[SuperMegaNet 3.3] Of Cabaret Crackers and Hamster Eyes
Posted on February 1, 2010 by ernie
In case you haven’t noticed, I have a slight weight problem. No, it’s true. I’ve come to terms with it, I accept it—so why can’t my grandparents do the same? Why do they have to meddle? Why do they insist on trying to fit me into their own ridiculous set of standards? And after they’ve been doing so well these past few days, keeping off my back, living their own boring lives and letting me live mine. We had an unspoken truce—then we have dinner last night, and everything goes to hell just because I bust my shirt while reaching for the mashed potatoes. Just because, in said busting process, one of my shirt buttons happens to fly across the table and hit my gramps in the forehead.
(Don’t laugh. I’m sure at some point in your life you’ve busted a seam or lost a button at the dinner table while reaching for your second or third helping. It can happen to anyone!)
Anyway, my grandparents both set their forks down and give me the third degree in their quiet, restrained old-farts way. Gramps asks me if I think I’ve had a little too much to eat; Grams asks if I’ve taken a look at the gym brochure she left outside my bedroom door the other day; both give me dirty looks when I say, “Oh, my God. I’m fine. You’re both overreacting. Now, what’s for dessert?”
Grams quietly gets up from the table, goes into the kitchen, comes back a few minutes later with a plate of Cabaret crackers. Cabaret crackers! Have you ever had those? You need a whole box just to get the impression of flavor!
Naturally, I push the crackers aside and get up, heading for the kitchen. We bought a box of chocolate chip ice cream on Wednesday, and I plan on making a sizable dent in it.
“Don’t bother,” Grams says, in the coldest, quietest tone you ever heard. “I’ve put the lock back on the fridge.”
Can you believe that? She’s put the lock back on already! It’s only been off since Tuesday! What the hell? Fucking tease!
I yell at her that it’s unfair, but she just takes a sip of water, tells me I haven’t been excused from the table yet.
I sit back down. The three Cabarets are chilling there on their plate and looking as unappetizing as cardboard coasters. I try one, just to humor my grandparents, and let me tell you, they’re worse than they look. They’re so bad my eyes tear up. Throwing my head back, I scream, “It’s like biting into nothingness!” I down the rest of the crackers, each one dissolving almost as soon as it hits my tongue. “Nothingness!” I wail.
In spite of my pain, my grandparents ignore me and start to clear the table. Gramps tells me to finish my homework, take my shower—so I think fine, I’ll just hit up Becky later and we’ll share a bag of Doritos or half a pound cake or whatever. Turns out she’s in on it too. Either that, or she’s got the worst timing ever. When I message her with my suggestion, she smiles at me, scrunches up her freckled nose, and says, “I’m glad you messaged me, Ernie. I’ve decided that I’m going on a diet with you.”
“Wait, I’m not on a diet,” I say—and then it hits me: She wants me to go on a diet with her.
You’ve got to be jerking me off.
I sit there at my desk for a while, alone in my bedroom, isolated from everything and everyone I hold dear. No fridge, no food, no sugar to level my nerves—and Becky going on and on about how she thinks she can drop fifty pounds so that she can fit into some stupid pair of jeans. Eventually I just close her SMN window (though I can still hear her voice) and bring up Theo’s. Normally, he wouldn’t be my first choice as far as snacks are concerned, but Eva’s never at her computer anymore, and Jan’s too poor to afford any good treats. Lucky me, though: Theo’s in one of his moods, worried about beauty sleep or something.
That was yesterday night. Now it’s Saturday morning, five or six hours away from dawn, and I haven’t had my usual midnight snack. Hunger is a terrible thing. Psychological hunger is even worse. I’m all twitchy and hyper; I can’t think, I can’t game, I can’t fall asleep. Fucking grandparents.
I’m going to message Becky back. Maybe she’ll let me help her clear out her fridge to make space for all the carrots and broccoli she’s going to be starving herself on. I start to bring up her SMN window, but freeze in mid-click when something rustles behind me. I glance over my shoulder—and spot Theo, fully dressed, stumbling over a pile of my clothes. He goes down hard, landing face-first on the floor, arms and legs splayed every which way.
Hmf.
“Have you come to apologize?” I ask, swiveling around in my chair, folding my arms—and nearly shitting myself when Theo rolls onto all fours, looks in my direction.
He’s got black eyes.
Like, his pupils have enlarged and swallowed up his irises, which have, in turn, swallowed up his eye whites.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, jumping out of my chair. “Nice, er, contact lenses.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, whimpering, carefully getting to his feet and reaching out with his arms like he’s blind.
“Your eyes,” I say. “They’re all black…like a hamster’s.”
Theo starts feeling his face with his hands. “Oh, no! What else?”
“I don’t know. Look in the fucking mirror.”
“Damn it, Ernie! Don’t you think I would if I could?”
Oh, shit. He is blind.
And he’s just cussed for the very first time.
I step forward a little, wave my hand in front of his face. “Really? You can’t see at all?”
“Just…shapes. Lights, sometimes.”
“Does it hurt?”
He frowns, swallows. “No. See, I…I got New Eyes—”
“New Eyes? You got New Eyes?”
“Shut up and let me finish!”
