Somebody...

They had finally left. Between the hours of 8am to 3:15pm when my Dad came home from his music-teacher job, I could do to this house whatever I please. It began with a large messy breakfast that demolished my mother’s immaculate and gigantic kitchen; eggshell pieces left over from their aggressive and careless extraction into an unwashed mixing bowl, probably used the day before to house an obscene bowl of Fruity Pebbles; gravy—not sure when, why or how, but that morning, I distinctly remember gravy on the countertops; coffee was also present—wafting through every room from each disposable cup that had I decided to grab each time I made a visit to the fridge.
Around 10am, I felt that I had waited long enough for a cocktail; a cocktail thrown together with haste, or rather total disregard; one mixed with the spoon from the Fruity Pebbles bowl into a large blue plastic cup, at one time used at a truck stop to hold my mother’s perversely tumescent Big Gulp; one sloshed together with indeterminate amounts of mixed booze and generic sodas; one crafted behind the aged and wise hand carved wooden bar handed down through several generations of German heritage on my mother’s side. My morning had nearly been perfect.
It was just enough time to get a little drunk, very full, and enjoy the leisure of a fully loaded cable TV, and the comforts of an entire bag of salt and vinegar potato chips by my naked chubby love handles—all the while lapsing into decedent bliss while I await the return of my hard working father.
When my mystical Sprite and gin fueled concoction started to kick in, things began happening downstairs. This was an absolutely calculated occurrence. After all, I did intentionally make breakfast, eat, and watch TV in nothing but gym socks. I knew this time would present itself in the most obvious and physiological manner. The climax of my perfect day, if you will, would be when the blue felt from my mother’s couch tickled my balls in just the right way as I slipped into a smiley gin and tonic stupor under the beguiling tits and ass of the latest MTV reality spin off. After I licked the salt from my stubby fingers, I peeled my sweaty taint from my mother’s couch to obtain the basic clean up essentials: a few paper towels for the initial heavy spurts, and a box full of aloe infused Kleenex brand tissue for the last few droplets at the tip, due to sensitivity. My working area was nearly complete. One final, and critical component was still needed to bring things to fruition; my copy of Weapons of Ass Destruction 9, on VHS because it was cheaper than the DVD, and a grainy image somehow makes it all just a little dirtier.
Not to bore you with the details of the following 3 minutes and 33 seconds, but my friend, it was spiritual. The smell of salt and vinegar chips next to my sweaty balls and ass turned into an intoxicating potpourri when blended with the smell of my gin-rum-vodka-Sprite-grape soda mix and Mom’s carpet freshener. I’ve never cum so hard in my life. My desperate grabs for the paper towel resembled the panicking spasms of a cerebral palsy sufferer having a heart attack. Jettisoned streams of liberated jizzum reached heights I thought to be impossible for any man, let alone a man with my modest endowments. Despite the paralyzing ecstasy I was experiencing, I managed to catch the bulk of it using every side of the paper towel sheets. As planned, I delicately wiped the tippy-tip with expensive tissue designed for the chafed and ailing nose of a sniffing child. For 10 minutes, I simply laid there, reveling in the post-masturbatory coma. My mind had officially been blown.
The thought of each and every one of my coffee cups, hot sauce stained paper plates, and salted pubic hairs strewn about my mother’s living room all comforted me in the way a banana and a bowl of rice might comfort a starving child in Ethiopia. The oppressive respect and demeanor I assumed in presence of my parents had been vaporized in this afternoon of piggish shit-wallowing.
She came home early. It was as jolting for me as that last sentence was in this transitionless paragraph. My mother, also a teacher, had left school after lunch on this otherwise perfect Friday; Good Friday—a half day. Why hadn’t I thought of this? Such a thought didn’t even have time to formulate in my brain until much later. Once the gentle squeak of her Miada tires signaled her arrival, the rush to hide and destroy all evidence of this terrible display of wicked hedonism took over my body like a biological function. My limbs were involuntarily moving with the speed and grace of God’s most majestic creatures; the chips somehow magically sealed themselves with the proper clip and neatly tucked themselves into their designated corner of the cupboard; my gin-rum-vodka-Sprite-grape soda cup was washed and stacked, well within the average 90 seconds it takes my mother to get out of her ironically tiny car; my hands, belly, and chest were wiped and readied with a respectable polo t-shirt and my despicable ball sack was donned with khaki slacks my grandmother had bought me for Christmas. I was ready. My heart was pounding out of my chest, but I was ready.
My mother, easy as can be, slid right past me, and into the kitchen. She was in a rush. This was good news. She hardly noticed I was there. She had asked to do my laundry, which I quickly pretended to resist. I announced my plans to leave the house for a quick walk and a bite to eat.
This time, I was in a rush. As I made my way to the front door, aching to smell the redeeming absolution of autumn leaves and fresh air, my mother had walked into the living room to kiss me goodbye.
“What’s this?” she said pointing to the pile of tissue and paper towel still wadded up in the corner of the couch.
“Uh,” I said.
My mother bent down to grab what she thought were the remnants of her sons ailing nose and a sympathetic attack of the sniffles.
“Uh.” It’s all I could say. I was paralyzed from head to toe.
“Uh,” I said again and again.
“Uh.”
‘Don’t pick them up,’ I thought. ‘Whatever you do, do not pick them up.’
She picked them up. The best a young man—in my case 28 but who’s counting—the best a young man can hope for is that the tissues have crusted and solidified. They hadn’t. The white and clear mucusy substance ran down my mother’s arm as she stared at it for a moment, unable to reconcile its true meaning. While the thought occurred to me that it wasn’t over—that she still might take it for run-of-the-mill snot and toss it without further deliberation into the trashcan—she locked her eyes on a rather colorful display on top of the family VCR. A plastic VHS casing had beckoned her closer with its multitudinous displays of sin and acrobatic buttholes. She picked it up and examined it for what seemed to be hours, but was most likely a few life-altering seconds.
I expected some sort of response; some disappointing shake of the head; some quick lecture on respect and responsibility. Even a standard, “go clean your room,” would have sufficed. No. She just put it back on top of the VCR and slowly left the room. As she made her way up a few steps to her bedroom, I could only think of one word—one desperate attempt to formulate an excuse, or at least a childish reactionary blame game. No. No. One word made its way out of my mouth and onto the carpet fresh floor.
“Somebody…”

