Society, Part 8
The $568 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Zero Down
Shark America Ten Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 173
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Society (8)
Today's code is "81st Day, Last Year"
I note today that I.C. News' earthquake study seems to be bearing fruit. Yesterday I wrote after the daily seven-day earthquake count the phrase "Looking for a Big Quake" and soon thereafter a 7.2 quake took place in China.
As I.C. News tracks the death of this Earth expected in late 2064, it considers the earthquake pattern far, far more important than global warming as a cause for this Earth's death.
That is, we are expecting this Earth to explode, not boil.
While global warming may change the nature of life on this Earth, this Earth's exploding will...well, it's not a pretty picture.
It is remarkable to me that in less that two years of daily earthquake study I.C. News seems to have discovered something about earthquakes the professional seismologists have not. That being that they come in patterns.
I.C. News has found, for example, that when the seven-day count drops rapidly, a major earthquake can be expected. I.C. News' definition of "major" is 7.0 or above.
This work noted this rapid drop pattern Tuesday, three days prior to the China 7.2 quake, with the phrase "Fast Drops Indicate Big Quakes Coming" after the seven-day count headline.
As another example, for five of the past six years there has been a major quake on or about December 26; including the great tsunami quake which altered the rotation of this Earth slightly; and which I.C. news documented daily for nine days in advance.
I.C. News feels this December 26 pattern is a result of this Earth's tilt at that time of the year.
While this pattern was not continued on December 26, 2007, there was at that time extreme volcanic activity in South America, which I.C. News considers to be part of the same Earth-death pattern.
Pardon me for patting myself on the back, but if I don't do it no one else will; and with this fresh success on the scoreboard, this seems a good day to review I.C. News' overall theory of Earth-death.
The primary cause of this Earth's death on or about December 26, 2064, is the extraction of oil from beneath the surface of this Earth.
This causes a number of disastrous effects.
One, it creates the pollution resulting from the burning and spilling of the oil and manufacture of petroleum-based products, such as plastic.
Two, it creates great hunger of oil, which becomes a major cause of war.
Three, it creates the class of the super-rich, which progresses constantly toward the political-economic enslavement of the not-super-rich.
(Today we can see this super-rich class re-inventing serfdom, and almost totally owning the United States government and most of the governments of the world.)
Four, and this is the Big Four, the Big Death, the extraction of the oil removes it from its natural function, planet stability; and so weakens the outer structure of this Earth that the outer structure grows weaker and weaker relative to the dynamic power of the core of this Earth; resulting in planetary Big Bang. Theory? Foreknowledge?
Other than that, it's a slow news day at I.C. News, so let's continue with our story of The Not-Forgetting Society, the second of three stories that lead us to The Secret Story (with proof you can hold in your hand) that God's Space Sailors saved the Japanese race from extermination in approximately 660 BC.
In our previous episode, Tea and Matsushita had arrived at an inn called "Swallow" and were attending a geisha party with about 20 Japanese World War Two veterans, the party in anticipation of a seance with Japanese war dead the next day.
It is the morning after...
Society, Part 8
Tea awoke face down on a strange futon, lost for a time of where he might be, feeling oddly askew, nearly at a right angle to the floor, somehow adhered, like a piece of gum to a theater seat, to a wrinkled sheet.
He was hung over, and his eyes itched. They were pink, he knew this without finding a mirror. His mouth was awful and his nose burned.
Recovering his sense of location, Tea groped with his right arm, with closed eyes, along the tatami floor for his rumpled pile of clothes, and when he found them ransacked them for cigarettes. Finding a box of Hopes, he shook it and was relieved, deeply relieved, to feel little tubes bouncing inside. One of the tubes, blessed find, held a marijuana cocktail, but best cure for hangover known to mortal man, Further searching, eyes still closed, led him to a little box of wooden matches. It rattled when shaken. Some days, everything went right.
He started to sit up, eyes still blessedly closed, when he felt something across his lower back, impeding him. He rolled over onto his back and the impediment advanced to his stomach.
