History is the perception of reality from the media’s perspective. Media is a function of the reality owned by the “winners”, the dominant culture, within a society. From the very beginning, when the first merchant decided to press a piece of reed into a wet clay tablet or ball to count his goats, the dominant culture was exuding its influence. The dominant culture here being the culture of business. All that we can see on this end of history is that which has been left behind, whether that be a cave drawing, a news article, or a bone fragment in an ancient fire pit.
Any and all of these artifacts are up for interpretation, but what separates them is the degree of interpretation. The cave drawing is drawn according to the perspective of the artist and then interpreted by the archaeologist, while the bone shard and fireplace are left up to the sole interpretation of the archaeologist. Writings are the closest link we have to a direct record of history, and many times that written record was not produced for posterity, but in the necessity to keep oneself informed, as in the case of the merchant and his goats, or to keep others informed, as with the news article. These bits and bytes of information filter down through the years and become history. In a very real way media writes history.
The role of media has changed throughout time, at first being wholly practical. This is a point made on the basis that media is defined as the forms of mass communication. There are many theories as to what befell early humanity and what came first, but for the purposes of this paper cave drawings will be left up to interpretation as to what form of communication they provide, and consider the start of media as concurrent with the beginnings of pictographic writing in Sumer and Elam, in the Fertile Crescent c. 3500 BCE.
The advent of pictographic writing was an improvement on an earlier form of recording, one that had the merchant press clay tokens that represented goods, such as sheep or jars of oil, into a clay ball. The pictographs took the place of the tokens, and instead of pressing one piece of clay into another, the Sumerians pressed a tool into the clay in some form of what it was representing. So instead of a clay token, a picture of a sheep was drawn. This worked well for personal records, and such a powerful tool was not left to such a menial task for long.
This practical beginning soon morphed into what is the earliest discovered written document, The Epic of Gilgamesh, written c. 2800 BCE. This story describes the greatness of the King of Uruk, a city in ancient Sumeria, or present-day southern Iraq. This fantastical story of what is believed to be a real king shows us many of the beliefs of the Sumerians, their way of life, and a description of their city. Who knows how much of it is true. Remains of a very ancient city have been found in southern Iraq, which is believed to be Uruk, but other writings such as The Epic of Gilgamesh have not surfaced. In this respect, what is written in the Epic is “truth”. It may have been nothing more than a fanciful story, or what we would now call propaganda. No matter. It has become a part of the history of the Sumerians.
Much of what we now know comes from stories that were written within a culture. The poems written by Homer are an excellent example of how the meeting of two historical doctrines brought about a categorical change in how these stories and poems were treated. Archaeology and media came to a head in a lightly populated area on the Bosporus, where a mound in the landscape caught the attention of Heinrich Schliemann.
Using The Iliad and the Odyssey as a reference guide and map, Schliemann began an attempt to find the city of Troy. This had been attempted before, but without success. Many of his colleagues scoffed at the idea that Homer was writing about real events. The fantastical bits of the story, such as the god Apollo firing his arrows into the camp of the Achaeans due to the beseeching of a scorned priest was just a bit too far outside the box for the average scholar to believe any of it was true. Besides, if even a bit of this ancient document were true, what would that imply for other ancient documents?
Despite the guffaws of his colleagues and the aegis of the common thought that ancient texts were not to be regarded as true stories, the beleaguered German continued his search, and early in the 20th century, achieved the impossible: he found the lost city of Troy. Gone were the ramparts and the battlements, the soaring walls and the vast armies poised at the ready. What was left was enough archeological evidence to prove that what is written is not always to fantastic to exceed reality. Through the work of a pioneering German with a poem and a dream the world of history was turned on its side, opened now to the possibility that the written word, no matter how unrealistic, may contain some truth.
This further ties the influence of the media with the perception of history. From the standpoint of a pre-Schliemann scholar, Homer was a great poet and storyteller, but not a historian. At the same time, an entire people were stricken from the record, only existing as fanciful foes of the Greeks. But with a shovel and newsprint, the history of the Trojans has been born and retold in the last one hundred years. The use of media is a powerful tool.
A stark example of media power is the authoritarian control the Russian, then Soviet, governments asserted upon their media outlets. Many examples of Soviet media manipulation are relevant here, but it is interesting to note that this was done before the October Revolution of 1917. Media was used to reshape the people pf Russia to the end that the history of the people would change as well.
Peter the Great was a monarch descended from European blood, tutored by Europeans, and inspired by Europeans on his extensive travels through that continent. He brought shipbuilding, architecture, and fashion from his forays, bringing Scandinavians to teach his shipwrights, modeling his namesake city, St. Petersburg, on the canalled city of Venice, and ordering his denizens to dress according class. This last is the most directly related to the discussion of media and history.
