Arms Deal For Gus.

-  Any news headline that features ‘Russian Arms Deal’ sounds like it’s either from the Cold War era or a bad spy film.  Nevertheless, I opened my browser this morning to BBC News and there it was staring me down like a blast from the past: Iraq Cancels $4.2 Billion Russian Arms Deal Over ‘Corruption’.  The new Iraqi Prime Minister apparently believes there is corruption within his own team (most likely there is), and Russia is suggesting the United States has pressured him to reject the deal (which also could have some truth to it).  Whatever the case is, billion dollar arms deals from whoever to whoever frighten me.  Mass quantities of technology to kill people always do.

-  Everyone is mentioning the most obvious, and worst, ideas for directors when it comes to who should do Episode VII.  I’ve heard Christopher Nolan, which is of course just dumb.  No.  Sorry, but no.  Let Nolan go back to making psychological thrillers, please.  Leave the guy alone… these big action movies he’s doing now are when he’s at his worst.  I’ve heard Spielberg which… oh God, if Indiana Jones and the Flying Saucer was any indication, let’s keep Spielberg to historical character films please… not action movies.  I’ve even heard Tarentino.  What are you, nuts??  Can’t have Mr. Fuckin Reservoir Dogs directing Han and Leia’s kids!  Two people that came to my mind, that I believe (of course “you believe” you’re writing it you jackass) are capable, unknown enough but have the experience and chops: Duncan Jones and Rian Johnson.  But hey, what do I know?

Regardless, they’re plowing ahead with pre-production.  And they’ve confirmed this guy as the writer, who’s previous credits are Toy Story 3 and Little Miss Sunshine.  Could this thing have some honest to goodness character and heart in it?

-  Interesting article about Stanley Kubrick and his first film, Fear and Desire.  I have not seen it…

Within a few years of Fear and Desire’s release, Stanley Kubrick would begin the process of becoming Stanley Kubrick. In 1958, when Kubrick was fresh off his first hit, Paths of Glory, he cut a familiar figure in the New York Times Magazine, which described him as a “lank-haired, slightly elusive, seemingly diffident young man who talks little, wears dark suits in the bright sunshine on Canon Drive, and makes astonishing movies.” He reportedly burned the negative of Fear and Desire shortly after it came and went at the box office, though he could never completely write the film out of his personal history.

-  Holy shit this is an awesome Gus from Breaking Bad poster:

The artist is Anthony Petrie, and he’s unreal.

-Sonny

Neuroposter Mask.

-  So Disney bought Star Wars.  If you don’t know.  Which is… meh.  I mean, I’m not like a huge Star Wars fanboy or anything so I don’t have to strong of feelings either way.  I do, like 80% of humans, love the old Star Wars movies; and I do, like 85% of humans, hate the new ones.  From what I’m reading from people who know a lot about this stuff, there are novels that act as the official “post-Original Trilogy” story.  Something to do with Han and Leia’s kids, Luke running a new Jedi order, and the resurgence of the Empire and the Sith.  This could be decent I suppose.  The problem with the new ones — and I’m sure this has been written about extensively — is the fear of treading new ground.  This notion that they had to fall back on the old ones to be good.  You can see that in everything from the bizarre and wacky coincidences written into the story, the way the ships are designed, even the way Palatine was scarred to look like a shitty Halloween costume of himself in Jedi.  As long as they don’t do any of that, and focus on a new story, new characters, new designs, they should be alright I hope.

[But hey, I'm one of like 3 million assholes writing my opinions on the Internet about this so what the fuck do I know?]

Brendon over at BleedingCool seems to think he’s courting Hamill and Fisher about being in them… this sounds risky.

