From: curtis@cs.berkeley.edu (Curtis Yarvin)
Subject: Re: inevitable, really
Originator: curtis@boa.cs.Berkeley.EDU
Organization: CS Dept. Snakepit - Do Not Feed.
Date: Thu, 3 Sep 1992 02:05:38 GMT

In article <pc0krv4@fido.asd.sgi.com> cj@sgi.com (C J Silverio) writes:
>---
>I just saw a guy riding a modified skateboard
>with a windsurfing sail on it.  Sailing along
>up the street, perfectly casually.
>
>---
>c j silverio
>next:  sail-blading

Bah.  A nice try, but not even close.  I asked my friend
Melchizedek - minor prophet, failed poet, and a demon on the
blues guitar.  Major sports of the late nineties, I said.
Tell me.  And you know what?

Sail-blading wasn't even in the TOP TEN.  Now this is a guy
who has his OWN BOOK in the Bible.  Not always reliable for
natural disasters or major theological apocalypses, but he's
ABSOLUTELY DEAD-ON for vital cultural trends.

And this is what he said:

"Number ten - the bicycle slalom.  Hard to be confident
here.  If that's really Sirius in the house of Saturn it's a
sure bet - but it looks suspiciously like just another
fruitfly nesting on the telescope mirror.  Don't take it at
less than 3 to 2.  

"Anyway, barring drosophilae, this sport gets started in the
Oil Crisis of '96, when SF city authorities close off
traffic on Russian Hill and install a bicycle lift.  Just a
winch, a pulley, and a couple ropes tied together.  You can
see the rest.  Eventually they formalize it - replace
pedestrians with padded posts.  In time for demonstration
status at the 2000 Olympics.  Ulan Bator, by the way - I
really ought to clean my telescope.


"Number nine - bungee hanging.  Not really much of a sport -
but with Pluto and Mercury in conjunction it's an absolute
lock.  The whole thing stems from a 1998 incident in which
notorious Christian rockstar Judas Golgotha - his real name
is Warren Glomsky, by the way, and right now he's sophomore
at Bel Air High and a real twit, crucifies hamsters in wood
shop - despondent over a failed love affair with a
Pentecostal bishop, leaped off the Eiffel Tower with a
bungee round his neck - and survived."  Melchizedek has a
lot of breath.  I tell him so.

"When you're dealing with the worshipers of Baal, boy, you
better have a lot of breath."  He goes on.  "It was a
genuine miracle, by the way.  I've still got friends in the
business, and I hear a few things.

"Anyway, after that he's unstoppable.  Like Elvis - but
bigger.  It's a religious thing. And guess how the followers
begin showing their esteem?  It's the '90s equivalent of big
hair, leather, and lipstick - pointy bras and blond perms -
Vitalis and sideburns."  He shakes his head, disapproving.
"At first there's a few tragic accidents, but pretty soon
people wise up.  Steel spinal supports.  They like to do it
at dawn, off bridges.  Drive down to Golden Gate one morning
and you'll see them lined up like bats.  Incredible sight.
Not to be missed. Greatest spectator sport since the
Defenestration of Prague."

"Wow, Melch," I say.  "That sounds pretty interesting."

"Yeah. Time'll do a real smash-bang expose.  October '99.
Keep your pants on.


"Number eight - parablading.  Rather a misnomer actually;
all you need is a sheet, some ropes, and rollerblades.
And a steep hill.


"Number seven - baby furseal sledding.  Invented during
the Anti-Green Backlash, sometime around '95, and I think
it's a bit too grotesque to go into detail, if you don't
mind."

"I guess so," I say, musingly.  "But what in heck do they
do?  Ride the things down asphalt-"

"Clamp it, kid.  What d'you want to do, invent the damned
sport yourself?  Lose your head in the Ecological Revolution
of 2002?  Shut up if you know what's good for you.


"Number six - Brazilian roulette.  Now there's a sport.
Thrill of danger and all that.  But it's not marketed
right.  People are shocked.  Starts off that Anti-Green
affair, in fact.

"Numb-"

"Hold up, Melchizedek," I say.  "So what is Brazilian
roulette?  How do you play?"

"Oh, forgot."  Melchizedek doesn't forget things.  "Go
down to Amazonia and chain yourself to a tree.  Hope the
logging robots come from the opposite side."

"Oh."


"Number five - jet-ski polo.  Not a very interesting sport.
Lot of Yuppies.  Fairly dangerous, though.  Kills King
Charles, in fact."

"A pity," I say.  "He's a good man."

"Drunk.  Naked.  By moonlight.  One-on-one - with his
mistress.  South African movie star.  Silicone blonde."

"People change," I say.


"Number four - mountain biking."

"Lots of people do that already."

"Not in the Himalayas."

"In the Himalayas."

"Not on the big ones."

"On the big ones."

"Not with jatoes welded to their rear racks."

"With - right."


"Number three - ulp!"

The beating of wings, and angels surround us.  They are big
and white and furry, with parchment wings.  Like Yeti bats.
They wear expensive suits and mirrored sunglasses.

"Melchizedek?" one asks me, softly.

"No, that's him."  I point.

The angels pull Uzis from their briefcases and blow him away.
It is sudden.  He has no chance to react.  The bullets tear
into him, and for a moment it's ugly.  Blood, and other
things.  Then he's gone, and there's only a cloud of grey
smoke.  Curling upward.  And lead on the pavement.

An angel walks over.  He seems to be in command.  His
voice is crisp, confident.  "Agent Shakiel," he says.
"DIA. Was he prophesying?"

"I guess so," I say.  "But he didn't mean anything by it."

"Doesn't matter.  It's the rules.  He signed a severance
contract, you know.  Very strict.  But these old farts -
they think they own the world.  Never learn.  It's not the
Bronze Age anymore.  We don't go around burning bushes and
slaughtering Midianites.  We're professionals."  He sighs,
and hands me a clipboarded sheet.  "Sign this, please."

It's printed in Hebrew.  "What is this?"

"Witness affidavit.  Helps with administration.  Just sign,
please."

I pull out a pen and sign.

"Thanks for your cooperation.  We're sorry about all this -
but it can't be helped.  Rules, you see.  Have a nice life -
what's left of it.  Be seeing you soon!"  The angels take
off in a rush of wind.  One lingers behind; he looks,
somehow, younger than the rest.

"He was great, once," he says softly, and bows his head.

"What was that last thing the agent said?"  I'm a little
shaken.

He looks at me.  Panda eyes.  "Oh, it was nothing.  Just his
idea of a joke."  The angel pauses.  "If you want to know the
truth," he says, "old Shekky's a bit of an asshole
sometimes."

And he's off, following the rest.  East.  They flap hard,
but it takes them a long time to gain altitude.


So there you go.  Now, I grant you, it's possible.  Sail-
blading might be #3, or #2, or maybe even #1.  (Why do
these lists always go backwards?)  But I don't think so.
After all, he would have told me.  Melchizedek would have.
He was nice.  He was my friend.

And don't take any of these things seriously.  Oil Crises
and all that.  After all, remember, it was just old
Melchizedek.  Not Moses or any of the major prophets.
Reliable for cultural trends, but when it came to global
affairs... well, Melch was a good man, but sometimes he just
didn't know his limitations.

c