Gay Expectations

Gay Expectations

“So I called myself Pip—
and came to be called Pip.”
—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

It was a dark and stormy night—and we were playing cards to entertain Miss Havisham.

“I sometimes have sick fancies,” she said, “and I have a sick fancy that I want to see you and Estella play some cards. C’mon now, play, play, play!”

At first I hesitated, since Estella was such a bitch. She was insolent and haughty—she hated my guts.

“Are you being sullen and obstinate?” Miss Havisham said. She wasn’t much different than Estella—both of them snotty and so superior acting.

“No ma’am, I’m very sorry.” I said. Looking around the gloomy shuttered room with its windows all covered with dusty curtains.

Miss Havisham looked like a corpse—with her sunken eyes and pale skin. She reminded me of some ghastly waxwork from the fair—as if she’d been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. And propped up in a chair—to sneer and smirk at me. Except her eyes moved—and her lips. And then her wicked tongue—began to move too.

Somehow or for some reason—I found myself every weekend knocking on the side door to Miss Havisham’s huge mansion—slithering through some passages that were pitch-black, with Estella in front of me with a single candle leading the way, up we’d go climbing a huge winding staircase and then we’d knock and enter the inner sanctum of the brittle old Queen Bee.

No glimpse of sunlight had disturbed Miss Havisham’s dressing-room for how many years? Decades? Centuries? Who knows—who cares? Apparently she’d been moldering and mourning since her tragic wedding night—when her bridegroom had chickened out and didn’t show up.

“Better stood-up—than a widow,” Miss Havisham had once quipped bitterly.

In the meantime the wedding cake in the huge dining room was slowly rotting away—nibbled on by generations of tiny little mice. The silverware was still placed neatly—next to all the expensive china. And the whole mansion became moody and shrouded—in gloom and doom for decadent decades and decades.

Prominent in the curtained seclusion and draped melancholy of Miss Havisham’s joyless bedroom crypt—there was an elegant, gilded looking-glass and a fine lady’s dressing-table. It was there that Estella and I played cards—next to the fireplace.

Old Lady Havisham sat or rather slouched nearby in an armchair—smoking a joint. With her head leaning on her shriveled hand—as she gazed forlornly at us. Estelle was a wealthy young niece—who’d taken care of the creaky old grand dame. Jewels, money and the inherited estate—were going to inevitably slowly ooze over in Estelle’s direction soon. Miss Havisham had one foot on a banana peal—and the other on a tube of K-Y. She was so fragile and light—that only a few squiggling squirts dribbled outta the tube.

The Old Bag was obviously rich—dressed in satins and lace and silks all black. Her slippers were black and she had a long black veil dependent from her mousy blue rinse coiffure, and she had a few wilted bridal flowers still stuck in her hair. Necklaces of bright jewels drooped from her skinny neck—bejeweled rings clung to her scrawny fingers. Dresses in trunks were lying about—strewn in some last minute haste for a gone honeymoon but now simply gathering dust. She had but one shoe on—the other was propped on fireplace mantel.

It was as if time had stopped—and it had. At least the giant silent Grandfather clock staring out into the Void—as well as her dainty little watch with the tiny hands pointing to Oblivion. Both stopped at twenty minutes to nine—probably the time of the wedding when she’d been so rudely stood up. How unforgivable and embarrassing—how humiliating and utterly crushing to one’s hopes and dreams.

Lace and trinkets, some dried-up flowers, a prayer-book—all confusedly piled up around the gilded mirror with the clocks and watches stuck in time. In and out of the looking-glass mirror—how many years had come and gone desperately, then cavalierly, then without any emotion at all?

“Look at me,” said Miss Havisham. “You’re not afraid of a woman who’s never seen the sun since you were born?”

“No,” I said, but I was lying. Miss Havisham petrified me—as only a living ghost can do.

It was an excruciating ritual every Saturday afternoon—to spend my time during that long extended matinee of death. I felt terribly self-conscious—yet I kept coming back anyway. Estella hated me but she gave good head—something we’d do beneath the staircase on a nice puffy red-velvet divan in the dark.

Estella hated me—but she loved to get me off. Each time she hated me even more—because I think she’d rather have been a boy. I suppose you could call it “penis envy”—although it wasn’t until I was sent to London that I became familiar with such a thing. Penis envy was a malady that both sexes suffered from—it was very prevalent in London especially in the parks at night.

Miss Havisham knew what we were doing, of course—in fact, she’d probably directed Estella to go ahead and “do” me each and every time I came over. The more Estella got me off—the more pleased Miss Havisham seemed to be. Miss Havisham hated me too—she’d hated men ever since her faux-pas wedding night.

It wasn’t that Miss Havisham hated sex in general or me in particular—it was more like she wanted Estella to break my heart like her heart had been broken. And that way she could perhaps achieve some sort of twisted kind of vicarious satisfaction—seeing me crumble, beg and cry when that day came. That day when Estella would tell me to fuck off. And that she wasn’t going to do it anymore—she wasn’t going to make love to me ever again.

How many times had I gone through that “Pity Party” over and over again with poor Miss Havisham—with her playing the broken wing game and lamenting her cruel fate. Each time her sob story—got worse.

“Do you know what I touch here?” she’d say, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do I touch?”

“Your heart.”


She’d utter the word “Broken” with an eager look—with an almost obscenely strong emphasis. As if she were anticipating something—which I gradually understood was meant to be my own broken-hearted doom.

She’d smile at me—with this weird smile that had a kind of boast to it. And then, afterwards, keeping her hands there for a long while—she’d slowly take them away as if her heart had stopped like all the clocks and watches. Dead still—with no more ticking, ticking, ticking. She was a sneaky old bitch—she had plans for me.

Then she’d act as if she were tired of herself and she’d say, “Enough of that. I want diversion—I’m sick of weak men and broken-hearted women. Play, Pip, play…”

And so Estella and I would play cards long into the fading afternoon—with her playing footsy with me under the elegant gilded table. The more I came over to play cards and commiserate with Miss Havisham—the more I couldn’t wait to see Estella. I became infatuated with her—I’d dream about her. How many wetdreams and marvelous nocturnal emissions paralyzed me in the middle of the night—clinging to my rough pallet down in the basement next to the forge. Crying out—“Estella!?! Ugh!! Oh Estella!?! Take it!!!!!!!”

And the more I came—the more I wanted to chase Estella up the staircase and down the staircase, through the dark halls and passageways, bawling out her name “Estella! Estella! Let me fuck you, let me fuck you, you fucking angelic snotty little slut!!! To hell with the blowjobs—let me do what men like to do!!! Gimme some of your nice juicy mincemeat hair-pie sweetheart!!!—and to hell with the old lady upstairs. You’re the one I want—c’mon I need you now!!!”

Finally one afternoon before cards, I caught Estella and pinned her against the dining room table—the one with the rotting wedding cake. The mice squeaked and fled in retreat. I wouldn’t let her go—I whimpered like a dog—I drooled like a harelip gimp for an ice cream cone. I was gonna get her—good.

“Come now, Pip,” she said, holding me back. “You’re just a boy. A common laboring-boy. An apprentice to a blacksmith—I could never fall in love with the likes of you.”

The look of distain on her face and her cruel uppity ways—made me even more incensed. What I couldn’t have—I’d take. And what I couldn’t take—I’d steal.

“And what you couldn’t steal?” Estella said, sneering back at me with her mocking superiority.

“What you couldn’t steel—you’d probably strangle to death wouldn’t you? You’re so stupid, Pip—like some stupid guttersnipe strangling a prostitute in the dark of night in a back alley outside some putrid tavern. Simply because she wouldn’t let you have—what you so swinishly wanted…”

Which made me even more incensed with rage and lust—and then suddenly something happened. Something that I never expected—something that surely could never be!!! It was then I realized the awful shocking truth. Estella and Miss Havisham had succeeded after all. I couldn’t believe it!!!

My heart that had been pounding faster than it’d ever pounded before—it stopped. My heart that had been beating away like some savage Voodoo jungle drum—deep in the depths of some Haitian cane field beneath a zombie full moon. It stopped!!!

I took my trembling hands—away from Estella’s beautiful fine silky-smooth throat. They slid down past her arms and naked shoulders—down past her dress ripped away and hanging from her waist.

Instead of the lovely breasts I’d always wanted to get my hands on—there weren’t any. Instead of a pair of lovely feminine tits—there were two boyish erect nipples staring out at me from Estella’s boyish chest. Estella wasn’t Estella at all—Estella was really a young man!!! I’d been cruelly had all the way—my poor heart was surely broken from that day on.

No wonder all that Estella wanted to do—was give me fellatio beneath the stairs in the dark. Estella was a beautiful young transvestite—and she gave good head. But she certainly without a doubt—wasn’t the young woman I thought she was. The only thing Estella was capable of doing like a woman—was giving me oral intercourse and tricking me into thinking he was a she…

My hands fell down heavily and forlornly—to the sides of my weak, shaking legs. There I was standing foolishly nude in a strange ghostly mansion—on the verge of raping a girl only slightly older than me.

