Dancing in the Streets V

Thanksgiving 2014

Daria was at the Lawndale Airport, waiting for Quinn's arrival.  Daria had gotten there first - she had actually planned it so that Quinn could absorb the blow of parental love, but the high cost of plane tickets convinced the Morgendorffers to shop around.  Two transfers and an 11:30 pm arrival time later, Quinn's plane finally showed up at 11:44 pm.

Quinn came off the plane, in a green T-shirt and blue jeans, wheeling a pink suitcase. "Hey!" she said.

"Hey," Daria said.  "We have to convince our parents to have another kid.  After three months with no one in the house, they were smothering me to death.  Like waterboarding with love."

"Tell me about it," Quinn said as Daria followed along to the luggage pickup.  "When you left, I thought it was going to be totally impossible.  I was almost convinced to go to Lawndale State in the fall, anything to get me out of the house.  Where's Jane?"

"Jane has no dinero," Daria said.  "Unless I can fit her into a suitcase, there's no way she has enough money to make it back home."

"That's too bad," Quinn said. "So what are you going to do?"

"Endure Mom and Dad," Daria said.  "Check the internet on my cell phone a lot."

"I plan making a lot of calls," Quinn said.  "A [i]lot[/i] of calls.  I haven't heard anything from Sandi or Tiffany at all.  What about you?"

"Well, I haven't heard anything from them either," Daria said.

"No, stupid.  I mean [i]your[/i] friends at Lawndale."

"What friends?" Daria said.  Quinn took that as confirmation that Daria had had no contact with her senior classmates other than Jane.  She wondered what they were going to talk about on the way home.

(* * *)

The two drove along the highway after midnight.  Quinn drove, as Daria hated to drive.  Daria squinted.  "Funny T-shirt?"

"Hm?"

"I can't read the writing."

"Oh," Quinn said.  "This is my National Progressive American People's Party T-shirt."

"Oh, those guys," Daria said.  Quinn wanted to know exactly what Daria was talking about and Daria admitted to her multiple encounters with the NPAPP.  "So you've joined up?"

"Yeah," Quinn said.

"Wow," Daria said. "I didn't think those guys met your standards of either fashion or popularity."

"I'm expanding my horizons," Quinn said.  Daria gave her a funny look, but nodded.

"Daria?"

"Hm?"

"What do you think of the NPAPP?"

"I don't really think of it," Daria said.

"Come on.  You knew it when it was just the American People's Party.  You had to come to some conclusion."

"This isn't going to be some sort of political come-to-Jesus speech I'm going to get?"

"No.  I want your honest opinion.  Please."

Daria sighed.  "I suppose that the NPAPP is like a lot of other little groups out there on the fringes of American political life.  They have some good ideas, although I think there's too much in their program that other people can pick apart.  I think that after four years or so, the party will have to come to a decision.  They'll either have to join up with one of the established political parties and break up or they'll go the other way and become more strident and more obnoxious, like similar groups.  Parties this size only stay together as long as there's one compelling personality.  If the party can establish beyond "small group" level, it will survive, else the members will find something better to do with their time."

"Hmf," Quinn said, obviously disappointed but not saying anything.

"You wanted me honest opinion.  Be careful what you ask for."

"Well, I'm in it for the long haul."

"So when did you join?"

"In October," Quinn said.

"Yep.  The 'long haul'."  Daria smirked, and Quinn frowned.

(* * *)

Daria, Quinn, Helen, and Jake were finally together again, as a family, at the dinner table.  Jake had labored long and hard over the turkey, and he was Hitler in a chef's hat.  The kitchen had been annexed like the Sudentenland, with Jake giving orders for nothing to be disturbed and declining any help from his daughters.  Finally, Jake's mighty labors ended, and the Morgendorffers feasted.

Daria asked to take some of the food home for Jane, but the parental attention - with her parents attempting to turn back the clock to when they were both in high school - disturbed her.  Her parents could never let live, they always had to pry.  They wanted to know what her classes were like, what she thought of Raft, did she have a boyfriend, did Jane have a boyfriend?  She just didn't feel close enough to share and Daria knew that things would be changing over the years.  She felt she had already separated from her parents and that they all lived in different universes.

Quinn, of course, loved to talk, and Daria decided to let Quinn talk as much as she wanted to.  Quinn talked about Shrewsbury but since NPAPP was the most important thing in her life at the time, the bulk of her conversation consisted of retelling her adventures with the Shrewsbury chapter on the minute level. 

Helen and Jake - of course - were fascinated.  Jake wanted to talk about the new Christmas shopping season.  Helen and Jake were conservative Democrats, and almost every economist stated that this Christmas season was when Americans were going to cut loose and open their wallets.  The high price in gas - still at $4.30 - had forced Americans to curtail some of their extracurriculars, and economists believed that this reprioritizing of household budgets would add up to a windfall that would hit the economy. 

Quinn shared the story of her college friends trying to find plane tickets at a decent price.  "It's hard.  And now I'm starting to wonder if it was a smart idea going to school in California.  Out-of-state tuition is a killer."

"I'm glad to see that you're taking an interest in politics," Helen said.  "Maybe there's something that you can do about that."

"Oh, we're definitely trying!" Quinn said.

"Quinn, your group doesn't even have a dozen people in it.  I don't think that the DNC and RNC are shaking in their boots at the prospect of the National Progressive American People's Party."

"But isn't that the way it [i]always[/i] is?" Quinn said.   They always tell you to 'vote', but you get to vote between the Democrats and the Republicans.  That's like a choice between getting stabbed and getting shot."

"Right," Helen said. "But when your life is at stake, that distinction is a real difference."

"But it doesn't have to be that way.  I don't [i]want[/i] to choose between getting stabbed and getting shot when I go to the voting booth."

"How did [i]you[/i] vote Daria?" Jake asked.

"Using a complex mathematical formula weighted by the number of lies told by the candidates."

"Funny," Quinn said. "I voted for the first time this year.  Half of the people on the ballot are running unopposed.  I thought I was in North Korea. I can write in a candidate, but the rules make sure that he can't get elected.  You can vote for a write-in candidate, but he can't advance past the primary in California."

"Quinn, you might have better luck working within the system," Helen said.  "Join the Democrats - or God help us, the Republicans - and work for real change."

"Work for 'real change'."  Quinn snorted, as if she had heard Helen a dozen times before.  "People have tried that for years, Mom," Quinn said.  "That doesn't work.  Both political parties are broken.  The economy is broken.  The environment is broken.  So our goal is to be a real choice."

"Like the Greens," Daria said.

"No, [i]not[/i] like the Greens.  The Greens are in bed with Big Labor.  New boss, same as the old boss.  And most of them are socialists."

"Quinn, I read your party platform," Daria said.  "I distinctly recall 'abolition of unearned income' was one of the planks.  A lot of that stuff sounds very anti-capitalist."

"But DAH-ria," Quinn said with a smile. "We're not out to destroy capitalism.  We just want responsibility.  We want the people who work for a living to be rewarded, and we want the people who use capitalism to destroy the enviroment and destroy people's lives not to use corporations as a shield to hide behind punishment."

"Then you'd have to get rid of the Fourteenth Amendment," Daria said.

"Maybe we will get rid of it," Quinn said.

"Quinn - do you even know what the Fourteenth Amendment is?" Daria said.

"No, but I can find out.  If the Fourteenth Amendment isn't doing good for the people, then we intend to get rid of it."

"Maybe you should read the Constitution first before you decide to change things," Daria said.

"That's the same old talk, Daria.  Come along and work within a system that doesn't work for anybody but itself."

"Okay.  Then what if no one listens to you?" Daria said.

"We'll [i]talk harder[/i].  If we're right - and we are right - people will listen.  Now I have to go to the bathroom.  Excuse me."

Quinn left the table and headed to the bathroom.  With the three of them at the table, Helen said, "I think it's sweet.  Seeing Quinn involved in her first political causes.  I remember when I was a young radical."

"What was it like, Mom, meeting Martin Luther King?"

"Quiet," Helen said.  "At least Quinn is involved.  Some of us could stand to be more involved."

"Helen's right!" Jake said. "Why aren't you involved?"

"Because leaving a skull-shaped impression in a solid brick wall isn't my idea of fun.  Besides, Quinn doesn't know anything about the National Progressive American People's Party. It's just one of her stupid popularity causes and it will blow over."

"Daria, you said that these American People's Party people were at Raft?" Helen asked.

"Uh huh."

"Were they popular?"  Helen was asking honestly.

(* * *)

Christmas 2014

Jane and Daria waited outside the security gate.  "I wish I could hang around, but you know me, 'Jihadi Jane'.  I - !"

"Shut up!" Daria said with some urgency. "No joking, they take that bullshit seriously at airports.  Unless you want to meet Five Fingers Gretchen in the strip-search room at TSA."

"Damn.  I knew I should have emptied all of my cavities before showing up at Logan," Jane said.  "So, when am I going to hear from you again?"

"Probably when I get back to Lawndale. It's going to be fun.  The usual parental smothering.  Quinn going on about her political causes and planning the revolution from her four-poster.  Going through the ritual of gift exchange.  The usual crap."

"Wish I could join in," Jane said.  "Bring me back a present."

"You already have a present," Daria said, lifting her backpack over her shoulder.  "The use of the apartment while I'm not around."

"I intend to make full use of it. Ho ho ho."

"Yeah, speaking of 'ho', please don't fuck on my bed."

"I have no intention of fucking on your bed," Jane said.  "Now make it back to Lawndale and enjoy some of that fine, fine Christmas nog."

As Daria walked over to the friendly TSA officer to show her tickets and driver's license, she suddenly had the realization that Jane fully intended to fuck on her bed.  She sighed.  She could always change the sheets when she got back.

(* * *)

Daria knocked on the door to Quinn's room.  "Enter," Quinn said.

