Amoeba’s Lorica: SETIback

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away … maybe. (No, not that galaxy.)


Avaan Fundebinder strode purposefully onto the auditorium stage of the Galactic Center to Search for ExtraTelemanny Intelligence (GC-SETI), to a storm of applause from the journalists assembled, live and via voomscreens, for the press conference. Behind him, far less enthusiastically, shambled SETI Search Coordinator Betell Sooth. A lectern bearing the wordmark of the GC-SETI stood center stage. Fundebinder, the institute’s Leader, marched to it, while Sooth half-fell into one of the two chairs immediately stage right of it.

“A joyous surnoon to you all, my fellow telemanx”, Fundebinder’s amplified tenor, a practiced presenter’s voice, rang strong and clear. “Malomalomalo for coming to our press conference, where we shall announce a key finding of our research. Our SETI Search Coordinator will give you the details. I present to you: Dr. Betell Sooth!”

More applause. Sooth initially half rose, hesitated, then, as if gripped by a “dammit, get this over with” resolve, straightened and made his way, grimly, to the speaker’s station, nodding at Fundebinder as the two passed. A look of concerned surprise spread over Fundebinder’s face as he took his seat to the right of the podium.

“Malo, Professor Dr. Fundebinder,” Sooth’s gritty baritone was a far less practiced speaking voice. At the formal title (“Malomalomalo, Avaan” was what was expected), and the speaker’s tone, Fundebinder’s expression changed to one of shock, and incipient anger. “I do not have an announcement for you. I have two. The first is, this press conference is my last official act as SETI Search Coordinator, and as a member of GC-SETI staff. My retirement takes effect when we are done, and my legal team has made it clear to me, and to all, that the Imperial Boons due to me on retirement are secure, come what may here so long as no crimes are committed. This allows me to speak, at long last, as a scientist, not as a shill, and to tell you, based on that science, what is, and not what will keep GC-SETI in Boons, or titillate your audiences and keep your journalist sucrooteries paid. And if saying what is be deemed a crime, so be it.”

The hall was silent except for the venomous glare that Fundebinder aimed at Sooth.

“Here, then, is what is.” The untrained voice swelled, and boomed through the hall. “We are alone in the galaxy, and probably in the universe. Our search is, and will remain, fruitless.”

The silence was replaced by a low buzz. Sooth’s voice projected over it.

“We have been puzzled for tenyears about fragmentary electromagnetic impulses that we collected from time to time, that could not be explained by random astrophysical events but were not sufficiently coherent to be assessed as purposeful signals. That puzzlement has featured prominently in our boonmanxship, and has kept a lot of us in sucroot.”

Fundebinder’s glare turned to red-faced fury. If Sooth noticed – Fundebinder was behind him and to his left, after all – he did not let on.

“We have finally collected enough of these fragments to compare them with what our own electromagnetic emissions look like in Hamestar space, and assess what they are and what they mean. We have identified eleven point sources for these emissions, distributed essentially at random throughout the galaxy. Eleven point sources that can be interpreted as purposeful electronic communications.”

“But you said …!” rang out from several places in the hall simultaneously. They were met with an inarticulate, visceral roar from the podium.

I!!” Silence. Sooth ground out his continuation. “I … will tell the full story. And then you will have context for your questions.

“We have three explanations for the fragmentary nature of these signals. The first: their transmission is chaotic. Different signal strengths, different frequencies. Our own sound similar at the margins of Hamespace. Like ours, they are internal communications, not intended for far-distant earholes.

“The second: the interference of astrophysical phenomena. The signals are weak, easily absorbed or deflected by galactic dust, dark stars, and other material detectable and not.

“The third: the duration from any one point source is short; the Gander Algorithm variable L is vanishingly small. By the time we get enough signal for interpretation, the source vanishes.

“We have spent much time and effort on this third factor, again using our own communications as a model. Our conclusion: in each and every instance, before the community became capable of purposefully transmitting a coherent, and consistently interpretable, set of signals to space, the community had collapsed.

“In one such case – it was, of course, the one that was making the nearest approach to coherence – its star went nova. All the rest succumbed to some planetary catastrophe, either abruptly as in a global war scenario using doomsday weapons, or more gradually due to resource depletion or catastrophic climate change. We have interpreted signals from each of the ten non-nova-related clusters that are consistent with one or more of these outcomes. We conclude that, in each case, the technologies that permitted the producing communities to emit signals also caused those signals to cease. And, once ceased, signals do not resume. No new signals have come from any of the ten non-nova clusters that we have observed. The collapse, once effected, is permanent.

“Our creaturelocks tell us that evolution of lifeforms, whether carbon-based or silicon-based – we don’t yet know of any others – is a process that cannot predict the future. Selection in nature only acts on what benefits the creatures it’s acting on right now. We interpret our observations to mean that this evolutionary principle, as explained by the genius Windar in the face of great controversy two centares ago, applies throughout the galaxy, and is probably literally universal. The communities responsible for our signal sets either lacked the ability to perceive the onset of the calamities that destroyed them – they lacked the ability to predict the future – or they lacked the ability to act on the predictions they made, because such action benefited no individuals right now, whereas inaction benefited most individuals right now.

