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This is just a place to hang some UTF-8 character regression tests.

I'm surprised that this hasn't been addressed by the academic communities. Someone with a degree in English or linguistics or something like that should have though of this decades ago.

This word (actually more than one word) has various spellings, and I've probably used all of them at one time or another. The word is email, or eMail, or e-mail, or some other variation. They're all wrong.

It's a contraction of "electronic mail" and as such should be spelled e'mail. The same with e'books and other e'words.

So why hasn't someone with a PhD in English pointed this out to me? I have no formal collegiate training in this field. It's a mystery to me.

In his 1951 short story The Fun They Had, Isaac Asimov has a boy who finds something really weird in the attic -- a printed book. In this future, all reading was done on screens.

When e'books* like the Nook and Kindle came out, there were always women sitting outside the building on break on a nice spring day reading their Nooks and Kindles. It looked like the future to me, Asimov's story come true. I prefer printed books, but thought that it was because I'm old, and was thirty before I read anything but TV and movie credits on a screen.

And then I started writing books. My youngest daughter Patty is going to school at Cincinnati University (as a proud dad I have to add that she's Phi Beta Kappa and working full time! I'm not just proud, I'm in awe of her) and when she came home on break and I handed her a hardbound copy of Nobots she said "My dad wrote a book! And it's a REAL book!"

So somehow, even young people like Patty value printed books over e'books.

My audience is mostly nerds, since few non-nerds know of me or my writing, so I figured that the free e'book would far surpass sales of the printed books. Instead, few people are downloading the e'books. More download the PDFs, and more people buy the printed books than PDFs and ebooks combined.

Most people just read the HTML online, maybe that's a testament to my m4d sk1llz at HTML (yeah, right).

Five years ago I was convinced ink was on the way out, but there's a book that was printed long before the first computer was turned on that says "the news of my death has been greatly exaggerated".

* I'll write a short story about the weird spelling shortly.

Hello, fellow Soylentils! Please come into my journal, as we prepare to discuss the pertinent issues of our times.

Two issues: Toxic posters. As much as I love Ethanol_Fueled, his charm, such as it is, wears of rather quickly. But he is a prince compared to gweg_troll, the single (if that)-minded racist who is oh so concerned about all rational people modding him down because he is, in fact, indubitubly, a racist. But there is still worse, my fellow Soylentils, MikeeUSA, the wanna be rapist of children, really need to be, well, exiled from our community. I suggest multiple SPAM mods, IP banning, and &*%*%$#$($@%#$^$&*/.

Part of what makes the internet such a tool for progressive politics is that it allows the recidivists to come out and state their positions. Yes, the fact that African Americans commit more crime per capita proves, well, that correlation is not causation. Poor people commit more crime, and African Americans tend to be in that demographic. Gee! I wonder why? See, it's %*^*^%&$&%s racism that creates the conditions that confirm racism. Boy, are you racists stupid! Ever read (excuse me for accusing you of being literate) Huck Finn? Jim was better man that any of you wannabe crackers could ever be.

Second, (notice I actually skipped Eth? That is because he is asleep on a mattress of dubious provenance right now) I want to see MikeeUSA on the Sex Offender Registry, because if he is not already on it, he definitely will be soon. This is one seriously sick person, one of those that cannot be cured by any know psychotherapy or time behind bars. So we, and the rest of the internet, need to find him, identify him to the authorities, and have him put into protective custody. I do not make this demand lightly, I know that Mighty Buzzard and others will defend personal rights to a point, but not to this point. The Bible says, "Blessed are the peace-makers". Never does it say, "blessed are the perverted pedofiles who quote the Old Testament". See?

So there is my "nice" journal, discussing pleasant topic which all might engage at their leisure. And we will just have to accept that modding has a clear "reality" bias, because, as Stephan Colbert put it,"reality has a clear liberal bias". So, as the great! Philosopher Hegel said, "reality's bias is just reality, so it's not a bias at all."

This editor thinks about things... usually does not reach a conclusion.

Every so often an important story happens, or there are no usable submissions and an editor might elect to circumvent the normal process and set their own story for release. This goes against the normal submissions process, it is not something that happens very often. Site news is the exception to this for obvious reasons.

On the occasions we have released a story as described above -- not waiting for a submission -- there has been no complaints that I am aware of.

Honestly, I do not rush to start releasing my own stories, or to make submissions. Organic and original submissions are far better and what I really want to see more of.

What are your opinions on editors finding and releasing stories this way more often? Especially when it comes to 'breaking news', but more generally also.

[This journal entry is just that, it is not an official SoylentNews RFC or endorsed by any of the staff.]