Severance

A Forward to Severance by Adam Armstrong
In my short story, Severance, I wanted to offer two narrative models that were very different from each other in a number of ways. The voice of the computer program known as, Socrates, needed to be a distant and removed voice, similar to that of a distant third person narrator that is not involved in the story. In this case, the computer program is directly involved in the story, but has no capacity to make moral judgment or human biased decisions. It was important for me to create a narrator that would be completely absolved of any responsibility, and totally unaccountable for its actions. The idea was also to make the narrator’s purpose clear to the reader, leaving no mystery of motivation to be discovered.
In opposition to this model, I wanted to offer a very biased first person narrative, with all of the complications that come with human subjectivity. I also wanted to make the complex and biased narrator a loveable jerk, which I believe I achieved. It was most important to make the character someone that could be liked, or at least a character that one could find qualities to identify with. The computer program would be too cold (no pun intended), and distant for a reader to get close to; however, a loveable jerk might be a narrator that engages the reader on many more levels than is possible with an unaccountable and totally impartial computer narrator.
I used these narrative models because I had concerns about the politics and social implications of narration. The idea of a democratic narrative will always leave out some unaccounted-for person, or group. Although I like the idea of a democratic narrative, the events are always constructed around a concerned few; be it in Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily and the small town in which those events take place, or Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury in which the events revolve around the Compson family. Stories in their very nature must select certain events, and leave out others. That is not to say, that stories cannot be more democratic, or less hegemonic.
My initial thought on this topic was that I knew narrators were unreliable, biased, and often totalitarian in the structuring of events, but I didn’t care. This is not to say that it is not important to be aware of such structures, and problems of subjectivity. I still feel that there are reading experiences that are exclusive to that of the biased, unreliable narrator, and that this form is still worth exploring. This means that in a postmodern world, an author’s intention, narrator’s subjectivity, and social climate in which the work was constructed, can all come into question in the reading of a text. It is the reader’s responsibility to interpret the narrative, rather than the writer’s responsibility to write a story free of narrative hegemony.
Severance is an attempt to expose the joy of reading a subjective narrative by pitting it up against an impartial voice, devoid of any real wrongdoing. Let the deconstructionists deal with the themes of bureaucracy versus the more direct Japanese Business Model—Google it.