Helen and Jake had kept both Daria and Quinn's rooms the way they were before they left for college.  Daria always felt embarrassed going back to her old room, due to some of her fashion and music choices of which she was reminded whenever she looked at the bookshelves.  She wondered if Quinn felt that same kind of embarrasment, surrounded by pink and gonks.

The gonks had been rudely shoved to the floor.  Quinn had her shoes off, typing on her laptop.

"Hey," Daria said. "About that - !"

" -- the Fourteenth Amendment?" Quinn asked.  "The one that made the former slaves citizens?"

"Ah.  You've done some reading."

"Yep.  'Free citizens vote'.  That's an easy way to remember the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments."

"Okay.  Now that we've mastered American Civics, I wanted to talk about the Gift Exchange.  What do you want me to buy you?"

"The same old crap.  Something practical.  Which I intend to exchange for money, by the way, so keep the receipts."

"Got it.  Do the same for me.  I wonder why we don't just skip the charade and exchange money.  Or just keep our damned money."

"Well, I suppose the ritual is what's important," Quinn said.  "Besides, it's the annual boost to the American economy, so people need us out there buying crap."

"I guess.  So what are you going to buy with your loot?"

"I'm donating my loot to the NPAPP."

"Of course," Daria said.  "I guess I'm subsidizing the New Revolutionaries now."

"Well, you knew that was where the money was going to go."  Quinn slightly closed her laptop and turned to Daria.  "I think I'm going to major in political science."

"Realllly?"  Daria was surprised.

"Yep."

"How do you think Mom and Dad are going to feel?"

"They're going to be unhappy.  But...I guess moving back to Lawndale wouldn't be so bad if they refused to pay for it.  I guess I could go to Lawndale State."

"That's a fate worse than death," Daria said.  "Do you want my advice?"

"Well...no.  Not really.  But I am interested in hearing it."

"There is absolutely [i]nothing[/i] you can do with a political science degree.  Except either run for office, or help someone else run for office.  And since there are only two major parties in the United States, in the end that's going to mean working either for Team Red or Team Blue.  And the Greens already stole your color."

"Daria, I don't intend on working for either the Democrats or Republicans.  That's like working for your grandpa."

"Quinn, get serious," Daria said.  "After four years of political science - and that is if you take it seriously and even if you join a real political party - you are going to be terminally unemployable.  The only job you've ever had was at a pet store, and we all know how that ended.  Political science pays for shit.  You could become a lawyer, but we're now glutted with lawyers, a bunch of doucebags chasing the same free-floating one hundred dollar bill.  And I know you like your luxuries. Do you [i]really[/i] want to move back after five or six years to this room?"

"First, Daria, I am serious.  Second, I'm going to stay with NPAPP as long as it holds up.  Third, you underestimate me."

"I underestimate you.  Miss Trendy?"

"Do I [i]look[/i] like a fashion plate now?"  Quinn indicated her jeans and her NPAPP shirt with the sweep on one hand.  "Maybe I have more inner resources than you think I do."

"Okay.  Warning has been delivered. My job is done.  You could move in with me, I suppose, but it's a little crowded with me and Jane."

"How's that going?" Quinn said.

"She's fucking on my bed," Daria muttered, and left the room.

(* * *)

Daria was holding a pink sweater in Quinn's size as she made her way to the Albatross and Finch checkout line.  It was an odd experience.  Normally, she stayed away from an ultra-trendy store like A&F, with their "greeter gods and goddesses". One time, Daria and Jane ventured into A&F for a laugh.  The store was notorious for the motto that only the coolest, most popular and best looking people should be wearing their clothes.  The stares and the lack of customer service made it quite clear which category Daria and Jane belonged to.

This time, Daria was given help not once, but [i]twice[/i] by one of the greeter goddesses.  She asked the "goddess" if she was working on commission.  "Yeah," was the answer.  "We get paid sub-minimum wage.  Part of the reward is the privilege of being a greeter goddess, but we get paid on commission."

Daria was surprised that an A&F greeter goddess would be so casual with a mere mortal.  "That's what I figured.  This is the Christmas season, though.  Looks like a nice long line."

"You should have seen the line [i]last[/i] year," the goddess said.  "The lines here and at Khaki Barn were ridiculous back then. You could make serious bank.  Nobody is buying anything this season."

"NPR says that this is going to be one of the biggest Christmas seasons ever."

The goddess rolled her eyes.  "Yeah, everybody says that.  Me, I'm looking to find steady work somewhere.  A place where I don't have to work for commission.  Do you know someone who's hiring?"

"I wish I did.  But I'm a college student, so...."

"Yeah.  I'm starting to regret not going to college myself.  Anyway, if you need some help packing that, just let me know."

"Nah.  But I'll throw in an extra pair of socks."

"Thanks," the goddess said.

Daria thought about their conversation.  [i]It would certainly make a good story of some kind.  Maybe a long-form essay.[/i]  Since she had some time, she decided to see if the person would interview with her.  It was going to be a long Christmas break, and she needed to show some incentive.

(* * *)

It was three days before Daria and Quinn were to return to their various schools.

Jane had sworn up and down to high heaven that there was no fucking on her bead.  Finally, she admitted it.  "Yeah, there was a little fucking."  Daria knew going into their co-habitation (so to speak) that Jane was rules adverse, but she didn't appreciate it that Jane was overstepping her most personal of boundaries.

In the meantime, she had talked to seven different people at the mall who all confirmed that Christmas sales were down, and that there were more returns that usual that year.  Daria looked for some confirmation of the numbers in the major papers, but those papers remained upbeat.  Given that Daria's story was flying against conventional wisdom, she admitted to herself that she had doubts as to whether or not it would fly.

(* * *)

January 2015

Shrewsbury College

When Quinn made it back to her dorm, the first thing she did was plan to hook up with Madeline.  She dialed Madeline's cell phone but got no answer.   After two other "no answers" she decided to go to Madeline's room and find out what was going on for herself.

Quinn knocked on Madeline's door several hours later.  A blonde chick opened the door.  She didn't look like Madeline or her roommate.

"Hello?"

"Hi!  I'm here to talk to Madeline!"

"Madeline?" the girl answered.  "You mean the girl who used to be here?"

Madeline's side of the room was replaced with new junk, whereas Madeline's roommate's stuff was still there.  "What happened.  Did she changed dorms?"

"No, I heard she transferred."

[i]Transferred![/i]  As Quinn said her goodbyes, she couldn't believe it. Madeline had flown the coop, abandoning the NPAPP chapter, abandoning Shrewsbury, abandoning her friendship with Quinn - abandoing everything.  At least it explained why Quinn wasn't getting any calls back.

She made a note to check at the admissions department to make sure that the new person in Madeline's room wasn't mistaken.  Even so, it looked like Madeline was gone for good and the presidency - good or bad - was now in her hands.

(* * *)

Raft University

Daria had just finished changing the sheets on her bed.  After the inevitable fallout, Jane decided that she had something to do. "I've decided that I have something to do," she said, and walked out of the apartment.

Since Jane never checked their answering machine messages, Daria caught up.  There was a message from her advisor.

[i]Daria, this is Dr. Philpot.  I want to chat with you about that essay you e-mailed to me.  Give me a call at my office number.  Goodbye.[/i]

Daria dialed back.  She didn't think he would have 'beta-read' it so soon.  "Hello?"

"Hello, Dr. Philpot.  This is Daria Morgendorffer.  You left a message."

"Yes, yes," he said from his office.  "I wanted you to know that I enjoyed that essay very much.  I left a few comments on it.  I didn't think I'd write so much but it sucked me in."

"Thanks."

"By the way...I did something without your permission."

"Hm?"

"I shared it with Dr. Maxon over at the journalism department.  He's a colleague of mine.  I'll just say that he was very impressed and he'd like you to call him immediately.  He wants to talk to you about the benefits and privileges of a degree from the Raft School of Journalism."

Daria was surprised.  "I don't think it was really that great."

"Well, I think Dr. Maxon was more surprised by the date of the essay and the news."

"Hm?"

"It looks like the major networks are reporting horrible Christmas numbers.  Dr. Maxon enjoyed how you drew your conclusions and insisted that it would be a horrible holiday season.  He was talking about that essay with great enthusiasm.  You might have a future in journalism."

Dancing in the Streets, Part IV

Dancing in the Streets Part IV

November 2014
Shrewsbury College

"So when my Mom lost her job," William Vincent said, "that's when I started thinking about things. I decided I'd look at that flyer you put under my door, and a lot of that stuff started to make sense."

"Vincent, we're glad you're here," Madeline said.  Madeline was the chairman of the NPAPP Shrewsbury organization.  (Quinn had moved up to vice-chairman.)  All together, their little group now had ten people in it.  "The news hasn't been good recently.  Quinn, I'd like you to give the report on the issues that we're facing."

Quinn stood up and the little group clapped.  She was now wearing a long-sleeved green shirt (her old pink shirt, dyed green) and a pair of white pants.  She had worked on her speech for at least a couple of hours, but reading it simply made her aware of how short it was.

"Don't think that what's going on in this country doesn't affect you as students of Shrewsbury," Quinn said.  "The spike in gasoline prices should worry every commuter student.  I grew up in Maryland and came to California because I heard that Shrewsbury provided a quality education.  Now, I'm at risk of not being able to go home this semester."

Everyone nodded gravely.  The current price at the gas pump was $5.69 a gallon, an unexpected spike in gas that hit the pumps shortly after the 2014 Congressional Elections and the alarming hike was considered a national crisis, leading the news every night.  The Republicans were screaming that there was some sort of conspiracy to hold gas prices to artificially low levels until the end of the election cycle - if so, it didn't work because Democrats lost more seats in the House and the Senate was now tied 50-50 with Joe Biden holding the deciding vote.  No one expected Obama's coattails to be long in 2016.  With a Democratic president, a Republican house and a tied Senate, no one expected Congress to make headway on any major issue, not even the gas issue.

