The Wire: Kima Greggs

The role of Shakima "Kima" Greggs is that of neophyte. Granted, she was in The Wire for all five seasons but her character is the one used most often as Simon's way of explaining the day-to-day work of the Baltimore Police Department. McNulty's character is the "input" character, used to show the social relationships and structure of the hidden rules and institutions. Greggs's character is the "output" character, used most often to show the actual work of policing.

When she is introduced, she is a member of a trio of detectives in Narcotics - Ellis Carver and Thomas "Herk" Hauk are the other members of the group. Despite being technically the junior detective, she's the most competent of the three in terms of actual policing and using her mind to solve crimes instead of her authority. I believe that the audience would most likely identify with Greggs rather than Carver or Herk; I know I did.

Greggs shows the viewer that in The Wire, policing is not like it is in other cop shows. Like acting, a lot of being a successful policeman is just waiting around until you get the chance to make an arrest. During this waiting around process, you will be on stakeouts, gathering information and not knowing if the information your are gathering is valid or if it will ever be used in a court - or if it is used in a court, if the jury will act on it. One saying about being a soldier is that it is "hours of boredom punctuated by seconds of terror" and Greggs is the clearest example of that.

It is through Greggs that we meet Bubbles, a junkie and street informer whose assistance proves valuable in the Avon Barksdale case. It is also noteworthy that Greggs has built up an informer - McNulty comments in another season, I believe, that part of being an effective cop is cultivating good sources of information - and neither Carver nor Herk have informers. (When Herk tries using an informer, it ends disastrously.)

In Season One, Greggs is wounded in a shootout during an undercover stakeout. Her gun was taped to the bottom of the seat, but she couldn't reach it and Greggs winds up in intensive care. Her colleagues grapple with the consequences of Greggs's near-death, leading McNulty to conclude (temporarily anyway) that the work it is taking to bring down drug kingpin Barksdale might not have been worth it.

Greggs is a rarity among her colleagues - she's an out lesbian. Greggs explained (partially joking) that part of the reason she's out is because it deflects male attention. Like many other policemen, she has to balance the relationship between her job and her personal relationships. She has a long term relationship with Cheryl, her girlfriend, who asks Greggs to transfer to a desk job after Greggs is shot - Cheryl can't stand the thought of Greggs dying somewhere on the street.

Unfortunatley, the call of being in the thick of street work calls to Greggs - a desk job simply isn't satisfying. This endangers Greggs's relationship with Cheryl. Furthermore, Cheryl is very interested in getting pregnant and starting a family with Greggs. However, while a pregnant Cheryl shops with Kima for baby gear the viewer learns that Greggs is disengaged. Clearly, having the baby is Cheryl's idea and not Greggs's.

Greggs is dissatisfied with her relationshp and begins to do what Jimmy McNulty does - cheat. The joke is that it's very easy to cheat on one's spouse as a police officer because you can always call in and claim you're working a case - officers love supplementing their salaries with overtime pay, and sometimes the necessities of police work demand irregular hours. By Season Four, the Greggs/Cheryl relationship is clearly a casualty...but it was already on shaky ground to start.

Cheryl remains with the Major Crimes Unit until Deputy Commissioner William Rawls sabotages the unit by putting Lieutenant Marimow in as the new commander after Daniels is promoted. Marimow's overmanagement and insistence on his units making petty arrests and showing up at meetings (surveillance be damned) lead Greggs to request a transfer. Daniels helps Greggs by helping her get assigned to Homicide.

After some petty hazing, Greggs shows that she too is "real murder police". Her notice of a small detail helps solve a case which is potentially quite embarassing for the police department. Unfortunately, when Greggs learns that one of her colleagues in Season Five has crossed the standards of behavior in a big way, she has to make one of the toughest decision any police officer could make - whether she should "rat out" a close colleague.

Greggs makes it work in the end. She's competent and quick-witted, but it came at a price. She had to blow the whistle on a good friend. She's now just "Aunt Kima", a close friend of Cheryl and her son instead of a partner. I don't know if she's happy about the way her relationship worked out, but I suspect she's satified with her work as murder police. Sometimes, it's strictly an either-or proposition.

The Wire: Jimmy McNulty

If you were hard pressed to name a "star" of The Wire, it would be Jimmy McNulty. McNulty bounces around working in the Homicide Division of the Baltimore Police Department to being a detective on a Major Case Squad to being assigned to the Marine Unit, then back to the Major Case Squad, then choosing to work in the Western District as an ordinary patrolman to back at the Homicide Division.

There's a reason for all of McNulty's moving around - McNulty is a real pain-in-the-ass. To put it bluntly, McNulty's attitude towards authority is one of disdain. In most dramas, this would set up McNulty to be the real hero, a situation in cop dramas which is now even parodied on The Simpsons, the "rebel cop against his stuck-up supervisors", a trope which traces its way all the way about to Dirty Harry and earlier.

However, The Wire makes sure that we do not see McNulty as someone completely admirable. McNulty is a borderline alcoholic (and crosses the border somewhat in Season Five) and he has already burned through one relationship. His wife has divorced him due to his lying, his catting around and his drinking and raises McNulty's two children on her own. McNulty has visitation rights but his wife does not want him to see the kids, which might have been a deliberate choice by David Simon in order to foster some sympathy for McNulty. Whenever McNulty's wife, Elena, makes an appearance it is either to serve McNulty papers, or to deny McNulty visitation on some weekend, or to bump into McNulty while she's at a baseball came with her boyfriend, a successful lawyer.

However, alcohol and sex were only a few of the reasons the relationship crashed. The other reason was McNulty's role as a detective. Simon doesn't make McNulty the noble detective - Simon stated that McNulty is a detective more for the individual thrill of solving a case than for any other higher goal. This is probably true about a lot of our jobs, we do them because they give us personal pleasure or solve some ulterior purpose rather than loving our jobs for some truly altruistic purpose. As a result, McNulty is prepared to chase a case to the ends of the earth, and God helps who gets in his ways.

In the beginning of the season, McNulty has already worn out his welcome with his current supervisor, William Rawls, who is glad to dump McNulty into the Major Case Unit being formed by Cedric Daniels. Daniels needs manpower, and several departments have availed themselves of the opportunity to "dump their humps", i. e. get rid of their least productive detectives. McNulty is dumped into the Unit but proves to be one of its most effective members....

...but at a cost. Lawrence J. Peter proposed that there were two types of competence in this world, "output" and "input". "Output" is simply doing what your job requires - a widget maker who can't make widgets will be out on the street. "Input" is preserving the hierarchy, or the institution - a widget major who makes widgets very well but who keeps his superiors in an uproar will find himself out on the street.

McNulty, simply, cannot make the compromises that one must make in order to get along at one's job. If there's something that needs to be done, he'll do it and he doesn't care what kind of relationship he has to run over to get there. We see this in McNulty's berating of Lieutenant Daniels - his superior - in the first season when Daniels can't move fast enough on something to suit McNulty. Daniels has to juggle several balls to keep the investigation moving and keep the Unit alive, but McNulty frankly doesn't care. His needs have to take precedence over everyone else's, he has a case to solve.

Definitely, McNulty is recognized as being good at what he does. In Season Five, he is recognized by Sergeant Jay Landsman - nobody's "best friend pal" -as "real murder police", the highest compliment that can be given to any officer, an informal accolade which states that McNulty is a true detective in every sense of the word. Despite that, Landsman and McNulty's relationship is largely adversarial. When McNulty begins his work on the Red Ribbon Killer - a serial killer ostensibly killing Baltimore's homeless - Landsman is sick of McNulty's whining for more resources and treats McNulty's requests with apathy.

McNulty, meanwhile, deliberately strikes back. In Season Two, as a Marine Unit officer he creates a file related to a "floater", or dead body in the water, and through painstaking work proves that the body was murdered in the part of the Cheseapeake that is within Baltimore city limits, shoving an unwanted and potentially unsolvable murder onto the Baltimore Police Department, hiking up its uncleared murder rate. There would be 13 more bodies he would add to Baltimore's murder rate simply by showing that they lay within the BPD's jurisdiction, making him no one's friend at the BPD, where the crime rate stats and clearance numbers are worshiped.

In Season Four - where actor Dominic West was unavailable for much of the season - McNulty seems happiest. He has returned to the simple life of a patrolman and is beginning a relationship with Officer Beadie Russell. He has stopped drinking and it looks like he can recreate his former life again, with Russell's two kids partially replacing his own.

But in Season Five, it all falls apart. After a long investigation with Major Crimes that yields no results, the unit is closed down and McNulty is back with homicide. By now, the city is facing a budget crisis that has extended into every department, including the police department and the lack of money makes it very difficult to do effective homicide work. He begins drinking again - even more heavily than before - and his new relationship is in jeopardy. This sets up McNulty's fall as he goes outside of the rules for what would be the final time.

Someone once wrote about saints, and that there is a difference between saints and priests as it were. A priest preserves the hierarchy; the saint defies it. Saints are venerated, but what is forgotten is that in their societies, the saints were actually rebels.

McNulty is the rebel saint. Like real saints, he disrupts the hierarchy and his demands on the institution proved to be those that the institution will not meet - institutions will never dissolve or change themselves on the demands of one person, no matter how persuasive or influential. In the end, he faces the same fate that every other saint in the world faces - persecution. It could be said that saints bring all the trouble on themselves, and if they could just bend a little....!

And McNulty is no saint. To McNulty, the end partially justifies the means. He's not out to become a version of Dirty Harry, and is not the kind of policeman that wants to be judge, jury, and executioner - he just can't see why all these details have to get in the way. At first, you think "well, at least he won't do anything truly dishonest" but in the end he even crosses that final barrier. His ends were the noblest, but they threatened the very heart of the institution he worked for and finally got the attention of powers even McNulty couldn't work his way around.

In the end, despite the fact that he might have been their best detective, the Baltimore Police Department could not compromise itself enough to work with Jimmy McNulty. But McNulty could also not compromise himself, could not "go along to get along". In the end, one institution remains and one detective is out on his ass. Such is the way of the world.

The Wire: The City of Baltimore

"The suspect is most likely a white male in his late twenties to late thirties, who is not a college graduate, but feels superior to those with advanced education, and is likely employed in a bureaucratic entity, possibly civil or public service. He has a problem with authority and a deep-seated resentment for those that have impeded his progress professionally. The sexual nature of the killings is thought to be a secondary motivation and the lack of DNA or saliva in the bite marks suggests possible postmortem staging. He may be struggling with lasting relationships and potentially a high functioning alcoholic with alcohol being used as a trigger in the crimes. The suspect’s apparent resentment of the homeless may indicate a previous personal relationship with a homeless person or the targeting may simply be an opportunity for the killer to assert his superiority and intellectual prowess."

-FBI profile on the (phony) "Red Ribbon Killer"


There are generally two kinds of television shows: those that you like, those that you respect, and both.

For example, I liked Star Trek in its various incarnations. It was enjoyable, and it had an extensive and complex backhistory. However, I never really respected Star Trek. Yes, I loved the show but I realized that Star Trek: Whatever required suspension of disbelief, very much so at times. There were several annoying tropes upon which the episodes rested, namely technobabble and the reset button being the worst of those. It became preachy when the quality of the episodes wasn't high enough to give the franchise the right to be preachy. It was entertaining television, and might have been decent science-fiction in its 1960s incarnation, but by the 2000s it had become a cartoon and was abandoned by its former audience. I used to watch every episode; now I have no use for the franchise.

There are also the shows you respect: most of them can be found on Masterpiece Theatre, usually a BBC production of one of the Jane Austen novels. You know that the show is probably quite good and the acting is superb. Watching shows like that, however, is something like eating the broccoli on your plate. It's good for you, but you realize that the investment you put in is going to be a difficult one. There's not a lot of entertainment to be found, you'll come away impressed with what you see but it's just a hard slog all the way through.

Then there are shows that are both. I'd like to think that Daria is one, although some of the episodes of Daria are quite week. I like Daria because in the late 1990s it was sort of a trope-busting show. Its protagonist was an intelligent female who wasn't at all "girly" but at the same time not a tomboy. Her life not only didn't revolve around the stuff of your typical teenage girl protagonist drama - dates and popularity - but the show's message was that the protagonist rejected the culture as shallow and insufficient. At the same time, the show was not really meant to be an adult show or a serious examination of the issues in teen life. (I think My So-Called Life got closer.) Daria is a show that I think about frequently. Was it one of the great unsung comedy-dramas or is it a massive waste of time?

The other show I want to write about is The Wire. Ostensibly, The Wire is your standard cops-and-robbers drama - the show gets its name from wiretaps on drug dealers. The main character of The Wire, however, isn't any one person but a city, the city of Baltimore. In particular, the main character is the institutions that shape the city and shape every hierarchy in the city, from the police department to the drug game to the unions to the schools to the mayor's office. The theme - if there is one - is that these institutions take on a life of their own, and instead of human beings bending the institutions to serve their purpose, the reverse is true. The institutions warp people to preserve themselves.

I believe Robert Pirsig in Lila wrote that the city might actually be a form of life in the way that a colony of ants is a form of a life - there are the needs of the ant, and then the needs of the colony. People like to believe that they're independent agents but their actions fulfill what the institution needs; if they do not, the institution strikes back to preserve itself. As Pirsig put it, we might believe we can function independently and do what we want in society but that would be like two white cells speaking with each other and one saying, "I can't imagine anything out there more complex than we are."

At the "white cell" level the show is about the many agents who play a role in the life of Baltimore. These agents include:

- the men and women of the Baltimore Police Department, in particular the "murder police" or the Homicide Division
- the chain of command of the BPD from its sergeants to its highest levels
- the Baltimore school system, particularly the inner city schools: both the teachers and the students are examined as agents
- the street, in particular the corner-level drug dealers, hustlers, and other figures
- the drug kingpins, both inside and outside Baltimore
- the mayor's office and the politicians who have power de jure and the ones who have power de facto
- those in the court system
- the union workers on the docks
- the journalists of the Baltimore Sun, from the beat reporters to the editorial staff

I believe it might have been UU who turned Scissors MacGillicutty on to The Wire. Snips, in the meantime, turned me on to it. So as a reward, I'm going to give my random thoughts about various wire characters over the next few months.
Stay tuned.

Our Friend Daria: "The Invitation"

About a month or so later, I picked up the Lawndale Sun-Herald. The previous owner of our home subscribed to it and the shrink-wrapped fodder for recycling showed up faithfully in our driveway every day even though neither of us had interest in it. Bored from studying, I picked up the paper and walked to the dining room table.

As usual, the Sun-Herald's reporting was strong on what I call "local color" - it was fifteen pages of "happy news". Reading the Lawndale entry on city-data.com, many local Lawndale residents were unhappy with the media coverage. The paper was big on local boosterism, reactionary politics and high school football. It reminded me of my hometown's paper...too much.

A bored man, however, will find his diversions wherever he can. I quickly glanced through the first five pages without a single article catching my eye. I finally caught something interesting:

Party Out of Bounds in Crewe Neck Crashed by Police

The writer must have been an old B-52s fan. I knew Crewe Neck quite well because it wasn't far from where we lived. Every time I drove by Crewe Neck I would see this sign.

Crewe Neck Estates

New Homes Available
Luxury Lots
From $750,000

I figured that I would soon be reading a tale of decadence that would rival Berlin in the 1920s. The truth was much more pedestrian:

"Police were called at 10:20 pm to the Crewe Neck Estates on a complaint of public disturbance caused by a raucous party. Three local high school students were charged with disorderly conduct and failure to disperse. Several vehicles at the location were ticketed and the host was cited for violation of the Crewe Neck Estates noise ordinance."

"Security guard Rob Jesperen, who had left his gate station, was found by Lawndale police in attendance at the party. Jesperen claimed that two teenage girls had 'deceived' him into abandoning his post."

Ruth came to the kitchen to look for a snack. I reported my findings to her. "My quiz question: what is missing from this article?"

"Well, the who is missing. And the why. What are you reading?"

"The Lawndale Sun-Herald."

"Oh, it figures. How's Mallard Fillmore doing?"

"Ha ha. So what do you think the 'deceit' was? Blow job?"

"Probably free beer," said Ruth. "Those guys at the gate house don't get paid anything."

"You know," I said, "they bust the poor sap at the gate but I don't read the name of the 'host' or those kids anywhere in this article. I wonder why?"

"Well, it's Crewe Neck. Probably some politician or high school football player."

"Right." I folded the paper.

"Any coupons?" Ruth asked.

"No."

"Then put it in recycling," she said. Grumbling, I complied.

Our Friend Daria: "Esteemsters"

School had started. Whenever I took the subway, I would find myself surrounded by private and public school kids, all dressed alike in the standing-room only circumstances. Both cohorts were dressed identically. The difference was in the dress. Public school kids wore the same maroon-colored pullovers and private school kids wore blazers. You knew it was a Catholic school if all the girls were in skirts.

It didn't mean much to me, except for the fact that I'd have to slow down through school zones. Kids would be coming and going by foot on the little road to our house at approximately 7:30 am and 4 pm. Ruth and I lived a stone's throw away from Lawndale High School, so there was a lot of traffic.

As I was driving home on that first day of the fall semester, I passed Staring Girl. Staring Girl was walking with someone wearing a red jacket. The two chatted as they walked by.

I thought nothing of it. I assumed that the red jacketed girl was Staring Girl's sister. It wasn't worth sharing with Ruth, and Ruth wouldn't have shared it with me. We saw people walk down the street all the time.

(* * *)

That Friday would be Lawndale's version of Dragon Con. It was called "Alien-Con" for some reason - probably to drag in as many attendees as possible who weren't into comic books, collectibles, hard or soft science fiction, role playing games or other general weirdness. I learned from the website that even though there would be gaming tables and a "vendors area" that the speakers were all from UFOlogy. All unknown names.

I looked at the price for a one-day ticket. $10. Cheaper than Dragon Con. My friend Casey from Tennessee and his wife and their friends would be staying over for Labor Day to attend Atlanta's Dragon Con and I would sometimes go with them. A one-day ticket was fifty dollars. It was almost not worth it, but I liked seeing my friends and enjoying the things that they still enjoyed and that I used to enjoy.

Of course, I offered Ruth the chance to go. She skipped it. You couldn't have gotten Ruth into a comic-book convention under threat of death.

Really, Alien Con was nothing special. I simply saw it as a chance to do some shopping for items that I'd normally have to order online. I planned on skipping the speeches from the UFO observers. I had a lot of sympathy for them, and I thought it quite plausible to believe that intelligent life existed elsewhere. However, when the speakers opened their mouths, their credibility diminished with each word. At best they were eccentric; at worst they were downright half-crazy.

The shopping, however, was surprisingly good. I found some old tabletop wargames from a company called Avalon Hill. I loved these games but the games were now out of stock and Avalon Hill has gone bust. There was no sense in pushing paper chits across a printed map when you could just fire up your PC and shoot Nazis.

My goal was to find a nuclear war game called 1979. I had heard it was a great game and if there was some rotting copy somewhere, I wanted to have it as my own.

The games were stacked up in three shelves, forming an incomplete square with one side missing. The shelves were eight feet high and the games were stacked so tightly that no one would ever know you were inside this square unless they were looking from the missing side. It was like being inside a fort.

I continued to look. Was "1979" listed numerically or was it listed by number, like Nineteen Seventy-Nine? Could I find it in the "N"s? The games appeared to be shelved alphabetically, but the take-it-down-put-it-back system had jumbled the order. I called it "semi-betical order".

As I looked, someone entered my fort. I turned around. It was Staring Girl. She wore a green jacket and a black pleated skirt, with boots that almost came up to her knees. The only acknowledgment I got from her was a brief moment of paralysis on her part. Then, she began to search the games. She didn't seem to be looking for anything specific.

Having failed in my quest to find a nuclear war board game that was thirty years old, I began looking elsewhere. I found myself at the graphic novels section. These were shelved on low, four-foot-high shelves, which meant two things. I could stoop, or I could sit on the floor. Given my size and my hip bursitis, I decided the latter was better. The hard, concrete floor wasn't doing my feet any good.

Within five minutes, Staring Girl was back. She had made a bee line to the low shelf, and squatted down behind the barrier. This time, there was no acknowledgment that I was there, not even a brief interruption in her search. She looked at the graphic novels on the shelf with disinterest - they were old 1960s DC comic graphic novels.

This had been my second encounter with Staring Girl in the last ten minutes. This time, I got up almost immediately - not easy for me. I didn't know what was going on, but I found Staring Girl to be rather creepy. I felt like I was being stalked.

This time, I decided to leave the vendors area. The vendors area was being held in ballroom of Lawndale's biggest hotel, and there was a small reception area between where the vendors area began and where the lobby ended. Feeling tired, I sat down and tried to finish reading Journey to the End of the Night.

I had been there for ten minutes, and of course...Staring Girl was back. She walked through the area and looked out into the lobby. Sighing, she sat down in the reception area as well, violating my inner space.

I felt that I at least had to acknowledge her presence, if only to see what she wanted. "Hello," I said.

She had a quick answer. "Mommy taught me not to talk to strangers." Great. I had given off the vibe of the creepy older guy hitting on the younger girl.

The snotty response was too pissy for my tastes. "We're hardly strangers. You've been following me around all day."

"When?" she said, as a challenge.

"Near the games. And the graphic novels. And now, out here."

Staring Girl sighed. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. Actually, I'm trying to hide from someone."

I looked around as people entered and exited the vendor's room about us. "Then this probably isn't the best place."

"Well," Starting Girl said, "I'm looking for someone, too. She's supposed to be here. I told her to meet me at the vendor's room. She has black hair and is wearing a red jacket."

"Oh. That's the girl you were walking home from school with."

"Huh?"

"There's a family that moved in a few blocks away called the Morgendorffers. My wife and I live just a couple of blocks away. You walked past our house on the way to Lawndale High."

"Right. We were going to hook up at Alien Con."

"Are you all right?" I said. "I mean you're trying to avoid someone."

"That's my family," she said.

"What are they here, then?"

"They’re here to improve my self-esteem."

"At $10 a pop?"

"No price is too dear for esteem," Staring Girl answered.

"Well, I'm James. My wife is Ruth. I'm sorry, but I don't know your name." Staring Girl answered that her name was Esmerelda.

"Well, Esmerelda, I'll try to help you out. If I see her at the convention, I'll tell you you were looking for her."

"Thanks." Esmerelda wasn't strong on conversation. I decided to look at the comic books. I'd get more conversation out of a Rob Liefield cover than I'd get out of Esmerelda.

(* * *)

I never saw Staring Girl or her red-jacketed friend. After looking at the vendor's area and checking out some of the exhibits, I went back home and reported to Ruth.

"Sorry the con sucked," Ruth said.

"Well, you know, a town like Lawndale - did you think the con was going to be any good? Now, if it were a high school football convention, it would be packed."

"That reminds me," said Ruth, "I can get Lawndale Leprechauns tickets for five dollars from the Death Star, cheap. Do you want to go?"

Sure. I loved baseball at the time. I mentioned Staring Girl to Ruth and recounted our conversation.

"She sounds weird," Ruth said.

"Yes. Definitely. I think the room with the bars was a good choice."

Our Friend Daria: "Prequel"

I would like to say that my wife and I lived "inside the perimeter" and that the housing market was doing quite well. My wife enjoyed reading the circulars sent by a popular real estate agent. "See how well these houses sold!" Our house, near to those recently sold, certainly had to be worth a lot of money.

I didn't much look forward to living in Lawndale, but my wife was desperate to get out of her telecommunications job in Nashville. At the time, I was a telephone nurse. I pretty much hated the job, hated everything about it, dreaded waking up to do it. My time off would be haunted by a clock which counted down to the time when I had to go back to work again.

In order for my wife to break free of Nashville, she had to promise me that I could go back to school and change careers. We signed the dirty deal, and we were off to Lawndale.

To be blunt, I never liked the inhabitants of Lawndale that much. It was a white-bread middle class community. If some sort of Marxist wanted to condemn the petty-mindedness of the bourgeoisie she couldn't have chosen a better example than Lawndale. Everyone here was keeping up with the Joneses, and Holden Caulfield would have screamed "phony" from the top of the tallest tree until his whiny little lungs caught pneumonia. My wife told some riotous stories about the bozos at her new job, or "bog" as she called it.

There was a media, of sorts. The big three television channels (not four or five, mind you) had Lawndale stations. There were sports - single A-baseball - but the big thing in town was high school football, particularly some charter school called Lawndale High School. (I made a note that it was not the public school, Carter County High.) "No one at the Death Star sends their kids to Carter County if they can afford it," Ruth said. Whenever there was a high school football game, everything in town would turn blue and gold, and every little shop changed color.

There were a couple of big malls. The only interesting place in town was an area called Dega Street, which seemed to be a holdover from the years before 1980s conservatism. "It smells like Otto's jacket," was what Ruth said when we drove by. There were head shops and a bunch of shifty (but interesting) people hanging around. Ruth had visited the thrift shops, but she said that she really didn't find much there. I think her high school days were over.

Oh well. I had the internet and books. I was fine.

However, a problem happened with our change of address. We were getting mail for someone called Helen Morgendorffer. Occasionally, we would get Jake Morgendorffer's mail. We contacted the post office, and stated, "Hey! We keep getting someone else's mail." They swore they would get around to it, sooner or later, but nothing came of it.

When we got our most recent real estate circular, Ruth noted that some nice two-story mini-mansion had just been sold, and we drove by to take a look. There was an SUV parked in the formerly empty driveway, and Ruth noted that whoever it was must have moved in at least a couple of weeks earlier. I happened to notice the name on the mailbox: "MORGENDORFFER".

"And the mystery...is solved," I said.

"I want to go in and let them know that we have their mail," Ruth said.

"You do that." I wasn't the most social person.

So I sat from the car and watched Ruth chat with someone from the Morgendorffer's front door. It was an adult woman that I assumed was Helen Morgendorffer. They chatted for about five minutes while I sat in the car and listened to music. When some Santana song assaulted my years, I got bored and started looking out of the car window.

I looked up. There was that strange half-barred window. We never knew how the window got that way; it had been that way before the Morgendorffers showed up. Now, there was a face looking down from it. Some girl wearing glasses – she was probably a daughter of one of the Morgendorffers.

