A little folky don't ya think? I liked everything about her except didn't ya think she was a little folky? Let's move on to the next candidate, what do you say? You want to take a little break, huh? Oh you quit? But you're our diversity officer you can't just pick up and leave. No, see you can't do that unless you don't want to be eligible--what's a polka-dot-collared job?
On the street things were decidedly less surreal even though I'm prone to dramatize colors when I'm alone. Now I don't have a job, WWDD? Actually my surname has many more Confederate city streets named after it than yours. My stupid little red shoes gripped the ground and I pulled up and up on my chin to avoid sobbing. Goddamn white laces, ya'll get dirty so fast...find me. I need someone else to give me a chance. Where's the adjusted line of professional behavior for people like me?
I need a thumbnail picture and a byline and a ticket for a bus to a train to a ship to an island to a hut to a bed to a hole to a handle to some sweet deadly darkness. I kneeled and raised my hand and got a taxi who took me to Church...to Canal past Tillary to Flatbush saw Jacob by Robert from Robert also Robert heard something to Beach Channel to Rockaway Beach a few blocks...135. I got out and scaled a 7 inch concrete wall (how symbolic) to a set of eroded stairs - saw the dunes saw the sand saw the sky saw the beach touched the sand with my shoes - which are stupid. Removed them, discarded them, threw them away they washed away like anger like disappointment and the sun moved behind some thunderclouds and the afternoon got purple and the rust on the bridge turned yellow and the green turned dark blue then grey then asked for shelter but the man had plans to go. An escape plan some broken bottles a needle a trip a fall a high a crash some reading all wet all emotional all impossible all too much to handle to much to stomach digest process daily weekly after a day a week a year a decade veins and colors and dye and needle the needle his needle his hands his fingers guarded protected explained taught held. Hold on.
What happened with her Harvey? Can you hear me Harvey? How could she say all of that? I take offense to how she said Adios Muchachos without at least stopping to think that there was a woman in the room.
God winced. We all winced we couldn't believe it. Fucking life...I want to see it. I would give mine to give the world more of his. A chariot and a street and a dynamite listen to this wind all the sand on this beach she thought! Roll me over let me swim she thought. A knock and a nudge and some neck muscles and a sinking feeling give me more. She dug up a mental motorcycle and rode it off into the still-orange grimey sunset as the lightning refracted on the ocean right in front of her. Chances like this come and go the train noises hide it the jet engines hide it and the storm hides it and at each one of those it's great to scream and get all the fucking shit out.
Rarely are all three of them audible at the same time but the jet had to land because it was below decision altitude outside of the storm and the A out there with the purple summer storm crossing the bay. As the wind and the bay with the rain and the wind and the plane with the lightning and the lighting, which was purple and the bridge that was dark green between the grey that was the cockpit she saw the pilot and the conductor and the mother and her dad and she turned her neck like the last time she did before everything sank. The whirling and swirling and vibrating pulsating wishing crashing sliding surfing flying falling tripping. All this nasty yellow fluid came out herb leaves jungle leaves Amazon keys golden and Socialist but better but barely leave it there and walk back to the street. She left it there and went back to Beach 135th St.
