Data Dump V

"But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep."
- Sylvia Plath

(* * *)

Daria worked on her solitare some more. It was a version called Klondike. She liked Klondike because unlike the solitare games she learned in childhood, every Klondike game had a solution that didn't depend so much on how the cards landed. Books were hard to come by, and paper was expensive. Daria doubted that her request for a What Is To Be Done? frightened the robots that much, but she knew that they could print out anything she asked them to. They just didn’t care to do it, not unless she paid, and the best they could offer her was rental. God forbid she own a book of her own.

Yolanda stepped over. “Hey, Yolanda,” said Daria. “Want to play Mao?”

“No, I’m Mao’d out for the day.”

“How about more Mao this afternoon?”

“I have something else planned, but if it doesn’t pan out, then sure,” said Yolanda. “Just keep in mind the number one rule of Mao. Say, where’s your partner in crime?”

Partner in crime. She hadn’t heard that phrase used in years, and never applied to the person Yoland was speaking of. ”I believe she’s in the shower getting ready for her visit.”

“It must be nice,” sighed Yolanda. She walked away. “Take care of yourself, Daria. Watch out for rogue Mao players.”

(* * *)

Daria Morgendorffer stepped into the communal shower. Without complaint, a robot scrubbed each inch of the floor to keep the room spotless if reeking of industrial cleanser.

Normally, the room was packed with naked flesh, fifty people to a shower. All sorts of flesh, from the taut flesh of youth to the scarred, or cellulite packed, or sagging flesh of old age. Daria had never showered with that many people before since high school. She hated group showers then and she hated them even more now. It was a low point in her eyes to start the day with such an indiginity.

There was one person in the shower – Sandi Griffin. She was using a nail file to trim down her nails. Completely naked, she would work a few seconds, blow the pulverized fingernail away and then admire her handiwork.

“Are you done?” asked Daria, her voice echoing between the blue tiles.

“Uhh…no. Everything has to be perfect. As perfect as I know how to make it. There’s not enough credit for new makeup, so I have to be perfectly cleaned.” Satisfied with her filing, Sandi opened the Recycle Door near her shower and tossed the file in as used garbage, to continue its life cycle.

“You’re going to be late. Stacy is going to be here any minute.”

“The robots will tell us when she’s here,” said Sandi. “Besides, it’s important to keep certain people waiting. The person who has to wait is the inferior to the one who makes them wait. I kept Stacy waiting all the time. She’s used to it.”

(* * *)

A robot ambled forward quickly. It told Daria that she had a visitor, a “Stacy Nibblet, at the far bench of the quadrangle, near the outlet stream.” Daria told the machine to tell Sandi, and went down to greet Stacy herself.

As she walked towards the bench, she saw a small woman waiting. The way she held her hands to her lap, even when standing, left no doubt in Daria’s mind that it was the Stacy from high school. The pigtails were gone now, replaced by an expensive suit and nice shoes with a purse that betrayed a pedigree that only Sandi Griffin could decipher.

“Hello, Stacy,” said Daria, extending a hand for a handshake.

“Daria!” Stacy walked over to hug Daria. Daria returned the hug as well as she could, still resistant to human contact. However, her resistance to such tactile stimuli had diminished over the years. She could feel the warmth of Stacy’s body even through the suit.

It was time for Stacy and Daria to catch up. Daria had learned some conversational skills. F-O-R. Family. Occupation. Recreation. The acronym gave Daria at least three things to talk about when caught shorthanded, and with Stacy Rowe Nibblet that was definitely the case.

Daria only had the chance to use the first one: family. Stacy was married, of course. She had one child, a son, Brett who was now 11 years old. Brett was doing well in school. Her husband was a bureaucrat and the Nibblets lived in an exurb of Washington, D. C. Stacy had time to be a homemaker, and she homeschooled her child.

It was Daria that found herself the subject of conversation, vis-à-vis her sister, Quinn Morgendorffer. Quinn and Stacy had lost touch after college, and Daria filled Stacy in on the missing parts of Quinn’s life. Quinn had graduated and went to work as a marketing person for a music company in California. She got the chance to meet all the interesting people she wanted to meet – usually music acts – and to be fashionable. She had never married, always wanting to keep herself available for something bigger.

“Quinn always preferred chasing to catching” said Stacy. “I think she liked the gifts and the attention more than she liked the guys.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I remember when you wrote me that she died,” said Stacy. “I know she died of a heart attack, but you never told me exactly what happened.”

“There’s not much to tell. She was in her apartment in Los Angeles and a friend noticed that she hadn’t been answering her phone on Sunday. Quinn didn’t show up to work on Monday, so everyone at the record company panicked. They called the LAPD, which got permission to open the door. When they got there, they found Quinn on the kitchen floor.
She had died the day before, most likely.”

“A heart attack?”

“An aortic dissection. It was a tear in her aorta. The aorta is a large artery, the largest in the human body. Most of the time, the symptom is severe pain, but in Quinn’s case, the pain was so severe she passed out. Unconscious, she simply…bled out. I like to tell myself that when Quinn went, it was a brief moment of pain…and then nothing. She was only thirty-two years old when she died.”

“I remember Quinn telling me her Dad’s heart was bad.”

“Right. He had had a triple bypass eventually. It was a success but he aged almost twenty years overnight. He became a lot mellower. I think he was reconciled to dying. He was happy with his family. He died before Quinn died. I’m sort of glad that he died when he died. Quinn’s death took a toll on Mom emotionally.”

“I’m sorry.” Stacy reached her hand over and took Daria’s.

“Don’t be. People die, it happens.”

“I hope you’re not lonely.”

“Hey,” said Daria. “I’m sort of used to being lonely. And trust me, where I’m at right now, loneliness is not a question. I have a lot of company – “

“ – stacEEEE!!!”

There was a corresponding squeal. Sandi and Stacy embraced each other like long lost sisters. Daria immediately felt a shift in position to third wheel. It was time for the two to catch up and for Daria to listen.

(* * *)

Stacy’s first act was to bring a gift for Sandi. (Daria’s gift was a jar of expensive peanut butter – “I didn’t know what else to get.”) It was an Armani scarf, a real scarf to replace the non-descript piece of cloth that adorned Sandi’s neck. Sandi gushed over the scarf as Daria calculated how much the scarf would have been worth on the credit market. She guessed that someone at the poverty pen would have paid a month’s credit to get their hands on that scarf.

Daria listened to hours of conversation between the two. The two exchanged information as fast as their mouths could convey it. After a very brief update – Stacy = married, Sandi = former news producer – the two began to relive the past, telling stories out of Lawndale High School and the glories of the Fashion Club. Daria was only needed to verify some fact (did Quinn have a green sweater? or was it a chartreuse sweater?) and other than that, she had very little to contribute. Not that it was a burden for Daria. It was almost comforting to listen to Sandi and Stacy rattle on about Bret and Corey and Skylar and a host of names long forgotten. It reminded Daria of better days, memory so comforting that she felt as if her dead sister Quinn would walk in with Tiffany Blum-Deckler any second and the four of them would chat and gossip and Daria would breathe in the nostalgia till it curled the skin at the bottom of her feet.

After a while, Stacy began to check her watch. “Sandi! It’s been great meeting you again! But I have to go!”

“Stacy,” said Sandi, feeling the draft of ancient air pass away, “have you missed me?”

Daria felt the question land with a thud as Stacy answered. “Sure Sandi. I’ve missed you a lot. I really think about you.”

“Stacy, you know I’d love to see your son. You’ve told me so much about him that I feel that he’s almost here. Isn’t the Thanksgiving holiday coming up?”

“Well, Sandi…I think it would be better if I saw you on Thanksgiving. Don’t they treat you well here?” she said, referring to the robots. “Don’t you like it here?”

“What do you think, Stacy? Of course, I don’t like it here. It’s a prison, Stacy. It’s a fucking prison. When I take a crap, Stacy, I have to take a crap on a toilet with no doors. I live in a friggin closet in a bunk bed. I don’t have any clothes except a jump suit that belongs with a road cleaning crew, one that I have to throw away after use so that it gets recycled. I’m on a god-damned allowance, for Christ’s sake. The people here are either obnoxious or depressed. The robots have us hemmed in on all sides. We can’t go anywhere, we can’t see anybody, and we can’t do anything. No, Stacy, I do not like it here.”

“But Sandi…don’t…can’t your brothers help you? What about your parents?”

“Parents? My whole family is probably in hellholes like this. Except for precious Sam, the little rat bastard. And I never saw him lift a hand to help any of us! Stacy, you are our last hope. If we don’t get out of here, we die. We die in here.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sandi.”

“Then can you help us, Stacy? Can you help an old friend?”

“Stacy…you know money is tight?”

“Money is tight! I’ve heard that one before! You can buy me a friggin Armani scarf…but ‘money is tight’. I looked out for you, Stacy. I took care of you, I got you want you wanted, I protected you. And this is the thanks I get? This is how you pay me back. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth. You owe me, Stacy. You owe me.”

“Don’t get mad,” said Stacy, shrinking.

“Stacy,” said Sandi, lowly, “if you don’t come back here and get us out of here…I’ll kill myself. Is that what you want, Stacy? Is that what you want me to do? Will that make you happy to be rid of me? DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING KILL MYSELF?”

Stacy began to start crying. Daria stood up and said, “Don’t even joke about that, Griffin. That’s not funny.”

“Oh I’m not joking. I’m just getting started. Stacy! LOOK AT ME! I’M SERIOUS! I’LL DO IT!”

A voice interrupted. “Is there a problem?”

It was a machine. Other machines were following. “Sandi,” the machine said, speaking to her by her first name. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I don’t WANT to lie down!” said Sandi, the tears beginning to fall from her face. “Take me home! Please take me home!”

She grabbed at Stacy’s arm, and Stacy shrunk back in horror. Another robot ran about a hundred yards in four seconds as the first robot grabbed Sandi’s arm away from Stacy.

Sandi screamed. She was fighting the robot, which had one of her arms caught in one of its talons. The tranq cannon swiveled out of its body.

“STACY!” sobbed Sandi. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me here!!”

