Father Louis Hernandez had indulged in numerous passions before God became chief among them. Some of the things he had loved before he became a man of the cloth: women, fine wine, bad fiction, softball, boxing (both watching and engaging in), mafia movies, and action figures. He was one of those rare adults whose toys were displayed prominently on nice shelves in his living room; each Sunday after mass, he dusted each figurine, each superhero bust, each model plane with loving care. He thought of it as his second flock, but always his second. Although the elderly ladies clucked and scowled and spoke, he kept both his flocks in good order. The children in his congregation loved him.
Just after he completed seminary training, one of his first parishoners, a teenager named Kelly Gunderson, handed him a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula. She asked him for his thoughts on the vampire hunter, Abraham Van Helsing. After he finished the novel, he gave Kelly his thoughts. “I do not know what Dracula is, if he signed a pact with the devil or if he's just a kind of human that we haven't yet encountered. It is not my place to judge.”
“And Van Helsing?” she asked.
Though Kelly was a little too old for it, Father Hernandez ruffled her hair with his callous-covered palm. “We live in a scary world. I can't tell you that if a man is hunting you, that you should not defend yourself. But Professor Van Helsing's vendetta was based on his own judgment, not God's. Remember Miss Gunderson, our mission is to preserve life. You can't just look at something you don't understand and say, 'That's not life the way I live it, so it deserves to die.' Does that make sense?”
He stepped back. Kelly's face had crinkled into the intense glare of a young woman trying to grow. “But Dracula, he—He was the bad guy, wasn't he?"
Twenty years ago, he would have cupped her chin and stood close, but men much like him had been taking advantage of the holy vestments, and scandal was in the air. Father Hernandez stayed away from her and held his arms awkwardly at his sides. “Miss Gunderson,” he said, speaking warmly, “to someone out there, you are the bad guy.”
“Me?” she murmured. How he'd wanted to hold her then. He imagined that little Kelly knew nothing of the special loneliness you feel when you know someone hates you for no reason at all. He imagined the rest of her life, from that moment when a busy, undiligent priest had made her cynical and cruel.
He'd expected her to quit right then, walk out of the church and never return, but it took Kelly another decade before her attendance slowed, then finally stopped altogether.
Even after she'd gone, the conversation haunted him. He was a man well-versed in fantasy and science fiction, and he studied other races, other times as vigorously as the Bible itself. Metaphors about Klingons and dragons slipped into his sermons, and the elderly ladies, now almost ancient, clucked their tongues and shook their heads. However, he was popular as a priest and made a name for himself as the geeky father who could relate to the youth, an archetype that the church sorely needed at the time. Over the decades, his office accumulated toys trinkets, as well as a wallpapering of crayon drawings depicting Jesus piloting Tie-fighters or wearing a wizard hat or riding astride various dinosaurs.
At age 95, he lay on what he knew to be his deathbed, surrounded by the donations and well-wishes of tiny children and the parents who raised them, who had once been tiny children themselves. Begging God for strength, he would play Nintendo Wii games with the youngsters; sometimes the teenagers would guide his wrinkled hands, palms still stiff with callouses. He had watched a man walk in space and seen the sequence of his own DNA. At 95, the world held such wonders for him that he hadn't known or understood back then, talking to Kelly Gunderson as a young clergyman.
So when he saw his first vampire, he was unsurprised that the world had again presented something new for his now deeply sunken eyes. “Welcome back,” he murmured. His voice creaked like a neglected hinge.
“I never left.” Kelly was a young woman now, in her late 20s. He could not tell if she was beautiful, but her voice was gentle, and he assumed that she was.
In a rush of sudden uncertainty, he feared he was suffering a morphine hallucination and let his eyes slide shut, just in case. The hospice workers had assured him that they would increase his dosage so he would pass easily. He had not seen any nurses come by, but he missed so many things these days. “I haven't seen you in almost sixty years.”
Her hand slipped into his, and it was cool, room temperature. “I wanted to thank you, Father.”