The gas issue affected everything.  Despite the fact of the alarming climb of gas prices (which had only lasted for ten days) belts were already tightening.  The price of airplane travel took a major bump, particularly with the coming of the holidays, and consumers screamed about the practically usurious airline rates.  Small businesses that depended on the price of gas being in the $3 range were being squeezed at the margins, with the first wave of layoffs just before the Thanksgiving holidays.

There was one good thing about the gas bump, Quinn told herself.  It gave the NPAPP some talking points when they went door to door.  NPAPP members generally went door to door as a large group, had hit every dorm on campus and prepared to hit every dorm again. 

"President Obama says that we're already in a recovery, but the recovery hasn't taken place yet.  He's opening up the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to try to bring the price of gasoline back down.  I want to remind you of a saying from another previous president - 'Prosperity is just around the corner'!  That was President Hoover, before the Great Depression."

"But if you listen to the Republicans," Quinn said, "you'll get the same story.  Their idea of a solution is to trash the Arctic Refuge.  Trash out the enviroment to fill up the tanks.  Pipelines and fracking and devastation. The other story is that there isn't a recovery because President Obama has created a 'toxic environment' for 'job creators'.  If you listen to Republican talk radio - and, like, I suggest you don't, because I listened to it for four hours yesterday - I guess their plan is that if we stop taxing rich people, everything will get better.  Seriously, I'm not kidding, that's their plan."

"Now you might ask, 'what does that have to do with me at Shrewsbury?'.  It has everything to do with you.  It has to do with whether you're going to walk or drive to school.  It has to do with how much it costs to buy food - the food drives too - and how much you're going to pay for that food at the Student Union.  It makes you have to think about how far from Shrewsbury you can go to look for part time work.  It means that more students will stay at home and take on-line courses - it breaks up our community.  It affects where your money is going to go if gas prices don't go down."

"The economy is trashed.  Global warming is real.  The current government isn't doing anything about it.  The guys who want to be the next government aren't doing anything about it either, except proposing to make it worse or let it be somebody else's problem.  So you need to about this.  You should ask yourself, who put these morons here, and how do we get them out?  The answer to both of those questions are the same.  Think about it."

The students politely applauded as Quinn sat down.  "We have to keep working on getting word out about NPAPP," Madeline said.  "There's nothing that we say that distinguishes us from any other political group out there.  Even though we've hit every dorm, I don't think there's much awareness of who we are as a group."

"Kids are apathetic," Jeremiah Rosslo, another NPAPP member said. 

"Then we have to break up their apathy," Madeline said.  "People either need to fall in love with us, or hate us, but apathy is just going to kill us."

"There is something," Quinn said, "that everyone can do.  To the people who come to this meeting - if you've got a talent, we can use it.  I don't care what your talent is, we can use that talent and we want to use it.  If there's anything we're talking about that interests you, use it.  What kind of talent do you have, William?"

"Me?" he said.  "Hell, I play basketball."

"Fine.  You can leave fliers in the visiting team's room.  We're glad to have you here, William, because...."  Quinn didn't want to say "because being a jock means you're not the typical loser", and thought of something else.  "...because you have a high profile on campus.  If you show up in green and white, people are going to ask questions.  'What's he doing with the NPAPP?' Tell your story about what brought you here."

"Richard?"

"I'm a philosophy major," he said, a bit sheepishly.

"Good.  You know what motivates people," Quinn said.  "We want to hear from you.  William, we're going to leave you with some material.  Richard, we need a report from you, a critical assessment from a philosopher's viewpoint about our group."

"I think," Jeremiah said, "that people at Shrewsbury want to know what we're going to do for them.  Specifically."

Madeline frowned.  "What, like some sort of student government thing?"

"Yeah."

"Student government is the toybox of a university," Richard said. "No one takes student government seriously.  If you're thinking about getting involved in campus politics, you're going to doom us to irrelevance."

There was some argument among the attendees regarding whether or not NPAPP should get involved through the official university channels.  Madeline broke up the argument. "Enough.  I don't know how the NPAPP HQ feels about us getting involved in campus politics."

Groaning ensued. "What?" Jeremiah said, "you have to ask for permission?"

"Guys, wait!" Quinn said.  "Give us some time.  We are going to make a political impact!  We are going to positively affect the lives of every student on campus!"

"So we are running for office?" Jeremiah asked.

Quinn looked at Madeline.  "I didn't say that."

"So we're not?"

"I didn't say that either."

"Then what are you saying?"  Quinn only had the kernel of an idea, but it wasn't enough to verbalize it.  "Richard?" Quinn said with a smile.  "I need to form a NPAPP Campus Politics Committee. That committee will consist of you, me...and Jeremiah."  She turned to Madeline.  "With your permission."

"It's a great idea," Madeline said. "But frankly, I don't want us dicking around with a bunch of committees. That's party politics of the worst kind.  I expect this committee to have its work done by *yesterday*.  I expect you to come to some conclusions by *tonight*.  I feel like we're just treading water here."

Madeline made a few concluding remarks and then broke up the meeting.  As everyone walked out, she managed to get Quinn's attention. "Quinn, I want to talk to you."

Quinn expected the worst as she walked back over. "What's up?"

Madeline sighed again.  "I don't know what Party HQ is going to think of this.  I really don't want us to get involved in the Student Government.  That's a quagmire.  That system is engineered not to do anything."

"Yeah, Madeline, but we have to do something.  Like a service organization."

"There are enough of those on campus.  I really liked the idea of using other people's talents, it gives them the idea that they are actively building the party, even though they can't build much.  Ten people is a pretty big chapter when it comes to NPAPP.  But I don't know.  I feel that our momentum is slipping."

"I'll come up with something tonight," Quinn said, not knowing how she was going to do it.

"I hope so," Madeline said.  "It might be a long meeting.  I think Richard likes you.  It might be the only reason he's in NPAPP at all."

(* * *)

Quinn had already asked around about student government before her meeting with Richard and William. (She wondered if they were called Dick or Bill by their friends?)  She made sure to talk to someone in Shrewsbury Student Government, as well as one of the quad-occupying student groups that protested against them.  Then, she matched their stories.

She quickly learned that most of the multicultural blocks - everyone from the Black Student Union to Hillel to the Muslim Students Association - would always vote for the establishment candidates.  The only way to have a shot at winning a campus election is to get the apathetic students to vote, as participation levels were at the low 10 percents.  Occasionally there were joke candidacies or stunt candidates, but the Shrewsbury Student Government was well insulated from insurrections.  (A rule stating that only *human* students at Shrewsbury could be elected, for example.)

The head of the Students for a Just Shrewsbury told her that one of their candidates two years earlier had been disqualified by a rule that stated that campaigning was limited to just three days before elections.  In reality, the SSG types campaigned all the time, but all it took was a magic wand by the SSG to turn an informal meeting into a "campaign event".  There were all kinds of potential pitfalls. Mistakes on campus forms had killed outsider candidates.  There was an "election manager seminar" that everyone interested in running was required to attend, and the student newspaper never put up any notice of it.  Yet magically, every establishment candidate manged to attend it. 

The only power the office really offered was the power to meet with the Shrewsbury Board of Trustees.  "And sometimes," her insider told her, "our Student Body President doesn't bother to show up at the meetings."

Quinn kept the news to herself.  William was asked about his perspective on campus matters as one of the popular crowd.  Even the popular crowd had issues.  They hated the high cost of text books.  They hated the $50 a year they had to pay as a student government fee.  On parking, the administration was determined to nickel and dime them to death.  Generally, student government members came from the popular kids crowd - and idealistic members had tried to address these issues - only to have them come to naught under the weight of their own student government bureaucracy and the wait-them-out tactics of Shrewsbury administration.

"Nothing good can come from Student Government," Richard said, "because how long is a Student Body President in office?  A year?  That's not long enough to get anything done.  There are no long range agendas by students because they and everyone else knows that they're only going to be here for four years. So nothing important really gets done."

Quinn then hit the philosophy major with why people joined political parties. "Some don't," he said.  "Some people will never trust society in general.  Others join because they're looking to fill some sort of vacuum in their lives.  Other than that, you have to wait for something big to happen."

"Like what?" Quinn asked.

"Well, there was the issue of slavery which both parties weren't equipped to address.  The Democrats wanted slavery, which was unacceptable to the North for a variety of reasons.  The Northern opposition parties wanted to compromise, or to kick the can down the road for the next guy to deal with.  People felt they weren't listened to and the Republican Party was founded, which was an activist movement.  The longer neither party dealt with the problem, the stronger the Republicans got.  It only took them four years to become a national party.  The problem is, Quinn, we don't have a defining problem."

"Capitalism," William said.

"Already been tried," Richard said. "Socialists, Communists, Greens.  There have been a lot of anti-capitalist parties in American and none of them have worked.  There might be some hope in the future, as the Republicans preach a more and more predatory type of capitalism and the Democrats are more and more corporate. But the bones of anti-capitalist political parties fill America's political graveyard."

"Okay.  Then we need to give people another reason to join."  Quinn worried, however, about the anti-capitalist planks in the NPAPP.  She wasn't against capitalism, per se, but her brief time in NPAPP and talking to other people convinced her that the old "I got mine" capitalism wasn't working.  So she looked for some other reason.  "What else we got?"

"Well, we have danger."

"Huh?"

"You know.  The same reason college kids become hardcore Democrats or Republicans as freshmen.  Because they want to stick it to their parents of the opposite persuasion.  Make a big show of things.  Make a lot of noise."

"That could work!" Quinn said.

"Well, everyone wants to have a good time," William said.

She could feel a hint of disgust in William's statement.  "You know, William - do they call you William or Bill?"

"My friends call me Bill."

