The street bustled with life, rows of cafes and shops, with apartments above, facing the board walk and the blue water assaulting the sand beach with waves after wave. The sun began rising casting a giant yellow reflection in the water, the cafe was packed with people enjoying their morning coffee, the smell of fresh pastries and the rustle of news papers filled the air, the traffic light, and the sidewalks absent of the late morning crowd.
The two men sat peacefully discussing family as I brought them their coffee. The cups rattled on the glass table as I sat them down, one of the mens daughter just got excepted into a prestigious university, and the other graciously complimented him on his family's honor and success, he paused to sip his coffee.
The sun rose in the sky, its brilliance deflected by expensive chrome sunglasses, matching the expensive suits, the shirts unbuttoned for the heat, ornate chains of gold sat atop black chest hair.
Traffic flowed through the street, one man thrust his arm forward shooting the lustrous chronograph on his wrist out of his sleeve, time check complete, as cool as can be, he reached into his trousers and pulled out a phone. He dialed and began talking, the words lost in the hum of cars and people talking, the conversation was brief and the phone returned to his pocket.
The first thing I noticed was the squealing of breaks, and suddenly the white van stopped in front of the men, before the van even stopped, the door slid open, and the two men vanished into van, torn out of their seats by men in black masks, the door slammed and the van slipped into traffic gone before the two mens chairs had fallen back to the ground, the cups rattled on the table with their sudden departure.
Flabbergasted, “Who will take care of the cheque?” I asked to no one in particular.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
untitled cyberpunk work rough draft
The Bentley Intergalactic W-16 speed through the streets, its 3,600 horsepower hauling ass, its pilot weaved through traffic with computer like precision, because it was a computer, a top of the line AutoDrive Elite with enough sensory for a NASA mission to a new galaxy, and enough CPU power to calculate all the data that streamed into its data ports.
In an instant, the massive black car swung into a side street disappearing from the crowds of the busy market in downtown Tokyo. Cruising away from the neon glow of the streets, the car pulled into a industrial garage, a space left empty for the hulking beast to wait. The wetness that remained on the car, began evaporating as tiny nano bots began washing and polishing the car, keeping it in immaculate condition, while it sat idle.
The door swung up automatically and from the back seat emerged a single man. Carrying an Ultra Laser Umbrella, he walked out of the garage the car humming as it polished, into the dark rain outside in the alley. A cloud of mist covered the man, as his umbrella tracked every raindrop that would make contact with the man and instantly evaporated them before they could get he man wet.
The cloud of vapor surrounded him, in a blinding fog of ultra cool technology, his next gen umbrella obscured his vision of the dark alley, his optics system automatically adapting integrating other, clearer, visual spectrum's, IR data filtering through, showing 3rd story a 150meteres away, on a rusting fire escape lays a junky, jacked in, tuned out of the reality his body rotted in, living in cyberspace, curled up in a sleeping bag, a carboard box providing an overhang to keep the cyberhead sheilded from the rain, the data pouring through his wireless a tangled mess or wires leaching power from who knows where sat by his feat.
No one else in the alley, the pink neon signed blurred by rain set the destination. The man quickly began walking around the puddles, a trail of vapor following him. Suddenly the high pitched noise of a engine registered on the HUD, The AI identified it as a single 600cc dirt bike, ripping through the water, a rooster tail spraying intermittently as the bike dash between puddles at 250km/h. To far to the club to reach before the bike was upon him, he could only keep moving until he could ambush his attacker, feinting obliviousness to the impending his attack, he hope to catch his attacker by surprise, his Glock's firing silently at 600 rounds per minute.
Now he said to himself, as he spun around and simultaneously pulling out his two plastic pistols the deleted uranium 10mm rounds would easily rip through the white helmet shooting towards him, a large round target.
The sleeping bag drifted down three stories settling in a wet pile, its plaid pattern illuminated by the gunfire above. Three rounds, a perfect burst of accurate munition from a high powered rifle, the previously jacked in junky peering down the sight, the digital zoomed scope recorded the killshot in high def, the head disappearing in a cloud of pink vapor the umbrella seemingly unaffected by the massive amount of blood which it efficiently vaporized in a cloud of smoke, the body collapsing completely dry onto its knees, then the chest crashing into a puddle the umbrella shooting sparks into the water as it was submerged, apparently its not waterproof.
The rider slowed and stopped at the body, seeing dollars. The helmet was pulled off to let a wave of blond hair to fall out, the rider spitting on the graffiti wall.
The shooter climbed down the fire escape, he shouted "Don't spit. DNA!"
A blast from an Anti-Forensics spray cured that and he got on the bike and they melted into the glow of traffic, leaving the body in the puddle.
In an instant, the massive black car swung into a side street disappearing from the crowds of the busy market in downtown Tokyo. Cruising away from the neon glow of the streets, the car pulled into a industrial garage, a space left empty for the hulking beast to wait. The wetness that remained on the car, began evaporating as tiny nano bots began washing and polishing the car, keeping it in immaculate condition, while it sat idle.
The door swung up automatically and from the back seat emerged a single man. Carrying an Ultra Laser Umbrella, he walked out of the garage the car humming as it polished, into the dark rain outside in the alley. A cloud of mist covered the man, as his umbrella tracked every raindrop that would make contact with the man and instantly evaporated them before they could get he man wet.
The cloud of vapor surrounded him, in a blinding fog of ultra cool technology, his next gen umbrella obscured his vision of the dark alley, his optics system automatically adapting integrating other, clearer, visual spectrum's, IR data filtering through, showing 3rd story a 150meteres away, on a rusting fire escape lays a junky, jacked in, tuned out of the reality his body rotted in, living in cyberspace, curled up in a sleeping bag, a carboard box providing an overhang to keep the cyberhead sheilded from the rain, the data pouring through his wireless a tangled mess or wires leaching power from who knows where sat by his feat.
No one else in the alley, the pink neon signed blurred by rain set the destination. The man quickly began walking around the puddles, a trail of vapor following him. Suddenly the high pitched noise of a engine registered on the HUD, The AI identified it as a single 600cc dirt bike, ripping through the water, a rooster tail spraying intermittently as the bike dash between puddles at 250km/h. To far to the club to reach before the bike was upon him, he could only keep moving until he could ambush his attacker, feinting obliviousness to the impending his attack, he hope to catch his attacker by surprise, his Glock's firing silently at 600 rounds per minute.
Now he said to himself, as he spun around and simultaneously pulling out his two plastic pistols the deleted uranium 10mm rounds would easily rip through the white helmet shooting towards him, a large round target.
The sleeping bag drifted down three stories settling in a wet pile, its plaid pattern illuminated by the gunfire above. Three rounds, a perfect burst of accurate munition from a high powered rifle, the previously jacked in junky peering down the sight, the digital zoomed scope recorded the killshot in high def, the head disappearing in a cloud of pink vapor the umbrella seemingly unaffected by the massive amount of blood which it efficiently vaporized in a cloud of smoke, the body collapsing completely dry onto its knees, then the chest crashing into a puddle the umbrella shooting sparks into the water as it was submerged, apparently its not waterproof.
The rider slowed and stopped at the body, seeing dollars. The helmet was pulled off to let a wave of blond hair to fall out, the rider spitting on the graffiti wall.
The shooter climbed down the fire escape, he shouted "Don't spit. DNA!"