She walked to a payphone and placed two quarters in the machine and dialed the operator. That was wrong they told her. For operator calls press 411 then oprima numero uno not to speak in Español so she pressed 24 because it was funny and sentimental and not uno. Queens, NY. That is not listed in our directory, please call back with a valid city and state please. She called back and pressed 24 and then said she wasn't exactly sure what town she was in but please don't hang up they asked what was the last town you were in she said New York, NY. They gave her a Holland Tunnel-based taxi company. She asked to be picked up they declined. She dialed 411 then oprimió'd 24 then said Brooklyn, NY and she got a very local taxi company even though Brooklyn isn't really a city. They picked her up it was dark she had no shoes or money and forgot her phone where she used to work and now she was wet from the storm she lost her voice basically. She liked the bridge and saw the city and the lights and thought she saw JFK. Got to a busy intersection she had to pee her cigarettes were ruined didn't have a light anyway the driver wasn't very aggressive she paid and got out far from Tillary far from the bridge - Flatbush. Hailed a cab he said not going to city she said neither was she. Let her in she said, Port Authority Bus Terminal, he said get out she kissed him, he took her by the chin and threw her against the little glass opening she hurt her neck her stomach sank her heart sank the fucking shit had come back.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn in the distance reminded her of Manhattan in the distant distance and the lights and all the fucking shit. Got another cab didn't have any money he didn't care took her over the Manhattan Bridge let her off when two little kids needed a cab they had money higher priority missed connection? Said thanks said thanks so much said one day, had faith believed it thought it ok didn't think about it. Walked from E. Broadway and Canal to 41st and 8th Avenue begged for a bus wasn't that era. Can't beg for a bus the busses left from garages roped off no hitchhiking no valuable trade no pawn shops needed money knew what to do went to 42nd saw some guy needed a lift gave him the needle fell crash cash - beautiful cash "get me out of this place!" Next bus out of PA is in 6 hours attendant said gleefully. 4AM to Philadelphia first one on last one off got to sit in the back.
In Philly she had slept on the bus lots of stops then packed gross and constricted and stuck and sweaty and wet and tarred pockets and bare feet funny looks concerned looks two faces especially. In a crowd far from home kneeled raised hands no cab this time. Stood up not a power ranger not a superhero nothing...deflation but closer to the resolution to the reconciliation to a comedy to disbelief to bed.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Lightly Bleeding
The killer methodically came down the stairs (which were just planks of smoothed oak resting atop unevenly cut, white planks on an incline), wheeled towards the locked bedroom door, aimed at what he hoped was a quietly resting landlord, and pulled the trigger.
Mmmm...visual escapades with my lovely lady. We found each other Teresa ... ah sweet restful fields and our bodies wedged into the earth. The sun's lapidary rays strike us and keep us calm despite the nervous anxiety of sexual anticipation. Freeze-framed in the ground there looking at the blue sky between our eyelashes. I kept talking to you about insane things, topics of discussion that I'd never actually bring up. About everything and it was lucid and lyrical and you liked it, and then told me about yourself and I listened. The conversation tasted perfect, like my favorite food. When our eyes teared up because of all the sun, we drank it down and it quenched every desire temporarily. I didn't look around at all because you were right next to me. Laying next to me wedged into the ground, our gazes locked on each other.
You looked past me into the distance and told me a weird creature was coming towards us. I marveled at how airy and beautiful my limbs felt, at how the little ducts from my mouth to my throat carried some divine fluid that removed all pressure from everywhere, as if I were awake but sleeping but awake but sleeping but awake. Your eyes looked at me knowingly, but I misunderstood them, I suppose. I heard the creatures footsteps getting closer.
All of a sudden I looked so deeply into your eyes. I fell so far into them Teresa how did you let me fall so far ... the Hundred Hand Slap with Mt. Fuji delicately fanned behind us! Ah leave me no how did you leave me how did you not hear me here how did you leave me did you hear my Tiarhtian shriek of anguish? Everything rotated slightly after the footsteps stopped and there I was in a dark room. I trusted you Teresa, I suppose I deserved this.
The bullet ripped through the flimsy door and as light poured into the small bedroom blood poured out of the back of the sleeping landlord's head.
Correction: As it turns out the killer didn't have a killer instinct - I completely misread that one. This entire post is borne from an excessive procrastinatory paranoia that trickled down my bloodline through the olive presses and sewer caps and dusty meadows overlooking the Mediterranean and in the distance...Carthage.
Mmmm...visual escapades with my lovely lady. We found each other Teresa ... ah sweet restful fields and our bodies wedged into the earth. The sun's lapidary rays strike us and keep us calm despite the nervous anxiety of sexual anticipation. Freeze-framed in the ground there looking at the blue sky between our eyelashes. I kept talking to you about insane things, topics of discussion that I'd never actually bring up. About everything and it was lucid and lyrical and you liked it, and then told me about yourself and I listened. The conversation tasted perfect, like my favorite food. When our eyes teared up because of all the sun, we drank it down and it quenched every desire temporarily. I didn't look around at all because you were right next to me. Laying next to me wedged into the ground, our gazes locked on each other.
