On Cyborgs, Singularities, and the 2045 Initiative

Oh, you vodka-soaked Russian bastards, what madness are you cooking up this time?

Dmitry Itskov, a mad Russian billionaire, has decided its high time humans cast off their mortal shells in favor of a sleeker, digital form. He believes its time we push our technology to the limits to create a method of immortality for the personality, a freeing of consciousness from the fleshy sac it’s currently attached to.

Itskov’s baby is the 2045 Initiative, a grand plan to create machines complex enough to house a human personality, paving the way for the technological singularity (rise of superintelligence through technology).

It’s like he’s never read his O.C. Bible. “Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.” That ringing any bells, buddy?

The 2045 Initiative is comprised of four phases (avatars):

Avatar A (2020)

Using a brain-machine interface, a human will control a robotic human replica. While it’s not as impressive as killing someone with your brain, I suppose it’s something.

Avatar B (2025)

Okay, here’s where things start to get freaky. The second phase of Itskov’s plan involves planting a human mind into a machine at the end of his/her life, effectively granting him/her immortality. But this immortality will come at a terrible price- at this stage, emotions and personality will be lost in the transfer.

I’ve seen this before. Now, where was it…

OH YEAH. They’ve already done this shit on Doctor Who:

You will be upgraded.

A recurring baddie on the long-running British show are the Cybermen, machines who take humans and “upgrade” them by making them into emotionless robotic beings.

And Itskov wants to start them up here on Earth? WAY TO GO… wait, if it means a certain blue police box is going to appear on a street somewhere, I say fucking go for it. Robotize the masses, Itskov. I’d love to meet The Doctor.

Avatar C (2035)

At this point, Itskov figures we’ll have successfully created a computer model of human consciousness, so we’ll now be able to move a human personality (emotions, memories, and all) into a machine.

Oh yeah, that’s never ended badly:

Oh… it’s you.

Avatar D (2045)

The final stage of Itskov’s master plan is to free humanity completely from physical forms. Humans will be digital creatures, living online in a kind of hive mind, with individual personalities surfacing as holographic avatars to interact with the physical world.

…

…

Why?

I guess that’s my main question here. While I (like many people) have always been fascinated by the idea of downloading a human personality into a machine (along with the ethical quandaries surrounding such a notion), this final stage just seems ridiculous to me. Something you read about in a good (or utterly awful) sci-fi novel, ponder for a bit, then promptly dismiss.

Then again, if all this goes down, I could be a digital Kerrigan. And all you bitches can be my zerglings. Mwa ha ha.

…Mine is an evil laugh.

To be completely honest, I guess the final stage of the 2045 Initiative is so repulsive to me because it seems utterly impossible to create an internet-based “hive mind” scenario that still maintains the individuality of the personalities within it. There’s a reason every goddamn swarm/hive mind of sci-fi is comprised of unemotional, non-individualistic creatures- group/hive consciousnesses are essentially one consciousness. There can be no real individuality because every unit within the hive is just a piece of the same whole, a cog in the same machine. Personalities get in the way of this kind of collective consciousness, impeding the group (by daring to dissent or have new ideas) and never achieving the snap decisions and power of many individuals acting as one singular unit.

There is a power in collective consciousness, but it’s a power that comes at the cost of individuality. We see this scenario play out time and time again in the sci-fi world. Halo’s flood, Starcraft’s Zerg, Star Trek’s Borg, Doctor Who’s Ood… The list goes on.

Now, in fiction, we see a handful of these group conscious that allow for the retention of some individuality. But could such a thing occur in a digital world? When we are all electric signals, bytes of memory, moving around the globe through the same channels, exchanging information and interacting at unbelievable speeds… would there be any real way to preserve individual consciousnesses? Or would we all eventually merge into one collective, global consciousness, humanity becoming one massive superintelligence?

Of course, Itskov faces a great many obstacles on this path. Technology is currently not progressing at the rate he would like, and it’s going to take more than just his billions to fund this venture. Personally, I don’t think he’ll ever raise the necessary monies to push this plan along according to his timeline. But if the money is found and that major hurdle is no longer standing in his way…

I ask you, galleons, to think about this idea. What kind of man would even put forth such an idea? This man would:

Look at him, galleons. I’m pretty sure this guy’s a goddamn robot already. He’s a Cyberman in disguise, trying to make us all a crazy, digital consciousness to suit his alien creators. Look at those dead, soulless eyes.

DON’T LET HIM GET YOUR DELICIOUS HUMAN MEATS, WORLD.

Week of the Triffids

Galleons, the deserts of Arizona are a treacherous place. And not just because of the oppressive heat and lack of water. No. There is a far greater danger to humanity hiding down here.

The motherfucking triffid.

Triffids, for those of you not in The Know are weird plants from the sci fi classic The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham. I say classic because it’s often touted as such, but I don’t know anyone else who has read it, so how classic can it be, huh? HUH?

