This post makes me a hypocrite

A furious take on facebook. Via The eXiled. I still have a facebook account, although I do my damnedest to limit the information that can be gleaned about me. Recently, an old - one could say ancient - acquaintance made contact - which, on the one hand, is nice, but also demonstrates how eminently findable you are. Even if you are just lurking.

We all make mistakes

That is, we fuck up all the time. This handy list of cognitive biases tells you why. So, before you sign that contract, marry that one-legged transvestite or take that sniper rifle up that water tower, take your time to check if your reasoning was in some ways skewed. Via BoingBoing.

Matt Taibbi on the future of politics

Just a short article via True/Slant. The question remains: Who flatters us, and how? Maybe we should have another look at the lists of politicians visiting the Kirchentag...

The British are losing their sense of humor

Via the Guardian. This seems to be part of the UK's "criminalize everything" campaign. There are few means as readily available to show the limits of power and fear as jokes - and it is scary how easily we have accepted the new social rules about not joking in the presence of airport officials and security personnel. As the article says: We would rather make fun of the pope then send up some goon at the gateway. Of course, this also has to do with raw power: The pope may deny us Heaven, but the TSA official will force us to spend Christmas at the airport.
Defend your right to be funny! Make a bomb-related joke today!

Kirchentag in Munich

If you have been in Munich's inner city this weekend, you have possibly noticed the many young people with orange scarves, sensible glasses and rapt expressions - people who found out they share the same imaginary friend. And the terrible, terrible music. Seriously - Christina Stürmer? Wasn't she interred in some weapons storage facility in Utah, along with the nerve gas and unstable tactical nukes? It is all very friendly and huggy, and people try their damnedest to have a good time with their pal Jesus. But something is missing. It is quite religious and all, but there is a certain lack of flair. First I thought not enough people were frothing at the mouth and convulsing on the ground. But then it struck me: No penitents! As a long-time GM and veteran of many LARPs, I feel certified to give a few hints for the next ÖKT, to increase the drama of the whole thing. I humbly present to you:

 The black penitents of the burned heart, united in merciless expiation

The penitents walk in a slow procession of maybe twenty men. Stripped to the waist, they wear nothing but short black trousers and their trademark long pointed black cowls, completely covering their faces, with only two little holes to look through, all made from horsehair. Coming at you, they look like a long row of black pointed teeth. They are, of course, barefoot. Each wears a big iron crucifix round his neck, together with long metal chains. These chains end in sharp-edged iron weights, which knock into the penitents' shins and knees with every faltering step. Each penitent carries a whip, which sports seven short iron chains, one for each mortal sin. With each step, the penitents swing these whips over their shoulders onto their naked backs, which are soon covered in bloody welts. Before the procession, the penitents have been shrouded in a mixture of salt and ash. As they proceed on their way, a priest throws further handfuls of this stinging powder on those who have been washed clean by sweat and blood. They are further humbled by long strips of parchment pinned to their naked chests, listing their lapses and sins.
In the middle of the procession is the Low Sinner. He carries a large wooden cross. It should be really big, he should look like an ant trying to drag a sugar cube. The penitents have driven one nail for each of their sins, big and small, into the wood of the cross, now blackened by the sweat, blood and ash of hundreds of processions. Each time the Low Sinner handles the cross or tries to shift it, these protruding nails draw further blood. A "1000" has been tattooed on his forehead and struck through, signifying that even a thousand processionals like this cannot expiate the Low Sinner's transgressions. Spectators are encouraged to throw small stones or the like at him. The procession moves in silence, accompanied only by the Latin exhortations of the priest throwing the ash, and the dull slaps of chains on skin.

A possible route would be Theatinerkirche - Marienplatz - Stachus (short ritual of universal debasement in front of the gospel choir) - Sonnenstrasse (in full traffic of course) - Sendlinger Tor -Theresienwiese just before Nena's gig starts. I think the inclusion of the black penitents would give the whole proceedings are direly missing note of somberness and purpose, and I can think of some people involved in churchly matters which would be ideal for the role as Low Sinner.

Duerrenmatt

They reach Good Water just after midday. The settlement lies in the valley of a dry riverbed. In the Long Ago, a dam was built, twenty meters high, to create an artificial lake. This lake is long gone, but the dam remains. In its shadow cluster huts and tents, surrounded by tiny fields. A small pool sits in the middle of the settlement. The road goes up to the dam and leads across the valley, into the foothills of the Appalachians.  Something glints on the ridge, about twenty miles south east. Rod can barely make out an ancient broadcast pylon. The correctional facility is beyond these hills. Mal stops the Conquistador a few hundred meters from the scene and the men take a long look at the village. Rod scoops up a pair of binoculars from the dashboard and scans the dam. There is a blockhouse halfway on the dam, and he sees men with rifles guarding the place. One of them seems to watch the jeep with a scope. Rod waves. The man waves back. Rod ponders this for a moment, then lights up a joint.