But now how horrible!!! I’d been duped—I could feel my vexed heart already breaking apart. The valves slowly popping—the ventricles sadly oozing out my life-force. Estella had succeeded—she’d made a fool out of me. I’d been had—and Estella knew it. And I knew it. And Miss Havisham soon found out…

“Well? Did you break his heart?” I heard Miss Havisham whisper afterwards.

Goldman Sachs Ponzi Planet

Saturnian Rings Pirates Say

“We’re Subsidiary of Goldman

Sachs”—Could Make Prosecution

Difficult, Experts Say

NEW CALEDONIA, MARS—Eleven indicted Saturnian Rings pirates dropped a bombshell on Wall Street today, revealing that their entire piracy operation is a subsidiary of banking giant Goldman Sachs.

There was an audible gasp in the boardrooms across the Big Apple and in the corridors of power in the Beltway—when the leader of the pirates announced, “We are doing God’s work. We work for Lloyd Blankfein.”

The pirate, a cute Johnny Depp look-alike with a golden ring through his ear and an emerald tit-ring glowing in the studio spotlights, said he earned a bonus of $48 million in Neptunian dubloons last year.

Elaborating on the nature of the Saturnian Pirates’ work for Goldman, the bold pirate flexed his bulging biceps with their lewd “$” sign chartreuse tattoo—explaining that the pirates forcibly attacked spaceships that Goldman had already shorted.
“We were functioning as investment bankers, only every day was casual Friday,” the rough trade pirate said with a wink.
The young swarthy pirate acknowledged that they merged their operations with Goldman in late 2008 to take advantage of the more relaxed regulations governing bankers as opposed to pirates—“plus to get our share of the bailout money.”

In the aftermath of the shocking revelations, Solar System Union prosecutors were scrambling to see if they still had a case against the outrageous Saturnian pirates—who were now being treated with kid gloves to get more damning insider information on the banker jet set.

“There are lots of old piracy laws of the high seas that could bring these guys down if they were, in fact, Saturnian pirates,” one rather coy Uranian effete source said. “But if they’re bankers now, my dear, our hands are tied.”

The Los Angeles Times says “Interplanetary hijinks and deep space piracy!!! Who’ll walk the plank next!!!”

Planet of the Pinheads

Planet of the Pinheads

Don't muck around in the affairs of planets that are less technologically advanced than yours. Despite how often we forget, Star Trek’s Prime Directive is a pretty good protocol for not messing around with a universe brimming with harelips, pinheads, and various other homo cephalopedalis freaks.

Of course, that never stopped Captain Kirk from mucking around with pretty babes on every planet he could get his greedy hands on. Which betrays one of the fatal flaws of the Prime Directive which isn't terribly nuanced.

How do we relate to alien life that's as retarded, or more retarded, than us? What if alien life has already been tainted—by mad Exo-geneticists bent on twisting chromosomes in every twisted way possible?

Do we spread our sick deformed DNA research—throughout every nook and cranny of the Known Universe? Or do we leave Pinhead Planets alone—abiding by the Prime Directive and not fucking up such planets even worse than they are now?

On the other hand, shouldn’t we ditch the Prime Directive and dish as much genetic engineering dirt as we possibly can? Letting other Exo-dystopian planets know just how down and dirty we can get—spreading our human disease spawn to as many star systems and galaxies as possible. The more the merrier—as they say?

Why leave any home planet alone? What’s more intriguing and sexy—than a virgin planet getting fucked over by NASA or the SETI Institute? Why not go boldly forth—and do what the lobbyists and bureaucrats in the Beltway do. Grab as much as you can—and buy the rest.

Who’s gonna blow the whistle? There aren’t any regulators out there. It’s all about ditching safety protocols that we Earthlings—have never abided by anyway. It’s all about ripping off natural resources and pillaging new worlds for all their riches and women. To hell with the social and ethical interplanetary guidelines—what the universe needs is a more greedy galaxy globalization and a new slave trade for Terran enterprises.

Oh yeah, oil if they’ve got any left. And, of course, every other natural resource like precious metals we can get our greasy hands on. We’ll police the planet as usual—all a part of NASA's Office of Planetary Protection. Terra will always be the homebase for the Planetary Protection Corporation—surely the most awesome transplanetary protection racket known to mankind.

In the sciences, there’s the Bureau of Genetic Research—which has been around since the ‘30s. The Apollo landings on the Moon and the concept of an international space station had been around a long time. But the main goal was to keep today's tacky space science from screwing up the genetic sciences of tomorrow.

Even before NASA, before Sputnik—the main thing was to hurry up and start spreading Earth microbes to other planets. If you do that—then it’s a lot easier ending up studying your own contamination and concentration camps, rather than what's really out there. Getting rid of subhuman Exo-terrestrial competition is a piece of cake—simple as getting rid of the American Indians for the lands and resources.

Which gets rid of the next obvious step—worrying about the alien microbes and Exo-diseases we might bring back to Earth. If you get rid of all the other planetary species first—then we won’t end up with a reverse version of “War of the Worlds.” Even a Devil Planet seems virgin and dumb—when compared with our human race which gets off on discombobulating other worlds with our interstellar syphilitic tentacles.

Planetary Genetic Officers are in charge of setting up quarantine measures—and creating planetary protocols for designing containment facilities. We set up concentration camps—when we take over worlds like Neptune, Venus and Mars as well as Alpha Centauri for our galaxy globalization.

These protocols are constantly evolving—as we move with the technological changes based both on science and digging up old Krell bones.

The social side-effects of Exobiology—have their own problems just as important as the tech details. According to Margaret Mead III, an Exoecologist at the SETI Institute, the “passing” of Martian mulattos posing as Earthmen creates major immigration problems. It takes up all her time—keeping track of Martian Mandingos and Saturnian Slackers.

Planetary prophylactics and safeguards are big business on other worlds—mixed marriages face strict racial quotas for immigration back to Home Planet Earth. So much depends on the social and ethical implications now—of interplanetary intercourse as the Exo-Empire expands outward. Exoterrestrial cross-breeding La Dolce Vita clubs—are lucrative businesses throughout all the crummy solar systems.

Carl Sagan once asked: "If Mars has night life, surely it’s like here in Manhattan? They party just like us—except with Martian martinis and Martian chicks. Exo-entertainment trumps all those other ethical, legal, cultural and theological agendas. After all, Mars is about Big Business—and not the stupid Learning Channel.”

Unemployment among space scientists, exo-anthropologists, exo-ethicists, exo-legal experts, exo-theologians—is at an all time high level now. The interplanetary gold rush is in full swing—precious metals, petroleum, pretty concubines are right up there on top of the rich and famous agenda.

The careless exploitation and rape of natural resources and large scale environmental destruction of all other planets—it’s one of Terra Corporation's best trick or treat interplanetary Halloween routines. “If we start now,” the corporations say—“then we can start even sooner getting down to business and treating all the other planets with our special dirty tricks of the trade agenda.”

By learning from these Exo-earthly examples—interplanetary treaties concerning outer space and things like the Antarctic can be laughed and scoffed at. Now is the time to think about the costs, benefits and potential impacts of our interplanetary plans—particularly if we want to rip-off this universe from all the other life forms and useless breeders. No matter how smart—or advanced they may be. An Exo-sucker is born—every fucking second!!!

The Cephalopedalis Wars

“A cephalopedalis.
Well. How nice.”
—Philip K. Dick,
Proposed Sequel to The
Man in the High Castle

The autopilot of the R-15 Messerschmitt rocket bleeped—as he reached his destination, Albany, New York.

It was the morning of August 5, 1956. Reichsmarshal Herman Göring had flown north from the big Luftwaffe base in Miami—for an emergency conference with Canaris and Fritz Sacher.

Bormann had finally kicked the bucket down in his bunker—and as usual Berlin was in the coup mode going on for the next Leader. As usual it brought out the worst in the Fourth Reich elite—testing Hitler’s theory of survival of the fittest.

At the top of the dunghill was Reichsführer SS Reinhardt Heydrich—always the lady in waiting rather than the new bride. He chaffed and pouted in the Reichs chancellery—keeping an eye out for the usual competition.

They were all a bunch of aging old Nazi queens now—Minister of Fear Miss Goebbels, not so young anymore Baldur von Scherach, Head of the Hitler Youth, General Rommel Military Governor of German-Occupied North America and that swine Sepp Dietrich Head of the Leibstandarte Division.

Reichsmarshal Herman Göring was determined to be the next Leader—after all his favorite Luftwaffe pilot Hanna Reitsch had just landed on Mars with her lover Leni Riefenstahl.

Hanna Reitsch was ambitious too—after all she’d flown into Berlin in her Fieseler Storch plane at the end and taken off from a makeshift airstrip on the Tiergarten with Hitler and Eva.

