"Thanks to the duplicitous nature of NIMBYs, now we have three levels of censorship happening here in Hollywood: Organizations erecting digital walls around our most famous landmarks, technology companies lying to tourists about our geography, and a faction of vigilante residents cracking down on bloggers who are trying to disseminate accurate information about our city."
Thread Manifesto/Mission Statement Thingy: A space in this dusty old paleoweb "forum" ghost town for the improvement of the penmanship, ideation, and creative manuscription of our resident narcissistic solipsistic schizophrenics who talk to friends in their head writers.
(Google Translation to Millennialian): A hashtag chan w/ no char lmt 4 u 2 get cray good at long-winded serial-tweeting.
(Plain English): A writer's circle for those of us looking to get some feedback on our work, develop some kind of creative community / comraderie, and all of that good stuff.
Rules of Write-Club
1.) We don't talk about write club (jk, tell everyone, especially your rich aunt with the makeup line who can kickstart us all Amazon premium distribution deals)
2.) Each post must have at least a few sentences of commentary, praise, constructive critiquing, exclamations of abject horror, impassioned rantage, or self-righteous indignation gentle suggestion for the writing of at least the previous poster. Feel free to give feedback / respond to others as well, but at least the last guy so no one feels le shunned.
Sorry to bite into the market share of Write Something Now, but honestly, that thread kind of feels like scribbles on a bathroom wall in a dive bar frequented by eloquent drunken English majors.
(Full disclosure: I'm trying to get something into Gil's Mythaxis, so I have stock in this venture.)
Since we've got a tabula rasa here, I'm going to shanghai some material from elsewhere on the board, since dumping my own Google Doc cache would be in poor taste.
Originally Posted by Stage Drifter:
My name is MetaX and my Book Club is the best in the world!
Internet addresses are forthcoming, but we are close to the start of the third ride before the release of the new book, people! That's awfully soon.
So the launch party is set!
I'm setting everything up. The computer is as ready as ever, and you servers out there know who you are. I've got the uptick!
The blue cheese ain't cheap, and I've somehow hooked up the Lynchburg Lemonade to the tap, so get ready! Jack in to our Mountain Dew drinking contest, which you will need a web cam to participate in, to end with a preposition. I've even got the keyboard hooked into the mainline, so it's all online. Music on list is techno "Buddy". Well there's different voice overs of the word "Buddy", and it goes on with music for a long time. And screw it, I've got "Men Without Hats" as backup. There's music, dude!
I'm working on the sacrifice, and am making progress. All hail the mechanical bull. Adrenaline junkie, level 4! We know you're out there! And seriously it's all good, but don't lose it. Those are the rules.
And I'm not sure if it's the second, third, or sixth seal, but it's in the kitchen drawer, by the microwave, inside a pencil case.
There's even a large "Hefty" bag full of organic popcorn!
Please sign up, and support the book! We acknowledge you with this party!
Meditate, all of you, on the meaning of the polygonal dice of X. That's our vector, folks, and that's the future. Polyhedron.
Polyhedron, polyhedron, polyhedron, polyhedron.
Just be here, however you do it! It's on.
There's also liverwurst, to go with the cheese, and naughty poetry, for the heck of it.
Join up now! I've even bought a new hoodie for the occasion.
But bring your own ICE. Mine is all mine, and in short supply.
(That's the newbie password, jerks. Don't ask.)
Be you the Pharaoh.
Signed, MetaX, Book Club.
*** BEGIN FEEDBACK
Favorite bits: "Mountain Dew drinking contest". "different voice overs of the word "Buddy", and it goes on with music for a long time." "Polyhedron meditation".
Overall, the core concept of satirizing the problems with getting people, especially gamer-types, excited about books in the digital age, is tight and fresh. I think that's the main idea, at least, although I think I hadn't understood it until about five seconds ago. I'm never sure with Stagedrifter's material though, which can be a strength. I think the lead singer for The National who said, "Ambiguity is everything". And I respect that guy as a writer.