A blast from an Anti-Forensics spray cured that and he got on the bike and they melted into the glow of traffic, leaving the body in the puddle.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
IPTV coming to XBox 360 from Bell Canada
And soon, an IPTV offering that’s going to revolutionize how people think about television. That runs on an Xbox 360 or set top box. Seamlessly integrating services. Fundamentally changing the home entertainment experience.
Remarks by Michael J. Sabia, CEO of Bell Canada
2007 Annual and Special Shareholder Meeting on June 6th
IPTV through an Xbox 360?
Bell is already partners with Microsoft for the Sympatico Portal.
And Bell sells Xbox Live cards on their website.
With Bill Gates already talking about the possibility of the Xbox 360 being used as a super set top box for IPTV, and the CEO of Bell Canada talking about it, it looks like Canadians will have more to do than play Halo 3 on the consoles in the future.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Adolf vs. Nelson
The little corporal awakes screaming in pain, his agony falls on deaf ears, and cold wet cement. His screaming stops, the adrenaline rushing through his body, blood and saliva dripped out of his mouth as he clenched down controlling his pain. The sweat flowing down his face, permeated the room with the smell of fear and doom.
The thick hemp ropes lashed him to a solid wooden chair. He begins to open his eyes and focus. The cement walls cast a glow about the room, the brilliance of the high wattage bulb is refracting in every direction filling the room in light.
Blood is dripping off the chair, running across the floor into a drain, the incline perfectly angled away from the chain, to carry away the fluids dripping from the chair.
His bare chest glistens in sweat and blood. There are no tears in the room, just pain and suffering.
With the trigger depressed by the old black hand, the motor starts to rev again, its high pitched roar. The man with the gray hair grins, his dark face illuminated by the light. A drop of blood falls off the drill bit, pieces of flesh and bone stuck onto it with a bloody adhesive, it is sucked down by gravity to join the the pool gathering underneath the drill.
Blood spurts out of the mans shoulder as the drill bit is plunged into him again and again.
The thick hemp ropes lashed him to a solid wooden chair. He begins to open his eyes and focus. The cement walls cast a glow about the room, the brilliance of the high wattage bulb is refracting in every direction filling the room in light.
Blood is dripping off the chair, running across the floor into a drain, the incline perfectly angled away from the chain, to carry away the fluids dripping from the chair.
His bare chest glistens in sweat and blood. There are no tears in the room, just pain and suffering.
With the trigger depressed by the old black hand, the motor starts to rev again, its high pitched roar. The man with the gray hair grins, his dark face illuminated by the light. A drop of blood falls off the drill bit, pieces of flesh and bone stuck onto it with a bloody adhesive, it is sucked down by gravity to join the the pool gathering underneath the drill.
Blood spurts out of the mans shoulder as the drill bit is plunged into him again and again.
Old school work (v. Eniglish Lit): Acheillies Tears
The luscious green grass sank lower as my knees sank into it. The blue green blades of lawn bent and folded against the ornate stone memorial of a life. This cold piece of rock and its inscriptions, where proof of my ignorance and my stupidity. This stone sits here, now because of my inaction and me. I run my hand over the cold hard stone, feeling the inscription. Feeling the name, as if to remind myself, and yet I know it, as it is the name of my best friend. The friend that I let die. Poor Patroclus, please, Patroclus forgive me. If only I had been blessed with foresight, I would have been able to save him. I feel my eyes to get heavy and moist, and a tear streaks down my cheek, it falls of my chin and plummets towards the soft grass covered earth. The tears run down my face, are tears of sadness, for my lost friend, and tears of shame, for the action I could and should have taken, the action that would have saved my best friend, but did not. Shame fills my salean tears almost as much as it fills my heart.
I single hawk flies over the cemetery and I feel alone, alone as the hawk. I am not crying anymore, that is over, now I must be proud and strong in front of my men and my peers. I manage to remain composed in front of everyone during the day.
I retire early to my tent, content to wallow, alone with a bottle, of the most potent stuff my aide du camp could find, until it is hollow. I feel the liquid take a hold of me, and I relax. The candle casts a glow on the tent, I look around and see my armor shinning, as it was cleaned today. Scrubbed free of my best friends blood and sweat, it now shines gloriously.
But when my armor is old, dented and rusty, the memory of Patroclus will remain fresh, glorious, and brilliant, as he was when he was alive. He will live in me, his memory, and forever, until the day I die and rise to meet him in the afterlife.
I glance at the sharp steel by my armor, its edge taunting me. I rise, and walk towards it. I pause before it, looking at it. I draw my dagger from its sheath. Why should he have died? Why did he perish in battle and not I? Because of my stupidity and pride, I was not there, I was there to protect him, to do my sword duty and uphold my honor. I failed him. I failed my people and myself.
I do not deserve to live. Patroclus did not fail his people, himself or me. I did. I should be in the afterlife, not him. He deserves to be here, enjoying life as a mortal, living. However, he is not and I am. I contemplate making things right. Trying to switch places with him, giving him what he deserves, and me what I rightfully deserve. Why this great injustice to my dear departed friend, why oh, why am I standing here in this world and he is not. Have the fates only the desire to make my life miserable and wretched, taunting me with this injustice.
A rush of air sweeps into my tent, I replace the dagger that has been resting on my wrist, resting with such force that it has left an indent in my flesh where it was, and I turn around to address whomever has entered my chambers.
“My lord, the celebrations of your victory are in full swing, care you to come address the men?” declares my aide du camp.
“I do, I will be there as soon as I can,” I reply and set forth to address my men, whom have fought so bravely with me.
I stare at the golden-framed mirror, and gaze at my face. The face of an unworthy man. I hate it. I Turn away, and exit my tent in a merry mood, ready to uplift my men, for they to must know and love there fellow man. They must grieve as I do, for those they have lost. I stand with them, as I do in battle, and a make them feel merry and great, and the wine certainly helps, to wash the sorrow and blood soaked images from our heads.
I raise me glass in salute as the tears run down my checks. They raise their glasses as well, and they to feel the loss and it runs down their faces, streaming away from their eyes, taking with team all the gruesome things, our eyes have seen.
“To those we lost,” the singular voice of many declares and the wine takes over washing the pain away.
From ~2004
I single hawk flies over the cemetery and I feel alone, alone as the hawk. I am not crying anymore, that is over, now I must be proud and strong in front of my men and my peers. I manage to remain composed in front of everyone during the day.
I retire early to my tent, content to wallow, alone with a bottle, of the most potent stuff my aide du camp could find, until it is hollow. I feel the liquid take a hold of me, and I relax. The candle casts a glow on the tent, I look around and see my armor shinning, as it was cleaned today. Scrubbed free of my best friends blood and sweat, it now shines gloriously.
But when my armor is old, dented and rusty, the memory of Patroclus will remain fresh, glorious, and brilliant, as he was when he was alive. He will live in me, his memory, and forever, until the day I die and rise to meet him in the afterlife.
I glance at the sharp steel by my armor, its edge taunting me. I rise, and walk towards it. I pause before it, looking at it. I draw my dagger from its sheath. Why should he have died? Why did he perish in battle and not I? Because of my stupidity and pride, I was not there, I was there to protect him, to do my sword duty and uphold my honor. I failed him. I failed my people and myself.