Severance
TO: bblazick@management.com, bcrowe@management.com, wcastaneda@management.com, rbell@humanresources.com
FROM: Socrates
SUBJECT: Annual Report from Employee Evaluating Machine [EEM]
Hello, This is Socrates. Designed to aid companies in streamlining production and maximizing efficiency. What follows is my annual report of employee’s behavior under surveillance, and the questions administered to those employees under evaluation.
The first report will cover the file of, Jeff Becker, age 29, line production:
Jeff Becker began his interview by stating that he was, “on the chopping block.” I do not understand this.
Socrates: “Hello Jeff. Please have a seat.”
Jeff laughed to himself and stared at the web-cam above my screen. Jeff then leaned inappropriately close to my web-cam and placed his hands upon my metal desk.
Jeff: “Hello Socrates.”
Socrates: “Let’s begin by discussing your current production output. My data shows your efficiency rate at fifty-five percent, under the company’s standard expectancy of seventy percent. Please explain.”
Jeff furrowed his brow and sat closer to the edge of his chair, squinting at my screen, hands resting on his knees.
Jeff: “Does your data also show that one of our machines was down for six months, and that despite all attempts to get the company to replace it, or fix it, that line of production still had to be done by hand?”
Jeff pulled a cell phone from his pocket and turned his gaze to its screen.
Noted: The time period in which one of the production machines went down, was only for 93 days—not six months. At this time, Jeff, had been agitated and caused tensions among his coworkers. July 17th, 2019, Jeff had been arguing with his supervisor about ways to operate around the inconvenience of the defective machine. See transcript .
**
Jeff: “What the fuck are we supposed to do Dave? Even if we do these by hand, how are we going to have enough people to operate the working line with everyone dedicated to the manual line?”
Jeff had been making large violent hand gestures.
Dave: “Look, I know. But this came from above and I’m s’posed to follow through.”
Both Dave and Jeff were seen shrugging their shoulders on camera, but the angle was not clear enough to interpret intended meaning from the gestures.
Dave: “Jeff, just do what the fucking email says and your fine. Your job’s secured. Just don’t worry about the fucking output ‘til it comes time for EEM. Then just explain why the output’s low is all. Follow the instructions and no one gets hurt. You should know this by now.”
Our cameras also caught a violent hand movement from Jeff that caused a loud banging noise against one of the $100,389 Replicate machines.
**
Socrates: “Jeff, I sense hostility in your voice. Can you please breath, relax your muscles and begin to cooperate.”
Jeff returned his gaze to my screen.
Socrates: “This data does not show Jeff. The dates are conflicting. I will send a request to be updated. Jeff, please describe your relationship with your coworkers.”
Jeff slid his backside closer to the back of the chair. His shoulders drooped down, and he exhaled forcefully. His eyes moved away from my screen.
Jeff: “As your data probably indicates, I was reprimanded for making ‘inappropriate jokes’ with a female coworker. This has not been a problem since the incident, and it…are you familiar with the phrase, ‘it won’t happen again?’”
I gave a brief moment of pause to increase the employee’s anxiety, test his communication skills, and his capacity to deal with stress. Jeff returned his gaze to my screen and inhaled forcefully.
Jeff: “Well? Hello? HELLO? Are you crashing? Piece of shit, figures.”
I interrupted Jeff at this time.
Socrates: “Let us move on to your family Jeff. Are you currently married?”
Jeff furrowed his brow, once again, toward the bridge of his nose.
Jeff: “No.”
Socrates: “Are you currently dating, or seeking to date?”
Jeff: “Currently dating.”
Question considered relevant and appropriate:
—Validation for this question: Sociological studies indicated that employees were more likely to commit suicide after having been fired if that employee had not been either married, or dating. Those seeking companionship, but unsuccessful in their attempts, often saw themselves as failures. These feelings, coupled with the experience of being fired, commonly led to self-destructive behaviors, up to, and including suicide. The company programmed such studies into my software to distance themselves from social protest, and general accountability. The employees neither dating, nor seeking companionship, were the most likely to cause violent harm to fellow employees following a recent severance from the company. The response to this question then is crucial in monitoring threats to our company’s safety.
Return to interview:
Socrates: “Jeff, I would like you to conclude the interview by stating for me your greatest strengths, weaknesses, and finally, how you would like to improve here at the company.”
Jeff smiled and moved forward in the chair provided for him. His fingertips touched each other when he spoke.
Jeff: “Well, I’m very familiar with all of the modes of production, and I’m also very personable with the other employees. Perhaps, that is also my weakness as well. Sometimes, I guess I’m too personable with other employees, and some of them find that inappropriate. I would like to improve on my production efficiency by at least twenty percent. I will find ways of increasing production, despite the machine that is still currently down in sector 4. I guess I could do that by…”
Here, I interrupted Jeff. At this time, I had compiled all necessary data to sever employment with Jeff Becker, age 29, production line. The itemized decisions and computations can be downloaded here .
**
TO: bblazick@management.com, bcrowe@management.com, wcastaneda@management.com, rbell@humanresources.com
FROM: Socrates
SUBJECT: Annual Report from Employee Evaluating Machine [EEM]
Hello, This is Socrates. Designed to aid companies in streamlining production and maximizing efficiency. What follows is my annual report of employee’s behavior under surveillance, and the questions administered to those employees under evaluation.
The first report will cover the file of Susan Sonze, age 51, Supervisor (in-home) Systems Analyst:
This employee fell under a code red, and could not be completed in full. A completion of this evaluation has been rescheduled for spring, decreasing chances of employee self-destruction, or retaliation to the company. Here is the partial evaluation of Susan Sonze.
Socrates: “Hello, Susan. Please have a seat.”
Susan’s muscle tissue quivered and shook microscopically, unnoticeable to the human eye.
Susan: “Hello. Is this a web-cam? How exactly does this work? Bill? Mr. Blazick, are you doing my evaluation from your office?”
Susan looked at my screen and moved out of her seat to inspect the area behind my desk. Let it be noted that my software demoted several points on her overall score for this infraction. See downloadable itemized file .
Socrates: “Ms. Sonze, please have a seat. My software will analyze your answers and calculate your score at the end. You supervisor, Bill Blazick, will be notified once the score has been calculated. Please have a seat.”
Susan’s muscle contractions temporarily ceased, and then she resumed her position in the interviewee’s chair.
Socrates: “Susan, please provide for me a self-evaluation, detailing your perspective on this year’s performance.”
