So what's all the damn noise about, anyway?
I met the old man, as I had every year, at the little place on the corner. Sometimes it was a bar, sometimes a coffee shop. Once it was a laundromat. I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as it's there, I'm there, and he's there. But this meeting wasn't to be like our others; this meeting, apparently, was to be our last.
"Why, when I was a boy, it was all about Usenet, an' a fine pile of shite it was!" he grunted between sips of something he'd ordered at the bar-- something that had made the bartender turn a sort of pale green as he poured it. Vile and poisonous stuff, apparently. "You had yer talk and yer rec and yer comp and yer alt... Ah, alt, a vast landscape of stupidity where anyone could devote themselves to any subject they pleased. Words, all of it just words. Eighty columns and forty-eight lines was plenty fer anyone to say somethin' interestin'. Anythin' more was just playin' with yerself."
He slammed his mug down, splashing droplets about. I snatched my hand away to avoid getting any on my skin. He continued blithely on:
"Now it's all web this and blog that. Photos! Font types and layouts and browsers." He spat on the floor. "It's not my time no more, son. I'm through with it. Got nothin' more t'say. So I'm givin' 'em t'you."
"Giving me what?" I asked, and then it was upon me like a storm: A storm that started somewhere inside my head and quickly expanded to fill it, pushing its way into every corner, touching every surface, violating every part of my brain. My hands flew to my ears and I tried to scream. I hope I didn't look too much like that Edvard Munch painting. Or, even worse, MacCaulay Culkin in "Home Alone".
Through the whirling noise in my mind I heard his voice, low and conspiratorial, as he leaned forward:
"My ideas," he whispered.
I gripped the surface of the table, trying to find any sort of external reality I could hold onto, as he continued:
"If yer gonna do this thing, you gotta set down some rules from the start, or you'll just be another Dear Web Diary. Can you hear me okay?"
I nodded frantically.
"Rule One," he said. "Nobody talks about their own lives here. What belongs here are ideas and stories and madness and delusions that bear no relation to the real world. Understand?"
I could live with that. It's been a while since I had enjoyed talking about my personal life, anyway, and I know where to go to read about others.
"Rule Two," he continued, the air of his breath providing me with much-needed focus. "The only follow-ups that are appropriate are more ideas and stories and madness and delusions."
"I think they call them 'comments' here," I gasped, and he spat on the ground again, and then grabbed me by the back of my neck.
"Whatever they call them here, let's not have any talk about likin' somethin' someone wrote, or askin' what anythin' means, or (dear god) any talk of whether somethin' is true or not. Nothin' dragged Usenet into the ground faster 'n a ton of 'me too' follow-ups. You understand?"
I nodded again. E-mail was a fine way to express and communicate such things-- always has been. We'll keep it offline. "Is there a third rule?" I gasped.
He let go of me: "Of course," he smirked. "Rule Three is to not fear moderation. If you don't like it, throw it away. Delete it. Or screen it. However they do it here. Your shit, their shit, anyone's shit that you don't think fits. Get rid of it and make no apologies."
I was shocked: "There's no point in recording thoughts and ideas if they're going to be vulnerable to tampering or destruction!" I cried, and he slapped me across the back of the head.
"That weren't even true in the Usenet days," he snarled, and then he began a long wracking cough. Eventually, it passed, and he took a deep breath: "Aw, who are we kiddin'? Yer a big softie, it's not like yer fist is half as hard as you like to pretend." And with that, he pushed back from the table: "Well, it's time. I'm off."
"But wait!" I called after him as he began to push his way into the crowd that surrounded us. "How will I know if I'm doing it right?"
He stopped long enough to look back at me and shrug. "What do I care?" And then he was gone, leaving behind the mug that had contained whatever unspeakable toxin he'd been drinking, and as the noise in my head slowly settled into a manageable rhythm, I realized there was a fourth rule, an unspoken one: If you write it for yourself, then you're sure to enjoy it.