I can’t believe Theo—little, adorable, innocent, straight-edge, New Age, vegetarian Theo—got New Eyes!
“I got some Old Eyes to remove them,” he continues, “because I didn’t tell my parents about the New ones, and I was worried about what they’d say when they found out. But instead of giving me back my old vision, the Old Eyes made me go blind.” He settles back down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged. He puts his head in his hands and starts crying. “What am I going to do, Ernie?”
“Well,” I say, trying to sound like I’m putting a helpful suggestion into words when really I’ve got absolutely nothing. “It’s Saturday morning. You, um, can probably sleep in a while. Maybe the effects will wear off.”
“And if they don’t? If I’m stuck like this for good?”
“Then…” I trail off. What the fuck am I supposed to say? I don’t know shit about New Eyes except that those old TV commercials had some seriously stacked babes in them. What can I possibly tell Theo that will make him feel the least bit better about going blind?
I look at him, and he’s crying and shaking all over. I guess I’m kind of flattered that he came to me for help, but now that he’s here I don’t know what the fuck to do. I’ve never seen this before in real life. On TV, yes, but never like this. I want to run from the room and hide in a closet or something; I want to cover my ears and hum really loud—I want to pretend I don’t know that my friend is in deep trouble and I haven’t a clue how to help him.
Eventually I say, “You should go wake up your parents, get to a hospital or something.”
Theo looks up, looks totally spooked. “I can’t tell my parents. No way.”
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding? They trust me too much.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Come on, how many twelve-year-olds do you know who have their own business?” Theo shakes his head. “Everything in the world works because of constant pressure between forces that balance themselves out. My world exists because I’m careful about everything I do. I plan ahead, I follow through on promises. My parents let me make my own money, they give me total privacy because they trust me not to do stupid things with their trust. No hacking into government sites, no gambling, no porn or sex meet-ups or cybering. No giving in to those opposing pressures. If they find out I’ve lost my sight because of something I got off the Internet, that’ll be it. Everything will fall apart. They’ll treat me no better than your average brat.”
My sarcasm reflex goes off without warning. “You say that like you’re above all the rest of us poor pubescent slobs.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I actually do something with myself after school—wait, no, I don’t mean it like that, either—damn it, Ernie, you know what I mean! I can’t let my parents know what’s happened because it means I’ll get in trouble!”
“Um, they’re kind of going to find out,” I say, “when you start running into walls and falling down stairs.”
“Ugh, I know.” Theo starts nibbling on his lower lip. He looks angry all of the sudden. “This is all Beta’s fault.”
“Beta? You mean the metro-Asian dude living in your bedroom?”
Theo nods in my general direction. “Yeah. He’s the one who gave me the New Eyes in the first place.”
“I hate to be the one to remind you of this, but you were the one who actually used them.”
“I know,” Theo says, looking like he’s about to start crying again.
“Why’d you want New Eyes, anyway?” I ask, hoping to catch him before he does.
“Um…no reason.”
“Oh, so you woke up one morning and thought to yourself, ‘Fuck it, I’m bored. I’m going to mess around with some eye drops?’”
Theo sighs. “This is going to sound stupid, but…I wanted Eva to notice me. I thought…I thought without my dumb ol’ glasses getting in the way she might stop paying so much attention to Jan and start paying more attention to me.”
I should’ve known. In retrospect it’s perfectly obvious why Theo would ever do something that might unsettle his perfectly meticulous little life: he has a hard-on for Eva.
“Oh, that,” I say nonchalantly.
Theo stops crying. He blinks at me, sightless. “You don’t sound surprised.”
“Well, it’s not like I didn’t know.”
“Really? You knew?”
Poor naïve Theo. It’s been written all over him since that first day in Thrill-Kill’s office. The way he looked at Eva, hung on her every word—if there’d been any chance of him not getting expelled, he so would’ve whipped out his dick and plowed the shit out of her right there on the desk. Repeatedly. “I’m very perceptive despite my fatness. You like ponytails, she’s got one. You like small and petite, she’s like a little pixie minus the fairy dust. Sure, she’s got the bug eyes, but she’s also got the firmest little handful-tight-bottom I’ve ever seen.”
Theo narrows his hamster eyes.
“Hey,” I say, spreading my hands, “I’m not the one you have to worry about. Bug Eyes is totally not my type from the neck up. Which would make things awkward before and after sex. No, it’s Jan you should be worrying about.”
“But Jan doesn’t like her—”
“Doesn’t matter! She likes him. Eva looks at him like you look at her.”
I think I’m getting through to him. For a sec something like recognition flashes across his face—but then he just shakes his head. “Why are we even having this conversation? I’m blind.”
“You never know,” I tell him. “Some chicks dig blind guys, or guys without legs, or guys—”
“Ernie, stop. You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Sorry.” Back to the awkwardness.
The two of us are quiet for a while. I think we’re trying feel the right way about what’s happened, if that makes any sense. I know my tangent on Eva is proof that I’m in some kind of shock. It’s a weird feeling, not knowing how you’re feeling.
After a while Theo gets to his feet, wobbles, reaches out with his arms. “Where’s your computer?”
“Over here,” I say, pointing (my gesture is, of course, completely useless under the circumstances). “Why?”
