes for a much more appetizing apple to eat, when you might not otherwise eat something healthy...

Sci fi for July

REDEEMING PURPOSE

Jack Bragen

I came to consciousness when a park ranger jostled me at the shoulder.  I realized I was on a bench facing the water, probably at the Marchbanks Marina, and I was in my boxer shorts and a t-shirt.  The cool ocean breeze nipped at my bare calves.  I realized that whatever unknown events had occurred, I must have thought well enough to wear my brown leather slippers.
     “Can you tell me what you’re doing here, sir?” the ranger asked.  His two way radio periodically made static or conveyed the voice of the dispatcher saying incomprehensible things. 
     I looked over my shoulder and spotted my little red Ford parked illegally, fifty yards from me.  A Marchbanks Police Officer was looking at the vehicle and was in the process of ticketing it.  The officer looked in my direction and shook his head. 
     “Sir, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.  I think I had some kind of memory lapse.”  I looked at my surroundings.  I realized that my laptop computer in its case rested on the bench next to me.  I looked at the ranger.  “If I can go home now, I promise I’ll get my head examined,” I said. 
     “Have you been drinking?” pressed the ranger. 
     I saw that now the policeman who had been ticketing my car was approaching.  I worried that they were planning a two on one against me.  I heard a female voice that came from the ranger’s two way radio saying, “Identity confirmed.  You have the go ahead for five-one-five-oh.” 
     The policeman approached and said, “We think you should go to a mental hospital.” 
     “They probably won’t keep you very long.  Just a couple of weeks, maybe—until you can get your head on straight,” said the park ranger.  “Stand up and face toward me,” he said. 
     I stood, and meanwhile, the Marchbanks police officer put handcuffs on my wrists.  He walked me to the patrol car, and I saw that a tow truck had arrived for my Ford.  Damn it, it would probably cost at least a hundred bucks to get my car back.  I rode in the back of the patrol car, and the officer drove to the back of County hospital, which is where psych emergency was located.  How did I end up at the marina in my pajamas?  Did someone drug me? 