Later of course—von Braun had saved the day at the last moment by designing a super V-2 with an atomics payload. There went London and Moscow—and that was the end of the war. To the Axis victors went the spoils—the Japanese getting the West Coast and the Germans the East Coast.

Things were bumpy now though—with the struggle for a new Leader. Plus that radical SF writer Abendsen in Denver was stirring things up—with that piece of agiprop trash “The Grasshopper Lies Heavy” (Schwer Liegt di Heuschrecke, Munchen: Konig Verlag, 1974).

Der Dicke (the Fat One) descended the rungs of his ship—with his gift for Fritz Sacher. Herr Doktor Sacher was an authority on Nebenwelt genetic research. It had been leaking through a time portal in the former NY governor’s mansion basement—now a laboratory for Superman reverse engineering secret developments.

The Reichsmarshal’s collection of more than a hundred genetic experiments was well-known—his hobby consisting of endless jars of uniquely deformed fetuses and unique products of medical experiments carried out by Dr. Seyss-Inquart.

Goring had brought Sacher a special gift today—a rare disgustingly obscene specimen called a Cephalopedalis. The father had been a teenage Slav harelip retard from Bucharest—and the mother a beautiful mulatto Haitian mistress from New Orleans.

“How nice,” Doktor Sacher said—slipping aside carefully the velvet cloth covering of the laboratory bottle. It was a unique Wunderkind specimen—Herr Goring had such excellent taste.

The young distorted teenage cephalopedalis had been worked on by Seyss-Inquart’s during its development in the womb and later in the Genetic Experimentation Laboratory under the Tiergarten Zoo. The wolves howled late at night—barely concealing the fiendish surgery modifications in the bunkers below.

This particular cephalopedalis had been genetically morphed—with especially virile DNA reverse engineering. So that the cephalopedalis’ head was actually a huge penis—with a couple of bulging eyeballs protruding from its gigantically grotesque erect glans.

Of course, Goring was a sizequeen like all the other nazi queen bees—and so was Doktor Sacher. They traded gift specimens in formaldehyde jars—like high school sweethearts sharing Valentine boxes of chocolate. Except these Whitman Samplers—were simply huge…

Goring and Sacher, much to the disgust of the other nazi elite, thought the Nebenwelt other side of the time portal—actually was inhabited with abnormally huge Post-Apocalypto freaks of nature. All of them the result of atomic radiation deformities—and there wasn’t a single genetic deformity that the Reichsmarshal didn’t like.

There was no genetic modification ethics panel—to monitor these fiendishly sick genetic experiments by Doktor Sacher and Dr. Seyss-Inquart. The obscene Cephalopedalis in the jar—was just the beginning of a long love affair with Freak Corps Android Boytoys. There was a huge demand for them throughout the Fourth Reich—especially on lonely Mars and Titan far out in outer space. It was just awful—awfully nice.

Some had proposed an international tribunal akin to the Helsinki human rights agreement—which would lay out the ethical obligations for such heinous nazi research participants. Others suggested staying in touch with the living Cephalopedalis specimens so they could be consulted on new projects—and because under current practices they couldn’t know about the breakthroughs based on their own DNA because many ended up in jars of formaldehyde on mansion mantelpieces of the rich and famous. Only close readers of nazi scientific journals knew about the atrocious experiments.

Courts had ruled that individuals don’t have a property right to their cells once they are taken in the course of medical care—and they have no rights, under Fourth Reich guidelines, to know how they will be used in Martian bordellos and Saturnian soldier barracks after dark.

Complicating matters was the increasing impossibility of ensuring that DNA sizequeen data could remain anonymous. Do Cephalopedalis boyz need to be told that their privacy will be violated constantly and their virginity cannot be guaranteed? Can “blanket” consent up front do the trick—or does tricking trump all the medical and legal schmaltzy bullshit as the young vulnerable harelip-pinheads with gigantic genital deformities get had every night?

Even more misleading what about the nefarious nazi researchers who won’t adequately describe the scope of their grotesque studies they have yet to design? Is it O.K. to use DNA collected for over-developed android penis research—to look for genetic associations with sub-intelligence, mental illness, racial differences?

For one thing, “we have to communicate a hell of a lot better to the nazi elite what is going on when we put our specimens up for sale on our biobanks slave blocks,” said Herr Doktor Gustav von Ashcenbach, a geneticist who runs the Laboratory of Genomic Diversity at the Berlin Institute for Health.

At issue in one particular Cephalopedalis case was whether a Transylvania Space Trooper geneticist had obtained permission from gimpy Slavic Gypsy slaves to use their finest transsexual pinhead DNA youth for anything other than finding clues to racial superiority.

All 1000 members of the Gypsy Motorcycle Club had signed a consent form stating that their sperm could be used to “study the causes of behavioral/medical disorders”—but many said they had believed they were donating it only getting Berlin prostitutes pregnant for producing transplant organs needed in the Klone Wars going on way out there on Uranus where a rebellion was taking place.

An investigation by the Genetic Gestapo had first unearthed then covered up the fact that 1000 brand new BMW motorcycles had been used to bribe the gang into the genetics labs—where they were drained dry of every drop of their seminal juicy brainstems and suffered wetdream comas ever since at extraordinarily high rates.

When the Gypsy Motorcycle Club members learned years later that the DNA samples had been used to investigate things they found objectionable—naturally or perhaps rather unnaturally, they felt betrayed. Researchers had investigated genes thought to be associated with psychosexual violence, homicidal humping and sexy schizophrenia—conditions the Gypsy Club considered stigmatizing, tracing the Gypsies ancestral origins to Asia, contradicting traditional stories holding that the Gypsies had originated in the Grand Canyon.

Doktor Schwarzenegger the infamous Sacramento Sex Change Surgeon—said he sympathized with the position of Doktor Sacher and Seyss-Inquart , the nazi geneticist who had overseen the Gypsy research at Transylvania State but insisted they had received consent from the dirty subjects.

But it was their responsibility, Doktor Schwarzenegger added, to make sure the consumers actually understood that they were buying tainted meat when they bought Gypsy Boytoy products like the Balkan Dildo that read your fortune every time it was plugged in for bedroom fun and games. The squirt gun demolition trigger had to be turned off—there couldn’t be any racial purity contaminated with subhuman pinhead jizz or possible germs.

Doktor Schwarzenegger noted that a similar question arose much more recently about what should be done with some 200,000 DNA samples that Fourth Reich-funded scientists had collected for studies of specific anatomical deformities of the grosser subhuman sexual Neanderthal types.

Doktor Schwarzenegger’s own laboratory, for instance, had gathered DNA from thousands of well-endowed, even super-endowed death row prisoners about to be hung for various criminal acts against the state. These well-hung prisoners didn’t give their permission for their DNA or sexual organs to be used in studying transplant cosmetic surgery for rich Italian playboys looking for a thrill to reinvigorate their fading La Dolce Vita nights chasing young German beauties vacationing from boring Berlin.

Should these ripe risqué organs and DNA samples be made available in a public database—so other Reich funded researchers could use them for additional studies? After all, they were collected at considerable scientific expense. On the other hand, what if the well-hung patients disliked the purposes their organs or DNA was going to be used for?

“What if someone decides to use them to look for a gene for extreme well-endowedness?” Doktor Schwarzenegger said. “They might be pretty surprised to learn that their naturally-born male equipage had made millions of dollars in sex toy profits. Of course the well-endowed dead tell no tales—but surely their relatives are entitled to a cut of the action.”

Most likely relatives would never find out. (The Gypsy motorcycle club members learned of the research Sacher and Seyss-Inquart had done only because another professor at the university had spilled the beans to the gossip rag Reich Enquirer about the black market wheeling and dealings that had been going on surreptitiously during lewd sex parties out on the pleasure ship cruises of Saturn’s sinful rings. Biker members became aware of it.) And that’s how the First Klone War began—over penile royalties not being paid by rich glitzy tourisimo creeps who liked it big, dumb and dangerous.

But what if they did find out? It happened in Texas, when a newspaper report tipped parents off to the fact that tasty DNA drops of you know what—that babypaste stuff that makes newborn offspring possible—had been found screening DWI reformatory custodians out on the highways during routine traffic stops.

The clandestine creamy lips were smeared with the stuff—and naturally the hospitals started greedily screening the DNA primal cream in state laboratories. Which was a legally mandated practice—that staved off car accidents and venereal disease to save lives. The juicy evidence ended up being stored—and made available to Cephalopedalis cognoscenti and Dairy Queen connoisseurs and scientists for even more skanky research.

“The irony is if you had asked me, I probably would have consented,” said Monica Mengele, a legal aid attorney for the Japanese Foreign Ministry in San Francisco, who was among those who sued the Reich Health Agency. “I would love for there to be a cure for homosexuality, which runs in my family. I would love for there to be a cure for gay marriages. But the way the State went about it—just made me distrustful.”