I broke eye contact to mind my own business. After a safe interval, I looked back up. She was still looking at me. I grumbled.

Finally, Ruth stopped her socializing. "What did you think of the Morgendorffers?"

Ruth dished. "She's a lawyer. He's a consultant. He seemed really nice. I think you'd like him."

"Do tell." I thought not. I never liked it when Ruth tried to set me up on play dates.

"They have two daughters. Both of them are going to start at Lawndale High School. School starts on Monday."

"I'm sure they're screaming with glee. Did you meet either of those girls?"

"No."

"Well, there was one looking up at me from that weird window. You know the one."

"Yeah, I asked her about it. She said the previous owners had a schizophrenic aunt that had tried to escape out the window a few years back. They had the room padded and put bars on the windows. Helen said they were going to renovate the room, but they're feeling the budget crunch."

"I think they moved the weird daughter in there," I said. I told the story of Staring Girl.

"Well, you know, kids are weird. Let me tell you about teaching high school sometime."

"Maybe you could go teach Staring Girl at Lawndale High School."

"Ain't enough money in the world," Ruth said.

Web 2.No

Four things that can kill an interent connection:

1) Low bandwith.
2) Flash and Java bells and whistles that don't do much for content.
3) Ad-blocking software
4) Web 2.0 models that are absolutely determined to load your pages full of gifs of dancing chimpunks tell you about the great deal you can get on your car insurance and determined to fill your hard drive with cookies, even if they have to fight with the ad-blocking software 50 times to do it.

Impeachment Made Easy

Currently, we've been lucky enough not to have to deal with another presidential impeachment proceeding, although we all wonder when it is coming with Barack Obama.

Since Thomas Dewey assumed the presidency in 1945 with the death of President Roosevelt, each opposing party has tried to derail the administration in the hopes of getting their own man from the vice presidency in and the current president out. For foreign readers who don't understand this, they call it "The Sword over the President" due to the unique clause in the American constitution that gives the winner in electoral votes the presidency and the second place finisher the vice presidency.

With the Secretary of State succeeding to the vice-presidency under the old rules, Dewey ran through four vice-presidents- all Democrats - during his eight-year term of office. Having a Republican president and a Democratic vice-president - or vice versa - was considered a good system by the Founding Fathers. It assured that if the president died, his successor could at least lay claim to a mandate, a sizable number of Americans having previously voted for him for president.

Even though Democratic opposition to the Dewey presidency provoked a backlash that kept the Democrats out of power for 16 years, both parties have succumbed to the temptation to fuck with whomever is serving as president. We've been through six impeachment proceedings that have gone to the United States Senate since the Kennedy administration.

The first was after the almighty clusterfuck of the Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961. Even though the Dems never managed to impeach Dewey - simply stonewalling every bit of legislation Dewey proposed made them happy - the Republicans managed to dust off the charge of "malfeasance of office" in Kennedy's case, a charge which basically means you should be fired for incompetency - a charge which technically doesn't mean anything. However, Vice-President Nixon really took the bully pulpit to new heights in 1961 and 1962, with the Chief Executive and the Vice President essentially continuing their 1960 battles.

When President Kennedy was assassinated, Nixon assumed the presidency. The Democrats were never going to let Nixon have any peace due to the way he went after Kennedy, and impeachment proceedings resumed immediately, with some stuff about Nixon fund raising hitting the floor of the Senate. Nixon knew that his chances of running as president in his own right should be put on hold until the heat died down and he sat out the 1964 election. Sure enough, when Landslide Lyndon Johnson won the presidency, the Republicans attempted proceedings under "malfeasance of office" all over again. (At least Vice-President Goldwater kept his hands off of everything.) Johnson had a lot of enemies in his own party - chief among them Robert F. Kennedy - and even though Johnson easily beat the rap, it was never quite certain if the Senate Dems would impeach Johnson using the Vietnam War as an excuse. Johnson's political career was over.

That put Nixon back in again after the 1968 election, this time under his own power. He won this time, but the Democrats came close to impeaching him in 1974. They found out some really nasty stuff about break-ins and illegal fundraising, this time stuff so solid it would stick. Hell, Nixon was even taping his crimes for posterity. The problem was that the Democrats overplayed their hand, and the article about Vice-President McGovern debating with aides about cabinet officers for his post-impeachment-of-Nixon presidential term stuck in the public's craw. The Republicans made the impeachment proceedings not so much about Nixon as about a Presidential "coup d'etat" by the McGovernites. Nixon escaped by the skin of his teeth and wound up completing two entire presidential terms in addition to the year he served from 1963-64.

Of course, when Jimmy Carter was president "malfeasance of office" came back again as an impeachment charge, this time due to the Iran fiasco and the botched hostage rescue. Carter had enough oomph in the Senate to avoid impeachment, but when the people are turning to your own Vice-President - Ronald Reagan - for hope and assurance, Carter knew that his presidency was crippled.

There wasn't another impeachment for almost two decades. The Republicans were popular enough - Reagan and Bush I - to avoid impeachment, although it was always threatened. Bill Clinton was hauled out for a Senate trial for lying in a civil deposition, but everyone really understood it was because of a blowjob. Vice-President Bob Dole could shake his head in disgust and make quotes that the press ate up, but no one was looking forward to a Bob Dole administration. Clinton had no problems.

When George W. Bush won the presidency, the timid Democrats were afraid to try to light an impeachment fire. Vice-President Gore had won the popular vote and they were afraid of "coup d'etat" charges. 9/11 took impeachment off the table, but it found its way back there again after Hurricane Katrina. It was the Democrats turn to use "malfeasance of office" and Bush II barely escaped with his presidency intact, ending his term as one of the most unpopular of presidents.

So the question remains: what kind of impeachment charges will Obama face? They come in every presidency, and I'm sure Vice-President McCain would love to slide into the big chair. No opposition party has ever pulled off a coup by impeachment, but the weird structure of the American Constitution where the second-place finisher in the Electoral College gets the vice-presidency makes the temptation too great to resist. Get the party nomination, finish second in the presidential race, be awarded the vice presidency, and then hope for an impeachment proceeding to give you what the voters didn't give you. Sooner or later, the Senate will actually impeach a president, and the temptation of presidency by impeachment will become overwhelming.

I hear that the Republicans want to start impeachment proceedings of fraud, trying to turn the claim that Obama wasn't born in this country into a legal case. We'll see what comes of it.

Grate Writing Made Eazee

One of the great things about being named what I was is that although there aren't that many Bowmans in the word, my name is still relatively common. Anyone trying to look me up on the internet is likely to find more famous people that have my name instead of finding me. (This is an advantage that Kara Wild doesn't have. The man who is currently known as The Angst Guy, however, has it even sweeter than I do.)

For example, you might find the conservative commentator, or the countertenor, or the head of the non-profit office instead of me. Which makes me wonder why I was named after my father, because the odds are great that neither of us would have become famous enough to need ordinal numerals to tell us apart. We wouldn't have even gotten a lousy "pere" or a "fils".

I'm currently busy writing part-time for a sports website. The great thing about it is that I get to go to games and mingle with the players, and I get to go to these games free to boot. It's a pain in the ass trying to arrange my work life and my sports life, but I've been enjoying it so far.

However, the old mental illness can play tricks on you. (A friend of mine, Rebecca, has a livejournal tag for this problem: "STFU brain".) I recently got a letter from the editor of the website saying, "I'd like to ask you some questions about the article you last posted."

One of my problems is catastrophization. It's part of what they call a cognitive disorder, or what they used to call "stinkin' thinkin'" in the old days. Briefly, it is the belief that all outcomes will be the worst possible ones. Therefore, I attempted to ameliorate the problem - if there was one - before it even presented itself as one. I sent the editor a 17MB .wav file which consisted of my interview. I suspect she's going to love listening to that thing, but hey, it's my anxiety that you're dealing with here.

That isn't the point of the post. The point of the post is that writing fanfiction does not prepare you for a life of journalism. It doesn't even prepare you for a life of pseudo-journalism. In fact, writing fanfiction could get about as close to not preparing you for a professional writing career as you can get while the volume of the words you produce on electric paper increases.

The first problem with fanfiction is that it is very easy to post a first draft as a completed work. I'm sure that guys like The Angst Guy sharpen and resharpen their work. Brother Grimace asks for betareading help - I know because he sends his stuff to me and I try to point out parts that are unclear, or gramatical errors, or the like. I generally don't use a beta-reader, and there's a reason. It's not that I think that my work is so great that it can't be improved; rather, it's that once I get through the painful process of putting words on paper I want the thing to be over and done with.

I think the only work for which I had multiple beta-readers was "Reclamation" and god-damn was it a painful process to have to sit and wait for the editing to get done. "What's wrong with you people? I sent it five minutes ago! Can't I have it back now?" (Whenever I get something to beta-read, I try to remember to send back a message that says, "Hey, I got this, but I can't beta-read it right away. I just wanted you to know that your story wasn't eaten by gremlins.")

However, writing pretend-journalism forces you to adopt new, unfamiliar, and painful ways of life. The first of these is to get used to having your work read by someone else, all the time. Why? Because when it is posted, it will be read by several someone elses, and if you suck as a writer, it means that the organization that is editing you sucks - they were the ones that posted your signed confession of literary incompetence on the web for all to see.

The second is that you must deal with maximum article length. With fanfiction, you can write a never-ending story. (See: Legion of Lawndale Heroes, The.) When writing for "press" you have to write something more than 450 words and less than 800. This forces me to do two things that I don't like doing:

a) getting to the point, and
b) shutting up when I'm done.

This is why people like fanfiction - because it lets you ramble on at will to a (mostly) uncritical audience. (Hell, you're doing the audience a favor for writing about their favorite characters!) In writing for press, the reader is doing you a favor - "interest me now, or I'm going to do crossword puzzles."

(People who write fanfiction tend to start blogs. It lets them indulge in their favorite activity, rambling incessantly about nothing.)

The third is the awful deadline. You can't just finish when you want to finish. You can't wait months between story segments. You can't write an unfinished story. I have to have my articles in within 24 hours of game on weekdays, and within 12 hours on weekends. If you think this is an unreasonable deadline, let me put it this way - I'm just pretending to be press and I receive no pay. The real journalists out there have to go to press the same day and they have to get their work in before the paper goes to press. This means that they're writing the story while they watch the game, sometimes before the game is even over. And if the game goes to overtime, they are doubly screwed, because they might have a grand total of five minutes to rework an article to reflect a different outcome before the paper goes to press. They are getting paid not so much for their literary excellence as they are getting paid to write a workable article within unreasonable time constraints.

Has this made me a better writer? I don't know. I look at my press work and it seems stilted, like my style has been shoved into a straitjacket. My wife says that it's "dry - just details". I'm trying to get more quotes, more human interest, but editors aren't like beta-readers. A beta-reader wants to help you get better; an editor just wants to fix the errors. An editor can improve an article on his own but likely won't have the time or inclination to help you improve it in the future.

In short, all that time I spent writing fanfiction did not help me that much. Although I can definitely say that writing fanfiction made me more comfortable with writing in general, and taught me a few tricks to avoid writer's block. Maybe that's all you need to be a good writer, or at least, to walk the path.

My Dear!

Today, I received an e-mail address with the heading "My Dear!" The author's name was Susan Patrick, which sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't put a face to the name.

Since it was a message from someone that I didn't know, here were my thoughts:

a) 40 percent chance that Susan wants to sell me Viagra or Ciali$
b) 40 percent chance that Susan wants to enact a business deal with me, and all she needs is my banking information
c) 20 percent chance that there is a real Susan Patrick out there, somewhere.

Unfortunately, the answer was "b", but I have to give "Susan" a thumbs-up. It's not often that a spammer manages to put together the right name and title on an e-mail to get the user to open it. (I moved the mail to Yahoo!'s SpamGuard and let SpamGuard increase its knowledge.)

My Google Mail account absolutely floods with spam. Spammers everywhere try to come up with a title to an e-mail message that will get the recipient to bite:

"I didn't get your e-mail"
"Robert just died"
"Obama has heart attack"
"I need a turnaround on this memo or there's trouble"

In any case, it was a good title for the spammer. "My Dear!" It isn't often that you're called "My Dear!" It made me feel warm inside.

Puppeteering

"Come in."

I entered what appeared to be a little-used room in a vacant Hollywood movie set. It was actually a vacant Toronto movie set, but if Toronto can replace New York on television, its sets can replace Hollywood ones.

The man sitting at the desk wore khaki. He looked half like Jeff Probst of Survivor and half used car salesman. He smiled, as if he were completely and absolutely satisfied with himself.

Sitting on a folding chair next to him was a very large, bald black man. His lips were lined with a thin mustache and something small at the bottom of his lower lip; a Hitler mustache from the bottom and not from the top. His look was the opposite of my host's, one conveying contempt for anything physically weaker than him - and I counted.

"Take a load off," said the man behind the desk. "Have a seat!"

I sat.

"So, Mr. -- uhm -- "

"You can just call me Chris," said the man with a smile. "So, CINCGREEN, I heard that you're interested in the little operation we have up here."

"Where did you hear that?" I replied, not even noticing that he called me by my old internet name. "This invitation was out of the blue. I didn't expect to see either of you here." Now that I had figured out who the two were - the fact that the black guy wasn't wearing his hat threw me - I was starting to enter panic territory.

"Come on! Duuuuuuuuude! I can see what's inside your head! We all can! And after you read 'Where's Mary Sue When You Need Her?' it gave both of us the opportunity to make that connection."

"Uh...okay. Curtiss can handle conversations with fictional characters. I can't. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my real real and my fiction fiction."

"Well," Chris said, "it might work that way where your from, but it doesn't work that way up here. We're go getters up here in the North! We have to take our opportunities when we can!"

"So," I said. "Uh...Chris...I'm willing to listen."

"Coool!" he said, half-skateboard dude. "I gotta tell you, dude. We're really struggling for some good fan fiction here."

"I'm more of a critic than a writer. 'Those that can't do....'"

"Yeah. But you could do a lot better than what I've been reading. We're getting a lot of tweens writing. Don't think I don't like the market share! But everything is what you'd call a 'relationshipper' or just resettings of the show in different circumstances. Or those awful Mary Sues with which I'm sure you're familiar. You know how 13 year olds write!"

"Go on."

"Let me tell you, CINCGREEN, we've got a lot of the stock characters that Daria has, and some more interesting ones. We have the Queen Bee and the Dumb Blonde, and the Daria. We even have the Cool Musician, whose name...get this...happens to be 'Trent'. But we have even more archetypes than Daria. Dude, you don't even have to import them! We have the Rage-a-Holic, we have the Psycho and the Loudmouth, and the Over-Achieving Prep! You'll never get the chance to explore those kinds of personalities as regular Daria characters. And there's virtually no canon for any of these kids. Open page, duuuude!"

"Furthermore," Chris continued. "You're always looking for conflict as a writer. The entire show is about conflict! Everyone wants money, so our characters are at each other's throats. They're split into teams, they compete, they argue, they fall in love. The conflict is always there to drive the narrative."

"Yeah...I tried writing a Daria/Survivor crossover. It sucked. I would rather not repeat that."

"But it doesn't have to be that way. You can put the characters in any situation you want. Look, dude, I know about the whole 'Legion of Lawndale Heroes' thing. You had to call it an 'alternate universe'. But the rules of this universe let me get away with a ton of horse-hockey. We've had our characters fight pirahnas, sharks, bears, and the dreaded purple Sasquatch! I actually revealed that the place they had been living at for weeks was nothing more than a giant movie set despite being surrounded by water for miles in all directions! And they accepted that!"

"How?"

"Because...I'm God. I can do anything I want to to them, and they accept it. If I don't like the parameters of the universe they're in, I just change it at whim. I've even changed the rules, told the characters that I was changing the rules...and no rebellion, just acceptance. If there's anything you want to do to them...just say the word, dude. I can make it happen."

I remained silent.

"He's right," said the Chef, a chef unlike the one from South Park. "He can make it happen. I've seen it."

"Well...I'm tempted," I said. And I was. But looking at Chris's eyes, I began to have second thoughts. He was a master manipulator, a man who had interns in the series, all of whom had died doing his bidding...except for Chef, who was a force of his own. This was a man who could manipulate circumstances easily and better, a man who could hide bodies. Hell, he had manipulated me into coming here. How was I to know that I wasn't just some pawn in a larger game? Some mental-mind-fuck he had planned for his unhappy competitors?"

He called himself "God". I began to suspect that he was someone else.

"I don't know. I've got into legitimate blogging. I don't want to be dragged into that fan fiction business any more. No one's even reading Daria fan fic, who is going to be reading this -- !"

"Come onnnnnn!" Chris was in his salesman persona, his eyes sparkling. "You know you want to. Just a taste!"

I tried not to lick my lips.

"What about the Goth Girl? Isn't she special? Tough, but sweet. Caring, but cynical. All of the best qualities of Daria and Jane in one character. Who could pass up writing a story about her? Dude, it would take a man with a heart of stone to -- "

"-- fine!" I said. "I'll think about it."

"Great! Then you're on board!"

"I said I'll think about it. No more."

"Whatever! Listen...I know you also follow those teens in the mall...."

"Good Lord," I said. "One coffin-nail at a time. What kind of incestuous universe do you have over here?" Even Satan ought to know when not to push it.

Water Over the Bridge

(Exterior: Dark, with small amounts of ambient light. There appears to be an audience assembled, murmuring anxiously to itself.

Suddenly, the house lights come up. We see what appears to the be the interior of Mr. DeMartino's classroom, converted to a stage set. A snippet of Splendora's "You're Standing on My Neck" cues up and the crowd shows its obvious enthusiasm.)


ANNOUNCER: Ladies and Gentlemen, live from the Los Angeles Ampitheatre, it's "Daria"!

(The crowd goes wild and stands up to applaud. When nothing happens on stage, they sit back down again, expectantly.)

Mr. DeMartino (off-stage): Those - DAMNED - students!

(DeMartino enters from the left to the applause of the crowd, which respond like they haven't seen him in years. (They haven't.) DeMartino looks like he's in his 80s, but despite the paunch and the stoop he still gives the crowd what they've been waiting for.)

Mr. DeMartino: Gah! Changing the lunch hour! Now everybody's late!

Kevin: We're not late, Mr. D!

(Kevin and Brittany enter from stage right. They now appear to be in their early 40s. Brittany is about 10 pounds heavier and slightly more heavily made up. Kevin's hair is slightly off - it is worn in straight bangs, but he is wearing his football uniform and still has his six-pack abdomen. The crowd greets their arrival with warm applause.)

Mr. DeMartino: Of COURSE you're not late, Kevin. I have to give you CREDIT for that. And it's the ONLY THING I can give you CREDIT for in this class!

Kevin (breezily): Gee, thanks!

Brittany (squeakily): Mr. D, thanks for the extra credit! I really need it to pull up my grades!

Kevin: Aw, babe. To me, you'll always be a "C" student!

(The two hug to the laughter of the audience.)

Mr. DeMartino: Someone save me before I KILL someone. (Audience laughs.)

Jodie: Sorry, we're late!

(Jodie and Mack arrive. Jodie does not look like a teenage girl anymore: her braids have been replaced with straight hair extensions and she can't convey teenage innocence anymore in her short skirt - she comes off as a hooker, but plays it straight. Mack now has a goatee and his hair is cut very close to his scalp; he looks like some serious adult actor wandered on to the set.)

Mr. DeMartino: I SEE. So...Jodie...what were the two of you DOING?

Mack (sotto voce): Don't tell him. (Jodie smiles and the audience chuckles.)

Mr. DeMartino: Why, during the time of the birds and the bees, must I be covered in BIRD POOP? (Audience laughter.)

Kevin: Surely, Mr. D, you were young once?

(Jodie and Mack shake their heads 'no' furiously, to the laughter of the audience.)

Brittany: Yeah, Mr. D.! Who was your girlfriend in high school?

Mr. DeMartino: Girlfriend? I had SEVERAL of them.

Upchuck: Rrrrrowwwww! Feisty!

(Upchuck enters. Time hasn't been kind to him. He's even thinner than his teenage years and his skin isn't in good condition.)

Mr. DeMartino: Yes, CHARLES? You just HAD to make a COMMENT?

Upchuck (a little throaty): I merely congratulate you, Mr. D. Clearly, we are both birds of a feather! (Upchuck walks over to Brittany.)

Brittany: Stand back, pipsqueak...or I'll pluck your chicken! (Audience does the OOOOOOOOO sound.)

Upchuck: Hmmm....kinky! (Audience laughs.)

Quinn (off-stage): Mr. DeMartino! Mr. Demartino!

(Quinn walks in. She is quite clearly wearing a long wig with straight red hair. She looks Hollywood fifty. The audience is very glad to see her.)

Mr. DeMartino: YOU'RE NOT supposed to be in here!

Quinn: I'm just looking for...Daria! (Quinn milks the pause, and the audience goes wild.)

Mr. DeMartino: I was hoping you wouldn't show up UNTIL FIFTH PERIOD! (Audience laughs.) Where is the rest of your BRAIN DEAD TRIO?

Tiffany: ....KwinnNNNNNNNNNNNNN?

(Tiffany walks in, followed by Stacy. Tiffany looks a lot healthier than her teenage years. Stacy follows behind and when the audience sees her...they go crazy. The show is stopped for about 20 seconds while they applaud this older woman with pigtails that has stepped out of their shared past.)

Stacy: Gee, Quinn....are we going to get in trouble? (Loud audience laughter.)

Quinn: Duh....NO! (Audience laughs.)

Mr. DeMartino: So where is the other one?

Quinn: Oh...Sandi will be here later!

(A pause. Some of the cast bow their heads slightly, sadly, and reverently. The audience is in on the message. They understand.)

Mr. DeMartino: And why, Quinn, have you VIOLATED the SANCTITY of my CLASSROOM!

Quinn: Ooo! Gross! Don't talk about violation!

(Tiffany covers Stacy's ears and the audience laughs. Stacy throws an "I'm puzzled" look for more laughter.)

Jodie: I saw Daria (AUDIENCE APPLAUSE) walking down the hall with Jane (MORE AUDIENCE APPLAUSE) just a few minutes ago. Now Mr. D. - tell us about your girlfriends.

Mr. DeMartino: Well, I had two girlfriends. The first of them was the ARTISTIC type...very FREE SPIRITED....

Jane (from offstage): Hey-OHHHHH!!

(Jane steps on to the stage and the audience is on its feet with a standing ovation. She has wavy, shoulder-length hair and does not possess the "helmet-haircut". She looks quite stylish, even in her red jacket and black hose.)

Jodie: I think your spirit was just invoked.

Jane: Funny. That usually involves a pentagram. (Audience laughter.)

Upchuck: I'm ready to cast a spell...of love! (Chuckles from audience.)

Jane: There was one word of that sentence I liked. Cast. (Jane punches Upchuck in the arm to the joy of the audience.)

Upchuck: Owwwwww! (The actors are taken aback for a second, then move forward.)

Mack: So Mr. D, who was your other girlfriend?

Mr. DeMartino: She was the STUDIOUS TYPE! Very smart...very witty...very OUTSPOKEN!

Daria (off stage): Will someone open this damn door!

(Jane rushes over to open the imaginary stage right door, and Daria walks in carrying about twenty textbooks in a stack. The audience applauds at the sight of Daria, despite the fact that she is not wearing her trademark glasses. The applause goes on as Daria ignores it, carrying the books to Mr. DeMartino's desk and dumping the load.)

Jane: So, Morgendorffer. How are your contacts?

Daria: They don't have enough pull to get me out of class. (Audience laughter.)

Upchuck (Leering at Daria): Daria, your eyes make it quite clear that you are quite attracted to me. Nice to see that you're not hiding behind those glasses anymore.

(Daria looks genuinely disgusted, the most honest display of emotion in this show so far.)

Daria: Right. I need my peripheral vision, so I can get a head start. (Audience laughter.)

Jane: Mr. D was telling us about his romantic exploits.

Daria: I have to sit down for this. And put this in my diary...and possibly, on the internet. (More laughter.)

Brittany: At least Mr. D has an exploit!

Jane: She's got a point.

Daria: One covered by blonde hair. (Audience laughter.)

Stacy: So, Daria...tell us about your romances!

Tom (off stage): Daria! DARIA!

(Tom enters to the applause of the crowd. He must weigh about 300 pounds, but he carries it well and he seems to be a genuininely charming man. He has a mustache.)

Tom: Daria! I need to talk to you.

Daria: Okay, just...wait, I mean. (Silence for eight seconds or more.) What the fuck is this?

(Some confusion among the cast. Stacy rolls her eyes. Everyone else looks unsettled.)

Daria: What the fuck is this? The first time that we get together in twenty years, Sloane, and you can't shave the goddamn mustache? You never had a mustache on the show! What's the audience supposed to think?

Tom (not breaking character): Heh. I...guess you're still mad at me for breaking up with you.

Daria: I mean, Jesus Christ, show some respect for your craft. Everyone else here is at least making a half-assed effort at getting it right. Why can't you?

Tom (finally breaking character, angrily): Oh yeah? Where are those glasses? Everyone here expects you to wear those glasses.

Daria: Tom, the show is called 'Daria', not 'Tom'. When they ever name a show after you, you can dress how you damned well please. And since that's not going to...oh fuck, let's just get on with it.

Mr. DeMartino (quietly): I'm too old for this bullshit. (He walks off the stage. The audience murmurs to itself, unsettled.

Jane (smiling but clearly furious): So...Daria...tell us about your romances.

Daria: Well...oh, forget it. This is going nowhere. So everyone...do you want to know what I've been up to these past couple of decades?

(The audience takes the opportunity to forget what just happened and applauds.)

Daria: Lower the lights a little bit. (The lights dim.) I've not been seen a lot in the last few years, but I want you to know that I'm still active.

(More applause.)

Daria: Not necessarily doing what I did twenty years ago, but I'm more into politics now. Ladies and gentlemen, there's going to be a new referendum on the state ballot, and I'd like you to support it. We're facing what might be the greatest problem in our nation's history. That problem is illegal immigration.

(Tiffany walks off the stage. Jane follows her.)

