vr
a novel
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
March 1997
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
From: Nichelle
Date: 2 March 1997
Subject: Pueblicity
What kind of sick parents would name their kid "Latrina"? That seems very
cruel to me. Have some sites on the web about moo/web integration to look
at. I think it's worth the effort, since I'm pretty convinced that the MOOs
are dying. There are just too many other more user friendly chat systems out
there. I think we can make something more enticing and more beautiful with
this Pueblo thing...
Once again, half of this letter was written at work. Saturday was a shitty
day. I skipped out of my morning job at 12:30 while they were getting killed
by mobs of 12 year old science geeks. Aren't they cute when they calculate
the tax in line and have exact change ready when you ring them up... I'm sure
they'll grow up to be very socially adjusted adults. It isn't that I couldn't
have stayed. It's just that one of my co-workers (little sophomore slut)
kept checking my receipts to make sure that I was ringing things up right.
What the fuck does it matter to her anyway? I felt it was appropriate to
screw her over. We'll see how pissed my boss was about this thing on Tuesday,
but I am immune to pretty much all abuse because I'm the only person who's
willing to get her ass up on Saturday to run the cart. Besides, how much loyalty
should I have for six dollars an hour when I've got to work until 9:45 pm?
The shop got some new cheesy-ass music from the card convention. "Let the
artists of Sugo Music take you on a memorable musical journey filled with
both relaxing and uplifting moments." We're no longer allowed to play our
own CDs. This is the music they play in hell while you're waiting in line
to do the entrance paperwork.
"We're getting a shipment of them in. We're going to sell them in the store."
"Uh-huh."
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 2 March 1997
Subject: Adventures in Multimedia
Well, I've been playing on Firefly for the past couple of days at work (slack
time in between deadlines). If you don't know about Firefly, a little history.
Firefly started out as a majordomo service called RINGO, run as an experiment
by some MIT students. You'd send a subscribe message, get a list of about
20 musical groups/artists to rank. You'd evaluate them on a scale of 0 to
7, send it back and get more. Eventually RINGO would collect enough statistics
on your choices that it would be able to make recommendations: Here's someone
you might like to listen to.
The gents graduated from MIT and decided to try to make some cash from the
technology, so they started Firefly, but then something else interesting happened.
It grew into a place to meet and talk to other people ... primarily due to
the ability to say "show me the names of other members who have similar tastes
...." Guaranteed conversation opener, right?
Unfortunately, after hanging out there, I have to say that, while the odds
of finding a good conversation are significantly better than the Palace, they
still aren't high. I do not consider two good conversations in two days to
be a great ratio.
You might be interested in the way they have structured their chat areas
to interact with their Web site, Nichelle - technically, it's very smooth
- except that this week they are changing over to a new interface, with all
sorts of nasty Java trickery, that the members all seem to uniformly despise,
but that's what you get when the gadget freaks don't have anyone to keep them
on a leash.
You may want to check it out anyway, membership is free. www.ffly.com. I'm
_columbine_ (note underscores) if you want to see someone you already know.
Firefly isn't very good at spotting my all-over-the-map musical tastes.
I tend to like specific groups rather than broad categories. But I also gave
in and bought an issue of BLENDER, a cdrom "magazine," and found four albums
I immediately had to buy the next day - all of which turned out to be worth
the purchase - so now I'm wondering if there's actually some sort of weird
multimedia geek demographic I correspond to.
BLENDER's actually very well done, has more content than I expected, and
MUCH more intelligence. I may have to subscribe. Problem is, if they're this
dead-on with my tastes each time, my cd budget is going to spring a leak.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
-- Edwin Muir (1887 -1959)
From: Joy
Date: 4 March 1997
Subject: ardennes
tell me of Ardennes. . . ?
is there a city or is it just the name for the region?
according to this paper in my lap there is a place called ardennes,
france.. yet the atlas seems to say otherwise.. any info would be helpful,
particularly the recordkeeping habits of the people who live there (esp
in
the 1400s-1500s)...
-killjoy
From: SAGReiss
Date: 4 March 1997
Subject: Would you sleep here?
The forest of Ardennes is in Belgium and northeastern France, a French Departement,
but not a city. It is the site of countless battles and some frolicking in
"As You Like It". Local television ran a three-part series last week entitled
"Hidden Hotel Horrors" promising: "a witch's brew of bodily fluids and human
waste" and staring our favorite rest spot. Mark Boese, a Chicago-based forensic
scientist, used ultraviolet light and chemical tests to find "evidence of
blood, semen and vaginal secretions" on the blankets. Our fearless leader,
who refused to be interviewed for the newscast, told a journalist that washing
the blankets every day is probably prohibitively expensive. This morning a
chronically cranky regular customer complained about the loud late-fifties/early-sixties
rock and roll they've started playing all day in the dining room. He was loud.
Slammy said: "It's a new concept, Oldies." "Oldies?" asked the seventy-year-old
gentleman. "It's crap." The argument degenerated from there, and the whole
wait staff laughed as he delivered a final low blow: "Why don't you go wash
the blankets?" Nichelle has been remiss with her e-mail, so I'll have to do
it myself. Dr Neil, her Dante/Chaucer prof, handed back the papers the other
day: "Each of you," he announced, "will find a double-slash (//) in the margin.
It marks the spot where I became either too bored or too disgusted to go
on. You will all have the opportunity to rewrite your paper." Nichelle's double
slash was at the end. She doesn't have to redo it. I've met some mean motherfuckers
in my academic career, but that's not bad. I remember my first Greek professor,
an ageing Jesuit back in the days when one could smoke in half of the Yale
library: "To read Greek, it's best to begin with a bottle of wine and a pack
of cigarettes, so you won't have to interrupt your concentration." I was
fifteen years old. The first words of his final exam read: "GENERAL INSTRUCTIONS:
1) Follow the directions. 2) Remember everything. 3) Make no mistakes." I
remember this towering, bearded German, taller than I even when he was sitting
at his desk. I walked in on the morning of the exam fresh from the bar and
smelling of whisky and madness. He gave me a look of utter scorn: "Herr Reiss,
bitte, come to my office tomorrow afternoon to take the exam. Between now
and then I think you might find time to sleep."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Joy
Date: 4 March 1997
Subject: more france stuff..
upon closer examination of the orig doc i saw 'Sedan' Ardennes France..
Sedan looks like it's actually closer to Argonnes or somesuch but hey, my
geography sucks.
i've been daydreaming all day about visiting/researching there..
From: Nichelle
Date: 5 March 1997
Subject: Be my Belgian Love Waffle
I hope none of you assholes expect a birthday card from me. Screw y'all.
The only one I got this year was some shitty Winnie the Pooh card from my
dad saying "Gee, I wonder how old you are this year" or some shit like that,
which is appropriate, since he probably doesn't know. Well, you should have
been with us last night at dinner. The two of us laughing and snorting in
the corner of a dingy, crowded Chinese restaurant trying not to giggle when
they brought out our fortune cookies and a rice-cake with a candle melting
all over it singing "Happe bilth-dayeee tooo yyyoooou".
What kind of horrible white trash shit do you think I am, anyway?
Actually, Gabe took me to a beautiful little restaurant called Dante- hardwood
floors, brick walls, only four tables full. We brought our own wine, and so
did two of the other three couples. The waitress had a little bit of a hard
time opening it, but I forgive her. The food was fucking fantastic. I'd tell
you about it, but I don't want to drool all over my keyboard. We stopped
for a drink at Phoebe's on the way home. Gabe had to ask one of the waiters
("Is it really eight dollars a glass for the cognac?") to see if we were
getting screwed. Well, it turns out we were. We didn't bother to stay for
another drink, but we went to Lou's instead. Costs $3.50 a glass there, so
fuck Phoebe's. All in all, I think I had seven or eight drinks, which is
kind of a lot for me.
I'm skipping my classes again, and we're going to IHOP for the Belgian Waffle
I so richly deserve. Strawberries and whipped cream (yes from a can) this
morning and again tonight (but the real thing) with cake. Gabe seemed worried
about getting me a present, but it's a good enough gift for me to imagine
him looking around in all of those girlie boutiques trying to find something
I might like. Well, it's true what they say about candy and flowers. Either
one will probably also get you laid about eighty percent of the time.
It's 12:28. Time to catch the bus.
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 6 March 1997
Subject: What's Wrong With These Kids Today
no motivation
not like us
we got our Doctorates
yale
harvard
Big Brick Buildings with ivy on them
Imported Ivy (They brought it here from England. On the first ships to this
great nation of ours, scurvey, sea-fevers, sweat and toil to bring that
ivy
that covers those grand brick halls.)
They don't know what it took.
They're not prepared.
They're not as smart as we were.
They don't know how to work.
We won't ask them to.
Treat me like an MTV-baby and expect me to do more.
Why do you skip my class?
Thirteen-thousand dollars to be educated by my peers...
starting with the assumption that I like Anne Rice and Steven King more
than
I like Shakespeare
Where do you get that shit?
I've never written a sentence that ends: "...the fire out of which Farinata
rises out of."
No, I skipped class, but I tracked the word "sweet" through all of the
Canterbury Tales, sitting at the SU library with a big, fat compendium for
hours
One can only assume that she was hung-over, at home watching Oprah, eating
Kaptain Krunchies.
Yeah, well I know I'm not getting an A.
I haven't got a TV.
I've seen it all happen before, one semester after the next my enthusiasm
turning to dread...
We've got to round off all the rough edges
lowest common denominator
cooperative learning
opinions
WHY WON'T SOMEBODY TEACH ME?
I have to fight the system to learn.
I have too much busy work.
I can see the responses.
Everyone else works within the system- why can't you?
It's not so hard, just do the work
just come to class
just turn off your brain.