Peter saw the French fashion as clothing of the truly aristocratic, and ordered his boyars (nobles) to follow suit. He issued a decree addressing the clothes to be worn by all of the citizens of Russia. The nobles were to dress as French nobles dressed, the merchants and soldiers were to dress as German or Prussian merchants/soldiers dressed, and the peasantry was to dress as Russian peasants. And be proud of it! Diagrams were posted for the multitudes that could not read, and the changes took effect immediately.
Peter the Great was trying to convince the world that he meant business, and to do this he wanted to rewrite Russian history, not to be descended from the conquered peoples of the Steppes and the Slavs that had originally settled in the Kievan Rus, but served by the labor of such people, since the hierarchy were all descended from European nobility, such as himself.
More pervasive still were the efforts of the fallen Soviet system to control any and all media throughout the whole of the USSR. During the lifetime of Stalin, he was to be portrayed as an uncle or benevolent grandfather figure, even being given the nickname Papa Joe. Of course, we now know how bloodthirsty his reign was, killing millions of his own people. But it was the needs of the system that dictated how he was portrayed. What the Soviets had was a malleable media, and thus a malleable history.
Other examples of this retrospective control exist in German and Japanese history, as well as American history. Tales of the Holocaust are slowly being phased out of German textbooks, Japan is changing its story on what happened in mainland China during World War II, and many American textbooks do not touch on the brutality of the first settlers on the American Indian. If future generations are kept in the dark about such events, are the events eventually erased? That is perhaps too philosophical of a question for this discussion, but the basic preface of the paper is brought up once again.
History is created. There are people that are constantly shaping and reshaping the clay that makes up human history. A purely objective archive of event after event does not exist. How could it? In every step of human history there is a dash of unpredictability, a dab of powerlessness, a touch of chaos. That is one of the basic tenets of the human condition, and should come as no surprise that it should be so prevalent in how we see ourselves.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Urban Rodeo
Anybody could be the mark. Suits always seemed to be the best. Maybe it was just the uptight mien, broken by the camera work that was so enthralling. Here in Midtown, there sure wasn’t a shortage of suits. They trotted back and forth, chomping at the bit of big business, well manicured and expertly groomed. These were the faces of the faceless corporations operating out of the Big Apple.
Tucker was out on the town, ready for some action. He had to get as close to the suit without being seen. That was the whole point. The blinders these people have on in this city. Most people don’t really know what’s going on around them. The next place they have to go is more important to them. The whole world is a distraction, or it doesn’t make an impression. When he looks back at the Rides, he can tell. It’s these connections and ideas that make him different. This is what makes him the leader. Tucker keeps one of those little handheld numbers close to his body as he walks up behind them, faster than they walk so he can overtake them.
When he gets right behind a suit, ideally within an inch or two, he or any of the crew, match speed and point the camera right at the back of their head. He can smell the product in their hair. Most of them can sense you there. That was half the fun, startling the mark, nostrils flaring. Some just walk faster, but most want to turn around. When they do, that’s when the real fun starts. They look over the right shoulder, the rider ducks down and to the left. Then they go right, Tucker goes left. It’s a dance. It’s a fucking rodeo. When they anticipate and flow with them, it’s beautiful.
*
The ‘boys were ready for a day at the Rodeo. All the batteries were charged up and the lenses polished, each messenger bag carefully packed, each member ready for a competitive day out on the range. Before the gallop out the gates, none of them knew what was going to happen, and that was the draw, the impetus to get out there and experience all the city had to offer.
Some of the guys had gone so far as to buy cowboy hats and boots, but Tucker just thought this stupid and obscene. Plus, he just didn’t look good in them. Jealousy and envy always breed a little hate. He made do with a flannel button up and skinny jeans for a uniform. His scuffed Vans and scruffy beard could have belonged to any NYU film student. He did prefer contacts to horned-rims, though. The sentinels of business, cloaked in glass and brick, stood poised and in control. He could feel the day coming, the city out there, waiting.
The moments of the dance were an invigorating few, but comparing notes back at the Stable preserved them forever. The whole crew would gather and go over the best of the day’s rides. Luckily, Tucker was able to finagle a spot in the Mercer Street Residence Hall. One of the RA’s was sweet on him, and she was more than willing to give a key to a forgotten supply room in the basement. His easy swagger and slight drawl had clamed her right down. At first, an old couch, a few posters, and the last cathode ray tube TV in NYC rigged to work with their digital media was what passed for the Stable, their hang out. But as the year went by, a few more posters, couches turned in to stadium seating, even a projector donated from a Cowboy’s old video gaming setup, helped to turn the once rat infested supply room into a respectable hangout. Tucker loved this time, and seldom laughed harder.
