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icarusThe Gift Economy, Port32.com, and Sea-Doos.
My dad joked that the comments from my f-list were so helpful, next time we should negotiate a consulting fee.
I told him, "Actually, dad, this is the gift economy. If you ever want to ask for help again you need to throw something into the pot. I recommend sending us one of your stories. They liked those."
He has eagerly responded.
“I still think your idea is way too risky,” I’m saying through the
mouth of my beer, “You’re guaranteed someone’s going to spot you.”
The subject is sea-doos. If you don’t yet know what a sea-doo is, try
to imagine the most loathsome boor you’ve ever suffered. Make him loud
and thoughtless, a bullying creep, of the sort who used to fart in the
pup tent and not let you out when you were at summer camp together. Now
recreate him as a water toy and place him on his toy, start its rasping
motor, and send him out to spin tight little circles in the bay
opposite your cottage. Like the lone mosquito in the bedroom, he
occupies your full attention. And there is exactly nothing you can do
about it.
Our plan to rid the world of this tiresome species had been going
nowhere for several years. David is in favour of dropping a graphite
pellet into the gas tank of each and every one of them under cover of
darkness. He has all ready rejected my proposal, that we tour the lake
by the dark of the moon with a silenced 357 magnum and night vision
glasses.
“All you’ll do is sink them, they will be insured, and they’ll be
replaced in no time. All your trouble will go for nothing! Nothing!” He
slapped the dock and ripples rang across the water; fish scattered.
Dave can be ferocious in a debate.
It was time for me to reveal my solution.
“Dave, did you know that the throttle and steering on all those things
are digital devices?” He sat rubbing his sore hand. “It’s a fact. They
use the same devices that control throttle and steering in advanced
automobiles. Bet you didn’t know that your gas pedal is nothing more
than a glorified electric dimmer switch.”
The light was dawning in his eyes and he was gazing at a spot deep
within his mind.
“I reasoned long ago that with Bluetooth technology and a good
programmer who hates the things as much as we do that it would just be
a matter of time before we’d have the answer.” I pulled the game
controller from the satchel on the dock and plugged in the power pack.
“Is that what you’ve been spending my money on?” he whispered.
“Would you like to be the first to test it out? I whispered back. Sound
carries across the water, you must always be careful what you say at
the edge of a lake.
“I would be honoured.”
The wind had finally settled when we pulled up to the little island
with the osprey nest in the tallest tree. The water was a glowing hot
mirror, little waves licking and slurping at the rocks. This looked
like a good spot. Off to the far shore several road-house quality
speakers were booming something vaguely musical for the entertainment
of us all. One of the dock lobsters would rise now and then to shrill
out a loud “Yahoo!” Cigarette- throated women cackled like drunken
crows. Our boat rotated slowly in the lowering sun as the lake settled
down for the cocktail hour. Soon the buzzing, reptilian drone of a
sea-doo grew louder with its approach. See-dooers like the last notes
of evening, the still water, the peace of it all. These are the people
who can’t keep their feet out of fresh cement, they have a primitive
urge to deface and destroy. Joy was all over our approaching moron. His
large crooked teeth flashed above a slack lower lip faintly juddering
in the wind of his passing. Wallowing side to side to disturb as much
of the quiet water as possible, he drew ever closer. His friends
whooping and watching on shore.
“Shall we?”
“Let’s do!”
The invisible beam from the game-stalk instantly overpowers the
machine’s internal control systems and Dave is now its operator. The
machine slows to a crawl and begins a circle to its left. The bemused
passenger fiddles with knobs and throttle.
Dave trying not to look involved as he jams the control stick forward
and the sea-doo rears like a horse. Blubber-mouth does a fine reverse
flip off the machine and the crowd on the dock roars and throws beer in
the air. Just as quickly the machine goes quiet. And ripples roll out
from its burbling hull.
“He thinks it was him!” Dave chuckled.
For a big fat slob the guy was a reasonably good swimmer and he was
back on his craft after a few minutes. He grabbed hold tight this time
and hit the start button. With perfect timing, Dave nailed it again and
the little craft was off at top speed, the man clinging to handlebars,
feet trailing, spinning, reversing itself and leaping the waves. The
crowd on shore was now up and cheering, waving towels. We could see his
bulging eyes and a noiseless scream in his foaming froggie-mouth. The
machine was now locked in a series of wild surging leaps over and over
its own wake. Then, with Dave growling, “mutherfucker… mutherfucker…”
it shot like a bullet, straight down the length of the lake, faster and
faster, gaining top speed, sound fading to a distant buzz.