In fact, maybe that's really the First rule.
------
For consideration: meeting places, landscape of stupidity, vile poison, diaries, rules
"Why, when I was a boy, it was all about Usenet, an' a fine pile of shite it was!" he grunted between sips of something he'd ordered at the bar-- something that had made the bartender turn a sort of pale green as he poured it. Vile and poisonous stuff, apparently. "You had yer talk and yer rec and yer comp and yer alt... Ah, alt, a vast landscape of stupidity where anyone could devote themselves to any subject they pleased. Words, all of it just words. Eighty columns and forty-eight lines was plenty fer anyone to say somethin' interestin'. Anythin' more was just playin' with yerself."
He slammed his mug down, splashing droplets about. I snatched my hand away to avoid getting any on my skin. He continued blithely on:
"Now it's all web this and blog that. Photos! Font types and layouts and browsers." He spat on the floor. "It's not my time no more, son. I'm through with it. Got nothin' more t'say. So I'm givin' 'em t'you."
"Giving me what?" I asked, and then it was upon me like a storm: A storm that started somewhere inside my head and quickly expanded to fill it, pushing its way into every corner, touching every surface, violating every part of my brain. My hands flew to my ears and I tried to scream. I hope I didn't look too much like that Edvard Munch painting. Or, even worse, MacCaulay Culkin in "Home Alone".
Through the whirling noise in my mind I heard his voice, low and conspiratorial, as he leaned forward:
"My ideas," he whispered.
I gripped the surface of the table, trying to find any sort of external reality I could hold onto, as he continued:
"If yer gonna do this thing, you gotta set down some rules from the start, or you'll just be another Dear Web Diary. Can you hear me okay?"
I nodded frantically.
"Rule One," he said. "Nobody talks about their own lives here. What belongs here are ideas and stories and madness and delusions that bear no relation to the real world. Understand?"
I could live with that. It's been a while since I had enjoyed talking about my personal life, anyway, and I know where to go to read about others.
"Rule Two," he continued, the air of his breath providing me with much-needed focus. "The only follow-ups that are appropriate are more ideas and stories and madness and delusions."
"I think they call them 'comments' here," I gasped, and he spat on the ground again, and then grabbed me by the back of my neck.
"Whatever they call them here, let's not have any talk about likin' somethin' someone wrote, or askin' what anythin' means, or (dear god) any talk of whether somethin' is true or not. Nothin' dragged Usenet into the ground faster 'n a ton of 'me too' follow-ups. You understand?"
I nodded again. E-mail was a fine way to express and communicate such things-- always has been. We'll keep it offline. "Is there a third rule?" I gasped.
He let go of me: "Of course," he smirked. "Rule Three is to not fear moderation. If you don't like it, throw it away. Delete it. Or screen it. However they do it here. Your shit, their shit, anyone's shit that you don't think fits. Get rid of it and make no apologies."
I was shocked: "There's no point in recording thoughts and ideas if they're going to be vulnerable to tampering or destruction!" I cried, and he slapped me across the back of the head.
"That weren't even true in the Usenet days," he snarled, and then he began a long wracking cough. Eventually, it passed, and he took a deep breath: "Aw, who are we kiddin'? Yer a big softie, it's not like yer fist is half as hard as you like to pretend." And with that, he pushed back from the table: "Well, it's time. I'm off."
"But wait!" I called after him as he began to push his way into the crowd that surrounded us. "How will I know if I'm doing it right?"
He stopped long enough to look back at me and shrug. "What do I care?" And then he was gone, leaving behind the mug that had contained whatever unspeakable toxin he'd been drinking, and as the noise in my head slowly settled into a manageable rhythm, I realized there was a fourth rule, an unspoken one: If you write it for yourself, then you're sure to enjoy it.
In fact, maybe that's really the First rule.
------
For consideration: meeting places, landscape of stupidity, vile poison, diaries, rules