He opened his eyes as slightly as possible, so that he peered through his eyelashes like a rabbit through tall grass. The impediment was a foot. He stared at it blankly. He read the whorls of its print pattern, stupidly trying to discern its owner. Dully, it occurred to him to follow the leg past ankle, past knee, past muff, past navel...to her face. He couldn't place the face. Thank goodness it was someone he didn't know.
He gently lifted the foot and slipped out from under it, sitting cross-legged and naked on the tatami. He lit the cocktail, drew smoke deep into his lungs and held it there. There was only enough grass for one toke before he hit the tobacco, but it was superior Laotian weed and one toke was enough.
There was a pot of tea at the head of the futon. Tea touched it and found it hot. There were two cups. They matched the pot, swallows in flight. He poured a cup. Smoked. Sipped. He sighed with relief as the grass undid the alcohol's malice. The tobacco, too, tasted sweet.
Outside, the storm continued to tatter the coast.
Near the tea pot Tea found two starched and folded yukata, the kimono-like cotton garment Japanese inns furnished to their guests as both social and sleeping attire. These were blue and white, showing scenes of swallows in flight behind close-up views of pine trees. The swallows were over a sea.
Tea put on one of the yukata, girding it tightly with a sash called the obi, the obi riding low beneath his navel, as was the style, The loose bow he tied hanging just above his butt.
He walked across the tatami, feeling the pleasant touch of their weave on the soles of his bare feet, and eased open the sliding paper and wood door which led to the hallway he and Matsushita had walked down the night before.
The candles had been snuffed out, and dim indirect light from the cloud-covered sun found its way into the hallway as best it could (at the speed of light, of course, but in solo sorties against Darkness, and Darkness, poor Darkness, only wanted to be left alone).
Two pairs of slippers had been placed neatly in the hall in front of his door. He put on a pair and began flopping toward the toilet, stopping to turn as an afterthought to check the name of his room. It was "Spring Rain".
"I'd better call the bureau," Tea thought as he exited the toilet, his bladder happy, his teeth brushed, his face washed. There was a phone by the staff lounge next to the entrance. He dialed UPI's Tokyo number.
"News desk." It was Harry.
"Harry, this is Tea."
"Tea! You're the hero of the bureau today! How'd you know?"
"Know what?"
Broader awareness of the mystery foot in Spring Rain began to rise up in his mind, little visibilities in the London pea soup fog of his recent life.
"Know what? Tea! The storm! The biggest storm to hit Japan this century. It's a freak. Did you just wake up or something?"
Tea's mind was like a tired, heavily loaded jackass on a muddy track, somehow hoodwinked into running in the Kentucky Derby.
Then, in Tokyo, on the other end of the silent line, the truth occurred to Harry.
"Oh, man, Tea, you must be exhausted. I bet you were up half the night covering the storm, weren't you?"
Salvation. One first saw it as a distant light in the sky.
Magically, Tea's jackass was turning into a thoroughbred leading the field.
"Well, Harry, I must admit things have been pretty hectic here. People are getting knocked on their asses by the wind...but you know...on the spot you don't get much of an overview. Lights, telephones, everything's been out at one time or another."
Tea had landed on his feet and was running. The bureau thought his cryptic message from Matsushite had been about the storm! To Tea that seemed about as crazy as it actually having being about dead soldiers staying at an inn called Swallow.
On the other end of the line Tea could hear Harry typing rapidly and he spoke to him about the storm. The news desk phone would be crooked between Harry's upraised right shoulder and right-tilted head. His cigar would have gone out, and the mouth end would have been chewed to slimy brownness, and he would be holding it between his right teeth and cheek; an affectation Tea thought he'd picked up in a Thirties newspaper movie. He would be typing 40 words a minute, using only lower case keys because the teletype sent out only in upper case, and capitalization was a useless exercise.