Daria: The same radical liberal campus speakers who support the child-murderers of radical Islam, who pump state money into hiring professors with clearly radical viewpoints on the survival of Israel - or should I say, rather, the negation of Israel - are attempting to overwhelm this country and bring us to the age of the hijab.

(There are some hisses from the audience. Daria seems unperturbed.)

Daria: The instigators of these anti-American ideas do not come from the United States. The enemy has never been homegrown, but come from the decadent Europeans, the terrorist Middle East, and their newest vanguard, the shiftless and crime-prone Mexicans.

(There is now obvious and loud booing.)

Daria: Mexicans! Who are taking jobs away from real Americans! Who only bring crime and abortion to this inner cities, and who seep into the inner cities currently held captive by the poverty pimps of the Al Sharptons and the -- !

Mack: -- God, you're the most ignorant woman I've ever met.

Daria: Hey, Mack, guess what gay stands for? "Got AIDS Yet?" What's your white cell count today?

(Everyone is shocked. Mack shrivels. Stacy picks up one of the textbooks and throws it at Daria, hitting her right in the head to the applause of some members of the angry crowd. (There are boos.)

In turn, Daria attacks Stacy, and the two grapple on the floor, as amphitheatre staff rush the scene. A shocked crowd watches as the curtain closes, for good.)

Lost Our Lease!

According to Yahoo!, they will be closing their Geocities services sometime this year.

I don't intend on doing the work to try to put The Green Sink on some other website. If anyone wants to mirror the site, fine. Else, The Green Sink will simply fade away as one of those unheard-of artifacts of Daria fandom. (I certainly hope that no one is waiting for updates.)

Old Man Yells At Cloud

Dear Whomever,

I wish to register a complaint. It appears that my television enjoyment was ruined on the night of Thursday, April 16, 2009 by the idiocy of the Gwinnett County Police Department and the fantastic Amber Alert System. I was asked to help out if I knew anything about the disappearance of two children, who, most likely, have been taken in a child custody battle and are in no danger whatsoever.

While watching The Office the dramatic moment of resolution of this particular episode was completely obliterated by an Amber Alert.

One: Why are these notices always five hours after the fact? Generally, if the child was actually in danger of being killed, the murder has happened in the first three hours after the abduction.

Two: How does the Gwinnett County Police expect me to find somebody from my house? In DeKalb County? What do you expect me to do? Do you think that I have a Rolodex that has the name of every pervert and fool in the Atlanta Metropolitan Area? Is there is a reason this useless information can't just scrawl across the bottom of the screen when I watch my show? Or have you concluded that the person who knows where these kids are cannot read? Is it really necessary to broadcast this information at 9:25 pm, when my favorite show is on the air knocking my cable out of commission? Do you really think that ruining my favorite programs are going to make me more sympathetic?

Three: Do you expect me to leave my basement and go searching for them?

Four: Do you think they are in my basement?

Five: Why does Comcast feel compelled to enable this idiocy? My only conclusion is that they only allow this to happen because they are compelled by law to do so.

Conclusion: You are idiots. I refer you to this article by Drake Bennett at the Boston Globe at:

http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2008/07/20/abducted/?page=1

which states that Amber Alerts are more theater than anything else. Most of the "successes" were from the recovery of kids who were never in danger in the first place. If the Gwinnett County Police Department really wanted to be the most productive in saving the lives of children, it would enforce seat-belt laws and school bus inspections.

I have nothing against a system that locates missing children. If those brainiacs behind Amber Alert want to limit their theater to highway signs and the bottom of the screen crawl, I have nothing against that either. However, when your theater seriously inconveniences me after a long day of work, I take offense to that.

You should be glad I live in DeKalb County. If there was an election for Sheriff and I lived in Gwinnett County, I know who I wouldn't be voting for.

Yours,

CINCGREEN

"A Board in a Plain Brown Wrapper" - The Solution to SFMB

"Poking a bear in front of an audience makes you a legend. Poking a bear in an empty room just makes you an idiot."

-Gus Mead





There are a few places I still visit in Daria fandom. One of them is Creative Writing, where I still write but just not as often as I used to. The other is the Daria Fandom Blog II, which is a good summary of what's being produced by the fandom - even though the social context is entirely absent. I have reached the fannish state known as GAFMOI - "getting away from most of it". Like one of Buddha's disciples, I still strive for GAFIA, to "get away from it all".

I suspect that the goal of visiting any message board should never be to make friends with the entire community and to become a legend in your own mind. That would be like going to a bar and trying to buy a round for the house every night. The goal should be to find a select few people and a good table. If you could meet those people in another setting that would be great, but some people are pretty private and they want to limit their interactions with you to a particular bar in a particular town. Which is fine. As for the bar called PPMB, I only go there to meet those very few people I can't meet anywhere else on the Web.

If those few people stopped showing up...I would no longer visit PPMB. What would be the point of going back? It would be like visiting a bar with a bunch of strangers in it. To stretch this tortuous analogy, I have started to visit...other bars. I spend about 90 percent of my time in those other bars now. I still drop by the old PPMB, attach a post to the message boards when necessary, go to the bartender and pick up any messages. That takes me about 10 minutes and I get on with the rest of the day. I still can't imagine not visiting the PPMB...but as George Harrison said, "All things must pass."

Someone at the bar pointed me in the direction of a decaying flyer on the bar. "Save the SFMB!" it said.

Ah yes. That bar. I would have thought the rats would have eaten it by now. Every now and then, I'll drive by it, just to see if it's still standing. It appears to still be there, but the place is virtually empty with a rapidly shrinking clientele. It got the reputation as being a dangerous bar.

"But CINCGREEN!" you wail. "Wasn't the old Scorched Remnants bar a dangerous bar?"

Well, yes it was. If you were an asshole. We threw a lot of assholes out of that place. (You just can't let certain people with a nasty attitude walk into your bar.) SFMB, however, not only couldn't tell the difference between a paying customer and a real prick, a bunch of their customers who were into rough trade would dry-gulch some innocent, beat the living shit out of him (or her) in the back room, rape him (or her) and then throw the bloody carcass into the back alley. And then brag about what bad-asses they were all night. Since the Night Crew were friends with the ownership, nothing happened.

The bar got the reputation of being one of those 19th century bars in old San Francisco. One second you were sipping your white wine spritzer; the next you found yourself on a steamboat bound for China and forced to pay off your passage with hard labor.

So what happened? People stopped going. Yeah, they might have not taken any part in what was going on there. But they knew it, and no longer wanted to bless the bar with their patronage. To quote the great American philosopher Yogi Berra - "If people don't want to go to the ball game...how are you going to stop them?"

This is a rule about message boards it took me about 10 years to learn, so I'll share it with you. There's a lot to be said about Dramatic Exits from Message Boards. Hey, even I've made a Dramatic Exit. Most of the people who make the Dramatic Exits are drama queens, and their exiting the message board is usually greeted with the appropriate scorn.

However, the other 95 percent of the public do not make dramatic exits. They just stop going. Remember that restaurant that you went to for five years? Remember when the quality of service collapsed and you begin to suspect that the hamburgers were no longer made of cow flesh? Did you get up on a chair, call for the attention of the remaining patrons, and scream "Let me tell you a few things about this shitty restaurant?"

No. You didn't do that. No one does that. You. Just. Stop. Going.

(* * *)

Messageboard Rule #1:

"People who come to a message board will be glad to tell you why they came, if you ask them. When they stop going, however, they won't bother to tell you why. They just don't show up anymore."

(* * *)

The management of SFMB has now noticed a disturbing lack of patronage. They're trying to figure out where the customers have gone. They have started to ask around. They went to the upscale bar up the street that has been around since forever, the one that makes you behave yourself. They see a lot of their customers over there.

A few customers have said, "Oh, I still like the SFMB! I still show up!" (They just never order drinks.) Some have said, "The PPMB has taken a trend towards silliness" or "Boy, at the PPMB we really miss the old bar fly who would harass the staff." (The management of the SFMB should by now know that their leg is being pulled.) The one customer who hinted at the real reasons is being ignored.

Like a bad restaurant (to stretch the other tortured analogy), cosmetic changes have been discussed. Maybe the old place just needs a new coat of paint. Maybe we need to remove some of the items from the menu that we haven't sold in years. This might fool a few people for a little while but doesn't address the two problems that face the SFMB.

The first is that only two things distinguish the SFMB from the PPMB. The first is the porn. (If you think about it, it was always the porn.) You could get Hot Daria Porn (Hot! Hot!) at the SFMB. Who doesn't like reading a little porn every now and then? Furthermore, the forum was hidden from public view, just as it should be. You had to register to see any of it.

The second was what I call the infamous "slam room". If you just wanted to dry gulch somebody that never did you a damn bit of harm, you could always go to "Flame Wars" and get your sociopathy off your chest. "A nasty place, populated by nasty people."

Unfortunately, the Philosophy of Flame Wars began to become the Philosophy of SFMB. It was never to be stated openly, of course. But since the major flamers were the friends of the management...even someone as dumb as a Daria fan could put two and two together. People started leaving. And what they didn't forsee is that among those people leaving...would be some of the porn writers. This caused fewer and fewer people to show up at SFMB.

So we have the first problem - the slam room killed the porn room, and if someone wants to go to a board known for its slamming, they can go to 4chan. What was the second problem?

The second problem was a complete change in the attitude towards moderation of a message board. Generally, Daria fans like to think of themselves as Independent People Just Like Our Heroine. And these independent mini-Darias never like the idea of a message board moderator telling them what they could and could not say. I didn't, and I said so quite loudly. One of the selling points of SFMB was that Our Moderators Will Never Be Like Those Asshole Moderators at PPMB.

After watching the fallout at the SFMB, however, Daria fandom drew another conclusion. "Yes, the PPMB moderators will always do things we don't like doing. But thank God the PPMB has moderators, because if we didn't we'd end up like the assholes at SFMB."

Even I had come to that conclusion. Kara Wild and Martin Pollard were on the right side of the Moderator Controversy. More painful for me to admit was that they had always been on the right side, way back since 1997-98. You might not like cops...but until humanity changes, without cops there is no civilization. Even CINCGREEN has to admit that. People voted with their feet. Given a choice between the heavily moderated PPMB and the moderator-free zone of SFMB (yes, SFMB has "moderators", but they are ghost figures) the fandom has chosen the PPMB.

As for now, the Moderator Wars are over. PPMB wins. SFMB loses. The SFMB is best illustrated by the history of the old Soviet Union from the 1980s on. Both the SFMB and the Soviet Union might have had the right ideas...but if you botch the implementation, history is singularly unforgiving.

This leaves the SFMB with a limited number of choices. None of them are good.

1. Admit defeat. The SFMB's time might just be...over. It has outlived its usefulness, and someone else will have to pick up the Banner of Porn and carry it as it rises slowly...slowly...ever higher....

2. Bring in PPMB style moderation. One of the reasons that people don't become moderators - aside from the fact that 'no one likes to be friends with a cop" - is that moderation is labor-intensive. A lot of shit will have to be rooted out at SFMB. The board's size will have to shrink. Flame Wars will have to be placed behind a second firewall, the same way that the old Mental Health Ward was - you'll need special permission to have access to Flame Wars even if you have ordinary board registration.

The awful part is that the New Police - if such beings can be found - will have to begin cracking heads almost immediately. Unfortunately, this will most likely involve a change in management that goes all the way up to the top.

3. Stop worrying about it. Hey, Crazy Nutso's Rubber Room never worried about such things! And look at how successful they were!




"Okay CINCGREEN, all and good," you might say, "but what would YOU do if you were SFMB's master?"

But first - I would never be SFMB's master. Let's make that clear. GAFMOI is now a way of life. I don't have optimistic prospects for Daria fandom in the long run.

The first thing I would do is tell people that even though I ran the board -- I would no longer pay for it. I would state that I would not pay the cost of running the board when time came to renew. This would see if there was a core remnant still dedicated to seeing the SFMB being a vital entity and not just a remnant dedicated to mooching off the good will of the management. If someone offered to pony up the cost of another year, I'd know that there was at least one person besides me who gave a damn. (The important thing is to get someone who will pay for it for that one year of revamping.)

The next thing: begin to close off virtually the entire board. Kill every section that hasn't pulled its weight. This means the Fan Fiction section, too. PPMB already does fan fiction better than SFMB, anyway, and SFMB just looks weak and worthless trying to compete.

All that would be left would be The Baa'd Sheep and Flame Wars. Flame Wars would become a By Approval of Management Only board - you wouldn't even see Flame Wars show up unless you specifically asked to see it at the user end. This way, the Exhibitionism of Flame Wars wouldn't infect the rest of the board.

(Actually, if it were me, I'd simply delete Flame Wars. But we are speaking in hypotheticals, so I offer a hypothetical way for Flame Wars to survive.)

After I had haxxord up the board, new members visiting the sfmb.gamerspage domain would see...well, nothing. Just the bare hint that there was a message board, somewhere, if only you had access to it. Right now, all new users see is a dead message board, and I'd rather have no message board than a dead one.

When a new user registered, he or she would see the only surviving forum, The Baa'd Sheep. If he or she asked for Flame Wars access, they'd see that forum as well. If the only things people come for are for porn and for slams, let's not pretend otherwise.

Now: we get a good moderator. Maybe one from the PPMB to work part-time. Flame Wars doesn't want a moderator anyway, and they only need one to kill spam. There won't be much to moderate in The Baa'd Sheep, because it is an "understanding place". However, it would be understood that The Moderators Carry Guns. They will shoot if provoked. Undoubtedly, someone will provoke the board members, and depending on how the moderator responds, we'll see if the SFMB is serious in turning things around.

Finally, we open up the Fan Fiction board. Only moderators may post there. And then SFMB's new management gets down on its knees and begs the really good writers - like The Angst Guy, or whomever - for the right to premiere fiction there for just one day before it gets released at the PPMB. (I'd even call it the "Premiere Forum".) The point is to get people to start visiting SFMB for reasons other than porn or slam. As soon as people begin coming for the fan fiction, drop the premiere function and open the forum up to all writers.



Now to me, all of the above seems to be like an Incredible Waste of Time. After all, if you wanted to do all of that, you don't even need SFMB. Anyone wanting to do the above can just create their own brand new message board.

As a matter of fact...that's just what I would do. Firestone became Bridgestone. Worldcom became MCI. Amway became Quixstar. I think the SFMB has now outlived its brand name power - the SFMB brand name is poison. Re-brand the board. Call it the MTMB, the "Mistress Thea Message Board". Call it something else. But don't call it SFMB. I think SFMB is dead, fer real.

--CINCGREEN, 11 April 2009

P. S.: The Fortress CINCGREEN blog has been moderated by me since Day One. If you comment and the comment doesn't show up in one or two days...well, you can figure it out.

Ain't and Cain't

My wife says that she notices something whenever I call my poor sweet mother still living in the Appalachian house where I grew up - my dialect begins to change. A drawl becomes more pronounced. Irregular sentence constructions seep in. A few words like 'shoot' as an interjection might pop out.

And yet, my speech is rather flat. Part of it is because I have overgrown adenoids, not so overgrown as to require surgery but enough to give my voice a flat nasal flavor, like that of an Indiana anchorman.

Another reason is that when I grew up, everybody "talked country". Your voice marked you as a member of your community. And one of the first things I could see what that my community wasn't going anywhere. Maybe it's part of being a self-hating Appalachian, but if that's the case I became a self-hating Appalachian at the age of five years old. I would watch TV - TV was my religion - and I noticed that all the cool people on TV don't talk like us. All the people that speak like us - "us" - are stuck living on dirt roads. All those other people speak differently.

(Notice: when I wrote this passage the first time, I wrote "all of those people that talk like us". And "are stuck down here living on dirt roads". See, it's starting to creep in already.)

So I began to speak differently. I must have figured that if I could speak like Lee Majors I'd become the Six Million Dollar Man.

However, there is one word that I hang onto religiously, or at least try to. The word is written "can't" - can not - but is pronounced to rhyme with "ain't" and is best spelled "cain't".

It seems natural to me that "cain't" is the obvious pronunciation of this word. All of the "good speakers" tried to teach me to prounce the word as "cAHHnt" to rhyme with, say, Immanuel Kant. But "caHHnt" sounds ridiculously hoity-toity. "Puttin' on airrrrs" they might say down in the holler, or better yet, "stuck up". I couldn't imagine tossing a "caHHNt" out of my mouth; I'd never live it down.

The only other alternative was "caaaaan't", with the "a" sound rhyming with "rasp" or "had". There's nothing wrong with a good caaaaan't. But my mind's first alternative to "can not" is "cain't".

"Cain't" just sounds right. I like "cain't".

So if you're reading this and are Appalachian, or southern, or black, or Hispanic, or whatever...locate a few words that you like for storage and use them at all opportunities. "Cain't" is my word of choice, a Jethro Bodine marching into the Commerce Bank of Beverly Hills, not knowing enough to be ashamed of itself and damned happy to boot.

Next Post

Now that Data Dump is out of the way, here are my ideas for posts:

1. LLH Gold Team: This would be sort of a one-shot mini adventure involving five members of the Legion of Lawndale Heroes. Most people, I'm sure, are sick to death of LLH, but BG asked me and really...how can I turn the nice man down?

2. A non-superpowered post (!!) that takes place at Lawndale High School. Daria is forced to try out for a sports team.

We'll have something along one of these lines shortly.

Data Dump XII

Jane looked at Daria. “Hi, kiddo. Long time no see.” She then absorbed the sight of Daria’s expansive house. “How has life been treating you?”

Daria smiled. “Good. Good.”

“I’m not convinced,” said Jane. “But I’ve come a long way and if you’d pour me a drink, I’d be delighted.”

(* * *)

Jane savored the bourbon. “Boy, that hits the spot.”

“So how did you find me?” Daria asked.

“Find you?” chuckled Jane. “You found me, Morgendorffer. I can’t believe that these psychos who are running the Australia Project actually ran through machine gun fire and military robots to try to find me in the ass end of Zagreb. But they did. It took them several months, but they found me and said that you wanted me to join you in the Australia project. Psychos.”

“But you showed up.”

“Yes, I did. Of course, I didn’t take the flight they offered me. I don’t want to end up in a prison.”

“Were you worried about being captured?” Daria asked.

“No. I was worried about ending up like you. In a prison.”

“I got out of prison months ago.”

“Think again, Morgendorffer. You’re still in a prison. You were in one those poverty pens, weren’t you? I figured that much if you stayed in the United States.”

Daria nodded, and Jane continued. “What did they do to you in the United States? They put you in free room and board, gave you a computer and some entertainment, and kept you alive. The room wasn’t very big and the board wasn’t fois gras, but it was good old fashion staple food. If you left, they tried to dart you. In Australia, they just got rid of the knockout darts. The robots give you more room and board, a fancier computer, all the entertainment you wanted, and the robots keep you alive for 300 years if you let them chop off your head. Good ol’ America uses the stick, and Australia uses the carrot, but the point is to same – to keep the mule on the straight and narrow.”

“I assume,” said Daria, “that you’ve rejected that.”

“You assume right,” said Jane. “There’s more than one kind of dope. I don’t want to be doped up. Not with a drug, not with food, not with money, not with a computer, not with a government to use either the carrot of the liberals or the stick of the conservatives. I won’t be bribed, and I won’t be beaten. I want to live with a clear mind.”

“Hmm,” said Daria, “your philosophy sounds interesting and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter.” Daria made it plain that she regarded Jane’s words with a great deal of skepticism. “So what do you do with your life?”

“I create. I talk to people. I cry with them when it’s time to cry with them. We laugh when it’s time to laugh.”

“And you fight robots,” said Daria. “Don’t forget that you fight robots.”

“Oh, you heard about that?” said Jane.

Daria was taken aback. She had head – in rumors – that Europe had been war-torn for over a decade, as the United States and its client European governments had attempted to impose the US model of robot love on Europe. Unfortunately, the European citizenry in many places rebelled. Therefore, the stick had to be brought out.

“You mean you really fight robots?”

“Yeah. How do you think I got to Australia? I had to make my way across Asia. Having one of these” – Jane pulled out a small item the size of an old flash drive – “helped. It induces robot amnesia. I call it a robo-stopper.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Daria.

“I have other ways” said Jane with complete seriousness.

“So why did you come all the way to Australia?” said Daria. “I don’t want to take you away from your raison d’etre.”

“Well – I was kind of curious to find out what happened to you. I do love you, you know.”

Daria had to digest the sentence. “What?” she mumbled.

“Oh! Sorry,” Jane said,” “I forgot how direct that was. I’m too used to speaking my mind. You guys only drag out ‘love’ when you want to bring out the heavy artillery. Let’s say that a different way – Daria, I valued our time together as friends. I was concerned about you and it hurt me to leave you. When I found out that you wanted me here in Australia – or even just wanted to find out about me – the call was just too strong.”

“Oh.”

“See why I say ‘I love you’? It’s a lot shorter,” said Jane. “So do you love me, Daria?”

Daria thought about it. “Yes. Yes, I’ll guess I’ll say it. If that’s the way you mean it, then I love you, Jane.”

“You really can’t mean it any other way…unless you want to get into my pants.”

“Oh, hell no!”

“I think the Greeks were right. They split romantic love from friend love. We need better words for love.”

“So have you become a Greek philosopher?” said Daria. “And what do you believe, anyway?”

“I don’t have an answer for that.”

“Funny,” said a suspicious Daria, “you were talking like a ten-cent preacher when you got here, and now you’re all out of answers.”

“And you want all of your answers, ready-made,” said Jane. “I can tell you this much. I don’t know. I’m glad to say that I don’t know. But I know what I don’t believe. I don’t believe in the alternatives the world is giving me. And I’m becoming my own programmer, to quote one of my friends. I guess I’m hacking my life, now. If you don’t like the program, you have to write one of your own.” Jane chuckled. “I guess I’m a shitty programmer.”

“So why don’t you come to Australia?” said Jane. “Make some art. Change the system from within.”

“You’ve got a nice rubber system here, well-insulated. I like that phrase, ‘change the system from within’. It’s a good idea, if you have an elastic system instead of a fossilized one. Reminds me of perestroika. Gorbachev tried to change the system from within, and was relatively committed to that. What he found out was the system didn’t work.”

“How do you know so much about perestroika?”

“You told me, Daria. Remember all those bullshit conversations we had? I wasn’t listening just to be polite. You were teaching me. Hell, half of American history I learned directly from your cynical lips. And Mr. DeMartino’s cynical lips.”

“So what’s your ultimate answer?” said Daria. “Why is your way of life better than mine?”
“I have one answer for you,” said Jane. “Are you happy?”

“So utilitarianism is your philosophy. What about the case where -- ?”

“Daria, shut the hell up,” said Jane. “I’m not into any ‘ism’. I just want to know the answer to one fucking question. One fucking question that I crossed an entire continent to find out the answer to. Daria, this might be a stab in the dark, but I’m going to ask it. ‘Are you happy?’”

“What do you mean by – “

“ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION, DARIA!” Jane screamed.

There was some silence as Daria shriveled up. “You’ve never been happy your entire life. I liked that about you. But when you get older, it just gets…tired. I got tired. If you really love me, Daria, you’ll answer that question. Are you happy?”

Daria was held speechless.

“I have my answer,” said Jane. “You reached your hand out to me. You still remembered me even after I left. So now, I have an answer for you. Join me. Get away. Come with me. Let’s live like one of those old lesbian couples, without the lesbianism. Let me give you a chance to be happy.”

“And what if I’m not happy with you?”

Jane smiled. “Then you’ve lost nothing at all. You’ve just changed your location. Why are you so afraid of a shot at happiness?”

Daria said nothing. Jane continued. “I’ll tell you the answer that it took me twenty years to find out. You’re afraid because happiness will demand something of you that you’re not willing to give. You’re afraid of what it will cost you to be happy.”

“And you know the answer?”

“No,” said Jane. “I guess for me that happiness comes in the searching and not in the finding. First I had artists for my heroes. Then I had you. And now, I guess I’ve decided to be my own hero, no matter where it takes me.”

“So are you happy?” Daria asked.

Jane nodded. “I’m happy enough. Definitely happier than before. So enough stalling, Morgendorffer. Are you going to come with or not?”

Daria thought about it for a few seconds. “I can’t do this alone.”

“No sweat,” said Jane. “What is today?”

“April 11th.”

“All right. I’ll come back here on May 13th and I’ll pick you up. I need to take care of a few things off continent, anyway.”

“I have a lot to tell you,” said Daria. “About Tom. Did you know I saw him again?”

“Cool,” Jane said rather flatly. “But that’s going to have to wait. I don’t want to be gathered for a long question-and-answer session by the robots here in Australia. You have robots in your home, and my “anti-robot shield” only works for so long.” Jane stood up. “I gotta go.”

“Jane, wait!”

Jane turned her head.

“I have a question,” said Daria. “How’s Trent?”

Jane frowned, and then smiled. “Well Trent…he turned out to be a real asshole. I gotta run. Remember, May 13th.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

And Jane disappeared.

(* * *)

Daria gathered everything of value that she had, or wanted to make. If she were going to live out in the wild with Jane (fighting robots!) she wanted to have an inventory of necessary but easy-to-carry items. Good boots. And toilet paper, her sole luxury item.

During her month-long wait for Jane, Daria read about Zagreb. The language, the geography, the history. She didn’t want to be too much of a burden to Jane, wherever they were going. Daria was like a child waiting for Christmas.

May 13th finally showed up on the calendar. Daria sat patiently, waiting for the arrival of Jane Lane. She waited from 6 am in the morning until 6 am the following morning.

No Jane.

Assuming that Jane had some sort of difficulty that was causing her to drag behind, Daria slept on the couch in the living room that May 14th to await the imminent, but late arrival of Jane Lane.

No Jane.

Daria fretted. She took long walks outside her home. She worried about the grasshopper-like robots that could launch themselves in the air like an old V2 rocket. She began to have a nightmare that she’d be walking along and find a corpse that looked all too familiar.

No Jane.

March turned to April. April turned to May, then June.

No Jane.

When July showed up, Daria broke down one afternoon and began to cry for over an hour. Where was Jane?

No Jane.

(* * *)

As desperate as a caged rat on crack, Daria dove into what she called “her stigmata”. She had the robots build workout machines and became obsessed with physical fitness. She began to run at first only a few yards, then a quarter mile, then a mile, then miles at a time.