Daria watched in horror. There was a burst of air from the tranq cannon. And then Sandi collapsed as a rag doll, with the robot suspending Sandi briefly by one limp arm. Daria turned to see how Stacy was, but a robot was already escorting Stacy away.

A third robot surprised Daria. “Daria, do you want to help your friend?”

(* * *)

Daria waited for Sandi to open her eyes. She muttered.

“How do you feel?” Sandi shut her eyes with her closed fists as an answer. She began to sob.

“Sandi…what happened to your Mom and Dad?”

Sandi said nothing, convulsing with tears, not speaking a word to Daria.

Daria rested her head on her elbows. “Did you ever read King Lear, Sandi?”

Sandi shook her head.

“ Turn all her mother's pains and benefits /To laughter and contempt; that she may feel /How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is/To have a thankless child! Away, away!”

Still silence.

“You weren’t much of a reader. Quinn told me a lot about your mom. And that sounds like something that she would say to you.”

“There wasn’t…a day,” said Sandi, between sobs, “…not a day…of my life…when she didn’t…remind me…that I owed everything to her. I heard it…every single friggin day…and if I let her back into my home…after all those years I fought to get away…it would never end. It would never end.”

“So,” said Daria. “So she’s in a place, just like this. Somewhere. You abandoned her.”

“Sam never helped her either,” said Sandi. “It’s not…my fault. It’s not. You don’t know her Daria. You don’t know her.”

“She said…she hoped that someday I’d know the pain I had caused her…and now I do. But…I’d rather live for the rest of my life….” Sandi clamped her jaw to keep from screaming, and Daria could hear the suppressed moans, “I’d rather live here in this shithole…as long as I knew…she was living somewhere worse.”

Daria didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine it. She suspected it, but confronting it did not diminish the horror, it merely increased it.

“Then I’m sorry, Griffin. I’m sorry for the both of you.” Daria climbed up to the top bunk of the bed, to fight her way to an uneasy sleep.

Data Dump IV

Seems I'm not alone in being alone
A hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
-Police, "Message in a Bottle"

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

I'm sorry I took so long to answer your letter. It was certainly not easy thinking about how much the world has changed since both of us were in high school, much less thinking about the divergent paths our lives have taken.

It is with deep regret that I have to say that I can't help you and that I have no home to offer you. Right now, I already have three people living with me: my sister Rachel, her husband Bill and my cousin Sarah. My parents have others living with them as well. I hate to say this, but there's no room at the Inn.

I hate to start the letter off with a downer, but I thought that you'd want the bad news first. At least, I can tell you about myself since you were kind enough to ask.

Currently, I'm an associate dean at Turner University. Yep, I've returned to my old alma mater. We still have students, believe it or not, but not many - we're one of the few surviving colleges that are primarily African-American. Our campus looks a lot like Grove Hills, if you remember the trip we took long ago. The maintenance workers are robots, but other than that, we still have actual professors. Maybe not for long, as there's very much financial pressure to begin using robot instructors. I'm doing all I can to put a stop to it, but I can only fight a delaying action. I suspect that many of our professors will be joining you soon.

I can already see the difference in the students I get. Mind you, these students are a lot better off than the Turner student of a few decades ago, but they are only better off financially. This is the first generation that has been raised by robots. They know facts but they don't know interpretations. They're not critical thinkers. In some ways, they're a lot smarter than you or I ever were; in others, they're astonishingly naïve and ignorant. I hope that some exposure to our human instructors will cultivate a passion for the liberal arts that is now almost extinct.

That's enough about my job. I'm not married. Too busy. Besides, Rachel and Bill are almost children. I can at least tell you in a letter what I'm afraid to tell them to their face. They're moochers. They're not interested in work and haven't been interested in it since they've moved in; they're quite happy to eat me out of house and home and complain about the lodgings and about what a lousy sister I am. Rachel used to be a teacher, Bill used to be a businessman, but now they're both ghosts. They watch TV and complain about minor inconveniences. I'd hurl her out of here, but she's my sister. I still believe that blood is thicker than water, and I know that if I threw them out, they'd both end up in a poverty pen and they'd spend the rest of their lives cursing the name of Jodie Landon.

The sad case is my cousin Sarah. Sarah wants to work. She used to be a seamstress and theatrical costumer but now robots can do in a few seconds what it took her weeks to do. The news says nothing about the rate of unemployment, but it's high, and that's not counting everyone in your situation. There are few jobs, in business management and robotics and computer programming, all jobs for which Sarah isn't even remotely qualified. But she tries. I clean her newest suit for her, we dust off her resume, and she tries to get work. Not qualified. Not needed. Not necessary. I guess she does it because it gives her an excuse to sew a new interview suit. They're lovely suits, but the world doesn't need them.

I would love to help you Daria, but yours, sadly enough, isn't the first letter I've gotten. I've discovered kin that I didn't even know I had. I've heard stories of misery, stories of people about to run out of money, stories of people begging for a job, any sort of help so that they won't end up in public housing. There's nothing on TV about public housing, but we know it's out there. We get the e-mails, the letters, the desperate last chance pleas.

For you to even ask, Daria, I know it must be very hard. You were the kind of person who believed in carving out her own path. Unfortunately, all that I have to offer is best wishes. Everything else has been spoken for.

I'm sorry that Jane has fled the country. Europe is trying to hold on to the old ways, but they're going to be ground into poverty. All we hear are rumors of a mass social collapse. Australia has disappeared from the map, so things must be horrible over there. I'll pray that she's all right.

I'll pray for you and Sandi, and I'll pray for all of us. I'm sorry I'm not able to help you. Forgive me.

Hopefully, still your friend,

Jodie.

(* * *)

"Daria."

Daria was playing solitaire. "Yes, Griffin."

"Look, Daria, I know you've been depressed lately, but I have some good news."

"What? The robots ran out of 'D' batteries?"

"No," said Sandi. "Stacy Rowe has agreed to see us!"

Daria stopped dealing the cards and looked up.

"I know you've been depressed about Jodie's letter, but I bought another monthly e-mail. I used up the monthly credit, but I did it. I kept telling you, Daria, don't beg. I floated an e-mail to Stacy and told her that I was thinking about her, and I told her you were here, and you know how much she liked Quinn. So she's going to come over here and visit us. Soften her up…and then hit her up!"

Daria rapidly stood up and walked over to Sandi. "I don't believe it," said Sandi. "You actually did it."

"Yeah. I did it."

Daria grabbed Sandi by the arms. "You friggin' did it. You -- friggin -- did it!!"

Before Sandi knew it, she was jumping up and down with Daria in a state of voluntary delirium. They were hugging each other, embracing, doing an involuntary pogo, bouncing up and down like bunnies on mescaline. Anyone walking by would have been surprised at the two women making train noises, a loud whhhOOOOOOOOooo! which lasted for a good five minutes.

It was the first time Sandi had seen Daria smile. "You know Griffin," said Daria, "you're all right sometimes."

"Well…I suppose it was worth it. But you have to let me do the talking."

"I'm quite happy to be your wingman. All right you little fashion-obsessed socialite, let's not get too confident."

"Really? As well as I know Stacy?" said Sandi. "I might be out of credit, but I think we can afford some confidence."

Data Dump III

“There must be some way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief….”

-Bob Dylan, "All Along The Watchtower"

(* * *)

That put me back in here after my cousin threw me out. I hit the pavement and the robots were there in moments. So no job, again, and back in a “poverty pen”.

I guess family ties just aren’t that strong. Even though my cousin was rich, she didn’t want to support me for the rest of her life, or maybe she just thought it was a bad thing to be poor and didn’t want me dirtying up her mind. So here I am, Michael Jordan Mackenzie, a prisoner. You know, my dad warned me about ending up in jail, and here I am. He’d die if he could see me.

I’ve run through what few people I thought I could depend on. Would I like to see you again? You bet. The problem is, I’ve already asked. The robots said that they don’t let people move, or “change their indigent housing domiciles” unless blood relation can be proven by the appropriate documentation. And unless one of our ancestors jumped the fence somewhere, that’s that.

I haven’t seen Jodie in years. Haven’t written her, either. I guess I’ve sort of been here without hope. But I’ll tell you something. Your letter gave me hope. It gave me hope that I was not forgotten or abandoned and left to die.

If I had a picture, I’d send it, even if I looked lousy. To hell with it. I don’t think either of us has much to write about. We have the same kind of days. But keep writing, even if it’s just to reminisce about the old days.

Mack

3457907 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Michael Mackenzie038, 941919 Building 4 Resident Quant C – Homeless Detainee ****

(* * *)

“I thought more people would answer.”

“Maybe not,” said Daria, under the single comforter in the darkened room. “Who knows how people spend their time? Posting on message boards. Do people even answer their mail? Do they spend the rest of their lives looking up at a television screen? It reminds me of all those old people in the rest home, marking time until they died.”

“Daria?”

“Yeah?”

“You know…back when we were in Lawndale High School, I thought I had you sized up. I told myself that even if you were never popular, I knew that you were going to make your mark on the world. You were going to be famous someday. I would have bet all the money I had on that.”

“You would have lost it.”

“No really. I mean your sister was popular, but you were popular in your own way. I knew you were smart, and talented, and didn’t give a crap. I thought you’d be a novelist or a brain or something.”

“So how come you never said anything?”

Sandi laughed. “Come on. You know how it was. I would have never talked to you in high school.”

Daria chuckled. “Well, Griffin, you know that I figured you’d be married to a rich husband. You’d be sipping pina coladas and making the domestic help miserable. You were a real bitch on wheels, you know.”

“Yeah, training wheels. The world was a lot tougher than I thought it was.”

“Same here.” Daria was silent for a few seconds. “I’m surprised that you could run a newsroom.”

“Mom got me that job. I was good at it…but she never let me forget it. She always let it hang over me, that everything I ever got out of life was because of her. Daria?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Good night.”

(* * *)

Glad to know that you’re still alive out there. Sometimes I like to tell myself that I’m one of the only humans alive and that everyone else was exterminated like in the Terminator movies. It makes me feel special. You know, I’ve looked all over for movies like that on the public telly and can’t find them. I think evil robot movies have been cast into the memory bin, at least in public housing. Most of my time is spent on the Terminator message boards.