How would you like to live in this world?
How is it different from ours?
No thanks. I'd prefer to have a big F marked in the grade book.
Just mark me down for an F today.
I won't be there for the quiz, but I've done the reading.
I always do the reading, but I'll never get an A.
Why do we talk about the characters of a novel as if they were real people?
Daytime soaps- wonder what will happen next...
People who can barely talk through all the Y'knows, likes, and ums...
graduating this semester with a degree in English
cumulative grade point average 3.79
Don't tell me what's wrong with the system, kid- you're what's wrong with
it. Everyone else is doing fine.
Class participation.
No, let's rearrange the groups so that we can distribute the people who
did
today's reading.
It's all pouring into my head like the recollection of a nightmare.
I don't want the system, the opinions of my peers..
I want an education.
Just give me the piece of paper.
It's the least you can do.
I'll teach myself.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 6 March 1997
Subject: (no subject)
I don't usually comment on other people's work. I guess if someone has tried
to do something of a serious nature with e-mail or the web he deserves encouragement.
It's not always true. I have flamed a couple of people on this list, including
Nichelle, once. I like the form of her last letter very much, the physical
form, which with e-mail often depends on the software one uses to read it.
Everyone should use Eudora, at least until someone has the brains to make
the word-processing and e-mail program the same. Actually HTML should also
be replaced by the same software. The motherfuckers always lie when they say:
"What you see is what you get." It can't be that hard. To continue I liked
the calligraphic style of Nichelle's letter, the poetry which reminds me
of Buk (whose poetry she has not read to my knowledge) and jeff (whose presence
on this list is hardly remembered). Some of the language struck me as cliche,
which I hate, but it's hard to complain about idiots without seeming small.
I had a very bad day, a morning of being stiffed by ten-year-old ice skaters
and uncertainty who would get fucked. I didn't really but the tension got
to me. Then this stupid motherfucking staff meeting. We actually saw a videotape
of a CD ROM. They were giving away tee-shirts and whatnot. I've got only
one fucking shirt to work with, which I must wash every day, since they've
got me working six shifts a week, and they want to buy my happiness with
a Bud Lite tee shirt? This kind of thing is very good for corporate morale,
or so the bosses think. I lost my raffle ticket before I had even sat down.
I was a bit of a beast when I came home. I furiously did the laundry and
dishes while dreaming of getting drunk. Nichelle finally got sick and tired
of my ogrishness and went to the mall to buy some useless shit. I can't blame
her. I hope we can still have a nice supper. I went to Lou's. The niggers
calm my sense of social outrage. We watched Long Island University against
Monmouth. One of the boys for LIU had a little problem with the Man. As the
bro's put it: "He got blowed and they blacklisted him. The media did that."
I remember the story. It's what white people call rape. Black people don't
see it that way. Every black woman my age with a bf, brother and son has one
of those men in jail, on parole or on probation. They do not see the criminal
justice system exactly as we do. Nichelle is home. I want to try to make
a decent supper. I'm frustrated by your silence. What the fuck have I got
to do?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 6 March 1997
Subject: (no subject)
I want to go back to the mall.
Nichelle
From: Kate
Date: 7 March 1997
Subject: all night mornings and ransacked memories
been quiet a while...here's a chunk of my journal of non-events from most
of the last week or so to fill the gaps.
--kate
-----------
after getting offline on monday morning, i sat and read, tucked on the chaise
with a cat by my side who rumbled like a 1930s motorbike. i finished 'canal
dreams' and i was rereading gibson's 'virtual light', to see if it was any
better than i remembered. enjoyable, but really nothing special. just another
layer of the formula that worked better before it became a formula for him.
by about 8am, things were starting to look very unreal in the room. although
it was light outside, the room is dark. i keep the blind down, so over looking
windows can't see the high-tech-thieves' delight of my study. i'd put the
overhead light on, and it was a strange, warm evening light, so disconcerting
in a cold early morning.
i went out for breakfast before my head exploded. just to patisserie valerie,
but i had to pop up the road to the cash point first. the unreality, however,
persisted. i felt that i was the only thing from my own sphere of existence,
and that the streets had somehow been replaced. it was too empty, too over-defined.
all the edges were terribly clear and the light was just a little too bright.
and it was emptier than i realised. but i am not known for wandering about
in soho at 8am. 2 or 3 am, sure. even 6am. but 8? a rare thing indeed. dunked
croissant pieces into coffee and covered the red formica table in crumbs while
scanning the the paper for jobs. lots of advertising sales, but nothing else.
i sat and drank coffee and smoked and peered at the people around me until
i had finished my book, then came home to work.
i thought i'd be up for the rest of the day, working. i thought it would
take a full day--ten, maybe twelve hours. I finished it in two hours flat.
i was so fucking hyper, it's not surprising. that is the best hourly rate
i will see in a long time. it wasn't difficult work--just adapting the workhouse
site i built so it can run locally and be distributed on floppies at a conference.
by noon i was curled up in bed and reading finely crafted stories by a.l.
kennedy. woke about six, sal came round at 7 and we went to the cafe next
door for dinner. good to sit and talk and drink...looks like she has been
offered a job, but the pay may be too lousy. to her credit, she has decided
to say, 'if they want me, they have to pay what i need.' bout time--this is
a real change for her. she used to accept what people gave her, and not just
with salaries.
had a strange 40 minutes sharing a keyboard with her, so she could moo and
say hi to people for the first time in ages.
I had to struggle to get to sleep last night. I went to bed too early--just
past 3am. Reading, even though the words were blurring in front of my eyes,
did not help me to tip over the edge. I had to drag myself into dreams. but
my dreams were too fragmented to hold onto. And each time I began to dream,
I was almost woken by a shifting memory of a previous dream. But by the time
i woke up, I did not want to get out of bed, because i did not feel that i
was awake.
But i did, and i wandered around in circles a while, the cats blinking at
me from nests in the green duvet. checked my mail, and got only a couple of
ongoing pieces of a row about the nature of fiction. at some point i should
reply, throw my oar into the discussion rather than just muttering in disbelief
each time i read another's opinion. gathering the essentials--money, cigarettes,
notebook, book, pen and phone--i traced the automatic steps around the corner
for an afternoon in the living room. rereading calvino's 'invisible cities'
and getting dreamy remembering turning the corners to find hidden gardens
in the centre of venice, between high crumbling walls painted dirty yellow
and the slow moving canals. i was talking with someone in the cafe last week,
rita, who told me that she finds venice 'unbearably melancholy. the city itself
is too sad.' and in the early mornings with the dark shadows of close buildings
falling over the water, and the people hardly noticing the breathing life
of the city, i know what she means. but to me, venice has a hidden energy,
like it had a story that it is not telling, however many times you ask. not
a melancholy, but a secret. a whole city of untold stories.
"Memory's images, once they are fixed in words, are erased," Polo said.
"Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. or perhaps,
speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little." (calvino)
thinking too much of the memory of cities, the memory of routes through
cities where you find your own map through the passage through the streets,
i put down my book. this was obviously a signal that i was pausing from the
book, and the guy sitting next to me, who i had not even noticed before started
to talk to me. i always feel invisible when sitting there, reading or writing.
it's disconcerting when someone is observing me, and begins to talk and comment
on my behaviour.
"I have been meaning to ask you," he said, "if you are a writer. You are
always reading or writing when I watch you." We talked for a while, and he
told me that he was jealous as he watched me, because i seemed so separate
from my surroundings, as if i was inside the book. his assumption that i was
a writer was partly because i am often in the cafe for hours in the afternoons,
not working just bathing in text. we talked for a while, shook hands, swapped
names (although i cannot remember his name at all. i rarely can. but i remember
the name of his friend, latife, a photographer who was waiting patiently,
smoking, for his girlfriend.)
When i got out of bed today, i realised that i had nothing, nothing at all
to do. Although there are some things i should get sorted out, i had nothing
to do. i am not sure whether this scares me of pleases me, so i decided not
to choose.
writing this now, zot is balanced on the back of the chair, and occasionally
rubs her cheek against the pen tucked behind me ear. soon, she will slip and
scratch me, and i will yell at her and chase her through the kitchen. this
happens repeatedly, and can go on for hours.
sally told me a story last night, as we had dinner. there was a pause in
the conversation and she glanced up from her wine, running her eyes across
the walls until she noticed a reproduction of an old soap advert. she smiled,
lit a cigarette and asked me if she had ever told me the story of how Coop's
grandparents had met. i shook my head, and borrowed her lighter, gesturing
for her to continue.
Coop's grandmother worked in a factory. I don't know where. In a factory
in a factory town, where she worked making the tins in which Pears soap was
sold. And she was lonely and bored and without love. So one day she wrote
a note. And the note explained that she was lonely and bored and without love,
and she wrote her address in the factory town and she hid the note into the
tin that would hold Pears soap. And in another town, a man whose job it was
to put the soap into the tins found the note written by a bored and lonely
woman without love and he wrote to her at the address she had written. When
she got the letter from the man in the factory that put the soap into the
tins, she went to london to visit him. She wore a bunch of violets pinned
to her coat so he would recognise her, for this was the first time they met.
She didn't tell me the rest of the story, but her shrug filled in the obligatory
ending: they lived happily ever after.