Anyway, in the story, a strange species of plant called a triffid has begun sprouting all over the world. These plants may or may not have been engineered by the goddamn Ruskies, but the narrator is pretty sure they aren’t aliens (despite the fact that they totally sound like aliens). Triffids are described as having a straight stem protruding upward from a woody bole (shaggy with rootlet hairs). The bole has three large projections from the lower part, like roots (these do, in fact, function as roots when the plant is stationary, but can be used to “walk” when the plant feels like picking up and being a super creepy Ent). At the top of the stem is a kind of funnel, from which protrudes a long, slender whip-like appendage with a sting at the end (which can, oh yeah, kill a man). Like this:

So, the triffids kind of take over after this crazy meteor shower blinds almost everyone and life is shit for the handful of folks who can still see and are trying to get by in this post-apocalyptic land.

On the whole, a solid sci fi book.

Anyway, as we were traveling the greater Arizona region this week, I looked outside and saw this:

MOTHERFUCKING DESERT TRIFFIDS ALL UP IN THIS BITCH.

Granted, upon closer inspection, they aren’t quite the same. But that was my first thought as I stared out over the land. And triffids would have to adapt to differing climates as they spread over the world. Who can say these aren’t a desert version of a triffid?

I’m just saying, the fucking apocalypse is upon us and it’s starting here. In Arizona. You can bet your ass I’ll be keeping my eye on these goddamn triffids.

You hear me, triffids? YOU WILL NOT GET ME.

…As an aside, galleons, I wouldn’t watch any meteor showers in the near future. Just in case.

Vorlesen

I’ve always been someone who dog-ears books. Which, to many bibliophiles, is goddamn blasphemy and should probably be punished by stoning. To me, it’s always been a way a book evolves with me. I love books, but I love how they wear and age as well. How their creases and tears, the fading, the dings, the dents, how all those things show a book that has been well-loved, that has traveled, that has been used and worn and fucking read, as a book should be.

Which is good, as I am not careful with books. I am not a dainty, delicate reader. Books get shoved in my purse, tossed in carry on luggage, boxed and carted around the country. I read in the bath, while eating, on the bus, waiting in line, in the bathroom, at the DMV, outside under a tree on a summer day. Everyone these days seem glued to their smartphones at all times, but in this regard, I’m a bit of an old-fashioned girl. I like books, physical, actual books with spines and pages and the smell of paper and ink and glue that you just can’t get with a Kindle. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the weight of it, the ruffling of its pages.

And so, yes, I dog-ear my pages. I’ve always hated bookmarks. I cart my books everywhere, and I’ve lost more bookmarks than I can count. They are a pain, and seeing as I do not worry about keeping my books pristine, I long ago stopped bothering with them.

Then, a few years ago, I started a second system of dog-earing. While I still dog-ear the top of the page to mark my spot when I stop reading, I also make smaller dog-ears along the bottom as I go. Sometimes, they mark something I want to look up when I’m near a computer again, a song or a foreign phrase that I’m unfamiliar with. More often, though, the tiny dog-ears mark phrases/lines/paragraphs that I find to be particularly thought-provoking or beautiful.

Last night, I found myself doing this, and it made me stop and think about why I bother at all. I might think these words are beautiful, but why mark them? I read them- I know how wonderful they are. So… why?

My deep reverence for the written word has been a part of my life, a part of me, for as long as I can remember. And because it is so important to me, I suppose that I always want to share it with someone, to connect with a person or with multiple people over something that means so much to me. It is a very human need, the need to share oneself with others.

It’s funny, you know. Many of the people I’ve known over the years have this idea in their head of exactly what they want out of a relationship, know that they want someone exciting, someone that challenges them, someone spontaneous, someone with money who will take them out and show them grand evenings, someone to sit on a porch and drink lemonade with in their twilight years. Ask somebody about their ideal mate or their ideal relationship and, if they are being honest, they can probably go on forever about it. Which has always made me feel very awkward, because I don’t really have this laundry list of needs another person has to fill. I think the basics of compatibility have to be there- I know I would never be happy with someone who wasn’t at least in the same intellectual ballpark as myself. But when I think about an ideal partner or an ideal relationship, there’s really only one thing I want.

I want someone who I can sit with on a sofa, my head resting on his thigh, while I read to him some of my favorite poems and stories (or, better yet, that he reads to me), and in the flow of words from page through throat, that he could share something of my love for this language. That moment, or the ability to have moments like that with someone, that is all I can really say I’ve ever wanted.

For me, reading aloud is intimate. It is a sharing, between two people or between many, of the beauty of literature, of poetry, of stories. It encloses reader and listener(s) in a bubble, the world of the book, a world that exists only for them in that moment. The boy on the street outside the window is not part of that world. Reading is so often a solitary activity that inviting others into that experience with you is, to me, intensely personal.