“Not that I don't deserve it, Miss Gunderson. I've lived a long, useful life. But what are you thanking me for?”
He almost didn't feel her, but he knew she was there. She lifted his head gently and embraced him, pressing her cheek into his chest. “Once, you taught me to embrace all life. I haven't forgot it. I won't ever. And God willing, I'll live a long, long life.”
He tried to nod, but like many of his gestures these days, it turned into a dry coughing fit. Weak as he was, she still seemed small, vulnerable, as she had been as a teenager. “Will you pray with me, Miss Gunderson?”
She took a long breath, and Father Hernandez wondered if it hurt her to pray, like the folklore said. But after a few seconds, she began. “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” As she spoke, her hands clasped around his, Father Hernandez noted that she was so close, he could feel her words vibrating through his hospital gown, but not the deep throb of a young woman's heartbeat.
After a while, she could not feel his either.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Unnamed Vampire Story 3
He sprints through the persistent drizzle, feeling the light, cold sting on his cheeks. He thinks about his mother. Her hands were soft. She sang abolitionist songs in the warm radius of an oil lamp while putting bloody stitches into living flesh. As a child, he had seen her at work once. He vomited violently onto the dirt floor of the medical tent. "How do you do it?" he asked. She had crouched beside him and folded his trembling body into a gray jacket that smelled like his father.
His mother was a woman of few words and simple wisdoms. "You try real hard, my dearest." They sat together, curled on the floor; he could barely see the injured soldier's toes over the edge of their kitchen table, which had transformed overnight into a surgeon's bench. Above their heads, the soldier moaned. "And then," she murmured, obviously eager to resume her sewing, "you keep your head above you, and your feet beneath you. That's all."
These days, he wears designer sneakers, but he's always mindful of where his human feet would have faltered. With the grace of a parkour master, he launches himself at a fire escape, hand over hand climbing the rungs; he can't feel the cold, but he knows the paint is flaking off and the metal is slippery. Head up, feet down. A pleasant electricity runs through his fingers; the sensation keeps him alert. He focuses. Head, feet.
Two hundred yards away, he hears a woman inhale sharply. It gives him enough time to dodge. For a moment, he remembers what his flesh was like: skin, sinew, muscle. A large-caliber bullet rips through his calf, and he lurches forward and up. She leads him expertly, and the second shot pierces his upper back.
After the first night, his mother never asked him to assist, but she did invite him to watch. He could see her biceps flex as she bent her full weight onto the bone saw. She spoke in relaxing tones, but that wasn't enough. Until the end of the war, their house was stocked with plenty of cheap whiskey for future amputees. Over the sounds of her patients and the grind of metal on bone, she told him, "You could take away his arms or his legs or his pride or his country, but he's still a man so long as he drinks hard liquor."
Cool blood pours out of the exit wound in his chest, but now he knows exactly where she is: a warehouse window, four blocks east, six floors up. Taking a liquidy breath--she punctured a lung, apparently--he lines his legs behind him and pushes off like a swimmer doing laps. He doesn't have the mechanism nor the magic to fly properly, but gliding is a different story. His arms fan wide, and for a moment, it's like free fall.
Head up, feet down. He lands on top of her, chest on her chest, but she doesn't scream. She's already got her combat knife drawn, the sharp edge flush against his throat. "You're getting old, Steward. Maybe a century and change is your limit."
He grins when he hears her gasp. The blade digs into his skin, then his throat. He presses his lips to her neck, feeling the hot rush in her jugular. Even soaked in the same stinging rain, her heat makes him drunk. He is surprised and pleased to find fear radiating from her, and it gives him goosebumps. He bares his teeth against her skin. Up, down. Reorient. Draw back.
They sit side by side on the cement floor. She dismantles and polishes her weapon, replacing each piece in its molded foam groove. "I guess I deserved that," she says, her face molded back into the impenetrable mask he was used to working with. "I used real bullets. FMJs. The blanks fly wrong with the wind. Sorry, bud." She shows him a sheepish face, but he knows she doesn't mean it. Nevertheless, their working relationship is based on a mutual deception and tolerance; he lets her apologize as best she can. "My bad."