I do not deserve to live. Patroclus did not fail his people, himself or me. I did. I should be in the afterlife, not him. He deserves to be here, enjoying life as a mortal, living. However, he is not and I am. I contemplate making things right. Trying to switch places with him, giving him what he deserves, and me what I rightfully deserve. Why this great injustice to my dear departed friend, why oh, why am I standing here in this world and he is not. Have the fates only the desire to make my life miserable and wretched, taunting me with this injustice.
A rush of air sweeps into my tent, I replace the dagger that has been resting on my wrist, resting with such force that it has left an indent in my flesh where it was, and I turn around to address whomever has entered my chambers.
“My lord, the celebrations of your victory are in full swing, care you to come address the men?” declares my aide du camp.
“I do, I will be there as soon as I can,” I reply and set forth to address my men, whom have fought so bravely with me.
I stare at the golden-framed mirror, and gaze at my face. The face of an unworthy man. I hate it. I Turn away, and exit my tent in a merry mood, ready to uplift my men, for they to must know and love there fellow man. They must grieve as I do, for those they have lost. I stand with them, as I do in battle, and a make them feel merry and great, and the wine certainly helps, to wash the sorrow and blood soaked images from our heads.
I raise me glass in salute as the tears run down my checks. They raise their glasses as well, and they to feel the loss and it runs down their faces, streaming away from their eyes, taking with team all the gruesome things, our eyes have seen.
“To those we lost,” the singular voice of many declares and the wine takes over washing the pain away.
From ~2004
More stuff: The Echos are Still Heard Today
James slid out of bed reluctantly, as he did every school day. Even though it was Friday and most kids at his school would be happy it was Friday, James was not. Even though it was Friday, it didn’t mean that the humiliation and bullying the other kids at his high school gave him would stop. So James got out of bed, consoled only by the fact that he and his best friend, Mark, would be able to hang out and listen to Marilyn Manson and play Magic Cards without prejudice for two days, after one more day of hell.
James got dressed after his shower in plain, but well kept clothes, which was all his single mother could afford. He looked respectable, in his blue jeans and t-shirt, with his black hair combed. His grey eyes and sharp features didn’t make him pretty and his build was of a medium height and lean. Because he didn’t wear the right clothes or look like a model for undershorts, he had no friends to speak of, except Mark and wasn’t popular, sout he and Mark stuck together isolated from the rest of the school community. He felt that society, not the people at school, dictated that he was a loser. Mark too, was small and they both liked Magic Cards, but Mark had shown James the joys of music, especially Marilyn Manson. Music didn’t discriminate against you; it didn’t make fun of you or shove you in a locker. Music simply was there. It was an escape from life and it was a friend.
James heard the front door open and knew it was Mark, from the sound of Mark’s second-hand store Doc Martin’s on the linoleum. James shoved his Manson tape in the tape player, which he kept in his pocket, and went to see Mark. After grabbing his lunch and breakfast Twinkie his mother had left out for him, before she went to the diner where she was a waitress. James and Mark exchanged morning greetings and walked out the door of the small suburban townhouse together. They timed their walk to school so that they arrived in their first class, which was Math, right when the bell went so that they would avoid harmful contact with other students. To them classrooms and the library were safe, as there were always teachers there. The halls could be dangerous, but the washrooms were like minefields.
The class ended and they went to the cafeteria to eat and then run off to the library. On their way to the cafeteria they got the usual. Cruel jokes and laughs, nasty comments, and various projectiles and the odd attempt at tripping them. The rest of the day went by without anything spectacular happening; they just breezed through school and left right when the bell went for the day and the weekend. As they were leaving for home a couple of kids from the football team were talking in front of the bathroom door. As James and Mark went around them and past them, James felt two big hands grab hold of his backpack straps and shirt and lift him up. He looked to his side to see Mark hoisted up as well. The football players threw them into the bathroom and followed them in. The 4 big football players passed a bottle around and got ready to have some fun with the ‘losers’. Mark was always vocal about their abuse and always took the front of it. When they emerged ten minutes later, allowing five minutes for their assailants to get away, they were bruised and sore. Mark was also wet from having his head dunked in the toilet.
They went to Marks house to hang out together, until James had to leave for supper. They sat in the living room and watched music videos on MTV, until James left to make dinner for his mom, who would be tired from a long hard day at the diner.
“Everyone.” The words reverberated through the room. Mark said, “We’ll show everyone not to mess with people. We’ll fuck them up all the people that have messed with us. They will a fucking pay.”
The heavy beat and shrill vocals of the music played in the background and the cards sat on the table untouched for what seemed to be hours. James simply couldn’t think of anything we could do to teach the idiots at school a lesson, that they were discontent with their lives. They felt worthless and small. Both James and Mark had considered killing themselves, before they had met each other and their friendship had kept them alive, even though the clouds of depression that loomed over them got bigger and darker. But Mark had a plan and James knew it would work right away, and he agreed with Mark completely. They would show them. Everyone.
Three months later James and Mark walked to school dressed in their new uniform. James wore a black trench coat as did Mark. They had been wearing them for months now and people had become accustomed to, although they thought two kids wearing trench coats on a beautiful summer day was odd, but today they weren’t for fashion. Today their trench coats had purpose. They both had headphones around their necks, with the same tape playing in sync. The summer had just begun and everyone, especially the seniors, were happy the school year was ending so they could have the summer to party. They arrived at the entrance to school and stood in the double doors and looked at the naive students in the school. The sun shone behind them silhouetting them in the door, as the door closed the silhouette died away and they emerged in black.
They walked through the door in harmony with each other. Thump, the left boot hit the tiled floor, thump, the right foot hit the floor. They didn’t care it was their last day. Lunch was just about to begin. They had ten minutes to set the pipe bombs, which they had made parts of in electronics class, around the school. After all the bombs were set they went to the cafeteria and waited. We counted down the minutes and seconds. Tick, tick, tick… The bell rang then 30 seconds later a cacophony of explosions went off. All the bombs were placed in central areas like the entrances and exits and the office, they weren’t to kill, or even maim, the bombs were to keep people inside the school and the police out. They reached into their trench coats and slowly withdrew Tec-9 semi automatic handguns as people began filing into the cafeteria. They sold all their Magic Cards and spent their savings on the small armoury they had. They thanked the second Amendment, and hoped the guns didn’t jam.
James and Mark went around the school shooting people. Bang-Bang-Bang. They shot those who made fun of them, and hurt them. No one cheated the to angels of death in trench coats. Bang, Bang-Bang. We even shot those who stood by and watched, but did nothing. Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang. We walked threw the halls of the school searching for the four football players, who had made their life horrible. The football players were found in the locker room, next to the gym. They were sitting there laughing and joking with each other. They had no idea of the massacre in the rest of the school, because the showers had been on, creating a blanket of white noise. James and Mark both stopped outside the door to the locker room, and filled their magazines. They walked into the locker room the smell of sweat and adrenaline hit them and they raised their guns and watched the fear on their victims faces. Bang, bang, bang. Thump, thump, thump, as the bodies fell to the hard tile. They had agreed to leave the biggest, toughest and the leader of the group for last. The bodies didn’t move, but the blood continued to drain from them creating an even bigger pool of blood on the floor. The echoes of the guns reverberated through the tiled room. They told the captain of the football team to get in the middle of the room on his knees. After a second to assess his situation, which wasn’t good and he knew it, he complied. He knelt in the middle of the room on the hard no-slip tile in a pool of his friend’s blood. They stood in front of him with their guns held against his forehead. They watched the tears well up in his eyes, and the beads of perspiration run down his face. His eyes were blue and filled with fear. Tears ran down his cheeks as his life ended, when two bullets entered his head. As the bullets exited through the read of his skull, brains and bones splattered against the wall, painting it red.