I read aloud quite often when I am alone, letting the shapes of the sounds form in my mouth and curl, explode, and flutter out into the air. I let them hang there, I let my own voice fill the room, paragraphs becoming tangible things you feel you can almost touch. When I first read the children’s book Inkheart when I was young, I identified strongly with the central concept that reading aloud is powerful, that it could conjure these characters into being in the real world. It was something I had felt all along, and something I still feel to this day.

A friend of mine recently started recording audiobooks for… well, for some reason, I don’t really know. Probably because he can. And he is very talented (I think he’d punch me if I didn’t plug his stuff here and tell you to click this link to download some of his stuff and check it out), and has a wonderful voice to listen to. I’ve been enjoying what he’s been putting out. But he asked for a request for his next project, and I do not think I can give him one. I want to, I want to offer up an idea, but…

When he first announced this project, I thought it would be so great to have a friend (who I know from experience has the voice and acting chops to pull this off and do it well) reading books at me. I mean, shit, it’s the dream. All those books I love, I could have them read to me, read by someone I know could really do them justice.

…But the more I think about it, the more I don’t want those most treasured, most beloved books, the ones that speak to my heart and my soul in ways nothing else does, to be read by even a good friend like him. Because those are the books that mean everything to me. They are so very personal, and to have them read (even read well) and shared with just anybody who feels like clicking a download link… it would feel like a betrayal, to let that happen.

I do not think books should be locked up and never shared (anyone who knows me knows I’m always sharing books, shoving them into the hands of friends and insisting they read them), but I don’t think I want to give up on the dream of that sofa by letting them get read and shared with anybody. I want these books to be mine to share, with whomever I choose. I’m sure my friend would read them wonderfully, that I would love to hear them- but I want to hear them from the lips of someone who wants to know me, who wants to share in who I am, whether that person reads them well or not.

My little dog-eared snippets are like those books. Sometimes I share them with a person or two, someone I know will be amused by them or interested in them in some way. Sometimes I post a few of them on Twitter or here on this blog. But most of those little dog-ears aren’t shared with anybody. One day, maybe. One day, I’ll know somebody (or a few people) who will appreciate a call or text out of the blue with these lines and phrases, people who will understand and want to share that language with me. Or maybe they will always just be for me, read aloud in the silence of a room, alive and powerful in a way that I have a hard time describing.

And if you ever borrow a book from me, you can search the pages those little dog-ears are marking, looking for the passage that set a part of my soul spinning. Perhaps you too will feel that pull toward the page, that spark of power in the text, that almost magical warmth and awe of a well-turned phrase.

If so, I have many more books I’d be happy to share with you. Just saying.

*knock knock knock*

Galleons, meet Penny:

So named because the former owner left me 6 cents in pennies in her cup holders. Perhaps less regally named than my last car (though nobody used HER fucking name anyway, they just called her “the boat”), but no less loved.

Here’s hoping she doesn’t meet a similar fate, eh?

…There’s no point to this post beyond I’m happy to have found an affordable replacement for The Borgia and am not the sort to post this kind of nonsense on the Facebook. But on my stupid personal blog? Absolutely.

The Best School Closing Excuse I’ve Ever Heard

When you were young, school was sometimes closes for the day. Usual culprits were bomb threats, power outages, and snow days (and apparently, in the mid-Michigan area this year, the barest traces of ice on dirt roads). Routine, normal excuses.

Nothing as awesome as this.

Last week, a Jamaican high school closed for, get this, demonic possession.

Oh yes.

The article in The Jamaican Star says, “the demon revealed himself and discouraged other students from praying for the possessed girl warning them that if they disobeyed he would leave the girl’s body and enter theirs instead.”

And so, to combat this mighty evil, the school administrators called in “a special prayer team” to combat the demon. It’s like a magnificent Saturday morning cartoon put out by a church.

ACTION FORCE SPECIAL PRAYER TEAM GO!

So, the prayer team arrives, where they are met by a group of Baptist pastors who want in on the action. The two groups team up into a SUPER DEMON FIGHTING FORCE and enter the school.

As a witness said, “The pastors said dem feel the evil spirit all over the school so they called the school population to an assembly. In the middle of assembly, suddenly out of the ceiling, a bird’s head, cut off from the bird, drop down inna the middle of the assembly. It was chaos after that.”

O. MAH. GAWD.

Now, school administration has been very tight-lipped about the event to the press, stating, “Whatever took place was not something drastic. Whoever told you should have given all the details.”

Apparently, dead bird heads fall from the ceiling at this school all the time. That witness should have checked her facts.

So, the school’s being close-mouthed about it all, and we have one witness stating some goddamn demon shit went down. The truth?

Oh man, seriously. Who cares about the truth? This is the best damn story I’ve heard in ages.

Strange Attractors

Like relationships between people, mathematical systems often evolve over time. But the evolution is always toward something, toward some final state. Human relationships can evolve into a strong friendship, into a committed relationship, into two strangers who no longer associate. So too can mathematical systems evolve, and the final state they move toward is known as an attractor.