Of course, for all I know, you could be a robot. Maybe robots can write now. Maybe they send us e-mail messages to make us feel better, to make us think that someone out there is listening.

Right now, I don’t care if you’re the real Daria or just an evil Daria-bot. If there’s a way for us to get together, I’d like that. I don’t know if there is a way. I’ve tried running, I’ve tried sabotaging, I’ve tried assaulting the machines. Did you know I led the Great Goth Rebellion of Quad B? Yeah, that lasted all of 15 seconds before they pumped the tranq gas in.

Family? None of us made any money. We’re all here together, but I can’t get along with my family anyway. They’re all in Quad C, and I’m in Quad B. It’s a lot better that way. Once in a blue moon the robots will allow us to hook up.

Do you know what I miss? Ultra Hold Hairspray. I used to go through cans of that shit.

I don’t have any solutions. You might like to check out the Terminator Board, sending me a private message will get a faster response than e-mail, since my inbox reminds me of the dustbowl.

Vienna la tormenta!

-andy

313562 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Andrea White734, 816665 Building 2 Resident Quant B – Homeless Detainee ****

(* * *)

Yolanda and Daria were playing cards. Sandi walked over to where the two were sitting in the dreary looking common room. “Dah-RIA.”

“Yeah, Griffin.”

“You have some mail. From Mr. DeMartino.”

“DeMartino is still alive?”

“When death came, he probably beat him up.”

“Does he offer a way out?”

“Well…no. I don’t think so.”

“All praise Chairman Mao,” said Yolanda as she put down a ten of spades.

“Let us all denounce Li Feng,” said Daria as she followed with a ten of hearts.

“What are you doing?” said Sandi.

“Playing Mao.”

“Oh, I love card games! How do you play?” said Sandi, sitting down uninvited.

“The only rule I can tell you is this one,” said Daria.

“No, seriously. What are the rules?”

“The only rule I can tell you is this one,” said Yolanda.

“What?”

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

it breaks my heart to see that you are in such a sad condition. I would lie and tell the goddamned machines that you were my own kith and kin if I thought it would help but their cold metal hearts are immune to any such persuasion

the only joy I get is knowing that the robot teachers are teaching the pampered princes of industry and im’ sure even their patience will be bashed by the jocks, the lunkheads, the stoners, and the other assorted flotsam that used to clog the educational system

if they had allowed corporal punishment this would have never happened. I would like to grab the son of a bitch that invented robots and give him a fist sandwich

Jodie Landon is now a princess of industry. Kevin Thompson and Tori Jericho made it big, too. out of all those I taught, they were the ones who made the money. to know that kevin is out there running the world gives me the agita.

as for me, I am an old man and I am in the nursing facility where the robots wipe your ass and wipe it with that industrial paper. I’m bedridden. I have arthritis. I don’t see too well either. That’s okay, I don’t watch that shit they call news anyway. it’s good that Im not teaching because who could teach that bullshit with a straight face.

If you get old, I hear the robots don’t’ watch you as closely. Where the hell are you going to go anyway? There are legends of wiley old men who got away when the robots are not looking and have established a free state of seniors. Me, I believe that the robots just shot them, that’s why you don’t see them again. There are days that I think a bullet to the head would be a blessing, but I don’t tell the robots that.

Forgive me for being old and profane but I think I’m allowed some profanity. That’s one of my few remaining blessings, thinking of ingenious ways to tell the robots off. I’m trying to invent a word for asshole that would mean something to a robot. you were a wonderful writer, I’m sure you can think of one.

anyway, I hope you figure a way out. Your talent were wasted on the world. And now look at the world. It serves it right.

Your former instructor

Mr. Anthony DeMartino

361510 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Anthony DeMartino077, 5661127 Building 1 Resident Quant E – Homeless Detainee: Elderly****

(* * *)

“So why didn’t Mack ask Jodie for help?” said Sandi.

“Too proud,” muttered Daria. “Not that I’m not too proud to ask. When we get our one real e-mail a month in a few days, you should send Jodie Landon a persuasive letter.”

“I still think we should send it to Stacy Rowe,” said Sandi, “Stacy is a softer touch.”

“Griffin, a lot has changed since either of us were in high school. I don’t trust Stacy to be able to tie her shoes without a nervous breakdown.”

“No, Daria, Stacy would have married well. You know men love a dishrag, someone who kisses the ground they walk on.”

“Is that why you didn’t marry well, Sandi? You didn’t like the taste of ass?”

Sandi laughed. “I guess not. Not that men didn’t chase me. But they were all losers, every last one of them.”

“Poor Mr. DeMartino,” said Daria.

“Yeah,” said Sandi. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

“Oh Daria?”

“Hm.”

“All praise Chairman Mao,” said Sandi

“I’d denounce Li Feng,” said Daria, “but I don't have the good hand.”

Data Dump Part II of oh, I don't know, XII maybe

September 14 - It's been a long time since I've kept a diary, but it's time for me to gather my thoughts.

I woke up on the bottom bunk of my bed after my first little trip to the great outdoors. Sandi Griffin was genuinely worried about me. Or at least, she seemed to be. She told me that a robot carried me into the room and left me there, or course after politely inquiring that I should be allowed to rest on the bottom bunk. I have no idea what the machine would have done if I said 'no'.

I believe that much more living with Sandi Griffin is going to drive me crazy. It's not like rooming with Dorothy Parker. If you have any questions about Hollywood gossip, or fashion, or various improvement programs, Sandi's the one to talk to. If you want to complain about the bleakness and misery of this place, Sandi wants to rapidly change the subject.

Her situation is probably like that of the starving. There are three stages of starving.

a) Feeling that one is hungry, and that one would like a grilled cheese sandwich.
b) Obsessing about food, lovingly dreaming of the white curlicue on the top of a black Hostess cupcake.
c) Suppressing thoughts about food to the point of indifference.

Sandi's in that third stage. She thinks she's never going to get out of here. She doesn't want to hear about it. Not from me, not from someone who is still starving for auto--

"Pardon me. Are you all right?"

Daria looked up from her scribbling. It was another orange machine. Daria resolved to ignore it.

"Are you all right? Are you suffering from depression?"

"No, dammit," said Daria. "I want to write. In privacy."

"Perhaps you would like to go outside and write. It's a pleasant day outside."

"What if I say no robot? What if I just stay right here?"

"I'm sorry, but we will be cleaning the hallway in a few moments. Perhaps you would like to move momen--"

"Yeah, right." Daria closed her makeshift diary - merely a few scraps of blank paper - and stood up. "I've taken three walks since the time you shot me. I went north. I was told that there were downed power lines. I went east. I was told that there was an escaped dangerous mental prisoner and that I should return for my own safety. I went south. I was told that there was a friggin' rabid dog."
She looked into the robot's mechanical eyes. "The fact of the matter is I'm not going to be allowed to leave here. There's always going to be another excuse, something to keep me in a pen. Listen robot, if robots have an afterlife, go tell Isaac Asimov to fuck himself, because every nice robot in the movies always tells the truth."

"I understand you," said the robot. "Perhaps I should make you an appointment with one of our robot counselors - "

" - oh shut up." Daria knew that for some reason, the robots didn’t want her scribbling away furiously in the hallway. She decided that going outside was the best idea. She'd go as far as she'd think she could before they assigned the robots for some lameass excuse --

-- no. There was no "they". It was before the robots assigned themselves to bring her back. That was the chilling part.

(* * *)

Daria had an allotment of "credits", as if she were in sort of episode of Star Trek. Since she was categorized as terminally unemployable, there weren't many. She had to buy paper by the page. Daria resolved to write smaller.

As she walked out the door, a woman said to her, "You shouldn't have been sitting in that corridor. You freaked the robots out. They don't like anything that looks 'abnormal' to them."

"I've been freaking out people for years, including robots. I should have stayed in that corridor and had them fucking carry me out."

"That would have got you an appointment with the robot counselor. After a certain number of appointments, you would have been categorized as 'mentally ill'."

"How would you know?"

"I was mentally ill for three years," said the woman. "Worked great. All the best psych drugs you could get. Dude, those robots have some awesome crap. It really numbs you down to the tippy-toes. I could have lived in a stupor for the rest of my life."

"But you're out now."

"The robots released me. More and more terminally unemployable. They weren't going to waste their good shit on me anymore. After I while, I couldn't scam them. The number of really violent fuck-ups was increasing." She signed. "More people going crazy I guess."

"Have you tried to leave?"

"No point. It's impossible," said the woman. "Word of advice, skillet," said the woman, "stop trying. How far do you think you'd really get?"

"But you know. You must have tried. Tell me, how do I get out of here? What's your name?"

"June. Listen. You're a good kid. And it looks like you've got a lot of energy to burn. I'll hook up you up with the escapee contingent." June smiled. "It'll be a great time-waster for you."

(* * *)

June was as good as her word. At the communal dinner, there was a group of men and women - twelve altogether - that perpetually plotted their escape.

"Trust me, Daria" said Casey, a former camera operator, "the first thing to do is to forget any overland escape. You found out about the lame excuses. If you just make a run for it, they'll tranq you and drag you right back."

"Fifteen escapes", said Jeremy, a former carpenter, "and fifteen tranqs." Daria looked Jeremy over. He looked like an Olympic sprinter.

"So how do they know where we are?"

"We've come up with a lot of theories," said Paul, an ex-telephone operator. "The first theory was that they've somehow injected RFID chips into us. If they have, there are no scars. But there are probably less invasive ways. Motion detectors. And the fact that there are cameras everywhere. They simply notice that we want to go, and they hunt us down."

"Should you be talking about this out loud?" said Daria, furtively looking around as everyone else ignored the chattering group and ate their chicken noodle soup.

"The only rule I can tell you is this one, said Yolanda with a smile. "We should play Mao sometime."

"Never mind Yolanda," said Paul. "She was a languages major. Not much use for that when these robots can speak any language you can think of. Try it. Try speaking some French, German, or Japanese to one of these things. There might be a momentary delay, but they'll answer you right back in your native tongue. Yolanda was really interested in artificial language construction - "

" - shut up. Ixnay," said Yolanda.