She lifted weights. She ate only the right foods. The pounds fell off, changing Daria at least on the outside. She wrote, “I have sculpted a pretty cage to keep the demons inside.” She now wrote with the pen and paper, cursing her callouses but writing nonetheless.

Daria used her unspent credits to purchase a combat workout robot, a robot with long, padded arms, built out of firm and somewhat giving plastic, with padded pauldrons and a ferocious temper. It told her what to do and she did it. She took out all of her fury on the robot, and sometimes, combat sessions would become crying sessions, and Daria would fall of the wagon again and crawl right back into a bottle of bourbon.

The next May 13th came along. Daria sat down in front of the door at 6 am. She waited until the next 6 am.

No Jane.

The morning of May 15th, Daria set up on her couch. She thought she heard a voice in her head, or perhaps, the voice of your soul.

You should go get her.

She might not be alive.

What does that matter? You’re not alive, either. Your friend risked everything to find you. And now, if you really were her friend, you must do the same.

Daria remembered what Jane had told her about becoming her own hero. One of the stories that Daria remembered growing up was that of Damon and Pythias. When the king of Syracuse put Pythias to death, Pythias begged for the chance to put his affairs in order. The king of Syracuse refused, telling Pythias that he could not trust Pythias to return.

Damon, Pythias’s friend, offered to remain as a hostage. The King accepted…but told Pythias that if Pythias chose to escape, it would be Damon that would be executed.

Just moments before Damon was scheduled to be killed, Pythias returned to take his friend’s place.

Maybe it was you who should have sought out Jane. If she’s dead, it’s your fault. Because you should have taken her place.

It was a thought that not all the bourbon in the world could have washed away. A lesser drunk might have tried, but Daria was too smart not to see the futility in the attempt.

(* * *)

Daria made sure that she had everything that she needed.

Her journal. Some waterproof paper, if her journal was damaged and she needed writing paper. A Swiss army knife. A magnesium fire starter. Fishing hooks. Water purification tablets. Anti-diarrhea pills.

It was definitely a bright day. Daria trimmed the sail until the sail stopped waving. Whether she’d have to reef the sail – to reduce the size of the sail due to the increased wind speed – was something that she’d have to ask herself later.

She had moved to Darwin, Australia and taken up the hobby of sailing. Darwin was on Australia’s northern coast and she had the best chance of reaching Asia from there. Her goal was to one day sail past the robotic skimmers that floated on the water – she had the ordnance to take care of any of them – and then beat the weather all the way to Indonesia. She also had a robo-stopper that she had gotten from a hacker after she had threatened to beat him within an inch of his life. His broken foot was a testimony to her resolution.

There was only one word that Daria knew. Zagreb. That was where Jane used to live. Maybe Jane found that coming to Australia was too dangerous, and was forced to return home, in safety, to plan. It wasn’t a smart theory, but it was the only one that gave Daria comfort. She could not guarantee that she would find Jane, but she was determined never to tell herself that she had not done all that she could.

And now, after all of this time, after all she had endured, Daria Morgendorffer was a mere dot in the sea, sailing on to a future which was beyond prediction. The difference this time was that her small space – the few feet of a small sailboat – was no longer a prison. Nothing was a prison, not anymore. Daria pulled out the small deck of cards and prepared to play Mao with the world.

FINIS

Data Dump XI

Daria Morgendorffer put on the black mask.

It was a mask that covered her entire head, like an item of rubber fetish wear. It had taken the home robots nineteen days to create it, which had to be some sort of record in slowness. The robots never understood why she just didn’t wear a full contact lens and cochlear implants if she wanted to enter Viteland.

Of course there was the Vertebrane system, a system favored by almost everyone in the Australian project except for a handful of holdouts (most of whom happened to be friends of Daria). With the Vertebrane system, Daria’s spinal cord would have been rerouted through an artificial vertebra in her neck. The vertebra would have been a computer that could have transmitted information to her optic and auditory nerves. Daria could have traveled to Viteland any time she wanted with Vertebrane.

The mask would have to do. It would be her visitor’s visa.

As the mask tracked the movements of her eyes, it transmitted what she should be seeing.

“YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A WORLD CREATED BY JENNIFER ROSATO. PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS WORLD IS A SIMULATION OF HIGH SCHOOL IN THE 1990S. PERSONAL REPRESENTATION IN THIS WORLD REQUIRES CHOICE OF AN AVATAR.”

High school? Jennifer wants to go back to high school? What the hell?

“A CONNECTION TO VERTEBRANE HAS NOT BEEN FOUND. IF USING A MANUAL VR SYSTEM, PLEASE WAIT FOR AUGENBLICK TO BEGIN. DO NOT TURN AWAY FROM THE MULTIPLE IMAGES.”

Daria didn’t know what “Augenblick” was, but she found out. A wild and puzzling array of pictures from 1990s high school life sped by at a speed of faster than 0.4 sec/picture. Most of the pictures were of male and female high school students engaged in some activity or another. By the time Daria recognized a picture and settled on some detail, the picture rapidly moved along leaving Daria’s eye to futilely search for some sort of meaning.

After ninety seconds, the following message appeared.

“COMPLETE. PLEASE CHECK YOUR AVATAR.”

Daria could “see” a mirror in the virtual reality of Viteland. She looked at the mirror, expecting to see a woman with a rubber-clad face looking back. Instead, she saw….

…young Daria. The Daria Morgendorffer that she used to be. She was wearing a green cloth coat, not unlike the jacket she wore those many years ago, but close to it. She wore a knee-length black skirt with black leggings and Doc Martens boots.

She wore no makeup. She was unadorned. She wore a pair of glasses similar to her old manstoppers. Silently, Daria cursed the goddamned computer for predicting so well what she used to look like.

“DO YOU APPROVE? PLEASE VOCALIZE A RESPONSE.”

“Sure,” said Daria under the mask. “Why the hell not?”

The mirror dissolved as if she were in the land of Lewis Carroll. A new reality was created. She was in an empty high school hallway.

And then the bell chimed, the bell that marked the end of a class period. Doors opened along the hallway and a flood of people poured out of the various classrooms. Virtual reality had created a high school…not unlike her own high school at Lawndale.

“Damn,” muttered Daria. How the hell was she supposed to find Jennifer in this mess?

A window popped up, or rather, a floating glass square. The other kids ignored it and sometimes wandered through it. “DO YOU NEED HELP?”

“Jennifer, stop fucking around and tell me where you are.”

An arrow  on the glass pane pointed the way. Daria followed along with the area until she found the place she was looking for. The lunchroom.

There they were. It reminded Daria of Lawndale High School…but Lawndale’s lunch room was cleaner. The walls here were a dull institutional gray, but the student life was exactly as to be expected. There was a general loudness and restlessness, and Daria quickly noticed that the students were segregated. Jocks at that table. Nerds at the other. It was the sort of self-segregation that Daria bemoaned, humanity dividing itself into tribes.

“Daria!”

A young woman stood up. She had brown hair and wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a sweater vest. “Daria! Over here!”

Daria walked forward. “Jennifer Rosato?” It sort of looked like Jennifer Rosato, if she had lost twenty years and forty pounds.

“Hello Daria! Welcome to Viteland! What are you using? Vertebrane? Did you get the implants?”

“Don’t even ask,” said Daria. “Right now, I’m chocking on fetid air inside a gimp mask. It took me a lot of trouble to get here.”

“Have a seat.” Jennifer’s table was remarkably free of anyone else but Jennifer.

Daria sat down. “Reminds me of my high school…by too much. I don’t see why anyone would ever want to be reminded of this time in their lives. It took me twenty years to leave this place behind and clean the memories away.”

“Then why did you go to all that trouble to get here? Seeing me must have been important. I’m touched.”

“It’s the only way I can see you at all,” said Daria. “Robert Sinchich told me what had happened. I rushed to your house – “

“—I left an explanation –“

“—and I find you there, with the robots tending you like a baby. Turning you every couple of hours. Moving your limbs. Wiping your ass. While your head is jacked into this virtual hellhole.”

“Hellhole? Daria, not everyone hated high school. I was quite fond of it. It was a time before life turned into bitter disappointment. Sadly, for most of humanity high school is as good as it ever gets.”

“Okay. Then why this retreat? Or are you just going to send us poems from the Oracle at Delphi?”

“My poem writing days are over Daria. Of course, I’ll keep my hand in. I’ll write for the school paper – “

“—the imaginary school paper.”

“It’s real enough to me,” Jennifer said. “And I’ll go out with all the cute boys that never gave me a second look. If you saw the robots treating me like a baby, that’s appropriate. I’ve entered my second childhood.”

“So why have you given up?” Daria put particular emphasis on the last two words.

“Daria, think about it. Who are we writing for anymore? What is the sense of writing poems that no one will ever read? I always thought of poetry as the act of creating something that no one has ever imagined before. But no one in the Australia Project is interested in poetry. People are more concerned with their own imaginations, and not anyone else’s.”

“People still want to read new things.”

“Why? My poetry tried to evoke a longing, a sense of loss, a longing for things that could never be reclaimed. Now, everything can be reclaimed, or simulated. If you get enough credits, you can have a robot lover that can match the tenderness of anything that’s flesh and blood. What’s left to strive for, Daria? Even the need for self-pity is dead. We’ve reached the end of human history.”

“Don’t say that.”

Jennifer took a sip from a virtual soda. (Did the robots feed her? Did Vertebrane jostle her taste buds?) “This is my world, and I can say anything it in that I want to. Think about that novel that you’re writing. It’s set in the 19th century, right?”

Daria nodded.

“I always felt it was a rip-off of Tess of the D’Urbervilles with Tess played by the role of Elizabeth Bennet. Tess Durbeyfield as proto-feminist. The problem is, who wants to read a novel like that? Do you remember Brave New World?”

Daria looked around. “Okay. So are the Jocks the Epsilons? Are you one of the Betas? Or did you make yourself an Alpha Double-Plus?”

“I always enjoyed the dystopia of Brave New World, although Mustapha Mond’s speech at the end – it’s almost as laborious at Ayn Rand’s John Galt speech in Atlas Shrugged. I suspected that Huxley got tired of writing and just wanted to explain what he was getting at by putting words in Mond’s mouth and getting the whole thing over with.”

Jennifer took another sip. “But there’s a lot of value in there, Daria. He talks about Romeo and Juliet-- or maybe King Lear, I forget which – and says that no one from Huxley’s pseudo-utopia would find any value in them. What appeal would Romeo and Juliet have in a world when you can have any lover you want, literally? Why would your son’s mistress put your eyes out when you could just take soma?”

“Get to the point.”

“Were you always this nasty in high school?”

Daria thought about it. “Maybe. I’ve just sharpened the blade since then. But I despise this place, and in my old age, I’m less reserved about expressing my opinion.”

“Then I’ll spell it out for you. Why should anyone give a damn about the obstacles your characters face when they themselves live in a reality without obstacles? Yeah, Tess got treated pretty badly by ol’ Thomas Hardy and a man might never know what it’s like to be raped by Alec, but there are other experiences in his life where he might know what it’s like to be at the bottom. He might never have to bury his child in unsanctified ground like Tess buried Sorrow, but he might know what its like to have to bury a dream. He might never kill a man like Tess did at the end, but he knows what it’s like to feel like you can just kill a man. He might not live in the 19th century, but he drinks from the common well of sympathy and experience.”

“But that well is drying up, Daria. I can feel that water sliding away. Don’t you feel the drip-drip-drip, the empty spaces, and the rivers that are turning to streams and that soon will turn into puddles? The robots do everything we want them to. If someone bothers us, we can easily stay away from them. No one can exercise power over us, and make us work for them, nor do we have to be civil to them. Hate has simply been shoved in a closet. If we don’t like our friends, we just get brand new virtual reality friends. We don’t have to be poor. We’re all right, and well off, and well liked.”

“You know,” said Jennifer, “I always felt that the flaw in Brave New World was that why would Mustapha Mond go to the trouble of maintaining this system and put himself to the trouble of dealing with problems like The Savage when he could just take a couple of tabs of soma? But now, we’ve eliminated the trouble. The robots are Mustapha, and the world they’ve created is run on soma. See, that was Huxley’s problem – he didn’t think of robots.”

“So this is it,” said Daria. “You’ve given up. You’ve escaped into a land of fantasy.”

“No,” said Jennifer. “I’ve accepted reality. I’ve learned that the world I lived in is dead, and that I’m a middle-aged relic, writing poems for nobody. That’s the truth Daria. If I’m dead, let them say that at least I saw it coming. I’d rather pull the burial shroud over my own eyes than be a ghost like you. I may be dead, but you are going to be dead next.”

Jennifer smiled a horrible smile. “Your friends will disappear. The robots will never allow you to commit suicide. It’s coming, Daria. You’ll have to find your own way to cope.”

(* * *)

Daria grabbed the border of the mask and peeled it off of her clammy flesh. She threw the ugly black vinyl-looking thing across the room. “There, Jennifer,” Daria said with bitterness. “Talk to the mask!”

Daria left her bedroom. As she left, she could hear noises in the room behind her. She knew that the robots knew she didn’t like them. The robots therefore hid themselves in the recesses of her walls. When she came back to her bedroom, the bed would be made and the mask would be back on its wig stand. And if she told the robots to destroy the mask, it would be recycled immediately.

She could speak part of her new novel. No, she could type it. Or better yet, she could write it by longhand.

“I need a drink,” she said.

A robot whirred to life in the kitchen, preparing bourbon. She imagined picking up the glass, downing the bourbon, and then taking a pen in hand and writing the newest part of her book, where Maria –

-- Daria looked down at her right hand. There was a protrusion at the left side of the tip of her middle right finger. It was a fatty callous, formed by hours and hours of writing. Daria remembered how laborious it was to write out everything by longhand, how agonizingly painful, the hand cramps and –

-- No. She wasn’t going to put herself through that, not even to spite Jennifer. “I’m going outside,” she said to no one in particular.

(* * *)

Daria had hoped to face the airy, salty climate of central Australia, hoping to face the hot dry winds that many an Aborigine had faced for thousands of years.

Instead, Daria felt only a half-hearted attempt by the ancient climate of Australia to reassert itself. The Australia Project had been terraforming the continent for years. Frankly, no one missed the Outback. Not even the Aborigines missed it, and if anyone of them wanted to go into the dreamtime, they could just tap the Vertebrane system like any other well-to-do citizen of the Project.

Grass grew under Daria’s feet where grass had formerly not grown for millennia. Robots owned by the Australia Project tended the soil. These robots did not feel the need to scuttle and hide lest they face Daria's wrath. They were not armed with air-propelled knockout darts. They might has well have been the oil derricks that Daria watched see-saw growing up in West Texas.

There was still the bracing heat. Daria was forced to use her hand to shield her eyes. If she had had the Vertebrane system, she could have contacted one of the house robots to bring her a pair of sunglasses. Daria smiled and kept walking.

(* * *)

As the sun blazed overhead, and as Daria kept walking, a robot tending the fields spoke. "DARIA MORGENDORFFER!"

Daria had been walking for hours. "WHAT?"

"ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?"
The machine sounded concerned. "YES!" Daria shouted.

The robot stopped tending the fields and instead of running, compressed its mechanical legs and literally sprung through the air, several hundred pounds of metal hopping through the air like a grasshopper. The machine landed near Daria and displaced the dry Australian soil which had not been irrigated.

"I understand that you have been walking for three hours now," the machine said.

"Yes. They call it 'walkabout'. Have you heard of it?"

The robot exchanged information with the main server, and determined from hundreds of thousands of interactions with human beings that the remark was irrelevant sarcasm. "Have you had anything to drink?"

"No." Daria hadn't thought of it.

"Approximately six hundred yards from here there is a structure where you can find water. Enter in the blue door. The door will be unlocked and you can obtain access."

Daria had nothing to say but "thanks". The machine began its crouch again, and Daria wanted to be out of the way before it launched itself into the sky again.

The sky. They don't own the sky…yet.

(* * *)

The robots were always right. After a couple of hills, Daria found the structure, a red brick structure with glass doors which were locked. There were no signs or markings, so Daria assumed it was a private residence, with the owner out. As long as the robots were there to watch, and with cameras recording everything, stealing anything would be beside the point.

The side door, however, was crudely painted with blue paint. The door had no handle, and it simply clicked open as Daria entered.

Inside the room Daria found a desk, a small computer terminal like the kind she had at the poorhouse, and a refrigerator. It looked like some sort of auxiliary room. Daria opened the refrigerator, and finding no robot coming to arrest her, flipped the top from a plastic bottle of water and took a drink.

It was time for Daria to sit down, and she collapsed into the chair. Why had she walked so long, and for so far? She would probably earn a blister. There was a paper file next to the terminal, and out of boredom Daria picked up the file and read through the papers.

The papers were simple checklists. Daria read through the items and now knew where she was. It was not a mausoleum, but it was the next best thing.

(* * *)

Daria opened the door in the back of the small room. It led to the facility itself.

Inside the facility were rows and rows of machines, tended by robots. There were long racks of metal each storing long rows of cylinders, the cylinders attended by pipes and tubing, the racks attended by wires and transmitters and all of it attended by robots. So what's the room for? For a human to come by and solve the problems these robots can't?

A robot turned to Daria. "MAY-I-HELP-YOU?"

It sounded like a robot from the 1950s, speaking in an inhuman cadence. Even farm machines were polite. This robot was not.

"I..I just want to look around."

"THIS-IS-NOT-A-PLACE-FOR-'LOOKING-AROUND'. THERE-ARE-NO-TOURS-HERE. PLEASE-LEAVE. A-TRANSPORT-IS-BEING-DISPATCHED."

"Machine?" asked Daria. "Is this a vite rack?"

The machine paused, a pause which passed for thought. "THAT-IS-CORRECT. DO-NOT-DISTURB-THIS-MACHINERY."

"Okay," said Daria. "I'll wait for the car."

(* * *)

Daria thought about what she had seen. It was a vite rack. It was Jennifer's future that she was seeing.

Scientists at the Australian Project had determined that the human head, if disconnected from the body, could live for approximately 250-300 years if it weren't dependent on maintaining the meat that was forced to carry the brain around. First there was Vertebrane to hook your brain up to the Web. Some went to Viteland and lived in virtual reality full time, having robots tend their useless bodies. But with a vite rack, there was no need to tend the flesh anymore.

Each of the cylinders was jacked in to Viteland. Nothing but brains on a rack. Daria was reminded of all sorts of cartoons and movies. The Matrix. Futurama. They Saved Hitler's Brain.

So, thought Daria, will my head end up in a rack someday? Is that my fate?

When Daria got home, she discovered that she had a blister on her heel. She hadn't walked so far in such a long time. She shushed away the robots, took her fountain pen, and punctured her heel, watching the clear fluid gush out.

She finished half a bottle of bourbon, and then fell asleep.

(* * *)

Daria was on no clock. A robot was waiting outside of her bedroom. She stirred. She didn't know what time it was. It didn't matter what time it was. The robots would make her breakfast at 1 am if she wanted it.

Throwing on a robe, Daria walked down the stairs. As she became more alert, she realized that there was a woman waiting in the foyer. It was very strange, because the robots would have been sure to wake Daria up to let her know that she had a visitor.

Daria didn't recognize the woman from the distance, so she approached more closely. "Hello?" Daria asked. The woman said nothing.

The woman was slightly taller than Daria, and of a wiry sort of build. She had very close cropped black hair, almost in a military cut, peppered with some gray. She wore dark red lipstick and had expressive and sad blue eyes. Her summer dress was made of khaki.

Daria recognized her.

"…Jane?"

Data Dump X

Daria was still in a daze from what had happened only three days ago. Culture shock, she told herself. It was an entirely new way of culture, a new way of living that had sprouted up in Australia.

It explained a lot of things. For one, why there had been no mention of Australia in the news for years and why the major airlines never flew there. This new culture was a threat to the one she had just escaped, even if only on an "Eastasia vs. Eurasia" level.

And now, less than a week after her disastrous meeting with Tom, she was in a classroom again. She wondered if Mr. DeMartino with his bulging eye would have shown up. Hell, she should have just chosen Mr. D. instead of Jane. Daria might never see Jane again; Mr. D. would have at least provided some entertainment.

There were fourteen others with her, all whom had come into their new inheritance. To those fourteen, the lecture was merely a conclusion of the formalities, a reading of the will. They were ready to take it all in.

A young woman dressed much like Michelle and Dot stepped up to the front of the classroom. She began to speak.

"There are four stages to any civilization. The first stage is the hunter-gatherer phase. The second phase is the agrarian phase. Neither of you have been alive for either of these phases...."

That's a simplification. I've read "Guns, Germs and Steel". She makes it sound as if one phase passes out of history to be replaced by the next. It's just that one phase becomes dominant in one area through a set of circumstances. Take that "hunter-gather phase". We're in the Central Australian Desert. If we weren't in this air-conditioned building, we'd still be hunter-gatherers. I wonder how the hunter-gatherers in New Zealand are doing right now....

"...which some of you have just escaped. You have reached the end of the industrial phase. Man was reduced to a cog in the machine and when robots could replace the cog, he was eliminated."

I suspect a lecture on commodity fetishism or reification is coming up next. Boy, how I miss those college bullshit sessions.

"...at the end of the industrial stage, robots controlled humanity...instead of vice-versa. This new stage is called the "open" phase, a fourth generation civilization conceived of by Eric Renson, an American involved in what was called the "open software" movement. He had already concluded that the industrial phase would end the way it did in North America. He tried to fight it, but realized that it was impossible."

Thanks for nothing, Eric Renson. Maybe if you had got the word out better, maybe this could be avoided.

"...Renson realized that he had to turn the industrial stage on its ear. He used the idea of open source and added robotics to it. He spent money on robots and materials and reached a stage where factory robots could be used to create even more robots. However, rather than the top-down design processes where robots are programmed from a central point, robots could be individually programmed. Instead of mankind serving robots, robots would serve mankind. No restrictions would be placed on how robots would be programmed. Because no one owns a source code, the code is free to everyone to modify."

...

"Renson realized that in a robotic civilization, everything could be free."

Daria raised her hand. "That's not possible."

"It is," said the woman, "if you own a large piece of land like Eric Renson. The land contains a large amount of resources. Iron ores. Water rights. They don't have to be paid for by anyone. The first thing Renson turned his task to was farming to create food resources -- ."

"-- that doesn't answer the question. These resources are limited."

"But they are abundant."

"'Abundant' is not the opposite of 'limited'," said Daria. "It's simply a modifying concept. It just means 'less limited'. You're implying that these resources are perpetual. I don't think anything in nature is perpetual."

"Actually Daria," said the speaker, whose name was Caitlin, "this is merely an introductory lecture. It's not meant to be the springboard for a detailed discussion. If there's interest, that might come later."

Daria looked to her sides with her peripheral vision. There didn't seem to be any interest. Sixteen years of schooling had taught Daria how to recognize the signs.

"Renson's core idea was that everything should be free in a robotic world. Every human being should get an equal share of all of these products that the robots were producing."

Renson is sounding like a liberal fascist communist son-of-a-bitch. I like him already.

"Renson took the phrase 'all men are created equal' quite literally."

On second thought...hm.

Another person raised their hand. "Yes, Curtiss?"

"That sounds fine and dandy. But...does Eric Renson own Australia? Or California? I don't think that the people who own the land and the resources that lie beneath it...limited or limitless...are going to give that up without a struggle."

"Yes. If a small group of people, either individually or in the name of a government, own all the resources, then society is screwed. Sooner or later, there will come an inequity of wealth in which one person owns everything and no one else owns anything."

Shades of Marx!

"However, Mr. Renson decided to modify the successful capitalist corporate model, in order to create a new ownership model that would accomplish his goals."

Oh dear.

"Through the use of his software company and his patents on robots, Renson became a billionaire. He then purchased 300,000 square miles of outback territory in Australia, and began producing resources for sale with the robots he had built. He knew that he'd need at least $1 trillion to buy enough resources for one billion people to become self sufficient.

How the hell is he going to get a trillion dollars, unless he's a government? Most of the major industries in the world are banking, insurance, or gas and oil. Even if he ran a Japanese car company, that could only be worth $100 billion.

"...once he had started the major work in Australia, the citizens of Australia decided to merge with the project by plebicite. The entire continent of Australia became part of the Australia project."

Remind me to look that up the first time I get out of here.

(* * *)

The speaker went on about the "total recyclability" of the project, namely, that everything was completely recyclable. She stated that things were "used over and over" and "never diminished", completely ignoring all of Daria's inital objections. Daria began to suspect that the speaker had the speech memorized. She was there to talk; they were there to listen.

There was a principle of non-ownership. No one owned anything. There was also, however, no anonymity either.

"Doesn't anonymity provide freedom?" said Daria, unable to hold herself.

"Yes. But it also brings abuse. What's the difference between setting someone's house on fire and setting one's reputation on fire by websites created through proxies? In neither situation can the person be fully recompensed for their losses. In Australia, there are cameras everywhere. If you walk from your home to the park, cameras follow you all the way. You have access to these cameras, so if someone walks by your house, you know who walked by and when. This system makes it completely impossible to commit an anonymous crime."

"Except when the cameras fail," said Daria.

"They rarely fail," said the speaker, almost through clenched teeth. "We are able to put crime to a stop as soon as it happens. There hasn't been a murder in years."

"Even indoors?"

"I mean an outdoor, public murder."

"What good is that, then? You can stop muggings but you can't stop wife beating?"

"It's better than the old system, Ms. Morgendorffer," said the speaker, dropping the chatty facade. "People still commit crimes occasionally, basically children who haven't been socialized. We discipline them, and that solves the problem."

Another person raised their hand and asked why someone didn't just ask for 10,000 bars of gold bullion if everything is free? The speaker explained that all resources in Australia were equally distributed.

The discussion broke down to a chat about all the nice things you could buy in the "open" phase of civilization. You bought clothes, and when you got tired of them, the clothes were recycled. And then, the recycled clothes were made into new clothes to buy with your credits.

Before the discussion became a commercial, Daria felt emboldened to interrupt. "So what I supposed to do to earn all this?"

"Earn?" asked the speaker.

"I mean in terms of a profession," said Daria.