He nods, but the gesture hurts. He opts instead to wait for his body to repair, holding the halves of his throat together with cold fingers. He is extra conscious of his parts, muscle binding, skin cells reknitting into the pattern they remember. When he finds his voice again, he says, "Don't forget, Anabelle. They're not like you. They don't have to stop."
"Lesson learned, steward." When he was on top of her, she had grown pale. The color returns to her cheeks again, a perceptible glow that he can feel on his skin. "Next time, I won't need a second shot."
His mother was a woman of few words and simple wisdoms. "You try real hard, my dearest." They sat together, curled on the floor; he could barely see the injured soldier's toes over the edge of their kitchen table, which had transformed overnight into a surgeon's bench. Above their heads, the soldier moaned. "And then," she murmured, obviously eager to resume her sewing, "you keep your head above you, and your feet beneath you. That's all."
These days, he wears designer sneakers, but he's always mindful of where his human feet would have faltered. With the grace of a parkour master, he launches himself at a fire escape, hand over hand climbing the rungs; he can't feel the cold, but he knows the paint is flaking off and the metal is slippery. Head up, feet down. A pleasant electricity runs through his fingers; the sensation keeps him alert. He focuses. Head, feet.
Two hundred yards away, he hears a woman inhale sharply. It gives him enough time to dodge. For a moment, he remembers what his flesh was like: skin, sinew, muscle. A large-caliber bullet rips through his calf, and he lurches forward and up. She leads him expertly, and the second shot pierces his upper back.
After the first night, his mother never asked him to assist, but she did invite him to watch. He could see her biceps flex as she bent her full weight onto the bone saw. She spoke in relaxing tones, but that wasn't enough. Until the end of the war, their house was stocked with plenty of cheap whiskey for future amputees. Over the sounds of her patients and the grind of metal on bone, she told him, "You could take away his arms or his legs or his pride or his country, but he's still a man so long as he drinks hard liquor."
Cool blood pours out of the exit wound in his chest, but now he knows exactly where she is: a warehouse window, four blocks east, six floors up. Taking a liquidy breath--she punctured a lung, apparently--he lines his legs behind him and pushes off like a swimmer doing laps. He doesn't have the mechanism nor the magic to fly properly, but gliding is a different story. His arms fan wide, and for a moment, it's like free fall.
Head up, feet down. He lands on top of her, chest on her chest, but she doesn't scream. She's already got her combat knife drawn, the sharp edge flush against his throat. "You're getting old, Steward. Maybe a century and change is your limit."
He grins when he hears her gasp. The blade digs into his skin, then his throat. He presses his lips to her neck, feeling the hot rush in her jugular. Even soaked in the same stinging rain, her heat makes him drunk. He is surprised and pleased to find fear radiating from her, and it gives him goosebumps. He bares his teeth against her skin. Up, down. Reorient. Draw back.
They sit side by side on the cement floor. She dismantles and polishes her weapon, replacing each piece in its molded foam groove. "I guess I deserved that," she says, her face molded back into the impenetrable mask he was used to working with. "I used real bullets. FMJs. The blanks fly wrong with the wind. Sorry, bud." She shows him a sheepish face, but he knows she doesn't mean it. Nevertheless, their working relationship is based on a mutual deception and tolerance; he lets her apologize as best she can. "My bad."
He nods, but the gesture hurts. He opts instead to wait for his body to repair, holding the halves of his throat together with cold fingers. He is extra conscious of his parts, muscle binding, skin cells reknitting into the pattern they remember. When he finds his voice again, he says, "Don't forget, Anabelle. They're not like you. They don't have to stop."
"Lesson learned, steward." When he was on top of her, she had grown pale. The color returns to her cheeks again, a perceptible glow that he can feel on his skin. "Next time, I won't need a second shot."