The copy would be edited in New York, probably needled in the process. Harry would be needling it, too. America was addicted to needled news. It was the sugar additive. Harry would have bulletined the story. He would be sending it out one paragraph at a time. handing each paragraph to the teletype operator, who would punch it out as Harry wrote the next paragraph. The word "BULLETIN" at the top of the story would automatically ring the bells housed in receiving teletypes around the world. Tea's byline would top the story. Tea would be billed as the only western newsman on the spot. By the time Harry's third paragraph was out the first paragraph would have been edited in New York and sent out on the national and international wires. Editors around the world would be responding to the bells, changing front pages already set in type. Disk Jockeys would be ripping and reading.
Tea was remembering that the mystery woman he had awakened to find on his futon with him had a beautiful nose, arched like a section of a rainbow; and that she had tiny, oddly painted lips, like little rose petals. Perhaps she was one of the geisha. He had to put her identity together before he went back to that room.
He heard himself dictating to the hard-typing Harry that wind-blown litter was strewn along the streets and sometimes became dangerous missiles, that low-lying areas were flooded, that cars were in ditches, and that hot wires were down and waiting like snakes in the grass; which was always the case in storms and therefore pretty good guessing. Like football games, all storms looked pretty much alike.
Then the light of salvation grew even brighter. It took the form of the flickering television set in the staff room, which he could see from where he stood. On the screen, Japanese for "LIVE" was superimposed on a shot of a small coastal freighter that had just run aground.
The announcer was saying the ship had lost power and been driven ashore about 25 kilometers north of Ama-No-Hashidate.
On the TV screen Tea could see deck crew scurrying around, and lines being shot toward shore where 20 or 30 fishermen and their wives and children had gathered on the beach to watch and to help. Waves were breaking over the ship's stern, but she ship was nosed in straight and seemed not to be in danger of capsizing. Tea could see the wind was blowing hard enough to whip the wet sand into flight, that the waves were high enough to be eroding beach rarely touched by the sea, that children were laughing and thrilled. Tea heard himself saying into the telephone, "About 20 kilometers north of the small tourist town of Ama-No-Hashidate, a coastal freighter..."
After about 20 minutes of this dictation Dunkel came on the line. "Great stuff, Tea! Great stuff!" New York says we're sweeping the board!"
Tea, modestly, "Thanks".
Dunkel was exhilarated. Kudos were coming in from the foreign editor, even the president of the company. Editors around the world were happily setting big, money making headlines, "Ship Around in Storm/Crew Struggles for Life"; then is slightly smaller type, "Exclusive On-The-Spot Report".
Tea was remembering that the lady of the foot back in Spring Rain had extremely long, black hair. "Name. Name. Name. Give me her name, please," he begged the universe.
As if the Angels were hovering over him, he was hearing Dunkel saying he, Tea, had done enough, that he was probably soaked to the bone, that he should get some whiskey into him and get himself into a warm bed. In the background, he could hear the bureau TV playing the same live NHK broadcast he could see from where he stood.
"I guess I am a little tired," Tea was saying to Dunkel.
Salvation, sweet salvation. Dunkel was saying Tea should take a few days off, that he was a real pro, that they should have lunch when he got back. This was the same guy to planned to flush Tea's career with UPI down the toilet at the first opportunity.
Dunkel had been in Japan for seven years off and on and knew three words in Japanese, scotch, goodbye, and tit. Tea was stealing news off the TV channel Dunkel was watching, and Dunkel didn't even know it. Ineptitude had rich grazing in American journalism.
Back at the room called Spring Rain, Tea slid the door open slowly. His watch told him it was only seven-thirty and he didn't want to make noise. He stepped out of his slippers and stepped into the room, carefully sliding the door closed.
As he turned away from the door he found an arched nose close to his, and a tongue tasting of green tea entering his mouth. Delicate little arms went around his neck. Delicate little legs wrapped around his hips. The tongue was retracted, and he was asked:
"Anata no namae wa nan degozaimasu ka?"
She was asking him is name. The universe had heard his prayer.
Tea carried her back, impaled, to the futon.