"But until she invents one that we can speak and robots can't speak or decode, we're on our own. We're left with legal avenues of escape."

"Legal avenues? What about tunnels? Or hacking? Or just blowing up the robots? And how do we know the robots aren't eavesdropping on us? Any robot that can run that fast," said Daria, "can probably hear very well, too."

"There aren't any tunnels," said Casey. "As for hacking, we have very limited access to CommunityNet. The interface only lets you do so much anyway. You can only have an e-mail account if you have the money to pay for one. That limits us to message board posting. And the only people posting there are in public housing, a bunch of sad pathetic losers like us."

"See those guys over there?" said Jeremy. Daria noticed a group of men in the corner having an animated conversation. "Hackers. But they're not going to share what they know with us. Just the nature of a hacker, I suppose. And if they were that good at hacking, they would have hacked their way out of here."

"These robots are as gentle as a kitten," said Paul. "But strong as a tiger. Even if you could blow one robot up, how do you handle the other thousand or so? They all look alike. It's very difficult to get an idea of the robot population, but one of the statisticians we talked to estimated one robot for every fifteen people. That means that there are over 100,000 robots in the nearby area. Each that can lift tons and run like gazelles. If there's going to be a human rebellion…I'd put my money on the robots. Seriously."

Yolanda was dying to say something. "As for the robots eavesdropping on us, that's a given!"

"You don't know that!" The group began to argue among themselves. A guy called Mark said, "We've argued about this enough! Not the same goddamned argument again."

"What argument?"

"I'm going to summarize the argument -- doing justice to everyone. Yolanda believes that the robots eavesdrop on us. That they know every word we say and that they actively plot against us."

"If I was a robot that wanted to keep people penned in," said Yolanda, "wouldn't I - or my programmers - want to use every tool at my disposal?"

"There's another school," said Mark, a bit of pride in his voice for getting the chance to present his own argument. "The other school is that the robots don't eavesdrop on us - because it's a waste of the valuable gigaflops of the robot's processing power."

"You're saying the robots don't care what we do?"

"You got it," said Mark, running his fingers through his hair. "I've actually gone to a robot and told him that tomorrow there would be a mass rebellion, that the humans would rise up and that I would lead them. Do you know what it said?"

"What?"

"Interesting. It didn't have any more questions that that. Not when the rebellion was going to be or -- "

"--it thought you were a crazy loon," said Yolanda. "Of course it didn't pay attention to you. Think about it. There are supposedly 100,000 robots around here. All of them watch us. They knew you were full of shit. The only people you ever talk to are us, and we weren't planning anything."

Daria listened to them argue. "Listen," said Daria. "What are these…legal means?"

(* * *)

Sandi was watching television. It was some sort of gardening show. The woman was gabbing on about her new oceanview home.

I knew the current landscaping wasn't going to work. I mean, this home is six million dollars, what am I, poor? We decided to tear out the former garden behind the terrace and -

"Sandi!"

"Shhhh!" said Sandi back. "This is the part where they show the three dimensional layout."

"Television, off!" said Daria. The television switched off.

"Television on!" said Sandi. The television switched off.

"Look, Sandi," said Daria, "I need your help."

"Can it wait for twenty minutes? Jesus, how arrogant! Didn't you learn any manners?"

Daria fumed. But she thought it over.

"Fine. Twenty minutes. I'll be writing." And with that, she stormed out the door.

(* * *)

Forty minutes later, Daria returned. "All right. I'm starting to work on how to get out of here."

"Really?"

"Okay. We need someone we can sponge off of. Mom and Dad are dead. Quinn is dead. That leaves just me. I haven't spoken to Erin in years. So who do you know?"

"Oh, I know lots of people. I knew a lot of people in the news room."

"Think closer. Family. Someone who would help you whether you needed it or not."

Sandi was quiet for a few moments. "My parents are dead, too. That leaves Sam and Robert." Sandi explained that since Family Guy came on the air, Chris Griffin began using his middle name. "Sam and I don't get along." More silence. "I guess we've never gotten along. He'd laugh in my face if I asked him for help. As for Robert…I suppose Robert must be in the same boat we're in. He's never been good with money."

"Then find them." Daria handed Sandi the keyboard. "I can't log on. See if you can find your brothers."

"Dah-RIA!" said Sandi. "I am not going to go to my brother Sam and ask for a handout like some kind of bum!"

"Bum? We are bums, Griffin. We don't have a dime between us. We're going to stuck in this public housing prison until both of us are dead."

"Daria, it's not - !"

Daria's voice increased in measured intensity. "We are going to be trapped here until we die. Until we die. We are going to be buried in a cheap plastic coffin. Or we're just going to be shoved into a hole. Or recycled. That's your fate, Griffin. "Here lies Sandi Griffin, forgotten by all." There will be no one to come to your grave. Who wants to come to the grave of an old homeless woman? I don't intend to get any more gray hairs here. So now, against all of my better judgment I am not going to let you rot to death watching fucking television. Ask your damned brother."

"No."

"Griffin - !"

"-- fuck you. Fuck you Daria! I'm not asking him! I won't ask him! You hear that? Did you get it through your thick skull? I won't beg! I won't ask Sam!"

And with that, Sandi Griffin began to sob. "I won't beg. I-won't-beg." She pulled off the piece of cloth that she called a neckerchief and began to dab her eyes. "Not Sam. Not from him. Not any of my family is going to know a damn thing."

Daria was overwhelmed by Sandi's sudden embarrassment. She thought that Sandi would be happy with the idea of imposing on someone else's sense of decency - she did it all the time in high school. Like the air after an electrical storm, Sandi's sense of pain and sorrow hung leadenly in the room. The claustrophobic room gave Daria little chance to purse the matter further, lest her head exploded.

"Fine. How many friends did you make at work?"

Sandi was quiet. "I don't have my Rolodex. What would be the point?"

"Right. You made as many friends at work as I did. The difference was, I deliberately didn't make them. What about college?"

Sandi was silent again.

"Yep. We're in the same boat. That leaves high school. It's time to dig down to the bottom of the barrel. I'll call my friggin kindergarten teacher if I have to. I'm pulling a Scarlett O'Hara. As God is my witness, I'm going to mooch off someone again! Out of all of the people that we knew, at least one of them has to have been successful."

"What makes you think that anyone of them would want to see us? And seeing either of us does not mean that there's a sign." Sandi's voice became mocking. "Hey, Sandi and Daria! I missed you! Move in! Use my car! Eat my food!"

"We don't know until we try. If we don't try, I'm going to do nothing but watch horror movies and political docudramas. You're not going to like that." Daria pointed to the keyboard. "Consider that…a motivator."

Data Dump - The World of "Manna"

Some background on "Data Dump".

The universe comes from "Manna" from Marshall Brain. The link to his story is right here. Like most stories about a utopia, the initial part is the most interesting but the part that sketches out the utopia is pretty dull.

What's great about Brain's story is that it's so plausible. However, there are a few holes in the story that I wanted to explore. If you make it to the end of "Manna" there all all sorts of springboards that can be used to explore issues of identity, as well as politics and economics. I planned (or plan) on taking a crowbar to Brain's story and "opening it up".

I can see Daria being very hostile to the idea of robots. As for Sandi, part of her strangeness is due to her economic dislocation. It's been hard for someone who has been "somebody" all her life to all of a sudden become a "nobody". Daria, however, has always been a "nobody".

I might or not write more. Scissors, thanks for getting that far. I intend to use this dystopia to exorcise my writing muse.

Data Dump

Ever want to post a story but at the same time not want to post it? This is one of those stories that I'm not going to finish, but I feel compelled to write it anyway. When writing it, I felt that I was writing a "faux-Daria" story, where Person A and Person B could be substituted for Daria and ***** and it would make no difference in the story whatsoever. Only after some writing are the actual characters beginning to make their personalities known.

So I'll just post the first part of it here. Maybe other parts, just to get it out of my system.

P. S. TAG, Jane Lane has not forgotten about her Autobiography. When the muse strikes, she'll write again.

(* * *)

“Daria Morgendorffer003, Please step to the red line.”

The robot extended a mechanical hand and pointed to the appropriate stripe. Daria stepped forward as she was told. For once, she was glad to follow the orders of these machines. She wanted as far out of here as possible.

“Daria Morgendorffer003,” said the prison robot, “your record of behavior at the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women has been reviewed. During your three years of incarceration, you have met the minimum behavior standards of the state of Maryland and you are to be automatically paroled to the general population. CommunityNet access is to be restricted for a further three years, but access may be reviewed on a monthly basis. You will be informed of the review results.

“Do you agree to this parole? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Yes.” Yes, oh God, yes!

“Daria Morgendorffer003, you are now unemployed. Do you have other means of employment?”

Daria suspected her job as a copywriter had now disappeared. “No,” she said.

“Do you have guest status with any resident?”

What this meant was, “was there any one she could sponge off?” Daria’s winning personality had not won her many friends. Both of her parents were dead. Quinn had died of a heart attack while Daria was in prison. Jane had fled the country years ago, and Daria doubted that she’d be granted a visa. Besides, where was Jane?

“No,” she was forced to answer. She didn’t like where this was going.

“Do you have means of support unknown to me?”

Daria resented the machine’s use of the word “me”. The machine was not sentient. It was simply a social convention the machines used. Daria was tempted to lie, but a lie would be found out very quickly, and Daria did not want to return to prison.

“No.”

“In accordance with ordinance 605.12b of the Federal Homeless Relief Act, you have been assigned room 030397 in building 1, resident quant A. This assignment provides you with suitable housing and nourishment to sustain your life. Please board the bus.”

(* * *)

Daria rode the windowless bus with other parolees. Daria had sworn to herself that when she got out of prison, she would grab the nearest person around the neck and begin talking up a storm. Instead, she found herself lost in thought, like the others. The trip to “Building 1, Resident Quant A” was entirely silent.