You looked past me into the distance and told me a weird creature was coming towards us. I marveled at how airy and beautiful my limbs felt, at how the little ducts from my mouth to my throat carried some divine fluid that removed all pressure from everywhere, as if I were awake but sleeping but awake but sleeping but awake. Your eyes looked at me knowingly, but I misunderstood them, I suppose. I heard the creatures footsteps getting closer.
All of a sudden I looked so deeply into your eyes. I fell so far into them Teresa how did you let me fall so far ... the Hundred Hand Slap with Mt. Fuji delicately fanned behind us! Ah leave me no how did you leave me how did you not hear me here how did you leave me did you hear my Tiarhtian shriek of anguish? Everything rotated slightly after the footsteps stopped and there I was in a dark room. I trusted you Teresa, I suppose I deserved this.
The bullet ripped through the flimsy door and as light poured into the small bedroom blood poured out of the back of the sleeping landlord's head.
Correction: As it turns out the killer didn't have a killer instinct - I completely misread that one. This entire post is borne from an excessive procrastinatory paranoia that trickled down my bloodline through the olive presses and sewer caps and dusty meadows overlooking the Mediterranean and in the distance...Carthage.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Tracks
As far as we've come, we're right where we started, care to comment? The answer to that is predicated on how little we know about everything we're sensing, and the sum total of everything we're sensing can be expressed in a nice neat little formula that has already been hard-coded into most spreadsheet applications.
In other words, what's happened has already happened, and you are one expensive daughter. The policy on your life says nothing about an accidental death by commuter railroad smothering, which is why when I ascended the platform, still encrusted in commuter delirium, and I noticed all the children your age playing on and on the tracks for about half the platform, I wasn't particularly moved. I must say, in retrospect, that I wiped a glob of mucus from the corners of my eyes in order to believe them. There they were, exploring the tracks like rats—defiant and self-assured—there was no sense of danger in their motions. So fine. I turned to the middle-aged woman that I usually complain about the world to and said, "Look at this...I thought playing on railroad tracks was a nighttime thing. At this hour with all the trains they better really be careful." Something pierced through her commuter delirium but dissipated into the frenzied heart racing realization that the 7:29 was coming and the little rodents were still playing with the tracks. Our vantage point was from the easternmost part of the platform, the kids were playing from the middle of the platform to the westernmost part, so really, we had front-row seats. The train barreled along and the kids confidently assumed their train-passing postures. They hit the tracks hard, flattened themselves out right between the two steel beams that the trains' wheels moved along. This morning there were a few too many children on the tracks and not all of them had a spot as the train passed me and my commuter colleagues. As the train started grinding its brakes everyone had found a safe spot, but right as the train started passing over the easternmost expanse of outstretched children, a few of the kids got up and started running to safety underneath the platform ledge, a place which, if I had to choose, would choose instead of letting the train pass directly over me. The train mauled the late-decision-switching children. The momentum of the front of the train plus their lateral motion pushed them forcefully against the platform edge and dragged their faces against it, eventually sweeping them down underneath the train, at which point their bones fleetingly lifted the train up before the weight of the train flattened the bones and stretched their flesh over the steel beams that their friends were hiding adjacent to.
A railroad spokesperson came rushing over to me and began yelling: "How dare you! How dare you you coward! How could you let those children play on the tracks and not say anything!? Look what you have done! The tragedy! The poor children the poor poor children. How dare you! You are scum you how dare you oh oh the poor children...I hope you know how responsible you are for this catastrophe!"
My friend was reaching into her purse for her medium to medium-far distance spectacles. She was saying something about her employer's vision plan and how rotten healthcare in the country was and something about how she can never find her glasses and something about how she hopes her husband didn't accidentally mistake the glasses for his own.