I've uploaded a new book to mcgrewbooks.com. Edgar E. Smith was a well known science fiction writer known as "the father of space opera", and Doctor Smith was a food engineer in his other life. The novel I've uploaded is Triplanetary, first published in serial form in Amazing Stories in 1934.

Some of the dialogue is a bit juvenile, but it would make a great movie.

I've read books accidentally, meaning to read a single chapter and winding up reading it in one setting, but I've never started writing one accidentally.

Until now.

Tired of editing Random Scribblings and Voyage to Earth and Other Stories (Formerly titled "Mars Bars"), I thought I'd look for another science fiction novel in the public domain a little less ancient than The Time Machine to add to my web site.

I didn't find one, so decided to just make a book of public domain short stories by the 20th century greats. I found a LOT, and started assembling a book. Somehow, I wound up adding commentary and thought "Hey! New book!"

Then I discovered that one of the short stories wasn't so short -- in fact, it was a full blown novel. So for the last several days I've been formatting it to put on my web site. E.E. "Doc" Smith's Triplanetary will be posted in a few days.

I'll let you know when it's there. I guess I'm working on three books again. The collection I'm working on is tentatively titled "Yesterday's Tomorrow".

I had to laugh when I ran across this article.

"Cortana's UI now expresses 18 different emotions. Siri remains detached and aloof."

Yes, Microsoft is apparently the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation with its " Genuine People Personalities". So when are they going to make that "Marvin" interface?