*
The group was an Urban Rodeo gang. The name just kind of appeared for them. Some had fought it, since it made ‘em Urban Cowboys. Not that many were against the film, it still held up in most of their views, but they preferred Saturday Night Fever, the original Travolta-swagger movie. But once the other Urban Rodeo guys started going viral, the name had to be fought for. Jumping on peoples’ backs? For fun? Where was the art in that? Not only had Tucker’s group come first, but they tried not to touch the mark, whereas the other guys simply jumped on some unwitting innocent’s back and filmed it. They weren’t going to let the other assholes have it. This probably did as much as anything else to seal the name. That’s when Mason came storming into the Stable, ever the aggressive self-promoter.
Mason was always pushing to upload their videos anyway, but after a quick search on YouTube produced the miscreants, he was even more petulant about it. “How are we supposed to operate in this city if they already have the name?”
“We’ll be fine.” Tucker exclaimed for the umpteenth time. “Who cares if they have the same name? They don’t have any idea what the fuck they’re doing, clearly. We don’t need to do this or anything for anybody else, got it?”
“This is not just your vision anymore, Tuck. We can really do something with–”
A scowl furrowed Tucker’s brow. “What do you mean, do something? We are not going to prostitute ourselves around town looking for the next score. That’s not what this is about.” He trailed off slightly, jaw clenched.
Mason, more determined than usual, stepped up to the quick draw. “When you find yourself alone, poor and forgotten, don’t blame anybody but yourself.”
“You need to listen, and listen good. This outfit is not about money, never has been, never will be.” Tucker saw a flinch in his opponent, just a twinge in the corner of his eye, and exploited the mistake. “That’s why your rides are lacking, Mason. You’re slipping. Now get the hell out of here.” Mason’s retreat was quick, drawing the batwing doors with him as he passed through.
*
One of the newest innovations of the Rodeo was the secondary crew. Another guy or two would set up off the mark and work in tandem with the primary Rider. Most people just wanted to Ride themselves, but it had turned into a rite of passage of sorts, filming someone Ride before a young buck got out there alone. Tucker, as the undisputed champeen of the group, was the most heavily filmed, but certainly not the only one. Wouldn’t be much of a competition otherwise.
Today, Tucker was thinking of the last suit, a real buckin’ bronco. Just kept going left, then right, back and forth. The collar of his overcoat kept whipping up, one side at a time. Tucker could just make out the Dolce and Gabbana symbol on the frame of his glasses before he turned again. This sure was going to be a riot watching this guy again. Finally, the money shot comes. That moment when they turn around and face you, completely, that look on their face of mild fear, of anger, of surprise. Those nostrils flaring, eyes bulging ever so slightly, maybe even dancing in their sockets. Tucker knows that a nod to his video camera while taking a few steps back is usually enough to assuage the fear and anger of the situation.
*
Tucker is excited for the day. He’s spotted a few marks as he surveys the range, a field of well-cut suits moving briskly through the crowds. He moves with ease, a saunter that is a little out of place in these uptight parts. The wind has whipped up his mop of black hair that frames his face, a smile beginning to curl at the corners. This is the moment, the approach. Match stride, only longer. Italian patent leather clicks down the concrete. Tucker can smell the expensive aftershave. The fabric of the suit makes a slight swishing sound, a creaking underneath, like hay being tossed in to a loft. He is only inches away, the camera right at his ear. He turns. Left, right, and back again. The bucking begins.
It doesn’t take long, only a few seconds at most. The suit turns completely to face his pursuer.
“Fuck you, Cowboy.”
“Who you calling Cowboy, Suit?”
“Oh, now you’re the tough the guy? Look, you aren’t behind your camera, ‘dancing’. So, yeah, fuck you and the whole city rodeo. Get a life.” And he turned back to continue his trek down the concrete trail. Tucker didn’t know what to do. He reached to grab the man’s elbow.
“Wait, you know who we are?” One quick movement got the man’s arm out of Tucker’s hand. He slowed enough to look Tucker in the eye, a mixture of haughty indignation and supreme condescension spread thickly over his face. Immediately, Tucker regretted the semi-desperate tint his reaction had intoned.
“One of my more worthless assistants loves you guys. Thinks you have really ‘tapped into the realness of the human cityscape.’ I had the misfortune of catching him on your website. Really, I can’t imagine what it is they see in it.” And with that he was on his way, as if Tucker should be astonished at the amount of time he had already given him.
We don’t have a website…
“Shit, we’ve gone viral.” He says to himself. “Mason.” Even through the fury of the name in his brain, a nugget of change had crept into his psyche.