"There's no forced labor in Australia, Ms. Morgendorffer. Everything here is free. You do anything you want to. You get 1,000 credits a week to spend. You are on a 52-week-a-year vacation."

Someone else had a question. "So why are you here?" she asked the speaker.

"I don't understand."

"Why are you here to talk to us."

"This is what I chose to do. I enjoy seeing the looks on your face as you go through the orientation process. It's a fun thing to do. I get such joy in introducing people to the Australia Project." The speaker's gaze swept over everyone's face, but Daria only got an eye blink of time. In essence, it's my vacation."

"I don't believe it," said an older man.

"Yes. It is unbelievable. And it's all true," said the speaker.

"There is a catch, however," said the speaker.

I knew it.

"You have to agree with the core principles to take part."

(* * *)

Daria was given a piece of paper and an authenticator pad. The following was printed on the paper.

The shareholder agrees that by signing this sheet of LC that the shareholder is in agreement with the core principles of 4GC Inc. formulated by Eric Renson. The only way for the Australia Project to work is for all shareholders to abide by the core principles.

The Core Principles of 4GC INC.

Everyone is equal
Everything is reused
Nothing is anonymous
Nothing is owned
Tell the truth
Do no harm
Obey the rules
Live your life
Better and better



"That's it?" said someone.

"That's it," said the speaker. "You'll be surprised at the deeper meaning behind these words. You'll each receive advanced orientation."

"What does 'live your life' mean?" said a woman. "How can a human being do anything else?"

The speaker recited as if was a standard answer to the question. "In North America, your life left a lot to be desired. Instead of dying in some robotic holding tank, here at the Australia Project you will be in complete control of your freedom and prosperity. You have freedom of choice. You reach your own maximized potential with the recourses available to you. You are the designer of your life."

"What does 'better and better' mean?" someone asked.

Another standard answer. "We are innovators here at the Australian Project. We look for problems and solve them. The solutions make all of our lives better. Things get better here every day. In North America, things get worse every day."

Silence. Then someone shouted, "Well, sign me up!"

There was laughter throughout the room, except for Daria's. 'Tell the truth'? 'Do no harm'? My mother was a lawyer. I suspect that Satan is hiding in those vacant phrases. But frankly, I'll suck a cock to get out of going back to that robotic shithole.

Daria placed her thumb on the authenticator pad. The pad beeped, and according to the corporate law, Daria had agreed to the terms. She was now fully vetted. She was now a part of the Australia Project. As she left the room, the man - Curtiss - arched an eyebrow towards Daria, then followed the Daria and the rest without comment.

Data Dump IX

It was as if Daria had spent too much time on the treadmill. Every muscle in her body ached and the top of her palate was coated with dried spit. It was probably another dart, and her body had only fought the drug to the point of waking her.

She forced her eyes open, and her tongue chewed at something invisible. Looking about, she found her glasses on a concrete floor, there being no table in the room.

Four walls. One bare cot. Bars on the windows. A locked door with a small window. Great. Back to the poverty pen. Or to prison.

Daria forced herself to rise. She wanted to pace the room back and forth furiously but only had the bare strength to stand. She looked at her sleeve.

Orange. Son of a bitch. They didn’t even leave her the dignity of her clothes. She thought of some robot undressing her and shoving her into the one-piece. With the durable jumpsuit, no sheets, no belt and rubber slippers there was nothing from which one could make a weapon.

Daria ran her hands through her hair. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the door opened.

“Daria Morgendorffer?” the woman asked with an odd accent.

God damn you. I’m not going back. I’m NOT GOING BACK!

Like a doped animal, Daria stumbled forward and collapsed towards her attacker. The woman (it was a woman) screamed as the two tried to subdue each other. Each was making a clumsy attempt.

Daria finally thought she had the upper hand and could safely bolt for an exit until she saw the machine. It was blue, and looked as sturdy and strong as an old forklift. An attachment as large as a staple gun extended at the end of its hand which attached to a telescoping arm shot forward covering three feet in zero point three seconds surprising Daria and

ZAP

she could hear the sound of the staple gun

…


…


(* * * )

It was as if Daria had spent too much time on the treadmill. Every muscle in her body ached and the top of her palate was coated with dried spit. It was probably another dart, and her body had only fought the drug to the point of waking her.

She forced her eyes open, and her tongue chewed at something invisible.

It seemed as if what had just happened was only a dream. Daria stirred. It was then that she noticed the restraints which had been attached to her hands and the four large leather-like bolts which strapped her to the bed.

Great. This is just fucking great. What if I piss my pants? Daria felt it was necessary to make a futile gesture, to at least confirm its futility. This took even less time than it took for the robot to subdue her. She was as snug as a bug in a rug.

“Hello?” Daria asked. “Hello? O hell?”

Daria sighed. Nothing was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon. By acting out, she had given whatever power that held her there the moral high ground in ignoring her.

(* * *)

With Daria counting dark spots on the brown ceiling, the doors opened again. It was the same woman from before.

“Are you Daria Morgendorffer-oh-oh-three?” she asked. She was carrying what appeared to be a phone book. Another woman peeked tentatively through the floor.

“All right officer, you got me. What we have here…is a failure to communicate.”

“Ms. Morgendorffer, my name is Dot Reed. The young woman behind me is Michelle Pondexter. We need to clear up a few things with you, but we need to be assured that you’re not going to attack either of us.”

“All right,” said Daria. “That’s not going to happen again. I don’t need that mechanical truncheon.”

Daria felt the four straps suddenly disappear, retracting into the wall as if they were unfastened seat belts. The two wrist restraints loosened themselves.

“Thanks.” Daria sat up.

“Ms. Morgendorffer, we wish to begin a process that will hopefully secure your freedom. Unfortunately, it will also result in your being asked to depart the United States.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts,” said Daria with a faint drawl.

“We’re not. We’re Australian.”

“Well,” said Daria. “That explains everything. You should have said that at the beginning; it would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

“First: are you Daria Morgendorffer, the daughter of Jacob and Helen Morgendorffer?”

“You got it. This isn’t some sort of psyche test, is it? I hate those.”

“You have a deceased younger sister, Quinn Morgendorffer?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard of the Australia Project?”

“Fraid not. I was never much a fan of television. And these days, I’ve not been a fan of reading the papers.”

“Ms. Morgendorffer, it can all be explained through the actions of your father, Jacob Morgendorffer. When you were a teenager, he purchased one share of stock for you and one for your sister, Quinn Morgendorffer. The Australia Project has been tracking down its shareholders. As a member of the corporation, you are entitled to the benefits of any of the shareholders. This includes membership in the Project, room, board, and the freedom to come and go on the project grounds – which happen to be the entire continent of Australia.”

It was Michelle’s turn to speak. “After what we tell you, you will be free to leave with us if you choose. We will immediately depart for Australia afterwards.”

“On Deus Ex Machina Airlines, I suppose?”

Daria looked at the two. They both looked serious. “And they’re just going to let me walk out of here?”

“Yes. If you agree to come with us,” Dot answered.

“If I have cushy digs somewhere, how come I wasn’t let out of this hellhole after my prison sentence ended?”

“Your resources are in Australia, and not here. If the robots let you leave, you would technically be a homeless person. You have no job. Americans do not want to be reminded of the existence of their millions of homeless. You would be returned to either a terraform domicile, or to prison.”

“And the robots agree with you coming here?”

“Yes. Given the inclination, the United States government does not want to spend the time or resources in maintaining even your minimal room and board,” said Michelle. “There will soon be other homeless mouths to feed. You’re just taking up space. The United States would rather not see its citizens go to Australia, but it has made the decision that it’s better to take you off their hands. Furthermore, any one holding Australia Project stock is a citizen of Australia, by Australian law. Since you have dual nationality, they can’t stop you from leaving.”

“Your sister is deceased,” said Dot. “As executor of your sister’s estate, you took control of her assets. Those assets were seized by the United States Government upon your imprisonment, but according to the courts of Australia, Australia project stock cannot be seized by a foreign government, and it pays no material dividends anyway. You now hold your sister’s share of stock in addition to yours.”

“Is there any person to whom you’d wish to pass ownership?” said Michelle.

Daria thought about the question. Sandi’s name popped into her head. She had been as close to Sandi as anyone over the past few months, but she was now determined to leave Sandi behind. She never wanted to see or hear the name of Sandi Griffin again.

“I can’t think of anyone,” said Daria.

“Are you sure?” asked Dot.

Daria thought about the matter carefully. Then, slowly, she spoke. “I want to offer Quinn’s stock to Jane Lane.”

Daria explained who Jane Lane was to her new visitors. Jane’s situation was complicated, and Daria hadn’t spoken to Jane in years. “Finding someone in Europe will be very difficult…if Ms. Lane is still alive at all,” said Michelle. “Jane might not join you immediately.”

“I’ve been thinking about her. If you’re as powerful as you say you are…I want to know what happened to her.”

“Very well. We’ll see that she gets her share of stock and that the benefits of membership are explained to her when she’s located.”

“So what are the benefits?”

“They’re here in this catalog.”

Daria looked the catalog over. “I’m surprised you don’t have anything in data file form. What kind of paper is this?”

“It’s not technically paper. It’s laminar carbohydrate. Paper is a massive waste of resources.”

“Okay. But why a catalog?”

“The machines won’t let us bring anything metal or electronic into the building.”

“It figures.”

(* * *)

Daria, Dot and Michelle left their electronic car and proceeded to the Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Daria was still dressed in her orange prison togs. She wondered if anyone would attempt to stop them at the airport.

No one stopped them. They simply walked through the airport, stopped at the optical scanners, and after Daria had momentarily blinded by her scan, the three continued walking.

Past the security gate.

Past the check-in line.

Through a door marked “Exit A6002” and into a holding room.

Then, through the holding room and directly onto a plane.

It was no sort of plane that Daria had ever seen before, bigger even than an A480 Airbus. Daria thought that she had momentarily stepped into a five-star hotel until she noticed the traditional square airplane windows at the sides. There were other people on the plane, standing around, chatting. Many wore orange uniforms just like Daria’s.

Dot and Michelle continued walking. “These seats are ours. These seats are recliners that will fold out into a bed. It’s going to be a long flight with a stopover in Los Angeles.”

Daria looked up at the luggage racks on the aisles to determine the isle and seat designation. Then she noticed there were no luggage racks – and no designators, either. The seats were not so much as numbered.

“Okay, here’s my first question out of several. We walk into an airport. Aside from my optical scan – a scan that you wisely skipped – you walk through all kinds of airport security without a ‘by your leave’ and end up in some kind of opulent superplane. You don’t even to bother asking any questions doing it. How the hell do you know where you’re going?”

“I’m going to answer this question the way I answered all the other ones,” said Dot.

“Yeah,” answered Daria. “You’ll learn it all during orientation. I suppose it’s a lot better than ‘sit down and shut up’. Do you mind if I put this thing in recline mode?”

Dot reached over and touched the chair, which immediately reclined back as a footrest swung forward. Since topics of conversation had dried up – and since there was nothing about which to communicate with these two complete strangers – Daria decided to think about what was happening.

She did know one thing – it was unlikely that she would ever return to the United States again. Daria had been categorized as a felon, an escapee, a three-time loser. The U. S. government wanted nothing more to do with her. She figured that she’s probably be barred from entering the borders of the United States on any return visits.

Daria had always felt like an exile all her life – exiled from the company of her family, from the close bonds of schoolmates and friends. She realized that much of her time as an exile was by choice, but life had turned the tables on her. Now, everything exiled her, rejected her. Even Jane had decided that her friendship with Daria was not worth staying in the United States for.

Nothing had felt like home to her, ever. No situation, merely an unquenchable restlessness. A complete reject. She had lost her dignity, and despite the fact that she had only given lip service to American cultural institutions, she felt like a complete failure. Mom, Dad, Quinn, I fucked up so much that they don’t even want me here any more. They have no use for me, they have no place for me.

She knew that she might never see the graves of her parents and sister again. This chilled her.

It was all too much. Daria closed her eyes and prepared to flee once again, this time into sleep.

Data Dump VIII

A man’s character is his fate.
-Heraclitus

(* * *)

Once again, Daria would have to escape. Better to be shot escaping than wait for the touch of the guillotine blade.

She forced herself to clear her head of rage. It wasn’t working. Her fingers were slightly trembling, she sucked every oxygen molecule out of every breath before inhaling, as if she were coming up for air before diving down into the depths again. Her vision became blurry, her eyes slightly moistend with a film of salt water, testifying to the cliché about being so angry as to not be able to see straight.

Being in this…house…only added to her anger. Everything she looked at, in all directions, was a possession of Tom Sloane’s. The choice was either to walk outside or to look for a weapon so as to kill both of those treacherous ASSHOLES RIGHT THERE IN THAT FUCKING BED -

No. She would not kill them. She would leave them there, let Sandi earn her fortune on her back, let Tom remain the perpetual man-child. Sandi, bless her small, onyx heart, had proved decisively that any thought of beginning a new life with Tom Sloane as a spark was a thought grounded in delusion. She could not afford to be deluded. Her life and her freedom were at stake.

(* * *)

As she walked, Daria tried to order her thoughts in a logical progression. Escape had become a pop quiz of high stakes. Get one answer wrong, and get thrown in jail.

Daria was certain that the two had not heard her. When she forced herself to turn away from the sounds coming from the Sloane bedroom, she knew that the two remained in ignorance of her and vulnerable to surprise. They would not question Daria’s absence for a while. Then, after cleaning themselves up and calling for Daria’s company, they would find her absent. They would start to worry for any number of reasons. Either that, or Sandi would finally “take care of things” – with Daria providing the excuse herself. This gave Daria a limited window of opportunity.

With the grass still under her boots, walking was out of the question. The distances were too great and Daria feared robot bloodhounds, imagining electronic barks chasing her like a refugee from a bad B-movie.

Automobiles were worse. Autos had not had pilots for years – you stepped in and told the OnStar your destination. The auto drove itself. Daria’s fear was that it would drive itself right back to room 030397, where Daria could meet her brand new roommate.

Like it or not, it seemed that Daria was doomed to walk. She had no aptitude for the outdoors, not even Girl Scouts. (Jane, on the other hand….) She would have to make up some sort of plan on the fly, would have to cram a lifetime of survival skills into five minutes.

First rule: find tools. There was a large tool shed on the Sloane property. There had to be some sort of impromptu weapon inside.

There was no door. It seemed to be a converted barn, and it was simply a matter to walk inside.

Inside, Daria found that her guess of a tool shed was completely wrong. There were several cars hidden under large canvas cloths, like old furniture that was not being used. Along the walls were the tools of trade for the motor mechanic. If they have gasoline….

Daria eyed the cloaked automobile from all directions, despite the fact that the cloth reduced the machine to an indistinct mass. Getting on her knees (…to show her appreciation…) she found that one edge of the canvas connected to the canvas on the other side of the car by simple hooks. She undid each of the hooks on her side, allowing her to pull off the concealing tent.

The car was a red automobile. A small, metal logo on the front hood read “FIAT”. The cloth hood betrayed that the car was supposed to be a convertible; the hood was inexplicably in the “up” position. There was some sort of filmy plastic cover over the hood, one that could easily be removed. The automobile was bulkier than the convertibles Daria had seen in her youth, but the curves of the design betrayed the power of the vehicle – it was the engine, and not the design, that gave this vehicle its speed.

Daria opened the door – it opened. And the greatest surprise of all - the keys were still in the vehicle.

Daria turned the engine, and the machine angrily woke. Even a small touch of the pedal provoked the roar of a great beast, growling to be made free. It was stick, but Daria could drive stick. Daria was determined to give the machine its freedom despite the fact that that she had not driven in years.

It was as if touching a bicycle. You never really forget how to ride one, and Daria’s skill with a car, drilled into muscle memory with multiple exercises, simply returned to her. She put the machine in first gear and the red convertible lurched forward, off to new adventures.

(* * *)

There was no gate. There was no need for one. Daria passed a robot groundstender but it paid her no mind as she wound down the winding road. After two minutes, she found a sign:

CONTROLLED VEHICLE AREA

You could still drive the car yourself if you wanted to. No one wanted to, however. Entering a controlled area meant that you obeyed the traffic laws and drove at the speed limit as to not upset the machines traveling around you. It was much easier to let the car drive you where you wanted to go and save the red convertibles of the world for uncontrolled areas where you could take turns on privately-owned roads at 180 mph.

Daria wondered where she could go. She would have to get supplies from somewhere. Perhaps Tom had put an RFID chip in the machine. Tom would of course be prudent. She could imagine a younger version of Tom (but with the older version’s mustache) sitting next to a car with a dead engine, waiting for the helpful robots to arrive and tow them away. She could hear the younger version of Tom in her head. Why should I call someone? Why not just let the robots do it?

There was a temptation to give in to the paranoia that the robot police were on their way. If you do that, Daria told herself, you might as well just frog-march yourself to the police station. She had to assume – at least as a working proposition – that the police, the robots, the whole crooked system around her was not omnicompetent, that human eyes would fail to see, that machines would make the wrong calculations. She knew, however, that her expensive car was a burden – it would be the first identifier of many. She had to shake herself free of identifiers.

(* * *)

When you’re a fugitive, everything is a plan.

Daria had confined free thought, sarcasm, cynicism, speculation to a primitive part of her mind. The car would be identified. She could not abandon and then walk; it would be a literal red flag – “fugitive within walking distance of vehicle”. She had to find someplace where she could get lost among many.

As she pulled the machine into the mall parking lot, she felt she was making a mistake. Maybe entering a large closed space was not a good idea. But staying by herself in a large, open area was not a good idea, either, or at least it seemed that way. I can’t second-guess the decision. Anything I decide has the potential to screw me. I have no training in survival.

With no secret tunnels or massive air ducts, Daria began to formulate an alibi if she was caught. I just took Tom’s car to buy some new…something. She didn’t know what she could purchase that Tom couldn’t literally make, but there had to be something.

Her mind turned to the old skit about two men in prison talking:

You turned right going out of the bank? Aw man, you shouldn’ta turned right! If you get out again, next time, turn left!

She faced the left-right dichotomy immediately.

To her left was a store marked “BOOKS”.

To her right was a store marked “PRECIOUS DESIGNS”.

“Books”. That’s where anyone would look for me. She was certainly more familiar with books, and the thought of there being some book called “How to Get Away From Everybody” a few steps away was tempting.

But who would look for her in PRECIOUS DESIGNS? You turned right going into the mall? Aw man, you shouldn’ta turned right!

Changing her appearance was a high priority. So Precious Designs it was.

(* * *)

Daria entered the store, which had several customers. There were several mannequins displaying the precious designs, each standing watch from their elevated platforms.

What there weren’t were were the designs themselves. Instead of finished clothing on racks like there were at the Cranberry Commons Daria remembered from years ago, there were bolts of cloth. Daria figured it out. There must be some sort of automatic costumer in the store.

It made sense. A customer would simply carry a bolt of cloth to a counter, and say, “make me X”. The machines would make the customer “X”, and the customer could fit “X” on whenever he or she wanted. It was more like a bakery than a boutique. (As Daria looked around, she saw that the customers were middle class or slightly higher. They had this haunted look on their faces.)

There was only one question – what to wear? Oh, if Quinn could only see me now…wondering what to wear…. But Daria knew that “she shopped like a guy”, according to Quinn. Daria homed in on a look like a laser, sized it up in a split second, and if the look fit society’s requirements for non-nudity and was remotely flattering, into Daria’s cart it would go. On her visits, Quinn made a habit of culling Daria’s closet. Certain favorite shirts would vanish.

This would be a strength. She merely had to find the least likely thing to wear, having the machines make it, and box it. Even there, she was offered a multiplicity of choice, until a voice in the back of her head said, pick the most durable.

Daria found a denim jacket (!) and jeans combo. She grabbed a durable looking bolt of dark blue denim and prepared to take her place in line.

As she walked towards the line, she could see what was going on at the head of the line. Someone would step towards what looked like an old-fashioned airport scanner. They’d sit in the scan booth for a few moments while the machine made a three-dimensional topographical projection. The sewing device would then stitch together a garment in the size that was needed.

”Step into the archway, m’aam”

Daria saw herself stepping into the arch and the machine scanning her.

She imagined the machine. FUGITIVE. DARIA MORGENDORFFER003. ARREST IMMEDIATELY. She saw robots, hundreds of them, following her, with infinitely long arms of the law….

And Daria lost her nerve. This was no choice to make.

She retreated to the back of the store. Goddammit. I should have chosen the bookstore. She created a new story. Tom, I remembered that you liked Stalin so much, I decided to buy you a biography. I wanted to surprise you. I needed some way…to show you my appreciation.

She put the cloth back where she found it. Maybe there would be no problem at all. Maybe Tom was just waiting for her to come back.

As she returned up the isle, she saw one of the mannequins - leave the podium. It had a head without features, the better than some shopper could imagine her own head in its place. It was coming down the aisle towards Daria.

Daria knew to keep a wide berth of robots. She simply turned and walked in the same direction as the robot, then resolved to leave the store by way of an alternate aisle.

Then she saw it. Another mannequin, which had recently left its post, was now heading in her direction as well.

Once again, Daria had to make a quick decision. Fight or flight? The closest thing she had to a weapon was a long file she had secreted from the garage, one which just barely fit in the pocket in front of her formless sweater.

It’s paranoia. It’s time for the mannequins to be changed. They know that. They go back to their changing rooms, they put on new clothes, they come back. It’s that simple.

Daria tried to betray some confidence as she walked forward, a careful eye on the motions of the mechanism walking towards her. She tried to find a plan, and some courage, both items in short supply at this critical moment. She walked closer…Niagara Falls…slowly I walked…step by step…inch by inch….

As she walked, she saw it. It made her stop when she noticed it.

The camera.

Perched high in the store. Now swiveling slightly in her direction, like a poker player’s bad tell. She saw the curve of the lens tighten for a nice close-up.

Daria found what she was looking for.

The mannequin stopped her. “Can I help you?” its sexless form asked her.

“NO.” Daria was firm.

“Please,” it said, “let me help you.” And then it touched her. It took her by the arm, her left arm.

With one fluid amazing moment, Daria grabbed the file from her sweater, and in a snarl, struck with a stabbing motion. The dense metal cracked a hole right in the mannequin’s head and Daria could feel something grabbing the file right out of her hand, as it was ground up in whatever helped the head to move.

The head began to move like a woodpecker looking for an insect, shaking rapidly, nodding “yes” a thousand times over, the imbedded file as Pinocchio’s nose. The machine let go.

Daria broke for it. She didn’t care what was chasing her, what these machines wanted. She just had to get away. Look for a bathroom. A changing room. A back exit.

Three fashionable mannequins immediately pursued. They were faster. Daria knocked over a display of accessories (cheap watches? necklaces?) behind it.

They were no impediment. It jumped the items on the floor.

A machine with model-thin arms grabbed Daria’s arm and tried to swing her around. She pushed it instead, and it lost balance. Daria tumbled forth, over the device, when another machine tried to grab at her. She pushed off the fallen machine’s body using her legs, and bolted again, at a full run.

That was when she saw it. The silver machine. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a mannequin. It wasn’t one of the robots from the poverty pens. It looked sleek, and very expensive.

“HALT,” it said. “Do not resist!”

Daria turned her back to the machine. She ran, ran as fast as she could. And then she heard it –

-- thhhhhhWWWWWWWWWpphhhhhttttttttt

…she continued to run….

-- thhhhhhWWWWWWWWWpphhhhhttttttttt


…this time, she felt the stab of the needle at her back. No. Have to get away. Have to getttt awwwwaaayyyyy…. As consciousness eluded her, she looked up at the mannequin in front of her, still on a pedestal, wearing the latest can-you-just-die-for-it costume? The blank face portrayed nothing at all, but Daria, as she slipped away she interpreted the mannequin’s posture as betraying a sense of superiority….

Data Dump VII

I never go out unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want to see the girl next door, go next door. - Joan Crawford

(* * *)

“I think we’re heading to the coast,” said Daria Morgendorffer as the two looked out the windows. “It looks like the cities have disappeared.”

“It doesn’t seem like much has changed,” said Sandi. “It looks just the same from the sky as it did when I looked out of airplane windows when I was a teenager. The cars still look like ants, and there still seem to be just as many.”

“You know robots,” said Daria. “Always interested in order. No radical changes. No flying cars. The world will look the same as long as humans give the orders.” Daria paid more attention to the Atlantic Ocean. “I thought global warming would have swallowed these coasts up years ago; that there would be no beach. But I haven’t been watching the news lately.”

“God, who does?” said Sandi, looking out the other window.

As the two watched the scenery, they noticed the mass of forest giving way to a cleared area at the top of a hill. At the peak of the hill rested a modern looking home. “Do you think that’s it?” asked Sandi, but before Daria could answer, the helicopter answered for the both of them. Sandi and Daria could feel a shift in the rotors as Daria sighted a large letter “H” in a blue circle on the asphalt below and the machine moved closer to its final landing place atop the helipad.

As the machine touched down, the robotic voice of the copter spoke for the first time since takeoff. “We are about to land. A chime will sound and then the doors will open. You may then remove your safety restraints and depart the helicopter.”

Surely enough, the machine did what it promised to do. As the two orange-suited women departed and the rotors began to slow, a door opened from an attached structure at the end of the helipad. A slim-looking man with brown hair and a mustache walked towards the women.

“Is that Daria Morgendorffer?”

“That depends,” said Daria. “Is that Tom Sloane?” It wasn’t a run-across-the-meadows moment, but both picked up their pace in anticipation. Daria was never touchy-feely, but she didn’t mind giving her old ex-boyfriend a hug.

“It’s great to see you again,” said Tom, smelling like musk. “How are you?”

“Oh, at least I’m alive,” said Daria. She turned her head to Sandi. “Tom, this is Sandi Griffin. She’s a friend of my – “

“—of Quinn’s. Rude of me." Tom almost extended a hand for a shake, but he rightly read Sandi’s body language. Tom and Sandi shared a hug.

“All right,” said Tom. “Time to get the two of you out of those clothes. We’re going to have dinner outside. Robby, where are you?”

A blue looking machine walked from behind Tom. “Robby, take Daria and her friend to the dressing room. Explain how CostumeTech works. It will be new to Daria, I don’t think they had that a few years ago.”