Monday, October 13, 2008
Unnamed Vampire Story 2
September was the worst, especially towards the end. The tension and exhilaration before and after the candidates' first debate were difficult to bear. Marion monitored the television, newspapers, conservative radio talk shows, even the tabloids with a feverish obsession. Her husband loaned her one of his junior aides, Lauren Schiavone, to create what he called his personal drudge report. At one point, while Mark was at a rally in Ohio, Marion received a personalized assassination threat at one of their campaign offices in Pennsylvania. The campaign staff agreed that there was no way to link the threat to Kerrigan, but afterwards, Marion was constantly flanked by two secret service agents.
In addition to her daily gossip report, which she gave over breakfast, Marion did what she called "The Patrol," a series of mostly unscheduled walks in the towns wherever her husband happened to be speaking. She shook hands and held babies and made the late night talk shows every time a baby decided to spit up on her carefully selected casual suits. Every once in a while, people would try to book her for patrols, but she had a reputation for graciously turning down invitations, instead preferring to show up unexpected. All of these variables frustrated her two guards to no end. Geri, despite having biceps the size of Marion's thighs, objected shyly, but Richard, a retired police sergeant, barked his disapproval every day before they stepped out in public together. She placated him once by visiting his old precinct house, beaming as she helped the police captain turn the news media and tourists away from the door. Then she spoke solemnly with the newest class of academy graduates. "Fight the good fight," she said. "Never forget that the man you capture is a human being. Never forget that when you take off that uniform at night, when you have your straight scotch and watch the Steelers highlights, that that criminal is trying to have a life like yours. We're all hoping to go home, settle down, have a drink. You can't just protect and serve nothing. You have to protect and serve everything you possibly can. Remember: I can only walk the streets because folks like you make them safe."
She lingered there, listening to each beat cop's complaints, making a mental checklist of names, hopes, and desires to share with Mark the next morning. By the time they left, it was almost dark. As they walked back to her hotel room, Richard, keeping his eyes straight ahead, said, "Thank you, Mrs. Summers. That was a mighty fine thing you said today. I'm voting for the other guy, but I like you better."
"That means a lot to me, Richard," Marion replied. She turned to look at him, to see if she could find that tiny twinge in his usually expressionless face, the way she swore she had seen it in Redding's.
She glanced over in time to see his forehead explode, shards of bone and blood flying away from his face as if anxious to escape. For a moment, his large body stood still, unable to catch up with the rest of him, and then he began to topple forward. Behind her, Marion heard Geri's soft voice: "I'm not voting for Mr. Summers either." Then pain. Then vertigo. Then black.
In addition to her daily gossip report, which she gave over breakfast, Marion did what she called "The Patrol," a series of mostly unscheduled walks in the towns wherever her husband happened to be speaking. She shook hands and held babies and made the late night talk shows every time a baby decided to spit up on her carefully selected casual suits. Every once in a while, people would try to book her for patrols, but she had a reputation for graciously turning down invitations, instead preferring to show up unexpected. All of these variables frustrated her two guards to no end. Geri, despite having biceps the size of Marion's thighs, objected shyly, but Richard, a retired police sergeant, barked his disapproval every day before they stepped out in public together. She placated him once by visiting his old precinct house, beaming as she helped the police captain turn the news media and tourists away from the door. Then she spoke solemnly with the newest class of academy graduates. "Fight the good fight," she said. "Never forget that the man you capture is a human being. Never forget that when you take off that uniform at night, when you have your straight scotch and watch the Steelers highlights, that that criminal is trying to have a life like yours. We're all hoping to go home, settle down, have a drink. You can't just protect and serve nothing. You have to protect and serve everything you possibly can. Remember: I can only walk the streets because folks like you make them safe."
She lingered there, listening to each beat cop's complaints, making a mental checklist of names, hopes, and desires to share with Mark the next morning. By the time they left, it was almost dark. As they walked back to her hotel room, Richard, keeping his eyes straight ahead, said, "Thank you, Mrs. Summers. That was a mighty fine thing you said today. I'm voting for the other guy, but I like you better."