*
The secondary crew sat on the other side of the street, dumbfounded. None of them had ever seen such a smile crack across his face. It was only there briefly, so quick that later they wouldn’t have believed in its existence, had there not been video evidence. A scowl immediately shaded the nacreous shine of his smile. He was about as stoic a character as John Wayne in his prime, Rio Bravo stoic, when the bad guys are around and Dean Martin is at his lowest. He looked shaken, and unbelievably, took off at a dead sprint. Tucker wasn’t one to run. None of the Cowboy Flunkies, as they lovingly referred to themselves, could remember anything but a quick saunter, a fast mosey, out of their A/C cool leader. They looked at each other, thunderstruck.
*
He had to figure out who put up the website. Had to get the site under some kind of control. Had to rein in the project. Where the hell am I? There was the GE building and Radio City Music Hall. Jesus, I just blanked for what, three, four blocks? Gotta get under control. Still over 30 blocks away. Nearest subway: Rockefeller Center. Tucker may not have been a native New Yorker, but like anybody who’s spent more than 50 bucks on a taxi and lived there for a time, he had learned the subway system.
*
He ran up the stairs of the Washington Square station like a thunderstorm racing up a high desert mountain. Most of the dealers in the park knew to stay away today. The junkies wafted across his path like so many tumbleweeds. The Residence Hall and the Stable were just on the other side of the campus. As long as he could get there… A familiar figure was casually walking on up ahead. The figurehead of all this rage and confusion. He slowed down to match pace, closing in.
Tucker could smell the product in Mason’s hair. He raised his left hand and grabbed his shoulder, the exaggerated collar of his pea coat quickly flattening back down from its oh-so-cool perch as he was spun around. “What the¬–” Tucker cut him off with a quick right to the jaw. Mason was sent sprawling as Tucker took a step with the follow through. His eyes were full moons upturned at the Cowboy leader.
“What did you do?!”
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I…Tuck…Jesus, man, what the fuck are you doing?!” He wiped with his hand, a little red left behind.
“The website, Mason, I know.” Again, that slight flinch in the corner of his eye. “You posted our work. How many videos are up? All of them? Or are you saving some for a Holiday sale? Jesus, I should have known.” Mason got up to his feet, knowing that if he were to be frank with Tucker, he better be at eye level and on the defensive.
“I don’t know how you found out, but it was bound to happen. Yeah, the videos are out. Hadn’t thought about a Holiday sale, but sounds like a good idea, Tuck. Maybe you were born to market.” He smiled at the idea, slightly red-toothed. Mason pressed on, smug as all get up. “They’re all out there, uploaded and for all to see, every last one of ‘em. The question is: what are you going to do now, Tuck? Can you keep fighting this, or are you going to wise up and run with it? This is it, buddy boy, this is the final shot of your little project. Can you handle it?”
*
“And with us tonight, the creator of the so-called Urban Rodeo, Tucker Reynolds!”
Tucker was out on the town, ready for some action. He had to get as close to the suit without being seen. That was the whole point. The blinders these people have on in this city. Most people don’t really know what’s going on around them. The next place they have to go is more important to them. The whole world is a distraction, or it doesn’t make an impression. When he looks back at the Rides, he can tell. It’s these connections and ideas that make him different. This is what makes him the leader. Tucker keeps one of those little handheld numbers close to his body as he walks up behind them, faster than they walk so he can overtake them.
When he gets right behind a suit, ideally within an inch or two, he or any of the crew, match speed and point the camera right at the back of their head. He can smell the product in their hair. Most of them can sense you there. That was half the fun, startling the mark, nostrils flaring. Some just walk faster, but most want to turn around. When they do, that’s when the real fun starts. They look over the right shoulder, the rider ducks down and to the left. Then they go right, Tucker goes left. It’s a dance. It’s a fucking rodeo. When they anticipate and flow with them, it’s beautiful.
*
The ‘boys were ready for a day at the Rodeo. All the batteries were charged up and the lenses polished, each messenger bag carefully packed, each member ready for a competitive day out on the range. Before the gallop out the gates, none of them knew what was going to happen, and that was the draw, the impetus to get out there and experience all the city had to offer.
Some of the guys had gone so far as to buy cowboy hats and boots, but Tucker just thought this stupid and obscene. Plus, he just didn’t look good in them. Jealousy and envy always breed a little hate. He made do with a flannel button up and skinny jeans for a uniform. His scuffed Vans and scruffy beard could have belonged to any NYU film student. He did prefer contacts to horned-rims, though. The sentinels of business, cloaked in glass and brick, stood poised and in control. He could feel the day coming, the city out there, waiting.