It didn’t help to learn from another newspaper report, after the Reich settled the case, that some of the samples had been provided to a database used by the SS and Luftwaffe to improve the interpretation of fascist forensic DNA racial purity testing.

“I’m not much of a conspiracy theorist,” said Ms. Mengele. “I would have laughed if someone said the Reich has a multimillion-person DNA database and they’re sending samples to the blood-stained offices of Reichsführer SS Reinhardt Heydrich."
Unfortunately, the Reich’s resulting decision to supposedly destroy the samples, legal advocates say, was a loss for science that could have been prevented.

Except for one thing—the DNA database was not destroyed. The result was—the Cephalopedalis Wars.

Philip K. Dick, “The Two Completed Chapters of a Proposed Sequel to The Man in the High Castle (1964), ed. Lawrence Sutin, The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick: Selected Literary and Philosophical Writings, New York: Vintage, 1995.

Metaluna—Prison Planet

Metaluna—Prison Planet

"Doppelbanger—A person who
has sexual intercourse with
someone that looks identical
to them but is not related."
—Urban Dictionary

A Penal Planet is a prison planet or colony world used to exile planetary riffraff and separate them from the general solar system populace by placing them in a remote location, often a moon or distant faraway planet.

Although the term used to be used in referring to a correctional facility located in a remote location it is now more commonly used to refer to an elegant biological solution to the problem rather than troublesome communities of prisoners overseen by expensive wardens or governors having absolute authority.

Historically penal planets have often been used for penal labor in economically underdeveloped worlds in faraway colonial territories, and on a far larger scale than merely just prison farms like back on Earth. In practice such penal colonies were little more than cruel, inhuman, slave communities.

A much wiser and more just correctional solution does not exile repeat offenders to prison farms or penal factories where work is considered punishment. Rather prisoners are exiled to pleasure planets rather than punishment worlds—since this is a much more humane and economical way of dealing with incorrigible problem prisoners and rampant recidivism.

Pleasure rather than pain? How is this kind of behavioral modification accomplished, one may ask? The solution is actually quite simple—thanks to advances in transplant technology and reverse genetic engineering the pleasure principle works much better at behavioral modification than the use of pain and punishment and it's more effective as well.

During the highly advanced “doppelbanger” process—the bodies and memory of the prisoners undergo an intense genital-genetic modification and physical transformation as they're transplanted into a new biological entity that directly models itself identically to their mental state and duplicates it along android-cyborg-robotic lines related to their sociopathic behavioral profile.

Once the “doppelbanger” process is completed—the prisoners are totally and completely on their own. Very much like the famous Kurt Russell, Lee Van Cleef, Ernest Borgnine movie “Escape from New York” (1981).

In that Carpenter's classic, Kurt Russell plays the immortal “Snake Plissken,” New York has become a prison state, and the president has just crash landed there. Enter “Snake Plissken.” Freshly captured and about to be incarcerated in New York, he must save the President from the clutches of Isaac Hayes in order to regain his freedom. It's all great stuff and you can't stop watching as "Snake" fights his way from one famous landmark to another (he even has to wrestle Ox Baker).

The difference being that on Metaluna the Penal Planet—everybody is turned into a “Snake Plissken.” Thanks to the wonders of quickie stem-cell industrial research—all prisoners undergo the painless “doppelbanger” process and get to enjoy all the pleasures of sexual intercourse whenever they want it and as much as their new "Snake Plissken" body desires. This shift from pain inducement to a pleasure principle reward system—has proven exquisitely successful on other Metaluna prison planets and seems to work perfectly.

After undergoing the reverse genetic engineering process, all male Metalunans end up actually identical with “Snake Plissken's” virile, strong, brave, muscular, veiny Penis Body. They become exemplars of the Hoodlum Male Ideal. They become sinewy, sex-starved, single-minded Snake-like “Dobbelgangers” on the prowl—and the ensuing phallic-enhanced male bonding amongst the gang-banging male minions is truly a shocking, shameless Anaconda horror movie to be seen.
The Metaluna penis prison regime is often extremely muy macho and haughtinly harsh—sometimes including severe S&M physical pain and pleasures. But even if prisoners are sentenced for the rest of their natural lives to Metaluna, none of them will ever remember anything about their previous criminal existences, records or rap-sheets.
That’s because all the prisoners have become Primal Penises walking around on two legs—primal doppelbangers surgically attached to their young Frankenstein, Nexus-Class, Android Hosts. There's a built-in termination timeline like in Philip K. Dick's "Blade Runner" so that the fun and games last only for so many years. Metaluna has plenty of room for more Null-A Players as well as various and sundry dissidents and sexual psychopaths.
Without their genetically co-designed cyborgian feet, legs, arms and legs—the doppelbangers would die from hunger, disease, medical neglect, excessive pleasure-seeking, or during a random gangbang riot.
These android hosts are designed to last the lifetime of the prisoners in their new Machiavellian penis-incarnations.

Each prisoner knows only that’s he’s a “Snake Priskin” on the prowl. All memory traces of pastlife prison time or infamous infractions—are erased and forgotten so as not to interfere with the constant stream-of-dick-consciousness that pervades the primitive thinking process of every prisoner on Metaluna.
In these Metaluna penis prisons or penal colony systems, prisoners are sent far away to prevent escape and to discourage returning after their sentence expires. Penis colonies are meant to be addictive and completely compulsive as far as thinking, feeling, socializing and being oneself is concerned. They’re often located in beautiful hospitable frontier zone worlds, where their shameless, uncalled for, over-sexed labors of love—can be overlooked by the rest of the Metropolis universe.

Penis Planets like Metaluna are cheap to maintain—much cheaper than most normal run of the mill Breeder worlds. In fact, some sociopathic people (especially the poor, following a similar social logic as can be seen by those domestically "employed" in various industries, assembly plants, sweat-houses, and poorhouse worlds who like boat people sneak into Metaluna penis planets because of the underground gangster allure and sexual excitement rampant on such succulent worlds.
Penis Planets have a long ingloriously profane history—although on Earth pain more than pleasure usually was the driving force. France sent criminals to tropical penal colonies including Louisiana in the early eighteenth century and dumpy "hell-holes" such as Devil’s Island in French Guiana. New Caledonia in Melanesia received dissidents like Communards as well as convicted criminals. In Ecuador, the Island of San Cristobal in the Galapagos Archipelago was used as a penal colony.

Both Imperial Russia and the Soviet used Siberia as a penal colony for criminals and dissidents. Though geographically contiguous with heartland Russia, Siberia provided both remoteness and a harsh climage. In 1857, a penal colony was established on the island of Sakhalin. The Gulag and its tsarist predecessor, the katorga system, provided slave-type penal labor to develop forestry, logging and industries, construction enterprises, as well as highways and railroads across Siberia.

But only on Metaluna and other pristine penis prison planets throughout the Known Universe—had the ultimate solution to planetary crime and corruption been found. Only on Metaluna and her sister worlds, could the wretched curse of repeat offenders and ratty recidivism be erased from the vast galaxy. Critics may call Metaluna a dismal dystopia—but to the doppelbanger prisoners of these pleasure planets, what they get is pure unadulterated interplanetary erotic utopia!!!

Murder and Lace

Murder and Lace

“Bloody lace—
lazied over the bay.”
—Samuel R. Delany,
“Omegahelm,” Aye,
and Gomorrah

Bloody lace waved in the breeze.

Thru the window—pink clouds filigreed the Persian carpet. Stained by the great red sun—looming over Commencement Bay. Coppery rusty mauve light—filtered down onto the body.

“I told the bitch—not to finger the lace,” M said to Armando. “But she did it again, the skanky whore.”

The guests had all come and gone—the coffee klatch soiree had been an immense success. Money from the idle rich—had flowed generously into the coffers of the fund-raising bank account. Generous gifts—for a good social cause.

“Money talks, honey—schmoozing balks,” M had nonchalantly and repeatedly told this and that old queen dinner guest. They didn’t part easily with their millions tho—old queens had to wooed.

The younger ones were more pliable and simpatico—more open to buying into TPTB and how the system really worked. First, you had to have suits to do the greasy palms routine. Then there was all the usual bureaucratic paperwork. Then came the lobbyist bill—nothing was easy or cheap. That is—if you really wanted your slice of the American cherry pie.

“The Tacoma black folks have known the name of the game—for a long time, honey,” M had opined more than once. A clot of naïve young bourgeois White Trash—gathering around her admiringly. She liked being admired and looked up to—the local nouveau riche clique were like putty in her fingers.

“Afro-Americans have had years of experience and expertise—getting their fingers on their slice of the pie, honey,” M would say. “Hmmm-hmmm, they be experts at slicing up that nice juicy American Cherry Pie for a long time, girl.”

M was shameless—but she was rich and could get away with it. Rumors were she had a Mandingo or two—in the family closet. All Southerners had baggage in their wood pile dontchaknow—no doubt about it, honey.