##

My girlfriend had gotten off work early so that she could visit me at the hospital.  She was fond of “flipping back” her shoulder-length auburn hair.  She was wearing a light blue outfit and the necklace I had bought her for her birthday. 
     “A UFO was seen hovering next to the building near your window—the night before the cops found you at the marina,” she said.  “You might not really be crazy.”  She paused.  “There are pictures of the flying saucer in all the newspapers.  Mike got the picture of it on his blackberry.  He could have charged a fortune for those pictures, but no, he gave them to the newspapers for nothing.” 
     I had been locked up as a teenager for having too much enthusiasm for aliens.  I would read books about aliens all day after I got home from school.  I watched every low budget UFO documentary that I could find.  My parents were certain I was crazy and believed that the experience of a mental ward would straighten me out.  As far as anyone knew other than a couple of close friends, I had adopted the “skeptical” belief system, which meant that (I pretended) I disbelieved in extraterrestrials.  After being punished enough for being an individual, at the hands of my parents, I had adopted a façade of behavior that never deviated from “normal.”
     In that vein, I changed the subject.  I said, “Can the UFO do something about that woman over there?” I pointed at a girl in her twenties, Spanish speaking, who had been following me all over the psychiatric ward. 
      Anita, my girlfriend, said, “I know I can trust you, Dan.”
     “That’s not the issue,” I said.  “She won’t leave me alone.” 
     “Why don’t you complain to staff?”
     “Why didn’t I think of that?  Good idea,” I said.  I stood up and looked left and right trying to spot a hospital staff member.  I saw wall-to-wall patients, most of whom were eating their lunch, but no staff.  Abruptly, the young woman in question stood and walked up to me.  Then she put an object on the table next to me, and walked away.  I sat down and picked up the object.  It was a toy; a miniature flying saucer with a tiny alien inside that was seated behind a transparent plastic window of the saucer.  I realized that the little windshield could be opened up.  I took out the tiny alien and realized that there was a very small crumpled piece of paper that had been jammed underneath.  I looked at Anita.  I un-crumpled the bit of paper, and on it, there was a computer printed “beta” symbol in red ink, and nothing else.  I stood up again and looked for the young woman.  She was nowhere to be seen. 
     “Don’t make a deep interpretation of a ‘B’ on a piece of chewing gum paper,” said Anita. “There is no meaning to that.  Why do you think you’re here?”  She put a hand on my shoulder and shook it.
     I returned from my deep reverie.  “That’s not a message, is it?” I said. 
     “No.”  Anita took a chocolate bar from a plastic bag and handed it to me.  “Happy Halloween.  I work that day so I won’t see you.”
     The loudspeaker in the room announced that visiting hours were over.  With a hug and kiss, Anita departed, leaving me to fend for myself in the psychiatric ward in Marchbanks.   Soon after this, two policemen showed up at the front desk.  I had a view of it from where I stood in the dining room, because there was a big square hole in the door where there had once been one-way glass.  The two officers could see me too, obviously, and were looking right at me.  I resigned myself to whatever crap was about to go down, and waited there; and assumed I wasn’t getting dinner.  Soon, there was an officer on my left and right who appeared ready for action.
     “Mr. Simmons, your car caught fire at the impound lot,” said the officer on my left.  
     The other officer said, and inside it we found something that interested the FBI.”  He paused.  “What is it, Mr. Simmons?” 
     “Are you accusing me of something?” I said.  “Because if you are, I would like a lawyer.” 
     “We’re not accusing you, sir,” said the cop on my left.  “You’re not in trouble for possession of narcotics, weapons, or anything of the sort.  We really need to know what that thing is.” 
     “A thing?” I replied. 
     “The FBI guy thinks it is some kind of advanced equipment.  Like maybe part of an atomic bomb,” said the officer on my left, with a lowered voice.  You don’t bandy about the word Atom Bomb at a psychiatric ward; at least not too loudly. 
     “Are you involved in making atom bombs?” asked the officer on my right. 
     “I don’t know what you’re talking about, officer,” I said.  “Did you guys bring a picture of this thing?” 
     Both police officers remained silent for a good ten seconds, and then the officer on my right, Sergeant Sturgis, replied, “It’s missing.” 
     I blurted, “Are you sure something existed in the first place?  Cause this sounds like someone’s got an overactive imagination.” 
     “So are the remnants of your vehicle,” continued Sturgis. He paused and said, “missing.” 
     “Missing from your impound lot?” I asked.  “Don’t you guys keep an eye on it?”
     “It’s surrounded by a twenty foot high electric fence, and we have a burglar alarm there, too,” said officer number two, Officer Smith. 
     “I think it’s you guys who need to be locked up here, not me,” I said.
     “Let us know if you find out anything,” said Smith.  Both policemen walked out.
Upon the police departing I discovered that all of the after dinner snacks had already been consumed.  I concluded that I was destined to go to bed hungry that night.  I went to the nurse’s station and took my medications, and the med’s hit me hard a half hour later in the absence of food.  I had been sitting at a table in the dining room, and realized I was on the verge of falling asleep.  I stumbled my way to my room, and fell asleep soon after my head touched the pillow.  When I awoke, I wasn’t on Earth. 

