That’s my wife. Mickey Finns is a Russian schnapps that’s trying to expand distribution into Ireland. That’s me in the background. I don’t believe that I am the fruit in question.
What a field day for the heat
INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT
A round mahogany table in a dimly lit room. The Presidential
seal leers down on a dozen generals and bureaucrats.
Computer screens flicker and scroll an endless stream of
data. The President taps a note pad with a ballpoint pen.
PRESIDENT
Update.
GENERAL #1
Four thousand five hundred dead,
Mr. President. Bridges into the
city are out. Side roads
impassable. Power, water, all out.
PRESIDENT
Stop. You.
BUREAUCRAT #1
Survivors gathering at the
Convention Center.
PRESIDENT
Number?
BUREAUCRAT #1
Thirty thousand. Dozens of deaths
every hour. Looting, raping,
lawlessness.
PRESIDENT
Go.
GENERAL #2
We've dispatched haz-mat teams from
McClellan. Eight thousand men,
armaments, vehicles. Arrives
tomorrow morning.
PRESIDENT
Status.
BUREAUCRAT #2
Administration approval rating down
twenty-four points. Friendly news
media replaying your speeches from
three days ago. Unfriendly media
calling for your resignation. The
region went solidly against us in
the last election.
PRESIDENT
I know.
GENERAL #1
Sir, we need a go no-go.
The President sighs. He caps the ballpoint pen.
EXT. CONVENTION CENTER - NIGHT
Urban hell on earth. Fires burn; people attack one another
with sticks, knives. Stampeding, glass breaking, an idiot
melange of screaming.
A woman clutches a wailing baby in her arms and dodges
bullets. A bleeding man staggers into her; she pushes him
away with a shriek.
Four men surround her. They carry guns and knives. One man
swings a pipe experimentally.
A new, mechanical sound: the distant hum of rotary engines.
The chaos pauses and the people look up.
WOMAN
Food!
MAN
Water!
Helicopters appear over the black city skyline. Their blue
searchlights scan the destruction.
The mob stops fighting, drops their weapons. People flag the
helicopters, shouting with joy.
INT. PRESS ROOM - DAY
Bright sun through the windows. The President shuffles
papers behind a podium. A makeup artist touches his nose
with a powder puff.
PRODUCER
We're on in five.
PRESIDENT
I'll rehearse.
EXT. CONVENTION CENTER - DAY
Helicopters slowly descend upon the crowd. The faces of the
people, smiling, shouting, waving, gather around beneath
them.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
My fellow Americans...
Our woman's face. She looks at the helicopters, thinks...
then turns, and begins to run.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
I have consulted with the governors
and the mayors of the affected
region...
A milky white powder billows from canisters on the sides of
the helicopters.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
And unfortunately, despite the best
efforts of the state and federal
authorities...
As the powder hits the people, they crumple and fall like
narcoleptics -- silently, suddenly, as if poleaxed.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
No survivors have been found.
EXT. BLIND ALLEY - NIGHT
The baby in her arms still screaming, our woman cuts down a
back alley. She runs into a blind end: a door, a metal
Dumpster, three brick walls.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
We will be tireless in our efforts
to overcome this disaster...
She wrenches at the locked doorknob -- useless.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
We will not falter and we will not
fail.
A familiar mechanical drone. The baby wails. Our woman
looks up, and as she does a dark helicopter fills the sky
above the alley.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
And though there has been great
misery and pain...
She wildly looks around her, sees the Dumpster.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
I believe we as Americans can rise
to the challenge.
She looks up. From the woman's POV, a billowy cloud
envelops us, and we are in sudden perfect white silence,
except for the President's voice...
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
Through this challenge, we will
discover our capacity for
greatness.
FADE TO:
EXT. CONVENTION CENTER - MORNING
Morning, gray and fine. Camouflaged army troops, bearing
rifles, pick their way through innumerable piles of corpses.
Smoking, charred rubble, overturned cars.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
It will take more than weeks or
months. It will take years.