They stained the waxed floors of the school with what was to be the future generation’s blood, the crimson message of death all around. Mark and James stood in the main foyer in front of the office, on top of the blue seal emblazoned with the eagle. They looked at the flag of their nation, the red, white and blue that failed to protect them and those they murdered, and those who saw the carnage and would never forget.
James glanced at Mark, and they nodded to each other. The words, “Let’s do this.” came from their lips and they knew what to do.
Simultaneously two fingers slowly tightened around the steel. BangBang. A sudden flash of light lit up the foyer and the light died. The firing pins struck forward sending the brass projectiles forward, as the air behind the slugs expanded, forcing the slug out of the muzzle and into the flesh of two young boys. The bullets traveled through their heads at over five hundred feet per seconded, as the two brass casings arced through the air, and clattered on the cold stone floor, on top of the eagle. Their bodies became limp, now devoid of life, as the bullets blew their brains out onto the flags. The nation was covered in their blood, as were the hands of the students who mistreated the two bodies that fell to the floor with one thump and everyone who stood by. There were no innocent bystanders that day; everyone got what they deserved, except for two. They fell together as their guns clattered on the hard floor, as the echo of the gunshots dissipated, into the halls. The echoes are still heard today.
***
This was written in 2004 for an English class in high school. It is the first writing assignment that I remembered where I used violence to shock the reader. I gave it to a classmate to read, and she couldn't finish it she found it so disturbing.
I wrote this to try to give some meaning to why teens were shooting people in their schools, something that I felt like I wanted to do at one point in my life(years before, like in grade 7).
This is not to glorify, justify or endorse shooting people in school. This is a slap in the face to the people that blame, MTV, rock music, drugs, and video games for school violence.
James got dressed after his shower in plain, but well kept clothes, which was all his single mother could afford. He looked respectable, in his blue jeans and t-shirt, with his black hair combed. His grey eyes and sharp features didn’t make him pretty and his build was of a medium height and lean. Because he didn’t wear the right clothes or look like a model for undershorts, he had no friends to speak of, except Mark and wasn’t popular, sout he and Mark stuck together isolated from the rest of the school community. He felt that society, not the people at school, dictated that he was a loser. Mark too, was small and they both liked Magic Cards, but Mark had shown James the joys of music, especially Marilyn Manson. Music didn’t discriminate against you; it didn’t make fun of you or shove you in a locker. Music simply was there. It was an escape from life and it was a friend.
James heard the front door open and knew it was Mark, from the sound of Mark’s second-hand store Doc Martin’s on the linoleum. James shoved his Manson tape in the tape player, which he kept in his pocket, and went to see Mark. After grabbing his lunch and breakfast Twinkie his mother had left out for him, before she went to the diner where she was a waitress. James and Mark exchanged morning greetings and walked out the door of the small suburban townhouse together. They timed their walk to school so that they arrived in their first class, which was Math, right when the bell went so that they would avoid harmful contact with other students. To them classrooms and the library were safe, as there were always teachers there. The halls could be dangerous, but the washrooms were like minefields.
The class ended and they went to the cafeteria to eat and then run off to the library. On their way to the cafeteria they got the usual. Cruel jokes and laughs, nasty comments, and various projectiles and the odd attempt at tripping them. The rest of the day went by without anything spectacular happening; they just breezed through school and left right when the bell went for the day and the weekend. As they were leaving for home a couple of kids from the football team were talking in front of the bathroom door. As James and Mark went around them and past them, James felt two big hands grab hold of his backpack straps and shirt and lift him up. He looked to his side to see Mark hoisted up as well. The football players threw them into the bathroom and followed them in. The 4 big football players passed a bottle around and got ready to have some fun with the ‘losers’. Mark was always vocal about their abuse and always took the front of it. When they emerged ten minutes later, allowing five minutes for their assailants to get away, they were bruised and sore. Mark was also wet from having his head dunked in the toilet.
They went to Marks house to hang out together, until James had to leave for supper. They sat in the living room and watched music videos on MTV, until James left to make dinner for his mom, who would be tired from a long hard day at the diner.
“Everyone.” The words reverberated through the room. Mark said, “We’ll show everyone not to mess with people. We’ll fuck them up all the people that have messed with us. They will a fucking pay.”
The heavy beat and shrill vocals of the music played in the background and the cards sat on the table untouched for what seemed to be hours. James simply couldn’t think of anything we could do to teach the idiots at school a lesson, that they were discontent with their lives. They felt worthless and small. Both James and Mark had considered killing themselves, before they had met each other and their friendship had kept them alive, even though the clouds of depression that loomed over them got bigger and darker. But Mark had a plan and James knew it would work right away, and he agreed with Mark completely. They would show them. Everyone.
Three months later James and Mark walked to school dressed in their new uniform. James wore a black trench coat as did Mark. They had been wearing them for months now and people had become accustomed to, although they thought two kids wearing trench coats on a beautiful summer day was odd, but today they weren’t for fashion. Today their trench coats had purpose. They both had headphones around their necks, with the same tape playing in sync. The summer had just begun and everyone, especially the seniors, were happy the school year was ending so they could have the summer to party. They arrived at the entrance to school and stood in the double doors and looked at the naive students in the school. The sun shone behind them silhouetting them in the door, as the door closed the silhouette died away and they emerged in black.
They walked through the door in harmony with each other. Thump, the left boot hit the tiled floor, thump, the right foot hit the floor. They didn’t care it was their last day. Lunch was just about to begin. They had ten minutes to set the pipe bombs, which they had made parts of in electronics class, around the school. After all the bombs were set they went to the cafeteria and waited. We counted down the minutes and seconds. Tick, tick, tick… The bell rang then 30 seconds later a cacophony of explosions went off. All the bombs were placed in central areas like the entrances and exits and the office, they weren’t to kill, or even maim, the bombs were to keep people inside the school and the police out. They reached into their trench coats and slowly withdrew Tec-9 semi automatic handguns as people began filing into the cafeteria. They sold all their Magic Cards and spent their savings on the small armoury they had. They thanked the second Amendment, and hoped the guns didn’t jam.
James and Mark went around the school shooting people. Bang-Bang-Bang. They shot those who made fun of them, and hurt them. No one cheated the to angels of death in trench coats. Bang, Bang-Bang. We even shot those who stood by and watched, but did nothing. Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang. We walked threw the halls of the school searching for the four football players, who had made their life horrible. The football players were found in the locker room, next to the gym. They were sitting there laughing and joking with each other. They had no idea of the massacre in the rest of the school, because the showers had been on, creating a blanket of white noise. James and Mark both stopped outside the door to the locker room, and filled their magazines. They walked into the locker room the smell of sweat and adrenaline hit them and they raised their guns and watched the fear on their victims faces. Bang, bang, bang. Thump, thump, thump, as the bodies fell to the hard tile. They had agreed to leave the biggest, toughest and the leader of the group for last. The bodies didn’t move, but the blood continued to drain from them creating an even bigger pool of blood on the floor. The echoes of the guns reverberated through the tiled room. They told the captain of the football team to get in the middle of the room on his knees. After a second to assess his situation, which wasn’t good and he knew it, he complied. He knelt in the middle of the room on the hard no-slip tile in a pool of his friend’s blood. They stood in front of him with their guns held against his forehead. They watched the tears well up in his eyes, and the beads of perspiration run down his face. His eyes were blue and filled with fear. Tears ran down his cheeks as his life ended, when two bullets entered his head. As the bullets exited through the read of his skull, brains and bones splattered against the wall, painting it red.