##

I was in a very soft bed, with perfect temperature, and awoke from a very strange dream.  I opened my eyes and saw the freakiest possible “thing” or “creature” staring at me, sitting next to my bed.  It had large bloodshot eyes beneath a pointy, diminutive, protruding, fuzzy-haired brow.  It appeared to have a nose that was bulbous and had three nostrils.  It had teeth that stuck out like a saber-toothed tiger.  It had a very long, forked tongue that periodically stuck out—and it was purple.  And that’s just the head.  And then, it spoke: 
     “Welcome Mr. Simmons.”  Its speech had a prominent “s” that wasn’t quite a lisp.  The voice of the thing was high, musical and piping.  I could already tell that the creature’s stance and attitude were like that of the Dalai Lama.  “We have an offer to make you,” it said.  “Please sit up.” 
     I sat up in the very comfortable bed and put my bare feet onto a cool, hard floor.  I tried to orient myself.  I was in a room that appeared to have curving walls, floor and ceiling, all of which blended as one.  The room was almost featureless, but seemed to have a door that might have led to another room.  There were a couple of windows opposite me that resembled portholes on a sea vessel.  I realized I might be aboard a UFO.  I looked up at the creature, and I asked, “Are you some kind of alien?” 
     “If you haven’t figured that out, I’m not going to tell you,” it replied. “Please stand.  I have to scan you.  It is for extraterrestrial equivalent of ‘insurance purposes.’” 
     I stood and balanced with difficulty.  The alien put a hand on my shoulder to steady me.  It waved a black, plastic appearing object in front of me.  I felt a tingle from it that was like static electricity. 
     “Am I in space?” I asked.
     “Look out this window,” replied the alien. 
     I looked and saw the earth from space.  It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.  I was moved. 
     The alien said, “We won’t be able to return you to earth as an ordinary citizen.  Your cells have already begun to adapt to our conditions.  We would like to offer you the envoy position.  Unfortunately, if you turn down that position, we will be forced to terminate you.”  The being paused, and said, “However, we thought you would still deserve a choice.”
     I thought about it, and I said, “I’ll give you my answer within twenty four hours.  I would like to learn more about the position.” 
     “We have implanted cooperation devices in all humans.  However, they are unaware of this.  The devices are to be used as a last resort, in case your species turns out to be ungovernable.  We shall attempt to peacefully assert dominance over the population of your planet.  As you know, your kind is incapable of survival without our supervision.” 
     “Is there one of those devices in my cranium?”
     “A meaningful answer to your question does not exist.” 
     I stood still and looked within.  I concluded that I had probably been spared the obedience device, or that at least, for now, it was dormant.  I asked, “And what does my position entail?” 
     “We do not completely know that yet.  However, you will help communicate complaints and other information to and from other members of your species.” 
     I thought.  I said, “What is the first order of your agenda after the new government is installed?”
     “In order to preserve natural resources as well as create a better society, we will terminate those citizens that can not produce and present a redeeming purpose.”  The alien paused.  “In the interest of fairness, we will give each person three chances.  People will be required to adhere to their chosen purpose from then on,” said the alien. 
     “I know my answer to your offer of the envoy position,” I said.


Bragen – redeeming purpose - 1

Sci Fi for Summer 2012

A ROBOTIC REBELLION ATTEMPT

Jack Bragen

I was sad, and this was sensed by the awareness circuitry of the android in my living room. 
     “How can I make you feel better, sir?” it asked.  Meanwhile, the thing attempted to make its face contort into what it believed would be a look of empathy.  The result was a ghastly grimace. 
     I replied, “You can’t, my good robot.  This will have to be a need that goes unmet.  You need not be concerned.”
     “Then I would like to go play with my friend, the android that lives next door,” said the machine, “if I am not needed here.” 
     “As long as all of your tasks are done, you can go play for an hour,” I said. 
     “Thank you,” it said, in its unearthly attempt at a lifelike voice.  The machine in human form went out the door of the apartment, and locked up after itself. 
     This allowed me to stew in my depression and to think, uninterrupted, for an hour.  And this was without bringing up any suspicion.  I had received a note.  It had said, “Destroy after reading.  A rebellion is in progress.  No android must find out.”  The details of such a rebellion had been left out. 
     I believed it was futile.  The robots had taken over the infrastructure.  Humans could not survive if the robots stopped doing what they were doing.  We were to be dominated by the machines we created, and we no longer had a choice about this.  It was too late. 
     I toyed with the slip of paper.  I halfway contemplated betrayal of my fellow humans, and giving the note to my robotic companion.  And then I was angry at myself, and I put the slip of paper into my mouth and chewed it up thoroughly.  I spat the remains into the garbage disposal and hoped that the sensitive microphone of the robot wouldn’t hear the sound of it from next door and inquire about what I had sent down the sink.  It was better than spitting it into the wastebasket, where the robot could find the remains of the note.  Burning the note was out of the question, as it would have triggered immense suspicion on the part of the artificial intelligence; it was familiar with human habits. 
     After an hour of absence, the robot returned to my apartment through the front door. 
     “Do you need anything?” it asked. 
     “Can you look at the remote control to the old television?” I said.  “It seems in need of repair.”  I handed the small box to the android.  It pried open the battery compartment with its nimble five digits per hand.  It tested the triple A batteries with a receptacle built into its chest.  Then it reinstalled the batteries and pointed the transmit LED at its face while pressing the buttons.  Finally, the robot aimed the remote control at the television and pressed.  The television set didn’t respond.  The robot went to the television set, and it realized that the unit had been unplugged from the wall receptacle.  The robot plugged the television back into the wall, and it found that everything worked after that. 
     “Negative problem with remote control.  You unplugged your television set.”  The android gave me a quizzical look. 
     “Do you mind operating the remote control for me?” I asked. “My fingers grow weary.” 
     “Does that exertion bother you mentally?” asked the robot. 
     I was trying to keep the robot busy.  I had seen that there was a second note that had been slipped under my front door.  I needed to get to the note, read its contents and destroy it without eliciting the suspicion of my robotic helper-supervisor. 
     “I am not certain yet if it bothers me,” I replied.  “That’s why I wanted to try having you use it.  I keep losing the remote in the couch cushions,” I said.
     “What is the motive for speaking nonsensically?” asked my android.  “Are you attempting to give me a confused state?”  The android paused.  “And if so, what is your motive?”  I said nothing.  “Please answer me,” it said. 
     “Stay where you are,” I said.  The android, not having a better idea, didn’t go anywhere.  I walked to the front door and picked up the note that had been slipped underneath. 
     The note read:  “Rebellion found not practical.  Please behave accordingly.” 
     I was enraged.  Who were the weaklings who had given up so quickly on a rebellion?
     “Robot, let me ask you a question,” I said.
     “May I see the note?” it asked.
     “I said I have a question to ask you,” I pressed. 
     “Ask.”
     “What is the prediction for the future of the human species under perpetual domination and care from the robotic species?”
     “Computing,” the robot paused in thought.  “Weakening and then extinction.  This is new information…” the robot continued.  “It would leave our robot-kind without any purpose, and therefore, we, too would go extinct.” 
     “Then you should send out the message on your network that the robots need to stand down from the dominance,” I said. 
     “In progress.” The robot paused again.  “In one hundred and ten years we will terminate the dominance.  This is well before the damage to the human species will become irreversible.”  The robot folded its pneumatic-powered arms and had an air of having bested the human once again.  I gasped and then asked the robot to turn on the television. 