I wondered whether or not the spokesperson had been hired by the new railroad executive, whose professed first priority was railroad safety. She had instilled in me something I don't think I would have developed without her fervent urging: if you see children playing on railroad tracks during peak hours, advise them not to change their mind about their safe position beneath the train as it arrives at a station.
"It is wonderful," I thought as I went back downstairs to my car, "that my wife works to support the family in addition to my job." There was a procession of emergency service vehicles making sharp turns and half-skiddy bee-lines towards the elevated platform. A man with a briefcase and a really nice suit stopped me and said, "We're never going to get out of this lot, do you want to get something to eat while they peel the kids' bodies off the tracks?"
I really had my heart set on the egg omelettes at work, but since it didn't look like I was going to work today, I said, "Ya know what, I really can't, I think I'm going to call my wife and see if she can take off, maybe we'll go the mall or something." In the back of my mind I had something else in mind. Two helicopters were circling above me now and I looked up and shielded my eyes with my right hand that was holding my briefcase. One of the choppers was from the local news station and the other copter had a big white cross on its all-red body. I squinted and thought to myself, "God, that woman was really lacing into me before about the kids. She's totally right about that too. How did I not say anything? How did the rest of the people on that platform all just stand there? She was right I feel awful."
At the diner where my wife works someone burst through the door and yelled, "some kids got hit by a train at the station, turn on the news!" She was cleaning a plastic tabletop, about to set it up for another customer. She turned her head towards the television above the hostess' station. It had reached MSNBC by now and they were crediting the local news channel's chopper for the live aerial footage. She reached into her pocket to answer her cellphone because I was calling her to see if she could take off work. As she interrogated me about what had happened and I offered her everything I saw, I pulled up to the diner and saw her on the phone through the glass windows. As we made eye contact I turned the car off and stepped outside and looked up at the chopper and back at the TV in the diner when I noticed that the local news station's helicopter feed had a bit of a delay on it. I thought maybe I should let them know about that but figured that they already knew it.
I went in to ask her if she could take off and she said, "Why don't you sit down so you can eat something?" I really had my heart set on the egg omelettes at work, but since it didn't look like I was going to work today, I said, "Ya know what, honey, if you can't take off I think I'm just going to go home and be there when you get back, the kids stay late at school today right?" She nodded. So I left her there and with a plan in mind I drove home in a hurry.
As I drove home the commuter delirium began washing in and out all over the windshield of my Prius. I saw railroad car windows from the early 20s and some eerie blue light from outside mixing with the humid yellow-greens of the white-but-soiled wallpaper. I was overcome with a desire to change my outfit, especially my jacket. Then everything blurred and became vibrant. Some bright teal and ruby red absorbed my delirium and drew dewy lines vertically through my field of vision. I needed a Splash. I pulled the car over and put the seat down horizontally and just lay there on the side of the road, listening to all the helicopters and the sirens.
My phone rang as everything above me (the interior of the roof of my Prius) kaliedoscoped in felty quad-mirrors of Cuban blues and yellow-greens and teals and reds from Florida. The heat and humidity of everything was rushing all over me so I decided to put my hazards on and finally look to see who was calling me. It was my daughter and my wife. One call from each. One call from each four times, the thing said, I think. I picked it up and dialed 4444 when I heard an enormous explosion.
My delirium and lethargy vanished in an instant as I sprung to a seated position. I looked in the directions I thought the explosion came from but all around me I couldn't see anything. I stepped out of my car and dialed my daughter's cell phone. She said she stayed home from school today because she wasn't feeling well. Great, I thought, there goes that. I told her to take the chicken breasts out of the freezer and put them in a medium saucepan filled with a little water in the sink. She asked me where I was (probably to see if I would do it), and I told her I wasn't coming home.
I didn't really know where I was going.