The best example of this is a bowl. Drop a marble in a bowl and the marble will roll around a bit before finally settling on the bottom. That central point on the bottom is like an attractor, and the basin of attraction is the bowl itself, the area within which the attractor has influence (in this case, within a literal basin). If you were to remove the marble and set it beside the bowl on the table, the marble would no longer be in the basin of attraction and would no longer be drawn to the central bottom point of that bowl.

No matter how long that marble rolls and ricochets around the bowl, it eventually finds its way to that bowl’s “attractor”. The same is true of mathematical systems. For any dynamic system, the attractor is the end point. Of course, when I say point, I don’t mean a literal point. While some attractors are points, others are orbits, curves, and manifolds. The attractor is simply the final shape/set/what-have-you that the system settles to.

But not all systems have tidy attractors. Some systems have chaotic solutions. These systems possess strange attractors. Strange attractors are unique in that you never know where on the attractor an evolving system will be. Sometimes two points will be right next to each other, and the next time they’ll be arbitrarily far apart. The motion of systems never quite repeats and the attractor doesn’t close in on itself (thus the “chaotic” descriptor). For example, here’s the first strange attractor, the well-known Lorenz attractor:

As you can see, no solution ever exactly duplicates- they come close, but never quite. And while strange attractors can have definite figures like this, they remain chaotic. Never quite replicating what’s come before or what will come after, never quite settling into a firm shape- almost like it’s dancing around completion. Unpredictable except in short intervals, oscillating around each other without quite touching.

Like strange attractors, some human relationships never quite settle into something one might call concrete. They flow endlessly, never quite what they were, never quite what they could be. Like their timing is never right, something always pulling them apart, but throwing them back together at random moments. Unpredictable except in short bursts, even they don’t know where they will be in the future. There is no stability in their system, but there is a kind of poetry to the motions.

And I suppose that’s something.

Do Fish Dream of Electric Eels?

And now, because I’m a crazy loner who lives on her own, it’s time for a story about Sam’s fish.

Johnny spent all of yesterday building a bubble nest in the middle of the little ruin that graces his fishbowl. Now, The Professor does this regularly, but this was the first time I’d ever seen Johnny at the task. And boy, was that little guy determined. He was resolutely at the top of his bowl, little mouth gulping at the air as he made his bubbles. Nothing would distract him from his task, including me, trying to distract him (because I am an asshole). Not even feeding time could pull him from his duty. It’s like he knew that if he worked long and hard enough, I’d give him a lady Betta to make sweet, sweet fishy love to.

Unfortunately, Johnny learned what The Professor learned long ago- I am a withholding bitch who will not give them any ladiez. This morning, I wandered over to his bowl to find his magnificent bubble nest gone, destroyed in what I can only imagine was the rage-induced thrashings of a fish who realizes he’s wasted a whole day trying to woo a lady that will never come. Poor little guy.

At least, that’s what I assume he was thinking. Because I am not a fish and do not know anything about fish thoughts.

But while I am in the dark about fish thoughts, researchers at Japan’s National Institute of Genetics are not. Or, at least, they’re less in the dark. The group managed to capture the first video of a thought passing through a fish’s brain. Check it:

True, it’s probably not a terribly complex thought (but I can’t be too judgmental, seeing as my most recent thought was “Why the fuck is my lip bleeding?”), but it’s still freaking awesome. The researchers were able to capture this little thought using a super-sensitive fluorescent probe they created to detect neural activity, as well as a genetic probe that can be inserted directly into the neurons of interest. This two-pronged attack allows us to see neuronal activity at the cellular level.

Badass.

The thought pictured above occurred when the little zebrafish being observed was checking out a paramecium flitting around it. We don’t know what that thought was, but it was probably something along the lines of, “Mmm, lunch.”

This probe is just beyond cool. It opens new doors in neural studies, and it could potentially help us understand how connections between brain cells work together to produce thoughts. You get that? It could help us understand how thought works, not just in humans, but in animals as well.

And until then, it allows us to see a little fish thinking. And while the thought itself remains a mystery, it’s beautiful to watch it.

‘s not gonna help me understand Johnny or The Professor, though. Thankfully, their rage and spite comes across loud and clear.

On Sleep

I do not know how others sleep.

I know that getting to sleep is often described as drifting or gently falling, as being welcomed into a dark embrace, as succumbing to a void. But this is not how I fall asleep.

I do not know how others sleep.

For me, sleep is a thing I must work toward every night. I must fuss about, filling my time until my capricious body decides sleep could potentially work its way into the equation. I must fluff pillows and arrange my body in carefully determined positions. I must twitch and nestle and curl and burrow into a spot beyond a description, a perfect arrangement of limbs, blankets, and pillows that allows the muscles to relax. I must actively still my racing mind, force myself to focus on my breathing, to push all thought from my mind. Which is difficult beyond measure (preach to me about meditation all you want, world, my mind stops for no one). My thoughts skitter and dart, slithering through the carefully neutral cloud I’ve erected around the steady sound of my breathing, insidious, becoming whole trains of errant thoughts and ideas and imaginings before I realize my error and shut them down again.