She could feel the wheels noiselessly move beneath her. She was now moving, undoubtedly moving past the outside shock zone. Daria touched her neck, rubbing the back, still not used to the removal of the “behavioral collar” that turned the prisoners into nothing more than dogs. Only the crazy ones needed more than one or two shocks to toe the line.

There was the temptation to throw open the doors and begin running for cover. However, so much had changed in Daria’s short life and she knew nothing of the outside world. What was different? For all Daria knew, there were murderous Tripods or X-1 Terminators posted at every corner. Escape was tempting, but she needed the solid ground of a new routine before she could get back in gear.

After many minutes of thinking, the machine stopped. The bus doors opened automatically.

“Welcome to Building 1, Resident Quant A,” said the soft humanlike voice from inside the van, free of inflection. “Please follow the indicated signs. If you have trouble finding your way, please ask one of the maintenance robots for help.”

“I’ll pass on that.” Everyone turned. Those were the only words spoken by any of the prisoners during the entire trip.

(* * *)

The industrial strength elevator opened out into the hallway. A maintenance robot was busy cleaning the brown, bleak-looking floors to a fine polish. For public housing, it looks rather good.

Daria looked at the doors. There it was. 030397. Cubicle Sweet Cubicle.

Daria didn’t want to ask the Friendly Robot how to get in. The problem with Friendly Robots, however, was that they were Friendly. The robot would undoubtedly notice Daria standing there looking like a dumb ass and offer help, and that meant having a conversation with a dumb hunk of metal.

So Daria knocked on the door. She heard a cry “Just a second!”

A roommate. Well, this ought to be interesting.

The door clicked open. A brunette woman wearing a simple scarf saw Daria and immediately embraced her.

“Daria! Daria!” she cried. “It’s so good, so good to see you again.”

Daria just stood there, stiff as a board. Oddly repulsed by the human contact. Confused by the fact that this total stranger claimed to know her. What kind of trick is this?

“I…guess,” offered Daria. “And you are?”

The woman was taken aback. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me! It’s Sandi Griffin!”

Of course, thought Daria. There’s no way to forget that baritone.

“Come in, come in!”

Daris stepped into the room. The room was small. And by small, the words “hall closet small” came to mind. The room measured eight feet by ten feet. The entire contents of the room consisted of a bunk bed, a television set, a CommunityNet keyboard…and nothing else.

“Holy Christ. This is just like my old prison room,” said Daria.

Sandi looked tentatively at Daria. “Prison?” she meekly inquired.

(* * *)

As soon as Sandi was convinced that Daria hadn’t murdered anyone – although Daria was tempted to leave her with the impression – she explained things.

“They’ve expanded each of the little apartments here. Just last month they put in bunk beds and told us that they were going to have us double up! And they put up a list of people who would be coming, and I recognized your name, and I saw your name! And I thought, it would be sooooo good to have Daria Morgendorffer here! Besides,” said Sandi, “they would have put someone else here. At least I had a choice. So…how’s Quinn?”

“Quinn is dead.”

Sandi looked poleaxed. She sat down on the lower bunk of the ridiculously small room. “How?”

“Fatal cardiac arrest. The robots tried to save her, but they didn’t get there in time. She inherited dad’s bad ticker.” As Daria looked at Sandi’s ashen face, she offered, “I was surprised. I’m glad Mom and Dad weren’t alive. It would have broken their hearts.”

“Any children?” asked Sandi.

“No. Quinn…with a man? What kind of man would want to scrape and bow that much? I suspect that the line of the Morgendorffers ends…right here.”

“I lost track of Quinn,” muttered Sandi. “My God. I’m so sorry.”

“So,” said Daria, desperate for a change of subject. “Are you out of prison?”

“Me? Prison? Oh God, no! I was the Assistant Producer of the news over at KSBC! We had a top running news show, #2 in the area! I had just the most wonderful little condo, that overlooked the forest. There was a small wading pool in the backyard and I had real koy fish in it. And I had a little pug dog…Flopsy. Oh, you would have loved it, Daria!”

Sandi went on…for at least a half hour…about her former home. Daria examined every word of the conversation carefully for some sort of factual information of value, some News She Could Use. After a half hour of Sandi’s prattling, she concluded that Sandi Griffin was one of the many reasons she had stopped watching the news before her imprisonment.

Daria interrupted her. “So if you have such a wonderful house, why are you here?”

Sandi sighed. “ProcTec 1.5.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a robot which is ‘designed for the production and facilitation of multimedia’. They shaved my job down to monkey parts.”

‘Monkey parts’. It was a phrase pregnant in meaning. Several jobs had fallen victim to the Monkey Parts Syndrome. Professions had been segmented into a series of steps. First the simple once, like burger flipping and shelf stacking. Then, the complex ones. Robots stepped in to perform some of the steps, and then in the case of Sandi Griffin, all of them. This left Sandi Griffin jobless. Some robot was now producing the news at KSBC, completely fluent in the many intricacies and problems of the production of a modern news show.

Daria learned that Sandi tried desperately to look for work, but ProcTec 1.5 was sweeping through newsrooms across the country. Sandi’s expensive tastes left her little money to fall back on. Within a year, she had burned through every bit of savings she had. The very first time a bill bounced, a robot came to her door, pronounced her as one of the terminally unemployable, and pleasantly escorted her to room 030397.

“Can you imagine it?” said Sandi, still in some kind of shock. “But it’s nice here! The people are nice. Everyone is nice. Well, they did have to put bunk beds in. But all of the hallways are roomy and the food is good. It’s not crowded or anything.”

“I’m sure the food is good.” Daria remembered the prison food. It was good too. “So…they gave us a TV?”

“Definitely. Do you watch Pleasure Island?”

“No. No TV,” said Daria. “We were left to dwell on our own wickedness.”

“So…what did you do before…prison?”

Daria was tempted to lie. Instead, she let the truth slip out. “I was a copy writer. I wrote advertising copy for automobiles and high end homes. If you make over $50 million a year, you’ve probably seen my work.”

“I’ve never seen a robot write!” giggled Sandi.

“Thank God,” answered Daria. She was sure that they were teaching one to write right now, ready to move copy writing to the list of obsolete professions.

“So how did you end up in prison?”

“Civil Disobediance. I was imprisoned for violating Patriot Act III.”

(* * *)

Daria smirked, leaving Sandi hanging as to what bomb-throwing act put Daria in the shock collar. Actually, it was a simple post on NewYorkList.

Looking for those willing to risk all to gain all. It’s time to reassert our rights and time to demand a more equal share of the wealth. Please contact me with your suggestions.

Within 15 minutes, there was a police bot at her high rise apartment. Daria Morgendorrfer was arrested for the violation of Patriot Act III, “inciting riot or protest against a duly lawfully elected government.” According to the (still) human judges, the mere posting of such a message on a public messageboard was a felony act. Her username was quickly matched with a living name and address in a matter of seconds.

With the simple messageboard post the evidence against her, the jury deliberated a grand total of five minutes. The message didn’t specifically incite protest against the government of the United States, but it was enough for the jury. She officially became Daria Morgendorffer, felon and prisoner and was sent to Maryland Correctional where she was introduced to the joys of the shock collar.

She hated to tell Sandi that her room in prison was very much like Sandi’s present room, except for no television. Daria would ask for a book (usually 19th century Russian literature), the bot would duly bring it and then demand its return at lights out. The food was the same as the food Sandi had, lovingly prepared by robots.

The only difference was at Maryland Correctional, none of the prisoners ate together. They sat at cubicles, with walls up, obscuring any sort of conversation. Prisoners trying to whisper would be reminded, “No talking please” by one of the prison bots. Punishments could range from the denial of dessert, to solitary confinement (what was the difference?) to the use of the shock collar or mind-numbing pharmaceuticals.

There wasn’t even a line to go to lunch, no chance for human contact there. A voice somewhere in your cell would say, “Please depart for lunch” and the voices were so timed that there was no waiting line. Daria would walk to lunch sometimes alone, sometimes with someone in front of her walking but yards away from her.

She almost wished for the cruel bull dyke prison guards out of the 1980s movies. However, there were no such guards, not anymore. Monkey Parts. They had lost their jobs, too.

(* * *)

“So you had shock collars?”

“Yeah,” said Daria. “We were like dogs. We couldn’t leave the prison compounds. Or, we could try, but if we went so much as fifty feet out of the individual exercise yards, you’d hear, Warning. You are leaving a restricted area. Shock collars are in force.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Imagine your urethra being set on fire. Hell yes, it hurt. I don’t care how much willpower you have. When you’re hit by the collar, it’s like you’ve been given a visit by Satan’s enema. It only takes a few times.”

“Well, thank God we don’t have that here,” said Sandi.

“Really?” Daria was intrigued.

“Yes. I’ve gone so far as to see our new home away from home just a speck in the distance.”

“So why didn’t you go back to your old home? Or just get a job.”

“Oh, there was some dangerous rock blasting ahead. A robot stopped me and told me that there was some blasting ahead and I’d better turn back. So I went back.”

“Riggght. Tell me, Ms. Griffin,” Daria said. “Are you up for a walk?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Definitely.” Daria detected a note of unease in Sandi’s voice, but it was a pleasant unease. Despite their different upbringings and world views, both had come to the conclusion that they wanted to be as far away from Building 1, Resident Quant A, Room 030397 as humanly possible.

(* * *)

Sandi was as good as her word. The next morning, after the communal breakfast (Daria had to admit the ham and eggs were perfect), Daria and Sandi set out for a hike...a very long hike if Daria had anything to do with it.

“So, anyway, in the third episode Dylan was voted out of Pleasure Island. If he’d only met the athletic challenge, he could have stayed! Of course, Dylan doesn’t even come close to the record. The record is sixty-seven weeks, and he would have stayed longer if that bitch Heather hadn’t put together a Challenge Coalition….”

Daria had numbed herself to Sandi’s endless chattering. The confident Sandi of decades earlier seemed to have undergone a transformation, addicted to reality TV and home makeover shows. Sandi had taken on some of Stacy Rowe’s worst characteristics. (Or had they always been there, and merely latent?)

“So Daria, who are you voting for in the upcoming election? Nichols or Predimore?”

“I’ve never heard of either of them. Felon, you know. Can’t vote anyway.”