---------
invisible cities has got me thinking again about venice. I was in Venice
for a week, four years ago. Just trying to remember it coherently gives me
a strange shiver, like the mist rising from the water in the dark. venice
goes to sleep early, and walking around in the evening, say 10pm, thep lace
is almost deserted. even the millions of pigeons have vanished. i was in st
marks one night, the piazza. (it's the only piazza, the rest are called campos)
and i was the only person there. the cafes around the edge (horrible over
priced places that feed from the tourists who stay in the city less than
a day and think they have 'done' venice) were all closed. i ran around the
empty, echoing square with my eyes closed until i was so dizzy i feel over,
and sat bundled in a heavy winter coat on the cold cold february stone staring
at te colums that are the gates to the sea.
so many things i saw and found in venice, the things that venice chose to
show me...the cemetary island. the dragon bones. the madman's cat opera (maybe
i told you about this, i think perhaps i may have done). the fog and the navigation
channels. the cold stone and the melted, blackened mirrors that reflect something
other than the reflection you expect. travelling by water and by foot alone.
the sound of water, at night, against old, wet buildings. the soft venetian
dialect, full of jzuh sounds. the lions. the city itself...
some cities write their own maps. the paper versions bear no more than a
passing resemblence to the map, no more than a second cousin resembles you
in the shape of your nose and the colour of your eyes alone. some cities demand
that you discover them as they wish to be discovered. they undress themselves
slowy in front of your eyes, allowing brief tantalising glimpses under the
shadowed corners of their streets, and only once they trust you allow you
the merest glancing touch of their bones. i have a long theory about this,
and one that is best told late at night, with too much wine, in a room where
too many cigarettes have been smoked. it makes no sense in daylight, and
looks too cold on paper.
----------
last night and today have been too damn odd for my liking, i can't quite
shift that sense of otherness, more extreme than usual. i'm listening to bach's
fugues at the moment, in a hope that it will re-order my head, and of course,
becuase i have to listen to it now that i have emerged again from 'the glass
bead game'.
i went to bed around 9.30 this morning, and drifted to sleep with a cat
perched on my hip and i lay tucked up on my side, at somewhere around 10.15.
i was rudely awoken by the phone ringing more noisily than normal. even though
there was no way on earth i was going to answer it, it shattered my sleep
for some time, and it annoyed me. sleeping again, the phone did it's usual
trick at about 3 something. i called back, but the person asked if they could
call me back...so i sat and glowered at the phone, waiting to get the call
over and done with--something to do with the teaching that i am doing in oxford
in the summer. so when the next call came, i didn;t even screen it...just
grabbed it so i could get it over with and back to sleeping. but it was my
father. damnit. i was in no damn mood to speak to him. he gave me a hard time
about being impossible to reach, that he had left a dozen messages on my
machine. i know that is untrue, because i have been here, and there have been
no messages at all. i was wondering if i had even given them my new number
when i moved. i had to tell him about question, and he was useless about
it, and so damn hearty and cheery he drove me nuts. he was then going on
about my grandmother's birthday, in april. she will be 90 then. i hope that
the damn lunch in not in yorkshire, that would mean i had to stay with them
overnight. he went on and on abot family stuff. i don't care that my brother
in law will not be there, that he will be away at see. so what? and no, i
have no idea what matt is doing on some saturday in april, and no, he is
not part of the 'tribe' as my father described us. he managed to be condescending
and fearful in the same breath, and i was so close to helpless tears and
yelling with rage. i am in no fit state to deal with my family when i have
just woken up. bah. so i made all the work calls i had to make, and took
it out on someone who owes me some money, and fell back into bed, hiding
under the covers, after pulling the phone from the socket.
sleeping again, but oh what fucking odd dreams i had. one part, i had both
my hands bandaged with thin strips of cloth, but the bandage didn't cover
the wound, small and ragged, between my fingers where i had been bitten by
someone. and it bled through all my dream, even as my dream changed and shifted.
i was dropping great globs of jelly-like blood over everything, and having
to scoop it up and apologise. and there was something about a photograph,
a huge black and white picture in a glass case of someone's fall from a building--showing
every stage from the moemnt he stepped from the edge, all the way down through
the rushing air. and looking at it, i was looking down from the building.
there was something in the picture, a visual trick, whereby most people could
not see the second stage of the long fall, the moment after his step from
the edge, where he tilted forwards to coast through the air stretched out.
there were dozens of versions of this picture...including two tiny silver
discs. i could not work out how to see into them, and broke them, and hid
them in my pocket. and later, there was some dream in an airport, and i was
changing planes and destinations on sudden whims and on the urging of a sign
outside the planes advertising vacancies. so much less coherent than many,
no, most of my dreams.
so i got up and escaped to the cafe, where there was an overpowering smell
of hot apples, and i fell into my book until the dreams went away. and now
my day seems finally to have started, and i will read and write and experiment
with tryig to sew beads onto metal, or onto paper...or something like that.
i don't know yet.
----------
it's almost midnight and i have no idea where my day went. i don't think
i have days at the moment, only nights when i am awake, though they stretch
sometimes till afternoon. everything is disjointed, and i am not entirely
sure that i am awake. i have been dreaming to much, but i can't collect or
hold my dreams in recollection. fragments break through over the space of
days, and i have to look hard at them to places them as memories of dreams
rather than more concrete memories. i need to stand under a raging shower
of water to wash my head clean, shock myself out of this. i walk around at
night, or in the early morning and to say that i feel i am walking through
a movie would make it too concrete. i feel less connected than that. self-indulgent.
if i cut myself off from reality any further i fear i may dissolve.
but now i am sitting in the light-pooled coccoon of books and computers
and junk that i don't know whether to call my study, my sitting room or my
world. drinking tea, illuminated by the grey-blue of the white page of screen,
feeling around in damp earth for words that i am sure are there. and later,
once i have written this, i will try to write up those notes of barcelona.
heh, huge jumble of half-rememberings...
each image speck of memory triggers another. memories that i had forgotten
i had, that unfold from forgotten corners as i step near a linked one. playing
hopscotch in the dark, only seeing the next jump when you are already jumping.
tumble of pictures to fast too split into distinct discrete memories. flip
book motion.
i lived in hong kong, years back. 12 years ago and more. my father was based
over there going army things, and we lived on hong kong island, on the south,
repulse bay. there was a flattened semi-circle building--four linked blocks
of flats built in the 1950s. shiny ceramic tiled inside the lobbies, run down,
damp with humidty. we lived at the top, the penthouse. and the whole flat
was surrounded by a balcony. the hill fell away in a slow slope below doen
to the ocean, and nothing was in the way of the view down to the ocean, to
the islands, across the south china sea. and behind, a small mountain, lush
dark almosttropical green, close close to the building, so you wanted to
stretch over the rusting iron railings and touch the long tailed shrieking
birds that broke through the leaves. when i lay in bed, i had a window to
either side of me. if i just turned my head, i didn't see the ground...just
mountain on one side and sea on the other, hanging between two different coloured
lights, under a creaking, ineffective fan that hardly stirred the solid air.
walking up to the building, there was a struggle of steps, flight after flight
of wood and concrete, zigzagging up the hill, with flashes of shimmering
snakes and fat flying bugs and intoxicating flame flowers hanging low around
your face as you climbed sweating, into the already water-ridden air, breathing
hot-flannel, home.
i half remember my first night there. i was fourteen. my parents had just
moved, and i had joned them a week later from school. my flight got in at
night, and circled round hong kong, an multicoloured jewelscatter of lights
heaped onto black water. crowded, concentrated, compressed into the smallest
space. all i remember is the lights, and the moonless dark. driving through
the city and across the peak home was a blur, streaming traffic and dissolving
on the edges of exhaustion after 24, 25 hours of travelling and anticpation.
the flat was almost empty--bare wood floors, a little furniture (ugly, army
issue, far-east style curved rattan and pale chintz), boxes of books. and
glass. walls of glass and white painted metal window-door frames. it was late
but i stood on the balcony, trying to make out the shapes of the buildings
below, the long curve of the beach, the place where the lights stopped and
the reflections began, the small ceremonial bridges, the roar marking the
road below, hundreds of feet below on the road. when i woke up the next morning,
it was just dawn, and my eyes hurt with the plain whiteness of my room and
the clean, uncurtained light. i padded barefoot through to the sitting room,
feet cooling on the dark parquet, made coffee, opened all the doors in the
sitting room--the whole wall, and sat on the floor watching the end of the
sunrise. sitting so low in a high place, there was nothing below me...the
whole hill vanished and i was hovering in a window space above the sea. mist
starting to burn off the edges of the islands a few miles ahead, ships trailing
back and forth, and the growing sounds of the morning. it was cold, cold of
the early morning in a hot place. i walked, patrolling round the edges of
the balcony, 360 degrees of bird-view down to earth, for hours. reading the
place for the first time, trying to understand new shapes, map them before
being broken from my exploring by my family crashing into brisk organisational
morningtime. i could see tiny figures at the edge of the beach, dancing in
the slow shapes of morning rituals of shadow-boxing. the old men, in dark
pyjamas. and the market noises of morning built with the sounds of the traffic,
and i couldn't hear the sea any more. only at night.
a long time ago. tiger balm gardens. crush of markets and noise-piled streets.
glossy glassmetal hotels and crumbling dripping iron shacks pressed close
against them. out on the sea, swimming and fearing the black drop away of
earth under me. parties late at night on the beach. creeping home in the night,
tiptoing noisily and crashing into things. the friendly hatred of the four
kates. the bickering and passionate teenage friendships. streams of lights
over bridges into the sea. water buffalo breaking through the green algaed
water to peer, mystified. blurred hazes of nights in the city, secretly, dancing
and running wild. bonfires in sand. geese strapped, honking, onto the backs
of bicycles. smell of the ferry, the star ferry, crossing back and forth
over the harbour, not getting off for hours, but bumping backwards and forwards
until the day finished. playing on the swings, crowds of us, horrible hoard
of kids. and the uncertainty, always feeling the edgy outsider, the intense
terror-angst of being a teenager.
sitting in bed this morning, frustrated by my awakeness and tired, so tired
from doing nothing. manic miserable. rage of half-filled ideas and unformed
stories and things to make. darting about with sudden ideas and crazy plans
and excited babble. words words falling from my mouth. frantic, pointless
rushing about of a lab rat in a box. using up the energy on frustration and
raging against the nothing of it all, not turning the ideas into reality before
they escape into the jumble of other undone things.