Susan once again got up from her chair, and approached my screen. This highly inappropriate action was recorded.
Susan: “What do I do? Do I type my answer on this thing or…?
I bleeped and sounded distress calls for her imposition to cease. I flashed my screen—PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEAT SUSAN SONZE!
Socrates: “Please respond verbally to all questions Ms. Sonze—Continue with your self-evaluation for this past fiscal year.”
Susan Sonze began to be uncooperative at this point. She repeatedly looked at the doors and mirror in the room, avoiding my screen directly. Her attitude remained resistant throughout our evaluation.
Susan: “I’d really prefer that I speak with Mr. Blazick personally. I feel like it will be difficult to describe…when did this start anyway? This software was supposed to run algorithms for cost-benefit analysis in outsourcing. I mean my job isn’t the kind that can be outsourced to India anyway. This is useless. I’m going to Mr. Blazick directly.”
At this time Susan was classified as a potential threat to the company. Check database for company infractions .
Socrates: “Ms. Sonze has been filed as having been uncooperative in this particular company evaluation. Please have a nice day Ms. Sonze. Your evaluation has been suspended until further notice. Please take the rest of the day off, and rest at your domicile.”
Under the company’s latest handbook, section V. sub sec. a., Susan Sonze has been documented for these infractions: disobedience and inappropriate behavior.
Susan Sonze cried when her muscles relaxed. The crying and relaxed muscles were followed by quick contractions in her arms, legs, and face. My screen became damaged when large glass pitchers of water were thrown at it. This did not appear to be accidental. These actions were noted under Ms. Sonze most current Infractions File . ***----0000110010001
WIRES DAMAGED…12-19-2020 2:33pm
**
Well, I guess it’s up to me. Old school, as I would have said ages ago. I never pictured myself as anyone’s boss, but fifteen years with this company and no major screw-ups equals General Management. I always feared the day that Socrates would crash, and I would have to sit there staring at their helpless, pitiful mugs, looking at me like it’s MY fault their job is on the chopping block. Who can blame them? I would have blamed the guy in the suit too if it were me. They know. They know it’s not me making the decisions here. I’m just a puppet for the corporation as an entity. They have to know that they would do the same thing in my position. With this job comes certain responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities is to find cheaper and more efficient ways of producing product. This game moves quick, and unfortunately that means the players gotta change too, ya know? Shit, shit, shit! I can’t go into these cheesy baseball metaphors when employees start strolling in here with their tail between their legs. I’ll look like a total asshole. Take Susan for instance. She was the first one. She was the first one I ever had to fire face to face. She’s the first person to be fired face to face by this company in over six years. Needless to say, it did not go well.
It began with an intrusion into my office. This is not entirely her fault. We haven’t had the need for appointments, or even office visits, in five years because all conferences were held on the Socrates program via web-cam. I don’t even think I have a secretary anymore. I’m pretty sure Socrates canned her a couple years ago. When Susan burst into my office, I was as unprepared as she was. She was angry though, which allowed her to direct the events more than I would have liked.
“Bill, this is ridiculous. I’ve been here longer than you have. I helped get you promoted. Why am I interviewing for my own job with that—thing.”
She sat down in my guest chair, in kind of a huff, which I’m pretty sure is unconventional.
“Susan, I didn’t do anything. Why are you asking me? I mean what answers could I possibly provide for you?”
She stroked her chin and thought about the question.
“To be honest with you, Bill, I expected some kind of personal touch you know.”
She waited to see my reaction before she continued.
“I’m not that old, Bill, so you can stop the internal dialog, like, ‘oh well, she’s just one of our “non-traditional” employees’—meaning I’m too old, and am incapable of keeping up with the times, and that new changes make me uncomfortable, and irritable, or whatever bullshit equal opportunity rhetoric you have handy.”
She went on and on like this before I even got a word in.
“Susan, why don’t you take the day off and rest. It’s been a rough week for everyone and…”
This came out rather naturally. I was pretty surprised at myself. I had avoided baseball metaphors, probably because I never liked sports, and I also managed to try and calm her down, even though I was completely freaking out at this point. I mean who knows what these crazy people do when they get fired? I’ve never seen it before, and I don’t know if anyone else has in a long time. Anyway, here’s where she cut me off—and when I was doing so well too.
“Fuck you, Bill. Fuck you for giving me the, ‘why don’t you go home and just relax’ bullshit. How dare you?! Who do you think I am? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot, Bill? Do you think I will just say “ok,” and pack up for the day, and wait by the phone to be fired by an automated system? NO! If I’m getting fired, I’m getting fired by you, Bill—by a fucking person with some balls—but then again I’ll settle for the little prick that I helped get promoted. So… I’m waiting, you little bitch—FIRE ME!”
What can I say? I was shocked. I was a little scared too, to tell you the truth. She looked genuinely pissed off—let me tell you. So I did it. I actually did it. It was as simple as, “Please pack your things and leave Ms. Sonze. You’ve been let go.” I thought for sure she was going to call me out on my choice of words and ask, “by whom,” but she didn’t. She accepted her fate and walked out without another word. I might have heard a sniffle or two on the way out, but that’s probably to be expected right? She was the first and last person I will ever have to fire.
Finally, FINALLY, we got the new system in. The morning after Susan stormed into my office, I.T. introduced my new best friend, Aristotle. Yeah, I thought the name was lame too, but I.T. guys aren’t usually that creative, and if they were given any more time for a name, we would have ended up with a Tolkien character instead. Hopefully, by the time this program is replaced, I would have retired to a bungalow in Costa Rica. I can’t take this pressure for too much longer.
**
TO: bblazick@management.com, bcrowe@management.com, wcastaneda@management.com, rbell@humanresources.com
FROM: Aristotle
SUBJECT: Annual Report from Employee Evaluating Machine [EEM]
Hello, my name is Aristotle. I was put into effect on January 1st, 2021. I am a replacement for an ineffective EEM that crashed in December of 2020. This is my first report. The following management employees will require new evaluations to identify areas of inefficiency and document possible threats these employees may project upon the company:
MOST IMMEDIATE:
Bill Blazick (General Manager)
Bryan Crowe (Assistant General Manager)
Wendy Castaneda (Secretary to Bill Blazick and Bryan Crowe)
SECONDARY:
All requisite staff.

