Not Hip

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The old man turned off the radio
Said, "Where did all of the old songs go?
Kids sure play funny music these days --
They play it in the strangest ways."
Said, "It looks to me like they've all gone wild.
It was peaceful back when I was a child."
Well, man, could it be that the girls and boys
Are trying to be heard above your noise?
And the lonely voice of youth cries, "What is truth?"

-- Johnny Cash, 1970

Come on, Reed. The Man In Black told you what-for forty years ago. Yes, the world is a complex, changing, and often scary place, but if you're willing to see good things among all that scary newness, you'll actually find a surprising lot of them! Even in the music that young people listen to these days! For instance, one of my favorites over the last few years, Iron and Wine, is a fella singing softly alongside little more than an acoustic guitar. Sometimes his music feels as though it is coming from a sort of sweet and gentle world that never actually existed but that I think would be comforting to live in, at least for a while. I think you would like it.

Top of the Food Chain

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"But they're people!" cried the woman, struggling against the grip of several riot cops. "How can you do this, how can you when they're just people!" Her voice grew fainter and was swallowed up by the crowd as she was dragged away.

"Amazing," Clyde murmured, surveying the view from his seat by the window. "There must be hundreds of them."

"Thousands, according to CNN," Maria replied. She swung her laptop around so he could see the screen. "They've got aerial photography from the police helicopters."

"Hm." Clyde turned back to the window. Outside the restaurant, a mass of protesters still seethed against the police barricades, their shouts and chants audible even though the reinforced glass. "You'd think they'd have something better to do."

Maria raised an eyebrow. "Apparently Flavio's is considered quite the violation of basic rights."

Clyde chuckled, then hummed appreciatively as their waiter appeared, a steaming plate in each hand. Both plates were set before them, their wineglasses were refilled, and t hen the waiter disappeared as silently as he had come. Flavio's was renowned for its staff almost as much as for its food.

Clyde bit into his burger, then hummed again. "Superb, as always."

They both jumped as a loud CRACK resounded through the room; it became apparent that one of the protesters outside had thrown a rock at their window. Clyde laughed uproariously as the culprit was first teargassed, then pulled back towards a group of SWAT vans. The glass remained undamaged. "Ha! I love it when they bring a good beating down on themselves." He took an extra-large bite, leaning into the window to make an elaborate show of chewing. Several of the protesters outside gestured rudely, but none appeared ready share the fate of the rock-thrower by doing anything more.

Maria dabbed primly at her mouth with a napkin. "You know, Clyde, one of these days, you'll antagonize them too far."

"And what?" replied Clyde, "-- they'll throw a rock at me? And then the nearest cop will work them over with a baton." He grinned evilly. "Wouldn't be the first time a protester'd accidentally fallen down the stairs seventeen times in a row."

Maria merely smiled. "Never underestimate the power of the little people," she murmured, before going back to her burger.

Outside, another woman had worked her way to the front of the crowd and begun shouting. Clyde had observed more than once that it always seemed the middle-aged old cows who were the loudest. Younger people were more into petty vandalism; the husbands and fathers were too busy actually working to bring in money for their middle-aged old cow wives to spend.

"Flavio's is murder!" this particular middle-aged old cow was screaming now. "Flavio's kills our friends -- our neighbors -- our families!"

On their side of the glass, Clyde erupted into laughter, spraying crumbs of bread and meat. "Hey, you!" He shouted at the window. "Hey! Yeah, that's right, over here!" He bared his teeth at the woman outside. "See this?" he called, pointing to the remains of his burger. "I hope it was your family!"

The woman struggled furiously against the cops. She was screaming something at Clyde, but he was laughing too hard to pay attention. "I hope it was your cousin!" he screamed gleefully. He took a huge bite, and grinned madly at her through it. "An' i' wa' DELISHUSH!"

The woman outside screamed something incoherent, and actually managed to break free of the police line. In an instant she was at the window, clawing at it, pounding with her fists, her horns. It took seven cops to finally pull her back, and she went down fighting, her hate-filled eyes never leaving Clyde.