------------
Monday 8am, or thereabouts. another breakfast at the end of a day, i craved
eggs tomatoes hot greasy breakfast with buttered toasts all through the night
but stepping out of the door i realised i was wrong. went to patisserie valerie,
as usual. reassuring dark word old cafe, to flip through the monday jobs pages
for no jobs at all. felt cold-legged and naked walking down the street, exposed,
but wanting to stomp around and show off in clothes i realise i haven't worn
in years. not covered, hiding, but short jacket and leggings. dark night
clothes on cold morning.
i could get too used to this pattern of life, but i never get a day. i'm
awake for such a short overlap with the rest of the city, it limits what i
can do. i get urges to see a film,play in the park, go to the library. but
at 4 am, i can't.
poor helena just dropped an unsteady pile of cups and plates, sending milkfroathy
coffee all over the table she was clearing. quiet here, this early, and the
croissants are still warm and doughy from the oven.
first morning in paris, 5am. just stepped off the train. night crossing
on the boat with the long long wait at the french port station, with bored
kids lolling about and making chicken noises at the dazed passengers. smoking
and wearing bright nylon clothes, they stared at us like we were television.
summer dawn morning in paris, tiny sqare, in a grotty rundown trainstation
part of the city. strip joints barely closed for the night, hookers looking
tired with makeup sliding from their faces and the street cleaners pushing
cans and papers and needles back and forth with their ratty looking brooms.
and a cafe--all chrome and black and glass. fat man in a long white apron
and luxurious moustache opening the terrace doors for the day. cold, sitting
in the air of a day that would be burning by noon. feet perched on old leather
suitcase, silver-handled walking stick leaning against my legs, and a perfect
espresso. croissant showering flakes, delicate crisping and stretching warmwet
dough inside that smelled like the smell of the perfect croissant you would
dream for the rest of your life. glorious breakfast, as old men tapped boiled
eggs into salt on the counter at the bar and policemen rushed in from their
armoured car to buy gitanes from the tabac. it wasn't perfect, but it was
5am and i was in paris for the first time.
i've always liked breakfast, or meals late in the night after a journey
or when blasted on tiredness or brain fried and empty from afterwards.
Back ten years, to new york--so many breakfasts. this summer too--easting
pancakes and fruit outside yaffa after a long citywalk on an old map. but
ten years ago. it was september and richard and i had just finished out grandtour
of america. a jumble of greyhounds and youth hostels and cheap hotels and
strange rest stops at deserted diners in unheard of towns. we had just one
night left in new york and there was no way we were going to waste it on sleeping.
we left san francisco dressed not in the comfortable sensible travelling clothes,
but in the night time dancing clothes of clubs. we had missed new york so
much. both self indulgent glorious club kids full of unshakeable belief in
our own beauty and wonder. so we danced off the plane--me in a fab black
frock from the sixties and a nifty little cocktail hat, he in i forget what,
but something to wow the boys, and we went straight out to drink, loaded
with travelling bags and cases (r with his rucksack) before arriving later
at the club we always went to on thursday nights. and we both danced until
we were falling over with the exhilaration of goodbye to a city. we were
supposed to be crashing at my old apartment, up on columbus and 90th, but
getting there we found we had to step over the rows of sleeping invaders.
no room at the inn. it seemed like all five of my flat mates had their entire
family to stay. "fuck this," i exclaimed, "i must have breakfast!"
so we ran round the block to the cafe which had the best chocoalte cake
for miles and we ate and waved our arms around and there were idiot yuppies
with their ties undone dancing badly by the jukebox. R grinned when the music
changed to an old anthem of a decadent summer. we leapt up and danced like
the world was watching, jumping from floor to bench to tabletop. remembering
the sound of cheering and the incredible buzz of no self-conciousness, no
inhibition. and only when it was completely light did we stagger ginning and
flushed with exhibitionism to the flat, falling over bags and laughing until
everyone was awake. i can't remember a bloody thiung about the rest of that
day, apart from leaving a trail of graffiti as goodbyes.
so many late night breakfasts after nights of dancing and playing and hanging
out being bored and smpoking wtih style. hangover breakfasts on sundays of
eggs and chips and coffees in glass cups at St. Giles with bleary friends
and piles of newspapers. and first breakfasts with new lovers, hesitant morning
intimacy. eating toast in bed or watching cartoons from under a blanket. or
sharing a plate of olives and bread, drizzled with green olive oil, sitting
naked on the floor after an afternoon of langourous curtain shadowed sex.
further back, further back, to another empty headed, stomach growling morning,
walking through a london i didn't yet know, with my sister's husband and a
crowd of people i am not sure i knew then, and can't remember now. i was seventeen.
L had been ill, stayed at home, but i had gone to the party with miguel anyway.
youngest by years, as always, and overwhelemed by the nonchalent acceptence
of schoolgirl me. and there was a man called chris, who was beautiful with
his long dark curls and pale shadowed face and his fragments of bad poetry,
we sat on the floor. he stroked my ankles--i wore black stockings of incredibly
complicated lace--and told me i was beautiful. he wrote me apoem, but i lost
it on that stoned cold morning walk through parked car streets, playing football
with a coke can. and i couldn't go home with him, because my sister would
have killed me. and i sat drinking cans of irn-bru and eating maltesers as
my sisters cat's kittens clambered over me and miguel snored on the sofa.
so many weekends spent in that strange smelling flat in peckham. the one
with the bathtub in the kitchen and the plastic daffodils in the windowbox.
and the weekends were dull, but they were weekends not spent at school. A
night of a party there and louise and miguel having a screaming row about
nothing as the party was flaking apart to last stragglers. yelling behind
the bedroom door, and me watching te creature feature double bill on the tiny
television with l's friend alastair hugging me tightly for hours, rolling
me countless tiny sigarettes and talkingtalking to stop me from crying and
boris karloff crashed around the screen as my sister cried. when A finally
slept, sprawled on the carpet in front of the blue-spluttering gas fire he
looked like jean marais, on the coer of 'this charming man'. and i stared
at the white noise of no television and listened to the echoes of joy division
coming through the floor.
a flood of all night mornings and i have no idea why i am remembering them.
-------
From: Nichelle
Date: 6 March 1997
Subject: (no subject)
>Some of the language struck me as cliche, which I hate, but it's hard
to
>complain about idiots without seeming small
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 8 March 1997
Subject: Re: (no subject)
"Don't fuck with us, Joanne, we're having a bad day." "Already?" Since Nichelle's
birthday I'm on every day at six till next Thursday. Brian's father died this
morning so I've got to work room service nights Monday and one or two other
days. We've been getting killed every day since I can remember. Our supervisor
quit or was fired depending on whom one believes. They fired two of the dishwashers.
The university of Washington is beginning to ask embarrasing questions about
my academic career. My take-no-prisoners answer follows:
Thank you for your e-mail. I personally sent my Syracuse University transcripts
and assume you have got those. I asked Charter Oak College to send theirs
and received confirmation that they had. I am working on having them sent
again. I hope there will be very little delay.
As to references I'm afraid I can't get any. I dropped out of Syracuse University
when my graduate assistantship was not renewed for reasons which were never
made clear to me. If my application can not be processed without them, perhaps
someone could inquire of Josy McGinn, my immediate superior at Syracuse University,
Dr Paul Archambault, chairman of the French department, or Dr Harold Jones,
chairman of the foreign language department.
In addition to the work I have sent, I would be glad to send a copy of the
article I wrote in "Les Temps modernes" (December 1989). I am happy to provide
any additional information that might help in the decision-making process.
Thank you for your concern.
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
Let the motherfuckers explain themselves. I don't really give a fuck. Nichelle's
e-mail brings up an interesting question. My answer is of course that I meant
SHE was tilting at windmills, but it's not absolutely clear from the text.
One could always claim that the author is using the famous follow-his-dick
theory of literary interpretation. Perhaps I WAS poking fun at her. Who knows?
Why is my explanation privileged? This is why I say that the author is not
master of his text. I wrote what I wrote, whatever I may say I intended to
write. What you see is what you get, motherfuckers, and I wish the geeks would
understand that. I'm getting drunk, for the first time today. I'm going to
do the dishes, MOO, eat, get drunk again, pick up Nichelle at the bus stop
and go to work again. I think I may have to do room service tomorrow morning
too. It's going to be a horrible week of OT and nightmares. I'm sorry, honey,
they don't pay me to be a genius.
From: Columbine
Date: 8 March 1997
Subject: Re: What's Wrong With These Kids Today
Nichelle, I no longer have to have a discussion with you on what I do or
don't like/dislike/regret about college. We understand each other perfectly.
Do you mind if I pin that message onto the forehead of every professor in
the greater Boston region?
I admire you for having more tenacity than I did.
Oh, and happy birthday. Had one of those not too long ago myself and I managed
to get past it without anyone performing any sort of celebratory act of any
sort - which, in case you can't get it from my tone, I consider a good thing.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
-- Edwin Muir (1887 -1959)
From: Columbine
Date: 8 March 1997
Subject: Re: (no subject)
Shopping is the opiate of the masses.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
-- Edwin Muir (1887 -1959)
From: Columbine
Date: 8 March 1997
Subject: Re: (no subject)
It's 6:05 and we're supposed to be leaving at 6:15 and I'm not dressed yet,
so this'll be quick.
>[...] Who knows? Why is my explanation privileged? This is why I say
that
>the author is not master of his text. I wrote what I wrote, whatever
I may
>say I intended to write. What you see is what you get, motherfuckers
[...]