Mal says “What do you think? If we went right across we could make Refugium just after nightfall – if our assumptions are correct. Or we could spend the night here. It seems to be peaceful enough, and it’s not like we’re on a schedule.” The men decide to take it slow and to stay in Good Water for the night. The Conquistador crawls down a narrow dirt track into the village, with Zed’s bike just in front. At the same time, three men clamber down from the dam’s top. They climb through system of rusty ladders and platforms leading from the blockhouse to the pool at the dam’s base. They walk up to the jeep, while the people in the fields stop their work to watch the exchange. One is a lanky man with straight black hair and the dark skin of someone who spends all of his time under the sun. His khaki robe is secured by a black belt and hung with green shards of glass, old black coins and bottle caps. A small automatic sits in a shoulder holster. The two others, burly guys in patched leather clothing, cradle their bogie rifles and stand back, while he knocks on Mal’s window. “Greetings, travelers. I welcome you to Good Water. My name is Jan Gah, and I speak for our settlement. May I ask why you came here?” “We are traders and explorers planning to go further south, to Refugium, and would like to spend the night here, if that’s possible.” “Ah, yes, of course, you are welcome, very welcome. You see that hut over there? Make yourselves comfortable there, if you want to.” Mal looks at the small cabin standing a bit apart from the rest of the village. “It is clean and more than big enough for you. If you want to trade, just speak to me. Or if you have questions. Over there, the big house just at the lake: That’s our common house. You want something to eat, just go there, someone will sell food to you. And If you go to Refugium, you might want to ask sister Duerrenmatt if she would like to come with you. She has been waiting for days now for someone to go south.” “Duerrenmatt?” “Sister Duerrenmatt from Refugium. Ah yes: We charge two shots of 9mm ammo for each vehicle crossing the dam, but we can always talk about other things. If you have clothing, tools, china, stuff like that, I’ll take that, too.” Rod pipes up “Hey, yeah, I’m a doctor. Brother benefactor Rod from the Institute, at your service. Who heals people. Who are sick. Because I totally can do that. So if anyone suffers from anything, just send them by. I’m doing it for free. I mean, I heal for free, so no one has to pay anything. At all. It’s how I serve the Lord. Just offering it, okay. You tell them.” Jan Gah takes a look a Rod’s pinprick pupils and his broad, beamy grin. “Oh, that’s good news, great news. I will tell them.” The men take their vehicles to the cabin and settle down. Zed and Dan Hawking begin to strip down their guns, while Mal Porter starts what he calls a “walkaround” of the Conquistador – a very thorough checkup of the vehicle, before they leave the well-traveled routes of the Wastes. Rod waits for patients, but nobody shows up. People seem to be in rude good health in Good Water.
Afterwards, they check out the common house. Dan whispers to the others “The girl over there: She stared at us the whole time when we talked to that Jan guy.” In fact, a skinny young woman with a long blonde braid and rimless glasses watches them intently as they enter Good Water’s common house. The woman rises and introduces herself. ”I am sister Duerrenmatt – people tell me that the jeep over there is your car and that you are going to Refugium tomorrow. Is that true?” “Yes we are. But it’s our first time in that corner of the world. You are from that place?” “Yes. I spent the last two years – 18 months – in Holy Flame City, and now I return. There’s some books and DVDs I have to get into the stacks, and I need to look at our new acquisitions.” Rod asks “So it’s true that you collect books?” “Books, DVDs, CDs, newspapers, everything that serves as repository for the knowledge of the Long Ago. That knowledge is threatened and we try to keep it safe. We also print books on demand if we have digitized versions. You know what that means?” Two people nod. Rod goes on, pointing at her large backpack “So, what books did you collect?” “A few reference works, a medical introduction, a few novels, nothing special really.” “And you really collect old newspapers?” “Well, if someone brings in a big package we tend to buy it, if it’s in reasonably good shape. But newspapers seldom contain knowledge critical to our survival, and they rot really fast. We tend to scan the important parts and use the rest as raw material for paper production.” Duerrenmatt and the men talk for another few minutes, about Refugium and the ferales who once blocked the old jail from the rest of the world. “They called themselves HanHan and made travels to Refugium a high-risk endeavor. Since we paid those mercs to drive them out, the route has become quiet, but the memories die hard. I’d never do the trip on foot.” The sister asks if it would be possible to go with the group. Mal is happy to oblige and even offers her a free ride. Duerrenmatt declines “Something you don’t pay for isn’t worth anything. I’ll give you four values for taking me to Refugium tomorrow – you might use them to pay the toll on the dam.” “The backpack is your only luggage?” “It’s heavy enough with all those books. When do we start?” “Dawn tomorrow. I like to start early.” Duerrenmatt grimaces, but tells the men that she’ll be at the jeep at sunup.