-  William Gibson’s seminal novel Neuromancer is being turned into a film as we speak.  Little is known about the project.  The IMDB page is empty, to say the least.  Liam Neeson’s name is on the cast, which may or may not be true, but sounds awesome.  If you don’t know about the novel it’s one of the best science fiction novels of all-time.  It started the genre we call “cyberpunk”.  It also featured characters “jacking into” the Internet which was obviously directly lifted for The Matrix movies.  Anyways, here’s a new poster (the first):

-  A Rioter’s Prayer: Pussy Riot’s Yekaterina Samutsevich on protest, art, and freedom.

I have the impression that this is the opinion the government wants to impose on people, their way of opposing the situation. I think that when a person goes somewhere, she reflects, she thinks about where she is going and why, because she is using her time and energy. It’s a conscious choice. I don’t go to a demonstration because it’s cool. It isn’t at all cool to go to demonstrations today. The forces of order are nearby. They can beat you up. The demonstration on May 6th proved that. Nowadays, many people find themselves behind bars solely because they went to a public demonstration.

-  Chuck Klosterman on why Fantasy Football is bad for the game (and your mental health) over at Grantland.

If I mentally transpose the words “entertaining” and “sport,” Dylan’s sentiment gets close to what I’m trying to express (and what I want to feel, but can’t). There was a time when I watched football in order to not think about my day-to-day life, but fantasy sports slowly changed that — in fact, my affinity for fantasy only makes it worse. I turn the players I draft into tiny parts of my life, which stops me from remembering that they have no relationship whatsoever to who I am. It makes me unconsciously think of them as extensions of myself. And I wonder if this is more problematic than I want to accept. Do I have any right to get angry at Chris Johnson? Does anyone?

-  The Trouble With The Mask.  Great op-Ed on the inherent problems with the new Joker in Batman and featuring a brilliant Bukowski quote.

-Sonny

NATO/Russia Coming to Terms?

- NATO is trying to convince the Russians to return to Afghanistan.  And join them.  The two entities have, of course, avoided each other in the cafeteria for decades now.  I’m reading that if Russian President Dmitry Medvedev gets all he’s asking for, he may be the one winning out on the deal.  Medvedev is smartly asking for troop restrictions of only 3,000 strong in one-shot, NATO aircraft restrictions in Eastern Europe, and veto power on any NATO member’s military deployment in from Central Europe to the Balkans.  He likely won’t get all he’s asking for, but he’s certainly keeping his nation’s interests in mind.

- An interesting study conducted by British scientists — including the former “Government Drugs Adviser” in England — reports that alcohol is more harmful to a society than possibly any other drug.

- Warren Ellis’ latest Wired.uk column is based around “5 things he’s been thinking about”: the “death” of blogging, space flight, a music group called Witch House, “transmedia”, and a series of novellas from Germany called Perry Rhodan.

- Also, these are sad times indeed when talking about one’s favorite authors constitutes as “high brow” conversation.

-Sonny

Spiral Light = Missile Fail.

This story is really starting to make its rounds on the Internets.  A mysterious swirling light has appeared in the skies over Norway, and at first no one knew what exactly it was.  Apparently it was a missile test by the Russians that failed — not sure how exactly it “failed” — and the result was this magnificent, if not terrifying, spiral light in the sky.  BBC has a video report on the ordeal.  Mail Online World News has a pretty reasonable article on the story.  Witnesses have been quoting describing it: “like a big fireball that went around, with a great light around it… [and] … a shooting star that spun around and around.”  The pictures are the best part, though.  Swear on my life, these are undoctored.

-Sonny

Ice Circles(?) In Siberia.

Scientists aren’t quite sure what’s forming/creating these darkened rings on a frozen lake in remote Siberia.  But they do know that they’re 2.5 MILES WIDE.  The pictures here were taken from SPACE.  Link: Mysterious “Ice Circles” In Remote Siberia.

-Sonny

возможность: Part III – Blackout.

