Bob Bello's Blog - Posts Tagged "bob-bello"

Lately I wonder, what's the point of posting star rating about anything without reviewing the product, or at least saying a few words about it? Is that even a "review," per se, and why is it allowed on some websites, while others strictly forbid it? Is this a newly fledged form of "speechless socializing," or what?

On another hand, what if this is a great LOOPHOLE in the WWW rating system?

It is well known that anyone who doesn't like the topic of a certain book, movie, song or even artwork, can 1-star-rate it only to tell everyone silently that this product is not worth your time. Unfortunately, today this is called "Silent Hate Speech" and it is well practiced by haters and/or jealous competitors in the field. It could be even done by political rivals across borders, which--in this case--becomes an old-time Cold War rivalry. In the 20th century, it was practiced as "propaganda" by Communists VS Capitalists (and vice versa), whereas today anyone who doesn't like your product can do it. Silently, free of charge, and totally unpunished as a form of "sharing my customer's opinion to save you time and money from buying this worthless thing," etc.

For example, many former dissident writers, filmmakers, and artists in exile are constantly harassed by former "secret police" agents from their countries of origin, who unrestrictedly criticize their work on the Internet. No hacking, no constructive criticism--just silent underrating in the name of the so-called Freedom of Speech. They can easily say their opinion as well, writing a negative review of your product, supposedly as "verified purchase customers." How difficult it is to buy a 99-cent book, music track, or rent a video, thus receiving international rights to say their "honest" and "unbiased" opinion about it?

That said, on some websites they don't have to buy the product to "review" or "criticize" it. And yes, "constructive criticism" is allowed, so long they don't curse, slander, or use hate speech. Just share your private opinion and drive millions of potential buyers away from the product you hate or merely dislike for whatever reason. Clever, right?

It gets worse! On some websites you don't even have to say anything to 1-star-underrate a product. Again, no hacking, no hate speech, no comment at all, no sweat. Just a click and--boom--done!

The SILENT 1-STAR RATING is just as detrimental as "fake news" and "deep fake videos," but it's totally legal--that's the problem. The slanderer says nothing, yet their underrating speaks volumes! It shouts and yells and raises red flags all over the Internet, indirectly "back lashing" against products that promote the opposite of their ideology. Be it anti-Communism, anti-Capitalism, anti-Racism, anti-Semitism, or "anti" whatever. Anything they disagree with is a target. In that case, you and your product are a sharp thorn in their side and must be dealt with swiftly, legally, effectively, and--yes--diplomatically. Welcome to the Brave New World of Global Marketing!

BTW, George Orwell warned us in his novel "1984" that this is how it's going to be in the near future, and now, at last, we are the dumbfounded witnesses of the well-predicted Net Revolution.

Nowadays, most webmasters will tell you to "report or 'flag' any reviews you find offensive." But if there is NO review, there is nothing to report—and NO way to report it. Clever trick, right? Yep, there is absolutely NO way yet to report 1-star-ratings as offensive, unfair, unjust, or whatever, simply because in the webmaster’s records it does not exist.

That's what we call a HUGE LOOPHOLE in our democratic system of reviewing any product or service we like or dislike. But that's the problem. They--your haters or ideological enemies--can "flag" ALL your products as offensive as well. Oh, yes, they can also flag all your comments as racist, sexist, or copyright infringement--whatever works, right?

You've noticed that the "thumbs down" is almost gone from all websites on the Internet. Not the 1-star-silent-underrating, though. The problem escalates when the site owners believe the "haters" claim and block your product as "violation of someone's rights." Yep, most platform owners will remove your product without any thorough investigation (no questions asked!), just to avoid scandals or lawsuits. Others will only block it until the investigation is over, which sometimes lasts for half a year or more. Another clever trick, right? Try to do business if you can after they block you out of Amazon, YouTube, Facebook, or any online platform. Try to pay the bills with NO sales, etc.

But wait, there's more. The other "great" way to bash on you and your work as a writer (or any content creator) is to hack your account and post hate speech from your name, making you sound scandalous, racists, sexists, and whatever controversial individual with highly disparaging opinions. This is the easiest way to portray you as a sociopath or psychopath, or even make a "deep fake" video with your face saying all these things out in the open from your own office. Try explaining "this isn't me, guys!" Where does the evil genius end? Now that the A.I. is in every area of our lives, they say anything is possible--even the impossible, which only a year ago sounded unthinkable (or sci-fi plots, at best).

