THE HUMAN RACE

A Substack Publication

Disruption is a universal constant. Always has been. Even though we have an inkling we never see it coming. A blindside hit. In human terms, it pairs nicely with death and taxes and there aren’t enough tea leaves and gypsy crystal balls in the world to predict its aftermath. Digital technological disruption now hits us harder and faster than “Rip This Joint” (side one of Exile, second song).

Me? I’m still trying to get a handle on why the promise of the internet went nipples north. As for the lightning flash advent of Large Language Models or Artificial Intelligence, I read about it in my morning Globe and Mail and my weekly Economist. Tactile print, how quaint. AI is either a Star Trek boon of ingenuity or Promethean fire. My mind drifts to Isaac Asimov, Harlan Ellison and weirdly, Dolly the cloned sheep. The prevailing view depends on the day and what section of which publication. This compounds my existing nonfungible token and cryptocurrency mystification; why are there Bitcoin ATMs in fortified liquor stores and shabby little depanneurs that sell cigarettes and lottery tickets? That's some kind of blockchain.

My grandfather Leslie Moore was a very British man, well-spoken though usually quiet, always dignified, very precise. A little Charlie Chaplin moustache – white throughout the twenty-four years I was lucky enough to know him. He emigrated to Montreal in 1912 in search of a career. The family business, a millinery in the Bristol suburb of Fishponds, had been disrupted by the introduction of a bus route to downtown and more shops and more variety. Papa was a Bell Telephone lifer who earned his McGill engineering degree at night. Papa learned French by reading La Presse, the Francophone equivalent of the morning Gazette and competing evening Star; a Larousse by his side.

Nana’s and Papa’s apartment was halfway between my elementary school and home. I ate lunch there frequently because the food was better (Sorry, Mom). I always used the tradesman’s entrance, up the wooden stairs at speed to their kitchen door. One noon hour I trudged up. Nana and Papa asked me why I was so glum. I’d had a brutal grade three morning. Arithmetic class had progressed beyond reciting multiplication tables and drawing upside-down long division Ls. Fractions! Papa sat me down at his drop-down secretary with a pad of graph paper and a blue fine point. He taught me fractions in two-thirds of a minute from over my shoulder. I was so relieved.

IBM introduced the Universal Product Code shortly thereafter. An utterly staggering innovation with no unintended consequences to speak of. One lunch visit Papa’s secretary was down. The pad, a hard lead pencil, a steel ruler and a slide rule were out. And an assortment of UPCs. There must be an obvious relationship between the human readable numbers and the sequence and varying thicknesses of the vertical bars. Perhaps the patterns weren’t discernible to the naked eye? An infrared code. There would be technical journals at the public library.

What Leslie Moore did because of his own interest and curiosity was research. Grunt work. What he couldn’t do at the time and what he wouldn’t have done even if he could’ve is now referred to as “cognitive offloading.” A pithy keystroked answer less the who, where, what, why and how would not have sat well with him. He certainly knew of Alan Turing’s Bletchley Park bombe and IBM’s UNIVAC. He was an analogue empiricist; the mechanics of progress warranted study: circuitry, vacuum tubes and punch cards. Applications and consequences (predicted and otherwise) demanded contemplation. Progress had to be thought through. I frequently wonder what he would make of the advanced digitized dross of the Information Age. Is there any practicality or substance to the function?

Leslie Moore died before Time magazine named the personal computer Machine of the Year. The elasticity of time is important here, in the context of life and the exponential acceleration of technology. I have known my friend Jim Gibson for more than twice as long as I knew my grandfather. Jim wrote a book called Tip of the Spear (I read through a couple of early drafts). Picture a crossroads at twilight, it’s not dark yet but it’s getting there. From one direction comes human culture and behaviour – which ceaselessly mystifies economists, historians, politicians, pundits, artists, members of the clergy, friends and relatives, family pets and sundry wildlife. Heading for the same intersection is (glibly) Silicon Valley, whose high-tech apostolates remind me of America’s nineteenth century robber barons and the bankers on Tom Wolfe’s Wall Street: adherence to laws, regulations, principles and ethics may be deferred (point and click on the X). Our high school math word problem subjects are travelling at different speeds. How far apart are they before they collide? Jim’s overarching message was straight from The Beatles: “Dear Prudence.”

