ever since the Northridge earthquake in 1994 i have had the fear of being inside a porta pottie, peeing into the plastic echo… and then along comes an aftershock, a giant gust of wind, or shockwaves from an asteroid crashing into the moon and BOOM! down goes the porta pottie on its side. and that’s BOOM! on the side that the door is located, mind you. so not only am i trapped inside, sloshing around, but there’s no way out other than through the roof. check those ventilator shafts!
ha ha ha everyone says, it’s not going to happen. relax, all my friends tell me. (meanwhile i’ve written a huge book about this very thing happening to the CEO of the world’s most popular ice cream company.)
so today at Drummond Ranch where our pups do their sheepherding i find out that during the storm last week the wind BLEW the porta pottie over on its side, BOOM! Ha! SEE??
the noise spooked one of the horses so badly it freaked/bolted/had a kanipshit and did this number to the fencing.
notice the amazing view beyond, snow capped peaks!
“The new tenants crammed the insides full of Unified Desires workstations and littered the back with cable crimpers, pitted track balls, carcasses of old CRT monitors, liberated ‘esc’ keys, twisty-tied clumps of twisty ties, pink puffy packs nested inside of manila puffy packs, unlabeled male-to-male flow-through enhancers, outdated small capacity RAM chips, ditto hard drives, capless Sharpies, and plastic belt clips. They ripped up part of the parking lot for the installation of their honkin’ fiber network pipe ideal for wireless Castle Wolfenstein play, forcing every cordless phone within a miles radius to echo everything spoken into it with digital clarity. Hello? Hello. With its “closed door” policy towards COOMB and authentic Castle Wolfenstein barracks feel, twenty-somethings no one from Timberline recognized started parking their cars and entering and as the weeks went by they just kept on coming. The building gave off a vibe similar to a slaughterhouse where all the attention is focused towards going inside and it’s painfully obvious no one’s coming out.
Black paint and heavy mesh covered the two windows. The faded, battleship grey trim arched and swelled like overstretched rubber bands. Brown smoke churned out of the crevices each time the front door swung open. Before going on their dawn rides, the Timberline kids peeked through the crack underneath the back door. Inside there was no way to tell what time of day it was, and though the place was rife with gamers the entire room felt static. Individual movement was limited to keystrokes. Eye to the mat, they were able to see several pairs of turned-out feet anchoring oversized torsos. Enormous hands fondled keyboards that were balanced on their laps, or sometimes on one meaty thigh. The keyboards heaved and roiled like rowboats at sea, as the medics reached out to aid the lieutenants, the lieutenants called fire, and the engineers blew shit up. The wireless kept the cable management at bay, but used matches and pizza crusts littered the floor. The smell inside was glandular. Everyone had headphones on, so when they did speak to each other they yelled, and when they yelled, they called each other by their online names. Narsil. Don Donger. Glamdring. Nin. Celdan. Gondor. Efar. Argoyle. Matagon. Grond. Charr, Oy. ”
“Hacking, simply put, is not, n-o-t, not equal, ≠, <> to cracking. It is not hot-toddying patches. It is not dick-weaning exploits. It is not hoeing ax at root level. It’s not dining on rootkits, suspending virii, propagating inarticulate spodness. It’s not analogizing the hugeness of male genitalia in relation to the speed of a network. It’s not crulling sniffers, whoring 0-days, flapjacking the C drive, emulating dØØdness, torching shell. It’s not pediddling dongles, burrowing CHMODs, doggy-bagging source code, drip-drying the terminal, logic bombing the olalaberry. It’s not sig-blocking names like The Deep, Cretinlord and Red Headed w00tmaster. It’s not shift-changing the beanie key, feep-flaming the chicken bone, whistle-blowing the jacked mobo, orphaning the F-pasties and definitely does not ask “are you single” on a Usenet board. Get that straight.”
“First you have to find a bridge overlooking water. Then each person gets a stick.” X Lime opened her hand and pointed near her wrist. “Everyone stands here, on one side, the upcurrent side of the river. Then they drop their sticks at the same time, into the water, and run to the other side to see whose stick comes out first.” X Lime moved her finger across her palm and wiggled the fingers of the open hand. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. My sticks tend to sink.
If the thumb of the right hand points in the direction of meaning, the fingers will curl in the direction of the circular lines of its manifestations…”