Mysteriously, some days everything went right.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 81st day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Zero Down
Shark America Ten Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 173
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Society (8)
Today's code is "81st Day, Last Year"
I note today that I.C. News' earthquake study seems to be bearing fruit. Yesterday I wrote after the daily seven-day earthquake count the phrase "Looking for a Big Quake" and soon thereafter a 7.2 quake took place in China.
As I.C. News tracks the death of this Earth expected in late 2064, it considers the earthquake pattern far, far more important than global warming as a cause for this Earth's death.
That is, we are expecting this Earth to explode, not boil.
While global warming may change the nature of life on this Earth, this Earth's exploding will...well, it's not a pretty picture.
It is remarkable to me that in less that two years of daily earthquake study I.C. News seems to have discovered something about earthquakes the professional seismologists have not. That being that they come in patterns.
I.C. News has found, for example, that when the seven-day count drops rapidly, a major earthquake can be expected. I.C. News' definition of "major" is 7.0 or above.
This work noted this rapid drop pattern Tuesday, three days prior to the China 7.2 quake, with the phrase "Fast Drops Indicate Big Quakes Coming" after the seven-day count headline.
As another example, for five of the past six years there has been a major quake on or about December 26; including the great tsunami quake which altered the rotation of this Earth slightly; and which I.C. news documented daily for nine days in advance.
I.C. News feels this December 26 pattern is a result of this Earth's tilt at that time of the year.
While this pattern was not continued on December 26, 2007, there was at that time extreme volcanic activity in South America, which I.C. News considers to be part of the same Earth-death pattern.
Pardon me for patting myself on the back, but if I don't do it no one else will; and with this fresh success on the scoreboard, this seems a good day to review I.C. News' overall theory of Earth-death.
The primary cause of this Earth's death on or about December 26, 2064, is the extraction of oil from beneath the surface of this Earth.
This causes a number of disastrous effects.
One, it creates the pollution resulting from the burning and spilling of the oil and manufacture of petroleum-based products, such as plastic.
Two, it creates great hunger of oil, which becomes a major cause of war.
Three, it creates the class of the super-rich, which progresses constantly toward the political-economic enslavement of the not-super-rich.
(Today we can see this super-rich class re-inventing serfdom, and almost totally owning the United States government and most of the governments of the world.)
Four, and this is the Big Four, the Big Death, the extraction of the oil removes it from its natural function, planet stability; and so weakens the outer structure of this Earth that the outer structure grows weaker and weaker relative to the dynamic power of the core of this Earth; resulting in planetary Big Bang. Theory? Foreknowledge?
Other than that, it's a slow news day at I.C. News, so let's continue with our story of The Not-Forgetting Society, the second of three stories that lead us to The Secret Story (with proof you can hold in your hand) that God's Space Sailors saved the Japanese race from extermination in approximately 660 BC.
In our previous episode, Tea and Matsushita had arrived at an inn called "Swallow" and were attending a geisha party with about 20 Japanese World War Two veterans, the party in anticipation of a seance with Japanese war dead the next day.
It is the morning after...
Society, Part 8
Tea awoke face down on a strange futon, lost for a time of where he might be, feeling oddly askew, nearly at a right angle to the floor, somehow adhered, like a piece of gum to a theater seat, to a wrinkled sheet.
He was hung over, and his eyes itched. They were pink, he knew this without finding a mirror. His mouth was awful and his nose burned.
Recovering his sense of location, Tea groped with his right arm, with closed eyes, along the tatami floor for his rumpled pile of clothes, and when he found them ransacked them for cigarettes. Finding a box of Hopes, he shook it and was relieved, deeply relieved, to feel little tubes bouncing inside. One of the tubes, blessed find, held a marijuana cocktail, but best cure for hangover known to mortal man, Further searching, eyes still closed, led him to a little box of wooden matches. It rattled when shaken. Some days, everything went right.
He started to sit up, eyes still blessedly closed, when he felt something across his lower back, impeding him. He rolled over onto his back and the impediment advanced to his stomach.