(* * * )

“Daria! I think you’ll like these!”

Daria walked over to the scanner where Sandi was sitting. Sandi was naked and sitting on a towel while Daria was in her underwear.

“Do you see those boots?” Sandi giggled. “They remind me of the boots you used to wear in high school!”

“Yeah,” said Daria, squinting as she adjusted her glasses. “They do. I love boots like that. They stopped making them. Hey, Nimrod,” she said to the robot.

“Yes.”

“I’ll add those to the collection. Size four.”

“Please step on the platform.” A finger swiveled to a flat panel on the ground.

Daria stepped on the panel and was surprised to see a flash, as if a snapshot had been taken. “It will take approximately 23 minutes to fashion the boots. Your other garments are ready.”

“Why so long with the boots?” asked Daria.

“Gee, Daria,” said Sandi, “sizes for shoes have been dead for years. It happened when you were in prison. All shoes are now custom-fitted. The boots are being hand-crafted. All it takes are the materials and a robot to put it together.”

“Okay, Griffin. I have an entire wardrobe. You’re sitting here on your bare ass still deciding what to wear.”

“Daria…there's a difference between being dressed and between not being naked.” Sandi smiled. “Go talk to Tom. I’ll be out shortly.”

(* * *)

Daria had to agree that her new boots fit very well. They were almost a second skin. She wondered if her orange jumpsuits were also custom-fitted, as she never noticed a loose or sagging jumpsuit on anyone from the indigent housing.

As she walked into the kitchen area, Tom was waiting for her. "Well hello there," he said.

"Hey, Tom. Listen…I'm glad that you agreed to let us visit."

"No problem. A lot of this is just empty space. I was starting to lack for human company. Tell me, what do you want to eat?"

It became a much tougher question. After the fixed menus of prison and the poverty pens, Daria realized how much free will she had. "Uh…everything?"

Tom chuckled. "Great. Robby, prepare a banquet for both our guests."

A blue machine in the background began to walk towards the kitchen. "You call him 'Robby'? And you let him cook?"

"He cooks better than I ever will. I'm anthropomorphizing. You get tired of calling them 'hey, robot'!"

"Does he tuck you in at night, too?" Daria was surprised how easily it slipped out.

It rolled off Tom's back. "He - or maybe 'it' - would if I asked it to. He's a general R-124 helper model. I could buy a more specialized R-124-V model to be the Jeeves to my Wooster. Without an upgrade to CostumeTech, it's a waste of time. An R-124-V would tut-tut any choices I made. My parents are using M-248s at the cove. You know, they still haven't bought any new kitchen equipment? I suspect that their refrigerator has been waiting for the ice man to show up for the last half-century."

Tom sipped his orange juice. "But enough about me. How the hell did you get yourself into so much trouble with the law? I tried to find about your original posting on NewYorkList but it had been deleted."

Daria explained what had happened with the posting on the messageboard, and how she had violated Patriot Act III by posting thirty-three words. "It wasn't exactly the Ninety-Five Theses."

"It doesn't sound like it. But what did you mean by that 'risk all to gain all' stuff? I didn't think you were a fan of open confrontation."

Daria sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking. I think it was Jane's political diatribes that got me to thinking. I guess Jane started to get more political and social. I guess I bought into the system a bit more."

"Like you accused me of doing?" said Tom. Tom watched Daria turned red. "Well, you never accused me directly," said Tom. "Keep going."

"Then she simply left the country. Going to France. Not coming back. Jane wanted to talk about politics more and more and I wanted to talk about it less and less. This was before robot eyes were invented. With the robots shoving out the unskilled professions, there was economic pressure overseas for manufacturers to push out their unskilled and stick robots in. This led to a clash with the unions. You know, I could never imagine Jane in front of a red banner, shaking her fist and grappling with the police."

"Sorry. I'm rambling. I suppose I just happened to notice the…blanket that was covering everything. Like drowning in a warm quilt. There were more and more homeless - there had to be - but you never saw them on the streets, never saw them sleeping under bridges. There seemed to be fewer and fewer disputes about the news. I still remember when Bill O'Reilly lost his job. There wasn't a place for an O'Reilly or a Lou Dobbs in the world. There was a blanket consensus that the robots had brought forth a new age, an age of Everything Is Just Fine. But it wasn't just fine. Every now and then you'd get some horrible e-mail from someone in a poverty pen begging for help. It would just be a lightning bolt out of nowhere. Or when there'd be some poor guy who probably lost his job fleeing down the street, knocking you out of the way and then you'd watch the robots apprehend him. People would watch for a few seconds, and then they'd go on with whatever they were doing."

"I guess we were all terrified of ending up the same way. You'd hear stories about how so-and-so's profession had gone the way of the dodo egg. And when robot eyes were invented, you could put the machines on walking platforms instead of in PCs and have real robots."

"But you didn't have to do that," said Tom. "You're a writer. Which reminds me to ask you why you became a copywriter."

"I got tired of being poor," said Daria. "When all the burger flippers lost their jobs, there wasn't much of a use for burger-flipping housing. There were massive economic dislocations. All the money that the burger-flippers used to spend at Wal-Mart went to management instead."

"Yeah, I remember when Wal-Mart closed. I thought those guys were going to be around forever," said Tom, attentively listening.

"The price of everything went up. The money I was earning as a free-lance writer wasn't catching up with the steep inflation. It was either write ads or live in a cardboard box." Daria played with a sausage link. "I think after a while…it just got to me. I didn't have any family alive any more. Quinn was gone, and I was feeling my own mortality. Jane disapproved of me. I felt that I should…do something. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I should do something, even if it was just to talk to people about their discontents. Maybe I would have written a book that no one would ever have read. Or…I don't know."

The two were interrupted by a voice. "Something smells soooooo good. Is there room for one more, Mister Sloane?"

Sandi walked up the three short steps to the dining area. She was wearing a green cashmere toga. The long toga served as a combination sweater and skirt, covering black leggings which were custom made. The two could hear the sound of Sandi's high heels click towards them. Daria wondered why Sandi would have chosen such plain colors - green, gray, black - but the splash of color and abstract pattern from Stacy's Armani scarf drew one's attention immediately to Sandi's face.

"Whoa," said Tom, standing up.

"Sandi has a need to dress up," offered Daria in way of introduction.

"Don't mind me," said Sandi. "A woman's should eat like a bird, but today I might eat like Big Bird. What you have to offer for lunch looks scandalous. I'll be as quiet as a mouse and listen to you talk."

Despite Sandi's words, the two felt a need to bring Sandi into the conversation. Talk filtered back to decades past and the days of Lawndale. Sandi at least had something to offer - she had some insight into Quinn's take on the Tom/Daria/Jane triangle. Daria and Tom were surprised that Sandi would lob the hand grenade into the conversation, but Sandi simply said, "Young love is very sweet. I would have done the same thing, if I liked someone so much. And the Fashion Club were all jealous of you, Daria."

Tom/Daria was too soon to talk about, and Sandi quickly directed the conversation towards what everyone thought of high school. Unlike Daria playing fifth wheel when Sandi and Stacy talked, the three of them had equal contributions - it was a fact of life that high school was awkward and embarrassing, no matter where you rested on the pecking order. The three of them talked for several hours, then walking to the patio, then eating dinner, then resting on the coach, then alcoholic beverages for a drawn-out nightcap.

The twelfth of twelve chimes rang in the background. Tom was amazed. "Wow. Midnight already."

"Maybe we should rest, Daria," said Sandi. "We're keeping Tom awake."

"I don't mind," said Tom.

"Actually, maybe we should sleep. God what a day. I think the paradigm shift has given me jet lag," said Daria.

"I forgot about that. I'm going to have Robby escort the two of you to your rooms."

"What about you?" said Sandi.
"I can find my own way," said Tom. "I don't need a robot to tuck me in."

(* * *)

Daria woke up. She had a horrible dream. She was watching a horror movie. It was as if one of her short stories had come to life. There were characters that went to a high school, and they were all being killed in horrible ways. Heads chopped off and left on a lunch counter. Corpses falling into a classroom.

The horrible part was that she could do nothing to stop it. She wasn't even a character in her own dream. She was a disembodied observer, dreading to have to play a part and expose herself to the danger, but she never coalesced onto the dreamscape. Daria, as a third-person observer, could only observe the horror from afar.

It was a nice bed. Daria stretched out. The bedroom had its own bathroom, so Daria washed her face and wandered out into the hallway of the cavernous upstairs. She figured that she'd bump into one of the robots sooner or later.

As Daria began walking, she heard a giggle from somewhere. She followed the sound to its source.

So how was that?

That was fine. That was very very fine.

Did you learn understatement in Fielding? I'm going to be a bitch and ask for something more specific.

Fucking. Fan-tastic.

That's better. Anyway, I think a woman has to…show her appreciation sometimes. Even if she has to get on her knees to do it. So tell me, Mr. Tom Sloane…can I be honest with you? It's one of my faults.

Go for it.

Why did you invite us here? Why did you invite the two of us to visit you?....okay, you're getting all pouty. Don't get pouty.

I'm not 'pouty'.

Good. I don't like a man with a pouty face. So here you are, Tom Sloane, and you haven't gotten married and you're like what, over forty? You know, a woman would conclude that you're a faggot. There's nothing wrong with that, some of my best friends are faggy. But after what you and I did…you're no fag. Unh-unh. You like girls. So why do you like us? And why do you like Daria?

I'd rather not say.

Well, Thomas…can I call you Thomas…I'm going to make a guess….

..that tickles.

Mmm…you like that? Well, now that I have you in a good mood…here's what I think. I don't think it's because you're in love with Daria Morgendorffer. If that were true, you would have moved her in permanently. You see…I think the reason is because you figured that when you got both of us out of that hellhole, Daria would be so appreciative that…she'd show you her appreciation. Even if she had to get on her knees to do it.

Hey, stop. It's not like that.

…now Thomas, let me finish. This isn't a condemnation. I always wondered why you hooked up with Jane Lane and Daria Morgendorffer. I guess it's because those little pearl-wearing bitches in your social set had nothing to offer you. They wouldn't do the kind of things that you and I just did. They wouldn't hang on your every word. But with old Jane and Daria - a fine pair if there ever was one - you would be exotic…I'm sure they liked you for their own reasons. But you didn't know you had other…choices…

…like what?

…the world isn't all one way or the other. You just think it is. You think your only choice is between a Rolls-Royce and a beat up Hyundai. So you choose the Hyundai. And you're disappointed. So you stop driving. Tell me Thomas…have you ever driven a Corvette? Or a Porsche? Or a Fiat?

…yes. I have.

Really?

…yes. I have them in my garage. You don't know what you're talking about.

…so when was the last time you drove one?

…

No answer. Let me tell you something…Thomas Sloane. I'm not a Rolls-Royce. And I'm not a Hyundai. I'm a Porsche. So Mister Sloane…did you like your test drive? Hmn?

…

Mmmm. I thought so. I used to be a news producer. Whenever I had to evaluate someone at the end of the year, I only had one question - 'what do you want?' Not too many people know what they want. Some people wanted to advance. I told them what they needed to do to get there. Some people wanted to be left alone. And I told them what they needed to do for me to leave them alone. And I think that was the best part of my job. I was better than my mother at it. She told everyone what she wanted….so, Thomas…tell me…what do you want? I've given you a test drive. Do you want the Porsche? Or don't you?

….

….

….

I could never abandon Daria. It would be wrong.

Why? Do you think you're going to make Daria unhappy? You're going to make her miserable? She's always been miserable. You know it. You tried. You won't make her happy. No one can. If you married her and offered her a mansion and all the money in the world, she'd find fault with it, and with you. You knew her for months. She got bored with you. She's not changed. Not at all.

I need to find her a job. Or something.

And she'd still resent it. You will not please her, Thomas. You can't go back to the past.

….

….

….

What about Daria?

I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it all, Thomas. Now…let me show you my appreciation….

(* * *)

Daria told herself that it was a fantasy. That it wasn't happening. That there was nothing, no poison, no force that had subtly changed the Tom Sloane she expected. But what hurt most of all was Sandi Griffin. That Sandi had amply sized her up and just…took action.

There was no place for Daria. This was just an interruption. Sandi Griffin was going to take care of it. Was going to take care of Daria. Probably was going to have her dragged back to a poverty pen. Where she could be bitter…and angry…and with all the time in the world to figure out what she really wanted….

Data Dump VI

When the right and opportune moment comes for speaking, say something that will edify.
- Thomas a Kempis, “Imitation of Christ”.

(* * *)

Daria and Sandi had run the table.

The only e-mails left to be sent were people on Sandi’s “Drop Dead” list. Sending those people e-mail was a waste of time, unless you wanted an answer back mocking you for your misfortune.

Sandi had fallen into a glacial period of inactivity. She would shower, eat, watch television, and sleep. That was it. Most of her conversation with Daria was now limited to polite conversation. Daria noticed that even the insipid conversations that Sandi held with the other people like her in similar situations had ceased – Sandi now longer made her appointed rounds around the quad like some fashion-obsessed mail carrier.

Daria was determined not to collect flies, no matter how bad things got. She continued to develop confusing variations of Mao with Yolanda, and the two discussed communication theory. She continued her discussions with the Escape Group, which had run out of theories several years ago.

Heh. School used to be a prison for me, Daria told herself. But this prison is turning out to be a school.

Daria observed the robots more closely, watching them and testing the theories abandoned years ago by the Escape Group. Yes, the robots could decipher her rusty high school French. They even knew Pig Latin and Esperanto if you gave them enough time. They understood colors – they could tell the difference between various shades of red and blue. They could see, and sight was what made the robotized world possible. Without sight – without eyes - a robot might as well be a PC.

Prisoners – she thought of herself as a prisoner – who turned out to be violent or abusive were quickly segregated out by the ever-watchful machines. If indigents proved to be potential rapists or thieves, they soon disappeared. A certain level of social maladjustment was not tolerated by the machines, and Daria wondered what happened to the criminal fuck-ups. (Dog food?)

This left the robots to solve petty disputes among the prisoners, usually by enforced segregation. A few days in isolation would force the serious malcontents to keep to themselves. (In a society where people weren’t allowed to have many possessions, a thief is as bad as a murderer.) They would be given green jumpsuits as opposed to the orange jumpsuits, and other prisoners avoided them like someone carrying contagious cancer. Daria watched the “Greens” sitting against the stone walls of the quad, on the ground, backs literally against the wall, clutching their knees. The scofflaws were already beginning to emotionally regress.

There was fucking. There was a lot of fucking. Because there wasn’t anything else to do. Sometimes, it reminded Daria of high school, the non-married adults holding hands like school children….

(The robots won’t let anyone get married. The sermons, the religious services are all on tape. There are informal churches, and there are “marriages” under the eyes of God and Allah, but nothing recognized by the State.)

…and spending their time humping like bunnies.

(The children are now in state schools. Mothers separated from daughters. Fathers separated from sons. Daddy and Mommy lose their jobs and get sent to poverty pens – at least they get to console each other while their family is destroyed. I’ve spoken with these children, some now adults. “A state school will never get you a corporate job,” said one of them, “unless you were brilliant. Can’t join the Army, unless you’re a robot soldier. There’s nothing. After you graduate, it’s right into a poverty pen.” She was happy. At least she got to be reunited with her parents.)

There were no babies. No unexpected pregnancies. Clearly there was some sort of birth control introduced into the ecosystem. Sandi, in one of her rare moments outside, helped Daria drag a convulsing young woman towards one of the robots to be taken to the infirmary. She had been drinking from the nearby stream, convinced that the birth control was in the water circulating through the building.

(You can tell when these women want to get pregnant. They start to dehydrate, swearing off water. Or they won’t eat a certain kind of food. There are about nine “sure-fire” pregnancy diets. If any of them work, I know nothing about it. They’ve come to believe that pregnancy and impending motherhood will give them special status – or at least get them out of here.)

Daria marveled at it. She knew that the robots couldn’t program themselves (could they?) and therefore someone had to be providing the code that allowed the robots to substitute for the old guards (Wipin’ it off, Boss!) of Cool Hand Luke and I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang.

No wonder she couldn’t get out. There were hundreds of minds like hers that were paid to keep her in.

(* * *)

While shuffling cards, a robot walked towards her. “Daria?” it said.

“Leave the money under my desk. Unmarked bills.”

The robot ignored the sarcasm. “Daria, your parole board has met concerning your case and have granted you access to CommunityNet on a limited basis, subject to periodic review.”

“Whee.”

“You are also now able to send e-mail anywhere outside of the indigent sector of Community Net for a cost of 50 credits per e-mail.”

“See previous ‘whee’.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Daria knew that using sarcasm simply meant an interminable conversation. She watched with satisfaction as the robot ambled off.

Daria knew that at least if she had to log on, she wouldn’t have to be the backseat driver. CommunityNet depended on vocal commands to post. Without access, Daria had to have Sandi give every vocal command, and Sandi had to repeat everything that Daria told her. It slowed things down, unmistakably.

Is there anywhere I want to go? Besides ‘out’? Daria had her chance to review CommunityNet; indeed, there were a few things she used it for when she was free. CommunityNet, however, was like television – five percent treasure, ninety-five percent trash. Unless she wanted to post on message boards or type Bonanza fan fiction for an audience of slackers, the damned thing was completely useless.

Daria trusted her books. She ran her fingers over a copy of Imitation of Christ. “Ah, Thomas,” she said, referring to the author, “you never let me down.”

Thomas. Now there was a name from Daria’s past. She hadn’t seen Tom Sloane in years, hadn’t seen him since that romance that exploded into being before Summer and fizzled out during Spring. Most of those memories were locked away and accessed only in case of emergencies. She still had some fondness for Old Tom – Sloane, not Aquinas.

However, if Daria had a “Drop Dead” list then Tom had to be on it. Not because Daria was afraid to write him, but it would be an e-mail that she’d be unable to write. It would remind her of her painful adolescence. Besides, Daria wasn’t interested in firing up an old acquaintanceship. She wanted to mooch from him, plain and simple. Daria didn’t know what was worse – having him ignore the letter, or having him not answer back.

Daria put her cards away and sighed. Beats posting on a messageboard. She begin planning her newest literary creation.

(* * *)

Sandi was sitting on the ground. The weather was getting cold, but she seemed not to notice the chill or the damp patches at her hindquarters. Keeping a clean jumpsuit didn’t matter. They were recycled every day.

She had the premonition that someone was walking towards her. As she turned around, she saw Daria Morgendorffer. Sandi thought back about the ugly boots that Daria always wore – for someone who valued her privacy, you could hear Daria coming a mile away. Sandi concluded that Daria had simply learned to “walk heavy”.

Daria had the half-grin that substituted for a smile. “Griffin.”

“Daria. So…what do you want?”

“I want you to be ready tomorrow morning to get your cleanest jumpsuit on, and to substitute your Grade Z mouthwash for Grade Y. For I, Daria Morgendorffer, am leaving this Theatre of Terrors tomorrow. And you, Sandi Griffin, are to be my esteemed guest.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Cocktails for two. Sloane Estate. My treat.”

Daria explained. “Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been working on a particularly beautiful piece of persuasive writing. I bought an e-mail and sent it to my first real boyfriend, Tom Sloane.”

“You mean…that rich kid from Fielding?”

“Yes. I wanted to see if I could condense the drama of my life to three brief pages and write a letter that would tug the heartstrings of a concrete statue of Joseph Stalin. I went through several rough drafts, but dammit, my years as a copywriter did not go in vain. I wasn’t working under a deadline this time, and I sent it out five days ago.”

“As it turns out, the letter didn’t go to his corporate address. It went to his home e-mail which he rarely answers. I get the reply about a half hour ago. ‘Daria, great to hear from you, blah blah blah.’ Still alive, no kids, nose to the company mill, etc. The ending is the payoff – ‘I would like to invite you to my estate for sixty days.’”

“Wow…I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t get it?” said Daria. “I mentioned you. The you is plural. ‘You’. As in ‘You and I’.”

Sandi’s face lit up. “You mean….”

“…Hell yes, ‘I mean’. We are getting out of this dump. Goodbye Room 030397, Building 1, Resident Quant A.”

Sandi stood up, and calmly quietly, embraced Daria. The embrace was not the exuberant excitement of the mutual hug after the two had received Stacy (Rowe) Nibblet’s e-mail, but the embraced conveyed much more warmth.

(* * *)

Sandi and Daria stood about fifty yards away from the quad. They were looking at the sky. They heard a single chime in the distance.

“11:15,” muttered Daria, referring to the quarter-chime. “Tom wrote that he’d send a helicopter at 11 am. So where the hell is he?”

“Maybe he’s late,” muttered Sandi. “It could be the weather.”

“Right. This is a crystal clear day. WeatherNet states that chances for showers are zero percent.”

Sandi said what Daria had been afraid to say. “You don’t think he stood you up…do you?”

Daria finally put words to her fears. “God damn you, Tom Sloane. If you do this to me, I swear that when you die, I’m going to drag you into my cauldron in Hell and coat your balls with jalapeno sauce.” She looked to Sandi. “You don’t think he would…do you?”

“I don’t know,” said Sandi. “Was he a nice guy?”

“We were a lot alike.”

“Then maybe,” said Sandi. “Maybe….” She didn’t want to say it.

The two looked rather fretfully at the empty sky. There appeared to be no helicopter, no escape, no nothing.

“I know he has to be here,” said Daria. “The robots stated that they expected a helicopter to land.”

“That can be changed,” said Sandi. “Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he’s scared to meet you?”

“Scared? Scared?” asked Daria rapidly. “Am I scary?”

Sandi said nothing. Then, quietly, “A robot is walking this way.”

“Goddamnit,” said Daria. “I can’t hear it, Sandi. I can’t hear that Tom left us both in the lurch. By…by….” Daria swallowed. “I’m not going back. I’m going to run for it. I’m not going back in there. Not another day.”

The robot had closed the distance. The women had their backs to it. If it had a message, it would fall on unwelcome ears.

Suddenly, Sandi shouted. “Look!”

It was a pinprick. A yellow prick of light against the sun, which was starting to coalesce into a solid object. Daria’s eyes sometimes betrayed her, but she could make out the faintest sounds of a shOOP-shOOP-shOOP of rotors.

Daria inhaled a discontinuous volume of air. Her eyes were starting to get wet. Yes. That’s it. You came through, Tom. You came through.

The helicopter was getting closer and closer. “Please move forward,” said the robot. Daria and Sandi moved forward, first tentatively and then more rapidly as the helicopter circled ahead and looked for a landing spot.

The robot continued to urge them forward. As they approached the helicopter, doors swiveled open. Daria and Sandi stepped inside.

Sandi walked over to the forward part of the cabin. Instead of seats for a pilot and copilot, there was merely machinery and a small chair. “This is a commercial helicopter,” said Sandi referring to the pilotless machine. “We’re the only ones on board!”

“Please make sure you are secure,” said the robot on the ground.

“What is our destination?” asked Daria.

“The estate of Thomas Lyman Sloane, North Carolina” said the helicopter’s intercom.

“Sandi…buckle in. This is it. We’re finally home free.” As Sandi buckled in, Daria played an awkward meeting with Tom Sloane a few times in her head. Then, she stopped the film. Daria was more interested in seeing the helicopter lift off and the robot disappear to a speck of orange rust against a green field.

Data Dump V

"But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep."
- Sylvia Plath

(* * *)

Daria worked on her solitare some more. It was a version called Klondike. She liked Klondike because unlike the solitare games she learned in childhood, every Klondike game had a solution that didn't depend so much on how the cards landed. Books were hard to come by, and paper was expensive. Daria doubted that her request for a What Is To Be Done? frightened the robots that much, but she knew that they could print out anything she asked them to. They just didn’t care to do it, not unless she paid, and the best they could offer her was rental. God forbid she own a book of her own.

Yolanda stepped over. “Hey, Yolanda,” said Daria. “Want to play Mao?”

“No, I’m Mao’d out for the day.”

“How about more Mao this afternoon?”

“I have something else planned, but if it doesn’t pan out, then sure,” said Yolanda. “Just keep in mind the number one rule of Mao. Say, where’s your partner in crime?”

Partner in crime. She hadn’t heard that phrase used in years, and never applied to the person Yoland was speaking of. ”I believe she’s in the shower getting ready for her visit.”

“It must be nice,” sighed Yolanda. She walked away. “Take care of yourself, Daria. Watch out for rogue Mao players.”

(* * *)

Daria Morgendorffer stepped into the communal shower. Without complaint, a robot scrubbed each inch of the floor to keep the room spotless if reeking of industrial cleanser.

Normally, the room was packed with naked flesh, fifty people to a shower. All sorts of flesh, from the taut flesh of youth to the scarred, or cellulite packed, or sagging flesh of old age. Daria had never showered with that many people before since high school. She hated group showers then and she hated them even more now. It was a low point in her eyes to start the day with such an indiginity.

There was one person in the shower – Sandi Griffin. She was using a nail file to trim down her nails. Completely naked, she would work a few seconds, blow the pulverized fingernail away and then admire her handiwork.

“Are you done?” asked Daria, her voice echoing between the blue tiles.

“Uhh…no. Everything has to be perfect. As perfect as I know how to make it. There’s not enough credit for new makeup, so I have to be perfectly cleaned.” Satisfied with her filing, Sandi opened the Recycle Door near her shower and tossed the file in as used garbage, to continue its life cycle.

“You’re going to be late. Stacy is going to be here any minute.”

“The robots will tell us when she’s here,” said Sandi. “Besides, it’s important to keep certain people waiting. The person who has to wait is the inferior to the one who makes them wait. I kept Stacy waiting all the time. She’s used to it.”

(* * *)

A robot ambled forward quickly. It told Daria that she had a visitor, a “Stacy Nibblet, at the far bench of the quadrangle, near the outlet stream.” Daria told the machine to tell Sandi, and went down to greet Stacy herself.

As she walked towards the bench, she saw a small woman waiting. The way she held her hands to her lap, even when standing, left no doubt in Daria’s mind that it was the Stacy from high school. The pigtails were gone now, replaced by an expensive suit and nice shoes with a purse that betrayed a pedigree that only Sandi Griffin could decipher.

