September 18, 1997, Thursday

note: this entry contains censored content

If you are offended by censored content, and the possibility that you could miss out on some important plot-relevant facts, you might want to petition me for membership on a hypothetical mailing list which I may or may not set up. This would not be a notify list in the typical sense of the word, just an alternative method of communication in which I'd actually know the composition of my audience.

My mind was assembling a fantastic future world, fully aware that the whole thing was just a thought experiment.

R


ory has been putting photographs of his various totalled cars online. There's a good one in there of his 1972 Ford LTD back before the police confiscated it. It apparently had a mind of its own and liked to crash itself.




I


  awoke several times during my sleep today after profoundly intellectual dreams. In these dreams, I wasn't living in an alternative dream world; instead, my mind was assembling a fantastic future world, fully aware that the whole thing was just a thought experiment. Here's how it went:

Some of them are sent on voyeuristic missions up the assholes of people sleeping in their beds.

I dreamed of a future where internet bandwidth has become nearly unlimited on even the most local connections, and where electronic miniaturization has made possible powerful computers within even the tiniest objects. I dreamed of a world of tiny robots communicating with the internet over local radio links and exercising themselves based on the whims of people and/or powerful computers in arbitrary places throughout the world. These tiny robots crawl throughout houses like vermine, uploading audio and video to those controlling them. Some of them are sent on voyeuristic missions up the assholes of people sleeping in their beds. There is no control over the creatures besides by those logging on to them, but even those people only control them for a time. When idle, these robots patiently wait for another person to log on.

There is no mention made of how exactly the robots sustain their insatiable energy requirements. Perhaps they subsist on the energy value of crumbs and flakes of human skin, much like cockroaches. Perhaps they periodically migrate to local refueling stations. Maybe they charge internal batteries while taking siestas in the sun.

...while some are like paparazzi, and considered serious nuisances.

The dream doesn't flesh out the economic support structure of this world. Maybe the robots are supported by advertisers who are allowed to post ads in the client software used to control the robots. Perhaps users are required to pay a per-hour fee for the use of a robot.

Some robots in some places are no doubt more popular than others, while some are like paparazzi, and considered serious nuisances. No doubt many are destroyed. Others are controlled locally to do the bidding of grateful masters.

All moves to control the robots are useless; they either reproduce themselves or are produced inexpensively overseas.

Gradually the robots have broken down all conventions of privacy. The internet buzzes with live video from billions of places simultaneously. There is far too much information for any human agency to monitor, but everyone knows that anyone could be watching anyone at any time.

All moves to control the robots are useless; they either reproduce themselves or are produced inexpensively overseas. And those controlling them via the internet are as shielded by anonymity as a letter bomber on AOL.

I awoke astounded by the dream, certain that I had stumbled onto something amazingly original. A trace of that impression persists many hours later. Dreams often seem extremely profound immediately after I awake from them.

W


hile we were alone, Jessika and I discussed a wide range of subjects, including the recent article about the musings in the Cavalier Daily. It inspired and slightly unnerved her. On the one hand, she was motivated to do weird, fun things to keep the musings interesting, and on the other hand, she kept telling me not to include interesting stuff she was telling me.

For example, she told me all about what she did last night. But, like I say, this is censored. Mind you, this doesn't mean an uncensored version doesn't exist.

Since she's not part of the S&M scene and isn't partial to inserting dildos in guys' behinds, she's not a real dominatrix

Jessika also told me news from the Philadelphia area. Sara Poiron loves all the income she's getting as a dominatrix. Despite her extravagant ways, she's saving lots of money. $75/hour is an easy income to get used to. Sara doesn't really enjoy her work though. Since she's not part of the S&M scene and isn't partial to inserting dildos in guys' behinds, she's not a real dominatrix. This places her lower on the totem pole than some of her co-workers, who live and work in the underworld of fetishes, leather, whips and chains. Sara's parents have no idea what their daughter is up to, though they are Internet-capable. For this reason, Jessika insists that I not include links to Sara's dominatrix pages.

In other news, Jason Huffman (the Huffanator's older brother) is serving a prison sentence somewhere on the west coast. He sends Jessika letters in which he tells of his new interest in animal spirit-energy. He writes of being "one with the wolf" and "in touch with the snake." It's a kind of pagan spirituality not unlike that expressed by many of the Ladies of the Heart. Recently he was sent to "the hole" after beating the hell out of a fellow inmate convicted of child molestation.

I


  went outside briefly to play in the street with Deya's enormous blue ball. Minga, the eccentric old man who lives across the street, invited me to help myself to some yellow crocuses in his front yard. Not wanting to disappoint him, I gathered five of them. "Crocuses, help yourself," he said again, and then, oddly, he continued, "Crocuses, yes, see-are-oh-see-you-ess!" And with that he hopped into his car and drove away. For a moment I could imagine I was on the stage of the Children's Television Workshop. I took the crosuses inside and placed them in water in a Beast Ice can, and told the others the amusing story. I think Minga should marry Deya, they're actually very similar.

Somewhere in this queasy spectacle I noted the fact that the Baboose is uncircumcised.

Matthew returned from aimless driving and he, Jessika and I ordered a pizza from Dominos. I've noticed that we eat a lot of pizza and drink a lot of beer at Kappa Mutha Fucka. Both of these things were virtually absent from our diet back in the days of Big Fun.

Deya came home and suggested we go up Carter's Mountain again to visit Peggy, Zach and their unnamed baby (currently still known as "the Baboose").

So we did, the three of us, in Deya's car.

B


oth sets of grandparents were there (excepting Zach's Dad), fussing over an especially obnoxious and somewhat intrepid diaper changing. Somewhere in this queasy spectacle I noted the fact that the Baboose is uncircumcised.

It was stuffy and crowded inside, and I didn't like being an audience to a diaper changing, so I went and sat outside. Soon I was joined by Jessika, later by Deya. The air was cool and crisp, but haze hung low over the flat expanse of the Piedmont to the east. We were all sober.

Back inside, Zachary looked unusually benign as he held his little son on his chest. The baby kept grabbing his own cheeks and pulling them far out from his face. Whenever he let go, they snapped back in an instant. Do that to an old horse, and the skin gathers itself up more more leisurely.

Most of us had stomach or head complaints remnant from yesterday's excesses.

Returning to Kappa Mutha Fucka, I found Matthew Hart sitting alone, watching teevee by himself. It's hard not to share his depression. Deya and Jessika sat out in Deya's car a long time shooting the shit, just like Sara and Jessika used to do in the days of Big Fun.

Not really knowing what else to do, we all sat and watched NYPD Blue.

None of us drank any alcohol at all today. Most of us had stomach or head complaints remnant from yesterday's excesses.

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