I do not know how others sleep.

Again and again, I blank my mind. I breathe. I will myself with every fiber of my being to just fucking fall asleep already. It’s not a drifting, not a gentle fall. It is a crawl, inch by agonizing inch, me hauling myself along, digging my nails in and pulling myself through to that much needed rest. It is a long journey on a narrow bridge over a fucking chasm with gale force winds buffeting me as I creep along. One wrong move, and off the side I go, and it’s back to the beginning to try again, video game style. An unconscious twitch of the muscles. a too-full bladder, the slightest noise, and I’m forcibly pulled back to the world of the fully awake, mind bright and racing once more, a sour frustration churning in the back of my throat.

I do not know how others sleep.

Sometimes, I can drug myself. Or push myself so far that I succumb quicker to the world of sleep. Methods that come with a rushing, whirling sensation as I lay my head down, no longer a stumble-crawl toward the finish line but a slippery, uncontrolled tumble down a mountain side. There is always fear, fear as I fall too fast and too hard, fear that often yanks me awake again at the last moment.

I do not know how others sleep.

Insomnia isn’t about being awake longer, about simply being unable to sleep. It’s a constant battle for even a few hours of shut eye. I fight every goddamn day for the meager amount of rest my body decides to give me. And the fight isn’t over once I’ve gotten to sleep, either.

I do not know how others sleep.

Most of the time, I can’t stay asleep for longer than three or four hours. At this point, I’m jolted awake again. Sometimes, it’s by the need to urinate. Sometimes, because a noise has startled me. But often, it’s for no discernible reason at all. I am simply awake, suddenly, completely, where seconds before I had been asleep. Awake and unable to fall back to sleep, feeling temporarily energized and rejuvenated but knowing the feeling will only last a few hours. Hours that I will be spending awake, because I can’t get back to sleep, even if I desperately need the rest. And after a few hours, as my body starts to feel the exhaustion creep back in, we’re back to square one. Once again performing the rituals of slumber, but often without the promise of more than an hour or two of sleep before the alarm clock signals the day has to begin.

I do not know how others sleep.

Lying awake for hours, a dull pain pulsing somewhere behind my ear, every muscle screaming for sleep but unable to snag any of it… this isn’t something that just happens once in a while. Something that occasionally pops up when I’m stressed or worried. It’s what I have to deal with weekly. Too tired to do anything, yet unable to sleep, trapped in this exhausted limbo that teems with despair and angry frustration.

I do not know how others sleep.

But I wish I did.

Hate is a Battlefield, Too, Ms. Benatar

Today’s post is uncharacteristically serious and topical for me, my galleons, but it’s one of those moments where I’m just full to bursting with opinions. I do that, on occasion, you know- have opinions. And, as a note, those opinions are not always entirely PC. They are also super rambly and might make no sense.

Because that’s how I roll, motherfuckers.

It all started one week ago, with a Suzanne Moore article about women, the recession, and the power of female anger (and the necessity of it). As far as self-proclaimed “feminazis” go, I don’t tend to outright hate Moore’s work (yes, that’s right- I find blind radicalism in any form, good intentioned or not, to be counterproductive and fucking tiresome). She tends to stick more to actual information than attempting to inflame the hearts/minds of the vaginal masses with gross exaggeration and misandry (just because institutional misandry is practically non-existent compared to misogyny doesn’t mean misandry doesn’t exist in other spheres).

However, this particular piece did raise the ire of one minority group. When discussing the unrealistic female body image all-but-demanded of society, Moore stated, “We are angry with ourselves for not being happier, not being loved properly and not having the ideal body shape – that of a Brazilian transsexual.”

Okay, before we hit the reaction, I want to go on record (…if this blog can really be considered any sort of reliable record) as initially believing this statement, while certainly not PC, was never meant to be hateful. And here’s where we take a quick side trip to discuss my own potentially back assward views on sex/gender (for the record, sex/sexuality/gender have so goddamn many terms now that I mostly just end up confused as to what’s going on when I think about all of them- I also don’t particularly understand why… no, you know what, that’s a can of worms for you all to get pissed at me for another day). BECAUSE OF REASONS.

I’m never going to truly understand the idea of believing yourself to be born the wrong  sex. I’m not condemning, I’m simply stating it’s one of those things outside my sphere of experience that I honestly have a difficult time imagining (To be fair, I have a difficult time with a lot of empathy-related issues as well, so we can chalk that up to my seemingly borderline sociopathic self, yes? …That’s a joke, I’m not a sociopath- I’m just emotionally retarded. Oh yeah, I’m un-PC all over the place today). I often think I exhibit more masculine traits than feminine, but then I cry over The Gilmore Girls and I’m stereotypically girly again. I think stereotypically “gendered” emotional reactions and interests are pretty much utter bullshit, anyway. We all exhibit traits of the masculine and the feminine both, some just show greater quantities of one or the other. My father is an ultra-manly, beer-drinking, stuff-building, football-watching dude who also loves to burn scented candles and take long bubble baths. I know people who listen to Lady Gaga and Metallica, wear ruffles and can handle a gun better than you, buy cute boots and enjoy a good Scotch.