In other words, what's happened has already happened, and you are one expensive daughter. The policy on your life says nothing about an accidental death by commuter railroad smothering, which is why when I ascended the platform, still encrusted in commuter delirium, and I noticed all the children your age playing on and on the tracks for about half the platform, I wasn't particularly moved. I must say, in retrospect, that I wiped a glob of mucus from the corners of my eyes in order to believe them. There they were, exploring the tracks like rats—defiant and self-assured—there was no sense of danger in their motions. So fine. I turned to the middle-aged woman that I usually complain about the world to and said, "Look at this...I thought playing on railroad tracks was a nighttime thing. At this hour with all the trains they better really be careful." Something pierced through her commuter delirium but dissipated into the frenzied heart racing realization that the 7:29 was coming and the little rodents were still playing with the tracks. Our vantage point was from the easternmost part of the platform, the kids were playing from the middle of the platform to the westernmost part, so really, we had front-row seats. The train barreled along and the kids confidently assumed their train-passing postures. They hit the tracks hard, flattened themselves out right between the two steel beams that the trains' wheels moved along. This morning there were a few too many children on the tracks and not all of them had a spot as the train passed me and my commuter colleagues. As the train started grinding its brakes everyone had found a safe spot, but right as the train started passing over the easternmost expanse of outstretched children, a few of the kids got up and started running to safety underneath the platform ledge, a place which, if I had to choose, would choose instead of letting the train pass directly over me. The train mauled the late-decision-switching children. The momentum of the front of the train plus their lateral motion pushed them forcefully against the platform edge and dragged their faces against it, eventually sweeping them down underneath the train, at which point their bones fleetingly lifted the train up before the weight of the train flattened the bones and stretched their flesh over the steel beams that their friends were hiding adjacent to.
A railroad spokesperson came rushing over to me and began yelling: "How dare you! How dare you you coward! How could you let those children play on the tracks and not say anything!? Look what you have done! The tragedy! The poor children the poor poor children. How dare you! You are scum you how dare you oh oh the poor children...I hope you know how responsible you are for this catastrophe!"
My friend was reaching into her purse for her medium to medium-far distance spectacles. She was saying something about her employer's vision plan and how rotten healthcare in the country was and something about how she can never find her glasses and something about how she hopes her husband didn't accidentally mistake the glasses for his own.
I wondered whether or not the spokesperson had been hired by the new railroad executive, whose professed first priority was railroad safety. She had instilled in me something I don't think I would have developed without her fervent urging: if you see children playing on railroad tracks during peak hours, advise them not to change their mind about their safe position beneath the train as it arrives at a station.
"It is wonderful," I thought as I went back downstairs to my car, "that my wife works to support the family in addition to my job." There was a procession of emergency service vehicles making sharp turns and half-skiddy bee-lines towards the elevated platform. A man with a briefcase and a really nice suit stopped me and said, "We're never going to get out of this lot, do you want to get something to eat while they peel the kids' bodies off the tracks?"
I really had my heart set on the egg omelettes at work, but since it didn't look like I was going to work today, I said, "Ya know what, I really can't, I think I'm going to call my wife and see if she can take off, maybe we'll go the mall or something." In the back of my mind I had something else in mind. Two helicopters were circling above me now and I looked up and shielded my eyes with my right hand that was holding my briefcase. One of the choppers was from the local news station and the other copter had a big white cross on its all-red body. I squinted and thought to myself, "God, that woman was really lacing into me before about the kids. She's totally right about that too. How did I not say anything? How did the rest of the people on that platform all just stand there? She was right I feel awful."
At the diner where my wife works someone burst through the door and yelled, "some kids got hit by a train at the station, turn on the news!" She was cleaning a plastic tabletop, about to set it up for another customer. She turned her head towards the television above the hostess' station. It had reached MSNBC by now and they were crediting the local news channel's chopper for the live aerial footage. She reached into her pocket to answer her cellphone because I was calling her to see if she could take off work. As she interrogated me about what had happened and I offered her everything I saw, I pulled up to the diner and saw her on the phone through the glass windows. As we made eye contact I turned the car off and stepped outside and looked up at the chopper and back at the TV in the diner when I noticed that the local news station's helicopter feed had a bit of a delay on it. I thought maybe I should let them know about that but figured that they already knew it.