But back to the SILENT REVIEWS of today. They work perfectly "well" and nobody is trying to fix this GIANT LOOPHOLE. Why? Because it is somewhat unfixable. Any attempt to fix it or control it sounds like a violation of Free Speech and is perceived as anti-democratic. (Never mind that the people who misuse it hate democracy to their guts!) Moreover, one needs an entire army of attorneys and private detectives to investigate such "fake reviews." Who do you think will do that for trillions of books, movies, songs, etc., and gazillions of comments, let alone "silent hate crime" with NO comments whatsoever?

Again, if there is NO comment, there is nothing to investigate--and that's the other BIG problem. Alas, in this case there is no crime, no smoking gun, no legal ground to remove the "fake review" as harassment, bashing, or whatever reported misdeed, because it literally "didn't do" any of these things. It's just someone's private SILENT star-rating, right? Wrong! It is a virtual criminal offense, called "silent hate speech" and it should be banned on ALL websites, as it already is on some platforms as "highly professional."

For example, on Amazon, haters do it SO cleverly that not even Amazon's praised Fraud Investigations Department can remove those 1-star ratings, since they are posted by "legit purchase customers." Star ratings without reviews are discouraged, so the haters write something but then delete it a few days later, and leave the 1-star rating undeleted. Ta-daaaa! Bingo!

In conclusion, nobody even wants to look at a 1-star-rated product, automatically marked as "100% negative." This BANAL issue has been reported to Amazon for years, and yet... nothing was done by 2023 to stop this zombie lunacy. But so is on YouTube, Facebook, GoodReads, Barnes & Noble--almost everywhere on the World Wild Web (pun intended).

My advice, don't pay attention to SILENT REVIEWS because they are NOT REVIEWS at all. In fact, go check the 1-star-reviewed products for yourself, because maybe--just maybe--they are THE BEST! If a review says nothing, it means nothing, even though it silently rises false red flags that this product is "crap!"

That's my 5-cent review of the Bog of Eternal Stench, to 'quote' David Bowie and his counterparts from the classic "Labyrinth" movie.

Once again, TOTALLY IGNORE 1-star-ratings without texts as SILENT HATE CRIME! Better yet, report them to the webmasters to raise awareness that this injustice must stop ASAP before it becomes uncontrollable! IF you believe anyone is listening, feel free to start campaigns. I'm saying that because 90% of the "customer support" is an A.I. and there is NO human being to talk to ;-) Moreover, if you don’t have a million followers (true or fake), nobody would ever listen to you in 2023, but maybe in 2123 they will--after the Post-Apocalypse claims all notions of freedom and democracy.

Just see below how many people will read this article and dare to leave a comment, even though ALL of them (potentially) suffer from this menace.

Stay vigilant and Godspeed to your creativity!

BOB BELLO
writer/producer
May 2, 2023

P.S. As a result of this article, my YouTube account and several Facebook accounts were blocked as "hacked." Here's the shameful list:

www.facebook.com/timeship
www.facebook.com/writerbobbello
www.youtube.com/timeshipstudio
etc.

2024 UPDATE:

1. Now official Internet services offer 100% negative reviews! Anyone can ruin your book, artwork, or whatever you sell by reviewing it as useless, junk, terrible, ineffective, or simply controversial, racist, immoral, etc.

2. Now there are A.I. apps that can post inappropriate messages from your name (racist, hate speech, spam with links to porn sites, etc.), and if anyone investigates the posts, they will lead back to your wi-fi address.

3. Now there are online racketeers, who bully people to subscribe to their "self-promotion" services. If you decline their offer by clicking on their email link or block them from contacting you again, your email is automatically added to an A.I. Black List, which then wreaks havoc on your online business in the above-mentioned ways, and more.

P.S. Once again, see how many people commented on this article ;-) Thank you for the three million subscribers, guys, I appreciate it!