I've been back to writing lately. I did a humorous piece about incompetence,
which was only meant for private consumption via email, but was well received,
and I've added a whole slew of words to my website, which seems to be my sole
creative outpost these days, but at least I'm writing again.
(If you happen to go there and read the first "undertow" installment, please
note that my prose is not usually this disjoint, the effect is deliberate.)
I've withdrawn even further from my comments re authorship and True Meaning
- the five rings page has been changed yet again. But I do have to address
the above. Yes, you wrote what you wrote, and sometimes what one writes is
not what one meant. Cool. OK. But you can revise your email before you send
it. That's why, as incoherent as my email often is, it's about ten times more
lucid than my spoken conversations, and why it's very unlikely that any of
my email friends will ever meet me in the flesh. When you talk, you can't
correct.
Anyway, to a certain extent the writer does have control over what he/she
sets forth. At least until he/she goes to press :) Gotta go dress now.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
-- Edwin Muir (1887 -1959)
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 March 1997
Subject: The Passionate Shepherd to His Laundress
Sorry Sweetheart.
So dead tired.
Can you do
this laundry
please ?
Love
Murtilda
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 March 1997
Subject: Ritual of the cliche
I have one of the dumbest jobs in the world. Probably the only person I
know with a dumber job is the boy who works at the pretzel shop next door.
There's nothing to do 80% of the time I'm there. But it's the store's "policy"
to look busy at all times, which usually means walking around and straightening
cards that aren't messy. Sometimes I get bored and read them. Usually this
makes me more bored. Then I sit at the counter for a while, but now the store
has a set of four CDs that we are supposed to play at all times. It's more
pleasant to be on the other side of the store, near the display of windchimes
with an automatic timer on them, so that every four minutes they drown out
the english horn or harp or soprano saxophone or synthesizer solo that happens
to be playing at that moment.
Today I sat there thinking about my job. I make less than ten cents a minute.
As I ring up people's cards, I think "Is it really worth eight cents to be
nice to this person while s/he's in here?" Then when they leave, I make up
little games. One game is to read the outside of a card and guess what the
inside might say.
If the cover says "You're not over the hill..."
I might guess "...but you sure do look it."
This amuses me for a while.
"You're Sweet Sixteen!"
"but I bet you're not a virgin."
"A birthday wish for you..."
"I wish you'd go away."
And if I think of a funny one, then I think maybe it's not so bad to work
in a boring card shop, but really it is.
When I got home today, there was a note asking me to do the laundry. Nobody
likes to come home to laundry and dishes, but Gabe was asleep, and talking
to him when he wakes up is a whole lot worse than doing the laundry and dishes.
But I decided that if I was going to do both the laundry and the dishes, I'd
order Chinese food from Win Hope. It's not really as much fun to eat Chinese
take-out by yourself. Especially when you're used to good home cookin' almost
every night. But there wasn't even any bread left, and I didn't want to eat
pasta. I ordered hot and sour soup, an egg roll, and shrimp with cashews (#50),
and had them read the order back to me over the phone. Sometimes the people
who answer the phone there don't speak much English. I told them, "Don't
ring the bell. I'll wait by the door and get it from you. My roommate is
asleep." I sat on the stairway writing a letter to my friend Charles. When
I saw the guy come up the steps, I rushed to the door but he rang the doorbell
anyway. Maybe something got lost in the translation. I gave him a pretty
good tip, but the food was lousy.
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 March 1997
Subject: RL
Our fucking MOO still isn't working?
Nichelle
From: Laurent
Date: 10 March 1997
Subject: Re: Ritual of the cliche
I am the one with the dumbest job in the world, my dear..i am a marine..playing
tenor saxophone in a marching band for the 'Regiment de Marche du Tchad'..wearing
a gold and blue uniform .....my pants have red stripes and i wear a kepi..
laurent
From: Nichelle
Date: 10 March 1997
Subject: Re: Ritual of the cliche
My dearest Laurent,
The saxophone is the instrument of love, and you are extremely sexy in your
uniform. Nothing turns me on more than a long, red stripe up a man's leg.
Alas, I do not know what a kepi is. I imagine it to be a sort of codpiece,
with ribbons streaming off the end of it. Every time I see a marching band,
I begin to sweat, get a little hot. I want to make love to the sound of field
drums. It would be some sort of terrific brass-plated orgasm, like the Pines
of Rome, building to a tremendous climax of woodwind trills and semen. Perhaps
New York will go to war with France and we can finally meet, under the flying
banners of our struggling nations, fiercely battling with each other's genitals,
as bullets fly past our ears, bouncing off the dusty ground next to our grinding,
interlocked bodies. I salute you, Laurent. You are a military hero.
Nichelle
From: Laurent
Date: 10 March 1997
Subject: Re: Ritual of the cliche
kepi is 'peaked cap' says my dictionnary..
the place where i am is the biggest sado masochistic gay club in the world..1000
guys training together..suffering..moaning in pain and yelling at each other..funny
costumes..a lot of leather..tough ,muscles..sweat and very short hair..all
that in the mi
insults have no effect on me any more..i know they hate intelligence..and
i hate them..they know it too they feel it..but i'll get through..i'll survive
and they'll do too..i have no months left..but there won't be a kid at the
end..i won't give birth to
am i being good at dramatic whining..all this is ridiculous..i feel like
the thin veil of meaning that was covering my life jas just been taking away..the
only meaning of life is..i dunno there must be some..there will be meaning
in the orgasms we'll sha
kisses
laurent
From: SAGReiss
Date: 12 March 1997
Subject: Ce n'est pas un revenant.
Eux ne savent pas ecrire. The past week has been a blur. I've concentrated
on the essentials, eating loads of food, sleeping as often as possible, an
unexpected blowjob. (Actually that was dumb luck: Nichelle forgot her pill.)
I guess I wrote about Thursday and the alienation of the proletariat, or at
least so they call it in Europe. Friday I can't remember. Saturday we got
slaughtered. Janet, this monster of white-trash greed who's been working in
that sorry green dining room for ten years, came in to help out (which means
to ring up some OT and snatch some of the AM money) got so flustered about
actually having to run for every dollar she refused to take tables. She was
screaming at the Mad Greek Woman. ("I couda believe it. Her hair stood uppa
here. She yell. One lady ask me, 'Could we change seat? She scare my kid.')
Sunday the Greek Woman was insane. She almost hit me with the clip board
when I tried to look at the reservations. Monday I worked about eighteen hours,
made two hundred and fifty dollars, went to Lou's, drank three double Pinch's
(Some people call this Dimple.) in fifteen minutes and came home. Tuesday
I overslept. We did three hundred for lunch, but were adequately staffed,
except that we didn't have enough forks. We were expecting the Armageddon
breakfast all week, but thankfully it didn't come. I was s'posed to go to
the wake for Brian's father: "I didn't know Brian's father. From what I heard
he was an old bastard and everyone was just waiting for him to die so they
could fight over the inheritence." There was also a collection which I ignored.
How unseemly. He lost his father, so I'm s'posed to put two dollars in an
envelope for him? Rumor has it the kid (The old man is married and his gf
is six months pregnant.) isn't his. Has everyone got their OJ-DNA testers
ready? I wouldn't cross the street for my father's money, assuming he had
any which I doubt. I guess RL MOO is down until the server moves. I have been
underwhelmed by your enthousiasm about Puebloizing it. Oh well. Nichelle and
I are excited. We've thought up some new rooms to replace some that didn't
quite fit. She's also working on music, Beethoven's seventh or something she
played for me while I was in a sleep-induced daze and some other shit. I'm
also still asking for advice about a national service provider. Columbine,
can you help? Fuck this, I'm going to do the dishes so Nichelle won't think
I'm absolutely worthless. Shiiit, I've already worked forty-two hours and
we've got another two days in our week. I didn't turn on the 'puter from Saturday
night till Monday morning. Oops, here she comes...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Subject: Re: Ce n'est pas un revenant.
Date: 13 March 1997
>I'm also still asking for advice about a national service
>provider. Columbine, can you help?
I haven't checked into who's good, who's bad, who's cheap, etc. for national
providers for many years now. When I last looked into the national scene,
Netcom was almost the only game in town, so that should tell you the drill.
You get better service from locals anyway. Sorry I can't help.
My lack of commentary about the Puebloizing is due entirely to a lack of
information. I know nothing about it, and the week the discussion was hot
on this was also a bad deadline for me, so I may not have read my mail as
closely as I should have.
Today I got out of a meeting that ran into extra innings and I said to my
co-worker, "and now ... it's resume time!" Coincidentally I ran into a friend
immediately upon leaving work who is now working as a headhunter. Upon seeing
my wrath, she promptly handed me a business card. Although I hate looking
for new work more than anything else in the world except oral surgery, it's
time to look.
I'm still in a quivering rage over work today - I mean that literally, every
time I think about this afternoon I start to shake. It's 1:00 am and I'm about
to invent an emergency which will require me to take a personal day tomorrow.
I need to cool down.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
-- Edwin Muir (1887 -1959)
From: SAGReiss
Date: 14 March 1997
Subject: Fifty hours
Nichelle and I have been brawling like dawgs. She left in a wrathful fury
this morning, my first day off in more than a week. I see her point. When
we went to bed Friday evening we wouldn't see eachother until Tuesday afternoon.
I didn't turn on the 'puter for forty-eight hours, two fewer than I worked
this week. I was going to do room service tonight but got a last-minute reprieve.
I'll probably go to Lou's instead, which will piss her off even more, if possible.