Last week two Ukrainian AI-enhanced military drones programmed to attack Russian energy infrastructure lost the plot. Disrupted by enemy jamming, the drones decided a similar facility in neighbouring Latvia, a NATO country, would do just as well. Close enough for rogue robots, like horseshoes and hand grenades. A Brave New World. Fuck me; my neighbourhood cannabis shop has yet to stock soma. My grandfather was with me the other morning when I took Tip of the Spear down from the shelf. I simply sought some informed context, a foundation to help me get my head around the news story (and the porn industry’s embrace of AI and its early adoption by criminal scammers; the insane possibility of der Trumpenfuhrer spouting truth about fake news; the means of production without actual workers; a dystopian future of machine overlords breeding humanity’s next evolutionary step – whoops! I’ve circled back to porn). Jim’s book was published in 2017. The crossroads are still there, but the signposts (those reflective yellow diamond warning ones) have gone missing.

Jim and colleague Laura Haynes constitute the team behind The Human Race on Substack (Laura narrates The Human Race podcast as well). I’m now living in a world I could not have imagined at the turn of the century. This ain’t no meme. Google Chrome nudges me incessantly to introduce myself to Gemini. Astrology is bogus. Anyway, I’m an Aquarian and so predisposed to discussion and debates that hold water. AI is multivalent. It is quantum, at once elegantly Einsteinesque and batshit crazy. Substack’s format allows Jim and Laura to rationally assess AI (and all of its digital baggage, consequences, implications and unknowns) in real time. They’re constructing a “framework of hope” together. Could be Babel, could be truth, I’m not sure, but they're buffering all the white noise. I do know that The Human Race, whether on Substack or alive in the world, is a subject worthy of at least a modicum of contemplative thought. And a little research. Possibly more than that – just a hunch – because the future has just hit us like Saturday night on a Sunday morning.

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! My latest novel Sunset Oasis Confidential is available in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. And while you’re there, listen to some Muster Point Project music. 

HUMAN WRECKAGE

300 Club Confidential

Four-sixths of the 300 Club reunited in the ritzy wilds of West Vancouver last week. If I remember my geometry correctly, I believe that integer may be rendered as two-thirds. Jim, Marty, Tim and I rented a somewhat sprawling, gated, split-level Brady Bunch house nestled on a slope in a cul-de-sac. The view through the window above the kitchen sink was striking. Lush, manicured greenery in the foreground. Water beyond, unladen freighters in the inlet patiently awaiting their turn beneath the port gantries. The horizon was the silhouette of the University of British Columbia’s main campus. The sky was the shade of blue I picture when genuinely settled enough to appreciate “Wish You Were Here.” Cortez the Killer and JB007 were MIA, otherwise AWOL.

Friends all for some 55 years (at least). Our group’s average age now is 66, 65 the fading median on this particular trip. Functionally efficient, well-oiled.  We shared the errands and chores: shopping, meal preparation, clean up and general housekeeping. A very socialist gathering. The sole unaccommodating aspect of our accommodation was the coffeemaker. It was one of those single cup things, four courtesy plastic pods beside it; all the rage. Enough for the first one up. We’d brought a proper package of coffee expecting a proper maker. Christ, back to Safeway to be gouged. Marty did a walk through of the place, recon. He, uh, finessed his way into a secured supply closet. Coffee on the house. Tim and I followed his example: we were deviously clever, concealing evidence of our high school habit on a nonsmoking property.

Jim and Marty are clean livers. That’s to say their livers are unscarred. They went for hikes every morning while Tim and I drank coffee and smoked on the covered and concealed patio outside the sliding doors to my downstairs bedroom. An idyllic interlude with an old friend is always pleasurable. Quiet conversation or comfortable silence, sometimes both, just being, sharing the other’s presence.

