vr
a novel
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
April 1997
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
From: Nichelle
Date: 5 April 1997
Subject: the baseness of the body
I was going to call this letter "Beauty and the Yeast", but I've used
that joke twice this week already. Saturday, April 5th turns out to be
a really shitty day, which I know already at 9:03 AM. I threw a
quasi-tantrum this morning at about a quarter to six when I discovered
a hole in my only decent looking pants. We're such fucking slobs that I
couldn't find a needle and thread for about ten minutes. Managed to get
everything ready in time for the bus, thanks to a quick (cold) shower.
Arrived at Le Moyne still a little breathless at 6:25, worked for
thirty minutes off the clock (I punch in at 7:00), watched cartoons
from 7:30 to 8:00 (register opens at 8:30). Drank coffee feeling like a
toad, but at least I remembered to grab my various medications
as I bolted out the door. I even remembered to give Matilda a treat.
Forgot
breakfast (well, didn't have time) but ate a bagel while watching
"Rocko's
Modern Life". This is a simple job. I make coffee. About 40 pots of it,
two
at a time, which takes about 30-45 minutes if I'm being ruthlessly
efficient.
I'm sick and I'm not getting any better. My ear infection makes it a
little tricky to play the clarinet, since I hear almost a half step
flat in my left ear. I called in sick for rehearsal yesterday. (What
the fuck? I just saw somebody walking off with the coffee pot from the
8:00 delivery I make (which was there at 7:00 today). Everything
vanishes, so even when I check they've taken the coffee pots, baskets,
extra cups and napkins, plastic knives, etc. Whatever.) Anyway, it's
really beginning to depress me- this cycle of ear infections (I cunt
hear you, I've got an ear infucktion.) and colds, taking pseudo-sudafed
and antibiotics which gave me a yeast infection. On with the sanitary
napkins and in with the Monistat 7. Believe me, it's gross. It's no
wonder I'm grumpy. Once you add up all the symptoms it starts to look
kind
of grim. The only thing that cheers me up is the thought of moving to
Seattle..
I'm excited by the idea of both of us being students. If that doesn't
work
out, maybe Gaby can get a job translating at Berlitz.
Quarter to ten already and I'm starting to resent the fourty pots of
coffee I made and haven't sold. I've been lucky, though. The fuse only
blew twice (so far). I don't even like coming to Le Moyne when I'm
being paid for it now. I would enjoy majoring in English if English
majors weren't so stupid. If we studied something. It's the same as
last semester- the cycle of enthusiasm turned apathy turned 0.0, which
was never my style as a music major. I'll try not to abandon all hope
and squeeze something out of the remainder of the semester. A few Cs
that will transfer to the University of Washington. Whenever I regain
my good health (as good as it gets, anyway) I'm back to my music
history review and my new professional jump rope (with weights in the
handles and ball bearings) on the back steps where nobody can see me.
It's not an exercise program for just anyone, I'm sure. I imagine it
gets harder and harder to jump up and down the fatter you are. It isn't
just the pull of gravity you've got going against you, but all the
jiggly stuff: boobs and stomach and thighs and all that. Still, there's
something appealing to me about my nice professional jump rope and my
stylish new tennies out there hopping around on the back porch until
I'm out of breath. (Won't take long, I fear.) Maybe Gaby will take a
picture of me jumping up and down and post it on the web. Shit, I
should go out there nekkid (W/ tennies and sporty socks)
and we can make a little video (MPEG?) to post on the "Big Beautiful
Women"
newsgroups.
Now I'm feeling silly, but it's only 10:10 and I haven't got a
paperback book in my backpack. I should make a rule that there will
always be an unread paperback in there for emergencies like this one. I
won't apologize for not writing. I do feel a bit guilty about it, but
I've been a pile of doo-doo for over a week, not to mention that I've
got two new obsessions: a video game (kind of a bouncy-ball thing) and
Frank Zappa. No offense to Mr Zappa, but it doesn't sound too bad
simultaneously out-of-and-in tune. Besides it helps to cure me of my
boredom and grumpiness.
Twenty minutes more (of the current boredom and grumpiness) and I get
to do some work again (lifting those heavy bins of juice bottles that
tear off my knuckles), more TV, public restrooms, public
transportation, Shoppingtown Mall, the search for a decent lunch and
all of the horrible teenagers and old ladies who spend every weekend at
the mall. Voluntarily. (amazing and perverse) Then the usual battle
with the money drawer (ten paces and fire), the long wait for the bus,
the agonizingly slow ride home, the brisk walk to the apartment. "How
was it?" "Long." The usual conversation. I keep hoping to win the
Bavarian Pretzel gift certificate (ten bucks anywhere in the mall)
again, but also try to avoid buying anything (particularly Bavarian
Pretzels) there like the plague. With my luck, I'll probably get the
fucking plague.
Murder, how was your audition and where will you be next year? Where
will you be at the end of June? If you're in WA (Spokaloo or
Ellensburger) we'll take you to lunch. Your treat. Mmm, lunch. Guess
who's hungry. I'm calculating the chances of finding a respectable bowl
of soup at Shoppingtown. The odds are against me, but who knows? Maybe
I'll get lucky.
From: Nichelle
Date: 7 April 1997
Subject: Rockin' Road Trip
Attached: Trip Plan.doc
Here's our trip plan for RL MOO bash 97.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 8 April 1997
Subject: $10, two pets
A new way to make artichokes more user-friendly: trim with scissors
before steaming, cool when cooked, remove purple inner leaves, scoop
out fuzzy shit with a teaspoon, stuff with bread crumbs, sausage and
parmesan if desired. It was lovely last night despite our bickering. I
guess I'm just beat, worried about money, waiting to hear from the
University of Washington. I've sent a curriculum vitae to Berlitz in
Bellevue. I would feel fine about the whole move, if only they would
hire me. Otherwise I like the itinerary. In Minot (which Nichelle tells
me is pronounced like "MY not" though I think it's "me
NO") we can just pay ten dollars and say we've got two pets, Murtilda
and
negatron: "From the look of his eyebrows he may be hairier than she."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 April 1997
Subject: Opus One
I think I've firgured out why I can't understand Amerikan wine lists
and shops. We picked up this booklet: Wines and Foods from France
http://www.frenchwinesfood.com and there is not one bottle I might
actually have bought in France. It's all
either table wine or, worse, shit that's packaged for export, which
means they remove all the information from the label and add some
Impressionist artwork. When I picked grapes in Bourgogne, I worked on a
man's land in a tiny village called Nuits-Saint-Georges. So a bottle of
good wine from grapes that I picked back in 1981 would say Appelation
Nuits-Saint-Georges controlee. It would also have the name of the
viticulteur, Monsieur SUK_MI_DIK, and the
name of his propriete, Chateau SUK_MI_DIK. Georges Duboeuf and Baron
Philippe
de Rothschild are not viticulteurs. They are wine salesmen, capitalist
dogs,
parasites of the marketplace. So anyway, the lady bartender comes to
work
at half past eleven complaining about a hangover. Eventually she began
to
annoy me, so I said: "What did you drink to make you so wretched?" "Me
and
my boyfriend shared a big bottle [that's magnum for those of you in
oenology class, plural magna] of Opus One." "What the fuck is Opus
One?" "Robert Mondavi, two hundred and fifty dollars." "So it's the
price that's making you feel bad?" No, the white trash bitch drank six
glasses of wine and she's crying. This is a barkeep?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 9 April 1997
Subject: Re: Opus One
I keep telling you, there are some of us who do know how to buy
real French wine in this country. (One of them ain't me; I buy
the German wine, the significant other buys the French wine.) But
Gabriel, without a second mortgage the good stuff costs so much
after those capitalist resellers have gotten their hands on it
that the point is moot: doesn't matter whether you know how to
buy it in this country or not; no one can afford it.
The significant other looked over my shoulder as I typed this, saw
the heading, and said "Anyone who knows anything about wine knows
that Opus One is overpriced and overrated."
Me: "He knows that. That's the point."
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: 10 April 1997
Subject: Potential New Member
I'm too fucking tired and disgusted to write. We need some good news in
our household. I've had a very fucking bad day. Allen Ginsberg is dead.
Here's the Lambda description of a fellow I might add to the list:
I am not on the left or right, right or wrong, don't ask and don't tell,
know the truth from what's fucked, don't like much beer and don't care
where
it's made as long as it doesn't serve me some kind of elitest bullshit
about
being a microbrew.
Don't mind fast cars but won't buy one until i am rich enough to give
food away, want to help but got enough shit on my mind to make me try
fix
myself first, anything played with a kazoo is wacky even 'Ode to Joy'
or a
funeral dirge.
Tie me up set me free the struggle within is strongest when the outside
is bound but don't play a game and don't say its the same as when you
hurt me
and called me an asshole as we fought in the kitchen over love and clean
dishes.