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If you are interested in my fiction stories and illustrations or space art, visit www.amazon.com/author/bobbello or socialize with me at www.instagram.com/timeshiptv

Note: The moment anyone hears I'm a writer, their first question is, "Why did you become a writer?" Not so much about the genre, though many mistake sci-fi with horror and suspense, but "why" or "how." And not so much "why do you have an accent," since English is my 4rth language. Anyway, I decided to put the question to rest by uploading here my first short story, written in the long-forgotten 1983. Yep, that old I am, predating the dinosaurs and the Daleks. If you don't know who the Daleks are, ask Dr. Who, or just disregard the whole issue altogether, because this story is not about them. It's about me and everyone's desire not to be misunderstood. True story, though somewhat fictionalized. Enjoy!

"CRAZY BOBBY"
(The Way of the Futurist)
By Bob Bello (c) 1983. All Rights Reserved!

“The dinosaurs became extinct
because they did not have a space
program. And if we become extinct
because we don’t have a space
program, it’ll serve us right!”
--Larry Niven

12-MAY-1977, 10:30 AM
PLANET EARTH, SOL SYSTEM

A gray Volkswagen Beetle pulled into the parking lot of a University Hospital. The blond female driver exited in a hurry, accompanied by a sixteen-year-old boy, who emerged from the opposite door with a hardback sketchbook in his ink-stained fingers.

“Son, all adults ought to check their heads once in a while,” she told him, fixing her blond hairdo on the way to the main entrance. “Not that I think you’re crazy, Bobby.” Concerned over his mixed feelings about her idea to see a psychiatrist, she added, “It’s just a … prophylactic checkup with a mental-health physician.”

“Cool,” he replied with a funny grin. “Let’s see if I’m psycho.”

While she checked in at the lobby, the teen went to call the elevator. On the way up, he chuckled playfully, “It was about time,” though the look in the single parent’s eyes revealed a different story.

The nurse met them right away, standing next to the wall plaque:

PROF. VASILY D. IVANOV, M.D.
PSYCHIATRIST & P.T.S.D. COUNSELOR

After quickly verifying that Bobby was the patient in question, she gestured for the mother to sit on the visitor’s couch in the enclosed waiting room, its reading table stocked with colorful magazines. Then she led the boy into the specialist’s office, having no time for introductions, customary for first-time patients and voluntary test subjects.

The mother perused one fashion magazine after another, glancing impatiently at the big electric clock on the opposite wall. About 20 minutes later, Prof. Ivanov walked out, running fingers through his gray hair, making the mother wonder what he had found wrong with her son.

The old man shook her hand, silently inviting her into his office, while Bobby dropped on the visitor’s couch and started drawing the nurse in his sketchbook, smiling under his scanty teenage mustaches.

The seasoned university professor closed the door and motioned to the chair across his old-fashioned oak desk. “Ma’am,” he began with a Russian accent, taking his seat, “may I ask why you think your son needs my services? I mean, besides his PTSD from the car accident and the rest you told my secretary on the phone.”

“He’s an artist,” the mother hesitated, wringing her fingers. “I’m sure you’ve seen his sketchbook. At times, he acts strange, to say the least.”

The man bobbed his head with understanding. “Don’t we all?” He asked this rhetorically, as though his years of academic wisdom had bestowed upon him the undeniable answer to that question.

The mother frowned slightly, not sure how to take such a response. It nearly made her doubt his credentials. Her eyes mechanically glanced at the wall with his diplomas and the large painting reproduction hanging behind him, depicting some guy with Earth’s globe in a sunlit room.

“In this hectic world of 20th century,” the prominent specialist continued enigmatically, “we all are little crazy. Today there is no such thing as perfect mental health. It is myths and legends, especially when it comes to artists and intellectuals. Most geniuses are somewhat introvert.”

“Well…” The young mother didn’t dare to comment.

He tapped on his temple with a curly smile, trying to break the ice. “They are ‘not alone up here,’ as one Russian saying goes. Instead of enjoying life or having date at nice restaurant, they stay home, nose in paint, creating what they call fine art. Does that sound normal to you?”

“Uh…” She missed his train of thought. “I’m no artist, Professor. I’m just a librarian. A TV bibliographer, to be precise.”

The old man nodded again, reassuring himself of something she was not telling him. “Yet we all marvel their artwork in museums and exhibitions, do we not?” Seeing that he wouldn’t get a word out of her, he took off his glasses and slowly began cleaning their thick lenses, switching to a more professional tone. “We do standard tests here, ma’am, which help us determine the individual’s IQ—Intelligence Quotient. We show them pictures, ask questions, and if we detect any disturbing response, we have the technology to read their brainwaves and go on from there.”