I'm not going to get grammar Nazi on the sentence structure or pacing or and all those fun points-of-contention for right-brain types and people who knit and crochet. I do like the odd phrasing of seemingly innocuous sentences though. I think that could be a signature trait for SD.
*** END FEEDBACK
Ok so here's my little rough grain of sand rolling around in my head, trying to make a pearl for Gil's magazine. Not sure if this is beginning, middle, end, liner notes, garbage better suited to the North Pacific Garbage Gyre, or what. Just what I've got at this point.
They say it was air conditioning brought the Roman Empire to its knees. With the windows closed, they couldn’t hear the barbarians coming. The barbarians come, crush their little heads against Leviathan, the automated Dreg-rejection system. Leviathan is Seal Team Six, wrapped in a panzer tank, operated by HAL 9000. A swarming botnet of terminators programmed to throw a gatling hailstorm of uranium-depleted .50 cal at anything without STATUS
Dreg. Noun. The sediment of liquids; lees; grounds. The least valuable part of anything. In the “Golden Age” of America, the Dregs were given jobs in factories bolting plates of steel into Ford Thunderbirds, paid salaries that could support a family. Today, the Dregs are mowed down by heat-seeking, homicidal Thunderbirds, that bolt themselves together. Their families are supported on meathooks.
Now, I’m no Good Samaritan, I’m no Jesus Christ. Hell, I’m not even some Sam Spade hard-boiled head-case with a bushido street-code of honor and a heart full of napalm. Although I confess to drinking of the dark Hammett elixir now and then in my self-driven flying car on the commute.
Oh, did I forget to mention about the flying cars? Yeah, the World’s Fair, “Tomorrowland” future finally arrived. Not evenly distributed, but… You know. Nero sent manslaves up the Apennine mountains to make his personal ice cream, when it was invented. Ice cream tech was a 0.1%’er thing. The Bourbon Kings had their personal cake, ate it too. Rockefeller drank up all the Gilded Age milkshake. Kind of fucked up, but c’est la vie.
I’m a blue blood. One of them. I’ve got STATUS (Stratoplex Access To Upper Sectors) and ECLAT (Elite Citizen Legally Allowed Titles). I’m a made man. I’m the son of the Holy Roman Empire. Got the predecessor to prove it, too; my dad’s name is Julius. Sardonic laughs all around any time dad mentioned his name and empire in the same sentence, which was often. He’d let his fellow white shoes laugh it up. The next week, he’d own them. Veni, vidi, vici. A real gold-star tycoon, my dad. Real overachiever.
The family business? Everything. Merger of a tech supergiant and a war profiteering “oil”igarchy conglomerate. We’re in social media, e-retail, p-retail, you name it. Toilet tissue and robo-childcare, data mining and gold mining. Frakking in the arctic, selling vaccines for petri-evolved superstrains of small pox, weapons contracting for World War III, end-of-world credit default swap brokering, the whole nine yards. We’ve got “offices”, more like hyper-metropolitan fortresses, touching down in every city that doesn’t sprain a Geiger counter, isn’t overrun by meth labs, velocibears, uber-blight, and cannibal warlords, and has some natural resource left to stripmine.
Like I said, I’m not Jesus. I don’t deliver you from evil. I can opt out, sure, but I’m not Spiderman. If I try to put the brakes on 300 years of gonzo capitalism, I’ll just get pushed off some fluted-marble, gold-sided balcony, and the next jackal in the diabolic Randian pez machine will slide into my corner office.
So it’s 4:30 AM, and I’m awake. My mind is running a million miles a second. In a few hours I’ll be turning in my letter of resignation. No big deal, right? A job’s a job. Except I’m a division head of one of the biggest corporate city-states in the world. Oh yeah, and my dad is the CEO.
Ok, technically it’s a transfer, but I’m daddy’s little scion, and the destination is to Canuckistan, and so this amounts to resignation. In the hawkish, horn-rimmed eyes of papa Ceasar, I’ll be classified as a draft dodger. Traitor. McCarthy trial pending. Charges: aiding and abetting the communist party, deserting during the Cold War against feuding corporate empires.