"That means a lot to me, Richard," Marion replied. She turned to look at him, to see if she could find that tiny twinge in his usually expressionless face, the way she swore she had seen it in Redding's.
She glanced over in time to see his forehead explode, shards of bone and blood flying away from his face as if anxious to escape. For a moment, his large body stood still, unable to catch up with the rest of him, and then he began to topple forward. Behind her, Marion heard Geri's soft voice: "I'm not voting for Mr. Summers either." Then pain. Then vertigo. Then black.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Unnamed Vampire Story 1
Marion was glad that she had accepted the last-minute face powder the show’s makeup girl had offered before stepping under the bright stage lights. She decided that the hot-burning whiteness could come from nothing in nature. Later, she would call her husband, and he would reassure her that her forehead was not shiny like a new car. But she didn’t believe it now, and she wouldn’t believe it later, looking for flaws on their TiVo. However, blasting towards the Redding Report’s stage desk in her new pumps made her feel like a superstar, and even she had to agree that her smile was radiant.
Clarence Redding, a notorious liberal pundit, was in his 20th year yelling at a camera about his agenda, and his age had only made him louder. He introduced her with an old timey auctioneer’s holler: “Ladies and gentleman, the potential first lady, Marion Summers.”
The words rolled off her tongue robotically, “Great to be here, Clarence.”
“So let’s get right to it. Vampire rights. Warren Kerrigan’s campaign has been giving your husband a lot of flak about this controversial subject. Now, the vampire vote carried Mark Summers to victory in California. Do you think Small Town, USA will buy it?”
Her husband’s PR team had given her a basic rundown of the things Redding would ask in advance, but it was essentially a lecture on the party line. Rosa, the media director, had finally buckled under Marion’s stress and told her, “Just talk how you want. We’re getting major blue collar votes from the way you talk straight and hit below the belt. Punching that racist at the last rally really got the middle aged white voter’s attention. You being you is your husband’s best chance.”
So Marion smiled, looked Redding in the eye, and said, “Do you mean evangelical Christian America, Clarence? I think you do. I’ve heard the in-human, in prison argument that Governor Kerrigan is making. But vampirism is a somewhat small movement at this point. When Joe Six-Pack sees another opportunity to spend time with his dad or his mom after their cancer treatments fail—which would not happen if the esteemed other candidate hadn’t voted against health care reform when he was a representative—then maybe they’ll come around. Now, they only see a subculture in those freaks out on the coasts. What we’re seeing is an opportunity for all of the country to heal, to reinvent themselves and reconcile with death in a different way. It’s a resurrection, Clarence, plain and simple, and it’s about time middle America gives that a second thought.”
This close to the TV personality, she imagined a smile that the cameras wouldn’t catch. Maybe later, they would edit the twinge away, so that the network could maintain its alleged no-bias policy. Clarence continued, “Your husband, a second-term senator, has spoken out against the career politician. Wouldn’t increase vampire rights encourage not just a lifetime politician, but an anti-lifetime government man?”
Marion nodded sagely in a way that she had seen thousands of other senators’ wives nod. She hoped she had gotten it right enough to carry on the legacy of the hot first lady. “No, of course not. I don’t think a vampire will be elected into office any time soon. I’ve spent a lot of time in the shelters and halfway houses in Oakland and the Bay area, and this isn’t a condition where you can just slather on some sunscreen and hop on a bus to Disneyland. These people are in pain when the sun’s out. A full-time vampiric candidate could never sit long enough in the Capitol to do their job. Not that I know many Republican senators who make it out to cast votes full-time, mind you.”
A chuckle from the audience. She understood then what her husband meant about momentum during the media parade. She took a breath and kept on going. “But you don’t see many beggars or battered women on the hill either. So we all get together and do what we can: select a person who will represent us, no matter how badly the world has treated us. My husband is ready to listen to everyone and do what he can to ensure that all human beings get fair treatment in these great United States.”