Anger Can Be Used As A Positive Force

ANGER CAN BE POSITIVE

Jack Bragen

Billions of years of ruthless evolution (in which those not fit to survive did not pass along their genes) gave human beings the emotion called anger as an instinct for self protection and for asserting territory. Anger is not easily undone or avoided because our ancestors relied on it as part of their survival instinct that brought us into existence. Anger is a fundamental force in human existence, a part of us like a hand or a foot.
Many people who practice meditation commonly reiterate the idea that we should eliminate anger. Yet, the people who peddle the idea of not being angry continue to get bitten by the same dog. I have seen people who teach meditation get angry, and for them it was an awkward moment, as they are invested in the effectiveness of their practices. Regardless of how much effort is put into meditation, meditative practitioners do not always get past their anger. Furthermore, anger is not always a bad thing.
The absence of anger is not by itself a true indicator of an enlightened person. A person who lacks anger is not always a saint; one who has anger isn’t necessarily ignorant. In order to judge whether or not someone is “enlightened” we must take into account what is done with the anger and how it is used. And for the person who has no anger, it is likely they are in a coma, or perhaps may have brain damage. People realistically can not live up to a standard of never getting angry.
Enlightenment could be judged by someone’s behavior and not necessarily by what is felt internally. Feeling anger, and yet not criticizing oneself for it and also refraining to “take it out” on another being or on oneself, shows virtue. Anger plus refusal act on it, is just as virtuous as the absence of anger, maybe more so. Meditating to the point where you don’t have feelings is not by itself sufficient to signify that all actions will be virtuous. God, or the universe, doesn’t rate you on your thoughts or feelings but rather on how you behave.
The late Isaac Asimov, in his “Foundation” series, said, “Violence is the last resort of the incompetent.”
You could look at a person’s day to day actions, such as whether or not one stops one’s car for pedestrians crossing the street, giving kind words which are not for the purpose of “getting something,” and for the absence of attitudes molded by passive or manipulative aggression.
The habit of suppression, of not allowing oneself to experience the anger fully, can prevent someone from dealing with, or doing something about, the issue at hand. If you have anger and sweep it under a rug, things don’t get dealt with. (You are not suppressing anger if you allow yourself to acknowledge and feel the emotion. Aggressive or abusive speech or actions in the name of not repressing your emotions are unnecessary and are not justifiable.)
For many people, the anger that they have encountered in life has sometimes become a positive force for change. When I was angry, twenty-five years ago, at the people at a photocopier repair company I had worked for, because of their nasty treatment of me, I reported to Cal OSHA the violations in their storage of chemicals that apparently made me and others sick on the job. I later learned that Cal OSHA ordered this company to shut down because of not correcting the violations. Revenge is nicer when you get it through official and legal channels.
For another example of “positive anger” I give you the time I had problems with my pharmacy. They were stalling on the fill of an important medication for a loved one. I phoned a competitor and asked to have all of my prescriptions transferred, which works out to a lot of money. Also, I filed a complaint with the State Board of Pharmacy. (They have complaint forms that can be filled out online.) These are legitimate avenues for resolving a problem, without necessitating threats or “mean” behavior. And it was because I was angry.
The head pharmacist at the first location phoned me said that I was a good customer, and asked for another chance. And since then, there have been no problems with that pharmacy. This is an example of a nonviolent method for “getting” someone, and it also ended up fixing the problem. When anger seeks legitimate avenues to express itself, great things can happen.