Our evenings were mildly regressive. The Negroni, an aperitif, might be Italy’s greatest gift to the world because not much else happened there. Jim was the toxicologist. Listen, bud, if you hold a Negroni up in a sunbeam, you’re examining a sample of Spider-man’s radioactive blood; Madame Curie’s got nothing on you, oh no. West Coast cocktail hour dovetails nicely with EDT Montreal Canadiens playoff games. And Negronis pair well with edibles. Lacking the expertise of Cortez the Killer and JB007, Marty, seeking sterling customer service, said to a pot shop clerk, “My friends and I used to smoke a lot of hash back in high school. What do you recommend?”

Maybe it came with the rental, but I believe Marty had a natural instinct to pack a wireless soundbar along with a cooler and a barbeque. Jim showed me how to swipe songs onto a custom iPhone playlist – three times. We needed an old song soundtrack to tell new stories; all of our lives are very now: death, disease and grandchildren. No more clock-punching unless we want to. And replicating the past, as fondly recalled as it may be, is insanity; we’re all still too young for dementia – excepting gummy induced early onset.

Two, perhaps three bottles of an impertinent if indifferently robust red with legs and a surgically altered nose suggesting delicate hints of leather and tobacco with dinner. Maybe a few were organic white flavour because Jim stirred up a delicious paella one evening. Befitting our vintage, supper was followed by a board game. Marty, this event’s Shitshow Ringmaster, had rustled up a used edition of Trivial Pursuit with a set of updated general knowledge cards. Tim shuffled the deck with a set of Beatles Trivial Pursuit wildcards; they made for a hard day’s night.

I believe I know as much about the Beatles as I do James Bond in the sense that admiration and questing curiosity have eaten up hours of leisure time in a brief and absurd life. I’ve read books and magazine features. I have Anthology of DVD and a pile of other video besides. I have stereo editions of every UK album and more than a few “posthumous” releases. But I’m not nutcase hardcore. I’ve neither the mono boxset nor the American Capitol releases or the Tony Sheridan stuff from Hamburg. Paul McCartney could not win Beatles Trivial Pursuit; the questions might as well be about astrophysics. Actually, it would be fun to play against him: “No, that’s wrong. I wrote it;” “No, that’s wrong. It was my idea;” “No, that’s wrong. I was the avant-garde one.”

(My newish friend Kevin – we’ve been acquainted for a mere 36 years – he of The Muster Point Project, gave me a Rolling Stones edition of Trivial Pursuit I can’t remember how many years ago. It’s still in the cellophane. Not that I’m a hardcore nutcase, a freakazoid, but no one in my circle of family and friends has ever consented to play against me. They’re all too aware I’m capable of kicking even Glimmer Twins ass.)

After the game had been put away and the losers duly shamed and humiliated, plans were hatched. Montreal in the autumn of 2027; a complete quorum required: the 300 Club is going back to high school 50 years later for remedial classes in regressive personal growth. A dog-ate-my-gummy – strike that – homework! excuse to come together again.

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! My latest novel Sunset Oasis Confidential is available in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. Of Course You Did is still in print. Collect the set!

SAINTS PRESERVE US

His Holiness quotes His Bobness

Recently the United States Secretary of Defense, a man who changed his title on his business cards to “Secretary of War,” quoted “Bible” verse as recited by a hitman in Pulp Fiction to members of the US military. Reality is now a nebulous concept, having plunged into some heretofore unimaginable thirteenth circle of Hell far beyond the realm of satire. And I thought actual theocrats were bad dudes.

Meanwhile, his boss der Trumpenfuhrer took on Pope Leo XIV, a fellow American. President versus pontiff! A holy smackdown! A gilded cage match! The odious vulgarian’s Truth Social opening salvo was a pretty good one. The Bishop of Rome is “WEAK” on crime. Fair enough. Every venerated and long-established institution has proved incapable of policing itself. Paradoxically, the Roman Catholic Church, whose rock-solid central tenet is love and mercy, has historically been fanatical in its persecution of heretics. “Thoughtcrime” warranted numerous clauses in the First Papal Bull(shit). The last national leader to grapple with a pope was probably Britain’s King Henry VIII who demanded the Holy See expedite a niggling bit of post-nuptial paperwork.