July, 2056 – Moscow

… 178 meters: Moscow Premiere Bank host computer in the New-Arbat district. 202 meters: centralized digital holdings of International Daruka Consortium, Moscow Chapter. 139 meters: Electronic Crime Department wing, MSA. 225 meters:…

93 stories above the all but totally obsolete streets, Ksana uses her internal unit to scan the city of its most important and vital network hubs. She triangulates the digital web to find its signal center. There, she can reach almost all of them. The personalized marketing firms, the www-drug dealers, the digital sport and motor leagues, the simu-companies. Zooming down to the pavement all she sees are delivery trucks in front of police transports, behind courier cars and HCS repair vans. An occasional slanderer of the new, or a drunk and/or drugged urbanite, strolls in the synthetics; with them the collective dimensional grid of Moscow exhales, as if the plastic boot of so called “progress” had been lifted only for a tick. It’s been holding it’s breath for too long. Tonight Ksana opens its lungs to the remaining fresh air of Earth, if only briefly.

Exiting scope mode, she opens her right eye; her left zooms back to 1.715x, her apartment balcony. Focal neutralization point found: alleyway behind 14k2 off Prechistenskiy. She moves back inside, the door closes behind her. Dmitry and Ninel brush themselves on her shins, soft tails bob in the air. Pills in hand. One yellow and black, the two others transparent with a homemade mixture of elements inside. Sensory enhancers. Transhumanism had become accepted as the next stage of human evolution in her lifetime, which in fact makes Ksana one of the most powerful humans on the planet; but she never needed or wanted body modification, her unique birth-gift seemed to be enough (her left eye modifications, bordering on vintage, withstanding).

When Ksana was born, the doctors thought her mother died: the monitors flat-lined across the board. The new mother only passed out upon birth; every instrument in the room and three rooms over on all sides did the same thing. A man sitting at his pregnant daughter’s bedside, a room over, died when his pace-maker inexplicably shut off. Lights flickered, patient files copied themselves. Computers buzzed with sudden random processes, or rebooted all together. As she grew into womanhood, Ksana’s ability to psionically interact with technology streamlined immensely. Her digital reach grew to several kilometers, multi-functional simultaneous processing became second nature, and she increasingly took on more and more protected networks, hubs, and databases. Her country evolved into something similarly foreign throughout these years. Century 21 finally bloomed. Power shifted, and Russia became an amalgam of movements and culture which never before co-existed. There was a sudden flock to the city-scapes, insects buzzing to the nearest and brightest light. Wealth blanketed the lot. Money markets. And with a population more fit for a brother of the Soviet Age, GDP soared. The EU, China, India, Japan all took notice. International investments were flowing in. Was this mother-land greatness finally?

Ksana didn’t bite. Day by day, year by year, she grow more weary and cynical. The Mighty West lot. A shiny, attractive trap, but a trap nonetheless. Her homeland morphed into everything it’s been avoiding for centuries, everything it’s sworn off. It sickened her to no end. Still, nerves abound. Sharp prods pit at the inner walls of her stomach. The blueprint she obtained from her high-rise balcony screamed “NO turning back!!”.  Staring into herself now, that spite filled reflection. Natural eye gleaming a beautiful green; artificial sister shifting with a tiny triangle and star in place of a pupil. She slams her head into the mirror, cracking it, splitting her forehead open a bit. “[Shitte]!”, she yells to herself, “[fuckin'...]“, cleans the wound at the sink. This is to be Ksana’s most significant digital-terrorist act since ever realizing she was special. “[Jus' got to wish death upon no one, girl. Focus.]” She leaves her apartment and locks her doors mentally, heading for 14k2 Prechistenskiy Ave.

EPILOGUE

Ksana simultaneously shut-down thousands of commercial networks in the span of minutes; but no lights, car CPUs, home computer systems, personal service electronics, or the like. The event would come to be known as the Moscow Blackout Of ’56, or the Moscow Computer Blackout. Since the source was organic, authorities didn’t catch her for almost 4 years. However, in 2059 an anti-piracy technological breakthrough provided police with advanced tracking software which finally caught Ksana, who had been continuing her vigilantism. After a very long and public trial, it was deemed that Ksana would forever be a threat, even from behind bars. Capital punishment hadn’t been used for over 50 years though, the president could not politically risk such volatility; instead, Ksana was placed into a constant state of hibernatic-vegetation until she died approaching 105 years of age in 2123.