He opened his eyes as slightly as possible, so that he peered through his eyelashes like a rabbit through tall grass. The impediment was a foot. He stared at it blankly. He read the whorls of its print pattern, stupidly trying to discern its owner. Dully, it occurred to him to follow the leg past ankle, past knee, past muff, past navel...to her face. He couldn't place the face. Thank goodness it was someone he didn't know.
He gently lifted the foot and slipped out from under it, sitting cross-legged and naked on the tatami. He lit the cocktail, drew smoke deep into his lungs and held it there. There was only enough grass for one toke before he hit the tobacco, but it was superior Laotian weed and one toke was enough.
There was a pot of tea at the head of the futon. Tea touched it and found it hot. There were two cups. They matched the pot, swallows in flight. He poured a cup. Smoked. Sipped. He sighed with relief as the grass undid the alcohol's malice. The tobacco, too, tasted sweet.
Outside, the storm continued to tatter the coast.
Near the tea pot Tea found two starched and folded yukata, the kimono-like cotton garment Japanese inns furnished to their guests as both social and sleeping attire. These were blue and white, showing scenes of swallows in flight behind close-up views of pine trees. The swallows were over a sea.
Tea put on one of the yukata, girding it tightly with a sash called the obi, the obi riding low beneath his navel, as was the style, The loose bow he tied hanging just above his butt.
He walked across the tatami, feeling the pleasant touch of their weave on the soles of his bare feet, and eased open the sliding paper and wood door which led to the hallway he and Matsushita had walked down the night before.
The candles had been snuffed out, and dim indirect light from the cloud-covered sun found its way into the hallway as best it could (at the speed of light, of course, but in solo sorties against Darkness, and Darkness, poor Darkness, only wanted to be left alone).
Two pairs of slippers had been placed neatly in the hall in front of his door. He put on a pair and began flopping toward the toilet, stopping to turn as an afterthought to check the name of his room. It was "Spring Rain".
"I'd better call the bureau," Tea thought as he exited the toilet, his bladder happy, his teeth brushed, his face washed. There was a phone by the staff lounge next to the entrance. He dialed UPI's Tokyo number.
"News desk." It was Harry.
"Harry, this is Tea."
"Tea! You're the hero of the bureau today! How'd you know?"
"Know what?"
Broader awareness of the mystery foot in Spring Rain began to rise up in his mind, little visibilities in the London pea soup fog of his recent life.
"Know what? Tea! The storm! The biggest storm to hit Japan this century. It's a freak. Did you just wake up or something?"
Tea's mind was like a tired, heavily loaded jackass on a muddy track, somehow hoodwinked into running in the Kentucky Derby.
Then, in Tokyo, on the other end of the silent line, the truth occurred to Harry.
"Oh, man, Tea, you must be exhausted. I bet you were up half the night covering the storm, weren't you?"
Salvation. One first saw it as a distant light in the sky.
Magically, Tea's jackass was turning into a thoroughbred leading the field.
"Well, Harry, I must admit things have been pretty hectic here. People are getting knocked on their asses by the wind...but you know...on the spot you don't get much of an overview. Lights, telephones, everything's been out at one time or another."
Tea had landed on his feet and was running. The bureau thought his cryptic message from Matsushite had been about the storm! To Tea that seemed about as crazy as it actually having being about dead soldiers staying at an inn called Swallow.
On the other end of the line Tea could hear Harry typing rapidly and he spoke to him about the storm. The news desk phone would be crooked between Harry's upraised right shoulder and right-tilted head. His cigar would have gone out, and the mouth end would have been chewed to slimy brownness, and he would be holding it between his right teeth and cheek; an affectation Tea thought he'd picked up in a Thirties newspaper movie. He would be typing 40 words a minute, using only lower case keys because the teletype sent out only in upper case, and capitalization was a useless exercise.