Maria only raised her eyebrow again as Clyde resumed his meal. "Goddamn cows," he chuckled, shaking his head.



Honestly. It's a world of animal-people. If you're not a vegetarian, then aren't you just eating your fellow sentients?

And yes, the restaurant is named after an Animaniacs character, I have been making use of my Netflix account lately, why do you ask?

Grand Theft Auto

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Within ten seconds of deciding he was tired of walking, Carl was already speeding away -- "speeding" being a relative term in the aging Walton, but whatever. He'd jumped into the road in the path of the oncoming truck; its driver, some aging redneck in a greasy baseball cap, had come to a screeching stop; with practiced ease, Carl yanked the unlocked door open, threw the driver to the ground, and took his place behind the wheel. "This is a jacking," he snarled. "Don't make it a murder."

Then he was off, the truck's former occupant too stunned to even think of fighting back.

* * *

It took a couple hours before Mack's outstretched thumb got any response. The ride back to town was a bumpy one, sprawled in the back of a truck that must've had even worse shocks than his did. Than his had. Mack rested his head in his hands. Of all the people who used this road, why'd that bastard have to carjack him?

The guy who'd given him a lift dropped him off at the El Quebrados town limits before chugging off, trailing a rooster-tail of dust behind it that left Mack coughing for several minutes afterwards. His house was at the far end of town, maybe a two-mile walk from here, but this was as close as his ride had been willing to take him. The desert night was cold, and Mack wasn't wearing anything heavier than a worn flannel. Too late to worry about that now. Too late to worry about what he'd do without his truck, either.

Mack coughed a few more times, then started walking.



I have logged literally thousands of hours playing Grand Theft Auto III: San Andreas, along with a few hundred playing Vice City and vanilla III. I have spent some time thinking about how much woe I'm causing my carjacking victims... but not much.

In a Pluggerverse, everyone is a victimized NPC. Poor bastards.

X'd Out

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"Wait, what?" Ryan broke in, his voice sharp enough that Cliff stopped to favor him with a raised eyebrow before answering.

"That's what it says, anyway." Cliff refolded the newspaper so that the obits were on top. "'Mr. Burnapple is survived by his sister, Flora Burnapple, 58, currently residing in Omaha, Nebraska. Services were held at -- '"

Ryan let out a loud whoop, again startling Cliff into silence and a hoist of the eyebrow. "Where's the fucker buried?"

"At, uh. Valhalla Gardens." Sudden understanding flooded Cliff's face, followed by a species of surprise tempered by the knowledge that worse would probably be forthcoming. "Please tell me you're not planning what I think you are."

"Oh hell yes," Ryan replied, pulling his wallet from his pocket. Carefully he extracted a much-worn slip of paper, smoothing it out on the table before grabbing Cliff's crossword-working pen. "Principal Burnapple rode both our asses all through high school -- and, if you'll remember, tried three separate times to get a shrink to certify me as crazy so he could have me expelled and locked up. And you know what I've wanted to do ever since."

Cliff groaned. "I'd kind of hoped you'd forgotten by now."

"Never," Ryan answered cheerfully. Carefully he X'd out one of the names listed on the ragged slip of paper. "And now I'm finally gonna get to dance on his grave."



"Burnapple"?

Little Pluggers

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"Goddamn little perverts!" Jeannie cried, hurling her tin of clothespins at the fleeing boys. It bounced off the leg of the youngest, who was trailing the pack, but the effort garnered nothing but a brief "ow!" for her troubles. Little bugger didn't even stumble, and all four children easily made their giggling escape. The fluttering bit of blue cloth in the grasp of the eldest was all too recognizable.

Jeannie sighed loudly, casting a jaundiced eye in the direction of the Martin house next door. All four of their boys were utter hellspawn, pure and simple. This was the second time this month that one of her bras had gone missing from her backyard clothesline, and even though she hadn't caught them at it till just now, she'd still known well enough who the little culprits were. Filthy monsters. Didn't they have an older sister to spy on?

Grumbling, Jeannie bent to pick up the basket of fresh laundry she'd dropped when she saw the boys at her clothesline, grateful at least that none of it had tumbled out to the ground. Then she remembered that the clothespins were still over by the hedge where she'd managed to peg one of the Martin spawn.

