M. T. Anderson by Feed Page A

falling. Now it’s just a blank.”
    We flew over a lake. The bottom had been covered with a huge blue ad that was lit up and magnified by the water, which had a picture of a smiling brain and broadcasted “Dynacom Inc.” when you looked at it.
    I was like, “What are you asking for?”
    She said, “It makes good times even better when you know they’re going to end. Like grilled vegetables are better because some of them are partly soot.”
    I wanted to point out that that was probably because her dad made them, but that if someone good makes them, they’re probably not partly soot, but I didn’t think that was her point, about vegetables, so I just kept flying, and I said, “This was a good time?” and she said, “One of the best,” and I said, “So when it’s time for them to do a pleasure overload on me, are you going to be around to give the order to cut the juice?”
    She looked at me, surprised. For a second, she was like completely confused. It was like I’d said something else.
    Then she saw what I meant, and she laughed like I’d given her a present. She said, “If you’ll let me, sure. Sure I’ll be there.” She leaned over, really sudden, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she whispered, “I’ll be the first one, dumpling, to pull your plug.”
    The way she said it, pull your plug, it sounded kind of sexy.
    Right then, everything seemed perfect.
    I dropped her off, and we planned other things, and did a secret handshake. I drove back toward home listening to some brag new triumph screams by British storm ’n’ chunder bands. When I got home, the lights were out, but they came on for me. I walked through the empty house, and got ready for bed, and lay there thinking about how perfect everything was.
    I could feel my family all around me. I could trace their feeds faintly, because they weren’t shielding them. Smell Factor was dreaming while a fun-site with talking giraffes sang him songs and showed him wonderful things in different shapes. My parents were upstairs going in mal, which they wouldn’t want me to know, but which I could tell, because they chose a really flashy, expensive malfunction site that was easy to trace. They were winding down together, I guess. Like, you can only go on being completely fugue-stressed for so long without winding down.
    I could feel all of my family asleep in their own way around me, in the empty house, in our bubble, where we could turn on and off the sun and the stars, and the feed spoke to me real quiet about new trends, about pants that should be shorter or longer, and bands I should know, and games with new levels and stalactites and fields of diamonds, and friends of many colors were all drinking Coke, and beer was washing through mountain passes, and the stars of the
Oh? Wow! Thing!
had got lesions, so lesions were hip now, real hip, and mine looked like a million dollars. The sun was rising over foreign countries, and underwear was cheap, and there were new techniques to reconfigure pecs, abs, and nipples, and the President of the United States was certain of the future, and at Weatherbee & Crotch there was a sale banner and nice rugby shirts and there were pictures of freckled prep-school boys and girls in chinos playing on the beach and dry humping in the eel grass, and as I fell asleep, the feed murmured to me again and again:
All shall be well . . . and all shall be well . . . and all manner of things shall be well.

. . . First, in the deserts and veldts arose oral culture, the culture of the spoken word. Then in the cities with their temples and bazaars came the pictographs, and later, symbols that produced sounds as if by magic, and what followed was written culture. Then, in the universities and under the steeples of young nations, print culture. These — oral culture, written culture, the culture of print — these have always been considered the great epochs of man.
    But we have entered a new age. We are a new people. It is now the age of