“It’s a pity,” said Sandi, looking backwards uneasily. “Predimore has some good ideas about the economy. He’s a Republican. I always suspected you were a Democrat in high school, Daria.”

“So what does Predimore’s platform say about keeping the jobless penned up in public housing?” Sandi had nothing to say about that.

“Okay,” said Daria. “What about Nichols?” Sandi searched her mind for a distinction on the issue, but couldn’t find one.

After some silence, Daria said, “And now you know why I haven’t voted in the last twenty years.”

“Daria, look!”

Something was walking towards them from the distance. It was orange, and had a vaguely humanoid shape. It did not seem to be in a hurry, but since the three of them were the only human sized-figures in the immediate area, the robot clearly only had one destination.

Daria looked behind her. Building 1, Resident Quant A was indeed a mere speck on the horizion.

“Daria, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just skeeved out by these things. I don’t want to make any sudden moves. I want both of us to slightly change direction. Let’s both go to the robot’s left. See if it follows.”

Daria and Sandi adjusted the angle of their path. Sure enough, the robot adjusted the angle of its path as well.

“There is no way,” Daria muttered. “God damn it. Let’s find out what the thing wants.”

“Should we walk over there?”

“Let it walk.” Daria and Sandi stood there while the robot patiently traversed the distance.

“Greetings,” said the robot.

“What do you want?” asked Daria icily.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” said the robot, “but there is a building construction zone several hundred yards away. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn back.”

“What if I don’t turn back?” said Daria.

“Then if you proceed further, I will have to subdue you. It would be irresponsible of me to let you come to harm.”

“Sandi,” said Daria. “Talk to this thing and let him know what we’re doing.”

Sandi began a perfectly rational, reasonable discussion with the robot.

Twenty seconds into the discussion, Daria bolted. She ran past the robot, all by herself.

“Please turn around,” said the robot, calmly, after Daria.

“PLEASE TURN AROUND.” The volume of the robot’s voice had changed but not its pleasant demeanor. Sandi watched Daria become smaller and smaller in the distance as she ran.

Abruptly, something emerged from the robot’s right shoulder and back, swinging into a resting position on what would have been the robot’s right collarbone. Sandi heard a

…….THWWWWWWWWWWWWWWIIIIPPPPP……..

sound. She watched in the distance as the running figure simply collapsed.

“What did you do?” shouted Sandi.

“I have immobilized your friend with a tranquilizer dart. It would have been irresponsible of me to let your friend come to harm. There are no worries. I shall monitor your friend’s health and bring her back to our infirmary, and then to your room for a swift recovery. Please turn back. Do not worry, I shall take care of everything.”

Sandi watched the robot gain speed, this time running at a speed that no human being could match on his best day. Instead of turning back, Sandi sat on the ground. She held her stomach. All of her old anxieties were coming back again.

The Autobiography of Jane Lane: Daria Morgendorffer's Boudoir

I knew that Daria was completely twisted the first time I met her in Mr. O'Neill's class. I was sitting through Mr. O'Neill's seventh version of his self-esteem class. Out of all the students in all seven classes, all of whom had low self-esteem, she was the only one to call out O'Neill on his bullshit. He had that panicky look in his eyes and I knew we could have some fun.

So I poked her. She really wanted to know what he was talking about. I told her I had taken the class six times already. Most of the kids freak out when they know that I've been there multiple times. I told one guy that I had been there four times and he completely flipped. He just turned around and didn't move a muscle for the rest of the lecture. By the way, I never saw him again. I like to think that somewhere in this twisted world he's taking remedial self-esteem on a cool Pacific island where they serve coconut juice during beachfront lectures on self-esteem.

Daria called me on it. "Well tell me," she said, "I want to know."

So I told her. Do you ever get to the point where you can actually finish each other's sentences? That's the way it was with Daria. She was weird and freaky. She saw all the same stuff I saw. She was a Sick Sad World devotee. We liked the same movies. Daria had scoped out Lawndale High and she thought they were all retards, too. We were amigas from Day One.

So you probably ask yourself, "What were you doing in esteem class so many times?" Conceptual art. Looking for geeks and weirdos, my own kind. I figured that anyone cool would end up in Li's self-esteem gulag. The very first day I made it to Lawndale High, I took the test that Mrs. Manson gave and gave my artistic interpretations of the ink blots. Got sent right to Mr. O'Neill. Didn't even pass "Go". (They gave Trent that same test. He didn't get sent to Mr. O'Neill's class, but they tested him for narcolepsy.)

I found that multiple self-esteem classes had other advantages. I wasn't doing well in school, because I just didn't give a damn. O'Neill had a soft spot for "troubled kids" and I figured I could earn troubled kid points just by showing up multiple times. By the end of the sixth class, I was getting "B"s just for showing up to class and breathing in and out.

Another problem was that Lawndale High was too damn close to Casa Lane. I would have to walk to school. I didn't know anyone at Lawndale and the people I knew I didn't like and didn't trust. I sure as hell didn't want to walk home with any of them. So I just stayed longer. I didn't know Ms. Defoe then. I was a freshman. Self-esteem class gave me an excuse to hang around Lawndale High after everyone had left.

High schools are cooler when they're abandoned. You can do all kinds of stuff. I went to the Social Studies center and wrote on the inside covers of the new books. A lot of freshmen are going to get some weird advice at the beginning of the year. They still use those books, because Li's too damn cheap to buy new ones.

Okay. I didn't say anything about Daria. Dammit, you're supposed to be interested in me, anyway, sweet and sexy Jane Lane. I'm jealous, you goddamned bastards. And I saw that movie where that crazy bitch killed that rabbit. Watch your backs!

The Autobiography of Jane Lane - With Fiber!

There is an incredible demand for my biography. I'm getting all kinds of hits. They all come from the same place, but every hit counts, as Daria says, so I take this as encouragement to keep writing.

Did you know that the Lane family once had a garden? No, seriously. When I was four I remember us having a garden in the back yard.

Summer told me that the goal was to plant cabbages, beets, and strawberries. It sounds like a failed dessert, but Dad decided that we had better have a garden just in case of imminent Lane poverty. I guess he wasn't selling any photographs then. He planned that garden like...well, he probably put more work into that than anything. I saw him using string to line the rows just right and I remember Dad and Penny working out in the garden. She liked the garden too.

We didn't have much of a yield the first year, but we had something. We had fresh strawberries, cream, and sugar.

The next year when I was five we had a drought. It killed everything in the garden. I rememeber flocks of butterflies flittering around the garden and Dad trying to chase them away. I got mad at him and began to chase Dad.

It seems that butterflies eat strawberries. Or something. I'm not sure how the process goes. I'd think it would take about five pounds of butterflies to eat a strawberry, but I don't know, maybe butterflies were more of a deadly menace ten years ago. It's like a M. Night Shalayman film. No one talks about The Day The Butterflies Came and Carried Off The Children. All I can remember is kicking Dad in the shins because of the butterflies.

With the drought, Dad lost interest. The squared off area became a source for weeds. Then three years later Mom resodded the back yard and removed all traces of Dad's garden. I don't think Dad noticed it was gone. He had moved on.

I asked Trent about the garden. He just said, "I hate beets." He ran his hands through his hair, and then started plucking a tune about beets...awful beets.

I guess I know who ate the beets. Looks like Dad's garden is still fertile. I expect strawberries, por favor!

The Autobiography of Jane Lane, Parte the Seconde

My friend Daria said I should write more. I don't like writing because I don't feel comfortable having her apply her super-sarcasm to my shitty writing. Having Daria around is cool because she doesn't know enough about art to judge what I do. I've been carrying her all year in Ms. Defoe's class. Daria can draw a good sketch now and then, but she should stick to painting ceramic kitty-cats.

Ms. D wanted us to make moldings of the male torso, which we would bake in the kiln. I think Daria's looked like a weightlifter with breast implants. We put it in the kiln and its little pecs blew up. No joke. Ms. D gave Daria a B because she's really nice even though Daria's was the only one that blew up. I didn't say anything or Daria would be in a pissy mood all day.

I thought I already told you everything about my life, you bastards. You're going to crucify me like Paris, just because I showed my cha-cha while climbing out of the car. Yeah, I was three and I forgot to wear underwear, but I know the Press has long memories. You guys never let up, do you.

What else is there to tell you? Oh yea, I got into trouble at school today. It seems that my locker set off some alarms during one of Ms. Li's sweeps for radiation. I've been keeping some interesting industrial metal artifacts in there, and one of them was radioactive. So I got sent to the local hospital, had things X scanned and cat rayed and a $2000 whatchamajiggy later I was pronounced healthy of body and sent home. Ms. Li was at the hospital grumbling all the while, asking the doctor just to use a stethoscope. I think she stole some tongue depressors on the way out.

I came back home tumor free, I think. But the scanner didn't find the lead based paint I ate as a child. I tried to expose myself to lead paint when I was nine because I thought I would paint like Goya, but all I got was a stomachache and blue teeth. Have you ever seen Goya's self-portrait? It looks just like what I think Trent will look like, sort of what Ludwig van looked like.

There. That's part two of my biography. I swear I'm just going to make stuff up next time.

The Autobiography of Jane Lane

I got the idea from an Iron Chef by mman, where he asks a Daria character to write his or her autobiography.

(* * *)

I regret to inform you of the secret history of the Lane family. You're going to be sorry you read this, because I'm not good at writing.

We are the outcasts of the Lane family in more ways that one. My father's name is Vincent Lane, but Dad is an illegitimate child. He is the son of my grandmother Marietta Lane, who used to live in New York.

It was a big scandal. Marietta went to a home for unwed mothers until Dad was born. My friend Daria looked up the name that my grandmother put on the birth certificate. My granfather's name is "William Patrick Heller".

So we couldn't find out anything about William Patrick Heller. However, Daria signed up for that Mormon online database and we had some more information. Given Mr. Heller's birthdate and place of birth on the birth certificate, we believe that Mr. Heller is actually Mr. William Patrick Hitler. W. P. Hilter is the half-son of Alois Hitler, who is the brother of the other Hitler guy.