Don't tend to like country don't tend to like jazz and with all these
in-tensions i like some things i don't like so play what you want and
i'll
like it if i do and i'll sing it with you and i won't slam a soul for
listening to tripe or hype or hip
hop, no i can't stop, but i do rock, but i won't roll, to collective
soul.
I ramble and rant, rave and take a slant, don't mind if i babble and
love
when i chant.
If you made it this far and still have a question i guess you'll have
to ask
it or die with a ponderance.
no shit about formatting...i don't need it...this aint a publication.
no matter how public it is.
turn off your tv
turn on your SO
but don't turn on your friends
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 11 April 1997
Subject: (no subject)
Work has become a war zone. One girl quit and/or gave notice. There are
once again conflicting rumors, which makes my decision easier. When the
time
comes, I'll ask for my vacation the last two weeks we plan to be in
Syracuse,
and, once I get my last check, I'll quit. Fuck them. They screw
everyone
who tries to leave properly. I owe them less than nothing. I think Joey
will
go first, though. He was so mad today he was openly talking about: "The
cunt
said blah blah blah." "Joey, man, keep your voice down." We both made a
hundred
and thirty dollars today, but I have no idea how. This asshole wedding
has
booked a hundred rooms for the week-end. Before they're through these
bastards
will blow ten or twenty thousand dollars on a fucking party. Why not
just
give the couple a five-figure check and say: "Good luck"? Anyway some
of
them came in for breakfast. They straggled in, which makes good service
impossible. I would get the drinks for four of them and by the time I
got back there'd be five more. I managed to drink nine of them and take
the order. One little anorexic-type slut ordered something weird, and I
gave her one of those
can't-you-just-order-something-off-the-fucking-menu looks. She got
frightened and ordered toast. After I had sent in this first order,
four more sit down. I get them drinks and ask to take their order:
"What are you having?" "The same thing as you." "Gentlemen, I'll be
back when
you've made up your minds." As I'm piling the nine orders onto a tray
in
the kitchen, Slammy comes in and tells me they want to order. (I
guessed it
was them since she still doesn't know the table numbers.) Anyway I get
them
all taken care of. At lunch Slammy asks me what happened. I had no idea
there
had been a problem. I hadn't even written in the tip and got twenty
percent,
so I thought everything was fine. There was some shit about coffee not
being
hot and a banana. They must have been taking notes because Slammy asked
me
about the girl's order and Joey about the other shit, which must have
happened
while I was in the kitchen. All of our coffee pots are cracked and
broken.
Besides, the motherfuckers pour half a cup of cream in the shit, talk
for
ten minutes, then complain it isn't hot enough. So the complainers come
back
for lunch. Slammy tells Joey to take it and comp it. I see him carrying
a
sandwich back into the kitchen. Something about chips instead of fries.
Then
the old fuck beckons to me: "Is this shrimp?" he asks pointing to the
chicken
on his salad. I bend low over the table and study the plate, trying not
to
burst out laughing: "No, sir. I don't think that's shrimp. It looks
like
chicken to me." I bring it back to Joey: "Man I already fucked up their
breakfast.
You can't take their lunch order right?" "Did Slammy see that?" "I
don't
think so. Just get the fucking shit right before they cancel the whole
God-damned
wedding." As I was cleaning up I went by their table. It's this fat old
couple
of assholes: "Are you the happy couple getting married?" I say in my
brightest,
cheerful, mocking waiter voice. The old lady looks at her fat, cheap
prick
of a husband and says: "Oh, sure." Joey was falling down on a table: "I
can't
believe you said that, you asshole. We're all gonna get fucking fired."
To
go back to the wine question. Good French wine is not expensive. It
costs
thirty to fifty francs a bottle in a supermarket in France. Add a
little
for the shipping and take a little off because one orders by the case
and
it can be had in the States for eight to twelve bucks. All you need is
a
few addresses of wine makers, farmers. Georges Duboeuf and Rothschild
never
see good wine except on their tables. They sell table wine. They buy
the
shit grapes that the farmers won't use for their own wine. I doubt many
of
the farmers are on the web, but a little research would find them. What
I
used to do in France was order directly from the chateau, a few cases
at
a time. I didn't even know that Opus One was wine. It sounds like a
music
classification to me. A wine is called Chateau Eat_Me 19** mis en
bouteille
a la propriete. Of course I drink Valpolicella from the gallon jug, but
that's
a habit I acquired working at the Farfalla, where we needed a bottle of
Ricard
and two bottles of whisky a day just for the two of us. Andre doesn't
drink
Bordeaux. We usually drank Rouge d'Otrott, a rose-colored red Alsace
AOC
from the tiny village of Otrott. The farmer's fucking name is on the
bottle...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 11 April 1997
Subject: Switter Swatter
I'm just surprised we didn't have the argument last night. To say we
should stay an extra month and that you feel like you're working in a
burning building in the same night is a little strange to me. I don't
care if it's a difference of $400 or $4000. I want to get in a car in
June and go to Seattle. I got upset when he turned off the computer.
"Good night." I got on my things, "I'm
going up to [sob] buy some Molson and something to [sob] eat [sob] so
that
all of my jumping rope wasn't [sob] in vain." "We just ate." I eat when
I'm
hungry like you drink when you're thirsty. Came back with a six pack,
having
felt better by the time I got up to the store. The walk did me good.
I've been reading My Secret Life, which is a little sexy, a little
funny, and a little offensive. The women are always "spending" exactly
at the same time Walter does, sometimes before, rarely after, but they
always get their pleasure, and always during intercourse. I've never
had an orgasm during normal
"doodle in the cunt" sex, to quote Sweet Sir Walter. And we must be
saving
up for the trip, since we haven't done much spending at all lately.
Still,
some of it amuses me:
"It would have been a fine sight for the women had they looked down,
but women rarely did. They stood over the gratings with the greatest
unconcern, looking at the shop windows, or only glanced below for an
instant, at the dark, uninhabited-looking area.
"This was the beginning of a new state of things. We got reckless;
Henry had business to attend to, I none, - I ceased to think about what
might be said of our being so much in the store-house; and used to go
by myself and stay there two or three hours at a time. Then I gave way
to erotic excesses. My prick would stand as I went down the stairs. I
used to wait prick in hand until I saw a pair of thighs plainly, then
able to stand it no longer, frigged, hating myself even whilst I did
it, and longing to put my spunk in the right place. I used to catch it
in one hand, whilst I frigged with the other, then fling the spunk up
towards the girls' legs. It was madness; for although the
feet of the women were not three feet above my head, yet the smallness
of
the quantity thrown (after what stuck to my fingers), and the iron bars
above,
seemed to make it impossible that any should reach its intended
destination; but I think it did one day. A youngish female was
stooping, and showing part of her thighs. I flung up what I had just
discharged; suddenly her legs closed, she stepped quickly aside, looked
down and went away. I am still under the impression that a drop of my
sperm must have hit her naked legs."
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 12 April 1997
Subject: Hell Regained
Today was living Hell. I was on room service. The girl who had quit
actually came in. Slammy had left a note on our respective duties. I
was, so I thought, happy with mine, room service in the morning, a
party of thirty in the bar for lunch. The Mad Greek Woman explained to
the girl who had quit that she was doing this, staying to the end, no
explanations. Five minutes later she put her coat on and said: "Have a
nice day." I did room service. I worked the floor. I waited on the
party in the bar. The big fat gay boy came in to
help with room service. He got so fucking furious with those
motherfuckers, I saw him talking on the phone to a guest, face red,
shaking, cheeks puffed, eyes closed in hatred. He finally walked out
with one order left to do. The people were filing into the bar. An hour
later I found out I had an open room
service check. He had been using my card. We searched all the garbage
cans.
We called him on his cell phone. Once I had finished in the bar, I
thought
of going up to the rooms, getting the housekeepers to let me in, and
looking
for a receipt. I managed to find the check. Joey got completely
screwed.
That wedding party came in at eleven o'clock because Slammy hadn't told
them
that their breakfast lasted only until half past ten. They tried to
argue
about the price, despite the two-dollar discount she had already
stupidly
given them. Joey got raped. He rang up two hundred dollars in checks
and
made about five dollars. There was no break. We never stopped
screaming, laughing,
cursing and serving. It was the Inferno. I am so fucking tired and
disgusted.
I've just rang up Nichelle and told her I cannot pick her up at the bus
stop
tonight. I hate everything. I just want to sleep. I don't have Monday
off,
don't have a day off until Thursday, if I'm lucky. My driver's license
expires
on my birthday, 26 July 1997. See if you motherfuckers can do better
than
last year, when no one wrote. Here is our itinerary. Fuck you all. I
take
my two-week vacation on Saturday 31 May. We rent the car on Monday 16
June.
We leave Syracuse on Tuesday 17 June. We sleep in Ohio that night. We
sleep
in Minnesota the night of the eighteenth. We meet negatron in Minot,
North
Dakota Thursday evening the nineteenth. We sleep in Montana the
twentieth.