The mother shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wishing he would tell her straight, instead of sounding peculiar. “So … Bobby’s OK, then?”

Prof. Ivanov looked through his lenses. Unsatisfied with their cleanness, he blew into them, pressing firmer with the smooth piece of cloth. “You see, ma’am, your son’s test results are outstanding. He has acute memory, great and healthy imagination, and he is well outspoken. You have done great job in his upbringing as single parent. I salute you.”

She smiled awkwardly at his evasive response, not relaxing at all. “Thank you, Doctor. I certainly hope so. I’m trying my best.”

Noticing that she didn’t trust him—unsure whether to address him as ‘professor’ or ‘doctor,’ or maybe just ‘sir’—he smiled warmly, trying to predispose her like a secondary patient in a family case. “People with poetic souls sometimes are not satisfied with reality,” he told her tactfully. “Life is repetitive: we wake up, we eat, we work, we sleep … But when we get bored, what happens? We go to movies, concerts … even visit art galleries to vent our overburdened souls. Isn’t that so, ma’am?”

He stood up and pointed at the classical painting on the wall, inviting the young mother to take a look, as if he was a museum curator, not a mere shrink. She joined him, reading the engraved bronze plate secured on the frame: ‘The Astronomer (1688) by Jan Vermeer.’

“Frankly,” he went on, “such intellectuals entertain us. They fascinate most of us with their unique visions and stories, adding meaning to life. Trying to sweeten our banal existence.” He looked at her. “Let your son dream, ma’am. Let him paint, write, make movies—create anything he wishes. If we try to stop him, we might just push him over the edge.”

“I know,” she sighed tiredly. “His PTSD is what worries me.”

“Trust me,” the old man encouraged her, “some geniuses are little eccentric. Take Van Gogh, for example. Suffering depression, he cut his ear and sent it to one of his models—prostitute who didn’t want to marry poor artist. Now his paintings are sold for millions. Or take Picasso. Communist Muslim, he lived in polygamy, drawing like angry child. Or Hemingway, who killed himself for losing faith in humanity. I’m not saying this is normal. I’m saying … your Bobby needs his freedom.”

The old man’s eyes fogged as he briskly recalled what had actually happened in his office a moment ago.

***

“What you see here, Bobby?”

The young artist squinted at the Rorschach inkblot. “A moth?”

The professor showed him another test card. “And this?”

“A staircase.”

“Going up or down?”

The teen smirked. “Both ways, of course. Is that a trick question?”

“Very good, son.” The Russian put the inkblot down, next to the boy’s open sketchbook, its pages covered with astronauts, starships, lunar bases, and space station designs. They weren’t exactly comic book sketches, more like sci-fi visions of the future. “Let me now ask you some standard questions.” The doctor removed a rubber band from around a set of IQ flashcards and read aloud from the first one, “Do you love to use underpasses? Answer with Yes, No, or I don’t know.”

“Love?” Bobby gawked at him, intuitively comparing the doctor’s face with that of the astronomer’s in the painting. The sunlight fell on their faces almost the same way, soft and warm, magically transforming their beings into objects of art. The teen glanced at the barred window, where the sun entered the office like in the painting, though it wasn’t so beautifully latticed or glass-stained. It was plain, featureless, banal…

The professor cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I…” The young artist returned to the present, looking back at the old man. “I don’t think the word ‘love’ is appropriate here, sir.”

“Really?” The specialist examined him over his slouched glasses. “How would you say it, then, if our roles were reversed?”

“Um … ‘Do you prefer’ or just ‘Do you use underpasses.’ I don’t think I can ‘love’ or even ‘like’ going through them. That’s ridiculous.”

“Why not, Bobby? Does darkness bother you?”

The teen’s face turned annoyed at the simplistic question. “No, I just don’t see how I could ‘love using an underpass.’ It would mean that the moment I spot one from afar, I run through it like crazy. Why? Just to satisfy my ‘romantic’ feelings for it or what? This is nuts.”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” the professor sighed with a hidden smile. “Why can you not use the word ‘like’ instead?”

