Some day, all of us “freaks” that exist outside your little muggle world will outnumber your kind. Then we shall define what is normal, and you shall become one of the freaks. What ever shall you do when your safe protective box, that you refuse to think outside of, becomes your prison.
This was an assignment to get us ready for watching Super Size Me.
And yet, business keeps flowing in. I arrived at 11:50 AM and 15 minutes later, there is still a full line of customers in the corral. They’ve already had to open their second register to deal with the lunch rush, and the “Now Hiring” sign seems to have been up for quite some time.
I watched the line of people and the seated customers while I munched on my hard-shell taco and chicken quesadilla. I thought about packaging and behavior while I sipped on my lemonade (just as much sugar as any of the Pepsi products they carry). I tried to figure out why, despite all that these people know about the food they’re purchasing, do they return to the lines and the drive thru queues of these horrible places?
Their convenience is unparalleled. Even at a slow pace, no sit-down restaurant can deliver food as quickly as a fast food joint. Meals are pre-arranged and numbered, so you don’t have to spend time worrying if you’re getting a “full meal.” The giant pops that come with the meals have cups that are designed to fit in your car’s cup holder, which is in turn designed for a smaller cup. ATM and credit cards are now accepted, with no minimum purchase. Even the location is optimized for your convenience.
We no longer wish to enjoy our food, relish its taste, appreciate the roundness of a good meal, or think about it at all. We want to eat and get back to the “real” living.
I really shouldn’t be posting, but I’m doing it anyway. Under the wire again. Last minute again. I shouldn’t do this well under pressure. All attempts at avoiding procrastination were met with… procrastination.
But, forward. Plow through the morass of non-specific and vague essay questions on a take-home final.
Forward, I say!
So, I’ve just finished nearly two hours of server administration for Smart Networks. One hour was dedicated to sorting email from Outlook remote access. The other hour was mostly waiting for connections and for IE6 to play nice with my 10 year old laptop. All I can say is… soon. :)
To paraphrase Sean Kennedy in Tales from the AfterNow, if my belongings own me, instead of owning them, they should be sold and given away.
On a completely unrelated note, we have an extra TV. It’s a big-ass Sony trinitron, one of the originals I think, and it’s got a wooden box. It’s heavy as shit, and only has the screw-in cable connector. It has served me faithfully, but has been abused. I’m looking to get a little bit of cash for it, but am willing to accept any reasonable offer. So, if you’re interested, drop me a line and we can get it outta the house. :)
Gonna head home soon, as I’ve been out of the house for a while, and Buddy’s probably lonely. There’s a lot of bubbling thought, as there usually is when I listen to AfterNow, and it’s happy happy good time. Or something.
I need some updated userpics. Time to develop some photos.
Time to switch it up a little. This is the character history for Phillip Schuler, as he began his life in the current Mage game…
In his memory, this row of houses had been home to any number of people of mystical persuasions. They had possessed a source of power, a node, and had been the only ones in the state, aside from the Technocracy, to officially have such a thing. Now, these houses were dead to him. Oh, they still housed fraternity members, but there was no longer any mystical or magical facet to them.
There was another thing. The newspaper and his cell phone agreed that it was nearing the end of February in the year 2000. Phil was certain that this was wrong. It should be at least 2002. God damn, if only his memory were less hazy.
He had been in Lansing. He had stayed away from his fellow magic-workers for as long as was possible. Something had drawn him back in, and it had caused him great pain. Phil eyed the clothing stores in disdain as he walked past. There had been a friend, and he had died. That’s right! Phil had met the others at a wake.
But his friend had become corrupted. Nephandus. His soul had been turned inside-out, and even dead had sought corruption and descent. He had fought the spirit of his old friend side by side with these orphaned and teacher-less mages. And they had won.
Phil stopped for a moment in front of a chain costume and party store. He frowned at a sudden memory of the smell of cotton candy. His friend had not been the only one. Other Nephandi had crept their way into Lansing, slowly creating a powerful Labyrinth. One had smelled strongly of cotton candy. It had worn a white suit. Others had fought by his side. Celican bin Thoth, of the Order of Hermes. V of the Euthanatos. Rebecca, an orphaned mage. He remembered these clearly.
He remembered the baby. The child who was the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. They had protected the child, hoping for salvation. No one had been saved. Phil scowled and moved on.
Rebecca’s mentor had protected the child, and then she had. That had left Phil and V to manage the unorganized and opinioned Tradition mages and just as many of the orphaned. They had done pretty well, considering.