"Bill - I don't think it has to be 'either-or'.  Either you get Student Gov that is all about having a good time but never gets anything done.  Or you get those other groups that are all super-serious that bore everyone to death. We need to do both.  We need a touch of excitement around there.  We're the excitement."

"You could put that on a bumper sticker," Richard chuckled.

"Why not?  We ARE the excitement.  We're not your Mom and Dad's political party.  The Democrats and the Republicans?  They're not following the future, they're following the past." 

"Yeah, but how do you keep the party together if it can't do anything?" Richard said.

"The same way you keep any group of people together," Quinn said.  "Trust me.  When I was in high school, I learned all about the popularity ladder.  If you offer people a good time, if you're nice to them, if you don't try to stab them in the back and if you talk to them like human beings, you will be popular.  Of course, it helps to dress nice and look good, too."

"The kind of people who attend NPAPP meetings look like a bunch of nobodies," William said.

"Then we need to give out good advice.  Everyone wants to be special," Quinn said.  "And at NPAPP, everyone is special.  And when they're not looking, we'll hit them in the head with our party platform."

"But what about Student Government?" Richard said.

"We're not going to reach out to them," Quinn said.  "Our goal is to be so big that we don't need to.  If we get to a large enough size, it becomes obvious who the student government is going to be.  If we're the popular people, then there is no choice."

"We don't have popular people!" William said.

Quinn smiled.  "Watch me," she said, "and learn."  She had finally put it together - people make political decisions based on little more than popularity.  And nothing sweetened an unpalatable position more than a popular person making it.

Dancing in the Streets (Part III)

October 2014

Shrewsbury College


Quinn Morgendorffer wondered if she hadn't made a terrible mistake.

Her parents were proud that she had decided to attend Shrewsbury instead of Pepperhill.  She had managed to bring up her grades and her extracurriculars and glowing recommendations - even David Sorenson wrote one - got her by the skin of her teeth into Shrewsbury.  Shrewsbury College's reputation was that of an up-and-coming educational institution with potential and a good psychology program.  It certainly beat the party school she almost went to, Pepperhill.

However, Quinn found herself struggling almost immediately.  The work was harder than that at Lawndale High School.  Granted, it wasn't a Leland University or a University of Berkeley level of challenge but it was hard enough.  All of Quinn's social connections had to be rebuilt from ground up.

It was here that Quinn learned two major rules about college, and undergraduate education in general.

The first is that the educational rigor of a school is closely correlated with the ability of the student body to get away from idiots.  Shrewsbury was an NCAA Division III university.  It didn't even have a football team, and no sporting life except for losing basketball teams that were lucky to draw two dozen in attendance.  There was no sorority system at Shrewsbury, just dorm life, and unexceptional dorm life.  There were no drunken bacchanals or rock concerts on the Quadrangle.   It was an atomized life.  There were groups, but there wasn't a whole.  At Lawndale High School, she knew everyone but at Shrewsbury there were still people she hadn't met.  And absolutely, there was no one group of people that held sway over everything cool and popular.

The second is that college is a place to remake yourself.  The freshmen were in two groups - those who were trying to make themselves into something else but not having quite decided what.  The other group were those who were trying to recreate their high school life at Shrewsbury.  The second group was having a lot of problems.  The high school queen bees found themselves isolated for their obnoxiousness.  The jocks who were the best players on their teams either were riding the bench at Shrewsbury, or in the case of football, didn't even have a sport to fall back on.  The only winners were the brains - as long as they had a library and someone to approve of their academic strivings, they were happy.

Quinn's problem was that she had one feet in both groups.  She wanted things to be different, but she wanted to fall back on the comforts of fashion, gossip, and popularity.  At times, she chided herself for trying to act like a Fashion Club Vice-President, other times she chided herself for wanting Sandi, Stacy, and Tiffany back.  It wouldn't happen.  Sandi was at Pepperhill, Stacy was at some East Coast college, and she hadn't heard from Tiffany since graduation.

She had other struggles.  In addition to struggling with the load, her metabolism decided to kick into low gear.  She was gaining a small amout of weight, even though she hadn't changed her diet.  She dreaded having to cut anything out of her diet, which was already pared down to keep her thin and trim figure.  Her nightmare was that the Freshman Forty - the forty pounds girls supposedly gained during their first year - was upon her, and she'd do about anything to avoid that.

The fashionable girls were either snobs - rich girls who ended up at Shrewsbury because it was the safety school - or they were bores.  What few hierarchies there were were already cast in iron, and Quinn would have to climb up the popularity pole the hard way, and she didn't know if she had the desire, or didn't know if it was the right thing to do, or didn't know any better.

Sometimes, she'd put on a sweat shirt and sweat pants, look out the window, and just think about how alone she was.  The only people that really seemed to approve of her being at Shrewsbury were her parents - and Daria.  Daria's approval meant more to her than even Helen or Jake's.  Daria and Quinn rarely communicated, but after Daria learned of Quinn's acceptance, she sent a rare text message.

"Wow.  A school that doesn't have its diplomas perforated at the edges.  How did THAT happen?"

Quinn smiled when she read it.  Daria seemed happy at Raft.  Why couldn't she be happy at Shrewsbury?  She just felt like a big fat failure.


(* * *)

It was going to be another lazy Saturday.  There was a knock at the door.  Quinn answered it.

There was a girl wearing a green T-shirt and white pants.  She had a backpack and was carrying some papers.  "Hi, my name is Madeline, and I'm a member of the National Progressive American People's Party," she said.  "The system in America doesn't work.  Are you interested in helping us form a national political organization?"

She handed Quinn the pamphlet.  Quinn looked it over.  There was a party platform with a set of bullet points. A picture of some young-looking adult with some information about who he was. 

"I'm sorry," Quinn said. "I'm not interested in politics."

"If your house was on fire," Madeline said, "you'd be interested in putting it out.  America's house is on fire, and we're all going to get burned.  Our party platform offers ways to put that fire out."

Quinn gave the pamphlet another cursory glance.  She knew she had to get rid of Madeline.  "Isn't it a faux pas to wear white after Labor Day?" referring to Madeline's white pants.

"Coco Chanel wore white every day," Madeline said, smiling.

"True," Quinn said, "but that green and white combination has got to go.  I hope that's not all you're wearing!"

Quinn chided herself for pulling out her inner Sandi, but she was also impressed that Madeline knew who Coco Chanel was.  "I've never heard of you guys."

"There's a website.  www.npapp.org.  You can find out anything you want to find out."

"Are you having any luck?"

"Doing what?"

"Getting members?

Madeline gave a slight frown. "There are only five of us," she said. 

"So...not working, huh?" Quinn said, somewhat dismissively.

"No one is going to come to a meeting unless they know about it," Madeline said.  "They might not come to a meeting, but they'll sure as hell know about it by the time I'm done."

"Look.  I don't make commitments on the first date - so to speak, Quinn said.  "How am I supposed to know that you guys are not a bunch of looney tunes?"

"Read the website.  If there's something you don't agree with - tell us. But there are a few things we're not moving on.  Global warming is real, and it's going to screw all of us.  Our national economy is a joke.  Big business don't care.  Labor unions don't care. Washington doesn't care.  It's just us.  If you're not fighting for what you want, then you don't want it bad enough.  Can I ask your name?"

Quinn pulled the trigger. "It's Quinn.  Quinn Morgendorffer."

"Quinn, I hope you'll come to our meeting next Thursday.  Please come."

Sighing, Quinn said, "I need to find out about this...Fred Wolff guy, whoever he is.  Good looking."

"See you on campus, Quinn," Madeline said. "I'll be the one wearing green and white.  And if you just want to chat - that's okay, too.  Take care!"

Quinn closed the door.  "Fred Wolff, huh?" she said to herself and then walked to her laptop where she punched up the NPAPP website.

It was a bare-bones website that really didn't offer much more than the platform of NPAPP.  Quinn read off a few bullet points of the NPAPP Platform:

* We invest in the people.  We invest in peace, we invest in health care, we invest in intrastructure, we invest in community, we invest in education. We do not invest in war and we do not invest in economic speculation.

...

* We believes nature has rights.  If a corporation can have rights, then nature certainly has more rights than any corporation.

...

* We believe that all citizens have equal rights and equal obligations.  There will be an end to the dual standard of justice.

A lot of it was la-dee dah, but Quinn liked a few things.  "Caring for the older generation will always be a top priority of the National Progressive American People's Party." "The days of the "one dollar, one vote" democracy are over." "Racism and misogyny have no place in this party, and they never will."

Quinn wondered how much they meant that last statement, but it was a good start. 

She searched the "campus branches" and found they were very few and far between, mostly based in Eastern Schools.

* Boston Academy of Fine Arts
* Boston Institute of Technology
* Crestmore University
* Raft University
* Shrewsbury College
* Vance University
It looked like Madeline's little group was the lone Western outpost of NPAPP.  She then looked up Fred Wolff:

Fred Wolff is the National Progressive American People's Party Chairman.  A veteran of the Gulf Wars (Iraq, Afghanistan) he served several tours of duty, working his way up from recruit to Sergeant (E-5) in the United States Marines.  When his squad leader in Afghanistan was killed by enemy fire, Wolff took charge, killing five members of the Taliban, carrying wounded soldiers off the battlefield despite being exposed to hostile fire, and with his squad managed to hold his position until help could arrive.  For bravery in battle, Wolff was awarded the Silver Star.  

There were other quotes testifying to Wolff's bravery, with some background information.  He grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsyvlania.  He attended high school and after 9/11, enlisted in the Marines, volunteered for several tours there.  Injuries on duty - he also had Purple Heart - forced him to leave the Marines. 

"I learned from watching the movies that even a minority can do great things if they just have courage.  I haven't been proven wrong yet." - Fred Wolff

It seemed interesting to Quinn, maybe going to that meeting. But it was just an idea.  They didn't really look like much of anything.  Five people.  She supposed that going door to door was a "great thing" if you were shy, but there was no bolt of lightning that was moving her.  Her instinct told her that it would just be a waste of time.