The copy would be edited in New York, probably needled in the process. Harry would be needling it, too. America was addicted to needled news. It was the sugar additive. Harry would have bulletined the story. He would be sending it out one paragraph at a time. handing each paragraph to the teletype operator, who would punch it out as Harry wrote the next paragraph. The word "BULLETIN" at the top of the story would automatically ring the bells housed in receiving teletypes around the world. Tea's byline would top the story. Tea would be billed as the only western newsman on the spot. By the time Harry's third paragraph was out the first paragraph would have been edited in New York and sent out on the national and international wires. Editors around the world would be responding to the bells, changing front pages already set in type. Disk Jockeys would be ripping and reading.
Tea was remembering that the mystery woman he had awakened to find on his futon with him had a beautiful nose, arched like a section of a rainbow; and that she had tiny, oddly painted lips, like little rose petals. Perhaps she was one of the geisha. He had to put her identity together before he went back to that room.
He heard himself dictating to the hard-typing Harry that wind-blown litter was strewn along the streets and sometimes became dangerous missiles, that low-lying areas were flooded, that cars were in ditches, and that hot wires were down and waiting like snakes in the grass; which was always the case in storms and therefore pretty good guessing. Like football games, all storms looked pretty much alike.
Then the light of salvation grew even brighter. It took the form of the flickering television set in the staff room, which he could see from where he stood. On the screen, Japanese for "LIVE" was superimposed on a shot of a small coastal freighter that had just run aground.
The announcer was saying the ship had lost power and been driven ashore about 25 kilometers north of Ama-No-Hashidate.
On the TV screen Tea could see deck crew scurrying around, and lines being shot toward shore where 20 or 30 fishermen and their wives and children had gathered on the beach to watch and to help. Waves were breaking over the ship's stern, but she ship was nosed in straight and seemed not to be in danger of capsizing. Tea could see the wind was blowing hard enough to whip the wet sand into flight, that the waves were high enough to be eroding beach rarely touched by the sea, that children were laughing and thrilled. Tea heard himself saying into the telephone, "About 20 kilometers north of the small tourist town of Ama-No-Hashidate, a coastal freighter..."
After about 20 minutes of this dictation Dunkel came on the line. "Great stuff, Tea! Great stuff!" New York says we're sweeping the board!"
Tea, modestly, "Thanks".
Dunkel was exhilarated. Kudos were coming in from the foreign editor, even the president of the company. Editors around the world were happily setting big, money making headlines, "Ship Around in Storm/Crew Struggles for Life"; then is slightly smaller type, "Exclusive On-The-Spot Report".
Tea was remembering that the lady of the foot back in Spring Rain had extremely long, black hair. "Name. Name. Name. Give me her name, please," he begged the universe.
As if the Angels were hovering over him, he was hearing Dunkel saying he, Tea, had done enough, that he was probably soaked to the bone, that he should get some whiskey into him and get himself into a warm bed. In the background, he could hear the bureau TV playing the same live NHK broadcast he could see from where he stood.
"I guess I am a little tired," Tea was saying to Dunkel.
Salvation, sweet salvation. Dunkel was saying Tea should take a few days off, that he was a real pro, that they should have lunch when he got back. This was the same guy to planned to flush Tea's career with UPI down the toilet at the first opportunity.
Dunkel had been in Japan for seven years off and on and knew three words in Japanese, scotch, goodbye, and tit. Tea was stealing news off the TV channel Dunkel was watching, and Dunkel didn't even know it. Ineptitude had rich grazing in American journalism.
Back at the room called Spring Rain, Tea slid the door open slowly. His watch told him it was only seven-thirty and he didn't want to make noise. He stepped out of his slippers and stepped into the room, carefully sliding the door closed.
As he turned away from the door he found an arched nose close to his, and a tongue tasting of green tea entering his mouth. Delicate little arms went around his neck. Delicate little legs wrapped around his hips. The tongue was retracted, and he was asked:
"Anata no namae wa nan degozaimasu ka?"
She was asking him is name. The universe had heard his prayer.
Tea carried her back, impaled, to the futon.
Mysteriously, some days everything went right.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 81st day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 10:55 AM
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