“What’s there to like about it?” the teen chuckled. “This isn’t a person or an architectural landmark. It’s just a simple, functional passageway. OK, some of them have gift shops and cafés inside, even small galleries, but still…” He shrugged, leaving it at that.

“So, you can’t answer with Yes, No, or I don’t know?”

Bobby smirked nervously. “I can—if you’re a little more specific.”

The psychiatrist nodded, greatly amused. He wanted to know why this young man didn’t just answer the question and be done with it. Why dig into the words like a bookworm? There had to be something that bothered him deeply, causing this intellectual resentment or stubbornness. Of course, the MD knew what it was, but he needed the patient to admit it to himself, so he decided to provoke him, hoping the boy would open up on an emotional level. “Specific how, Bobby? Explain it to me.”

The teen looked away with annoyance, obviously unwilling to sound weird in a shrink’s office. “If I say ‘no,’ that means I hate underpasses. If I say ‘yes,’ it means I am somehow attracted to them. If I say ‘I don’t know,’ I’d be lying because I do know. If the question was, ‘Do you risk to use underpasses when it rains like a flood’ or ‘Do you prefer to use them when you’re in a hurry and they’re dark,’ that would make sense and I’d answer right away. But ‘love?’ For what? I’m sorry, that’s crazy. I know people say, ‘I love ice cream’ or ‘I love movies.’ Still, who can love an underpass? It stinks of drunkards’ piss, not to say worse.”

The professor laughed boisterously, “Boy, did your mother bring for checkup, or you brought her?” Putting the questionnaire flashcards down, he coughed into his fist to stop his spasmodic laughter. “Bobby, you’re perfectly sane, I can see that. But let’s talk about death and your drawings.” He finally managed to get serious. “It bothers your mom that you speak about demise too much, frightening your friends away. She is concerned you will end up lonely, closing yourself in dark thoughts, or turn suicidal. Forget I am psychiatrist. Can we talk man to man? Tell me what bothers you so much? Why not enjoy life instead?”

Bobby’s expression became gloomy. Images from his car accident at the age of thirteen invaded his mind: the ambulance, the emergency room, the ER monitor going flatline … then doctors trying to resuscitate him. He saw it all, as if observing from above, hovering at the ceiling. “We’re all on a death roll, Doctor, aren’t we?” he muttered rhetorically, fidgeting in his chair. “People are mortal. Life is the very thing that kills us all—and we pretend like we don’t care? Isn’t that a huge paradox?”

The psychiatrist looked at him sideways, trying to read his thoughts between the lines, analyzing every word, body language, and tone of voice. “Is that why you paint? To find meaning and purpose in life?”

“Exactly.” Bobby calmed down, which clearly revealed that art had a very positive effect on him. “I became an artist because everyone acts like we aren’t going to die. They avoid the most important question of all. This is stupid, not to call it a charade. Life is everything.”

The specialist took this answer as somewhat disconnected, if not inadequate. He browsed through Bobby’s sketchbook, reevaluating all the sci-fi drawings, which reminded him of Leonardo’s inventions from the Renaissance, covered with cryptic notes. Some of them were made with black ink, others were sepia, smeared in places to create shadows. Only a few were toned with pastels or watercolors, mostly space landscapes of broken planets and lava-scarred moons, reinforced with a red marker, or splotched with myriads of hovering asteroids. The old man scratched his old-fashioned sideburns, perusing further. Something didn’t fit here. Something out of character, even out of place. These weren’t crazy doodles of a psychologically unstable teen. These were … technical studies?

“Hmm, I don’t see how death is an inspiration to you, Bobby. I see hidden beauty in your illustrations: ancient planets, spaceships, stars bursting colorful nebulas … even a few cute girls in spacesuits. Not one blood-thirsty alien or devouring beasts, like what we see in most comic books. There is great dose of optimism in your space art.”

He showed him a two-page colored nebula brimming with stars, obviously made with an acrylic whiteout pen for typewriters. A spectacular vision of deep-space exploration with a ship dashing across the spread.

The artist didn’t answer, so the specialist put his sketchbook down and prodded him some more, “I’m pretty sure you know everything dies: people, planets, stars … Rich or poor, it’s law of nature. It is normal.”