She shoved the pamphlet into her drawer, and moved on to other things.

(* * *)

It was Thursday, and she came back to her dorm completely dejected.  She looked at her mid-term grade for Advanced Trigonometry.

67.  And that was a grade far better than she deserved.  The test was about all sorts of sine and cosine formulas that seemed impervious to memorization.  The teacher was no help, and she had been told by several of her classmates that they guy was the worst teacher in the math department.  The class started out with 32 people, dropped to 20 people by the beginning of October, and Quinn cursed herself for not dropping the class.  She suspected that the class would end with just a handful of people.

She needed a "C" in Calculus I just to be accepted into the psychology program at Shrewsbury.  This gave Quinn several unappetizing options.  She could sweat out Advanced Trig and pray for a "C" for effort, but she knew she wouldn't be prepared for Calc.  She could drop the class and take it again in the Spring.  Or she could change majors.

In addition, there was the Blake Prichard. He was one of the sweetest, nicest guys that she had met.  She had thrown about a zillion hints at him - to no effect.  She had finagled some study time with him.  Finally, she decided that drastic measures needed to be taken - she invited him out to lunch.

He declined. He was going out of town.  Quinn didn't know if it was the truth, if it was an excuse, if he was gay.  She just didn't care.

She looked at her bare desk.  Her roommate - a Chinese girl that she had nothing in common with, a brainiac - was off at the library.  It was to be another lone night again to deal with her failure.

Chinese. She wondered if there was a place that delivered Chinese food.  She opened her desk drawer, and saw the NPAPP Pamphlet again.  It offered an opportunity.  She could stay at the dorm and be miserable, or attend the NPAPP meeting and be miserable there.  At least she'd have company.  It might even be good for a laugh if they were all a bunch of lame-os.

Madeline left her number.  She figured she'd give them a call.

Dancing in the Streets (Part II)

Raft University and other places
May 2014

"So, do you know if any of the old gang is going to be there?"

"What 'old gang'?" Daria asked.  She was in the apartment she shared with Jane, closing her suitcase, preparing to pack for her first trip back home.

"You know, the usual gang of idiots." Jane paused. "Lawndale."

"Ah.  Well, no.  Why would any of them come back?  We didn't come back."

"True," Jane said.  "But for all of those friends that Quinn made over the years that were one grade ahead of her, you think they'd be glad to see her off."

"Those guys have traded up," Quinn said.

"You've talked to Quinn?"

"Yeah.  It's been a real pain in the ass for her," Daria said.  "My parents have smothered her with 'love' and 'affection' and a lot of words which might have similar meanings in your world to the ways that we use them in my house."

"Got it," Jane said. "They're up in her panties 24-7."

"I think they're trying to get right with Quinn what they didn't get right with me, and they found out that it was a lot of heavy lifting," Daria said.  "Well, done."

"I wish you weren't going," Jane said. "I'll miss you."

"You'll miss not having me around to bum money off of."

"That too," Jane said.

"Are you sure you'll not come back to watch Quinn graduate?"

"No way," Jane said. "Don't want to see it.  That place gives me the creeps. I want to be as far away from it as possible."

"In that case," Daria said, "let's go get something to eat."

"Ball and Chain!" Jane cried. "Ball and Chain!"

Daria turned up her nose.  "Come on, I don't want to eat at a dive bar."

"No, you want to eat at Fuddpuckers or wherever that is."

Daria worked on hiding her sigh.  Going to Ball and Chain would mean enduring a couple of guys trying to chat up Jane.  It was the place that guys from Bromwell and Holy Father went to practice their moves.  Jane liked it because it was "fun" and reminded her of The Zon - which is one of the things that she didn't like about it.

But going to some standard food-and-git place meant that she'd have to hear Jane complain about it for ten minutes.  She figured she could put up with it, for the sake of friendship.  Daria figured it was karmic payback.

(* * *)

Since neither Daria nor Jane had cars, the best way to get to Ball and Chain was to just cut right through the Raft campus on foot.  Daria's classes had ended early, but there was still one more day of testing before the campus emptied for summer break. 

"What did you think you're going to get this year?" Jane said.

"All A's.  College isn't that much harder than high school, except you actually have homework that means something and that you're expected to know some shit.  You?"

"B's," Jane said. "How the hell do I get to an Art School and not make A's?  But there are some guys in class that are pretty cool, even though they're making B's and C's, too."

"Three more years and you could be the next Daniel Dotson," Daria said.

"Shut up," Jane said, still smarting.

As they bounded down the hill that would normally lead up from the sidewalk and to the student center, they found their way blocked by some kind of poorly attended booth.  Daria recognized the guys as the members of the American People's party, still dressed in green and white but now looking much more comfortable now that the weather matched their clothing.

"I hope this isn't their final exam in political science," Daria said, "'cause they're going to flunk.  I've played this game.  Walk on by."

As Daria and Jane prepared to hold their heads up high and walk by, Jane said, "Look at the ass on that one!"

Daria squinted.  "Boy or girl?"

"I'm heteroflexible," Jane said.

Jane practically danced her way up to the booth.  "Hey there!" she said to the guy she had been looking at.

"Hello," he said.  "Would you like some literature?"

"I would like for you to fill me up," Jane said, "with your knowledge."

Blushing, the guy handed her a pamphlet.  "Is there a way I can put you on our e-mailing list?"

"That depends," Jane said.  "Do you text?  Hey I just met you...and this is crazy....!"

" - stop it, now, girl," Daria said.  She took the pamphlet out of her hands.  "The same 25 points as before.  You're going to ride that lead balloon out into the sunset."

"This is Daria," Jane said.  "She's not as politically conscious as I am.  As a matter of fact, we talked to one of your friends over at BFAC.  He was...uh...his name was...Daria, don't leave me hanging."

"Robert," Daria said, annoyed.

"Yeah, Robert," Jane said.  "How's old Bob doing?"

"Bob dropped out about a month ago," Daria said.

"Damn, I meant to get back to him!" Jane said.

"So," Daria said, "you're now the National Progressive American People's Party?"

"We wanted to emphasize that we were progressive," Jane's prospective boyfriend said.

"And national," Daria said.  "So what are you, the NPAPPers?"

"We just call ourselves NAPP," the guy said.

"Robert's out huh?" Daria said.  "Nice guy, though.  Sorry to lower your numbers to five."

"Oh, there are more of us than just us."

"Really?" Daria said.  "Do tell.  What's the current membership of the National Progressive American People's Party?"

"Twelve members."

"Whoa," Daria said. "You doubled your membership in two months.  But you still haven't found a graphic designer."

"Yeah.  We - !"

"So," Jane said, "you were looking for a graphic designer, n'est-ce-pas?"

"Hey, do you know something about it?"

"That's an interesting story," Daria started, before Jane stared daggers at her. "Why, Jane knows all about the workings of political organizations, coming up with interesting graphic designs, making a political pamphlet all sparkly.  She talks about it all the time."

"My name's David," the man said. "David Bechtel."

"I hope you pass the test," Daria said.

David laughed, getting the joke.  Then he soured. "So...together you're...?"

"Together," Daria growled.  "We are going to Fuddruckers."

"This is news to me," Jane said.

"Let me tell you some more about Jane's strengths - !"

" - Fuddruckers it is!" Jane said.  She plucked the political pamphlet out of Daria's hands, wrote her number, and gave it back to David.  "Text, call.  Whatever.  I'm easy."

Daria cleared her throat.  "I hope I'm not interrupting something," David said.

"Nah.  Daria's going to be out of town for a little while."  The way Jane said it, you would have had to be living on the moon not to see her intended meaning.

Puppeteering

"Come in."

I entered what appeared to be a little-used room in a vacant Hollywood movie set. It was actually a vacant Toronto movie set, but if Toronto can replace New York on television, its sets can replace Hollywood ones.

The man sitting at the desk wore khaki. He looked half like Jeff Probst of Survivor and half used car salesman. He smiled, as if he were completely and absolutely satisfied with himself.

Sitting on a folding chair next to him was a very large, bald black man. His lips were lined with a thin mustache and something small at the bottom of his lower lip; a Hitler mustache from the bottom and not from the top. His look was the opposite of my host's, one conveying contempt for anything physically weaker than him - and I counted.

"Take a load off," said the man behind the desk. "Have a seat!"

I sat.

"So, Mr. -- uhm -- "

"You can just call me Chris," said the man with a smile. "So, CINCGREEN, I heard that you're interested in the little operation we have up here."

"Where did you hear that?" I replied, not even noticing that he called me by my old internet name. "This invitation was out of the blue. I didn't expect to see either of you here." Now that I had figured out who the two were - the fact that the black guy wasn't wearing his hat threw me - I was starting to enter panic territory.

"Come on! Duuuuuuuuude! I can see what's inside your head! We all can! And after you read 'Where's Mary Sue When You Need Her?' it gave both of us the opportunity to make that connection."

"Uh...okay. Curtiss can handle conversations with fictional characters. I can't. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my real real and my fiction fiction."

"Well," Chris said, "it might work that way where your from, but it doesn't work that way up here. We're go getters up here in the North! We have to take our opportunities when we can!"

"So," I said. "Uh...Chris...I'm willing to listen."

"Coool!" he said, half-skateboard dude. "I gotta tell you, dude. We're really struggling for some good fan fiction here."

"I'm more of a critic than a writer. 'Those that can't do....'"

"Yeah. But you could do a lot better than what I've been reading. We're getting a lot of tweens writing. Don't think I don't like the market share! But everything is what you'd call a 'relationshipper' or just resettings of the show in different circumstances. Or those awful Mary Sues with which I'm sure you're familiar. You know how 13 year olds write!"

"Go on."