We arrive in Washington the twenty-first. If there are any arguments,
please
consult Murtilda, my travel secretary.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Kate
Date: 13 April 1997
Subject: what fresh hell is this?
i've been bloody useless.
sorry about my recent silence.
i've been busy hibernating and getting a divorce.
i'll write and tell you all about this thrilling life. tomorrow.
kate
and gabe, i should be able to remember your birthday because it's 2
days after mine.
From: Nichelle
Date: 12 April 1997
Subject: dull grind
I know better than to fight for blankets or bed space tonight. No, I
didn't have a day in hell. Far from it, not that it was pleasant. It
was the same monotonous saturday routine. I fell asleep at the cart,
woke up in time for the rush at break, drank coffee but it didn't help
much. I walked to Shoppingtown early, though I'm not entirely sure why.
I was bored to pieces. Today was a big day for minor injuries. I banged
the shit out of my hand on the latch to the wheelchair lift I use to
get the cart upstairs. I iced it for about an hour while I was sitting
there picking my nose, and now it's barely visible. I feel cheated,
since it was an enormous blue and purple welt when I hit it.
Some lady came up to the cash register (other job) today with her hand
in
a tissue. "I just wanted you to know that there's a very sharp edge on
one
of your shelves. It's chipped and I've just cut myself on it." She
actually did have a pretty deep gash on her finger. I put seven layers
of tape over the glass, which was all I could think to do, gave the
lady her card for free.
I just hope she doesn't try to sue the store. Shit, I was listening to
two
ladies talk on their break from saturday classes about their jobs in an
insurance
office- various claims. One was by a person who claimed that his
hemorrhoids
were work-related. (No I don't know how to spell homorrhoids, and it
took
me five minutes to figure out where the dictionary was.) I asked what
his
job is. The girls just laughed. I hate it when I can't get a straight
answer.
Apparently, some other guy used Mop N Glo (some kind of floor
cleaner/waxer) instead of vegetable oil while cooking hot dogs (This
claim is called The Hot Dog Files. Nobody mentioned what the previous
claim is called.) and 16 people got sick. "Well," he said, "the
containers weren't labelled."
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Subject: Re: dull grind
Date: 13 April 1997
Gabriel: My friend Eric and myself have been having a conversation
about online services which you might find interesting. He tried the
Palace for the first time recently. Eric used to make a living via
computers, but these are his first forays into the online world in a
long long time.
Double-quoted >> or nonquoted items are me; single-quoted > is
him. - columbine
-------------
>> Hang out on the Palace for a while and see how long it takes
for you to
>> hit your saturation point. It won't be long, I wager.
>I agree. Can you suggest other places on the Web where I'm more
likely to
>find some reasonable conversation? I favor conversations about
personal
>matters (as opposed, for example, to positions about Star Trek,
programming languages,
>and the weather), including conversations about sex (though I'm not
particularly
>looking to *have* sex on-line).
I'm not entirely sure that there are any. There are a variety of MOOs
and MUDs which are not dedicated to role-playing or a "purpose" per se,
but are merely rooms to chat ... with or without a stated theme. But
based on the excerpts Gabriel posts from LambdaMOO, one of the largest,
most well-known, and presumably most "open-minded" of these
"conversation" MOOs, idiocy runs rampant everywhere. This is not just
the 15-yr-old problem as noted below; grown adults who have perfectly
normal conversations elsewhere give themselves over to
juvenilesexbabytalk when online. I don't understand it, despite a fair
amount of discussion on the subject. I mean, *I* sound basically the
same. You know me in person; you can verify that I really do talk like
this! (I stammer less on-line :)
>I have no need whatsoever for pretty backgrounds, ornate avatars,
or playing
>dress-up [....]
I don't *need* them per se but I am apparently alone among the people I
talk to in thinking that they add to, rather than distract, from the
experience. On the other hand, the chatrooms I've been in most lately
(Firefly - see below)
are text only ... and the chatrooms I spent the most time in, as a
part-time
admin as well as a participant (on the ill-fated ImagiNation) were
all-text
as well.
>> To quote Tallulah Bankhead: "There is less there than meets
the eye."
>> Pity. A nice technology wasted by an utter lack of content. I
won't bore
>> you with theories on why; Gabriel and I have had long
arguments by email
>> about it. He blames the pictures and the clientele; I agree
only with the
>> latter half.
>From my brief experience, it's both. All those commands to change
your
>avatar's appearance beg to be (ab)used. Though I do think that
pleasant,
>calm backgrounds could make chatting more pleasurable. For example,
I think it
>would be nice to chat with someone (using cartoon balloons -- I
like that
>visual metaphor) in a dark field with a few constellations in the
sky. But
>almost every Palace room I saw was way too gaudy, and only
detracted from my
>concentration.
There are a couple of very plain rooms in there. I think there's one
with just a cloud background and a couple more with just plain
one-color backdrops. I think the "props" are supposed to be
conversation pieces, and I admit that once or twice I have played off
them (in the swimming pool, for example).
I tend to think of the pictures more as wish-fulfillment, and if you
can't indulge in that vice online, where can you? If I want to give
myself huge breasts, that's my business: a contract between me and my
id. It *should* have no effect on the way you talk to me ... yet it
apparently does, which makes me wonder. If you talk this way to someone
because her picture has huge
breasts online, what kind of things would you say to a woman who looked
like
that when you met her in the flesh? Rudeness is rudeness, and I don't
understand
the double standard here. Or, put another way; if people acted like
that
in public, they'd be arrested.
>Remember, though, I'm an intensely auditory person, and often find
visual
>input distracting, rather than enhancing. That's a major reason why
the
>telephone is still perhaps my favorite medium of communication,
even after 27 years.
>Lying on a couch in a pitch-dark room with my headset on, eyes
closed, and
>nothing in my world except the voice in my ear: *that* is the
closest I'll get to
>heaven on this earth.
Whereas I go out of my way to avoid talking on the phone and will take
the written word over the spoken one (in all non-sexual situations)
every time.
>You sure are right about the clientele. I saw more "lol"s and
"hehe"s in
>one session in the Palace than I've actually heard in my entire
real life! A
>huge part of the problem, of course, is that most people aren't
that wonderful at
>conversation. Particularly most 15-year-old young men.
Hmm. Half agree. The "emoting" (LOL, hehe, *g*, ROFL, various smileys)
is a convenient shorthand to replace vocal nuances that you can't get
verbally. Which, I suppose, sort of contradicts what I said a second
ago ... that's one big disadvantage of written speech. In a novel you
have other devices for getting inside the speaker's head; in a
conversation you sometimes need help. So I don't mind that stuff so
much.
Actually, one of the nice things about MOOing is that it's an accepted
convention to sometimes "emote" quite literally and specifically:
SAGReiss says (to Columbine), "You're being unusually silent"
Columbine: is still pondering SAGReiss's last non sequitur
I do that sometimes on Firefly and everyone seems OK with it, but I
notice few other people do it.
>I just had a brilliant idea. Take it and make your fortune:
>
>You know all this agent software, like Firefly? The elegant idea is
to
>have a bunch of people rate something (records, movies, etc.). Then
the software
>looks at your collection of ratings, finds other people with
similar tastes,
>and recommends things they like that you haven't mentioned. This
only
>works if you make certain assumptions about personality theory, but
it feels like a
>reasonable approach
>
>Well, my idea is this: have people also rate each other on various
skills:
>conversation, Net sex, politeness, spelling ability, whatever. Then
have
>software connect people who get similar ratings, so the good
>conversationalists can talk with each other, the good sex people
can have sex with each
>other, and so on. I can immediately see some problems that would
have to be solved,
>and perhaps someone is already working on this (if so, tell me
where to sign
>up!), but I see no reason there could not be a Web registry of
ratings (suitably
>anonymized, of course) so that I could log on and say, "Take me to
some chat
>room where there's a good conversationalist."
Too late, it's been tried. Or at least, half of it has.
Firefly: The rating service that grew into a chat room, ostensibly so
that other people could look at your record or movie picks and have
some conversational common ground to warm up with. Only problem: no one
uses the ratings services anymore. They just use the chatrooms.
Firefly's new interface even tries to
BURY the chatrooms to make them harder to get to; all this accomplishes
is
annoyance. Even I go straight for the chatrooms. What is it about us
humans? I'll tell you my theories: we're all either scared to strike up
conversations with people in the flesh, or we've forgotten how, or the
venues where those conversations used to spontaneously occur no longer
exist.