EXT. ALLEY WAY - MORNING
An Army grunt wanders down the alley. He shoulders his
rifle. Our woman lies in the alley. He nudges her hand with
his boot.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
It will cost billions. We will
find the money.
A tiny, reverberating cry.
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
For a time, my fellow Americans, we
will mourn. But then...
The grunt turns toward the Dumpster. Tentatively, he lifts
the lid, and we hear a baby's cry...
PRESIDENT (V.O.)
We will rebuild.
CUT TO BLACK.
Except, for once, my mother’s camisole
Thanks to Satori for the link to write your own comic strip.
Let’s start a war, start a nuclear war
As far as I could tell, it was a thoroughly normal wedding. People dabbed tears from the corners of their eyes as the couple walked down the aisle. The brother-in-law made an off-color toast. Family photos were taken in the garden. The icing on the wedding cake was buttercream. Yours truly played the processional and recessional, on guitar: Embraceable You, East of the Sun, At Last and You Are the Sunshine Of My Life.
Stacey Camillo and Alex (Cynthia) Alexander were married on August 14, 2005 in a quiet ceremony in Ogunquit, Maine. Stacy and Alex are, of course, women — although some of us referred to them both as brides, they themselves preferred to be called the gride and the broom.
History is not kind to bigots. A hundred and twenty years ago, Richard H. Colfax and George Fitzhugh wrote ornate, collegiate-sounding essays on the unfitness of the black man to own himself. Rep. Seaborn Roddenberry proposed a Constitutional amendment in 1912 prohibiting the marriage of white people to black people. Roddenberry liked expensive words: his amendment would “exterminate now this debasing, ultrademoralizing, un-American and inhuman leprosy.”
Ultimately, these impressive-sounding men died of natural causes, and society improved.
Within a generation, the political push to “protect marriage” will be backshelved. Every day the conservative rhetoric gets a little softer. Every day the Establishment gets a little older and grayer.
Tell me honestly: do you know anyone under 25 who wants to ban gay marriage?
Tell me honestly: which side of history do you want to be on?
Time is on our side. Literally and figuratively, the movement to delegitimize same-sex marriage is dying, and it’s dying of natural causes. Within a generation, the spirit of humanity will prevail over bigotry and fear.
Here’s to the day when a gay wedding is no longer a political act.
A side note: I had the door held open for me at the Maine Street Bar in downtown Ogunquit. The fellows there are generally polite, except for the guy who demanded to kiss me.
‘Cause I can play this here guitar
“The American musical is dead,” claims Michael John laChiusa. While you and I may not agree, his taxonomy of faux, parody, real, and jukebox musicals is useful to us writer types.
Why don’t they just let me live?
Rumor has it that there have been a number of complaints about John Byrd. He’s insensitive, he’s uncommunicative, he doesn’t know his boundaries, he doesn’t know how to color coordinate or share his feelings or ride a moped. That sort of thing.
Interestingly, none of these complaints have been directed to John Byrd. They have been directed to other people who know John Byrd, but not to John Byrd himself.
John Byrd would like to take this opportunity to point out that John Byrd is solely responsible for John Byrd’s behavior. Ergo, if you have a problem with John Byrd, John Byrd strongly recommends that you discuss the concern directly with John Byrd rather than with John Byrd’s friends or relatives or in-laws or co-workers or drinking buddies or the guy who lets his cat take a dump on John Byrd’s lawn every 6:30 in the a.m. All these other people (here I include the cat as a member of the human race, even though it is not) have no particular authority or claim on John Byrd.
John Byrd welcomes and encourages all forms of commentary and advice on improving John Byrd’s relationship(s) with you, your friends, your relatives, your in-laws, your co-workers, your drinking buddies, and all other members of the human race. (Here I include the cat as a member of the human race, even though it is not.) If you provide John Byrd with said commentary and/or advice, John Byrd promises to work diligently to become a better friend, servant and companion to you and the people most significant to you in your life.
The rest of you assholes can go fuck yourselves.