One piece of good news: she got a very enthusiastic letter from the Man at
the university of Washington. I would forward the e-mail, but she might not
like that. I also see my point. My legs are weak, my knees and feet hurt,
my nerves are worn. It's hard to live without space to breathe. She says:
"It's not so much what I say, but that I'm talking to someone." I'm used
to living with no friends, no intellectual outlets aside from those of my
own resource. I'm worried about saving enough money to move cross country.
There are always huge, hidden expenses. People, guests, coworkers, supervisors,
babble at me all day. My mind is afloat with gibberish. I need time alone,
quiet time, a block of time in which I can do things unhurried, according
to my own stupid plans, without surprises or interruptions. She left an active
social, intellectual and professional life to come live with a man who thrives
on silence and solitude, neither of which are conducive to making music. She
must feel she made a mistake. I never feel that way. (She's just sent me
a note with bus schdules. She's very angry.) Assuming we're not misreading
the professor's letter, and that he is not overstating his case, she will
soon be in a fine music program at a big, bad school. Our culinary life is
good, if our sex life is bad. Yesterday I bought humous at Samir's which she
liked. Tomorrow (two days off in a row) I shall bake bread and perhaps make
pizza. I have been so tired and testy. I feel like all I've done in a week
is work, sleep, eat lots of food and fight with Nichelle. It's little things,
too small to mention, that overwhelm me in my overwrought state. It's little
things too that calm me, a quiet, unrushed breakfast of eggs, potatoes, salt
pork and hot peppers with toast and strawberry jam and expresso with cardamom
to drink while reading a printout of the USA Today reports on the NCAA tournament,
a couple of drinks with the boys at Lou's. Don't worry, sweetheart, things
will get better. Shiiit, maybe even I'll get into Christminster...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 16 March 1997
Subject: Internet Professional
This dude orders this huge breakfast, three stacks of pancakes, two bacon-and-eggs
specials and one continental, plus an infinite variety of beverages, condiments,
toast and whatnot that makes morning room service a nightmare. It took the
Mad Greek Woman five minutes just to write all the shit down, as I stood by
answering tricky questions about what kind of danish we had. He coyly asked:
"Will that be up in thirty minutes?" I get all the shit up there (I didn't
check my watch.) on this monstrous twenty-pound tray and knock on the door
of the two-room suite. I waited five minutes for the bastard to open the
door. The breakfast table still wasn't clear. As I waited for him to clear
away his family's dirty underware, a huge dog attacks me from behind. I swayed,
the tray rattled, and the man asked: "Can I help you?" "Please get the dog,
sir." "Oh, I'll just put him in the other room." . o O (Now why didn't I
think of that?) The savage must have smelled Matilda on my clothes. (She
or I is/am the Beast from the East, and Nichelle is the Best of the West.)
The asshole wrote in a ten-dollar tip (plus my five-dollar service charge)
and gave me five bucks for my trouble. I ended up having a decent day, made
ninety dollars, plus salary ($32.80) which we never count. The MOO is s'posed
to be up, but isn't. The IP address should be 147.160.230.112 port 7777.
The DNS should work in a few days. As a recently crowned Internet Professional,
which is what some junk snail-mail recently dubbed me, I must explain what
Pueblo http://www.chaco.com/pueblo/index.html is. It's a MOOclient which,
when used by the MOOer on a Pueblo-enhanced MOO, integrates the MOO and the
web. We could thus make a text-graphic-sound world. Room descriptions would
contain links to the web pages with pictures and music. Players could add
links in their descriptions to pictures on their web sites or, inevitably,
pictures of someone else with really huge tits. It would make RL MOO much
more interesting esthetically, though in practice it will remain nothing without
more active members. Technically it doesn't look too difficult, besides this
is why I've got highly-paid geeks like negatron and Nichelle. She will take
over the music rooms, and I've got my own ideas for another poet and philosopher,
but there are still two artist rooms available, ABSOLUTELY FREE. The idea
is to create links from MOO rooms to texts/pictures/sounds on our web site,
but we could always add, for example, an artist's work, if anyone's interested.
Anyway it's just a thought. I wonder what we're going to eat tonight...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 16 March 1997
Subject: Log
Willkommen. Bienvenu. Welcome.
RL MOO (The Real Life MOO)
"In the twenty-first century e-novels will be written online."
For more information, please see the RL MOO web site.
Valid commands are: WELcome, who, COnnect, quit, UPtime, version, or REQuest.
You must be twenty-one or older to connect. Please use your real name.
Type: co name password
Or: co guest
********* Please read "help disclaimer" after logging on. *********
*** Connected ***
Limbo
Woe unto you, unbaptized child. You are tottering on the brink of Sodom
and Gomorrah. Silence prevails within these dark confines; only paging and
remote emoting are allowed in this room.
For spiritual guidance (RL-MOO help), type 'help'.
To get away from the heat (Enter RL-MOO), go to Purgatorio. Type 'Pur'.
Last connected Wed Mar 5 15:19:16 1997 PST
Purgatorio
"Puro e disposto a salire alle stelle."
"Pure and ready to rise to the stars."
Exits: Up (to Paradiso), Limbo (to Limbo), and Down (to Inferno).
To private rooms: North (free), South (free), East (free), and West (free).
page andrew We're up. Thanks.
Andrew teleports in.
Andrew says, "Great, so I will need to figure out why it isn't listening
on the other IP address"
Andrew asks, "How is your lag here?"
You ask, "So what is the account info you wanted to give me?"
Andrew notes this line screams
SAGReiss never lags on RL. He's number 100.
Andrew asks, "What does that mean?"
Andrew says, "I mean, net lag....I thought there was a lot on the other
server"
You say, "Just a silly joke. I noticed that you are #100 on Club."
Andrew says, "Oh, gotcha"
Andrew was just inquiring as to the net access speed versus the previous
site
Andrew notes it is about 100 to 1000 times faster
Andrew says, "K, as for account access, the login username is ********"
Andrew says, "Oh, I need to give you a few verbal rules regarding the use
of that account too"
You say, "I don't know about this shit. I guess I've got friends who do
pings and other shit. Lag doesn't bother me that much, but it's nice that
it's faster."
Andrew says, "Well, when they ping, they'll notice it"
Andrew says, "It was over 1000ms ALL the time to alaska, it is usually under
100ms here"
You say, "I'll just write down everything you say and e-mail it to john."
Andrew says, "K"
Andrew says, "login: ******** password: ********"
You say, "Actually I'll just log the motherfucker and save myself the trouble."
Andrew says, "good idea"
Andrew says, "I only want you or John to use the account"
Andrew says, "I do not want the account used for anything outside of the
MOO"
Andrew says, "meaning, no compiling of other shit and using up the cpu for
something non-rlmoo related"
You say, "That's fine. I want nothing to do with anyone else's shit. I don't
feel comfortable using someone else's 'puter. I won't even use it myself,
only John, who can be trusted, or at least bought."
Andrew says, "you may use the e-mail if you like, or I can forward mail
if you want that...or you can ignore that possibility"
Andrew says, "K, well I am an eagle eye...I'll know if he does anything,
so just let him know that it is not a 'shell' account--it is just for your
MOO"
You say, "It's best to be explicit and to verify. Remember, I work in a
cash industry."
Andrew says, "I have no other accounts on this box, so I am really not prepared
for them, and I do not feel like being a hardass just for one account, I am
hoping you all can be trusted"
You say, "That's fine. I'll send him this log and if he has any doubts/questions,
we'll ask before we do anything."
Andrew says, "If I find the account being used for anything outside of the
moo, I will remove access and make other ways to start your MOO remotely"
Andrew says, "I am sure it will not be a problem"
Andrew says, "Just have to let you know"
You say, "As we say in the restaurant business: 'Don't fuck with my money.'"
Andrew says, "I also would prefer that MOO backups are kept offline, as
if something happened and the harddrive was lost, the backup on-line wouldn't
do you any good anyhows"
You say, "John keeps his own backups. I don't exactly know where, but I
guess they're on his university account. I should be getting a national provider
soon anyway. If it's possible, I'll give him access to that. (Any ideas btw?)"
Andrew hasn't tested e-mail to rlmoo@rlmoo.woo.net, so if you would like
to use that, let me know as I know I will hae to configure the server for
it
Andrew says, "Um, most of those kinds of accounts are ftp only, but it would
work, sure"
You ask, "I'll have to talk to Nichelle and John about that. It can wait.
Is Netcom any good or are there others?"
Andrew says, "I know that GTE has good speeds and are in 47 states with
local numbers"
Andrew says, "I wouldn't go netcom, as they have a strange setup like AOL...only
special applications work for them"
Andrew says, "you would want a straight up 'normal' ISP"
Andrew says, "like the GTE one"
Andrew isn't sure if they even give server spac e though
Andrew says, "a lot of those national ones can't afford or manage something
liek that, so you just don't get any or you get really minimal"
Andrew says, "not enough to hold a typical MOO db"
Andrew says, "If you guys wanted, I have 4gig backup system, you buy the
tape for about $34.00 I would do backups free otherwise"
Andrew says, "just provide me a tape for you"
You say, "Yeah, PPP/slip with a web site. It's not for the MOO. I just thought
maybe he could use it. I just can't take Dreamscape to Seattle with me and
need a new server."
Andrew says, "Well, I was using gte out of Seattle yesterday, and It was
fast....and my buddy who gave me access had a booklet with all the numbers
all over the US....looked good"
Andrew says, "If you want to use this account for some web space you may"
Andrew says, "then all you'd need is ppp/slip access and make life easier
on ya"
Andrew can set you up for web easily enough, no charges and shit
You ask, "Are you going to be phsically-irl in Seattle?"
Andrew says, "I think so, right now I am planning on commuting"
Andrew says, "I am doing like 3 weeks in Seattle 3 weeks here in Alaska"
Andrew will buy anoher ticket tomorow
Andrew asks, "Are you moving there?"