-Sonny

Future Moscow Nights.

While researching for a new fiction piece I’m trying to write (keyword: trying), I stumbled upon some pretty neat pictures I thought I’d share.  The flash-fiction piece is “возможность: Part III – Blackout”.  It’s about a Russian woman who uses her unique gift to blackout most of the central computer networks of Moscow in the year 2046.  Anyways, I started getting really interested in the urbanized, digital age, version of Moscow; for inspirational purposes and just out of curiosity.  I found some really neat photography of the city that looks like it’s from the future and the past at the same time.  Interesting.

-Sonny

Russian Sci-Fi (circa 2050).

So I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the third entry in my little “Eastern European Super-Power” trilogy; not to mention trying to start it, but I’m having some trouble.  So the first one is 1770 during Catherine the Second, the second is during the Russian Civil War in 1918, and the last one will take place in 2050(ish) Moscow.  But the whole point was to give “powers” some sense of gritty reality by grounding them in historical events, and basing said powers around the outcomes of these events.  Am I a hack?  Nevermind.  But how the fuck am I supposed to do that when I don’t know what the hell Russia will look like in 50 years?  Yesterday I tried to write, and I just ended up staring at the screen.  So what inevitably happens is RESEARCH.  Research about what exactly Russia will look like circa 2050.  I found some  interesting tidbits.  TWO huge facts/statistics/speculations bounced out at me, and they were both consistent with every expert opinion I came across.

1)  Russia will experience a massive population decrease over the next half century.  Huge.  We’re talking the most significant pop. decrease in the history of the modern world.  The nation is expected to lose some 35 million people over that time period.  Some say 34, some say 30 million, I even saw 50 million.  I’m saying 35 million.  This is a fucking THIRD of the overall population.  A third.  The fertility rate over there right now is staggeringly low (about 1.4), and the death rate is relatively high.  Hence the 1/3 population decrease.  Yeesh.

and

2)  Russia’s economy will begin to emerge as one the stronger new economies of this new age (along with India, China, Brazil, etc.).  Russia’s GDP is expected to boom over the next 50 years.

Combine these two things and what have we got?  We’ve got a country with, for the first time, a large amount of resources and capital for a relatively small population.  Everyone (“everyone” of course used loosely) will have money.  There are a few ways I’m thinking of going with this.  Main character believes her Mother Land has become everything it’s always despised?  Hrm.  Some other tidbits were the main religion of Russia in 2050 will be Islam, and the Muslim population will grow to about 30% (I think).  I thought this was odd: one very articulate article I read spoke about “land abandonment”.  Meaning, as Russia’s economy continues to grow, and the population falls, people will continue to move into urban city settings.  Rural Russia will soon become a thing of the past.  Lots of ways I could go with this.  Gotta keep the wheels turning…

-Sonny

возможность: Part II – Uprising.

January, 1918 – Kiev

Snow whirls delicately above the war torn city, resting against the Dnieper like a wounded soldier leaning on a crutch. Winding streets whisper through the winter daylight of a coming onslaught, from within and without.  Mustard gas cannisters roll silently across the landscape of the Empire. Who are you… A Ukrainian? A deserter? Yarik stands solemn and tall among his departing Arsenal Factory co-workers. Dirtied, weary, drowning. The century’s first Total War grinds to a blood soaked halt. Machine gun diplomacy; a demobilized soldier steps off the Eastbound train. Yarik feels all this somehow, as his peers congregate in one of several city squares. Civil war has since broken out: Reds versus Whites. A man – considered great and noble in the eyes of many of these workers, Yarik included – marches steadily, unwavering, towards the town: Colonel Muriev. Leading a formation of Reds in an attempt to take back the last and greatest connection to mainland Europa. This floats amongst the gathering. Talk of Tsars replaced with a centralized committee, of ongoing revolution and a level playing field. The calaced hands of the workers look to overtake the Tsentral’na Rada; they are planning uprising. Standing lanky but hard-nosed, Yarick leans onto a street lamp, nodding along to his peers. Silent, but with presence. Breathing, organic. A small triangle with a star in the middle burned into the skin of his forearm, under his coat.  Though this powerful young Ukrainian man, born on a Sunday of an aging farmer and a youthful mother, simply is not there.