And there it was, that little grin again. For the rest of the interview, even after her impassioned rant on education reform, Marion didn’t see it again. Later, as she played and replayed the clip, her husband would be unable to see what she saw. After her futile search, they would go to sleep, as they had for 20 years, their fingers entwined.
Clarence Redding, a notorious liberal pundit, was in his 20th year yelling at a camera about his agenda, and his age had only made him louder. He introduced her with an old timey auctioneer’s holler: “Ladies and gentleman, the potential first lady, Marion Summers.”
The words rolled off her tongue robotically, “Great to be here, Clarence.”
“So let’s get right to it. Vampire rights. Warren Kerrigan’s campaign has been giving your husband a lot of flak about this controversial subject. Now, the vampire vote carried Mark Summers to victory in California. Do you think Small Town, USA will buy it?”
Her husband’s PR team had given her a basic rundown of the things Redding would ask in advance, but it was essentially a lecture on the party line. Rosa, the media director, had finally buckled under Marion’s stress and told her, “Just talk how you want. We’re getting major blue collar votes from the way you talk straight and hit below the belt. Punching that racist at the last rally really got the middle aged white voter’s attention. You being you is your husband’s best chance.”
So Marion smiled, looked Redding in the eye, and said, “Do you mean evangelical Christian America, Clarence? I think you do. I’ve heard the in-human, in prison argument that Governor Kerrigan is making. But vampirism is a somewhat small movement at this point. When Joe Six-Pack sees another opportunity to spend time with his dad or his mom after their cancer treatments fail—which would not happen if the esteemed other candidate hadn’t voted against health care reform when he was a representative—then maybe they’ll come around. Now, they only see a subculture in those freaks out on the coasts. What we’re seeing is an opportunity for all of the country to heal, to reinvent themselves and reconcile with death in a different way. It’s a resurrection, Clarence, plain and simple, and it’s about time middle America gives that a second thought.”
This close to the TV personality, she imagined a smile that the cameras wouldn’t catch. Maybe later, they would edit the twinge away, so that the network could maintain its alleged no-bias policy. Clarence continued, “Your husband, a second-term senator, has spoken out against the career politician. Wouldn’t increase vampire rights encourage not just a lifetime politician, but an anti-lifetime government man?”
Marion nodded sagely in a way that she had seen thousands of other senators’ wives nod. She hoped she had gotten it right enough to carry on the legacy of the hot first lady. “No, of course not. I don’t think a vampire will be elected into office any time soon. I’ve spent a lot of time in the shelters and halfway houses in Oakland and the Bay area, and this isn’t a condition where you can just slather on some sunscreen and hop on a bus to Disneyland. These people are in pain when the sun’s out. A full-time vampiric candidate could never sit long enough in the Capitol to do their job. Not that I know many Republican senators who make it out to cast votes full-time, mind you.”
A chuckle from the audience. She understood then what her husband meant about momentum during the media parade. She took a breath and kept on going. “But you don’t see many beggars or battered women on the hill either. So we all get together and do what we can: select a person who will represent us, no matter how badly the world has treated us. My husband is ready to listen to everyone and do what he can to ensure that all human beings get fair treatment in these great United States.”
And there it was, that little grin again. For the rest of the interview, even after her impassioned rant on education reform, Marion didn’t see it again. Later, as she played and replayed the clip, her husband would be unable to see what she saw. After her futile search, they would go to sleep, as they had for 20 years, their fingers entwined.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Future Diary 1
While moving out, I found a picture of Tiger. It was a picture that my mom took on a digital camera, printed out on a bad color printer, ripped off the page in a tiny square and snail mailed to me. It was taped on my computer case for the years where I was in college and away from him, and it sat on the bottom shelf of a bookcase after he died. Without any help, without anyone with me, I took him to the vet and had him put down on April 21st, 2007. All four of my blood grandparents are still alive, and my three remarried grandparents are as well. I've never known a person well who's died, and I've certainly never been responsible for it. Putting down my cat was the saddest thing I've ever done. I was 23, and he was 20. We spent 18 years together.