But there's no conversation on Firefly either. On an average afternoon,
some 700 people are on the service. Firefly doesn't offer you a way to
track
where a given person is, but there are numbers on who's in the
chatrooms,
and it's usually not more than 50 or so of those. What the rest are
doing,
I have no idea. Rating records maybe. Of the 50 in the chatrooms, about
35
will be in the Sexual Desires room, being very banal. I hang out in the
OUTPost room (which is a largely gay/lesbian area) simply because the
conversation, while still often obsessed with penis, cunt, and
scatology, is usually at least a little more witty and a little more
intelligent.
Note that, based on member pages I've seen, the membership of Firefly
is YOUNG. If you are 30 or up, you're an old fogey on Firefly. This
makes me despair for the next generation. The literate ones are usually
college students, and even they can't spell. (We have traded
articulation for technological awareness; I am not entirely convinced
this is a good thing.)
As for rating other members, heh, well, even if we stipulate that a
provider is willing to stick their neck out far enough, that's a
notoriously subjective scale. You may have had a great conversation
with me, but someone else thinks I'm a dud (or is nursing a grudge
because I wouldn't have earsex with him and is giving me a bad rating
out of malice) ... or maybe you have a good chat with me, give me a
high rating, and discover the next day that was a fluke, I had taken my
lithium that day or something and was not my usual sullen
self ... you get the idea.
And as I say, many of these people who are in these rooms being
juvenile ARE good conversationalists. I had an interesting experience
with someone where, not to go into it too deeply, we had never had
conversations on anything more than a groin level (this was back when I
was more willing to flirt) until
I discovered ... by sheer chance ... that we were both Animaniacs fans
-
which is not nearly as inexhaustible a topic as sex, but never mind
that. It turns out we both were devotees of Warner Brothers cartoons
and bad Nancy Friday-style pornography. Had some very interesting
conversations!
Ah, well. The final thing I have to say on the matter is: sex really is
a great topic. It IS nearly inexhaustible and everyone seems to want to
talk about it. So why no really good sex conversations? Not even among
the gay contingent (who are normally somewhat more willing to discuss,
say, bondage, than your average straight white male).
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: John
Date: 14 April 1997
Subject: Pueblo
i've been geeking all night, and the basic stuff for pueblo is done.
there are a few things i'm not quite sure how to you want, so we'll
have to talk about it. about the only thing you can do right now is set
your @url message, which makes your name a hyperlink when somebody
looks at you. (@url me is "http://www.pornpalace.com/") there's also a
thing to imbed pictures and sounds
into descriptions, but it's too complicated for me to explain right now.
i put a sound in Limbo, and one on angry johnny. limbo has a pic I
stole off your web page. my ugly mug is in my description. take a look
and let me
know what you done.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 14 April 1997
Subject: F&M
Yesterday, another nightmare, I walked up to the banquet room to see
how they were handling the white-trash Jewish wedding from Hell.
Joanne, the head
waitress, wasn't speaking to anyone. Melissa, her daughter, had this
fearsome
scowl on her face. Rebbecca, the punk rock waitress, was snarling at
everyone.
Julie was leering through the wrong end of a hangover. Stan, the
executive
chef was white as a sheet: "They're brutal. They've eaten six hundred
dollars
of lox." There was bedlam, two hundred and thirty people screaming:
"Where's
the KAWffee?" "Is that SKIM milk?" "You can't toast the BAgels?" "I
need
more ARenge juice." I smiled benevolently: "Good luck, girls." I got
off
a good line a few weeks ago. Actually I stole it from John Fante. The
Mad
Greek Woman was berating our vicious generation. I said: "When Angie
was
young all she had to eat was bread and onions." "You laugh. Good. I
don't drink whisky for breakfast. I don't sleep with F and M." We all
burst out laughing. The room service gay boy said: "I'm going to go
home and ask my significant other if he wants to try some F&M."
Today was easy, a mad rush between eight and nine, and I did twenty-one
Unix professional geeks for lunch: "You ladies and gentlemen work in
computer security systems? Great. I'm learning to become a hacker so I
can break into porno sites." I like what
you've done, John. We're still learning about Pueblo. I've got the
Limbo sound
to work, but not yours. The URLs seem to be working fine. BTW,
Columbine, you might tell your friend to try RL MOO. We'll give him a
special 99% discount. Slammy was officially stressed out today, we were
told. Um, she took the week-end
off while Joey and I worked twenty hours with no breaks. I did fucking
room
service, the floor, the bar. I had about a thousand dollars in combined
pre-tax
sales for three consecutive days. Today was s'posed to be my day off.
I'm
going in three hours early tomorrow. And she's stressed out?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 14 April 1997
Subject: Re: F&M
I considered telling Eric to get on RL MOO, but real-time environments
are difficult for him, because he uses a voice-recognition system and
the response is too slow for things like that. He doesn't type anymore.
Medical reasons.
He's more of a voice person anyway. Our next round of the conversation
will probably be conducted via telephone, which is unfortunate for me
because I
can't stand telephones. I am not a verbal person. I don't like the way
I
sound, don't like the way I phrase things, I always think I'm coming
off as
a complete and utter loser and as a result become so inhibited that I
don't
say much of anything at all.
I don't go to parties much either.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 April 1997
Subject: A US$ 2.00 bonjour
The fat gayboy wrecked another car today, so I stayed a little late to
cover room service, after watching in horror as the hot faucet in our
bathtub broke this morning at four and the water wouldn't shut off as I
hurried to work by half past five for the devastation of bug day
(everything removed from kitchen and dining room). The front desk
called around three and asked me to bring a pot of tea to the VIP in
631, the ex-Prime Minister of... "I know who the fuck he is. I'll have
to charge him." So I prepared a tea tray for the former leader of the
free world, at least that part of it perpetually covered in snow.
Actually it was for his "assistant" or Mr Bufu for all I know. I walked
into the room and said: "Messieurs, bonjour." Brian Mulroney answered:
"Vous etes du Quebec?" He has a faux-French accent and didn't say "tu"
to me, which was lucky 'cause I probably would have dropped the fucking
tray. I hate it when Quebeckers do that, even though I know they mean
no disrespect
and expect me to do the same. I just can't do it. I say Mrs and Mr,
Ma'am
and Sir, Ladies and Gentlemen, to people I don't know. He asked where I
had
learned French, and we chatted for a minute. I gave him the bill. He
wrote
on it, then said: "[to Mr.Bu_Fu] I just added a fifteen percent tip,
but
the bill is only three sixty-one. That's about fifty cents." He crossed
it
out and wrote in two dollars. Long live the ex-leader of the
snow-covered free world.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 April 1997
Subject: Mr Antigeek
After trying in vain to do something slick and clever to surprise you,
I'll have to ask someone more competant than I to do it for me. Since I
don't know
how to use a split screen with Pueblo, it would be useful for me to
have
another character, Gabriel, so I could log on twice at once. I tried
@request,
@create, fucked up a new file on MUSHclient etc. I give up. Can someone
do
this for me?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 17 April 1997
Subject: Busted
The doorbell rings, insistantly. Two tall guys at the door, one a
uniform cop. They want to know where Michelle is and clearly think I've
killed her. I thought I was going to get arrested on the spot. Of
course I was gripped with fear, unwilling and even unable to answer
their questions. They asked where she was. I didn't want to say: "At
work at Lemoyne." The cop is a Lemoyne cop, and the civil is a security
higher up. As I resist questioning, he gives me more information. She
is NOT at work. And he's asking me where the fuck she is. I have no
idea. She left for work this morning. He has her mother's name and
whatnot on his information pad. She hasn't been to class since... or
work since... I don't fucking know what she's doing, where she is. They
suspect foul play. It got ugly. They didn't take kindly to my
diffidence. The harder they pushed, the less willing was I to answer.
When the motherfucker asked for the third time if she was upstairs, I
said: "Would you like to look?"
The words were not out of my mouth before they were walking past me.
I'm
still shaking. I hate the fucking pigs. "Where is she?" "She's out."
"Can
you have her call us?" "I'll ask her to call you today or tomorrow."
"Tomorrow
isn't good enough." Why the fuck not, buttbreath? They inspected the
flat.
Asshole_Cop looks under the bed. [to Security_Higher_Up] She's not
here,
boss. I was hoping Matilda would attack the bastards. I'm lucky I
washed
the towels this morning. It's that time of the month and I think they
would
have drawn their guns if they had seen blood. "Have you two argued
recently?"
"When was the last time you saw her?" When was the last time you saw
your
mother's snatch, you pervert? "She wasn't feeling well on Friday." "I
didn't
know she worked on Fridays." "Did you know she was ill?" What the fuck
am
I s'posed to say? Yes, no, maybe, I can't remember. Where the fuck are
my
rights and my lawyer when I need them? What is this Nazi Disneyland we
live
in?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 19 April 1997
Subject: The Ungraduate
In France administrative letters often begin: "Monsieur, j'ai l'honneur
d'accuser reception..." That usually means you're fucked. I knew what
the
letter said before I opened it. They don't send job offers in one-page
form
letters: "The number and quality of graduate applications to the
University
is extraordinary," and yours was sadly intraordinary. Oh well. Seattle
boasts
a dozen beautiful hotels I'd like to work in, places where the food is
delicious,
and perhaps we wouldn't have to fight over steak knives or soup spoons.