A war of words or weapons demands an answering salvo. Globe and Mail headline, Friday, 17 April: “Pope denounces ‘tyrants’ and ‘masters of war’ during tour of Africa.” I thought, “My God, Leo’s quoting Bob. It can’t be.”

Dylan released “Masters of War” in 1963. It’s no coincidence that the Second Vatican Council sat from 1962 through 1965. Actually, it is and maybe I’m just messing around... wait for it... But seriously folks, Dylan mines the classics for source material, just as Shakespeare did. Only the future is unwritten and when it happens, chances are you’ll have read it all before. I’ve always assumed Dylan borrowed “masters of war” from an ancient primary text or some oft-quoted colloquialism. I became curious about the phrase’s origin.

My volume of The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (third edition) was a gift from my father, Christmas 1982. His inscription reads in part, “Best wishes for 1983. Regards, Dad.” The Moores are not a particularly warm family. And yet, the care and attention devoted to the brief note is unmistakable. The block printing is precise enough to have been set in lead type. A steel rule was employed and a disposable ballpoint just wouldn’t do (I’ve since applied this same discipline to family records). I went through the book’s index with my drugstore readers angled on the tip of my nose. Nothing. My next reference source was his father’s volume of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations (tenth edition). Still nothing. My last resort was a reluctant nod to modern times: I scrolled Wikipedia; further investigation uncovered text unworthy of even an inattentive scan.

Vatican II changed the tenor of Catholic ritual. Latin and formal choirs went out the stained-glass window. The “folk mass” was in ascension. My childhood parish was Annunciation of Our Lady. Father Moyle who baptized me, and whom I habitually lied to at Confession, was the top gun priest. The other man was Father Schnell (I’m guessing at his surname’s spelling – I’ve no idea), younger, hipper and given to pinstriped suits. He must’ve been the Svengali behind the parish folk group which was mostly comprised of high school seniors with acoustic guitars. I joined it – this was before my voice broke into its endearing and enduring cigarette croak. I figured hanging out in the choir loft during 11 o’clock mass was a better deal than going mental in the pews down below. I gleaned this from my big brother who had been an usher. He was able to be present but not really there, hanging out in a backroom as opposed to the altar boys who always had to be on.

I can’t recall what the folk group sang with earnest inexpertise to warrant a weekly glare from the pulpit, followed by a back-handed compliment and then a mic’ed throat-clearing. Pete Seeger and spirituals I suppose; psalm sing, sing song sing, good morning starshine, turn, turn, turn. What I do remember is the group’s leader’s anger after Father Moyle banned all songs written by Bob Dylan and specifically “The Times They Are A-Changin’.”

Irony.

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! My latest novel Sunset Oasis Confidential is available in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. Of Course You Did is still in print. Collect the set! 

HUMAN WRECKAGE

Cockroaches

I have never joined a political party. I am suspicious of people who actively promote themselves as activists and philanthropists. Corporations with fluffy mission statements are suspect, or worse, inept. Team-building exercises at work? Oh, please. They’re worse than meetings. I’m no plumber or roofer, never been a joiner. Most venerable, long-established human institutions are rotten. In cosmic terms a lifetime is woefully short and ultimately absurd. Dredge your own meaning should you care to; take it where you find it. Stop and smell the dead flowers. And, gee, all things considered, for the most part and way more often than not, it’s fun being on the planet.

Late last century I had a passing acquaintance with a guy whose job was masquerading as Mick in a Rolling Stones tribute band. He called their hardcore fans “freakazoids.” The adjective wasn’t meant as an insult. He spoke it with bemused gratitude; these people paid his wages. I’ve seen his band perform in the three Canadian cities I’ve resided in going back to the 80s; the last time was spring 2022. I’ve seen the actual Stones seven times, dating back to the summer of 1978 but not since autumn 2005.

It's possible I’m a Stones completist. It’s possible I have every album they’ve ever released and multiple copies of maybe more than a few of them. It’s possible there are four or five box sets stashed around the Crooked 9. It’s possible there’s a baker’s foot of DVD and book spines on a shelf in the den; it’s possible some more are down in the basement. It’s possible I have a modest collection of tour posters. It’s possible there may be a couple of Stones t-shirts in my bureau drawer. It’s possible there are some sad sack fanboy “collectible” sundries cluttering other rooms. It’s possible my emotional and intellectual growth, certainly with this particular file, stood on the brakes as I rammed in to puberty. But I am not a freakazoid.