The teen stared at him. “Normal? Then why heal patients? Let them die. To me, death is a sickness—the biggest of them all.”

The Russian sensed that he finally reopened a mental wound, so he went deeper to explore the ‘culprit’ that had traumatized the boy at such a young age. “Well, people die since the dawn of time,” he said calmly. “It is one of the gifts of nature: the circle of life, as we call it.”

“A gift?” Bobby smirked derisively. “It’s the circus of life! We all turn into soil, and then the future generations literally eat us in the fruits of the earth. You call that normal? That’s insane, Doctor!”

“Bobby,” the old man spoke parentally, “are we talking about people in general or your own Near Death Experience in the ER?”

“Both, sir. If death is normal, why did they have to resuscitate me? Why not leave me for dead and cremate me? I was gone anyway. Why fight death like a disease if it’s a ‘gift of nature?’ I don’t get it. I don’t.”

“Because you are young, Bobby.” The old man sent him a sympathetic smile. “You have your whole life before you.”

“Then how long are we going to stand there,” the boy lamented, “and let people die left and right as ‘the circle of life?’ Why are we lying to ourselves? Excuse me, but this is idiotic, if I may be frank. I don’t understand this world. It’s completely wacko! I’ve no words for it.”

Seeing the problem, the psychiatrist anxiously clicked with his mechanical pen a few times, then shoved it into the front pocket of his lab coat, trying another approach. “Son, how do you propose we ‘fix’ this problem with death humanity is having?” He asked that with appropriate seriousness. “You must have some rational ideas, am I right?” He showed the artist his sketchbook again, raising an eyebrow. “I mean … something more than comic books, if I may be frank as well?”

The teen relaxed, seeing he was no longer under attack for his spontaneous feelings or peculiar beliefs. “Art won’t help us, Doctor.” At last, he finally opened up. “We need sober science, one that doesn’t believe it is ‘normal’ to die. One that can create ‘miracles’ of transplanting organs every time a body part fails. Better yet, force our DNA blueprint to grow everything we need right inside us: from lost teeth to lungs, kidneys, livers, hearts … One day even brains and entire bodies that don’t decay. Transfer our consciousness into synthetic clones. Moreover—”

“Whoa, slow down, sonny,” the old man halted him like a galloping horse spooked in a thunderstorm. “Now you sound like Dr. Frankenstein. What if this fantastic science-fiction never happens? What then, huh?”

“It’s worth dying for,” the teen insisted. “It gives us purpose in life, instead of feeling like mere roadkill. With all due respect, sir, nothing intelligent ever happens unless someone makes it happen. None of my paintings paint themselves. Do your patients heal themselves? People say, ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ But if we believe death is ‘normal,’ then the will to beat death is gone. Or it never existed. What’s the point in living, then? To achieve what? The cemetery?” He shrugged with a funny face, ridiculing the whole world. “Why do they allow death to claim them so easily? I don’t get it.”

The psychiatrist took notes in his pad. “In case you don’t know, Bobby,” he said while writing, “this is called survivalist philosophy, not sci-fi illustrations.” He looked at him. “Why do you think it is wrong to die? Everybody knows that old people leave this world to free space for next generations to come. It is logical, yes?”

The teen opened his arms, not understanding the man either. “If I am an intelligent being, Doctor, why should I accept to perish at all? Young or old, it doesn’t matter. Where’s the healthy logic in being no more?”

The professor smiled. “That’s why people believe in God and hope for eternal life in Heaven. Can’t you find peace in any religion or some spirituality, if art is not enough for you? Why do you still struggle?”

The boy smiled back. “I’ve nothing against people’s faith for a better life in eternity, but I think we’re all missing something here. There must be more to our existence than just eating, sleeping, working, and going into the grave. I think humanity has a mission on this planet.”

The doctor slowly folded his arms, tilting his head in curiosity, yet with a little dose of sarcasm in his eyes. “Such as…?”

Bobby thought he had already answered that, but he nodded, accepting the challenge like a duel with words. “First, they said nothing heavier than air can fly. Now we fly every day. Then they said we can’t live in space. Now we send astronauts to the moon and probes to Mars and beyond. Who sets the rules and the limits? We do. Then why don’t we kill the ‘death gene’ and enhance ourselves like we graft vine trees for better taste and genetically engineer garlic that doesn’t smell? I believe life is waiting for us to harvest our nature-given possibilities. Instead, we poison the planet and complain about cancer. We eat junk and die like junk. Why, Doctor? Why not create an underpass for this problem as well?”