“Hello, Stacy,” said Daria, extending a hand for a handshake.

“Daria!” Stacy walked over to hug Daria. Daria returned the hug as well as she could, still resistant to human contact. However, her resistance to such tactile stimuli had diminished over the years. She could feel the warmth of Stacy’s body even through the suit.

It was time for Stacy and Daria to catch up. Daria had learned some conversational skills. F-O-R. Family. Occupation. Recreation. The acronym gave Daria at least three things to talk about when caught shorthanded, and with Stacy Rowe Nibblet that was definitely the case.

Daria only had the chance to use the first one: family. Stacy was married, of course. She had one child, a son, Brett who was now 11 years old. Brett was doing well in school. Her husband was a bureaucrat and the Nibblets lived in an exurb of Washington, D. C. Stacy had time to be a homemaker, and she homeschooled her child.

It was Daria that found herself the subject of conversation, vis-à-vis her sister, Quinn Morgendorffer. Quinn and Stacy had lost touch after college, and Daria filled Stacy in on the missing parts of Quinn’s life. Quinn had graduated and went to work as a marketing person for a music company in California. She got the chance to meet all the interesting people she wanted to meet – usually music acts – and to be fashionable. She had never married, always wanting to keep herself available for something bigger.

“Quinn always preferred chasing to catching” said Stacy. “I think she liked the gifts and the attention more than she liked the guys.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I remember when you wrote me that she died,” said Stacy. “I know she died of a heart attack, but you never told me exactly what happened.”

“There’s not much to tell. She was in her apartment in Los Angeles and a friend noticed that she hadn’t been answering her phone on Sunday. Quinn didn’t show up to work on Monday, so everyone at the record company panicked. They called the LAPD, which got permission to open the door. When they got there, they found Quinn on the kitchen floor.
She had died the day before, most likely.”

“A heart attack?”

“An aortic dissection. It was a tear in her aorta. The aorta is a large artery, the largest in the human body. Most of the time, the symptom is severe pain, but in Quinn’s case, the pain was so severe she passed out. Unconscious, she simply…bled out. I like to tell myself that when Quinn went, it was a brief moment of pain…and then nothing. She was only thirty-two years old when she died.”

“I remember Quinn telling me her Dad’s heart was bad.”

“Right. He had had a triple bypass eventually. It was a success but he aged almost twenty years overnight. He became a lot mellower. I think he was reconciled to dying. He was happy with his family. He died before Quinn died. I’m sort of glad that he died when he died. Quinn’s death took a toll on Mom emotionally.”

“I’m sorry.” Stacy reached her hand over and took Daria’s.

“Don’t be. People die, it happens.”

“I hope you’re not lonely.”

“Hey,” said Daria. “I’m sort of used to being lonely. And trust me, where I’m at right now, loneliness is not a question. I have a lot of company – “

“ – stacEEEE!!!”

There was a corresponding squeal. Sandi and Stacy embraced each other like long lost sisters. Daria immediately felt a shift in position to third wheel. It was time for the two to catch up and for Daria to listen.

(* * *)

Stacy’s first act was to bring a gift for Sandi. (Daria’s gift was a jar of expensive peanut butter – “I didn’t know what else to get.”) It was an Armani scarf, a real scarf to replace the non-descript piece of cloth that adorned Sandi’s neck. Sandi gushed over the scarf as Daria calculated how much the scarf would have been worth on the credit market. She guessed that someone at the poverty pen would have paid a month’s credit to get their hands on that scarf.

Daria listened to hours of conversation between the two. The two exchanged information as fast as their mouths could convey it. After a very brief update – Stacy = married, Sandi = former news producer – the two began to relive the past, telling stories out of Lawndale High School and the glories of the Fashion Club. Daria was only needed to verify some fact (did Quinn have a green sweater? or was it a chartreuse sweater?) and other than that, she had very little to contribute. Not that it was a burden for Daria. It was almost comforting to listen to Sandi and Stacy rattle on about Bret and Corey and Skylar and a host of names long forgotten. It reminded Daria of better days, memory so comforting that she felt as if her dead sister Quinn would walk in with Tiffany Blum-Deckler any second and the four of them would chat and gossip and Daria would breathe in the nostalgia till it curled the skin at the bottom of her feet.

After a while, Stacy began to check her watch. “Sandi! It’s been great meeting you again! But I have to go!”

“Stacy,” said Sandi, feeling the draft of ancient air pass away, “have you missed me?”

Daria felt the question land with a thud as Stacy answered. “Sure Sandi. I’ve missed you a lot. I really think about you.”

“Stacy, you know I’d love to see your son. You’ve told me so much about him that I feel that he’s almost here. Isn’t the Thanksgiving holiday coming up?”

“Well, Sandi…I think it would be better if I saw you on Thanksgiving. Don’t they treat you well here?” she said, referring to the robots. “Don’t you like it here?”

“What do you think, Stacy? Of course, I don’t like it here. It’s a prison, Stacy. It’s a fucking prison. When I take a crap, Stacy, I have to take a crap on a toilet with no doors. I live in a friggin closet in a bunk bed. I don’t have any clothes except a jump suit that belongs with a road cleaning crew, one that I have to throw away after use so that it gets recycled. I’m on a god-damned allowance, for Christ’s sake. The people here are either obnoxious or depressed. The robots have us hemmed in on all sides. We can’t go anywhere, we can’t see anybody, and we can’t do anything. No, Stacy, I do not like it here.”

“But Sandi…don’t…can’t your brothers help you? What about your parents?”

“Parents? My whole family is probably in hellholes like this. Except for precious Sam, the little rat bastard. And I never saw him lift a hand to help any of us! Stacy, you are our last hope. If we don’t get out of here, we die. We die in here.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sandi.”

“Then can you help us, Stacy? Can you help an old friend?”

“Stacy…you know money is tight?”

“Money is tight! I’ve heard that one before! You can buy me a friggin Armani scarf…but ‘money is tight’. I looked out for you, Stacy. I took care of you, I got you want you wanted, I protected you. And this is the thanks I get? This is how you pay me back. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth. You owe me, Stacy. You owe me.”

“Don’t get mad,” said Stacy, shrinking.

“Stacy,” said Sandi, lowly, “if you don’t come back here and get us out of here…I’ll kill myself. Is that what you want, Stacy? Is that what you want me to do? Will that make you happy to be rid of me? DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING KILL MYSELF?”

Stacy began to start crying. Daria stood up and said, “Don’t even joke about that, Griffin. That’s not funny.”

“Oh I’m not joking. I’m just getting started. Stacy! LOOK AT ME! I’M SERIOUS! I’LL DO IT!”

A voice interrupted. “Is there a problem?”

It was a machine. Other machines were following. “Sandi,” the machine said, speaking to her by her first name. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I don’t WANT to lie down!” said Sandi, the tears beginning to fall from her face. “Take me home! Please take me home!”

She grabbed at Stacy’s arm, and Stacy shrunk back in horror. Another robot ran about a hundred yards in four seconds as the first robot grabbed Sandi’s arm away from Stacy.

Sandi screamed. She was fighting the robot, which had one of her arms caught in one of its talons. The tranq cannon swiveled out of its body.

“STACY!” sobbed Sandi. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me here!!”

Daria watched in horror. There was a burst of air from the tranq cannon. And then Sandi collapsed as a rag doll, with the robot suspending Sandi briefly by one limp arm. Daria turned to see how Stacy was, but a robot was already escorting Stacy away.

A third robot surprised Daria. “Daria, do you want to help your friend?”

(* * *)

Daria waited for Sandi to open her eyes. She muttered.

“How do you feel?” Sandi shut her eyes with her closed fists as an answer. She began to sob.

“Sandi…what happened to your Mom and Dad?”

Sandi said nothing, convulsing with tears, not speaking a word to Daria.

Daria rested her head on her elbows. “Did you ever read King Lear, Sandi?”

Sandi shook her head.

“ Turn all her mother's pains and benefits /To laughter and contempt; that she may feel /How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is/To have a thankless child! Away, away!”

Still silence.

“You weren’t much of a reader. Quinn told me a lot about your mom. And that sounds like something that she would say to you.”

“There wasn’t…a day,” said Sandi, between sobs, “…not a day…of my life…when she didn’t…remind me…that I owed everything to her. I heard it…every single friggin day…and if I let her back into my home…after all those years I fought to get away…it would never end. It would never end.”

“So,” said Daria. “So she’s in a place, just like this. Somewhere. You abandoned her.”

“Sam never helped her either,” said Sandi. “It’s not…my fault. It’s not. You don’t know her Daria. You don’t know her.”

“She said…she hoped that someday I’d know the pain I had caused her…and now I do. But…I’d rather live for the rest of my life….” Sandi clamped her jaw to keep from screaming, and Daria could hear the suppressed moans, “I’d rather live here in this shithole…as long as I knew…she was living somewhere worse.”

Daria didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine it. She suspected it, but confronting it did not diminish the horror, it merely increased it.

“Then I’m sorry, Griffin. I’m sorry for the both of you.” Daria climbed up to the top bunk of the bed, to fight her way to an uneasy sleep.

Data Dump IV

Seems I'm not alone in being alone
A hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
-Police, "Message in a Bottle"

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

I'm sorry I took so long to answer your letter. It was certainly not easy thinking about how much the world has changed since both of us were in high school, much less thinking about the divergent paths our lives have taken.

It is with deep regret that I have to say that I can't help you and that I have no home to offer you. Right now, I already have three people living with me: my sister Rachel, her husband Bill and my cousin Sarah. My parents have others living with them as well. I hate to say this, but there's no room at the Inn.

I hate to start the letter off with a downer, but I thought that you'd want the bad news first. At least, I can tell you about myself since you were kind enough to ask.

Currently, I'm an associate dean at Turner University. Yep, I've returned to my old alma mater. We still have students, believe it or not, but not many - we're one of the few surviving colleges that are primarily African-American. Our campus looks a lot like Grove Hills, if you remember the trip we took long ago. The maintenance workers are robots, but other than that, we still have actual professors. Maybe not for long, as there's very much financial pressure to begin using robot instructors. I'm doing all I can to put a stop to it, but I can only fight a delaying action. I suspect that many of our professors will be joining you soon.

I can already see the difference in the students I get. Mind you, these students are a lot better off than the Turner student of a few decades ago, but they are only better off financially. This is the first generation that has been raised by robots. They know facts but they don't know interpretations. They're not critical thinkers. In some ways, they're a lot smarter than you or I ever were; in others, they're astonishingly naïve and ignorant. I hope that some exposure to our human instructors will cultivate a passion for the liberal arts that is now almost extinct.

That's enough about my job. I'm not married. Too busy. Besides, Rachel and Bill are almost children. I can at least tell you in a letter what I'm afraid to tell them to their face. They're moochers. They're not interested in work and haven't been interested in it since they've moved in; they're quite happy to eat me out of house and home and complain about the lodgings and about what a lousy sister I am. Rachel used to be a teacher, Bill used to be a businessman, but now they're both ghosts. They watch TV and complain about minor inconveniences. I'd hurl her out of here, but she's my sister. I still believe that blood is thicker than water, and I know that if I threw them out, they'd both end up in a poverty pen and they'd spend the rest of their lives cursing the name of Jodie Landon.

The sad case is my cousin Sarah. Sarah wants to work. She used to be a seamstress and theatrical costumer but now robots can do in a few seconds what it took her weeks to do. The news says nothing about the rate of unemployment, but it's high, and that's not counting everyone in your situation. There are few jobs, in business management and robotics and computer programming, all jobs for which Sarah isn't even remotely qualified. But she tries. I clean her newest suit for her, we dust off her resume, and she tries to get work. Not qualified. Not needed. Not necessary. I guess she does it because it gives her an excuse to sew a new interview suit. They're lovely suits, but the world doesn't need them.

I would love to help you Daria, but yours, sadly enough, isn't the first letter I've gotten. I've discovered kin that I didn't even know I had. I've heard stories of misery, stories of people about to run out of money, stories of people begging for a job, any sort of help so that they won't end up in public housing. There's nothing on TV about public housing, but we know it's out there. We get the e-mails, the letters, the desperate last chance pleas.

For you to even ask, Daria, I know it must be very hard. You were the kind of person who believed in carving out her own path. Unfortunately, all that I have to offer is best wishes. Everything else has been spoken for.

I'm sorry that Jane has fled the country. Europe is trying to hold on to the old ways, but they're going to be ground into poverty. All we hear are rumors of a mass social collapse. Australia has disappeared from the map, so things must be horrible over there. I'll pray that she's all right.

I'll pray for you and Sandi, and I'll pray for all of us. I'm sorry I'm not able to help you. Forgive me.

Hopefully, still your friend,

Jodie.

(* * *)

"Daria."

Daria was playing solitaire. "Yes, Griffin."

"Look, Daria, I know you've been depressed lately, but I have some good news."

"What? The robots ran out of 'D' batteries?"

"No," said Sandi. "Stacy Rowe has agreed to see us!"

Daria stopped dealing the cards and looked up.

"I know you've been depressed about Jodie's letter, but I bought another monthly e-mail. I used up the monthly credit, but I did it. I kept telling you, Daria, don't beg. I floated an e-mail to Stacy and told her that I was thinking about her, and I told her you were here, and you know how much she liked Quinn. So she's going to come over here and visit us. Soften her up…and then hit her up!"

Daria rapidly stood up and walked over to Sandi. "I don't believe it," said Sandi. "You actually did it."

"Yeah. I did it."

Daria grabbed Sandi by the arms. "You friggin' did it. You -- friggin -- did it!!"

Before Sandi knew it, she was jumping up and down with Daria in a state of voluntary delirium. They were hugging each other, embracing, doing an involuntary pogo, bouncing up and down like bunnies on mescaline. Anyone walking by would have been surprised at the two women making train noises, a loud whhhOOOOOOOOooo! which lasted for a good five minutes.

It was the first time Sandi had seen Daria smile. "You know Griffin," said Daria, "you're all right sometimes."

"Well…I suppose it was worth it. But you have to let me do the talking."

"I'm quite happy to be your wingman. All right you little fashion-obsessed socialite, let's not get too confident."

"Really? As well as I know Stacy?" said Sandi. "I might be out of credit, but I think we can afford some confidence."

Data Dump III

“There must be some way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief….”

-Bob Dylan, "All Along The Watchtower"

(* * *)

That put me back in here after my cousin threw me out. I hit the pavement and the robots were there in moments. So no job, again, and back in a “poverty pen”.

I guess family ties just aren’t that strong. Even though my cousin was rich, she didn’t want to support me for the rest of her life, or maybe she just thought it was a bad thing to be poor and didn’t want me dirtying up her mind. So here I am, Michael Jordan Mackenzie, a prisoner. You know, my dad warned me about ending up in jail, and here I am. He’d die if he could see me.

I’ve run through what few people I thought I could depend on. Would I like to see you again? You bet. The problem is, I’ve already asked. The robots said that they don’t let people move, or “change their indigent housing domiciles” unless blood relation can be proven by the appropriate documentation. And unless one of our ancestors jumped the fence somewhere, that’s that.

I haven’t seen Jodie in years. Haven’t written her, either. I guess I’ve sort of been here without hope. But I’ll tell you something. Your letter gave me hope. It gave me hope that I was not forgotten or abandoned and left to die.

If I had a picture, I’d send it, even if I looked lousy. To hell with it. I don’t think either of us has much to write about. We have the same kind of days. But keep writing, even if it’s just to reminisce about the old days.

Mack

3457907 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Michael Mackenzie038, 941919 Building 4 Resident Quant C – Homeless Detainee ****

(* * *)

“I thought more people would answer.”

“Maybe not,” said Daria, under the single comforter in the darkened room. “Who knows how people spend their time? Posting on message boards. Do people even answer their mail? Do they spend the rest of their lives looking up at a television screen? It reminds me of all those old people in the rest home, marking time until they died.”

“Daria?”

“Yeah?”

“You know…back when we were in Lawndale High School, I thought I had you sized up. I told myself that even if you were never popular, I knew that you were going to make your mark on the world. You were going to be famous someday. I would have bet all the money I had on that.”

“You would have lost it.”

“No really. I mean your sister was popular, but you were popular in your own way. I knew you were smart, and talented, and didn’t give a crap. I thought you’d be a novelist or a brain or something.”

“So how come you never said anything?”

Sandi laughed. “Come on. You know how it was. I would have never talked to you in high school.”

Daria chuckled. “Well, Griffin, you know that I figured you’d be married to a rich husband. You’d be sipping pina coladas and making the domestic help miserable. You were a real bitch on wheels, you know.”

“Yeah, training wheels. The world was a lot tougher than I thought it was.”

“Same here.” Daria was silent for a few seconds. “I’m surprised that you could run a newsroom.”

“Mom got me that job. I was good at it…but she never let me forget it. She always let it hang over me, that everything I ever got out of life was because of her. Daria?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Good night.”

(* * *)

Glad to know that you’re still alive out there. Sometimes I like to tell myself that I’m one of the only humans alive and that everyone else was exterminated like in the Terminator movies. It makes me feel special. You know, I’ve looked all over for movies like that on the public telly and can’t find them. I think evil robot movies have been cast into the memory bin, at least in public housing. Most of my time is spent on the Terminator message boards.

Of course, for all I know, you could be a robot. Maybe robots can write now. Maybe they send us e-mail messages to make us feel better, to make us think that someone out there is listening.

Right now, I don’t care if you’re the real Daria or just an evil Daria-bot. If there’s a way for us to get together, I’d like that. I don’t know if there is a way. I’ve tried running, I’ve tried sabotaging, I’ve tried assaulting the machines. Did you know I led the Great Goth Rebellion of Quad B? Yeah, that lasted all of 15 seconds before they pumped the tranq gas in.

Family? None of us made any money. We’re all here together, but I can’t get along with my family anyway. They’re all in Quad C, and I’m in Quad B. It’s a lot better that way. Once in a blue moon the robots will allow us to hook up.

Do you know what I miss? Ultra Hold Hairspray. I used to go through cans of that shit.

I don’t have any solutions. You might like to check out the Terminator Board, sending me a private message will get a faster response than e-mail, since my inbox reminds me of the dustbowl.

Vienna la tormenta!

-andy

313562 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Andrea White734, 816665 Building 2 Resident Quant B – Homeless Detainee ****

(* * *)

Yolanda and Daria were playing cards. Sandi walked over to where the two were sitting in the dreary looking common room. “Dah-RIA.”

“Yeah, Griffin.”

“You have some mail. From Mr. DeMartino.”

“DeMartino is still alive?”

“When death came, he probably beat him up.”

“Does he offer a way out?”

“Well…no. I don’t think so.”

“All praise Chairman Mao,” said Yolanda as she put down a ten of spades.

“Let us all denounce Li Feng,” said Daria as she followed with a ten of hearts.

“What are you doing?” said Sandi.

“Playing Mao.”

“Oh, I love card games! How do you play?” said Sandi, sitting down uninvited.

“The only rule I can tell you is this one,” said Daria.

“No, seriously. What are the rules?”

“The only rule I can tell you is this one,” said Yolanda.

“What?”

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

it breaks my heart to see that you are in such a sad condition. I would lie and tell the goddamned machines that you were my own kith and kin if I thought it would help but their cold metal hearts are immune to any such persuasion

the only joy I get is knowing that the robot teachers are teaching the pampered princes of industry and im’ sure even their patience will be bashed by the jocks, the lunkheads, the stoners, and the other assorted flotsam that used to clog the educational system

if they had allowed corporal punishment this would have never happened. I would like to grab the son of a bitch that invented robots and give him a fist sandwich

Jodie Landon is now a princess of industry. Kevin Thompson and Tori Jericho made it big, too. out of all those I taught, they were the ones who made the money. to know that kevin is out there running the world gives me the agita.

as for me, I am an old man and I am in the nursing facility where the robots wipe your ass and wipe it with that industrial paper. I’m bedridden. I have arthritis. I don’t see too well either. That’s okay, I don’t watch that shit they call news anyway. it’s good that Im not teaching because who could teach that bullshit with a straight face.

If you get old, I hear the robots don’t’ watch you as closely. Where the hell are you going to go anyway? There are legends of wiley old men who got away when the robots are not looking and have established a free state of seniors. Me, I believe that the robots just shot them, that’s why you don’t see them again. There are days that I think a bullet to the head would be a blessing, but I don’t tell the robots that.

Forgive me for being old and profane but I think I’m allowed some profanity. That’s one of my few remaining blessings, thinking of ingenious ways to tell the robots off. I’m trying to invent a word for asshole that would mean something to a robot. you were a wonderful writer, I’m sure you can think of one.

anyway, I hope you figure a way out. Your talent were wasted on the world. And now look at the world. It serves it right.

Your former instructor

Mr. Anthony DeMartino

361510 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Anthony DeMartino077, 5661127 Building 1 Resident Quant E – Homeless Detainee: Elderly****

(* * *)

“So why didn’t Mack ask Jodie for help?” said Sandi.

“Too proud,” muttered Daria. “Not that I’m not too proud to ask. When we get our one real e-mail a month in a few days, you should send Jodie Landon a persuasive letter.”

“I still think we should send it to Stacy Rowe,” said Sandi, “Stacy is a softer touch.”

“Griffin, a lot has changed since either of us were in high school. I don’t trust Stacy to be able to tie her shoes without a nervous breakdown.”

“No, Daria, Stacy would have married well. You know men love a dishrag, someone who kisses the ground they walk on.”

“Is that why you didn’t marry well, Sandi? You didn’t like the taste of ass?”

Sandi laughed. “I guess not. Not that men didn’t chase me. But they were all losers, every last one of them.”

“Poor Mr. DeMartino,” said Daria.

“Yeah,” said Sandi. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

“Oh Daria?”

“Hm.”

“All praise Chairman Mao,” said Sandi

“I’d denounce Li Feng,” said Daria, “but I don't have the good hand.”

Data Dump Part II of oh, I don't know, XII maybe

September 14 - It's been a long time since I've kept a diary, but it's time for me to gather my thoughts.

I woke up on the bottom bunk of my bed after my first little trip to the great outdoors. Sandi Griffin was genuinely worried about me. Or at least, she seemed to be. She told me that a robot carried me into the room and left me there, or course after politely inquiring that I should be allowed to rest on the bottom bunk. I have no idea what the machine would have done if I said 'no'.

I believe that much more living with Sandi Griffin is going to drive me crazy. It's not like rooming with Dorothy Parker. If you have any questions about Hollywood gossip, or fashion, or various improvement programs, Sandi's the one to talk to. If you want to complain about the bleakness and misery of this place, Sandi wants to rapidly change the subject.

Her situation is probably like that of the starving. There are three stages of starving.

a) Feeling that one is hungry, and that one would like a grilled cheese sandwich.
b) Obsessing about food, lovingly dreaming of the white curlicue on the top of a black Hostess cupcake.
c) Suppressing thoughts about food to the point of indifference.

Sandi's in that third stage. She thinks she's never going to get out of here. She doesn't want to hear about it. Not from me, not from someone who is still starving for auto--

"Pardon me. Are you all right?"

Daria looked up from her scribbling. It was another orange machine. Daria resolved to ignore it.

"Are you all right? Are you suffering from depression?"

"No, dammit," said Daria. "I want to write. In privacy."

"Perhaps you would like to go outside and write. It's a pleasant day outside."

"What if I say no robot? What if I just stay right here?"

"I'm sorry, but we will be cleaning the hallway in a few moments. Perhaps you would like to move momen--"

"Yeah, right." Daria closed her makeshift diary - merely a few scraps of blank paper - and stood up. "I've taken three walks since the time you shot me. I went north. I was told that there were downed power lines. I went east. I was told that there was an escaped dangerous mental prisoner and that I should return for my own safety. I went south. I was told that there was a friggin' rabid dog."
She looked into the robot's mechanical eyes. "The fact of the matter is I'm not going to be allowed to leave here. There's always going to be another excuse, something to keep me in a pen. Listen robot, if robots have an afterlife, go tell Isaac Asimov to fuck himself, because every nice robot in the movies always tells the truth."

"I understand you," said the robot. "Perhaps I should make you an appointment with one of our robot counselors - "

" - oh shut up." Daria knew that for some reason, the robots didn’t want her scribbling away furiously in the hallway. She decided that going outside was the best idea. She'd go as far as she'd think she could before they assigned the robots for some lameass excuse --

-- no. There was no "they". It was before the robots assigned themselves to bring her back. That was the chilling part.

(* * *)

Daria had an allotment of "credits", as if she were in sort of episode of Star Trek. Since she was categorized as terminally unemployable, there weren't many. She had to buy paper by the page. Daria resolved to write smaller.

As she walked out the door, a woman said to her, "You shouldn't have been sitting in that corridor. You freaked the robots out. They don't like anything that looks 'abnormal' to them."

"I've been freaking out people for years, including robots. I should have stayed in that corridor and had them fucking carry me out."

"That would have got you an appointment with the robot counselor. After a certain number of appointments, you would have been categorized as 'mentally ill'."

"How would you know?"

"I was mentally ill for three years," said the woman. "Worked great. All the best psych drugs you could get. Dude, those robots have some awesome crap. It really numbs you down to the tippy-toes. I could have lived in a stupor for the rest of my life."

"But you're out now."

"The robots released me. More and more terminally unemployable. They weren't going to waste their good shit on me anymore. After I while, I couldn't scam them. The number of really violent fuck-ups was increasing." She signed. "More people going crazy I guess."

"Have you tried to leave?"

"No point. It's impossible," said the woman. "Word of advice, skillet," said the woman, "stop trying. How far do you think you'd really get?"

"But you know. You must have tried. Tell me, how do I get out of here? What's your name?"

"June. Listen. You're a good kid. And it looks like you've got a lot of energy to burn. I'll hook up you up with the escapee contingent." June smiled. "It'll be a great time-waster for you."

(* * *)

June was as good as her word. At the communal dinner, there was a group of men and women - twelve altogether - that perpetually plotted their escape.

"Trust me, Daria" said Casey, a former camera operator, "the first thing to do is to forget any overland escape. You found out about the lame excuses. If you just make a run for it, they'll tranq you and drag you right back."

"Fifteen escapes", said Jeremy, a former carpenter, "and fifteen tranqs." Daria looked Jeremy over. He looked like an Olympic sprinter.