"And I'll do worse than that if I catch him again," she muttered as she began gathering up scattered clothespins. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned thirty-fifth-trimester abortion to brighten up the day."


I figure since I already did this from the one angle, I'd go ahead and try it from the other.

Damned little perverted children. Brookins and/or Fulcher, you are a filthy, filthy man and/or men.

Four Legs

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Brad glanced up as his roommate wandered vaguely through the living room. "Finally woke up, huh?"

"Mnuh," Charlie replied vaguely. "Been up for a while, actually. I was just thinkin'."

"Uh oh."

Charlie fwumphed down onto the other end of the couch. "Yeah, see, that book." He pointed at the copy of Animal Farm in Brad's hands. "So the animals take over 'cause they're mad at the humans enslaving them. Right?"

"Well, gee, thanks for spoiling it for me," Brad deadpanned.

"The animals do all the work, and they still have to sleep in cold barns and eat hay and whatever else." Charlie nodded, as though agreeing with himself, then raised a finger. "But what if it happened today?"

Brad blinked. "What if farm animals, having turned out to actually be sentient and capable of holding a grudge in the first place, revolt against humankind... today?"

"Mmmyep. Just think how much more screwed we'd be just because of 'Old Yeller'."

"Huh." Brad closed the book and tilted his head. "Dog befriends family, dog defends family, dog gets shot for his trouble. You do have something there."

Charlie started ticking off on his fingers. "Babe: pig buys into the establishment and spends his life slavishly imitating his human masters. Lassie: dog spends its life getting the same damn kid out of every well in the tri-county area. Mister Ed: horse has nothing to do except stand around talking to some loser. We are not in good standing with the animal kingdom, my friend."

Brad laughed. "I still think you're kind of exaggerating the problem here, man."

"Two words," Charlie answered, grinning wickedly. "Air Bud."

"...point taken," Brad replied.



My immediate response on viewing today's Pluggers was something along the lines of "So, the animals... prefer movies starring... animals. Gotcha. Next startling revelation, please." Then I thought of the Orwell angle.

And no, I never had to read Animal Farm for school. I'm just a nerd.

High Gas Prices

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The Pilot was a few exits up the highway, but Jake figured he'd make it. Even though the needle was pointing to E, he should still have at least a dozen miles before the car stalled; even then, he wouldn't have to worry much. Markson Consulting had the ol' triple-A for all their company vehicles. Let them do the towing. It was a fine spring day, perfect for sitting on the hood of the car and smoking a cigarette. You'd have to be some kind of moron to be stuck driving two hundred miles on a day like this, though not as much of a moron as the "professionals" on site who couldn't figure out a simple database installation. Idiots.

Jake caught himself reaching for his smokes, and returned his hand to the steering wheel. Not in the company car; not after his buddy Harry had gotten chewed out for lighting up while on the road. Apparently the smell was hell to get out of the upholstery. Oh, well. He could get out at the Pilot, stretch his legs, take care of a few personal needs. There was the sign on the right. Gas, food, and a handful of crummy stores, next exit.

He followed the route to the gas station almost subconsciously; this was at least the sixth time this client had needed a tech to come out and help them, and he had been the one tapped to go five of those times. It would have been infuriating if it were his own car going through all this wear and tear, but as things stood it was mainly boring. Two hundred miles of midwest terrain got old after a half-dozen repetitions. By this point he was more or less making the trip without thinking about it, right down to the refueling at the Pilot.

He couldn't help smirking as he pulled up to the pump. He always made sure to get premium gas on these trips, and he usually made sure to avoid the cheaper gas stations, too. Oh, sure, it added up to rather a lot more that way. And, of course, all his travel costs were always reimbursed by the client, as per company policy. But then, that was why he'd started doing it this way, along about the third time he had to come out there.

Jake figured they deserved the extra touch.

December

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Gina settled herself between the covers, let out a deep breath, and turned out the light.

The room did not noticeably dim.