And
of course there's Berlitz, where I could work for the rest of my life
anywhere
in the world. I just hope the university accepts Nichelle or I really
don't
know what we're doing. No matter. Tuesday I'll ask for the first paid
vacation of my life. We plan to leave (for those of you who don't know
how to open attachment files) on 17 June, meet negatron halfway there
on the nineteenth, arrive on the twenty-first, find a flat on the
twenty-second or twenty-nineth and a job soon thereafter. I just hope
our money holds out, and that I can deal with Nichelle's mother and
step-father.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 21 April 1997
Subject: FWB vs WTM
I worked fourteen to twenty-three Saturday and eight to twenty-three
Sunday. We got slammed, senselessly, from nine to twelve Sunday. Once
we got things cleaned up, around fifteen o'clock, it died. I stood
around basically until twenty-two, which I didn't really mind since I
had already got my hundred by noon. I got two big orders at twenty-two
thirty, and this nigger motherfucker brought down this huge cart of
shit. I went crazy. I screamed at him, talked to his supervisor, broke
the shit down, did my late orders and went to Lou's. I drank a quick
five or six Pinch whiskies and went home. There was a mess in the sink.
I began to clean it up. Nichelle, drunk on Amaretto, pushed me
out of the way: "Fuck you. I'll do it. Go play with your cybergfs." Of
course
I couldn't really do that because there are no fs on RL MOO and the
fucker
has been down again. I don't know if I should ditch this asshole
server. I
like the idea of going with the little guy, but fuck, I could probably
work
out a deal with Eskimo in Seattle for the MOO, my e-mail and the web
for
a very reasonable sum. We might even get professional service. I find
this
hard to believe, a world-class scholar (WTM, that's white trash male
for
those of you in the television studios) and a potential world-class
musician (FWB, fat white bitch) working as a waiter and waitress,
getting drunk, fighting like dogs over nothing. Nichelle said: "It
doesn't matter. I'm going to be miserable wherever I go." "Be miserable
and play your horn." That's the only thing that matters to me, honey. I
can type. I do my work. The girls, tbelton and kate, can say what they
think of the sustained quality of what I write. I have my own opinion.
I play the keyboard. I can play. I wish I knew what you can do. I don't
care if it's Seattle or Boston. It's all the same shit to me, unless
we're in Strasbourg, the only place I was ever meant to live. I hope
you get in to Washington. Play your fucking horn.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Kate
Date: 21 April 1997
Subject: mundane hell
the most interesting thing i did today was buy a toothbrush. it's red
and green.
fuck, my life is a thrill.
since i last sent mail everything and nothing has changed.
no work. but i may end up in Arizona, running a web company by July.
it's
too soon to tell at the moment. ask me in two weeks.
a week from now i'll be sitting on a portland bound plane. an escape. i
need a break from all this mundane shit. no, i can't afford it. i'm
skint
but i'm going anyway.
i'm getting divorced. this is a good thing. matt's moved out.
we had the ceremonial division of the stuff of seven years together.
we bickered about the toaster.
it is so impossibly amiable i want to hit someone.
to get a no fault divorce in this country takes two fucking years. or,
two
no fucking years. i'm letting him divorce me on the grounds of being a
crabby bitch. anything. just to get it over with faster.
the rest of the stuff is bits from my journal and letters. i'd sum it
up,
but i too bored by the last few weeks to do so.
kate
--------
tuesday 18th march
I got twitchy and nervous waiting for M to come home. i read ballad of
dr richardson and sniffled happily. sat and read calvin and hobbes,
twitching, unable to sit still, chainsmoking. i barely gave him time to
get through the
door. sit down, i have to talk to you. wash of panic across his face. i
couldn't
think of a gentle way to tell him. i want a divorce and i want you to
move
out. his jaw fell. surely it can't have come as such a surprise?
surely,
surely not. we talked. well, i talked and he cried. he agreed. said he
couldn't
argue with anything i said.
[...]
but it's over. it all starts now. and i feel great. scared. scared. i
have to be so careful with him. i don't want to hurt him any more. but
i can't stay with him to make him feel safer. that would end up
destroying both of us. matt sat, silently, for ages. he had no words. i
told him to go to bed.
[...]
i crashed at around 2. slept on the chaise in the study. matt woke me
to say goodbye as he left to go to spain at around 7am. it was awkward.
call me if you want to talk. talk about what? on the phone? no fucking
way. fell back to sleep. calmer, deeper sleep than for a long time.
i did nothing much when i got up--bank. food. walking through the
market, found some womderful vine tomatoes and they smelled like
summer. not like the cold dead perfect red globes in the supermarkets.
these were garden tomatoes, sweet smelling and rich. almost spent a
huge amount of money on flowers, but
developed sense at the last moment. bought the tibor fischer book and
lurked
about in a few bookshops. tried on some shoes--all awful. most shoes
have
these ridiculous clumpy great heels added onto them. i loathe heels.
and
these rarely suit the shoe...but, it's the heel of fashion. i'll stick
to
my old shoes till they fall apart. bought some blue hair dye.
went home and got blue gunk everywhere--trying to spread it evenly on
the hair at the back of my head with mirrors balanced around the
bathroom, using a toothbrush to smooth the gloop through each layer of
hair. wet blue locks falling onto my face and leaving stripes of
colour. splattering stuff around the bathroom. sat, frsutrated and
impatient for 40 minutes, before washing it off (turning the shower
blue). my hands were tinted a smooth even blue, but there was not a
trace of it on my hair. my scalp is a glorious colour. my hair is
unchanged. fuck! even the lighter, redder parts are exactly as before.
wildly annoying, i so wanted to change hue.
[...]
there was a message from louise on the phone when i got home. just
calling for a chat. odd. she never calls. haven't spoken to her in well
over six months,
probably more. ring tonight...
too tired to make sense by 4 so went to bed.
there was a drunk in the LR last night, when i was waiting for sal. he
realised no one would, or could, give him any money, but his approach
is honest: "can you help a raging alcoholic buy another drink? give me
a cigarette and i'll go away." he makes me uncomfortable, though
because he wants to touch or hug
or kiss or shake hands with everyone.
a week of drinking and dinners and clubbing with girlfriends. noisy,
drunken morale building stuff. traditional closing of ranks and
drink-buying for the
splitting up.
i'll spare you the details.
7th April
Yesterday was hard. matt and michael [his father] came round to move
his stuff out. i sat there, stunned and i couldn't watch. i felt like
something in me was being disected. inexplicably, i welled up with
tears. for the first time since i told matt. i escaped to patisserie
valerie and wept all over the sunday papers. everyone studiously
ignored my histrionics in a terribly english way. when i came back, the
flat looked no different but felt tatty and scattered with junk. i
started painting today--just slapping white over the stained paper in
the kitchen. the paper is so awful, it looks lumpy even in the places
without air bubbles. but it's less yellow grease streak stained now.
i'm tempted to strip all the paper down, reline the walls and do the
job properly but it hardly seems worth it if i am moving this summer.
if i
am moving this summer.
[...]
saturday 8pm
stir crazy. ack. i'm bored. no idea what to do with myself. do i have
so few resources?
song in the cafe reminds me of being in acme, skipping around the shop,
complaining about the awful dark paintings of deformed superheroes on
the
wall, chasing mark around the shop with the feather duster when he was
being
arsey. and the bagging--the hours of counting comics and smoothing them
into
slick plastic, sticking them down with a small scrunch of tape. and
sitting
on the counter getting excited about panel transitions. and staring
through
the plate glass window between the gaps between posters of batman,
watching
broken down tired people with half shredded plastic bags in bundles and
cans
of extra strong lager welded to their fists.
sat around and read cynthia heimel books and chortled in a heap of
cats. did the cat litter. ugh. revolting job. pottered. read some more.
decided against cleaning. jumped about online playing the fool. went
out to tescos. oh joy. but where else can one buy cat food with a
credit card round here? oxford street on a saturday is a nightmare.
hoards of people "up west" shopping for fun. the shops are so tawdry,
chain stores and bargain shops and only selfridges has the last traces
of the elegance for which the street was once known. supermarket
scramble, seething as people stopped dead in aisle staring blankly at
easter eggs and shampoo.
came home, made soup and sat on the sofa staring at the window.
drifting slightly out of my head. shot at some robots and realised i'd
go nuts if i
didn't go out. sudden wave of lonliness. i did nothing groovy today.
should have gone to the british museum. another day.
the guy from upstairs banged on my door yesterday--the landlord seems
to be whining about unpaid rent. but the rent has been paid, and the
cheques have been cashed. confusion. confusion. don't want to get
booted out of here. he told me that the building was being sold, by the
landlord to the acting landlord. he is far far from pleased about this.