I went in to ask her if she could take off and she said, "Why don't you sit down so you can eat something?" I really had my heart set on the egg omelettes at work, but since it didn't look like I was going to work today, I said, "Ya know what, honey, if you can't take off I think I'm just going to go home and be there when you get back, the kids stay late at school today right?" She nodded. So I left her there and with a plan in mind I drove home in a hurry.
As I drove home the commuter delirium began washing in and out all over the windshield of my Prius. I saw railroad car windows from the early 20s and some eerie blue light from outside mixing with the humid yellow-greens of the white-but-soiled wallpaper. I was overcome with a desire to change my outfit, especially my jacket. Then everything blurred and became vibrant. Some bright teal and ruby red absorbed my delirium and drew dewy lines vertically through my field of vision. I needed a Splash. I pulled the car over and put the seat down horizontally and just lay there on the side of the road, listening to all the helicopters and the sirens.
My phone rang as everything above me (the interior of the roof of my Prius) kaliedoscoped in felty quad-mirrors of Cuban blues and yellow-greens and teals and reds from Florida. The heat and humidity of everything was rushing all over me so I decided to put my hazards on and finally look to see who was calling me. It was my daughter and my wife. One call from each. One call from each four times, the thing said, I think. I picked it up and dialed 4444 when I heard an enormous explosion.
My delirium and lethargy vanished in an instant as I sprung to a seated position. I looked in the directions I thought the explosion came from but all around me I couldn't see anything. I stepped out of my car and dialed my daughter's cell phone. She said she stayed home from school today because she wasn't feeling well. Great, I thought, there goes that. I told her to take the chicken breasts out of the freezer and put them in a medium saucepan filled with a little water in the sink. She asked me where I was (probably to see if I would do it), and I told her I wasn't coming home.
I didn't really know where I was going.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Black, White, & Red
"Why did you put a lemming in your wedding?" "I've known him forever and he's been good to me." "It's still a little weird, with the guy from the store carrying him around in a cage and all." "I know, I wish we could've given him something formal to wear." "Yeah."
One of my cousins sat in the fourth pew on my family's side. He wore thick-framed, black eyeglasses that had almost a half-inch of solid frame on either side. As my anxious fiancé appeared in the doorway at the opposite end of the church, I stared intently at my cousin. He had this weird look on his face. The procession moved forward, and Ingmar's light blue denim shirt clashed with everything. A lot of people stopped looking at the bride and looked at him and the lemming who, incidentally, was adorned with a black satin ribbon around his torso with a corsage pinned at the top.
My cousin was reading an article that befit his oenophilic tastes on the transparent overlay that his iGlasses® afforded him. Using the chip installed in his wrist, he could control the degree of transparency (this had no effect on the actual color of the lenses on his glasses) with simple finger motions at the inside-end of his forearm. The gadget and the implant set him back quite significantly in the financial sense, but in human terms, he was easily the most advanced person in the building, if not the whole county. I had no idea that he even had this gadget, so I just thought he was spacing out.
I was supposed to say something to my fiancé but before I did so I motioned to Ingmar to let the lemming out of his cage so he could lineup next to the other members of the bridal party and, of course, to get Ingmar's atrocious shirt out of the picture. When he opened the door to the lemming cage, the little fellow scurried down the aisle and right out the front doors of the church. My cousin had identified the lemming and placed a Google GPS Tracker® on the little fellow. He inhaled, raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth and pointed towards the back of the church but decided not to say anything.
Others fainted and yelled, Ingmar bolted down the aisle after the lemming—cage door clanking back and forth. I told the minister to continue with the wedding, "He always does that." My fiancé was all flustered and had run her hand through her hair to relieve some pressure. This messed up her hair. My cousin went back to reading a review about a new red. He looked up and faded down the overlay's transparency, noticed that my wife-to-be had tossed her hair a bit, and he quickly faded up his overlay and requested a Yahoo! Replay® of how it had happened. The web service, which had been adapted pretty early on for this medium, informed him that the replay would cost $4.50 for retrieval and $0.30 per second (though he could proof the frames at 10 second intervals to get an idea). He wanted only 8 seconds so the site billed the charge to his personal account.