A longtime friend of mine, a Springsteen nut though not an unhinged one, once said to me, “Had the internet existed when we were teenagers, our heads would’ve exploded.” No two-week wait for Rolling Stone’s “Random Notes” tidbits (and porn of course; let’s not forget porn as accessible as guns in the United States). Bless some of the tribes on what Pete Townshend imagined as “the Grid” for the failed “Lifehouse project,” parts of which we know as Who’s Next. There are two internet freakazoid Stones sites I infrequently waste some time visiting. Denizens have been burning up wifi and the wires this week.

“Who the fuck are The Cockroaches?” posters popped up throughout London over Easter like Banksy murals. Freakazoids noted that the type font was the same as the “Who the fuck is Mick Jagger?” t-shirt Keith sometimes wore on the 1975 “Tour of the Americas.” Equally important, The Cockroaches is a not-so-secret Stones pseudonym for secret club shows. Real life “Da Vinci Code” stuff with more gravitas. The pink poster suggested the “Miss You” 45 sleeve. The bottom right, where any graphic designer would place a logo, featured a QR code (those weird pixels – I can’t remember what phrase QR abbreviates anymore). That code led to a static website, a throwback bedroom with a black Bakelite dial phone and Bowie’s “Ziggy” LP visible on a shelf. One click infested The Cockroaches poster on the wall with scurrying vermin.

The Stones embraced the dark art of hype and promotion long ago even though their music and performance did the real talking They morphed into marketing pros with the onset of their corporate era which I date from Steel Wheels in 1989. Clothing lines in IMAX; buy the stemware and cologne; Mick could teach an MBA course. A commercial pop culture juggernaut is very different from an irresistible cultural force. Their last relevant album is the punk-goosed Some Girls dating from the time when Mick realized the Clash could indeed become the only band that matters. And he was right. Nothing the Stones released subsequently defined any of the ensuing decades(!) or any particular era therein. Times changed but the Rolling Stones didn’t.

The Stones are one of those bands poorly served by greatest hits compilations (and good gawd y’all, there’s tons of them). Their magic to me was always the rest of any particular album. To use modern phrases, the “deep dives” into “deep cuts” require patience, repeated plays. The freakazoid demands a couple of obscurities or B-sides in the set in exchange for an expensive ticket and a poor seat – not that I would know. And so… With the release of Emotional Rescue (1980) or maybe Tattoo You (1981) Stones albums had to be picked apart for gems. Inspired individual tracks, never the complete package; the music took a backseat to their status and marketing acumen. And fair enough, the recording industry was flipped on its head in the Information Age. Money-losing tours used to be offset by album sales in the millions.

The Cockroaches yesterday released “Rough and Twisted” in white vinyl in a plain white sleeve. It’s yet to exist in any other format. There’s no other way to hear it. Only available in very limited quantities in certain record shops. Marketing gimmickry up “Andrew’s Blues.” Stones-centric detectives, those internet freakazoids, have drawn comparisons to the “Cook Cook Blues” B-side of the unremarkable and less than memorable “Rock and a Hard Place” 1989 single. (I had to look that one up; flip through the collection not knowing where to start or consult a reference book – it’s possible I own an out of date Rolling Stones encyclopaedia of songs.) The next single may be called “Mr Charm.” The album, slated for a June (or maybe July) release, may be called Foreign Tongues – I can just imagine the deluge of alternate sleeves and related merch. 

I emailed my friends at Blackbyrd Myzoozik hoping for a meaningful and specialized loyal customer Cockroaches trophy in a plain white sleeve, money no object. Seems they’ve ghosted me. All of this makes me feel 16 instead of 66. I have been highly amused this last week and not in a detached way. “Well all right! Are you having a good time?”               

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! My latest novel Sunset Oasis Confidential is available in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. Of Course You Did is still in print. Be a completist! Be a happy sad sack! Collect the set!