The moments of the dance were an invigorating few, but comparing notes back at the Stable preserved them forever. The whole crew would gather and go over the best of the day’s rides. Luckily, Tucker was able to finagle a spot in the Mercer Street Residence Hall. One of the RA’s was sweet on him, and she was more than willing to give a key to a forgotten supply room in the basement. His easy swagger and slight drawl had clamed her right down. At first, an old couch, a few posters, and the last cathode ray tube TV in NYC rigged to work with their digital media was what passed for the Stable, their hang out. But as the year went by, a few more posters, couches turned in to stadium seating, even a projector donated from a Cowboy’s old video gaming setup, helped to turn the once rat infested supply room into a respectable hangout. Tucker loved this time, and seldom laughed harder.
*
The group was an Urban Rodeo gang. The name just kind of appeared for them. Some had fought it, since it made ‘em Urban Cowboys. Not that many were against the film, it still held up in most of their views, but they preferred Saturday Night Fever, the original Travolta-swagger movie. But once the other Urban Rodeo guys started going viral, the name had to be fought for. Jumping on peoples’ backs? For fun? Where was the art in that? Not only had Tucker’s group come first, but they tried not to touch the mark, whereas the other guys simply jumped on some unwitting innocent’s back and filmed it. They weren’t going to let the other assholes have it. This probably did as much as anything else to seal the name. That’s when Mason came storming into the Stable, ever the aggressive self-promoter.
Mason was always pushing to upload their videos anyway, but after a quick search on YouTube produced the miscreants, he was even more petulant about it. “How are we supposed to operate in this city if they already have the name?”
“We’ll be fine.” Tucker exclaimed for the umpteenth time. “Who cares if they have the same name? They don’t have any idea what the fuck they’re doing, clearly. We don’t need to do this or anything for anybody else, got it?”
“This is not just your vision anymore, Tuck. We can really do something with–”
A scowl furrowed Tucker’s brow. “What do you mean, do something? We are not going to prostitute ourselves around town looking for the next score. That’s not what this is about.” He trailed off slightly, jaw clenched.
Mason, more determined than usual, stepped up to the quick draw. “When you find yourself alone, poor and forgotten, don’t blame anybody but yourself.”
“You need to listen, and listen good. This outfit is not about money, never has been, never will be.” Tucker saw a flinch in his opponent, just a twinge in the corner of his eye, and exploited the mistake. “That’s why your rides are lacking, Mason. You’re slipping. Now get the hell out of here.” Mason’s retreat was quick, drawing the batwing doors with him as he passed through.
*
One of the newest innovations of the Rodeo was the secondary crew. Another guy or two would set up off the mark and work in tandem with the primary Rider. Most people just wanted to Ride themselves, but it had turned into a rite of passage of sorts, filming someone Ride before a young buck got out there alone. Tucker, as the undisputed champeen of the group, was the most heavily filmed, but certainly not the only one. Wouldn’t be much of a competition otherwise.
Today, Tucker was thinking of the last suit, a real buckin’ bronco. Just kept going left, then right, back and forth. The collar of his overcoat kept whipping up, one side at a time. Tucker could just make out the Dolce and Gabbana symbol on the frame of his glasses before he turned again. This sure was going to be a riot watching this guy again. Finally, the money shot comes. That moment when they turn around and face you, completely, that look on their face of mild fear, of anger, of surprise. Those nostrils flaring, eyes bulging ever so slightly, maybe even dancing in their sockets. Tucker knows that a nod to his video camera while taking a few steps back is usually enough to assuage the fear and anger of the situation.
*
Tucker is excited for the day. He’s spotted a few marks as he surveys the range, a field of well-cut suits moving briskly through the crowds. He moves with ease, a saunter that is a little out of place in these uptight parts. The wind has whipped up his mop of black hair that frames his face, a smile beginning to curl at the corners. This is the moment, the approach. Match stride, only longer. Italian patent leather clicks down the concrete. Tucker can smell the expensive aftershave. The fabric of the suit makes a slight swishing sound, a creaking underneath, like hay being tossed in to a loft. He is only inches away, the camera right at his ear. He turns. Left, right, and back again. The bucking begins.
It doesn’t take long, only a few seconds at most. The suit turns completely to face his pursuer.
“Fuck you, Cowboy.”
“Who you calling Cowboy, Suit?”
“Oh, now you’re the tough the guy? Look, you aren’t behind your camera, ‘dancing’. So, yeah, fuck you and the whole city rodeo. Get a life.” And he turned back to continue his trek down the concrete trail. Tucker didn’t know what to do. He reached to grab the man’s elbow.
“Wait, you know who we are?” One quick movement got the man’s arm out of Tucker’s hand. He slowed enough to look Tucker in the eye, a mixture of haughty indignation and supreme condescension spread thickly over his face. Immediately, Tucker regretted the semi-desperate tint his reaction had intoned.