They stained the waxed floors of the school with what was to be the future generation’s blood, the crimson message of death all around. Mark and James stood in the main foyer in front of the office, on top of the blue seal emblazoned with the eagle. They looked at the flag of their nation, the red, white and blue that failed to protect them and those they murdered, and those who saw the carnage and would never forget.
James glanced at Mark, and they nodded to each other. The words, “Let’s do this.” came from their lips and they knew what to do.
Simultaneously two fingers slowly tightened around the steel. BangBang. A sudden flash of light lit up the foyer and the light died. The firing pins struck forward sending the brass projectiles forward, as the air behind the slugs expanded, forcing the slug out of the muzzle and into the flesh of two young boys. The bullets traveled through their heads at over five hundred feet per seconded, as the two brass casings arced through the air, and clattered on the cold stone floor, on top of the eagle. Their bodies became limp, now devoid of life, as the bullets blew their brains out onto the flags. The nation was covered in their blood, as were the hands of the students who mistreated the two bodies that fell to the floor with one thump and everyone who stood by. There were no innocent bystanders that day; everyone got what they deserved, except for two. They fell together as their guns clattered on the hard floor, as the echo of the gunshots dissipated, into the halls. The echoes are still heard today.
***
This was written in 2004 for an English class in high school. It is the first writing assignment that I remembered where I used violence to shock the reader. I gave it to a classmate to read, and she couldn't finish it she found it so disturbing.
I wrote this to try to give some meaning to why teens were shooting people in their schools, something that I felt like I wanted to do at one point in my life(years before, like in grade 7).
This is not to glorify, justify or endorse shooting people in school. This is a slap in the face to the people that blame, MTV, rock music, drugs, and video games for school violence.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Backlog of Writings
In the last little while I have written a few things but neglected to share them, as I have been far too caught up with reading Gibson's _Virtual Light_.
First up is a 'write a story in 50 words or less'.
Next I wrote this after a tasty meal.
And finally...
Enjoy. :)
First up is a 'write a story in 50 words or less'.
Panic. My eyes snap open; sleep flees from my body as I awake.
“Where am I?” I ask to no one.
It’s a white room, the walls, the sheets, the furniture, everything is white here. There is a manicured lawn beyond the locked window.
“Where is my daughter?” I scream.
Next I wrote this after a tasty meal.
The little boy squealed with glee. A knife lay on the kitchen counter, cookbooks, and papers, bills, cups and plates all hastily shoved to one side. A hideous child's mess lay strew about half the counter, with a clear bath to the microwave. Inside a plate full of something cooking lay, the dull yellow light of the microwave was burnt out and cast no illumination on the mysterious meal.
With this horrible mess, where are the parents?
Two drops of a thick red blood from each of the boys dirty little hands. They droplets hit the white tile floor and created little liquid explosions, tiny little droplets flew away from their mother in a flash of energy to become a stain on the clean floor.
Why isn't anyone watching this child?
The little boy did a little dance. He shook his ears by his head, on different intervals, raising them up and down with an inhuman energy. A madness burned in the boys eyes, as they rolled in his head as he jumped around and golden locks orbiting his head. He jumped up and down to the clicking of the microwave as the plate rotated around, the numbers slowly dancing away, grinding to zero. A zit on the boys greasy forehead suddenly exploded, the filthy puss and blood flew as fast as it could, desperate to flew the boy.
Is this child alone? No one would leave such a child alone.
The microwaved had not the chance to sound its final tone, as the boy ripped open the door and carried the plate to a table. The boy hastily grab the food with his hands and filled his mouth in a barbaric fury. Primal grunts of pleasure thundered through the room. As he devoured the tender flesh, red blood flowing out of his mouth as he crewed, streams of crimson blood flowed down his cheeks dripping onto his white shirt.
The sound of a door opening echoed through the near silent home, the boy instantly stopping, listening to the intruder to his solitary meal. Footsteps came closer, shadows filled the doorway.
The little boy looked up at his mother. Blood covering his little smile, he gazed at his mother as she spoke to him. He wanted more.
"Oh my God Jonny! Where is your sister?"
And finally...
The aeroplane lay peacefully on the tarmac. It was fresh and new, full of fleshy lives, ready to see the world. It began with a crawl, and slowly rose into the air, taking off. It climbed and climbed, reaching new heights, higher into the sky. Aside from the occasional dip of turbulence it rose, and rose. Then a bump, a drop in altitude, a slight recovery, higher, almost reaching the previous high, then popping up above the clouds, higher than it ever had gone before. The sweet sunlight caressed the aeroplane, glimmering on the shiny aluminum, a bright light, above the gray ominous clouds below, and then the aeroplane began to drop. Gone was the brilliant light, replaced with a dull gray blur as the aeroplane dropped through the clouds, falling through the sky. The stark reality of the decent became clear as the aeroplane fell towards the earth, the details of smokestacks, factories, people toiling away, a new reality for the aeroplane that had once soared so high, high above the dreary reality. Then aeroplane fell and fell, until it was barely flying above the trees. Had the landing gear not been tucked into the belly of the aeroplane, it would have clipped a tree and sent the aeroplane plummeting into a fiery death. The aeroplane cleared the forest, and emerged over a tranquil lake. The aeroplane fell towards the still dark waters. Further towards them the aeroplane did fly until no longer was it soaring in the air, but slicing into the frigid waters, cutting a path into the depths. Lower did it plunge, as the turbines continued to turn forcing the aeroplane deeper and deeper, carrying with it the fragile fleshy cargo.
Enjoy. :)
Proposal: Secure Bookmarks
I am tired to not having bookmarks on some of my machines; because I do not want the obvious persistent indicators of what sites I visit frequently enough to warrant a bookmark.
I also want to be able to access these bookmarks across multiple systems and environments.
Thus I would like a portable and secure bookmark storage system.
A centralized bookmark file stored somewhere on the internet, encrypted to be accessible only to authorized users (simple username and password authentication), that can be downloaded and temporarily stored on a local machine, changed, and be able to upload the changes to the central server for access from other machines.
Cost Benefit Analysis
+ Convenient access to bookmarks anywhere
+ Secured bookmarks from people with local access to machines
+ Secure
+ Backup of your bookmarks
- Requires Authentication in a time when people already have enough usernames and passwords to remember
- Having such a file on a central server make a security breach very dangerous as your bookmarks shed much light on your person.
Process
Implement directly into a browser via plug-ins. Support for multiple browsers (FF, Opera, IE) to ensure usability across most systems people will use. Via plug-ins in the browser, point towards the server hosting the bookmarks, authenticate, then download and store temporarily the bookmarks. Save and submit changes to the server before the session is terminated.