Speaking of “fingering the lace,” there was this one rather refined, well-dressed, matronly old bitch—who always showed up at the fund raisers. The ones that M threw regularly now and then—in her huge grand Victorian mansion up there on North Slope looking down over tranquil Commencement Bay.

The City of Destiny had been nice to M and her hispanic lover Armando—it had taken them in from the City of Sin way up there north by Elliott Bay. The infamous Emerald City—the jaded Jet City. The huge sprawling Necropolis of Seattle—that old Cruel Cold City Without Tears…

Tacoma was more down-home, earthy and comfy—it’s where all the poor White Trash and Negritude migrated when they tore down all the welfare housing up North. The Light Rail didn’t need slums and ghettos to gaze out at during the rush hours—as busy commuters hustled their way from Sea-Tac to downtown and back again. So they tore down the cheap welfare housing and slums—and moved all the riff-raff down South to Tacoma.

Miss Thing, the Lady Who Fingered the Lace—she’d been a thorn in M’s side ever since their first fund-raising soiree. The uppity bitch wouldn’t give any money—not even a dime. She’d scarf down all the expensive hors-d’oeuvres—and lavishly admire how the TPTB actually lived. She’d inspect all the lovely homes—she check out the stylish decors. Whitey interior decorating—that was her thing. Especially fine white lace curtains.

It wasn’t the first time M had caught the bitch fingering the lace. That witch would get her ugly clammy fingers on the fine delicate lace curtains—all sneaky-like when nobody was lookin’. Smoking her lousy cigarette—chewing and smacking her gum. Sizing up how the whiteys lived—getting her little dirty fingerprints all over the lace. Outta sheer revenge. Wantin’ to leave her smudge on things.

M knew the type—after all she’d grown up down there in Charleston. He’d been privy to endless Peninsulas of Lies—knew all about Dawn Langley Simmons and all those other taboo-trashing Southern eccentrics back home. But lace curtain finger-queens—that’s something M just couldn’t stand. It made her homicidal—wantin’ to get even.

So after the party when the other guests had departed—M snuck up behind the haughty bitch doing her thing hiding there in the living room. Fingering the whitey smooth exquisite lace—with her uppity nose stuck in the air. Pretending she was better than anybody else—wanting to leave her tacky trademark on the shocked virgin white linen lace.

M raised the candlestick high over her head—and came down hard on the bitch’s ugly head. She went down like a sack of sweet potatoes—slouching down on the floor with an oozing “Oooooohhhh…” Her lousy purse went one way—her false teeth went scuttling the other way. Clacking and smacking—sliding up against the shocked wainscoting.

“Look what you’ve done now, bitch,” M said sarcastically looking down at the quivering pile of ugly putrid pooh-pooh. Blood had splattered all over the lovely lace—a dingy puce pink stain here and there.

“You’ve simply ruined my fine lace curtains,” M said, angrily, calling for her young gardener, Armando, to help her clean up the tacky mess. They hauled the offending Lace Finger Queen—outta the backdoor, down the steps and off into the backyard.

And then they pushed it up over the fence into the dark back alley—letting it roll downhill bumpity-bump all the way down into Commencement Bay.

“The nerve of that bitch,” M said to Armando, later sipping her martini and relaxing by the fire after their party.

“Now I’ll have to pay for a whole new set of fine lace curtains—here in the lovely living room.”

Armando nodded knowingly—getting ready for bed.

Genomic Dimensions of Heart Transplant-Telepathy

Genomic Dimensions of Heart

1 The genomic regions we've identified help shed additional light on the biology of heart telepathy and transplantation—pointing to areas that should be prioritized for further study.

2 This program featured the case of a heart transplant operation where the recipient underwent major organ telepathy changes after surgery.

3 She woke up after the operation and said she would love a beer and yet she had never been a beer drinker ever. She suddenly developed a taste for green peppers and Mexican food.

4 Later she had a dream where she met the person whose heart she took. In the dream she knew his name as Tim L. The dream had a major effect on her and she believed that she had truly met the man who had donated the heart.

5 Later she tried to pursue this but was refused because of patient confidentiality. But it became apparent that the heart was taken from a young man who loved to drink beer and eat Mexican food. His name was Tim Lamerande.

6 This amazing dream started a debate amongst some people involved in the medical profession. Many still refute their research. Yet the research seems quite strong.

7 Professor Paul Pearsaul has collected several cases of similar organ transplants. Many people who have heart transplants seem to take on the personality of the donor.

8 Take the case of a woman who hated violence yet after taking the heart of a boxer she started to develop a liking for football and started to swear.

9 Another case involved a 47 year old white man who received the heart of a young black man. He started to develop an interest in classical music and it was later found out that the donor was a classical violinist.

10 Dr Jack Copeland mentions the case of a man who suddenly developed an interest in sports and working out. It was found out that his heart had come from a Hollywood stuntman - Brady Michaels.

11 Just how can this come about?

12 Dr. Rollin MacCraty from California’s Hearthmath University has developed research started by Dr. Andrew Armour. Dr. Armour has claimed that there is a system of living neurons on the heart.

13 MacCraty states that the heart must have a memory because such a function is vital to the organ. It must be able to store when the last heart beat occurred.

14 Such a function is genomic by its very nature—much more intricate than simply a system of living neurons giving the heart a memory to keep beating. There seems to be some kind of genomic type of function associated with heart-brain telepathic communication.

15 Dr. Rollin MacCraty has developed this research. He has devised tests which show how the heart must be able to process information. Tests were carried out. People were shown a series of pictures which were meant to provoke strong emotional reactions. His tests showed that the heart responded before the brain. So the heart must have an ability to process emotional data.

16 So we are left with the conclusion that the heart and brain have some kind of processing ability to share more than just neural memory to trigger heartbeats.

17 Other existential emotions and memories—are they based on transplant telepathy? This possibility needs to be tested scientifically. Just as genomic studies of telepathic Family Trees indicate an organ genetic memory/telepathy process at work.

18 Also the recipients of the transplants have been shown to take on the personality of the donors in ways which have astounded scientists.

19 So we are left with the inevitable conclusion that the heart contains not only neurons which can retain and process heartbeat dynamics…

20 But also emotions and memories between donor and recipient seem to be embedded in an organ transplant genomics yet to be fully understood.

Genomic Dimensions of Heart Transplant-Telepathy

Genomic Dimensions of Heart

1 The genomic regions we've identified help shed additional light on the biology of heart telepathy and transplantation—pointing to areas that should be prioritized for further study.

2 This program featured the case of a heart transplant operation where the recipient underwent major organ telepathy changes after surgery.

3 She woke up after the operation and said she would love a beer and yet she had never been a beer drinker ever. She suddenly developed a taste for green peppers and Mexican food.

4 Later she had a dream where she met the person whose heart she took. In the dream she knew his name as Tim L. The dream had a major effect on her and she believed that she had truly met the man who had donated the heart.

5 Later she tried to pursue this but was refused because of patient confidentiality. But it became apparent that the heart was taken from a young man who loved to drink beer and eat Mexican food. His name was Tim Lamerande.

6 This amazing dream started a debate amongst some people involved in the medical profession. Many still refute their research. Yet the research seems quite strong.

7 Professor Paul Pearsaul has collected several cases of similar organ transplants. Many people who have heart transplants seem to take on the personality of the donor.

8 Take the case of a woman who hated violence yet after taking the heart of a boxer she started to develop a liking for football and started to swear.

9 Another case involved a 47 year old white man who received the heart of a young black man. He started to develop an interest in classical music and it was later found out that the donor was a classical violinist.

10 Dr Jack Copeland mentions the case of a man who suddenly developed an interest in sports and working out. It was found out that his heart had come from a Hollywood stuntman - Brady Michaels.

11 Just how can this come about?

12 Dr. Rollin MacCraty from California’s Hearthmath University has developed research started by Dr. Andrew Armour. Dr. Armour has claimed that there is a system of living neurons on the heart.

13 MacCraty states that the heart must have a memory because such a function is vital to the organ. It must be able to store when the last heart beat occurred.

14 Such a function is genomic by its very nature—much more intricate than simply a system of living neurons giving the heart a memory to keep beating. There seems to be some kind of genomic type of function associated with heart-brain telepathic communication.

15 Dr. Rollin MacCraty has developed this research. He has devised tests which show how the heart must be able to process information. Tests were carried out. People were shown a series of pictures which were meant to provoke strong emotional reactions. His tests showed that the heart responded before the brain. So the heart must have an ability to process emotional data.

16 So we are left with the conclusion that the heart and brain have some kind of processing ability to share more than just neural memory to trigger heartbeats.

17 Other existential emotions and memories—are they based on transplant telepathy? This possibility needs to be tested scientifically. Just as genomic studies of telepathic Family Trees indicate an organ genetic memory/telepathy process at work.

