now
protected online. Accessible to your account only.”
“Jcohen19712 then my password?”
“Precisely. If that is what it is, precisely.”
“So this is mine to keep?”
“All yours.”
“As for the oldster?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve trashed it already, haven’t you?”
“Do not worry. We recycle.”
It was only when my deliverer had departed, when I was alone with this
foldable tablet where all my files, or copies, were nestled nicely again, or anew, into
folders, that I realized just how much they had the goods on me, how much intel was
available on my preferences, vice. I had no secret, I was no secret, to be
Principal’s guest was to have nowhere to hide—not just the laptop but,
beyond the panes, the surveillance outside, the tall strong stalks of spyquip planted
amid the birch and cedar, the sophisticated growths of recognizant CCTV, efflorescing
through my bungalow’s peephole, getting tangled in the eaves. I bawled myself
out, got cotted, covered my face with the dresser’s doily and scrolled schiztic
for what to disclaim, for which self to accuse of what inclination: the offlabel
oxycodone and hydrocodone ordered scriptless from British Columbia, the minoxidil
reliance legal though mortifying, all that screengrab analingus. Meanwhile, vans and
trucks were offloading dusk—a carousel clattered from a trailer, ferris wheel
assembly clamor, a log flume hosed, trampolines inflated.
\
Waiting to be collected by dark. Waiting mopey for Myung. As the
helicopters chopped my sleeping into naps. As the gusts balmed in chatter between the
blinds.
Finally I got up, showered and shaved and toweled over to my wheeliebag to
formally decide (wrinkled old City Hall ceremony suit? wrinkled older bookparty suit?),
ineluctably jeansed it below a tshirt Rach’dgotten me from
the Mark Twain House in Connecticut: black, “Mark
This
Twain” in
graffiti white, an arrow pointing dickward.
My presence aside, I still hadn’t come up with anything as
tribute—again, what do you get the Founder of everything? besides flattery?
Beautiful. It was just beautiful. The trail to Principal’s back 40 acreage had
been redcarpeted, a door policy was in effect.
At trail’s terminus was a cupreous voluptuous Chicana. The thing in
her hand must’ve been an unreleased Tetheld, judging by how it disturbed
attendees into fussing with their own models, noting equivalencies, compatibilities,
breathing screens and wiping them clean.
The Tethelds were scanned—touchless mating of machines—the
attendees were admitted, returned their devices to their pockets, patting, reassuring:
like it was the last time they’d make love to a spouse they’d have to
abandon.
The invites were surveys, apparently—digi.
Waiting for approval, I recognized: the chairman/cofounder of
America’s most popular eTailer, a crowd theory academic from UC Berkeley, the COO
of a premier iConometry site, a venture capitalist/immediate past California state
controller, a Congressperson who’d been advocating for the establishment of a
Department of Online (DO) within the next president’s cabinet (the president of
the United States), and then—far in the front, past cyberpunkadelic bodimodis,
transdermally implanted proboscideans, vulcan jedis with diversified portfolios and
freshly filed teeth—was the alternative to the alternatives, was Finnity.
I wanted to sign off, I wanted to sign out—whichever had the most
hits, or provided the least traceable exit.
Which flight had he been on? the red eye or brown nose? The rest of him
was a ruddy blond—and perfectly unfolded, with not an extraneous
crease—tweeded like a lordly hunter.
I might’ve guessed: Finn never missed parties—he
would’ve hitched if he’d had to.
He scanned, was admitted, indifferently seamless, but because I
didn’t have a pda or even a rotary dragging an oinker’s cord all the way
protected online. Accessible to your account only.”
“Jcohen19712 then my password?”
“Precisely. If that is what it is, precisely.”
“So this is mine to keep?”
“All yours.”
“As for the oldster?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve trashed it already, haven’t you?”
“Do not worry. We recycle.”
It was only when my deliverer had departed, when I was alone with this
foldable tablet where all my files, or copies, were nestled nicely again, or anew, into
folders, that I realized just how much they had the goods on me, how much intel was
available on my preferences, vice. I had no secret, I was no secret, to be
Principal’s guest was to have nowhere to hide—not just the laptop but,
beyond the panes, the surveillance outside, the tall strong stalks of spyquip planted
amid the birch and cedar, the sophisticated growths of recognizant CCTV, efflorescing
through my bungalow’s peephole, getting tangled in the eaves. I bawled myself
out, got cotted, covered my face with the dresser’s doily and scrolled schiztic
for what to disclaim, for which self to accuse of what inclination: the offlabel
oxycodone and hydrocodone ordered scriptless from British Columbia, the minoxidil
reliance legal though mortifying, all that screengrab analingus. Meanwhile, vans and
trucks were offloading dusk—a carousel clattered from a trailer, ferris wheel
assembly clamor, a log flume hosed, trampolines inflated.
\
Waiting to be collected by dark. Waiting mopey for Myung. As the
helicopters chopped my sleeping into naps. As the gusts balmed in chatter between the
blinds.
Finally I got up, showered and shaved and toweled over to my wheeliebag to
formally decide (wrinkled old City Hall ceremony suit? wrinkled older bookparty suit?),
ineluctably jeansed it below a tshirt Rach’dgotten me from
the Mark Twain House in Connecticut: black, “Mark
This
Twain” in
graffiti white, an arrow pointing dickward.
My presence aside, I still hadn’t come up with anything as
tribute—again, what do you get the Founder of everything? besides flattery?
Beautiful. It was just beautiful. The trail to Principal’s back 40 acreage had
been redcarpeted, a door policy was in effect.
At trail’s terminus was a cupreous voluptuous Chicana. The thing in
her hand must’ve been an unreleased Tetheld, judging by how it disturbed
attendees into fussing with their own models, noting equivalencies, compatibilities,
breathing screens and wiping them clean.
The Tethelds were scanned—touchless mating of machines—the
attendees were admitted, returned their devices to their pockets, patting, reassuring:
like it was the last time they’d make love to a spouse they’d have to
abandon.
The invites were surveys, apparently—digi.
Waiting for approval, I recognized: the chairman/cofounder of
America’s most popular eTailer, a crowd theory academic from UC Berkeley, the COO
of a premier iConometry site, a venture capitalist/immediate past California state
controller, a Congressperson who’d been advocating for the establishment of a
Department of Online (DO) within the next president’s cabinet (the president of
the United States), and then—far in the front, past cyberpunkadelic bodimodis,
transdermally implanted proboscideans, vulcan jedis with diversified portfolios and
freshly filed teeth—was the alternative to the alternatives, was Finnity.
I wanted to sign off, I wanted to sign out—whichever had the most
hits, or provided the least traceable exit.
Which flight had he been on? the red eye or brown nose? The rest of him
was a ruddy blond—and perfectly unfolded, with not an extraneous
crease—tweeded like a lordly hunter.
I might’ve guessed: Finn never missed parties—he
would’ve hitched if he’d had to.
He scanned, was admitted, indifferently seamless, but because I
didn’t have a pda or even a rotary dragging an oinker’s cord all the way
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