Anyone know of a system like I have described that exists, or does anyone want to work on it?
Thoughts or comments on the topic?
I also want to be able to access these bookmarks across multiple systems and environments.
Thus I would like a portable and secure bookmark storage system.
A centralized bookmark file stored somewhere on the internet, encrypted to be accessible only to authorized users (simple username and password authentication), that can be downloaded and temporarily stored on a local machine, changed, and be able to upload the changes to the central server for access from other machines.
Cost Benefit Analysis
+ Convenient access to bookmarks anywhere
+ Secured bookmarks from people with local access to machines
+ Secure
+ Backup of your bookmarks
- Requires Authentication in a time when people already have enough usernames and passwords to remember
- Having such a file on a central server make a security breach very dangerous as your bookmarks shed much light on your person.
Process
Implement directly into a browser via plug-ins. Support for multiple browsers (FF, Opera, IE) to ensure usability across most systems people will use. Via plug-ins in the browser, point towards the server hosting the bookmarks, authenticate, then download and store temporarily the bookmarks. Save and submit changes to the server before the session is terminated.
Anyone know of a system like I have described that exists, or does anyone want to work on it?
Thoughts or comments on the topic?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Notes on my Generation
What will people remember of my time, my age, and my life?
I know what I am not. I am not a baby boomer, I do not belong to Generation X.
Born in the wake of the Macintosh, I am the product of two individuals of the Baby Boom.
I saw the Wall fall, I saw a man stop a tank. I am plugged in, I am connected, I was wired, but now I live without wires.
I grew up with the world fighting on TV. The failed war on drugs, African genocide, the First Gulf War, was the culture to grow up in. Later we would fight and die in the War on Terror, continue fighting the war on drugs, and witness more ceaseless conflict in Africa.
We are faced with a revolving door of new, change, evolution, and the next thing. We make slow steps up the stairs, with corporations and an ever powerful government setting up tolls, watching us on CCTV. Obsessed with incremental advancement towards materialistic goals, where is the revolution?
Do we have anything to say for our age?
We are the Orwellian children. We live in a world of fear, actors for the Watchers.
Fast. Instant. Now. Connection.
Computers, and the Internet have created for us a new reality. A world where physical limits are set aside, and our minds set the boundaries. We live in and for information. Fast computers, instant communication, media on demand playing now. We are connected to the global communication and information network everywhere. At home, in class, on our phone, to every faucet of our lives the data flows. We are connected to it all and each other.
Everything is jacked. Everything is connected. Everything is amped. Everything is fast.
With everything happening NOW, have we lost sight of the future?
I know what I am not. I am not a baby boomer, I do not belong to Generation X.
Born in the wake of the Macintosh, I am the product of two individuals of the Baby Boom.
I saw the Wall fall, I saw a man stop a tank. I am plugged in, I am connected, I was wired, but now I live without wires.
I grew up with the world fighting on TV. The failed war on drugs, African genocide, the First Gulf War, was the culture to grow up in. Later we would fight and die in the War on Terror, continue fighting the war on drugs, and witness more ceaseless conflict in Africa.
We are faced with a revolving door of new, change, evolution, and the next thing. We make slow steps up the stairs, with corporations and an ever powerful government setting up tolls, watching us on CCTV. Obsessed with incremental advancement towards materialistic goals, where is the revolution?
Do we have anything to say for our age?
We are the Orwellian children. We live in a world of fear, actors for the Watchers.
Fast. Instant. Now. Connection.
Computers, and the Internet have created for us a new reality. A world where physical limits are set aside, and our minds set the boundaries. We live in and for information. Fast computers, instant communication, media on demand playing now. We are connected to the global communication and information network everywhere. At home, in class, on our phone, to every faucet of our lives the data flows. We are connected to it all and each other.
Everything is jacked. Everything is connected. Everything is amped. Everything is fast.
With everything happening NOW, have we lost sight of the future?
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Ghost Riding
Hahaha.
Using not driving a way to demonstration of your wealth.
Here we have a rich guy who has a chauffeur to drive him, because he is rich enough he doesn't have to drive.
YouTube Link to Ghost Ride It
Here we have a bunch of rappers dancing on their cars while they are in motion instead of driving them.
"when you get a new car [ uh huh uh huh ]
and ya feeling like a star [ ok ok ]
what you gon do [ what cha gon do, what cha gon do ]
GHOST RIDE IT"
Using not driving a way to demonstration of your wealth.
Here we have a rich guy who has a chauffeur to drive him, because he is rich enough he doesn't have to drive.
YouTube Link to Ghost Ride It
Here we have a bunch of rappers dancing on their cars while they are in motion instead of driving them.
"when you get a new car [ uh huh uh huh ]
and ya feeling like a star [ ok ok ]
what you gon do [ what cha gon do, what cha gon do ]
GHOST RIDE IT"
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
CPL Announces a Video Game
Cyberathlete Professional League has just annonced that they are in the midst of developing a "videogame conceived from the ground up to ensure the growth
and appeal of multiplayer game competitions worldwide". And here is a PDF Press Release. Titled Severity its scheduled for a Public Demo release in December 2007 release, with a final release date in mid 2008.
CPL is taking steps to ensure that it has fresh new games to keep the Pro Circuit fresh, considering its main tournament games now are Quake 3 and CS 1.6, are both more than 7 years old. The game is to be developed for PC and console, and will feature Quake 3 network and graphics technology.
This could pump fresh blood through CPL in more ways than one.
and appeal of multiplayer game competitions worldwide". And here is a PDF Press Release. Titled Severity its scheduled for a Public Demo release in December 2007 release, with a final release date in mid 2008.
CPL is taking steps to ensure that it has fresh new games to keep the Pro Circuit fresh, considering its main tournament games now are Quake 3 and CS 1.6, are both more than 7 years old. The game is to be developed for PC and console, and will feature Quake 3 network and graphics technology.
This could pump fresh blood through CPL in more ways than one.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
50 Word Story
Panic. My eyes snap open; sleep flees from my body as I awake.
“Where am I?” I ask to no one.
It’s a white room, the walls, the sheets, the furniture, everything is white here. There is a manicured lawn beyond the locked window.
“Where is my daughter?” I scream.
“Where am I?” I ask to no one.
It’s a white room, the walls, the sheets, the furniture, everything is white here. There is a manicured lawn beyond the locked window.
“Where is my daughter?” I scream.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Rough Draft
Title: Deflowering Squad
Back in the 1930's a secret organization formed by a small group of forty year olds. They made a pact together as virgins that no one should live to be a virgin after the age of forty. Right then they went out, found some woman, and in one night they lost their virginity and founded one of the most elite secret societies. Its called "The super secret Anti-Virgin League", which is broken into a few groups. The high council, who run and fund the organization, they are the founders or the replacement for the founders of the organization, there is also the Intel unit whose job it is to track and monitor virgins, they basically function as a high tech Sanata, keeping a list of everybody that has not been naughty. There is also the regulars, who are simple people who support the cause and do there bit by having sex with a virgin, some of these people don't even know they are part of the League, despite there membership. Finally we have the Deflowering Squad. An elite unit of agents whose job is to identify and deflower virgins. Yes thats right, they are basically sex ninjas. They infiltrate the lives of virgins, seduce them and facilitate deflowering penetration for the target.
My name is Candy and I am a member of the Deflowering Squad.