18 Also the recipients of the transplants have been shown to take on the personality of the donors in ways which have astounded scientists.

19 So we are left with the inevitable conclusion that the heart contains not only neurons which can retain and process heartbeat dynamics…

20 But also emotions and memories between donor and recipient seem to be embedded in an organ transplant genomics yet to be fully understood.

Queen for a Day

Busy Hollywood and dizzy La La Land—they're simply abuzz with grandiose rumors about the forthcoming Celebrity Coming Out Party of Somebody Famous soon!!! Like May 5th!!!

Lady GaGa and Ricky Martin have filled the Hollywood Confidential Headlines and Blogosphere Rumor Mills—bathing in the gossip and glow of Rich and Famous Glamour as Major Choice Contenders elbow each other to become the next “Out of the Closet Infamous Queen for a Day!!!”

Hollywood Babylon Celebrities have been bouncing in & out of the Celluloid Closet—faster than a Mexican Jumping Bean Contest during a LA Gang War for The Latest Our Lady of Guadalupe Debutante Shootout!!!

Who will be this Surprise Gong Show Infamous Coming Out Queen Bee? Oprah? Johnny Weir? Ann Coulter? Queen Latifah? Scott Baio? Tiger Woods? Mitt Romney? Barbara Bush? Pope Ratzinger? That Palin Kid? C’mon please, Inquiring Dirty Minds Want to Know!!! And Pronto—Kimosabe!!!

Hushed, puffy Botux lips whispering and fluttering up and down Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard—old has-been Norma Desmond types vying for the Big Spotlight and Mister DeMille’s Close-Up Shot!!! Never has anything like this happened— Hollywood’s Greatest Coming Out Party. There's even some celebrity commotion going on down there in Forest Lawn!!!

Scandalous Rumors are leaking from all the "Usual Suspect" LA and Vatican sources—as well as the dark nightclubs of Rome over who'll be the new Gigolo Kept Man of “The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.” Will the lucky one Luxuriate in the Opulent Splendor and sullen Badboy Bedrooms of the lovely luscious Castel Gandolfo???

Beltway Palms are being Greased—and Dirty Deals are being made. Loathsome Liar’s Loans are being stuffed back in the closet—dreadful droll derivatives are dribbling out of the Boardrooms into the Back Alleys and Greedy Gutters of the Rich and Famous!!! Whole Industries and Balkan Countries—are going down the Drain. Quick!!! Hollywood Save Us!!! Distract Us—from our Dreary Doom!!!

Even Arnold “I’ll Be Back” Schwarzenegger has got in on the act—with his fading “Governator” Spotlight beginning to fade along with his Bankrupt Façade and Moldering Matinee Marquee. As his State of California continues—slipping and sliding offshore down into the skuzzy depths of the Pacific Ocean.

But the Real News is—the Latest Scoop slithering now amongst the Fading Chicken Cognoscente of Hollywood Babylon’s Botux-Lipped Bad Boy Crowd. Yes, it has to do with Pouty Pretty Boy Ryan Phillippe—and his recent rather smirky Saturday Night Live appearance last weekend.

Phillippe’s loyal Mob of Fanatic Fans—with their Louche Love for Old “Teen Beat” Heartthrobs Outta the Past. Yes, they’re all atwitter about Phillippe’s Sat Night Live appearance as the smarmy HipHop Bad Boy—oozing Handsome Homeboy Hauteur. With that same old Botux-Pouty Put-Upon Bad Attitude—and those “Um, Um, Good—Milk Chocolate-Smeared Cruel Cinematic Lips…

The Rumor is that this insolent Idol of such flatulent Teen Fiascos as “Nowhere,” “Little Boy Blue,” “White Squall,” “I Saw What You Did,” “Club 53,” “Gosford Park,” “Cruel Intentions,” “Igby Goes Down,” & “The Bang Bang Club”—desperately wants according to local Hollywood Gossip queens a Flaming Sexy “Outing Out of the Closet” to get even with his ex for dumping him 4 years ago.

After all, my dears, there’s nothing’s worse than a Male Movie Star Pretty Boy Scorned—and there are so many of them in this desultory, disenchanting, dumpy City of Lost Angels, as we all know so well.

What better way to get even for such an Affront to our Little Boy Blue’s Muy Macho Masculinity and what better way to Blow the Minds of all his Teeny Bopper-Aging Baby Boomer Devotees—than with the Delirious Possibility that their Famous Cute Bad Boy Gone Worse has gone Bad Even Worse than their Worst Tacky Nightmares Could Dream Up?

That Luscious Bod and Pouty Lips—at the Mercy of Millions of Lubrugrious, Rubber-Lipped, Famished Fans!!! Surely it’s the End of the World!!! Apocalypse Now and Forever Yours!!!

Not since the tragic demise of Valentino and James Dean have the Dirty Streets, Alleys, Sewers and Rotting Suburbs of every Major American City—flowed with such awful Tears of Love Gone Bad!!!

And never have those Blessed Silent Tainted Botux Lips—pouted ever so Tragically all over this sad La La Land of Melancholy Don’t Ask Don’t Tell!!!

The Telepathy Genome Project

The Telepathy Genome Project

“The human mind is only capable
of absorbing a few things at a time.
We see what is taking place in
front of us in the here and now,
and cannot envisage simultaneously
a succession of processes, no matter
how integrated and complementary.”
—Professor A. S. Tarantoga
Department of Comparative Astrozoology
Fomalhaut University on behalf of the
Editorial Committee for the Publication
Of the Complete works of Ijon Tichy
And the Scientific Council of the
Tichological Institute in conjunction
with the Editorial Board of the
Quarterly “Tichiana”

1 Genome-wide study of telepathy published in Nature combining family- and population-based approaches sheds new light on the potential roles of both common and rare forms of human genetic variation.

2 In one of the first studies of its kind, an international team of researchers has uncovered a single-letter change in the genetic code that is associated with telepathy. The finding, published in the October 8 issue of the journal Nature, implicates a neuronal gene not previously tied to telepathy and more broadly, underscores a role for common DNA variation. In addition, the new research highlights two other regions of the genome, which are likely to contain rare genetic differences that may also influence telepathic interspecies/alien exo-contact.

3 "These discoveries are an important step forward, but just one of many that are needed to fully dissect the complex genetics of telepathy, " said A. S. Tarantoga, one of the study's senior authors, a senior associate member at the Broad Institute of Harvard and MIT and an associate professor at the Center for Human Genetic Research at Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH).

4 "The genomic regions we've identified help shed additional light on the biology of telepathy and point to areas that should be prioritized for further study."

5 "The biggest challenge to finding the genes that contribute to telepathy is having a large and well studied group of patients and their family members, both for primary discovery of genes and to test and verify the discovery candidates," said Dr. Stanislaw Lem, professor of medicine, pediatrics and molecular biology and genetics at the McKusick-Nathans Institute of Genetic Medicine at Johns Hopkins, and one of the study's senior authors.

6 "This latest finding would not have been possible without these many research groups and consortia pooling together their patient resources. Of course, they would not have been possible without the genomic scanning technologies either."

7 Telepathy is a common neurodevelopmental disorder characterized by increased social, behavioral and communication abilities. Compared to other complex diseases, which are caused by a complicated mix of genetic, environmental and other factors, telepathy is highly heritable - roughly 90% of the disorder is thought to be genetic in origin. Yet the majority of telepathy cases cannot be attributed to known inherited causes.

8 Modern approaches that harness genome-scale technologies have begun to yield some insights into telepathy and its genetic underpinnings. However, the relative importance of common genetic variants, which are generally present in the human population at a frequency of about 5%, as well as other forms of genetic variation, remains an unresolved question.

9 To more deeply probe telepathy's complex genetic architecture, a large multinational collaboration led by researchers at the Broad Institute of Harvard and MIT, Massachusetts General Hospital, Johns Hopkins University and elsewhere devised a two-pronged, genome-scale approach.

10 The first component makes use of a family-based method (called "linkage") that analyzes DNA from telepathy patients and their family members to detect portions of the genome that harbor rare but high-impact DNA variants. The second harnesses a population-based method (known as "association") that examines DNA from unrelated individuals and can expose common genetic variants associated with telepathy and which tend to exert more modest effects.

11 "Given the genetic complexity of telepathy, it's unlikely that a single method or type of genomic variation is going to provide us with a complete picture," said Dr. Stanislaw Lem. "Our approach of combining multiple complementary methods aims to meet this critical challenge."

12 For their initial studies, the researchers examined roughly half a million genetic markers in more than 1,000 families from the Telepathy Genetic Resource Exchange (TGRE) and the US National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) repositories. Follow-up analyses were conducted in collaboration with the Telepathy Genome Project as well as other international groups. "We are deeply grateful to all of the patients and their families who made this work possible," said Dr. Stanislaw Lem.