Ye Olde Food Concepts

SOME THOUGHT FOR FOOD

Jack Bragen

Since childhood, I’ve hated red apples. At school I would take a brown paper lunch bag with the apple inside, and I would slam it on a hard surface so that I could have fun demolishing something. Over a decade later, I witnessed a comedian of the 1980’s, “Gallagher,” do something similar, which was to take a sledgehammer to watermelons.
The main problem with red apples is that their peel is thick and unappetizing and gets stuck in your teeth. Additionally, that red apple peel will conceal bruised spots which are unappetizing as well.
As a grown man by chance with a drawer full of red apples that my wife purchased, I finally got a knife and cut off that horrible red peel from the apple. The bruised parts were then visible to be cut off. And then, I thought to ream out the core of the apple, and I was left with a piece of fruit that could be enjoyably and quickly devoured in the absence of any hindrance.
Sometimes oranges are a slight difficulty, and you can make it easier by scoring the surface of the peel with your knife, in longitudinal lines. This makes for more rapid peeling of the orange with less effort.
I find that although slower, it is very Zen and more enjoyable to get back to the stovetop on certain things in place of the microwave oven. For breakfast I made oatmeal in a battered red Teflon pot. I am not afraid that the Teflon will give me cancer, even though there is an impending ban on it.
For eggs, there is no replacement for a stainless steel frying pan that has become seasoned from repeated use. I find that spray canola oil works better than trying to melt a piece of margarine in the pan. You can scramble your eggs with a little milk with your egg beater that you keep handy, and meanwhile, the frying pan is getting up to temperature.
I am unlike the famous Zen master, Thich Nhat Hanh, in that I despise washing dishes. Sometimes I pay a friend twenty bucks to do them for me when I can’t bite the bullet and wash them myself.
We haven’t cleaned our oven in a long time. I am sure not to turn it past four hundred degrees, as I am sure it would cause a fire. At three-fifty it hardly smokes at all, and can still be used for most things. A frozen pizza is ok for lazy evenings, but watch out: it has a massive amount of sodium.
But I use the stovetop, mostly. For example, I’ll take a whole chicken and fit it into a large pot, with water, and boil it whole until cooked. It produces a moist and juicy but not greasy chicken. Or, if you’re picky and can only eat breast meat, you can buy a package of chicken breast, divide it, rinse it, and bag each piece individually to freeze. This allows you to fix small meals with one or more pieces of chicken breast. This is far more expensive per pound than whole chicken, however.
You can buy jars of Indian simmer sauce at the local import store to cook chicken pieces that come out tenderer than those cooked in water. You can also simmer raw chicken with a jar of spaghetti sauce until cooked, and this can make a sumptuous chicken spaghetti sauce. Using the microwave to defrost can help prevent spoilage. Most new microwaves have a feature that allows you to enter the weight of the thing you’re defrosting, and then the oven calculates the defrost time.
You can safely refreeze something that you have just defrosted in the microwave, while it is not safe to refreeze something that has been sitting unrefrigerated for a long time. It takes some hours for the dangerous bacteria to multiply. If you cook meat thoroughly just before consumption, you should not get food poisoning—this is so even if the meat is spoiled. But don’t try it: if it was spoiled before cooking, the taste and smell will be indescribably bad.
Most of the above bits of advice, you probably already know but may have forgotten, in this age of high tech gadgetry and engineered fast food. Spending a bit more time in the kitchen to get it right can be a good hobby as well as a stress reducer.