We all slide between the masculine and the feminine because, despite our differing genitalia, the sexes are not black and white, this and that, one and the other. We are all people, unique, complicated, walking shades of grey (50 of them, if you are into bad literature- OH SNAP). I’m not saying society necessarily accepts this, I’m just saying that’s how it is.

And because of this belief (and despite more modern definitions of the terms), I do tend to use “gender” and “sex” interchangeably. The words, in my world, are used when describing those nigglingly different sets o’ genitals (heh, I wrote “genTITals” first). I am aware this ain’t PC, yo. But because of my views of “gender” as that sliding scale in each of us (like Kinsey and sexuality- I tell ya, I wish I could have coffee with that man, because we’d have shit to talk about), I don’t feel the need to differentiate between people’s insides in such black-and-white terms of ‘male’ and ‘female’. And yes, I know that some scientific studies have found differences between male and female brains, implying some sort of internal dichotomy I’m straight-up ignoring, and while I do admit that there have been legit differences found in the brains of the two sexes, these differences are never consistent across the board.

We could go on and on about my thoughts on genetics vs society when it comes to supposedly inherent gendered differences in the brain and development (hint: I don’t put a lot of stock in most genetic arguments because we can never study developing children brains in a vacuum without societal influence, rendering all studies/experiments fundamentally flawed), but I’m already way off-topic. Suffice to say, while I understand not feeling like you conform to a stereotypically male or female “gender”, I cannot understand feeling like you were born the wrong “sex”.

But just because something is not within my realm of experience doesn’t mean I don’t respect it. And so, if undergoing surgery (or not, seeing as not all transsexuals are post-op) to switch sexes is what’s going to make you a happy and fulfilled person, shit, fucking go for it. I’m not going to judge you for it (though I might not always use your preferred pronouns if you’re pre-op, and I’m very sorry about that, but I’m not perfect). I think all people have a fundamental right to pursue what makes them happy, so long as it doesn’t hurt others (and no, upsetting your “delicate sensibilities” doesn’t count as injury).

Unfortunately, transsexual culture and drag culture are inextricably wound together in the minds of the general populace. There’s nothing wrong with drag culture, but drag queens/kings are entertainers, basing their looks in caricatures of the other sex and their performances are comedic/satirical. Transsexuals are not caricatures- they are simply trying to live their lives in the sex they believe they should have been born to. For the most part, they are not caricatures- they are real women and real men. They wear jeans and t-shirts and business suits and cocktail dresses and ballet flats and baseball caps like anybody. Unlike drag queens/kings, trans individuals don’t fucking walk around in lime green sequined evening gowns and six-inch platform heels all the time. They are just men and women, dressing down, dressing up, having families, hanging with friends, just fucking being happy.

But, because sex/sexuality/gender is so very confusing and is confused even more by shit portrayals of various groups in media, most folks still confuse drag culture with trans individuals. And so, a trans woman has to be a 6’2″ broad with giant tits, a feather boa, and a silver miniskirt.

So, I assumed Moore fell into that trap. She was trying to give a perfectly exaggerated image of the “ideal” female body type, the type society pushes, and what she was going for when she said that the ideal body shape is “a Brazilian transsexual” is that stereotypical drag queen image people share of a trans woman. Was it PC? OH FUCK NO. It’s also straight-up wrong on most counts. But she was going for an exaggerated image of the ideal female form, and because drag queens are in fact caricatures of femininity, you don’t get more perfect an exaggeration.

At least, that’s what I assumed she meant. But she didn’t say drag queen. She said transsexual. While I was obviously being too optimistic (you’ll see why in a second), I really thought she just confused the two. As a professional writer, I think she could have simply said ‘underwear model’ and we would have understood where she was going. But I didn’t think her intention was, “HaHA, here’s a perfect example to stealthily spread my mega-hatred of transsexuals!” It was a confused and poorly chosen phrase, but I maintained her intent wasn’t hate.

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t offend. The transsexual community was, in fact, very upset by it. They demanded an apology from Moore.

At this point, Moore should have been all, “Shit, I fucked that up. Sorry, everybody, I was just being a bit of an idiot, not an intentional bigot. Swearsies.” If, in fact, she had made the mistake I believed she did.

INSTEAD, she lost her shit on Twitter. And not just in an angry rant way, in an angry, flippant, bigoted, transphobic hate spree. With such gems as:

“I dont prioritise this fucking lopping bits of your body over all else that is happening to women Intersectional enough for you?”