You say, "We're planning on moving there this summer. I've applied for the
job of Dean of the University of Washington law school. We just have yet to
work out the details of my sexual-harrassment exemption."
Andrew asks, "You think you are qualified for the Dean of UW's Law School?"
Andrew asks, "Oh, I been meaning to ask if you ever saw the add my artist
made for RLMOO?"
You say, "Of course. I know schoolboy Latin, am excentric and drink way
to much."
Andrew wonders if you are ever serious
SAGReiss has yet to see the WOO ad. I think I've got to log in at six in
the morning Alaska time.
Andrew asks, "Why?"
Andrew says, "Just hit www.netcasting.net and reload the web page till it
pops up, the ads are random"
You say, "I've tried to see the ad. I just keep getting other stuff."
Andrew sees it all the time
You say, "Anyway, is that all john needs to know about the MOO account?
(We three shall talk about the rest, e-mail, my personal account, backups.)"
Andrew says, "Yeah, basically just the use of the account, all the rest
of our BS is not relevant"
You say, "OK, well, thank you very much. We may be trying some new stuff
with the MOO, interesting perhaps, but it won't affect the data base. Have
a look in a few weeks."
Andrew says, "Great"
Andrew says, "I will talk to you soon then...."
Andrew says, "let me know if you need anything"
Andrew says, "Take it easy"
You say, "Later and thanks again."
You say, "Good luck with your move."
Andrew says, "Thanks"
Andrew says, "All is going very well"
Andrew says, "I appreciate your paitence, all should be smooth from here
on out"
Andrew says, "Peace"
<Disconnected: Andrew (#94) at Sun Mar 16 13:31:54 1997 PST.>
Andrew has disconnected.
Virgil leads Andrew to another world.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 16 March 1997
Subject: RL MOO
We are back.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 17 March 1997
Subject: Kisses and vintage
My application to the comparative literature department at the University
of Washington has stalled because of letters of recommendation. They require
them, and I haven't got any.
If any of you (preferably three) would do me this favor, I should be very
grateful. E-mail may be addressed to Marcia who will forward it to the Admissions
Committee. All of the usual access restrictions apply, and I have no interest
in seeing whatever anyone wishes to write about me, good or, most likely,
bad. They simply won't process my already-late application without them.
I'm sure I am more disappointed than any of you with my failure at Syracuse
University. I hope to do better elsewhere. I didn't come here to wait tables.
I thank you in advance for your cooperation.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 17 March 1997
Subject: One year later
The crude humiliations keep piling up. After a hard day earning a well-deserved
hundred and thirty dollars, I come home to beg seven professors at SU for
letters of recommendation for the University of Washington. I have no choice.
I'd be surprised if any of the vindictive bastards answers. To add to my shame,
searching for e-mail addresses I find that Cecilia, the girl I fucked on
the first day of class back on 29 August 1994, has been hired by the Spanish
department. Nothing surprising there, she is a smart, well-educated, if slightly
crazy, teacher. What hurts me is that they have also hired this Jesus-freak
idiot named Lovechild who couldn't talk her way out of a paper bag in French.
When I was sitting in class with a decent knowledge of a thousand French books,
she was struggling with such difficult and obscure works as Le Pere Goriot
and Candide. Strange things happen. I mentioned that this list began on 22
February 1996. Exactly twenty-four days later, on Saint Patrick's, Nichelle,
which I pronounce to rhyme with Michelle in the Beatles song of the same
name, and which she usually follows with an: "N- as in NOT Michelle", stepped
off a tiny little airplane and into the cold and snow of Syracuse. It has
been a weird and odd year, full of disappointments for her, full and rich
for me. Our life would be much better if she played her horn at a serious
school. Drinking, brooding and writing e-mail is enough for me, but music
is not a solitary art.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 17 March 1997
Subject: Saint Patrick's Day II- the sequel
I forget who said that life is a tragedy full of joy. I've just about had
it with the tragedy. We all have our disappointments. I do not have many more
than anyone else (well, not lately). I'm just a whiner. The famous line of
this year has been, "Sometimes I wonder why I ever came here..." followed
by weeping, etc. The fact is, I could never go back, and I wouldn't if I was
offered the choice. I'm happy here, in little grungy Apartment 7, with my
VR turned IRL bf and our cat. I'm a better person for having come here, my
life is richer, and I'm at least a slightly better cook. Now I'm off to make
my famous baked potatoes. Whoo- don't get much better than that.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 18 March 1997
Subject: The sickness
Sweetheart, something's wrong. I'm cold and I've got the shakes. I'm sorry.
I'll probably be in bed when you get home.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Josy
Date: 19 March 1997
Subject: recommmendation
Gaby, I just e-mailed the attached message to the University of Washington.
Good luck with your application.
Josy Mc Ginn
PS. I was glad you put your translation of the Ronsard on your web page.
Have you tried to re-translate the Catullus' Lesbia poems?
>At the request of Scott Reiss I am sending you the recommendation below.
>Do you also need me to send you a signed paper copy?
>
>Department of Languages, Literatures and Linguistics
>Syracuse University
>
>Syracuse, March 18 1997
>
>Scott Reiss was a teaching assistant in the French Department for the
>academic year 94-95. Because of his experience teaching English in France
>and because of his exceptional knowledge of the French language and
culture
>I assigned him to teach a third semester course. I did not regret the
>decision. On the course evaluations students commented that:
>" I have learned an enormous amount. Having the class taught in French
by
>someone who has been in France for 9 years has taught me a lot."
>
>"I liked that Mr Reiss brought in aspects of his life to the class daily.
>Not everything was textbook learning, as he taught us about French culture
>and life."
>
>As his supervisor, I found Mr Reiss very intelligent as well as highly
>reliable and cooperative. He adapted readily to the departmental
>methodology, took criticism and guidance very well, and worked
>cooperatively with his colleagues. Although he had no previous experience
>with computers he taught himself Excel and developed the grading
>spreadsheet which is now used in all the basic French courses.
>
>I recommend him to you very highly.
>
>Josy
>French language Coordinator.
>Syracuse University
From: Harold
Date: 20 March 1997
Subject: letters of recommendation
I have spoken to several people in an attempt to get three letters of recommendation
for you. Mrs. McGinn and Professor Kornfilt have sent positive letters. I
will let you know if I find a third person willing to write. If I cannot,
I will write something myself. I hope that your application is approved.
Harold.
Harold
Professor of Spanish and Chair, Department of Languages, Literatures and
Linguistics
Syracuse University
From: SAGReiss
Date: 20 March 1997
Subject: Sweet Sixteen
Sorry for the delay. I'm running a fever and working a twelve-day stretch
through this week-end. Thank you all very much for your kindness. I'll write
a proper letter when I gather my strength back. Thanks again for your help.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 21 March 1997
Subject: Twelve days
From last Sunday through next Thursday I will have worked every day at six
in the morning except Tuesday, when I worked ten to two, and tomorrow, when
I work eight to three. Today I have to work a double. I go back in an hour
and a half after working six to three. I don't understand. Other people get
days off, later mornings, short shifts. Today she changed the schedule to
bring one girl in late and have her leave early because she was close to OT.
I've had fucking OT for the last two weeks. The only thing I can think of
is that she wants me to die, or at least quit, but why doesn't she simply
fire me? Could it be that letter I once wrote about her to the big bosses?
Are they that afraid of the Labor Board? (Yesterday afternoon Strawtop told
me it was illegal for them not to give me a day off for more than nine days.
How about twelve?) Well, I won't quit, not until I want to. I won't even call
in sick. The infighting has been open and brutal. People snap at eachother
like dry twigs in the woods. With all the Sudafed, Ibuprofin and vitamine
C I feel less feverish than the past three days. Another prof has written
a "positive" recommendation to the University of Washington. The chair, whom
I have openly treated like dirt in e-mail to the whole department, has agreed
to write one himself, if no one else will. It must be guilt. They kicked out
their most gifted student because, well, they never said why, because they're
Ph.D.s and I'm Mr Antichrist, and now they hope to buy back their shame.
No such luck, motherfuckers. I'm too sick to be in a forgiving mood. I'm
sorry I haven't been writing. I've been up before dawn, work, back to bed,
supper, sleep. That's OK. If by any weirdstupid chance of fate the university
makes the mistake of offering me more money than I can turn down, I'll light
the world with e-mail. I recall the days, time, calm, happy hour, late-night
drunks, savage essays and e-mail, always e-mail.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 22 March 1997
Subject: Moral qualms
Nichelle hasn't given me the password to the porn world she has subscribed
to. Actually I think she probably used my name. Anyway I'm not in the mood
for cyberwanking. The entertainment for the afternoon, as soon as I get bored
with MOOing, is a little stroll down to Lou's, a few Ricards with the bro's
while we watch the basketball games, then home and leftovers, either swordfish
with lemon-garlic olive oil and couscous or home-made cannelloni stuffed with
pork, spinach and three cheeses, (parmesan, asiago, ricotta). Some day I'd
like to study the etymology of pasta names, after I translate Catullus V,
which looked pretty good on the web, so far as my poor Latin could see. It's
hard not having my library of dozens of dictionaries. I can't study anything
properly. I can't even take books out anywhere. Though Columbine thought
my commentary of "wherefore art thou, Romeo" thorough, if besides the point,
I left out the most ambitious part, a close analysis of the figures of speech.