"So how do they know where we are?"

"We've come up with a lot of theories," said Paul, an ex-telephone operator. "The first theory was that they've somehow injected RFID chips into us. If they have, there are no scars. But there are probably less invasive ways. Motion detectors. And the fact that there are cameras everywhere. They simply notice that we want to go, and they hunt us down."

"Should you be talking about this out loud?" said Daria, furtively looking around as everyone else ignored the chattering group and ate their chicken noodle soup.

"The only rule I can tell you is this one, said Yolanda with a smile. "We should play Mao sometime."

"Never mind Yolanda," said Paul. "She was a languages major. Not much use for that when these robots can speak any language you can think of. Try it. Try speaking some French, German, or Japanese to one of these things. There might be a momentary delay, but they'll answer you right back in your native tongue. Yolanda was really interested in artificial language construction - "

" - shut up. Ixnay," said Yolanda.

"But until she invents one that we can speak and robots can't speak or decode, we're on our own. We're left with legal avenues of escape."

"Legal avenues? What about tunnels? Or hacking? Or just blowing up the robots? And how do we know the robots aren't eavesdropping on us? Any robot that can run that fast," said Daria, "can probably hear very well, too."

"There aren't any tunnels," said Casey. "As for hacking, we have very limited access to CommunityNet. The interface only lets you do so much anyway. You can only have an e-mail account if you have the money to pay for one. That limits us to message board posting. And the only people posting there are in public housing, a bunch of sad pathetic losers like us."

"See those guys over there?" said Jeremy. Daria noticed a group of men in the corner having an animated conversation. "Hackers. But they're not going to share what they know with us. Just the nature of a hacker, I suppose. And if they were that good at hacking, they would have hacked their way out of here."

"These robots are as gentle as a kitten," said Paul. "But strong as a tiger. Even if you could blow one robot up, how do you handle the other thousand or so? They all look alike. It's very difficult to get an idea of the robot population, but one of the statisticians we talked to estimated one robot for every fifteen people. That means that there are over 100,000 robots in the nearby area. Each that can lift tons and run like gazelles. If there's going to be a human rebellion…I'd put my money on the robots. Seriously."

Yolanda was dying to say something. "As for the robots eavesdropping on us, that's a given!"

"You don't know that!" The group began to argue among themselves. A guy called Mark said, "We've argued about this enough! Not the same goddamned argument again."

"What argument?"

"I'm going to summarize the argument -- doing justice to everyone. Yolanda believes that the robots eavesdrop on us. That they know every word we say and that they actively plot against us."

"If I was a robot that wanted to keep people penned in," said Yolanda, "wouldn't I - or my programmers - want to use every tool at my disposal?"

"There's another school," said Mark, a bit of pride in his voice for getting the chance to present his own argument. "The other school is that the robots don't eavesdrop on us - because it's a waste of the valuable gigaflops of the robot's processing power."

"You're saying the robots don't care what we do?"

"You got it," said Mark, running his fingers through his hair. "I've actually gone to a robot and told him that tomorrow there would be a mass rebellion, that the humans would rise up and that I would lead them. Do you know what it said?"

"What?"

"Interesting. It didn't have any more questions that that. Not when the rebellion was going to be or -- "

"--it thought you were a crazy loon," said Yolanda. "Of course it didn't pay attention to you. Think about it. There are supposedly 100,000 robots around here. All of them watch us. They knew you were full of shit. The only people you ever talk to are us, and we weren't planning anything."

Daria listened to them argue. "Listen," said Daria. "What are these…legal means?"

(* * *)

Sandi was watching television. It was some sort of gardening show. The woman was gabbing on about her new oceanview home.

I knew the current landscaping wasn't going to work. I mean, this home is six million dollars, what am I, poor? We decided to tear out the former garden behind the terrace and -

"Sandi!"

"Shhhh!" said Sandi back. "This is the part where they show the three dimensional layout."

"Television, off!" said Daria. The television switched off.

"Television on!" said Sandi. The television switched off.

"Look, Sandi," said Daria, "I need your help."

"Can it wait for twenty minutes? Jesus, how arrogant! Didn't you learn any manners?"

Daria fumed. But she thought it over.

"Fine. Twenty minutes. I'll be writing." And with that, she stormed out the door.

(* * *)

Forty minutes later, Daria returned. "All right. I'm starting to work on how to get out of here."

"Really?"

"Okay. We need someone we can sponge off of. Mom and Dad are dead. Quinn is dead. That leaves just me. I haven't spoken to Erin in years. So who do you know?"

"Oh, I know lots of people. I knew a lot of people in the news room."

"Think closer. Family. Someone who would help you whether you needed it or not."

Sandi was quiet for a few moments. "My parents are dead, too. That leaves Sam and Robert." Sandi explained that since Family Guy came on the air, Chris Griffin began using his middle name. "Sam and I don't get along." More silence. "I guess we've never gotten along. He'd laugh in my face if I asked him for help. As for Robert…I suppose Robert must be in the same boat we're in. He's never been good with money."

"Then find them." Daria handed Sandi the keyboard. "I can't log on. See if you can find your brothers."

"Dah-RIA!" said Sandi. "I am not going to go to my brother Sam and ask for a handout like some kind of bum!"

"Bum? We are bums, Griffin. We don't have a dime between us. We're going to stuck in this public housing prison until both of us are dead."

"Daria, it's not - !"

Daria's voice increased in measured intensity. "We are going to be trapped here until we die. Until we die. We are going to be buried in a cheap plastic coffin. Or we're just going to be shoved into a hole. Or recycled. That's your fate, Griffin. "Here lies Sandi Griffin, forgotten by all." There will be no one to come to your grave. Who wants to come to the grave of an old homeless woman? I don't intend to get any more gray hairs here. So now, against all of my better judgment I am not going to let you rot to death watching fucking television. Ask your damned brother."

"No."

"Griffin - !"

"-- fuck you. Fuck you Daria! I'm not asking him! I won't ask him! You hear that? Did you get it through your thick skull? I won't beg! I won't ask Sam!"

And with that, Sandi Griffin began to sob. "I won't beg. I-won't-beg." She pulled off the piece of cloth that she called a neckerchief and began to dab her eyes. "Not Sam. Not from him. Not any of my family is going to know a damn thing."

Daria was overwhelmed by Sandi's sudden embarrassment. She thought that Sandi would be happy with the idea of imposing on someone else's sense of decency - she did it all the time in high school. Like the air after an electrical storm, Sandi's sense of pain and sorrow hung leadenly in the room. The claustrophobic room gave Daria little chance to purse the matter further, lest her head exploded.

"Fine. How many friends did you make at work?"

Sandi was quiet. "I don't have my Rolodex. What would be the point?"

"Right. You made as many friends at work as I did. The difference was, I deliberately didn't make them. What about college?"

Sandi was silent again.

"Yep. We're in the same boat. That leaves high school. It's time to dig down to the bottom of the barrel. I'll call my friggin kindergarten teacher if I have to. I'm pulling a Scarlett O'Hara. As God is my witness, I'm going to mooch off someone again! Out of all of the people that we knew, at least one of them has to have been successful."

"What makes you think that anyone of them would want to see us? And seeing either of us does not mean that there's a sign." Sandi's voice became mocking. "Hey, Sandi and Daria! I missed you! Move in! Use my car! Eat my food!"

"We don't know until we try. If we don't try, I'm going to do nothing but watch horror movies and political docudramas. You're not going to like that." Daria pointed to the keyboard. "Consider that…a motivator."

Data Dump - The World of "Manna"

Some background on "Data Dump".

The universe comes from "Manna" from Marshall Brain. The link to his story is right here. Like most stories about a utopia, the initial part is the most interesting but the part that sketches out the utopia is pretty dull.

What's great about Brain's story is that it's so plausible. However, there are a few holes in the story that I wanted to explore. If you make it to the end of "Manna" there all all sorts of springboards that can be used to explore issues of identity, as well as politics and economics. I planned (or plan) on taking a crowbar to Brain's story and "opening it up".

I can see Daria being very hostile to the idea of robots. As for Sandi, part of her strangeness is due to her economic dislocation. It's been hard for someone who has been "somebody" all her life to all of a sudden become a "nobody". Daria, however, has always been a "nobody".

I might or not write more. Scissors, thanks for getting that far. I intend to use this dystopia to exorcise my writing muse.

Data Dump

Ever want to post a story but at the same time not want to post it? This is one of those stories that I'm not going to finish, but I feel compelled to write it anyway. When writing it, I felt that I was writing a "faux-Daria" story, where Person A and Person B could be substituted for Daria and ***** and it would make no difference in the story whatsoever. Only after some writing are the actual characters beginning to make their personalities known.

So I'll just post the first part of it here. Maybe other parts, just to get it out of my system.

P. S. TAG, Jane Lane has not forgotten about her Autobiography. When the muse strikes, she'll write again.

(* * *)

“Daria Morgendorffer003, Please step to the red line.”

The robot extended a mechanical hand and pointed to the appropriate stripe. Daria stepped forward as she was told. For once, she was glad to follow the orders of these machines. She wanted as far out of here as possible.

“Daria Morgendorffer003,” said the prison robot, “your record of behavior at the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women has been reviewed. During your three years of incarceration, you have met the minimum behavior standards of the state of Maryland and you are to be automatically paroled to the general population. CommunityNet access is to be restricted for a further three years, but access may be reviewed on a monthly basis. You will be informed of the review results.

“Do you agree to this parole? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Yes.” Yes, oh God, yes!

“Daria Morgendorffer003, you are now unemployed. Do you have other means of employment?”

Daria suspected her job as a copywriter had now disappeared. “No,” she said.

“Do you have guest status with any resident?”

What this meant was, “was there any one she could sponge off?” Daria’s winning personality had not won her many friends. Both of her parents were dead. Quinn had died of a heart attack while Daria was in prison. Jane had fled the country years ago, and Daria doubted that she’d be granted a visa. Besides, where was Jane?

“No,” she was forced to answer. She didn’t like where this was going.

“Do you have means of support unknown to me?”

Daria resented the machine’s use of the word “me”. The machine was not sentient. It was simply a social convention the machines used. Daria was tempted to lie, but a lie would be found out very quickly, and Daria did not want to return to prison.

“No.”

“In accordance with ordinance 605.12b of the Federal Homeless Relief Act, you have been assigned room 030397 in building 1, resident quant A. This assignment provides you with suitable housing and nourishment to sustain your life. Please board the bus.”

(* * *)

Daria rode the windowless bus with other parolees. Daria had sworn to herself that when she got out of prison, she would grab the nearest person around the neck and begin talking up a storm. Instead, she found herself lost in thought, like the others. The trip to “Building 1, Resident Quant A” was entirely silent.

She could feel the wheels noiselessly move beneath her. She was now moving, undoubtedly moving past the outside shock zone. Daria touched her neck, rubbing the back, still not used to the removal of the “behavioral collar” that turned the prisoners into nothing more than dogs. Only the crazy ones needed more than one or two shocks to toe the line.

There was the temptation to throw open the doors and begin running for cover. However, so much had changed in Daria’s short life and she knew nothing of the outside world. What was different? For all Daria knew, there were murderous Tripods or X-1 Terminators posted at every corner. Escape was tempting, but she needed the solid ground of a new routine before she could get back in gear.

After many minutes of thinking, the machine stopped. The bus doors opened automatically.

“Welcome to Building 1, Resident Quant A,” said the soft humanlike voice from inside the van, free of inflection. “Please follow the indicated signs. If you have trouble finding your way, please ask one of the maintenance robots for help.”

“I’ll pass on that.” Everyone turned. Those were the only words spoken by any of the prisoners during the entire trip.

(* * *)

The industrial strength elevator opened out into the hallway. A maintenance robot was busy cleaning the brown, bleak-looking floors to a fine polish. For public housing, it looks rather good.

Daria looked at the doors. There it was. 030397. Cubicle Sweet Cubicle.

Daria didn’t want to ask the Friendly Robot how to get in. The problem with Friendly Robots, however, was that they were Friendly. The robot would undoubtedly notice Daria standing there looking like a dumb ass and offer help, and that meant having a conversation with a dumb hunk of metal.

So Daria knocked on the door. She heard a cry “Just a second!”

A roommate. Well, this ought to be interesting.

The door clicked open. A brunette woman wearing a simple scarf saw Daria and immediately embraced her.

“Daria! Daria!” she cried. “It’s so good, so good to see you again.”

Daria just stood there, stiff as a board. Oddly repulsed by the human contact. Confused by the fact that this total stranger claimed to know her. What kind of trick is this?

“I…guess,” offered Daria. “And you are?”

The woman was taken aback. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me! It’s Sandi Griffin!”

Of course, thought Daria. There’s no way to forget that baritone.

“Come in, come in!”

Daris stepped into the room. The room was small. And by small, the words “hall closet small” came to mind. The room measured eight feet by ten feet. The entire contents of the room consisted of a bunk bed, a television set, a CommunityNet keyboard…and nothing else.

“Holy Christ. This is just like my old prison room,” said Daria.

Sandi looked tentatively at Daria. “Prison?” she meekly inquired.

(* * *)

As soon as Sandi was convinced that Daria hadn’t murdered anyone – although Daria was tempted to leave her with the impression – she explained things.

“They’ve expanded each of the little apartments here. Just last month they put in bunk beds and told us that they were going to have us double up! And they put up a list of people who would be coming, and I recognized your name, and I saw your name! And I thought, it would be sooooo good to have Daria Morgendorffer here! Besides,” said Sandi, “they would have put someone else here. At least I had a choice. So…how’s Quinn?”

“Quinn is dead.”

Sandi looked poleaxed. She sat down on the lower bunk of the ridiculously small room. “How?”

“Fatal cardiac arrest. The robots tried to save her, but they didn’t get there in time. She inherited dad’s bad ticker.” As Daria looked at Sandi’s ashen face, she offered, “I was surprised. I’m glad Mom and Dad weren’t alive. It would have broken their hearts.”

“Any children?” asked Sandi.

“No. Quinn…with a man? What kind of man would want to scrape and bow that much? I suspect that the line of the Morgendorffers ends…right here.”

“I lost track of Quinn,” muttered Sandi. “My God. I’m so sorry.”

“So,” said Daria, desperate for a change of subject. “Are you out of prison?”

“Me? Prison? Oh God, no! I was the Assistant Producer of the news over at KSBC! We had a top running news show, #2 in the area! I had just the most wonderful little condo, that overlooked the forest. There was a small wading pool in the backyard and I had real koy fish in it. And I had a little pug dog…Flopsy. Oh, you would have loved it, Daria!”

Sandi went on…for at least a half hour…about her former home. Daria examined every word of the conversation carefully for some sort of factual information of value, some News She Could Use. After a half hour of Sandi’s prattling, she concluded that Sandi Griffin was one of the many reasons she had stopped watching the news before her imprisonment.

Daria interrupted her. “So if you have such a wonderful house, why are you here?”

Sandi sighed. “ProcTec 1.5.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a robot which is ‘designed for the production and facilitation of multimedia’. They shaved my job down to monkey parts.”

‘Monkey parts’. It was a phrase pregnant in meaning. Several jobs had fallen victim to the Monkey Parts Syndrome. Professions had been segmented into a series of steps. First the simple once, like burger flipping and shelf stacking. Then, the complex ones. Robots stepped in to perform some of the steps, and then in the case of Sandi Griffin, all of them. This left Sandi Griffin jobless. Some robot was now producing the news at KSBC, completely fluent in the many intricacies and problems of the production of a modern news show.

Daria learned that Sandi tried desperately to look for work, but ProcTec 1.5 was sweeping through newsrooms across the country. Sandi’s expensive tastes left her little money to fall back on. Within a year, she had burned through every bit of savings she had. The very first time a bill bounced, a robot came to her door, pronounced her as one of the terminally unemployable, and pleasantly escorted her to room 030397.

“Can you imagine it?” said Sandi, still in some kind of shock. “But it’s nice here! The people are nice. Everyone is nice. Well, they did have to put bunk beds in. But all of the hallways are roomy and the food is good. It’s not crowded or anything.”

“I’m sure the food is good.” Daria remembered the prison food. It was good too. “So…they gave us a TV?”

“Definitely. Do you watch Pleasure Island?”

“No. No TV,” said Daria. “We were left to dwell on our own wickedness.”

“So…what did you do before…prison?”

Daria was tempted to lie. Instead, she let the truth slip out. “I was a copy writer. I wrote advertising copy for automobiles and high end homes. If you make over $50 million a year, you’ve probably seen my work.”

“I’ve never seen a robot write!” giggled Sandi.

“Thank God,” answered Daria. She was sure that they were teaching one to write right now, ready to move copy writing to the list of obsolete professions.

“So how did you end up in prison?”

“Civil Disobediance. I was imprisoned for violating Patriot Act III.”

(* * *)

Daria smirked, leaving Sandi hanging as to what bomb-throwing act put Daria in the shock collar. Actually, it was a simple post on NewYorkList.

Looking for those willing to risk all to gain all. It’s time to reassert our rights and time to demand a more equal share of the wealth. Please contact me with your suggestions.

Within 15 minutes, there was a police bot at her high rise apartment. Daria Morgendorrfer was arrested for the violation of Patriot Act III, “inciting riot or protest against a duly lawfully elected government.” According to the (still) human judges, the mere posting of such a message on a public messageboard was a felony act. Her username was quickly matched with a living name and address in a matter of seconds.

With the simple messageboard post the evidence against her, the jury deliberated a grand total of five minutes. The message didn’t specifically incite protest against the government of the United States, but it was enough for the jury. She officially became Daria Morgendorffer, felon and prisoner and was sent to Maryland Correctional where she was introduced to the joys of the shock collar.

She hated to tell Sandi that her room in prison was very much like Sandi’s present room, except for no television. Daria would ask for a book (usually 19th century Russian literature), the bot would duly bring it and then demand its return at lights out. The food was the same as the food Sandi had, lovingly prepared by robots.

The only difference was at Maryland Correctional, none of the prisoners ate together. They sat at cubicles, with walls up, obscuring any sort of conversation. Prisoners trying to whisper would be reminded, “No talking please” by one of the prison bots. Punishments could range from the denial of dessert, to solitary confinement (what was the difference?) to the use of the shock collar or mind-numbing pharmaceuticals.

There wasn’t even a line to go to lunch, no chance for human contact there. A voice somewhere in your cell would say, “Please depart for lunch” and the voices were so timed that there was no waiting line. Daria would walk to lunch sometimes alone, sometimes with someone in front of her walking but yards away from her.

She almost wished for the cruel bull dyke prison guards out of the 1980s movies. However, there were no such guards, not anymore. Monkey Parts. They had lost their jobs, too.

(* * *)

“So you had shock collars?”

“Yeah,” said Daria. “We were like dogs. We couldn’t leave the prison compounds. Or, we could try, but if we went so much as fifty feet out of the individual exercise yards, you’d hear, Warning. You are leaving a restricted area. Shock collars are in force.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Imagine your urethra being set on fire. Hell yes, it hurt. I don’t care how much willpower you have. When you’re hit by the collar, it’s like you’ve been given a visit by Satan’s enema. It only takes a few times.”

“Well, thank God we don’t have that here,” said Sandi.

“Really?” Daria was intrigued.

“Yes. I’ve gone so far as to see our new home away from home just a speck in the distance.”

“So why didn’t you go back to your old home? Or just get a job.”

“Oh, there was some dangerous rock blasting ahead. A robot stopped me and told me that there was some blasting ahead and I’d better turn back. So I went back.”

“Riggght. Tell me, Ms. Griffin,” Daria said. “Are you up for a walk?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Definitely.” Daria detected a note of unease in Sandi’s voice, but it was a pleasant unease. Despite their different upbringings and world views, both had come to the conclusion that they wanted to be as far away from Building 1, Resident Quant A, Room 030397 as humanly possible.

(* * *)

Sandi was as good as her word. The next morning, after the communal breakfast (Daria had to admit the ham and eggs were perfect), Daria and Sandi set out for a hike...a very long hike if Daria had anything to do with it.

“So, anyway, in the third episode Dylan was voted out of Pleasure Island. If he’d only met the athletic challenge, he could have stayed! Of course, Dylan doesn’t even come close to the record. The record is sixty-seven weeks, and he would have stayed longer if that bitch Heather hadn’t put together a Challenge Coalition….”

Daria had numbed herself to Sandi’s endless chattering. The confident Sandi of decades earlier seemed to have undergone a transformation, addicted to reality TV and home makeover shows. Sandi had taken on some of Stacy Rowe’s worst characteristics. (Or had they always been there, and merely latent?)

“So Daria, who are you voting for in the upcoming election? Nichols or Predimore?”

“I’ve never heard of either of them. Felon, you know. Can’t vote anyway.”

“It’s a pity,” said Sandi, looking backwards uneasily. “Predimore has some good ideas about the economy. He’s a Republican. I always suspected you were a Democrat in high school, Daria.”

“So what does Predimore’s platform say about keeping the jobless penned up in public housing?” Sandi had nothing to say about that.

“Okay,” said Daria. “What about Nichols?” Sandi searched her mind for a distinction on the issue, but couldn’t find one.

After some silence, Daria said, “And now you know why I haven’t voted in the last twenty years.”

“Daria, look!”

Something was walking towards them from the distance. It was orange, and had a vaguely humanoid shape. It did not seem to be in a hurry, but since the three of them were the only human sized-figures in the immediate area, the robot clearly only had one destination.

Daria looked behind her. Building 1, Resident Quant A was indeed a mere speck on the horizion.

“Daria, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just skeeved out by these things. I don’t want to make any sudden moves. I want both of us to slightly change direction. Let’s both go to the robot’s left. See if it follows.”

Daria and Sandi adjusted the angle of their path. Sure enough, the robot adjusted the angle of its path as well.

“There is no way,” Daria muttered. “God damn it. Let’s find out what the thing wants.”

“Should we walk over there?”

“Let it walk.” Daria and Sandi stood there while the robot patiently traversed the distance.

“Greetings,” said the robot.

“What do you want?” asked Daria icily.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” said the robot, “but there is a building construction zone several hundred yards away. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn back.”

“What if I don’t turn back?” said Daria.

“Then if you proceed further, I will have to subdue you. It would be irresponsible of me to let you come to harm.”

“Sandi,” said Daria. “Talk to this thing and let him know what we’re doing.”

Sandi began a perfectly rational, reasonable discussion with the robot.

Twenty seconds into the discussion, Daria bolted. She ran past the robot, all by herself.

“Please turn around,” said the robot, calmly, after Daria.

“PLEASE TURN AROUND.” The volume of the robot’s voice had changed but not its pleasant demeanor. Sandi watched Daria become smaller and smaller in the distance as she ran.

Abruptly, something emerged from the robot’s right shoulder and back, swinging into a resting position on what would have been the robot’s right collarbone. Sandi heard a

…….THWWWWWWWWWWWWWWIIIIPPPPP……..

sound. She watched in the distance as the running figure simply collapsed.

“What did you do?” shouted Sandi.

“I have immobilized your friend with a tranquilizer dart. It would have been irresponsible of me to let your friend come to harm. There are no worries. I shall monitor your friend’s health and bring her back to our infirmary, and then to your room for a swift recovery. Please turn back. Do not worry, I shall take care of everything.”

Sandi watched the robot gain speed, this time running at a speed that no human being could match on his best day. Instead of turning back, Sandi sat on the ground. She held her stomach. All of her old anxieties were coming back again.

The Autobiography of Jane Lane: Daria Morgendorffer's Boudoir

I knew that Daria was completely twisted the first time I met her in Mr. O'Neill's class. I was sitting through Mr. O'Neill's seventh version of his self-esteem class. Out of all the students in all seven classes, all of whom had low self-esteem, she was the only one to call out O'Neill on his bullshit. He had that panicky look in his eyes and I knew we could have some fun.

So I poked her. She really wanted to know what he was talking about. I told her I had taken the class six times already. Most of the kids freak out when they know that I've been there multiple times. I told one guy that I had been there four times and he completely flipped. He just turned around and didn't move a muscle for the rest of the lecture. By the way, I never saw him again. I like to think that somewhere in this twisted world he's taking remedial self-esteem on a cool Pacific island where they serve coconut juice during beachfront lectures on self-esteem.

Daria called me on it. "Well tell me," she said, "I want to know."

So I told her. Do you ever get to the point where you can actually finish each other's sentences? That's the way it was with Daria. She was weird and freaky. She saw all the same stuff I saw. She was a Sick Sad World devotee. We liked the same movies. Daria had scoped out Lawndale High and she thought they were all retards, too. We were amigas from Day One.

So you probably ask yourself, "What were you doing in esteem class so many times?" Conceptual art. Looking for geeks and weirdos, my own kind. I figured that anyone cool would end up in Li's self-esteem gulag. The very first day I made it to Lawndale High, I took the test that Mrs. Manson gave and gave my artistic interpretations of the ink blots. Got sent right to Mr. O'Neill. Didn't even pass "Go". (They gave Trent that same test. He didn't get sent to Mr. O'Neill's class, but they tested him for narcolepsy.)

I found that multiple self-esteem classes had other advantages. I wasn't doing well in school, because I just didn't give a damn. O'Neill had a soft spot for "troubled kids" and I figured I could earn troubled kid points just by showing up multiple times. By the end of the sixth class, I was getting "B"s just for showing up to class and breathing in and out.

Another problem was that Lawndale High was too damn close to Casa Lane. I would have to walk to school. I didn't know anyone at Lawndale and the people I knew I didn't like and didn't trust. I sure as hell didn't want to walk home with any of them. So I just stayed longer. I didn't know Ms. Defoe then. I was a freshman. Self-esteem class gave me an excuse to hang around Lawndale High after everyone had left.

High schools are cooler when they're abandoned. You can do all kinds of stuff. I went to the Social Studies center and wrote on the inside covers of the new books. A lot of freshmen are going to get some weird advice at the beginning of the year. They still use those books, because Li's too damn cheap to buy new ones.

Okay. I didn't say anything about Daria. Dammit, you're supposed to be interested in me, anyway, sweet and sexy Jane Lane. I'm jealous, you goddamned bastards. And I saw that movie where that crazy bitch killed that rabbit. Watch your backs!