“I dont even accept the word transphobia any more than Islamaphobia You are using ‘intersectionality’ to shut down debate. Its bollocks.”

“!) People can just fuck off really. Cut their dicks off and be more feminist than me. Good for them.”

Okay, I think saying she lost her shit is a bit harsh. She just got nasty with people who were, admittedly, being nasty to her. She was being cyber-bullied pretty hard over this article. That being said, her response really solidified her own transphobia (whether she accepts the word or not) as it really highlights a huge issue facing transsexuals- the idea that a “natural” or cisgendered woman (or man) has more rights than them, is more important than them, and should be held above them.

It’s all some fucked up shit, really. I can’t believe our society is still all “Oh, they gets rights, but you don’t, for some arbitrary ass reasons.”

It’s become obvious, despite her explanation of using the phrase she used (“I deliberately used the word Brazilian transexual as ideal shape small hips and big T and A.”) that she is, in fact, kind of a bigot. At this point, while I’m no longer on her side, I still think the reaction to the initial phrase was a bit much…

More on that in a bit (I’m trying to keep this chronological).

So, there’s bullying going on all over the place on the Twitter, which causes Moore to /gquit that shit. I will not stand up and defend what she said, but I will say this (and I say this a lot and I do, truly, believe it): You cannot fight hate with more hate. What she said was bullshit. Calling her on her bullshit? Super just. But if she was legitimately bullied off of Twitter by people threatening her and her well-being… Well, that shit’s unacceptable. I don’t care what the bitch said.

[NOTE: I don't know the exact types of messages sent to her. Various sources report her being 'cyber-bullied,' which I take to mean threats to her, not criticism of her shit opinions. But I've made the mistake of assuming once already in this debacle, so I hesitate to do so again. Judging by her above Twitter reactions to it all, it sounds like people were just calling out her work. Rage quitting because people are criticizing your work and your dickish views? That's not a reaction to 'cyber-bullying', that's being unable to take criticism. But, like I said, all my information here is really hearsay from later articles regarding this matter.]

I reiterate: Cyber-bullying, for any reason, is not cool.

So, Moore leaves Twitter. Which causes her friend Julie Burchill to write a reaction piece to the whole affair.

And oh boy, I tell ya- nothing I say can ever be as offensive as the shit this cunt writes. Some choice fucking snippets:

“I nevertheless felt indignant that a woman of such style and substance should be driven from her chosen mode of time-wasting by a bunch of dicks in chicks’ clothing.”

“But they’d rather argue over semantics. To be fair, after having one’s nuts taken off (see what I did there?) by endless decades in academia, it’s all most of them are fit to do.”

“I know [tranny's] a wrong word, but having recently discovered that their lot describe born women as ‘Cis’ – sounds like syph, cyst, cistern; all nasty stuff – they’re lucky I’m not calling them shemales. Or shims.”

“And we are damned if we are going to be accused of being privileged by a bunch of bed-wetters in bad wigs.”

“To have your cock cut off and then plead special privileges as women – above natural-born women, who don’t know the meaning of suffering, apparently – is a bit like the old definition of chutzpah: the boy who killed his parents and then asked the jury for clemency on the grounds he was an orphan.”

HO-LY SHIT, RIGHT?

Oh yeah, this went over well. In fact, the piece is now the subject of an inquiry by the Observer readers’ editor. Well, no shit. Reading this filth makes me sick to my stomach. Sometimes, I am not PC. But I am not full of this vitriolic hate. Burchill tells us we should see trans women as second-class citizens to “natural” women. Buh-wha? For a supposed “radical feminist”, as she refers to herself, how can she think it’s acceptable to relegate anyone to second-class status? How can anyone think that ever? Why is it only recognized bigotry if she will benefit from triumphing over it?

I mean, this shit is appalling. Disgusting. Loathsome.

So when people blew up over it? Oh shit yeah, I was all over it. The Observer cannot allow this kind of filth to be published (how the fuck did it get published to begin with?). Even in this digital age, with online publications and less formal forms of reporting, there still have to be standards for columnists. And this kind of pure hate? It cannot be allowed.

I mean, what the ever-loving fuck?

***

There is one last thing I would like to mention. Both Moore and Burchill accuse the trans community of language policing, of quibbling over semantics. And, despite my deep reverence for language and the fact that I know semantics are fucking important (no matter what anyone says), I was feeling a little like they were making a point. As I initially argued, the original phrase, while not PC, isn’t inherently transphobic, is it?

So, why was the reaction so intense?

Then I get some context. I will admit to not being terribly knowledgeable about world trans issues- they don’t tend to show up on most major news sites (which is sad in and of itself). And so, it took an article by the well-spoken Roz Kaveney to shed some light on the issue for me and burn away some of my own ignorance on the matter:

At this point Suzanne Moore reprinted in the New Statesman a piece about female anger that complained, among other things, that women were expected to look “like Brazilian transsexuals”. A lot of people seem not to get why this upset most of the trans community.