I abandoned it because I don't have my precious eighteenth-century French
manual of rhetoric, lost in a basement in Saverne with five hundred other
books, letters, an badass IBM typer and numerous personal belongings. I was
going to show how the passage is most often completely misunderstood. People
take the "rose by any other name" simile to mean that the real world and
all of its properties exists independant of the obscurities of language. In
fact Shakes uses the cliche to subvert Juliette's belief that language is
arbitrary or conventional. The rose, if you will excuse the pun, is not an
innocent image. It is in fact one of the key symbols of rennaissance religion
(the Virgin Mary), politics (the Houses of York and Lancaster) and courtly
love. Shakes pokes fun at precisely these metaphors in "My mistress' eyes".
Women, as Petrarch and everyone else knows, do not look or smell like roses.
Juliette is right at first glance. Language begins as arbitrary. The poet
makes language motivated. An arbitrary process binds one set of phonemes to
one set of meanings. In a poem a necessary process binds one set of phonemes
to one set of meanings. I had a party of nine this afternoon. The hotel routinely
overbooks, and these gentlemen had been inconvenienced. The hostess told me
that the bill went to Joe in sales with a fifteen percent tip if they didn't
leave anything. They left eighteen bucks, which I stuffed in my pocket, and
I wrote in a fifteen-dollar tip. One might call that stealing. I did feel
nervous and guilty about doing it. On the other hand sometimes one doesn't
get his do unless one takes it.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 23 March 1997
Subject: What do you think?
Date: 23 March 1997
From: Andrew
Subject: Project
Our company, WINS, would like to include RLMOO in a project we are getting
ready to under take. What we'd like to do is include a chat feature on our
website. To do so, I want to use a java element I have used on my Uni MOO
project, and have people connect to this MOO for the chat portion of our web
site. It would get you a lot more hits, and users.
There are no stipulations on my end, just that one of my associates would
need a wiz bit, and we would handle all the code. The web users would log
in from a java client in a web page, and be guests. You may want to give us
input, if you'd like to have some possible recruitment for players.....
Please let me know via my e-mail if this is cool with you, and any particulars.
Peace,
Andrew
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Andrew
Date: 24 March 1997
Subject: Re: Webchat
The audience would be hard to pin down, as you could Imagine, but I would
suspect they would range from 20ish to 35ish from the content of our main
site where it would be promoted. What are our goals with it? None other then
giving the web users something to come back to our site for at a later date.
Chatting is a hot market, and I am looking for revenue opportunities, but
none are on the plate as of this idea.
The code would no way conflict with your designs for the MOO. I would require
a majority of the code to reside on my server, and possibly no MOO code at
all....really depends on how I do it. I will best be done through my server
scripts, with the resultant JAVA window created all on my side, and just the
user logging into the MOO.
The implications are not serious by any means, and if you should decide
after a trial portion that you wish to not participate, I can easily move
it to a small moo just need to make one....
Is this enough?
It is basically just interfacing the web and those who are webbing about
to our form of 'chat'. Alot of web based chats are based on refreshing the
server connection and gross shit, so I think it could be a hot draw to my
web site and your MOO.
never know until it is tested.
Peace,
Andrew
On Mon, 24 Mar 1997, Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss wrote:
> Further to your MOOmail, Andrew, my friends (whom I ask you please
to
> include in your answer) and I would like to know more about your project
> before we decide whether to participate. Would you or your associate
care to
> describe its goals? Could you give us an approximate demographic profile
of
> potential users (age, location, occupation)? While I know nothing about
> MOOcode or Java, John does. We would need to know what kinds of things
you
> were planning to program, and agree with you as to the limits of such
> programming. We are also planning to Pueblo-enhance the MOO for sound
and
> graphics. The two projects would have to be compatible. Your letter
doesn't
> explain much. I'm sure you understand that we hesitate to approve a
project
> about which we know next to nothing. Please give us some of the details.
> Thank you.
>
> RECTVM VINVM
> Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 24 March 1997
Subject: Christminster
There may have been none at the Dome, but I've been into OT for the past
three weeks. The University of Washington comparative literature department
has written that my application is now complete. I thank you all for your
help. I have looked into Catullus on the web and will search further. That
I can't take books out of the Syracuse University library hinders me, but
I might try my hand at translating some of the poems. They look interesting
to my poor man's Latin. I have noticed a possibly characteristic type of repetition
in at least two of them (V and VIII). Here's a bit from Michelangelo:
Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
c'un marmo solo in se non circonscriva
col suo superchio, e solo a quello arriva
la man che ubbidisce all'intelletto.
The best of artists hardly can reflect
what yet a single marble block contains
within its girth, which labor he attains
but by the hand that heeds the intellect.
Thanks again for your help, and I'm sorry things didn't work out better
at Syracuse University.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 27 March 1997
Subject: Restaurant humor III
Feeling a little better. I still can't hear in my left ear, but I think
the worst is over. I have tomorrow off, after twelve harrowing days in a
row, and if I'm lucky Slammy may give me Saturday off as well, before the
six hundred $16.95 brunches Easter Sunday. Here are three tasteless jokes
I heard this morning: "What do you call an anorexic with a yeast infection?"
"A quarter pounder with cheese." "What do queers call testicles?" "Mud flaps."
"Four nuns go to confession. The first nun says: 'Forgive me, Father, for
I have sinned. I touched a man's penis with my fingers.' 'Bathe your fingers
in Holy Water, my child, and say fifty Hail Marys.' The second nun says:
'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I touched a man's penis with my hand.'
'Bathe your hand in Holy Water, my child, and say seventy-five Hail Marys.'
The fourth nun says to the third: 'Let me go first, Sister. I'm not gargling
with that water after you've sat in it.'"
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 28 March 1997
Subject: Schedules
Attached: Schedule.doc
I've just got my head shaved, the lean, mean look for Easter Sunday and
spring. I got a break in the schedule. I do room service tomorrow, come in
late (eight o'clock) on Sunday, which means I won't get cut while the money's
good, and have Monday and Tuesday off. We've got an appointment in my name
with my primary care physician because we're both still sick and Nichelle
has got an ear infection. I hope the bastard will put the 'script in my name.
I'm not sure if this will work. I'm going to try to cut and paste my tentative
schedule at the University of Washington. They've got this cool little Pine-like
course catalogue online. My application is complete, so I should hear within
a week if I'm accepted. The question, of course, is how much money they're
offering. I'd like at least fifteen hundred a month. I might accept a thousand,
but Nichelle would have to take out some more loans. We'll see.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 29 March 1997
Subject: H2O
I boned a Jesus-freak this morning. When I work room service I always keep
different sums of bills in different pockets, in the event someone wants change
I can give him just a little less than he wants, but not so much that he'll
make me come back. Anyway this punk ordered eggs benedict and orange juice
and the bill came to $10.95. He was feeling big, so he handed me a twenty
and told me to keep twelve. Of course I was feeling generous myself and,
as they say, charity begins at home. Thinking fast I decided: "No way I can
get away with giving him five back," so I took out a roll of ones and counted
slowly: "Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... nineteen. Sorry, I'm a dollar short."
I had a five and more ones in another pocket, of course. "Keep it." "Thank
you, Sir." Of course I got taken for a ride yesterday, and the bill was more
than a few bucks. I made an appointment with Dr Geisskopf. Nichelle accompanied
me to lend moral support. After he had examined me, I suggested: "My friend's
got the same thing. She has some ethical problem with our sharing a prescription."
Unfortunately the doc wasn't buying it. Nichelle thought he was pissed. I
thought he was amused at my subtle little scheme. Anyway he raped me for
eighty-three dollars. Then the little white trash secretary says I could
have Nichelle on my insurance as a "domestic partner". Why the fuck didn't
someone tell me that a year ago? The rumor mill at the restaurant has Nichelle
pregnant. Back in October, the day after we got the test results back, I
slammed a hip into the dessert table. Some sleazy sorority slut said: "He
won't be having any more children." "Please don't say that, Ma'am. I've just
found out my girlfriend's pregnant." It was one of those little things that
slip out thoughtlessly. One of the main gossips (or "nasty snatches" as the
gay boys call them) heard this, but I never mentioned it again. Then Wednesday
the Mad Greek Woman yelled at me to answer the phone. I thought she wanted
me to take a room service order: "Angie, I can't hear in my left ear." It
was Nichelle in pain and in tears. I went home for my break, and now the
story's out that she's in her third trimester. I don't even bother setting
people straight. It's none of their fucking business. I made a little scandal
at the bar the other night. I was peacefully drinking my Ricard, oblivious
to what was going on around me, except some drunken mailman telling tales
about losing his mailbag or paying a neighborhood kid twenty bucks to deliver
the mail. When I asked for another drink, Derek told me the water had been
cut off. I said: "No problem. I'll go to Cooke's and buy a bottle." I walked
across the street, but they were out of spring water. I walked back to the
bar, said: "I've been shut off before, but I've never been refused a glass
of water. Give me a Molson." What I didn't know is that they were all trying
to keep the owner from knowing that the water had been shut off. Lou is an
older man, in his seventies, and the bartenders think they can hide things
from him, but they can't. He'll be sitting on one side of the bar, deep in
conversation, and he'll notice that someone on the other side of the bar
got over- or undercharged for a drink: "I don't miss shit. They think I do,
but I don't miss nothing." He is a sharp businessman. Anyway they all got
in trouble because of me. When Lou left they all began yelling at me: "This
white motherfucker be jumping up: 'I'll buy a bottle of water.' Shiiit."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Andrew
Date: 31 March 1997
Subject: RE: Webchat
Scott,
No worries. We had already decided last night to just setup another MOO
for this project, as it would be easiest on all.
Thanks for your time though.
You can use the graphic, as long as you don't claim copyright or alter it.
I will let him know you all liked it.
I found the MOO down 2 times this weekend. Were you all doing something?
If you prefer that since you now have account access, I not start it when
i see it is down......let me know, as I don't want to medle there if you got
it covered.
Peace,
Andrew
February 1997
April 1997
vr: 1997