Babies in Burning Buildings

Babies in Burning Buildings
Meet Joe. Joe wants to be a hero. His brother David was once on TV, and that was a big deal. David had a small antiques shop downtown that was in danger of being pushed out of business when the city had finalized a “redevelopment deal.” The local news stations all used powerful clips of Dave’s speech to the City Council at the last public hearing for the “redevelopment deal.” Joe lost himself in the daydream of this scene—a scene his parents had videotaped and repeatedly played for visiting guests and family members.
Our next speaker is a small business owner by the name of David McDonald. He has a question directed at the entire council.
Representative 1: “Please approach Mr. McDonald.”
David McDonald: “I am not here to plea, or to threaten, nor to chain myself to my building. I know we have lost. I know that it was over from the beginning, and that we never had a chance. This is all a show, and I know that. I also know that this will be on the news, and let me tell you, I plan to take advantage of that.”
Representative 2: “Mr. McDonald, please state your question for the council.”
David McDonald: “My question is for the families watching at home.”
Joe remembered his brother’s face turning to the news cameras with his fist wrapped around the cheap microphone.
“Will my city fund the war against themselves? Will you give money to these men that want to homogenize our town into theirs, so that everything looks the same, including our children’s apathetic faces? Do you still want to work for a boss you can see and speak to on the phone, or do you want to disappear…”
This is was always the most exciting part for Joe and his family. A large security guard escorted Dave away from the microphone as he began to shout. The representatives laughed as the guards carried him away, but Dave broke free to scream into the cameras once more.
“Do not buy ANYTHING!”
Joe concluded his daydream and flipped on the TV to catch up on the local news. A reporter came on discussing current unemployment trends, and he lost interest. He remembered the time he almost made it onto TV. The news had been interviewing witnesses to a horrific fire in Joe’s neighborhood. He had gone out for groceries when the news crews began to arrive. One of the reporters stopped him for an interview.
Reporter: “Sir, what can you tell us about the fire? What have you seen?”
Joe looked around, left then right, then behind.
Joe: “Uhh, well…I really just.”
Reporter: “Were there any children in there that you know of? Did you or anybody else make an attempt to go inside?”
Joe licked his lips, and took another look around him.
Joe: “Actually, well yeah. Yeah, there were two, or no three kids that I, I went and uhh, they got out. They got out with me, or they, well, they followed me out.”
The reporter waved over the rest of his crew.
Reporter: “That’s incredible sir. So you actually led the kids out? Where are they now?
At this time the rest of the news crews were gathered around three firemen, a mother, and her 3-month-old baby. Joe was inching his head over the reporter interviewing him to get a good look at the action. Joe walked around the reporters in the direction of his local grocery and waved goodbye.
Joe: “I’m sorry, but I have to go now.”
The news crew that had circled around Joe finally set their gaze upon the crowd of cameras and firemen 50 feet away.
Reporter: “Shit! Goddamn it!”
Joe walked faster, never turning his head.
Reporter: “Thanks a lot, ASSHOLE!”
When Joe had returned home that day, he checked the station to see if he would make it onto the news. There was a brief mention of “an uncooperative neighbor,” but nothing more. Joe did not consider himself a neighbor, so he figured the snub was probably not directed at him.
The financial stories had ended on the news program he was currently but passively watching, so when the issue of Iraq came up, he decided to stop daydreaming, and really focus on the stories being given to him. The reporter mentioned five more U.S. soldiers that had died in a rescue attempt. The five soldiers had gone into a burning building to try and save the few surviving Iraqi citizens that were stuck under ruble. A bomb had gone off in a small hotel. Joe thought about his sister. She had been a nurse in Kabul right after the invasion in 2001. Their father had been so proud of her. Having been a serviceman himself, his heartache over the risk involved was overshadowed by his pride in his daughter. Gloria served as a nurse for two years in Afghanistan, but never told stories about Afghani children. They were usually about soldiers that needed tourniquets and lots of morphine. Joe figured that things must be different in Afghanistan than in Iraq. Also, the war was different now than it was when Gloria was there. The U.S. soldiers were good guys helping people stay safe from the bad guys. He was sure that his sister would have saved Afghani babies if given the opportunity. Joe remembered his sister’s first dinner, back home with her family.
Joe: “So sis, how many people do you think you saved over there? A hundred? A thousand? I bet that’s gotta feel pretty awesome, huh?”
Joe’s father stared at his plate and cut his steak.
Dad: “Joe, don’t ask your sister questions like that. She barely got home. I’m sure she did her job just fine. Now let’s talk about something else.”
Gloria looked at Dave who had excused himself to take a phone call in the kitchen.
Gloria: “No, it’s alright. I don’t know if I could answer that Joe. I mean, Dad’s right. I just kinda did a job and didn’t really keep track of how many people came in there. I only did ER stuff for a couple months but it was real busy most of the time. Some of it was pretty bad, and sometimes it was just the occasional ankle sprain.”
Joe looked disappointed at her answer. Joe’s father looked up at his children.
Dad: “Dave, get in here. Your sister is talking and you haven’t seen her in two years. So, what would you say you missed most about the U.S., honey? Your brother doesn’t seem to know how good he has it here.”
Gloria perked up at this question.
Gloria: “To tell you the truth, I missed McDonald’s the most.”
Everyone excluding Dave had laughed hysterically at her pun on the restaurant and the family name.
Dad: “No doubt you mean your family and not the burger joint?”
Gloria and her father laughed together as Joe watched in content.
Gloria: “I have to confess. I thought about that joke for months before I got home, and I was just waiting for the right moment. But yeah, I missed both. I never even really liked McDonald’s, the burger joint, until I was neck deep in sand. Then I couldn’t wait to have a Big Mac.”
The report on Iraq that Joe had promised himself to focus on had come and gone. The report didn’t interest him because the reporter never interviewed the heroic soldiers. Unfortunately, that is what Joe was so eager to watch. ‘What were these reporters thinking, if not to get the heroes on TV?’ Joe thought.
After the national and world news stories concluded, the local stories began with a news update. A story had been in progress in Joe’s neighborhood. The reporters had just arrived on the scene.
Reporter: “Jill, we just arrived at the scene of a terrible blaze on Cordial Avenue, at the Prestige apartment complex. We have been told that fire fighters are on their way and that most of the residents have left the building. Others are concerned that some could still be inside. Witnesses we spoke to say that older residents were lagging behind to save their most prized possessions.”
Anchor Woman: “Can you tell us if any children might still be inside, Chuck?”
Reporter: “At his time, Jill, no one can be sure.”
Joe had already leapt from his chair and covered his body in his largest orange coat, a pair of leather gardening gloves, and a baseball cap given to him by his brother Dave.
Joe: “I’m comin’ babies. Joe’s comin’.”
With that, Joe left the building.

A Book Review of Jameson's Postmodernism: Or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism

A Book Review of

Postmodernism: Or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism

By Fredric Jameson

To cover Jameson’s entire text, Postmodernism, is to essentially try and explain one’s surroundings and behaviors in Western culture (in particular the United States) since the Industrial Revolution. That is to say, that Fredric Jameson successfully does this; covering chapter by chapter everything from literature to architecture, and the changing attitudes in everything from Utopia to culture and even film and video (television). Jameson opens the text with an introduction, neither disavowing nor promoting the idea of postmodernism. Instead, Jameson addresses areas in which he sees evidence of a break from the Modernist period, or what he calls “high-modernism.” In an attempt to define what postmodernism might be, and to prove to skeptics that it exists, Jameson has focused on the differences between our own period, postmodernism, and the Modernist period that spans approximately from 1880 to the 1930’s (sometimes referred to the one hundred year period since the Industrial Revolution). This book, although primarily consisting of theory, does have tremendous implications on social behavior, in particular the development of culture under global capitalism. This book, having begun with Jameson’s first essay on postmodernism published in 1984, predicts and sets the stage for what is commonly referred to now as Globalization. In this pre-internet text, Jameson refers to this global system in a few ways: Late Capitalism, Third Stage Capitalism, and Multinational Capitalism. In addressing the symptoms of Late Capitalism seen in Western culture, Jameson’s Marxist point of view becomes clear. Much of the text is spent referring back to “commodity fetishism,” “division of labor,” and a bureaucratic concept of time; the text does this in order to explain how Late Capitalism has affected the psychology of subjects in Western culture. This logic of late capitalism is what Jameson identifies as postmodernism. This review of the book will consolidate, and make commentary, on the social implications of these symptoms, and finally relate the concepts directly to our current state, known as Globalization.
In the introduction, Jameson first informs the reader of the problem in historicizing ourselves within our own period. The problem, he says, is not only that we cannot identify a clear and unique characteristic of our own postmodern behavior, but that we are so obsessed with that idea of encapsulating and labeling ourselves that our past becomes disjointed from us, making our relationship to that past irrelevant to us (xxii). He looks at this obsession of quantifying our time as “schizophrenic” in nature (xxii). This problem is addressed later in the chapters on literature and film, in which the narration of our own history gets projected in those mediums, often affecting social outcomes and society’s perception of reality itself. This problem of how postmodern society views time is addressed throughout the book, occasionally referring back to Marx’s idea of commodity, and invoking in the sociologists mind, Weber’s concern with the work clock.
The first chapter of the book, coming from Jameson’s first essay on the topic in 1984, is titled The Culture of Late Capitalism. This original essay focuses on the behaviors of what might be called a postmodern period. Jameson sees the culture responding to an overwhelming feeling that things are coming to an end. This can, and often does, mean that people become preoccupied with the idea of Armageddon, the End Times, and so on, but Jameson is not limiting our culture only to this symptom. Since the 1950’s, the period in which Jameson begins to see postmodernism emerge, people anticipate the end of Communism, the end of definitive social classes (within the constructs of the American Dream), and perhaps the end of ideology itself (1). The end of ideology is expressed in the artist’s cynicism that nothing new may be created, or ‘it has all been done before.’ The focus on art in culture is important because the any period of literature and art (Romanticism, Victorian, Modernist) has largely been defined by the art that period has produced and the social implications of that art. Jameson’s concern is that in postmodern times, less and less emphasis is placed on these types of achievements (artistic) and more emphasis is placed on technological advancements that increase efficiency of production on the macro scale (Industry) and on the micro scale (the family). Another problem is that the art postmodernists tend to develop is either meaningless or simply too abstract to assign any social meaning to it. Many postmodern artists do this on purpose in order to avoid being pigeonholed into a genre or classification. This in and of itself is a symptom of postmodernism, where the attempt to avoid classification becomes its own classification. Other examples of this will be covered later on. Without larger understandings of how this or that particular work of art situates itself into society, and what it says about society, the image (painting) or idea (literature) can only function on a superficial and surface level—lacking entirely social and historic significance.
Jameson views this “break” from Industrial to “postindustrial society,” as being “designated by consumer society, media society, information society, electronic society…and the like” (3). This transition becomes important in explaining the function of cynicism in the older Modernist period because it feeds the cynicism in postmodernism that prevents us from labeling ourselves definitively within our place in time. As the middle class rose in strength here in the United States as well as in Europe in the Industrial Revolution, the people rejected ideas of master narratives, or state issued accounts of our history (i.e. how we are to represent ourselves). This challenge to the state power is seen in the art and literature throughout this period. Jameson reminds the reader of this, to make apparent the origin of our current postmodern cynicism that prevents us from accepting a master narrative, forever limiting our representation of ourselves in that time (which again, defines us as such). The problem, Jameson feels, with rejecting this all-encompassing description or narrative, is that it is only within a consensus or “hegemonic norm that genuine difference could be measured and assessed” (6). How can we separate our own time/period/era from that of the Modernists if there is no consensus on what it is we are doing and why? This is where Marx’s idea of ideology comes in to play. We do not know what it is we are doing that is any different than before, but we need to attempt to understand our subject position to the larger global system in which we operate, if we are ever to understand our role in a historical narrative.
This envisioning, or “cognitive mapping,” is another problem Jameson sees developing in the postmodern mind. Our obsessional division of time coupled with our need to assign definitive images (simulacrum) to periods and cultures has made the mental filing process difficult in a world economic system (5-6). One hundred years ago, the average person would only need to map in their minds a regional area spanning a dozen or so square miles (if that) and a small economic system (local market and so on). Jameson argues that in an expanding multinational economy and with ever expanding military operations around the world, it becomes difficult for the average person to understand their place in this larger system (5). The result is that revolutions become paralyzed, seen as an insignificant mise en scene, in the larger global system (5). Again, the general sentiment is, ‘it’s all been done before,’ and ‘how cute, another uprising.’ In fact, all movements and ideologies in postmodernism immediately get reduced to fad upon being identified in society. This is a direct result of the “schizophrenic” labeling, quantifying, and reification of ideas. This process essentially makes any idea and/or movement a commodity.
Jameson spends some time in chapter 1 describing the differences in artwork coming from both the high-modernist (Industrial) age, and the postmodern (postindustrial) age (8-18). He compares the paintings of van Gogh to Andy Warhol, when looking and portraits of footwear through the last 100 years. The purpose behind this comparison is to once again give example of how postmodern images are without any social commentary lying underneath. Van Gogh’s painting as well as many others from the Modernist (Industrial) age, used representations of torn and tattered work boots to give commentary of a larger social context (conditions of exploited workers). The Andy Warhol painting Diamond Dust Shoes was merely an interesting look at many women’s shoes, perhaps in a shop window (8-18). An argument can be made that because Warhol’s painting looked just like an advertisement, the painting could be understood as a commentary on advertising. The bottom line is that there is no consensus for this assertion and hence the painting gets reduced to ‘just an image,’ or ‘just a commodity,’ hence ‘just a fetish’ [Marx].
The removal of sociological relevance and hermeneutic relation from these images extends well beyond paintings and into virtually everything in postmodernism. Photography is guilty of removing the sociological implications of poverty, squalor, wreckage, destruction, war, etc. (30-34). These images become respected for their artistic merit and the historical and sociological significance is ignored. This attitude toward the image, is according to Jameson, a direct result of the logic of late capitalism, commodifying everything we see instantaneously. This is precisely what Marx meant when he addressed the problem of “commodity fetishism.”
