Call-Forwarding; A Techno-Shamanic Fantasy

Dammit. It’s been an ongoing problem for weeks now.


It started when I forwarded my desk-phone to my company-issued cellphone before leaving work one night. It’s part of my routine, and I do it every evening.


But this time…the phone system suffered some kind of hiccup. My phone stayed in call-forwarding mode, while every other phone on my floor seemed to lose their call-forwarding capabilities.


Whatever. The prob has been logged with the helpdesk, numerous follow-up queries have been made, but it hasn’t been fixed.


Today, though…I suddenly became curious about something.


My desk-phone is forwarded to my cellphone, right? Well…what would happen if I forwarded that same cell right back to the desk? A nicely closed-loop of call forwarding…


Couldn’t let that be just an idle curiosity, of course. So I went ahead and did it. Then I wheeled over to a nearby desk, and dialed in my deskphone’s extension…


It was weird. It was glorious. It began with a shrill beep from my cell. Followed by a similar sound from my deskphone. Then a quicker one from my cell, and a quicker one from my desk…


...back and forth, like an ancient game of Pong. Faster, shriller, more intense…


And then the lights dimmed, and they were gone. Our computers began shutting down, one by one, as the network disappeared. Surprised, angry voices sounded throughout the room.


Dazed, I wandered to the exit. What I found outside did nothing to allay my nervousness.


Tripping like grounded-out breakers, all the buildings throughout this industrial park were shedding their electricity and going dark. Streetlights and traffic signals were shutting down. Traffic was growing crazy and confused.


But beneath that…the hum had gone away. Do you know the hum? It’s always there, so you rarely notice it. But when the power’s gone, during a blackout or electrical storm, you notice that eerie and profound silence. That’s the lack of hum.


Had I wrought this? Of course I had; I had no doubt. I felt some fear at first – the fear of a Luddite who’d just smashed his machine.


But that faded, and soon I felt only joy. I looked behind me and saw a thin stream of co-workers, also wandering from the impotent building, trying to find something to do, some way to cope.


I’m not sure why, but they looked to me. Silent, wide-eyed, looking for a leader…


At my feet, I saw a handful of twigs, blown from the trees in some recent gale.


I closed my eyes for a moment, and cast my mind back. Years ago, decades ago…when I wore a neat green uniform and a neckerchief and merit badges…I cast my mind back and recovered those long-forgotten lessons.


Then I reached and grasped two of those sticks and held them high over my head. I turned and addressed this frightened crowd that longed to become a tribe…


“Come! I teach you to build fire!”

Really Bad Week

It's probably premature to call this The Worst Week Ever (it is, after all, only Thursday), but it sure as hell ain't been a joyous one.

On Monday I was anally raped by a fiber optic cable. On Tuesday I made a teeny weeny work-error, that crashed a global network.

Today I forgot our wedding anniversary (how sitcom cliche of me).

Since a 7-day do-over is probably out of the question, I guess I'll settle for this week being over and done with, ASAP. Selah.

A Writer's Epitaph

Writing one's own epitaph: that's a macabre effort that writers especially are tempted into. Thankfully, wiser heads usually prevail and more traditional chiselings usually end up on the stone.

But for whatever it's worth, here are my favorites:
H.G. Wells: "Goddamn you all, I told you so."
Dorothy Parker: "Pardon my dust."
Dorothy Parker (yeah, she was noir enough to write multiples): "Everywhere she went, including here, was against her better judgment."

And mine? (Without claiming such lofty company of course)
Just a poem, please...

Boneyard requiem
that final wormy dance
From birth to death cradle to grave
poor bastard never stood a chance.

From imbalmed flesh to forgotten dust
coffin nails long turned to rust
until...

No one living recalls his name.
He might not have ever been.

awesome technology in the palm of my hand

I now have the ability to pause live TV. I ain't sayin I'm Master of the Universe...but I'm closer now than ever before.

Screwed up world we got, yeah, but we sure do have some sweet toys to ease the pain.

A few questions for the gentleman from Louisiana (which should be asked on the floor of the Senate, but won't be)

I know the gentleman from Louisiana, and his wife, would like to put the subject of his, er, indiscretions behind them...but I'm afraid it won't be that easy. It has been well said by myriad others that Mr. Vitters has invited this scrutiny through his past moral hypocrisy in pronouncing stern judgment on a single case of adultery. One signature difference, a difference that doesn't invite this scrutiny but rather demands it, between that indiscretion and Mr. Vitter's, is that Mr. Vitter's involves a crime.

And as much as the gentleman from Louisiana would like to believe that it was a victimless crime, prostitution is the furthest thing from that.

So the questions for Mr. Vitter should be begin with, are you aware of the connection between prostitution and human trafficking? Do you have any idea whether or not the girls you fucked came here shackled inside a shipping crate?

Child prostitution is another scourge we can't seem to lose, Mr. Vitter. I don't suppose you checked an ID before you committed that oh-so forgivable sin of yours, did you?

Okay that was harsh, and maybe even a stretch. Maybe it really was a victimless crime. But...do you know what her name was, Mr. Vitter - any of their names? Have you ever even wondered? Have you wondered how they got in that place, what drove them to this?

Have you considered, even for a moment, the crying shame of the fact that you and politicians like you have never done a thing to help those girls?

in a fuckin rut

Life has grown boring. I'm thinking about faking a stigmata.

launching pad

Good lord, do I really find myself in this spot again? Am I really starting yet another blog - another which will receive a few dispatches of wit and wisdom (or at least my versions thereof)...that will be updated and augmented regularly, at first...then sporadically...and then not at all?

Why not cut to the chase and let this fucker die out right away? Why bother starting it at all?

Good questions, those. And despite the inevitibility of this blog's demise, I start it nonetheless. Because I have things to say.

Don't we all? Well, sure. But lately a cavalcade of rude realities have imposed themselves on me, and I suppose I have no real recourse, but to blog them.

So expect to see frequent updates (until the upcoming petering-out) of me bitching about fate. About undiagnosed illnesses and the endoscopic cameras they keep shoving up my unmentionables. About that unpublished goddam manuscript and the philistines who've read it but won't return my calls.

And Bush. Oh yes, we'll be talking about Bush.

So let the self-indulgent pixelated literary masturbation begin. Let a torrent of self-pittying be committed to cyberspace. Let you, the voyeur, be amazed or disgusted or perplexed.

Or rather...let it begin tomorrow. I already grow weary of this shit.