“Our sailingwizards tell us that our sailingwaters will start to lose breatheair sometime in this tenyear, thanks to the technologies that we use to communicate to each other. They tell us that the process, once started, will be unstoppable, and will kill us all in a centare or so, unless we either abandon these technologies or spend massive boons on additional technologies to correct the problems, with material resources that we may, or may not, have available on the planet. We are doing, and will do, neither, because neither benefits any of us right now. And so we go on, feigning that we have the time, and the boons, to send beepings to the interstellar dust, and listen for the beepings that others that we pretend are out there send to us.

“We conclude that we are alone in the galaxy. There is no intelligence to be found. And neither do we qualify. We are next in line for obliteration.”

“Tufortunoha to you all.”

Sooth, spent, stumbled out from behind the lecturn and shambled stage right. His departure was accompanied by stony silence. At a nod from Fundebinder, two uniformed telemanx appeared in the wings, escorting Sooth off the stage, out of the building, and off the GC-SETI campus.

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Amoeba’s Lorica: Parimutuel Entertainment

Fran Drescher is the president of the actor’s union. In a fiery speech Thursday, she told the studios, “You cannot exist without us!” – News item


Nor should they.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Amoeba reads that the actors in Hollywood have joined the scriptwriters on strike, for higher wages (the millions of dollars they extort from We the People who stupidly pay to watch their shows, and use to fund celebrity divorce cases, clearly being insufficient) and protection against the risk that AI will render them irrelevant.

His response: “Get a job.”

It’s been more than a decade now since YFNA turned off the household TV for the last time. He can not remember the last time that he set foot in a theatre presenting a Hollywood movie, and he does not use streaming services. He is not desensitized to the murder, mayhem, and variously and ingeniously unnatural copulatory activities posing as “romance” that the professional pushers currently sell to us, and a commercially significant (is there any other kind of significance?) percentage of Us line up to buy.

Professional sports were, to YFNA’s lasting shame, the last to go. It finally got through his thick skull that the behavior patterns that, We are told, are necessary for the $ucce$$ful prosecution of a professional sport (NCAA this means you) are utterly inconsistent with the existence of a democratic form of government. Those, YFNA argues, who fervently support professional sports and profess a love of democracy, are lying (perhaps, most significantly, to themselves) about the ‘democracy’ part and may count themselves with Donald Trump Adolph Hitler and his Nazi party, who set out to use the facade of democracy to destroy it, and managed it very nicely, thank you.

It is unclear to this Amoeba that such enemies of democracy should be permitted to participate in it. Not least because the principles that seem to be necessary to generate a marketable sports team, and the corruption and general filth that have become quintessential components of the professional sports world (and the marketing thereof) have thrust their ctulhuian tentacles into the worlds of business and politics. How much democracy does your boss tolerate? And why aren’t you raging against that? (Maybe because you don’t want to go bankrupt, and/or have your society collapse in anarchy around you?)

Your Friendly Neighborhood Amoeba practices, and here preaches, parimutuel entertainment. The term parimutuel (etymologically, “among ourselves”) is one that derives from horse racing; since there was a track near YFNA’s home during his youth, the term was constantly floating in front of him, and he finally bothered to look it up. In parimutuel betting, the players contribute a pool of funds, and the winners share that pool on completion of the race or other game. In other words, the players are betting against each other, and not against a “house”.

In entertainment terms, the entertainers are drawn from the community, and perform with and for that community, and are not associated with a “house” (Hollywood, a professional sports league, yada).

As members of a community, parimutuel entertainers have incentive to understand and be sensitive to the standards of that community, including matters of content and compensation. Such entertainers, YFNA thinks, should have real jobs, and provide their entertainment as a service to their communities, with sensible compensation for their direct expenses but no expectation that the community will support the kinds of pay that will fund celebrity divorces.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Amoeba is aware that his definition of “parimutuel entertainment” is close to that of prehistoric definitions of “amateurism”. He is hopeful that his term will avoid, for at least a short time, the general debasement to which the word “amateurism” has been subjected.

In the same “news” source from which YFNA read about Fran Drescher, he read that there is an effort in the US Congress, with bipartisan support, to declassify government documents about Unidentified Flying Objects.

You see? There is no need in Our society for professional entertainers and their extortionate, dehumanizing demands on Us and Our civilization. The amateurs parimutuel entertainers provide plenty, and We are more than willing to elect them to high office.

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Amoeba’s Lorica: Meme-ories 45 (Still Pwned After All These Years)

It is written, there shall be no human habitation that is exempt from possession by a cat, unless a dog is present and unapproachable; and if a suitable habitation be without a cat, one shall promptly be supplied.


It’s been eighteen months since the local community cat, known to some neighbors as Mr. O’Malley, started to lay claim to the house that He and She occupy. The claim is now firmly established. Gifts have been exchanged, and the matter of appropriate victuals and the timing of their delivery has been settled to the satisfaction (for now) of Management. The new proprietor has even tolerated being called “Fluffybutt”, and (somewhat more testily) the application of flea collars.

The staff are working up the nerve to present their case for wages and retirement benefits.

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