"Let me tell you, CINCGREEN, we've got a lot of the stock characters that Daria has, and some more interesting ones. We have the Queen Bee and the Dumb Blonde, and the Daria. We even have the Cool Musician, whose name...get this...happens to be 'Trent'. But we have even more archetypes than Daria. Dude, you don't even have to import them! We have the Rage-a-Holic, we have the Psycho and the Loudmouth, and the Over-Achieving Prep! You'll never get the chance to explore those kinds of personalities as regular Daria characters. And there's virtually no canon for any of these kids. Open page, duuuude!"

"Furthermore," Chris continued. "You're always looking for conflict as a writer. The entire show is about conflict! Everyone wants money, so our characters are at each other's throats. They're split into teams, they compete, they argue, they fall in love. The conflict is always there to drive the narrative."

"Yeah...I tried writing a Daria/Survivor crossover. It sucked. I would rather not repeat that."

"But it doesn't have to be that way. You can put the characters in any situation you want. Look, dude, I know about the whole 'Legion of Lawndale Heroes' thing. You had to call it an 'alternate universe'. But the rules of this universe let me get away with a ton of horse-hockey. We've had our characters fight pirahnas, sharks, bears, and the dreaded purple Sasquatch! I actually revealed that the place they had been living at for weeks was nothing more than a giant movie set despite being surrounded by water for miles in all directions! And they accepted that!"

"How?"

"Because...I'm God. I can do anything I want to to them, and they accept it. If I don't like the parameters of the universe they're in, I just change it at whim. I've even changed the rules, told the characters that I was changing the rules...and no rebellion, just acceptance. If there's anything you want to do to them...just say the word, dude. I can make it happen."

I remained silent.

"He's right," said the Chef, a chef unlike the one from South Park. "He can make it happen. I've seen it."

"Well...I'm tempted," I said. And I was. But looking at Chris's eyes, I began to have second thoughts. He was a master manipulator, a man who had interns in the series, all of whom had died doing his bidding...except for Chef, who was a force of his own. This was a man who could manipulate circumstances easily and better, a man who could hide bodies. Hell, he had manipulated me into coming here. How was I to know that I wasn't just some pawn in a larger game? Some mental-mind-fuck he had planned for his unhappy competitors?"

He called himself "God". I began to suspect that he was someone else.

"I don't know. I've got into legitimate blogging. I don't want to be dragged into that fan fiction business any more. No one's even reading Daria fan fic, who is going to be reading this -- !"

"Come onnnnnn!" Chris was in his salesman persona, his eyes sparkling. "You know you want to. Just a taste!"

I tried not to lick my lips.

"What about the Goth Girl? Isn't she special? Tough, but sweet. Caring, but cynical. All of the best qualities of Daria and Jane in one character. Who could pass up writing a story about her? Dude, it would take a man with a heart of stone to -- "

"-- fine!" I said. "I'll think about it."

"Great! Then you're on board!"

"I said I'll think about it. No more."

"Whatever! Listen...I know you also follow those teens in the mall...."

"Good Lord," I said. "One coffin-nail at a time. What kind of incestuous universe do you have over here?" Even Satan ought to know when not to push it.

Sequelitis

I've looked at Daria fandom for about seven years now, and one thing that I've definitely noticed is a surge in popularity of a particular form of storytelling, namely, the series. When looking at new Daria tales, it seems that every single one of them is a series of some sort. By "series" I mean a tale whose end point is deliberately left in doubt. Series can come to an end, but the reader doesn't know when the wrap-up point will come and to a degree, the reader can always depend on more.

I read an interesting article called Why Scifi Book Series Outstay Their Welcomes. Aside from fandom, the place where series have taken hold is the realm of science fiction and fantasy. Part of the reason is because the market is so competitive and the goal is to sell books, and it's much easier for an author to sell a Part II than it is a Part I.

The author of the article gives seven reason why science fiction series reach their failure point. I read the list and tried to compare what I read to Daria fandom.

1. The rules change. This is when the actual premise or plot structure changes, or the balance of suspension of disbelief changes. The example given was Philip Jose Farmer in Riverworld, as Farmer supposedly changed the plot mechanics of how Riverworld worked book by book so that he would have less difficulty contriving new stories. One could claim that Glenn Eichler did this sometime between the end of Season Two and Season Four, where the series changed from Daria Triumphant to Daria-Unsure-Of-Herself.

2. Cash flow. A series continues entirely for monetary reasons -- it brings in truckloads of money, and one has to bring out the installments to keep the money flowing. I suppose in Daria fandom, the "money" is the ego-boost the author receives. It's very hard to come up with an example here.

3. A trilogy becomes a messy tetralogy. The big example in SF is Douglas Adams and his Hitchhiker's Guide series. I read the first three, but I noticed that as the series progressed the humor had less and less punch. I read the fourth one at the library, and it was almost unbearable. I didn't read the fifth one at all.

An analog in Daria fandom could be when a sequel is demanded of a story that the author ended. Several Daria fan fiction writers have unfortunately "sequeled" well ended stories; The Angst Guy is very good at giving stories natural ends and holding calls for sequels at arm's-length.

4. Too much meaning. This happens when the author explains "how the world works" over and over again. With more time to write and expound, the series delves into the metaphysical and epistemological and the series becomes a moral treatise on The Way Things Are In The World.

Some Daria fan fiction series do indeed become author soapboxes. I'm reminded of Daniel Suni's "How Deep it Goes", which becomes positively preachy.

5, The random left turn. This happens when the author pretty much loses the thread and the series becomes about Something Else Entirely. This supposedly happens in Isaac Asimov's followup to his Foundation Trilogy.

6. The miraculous save. An example of "The Miraculous Save" is when a character seems to develop "just-in-time" abilities or capabilities that fit in to whatever the author is writing about. Suzette Haden Elgin's Native Tongue is given as an example.

7. The shrinking protagonist. Either a) the rough edges of the protagonist are smoothed for public consumption (Harry Harrison, Stainless Steel Rat), or a new protagonist throws the original protagonist into the shadows. (Orson Scott Card, Ender's Shadow.)

Now I can certainly think of Daria series where this happens, but I don't want to make the claim unless I've read those series thoroughly -- I only have first impressions to go on and I'd rather not be rash. A lot of Daria series suffer the problems listed above.

However, the final four entries on the list really around about the specifics of creating books for a science fiction market. The final four entries are examples of bad writing, which can doom anything, series or standalone.

Take #4. The point is not to expound on moral matters too heavily, but to let the reader draw their own conclusions (and not contrive a phony set of false moral alternatives in which to place the protagonist -- trust me, nothing's cheaper than that).

What about #5? That's just bad plotting. As Mark Twain stated that a conversation in literature should stop when the characters have nothing more to say than the reader would be interested in and should stop at a natural stopping point, so should the narrative of a book.

As for #6 -- Sweet Jesu, the examples I could come up with when a character shows "omnicapability". There are a lot of Mary Sues floating around, "omnicapability" is the worst of their sins.

In #7, there's a big temptation to make bad people "nice guys". I'll admit I sort of did this with Sandi Griffin in the Legion of Lawndale Heroes stories, but face it, I've always liked Sandi Griffin and never thought she was really that bad. A writer must avoid the temptation, however, to turn a character into something that can't be justified with an appeal to the Almighty God Canon. Thomas Mikkelsen would claim, "well, you're just writing a different character, and the only thing your character has in common with the Daria character is the name."

No major points to make. Just some observations.

In Dreams

Finished reading: AD14

Work remains busy. There's really not much more to say about that. However, I'm beginning a new baseball story on another messageboard, a story which is taking up much of my present-moment thinking and has required a bit of research into baseball, 1983 style. I'll read the next two segments of "Apocalyptic Daria", and then I'll take a break for about a week for something new before I return to this tale.

(* * *)

Now, back to Daria and Jane on the lam.

The story starts with Daria and Jane trying to get some sleep, sharing a bed. (More on this later.) Jane wakes up and has some pizza, while Daria is dreaming that she is walking through a school gym converted to a hospital.

In Daria's dream, she sees people she knows either dead or suffering from radiation sickness. One moment her parents are in their normal work clothes, then she turns back towards them and they are either suffering from radiation sickness or are dead. Finally, Daria discovers Jane -- and herself -- as dead bodies punctured with bullet holes.

Daria screams and wakes up. Jane comes to confort her. They both share the fact that they miss their loved ones, and they thank each other for keeping each other alive.

(* * *)

Despite the compliments, I really didn't think AD14 was that great for a number of reasons:

First, a very minor complaint. Jane's banter with Daria -- these lesbian jokes -- were first amusing -- then intriguing -- and then started to get annoying with AD14. If I were Daria, I would really be starting to wonder about Jane's sexuality. "Jane, you're starting to creep me out here. You really need to find another theme, or seriously...you need to come out of the closet, because I can't tell if you're joking anymore, because you talk about this ALL the time."

The second complaint is the major one. It's hard to put one's foot down and say "this is the major problem", but I've seen it elsewhere and in AD14, we see it yet again. We see it in the dream sequence, and in Daria's reactions to it.

There's the old maxim of showing, not telling that most writers know. One doesn't simply tell the reader "Daria felt this way and Jane felt this way and Quinn felt this different way", but instead gives examples of how Daria and Jane and Quinn are reacting.

However, one can take this rule to the opposite extreme, the extreme where the author shows absolutely everything. In the omnipotent third person, this can be a bit dangerous. We not only get a physical accounting of events (this person went here, this person went there, that person did this, etc.) but also an emotional recounting of events (this person cried, this person raised their voices, this person was sullen). It reads as if a checklist is being checked off.

Sometimes, you have to decide to not show. Or better, to hint. The problem with showing and telling everything is that there's nothing left for the reader to do. Back before the year 2000, when Daria fandom fought on the ancient battleground of "is prose form or script form better?" one of the complaints about prose form was that it told everything. With the scripted form -- and no access into the characters' thoughts -- writers had to be much more subtle about conveying emotion.