he's been here three years, but now he wants to go. he has heard that
one of the office spaces (or maybe the signwriters') is being turned
into a "working" flat. fuck! this means that all sorts of low lifes
will be traipsing through the front door day and
night. he muttered angrily about drug dealers and pimps in the
staircase and
stomped off to feed his pregnant cat. bad bad news. especially now that
i'm
here on my own. i am not easily spooked...but it's a small building
with which
to share a brothel. fuck.
talked to [my sister] louise on thursday night for the first time in an
age. strange timing. she asked about work--it seems m&d hadn't told
her
about question imploding. i told her, and she made sympathetic noises.
she
asked if matt was coming to granny's 90th birthday extravaganza, so i
told
her what was going on. ah...she was wonderful. she suggested i come and
stay with her a while, understanding that i'd probably want to escape.
be nice to talk to the chickens and watch the river go past. hell, i
can even tolerate her children as long as Louise is on good form. she
changes so much. sometimes i adore her, just for being herself. other
times she is infuriatingly parent-ish.
my relationship with louise and sara has always been a volatile one.
there were times, as a kid, when they were horrible to me. other times
i thought the sun shone from every one of their teenage-oily pores.
but, as i got older, louise in particular always accepted me on my own
terms, let me stay with her when i couldn't handle yet another weekend
at school. treated me as a friend, not as her little kid sister. i
thought she was the bee's knees. but,
when she had hannah, she changed. no surprise, she went through 27
kinds of
hell in a short time. but 2 years living with my parents did strange
things to the way she acted. she became all the things she
wasn't--short tempered, intolerant, close-minded. i couldn't bear to
see it. but my mother loved her
for that. she is happiest when we toe her line. i don't. i can't. i am
never
in favour. so--this will be seen as yet another fuck up on my part. a
failure.
i have never really forgiven my mother for turning to my father with a
wry
smile and saying "that's fifty pounds you owe me--i told you she would
not
go back to college."
fuck it. it's not a failure. it would be more of a failure to stay
married when it's not a real marriage, and brings me less than no
happiness.
[...]
people are flocking into lorelei across the road. just looking at it,
all i can remember is the vast roach that scuttled over my foot. i kep
my feet on the bench for the whole of the time there and couldn't wait
to escape. feeling my skin crawling, phantom movements on my skin.
cockroaches. one thing
that really bothers me. send a cold chilly creep up my spine and a
faint
shiver of nausea. not fear. revulsion. the ones in hong kong were big,
and
they could fly. that was the worst thing--they would buzz past your
face, not touching but close so you could feel the movement. and they
would lurk, of course, in the bathroom. you soon get into the habit of
banging your shoes upside down before putting them on. living in the
ymca didn't make it easier in new york. the place was infested. the
awful scurrying rattle as you turn on the bathroom light. having to
whisk back the covers, fast as you can, to
dislodge and startle them if they have creapt into the sheets. flipping
the
lights on and off before coming into the room, worried that you'll put
your
hand on one as you curl your hand through the door to the light switch.
the
one crawling across the television screen. for all the sordidness of
the
place, the dark brown corridors and smell of industrial cleaning and
sticky
carpet, i grew fond of the place. but i couldn't wait to get out and
spent
many nights in other places rather than staying there. i used to sleep
with
the lights on to discourage the roaches, but that was before i noticed
the
two men in the window opposite. one fat, one thin. same height, and the
same
white vests. standing still. stock still. in front of the window,
staring across at me. i had no curtains. they did this night after
night. i bought some roach poison and turned the lights out.
oh, and the man who would hammer on my door at 3am, demanding i have
breakfast with him. he would wait in the lobby. i had to sneak into the
lifts behind taller, fatter people so he wouldn't see me, as he leant
against a pillar, eyes scanning the room. he would sit in the corridor
one door up from my room.
i don't know why.
[...]
last week, some time...
tucked up reading sensationalist novels from the 1860s. long time ago i
found a terrific gothic schlocky book called 'lady audley's secret' by
mary
elizabeth braddon. dark secrets and less than wholesome
pasts...cracking
stuff. she was really popular at the time, but until a month ago none
of
her other work had ever been reprinted. i'd read one in the library,
but
had never had time to read more. but joy! 2 more have been reprinted.
so
i am drinking green tea and sighing with heaving chest and fluttering
eyelids
as our gallant heroine tries to uncover the mystery of her father's
death...
tuesday i cleaned and shopped and cooked. all very domestic. sorting
out papers and books and general desk garbage. scrubbing the butcher's
block with
a handful of steel wool, scraping away old traces of garlic and
tomatoes. re-oiling the wood till it was clean and smooth.
i wandered through the market, tutting at the traders when their hands
hovered over the less than perfect vegetables. they are getting to know
me know, and
they just grin, recognising that i know what they are doing, and call
me
little un. i've had my share of over-ripe fruit tucked into the bottom
of
the bag. tomatoes. courgettes. basil. parsley. dark red onions.
paperyskinned garlic. my hands and black tshirt getting covered in
white flour as i poke at the bread and the pasta in camiso's deli,
darting behind the counter to sniff the chocolate and taste the olives.
bundles of paper bags home, stopping to buy wine and cream, plunking
bunches of herbs into glass jugs of water to keep them fresh.
making the chocolate truffle cake was a chore. once i had started to
melt the chocolate, i couldn't find the whisk thing for the food
processor, so had to pour the cream back out into a bowl and beat it by
hand, till the muscles
in my arm were tight and painful, and the kitchen was covered in specks
of
thick white cream (to the cats' delight). i love making this cake...the
contrast
of the dark glossiness of the chocolate as you fold it into the heavy
cream.
couldn't find a cake tin, so poured it into a lasagne dish and left it
in
the fridge to chill.
wash up. wander round. check mail. read.
chop onions, frying them till they are soft and translucent, the red
skin colouring the flesh. fill the pan with sliced courgettes, chopped
parsley, crushed garlic, stirring it in a sparliking green mess with a
woosh of cooking smell and steam. unable to hear anything but the food
filling the air.
opps. i couldn't hear liz and ellie and sal banging on the door. 3
guests. all bearing wine. good guests! cigarettes lit, glasses filled,
stock added to the soup. chatchatchat. talk of ellie's flat mate and
her new conquest. she pulled at maths club. beware of geeks bearing
gifts. we drink to them. we do again, because drinking is a good thing
and the talk is easing into the evening. later, we talk about liz's
boyf. he's horrible, he says all the
wrong things, he hates the way she 'looks like a lesbian'. but he's 'a
stud
muffin'. she's trying to dump him. she dreamed that he he turned into a
white
bull. we all yell 'pasiphae'. we talk about europa, and flick through
books
of mythology and history to look for other references to white bulls.
he's
god, a sacrifice, or just an arsehole. we can't decide. i mentioned my
dream
within a dream. ellie looks serious and tells me it's stress. i didn't
tell
her that it was one of the sweetest dreams i have had in a while. we
ate,
we talked, we ate more. we compared notes on who we thought was
sexiest. ellie
told tales of bridesmaid hell.
all three left early. by half past eleven i had done all the dishes and
cleared the kitchen. this worries me. this means that i must be a grown
up,
or something.
wednesday. nothing day. reading. cafes. sleeping.
-----
From: Columbine
Date: 21 April 1997
Subject: Re: FWB vs WTM
I don't understand a relationship conducted at such a high level of
vehemence. That's not a criticism, I just don't understand it. When we
f**k with each other's heads here, we are both aware, unspoken, that
this is only a big elaborate
game, that if there were ever a real crisis we would be on the same
side
of the fence. I can't recall a real fight. We've called each other
names
and such, but damn it, I'm qualified to know a real
scream-and-throw-things fight when I see one. I've instigated several
of them. Broke up a three-year relationship with one. I was too young
for it anyway.
Never mind. It's none of my damned business anyway and I should keep my
mouth shut.
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: 23 April 1997
Subject: Jeff Tenhat
I have to work again on my fucking day off. This is bullshit. We've got
our new fucking supervisor. I've baptised him "waterboi" since that's
about
all Slammy can train him to do. He's a fucking ex-punk-drill seargent.
Perhaps we should call him "Seargent Waterboi". And they complain about
overtime. Well, fuck you. I was scheduled for seven shifts this week
and now I have to work another. I didn't ask for this shit. What is
this shit I've received from you, Columbine? I've changed the e-mail
address in our list. Whatever. Ah, fuck. I'm a little tired and maybe a
little tipsy. So anyway Garth Brooks couldn't stay at the hotel because
of security concerns. This morning on the
guest list we notice the suite 931-933 with a special king-sized bed
for
Mr Tenhat. Um, I s'pose that's another nephew of Sadam Hussein. And I
have
to do room service for these motherfuckers tomorrow on my day off? I
know
Slammy-cunt doesn't like me. So? I don't like her either. In fact I
hate
all people with bleached-blond hair. (Whyever did you want to colo(u)r
your
hair blue, Kate?) I'm happy that Batsheva (bat7 #258) is interested in
our
MOO. She knows a lot of shit and is a tough bitch. I have decided on
our
new ISP. It's blarg.net. I think we'll stick with assfuck a little
longer
for the MOO. Call me sentimental. The slut doesn't even want to give me
my
God-given vacation. Fuck that. It's six weeks from now. She can't find
some
asshole to hire? What does she want, a virgin SU student. Es gibt ke
mehr.