The first time Yarik displaced himself was May 12th, 1909. Physical exertion would be determined the cause of the incident. He was just a boy, working hard to help his father with the Spring harvest. While plowing to finish the field by dark, young Yarik felt light headed, distant, and finally euphoric. Vision turned white. In an instant he found himself on all fours in the mud of the crawlspace underneath the farm house floor boards: panting, confused, frightened. No one in the field noticed… at first; as Yarik splattered into the mud that day, a version of him continued plowing that field for some 30 seconds before fading into nothingness. The rickety, worn plow tumbled to the dirt as this apparent duplicate, a living shadow of a boy, literally faded into mid-air. The family turned to tales of demonic possession, angelic revelations, and Godly miracles. But it kept happening. Yarik would turn up in seemingly random places, always close by, and another living, breathing copy of Yarik would continue about his business ignorant to the phenomena; then, after a short time, vanish never to exist again. The family, minus his mother, finally accepted Yarik’s bizarre new talent. They hid it from the rest of the town. The country. The world. Years passed and Yarik learned not only how to transport himself where and when he wanted, he also learned to control how long a duplicate would exist in his absence. His previous spot. His grandmother used to call it возможность, “ability”.

Yarik smiles in remembrance of her blissful nature, as he once again gains eyesight after teleporting to an alleyway blocks away. “[Yarik. How many of you are out there?]“, one of the organizers, a staunch socialist, asks. The Sun gradually lowers in the sky to the South. “[Three. But they'll disappear after about 5 minutes. Any longer than that and my teleportation becomes weak and unpredictable. I've never done this much before.]” Yarik’s already breathing heavily, warning his peer of a possible loss of control. The black haired, round faced man in front of him looks down. Broken glass shards, discarded machine parts. Back up to Yarik’s eyes, he places both hands on his shoulders. “[Look. The only reason we're... I'm... asking you to do this is because I know you've got it in you, and you believe in our cause. Do you not?]” Yarik nods in silence. “[We need as many sets of hands as possible fighting the Oppressor. This will be a key battle in this War. If we can weaken, even defeat, the Tsentral'na Rada here in Kiev, the rest of the Whites will topple. It is the illusion as well, Yarik. You alone can put fear into the eyes of the enemy by turning that group there]“, he points out to the square, where the crowd grows larger and more unruly by the minute, “[from 600 to 700. If only for minutes at a time. This is class-warfare. Just keep on moving, don't look back. If you stop only for a second, you, the real you, might die. Good luck, Brother.]” After hugging his brethren, Yarik transports out to another street. And again, and again. Everlasting until hundreds of Yariks are sprinkled throughout Kiev.  The Uprising starts within the hour.

EPILOGUE

After realizing the sheer number of workers the Rada troops, under Gen. Symon Petliura’s command, shelled the city from afar for nearly a month straight. Most of the Arsenal workers died or fled. Though they weakened the Tsentral’na Rada enough and when Colonel Muriev and his Red formation arrived they defeated the Rada quickly without problems. The Bolsheviks seized Kiev on February 7th. Yarik escaped virtually unscathed, due to his ability. He lived the rest of his life with a family in Minsk, Belarus writing poetry and crafting sculptures. He helped forge the Lenin statue which sits near the Capital. Yarik never used his powers again after the Kiev Arsenal January Uprising of 1918.