I always lived in the mile-high-club, but when I was a kid, I remember at least you could see the street. I remember getting “Picantedogs” with dad after school, stopping by our favorite food truck. Fresh salsa sourced from hydroponic, local co-op operations. Cheddar, sour cream on a plump frank and artisan bun. Mess your face up good. I look out my bullet-proof window now and all I see is a blanket of pollution shit out by our sub-level autonomous factories, forced down throats below by some sadistic application of meteorological science that probably won a Nobel Peace Prize. Somewhere, down in the drug-addled, sludge-inundated slumsprawl of the Dregosphere, I imagine the Picantedog food truck, converted into a meth lab.
Look up, I see ten thousand-foot castles, lit up like electric gold and ivory birthday cakes, floating above the aphotic, coal-grey necropolis below . Lonely, malice-filled towers of Babel. Prisons of wealth. The Stratoplex. Hushed marble offices populated by hyenas in tailored suits pushing each other from the nearest balcony if it means they move a rung up the totem. I’m surrounded by smiling colleagues, sure. Plastic-beautiful faces, pretty as money can buy. They’re all future Brutuses. Waiting for pappy Julius to slip, so they can plant the knife and take this high-altitude Empire for their own. I can’t call on these people. Hell, I wouldn’t trust’em to call an ambulance if I choked on a remoulade crab cake.
I need out of here. Out of the Stratoplex.
Up north, New Canada, they say there are still cities with buildings that open out onto the ground. Drag yourself up with a gunshot wound, hospital won’t close the door if you don’t have platinum credit. Ice cream for everybody. Democratic republics. I want to start my own food truck, up there, on those streets, if they exist. They have this thing called Japadog, amazing miso-franks, furikake snow. Maybe I’ll call mine, “Anglodog”. Whatever. I’m over empire. It’s tasteless.
Listening to rather than reading this. A bit of a challenge at first w/the lexicon of newly minted as well as newly purposed words, but am keeping up so far as Gibson is great w/contextual clues. I think that's part of the fun. But I also think it might be fun to compare and contrast one's understanding of some of those words with that of others, thus this thread. If you are the go-it-alone type in this regard, you might want to bypass this one.
First up: Sounds like "Maenad crush"? Is that how it's even spelled (remember, I'm doing this audio)? On chapter 25 at the moment, and this term has surfaced a couple of times so far. Most recently when describing the curtains surrounding Ash's workspace nook in Lev's Notting Hill "garage."
"This is one nation under God!" You got to respect!
I have to admit to you that even if you do religion witha long prayer you go through a process that is the same. Because so many people yell at you for two and a half hours. They just don't give up. There is always a new victim for them. The vitizimation is begging. Relgious people are not that educated. Becuae they are looking at it with hate.
Even priests need assistance. SEriously, though, how can they teach when they know nothing?
I like to eat beef with khurd onn it. I am going to try buttermilk next. Or was it invented in America? Some say Europeans discoverd the technology in America?
Allot of socalled Indian programmers are supposed to do programming for a living but most I know are int he stupid hosue. Anyone who goes against Dharma will be annihilated.
Chaes Manhattan. THe proud sponsor of 911.
P.S. I have observed Jews drinking tea. Eva Brown died by drinking tea. Much like Adam and Eve died by eating the apple.
Just kidding..that was Senor Geebson's excuse for being a tad late for his arival at Skylight Books today, after landing in an atypical rain-soaked Los Angeles. A very laidback and pleasant reading from the new one, and some updates on life in a Writer's Shoes--evidently some interest in developing 'Pattern Recognition' for the screen, and the possible prescence of 'toxig cheese' in the new book, which would orevent it from being more than a one-off. That was pretty funny, by the way. I guess everyone lusts after a trilogy, but really, isn't one enough, and aren't I a lucky guy for scoring a copy of Peripheral for me and my son, Paris? Yawn...Nighty night to all, and thanks again for welcoming an old semi-retired doctor-slash-musician from Baltimore to the group...