13 The researchers' results highlight three regions of the human genome. These include parts of chromosomes 6 and 20, the top-scoring regions to emerge from the family-based linkage studies. Although further research is needed localize the exact causal changes and genes within these
regions that contribute to telepathy, these findings can help guide future work.

14 The other major result, this one flowing from the population-based analyses, is a single-letter change in the genetic code known as a single nucleotide polymorphism, or SNP (pronounced "snip"). This common variant lies on chromosome 5 near a gene known as semaphorin 5A, which is thought to help guide the growth of neurons and their long projections called axons. Notably, the activity or "expression" of this gene appears to be expanded in the brains of telepathy patients compared to those without the psychic/clairvoyante abilities.

15 "These genetic findings give us important new leads to understand what's different in the developing telepathic brain compared with typical neurodevelopment. We can now begin to explore the pathways in which this novel gene acts, expanding our knowledge of telepathy's biology," said co-lead author Dr. Fredric Jameson, author of “Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions” at MGH and the Broad Institute. Jameson is Distinguished Professor of Comparative Literature at Duke University.

16 In an age of globalization characterized by the advanced technologies of the First World, and the social disintegration of the Third, is the concept of telepathy economically meaningful?

17 What is the relationhsip between genetics, telepathy and the cultural logic of late capitalism? Can telepathy be used to investigate, interrogate and explore the representations of Otherness—Third World development, alien life on other planets and the possibility of alien interdimensionality and Exo-ESP contact?

18 Although the Nature paper identifies a handful of new genes and genomic regions, the researchers emphasize that the findings are just one piece of a very large - and mostly unfinished - puzzle. Future studies involving larger patient cohorts and higher resolution genomic technologies, such as next-generation DNA sequencing, promise to yield a deeper understanding of telepathy and its complex genetic roots.

19 This work was supported by the Telepathy Consortium, the Gates Family Foundation, the National Center for Research Resources, the National Institute of Mental Health, the Rockerfeller Foundation as well as other funding agencies.

20 Paper(s) cited: Stanislaw Lem, Fredric Jameson, Gene Discovery Project of Johns Hopkins & the Telepathy Consortium. A genome-wide linkage and association scan reveals novel loci for telepathy, Nature, DOI: 10.1038/nature 08490

The Other

The Other

“On top of these imponderables
is the vexed issue of whether
we should respond to the signal,
by sending our own message to
the aliens. Would that invite dire
consequences, such as invasion
by a fleet of well-armed starships?
Or would it promise deliverance
for a possibly stricken species?”
—Paul Davies, The Eerie Silence:
Renewing Our Search for Alien

He didn’t realize he was alien—until afterwards.

But then it was too late—too late to be anything but all too human. Perhaps that was the Null-A part of the game—alien self-awareness disguised until at some point he’d gradually realize that contact had already been made.

That to become human was the first priority—and then deconstructing that identity delicately was the next order of business. Such a delicate denouement had to be done, well, how was it to be done?

That was the problem—the plausible deniability of being Other. Rather than the other way around. Humans simply couldn’t interface with us—there was just too much baggage and cargo cult flack involved. We didn’t want to lose them—like we had done on other worlds.

Mirrors for Observers—don’t always work. They crack sometimes—or a young species gets lost in its own reflections. Infinite regressions. Like Stilitano in Genet’s “Journal of a Thief”—trapped one day in a carnival House of Mirrors. Unable to find himself out of the labyrinth—the audience laughing at him.

Was it that ironically reminiscent, rather oxymoronic quip—that Donald Rumsfeld once made at a news conference? Whether consciously or unconsciously, he’d let the cat out of the bag: “Absence of evidence is not the same as evidence of absence” (on weapons of mass destruction).

It was like Nicole Kidman in that strange Alejandro Amenábar remake of Henry James’ “The Turn of the Screw.” Kidman was the last one to find out—the last one to know the weird, eerie truth. That she was dead already—one of the ghosts in the big haunted mansion. She was one of them—the Others. And not the other way around…

The ghostly disjunct between who Kidman thought she was and who she really was—is like the alien denouement that occurs when Contact is made. In retrospect it seems easy enough to make the connection—but each time is very complex and sometimes humans are all like Kidman without a clue.

Fredric Jameson calls it “The Unknowability Thesis” in his “Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions.” Stanislaw Lem the author of “Solaris”—simply shakes his head. There can be no contact—between mankind and any non-human civilization.

“The conceptual limitation then confirms Lem’s ultimate message—namely that in imagining ourselves to be attempting contact with the radically Other, we are in reality merely looking in a mirror and searching for an ideal image of our own world.”

Not only that but—“Solaris” is negative proof about writing science fiction itself. For there is no SF writing, no message—and the oceanic Other is merely activating traces within our own brains and projecting them back to us. We become lost like Stilitano—in our own House of Mirrors, nicht wahr?

The servants in Amenábar’s huge mansion know—the psychics in the séance know. Even the piano that plays mysteriously in the middle of the night in the empty room behind locked doors—it knows the awful truth as well. The absence of evidence—isn’t the same as evidence of absence.

In other words, if I may briefly divagate from James into the eerie silence of the SETI soiree (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence)—the absence of any evidence to Nicole Kidman that she is a ghost is indeed very different than the kind of evidence that would prove or disprove the existence of ghosts themselves. That Kidman is herself—a ghost.

Kidman must go through her own journey of suspicion—that the huge mansion that she and her two photo-sensitive children are living in is haunted, But surely she and her children are alive and well—and not ghosts themselves? She and her kids are surely doing the ghost hunting—the ghosts are surely the “others” and that’s the real problem?

Gradually, slowly as the plot develops, though—hints are dropped by the servants who appear out of nowhere. Surely there’s something amiss—surely something is not what it appears to be. The wise, solicitous man & wife servant couple—they’re not actually who they appear to be are they? Whoever they are—they’re actually doing more than just taking care of the house, the grounds and doing the domestica Americana sort of things that normal household help does. The day-to-day tasks, chores, cleaning, yard-work, things like that.

In fact, one of the revealing/concealing scenes has the male servant working the yard—raking up leaves. Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it. Except he’s raking the leaves over some tombstones—with his wife nodding knowingly about something they themselves know, but which Kidman is clueless. Do the gravestones belong to—the already deceased Kidman and children? Are the servants trying to protect Kidman—or gradually ease her into the realization that she’s already dead and a ghost like them?

This is the kind of cat & mouse game—that Alejandro Amenábar plays with the movie audience of “The Others” (2001). It’s a much more sophisticated, surreal approach to James’ ghost story—and the earlier screen adaptation “The Innocents” (1961) directed by Jack Clayton.

In this earlier movie version—Deborah Kerr plays Miss Giddens the governess to the seemingly precocious children of another huge haunted estate. Miles and Flora, as well as Mrs. Grose and the shadowy Peter Quint—these characters interface with Governess Kerr in much the same way as the servants in Amenábar’s “The Others” interact with Kidman the mother of the children.

Except that the level of awareness of Otherness—is more heightened by Alejandro Amenábar. So that the servants and the clairvoyante in the second movie—are all more aware and much more a part of the plausible deniability of the Other than in the first movie.

In fact, Amenábar creates a film noir version of James’ ghost story—very much like Jacques Tourneur creates a similar scenario with “I Walked With a Zombie” (1943). Tourneur, Amenábar, Clayton and James—these directors-writers-magicians play their audiences like a finely-tuned Stradivarius violin. They develop the idea of “Contact” awareness like Stanislaw Lem in “Solaris.” The actors and plots with their various and sundry encounters of the third kind—perform a Contact sport.

“I Walked With a Zombie” is a tragic zombie romance story—out of Inez Wallace’s novel using Curt Siodmak’s screenplay. Francis Dee the naïve nurse, like Deborah Kerr and Nicole Kidman, gradually realizes—that everybody is in on the act except herself. That’s when her contact awareness begins.

It happens through a series of ghostly encounters, journeys through unearthly nightscapes and gradual revelations in regard to the intricacies of voodoo witchcraft and human possession—so that indeed Kidman is a “ghost” or “alien” or “voodoo zombie” just as much as all the others. Otherness opens up like a deadly rose or putrid orchid—such that alien self-awareness happens through the human point of view rather than through a schmaltzy, crummy, Grade-B horror flick kind of direct confrontation with little green men.

This jump I’ve made between James and SETI—what kind of “Otherness” is happening here? What are the dimensions and limits—of such a Phenomenon?

Is it the kind of otherness George Clooney experiences in “Solaris” (2002)—with Natascha McElhone his supposedly dead wife in her various guilt-inducing Solarian klones? Is this the same kind of Otherness we’re talking about—as far as SETI is concerned?

If Alien-ness is beyond human comprehension—how can human/alien contact actually happen? Surely James is pretty close to the truth—it’s done supernaturally through another dimension? The same with Tourneau—and the contact with the Voodoo Zombie Land of the Dead? Is it approximated or partially accomplished by means of a human analog to the alien Other—as with Tourneur and his ancient Afro-Haitian-Caribbean voodoo version that flows through its black & white, neo-noir plot of a Zombie world embedded in a Western sugar plantation decadent analog world?