“One of my more worthless assistants loves you guys. Thinks you have really ‘tapped into the realness of the human cityscape.’ I had the misfortune of catching him on your website. Really, I can’t imagine what it is they see in it.” And with that he was on his way, as if Tucker should be astonished at the amount of time he had already given him.
We don’t have a website…
“Shit, we’ve gone viral.” He says to himself. “Mason.” Even through the fury of the name in his brain, a nugget of change had crept into his psyche.
*
The secondary crew sat on the other side of the street, dumbfounded. None of them had ever seen such a smile crack across his face. It was only there briefly, so quick that later they wouldn’t have believed in its existence, had there not been video evidence. A scowl immediately shaded the nacreous shine of his smile. He was about as stoic a character as John Wayne in his prime, Rio Bravo stoic, when the bad guys are around and Dean Martin is at his lowest. He looked shaken, and unbelievably, took off at a dead sprint. Tucker wasn’t one to run. None of the Cowboy Flunkies, as they lovingly referred to themselves, could remember anything but a quick saunter, a fast mosey, out of their A/C cool leader. They looked at each other, thunderstruck.
*
He had to figure out who put up the website. Had to get the site under some kind of control. Had to rein in the project. Where the hell am I? There was the GE building and Radio City Music Hall. Jesus, I just blanked for what, three, four blocks? Gotta get under control. Still over 30 blocks away. Nearest subway: Rockefeller Center. Tucker may not have been a native New Yorker, but like anybody who’s spent more than 50 bucks on a taxi and lived there for a time, he had learned the subway system.
*
He ran up the stairs of the Washington Square station like a thunderstorm racing up a high desert mountain. Most of the dealers in the park knew to stay away today. The junkies wafted across his path like so many tumbleweeds. The Residence Hall and the Stable were just on the other side of the campus. As long as he could get there… A familiar figure was casually walking on up ahead. The figurehead of all this rage and confusion. He slowed down to match pace, closing in.
Tucker could smell the product in Mason’s hair. He raised his left hand and grabbed his shoulder, the exaggerated collar of his pea coat quickly flattening back down from its oh-so-cool perch as he was spun around. “What the¬–” Tucker cut him off with a quick right to the jaw. Mason was sent sprawling as Tucker took a step with the follow through. His eyes were full moons upturned at the Cowboy leader.
“What did you do?!”
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I…Tuck…Jesus, man, what the fuck are you doing?!” He wiped with his hand, a little red left behind.
“The website, Mason, I know.” Again, that slight flinch in the corner of his eye. “You posted our work. How many videos are up? All of them? Or are you saving some for a Holiday sale? Jesus, I should have known.” Mason got up to his feet, knowing that if he were to be frank with Tucker, he better be at eye level and on the defensive.
“I don’t know how you found out, but it was bound to happen. Yeah, the videos are out. Hadn’t thought about a Holiday sale, but sounds like a good idea, Tuck. Maybe you were born to market.” He smiled at the idea, slightly red-toothed. Mason pressed on, smug as all get up. “They’re all out there, uploaded and for all to see, every last one of ‘em. The question is: what are you going to do now, Tuck? Can you keep fighting this, or are you going to wise up and run with it? This is it, buddy boy, this is the final shot of your little project. Can you handle it?”
*
“And with us tonight, the creator of the so-called Urban Rodeo, Tucker Reynolds!”
Monday, June 28, 2010
Solvang: Prologue
The Solvang hadn’t been convened in going on 200 year. Long enough that nobody living could remember one, anyway. Oh, some of the old timers said they remembered their parents going off in the middle of the night to the sound of a deep, sonorous noise, but nobody really believed them. Not that the old timers were that bad with their memory. The exoRAM might have been a little out of date, but the bits were still intact.
No, the memories might have been correct. Thing is, nobody wanted to believe them. Nobody wanted to believe that their world might come crashing down around them. Nobody wanted to believe. But it was hard to argue with the ancient horns emitting a long, drawn out note felt in the middle of your head rather than heard.
Rookc the Dullard thought long and hard about the deep vibrations he felt. The wahlenstrom was coming. The Fulmen had failed. That, of course, left the Colony almost completely defenseless, an ‘allowable risk’ to the preemptive strike according to the Proven. They didn’t think or believe that the Fulmen could fail. Neither did Rookc.
Rookc Minreva was a notBright. Had been for a long time. That didn’t mean commoners didn’t come to him with their problems. They just didn’t respect his timelines or his decisions. They were among the most difficult of judgments to live with. Which meant they were of the hardest truth. Only the Proven could make those decisions quick enough, unfaltering. The trained Potential was damn near instinct, and almost completely inherent.