You’re gonna go to the record store
Dave Kellum wants to sell you a bunch of movie tchotchkes. If you buy something, please buy something with the NorMat 4 logo on it. No, I won’t get any money from it. It would just make me feel good.
Well the FCC won’t let me be
INT. THEATER - DAY
Four high-school kids -- Chuck, Sarah, Bill and Eddie --
shuffle about in togas on stage. They are surrounded with
fake bushes, and a double door hangs from the back wall. One
hand on his chest, Chuck declaims.
CHUCK
For worse than Philomel you us'd my
daughter,
And worse than... Progne... I will
be reveng'd...
Mister Dimples runs on stage, wearing a bow-tie and tapping a
clipboard with a pencil.
MISTER DIMPLES
Cut, cut! Kids, I'm sorry, but I
must stop this play immediately.
SARAH
Is there a problem, sir?
MISTER DIMPLES
I should say so, Sarah. I see that
you have seven bushes on stage
here.
CHUCK
Yes, sir, we made them ourselves --
MISTER DIMPLES
I'm sorry, Chuck, but the Texas
University Interscholastic League
rules are very clear on that point.
Section one-zero-three-three, part
C, clearly states: there are to be
no more than six self-supported
bushes, each not to exceed two feet
wide by three feet high.
SARAH
Oh, jeez, sir, we totally forgot
that rule!
The kids murmur in assent.
MISTER DIMPLES
One of these bushes must be removed
before your play can commence.
CHUCK
No problem, sir --
Bill and Eddie grab a bush and drag it off stage.
SARAH
Okay, sir, if we can just start
again?
MISTER DIMPLES
Tut-tut-tut! I notice that there
is a double door hanging from the
back of your set?
CHUCK
Oh, yes, sir, my dad helped me make
it!
MISTER DIMPLES
Now, Chuck. Section one-zero-three
three rules clearly state that the
basic set includes doors suspended
from standard, single door frames
only.
CHUCK
But, it's our door, sir -- we
worked all night on painting it --
MISTER DIMPLES
Unfortunately, if I let your play
have double doors, then I have to
permit every play to have double
doors. The state of Texas won't
permit that.
The kids grumble softly.
CHUCK
C'mon, guys, it's okay. Can you
two take the door down, please?
Bill and Eddie shove the double door behind one of the wings.
SARAH
Mister Dimples, it seems like there
are so many rules we have to follow
to produce our play.
MISTER DIMPLES
The rules do things like prohibit
profane references to... a deity.
SARAH
You mean G--
MISTER DIMPLES
Shh!
(sotto voce)
Yes!
(normal voice)
The rules are there for your
protection, Sarah. We are financed
by the taxes your parents pay. By
the way, you're not doing a play by
Edward Albee, Samuel Beckett,
Thornton Wilder, Eugene Ionesco,
David Mamet, Eugene O'Neill, Peter
Shaffer, Neil Simon or Peter Weiss,
are you?
SARAH
Well, no, sir --
MISTER DIMPLES
Good, good!
CHUCK
Sir, what's wrong with those
authors?
MISTER DIMPLES
Those authors are universally
banned from the list of approved
plays. If we offend the moral
standards of the community, we
might lose funding. We might have
to cancel the University
Interscholastic League! You
wouldn't want that, would you?
KIDS
No, we wouldn't want that, I didn't
think of it that way, etc.
MISTER DIMPLES
Now, which playwright did you
choose?
SARAH
Oh, we chose Shakespeare, sir!
MISTER DIMPLES
Good, good! All works by
Shakespeare are on the U.I.L. list
of approved plays. Which play are
you doing?
CHUCK
Titus Andronicus.
MISTER DIMPLES
Good, good! That's a very
impressive-sounding play. I
believe you're fully in compliance
then! Whenever you're ready!
Mister Dimples walks off stage.
CHUCK
For worse than Philomel you us'd my
daughter,
And worse than... Progne... I will
be reveng'd,
And now prepare your throats!
Chuck pulls out a huge butcher knife and slices the throats
of Eddie and Bill. They stagger about, gushing gallons of
blood.