“I’m going home. Send me home.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I shrug. I know I should probably say something else to make him feel better, or maybe I should offer to go back to his place with him, offer my support—but, honestly, I just want him out and on his away. I know that sounds fucked up, but I’ve never had to watch someone suffer before.
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t like it.
[ Category: Fiction, SuperMegaNet | 3 Comments | Tags: blindness, blogfic, blook, ernie, netfic, supermeganet, theo, web fiction, webfic, webserial ]
Suggested by The New Podler: A Self-Publishing Symposium
Posted on January 30, 2010 by jesse
The New Podler is gathering opinions from a variety of authors regarding the current state of self-publishing. My hopelessly optimistic answers follow below. What are your thoughts?
How does self-publishing differ from traditional publishing?
Self-publishing is either liberation or self-indulgence depending on how you go about it. There’s a dubious association with instant gratification. The core benefits: you retain all control over your material, you keep a bigger chunk of the profits, and, oftentimes, you’re able to forge a more personal relationship with your audience. The drawbacks (which, depending on your motivation, can also be benefits): you must be your own publisher, editing, formatting, creating effective packaging; you must be your own marketing team—you must be willing and able to spend a portion of your time as a door-to-door salesperson of sorts. It’s a lesson in patience and refinement, though not such an added burden considering that many traditional publishers these days require you to have a marketing plan anyway.
Regarding availability, the gap is narrowing between books sold off of a book shelf and those sold via a web site. Chain book stores are steadily closing, and while you still have Barnes & Noble, Borders, and the independents, these stores only have so much physical space. There are legions of capable, entertaining “mid-list” authors whose books are not often included between Dan Brown and Stephenie Meyer. Selling through the Internet is a way to defeat the problem of limited shelf space. It also happens to be the most accessible method available to self-publishers.
Do self-published book review blogs help to raise the reader awareness of self-published books?
Absolutely. Legitimate, critical self-publishing review blogs (like good traditional-publishing review blogs) point out the blemishes as well as the dimples. For serious self-publishers, this is what you want if you have a good, solid book that doesn’t carry the reputation of being self-published because it can’t stand on its own, because it can’t find traditional publication. It should never be assumed that getting reviewed at a self-publishing review blog is easier than getting reviewed elsewhere.
How do you respond to the following statement: “Self-publishing is not a serious way to get one’s work into print now and never will be.”
I daresay a more accurate version of the above statement is: “Self-indulgence is not a serious way to get one’s work into print now and never will be.” If you’re not ready, if you’re rushed, then it will come across to reviewers and readers alike. With self-publishing, there’s no editor or agent acting as a stop-gap. What I’m finding as I go along is that it’s not so much the self-publishing model itself that needs to clean up its image as it is the ability of self-publishing authors to effectively promote their work. It’s all in how you do it.
Has the golden age of self-publishing already passed or is it yet to come?
Bigger and better things are yet to come. I’m convinced the traditional publishing industry had to stumble before a real awareness was raised regarding alternative book markets. The technology had to improve to a point where anyone with a computer and Internet connection could feasibly create and publish. Book stores, whether they’re selling print or digital copies, will continue to be country clubs for the elites, which is perfectly fine. Many authors are bestsellers for a reason: they’re very good at what they do. But they’re not the only kids on the block. Self-published books—good ones—will continue to fill the gaps. Eventually, when (and I do think it’s a matter of when and not if) e-books become the norm, everyone will be selling via digital download. The old notion that you find professional authors’ books on store shelves, and amateurs’ online will hold much less water.
What about the challenges posed to the self-published writer by having to promote and edit his or her own book?
This is something many traditional publishers are requiring of their authors due to tighter budgets. In the past, you could, to some extent, get away with merely sending in your manuscript and letting the publishing team handle the rest. You only needed to be on hand for signings or interviews. Now you need a marketing plan to go along with your synopsis and sample chapters. You need to convince your would-be publisher that you’re a hustler. You need an agent. And even then, a contract with a traditional publisher comes with no guarantees. Yes, depending on your contract, you’ll have access to physical store shelves, but you still have to work your butt off promoting yourself. You’re selling more books, but getting a smaller percentage of each sale. Not a bad thing. On the DIY side, you’re selling fewer books, but keeping more of the profits; you’re having to manage all your book sales yourself, whether through your web site or via consignment agreements with local book shop owners. All stereotypes aside, both traditional and self-publishing endeavors involve a lot of work. The latter is more easily attainable, whether as your sole method of publishing or as a hook to attract a mainstream publisher.
Why is it that a self-published author has yet to emerge into national recognition as a self-published author? (As opposed to being given a mainstream publishing contract after a self-published book attracts attention.)
I think a lot of it is the social stigma of someone coming up to you and saying, “My latest novel is great! You should read it!” People don’t like it when other people toot their own horn—but they don’t mind as much when you toot someone else’s horn. With self-publishing, this is something of a challenge. You have to promote yourself without sounding like a greasy car salesman, you have to get other people to blurb you and promote you. It can be exceedingly difficult, because you’re not working with a paid staff, you’re working with friends, other self-published authors, family members. They all have their own lives to worry about.