And then there was this wonderful low, shattering sound, like a
sledge-hammer on a cooler full of beer. Then, nothing, quiet.
“It works. It really works.” Dave had this benign, peaceful look that I
was beginning to find disturbing. He was staring down the lake,
fondling the controller. The small smile at the corners of his mouth.
Over there, the party was getting antsy. One of them started up another
sea-doo. The smile departed and I could see teeth, and I think I heard
a kind of dog-sound from deep in his throat.
“Hey, it’s my turn.” I reached out and he released the controller into
my hands, slow to let go, one finger at a time. He picked up his rod
for appearances sake.
What interests me, looking back now after several years, is how the
riders become nothing but symbolic objects once one takes control of
the machine. How the game context strips them of all humanity, and how
one could play with them in the most cruel fashion. I thought I’d been
shocked by Dave’s behaviour but at least he had stuck to just the one
rider. As the party set out in various craft to investigate the fate of
their friend I set the other sea-doo upon them: Two tin boats, three
canoes, and a kayak, I set it smashing down upon them all. Even after
the sea-doo rider had been wiped off on the dock I ran it under, the
machine kept on making foamy murder in the twilight.
As dark fell we left its hulk jutting from a bow rider, and settling in
the water, a pair of sneaker-clad feet hanging over the stern. Blue and
red lights were lighting up the haze down the far road. There was a
murmur on shore; it was time to depart. Fishing lines out we trolled
slowly off and away.
“Weird, but fun, eh?”
“I’d say fun, but weird. Do you feel weird?”
“No, I feel joyful.”
“That would be the joystick, I guess.”
My dad joked that the comments from my f-list were so helpful, next time we should negotiate a consulting fee.
I told him, "Actually, dad, this is the gift economy. If you ever want to ask for help again you need to throw something into the pot. I recommend sending us one of your stories. They liked those."
He has eagerly responded.
“I still think your idea is way too risky,” I’m saying through the
mouth of my beer, “You’re guaranteed someone’s going to spot you.”
The subject is sea-doos. If you don’t yet know what a sea-doo is, try
to imagine the most loathsome boor you’ve ever suffered. Make him loud
and thoughtless, a bullying creep, of the sort who used to fart in the
pup tent and not let you out when you were at summer camp together. Now
recreate him as a water toy and place him on his toy, start its rasping
motor, and send him out to spin tight little circles in the bay
opposite your cottage. Like the lone mosquito in the bedroom, he
occupies your full attention. And there is exactly nothing you can do
about it.
Our plan to rid the world of this tiresome species had been going
nowhere for several years. David is in favour of dropping a graphite
pellet into the gas tank of each and every one of them under cover of
darkness. He has all ready rejected my proposal, that we tour the lake
by the dark of the moon with a silenced 357 magnum and night vision
glasses.
“All you’ll do is sink them, they will be insured, and they’ll be
replaced in no time. All your trouble will go for nothing! Nothing!” He
slapped the dock and ripples rang across the water; fish scattered.
Dave can be ferocious in a debate.
It was time for me to reveal my solution.
“Dave, did you know that the throttle and steering on all those things
are digital devices?” He sat rubbing his sore hand. “It’s a fact. They
use the same devices that control throttle and steering in advanced
automobiles. Bet you didn’t know that your gas pedal is nothing more
than a glorified electric dimmer switch.”
The light was dawning in his eyes and he was gazing at a spot deep
within his mind.
“I reasoned long ago that with Bluetooth technology and a good
programmer who hates the things as much as we do that it would just be
a matter of time before we’d have the answer.” I pulled the game
controller from the satchel on the dock and plugged in the power pack.
“Is that what you’ve been spending my money on?” he whispered.
“Would you like to be the first to test it out? I whispered back. Sound
carries across the water, you must always be careful what you say at
the edge of a lake.
“I would be honoured.”
The wind had finally settled when we pulled up to the little island
with the osprey nest in the tallest tree. The water was a glowing hot
mirror, little waves licking and slurping at the rocks. This looked
like a good spot. Off to the far shore several road-house quality
speakers were booming something vaguely musical for the entertainment
of us all. One of the dock lobsters would rise now and then to shrill
out a loud “Yahoo!” Cigarette- throated women cackled like drunken
crows. Our boat rotated slowly in the lowering sun as the lake settled
down for the cocktail hour. Soon the buzzing, reptilian drone of a
sea-doo grew louder with its approach. See-dooers like the last notes
of evening, the still water, the peace of it all. These are the people
who can’t keep their feet out of fresh cement, they have a primitive
urge to deface and destroy. Joy was all over our approaching moron. His
large crooked teeth flashed above a slack lower lip faintly juddering
in the wind of his passing. Wallowing side to side to disturb as much
of the quiet water as possible, he drew ever closer. His friends
whooping and watching on shore.