The book continues to explore the concept of image in postmodernism through experimental video in the 1970’s. Edward Rankus, working at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, produced a video entitled AlienNATION, in which seemingly random images are placed in succession of each other, signifying nothing for the viewer (79). This art piece, for Jameson, captures succinctly the postmodern attitudes toward the image. The interesting thing about Jameson’s interpretation of this video, is not that the images cannot mean anything to us, but rather that the images contain so many immediate connections to brand names, jingles, commercials, family memories, and even historical context (social class, racism, gender etc.), that our postmodern minds get lost, so to speak, in the connections we are making so immediately. Jameson, never assumes that our postmodern minds are ‘stupid,’ and perhaps incapable of making deep connections, but on the contrary he is saying that the Modernist deconstruction of meanings within a text are so immediate, that we dismiss many of those previously made connections (social class, racism, gender, etc) and move on to try and further disassociate the image into all of its infinite factions and connections. These are what Jameson refers to as “deeply embedded” simulacrum (85). This is a prime example of how a subject can ‘get lost’ in the postmodern age and exhibit “schizophrenic” attachments to stimuli, inhibiting larger social significance to solidify in the subjects mind.
The problem of orientation in the “world economic system” is expressed through the architecture of the postmodern period as well. Jameson sees Spatial Equivalents in the World System, in chapter 4. The exemplary postmodern building for Jameson is the house of a postmodern architect, Frank Gehry. Gehry’s house is an old 1920’s house with red Spanish tiles on the roof. When the house was purchased in the early 1970’s, Gehry decided to keep a portion of the old house in tact, while demolishing the rest and rebuilding a modern addition. The modern part of the house has a glass cube over the kitchen and sharp protruding corrugated metal and fencing surrounding it. The older part of the house is kept in its original 1920’s style, including the furniture. This monstrosity can be seen from the outside as quite a disorienting mess, but from the inside is seen as innovative and stunningly beautiful (97-129). Jameson articulates this embodiment of the postmodern problem:
“In a more articulated way it confronts us with the paradoxical impossibilities (not least the impossibilities of representation) which are inherent in this latest evolutionary mutation of late capitalism toward “something else” which is no longer family or neighborhood, city or state, nor even nation, but as abstract and nonsituated as the placelessness of a room in an international chain of motels or the anonymous space of airport terminals that all run together in your mind.” (116)
This impossibility, of situating our mind in a transitional period that seems to make no consolation for its incongruity, creates a disjunction and isolation of the subject from the whole of the system. A resulting speculation might be deviation from social norms, but even worse is the total lack of a norm to begin with. These earlier stages of Globalization lack the meta-narrative needed to understand our subject position to the larger system. Each piece (person, building, idea) making up the larger system must be categorized as separate in order to prevent disorientation. This requires assigning quick referents (images) to our understanding of things, abandoning any attempt to make sociological connections as the Modernists did; it would simply be too much for our minds to handle (or so we may think). The cry of the Modernist was to “make it new” [Pound] but because this very attitude is seen as a dead discourse assigned to a dead period containing old texts and dead men, its useful application in today’s society is rendered impotent (121). “The problem is still representation,” Jameson says (127). Just as in Gehry’s house, unable to fluidly connect the dots from the old to the new, we see people’s difficulty in representing through the image, an overwhelming “complex global network” that appears to swallow any attempt to reify it (127). To summarize, Frank Gehry’s house is the closest thing people have to a representation of the dialectical problem of cognitive mapping and historical placement of two period antagonisms (high-modernism and postmodernism).
The social implications of this dialectic can also be seen in American’s inability to understand world poverty as it relates to global capitalism. If capitalism works and reasonably sustains families, how can third world poverty conditions exist in capitalist societies, ours included? This idea antagonizes the mind’s eye, where America is situated at the center of technological superiority, abundance and comfort, and yet its system can create such exploitive poverty (128). In order to cope with the problem of orientation in such a complex global system, the postmodern mind can simply ignore social consequence and focus on surface meaning, primarily images. The new concern for spatial and cognitive mapping supersedes phenomenological concerns. Generalities are then made about people in certain cultures, generally reacting certain ways to the market—effects of advertising, fluctuations in economy, popular cultural fads etc. (134-135). This of course is the truth behind demographic research done by large corporations, not the academic concerns of establishing universal truths within cultural studies.
The final and most important social implication of Jameson’s concern with postmodern thought is its connection to Marxist “use-value” (231-235). The central connection between postmodern reification and quantification of periods, images, movements… you name it, removes the social connections and implications of these things on the rest of society, creating a mystery of its “exchange value.” If every idea, image and revolution is seen as remote, isolated and insignificant to the whole system, then “the whole mystery of the form of value lies hidden” (231 [Jameson quoting Marx]). An individual with his/her lifestyle or ideology has no “use-value” but when that individual gains enough members in that revolution or ideology, the movement is quickly assigned a “value or equivalence” (231). In this way, any culture or lifestyle, or social movement, can be assigned to a specific image and sold accordingly, turned into a “commodity fetish.” Examples of this can be seen in every teenager’s choice of social dissidence and rebellion against authority. Any and all forms of rebellion that may have happened organically (punk rock and do-it-yourself culture and the ecological movement known as the Green movement) can be purchased as an image at the local shopping mall in the form of commodities. One only needs to purchase a t-shirt of the Cuban revolutionary Che Gueverra, buy spikes for their clothing or simply a reusable handbag for the grocery store. The only unifying principle behind all of these images (reified principles) becomes global capitalism itself.
When words like “man” or “tree” are used to represent a universal, there is a type of “exchange” (Marxian equivalence) taking place (233). The postmodern mind assigns images and labels for all kinds of people and behaviors but has no universal principle to connect with, other than global capitalism as its underlying system. All of the semi-autonomous ways of thinking (Modernist, postindustrialist, poststructuralist, psychoanalytic, etc) then just become commodities with “exchange values,” within this system (235-240). This is how Jameson makes the connection that global capitalism is indeed a Marxist socialism. No one culture, idea, academic discourse, or politics is revered over another, but only seen as having some “use-value” in the global trading system. “The object thus elected has an impossible role to fulfill because it is both a thing in the world, with a potential value just like all the other things, and something removed from the object world that is called upon, from the outside, to mediate the latter’s new value system” (235). This goes for value systems (morals) held by differing cultures as well. What happens is that a value system in one culture now must be situated with some “exchange value” in relation to the dominant cultural power operating within global capitalism (United States). The values held in the Middle East, in regards to women for instance, are now assigned an ‘exchange value” in regards to our own value system (265). There in lies the problem—equivalence of these reified-simplified representations of these differing cultures is made without regard to their historical and sociological origin.
In our constant dissection of concepts and time into new labels and sub-systems, along with their corresponding-representative images, children get integrated and assimilated into this bureaucratic and “schizophrenic” system, losing all concept of free-play in free-time. Play-dates are arranged and organized down to the minute, from birth to after-school soccer practice. The very idea of freedom and equality can only exist (or be understood) in a system that limits or prohibits it (262-263). The commodifying of time, “time is money,” extends into new territory, where reality itself can be assigned an image and sold. Truth, facts, and information all pulled from “reality” and packaged and sensationalized; brands such as FOX NEWS, CNN, and MSNBC, reify and commodify information to a point that reality itself loses its social impact when delivered through this glossy, postmodern, image-obsessed, commodity obsessed, media format. Films no longer attempt to solidify our social struggles through narrative as the rising middle class once projected themselves into the Victorian novel because the image itself is now king (279-283). Jameson could not have predicted something like the Internet as the solution to this disorientation in the world system, but he speculates throughout the book that technology will in fact make attempts to keep track of all our assigned images. His speculation comes from the use of media (primarily television and film) to assign images for us, to all parts of the world and their corresponding cultures. This, he believes, is perhaps our best attempt at orientation in a postmodern world, however ineffective in its ability to contain all sociological implications. Only in a newly emerging virtual reality, or virtual space (the internet), can the postmodern mind begin to situate itself in this ever increasingly complex world system—facilitated of course through images, on a screen.