My cousin didn't carry a wallet because all of his identification, finances, and retail rewards cards were installed in the metacarpal chip implanted in his wrist. When he rode the subway, turnstiles clicked open for him as he approached because of the Yellowsock® data exchanged between him and the transit station. When he went to the store, they didn't ask him if he had a rewards card because the monitor had already detected this information. It was great.
The replay was great, he coveted my fiancé. I married her. We processed down the aisle and down the stairs of the church. Everyone was lined up like at a wedding. Ingmar was holding the lemming, whose flower-pin had pierced through the stem of a flower on the lawn at the edge of the grass. Lemmings have a tendency to cut corners because they're lazy and spatially perceptive. They also usually run on tundra, not concrete, so the little guy's judgment was all off. What an ironic twist!
On our honeymoon, my wife and I considered buying a pair of iGlasses® but decided to wait until we returned to our home country. In retrospect, I wish we would've bought them then and there.
I usually did everything I could to lead the mischief.
One of my cousins sat in the fourth pew on my family's side. He wore thick-framed, black eyeglasses that had almost a half-inch of solid frame on either side. As my anxious fiancé appeared in the doorway at the opposite end of the church, I stared intently at my cousin. He had this weird look on his face. The procession moved forward, and Ingmar's light blue denim shirt clashed with everything. A lot of people stopped looking at the bride and looked at him and the lemming who, incidentally, was adorned with a black satin ribbon around his torso with a corsage pinned at the top.
My cousin was reading an article that befit his oenophilic tastes on the transparent overlay that his iGlasses® afforded him. Using the chip installed in his wrist, he could control the degree of transparency (this had no effect on the actual color of the lenses on his glasses) with simple finger motions at the inside-end of his forearm. The gadget and the implant set him back quite significantly in the financial sense, but in human terms, he was easily the most advanced person in the building, if not the whole county. I had no idea that he even had this gadget, so I just thought he was spacing out.
I was supposed to say something to my fiancé but before I did so I motioned to Ingmar to let the lemming out of his cage so he could lineup next to the other members of the bridal party and, of course, to get Ingmar's atrocious shirt out of the picture. When he opened the door to the lemming cage, the little fellow scurried down the aisle and right out the front doors of the church. My cousin had identified the lemming and placed a Google GPS Tracker® on the little fellow. He inhaled, raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth and pointed towards the back of the church but decided not to say anything.
Others fainted and yelled, Ingmar bolted down the aisle after the lemming—cage door clanking back and forth. I told the minister to continue with the wedding, "He always does that." My fiancé was all flustered and had run her hand through her hair to relieve some pressure. This messed up her hair. My cousin went back to reading a review about a new red. He looked up and faded down the overlay's transparency, noticed that my wife-to-be had tossed her hair a bit, and he quickly faded up his overlay and requested a Yahoo! Replay® of how it had happened. The web service, which had been adapted pretty early on for this medium, informed him that the replay would cost $4.50 for retrieval and $0.30 per second (though he could proof the frames at 10 second intervals to get an idea). He wanted only 8 seconds so the site billed the charge to his personal account.
My cousin didn't carry a wallet because all of his identification, finances, and retail rewards cards were installed in the metacarpal chip implanted in his wrist. When he rode the subway, turnstiles clicked open for him as he approached because of the Yellowsock® data exchanged between him and the transit station. When he went to the store, they didn't ask him if he had a rewards card because the monitor had already detected this information. It was great.
The replay was great, he coveted my fiancé. I married her. We processed down the aisle and down the stairs of the church. Everyone was lined up like at a wedding. Ingmar was holding the lemming, whose flower-pin had pierced through the stem of a flower on the lawn at the edge of the grass. Lemmings have a tendency to cut corners because they're lazy and spatially perceptive. They also usually run on tundra, not concrete, so the little guy's judgment was all off. What an ironic twist!
On our honeymoon, my wife and I considered buying a pair of iGlasses® but decided to wait until we returned to our home country. In retrospect, I wish we would've bought them then and there.
I usually did everything I could to lead the mischief.
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