Considering what, you ask? Considering the Nephandi opening a portal to some twisted spiritual world between here and where their masters churned in darkness. Considering the surge in Technocracy presence in response. Considering the regular death and dismemberment of those he was just beginning to call friends. Considering the lupines and the fluctuations of the spirit world and its infinite layers. Considering.
They had run a couple of successful raids on the Nephandi, with the Technocracy as allies. Their devices for harming spirits had looked strange, to say the least. Things got even more hazy here. Phil sighed and slumped into a bench. He watched the Ann Arbor traffic go past, and remembered his Harley. Poor bastard. Maybe it was time to let go of that. Something across the street caught his attention.
He stood up, paused for a moment, and rushed to the street corner, trench coat flapping behind him. After waiting impatiently for the light to change, he rushed across the street. He forced himself to slow down as he approached the bum.
It was Arland! He had been one of the orphaned in Lansing. His arms were scarred from razor slashes, just as Phil remembered. He was as bald as a cue ball, just as he remembered. He was covered in tattoos, just as… wait. There were less tattoos. There were less cut scars. Phil frowned for a moment. He tapped his staff on the ground. He shoved his hand into his trench’s pocket and held the marble sphere. The worlds of spirit and energy leapt into sharp relief, and Phil saw Arland as he was before he had awoken to his power.
He approached the bum Arland, and handed him a ten-spot. Arland mumbled a slurred reply, and Phil saw how dilated the man’s pupils were. He scribbled his cell number on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Arland. The wind shifted, and Phil almost gagged. “If you need to talk, or anything weird happens, give me a call.”
“Uh, sure.” The bum took the paper and Phil walked briskly away. This might not be the same world, but it was pretty damn close. That raven. That cursed ancestor spirit. Fucking tricksters.
Sure, it couldn’t help, much less deny, its nature. Phil had come to it, not the other way around. He had finally come to terms with what had happened in the glass tunnel. The quest for the spirit had focused him and let him mourn. He had mourned all of his fallen comrades, most of whom he couldn’t remember. He had mourned Crashing Boom-Boom and the Harley Davidson. He had celebrated for the spirit of the house, which he had released.
Phil had cut all ties, because it had felt like the right thing to do. Then, after questing for what seemed like an eternity, he had collapsed into the raven’s nest and fallen asleep. When he had awoken, it was staring down its beak at him. He had asked it for the path to understanding. It had told him that for this gift, Phil would seek out and console a lonely friend of his. The raven had said that he was qualified, because the spirit inhabited a house. Phil had fallen back asleep, and then woken up in the Ann Arbor train station.
He stopped in front of a used theatrical costume shop. He had spent a lot of time with the spirit, and it was time to let go of Harley. Phil sighed, gripped his staff tightly, and walked in the store.
The bell over the door jingled.
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): This is the one of the shortest horoscopes I have ever written for you. That’s because there is just one simple message, which you should take to heart in a hundred ways. Are you ready? Trust yourself as you have never trusted yourself before. Trust your perceptions, your feelings, and your body. Trust your bratty whims, your weird longings, and your momentary lapses. Trust your urge to merge, your itch to bitch, and your yearning to learn. Trust your ability to know exactly how to trust.
This is the third and final part of the re-write.
I admit, there are exceptions, even throwbacks. The few that grow up in rural or forest areas still yearn for shopping malls and technology. Even they cut their lawn, trim their hedges, and strategically plant their trees.
Many universities have horticultural and demonstration gardens on their campuses, which are host to countless wedding ceremonies. I have gone to Beal Gardens on MSU’s campus during many emotionally turbulent times, and have felt at home and comforted.
This is the second part of the rewrite.
“Hi, Dave.”
Hello. Arguably, I’ve lived in it all my life. Even when my family lived in Clio, a small farming town outside of Flint, we lived in a pocket of Suburban Reality. We lived in a sub division that was bordered on all sides by acres and acres of field. It was an incongruous blip on a rural radar. Of course, Clio is no longer limited to the one sub division. Like most places, it has succumbed to the suburban lifestyle. It has a Wal-Mart. I’m certain that all of this has affected my views of the outdoors.
So, after our move to real suburbia – 25 miles north of Detroit – my brother and I were willingly submersed into nature as our Dad got us into Boy Scouts. From the time I joined until the beginning of High School, I was able to learn respect for nature, though I never quite felt at home there.
To this day, though I lived amongst city people trying to escape to nature, I find myself never quite at ease in an outdoor setting. My name is Dave, and I’m a suburbanite.
“Hi, Dave.”