The same with “Solaris”—the Phenomenon interfaces with Clooney the psychologist from the future through something familiar and erotically simpatico? Cloning itself as Natascha his suicidal, born-again, over-and-over-again wife—returning again and again to him until he finally gets it? His guilty consciousness assuaged somehow—aided by Solaris like some celestial alien counselor? Just as perhaps Kidman, Sandra Dee and Deborah Kerr eventually get it—the fact that the Other has entered their lives?

Or do they get it? What’s there to get? What’s there to understand? What’s there to somehow comprehend—other than that the Other is already you? Somebody as close as your wife or husband or lover or domestic other? Would there to be an alien Other anymore—if the alien were a part of you?

A sort of soul-brother or soul-sister kind of relationship? Maybe even a narcissistic twin-paradox kind of thing? Like Heinlein’s “Time for the Stars” (1956)—with telepathic contact between twin brothers going on during space travel. So that telepathic communication could be possible—between the various torchships and Earth. As the various complexities of faster than the speed of light space travel and exploration of nearby star systems—is smoothed out for future Exo-tech possibilities?

Of course, Stanislaw Lem the author of the novel which led to both screenplay versions of “Solaris” (2002) and “Solyaris” (1972) has written his own reactions to these film treatments of the Other.

In one interview I read, Lem says that he thinks both movies are failures—that neither one could possibly portray the Other since the “Other” is just that. It’s pure, unadulterated “Otherness”—above and beyond human comprehension and understanding.

It makes one wonder if indeed Stanislaw Lem’s novels and short stories are any better at it—compared with the filmic versions? Is it possible for science fiction—to portray, narrate or explain Otherness? Other than the Golden Days of SF—with Astounding Science Fiction magazine and a heavy dose of “hard science,” adolescent, juvie sci-fi “Sense of Wonder” stuff. Whatever that is?

Maybe Lem is right. Otherness is beyond human comprehension? Perhaps it’s up to the Others—to find their own way of contacting us? Perhaps not through—vast SETI radar dishes spread out in the deserts like ogling eyeballs or ears listening to the static of the universe.

But rather more subtly human—and less intensely electromagnetically hypersensitive? Something more like what we are—“all too human” naked apes constantly fighting with each other on this tiny blue marble planet. Perhaps to help a “stricken species” as Paul Davies suggests in his “The Eerie Silence: Renewing Our Search for Alien Intelligence.” As we circle our lonely star—out here seemingly in the middle of a cosmic nowhere?

Lost Planet Airmen

Lost Planet Airmen

Yeah, yeah—the guy broke my heart

Don’t ask don’t tell—he took me to the clouds above

Somebody call 911—I’m gonna try insurgency

Lookin’ for my lost love—Call Emergency

He made me fall in love—fall into the stars above

He broke my heart—lookin’ for my lost love

I thought it was my legacy—yeah, yeah

There was nothing I could do—hey, hey

You’ll never know—how much it stings

Apocalyptic Flyboy—you’ve got cruel wings

You broke my heart—Tailspin Tommy guy

Call emergency—oh man, it hurts to fly

Sonic Fiction Manifesto

Sonic Fiction Manifesto

“So no more forcefeeding
you Bronx fables and no
more orthodox HipHop liturgies.
There are more than enough
of these already.”
—Kodwo Eshun, More
Brilliant Than the Sun

1 Instead Sonic Fiction will focus on the Futurhythmachines within each field, offering a close hearing of music’s internal emigrants only.

2 The Outer Thought of Tricky, the Jungle Brothers with their remedy for HipHop gone illmatic, Aerosoul art theorist Rammellzee and his mythillogical systems of Gothic Futurism and Ikonoklast Panzerism.

3 No history of Techno, however compelling, but instead a zoom in on the Underground Resistance MusicMachine, on the Unidentifiable Audio Object of X-102 Discovers “The Rings of Saturn.”

4 No pleas for Jungle to be accorded proper respect, but rather a magnification of certain very particular aspects of hyperdimensionality, in 4Hero, A Guy Called Gerald, Rob Playford and Goldie.

5 The history book that crams in everything only succeeds in screening out the strangeness of the Sonic Fiction.
6 In its bid for universality, such a book dispels the artificiality that all humans crave.

7 By contrast, Sonic Fiction goes farther in. It lingers inside a single remix, explores the psychoacoustic fictional spaces of interludes and intros, goes to extremes to extrude the illogic other studies flee.

8 It happily deletes familiar names [so no Tupac, no NWA] and historical precedence [no lying griots, not much King Tubby, just a small side bet on the Stockhausen sweepstakes].

9 It avoids the nauseating American hunger for confessional biography, for “telling your own stories in you own words.”

10 It refuses entry to comforting origins and social context.

11 Elsewhere, the “street” is considered the ground and guarantee of all reality, a compulsory logic explaining all Black Music, conveniently mishearing antisocial surrealism as social realism.

12 Here sound is unglued from such obligations, until it eludes all social responsibility, thereby accentuating its Unreality Principle.

13 In CultStud, TechnoTheory and CyberCulture, those painfully archaic regimes, theory always comes to Music’s rescue.

14 The organization of sound is interpreted historically, politically, socially. It subdues music’s ambition, reins it in, restores it to its proper place, reconciles it to its naturally belated fate.

15 With Sonic Fiction the opposite happens, for once: music is encouraged in its despotic drive to crumple chronology like an empty bag of potato chips, to eclipse reality in its willful exorbitance, to put out the sun.

16 Here music’s mystifying illogicality is not chastised but systematized and intensified—into a Sonic Narratology that bursts the edge of improbability, incites a proliferating series of mixllogical mathemagics at once maddening and perplexing, alarming, alluring.

17 Sonic Narratology is the field of knowledge invented by Sun Ra… Science and technology develop the unknown, not knowledge. Science develops what is not rational.

18 Instead of theory saving music from itself, from its worst, which is to say its best excesses, music is heard as the pop analysis it already is.

19 Editors are already pop theorists: a) Miles editor Macero cut & paste tape-expert, b) breakbeat editor Sonz of a Loop da Loop Era’s term skratchadelia, c) instrumental HipHop editor DJ Krush’s idea of turntabilization, d) virtualizer George Clinton’s studio science of meadelics…

20 All these conceptechnics are used to excite theory to travel at the speed of thought, as sonic theorist Kool Keith suggested in 1987.

21 Far from needing theory’s help, music today is already more conceptual than at any point this century, pregnant with thoughtprobes waiting to be activated, switched on, misused.

22 So Sonic Fiction draws more of its purpose from track subtitles than from TechnoTheory, or even science fiction.

23 From Sun Ra to 4 Hero, today’s alien discontinuum therefore operates not through continuities, retentions, genealogies or inheritances but rather through intervals, gaps, breaks. It turns away from roots; it opposes common sense with the force of the fictional and the power of falsity.

24 These conceptechnics are then released from the holding pens of their brackets, to migrate and mutate across the entire communication landscape.

25 Stolen from Sleevenote Manifestos, adapted from label fictions, driven as far and as fast as possible, they misshape until they become devices to drill into the new sensory experiences, endoscopes to magnify the new mindstates Sonic Fiction is inducing.

26 Sonic Fiction’s achievement, therefore, is to design, manufacture, fabricate, synthesize, cut, paste and edit a so-called artificial discontinuum for the Sonic Fiction.

27 Sonically speaking, the posthuman era is not one of disembodiment but the exact reverse: it’s a hyperembodiment.

28 Migrating from the lab to the studio, Sonic Fiction not only talks about cultural viruses, it is itself a viral contagion. It’s a sensational infection by the spread of what Ishmael Reed terms “antiplagues.”

29 Sonic Fiction doesn’t call itself science fiction because it controls technology, but because Sonic Fiction is the Artform most thoroughly undermined and recombininated and reconfigured by itself through technics.

30 Yet in magnifying such hitherto ignored intersections of sound and science fiction—the nexus this project terms Sonic Fiction—it paradoxically ends up with a portrait of music today far more accurate than any realistic account has managed.

31 Sonic Fiction is an omnidirectional exploration into “mechano-informatics,”—the secret life of machines which opens the vast and previously unsuspected coevolution of machine and humans in late 20th Black Atlantic Futurism.

32 Sonic Fiction is all in the breaks: the distance between listening to Miles & Macero’s “He Loved Him Madly” and crossing all thresholds with and through it, leaving every old belief system: rock, jazz, soul, Electro, HipHop, House, Acid, drum’n’bass, electronics, Techno and dub—forever.

Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic (1993)
Sadie Plant, Matthew Fuller, Alien Underground Version 0.1 (Spring, 1995)
Ishmael Reed, Mumbo Jumbo (1978)