Also, at this point in time, traditional publishers still carry a lot of clout. A contract with Random House can do wonders for your literary presence. I’ve seen numerous instances where an author will start a series of books with a mainstream publisher, and then finish the series at a smaller press, or under his / her own imprint. Whatever politics are going on behind the scenes, an audience has gathered, and they’ll follow if the books are good. Bands do it all the time.
Has the experience of self-publishing changed the way you write? (If you have self-published.)
I started self-publishing because the small presses I’d been with closed up shop, and I felt my work up until that point was still relevant enough to warrant some kind of distribution. With new material I’ve found that I’ve become more daring. After all, I’m no longer having to adhere to a publisher’s tastes or guidelines. I’ve been able to stretch out a little, blending genres and styles. I’ve already had to go it alone, and so I’m not worried about falling from grace, so to speak. At the same time, though, I’ve had to make sure I don’t get too lax. Proofreaders are still important (before the publishing process!), honest opinions still matter, and it’s still my main goal each time around to write the best book I can.
There you go. As I mentioned at the start, I’m optimistic when it comes to the DIY movement. What’s happening now in the publishing world is sort of like what was happening fifteen years ago during the rise of the commercial Internet. And MP3s a short while after. I mean, who texted back then? Who ditched their CD collection in favor of MP3s? Nowadays, everyone texts (and sexts), everyone listens to MP3s—and, I wager, in a few more years, (nearly) everyone will be reading e-books instead of paperbacks. We just need that iTunes-like revolution. Maybe it’s the Kindle or the nook or some other fancied contraption that makes it as easy to squeeze 10,000 books onto a hand-held reader as it is to fit your entire music collection onto a handy portable player. Maybe it’s the mass production of such devices that lowers prices and suddenly makes not having one a social embarrassment (like with the iPod). Maybe it’s the passing of new environmental laws that restrict paper production. Whatever. The day will come. Are you looking forward to it, or do you already have your “Physical, not digital!” protest sign ready?
[ Category: Articles | No Comments | Tags: diy, indie, interview, pod, podler, publishing, small press, symposium ]
TV Won’t Steal Your Vision After All
Posted on January 28, 2010 by jesse
A recent Scientific American article offers up some insight regarding that modern-day question of the ages: Does TV ruin your eyesight? I know until I hit my mid-teens, my mother was always yelling at me and my brother to “sit back from the TV!” while we played the shit out of Metroid. No doubt her logic was motivated to some degree by the likes of this:
…back in the 1960s General Electric sold some new-fangled color TV sets that emitted excessive amounts of radiation—as much as 100,000 times more than federal health officials considered safe. GE quickly recalled and repaired the faulty TVs, but the stigma lingers to this day.
Nice to know, even though those old-school CRT televisions and computer monitors used to drive me nuts with their refresh rate / flicker. I had to limit my exposure to a few hours a day or else I got headaches. LCDs have removed this problem, but have, of course, opened the door to another: extended comfort while remaining completely sedentary during tantric coding sessions. Before LCDs I had to get up and walk around, do other things out of necessity; now it’s just a prudent suggestion if I want to keep the ol’ muscles from atrophying.
I do agree with the part of the article that mentions TV as not causing nearsightedness, but rather drawing attention to a person’s pre-existing vision problems. That’s how it worked for me. I started losing my 20/20 at an early age, but it wasn’t until I started playing video games habitually that I realized I couldn’t see Mario or Simon Belmont on the TV screen unless I was pressing my nose against the glass.
That’s still no excuse for inactivity. The basic theme here is moderation. It’s been said that the longest-lived residents of the world (the healthy ones, that is) practice lifestyles that involve frequent, low-impact activities distributed throughout each day—as opposed to the typical Western norm of lengthy office chair vigils broken only by occasional trips to the gym. As annoyingly cliche as the saying is, “use it or lose it” just about sums it up. But, then, our parents already knew that long ago, back when they used to tell us to put down our effing gamepads and play outside for a while.
[ Category: Articles | No Comments | Tags: 20-20, health, outlook, science, technology, tv ]
Regarding Awkward Poses Performed in Skin-Tight Pants…
Posted on January 27, 2010 by jesse
This gem is from page 3 (towards the bottom) of a thread over at the TrekBBS forum:
I swear I only found this by happenstance, and not because I routinely hang out on Star Trek boards where the members post cheesy photo manips of Kirk and Spock as pimps. I’m tempted to start, though. Some of those user avatars are absolute winners.
Regarding the “awkward poses performed in skin-tight pants” thing: Shatner’s pose is actually somewhat close to how I imagined Theo in “Carjam.” You know, when he downloaded into the backseat of Mrs. Flammer’s car and unwittingly enacted the flexibility of an aerobics instructor without having stretched first? Yeah, it was like that, without the tight pants or go-go boots, yes—but I bet Theo’s expression was the same.
[ Category: Journal | 2 Comments | Tags: geekdom, humor, randomness, star trek, subtle promo ]
Steve Ballmer Signs MacBook
Posted on January 23, 2010 by jesse
The above is what happened to one student’s MacBook during Steve Ballmer’s recent Trevacca Nazarene University visit. It should be noted that the MacBook wasn’t entirely Apple:
…the machine was running Windows—we’ve yet to find out what would happen if Ballmer was asked to sign a MacBook running OS X.
Maybe it would be something like what happened to the second, less-fortunate student who asked for a MacBook signature:
Personally, I would’ve had Ballmer autograph my retail copy of Windows ME—or does the statute of limitations apply?