With an annoyed grunt, she rolled over to face away from the window. That didn't help much, though; the opposite wall just bounced the light back at her, red and blue and green and yellow blinking and twinkling in crazed randomness. Closing the window blinds didn't seem to do anything besides diffuse the colored patterns.

For a few moments Gina lay in bed, eyes tightly closed, trying to convince herself that she couldn't still see the lights anyway. Finally she sat up again. A small growl of irritation issued from her throat.

"Goddamn neighbors..." she muttered, rising and stalking across the room to the window. Lifting a slat on the blinds, she glared out at the lightshow currently decorating the house next door. She had a feeling she knew why she had gotten the house so cheap last January, and why the last residents had themselves not stayed long. How could anyone possibly need that many Christmas decorations?

With a sigh she turned from the window. It was easy enough to be furious about it now, and to promise herself that she'd do something about it tomorrow. But then tomorrow it would again seem not that important, especially given that the offending gentleman next door was good friends with the local police, and she would no doubt not bother yet again. That was, after all, why tonight was the fourth night in a row she'd be spending on the couch. And counting.

Gina indulged herself enough to shake a fist in the direction of the window, then lugged her pillow and blanket from the room.

Film

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"I don't actually care, ma'am," Zoe wanted to say.

"Your grandchildren, surprisingly enough, do not interest me in the slightest," Zoe longed to add.

"For the love of God, woman, shut up," Zoe wished to emphatically state, before turning on her heel and walking away.

Instead she continued leaning on the counter, nodding and smiling at the right places in the old woman's monologue, and silently praying for the ceiling to fall in and put them both out of her misery. Eventually the woman finished up and went away, which was almost as good.

Zoe turned back to the bins of developed photos, pretending to be busy straightening them. Every damn day she finished up her shift determined to quit, and yet every morning she was still here, bright and early and "with a team attitude." It wasn't that it was a bad job, so much as it was a stupid one. Especially when people came along and decided that she needed their life stories to go along with their badly-shot photos of ugly children and boring tourist traps.

A hand rose suddenly from the other side of the window that led into the back room. It wasn't a photo lab, exactly -- they weren't even trusted to develop the pictures here, that was for the "experts" at the Zionsville store -- but it was good for storage, sorting space, and unscheduled breaks. Ralph was in there now, and it appeared that he had found something of interest, since clutched in his hand was an envelope containing someone's developed photos.

"Need help in there, Ralphie?" Zoe asked, all innocence. That old woman could learn a thing or three from Ralph, she reflected, supressing a grin. He seemed to have a real knack for finding the more... unique photos taken by their customers. And he, too, loved to share them.

She supposed she might quit today. First, though, it was just about time for her to go on break.

Good News

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Rachel glanced out the window at the gathering forming on the neighbors' porch. Women, mostly, the various aunts and mothers and sisters that made up the Ogden clan. At the center of the roiling little storm was Chelsea Ogden, the lady of the house, holding in her arms the actual reason for all this hubbub.

With a sigh, Rachel turned back to the table. "You'd think they'd never seen a baby before," she said wryly. "Certainly they didn't all come over when Chelsea's husband got that novel published, and that seems rather more of an accomplishment than just reproducing."

Lucy raised an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee mug. "Mmm. Well, to a certain sort, havin' a baby is about the highest calling one could ever hope to answer to."

"And it's not even like it's something new," Rachel grumbled, sitting back down again and drawing her own mug closer. "Congratulations! You know how to do something that billions of people have figured out before you! Now we will shower you with gifts and give you the best parking spaces at the grocery store." She took a sip of coffee, then continued. "Honestly! Some guy gets his legs blown off in Iraq, he comes home and wants to go to the grocery store, he has to park farther away than the slut who couldn't figure out birth control!"

Lucy grinned slyly. "The thing to keep in mind about that is, you don't have to have a special license plate to say you're expectin'." She coughed. "If you know what I mean."

"Don't let any of the Ogdens hear you talking that way. You'd never make it out alive."

"Oh, it's not me that has to watch what she says," Lucy replied, eyes sparkling with malicious glee. "If Chelsea ever catches up to me and asks me to coo over her little wormbaby, I may just throw them both out a window."