"Good morning Tim," I cast a seductive grin at the Receptionist at the front desk.
"Mornin' Miss Candy," replies as his gaze follows me along the marble floor as I walk to the elevator. I ride it up alone and get into the office. I head to the kitchen. I see there is coffee made, perfect. I grab a cup and head to my desk. Time for work. Check the email, a few good jokes, and news of a Urgent Briefing. I finsh the coffee and head to the briefing room.
Looks like Intel turned up a emergency, and time was short, and they called in a specialist.
"Basically we need a miracle," declared Max, my boss giving me the briefing.
He continued, "We have two days before he turns 41, I dont want another failure, Jones was the last failure in '79 and I wont have that on my watch. How can we get this guy. He does nothing but play WoW all day long. He has no real life social contact outside his house. An absolute recluse."
Max was right, we were in a tight bind. But I figured a way out. "Look Max, its simple. This guy plays WoW all the time. He's gotta be on something. We find his hookup and get an intro that way. See what you can turn up I am gonna go get ready."
I went to the wardrobe section and picked out a new outfit, and did my makeup and when I returned we were in business.
The target is a teahead. His hookup is a fellow gamer and he comes over everyday to drop of some tea and chill for a bit. The hookup was the inn.
I walked into the arcade, and scanned the scene. Pimple faced teens driving, shooting, skiing. Sexy Asian girls playing DDR. Kids running around everywhere, high on caffeine and god knows what they picked up on the street, supercharged with rebellion and sex, riding the greatest wave of their lives.
I saw him in the back, with the old school machines. I walked up behind him, "Your not bad at Street Fighter."
He spun around, his blond hair spayed across his face obscuring his eyes, his faded Nirvana t shirt suggested a grunge flair, while the pressed Khaki's gave a neat casual look. His blue eyes emerged from his hair, searching me. The headphones around his neck now pointing towards me offered me the distinctive tune of Death From Above. He leaned back against the machine, resting on his backpack. His red lips moved, "I'm Mike, you any good?"
I stepped up to the challenge. "Lets find out."
I won. I had his attention now, well more so that when he first saw me.
We sat and chatted. I confirmed the Intel, that he would be heading to the targets house later and invited myself along. Without much protest, we past the time then headed for the mark.
We arrived, and introductions were made. James wore an AMD t shirt with a gruff exterior, and a lovable bear build, and despite being a Dorito munching WoW addict, his place was clean, adorned with action figures and Star Wars posters.
I sat next to the mark, and we smoked some pot, and started watching Hackers.
First I complained of cold and got a blanket. Then I insited on sharing it with the mark and snuggled up even closer. Mike clued in on cue, and excused himself from the apartment, and I homed in on the mark.
I figured he was too nervous to start anything, so I would lead. I slipped my glasses off, and leaned forwards to him, pressing my body on his starting the handshake.
Syn: I kissed him.
Syn: My tongue slipped in his mouth floating through it.
Syn: He kissed me.
Syn: His tongue charged forward, penetrating my mouth surging forward with exuberance.
Our lips locked and our tongues danced, and we swapped packets of love.
Ack: I moaned as pleasure surged through my body.
Ack: He pulled me closer, message received and understood.
Almost as if a surge of 50000 volts were flowing between us, did the passion flow in a steady stream. His hands moved from my hair to my body, his hands flowing across me.
My tight plain t shirt encapsulating my breasts flew off me, his flew off as well, along with a pair of shorts and a skirt, landing all over the room.
Our bodies connected, in a moment of bliss, objective completed. The television cast a faint glow through the smoke in the air onto our gleaming bodies into the night.
Back in the 1930's a secret organization formed by a small group of forty year olds. They made a pact together as virgins that no one should live to be a virgin after the age of forty. Right then they went out, found some woman, and in one night they lost their virginity and founded one of the most elite secret societies. Its called "The super secret Anti-Virgin League", which is broken into a few groups. The high council, who run and fund the organization, they are the founders or the replacement for the founders of the organization, there is also the Intel unit whose job it is to track and monitor virgins, they basically function as a high tech Sanata, keeping a list of everybody that has not been naughty. There is also the regulars, who are simple people who support the cause and do there bit by having sex with a virgin, some of these people don't even know they are part of the League, despite there membership. Finally we have the Deflowering Squad. An elite unit of agents whose job is to identify and deflower virgins. Yes thats right, they are basically sex ninjas. They infiltrate the lives of virgins, seduce them and facilitate deflowering penetration for the target.
My name is Candy and I am a member of the Deflowering Squad.
"Good morning Tim," I cast a seductive grin at the Receptionist at the front desk.
"Mornin' Miss Candy," replies as his gaze follows me along the marble floor as I walk to the elevator. I ride it up alone and get into the office. I head to the kitchen. I see there is coffee made, perfect. I grab a cup and head to my desk. Time for work. Check the email, a few good jokes, and news of a Urgent Briefing. I finsh the coffee and head to the briefing room.
Looks like Intel turned up a emergency, and time was short, and they called in a specialist.
"Basically we need a miracle," declared Max, my boss giving me the briefing.
He continued, "We have two days before he turns 41, I dont want another failure, Jones was the last failure in '79 and I wont have that on my watch. How can we get this guy. He does nothing but play WoW all day long. He has no real life social contact outside his house. An absolute recluse."
Max was right, we were in a tight bind. But I figured a way out. "Look Max, its simple. This guy plays WoW all the time. He's gotta be on something. We find his hookup and get an intro that way. See what you can turn up I am gonna go get ready."
I went to the wardrobe section and picked out a new outfit, and did my makeup and when I returned we were in business.
The target is a teahead. His hookup is a fellow gamer and he comes over everyday to drop of some tea and chill for a bit. The hookup was the inn.
I walked into the arcade, and scanned the scene. Pimple faced teens driving, shooting, skiing. Sexy Asian girls playing DDR. Kids running around everywhere, high on caffeine and god knows what they picked up on the street, supercharged with rebellion and sex, riding the greatest wave of their lives.
I saw him in the back, with the old school machines. I walked up behind him, "Your not bad at Street Fighter."
He spun around, his blond hair spayed across his face obscuring his eyes, his faded Nirvana t shirt suggested a grunge flair, while the pressed Khaki's gave a neat casual look. His blue eyes emerged from his hair, searching me. The headphones around his neck now pointing towards me offered me the distinctive tune of Death From Above. He leaned back against the machine, resting on his backpack. His red lips moved, "I'm Mike, you any good?"
I stepped up to the challenge. "Lets find out."
I won. I had his attention now, well more so that when he first saw me.
We sat and chatted. I confirmed the Intel, that he would be heading to the targets house later and invited myself along. Without much protest, we past the time then headed for the mark.
We arrived, and introductions were made. James wore an AMD t shirt with a gruff exterior, and a lovable bear build, and despite being a Dorito munching WoW addict, his place was clean, adorned with action figures and Star Wars posters.
I sat next to the mark, and we smoked some pot, and started watching Hackers.
First I complained of cold and got a blanket. Then I insited on sharing it with the mark and snuggled up even closer. Mike clued in on cue, and excused himself from the apartment, and I homed in on the mark.
I figured he was too nervous to start anything, so I would lead. I slipped my glasses off, and leaned forwards to him, pressing my body on his starting the handshake.
Syn: I kissed him.