[ Category: Journal | No Comments | Tags: geekdom, humor, mac, randomness, windows ]
The Topless Bikini
Posted on January 18, 2010 by jesse
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a staunch supporter of the “-less” suffix when added to either the top or the bottom of a woman’s bikini. But can a topless bathing suit really be called a “suit” at this point? Isn’t it just…briefs?
According to the film short, the topless suit is advertised as “Half the Bikini, Twice as Sexy.”
As this is being touted by Victoria’s Secret, I’d say the slogan should be more like, “Half the Bikini, Twice the Price.” I can imagine the department store conversation between a guy and his girl:
“What do you think?” asks the girl, holding up the topless against herself.
“It looks nice,” says the guy, “but where’s the top?”
“There is no top. It’s a topless bathing suit.”
“Hm.” The guy glances at the price tag. “It’s kind of pricey for what it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s only half a bathing suit, now isn’t it?”
“No it isn’t,” says the girl.
The guy frowns, takes a two-piece bikini off a nearby rack, holds it up. “See this?” He removes the top from the hanger, tosses it away. “Half the price and just as stylish.”
“That’s not stylish,” the girl says, scowling. “That’s being cheap and buying only half a bikini.”
“That’s half a bikini!” the guy insists, jabbing his finger at her.
“No, it’s a complete suit. It’s just topless.”
“Exactly—half!”
The girl shakes her head. “‘Half’ is taking a complete suit and throwing away the top to give it the appearance of a topless.”
“Ugh,” sighs the guy. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“And you’re no fun,” sighs the girl. She sets the topless back on the rack and leaves the aisle.
The guy watches her go, and it dawns on him that she’d been about to buy a topless bathing suit.
Shit, he thinks to himself. Should’ve just kept my mouth shut.
On a semi-related note, I wonder, considering the apparent bikini fabric shortage plaguing the women’s fashion industry, if this means Calvin Klein will be putting out a bottomless swim suit for men?
[ Category: Journal | 2 Comments | Tags: bikini, boobs, cool, fashion, humor, randomness, swimwear, topless ]
[SuperMegaNet 3.2] Going Dark
Posted on January 16, 2010 by theo
I have problems with anxiety. That’s why Mom has me see Dr. Chandelier every Friday. She’s hoping that, through a series of high-priced idle conversations, he’ll figure out what it is in my well-to-do life that has me so darned worried all the time. So far he seems to have his money on some sort of deep-seeded childhood memory. Me, I think my brain just likes to fret. I think it likes to make itself feel useful. If it doesn’t have anything to worry about it makes stuff up. Like right now: I’m sitting here in Chandelier’s office and waiting for him to arrive so that our session can begin; I’m surrounded by leather and mahogany and the faint smell of cigar smoke settling between the quiet ticks of this giant antique-looking grandfather clock that’s supposed to be steady, soothing. I feel perfectly fine, I can see perfectly fine—yet I’m worried that at any moment the too-good-to-be true nanobots swimming in my eyes will suddenly malfunction, leaving me blind. Or worse.
Wednesday morning, I’d gotten back from Beta’s Enterprise replica and, despite my newfound 20/20 vision, had found myself preoccupied with the notion of discovery, the possibility that if Mom realized I had New Eyes she’d find out that I’d gotten them from a stranger—and that the stranger had downloaded into my bedroom via a program that was going to keep me connected to the Internet whether or not I wanted to be. On the way out the door I’d hurriedly knocked the lenses out of my glasses. I’d then spent the entire car ride to school staring out the passenger window, sure, so absolutely sure that Mom was going to catch on, ask me what had happened to my lenses, ask me why I didn’t need them anymore. Somehow she’d ended up not noticing, which had made me feel slightly more confident—until Ernie had caught me at my locker and asked me point-blank where my “bottle-ends” were. I’d told him the lenses had fallen out when I’d accidentally dropped my glasses on the sidewalk; he’d shrugged, called me a klutz, and asked to borrow a dollar; I’d ignored him and gone on to first period. Again, my confidence had welled slightly. But during roll call it had occurred to me that the accident explanation was only going to be good for a few days, at which point people were sure to start asking why the heck I hadn’t stopped by LensCrafters.
By lunch my self-doubt had complete control. I’d decided to hole myself up in the library. I don’t feel too bad about pulling a disappearing act, though, because on the way into the library, I’d peeked across the quad and spotted Ernie sitting alone at our table. I may have been ditching him—but Jan had evidently ditched him first. That’s how it’s been for the rest of this week. Ernie, Eva, Jan, and myself: apart.
I squirm in my chair. Chandelier’s office enfolds me. All the leather and mahogany and faint cigar smoke is suspiciously comforting. I slip my hand into my pants pocket; I press the bottle of Old Eyes into my palm. I’m seriously thinking of restoring my defaults. The alternative is too risky. It’s already bad enough that I’m using SuperMegaNet behind my parents’ backs, and it doesn’t help that I’ve let Beta take over my bedroom.
Chandelier breezes into the office, closing the door behind him and seating himself across from me in his usual armchair.