The characters don't seem to have any subtlety or secrets. Rather, they just pour their emotions out. Seeing Daria, the calm one, act this way is particulary disturbing and probably not in the way the author intended. I suspect that if Daria ever truly got emotional, it would be a loud screaming jag the equivalent of a nervous breakdown, the result of emotions held back for so long finally leaking out. So much more could have been done with Daria not screaming, just waking up and saying, "can't sleep", the haunted look in her expression telling Jane everything she needed to know.

It was also a bad choice to put the dream in italics. This was a message to the reader: "what is happening is outside the scripted reality and is therefore not to be taken seriously". It might have been a homage to the M*A*S*H episode "Dreams". When I saw "Dreams" in its original airing, I didn't care much for it. The only parts of "Dreams" that worked were the parts that were truly surreal and there is nothing surreal in this dream; it's your standard near-linear post-apocalytic dream (if such dreams could be considered "standard").

The best prose writers have problems with such passages. It's a difficult thing to execute, and I was just waiting until Daria woke up because I knew nothing I was reading was "real". Yes, it's a lot to demand of fan fiction but it could have been handled better.

I'm probably the only person that didn't have praise for AD14, upon looking at the comments threads. It makes me wonder how useful message boards are and brings me back to the idea of fan fiction criticism. Fan fiction should probably not receive the same scathing treatment that a regular fiction writer might receive -- most of these writers write for pleasure or to improve their craft -- but where does one find a happy medium? Before you begin to suggest improvement, you have to point out where a work fails, and the only way that can be made painless is in dreams.

Showdown at the Dumbass Corral

Finished reading: AD7

(Editor's note: I probably won't be needing any more beta readers. I have three, and one has already returned the MS. However, if came to visit for that purpose, I appreciate your help. Maybe next time. -- JB)

It's taken a little while for me to get to my computer, but I can proudly say that the computer has been reassembled at Fortress CINCGREEN and I am retyping from the comfortable basement.

My sister-in-law did yeoman's work in getting the place in tip-top shape. Among her various home improvement items were:

1) repainting the walls in forest gold and brown. My sister and law calls these colors "Reese's colors".
2) constructing a whiteboard for me and hanging it on the wall.
3) repainting this old 1950s-era desk, including drilling some holes in the side. The wood is 1/4 inch thick, and it was a chore to work with
4) cleaning out the old desk to make it possible for me to find a place to set the hard drive.
5) constructing a bookshelf (Target brand put-it-together)
6) putting molding along various doors, and
7) hanging a device that will store an ironing-board -- my office must double as the washer-dryer nook

In addition, Ruth and I have also

1) purchased a flat-screen monitor to replace the old "TV set" monitor, and
2) purchased a hacksaw.

The reason being that the old desk apparently had some sort of function wherein a typing table was concealed on the left side. You swung open the facade on the left side of the desk, and lifted the typing table out.

The problem was that the typing table stopped working long ago, and all that was within was the skeletal remains. As long as that old machinery was inside, putting a hard drive nook would have been impossible. Three metal bars -- two 1/4 inch diameter, one 1/2 inch diameter -- traversed the space and with the bars in place, the assembly was impossible to get out.

I was able to hack through the two 1/4 inch bars and bend the mechanism so that the assembly could come out, thanking goodness that I didn't have to hack through that final 1/2 inch of 40-year old metal. Everything is copacetic, Ruth and I have cleaned the floor, and the place probably looks better than it has in years.

(* * *)

Now, on to AD7. Hoo-boy. This section of "Apocalyptic Daria" I'm going to have to give a "thumbs-down" to. (More on the perils of serial-writing later.)

The story leaves off from AD6. When we last left Daria and Jane, they were blissfully unaware that three enemies of the former owner of the house were heading for a Straw Dogs type showdown.

Such an inept groups of assailants couldn't be imagined outside of a "Daria Triumphant" fic. Only one of these guys have managed to bring a firearm. The other, God help us, has actually brought an ax. The third has brought...nothing, save his fists. (Perhaps he's a descendant of the Boxers of the Opium wars.) One of them -- it's not worth while remembering who -- hopes that if the old man is not there, his daughter is. (So you're guaranteed to hate him already.)

I won't detail the showdown. Jane has a 10-gauge shotgun that she's found. Daria is carrying a concealed .357 Magnum -- forgive me if I get the numerical designations wrong. Jane manages to kill the only armed one of the group, I believe, with the 10-gauge -- but not before Jane takes a bullet in the arm. The other two, believing that Jane is now helpless (we're assuming that this breach-loading shotgun is not double-barreled), move in for the kill.

Unwise move. Daria manages to kill both of them with the .357 magnum. I'm surprised the extras were even given names. (Bill, John, and Harry for those keeping score.)

There follows a long scene with Daria and Jane trying to heal Jane's wound. With nothing sterile, Daria is forced to do the best she can with needle and thread. They manage to get the bleeding under control, and Daria allows Jane to sleep.

(* * *)

Immediately after the story was posted, the commentary broke down into two oppositely opposed camps, raising their voices at each other at least until AD8.

Camp A believed that Daria and Jane should be a bit distressed at the fact that they have killed three human beings -- rotten examples of human beings, but humans nonetheless. Camp B, on the other hand, believed that the survival instinct should trump and that Daria and Jane should have gone Clint Eastwood on them and not given the incident a second thought. (I'll assume that Doggieboy is in Camp B.) Both camps...are wrong. To claim that "all characters should respond like X" is a bit foolish, given the spectrum of human reactions.

Soldiers of all types, ages, and countries have been interviewed regarding their emotional experiences after killing people. There were many soldiers who said, "well, killing never bothered me, actually", and most of these "mass murderers" (after all, they did shoot dozens of people) went on to successful lives as butchers, bakers and candlestick makers without a shred of remorse, with no nightmares and no psychopathy. To these people, killing was simply a task much like any other.

On the other hand, psychological trauma has appeared to increase over the years from veterans. One interesting theory is that with the movement away from mass warfare, it is much harder to get away with deliberately missing. If you were truly terrified, or gripped with anxiety at the thought of taking life, you could fire your World War I Springfield in the general direction of the enemy without actually worrying about hitting anybody. In the chaos, it wouldn't be noticed. (Estimates were that only one out of ten soldiers in that era was actually trying to hit anyone.) However, with "fourth-generation warfare" -- small unit combat where you can actually see your enemy before you kill him -- you can't escape the necessity of taking life.

My conclusion? "One from Column A and one from Column B" -- with the caveat that personality tells you nothing about who will be an efficient killer and who will not. Drill Instructors can tell you dozens of stories about the tough guys who broke down during Basic Training, and they were the guys everyone thought would pass with ease. Then there were the soldiers with pencil-thin legs who wore glasses who calmly and resolutely stuck it out and made more-than-capable soldiers, men whom no one would bet on.

Daria and Jane's personalities will tell us nothing about how they react to trauma. For all we know, if you put a jammy in Mr. O'Neill's hands, he might be the most efficient killer of them all!

That wasn't the part I objected to, feeling that the commentators missed the point. My complaints are of two varieties:

a) the setup. I can't imagine where you could come up with more inept opposition. When I discovered how they were armed, they might as well have been wearing giant tags that read, "I will be dead soon." This is the time during the movie where you get up and get some popcorn while everyone else watches the killing.

Furthermore, Daria letting Jane rest and the "all is well" atmosphere at the end is difficult to understand. Once you shoot down three guys at your doorstep -- even a borrowed doorstep -- does it ever occur to you that someone might wander where they've gone? Maybe they have families too, like the rapist encountered in an earlier part of the story. Maybe they have dangerous...armed...smarter brethren who might be looking for their missing cuzzins.

Another complaint deals with gun mechanics. As it turns out, Daria fandom is blessed (?) with a herd of gun enthusiasts who can recommend what kind of ordinance Daria and Jane should be carrying down to the grains of the shells. Myself, I never wanted to become Tom Clancy and resigned myself to learning "just enough" to make a story involving guns remotely plausible...sometimes, with no success.

However, I have actually *fired* both of the weapons in question. I have fired a breech-loading shotgun as well as an automatic shotgun, small-caliber rifles and large caliber handguns. My father was a gun enthusiast and he wanted me to take up his enthusiasms -- I wouldn't have minded save for my mother, who was terrified with guns and I just opted out, not needing to be in a tug of war between the two.

The first thing that you'll note about shotguns and handguns is how loud they are. If you're not wearing ear protection, it's almost like a small firecracker going off next to your ear. (I hated shotguns precisely for that reason, prefering to stick to small-caliber rifles.)

Guns make noise that will have your ears ringing if you're not aware of what's coming. (I have no hints by the author that Daria and Jane have fired any sort of firearm.) I'm surprised Jane didn't hear from one of the malcreants. "You just shot our buddy and now (high pitched death of ear cells causing a whine in Jane's ears)"

The second part is that if you're not familiar with guns, they can be puzzling. "What do you do to open the breach?" "Where's the safety?" "How hard do you have to pull the trigger?" "How do you reload the chambers in a non-automatic handgun?" This isn't the kind of stuff you want to learn ad-hoc, although since Daria and Jane are smart kids, they might have doped it out on their own.

Finally, one matter has been forgotten -- recoil. Firearms are loud devices that tend to *kick*. Jane's shot knocked the assailant right to the ground -- a 10 gauge can be pretty powerful close up. However, Jane might have found the barrel rising, under its own power, into the air with the recoil. Recoil can sneak up even on experienced shooters. There are five-foot, one-hundred pound women who can handle the larger types of shotguns quite well, but even experienced marksmen can have trouble with the kick.

And Jane is no experienced marksman, and neither is Daria.