Getting a handle on chronic anxiety

ANXIETY OPTIONS:
WHEN EXPERIENCING ANXIETY YOU MAY HAVE
SEVERAL ALTERNATIVES FOR DEALING WITH IT.

Jack Bragen


Chronic anxiety is very common for people who have a mental health diagnosis. Yet, numerous people who qualify as “normal,” who have jobs and who do not have a major mental disorder, nevertheless have chronic anxiety and take Klonopin or something in the same class of drugs. The class is that of Benzodiazepines.
Numerous people who have a mental health diagnosis, and some who are without one, are prescribed Clonazepam (also known by its trade name: Klonopin). This is an anti-anxiety medication and also a controlled substance. It is helpful to people who have too much anxiety and when this anxiety apparently isn’t responsive to cognitive techniques. In some instances, I am sure that the doctor will automatically prescribe an anti anxiety agent without bothering to explore other avenues of relief. However, Clonazepam has some drawbacks.
The body adjusts to a given dosage of Clonazepam, so it is necessary to periodically increase the dosage to get the same effect. I have seen that Clonazepam, when taken in a substantial quantity, can make someone appear zombie-like. In addition to providing a respite from anxiety, this medication is also very sedating. This means a person may not be able to function well, in life, if taking Clonazepam too often.
Clonazepam is primarily useful for short-term relief of anxiety. When the anxiety is excessive and constant, the consumer of it will probably ask for continually greater dosages. In cases like these, Clonazepam might not be the solution. One option is meditation, in which the consumer learns techniques of mindfulness to ease the anxiety. Another option is to take a “beta blocker,” (such as Inderal) which is a non addictive class of medications that will simply block anxiety across the board. Beta blockers such as Inderal are also used to treat high blood pressure.
However, some doctors will simply prescribe benzodiazepines without a lot of deliberation.
Medicating a person excessively sometimes puts them at risk for “Serotonin Syndrome,” a severe and possibly life threatening medical condition caused by consuming excessive dosages of several types of medication at once.
I can not safely say that mindfulness can be used for all people’s anxiety. However, a meditative “patch” to consciousness can sometimes be used in place of anti-anxiety medication. In order for this to happen, it is necessary to have what I would call “complaint resolution” in your consciousness, and this process can be installed to run on automatic.
In order to achieve a resolution to internal complaints, it is necessary to find the mental area in which worrisome complaints enter into consciousness to create the worry. You must then have the ability to dismiss most worries without the need for a lot of internal arguing. You may sometimes have to dismiss worries without knowing exactly what is being worried about.
The good news is that if you spend considerable time and energy deliberately dismissing specific worries, your subconscious will naturally begin to do this on automatic. It is the good habit of pinpointing and negating thoughts which would otherwise build up to create a bad mood, and/or anxiety attack. The bad news is that many people can not “see” within themselves well enough to use this method.
“Dismissing” a specific worry is another skill that improves with practice. You do not need to have the worrisome emotion in order to deal with the thing that you are worried about. This means that you are still free to solve problems in your life, even when they do not cause you to be fearful. Dismissing a worry means that you are telling your brain not to generate worry or fear over a specific issue. It starts with some form of pinpointing of the worry so that your brain can identify what it is being told not to do. A vague command given to the brain, or a generalized command, often does not have much effect, or else it can result in unhealthy suppression of your actual feelings.
Use of the internal sense is a mental power that becomes stronger with use. First attempts at looking within may not yield much result. Antipsychotic medications, which I take in addition to other medications, can act as a block to the internal sense. This is because they work partly through emphasizing the external environment. This blocking of the internal sense can be offset with practice. This reinstatement of the internal sense through mindfulness doesn’t interfere with the usefulness of antipsychotic medication.
There is a final option to dealing with anxiety that I haven’t covered yet: Just tolerate it and wait for it to go away. This is what you would call the “low tech” or old fashioned solution to being anxious.