CHUCK
Lavinia, come receive the blood!
Sarah catches some of the blood in her bucket.
CHUCK
Let me go grind their bones to
powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper
it!
Chuck cuts off Eddie's head with the butcher knife.
CHUCK
And in that paste let their vile
heads be bak'd!
Chuck throws the head into the bucket. Mister Dimples runs
on stage.
MISTER DIMPLES
Children, stop, stop!
CHUCK
Sir, we cut the dual rape scene --
MISTER DIMPLES
For the love of all that's holy!
Stop the play!
CHUCK
But, sir, it's Shakespeare!
SARAH
Sir, we're following all the
rules of the Texas University
Interscholastic League...
Mister Dimples thinks.
MISTER DIMPLES
I cannot reconcile this logical
contradiction!
Mister Dimples's chest explodes in a shower of sparks. He
collapses. Sarah and Chuck walk over to him and inspect him.
SARAH
A robot!
CHUCK
I knew it all along.
Exeunt.
But I know what I am and I’m glad I’m a man
INT. THEATER - DAY
A large, empty, dimly lit theater. A director and a staff of
go-fers shuffle papers in the darkness of the seats. John
stands alone on stage and fidgets under a spotlight.
DIRECTOR
John, is it? Let's take the
monologue on page thirteen.
John thumbs through a script.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
He's asking you to read for the
lead role!
ID (V.O.)
Oh, shit. He wants you to read the
gay sex monologue.
JOHN
Page thirteen, got it.
DIRECTOR
Whenever you're ready.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
It's only an audition. Relax.
Take a deep breath. Focus.
JOHN
"Oh, I love it when you touch me
like that, Frank --"
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
You found humor in the moment!
Keep going --
ID (V.O.)
You're going to hell for doing this
audition.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
No! You're doing great --
ID (V.O.)
Dude, the director totally wants to
pork you.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Focus!
JOHN
"Oh, yes, baby, service it, service
it --"
ID (V.O.)
You sound like a gas station
commercial.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
I'm in the moment!
ID (V.O.)
You're in a bad gas station
commercial. A bad gay gas station
commercial.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
There is no such thing as gay gas!
JOHN
"I work at the sex clubs --"
ID (V.O.)
You change the oil filters?
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Focus, focus! Positive thoughts!
ID (V.O.)
Gay gas!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Gas cannot be gay!
JOHN
"When I was a kid I'd service
myself while the other boys watched
--"
ID (V.O.)
Gay gas porn! Service with a
smile!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Art! Human condition! Personal
conflict --
ID (V.O.)
Gay gas porn gay gas porn!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
In the moment!
ID (V.O.)
Fill 'er up!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
I'm acting! I'm a character,
dammit!
ID (V.O.)
Welcome to Gay Gas! Check that
oil, mister!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Shut up!
DIRECTOR
Thank you --
ID (V.O.)
No, you shut up!
DIRECTOR
Thank you!
JOHN
What?
DIRECTOR
Thank you very much, John. We'll
call if anything comes up. Can you
send in the next one, please?
I’m all decoded now, I think you better go
Jul 1 23:14:50 partygirl sshd[19154]: Accepted password for upload from 64.95.232.90 port 39152 ssh2 Jul 3 07:57:14 partygirl sshd[4373]: Accepted password for upload from 81.18.87.179 port 1859 ssh2 Jul 3 11:30:30 partygirl sshd[5391]: Accepted password for upload from 81.18.87.179 port 4646 ssh2 --
And with that, a skript kiddie in Romania, working from the rdsnet.ro subdomain, broke into johnbyrd.org . He installed a subdomain scanner and ssh brute force tool into a hidden directory called “/tmp/ /.of” and he began dictionary attacks on other machines.
The style of compromise is highly specific.
The attacker at 81.18.87.179 is running Windows Terminal Server 2003. The box is probably being controlled remotely by the attacker.
I’ve nuked the offending account and taken countermeasures, but he’s still knocking at the open ports, trying to get in. If you’re the attacker, give up on this box and move on, or I’m going to hit back.