(* * *)

So do the criticisms above carry weight? Perhaps, they don't. There are always people out there that are going to nitpick over minutiae. I thought the unfamiliarity with firearms should have been a burden to the protagonists. Other people might claim, "The Belgian 10-Gauge Frammistat Shotgun is not a breech-loader, but an automatic, you clod." (In any role playing game, you always get one of those.)

Was the above enough to spoil my enjoyment of AD7? Neither was singularly, but combined with the ignorant protagonists it was enough to give this chapter of "Apocalyptic Daria" a failing grade.

And now, the important question: was AD7 so bad that it derailed your will to read the series? The answer is "no, it was not."

There's always a danger with writing serials -- every chapter is a chance for someone to climb off the bandwagon. People will find egregious fault with Chapter 1, or Chapter 2, or Chapter 22, or so on. A serial can never build readership, only lose it. It seems that enough people liked the story to read forty-two chapters of it; the first six chapters should make up for the bad seventh. In short, expect me to be here to read AD8 and comment on it.

(Note: Work might get a little more hectic at work, and further reviews might be less frequent. Can't be helped.)

Into the Woods with Gun and Camera

Finished reading: AD6

All right. I can happily say that due to the fact that absolutely nothing was going on at work yesterday, that I have finally finished "Reclamation, Part III".

However, there are two more things that need to be done before the public can see it (and point, mockingly). The first thing is that I have to re-read it and make corrections. I've always found this part of "fic writing" the very hardest part of all.

Hard parts of fic writing, in order

1. Rereading the first draft.
2. Waiting for the first draft to come back.
3. Preparing the final copy from the first draft.
4. Writing the first draft.

Notice that "writing the first draft" is fourth on the list, the very bottom. Anyone can write a first draft and just throw it up on the Internet. Which is why I've often called fan fiction "an amusing collection of first drafts". To become a polished writer, one has to revise and revise and revise and I've always found this revision painful.

I already know the first draft is weak. Parts of the dialogue are clunky. Parts of the plot are propelled by coincidences. Sometimes, you just don't have any idea as to how you're going to fix those parts. So you do the best you can -- put bandaids on it despite the fact that blood is pouring out of the copy -- then send it back. And wait.

Hopefully, the beta readers will have good ideas as to how to fix things. (Bad ideas are a dime a dozen.) At least, they can confirm your initial diagnoses ("yep. I knew that didn't work") or even find new ones.

Then, they send it back, you stitch it up, and mail it to messageboards and get it out of your life.

(* * *)

I'm presently making excuses for not rereading my original copy. My computer, my gateway to the world, is currently in pieces in the basement. Why? My sister-in-law is here painting and redecorating the place and we're hoping to turn the basement into a true Fortress CINCGREEN and not "the place where you put all the spare crap that doesn't belong elsewhere in the house". I'll actually have my own home office.

So where am I typing this? From the living room. My wife is otherwise distracted, but I hate the thought that someone could look over my shoulder at any moment and say "whatcha doin'"? Not that I have anything to be ashamed of, but I find my return to fan fiction writing a bit embarrassing. My wife would say, "oh, not this again" and I'd have to say "yeah, this again."

However, I have access to the first draft from this computer. I'll make the effort to read it. I pinky-swear.

(* * *)

By the way -- I miss my computer baseball game, the only copy of which is on that computer mentioned above, in pieces. The plan is to replace my monitor with a flat-screen monitor. I want a big one.

(* * *)

Anyway, on to AD6. Part of reading a story is that you get to follow its thread, and I'm very surprised that commentary didn't so much center on the strengths (or weaknesses -- you'll never get honest commentary on a message board ) as on what kinds of supplies the commenters would be storing if society went ass-up. It reminds me of the earliest games of Dungeons and Dragons where you'd roll up a character and proceed to load down the character for supplies as if he were going on an arctic expedition.

Daria and Jane certainly can't carry this crap around with them. They can, however, put it in their car but if they lose the car...they lose everything. This shouldn't be as much of a prolbem as some people think. To paraphrase Mark Twain, "put all your eggs in one basket -- and watch that basket!"

They're probably better off in a car than in a house (more later). However, Daria and Jane are trying to find out what happened to Lawndale, and when a winter storm approaches, they decide to seek shelter in a house. The problem is that the houses nearby appear to be crudely barricaded. If I recall correctly, one house has parked its car right in front of the door, a sort of futile attempt at a barrier.

The two find the only house that isn't barricaded, and make their way in. However, they find the previous inhabitant...dead. Apparently, he died of a heart attack and there was no one to check on him. Daria and Jane dispose of the body, and gather more supplies from inside the house, including more firearms.

Unfortunately, Daria and Jane might not remain disturbed long. A group of men watches the house from a distance. They have it in for the previous owner -- they're not aware that the man died of natural causes -- and might plan a confrontation....

...can you feel the suspense out there? Time to head on to AD7....





My list of things for the apocalypse:

a) A backpack. Don't overload it.
b) A good knife with a sharp blade, preferably a long-bladed hunting knife -- not so much for defense as for its use as a tool
c) A whetstone, to keep such a knife sharpened.
d) A compass, so that you know where you're going. If walking, people tend to favor one leg or another, which means that after many, many days, you might end up walking in a circle when you think you're going "true north".
e) A pistol. Which you keep holstered, and at your side. "God did not make men equal. Sam Colt did." Ammo for same. Avoid rifles unless you plan to eat what you shoot.
f) Potassium iodide.
g) Flint, along with the knowledge to use it to start fires.
h) The knowledge of how to make your own sandals from tire rubber at http://www.hollowtop.com/sandals.htm. Save your shoes for winter.
i) Possibly, a Ph. D. in herbology. That might be hard to find during the apocalypse.
j) A friend, possibly the most valuable thing of all. Daria and Jane are already one-up on that....

Message From Beyond

Finished reading: AD5

One of the many problems of blogging is the need to find material, and I'm loathe to fill the blog with stuff regarding my personal life. I don't think my life is interesting enough to maintain a blog at that level.

However, I'm hoping to work on "Reclamation" a bit today. As it turned out, I had written 1/2 of Part III and then came to a stop -- before I walked out of fandom in a fury. So it was good to see that my work was theoretically half-over.

Work is slow. Until I have projects to work on, there's not much for me to do except continue my education, and I'm waiting for the results of an exam I took in November to come out in early January. So do I study something new, or study something old if I failed the exam? Decisions, decisions.

It turns out that I "think" in scenes. I've talked to other writers and have learned that some writers actually take notes. Taking notes, however, doesn't work for me. I generally have some ideas for scenes, and I work those scenes out in my mind. Then, I fill in the gaps with other scenes and the entire story snaps together like a puzzle. By the time I commit finger to keyboard, I've usually already "written" about eighty percent of what I'm going to type -- it's merely a matter of description.

unfortunately, I'm treating "Reclamation" a bit differently. This is going to be a pseudo-canon fanfic -- no science-fiction-y stuff. Furthermore, it will have an end. And it will need beta-reading, a process I hate because it keeps me from simply shoving the first draft onto the Internet and forgetting about it. I assume that I can beat Scissors MacGillicutty into providing a beta-read, at least.

(* * *)

As it turns out, "Apocalyptic Daria" has something in common with the way I'm formatting blog entries. I've decided that I'll read a little bit of someone's fan fiction and comment on it each time I make a post.

I borrowed that idea from Slacktivist, and his "Left Behind Fridays". Slacktivist is reading the "World's Worst Books" -- Left Behind by Tim LaHaye and the other guy -- and commenting on what execrable tripe they are, both in the literary and the theological sense. (And guess what? Today is Left Behind Friday!)

Now I am not claiming that "Apocalyptic Daria" is in any way comparable to LaHaye's excrement. In terms of writing skill, LaHaye should be licking Doggieboy's shoes. However, there are a few amusing/interesting parallels:

1) We are in the Apocalypse in both stories. In Doggieboy's world, the nukes have flown; in LaHaye's, we are dealing with the post-Rapture. The difference being that Doggieboy's universe has consequences and chaos while life goes on seemingly as normal in Left Behind despite the absense of about a billion people.
2) In the church where Daria and Jane are staying, there is a copy of Left Behind among the other books, and a Boy Scout manual, which has a better plot than LaHaye's book.
3) The tape.

Undoubtedly, one of the questions is "where are the parishoners?" As it turns out, Sunday morning is approaching and Daria and Jane should be face to face with the "owners" of the church, but no one shows up. However, as it turns out -- coincidentally -- there is a video tape which has been made the Sunday before which answers the question of why no one will be showing up at this church again for a long time.

As it turns out, there is also a video tape scene in Left Behind (trust me, I haven't read it -- I'm going by Slacktivist's explanations). This tape was "left behind" by the former pastor of the New Hope Church, explaining what killed hi--uh, that is what raptured him and most of the congregation. Consider it evangelism beyond the grave. (There are websites now which will send post-Rapture messages to your unsaved loved ones, believe it or not.)

Doggieboy flips the coin on the readers, as this tape is more a dysangel. It's just bad news all around.

I wasn't moved by AD5, but I don't know if Doggieboy really wanted his readers to feel for the parishoners or if he just wanted to move the story forward. My problem is that these are pretty much tropes of "apocalypse" fiction. Namely, "the message from beyond", from people who for some reason aren't around anymore. It can be a diary, it can be a cassette tape, or in this case, it can be a VCR.

As for Daria and Jane being moved by what they saw, I'm simply remembered of this same scene in the hands of two other comedy writers:

a) Douglas Adams, whose Arthur Dent is not moved to tears over the destruction of his home planet...until he realizes that he will never have a McDonald's hamburger, ever again, and
b) Futurama, where Philip J. Fry is ecstatic over the realization that all of his family and friends are dead...his life sort of sucked, anyway.

(Boy, I've really become callous and cynical, haven't I? If it makes you feel any better, I probably would have felt sad if I had seen that tape, too.)

Daria and Jane were moved, at least. Moved to tears. Which might be the subject of a whole other essay.