Microserfs

I have noticed that on TV, all of these "moments" are sponsored by corporations, as in, "This touchdown was brought to you by the brewers of Bud Lite, " or "This nostalgia flashback was brought to you by the proud makers of Kraft's family of fine foods. "

I told Karla, "I'm no sci-fi buff, but doesn't this seem like a dangerous way to be messing with the structure of time - allowing the corporate realm to invade the private?

Karla told me about how the city of Atlanta was tampering with the idea of naming streets after corporations in return for paying for the maintenance of infrastructure: "Folgers Avenue; Royal Jordanian Airlines Boulevard; Tru-Valu Road."

"Well," I said, "streets have to get names somehow. The surnames Smith, Brown, and Johnson probably looked pretty weird when they first started, too."

Karla said, "I think that in the future, clocks won't say three o'clock anymore. They'll just get right to the point and call three o'clock, 'Pepsi.'"

* * *

During tonight's massage lesson, Karla said, "Remember living in that enormous furniture-free rancher up in Redmond with all the rain clouds and everything? It feels like a long time ago. I sort of miss it."

I said nothing. I don't miss it. I prefer the chaos of here to the predictability of . . . there.

My body felt like overcooked spaghetti after tonight's session. Yeah!

* * *

I tried Ethan's theory about copy-and-pasting. I was mesmerized by the results - think and grow rich:

money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money

[Formatter's note: The book has two pages - 132 - 133 - with nothing but the word "money" here.]

* * *

I stared at an entire screen full of these words and they dissolved and lost their meaning, the way words do when you repeat them over and over - the way anything loses meaning when context is removed - the way we can quickly enter the world of the immaterial using the simplest of devices, like multiplication.

SATURDAY

Poor or not, life has become coding madness all over again - except this time we're killing ourselves for ourselves, instead of some huge company to whom we might as well be interchangeable bloodless PlaySkool figurine units. We began coding the day after we arrived. Michael's code is elegant stuff - really fun to tweak. And there's certainly lots of it. No shortage of work here. And there's so much planning, and we all have our milestone charts pasted up on our booth walls.

And once again, work is providing us with a comforting sense of normalcy - living and working inside of coding's predictably segmented time/space. Simply grinding away at something makes life feel stable, even though the external particulars of life (like our pay checks, our office, and so forth) are, at best, random.

Bug has surprised us with his untapped talent for generating gaming ideas and coding shortcuts. Ethan called him a Burgess Shale of untried ideas. He's blossoming - at 32!

* * *

Michael has an office more or less to himself, behind the bar, and walled off with sound baffles. He shares it with Ethan, who visits only twice a day for "face-time": first to talk with Michael in the morning - and then once in the afternoon for a wrap-up. The downside of a closed door office is the overaccumulation of dead skin particles. With Ethan's dandruff, the floor looks like Vail, Colorado.

Not infrequently, Michael locks himself inside and geeks out on code. We call this bungee-coding. He always does his best work when he really geeks out. Nobody's offended - it's the way he is.

* * *

I asked Mom what she knew of Dad's work with Michael. She said it's Top Secret, but she gave me a clue: his fingers are all red and sore at night.

"Don't worry about it, Dan, he's happy, and so as long as the Feds aren't called in, let him be." So much for curiosity.

* * *

I tried looking at Mom's rock collection today. They continue to perplex me. Beauty is absolutely in the eye of the beholder.

* * *

Todd broke the 400-pound mark on the bench press today and celebrated by making protein drinks for everybody, but they had a rotting protein odor. We pretended to enjoy them, then formed tag teams running to the laundry sink to dump them.

* * *

I looked at Dad's hands and they are indeed all chafed and red.

* * *

Susan's dating some guy from Intel, but I don't think it's going to work, because Intel's corporate culture is so weird.