-Sonny

возможность: Part I – Plague.

October, 1770 – Moscow

“[Is it true]?” Tiny fires clinging to the walls flicker in the darkness. The stone, crackled but still breathing, closes in around them. Claustrophobic and contracting. The Earth under-foot is frozen dry; their hot breath floats and permeates in the small space. There are four of them: all men. Three stand hooded and cloaked, mysterious as ruthless, looking downwards with awe and a hint of fear. The tallest of the lot holds a greasy lantern in his shaky left hand. Wheezing and sweating. The candle light shines as a blurry amber beam off the long, curved dagger blade flowing down the side of one of the cloaked figures.  “[Are you the one who deals Death through the touch of a hand?]“, asks the last of the standing men: faceless and threatening. At this man’s blackened boots kneels a boy no more than 16 years of age. His hands are bound on the small of his own back. Head rises, bloodied and grimed, locking eyes with the Questioner. The chambers echo as if they house some ancient religious ritual from longer ago. The boy’s wrists are ripped and gouged from the chains. He coughs and spits a thickened mixture to the dirt.

“[Yes... It... It is true. B...b-but I]-” The fist gripping the blade slams the boy’s left temple, nearly slicing his cheek open; he falls onto his chest and face, begins sobbing. Only a few months ago the boy, Iosif, infected his sister. Days later she fell very ill, bed ridden and shivering. Weeks later she died slowly and painfully. “[Show me, Emelian. Prove to me this boy is who you and he claim he is.]” Emelian, the man with the knife, crouches over the boy, still face down in the dried muck. Quietly weeping, bleeding, and cold. He grabs a handful of blond hair on the backside of little Iosif’s head. With his golden handled dagger, Emelian cuts off the hair closely to the scalp. The lantern holder and the Speaker step closer, examining the area. A small triangle, with a star in the middle, seems to be etched into the head of the boy. The Speaker nods to Emelian who leaves the room abruptly, locking the door behind him. The Empire illuminates and expands. Absolute authority: nobility over peasantry. But these three hooded figures, with the help of the boy Iosif, blinded and ignorant to his power, will attempt to change that. There will be rioting, fires, Death. An anger from the commoners will rise, shaking the Despotism of Catherine II to its very core.

Emelian returns with two beaten and wounded peasants, nude and also bound by the hands and feet. He tosses them in front of Iosif, who’d since risen back to his knees. Holding his arms firmly, the cloaked men remove the boy’s shackles and back away immediately. “[Touch them, boy.]“, the Speaker orders. “[Do to them what you did to your family. Inspire Moscow to revolt. It is your destiny.]” Emelian holds the knife to Iosif’s throat as he crawls over towards the peasants who are trying to cry out through the rags stuffed in their mouths and the cloths wrapped around their faces. He extends his bony arms and pushes a palm into the chests of the men. They continue to cry out, muffled but audible. Iosif winces; arms and hands pulsating, face turning red. Finally the boy collapses. Unconscious and white-eyed on the ground, pale with steaming hands in the cold air. They leave a blackened, scorched imprint on both men’s chests. Fingers and all. The two men scream in unbearable agony shortly then stop. Panting, sweating. “[Go now, my Sons.]“, mutters the Speaker as he raises his hands gradually. “[Go be with your people. The hour of your sacrifice is just beginning. You have done more here than either of you will ever know.]“

EPILOGUE

Within weeks the epidemic was spreading quickly through the streets of Moscow. The rioting hit its peak exactly a year later, in the Fall of 1771. Much of the nobility fled the city, the country. The power of Catherine’s state declined: domestically and internationally. Nearly a third of the Moscow commonwealth died, including the three hooded men, who were themselves peasants. Iosif fled to the North country. He finally learned to control his power the same year he died of starvation; he was only 23.

-Sonny