“How was your week?” he asks, removing his wedding ring. There’s a small table beside his chair; he sets the ring down, then picks up a small portrait of his wife, gazes at it, frowning, sighing, frowning some more.
“Okay,” I say. I wonder if this is anything like a fortune-teller asking me my name—if he’s good at what he does, shouldn’t he already know? Shouldn’t he be able to tell from the bags under my eyes, the way I’m constantly nibbling on my lip that I’ve got major weight on my shoulders?
“I see your glasses are missing their lenses,” he says in an off-hand way.
Already my pulse is racing. “No, I…I got contacts. I…I’m just not used to, er, not wearing my glasses, you know?”
“Maybe you feel exposed without them? Vulnerable?”
“No…not really.”
Chandelier chuckles wistfully. He’s still looking at his wife’s picture. “That’s good. One less thing for us to have to work out. Any other news?”
I think back, grasping for something he’ll want to hear. Something cliche. “I made a girl cry,” I say.
Presto. His interest is piqued.
“Girl, you say?” he asks, setting down the portrait and looking at me.
“Yeah.”
“Well, do tell! What’s her name?”
“Eva.”
“Ah. Eva.” He leans forward in his chair, smiles. “Cute little thing?”
“I guess.”
“Bright eyes? Sweet smile?”
More like bug eyes and, as of late, broken smile. “Sure.”
“Mm-hm. Always having to politely remove your hands from her darling little bottom?”
Um, what?
Chandelier leans forward even further. “I don’t tell this to all my young male clients, but between you and me—and only between you and me, because I know you’re a sensible, responsible young man—you know what’s good for two-thirds of your everyday worries and anxieties?”
I shrug my shoulders, shake my head.
“Regular interaction with the Fairer Sex.”
Here we go…
“You’re in high school now, right?”
I nod.
“No doubt they’ve taught you the difference between a condom and a water balloon?”
I nod again, this time blushing.
“Superb. That’s the first step of many. You’re forging new relationships, exploring new territory, and, yes, engaging in certain specific kinds of experimentation. The beauty of it? No wedding ring. Why, you can get away with things during your adolescent years that you’d never ever be forgiven for during adulthood. Now, I’m by no means advocating casual physical intimacy outside of a monogamous relationship, but stick with this girl, this Eve, see where she’ll let you go—I’ll let you take that however you like, since you are a responsible young man—and chances are you’ll find yourself far more interested in her various aspects than in your silly little worries.” Chandelier leans back again, clasping his hands and looking satisfied. “In a mutually monogamous relationship, of course.”
You know…you’d think I’d be surprised, outraged, even, that my head doctor is recommending me and Eva explore the therapeutic effects of sex—but I’m not. My high school guidance counselor chain smokes in her office and says “shit” in front of students. She revels in the stereotype that all teenagers are delinquents who don’t give a damn. Consequently, she doesn’t give a damn. Dr. Freud, on the other hand, does give a damn because it bothers him that his clients’ problems aren’t so easily categorized. He’d rather I become sexually active at age twelve and therefore slip into a well-documented emotional dysfunction—it’d be easier for him to treat that than the generalized worries I’m throwing at him now.
“Actually,” I say, “it’s not going too well between me and Eva. I sort of upset her, and now she’s not talking to me or my friends.”
“Oh? Tell me about that.”
I explain the situation, outlining how I basically screwed Jan and Eva over. Naturally, I replace Jan with myself—and I make sure to leave out any mention of my plush mini-devil Theo doll. When I’m finished, Chandelier sighs, pays his wife’s portrait another glance. He looks tired.
“Welcome to the Paradigm of the Sexes,” he says. “The Great Joke, the never-ending struggle between male and female, see? We need it, women have it, and they’d rather lose a mammary than give it away for anything less than two kids, a house in the suburbs, two-car garage, joint bank account.”
Too much information. Way too much. I squirm in my chair, unsure of what to do or say. I want to politely excuse myself, but my hour isn’t up. Or maybe it’s Chandelier’s hour that isn’t up. Either way, I’ve reached a conclusion regarding doctors: they need more help than do their patients. I may need CBT, a highly-specialized diet, afterschool Yoga and calisthenics with Mom, bathtime aromatherapy, and chamomile tea before bed just to give me a fighting chance for sleep each night, but I still think I’m better off than the guy sitting across from me. At the very least, I’m better off than Thrill-Kill.
Freud eventually stirs in his chair, scribbles something on his clipboard, hands me a piece of paper. “I want you to start keeping a blog. Here are some links to get you started. Blogger, Facebook, WordPress—it’s all the same. I want you to post in your blog once a week. It can be about anything: school, friends, family, computers—your mother tells me you’re into computers?”
“I design web sites,” I say.
“Fantastic. Tell people what that’s like. Invite them to comment by posing a question of some sort at the end. Bring the URL for your new blog to our next session. Okay?”
I nod and look at the clock on the wall as Chandelier closes his eyes, settles deeply in his chair, and asks me to relate my earliest childhood memory.
It’s later than usual (half past nine) when I walk into my room and set down my gym bag, take off my backpack. It’s been a long day at the end of a long week. A sudden, unexpected dinner date with Mr. Nakayoshi at P.F. Chang’s only prolonged the suffering. He likes to do that, by the way: swing by the gym and insist on chauffeuring Mom and me to dinner. Really, he’s only after an excuse to ogle Mom in her sports bra and spandex boy cuts (has she no modesty?). This can be a good thing, though, as it usually means I get ignored. Mr. Nakayoshi is too busy ogling, my mom is too busy pretending not to notice, and all the while I’m keeping my head down, I’m working through my Buddha’s Feast with nary a peep.