Syn: My tongue slipped in his mouth floating through it.
Syn: He kissed me.
Syn: His tongue charged forward, penetrating my mouth surging forward with exuberance.
Our lips locked and our tongues danced, and we swapped packets of love.
Ack: I moaned as pleasure surged through my body.
Ack: He pulled me closer, message received and understood.
Almost as if a surge of 50000 volts were flowing between us, did the passion flow in a steady stream. His hands moved from my hair to my body, his hands flowing across me.
My tight plain t shirt encapsulating my breasts flew off me, his flew off as well, along with a pair of shorts and a skirt, landing all over the room.
Our bodies connected, in a moment of bliss, objective completed. The television cast a faint glow through the smoke in the air onto our gleaming bodies into the night.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
From /.
/. Link
Original post
I was just about to play a CD I own after reading this I changed my mind. Instead I am going to go download something new and listen to it, so the RIAA can add one more album stolen and $20 dollars they never will see (not that they would have seen it anyway), but ya know a little fuck you to my Corprate Overlords.
Infact I think I will download 1 album every time I see an article about the RIAA on /. or digg. And when I see articles about the MPAA or when I see the annoying MPAA ads in theaters about stealing movies is like stealing cars, I will also steal a movie.
Anyways I am off to fire up the good old http://thepiratebay.org/top/101 and snag some tunes.
I will report back with a appreciation post of my soniCivil Disobedience.
11811
"Warner Music CEO Edgar Bronfman admitted that he was fairly certain that one or more of his children had downloaded music illegally, but despite this direct admission of guilt, no lawsuits are pending. Surprised? Bronfman insists that, after a stern talking-to, his children have suffered the full consequences of their actions. 'I explained to them what I believe is right, that the principle is that stealing music is stealing music. Frankly, right is right and wrong is wrong, particularly when a parent is talking to a child. A bright line around moral responsibility is very important. I can assure you they no longer do that.' I wonder if all of the people currently being sued/extorted can now just claim that they 'no longer do that.'"
/. Link
Original post
I was just about to play a CD I own after reading this I changed my mind. Instead I am going to go download something new and listen to it, so the RIAA can add one more album stolen and $20 dollars they never will see (not that they would have seen it anyway), but ya know a little fuck you to my Corprate Overlords.
Infact I think I will download 1 album every time I see an article about the RIAA on /. or digg. And when I see articles about the MPAA or when I see the annoying MPAA ads in theaters about stealing movies is like stealing cars, I will also steal a movie.
Anyways I am off to fire up the good old http://thepiratebay.org/top/101 and snag some tunes.
I will report back with a appreciation post of my soniCivil Disobedience.
11811
Saturday, November 25, 2006
The Wii Power Glove
This morning (at 3:40PM) I was reading the Games section on Digg.com and saw what I thought to be the most exciting thing to happen to a Next Gen console.
It wasn't HD-DVD disks, or even Blu-Ray, fast processors or even a "Killer App" game.
It was a glove. Yes, I was excited about a glove.
I started reading the Digg article's title Wii Glove Coming Forget Sweaty Palms WiiMote Broken TV and stopped after reading Wii Glove. Two words and I was hooked. I clicked the link and was directed to the Engadget article is found Here.
I was sorely disappointed however. I had envisioned an updated version of the Nintendo Power Glove made for the Wii. Yes, the Power Glove featured in the 1989 commercial/film The Wizard starring Fred Savage that featured the classic "I love the Power Glove...it's so bad" line.
I still hope for a Wii Power Glove, and I await reading the announcement for it.
For the Wii, we can only hope.
It wasn't HD-DVD disks, or even Blu-Ray, fast processors or even a "Killer App" game.
It was a glove. Yes, I was excited about a glove.
I started reading the Digg article's title Wii Glove Coming Forget Sweaty Palms WiiMote Broken TV and stopped after reading Wii Glove. Two words and I was hooked. I clicked the link and was directed to the Engadget article is found Here.
I was sorely disappointed however. I had envisioned an updated version of the Nintendo Power Glove made for the Wii. Yes, the Power Glove featured in the 1989 commercial/film The Wizard starring Fred Savage that featured the classic "I love the Power Glove...it's so bad" line.
I still hope for a Wii Power Glove, and I await reading the announcement for it.
For the Wii, we can only hope.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Cyberpunk Laptop
Grab your decks, and jack into this Cyberpunk Laptop mod.
This apparently is a fully functioning computer.
Awesome.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Greenday and U2 "The Saints are Coming" Music Video
I am a huge fan of music videos, I think they are an incredible medium, that done properly can enhance the message of a song. They can be tell a story, they can wow the viewer, they can be cool, or they can be a vehicle to broadcast a message.
However one new video has me baffled.
Check out the video on youtube HERE.
The song is inconsequential to my confusion. The selected imagery is what blows my mind.
They video shows "fake" media coverage of New Orleans, as well as footage of New Orleans during the Katrina Flooding, the band in concert in New Orleans and in studio.
The interesting shots are those of the fake media coverage, complete with CNN esque marque bar on the bottom of the video with statements such as "US Iraq Troops Redeployed to New Orleans". Complimented with videos of Attack Planes, Attack Helicopters and even what appears to be B-2 Stealth Bombers, deployed to New Orleans to rescue civilians and drop aid packages.
This provides me with two very mixed messages.
On one hand I see the Propaganda machine showing love and caring for the people of New Orleans in this video. This is shown threw the obviously fictitious use of US military assets for Katrina Aid.
On the other hand I see a subtle jab at the use of the Military. A video that asks, "Where was the military to help our own people in need?". To that question the video answers are found in the text. In Iraq.
The final frames of this video explain the artists stance. As the camera pans past a sign that says, "NOT AS SEEN ON TV", one gets the impression that the artist is conveying the message, that the imagery of the video is not true, and what should have happened, did not. And that is the tragedy.
However one new video has me baffled.
Check out the video on youtube HERE.
The song is inconsequential to my confusion. The selected imagery is what blows my mind.
They video shows "fake" media coverage of New Orleans, as well as footage of New Orleans during the Katrina Flooding, the band in concert in New Orleans and in studio.
The interesting shots are those of the fake media coverage, complete with CNN esque marque bar on the bottom of the video with statements such as "US Iraq Troops Redeployed to New Orleans". Complimented with videos of Attack Planes, Attack Helicopters and even what appears to be B-2 Stealth Bombers, deployed to New Orleans to rescue civilians and drop aid packages.
This provides me with two very mixed messages.
On one hand I see the Propaganda machine showing love and caring for the people of New Orleans in this video. This is shown threw the obviously fictitious use of US military assets for Katrina Aid.
On the other hand I see a subtle jab at the use of the Military. A video that asks, "Where was the military to help our own people in need?". To that question the video answers are found in the text. In Iraq.
The final frames of this video explain the artists stance. As the camera pans past a sign that says, "NOT AS SEEN ON TV", one gets the impression that the artist is conveying the message, that the imagery of the video is not true, and what should have happened, did not. And that is the tragedy.
Welcome to my new Weblog
Just a nice introductory post.
I am interested in a variety of topics, many of which I may discuss. I simply want a centralized location to publish my creative and subjectively intellectual thoughts.
I am interested in a variety of topics, many of which I may discuss. I simply want a centralized location to publish my creative and subjectively intellectual thoughts.
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