Sorry. That's an Alsatian song: "There are no more virgins in
Strasbourg". Fuck this. I'm going to abuse people on Lambda. Why
doesn't anyone but me write? I know there are some smart motherfuckers
on this list. Fuck you. Just
wait till I make some money at this "vehement" game. Then everyone will
want
to play...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 23 April 1997
Subject: random thoughts
It's so hard to know what really goes on in a relationship when you're
in it, let alone when you hear about it across the internet. Vehemence
is a pretty
strong word, and it has a lot of e's in it. I don't believe in the
"it's
none of my business and I should keep my mouth shut" policy. First, you
chose
to send the message, so obviously you didn't feel your mouth really
needed
to be closed, and second, what is the appropriate response to a letter
like
"FWB vs WTM"- posted to a group of strangers... It's a real roller
coaster ride sometimes, but if nothing else, it gives us something to
write about. Not that any of us do. Oh lord no. Only SAGReiss is always
write.
Shall I quote from my unsent response (which I haven't looked at since
I wrote it) to this letter? Might be fun, let's see what it says...
THIS IS A QUOTE FROM THE EMERGENCY VEHEMENCE SYSTEM. THIS IS ONLY A
QUOTE:
The great mystery of life has been solved, brothers and sisters. There
is a Hell, and I'm living in it. Men *are* pigs, it's not a lie, not
something the feminist nazis made up. They are selfish, they rape, and
there is not one who will ever love me. How many nights do we have to
fight with each other?
Are we going for a world record? Fuck you, fuck the clarinet, fuck the
MOO,
the web, the World. Fuck my life. I never asked for it, never asked to
be
raped, and now when I ask to be fucked I can't even fucking enjoy it.
(Yikes, man. Yikes.)
Back to our regularly scheduled e-mail. Relationships are fucked. I'm
convinced that (with possibly a very rare exception) one party loves
the other more. This is true in friendships and other relationships,
though the roles sometimes change. On rare occasions, I've had a kind
of equality in friendships. Never, I think, in a sexual relationship.
As for the rest of my life, I've taken a job as an assistant in a
grocery store bakery. Of course the shit all comes in frozen, which
ruins part of the fun, but it's still pretty interesting. The only
problem is that I'm working
like a dog for $4.80 an hour. I didn't even make minimum wage when I
was
sixteen, and now I'm only 5 cents over it.
Definitely the most exciting part of my job is the location- in exactly
the right spot to hear all of the store's muzak and advertisements.
"Don't
you just love the chewey taste of Kellogg's Rice Crispy Treats?" "How
about
some great tasting pasta secret recipes from Kraft?" But my favorite is
a
special in-store advertisement for Crowley Yogurt.
"Open up, Daddy."
"Mmmm, delicious. Can Daddy have more?"
"It's smooth, creamy Crowley Yogurt. But I thought Daddy didn't like
yogurt.
Do you like it because it comes from Crowley?"
"Yes, honey, but mostly I love it because it comes from you."
My supervisor and I run around the bakery cooing "Open up, Daddy." to
each other while we're working. She's a tough hag. An ex truck driver
who split open her ear flying over a barstool two days before I
started. She's got a
mean disposition, a foul mouth, and an offensive sense of humor. I got
on
her good side the first day, when she told a co-worker, "I ain't talked
no
trash or sex to her yet." I grinned and asked sweetly, "When do we
start? Tomorrow?"
So come on in
you can always depend
on P&C
Your Closest Friend....
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 24 April 1997
Subject: Re: Jeff Tenhat
Gabriel, I think "vehement" frequently pays well when done with humor.
The problem is when you slide into "abusive."
There, is that inflammatory enough? I haven't been writing on the list
because I don't have anything to say which I think is appropriate
material. I could bitch about my life for 1000 words, but fuck that. I
could write about the excesses of advertising for 5000 words, which I
do, but that's better suited for my website. You tell me what you want
me to bullshit about and I'll see if I can put together a few
column-inches. No pun on my name intended.
And speaking of my name, I figured you'd be at least interested to have
some of the veil lifted. The message meant what it said. No more, no
less.
You weren't the only person to get it, if that's what's confusing you.
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: 24 April 1997
Subject: Calamity Kate rides again
I was about to take an order up when I heard Slammy's whiny nasal
voice: "Beth, this is Katy. She'll be working some days and some
nights." I turned my head while reaching for the tray. Looking lovely
as usual there stood Calamity
Kate. Neither Slammy nor Beth could see me so I winked, picked up my
tray
and walked out of the kitchen. I had no idea what to expect when I came
down.
I was prepared to shake her hand: "Pleased to meet you." Whatever. She
was
nowhere in sight. Slammy walks up to me and says: "I didn't know you
were
a French teacher." "Yes, I was." "What can you tell me about Katy?"
"She
was an excellent," I said "student." I had no idea what weird-ass lies
she
might have told her. I think Nichelle's answer, Columbine, is best:
"Vehemence is a pretty strong word, and it has a lot of e's in it." You
see both of us,
Nichelle and I, play both sides of the fault line between art and life,
fiction
and non-fiction, if you prefer. When I'm writing wild, screaming
e-mail,
I'm not screaming wildly. I'm quietly writing, thinking about my
syntax,
word choice, punning etc. The letter on the web called "9532 dicks" is
as
mean an e-mail as I've ever written, yet it's full of etymological
jokes,
rhetorical asides and literary allusions. I remember once writing a
ferocious
text a couple of days after the fact. Nichelle was stunned. If I have
no
time to write, I save up my anger to use later as fuel, grist for my
mill.
The events I describe happen seldom, accidentally perhaps, exactly as I
write
them. In any case they are arranged into some kind of literary
document.
I admit that this is somewhat duplicitous on my part. On the one hand:
"This
is not a toy. This is not a game. This is real life." On the other
hand,
I know it's not. We're all going to be dead soon. So in the meantime,
as
the man said: "Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my
throes,/Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:/'Fool,' said my
Muse to me, 'look in thy heart, and write!'"
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Kate
Date: 24 April 1997
Subject: blue hair and other failed attempts
why colour my hair blue? the only obvious answer is 'why not?' the day
after matt left all i could think about was changing everything i
could, everything that could be made to appear different: i started to
paint the flat; i rehung all the pictures; i cut a hundred stars from
silver paper and covered the walls of the study; i made a mobile of
broken lightbulbs; i wore clothes i
haven't worn for years; i put big bunches of herbs in vases to change
the smell of the rooms; and i wanted to change the colour of my hair. i
had blue hair a long long time ago--a few years before i met matt. not
solid blue, but blue and orange patterns painted with dye on my hair
and i thought i looked
fucking gorgeous. i probably just looked strange. oh, and matt hates
dyed
hair. so it made perfect sense for me to attempt to paint my hair the
least
natural colour i could find (and green doesn't suit me, i have tried
that
before and i looked as if i was abot to expire at any moment).
i had my hair cut on friday, instead. this cheered me up. i decided to
be all girly and spent shit loads of money on a decent cut. what are
credit cards
for?
i have a face that changes by the day, and more extremely over the last
year. a friend of mine saw a recent picture of me, and assumed it was
of
someone else. when they last saw me i was working 20 hour days and
fighting
a horrible legal battle. perhaps it's just the ebbing away of stress.
i got my notice from my landlord today. the fucker wants to kick out
all the tenants so that he can sell the building to someone who, it is
rumoured, plans to convert the whole building into a brothel. this
pisses me off more than a little. luckily for me, the landlord screwed
up my original lease and
by an odd loophole in english tenancy law it looks like they may be
screwed. i'll spare you the details of the 1988 housing act, but having
waved the papers
at my lawyer it was nice to see an evil grin spread across his face. if
i
knew if and when i was moving to AZ, i wouldn't care so much, but this
is
the worst fucking time for me to have to move out. and it is next to
impossible to find a place in soho (no surprise, seeing as they are
steadily converting every damn flat into a a work place for "models".)
matt came round today. we had coffee and he sighed a lot. it was
tiresome. but we are being so horribly responsible and grown up and
amicable i am starting to wonder if i have been replaced by an alien
pod.
nichelle said:
"I'm convinced that (with possibly a very rare exception) one party
loves the other more. This is true in friendships and other
relationships, though the roles sometimes change. On rare occasions,
I've had a kind of equality in friendships. Never, I think, in a sexual
relationship."
and i am sure she is right. being a callous bitch, most of my
relationships have ended when i couldn't deal with being over-loved.
i'm claustrophobic. matt tells me he still loves me, and the question i
can never ask him is 'why?'
kate
From: Nichelle
Date: 24 April 1997
Subject: hair
I've heard many times that women in crisis or at times of major shifts
in lifestyle tend to change their hair.