Which explains why Dad moves around all the time and why this branch of the Lane family is so weird. I mean, I'm Hitler's great grand-niece. I think the reason Dad isn't at home a lot is because that way, the assassins can't draw a bead on him.

As for my birth, my mother, Amanda Knight, was American royalty, the granddaughter of one of the guys who invented envelopes. He might have just made envelopes. If someone on Mom's family had been a lot smarter, you would have to call envelopes "Lanes" and I'd be living on easy street.

My origins of birth are humble. I was born on December 25th. It was during an Xmas play that Dad was photographing with Mom in West Virginia. Unfortunately, we didn't make it to the hospital in time, but Dad got some really great pictures. Mom got her tubes tied after that.

After that, I was shoved back into our ancestral home at Lawndale, with all of our family's genetic output. There was Summer, who was 15 and already planning her escape. Wind was 14 and had moved into the attic. Penny was 13 and already become the famous terror of Lawndale.

After Penny, my parents wisely decided to hold off for a few years. Or Dad had gotten lost on a trip to Tibet, I'm not sure. My older brother Trent was five when I was born and I'm sure you know who he is because he told me about having to write his biography and he got up to the time when he was four before he ran out of paper.

When I got to the time when the Man forced me to go to school, the old rotting house had emptied out. Summer had squeezed out some loinfruit and left. Wind had joined the Navy for six months. I don't know what happened, there's some story about him not being allowed back on the boat, but I can't ask him about it because he starts crying. Penny was one of the few people to cross to border into Mexico illegally, hopping on a bus the minute she graduated from Lawndale High.

So I was raised by my older brother Trent. I think it was like Tarzan raising Cheetah. Or maybe Cheetah raising Tarzan. I don't know which of the two is smarter.

Since we didn't have pencils, or pens, or anything sharp, I found all of Mom's old pottery supplies and began painting up a storm. My first work was called, "Ode to an Empty Refrigerator". I painted it when I was three, using Mom's porcelain paint. It was a white canvas, which I made full use of, turning the kitchen into a magical world of color.

When my Mom saw the mess, she said, "We have a little artist", and my work was displayed proudly in the kitchen for the next ten years. However, the refrigerator gave out four years later and the floor in the kitchen rotted through when I was ten. Two years of contractors later, and most of my original work had disappeared, leaving only fond memories.

After that, I was determined to leave my mark on the world as a suffering and tortured artist. Which is very hard when nobody knows who you are. When Van Gogh cut off his ear, at least everyone knew, hey, that's Van Gogh, what is he doing without an ear? But if no one knows who you are, all you would get is hey, what happened to your ear? Were you in an ear-mangling accident? I tried growing my hair long on one side, but Lawndale Elementary paid for money out of its petty cash fund and I was given a real haircut. Since that moment, I knew that the Man would never let me rest.

And now, I have blossomed into womanhood. What will be the destiny of Jane Lane? Will I stand with my foot on the shores of Europe, with continents ablaze behind me? Or will I just sleep a lot, like Trent? I don't know, but it will be fun finding out.

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.

Private Dicks

Since this blog hasn't been updated in a long time, here's a bit of a story....

(* * *)

"So what do you see?"

Sandi looked through the binoculars. Quinn found it annoying that Sandi wouldn't share. Binocular hog!

"Okay...he's getting out of the car....he's with the woman....oh!...he's putting his arm on her shoulder...and...they have entered the hotel."

"That's it," said Quinn with some satisfaction. "We're done."

"Whew."

Sandi put down the binoculars and rested against the seat of the car. Quinn pulled out a small tape recorder.

"At 8:35 pm, Mr. Cedric Fleming entered the Palmer Hilton Hotel with the young woman identified earlier by photographic evidence. We are remaining here in hopes that we can see Mr. Fleming and his partner depart."

It was all that Quinn and Sandi needed. In State Law, evidence of opportunity of adultery was sufficient as evidence in a divorce proceeding. They didn't have to catch Mr. Fleming with his new friend's ankles around his ears. All that had to be proven was that Mr. Fleming was with a woman who was not his wife, and that both of them were in a place that allowed the opportunity. A hotel definitely counted.

Ms. Fleming could further testify that she was unaware of her husband's location -- supposedly, he was going out to dinner with business friends. Quinn knew that the very next day Mr. Fleming would be served his divorce proceedings, and Ms. Fleming would be asking for a handsome sum.

"We still don't know who his girlfriend is," said Sandi. "We know she's 'Becky', but I've just not been able to get that last name." Not that the two hadn't tried. Sandi had come very close to catching Ms. 'Becky' enter a car in an underground parking garage but couldn't get the license plate, and there had to be a thousand gray Honda Accords out there.

"It doesn't have to be perfect, you know."

"Yeah. But I like it to be perfect."

Quinn smiled. When the retainer came in, Sandi would be happy. She could blow her part of it on shopping for some new shoes.

Quinn, however, would be working at Dharma Surf, Inc. the next day as a lowly paid temp worker. Supposedly, someone was stealing Dharma Surf's designs and selling them to Kahuna Boards. It would be Quinn -- and Sandi's -- job to find out who. The shingle in front of "Griffin and Morgendorffer Investigations" didn't pay for itself, you know.

Retro Daria

With all of the pictures of “future Daria” posted on the Daria Fandom Blog II -- a fine site, highly recommended – I recall a conversation I had with my wife. The contention was that even though Daria was on hip and happening music video (at the time) network MTV, the show was as much of a relic of the 1980s and before as just about anything.

The world of Daria is high school . Not any modern high school, but apparently the high school that Glenn Eichler must have gone to…and from my understanding, assuming that Mr. Eichler became a National Lampoon editor of the ripe young age of 22 in 1983, then Eichler graduated from high school sometime before 1979. Daria comes a lot closer to representing the high school Glenn Eichler attended than the high schools of any of the Daria viewers.

The first example is Brittany Taylor. Brittany Taylor is the big boobed dumb blonde cheerleader. This is an archetype that’s been around for a while and it will take several generations of Nobel Prize winning cheerleaders to eliminate it. Brittany’s activities consist primarily of supporting her Kevvie and writing cheers.

The joke in “See Jane Run” is that Ms. Morris’s gym classes are little more than cheerleader classes in disguise. However, Daria and Jane aren’t required to do much more that wave pompoms. In another episode (I forget the name) we learn that Lawndale High School at least has a trampoline, which might have some useful purpose in a cheerleading practice session.

Brittany does some splits, but can’t even keep her balance. The most athletic thing that any of the Lawndale cheerleaders are doing is forming a three-level pyramid…but this activity takes place only in the imagination of Jane Lane. In short, the cheerleaders of the Daria world are little more than pompom-waving sex objects of limited intelligence.

Brittany wears a short skirt, which would provide some lower body mobility, but she’s encased in an upper body sweater more suitable for a cheerleader of the 1970s – close fitting sweater (the better to show off the goods!), short sleeves and not extending below the hemline of the skirt. The only concessions to modernity (1980s and early 1990s) are Brittany’s slouch socks and sneakers.

The problem with this portrayal is that it’s a dated portrayal of high school cheerleading. If Daria were going to be accurate, she’d probably wear a short-sleeved spandex “shell top” and she spend a lot less time writing cheers and a lot more time doing complicated tumbling and gymnastics routines. (The only hint of these we see are from “The Daria Hunter”.) Brittany would come to class with say, her ankles taped up or maybe with a bruise or two.

Eichler portrays cheerleading as an activity for young women to engage in to gain popularity. (Back in Eichler’s day, cheerleaders auditioned for their role by giving their cheers in front of the student body. We see an audition in front of a smaller crowd in “The F Word”.) But by 1997, cheerleading was a lot closer to a sport than it was to something like a Fashion Club. Brittany wouldn’t need to feel that she had to match up with Kevin Thompson. She’d be taking the Lawndale Cheer Dance Team on tour to the state finals, working with cheer coaches and spirit camps, performing complex dance routines. These routines are often dangerous, resulting in broken bones or worse. (Remember, no one is wearing a helmet or pads while doing any of this.)

Another example is Kevin Thompson, and by extension, the rest of Lawndale High sports. During the first three seasons of Daria, Kevin Thompson floats on by. We know that Brittany is the smart one of this intellectual challenged duo – a C-minus is grounds for celebration – so God knows what kind of grades Kevin Thompson makes.

The understanding is that the jocks at Lawndale High School don’t have to take exams. They are given the infamous “bye”. However, during “Mart of Darkness”, something changes. (Thanks to Scissors MacGillicutty for pointing this out.) It is made clear that Kevin will simply float through high school and not face any intellectual challenges.

This might have been true in Glenn Eichler’s day – teachers and administrators would have looked the other way and given their Kevin Thompsons an automatic diploma. It would be the college’s problem, and many colleges of Eichler’s day had formulaic approaches to the admissions process. College scholarships weren’t tied to rigorous academic standards.

This all started to change in the mid-1980s, after Eichler graduated high school. States began to institute high school exit exams. Colleges were more closely regulated by the NCAA and Division I school applicants were forced to have grade point averages above a certain minimum to get a sports scholarship. When it was learned that high schools were artificially changing grades for star athletes, the NCAA began to require minimal scores on the SATs.

Someone must have reminded Glenn Eichler – probably Rachelle Romberg, writer of “Mart of Darkness” – that academic standards existed. The plot thread will not be dropped, and now all of a sudden, Kevin’s father is asked by Mr. O’Neill to convince his son to study harder. (A plea that falls on deaf ears.) One can only wonder why Ms. Li supported the candidacy of George W. Bush and his “No Child Left Behind” program with its heavy emphasis on standardized testing.

(* * *)

My wife, Ruth, comments on the fact that the Fashion Club would not be considered fashionable by 1990s standards. The most popular haircut of the 1990s for women was the “Jennifer Aniston/Friends” haircut, a haircut which is never seen in Daria. Short hair was in in a big way in the 1990s, but oddly enough…it can be argued that all of the main female characters of Daria have long hair! One could argue that Jane Lane’s hair is not long, but she’s the only one. Jane Lane has weird artist helmet hair, not meant to represent any popular style. If Daria were true to fashion, Quinn would have a Meg Ryan do. At least Quinn’s pink baby-doll midriff-bearing T-shirt more accurately reflects the styles of the time.