He awoke wondering where he was... on a medic. Why was... oh, hell, why was he being held down? And then the big question hit him – Who am I?
        And who, besides the medic itself, which was only a robot, had imprisoned him? And why?
        There was a tube leading into his arm... was he in a hospital? It smelled like a hospital.
        The medic beeped, and said “condition improved, now stable.”
        He must have had some kind of accident, but he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone how he wound up in a hospital.
        “Computer!” he said, hoping the hospital computer could shed some light. It was apparently not paying attention, because it ignored him. He lay there strapped to the robotic table for what seemed like forever when the medic again beeped and spoke. “Condition improved, now fair.”
        “Computer!”
        No answer.
        Damn. “Medic!”
        No answer.
        Another eternity passed, and the medic reported “Condition good, patient released.” The straps came loose and he sat up on the medic, waiting for a nurse or doctor that never showed up. Didn’t someone have paperwork when a patient was released?
        He decided to look around the hospital to find someone and tell them that he shouldn’t have been released, that he had no memory. He used the rest room and went searching for help.
        This, he thought, was the strangest thing... this hospital seemed to have no doctors, no nurses, no administrative staff, nobody. Not even any patients. He walked down hall after hall, and found nothing but locked doors and more hallways.
        He started to panic, and muscle memory reached his hand into his pocket for a phone. There was none there.
        That panicked him. Why didn’t he think of it before? It could have told him at least who he was, if not where he was and why.
        He started running, down first one hallway then another, until he collapsed in exhaustion and anguish. He sat there in the hallway, head in his hands, sobbing softly.
        Quite a while later he finally came to his senses, sort of. He got up and decided to just walk around, looking for... anything, really, but especially people. Where was everyone? It would be nice if he could find a sandwich, too; he was starting to get a little hungry. That added to his already numerous worries.
        He found no exits, no unlocked doors, no people, no sandwiches. It was hard enough to keep his fear below panic levels, but then what was obviously some sort of alarm went off. Was the building on fire? He stopped, with no idea what to do.
        He looked up – weren’t there skylights showing stars earlier? But his memory was impaired, after all, not able to remember his name or anything before waking up on the medic.
        He heard the first sounds that didn’t come from robots that he’d heard since awakening, and it scared him even more – the sound of hail. Perhaps there were skylights, but were now shuttered.
        At this point he was aware that the alarm was almost certainly a tornado warning, and he couldn’t find the stairway! Maybe this building didn’t even have a basement, but who in their right mind would build a structure in a tornado zone without one? But without a stairwell, it might as well not have a basement. He huddled in a doorway waiting for the tornado to destroy him and the building.
        The sounds of hail stopped, the siren stopped, and yes, there were skylights; the shutters opened then, showing stars once again. Odd that the storm had started and ended so fast. The shutters must have closed before the clouds rolled in.
        He started to continue his fruitless search.
        A robot wheeled past, and he had an idea. The robot would certainly lead him to something.
        It did. Down a hallway he’d not yet explored and probably had run past more than once in his earlier panic was a large door that stood wide open, the automatic pocket doors recessed. Inside was a huge room filled with tables and chairs, but still no sign of humanity at all. The robot he’d followed dragged another robot away. Puzzling.
        At least he had somewhere to sit besides the floor. He sat down at one of the many tables to rest, thinking he’d have to figure out how to find his way back before continuing his search.
        He just couldn’t stop wondering what the hell was going on. Was he being studied in some sort of weird experiment? Was he a prisoner by design, or by accident? Was he a criminal? Did he have a family?
        Without even thinking he started praying out loud, “Oh, Lord, please help me...”
        A mechanical voice chimed in. “Can I help you, sir?”
        He looked up at the robot. “Yes,” he said, “how can I get out of this building?”
        “I’m sorry, sir, but that is not in my database. Can I get you something to drink?”
        “Yes, cold water, but first, where am I?”
        “This is the commons area, sir. Would you like a menu?” Without waiting for an answer, the video screen displayed a menu.
        “Yes, I’ll have a cheeseburger, brogs, and a caffeine shike.”
        “Yes, sir,” it said, and started to roll away.
        “Wait!” the man said. “What is this the commons of?”
        “That information is not in my database.”
        “Can you tell me what this building is?”
        “I’m sorry, sir, but that information is not in my database. Is there anything else, sir, or should I fetch your order?”
        “No, go on.” It rolled off. He put his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.
        The robot came back shortly with his water and shike and rolled away again.
        “What the hell is going on?” he wondered aloud, again.
        The robot came back in with his food and wheeled away. He ate, still not able to figure out how to examine his prison and still find his way back to this “commons”. At least he had food and drink now, which relieved him greatly and made exploration of this building far less, yet still, important.
        Then he thought: A commons. A common area. People should show up here, perhaps he should just wait for someone to show up?
        Several hours later and the skylight still showed stars. Was he in Antarctica? Or was he... Yes, that explained everything. He was on a space ship, but why? Where was it going? Where was the captain?
        Was he the captain? Or... a horrifying thought came to him. Was he a pirate who had killed the captain and thrown the body out the airlock?
        His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of humanity – boots walking down the hallway, and cautious whispering voices.
        He looked around the doorway and saw ten heavily armed, armored, and helmeted men.
        “Oh shit,” he thought. He was captain, but didn’t even recognize his own boat, let alone how to run it, and now there were pirates who would surely murder him and steal the ship and whatever cargo it was carrying. He cowered in a corner, wishing for something to defend himself with.
        They came in, weapons drawn, with the men in the back facing the other way and backing in. The man in front lowered his weapon and raised his face shield. “Jerry? Christ, man, what the hell is going on?”
        “My name is Jerry? Are you sure? I don’t know who I am!”
        “Jesus, Jerry, I’ve known you for years, you’re Jerry Smith. I was scared shitless for you, what the hell happened? Did you get attacked by pirates?”
        “I... I don’t think so. I’d be dead if they had. The first thing I remember is waking up on a medic wondering who I was and where I was and why I was on a medic. I wandered around for hours, I don’t think anybody else is here.”
        “Okay, Joe, check the pilot room. Rob, would you do an engine inspection?”
        “Sure thing, boss.”
        “Jerry, where are your phone and tablet?”
        He shook his head. “No idea, but I was sure wishing I had them.”
        They took Jerry to Earth with them while another man piloted Jerry’s ship there.
        He did eventually get his memory back after a lot of therapy. His phone had been in his captain’s quarters, and he had been doing inspection in machine storage when a can of something that had been improperly stacked by a malfunctioning robot had fallen, hitting him in the head and knocking him cold. A medic had taken him to sick bay, leaving the tablet laying on the floor, effectively locking him out of everything. Clearly, some policies, at least, would have to be changed.
        Jerry never captained another ship. In fact, he spent the rest of his life on Earth and never entered space again.

Begun, this grand experiment is. We have had some whose feefees were hurt by moderation, which is strange, since moderation should be by definition moderate, or at least moderating. But maybe we have the opposite effect occurring. Not to say that the extreme views are prevailing, but the noise to signal ratio seems to be increasing. I must confess, bear with me here, that I actually used the "disagree" mod, to disagree with someone objecting to the "disagree" mod. Perverse, yes. Uncalled for? I think not! Mod me the same if you disagree!

But all this belies the dysfunctional state of debate (or the more polite term, discourse) in America. Yes, I specify America, as in the United States of, because of the rank corruption of political discourse by the one percent, combined with a uniquely American anti-intellectualism that discounts scholarship, research, learning, schools, teachers, and basically anything that requires some effort to understand. Americans are lazy. Unfortunately, they have added scared to the repertoire. But I assume that Soylent News includes more than cowardly Americans who have to run of to former Russian Colonies.

So, topic of the day: Faith. Do you believe that free and unfettered argument will get us all closer to the actual truth? Or do you reject the same because of the possibility that your position will lose the debate?