Intrigued, the specialist found himself arguing with a sixteen-year-old. “What about overpopulation? What about feeding and clothing billions and then trillions of undying people? What about energy problems? And when we run out of food and fuel, what then, young man?”

The teen sent him an exaggerated sorrowful look. “Harvest free solar energy and engineer artificial foods or clone beef and veggies. The sun provides 800,000 more solar energy than humanity needs per day. Are we nuts not to use it? We can do so many things to make life easier. We can build artificial islands and extend the continents into the oceans to deal with overpopulation. Why do we have brains? To gobble like locusts and wait to die, hoping for a better afterlife? This is suicidal, Doctor.”

The boy stood up and approached the desk, flipping the pages of his sketchbook. “Look at this.” He showed the old man what he had in mind. “Here is how I see it. We need science and medicine dedicated to more than just sustaining life. We need space exploration, committed to our cosmic survival. Just as Columbus found America, we need to find earthlike planets to terraform and colonize them. Why overpopulate Earth till it starts killing us with our own pollution and broken climate? We can build space stations and move our factories into orbit, freeing our dying environment from ages of human abuse. People can work in space for a month, then come home and have a vacation in the clean forests or visit the artificial islands in the pure oceans. Is that too much to wish for?”

“This is called utopia, son,” the Russian sighed, growing tired.

But the teen didn’t stop there. His vision of tomorrow was too strong to die by a few words from someone, whose life was two-thirds over. “So be it,” he insisted, flipping through more sketches of futuristic concepts. “We can terraform our moon and build launchpads up there, which won’t require as much fuel to overcome Earth’s gravitational pull. Then we can terraform Mars and other planets, even build artificial planetoids in our sun’s orbit. Eventually, humanity will achieve interstellar travel and start mining asteroids all over the galaxy. Who or what can stop us?”

“Money and politics, of course,” the Russian said plainly, pointing for him to sit back in his chair and stop gesticulating like a mad poet.

“What?” The boy’s enthusiasm withered as he took his place.

“If we don’t first kill one another and destroy this beautiful planet,” the shrink explained. “Good will is not enough, Bobby. Look at the bigger picture here: our world is in Cold War. To achieve what you say, humanity needs to be united and put all their money together. But around whose flag and ideology? Will Communism or Capitalism rule global society? Something in between? Socialism?” He wagged a palm. “Aaah, you’re too young to see the problem from inside this can of worms. This is why there is no global peace and unity, my young philosopher. And this is why people still emigrate and live in exile all over the world.”

“I see…” the boy sighed, as if he was the older person in the room. “And this is why people will continue dying like flies in manure. Better from old age, than a WW-III nuclear holocaust, right? What a pity.”

The doctor grunted, agreeing at least on that. “Son, let me tell you one true story. In 1884, Nikola Tesla comes to America from poor Serbian village and tells millionaire J. P. Morgan, ‘Sir, I can provide our planet with free wireless electricity. Would you like to finance my project?’ The businessman tells him, ‘Unless we put meters on it and sell power to customers, I’m not interested.’ Now, Bobby, my last question is simple: Can you live in this messy world with the rest of us or not?”

The teen nodded. “I’m not suicidal, Doctor. On the contrary. I love life. I became an artist to change people’s minds about living. Otherwise, I’d become a rocket engineer. Art is the best way to upgrade people’s thinking and limited imagination. It’s an international language, no need for translation. It speaks to all reasonable humans. That’s my goal, sir.”

Dr. Ivanov glanced at his watch and closed the sketchbook. The session was up. Looking at the boy’s ink-stained fingers, he got an idea. “You know what, Bobby, why don’t you write about it? Words can say so much more than art. Why speak in symbols when it could be novels?”

“Novels?” the artist echoed. “You mean … graphic novels?”

The Russian smiled pensively, satisfied with his simple solution. “I mean literature. Futuristic stories. Serious speculative fiction with catchy book covers and maybe a few illustrations.” He stood up, walking in front of the desk, speaking now as a university professor, not a mental health physician. “Words are coming naturally to you. You are born to be writer.” Giving him back his sketchbook, he confided, “I have friends in high places. Who knows, maybe they will listen to what you wish to tell the world.” Excited about it, he stretched out a hand. “We have a deal?”