In the past few months, I've adopted two more cats, both a year or younger. I will hopefully get over twelve years with each of them, maybe 20, like my Tiger. I will be 43 by then.
I suspect that touch/slide technology will dominate everything--lights and electronics will be panel-controlled, and everything will have an interactive component. We'll be able to vote for things on TV without having to call in, maybe even vote for large-scale things like political elections. Everything will be fingerprint ID-protected but still faster, more convenient.
I hope we have a new form of car by then. I want a more aerodynamic, more sleek design, that doesn't depend so much on specific user function. I still suspect that it will be miserable getting through Tysons, but it would be much nicer if we could guarantee that the traffic lights would function better in a thunderstorm. I think the storms will get worse--in the time that I've been here, the weather has only gotten more extreme in Virginia. We'll start having superstorms, and need to develop better materials to protect us again. Once, we used brick and stone to guard us from nature. I think we'll end up using plexiglass or titanium: something strong, light, reflective, and easily manufactured.
I wonder if America will have been invaded by then. I doubt it.
I think our financial system will be revamped. Because of the more advanced ID system, people will be able to keep track of their taxes and such more readily. Because of the sometimes ineptitude of the current generation, the next one will devalue old people, and social security will undergo serious reforms so that two young people don't shoulder the weight of one AARPer.
I hope I live in a two-story house in a bad neighborhood with a security system that actively punishes criminals on the grounds. The police will be spread thin and demoralized, and the world will be scarier, but third parties will create technology that make it simpler for the private citizen to protect himself.
I think women will be more equal and louder about inequality. However, insurance companies will start covering more childcare, abortions, and birth control medication. As a private organization, I don't think they can help but see that women will need medical attention for that kind of thing, and shouldn't be doing it off the books. Schools will pass out more condoms to fewer complaints.
But when I'm 43 and my kitty dies, I'm still going to fall onto my neo-linoleum floor and cry for a day. I'm going to take her to the vet, who's going to stroke her and pump her full of a different-but-the-same pink fluid. I'm going to watch her fight it, bite me, and then slowly her eyes will just lose their sparkle, their responsiveness. I'm going to be very, very upset, and maybe my android companion will have to drive me home. It won't be fair, but then again, it's never fair.
The future will make our lives easier, I think.
In the past few months, I've adopted two more cats, both a year or younger. I will hopefully get over twelve years with each of them, maybe 20, like my Tiger. I will be 43 by then.
I suspect that touch/slide technology will dominate everything--lights and electronics will be panel-controlled, and everything will have an interactive component. We'll be able to vote for things on TV without having to call in, maybe even vote for large-scale things like political elections. Everything will be fingerprint ID-protected but still faster, more convenient.
I hope we have a new form of car by then. I want a more aerodynamic, more sleek design, that doesn't depend so much on specific user function. I still suspect that it will be miserable getting through Tysons, but it would be much nicer if we could guarantee that the traffic lights would function better in a thunderstorm. I think the storms will get worse--in the time that I've been here, the weather has only gotten more extreme in Virginia. We'll start having superstorms, and need to develop better materials to protect us again. Once, we used brick and stone to guard us from nature. I think we'll end up using plexiglass or titanium: something strong, light, reflective, and easily manufactured.
I wonder if America will have been invaded by then. I doubt it.
I think our financial system will be revamped. Because of the more advanced ID system, people will be able to keep track of their taxes and such more readily. Because of the sometimes ineptitude of the current generation, the next one will devalue old people, and social security will undergo serious reforms so that two young people don't shoulder the weight of one AARPer.
I hope I live in a two-story house in a bad neighborhood with a security system that actively punishes criminals on the grounds. The police will be spread thin and demoralized, and the world will be scarier, but third parties will create technology that make it simpler for the private citizen to protect himself.