In the first place there’s the implied dichotomy between women on the one hand and Brazilian trans women on the other – as if Brazilian trans women are somehow not women. But far more important is the fact well over a hundred Brazilian trans women were murdered in the last year alone. The failure of the mainstream press to cover the worldwide war on trans people is a significant failure – one of the major trans community events for the last few years has been the International Trans Day of Remembrance.

OH.

And now it all makes sense. Yes, this would really cut people to the quick, wouldn’t it? Looking at this, you have to wonder at why Moore specifically selected Brazilian trans women for her comment- was it coincidence, or was she jabbing the trans community, trying to bury the knife deeper? Either way, grossly disrespectful doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I get it now. She was wrong.

Moore has since popped back onto Twitter long enough to supposedly issue that apology she should have just fucking given from the start:

“I did not set out to offend and the murder of all women trans or not is clearly something I DO care about. I think readers know this?”

“I am grateful for the support of I have had from many top notch people gay straight trans who cares?”

“As I said I less concerned with peoples genital arrangements than the breakdown of the social contract. Which hurts.”

“If anyone cares to storify the abuse against me please do . I cant It was threatening, ignorant and nasty and my original points got lost.”

“Despite all this there has been much bridge building between me and several trans people who I deeply respect.”

“But I realise that my flip jokes, silliness and general way i behave on twitter is no longer possible.”

“So I do what most pro journalists do and simply self promote and never anything real or “controversial” ?”

“I am sorry to those that I misrepresented and I feel pretty misrepresent myself ( an EDL supporter??)”

“To think I am opposite side of anyone who has had to think long and hard about gender is horrible. I am not your enemy.”

“But I am not ladylike when attacked and fight with fire. Thats me. Otherwise I post music and have a laugh.”

“But for now I see must leave for a while. Really bad things are happening in the world and this is a storm in a double D cup.”

Oh, way to take the high ground there. It’s not an apology, and it still makes her look  like a total twat. “Oh, yes, sorry or something, but poor me.” Real fucking classy, Moore.

Then again, after all this, I don’t expect anything more from you.

Also, learn to Tweet, woman. You’re a professional writer- check that you’re typing your words correctly and for the love of Feynman, punctuate properly.

This whole fiasco is just sad. It’s a quagmire of hate.

Get your shit together, world. Because right now, you sicken me.

200-Year-Old Cosmo Predecessor Going Up For Auction

Around 1680, a publication titled Aristotle’s Compleat Master-Piece began to pop up wherever pamphlets/books were being sold in ye olde Londontown. A racy little piece, it was a reference guide for young married couples getting their freak on for the first time.

And, you know, trying to make some babies… or whatever.

But the little book was considered too risqué for the delicate constitutions of the day, and it ended up banned in the mid-18th century (only in the UK- you could still snag a copy elsewhere).

So, what makes the little books so very naughty?

…Not much, actually. To our eyes (our filthy, degenerate, immoral eyes), the little book doesn’t contain anything all that dirty. One of the book specialists at the auctioneers, Cathy Marsden, called it, “funny more than anything.”

The little book contains warning about what could happen if *le gasp* you conceived a baby out of wedlock. Apparently, your baby could be born all hairy or be Siamese twins.

O, THE PERILS OF YOUR HIDEOUS SIN SEXING!

Actually, most experts believe it is the images in the little book that led to its ban (a ban that lasted until the 1960s, when morality imploded):

Because it is a fact that all women have creepy alien flora in their bellies.

The images aren’t so much graphic as strange- children with mouths for navels, ladies blossoming open to reveal babies, and men with extra limbs dancing around.

The book is interesting for a few reasons. First, it showcases the 17th century notion that women are supposed to enjoy sex as much as men (say it isn’t so!), because they believed a woman’s pleasure directly tied into the ease with which she conceived. This is an idea that gets squashed in the Victorian era after it’s learned women can conceive without orgasming, making female enjoyment of sex not only less important, but generally looked down upon (those wanton hussies).

But the little book is also interesting because, despite being attributed to Aristotle, none of his work appears in the text. Nothing is known about its actual author. Marsden speculates it was attributed to Aristotle because they were “trying to make it sound better or more worthy than it might have been.”

Regardless, the little book was very popular, even after the ban. It thrived on the black market and could easily be obtained under the counter all over the UK.

An amusing example of this is a newspaper clipping from the 1930s. An author of an advice column was asked where a copy of the book could be obtained, to which the author replied, ”You may not buy a copy of Aristotle’s Complete Masterpiece. You may expect to pay three-and-sixpence.”

The edition going up for auction in a few weeks at Lyon and Turnbull, an Edinburgh auction house, is from the 1760s. They expect to fetch up to £400 for it.

Not too shabby for faux-Aristotle’s not-terribly-naughty guide to making love at a woman.