Nichelle
From: Kathleen
Date: 25 April 1997
Subject: Re: Calamity Kate rides again
Dear Gaby,
we'll start a new - i won't hate you.
I'll wake up every morning and pour orange juice.
It'll be nice - but trytorefrainfromfreakinmeout. kay?
I'll do the same.
But why on earth are you still here?
-katykei
From: SAGReiss
Date: 25 April 1997
Subject: Welcome
I have done nothing to make you hate me, nor did I do anything to freak
you out. I saw you and I winked at you, discretely. You told Slammy we
knew
one another. I was ready to keep that between ourselves. I'll help you
as
much as I can. It's a good job. Why am I still here? Where would you
have
me go?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Kathleen
Date: 25 April 1997
Subject: Re: Welcome
No no no - from before - you did plenty to make me hate you. I
appreciated the wink. Thanks - i'm sayin. France.
From: Nichelle
Date: 25 April 1997
Subject: Gabe rides Calamity Kate again
There was a guy named negatron in one of the IRC sex rooms last night
who was hitting on me. The IRC boys are a little more aggressive about
needing to know what you look like. I told one of them, "I'm fat, bald,
and ugly." He didn't like my answer- wanted the truth. "Well, I lied.
I'm not actually bald." "Have you got a picture?" "Only my graduation
photo, but I don't look anything like it anymore, so what's the point?"
"Send it anyway." I did. "You're
beautiful." "Used to be, not anymore." Ask Murder. He knew me when I
looked
fairly respectable. Couldn't access my e-mail account, checked the
stack
of printouts and glanced through the secret love files of Mr_Antichrist
and
Calamity Kate. Nothing that exciting, but anything having to do with
women
makes me jealous. I am constantly asking questions. "Is kate your new
girlfriend?"
I hate other women because I know that no matter how brilliant and
charming
I try to be, they are more beautiful than I am.
I've got penis envy. My friend Dawn and I discussed sexual
relationships on the MOO last night. She said women should have 3-4
orgasms to every one the man has. I didn't say what I was thinking-
that a one to one ratio would be nice. Oh, I have them. But I have them
alone in the shower after the act. Sexually satisfied women probably
feel less jealous of other women. I can already hear the response: I'm
just not interested in sex anymore.
So I came home, woke up Gaby, tried to figure out why my computer was
on. He rushed off to work, saying something or other about music files
and coming home at nine o'clock. That's about three hours from now, and
my stomach feels sick. Don't know what I'll do with the time.
Tomorrow's going to be a long day.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 26 April 1997
Subject: Hat(red)
I still do not know what ("plenty" no less) I may have done to make you
hate me. We parted on fairly good terms in May 1995. On 22 February
1996
I included you in an internet project which has become the listserv,
web
site and MOO listed below. When Jeff informed me that you were no
longer
at SU, I took your address off the list. I have no idea whether you
ever
got the dozens of messages we sent. When we met on 9 September 1996 I
was
happy to see you and naturally wanted to invite you to participate in
our
work. It was an extremely odd day. You could find some explanation on
our
web site or by rereading the e-mail of that time. I won't bore you with
too
many details. On that day we received a log (text copied from a chat
room
or MOO) of mea (dis)culpa from the man whom Nichelle accuses of raping
her.
I wrote a letter in the ironic vein simply suggesting the underlying
uncertainty
of memory's witness of the past. You were not alone to be offended.
Others
understood my point. No one except me, so far as I know, thought it was
funny.
I see here no cause for hatred. The timing may have been unlucky, but I
planned neither to meet you nor to receive that log, still less to do
both on the same day. I was a little puzzled by your answer, but
respected your wishes and apologized for any misunderstanding. I had
neither seen nor heard of you
since until you walked into the kitchen Thursday morning. I had more
reason
than you to be surprised. Anyway, as I said, it's a good job, and I'd
be
happy to work with you. I just thought we should clear up any confusion
lest
it clutter up our workplace.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 28 April 1997
Subject: 4-28
smoking a cigar again tonight
too much fighting, I want to leave the instant it starts
and so after a few moments of silent backwatching, I took the money
from the
desk corner and left
drizzling rain on my bare arms and face
shirt and jacket slung over my left shoulder
they keep falling down as I try to light the cigar
I'm no good at it
sitting down on the wet cement block
walk into the store with bad cigar breath and walk back out again with
a six
pack of upchuck cider and a bag of bugles
won't trouble you with the details
I'm not sure why I'm so sad
god didn't you know I was fucked up when you mailordred me?
This is how Miles Davis teaches trumpet players to tongue:
you imagine you have a piece of cagar stuck on your lip and you
try to flick it off with your tongue
Sorry, Miles.
in such need of attention
it would be a good time to take advantage of me
laurent, bring your big baguette, but try not to give me a yeast
infection
this time
trying to remember how many times my mother accused me of smoking when
I was
a kid
I think she did that a lot
I never even tried it until college
big bad cigar smokin mama
and my bf Don used to think I was smoking pot all the time
said my breath smelled like it
but really, it was just the peppermint tea
well, apparently there's something about the combination of my mouth and
peppermint tea that smells like pot
I don't know. I've never smoked pot.
but I think I want to sometime
with somebody who won't laugh at me, since I'm not very good at
inhaling smoke
my virgin lungs only know dmitri and igor
i know you're tired sweethart but i need you now
it's not fair it's not right but i still need you
in some ways i'm a tough bitch, i take no shit and no prisoners
please don't write a tough letter
i'm not toughabout relationships
just tell me it's going to be okay
and i'll believe you
fuck you must have been really fucking tired
here i am smoking your camel cigarettes at my desk
and i set off the fire alarm
cracked open the door waiting for a torrent of obscenities
but only snores
"my god are you dead?"
i actually checked to see if he was brething
been on th e moo a lot
drunk of upchuck sider and tired
but going to keep going until all sex are gone
want to beloved
love you gaby
no criticisms
i am happy to be libing with you here
but better sopmewher else thatn here
don't want to cr y any more
just want to love and eat and sleep together
drive to seattle together
start something better
love you gaby
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 28 April 1997
Subject: OT
My normal work week is thirty-five and a half hours long, three days
six to two and two days eight to three with half an hour break. I have
worked overtime (more than forty hours for those of you who have never
had a wage-slave job) seven of the last eight weeks. I am exhausted. No
surprise I have been quarrelsome and an indifferent lover. I have no
idea what I said Friday night, but my thoughts could only have been:
"What can I say so she will let me sleep?"
Two shifts Friday and some crazy argument keeping me awake. Two shifts
Saturday
and I have to wait for the bus until twenty past ten. No wonder I, who
am
never late, was late two days in a row. Since my academic future is
apparently
in the past, I shall not be able to make my own schedule for the
foreseeable
future. The food service industry is known for irregular hours. If, as
I
hope and expect, Nichelle is once again a student, perhaps she can
arrange
her classes and practice to fit my new job. I hope to work room service
nights,
especially since it gets late early in Seattle. I'm sick of hearing:
"KAWfee
and ARenge juice." I'm sick of cheap fucks arguing over ten-dollar
breakfasts.
I'm sick of serving shitty food to people in a hurry.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Kathleen
Date: 28 April 1997
Subject: Re: Hat(red)
no clutter
cheers
katy
From: SAGReiss
Date: 28 April 1997
Subject: Soy sauce
On another note, have you perchance a copy of that soy sauce parable
e-mail you sent to me in April or May 1995? I don't know if you keep
very careful records. I usually do, but I seem to have lost this one.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Kathleen
Date: 30 April 1997
Subject: Re: Soy sauce
I don't have it. BUT i do have a job at the Sheraton. She called me this
morning - happy as a lark. I go in tomorrow at the crack o dawn. I have
a
question for you. You were telling the class once about some grand
philosopher - the answer was - "you don't have to repeat the question".
I
forget what the question was - and the context of the conversation. DO
you
remember?
katy
From: SAGReiss
Date: 30 April 1997
Subject: My memory
I remember everything. The author in question is Paul Valery, poet and
amateur linguist. I can't find the text in question right now in the
hideous bordel of books and papers. He seeks a purely linguistic
definition for the success or failure of communication. He takes as an
example the question: "Avez-vous du feu?" He claims, in a beautiful but
fundamentally mistaken reasoning, that
the non-repetition of the question is confirmation of successful
communication, that the cigarette was lit. See you tomorrow morning.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
March 1997
May 1997
vr: 1997