I think women will be more equal and louder about inequality. However, insurance companies will start covering more childcare, abortions, and birth control medication. As a private organization, I don't think they can help but see that women will need medical attention for that kind of thing, and shouldn't be doing it off the books. Schools will pass out more condoms to fewer complaints.
But when I'm 43 and my kitty dies, I'm still going to fall onto my neo-linoleum floor and cry for a day. I'm going to take her to the vet, who's going to stroke her and pump her full of a different-but-the-same pink fluid. I'm going to watch her fight it, bite me, and then slowly her eyes will just lose their sparkle, their responsiveness. I'm going to be very, very upset, and maybe my android companion will have to drive me home. It won't be fair, but then again, it's never fair.
The future will make our lives easier, I think.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Human Resources 1
It wasn't until after General Motors, Toyota, and AstroTransport/Volkswagon discontinued their wheeled vehicle factories that experts on Wall Street declared that the age of repulsor-based travel had begun. The Department of Transportation gathered manufacturers from around the globe at a roundtable to discuss how a new traffic infrastructure should work. They spoke ambitiously of gravity-repelling highways, of skydrives and mobile hover cities. But the new, wary president of the United States opted instead for a conservative, tax-saving plan, and two years later, the old asphalt roads had been repaved with a smooth, friction-reducing surface that looked like rivers of volcanic glass.
Nike and Adidas responded warmly. In the same fiscal quarter as the wall street announcement, the two athletic giants began a new line of jogging shoes with comfortably friction-sensitive silicone soles. By the time working crews speed-heated the hover-friendly surface material, a new generation of young people, barely weaned off of their organically grown soymilk, had already chosen their globalization-sensitive footwear and were ready to pound the pavement.
Because of new safety regulations and extra sensors built in to detect and accomodate single-occupant vehicles and pedestrians on the road, sidewalks had been mostly abandoned. When his mother demanded to know why he still insisted on walking on that damned cement, Jeremy Hernandez told her that if he was held away from mother Gaia, he would lose his magical strength. She flicked him on the nose. "Screw mother earth. She's a bitch. I'm your only mom."
After a volcanic adolescence and four estranged years while Jeremy went to college on the other side of the country, he returned to D.C. and his mother with an appreciation of the kind of woman he was. At school, he had dated four hawkish, demeaning, and large-breasted women with fabulous hair before he realized that he had a Freudian attraction to women just like Laura Hernandez. They reunited at a D.C. steakhouse (she did not attend his graduation from UCLA), and, breaking a nine year habit, he listened to what she had to say. As a result, he ended up asking for their waitress's phone number; a month earlier, he never would have looked at a girl as slight and shy as Rupal Panneer.
Nike and Adidas responded warmly. In the same fiscal quarter as the wall street announcement, the two athletic giants began a new line of jogging shoes with comfortably friction-sensitive silicone soles. By the time working crews speed-heated the hover-friendly surface material, a new generation of young people, barely weaned off of their organically grown soymilk, had already chosen their globalization-sensitive footwear and were ready to pound the pavement.
Because of new safety regulations and extra sensors built in to detect and accomodate single-occupant vehicles and pedestrians on the road, sidewalks had been mostly abandoned. When his mother demanded to know why he still insisted on walking on that damned cement, Jeremy Hernandez told her that if he was held away from mother Gaia, he would lose his magical strength. She flicked him on the nose. "Screw mother earth. She's a bitch. I'm your only mom."
After a volcanic adolescence and four estranged years while Jeremy went to college on the other side of the country, he returned to D.C. and his mother with an appreciation of the kind of woman he was. At school, he had dated four hawkish, demeaning, and large-breasted women with fabulous hair before he realized that he had a Freudian attraction to women just like Laura Hernandez. They reunited at a D.C. steakhouse (she did not attend his graduation from UCLA), and, breaking a nine year habit, he listened to what she had to say. As a result, he ended up asking for their waitress's phone number; a month earlier, he never would have looked at a girl as slight and shy as Rupal Panneer.
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