Even slacker Trent Lane is more retro than grunge. Let’s look at his musical influences, and the periods when they were the most popular

Jane’s Addiction: The high point of the band was 1985-91.
Morrissey: 1988-1997
The Doors: the Morrison Doors were gone by 1972
Cocteau Twins: hung around till 1996 or 1997, but its real high point was the 1980s
Frank Zappa: died in 1993
Nine Inch Nails: when Daria hit the airwaves, NIN hadn’t released an album in three years.
Nirvana: Cobain died in 1994
Gregorian Chants: by the 16th century, it was falling out of use
thunder: thunder has never gone out of style
the Banana Splits: Fleegle sadly died of a heroin overdose in 1970

In short, the only way Trent Lane represents grunge is in his clothing. Musically, he’s a retro throwback. I can understand why it was so easy for him to do a commercial for Happy Herb; if Mystik Spiral hadn’t agreed, Herb would have had to search through The Carpenters old back catalog.

(* * *)

Unfortunately, I have not been able to think of a good ending paragraph for this essay. Is Glenn Eichler a big fat lazy retro jerk? No. I worship at the man’s Doc Martens. However, it’s clear that not only his conception of the 1990s, but the conception of the other writers and designers of high school life is a bit…tilted toward the 1980s and earlier.

Then again, every writer writes about the way things were back in the day. I’m sure that in the future we’ll get a vision of Daria that actually illustrates what high school life was really like back in the late 1990s…when new Daria episodes finally come on the air in the 2020s.

Cold War

Finished reading: "But in Her Heart a Cold December" by The Angst Guy

(* * *)

There is going to be a very brief summary of the story, in much less detail. The reason will be explained below.

The story begins at the end of "Fizz Ed" -- after Principal Angela Li has been hauled away to the hospital after her caffeine-induced mental breakdown. As Angela Li recovers, we learn some fascinating facts about Ms. Li's life through a process of inner monologue.

As it turns out, Ms. Li is actually about six or so years older than her documents claim to be. She was a young girl growing up in (South) Korea when the North Koreans invaded. Her family suffered greatly, and her wartime experiences instilled a hatred of communism. After the war, the dictatorial South Korean government extends a dragnet to imprison/kill/nullify any communist influence (or anti-government influence) in South Korea. A young Li, working as a bar assistant, hears some young university radicals talking up action against the government. One thing leads to another, and Li ends up working for the KCIA, the Korean Central Intelligence Agency.

Her job is not to cross the border into North Korea, but to take menial jobs in universities and other places. Eavesdropping, gathering trash, she points out possible communists to the KCIA...what happens to those people afterwards, she doesn't care. However, Ms. Li is unhappy as the KCIA widens its searches. She's interested in communists being punished, but not loudmouthed all-talk-no-action radicals, or anti-government curmudgeons.

Li emigrates to the United States. Hanging around universities has sparked an idea that she can be a teacher -- her first contact with the KCIA was an former teacher of hers. Fifteen years as a teacher, several after that as a principal...and we have the Ms. Li of today.

(* * *)

My first comment is that "show, don't tell" has a corollary: if you decide to tell, and not show, you'd better be damned good at it.

The Angst Guy takes up the burden of writing a story that is mostly first-person -- we are privy to Angela Li's thoughts, and hear her own story in her (TAG's) words. The Angela Li of this story is an excellent storyteller. The first person language is not merely a recounting of motives or wished, but illustrative: "The Americans were big and pink-faced and sharp-nosed and had loud voices."

Part of the problem that many fan fiction writers have with writing in first-person is that they dwell too much on the narrator's own thoughts. They forget that even in the first-person, you have to provide all the sort of background that you'd provide in third person -- setting the scene, establishing characterization and motivation, moving the plot along. An additional difficulty is that you have to make the narrator compelling, in effect the narrator has to become an interesting character in her own story. (I suggest you read the works of Mickey Spillane or Raymond Chandler to understand how this works in hard-boiled detective fiction, where use of the first-person narrator is common.)

The Angst Guy obviously has no problem in using this form. There is always the problem of the "unreliable narrator", that the narrator will be biased -- and Angela Li undoubtedly is biased. However, a good writer will make use of that bias to strengthen the story. The Angst Guy has no problem with the technique.

The other comment is that we get a sense of Angela Li's "foreignness". Li is not a Korean-American, she is Korean in The Angst Guy's tale. A lesser writer would have beat the reader over the head with the fact; The Angst Guy knows how to keep reminding you of the fact without it dominating the story. We learn of the Korean veneration of parents, about Korean food, etc. without it sounding like a reading from Wikipedia. My only thought was "I wonder how many first person stories TAG had to write to get it this right."

I only found one minor flaw, namely that The Angst Guy had to end the story with a little bit of angst. It seemed too coincidental -- remember that in melodrama, "coincidence drives the plot" and I thought the story was strong enough not to need coincidence. But then again, he's The Angst Guy, so maybe he felt the necessary need to throw some angst in to slake his unquenchable penguin lust.

In conclusion, I can definitely recommend this story. After slagging on stories over and over again, it's good to read one that is more of an illustrator than one that has to be made an example, in the bad sense of the term. I swear, however, I'll find a story of his to tear apart one day! He has to have one hidden out there on the internet. If I only look hard enough...!

Dear Diary

Finished Reading: Last Summer Series, "Something For You".

I've finally made it to the last part of the "Last Summer" series by Richard Lobinske. Oddly enough, this work of fan fiction was completed almost four years ago, but no one can say that I didn't finally get around to reading it.

(* * *)

The story starts with Daria, Jane, Jodie, and Mack finishing their last meaning of the "Lawndale High School Student Leaders Honor Society" -- an organization solely crafted for the purpose of giving Jodie Landon a break from work and errands. Everyone states their plans, with all of them heading off to college and Jane heading off only after the first semester.

Daria also concludes her time reading to Mrs. Blaine. We learn that Mrs. Blaine's "deafness" was caused by waiting for a hearing aid to be repaired; with it she can hear normally. Mrs. Blaine thanks Daria for their time together, and gives her a present -- a fountain pen given to Mrs. Blaine by her mother in 1929. Mrs. Blaine tells Daria that it seems fitting to pass the pen on to a writer.

Daria watches Jane photograph the "padded walls" room at the Morgendorffers. Helen plans on remodeling Daria's room while she's gone and undoubtedly, the padded walls and broken window bars will be removed. Jane can at least provide a visual memento. Daria plans on taking books and other items with her, but is trying to think about how she can have a more concrete memento of her room to take with her to Raft.

Helen and Daria chat as Daria turns in the final assignment of the summer. Quinn arrives with the Three Js and Jamie finally notices the painting of Daria on the wall...and notices Daria for the first time. As Daria and Helen chat about Jamie's odd behavior, Daria is interrupted with a call...Mrs. Blaine has had a stroke and has died.

Daria attends the Blaine funeral. Mrs. Blaine's son thanks Daria for visiting his mother -- Len Blaine lived in Oregon and Mrs. Blaine didn't want to leave Lawndale. A lawyer arrives at Lawndale to give Daria Mrs. Blaine's final bequest -- seventy so years of Mrs. Blaine's diary.

The summer, however, is running out. It's time for Daria to take her leave of Lawndale and head to Boston. Daria finally figures out a way to save a memento of her room...and makes good use of one of Mrs. Blaine's gifts to her....

(* * *)

At first, I thought there were too many extraneous scenes -- scenes which could have been cut out. However, the theme of the story is "wrapping things up" and we get to watch Daria wrap up things with people who have been important in her life.

Many the scenes in "Something for You" bring up the whole question of "fanon vs. canon". Fanon encompasses everything that fans believe to be true about the series; canon encompasses everything that can be verified with an appeal to the sixty five episodes, two movies and two books.

It's always been a part of 'fanon' than Jamie White, out of all of the Three Js, is the one who is most loyal and most devoted to Quinn. There's nothing in the series that states this is the case; all we have is Daria assigning Jamie to Quinn at the end of "Write Where it Hurts". I found Jamie's sudden noticing of Daria through Jane's painting a bit implausible, but that's more a matter of personal taste that it is me trying to build an argument against such a thing happening...even though if Jamie had seen the "Foxy Daria" at the end of "Quinn the Brain" he might have dropped Quinn a few years earlier. (Hmm...Jamie falling in love with Daria...now that would be an Iron Chef!)

Aside from the "fanon vs. canon" argument, I'm never happy with any scene where Daria cries. In my opinion, Daria holds her emotions in. I've always cast a jaundiced eye towards any scene where Daria lets the tears flow; to me it seems as if the writer doesn't know how to write a moving scene and uses Daria's tears as an emotional shorthand. "See, we know X affected Daria deeply...because she's crying!" ("...and crying is something that all females do!") But once again, my interpretation and the interpretations of others may very.

At the end of the story, we get a little too much information regarding what's going on in Jake's mind and Helen's. Once again, "show, don't tell". I'm never a fan of entering the mind of a character and writing out long prose paragraphs...it's an act of didacticism, of saying, "and now, this is what Jake believes, so listen up". All I could think of while reading Jake's thoughts about his daughter leaving was the real lack of closeness between Jake and his daughters. Jake has to realize that he's been an absent figure in his daughters' lives, and I think he'd be feeling a lot more regret than is let on by the author.

The question is also begged: "if Mrs. Blaine can hear just fine, and can write well enough to keep a diary, then why does she need someone to read to her?" It would probably have been better just to have Daria and Mrs. Blaine chat, although I can believe that Daria would make use of Mrs. Blaine as an editor for her stories.

(* * *)

I'll wrap up "The Last Summer" by noting that I liked the use of one of the plot components at the very end of the story. I probably won't be reading "Falling Into College" -- it doesn't seem to be my type of story; nothing wrong with that. I hope, however, that Mr. Lobinske made use of the Blaine diaries at some point in his future work.

I also hope that he addressed that whole Jamie thing. And hey, if Daria's not hanging around Lawndale High anymore, well, there's always Stacy Rowe....