“Shall we?”
“Let’s do!”
The invisible beam from the game-stalk instantly overpowers the
machine’s internal control systems and Dave is now its operator. The
machine slows to a crawl and begins a circle to its left. The bemused
passenger fiddles with knobs and throttle.
Dave trying not to look involved as he jams the control stick forward
and the sea-doo rears like a horse. Blubber-mouth does a fine reverse
flip off the machine and the crowd on the dock roars and throws beer in
the air. Just as quickly the machine goes quiet. And ripples roll out
from its burbling hull.
“He thinks it was him!” Dave chuckled.
For a big fat slob the guy was a reasonably good swimmer and he was
back on his craft after a few minutes. He grabbed hold tight this time
and hit the start button. With perfect timing, Dave nailed it again and
the little craft was off at top speed, the man clinging to handlebars,
feet trailing, spinning, reversing itself and leaping the waves. The
crowd on shore was now up and cheering, waving towels. We could see his
bulging eyes and a noiseless scream in his foaming froggie-mouth. The
machine was now locked in a series of wild surging leaps over and over
its own wake. Then, with Dave growling, “mutherfucker… mutherfucker…”
it shot like a bullet, straight down the length of the lake, faster and
faster, gaining top speed, sound fading to a distant buzz.
And then there was this wonderful low, shattering sound, like a
sledge-hammer on a cooler full of beer. Then, nothing, quiet.
“It works. It really works.” Dave had this benign, peaceful look that I
was beginning to find disturbing. He was staring down the lake,
fondling the controller. The small smile at the corners of his mouth.
Over there, the party was getting antsy. One of them started up another
sea-doo. The smile departed and I could see teeth, and I think I heard
a kind of dog-sound from deep in his throat.
“Hey, it’s my turn.” I reached out and he released the controller into
my hands, slow to let go, one finger at a time. He picked up his rod
for appearances sake.
What interests me, looking back now after several years, is how the
riders become nothing but symbolic objects once one takes control of
the machine. How the game context strips them of all humanity, and how
one could play with them in the most cruel fashion. I thought I’d been
shocked by Dave’s behaviour but at least he had stuck to just the one
rider. As the party set out in various craft to investigate the fate of
their friend I set the other sea-doo upon them: Two tin boats, three
canoes, and a kayak, I set it smashing down upon them all. Even after
the sea-doo rider had been wiped off on the dock I ran it under, the
machine kept on making foamy murder in the twilight.
As dark fell we left its hulk jutting from a bow rider, and settling in
the water, a pair of sneaker-clad feet hanging over the stern. Blue and
red lights were lighting up the haze down the far road. There was a
murmur on shore; it was time to depart. Fishing lines out we trolled
slowly off and away.
“Weird, but fun, eh?”
“I’d say fun, but weird. Do you feel weird?”
“No, I feel joyful.”
“That would be the joystick, I guess.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 08:54 pm (UTC)"joystick" *snerk*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:01 pm (UTC)Ha! Very, very amusing!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:26 pm (UTC)There's a point to that question.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 12:48 am (UTC)Anyhow, we just got hooked on Doors-style indie anti-war group called the "Black Angels" and they're one of 30+ bands playing at the Capitol Hill Block Party in a couple of weeks. Thought you might be interested.
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:09 pm (UTC)(Yay, Dad!)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:43 pm (UTC)Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:50 pm (UTC)BTW - I was not driving any city-crushing mecha, but rather a facial animation control system to aid in the production of an all-CG children's television series. If you are in Canada and have seen "Jane and the Dragon", then you will have seen the results of the device mentioned above.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 11:21 pm (UTC)Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 09:48 pm (UTC)Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 11:32 pm (UTC)Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 12:44 am (UTC)Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 03:19 am (UTC)do keep on persuading him to write that book. I'd buy it.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 03:25 pm (UTC)Wait-a-minute. He's supposed to be persuading me to write a book. Ah well, he did ask for more of my stuff.
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 09:48 am (UTC)Only since I happen to know what parts you are around from (although your dad is not necessarily from same) is this inspired by Lake Chelan in any way?
I once wrecked a jetski in Eastern Washington. (Not at Lake Chelan but near.) To the tune of $500. My company paid.
Your dad is a-ok in my book, let us know if he needs any more help with his site. :D
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 03:28 pm (UTC)Lake Chelan looks like perfect sea-doo territory.
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-07-14 04:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-15 12:42 am (UTC)Icarus