I’m tired enough to actually get to sleep on time tonight. I grab a shower, return to my bedroom, spread my sleeping bag out on the floor. I lay there for a while staring at the ceiling, Beta’s bottle of Old Eyes clutched in my hand. I think to myself that the adult world is more dependent on make-believe than its inhabitants would care to admit. Dr. Chandelier makes believe that I’m four years older and in desperate need of carnal knowledge; Mom pretends she’s not an object in the eyes of her husband’s boss; Dad pretends he doesn’t care; I try to convince myself there’s a chance in hell Eva will notice me if I become less of a geek (do you suppose that’s an early warning sign of impending adulthood?).
I hold up the Old Eyes. There’s just enough light from the front LEDs of my computer that I can read the instructions. I place the drops in my eyes and settle in for the night. Just as I start to wonder if I’m going to fall asleep, I suddenly jolt awake, realize I’ve been out for at least a couple of hours—
—there’s someone kneeling beside me.
“Wake up, Theo.”
It’s dark, and my eyes have crusted over, so I can’t make out who it is at first, though there’s evidence of soft bulk, a beanie, the sound of an annoying coo.
Ernie.
“Wake up,” he says again, and jokingly tickles my nipples through my T-shirt.
I swat his hands away, sitting upright in my sleeping bag and trying to open my eyes.
I can’t.
“Hey,” Ernie hisses. “My parents locked our fridge again. Can I grab a midnight snack from yours?”
“I thought Becky was your supplier,” I say, offhandedly. I’m starting to freak out. It’s probably not the best thing to do, but I press my fingers against my eyelids and force them open. My vision is swimming with little squiggly flecks. I can make out the details of my room for a moment before everything goes black.
Ernie’s oblivious. “She’s being a bitch lately. Says I’m just with her for her snacks. Personally I think she’s letting her fat make her paranoid—”
“Get out,” I snap, stumbling to my feet.
“But—”
“Go home!”
It’s quiet. Then:
“If this is about the nipples thing, I was just playing around.”
“Ernie, leave. Now.”
He snorts, tells me off under his breath. I hear him go over to my desk, click the mouse. In a moment he’s gone, and I’m alone. I don’t know why I need to be, but I do. Maybe I can deny my worst fears if there’s no one in the room with me to confirm them. Oh, but the darkness is real.
It surrounds me.
[ Category: Fiction, SuperMegaNet | 5 Comments | Tags: blindness, blogfic, blook, doctor chandelier, ernie, netfic, supermeganet, theo, web fiction, webfic ]
100 Games Cupcake Game
Posted on January 7, 2010 by jesse
This is sweet—literally:
That’s 100 cupcakes for 100 classic games in celebration of 100 years. Hover over the question mark beside each cupcake for the answers. Deliciousness.
Also delicious: the annual Preditors & Editors Readers’ Poll, over at the Critters.org site. I don’t have any eligible works this year because I’ve been doing screenplays about oatmeal. But there are a lot of people I know on the list, and they’re pretty darned good at spinning yarns. Show some love.
[ Category: Journal | 3 Comments | Tags: art, artwork, cool, delicious, game, preditors, randomness, retro ]
[SuperMegaNet 3.1] Imminent Gold
Posted on January 6, 2010 by theo
My alarm clock goes off just as I’m getting back from Eva’s. Normally, I’d be waking up right about now, grabbing a shower, having breakfast, brushing my teeth and all that, but instead I go over to the bedroom door, make sure it’s locked. Then I sit at my computer again, scroll through my SMN buddy list. I highlight Beta’s name; I click “Visit.”
Off I go, from body to bytes, from Zen bedroom to poolside paradise—wait. Not quite. Oh, I’ve uploaded onto Beta’s server, all right, but the decor has been drastically altered. In fact, I’m standing on what appears to be the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Big-breasted babes in colorful miniskirt-uniforms abound. Beta, sporting a yellow shirt, too-tight black pants, and gogo boots, is seated in the captain’s chair.
“Ensign Smole!” he exclaims with a pleased look on his face. “Welcome aboard!”
I pay myself a cursory glance. My shirt is red. Crap. I’ve watched enough Star Trek episodes to know what that means.
“What’s on your mind, buddy?” Captain Beta asks.
“Real quick,” I say, “because I know you’re probably busy battling Romulans or Klingons or whatever—”
“Naw, we’re just getting ready to watch some South Park.” He points at the main view screen. Two of his officers are wrestling a couch into place in front of the command module. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ve got school in half an hour,” I tell him.
“That’s too bad. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me how to uninstall SuperMegaNet.”
Beta frowns, looks slightly betrayed. “Is this about my living in your bedroom?”
“No, no,” I say. “My friend doesn’t want to use the program anymore. She tried uninstalling from the Control Panel, she tried turning off her computer—she even unplugged the thing. Nothing happened. It was still running as if she’d done nothing.”
“That would be your quantum technology at work.”