Rookc Minreva had been called Slown for so long that he couldn’t remember ever having Potential. The attention lavished on the Potentials, the jealousy that followed the crestfallen and disheartened wherever they went. The land, red and blown, was difficult to survive, and the Slown had the added weight of Laborlife to contend with. Most didn’t mind once the work was started. Actually, only one still did.
He was not dumb. NotBright was an easy classification to fall into, a system that was based on timing and memorization. The Martian Wind was lethal and sudden, a red violence that could whip the Common into a frenzy of activity, guided by the Word of the Trained and the Proven. The honed instincts of the Proven are the lifeline for the Colony. All depends on them. But now their skill would be bent to a new task: war.
No, the memories might have been correct. Thing is, nobody wanted to believe them. Nobody wanted to believe that their world might come crashing down around them. Nobody wanted to believe. But it was hard to argue with the ancient horns emitting a long, drawn out note felt in the middle of your head rather than heard.
Rookc the Dullard thought long and hard about the deep vibrations he felt. The wahlenstrom was coming. The Fulmen had failed. That, of course, left the Colony almost completely defenseless, an ‘allowable risk’ to the preemptive strike according to the Proven. They didn’t think or believe that the Fulmen could fail. Neither did Rookc.
Rookc Minreva was a notBright. Had been for a long time. That didn’t mean commoners didn’t come to him with their problems. They just didn’t respect his timelines or his decisions. They were among the most difficult of judgments to live with. Which meant they were of the hardest truth. Only the Proven could make those decisions quick enough, unfaltering. The trained Potential was damn near instinct, and almost completely inherent.
Rookc Minreva had been called Slown for so long that he couldn’t remember ever having Potential. The attention lavished on the Potentials, the jealousy that followed the crestfallen and disheartened wherever they went. The land, red and blown, was difficult to survive, and the Slown had the added weight of Laborlife to contend with. Most didn’t mind once the work was started. Actually, only one still did.
He was not dumb. NotBright was an easy classification to fall into, a system that was based on timing and memorization. The Martian Wind was lethal and sudden, a red violence that could whip the Common into a frenzy of activity, guided by the Word of the Trained and the Proven. The honed instincts of the Proven are the lifeline for the Colony. All depends on them. But now their skill would be bent to a new task: war.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Kitchen List
Pork chops cooked on an electric skillet by my mother, the
sizzling slabs of meat announcing Friday.
Spaghetti without sauce. My father’s way of eating the pasta
he cooked for us.
A hot slap of red chile enchiladas his other specialty. Served
with a fried-egg on top.
Top Ramen in the pantry like jumper cables in the truck.
The Boy Scout code: Be Prepared.
The taco sauce packet added to the saucepan, simmering
on the stove.
The kitchen where I stepped in front of my father’s raised fist
less like a wall and more like a window, where he could
see my spine is a step ladder, the heart wanting to climb
in to my head.
Lightning bolts and thunderclouds roil
as the two approach.
sizzling slabs of meat announcing Friday.
Spaghetti without sauce. My father’s way of eating the pasta
he cooked for us.
A hot slap of red chile enchiladas his other specialty. Served
with a fried-egg on top.
Top Ramen in the pantry like jumper cables in the truck.
The Boy Scout code: Be Prepared.
The taco sauce packet added to the saucepan, simmering
on the stove.
The kitchen where I stepped in front of my father’s raised fist
less like a wall and more like a window, where he could
see my spine is a step ladder, the heart wanting to climb
in to my head.
Lightning bolts and thunderclouds roil
as the two approach.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Third Pig
The wolf was the house is the blowing down of the little pigs scared and the first pig I saw the wolf drooling over the bales of hay. Huff and I’ll the second pig scared with the first they twigs to get away from the drooling huff and I’ll while the third snickered and the wolf where is the wolf. Sneering the third pig the drooling the brick the scared little piggies blow your house in a pile of scared little piggies the third one laughing. He drooling the brick huff and the scared piggies the wolf is angry the third pig is smiling hungry.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Never
5 The rocket was off, the rumble of the thrusters shaking the frost off the liquid-oxygen and –hydrogen filled fuel tanks. The nozzles splay for a brief moment, as if caught off guard from the sudden violent blast the mixed fuels deliver, but quickly recover and direct the force into a focus of white heat emblazoned on the platform as the technological spire floats for a moment, suspended on the children of Hell.
4 He should be excited. This is the ultimate, the finale, the fulfillment of all the dreams and aspirations of his, his family, his people included. All the side jobs, second jobs, second-hand clothes, overtime, and hand-me-downs through the years by his father, his mother, his, everyone, have come to fruition.