A map of the world

A map of the USA after the Fall. Many settlements and routes are not shown, especially those kept secret by certain groups. While the main parts of the Vever are present, many rails do not turn up, because they are not used very often or because the Railers don't want you to know about them. Distances are crude estimations, the whole thing is geographically suspect.

Shopping in Whitetower

The group is back on the road. Zed has swapped his old Kevlar vest for a brand new model from the vaults of LAW’s arsenal, a parting gift from his old jhat. He rides a dirtbike, always ahead of Mal Porter’s Conquistador. The LAW-markings on its tank have been painted over. And while judge Korvanova left Mal without his signature rifle, his car is in better shape than ever. The men are traveling east: A dead Man’s GPS points out a place called George Madison Correctional Facility, and if they are to learn more about the false benefactors, then this is their best lead.
They decide to take it slow. From Memphis, they could reach the place in a day’s driving, but they decide to spend a night in Whitetower before moving on.


They reach this bustling nexus between Memphis, Santeria and Holy Flame City in the late afternoon. Zed quickly makes out a LAW-patrol. While the old man of Whitetower never submitted to a permanent presence of LAW, there is always a good chance of meeting a Judge in the shadow of the tower. The LAW-soldier guarding the jhat’s vehicles points Zed in the right direction: Lola’s Bar and Diner, a circus-sized tent festooned with red and yellow lights, one of the most underrated meeting points in the Wastes. Lola allows no guns in her establishment, so they leave their hardware in the Conquistador. Inside, Zed and Rod quickly make out Judge Bozeman and his troupe: four men and one woman in heavy armor and wearing the three letters of the law. Bozeman knows Judge Boyd and is happy to hear of his recuperation. He patrols the popular routes towards New York, and while he never visited the old jail himself, he has some things to say about it. “It’s called Refugium now. The inhabitants use the jail as a kind of fortress. They collect books and DVDs. You get there by following the eastern road for twenty clicks, then there’s a t-crossing, with road signs and all. From there, it’s another twenty clicks south to a place called Good Water. The route between Good Water and Refugium was dangerous, but that trouble has passed. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.” “Do we have people there?” Zed asks. The female soldier, a flint-eyed shrew called Mariah, speaks up “The Tribunal asked the people there repeatedly if they would like us to station a Judge in their town, but they always declined. And while they were never hostile, they will probably be less than enthusiastic about a member of LAW turning up. Maybe you should stay incognito.” Zed nods.
At the same time, Mal and Dan Hawking frequent the bar. They make the acquaintance of the legendary Lola, and after learning that Whitetower is a good place for acquiring new weapons, they visit Saint’s arsenal, the local armory which doubles as a gunshop. Dan wants a backup gun after losing his silenced Glock to LAW’s depredations, and Mal just goes along for the joy of haggling. An ancient and quite loquacious merchant named Miles receives them. The walls of the room are hung with firearms, and although there are an impressive number of guns on display, there is not much choice. After interminable dithering, Dan settles for a Glock 17, its parts scavenged from half a dozen other pistols. All the while, Mal looks at the rifles at the wall: some hunting rifles in various calibers, one M16 variant and a FN FAL. After Dan is done, Mal asks Miles to hand him the FN FAL. “That’s a lot of rifle for someone of your size and build. But it is really deadly. Will go through your normal vest like nothing. Semiautomatic, because no one would be able to handle this monster on full-auto. 20-shot box mag, and I’ll throw in two further mags if you buy it.” Mal weighs the gun. As he turns it in his hands, he realizes that it is worse in nearly all respects to the Dragunov Korvanova took off him. Handles differently. Heavier, and yet somehow not as sturdy. The Magazine sticks out for half a mile and Mal just knows it will snag on the rim of his hatch. But he needs something to make really big holes. He sighs. “How much?”
The next morning, the small convoy leaves Whitetower for Good Water.

Meetings are useless

Businesses would be better off if the just sent people home for a day each week instead. Via der freitag.