“Meaning?”
Beta crosses his leg, William-Shatner-as-1960s-Captain-Kirk style. “You can’t simply turn off or disconnect your neighbor, can you?”
“Well, no.” Not unless they’re on a respirator.
“That’s the concept behind SMN. Ultimate collaboration, all the time, 24/7. The entire network is supposed to be like one giant chat room, only it’s people’s bedrooms, offices, cubicles at work. Doesn’t matter if you have a hundred miles between you and the person you’re talking to. SMN means to make it synonymous with stepping from one room to another when you click that ‘Visit’ button. You can’t simply banish your bedroom door when you don’t want your parents to come barging in, and you can’t turn off your buddy list just because you’re not in the mood to chat.”
Stupid Ernie. Did he even read the fine print before he made us all install this stupid program? “Can they do that? Forcing everyone to be…connected?”
“It’s not a matter of ‘can they?’ They’ve already done it.” Beta smiles, leans back in his chair. At the rear of the bridge, the turbolift opens; a yeoman enters carrying a trayful of drinks. “The thing about SuperMegaNet is, it was an internal hobby project at Taurus, two groups of programmers trying to win a bet. ‘It can be done!’ was the motto. This was never supposed to be a public product. But it leaked out, and so Taurus went with it to prevent a PR nightmare. And to take advantage of the user base for testing purposes. They’re eventually going to release a dumbed-down version as the final gold code, something with your more standard VR features. Before then, all the ‘bugs’ have to be worked out. You know, all the interesting stuff like being able to upload and download yourself, storing yourself on different servers, et cetera.”
“That…sucks,” I say.
Beta puts his hand on my shoulder. Casually, he says, “Congratulations. You’re a guinea pig.”
“This is serious, Beta.”
“I know it is. This whole develop-in-the-wild, bleeding-edge thing is one of the reasons I left Taurus. I don’t agree with their philosophy of forcing togetherness on everyone as a way of covering up their mistake. And I don’t intend to give up my virtual freedom once the crippled 1.0 version hits the Web.”
Beta’s still smiling, but I can tell he’s serious. I guess I’d be too if I’d cheated death by going virtual.
After a moment I ask, “So, what are you supposed to do if you don’t want SMN anymore?”
“You could, I suppose, bash the shit out of your computer with a baseball bat. Your webcam, too—preferably when there’s no one downloading. Or you could wait a couple of years for your hardware to fail.”
“There’s no anti-SuperMegaNet program? No firewall setting to prevent uploads or downloads?”
“There you get into the quantum programming shit again. Part of the bet at Taurus was to come up with something that couldn’t be hacked or blocked. A true connection.” Beta laughs. “I think it was mostly the guys wanting to keep tabs on their girlfriends. Well, those who had girlfriends anyway.”
A mild cheer goes up as the South Park episode begins. The majority of Beta’s bridge crew are making their way over to the couch as Cartman’s face fills the screen. The quality looks amazing—better than Blu-ray. I watch for a moment before facing Beta again.
“Hey, how come you didn’t tell me about the downside to New Eyes?”
“What downside?”
“The optic nerve rot thing.”
Beta waves his hand dismissively. “That’s, like, five percent of people.”
Oh, God. “But what if I’m in the five percent?”
“You’re not.”
“How do you know?”
Beta shrugs. “Your eyes would’ve melted out of their sockets by now.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Beta gets up from his chair, walks over to a console that’s been grafted between the communications and library computer stations.
Curious, I follow him over.
“If it’ll make you feel better…” Beta says, entering some sort of cryptic code via the keypad. Momentarily a bottle dropper materializes on a small platform above the console. He picks it up, tosses it to me. I barely catch it.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Old Eyes,” Beta replies. “It restores your eyes to their natural default factory setting.”
Great. More eye drops.
[ Category: Fiction, SuperMegaNet | 3 Comments | Tags: beta, blogfic, blook, netfic, supermeganet, theo, web fiction, webfic ]
The Oatmeal Man Video Journal, Day xx: Newport Beach, California
Posted on January 3, 2010 by jesse
(First post of the new year—I popped my own 2010 cherry! Wait, who typed that??)
I made it to The Oatmeal Man wrap party in December. It was a lot like one of the old Colossal Theatre barbecues: Claude took a seat at the center of the room and started telling ricockulous stories while the rest of us, drinks and snacks in hand, gathered around and egged him on. At the halfway mark, Sean ushered us into the lobby, where we were treated to a rough cut of The Oatmeal Man. It was as fun watching everyone’s reactions as it was watching the movie itself—I think we were all a bit surprised at how well things looked. Yeah, there were no effects, no audio cleanup, no score (all that comes later), but the performances were there. There was passion. There was oatmeal. My only regret is that my camera ran out of juice just before Kaleo borrowed Sal’s guitar for an acoustic performance of “Your Mouth Ain’t Good 4 Nuthin’.” It was sweeet. Long spelling intentional.
Anyhoo, the video blog from the wrap party is up at the Pulsar Pictures YouTube page:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xm7RSPkTBWo
Go watch it before it watches you…or before I reuse the aforementioned phrase for the umpteenth time.
[ Category: Journal | No Comments | Tags: behind the scenes, movie, the oatmeal man, video, video blog, vlog ]