3 A red and black leather jacket with many zippers, snaps, pockets, some doubled, some sewn, some fake, some not, but all completely needed hung waiting for him in the closet, a worn out pair of Chuck’s on the floor, a worn pair of Levi’s with two gathers of fabric sewn at the waist thrown over the back of a chair. Thriller had been on the shelves for a decade.
2 ‘Cause this is thriller, thriller night
The clock-radio reads 7:00 AM. Uhhhh, school already? I wonder what moms has got packed for lunch. Will they let us out to watch the shuttle launch? Wonder what Shondra’s doing?
1 My kids will never have to put up with this shit. Cleaning up after these white folks, demeaned and tormented. No, they will never have to put up with this. Who you calling boy?!
4 He should be excited. This is the ultimate, the finale, the fulfillment of all the dreams and aspirations of his, his family, his people included. All the side jobs, second jobs, second-hand clothes, overtime, and hand-me-downs through the years by his father, his mother, his, everyone, have come to fruition.
3 A red and black leather jacket with many zippers, snaps, pockets, some doubled, some sewn, some fake, some not, but all completely needed hung waiting for him in the closet, a worn out pair of Chuck’s on the floor, a worn pair of Levi’s with two gathers of fabric sewn at the waist thrown over the back of a chair. Thriller had been on the shelves for a decade.
2 ‘Cause this is thriller, thriller night
The clock-radio reads 7:00 AM. Uhhhh, school already? I wonder what moms has got packed for lunch. Will they let us out to watch the shuttle launch? Wonder what Shondra’s doing?
1 My kids will never have to put up with this shit. Cleaning up after these white folks, demeaned and tormented. No, they will never have to put up with this. Who you calling boy?!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Cruisin'
“Come on, baby. Come on. Just this one time, that’s all I ask. Come on. Come on! Damnit!” I turned the key one last time, for good measure. “Sonuvabitch.” I looked at my watch. “That’s just great. Ever fucking time, this godamnpieceofshit, stupid cheap ass, ripoff!” I slowly lowered my hands from the steering wheel. One of the neighbor kids was looking at me through the window. I listened to Smokey Robinson for a few more notes.
I was gonna have to burn some serious rubber to get there in time. “Don’t forget the ice cream. Right.” I can feel the sides of the carton loosening up. I catch a glimpse in the rearview as I climb out of the Reliant. Just about time to get a haircut. “Probably should have left earlier. Stupid fucking car.” I give it one more disgusted look and turn to go. All I can think about is the shit storm to come. “Why are you late this time? Got stuck in traffic? At work? On Mars? Blah blah blah.” That neighbor kid was watching me pace across the driveway. His face told me he heard ever word. His eyes told me he didn’t understand much of it. The gaping maw said he understood plenty.
“Ah, shit shit shit.” I was taking the word out for a spin. “Shit,shit,shit,shiiiiit.” I know I told her I wouldn’t be late. Not this time. Of course I understood how important this is. I know. I’ll be there. I can picture her face looking up at me, sweeping the hair out of her mouth. “I’ll pick you up, ok? It won’t be a problem, I’ll just swing by after work-“
“I’ll be there, alright? I say I’ll be there, and I will.” Whatever. There isn’t much I can do about it now. Just have to get to the bus stop “in time to see the god damn bus leave!” My hands are up in the air, ice cream running down the sleeve of my jacket as I squeeze the contents out the top. There’s a Neapolitan oil slick in my armpit.
“Shit.”
I was gonna have to burn some serious rubber to get there in time. “Don’t forget the ice cream. Right.” I can feel the sides of the carton loosening up. I catch a glimpse in the rearview as I climb out of the Reliant. Just about time to get a haircut. “Probably should have left earlier. Stupid fucking car.” I give it one more disgusted look and turn to go. All I can think about is the shit storm to come. “Why are you late this time? Got stuck in traffic? At work? On Mars? Blah blah blah.” That neighbor kid was watching me pace across the driveway. His face told me he heard ever word. His eyes told me he didn’t understand much of it. The gaping maw said he understood plenty.
“Ah, shit shit shit.” I was taking the word out for a spin. “Shit,shit,shit,shiiiiit.” I know I told her I wouldn’t be late. Not this time. Of course I understood how important this is. I know. I’ll be there. I can picture her face looking up at me, sweeping the hair out of her mouth. “I’ll pick you up, ok? It won’t be a problem, I’ll just swing by after work-“
“I’ll be there, alright? I say I’ll be there, and I will.” Whatever. There isn’t much I can do about it now. Just have to get to the bus stop “in time to see the god damn bus leave!” My hands are up in the air, ice cream running down the sleeve of my jacket as I squeeze the contents out the top. There’s a Neapolitan oil slick in my armpit.
“Shit.”
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