“Deal!” Bobby’s face brightened up as he shook the old man’s whole arm with a solid clutch. All he needed was to see that at least one person in this world understood him for what he had become after his Near Death Experience. “I’m glad you like my idea, sir.”

“Like it?” the old man chuckled. “I love it, sonny.” He patted his shoulder and walked him to the door, chuckling, “This will be the underpass I am going to run through every time I see it.”

***

His recollection fading, the Russian academic looked at Bobby’s mother with a warm smile, and wrapped it up, “People like your son, ma’am, have destiny to follow. He is what we call ‘visionary futurist,’ and he would not have it any other way. Bobby cannot work on factory conveyor, closing boxes all day long and be happy that money is good. No, ma’am, your son needs wings to carry his imagination and free his soul from our meaningless existence. He cares for humanity—for all of us—not only for himself. He dreams of our survival among the stars. To be honest, I envy his hope for the future. He is full of vigor and life, which is quite rare these days. Frankly, I find nothing wrong with him.”

Taken aback, the mother stared at the old man’s sudden enthusiasm, which somehow didn’t suit his age and title. “Professor Ivanov,” she said with unhidden reservation, “you come highly recommended as the best authority in the field of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Are you saying that you encouraged him to sink deeper into his sci-fi depression?”

The old man noticed how she almost spat out the genre’s abbreviation, surely misinterpreting it for horror movies, not space exploration.

“Oh, this is not depression or stress disorder at all.” He walked her to the door, realizing he wouldn’t change her mind so easily. “On the contrary, ma’am, your son gave me hope for our illogical civilization. Bobby reawakened that old voice of reason in me, which I lost in years of war and poverty. That’s why I strongly encouraged him to write a book about his futuristic vision. The world needs to hear what he has to say.”

“Are you sure, Professor?” she asked before he opened the door for her, the concern still on her face. “He’s dyslexic. He can barely read.”
The man rubbed his earlobe. “Tonia, was it? You are thirty-five?”

She winced. “I had him right after high school. His father left us.”

“Then you don’t remember Second World War.” He took her hand. “I’m your father’s age, so let me tell you this: comic books and science fiction stories gave hope to millions of us during bombing and devastation. Before that, they helped us survive Great Depression. Many killed themselves, suffering total social disillusionment. We did not call it ‘depression’ only for economical reasons. It was time when we needed visionaries like your Bobby, and we still need them to end this Cold War and build great future for humanity. Without his hope, we are lost.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, still not believing his strange diagnosis.

Opening the door, he added, “After all, your son is walking in your footsteps. You are TV librarian, right? There you go. Good day to you.”

The mother squinted at her son, who stood up from the visitor’s couch, ready to go home. Taking him under his arm, she hastened out of the office, whispering in the corridor, “What have you done with the old man, Bobby? He’s now talking gibberish like you. Another sci-fi nut.”

The teen shrugged, as always unsure how to answer his mom when she spoke like that. While they waited for the elevator, the professor ran after them, handing the young man a business card.

“This is my publisher’s telephone, Bobby. Call her.” He wagged an index finger at him. “And remember, I want your book autographed.”

The young artist took the card, and the old man watched them leave, as if they were dear guests visiting all the way from Russia.

“Dr. Ivanov,” the nurse called him back, already checking the list on her notepad, “are you ready for the next patient?”

He walked to her, his mind elsewhere. “Megan, did you know we can build space cities in orbit and move our factories up there, freeing the environment from pollution?” Entering his office, he went straight to the astronomer’s portrait on the wall, as if talking to him through time, “We can terraform our moon and Mars, and one day populate our galaxy…”

“Doctor?” she asked, seeing him so overwhelmed for the first time.

He blew onto the frame’s brassy nameplate and polished it with the back of his white sleeve. “By God, Bobby,” he whispered, his eyes tingling with tears as he stared at Vermeer’s masterpiece, “I hope you are right, son. It can be such glorious future … if we ever do it.”

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P.S. Download a FREE but truncated .mp3 audiobook version of this story at https://archive.org/details/CrazyBobby