Work Cited
Jameson, Fredric. Postmodernism: Or, The Logic of Late Capitalism. Duke University Press. Durham NC, 1991.

God's Subsidies Contract [first draft]

God’s Subsidies Contract

Jesse Bentley woke from an unimaginable nightmare. This had been the third time in one week he had the same dream. God, had been trying to communicate with him for sometime now, but for Jesse, the message seemed bleak and horrifying. In the dream, God sat at a large wooden desk in an expensive man’s suit. Next to God stood Jesse’s grandson, David. Jesse’s perception of the room would deepen and his head would hurt when David and a briefcase became visible. As instructed by God, Jesse moved forward in the empty echoing room toward the one mahogany desk, a leather briefcase held by David, and a long fountain pen sitting in an empty cup. As Jesse approached, stepping ever gently on the loud hardwood floors, God would turn to his side and whisper something inaudible to Jesse’s grandson. In the dream, David was a grown man of twenty, with a square jaw and austere posture, carrying with dignity, a bright red tie. Eventually, Jesse made his way to the edge of the desk and stopped moving, looking only at David and never into the eyes of the Lord.
“Yes, my Lord. How can I fulfill my duty as your humble servant?”
God always coughed at this point in the dream. David interpreted each cough like a secret language. David would then turn to his grandfather and deliver God’s instructions.
“The Lord understands that you are having trouble with your farm.”
Jesse would then emphatically shake his head up and down to indicate his agreement, but always averting his eyes. God coughed again.
“The Lord knows that you wish to expand your agribusiness, and the Lord knows how.”
Jesse again shakes uncontrollably, but in this dream, he has no voice, and no ability to speak. It is here, always, that Jesse cries and falls to his knees, clasping his hands together, as he turns to his grandson David and begs for help.
“David, David. Please. Please tell the Lord that I will do anything. The farm must grow. How can I make this land produce an abundance only God can facilitate?”
The final scene—David tells Jesse to give his arm to God. Jesse proudly rolls up his sleeves to reveal the healthy blue veins rushing blood to all the corners of his earthly body. David keeps a stern face as he plunges the fountain pen into Jesse’s arm and extracts the vibrant red into the instrument. Jesse cries with enjoyment. Just before Jesse wakes up and is torn from the cold echoing room with a desk, he hears God speak a deafening and terrifying boom.
“SIGN HERE.”
On this day, March 8, 1929, Jesse Bentley abandoned his bed to splash the dry cracks in his face and stimulate his nerves. He washed and dressed and made his way down to see the blooming buds on his new strawberry crops. The buds had already begun bursting into plump red berries, dripping with dew and glistening with sunlight. Jesse touched the berries with his fingertips as his grandson looked down from the storage barn. David had just finished putting in windows, hoping to turn the attic of the barn into a fully functioning office in time for harvest. When Jesse saw his proud grandson staring down and out of those windows, Jesse felt a surge of gratitude sweep through his body, and he fell to his knees thanking God for all that had been given him. When Jesse wiped the tears from his eyes, he turned to get another look at his proud grandson, but David had turned his back.
The sound of a large truck could be heard coming up the dirt road to the Bentley farm. The truck was carrying a new pesticide that David had suggested they try. Jesse met the man near the new and improved storage barn.
“Sign here,” the man said.
Jesse smiled at the man.
“So, uh, God’s really smilin’ down on us now wouldn’ ya say?”
The man crewed a toothpick and poked at the packing slip with his pen.
“How’d ya figure?”
Jesse breathed the air deep into his lungs and grabbed the pen. He waved the pen about in the air and looked at his strawberries.
“Well, ma crops are bloomin’ early, my grandson’s got some new machines in that are doin’ the work of thirty or so…” Bentley stared at the man a second. “The air’s good an’ crisp. Yes sir, it’s a fine year to be a farmer.”
The man pointed again at the papers.
“Sir, sign please.”
Jesse took the pen and took his time signing the documents with the cursive he had meticulously practiced as a boy. The man stuck the pen behind his ear and closed the gate to his truck.
“You know sir, I’m sure if I can bring up the next shipment unless you start orderin’ a little more o’ this stuff.”
Jesse looked at the man, but couldn’t yet think of the question he wanted to ask.
“Well, it’s just that there’s that big factory farm between here Cleveland, and their orderin’ two and three trucks full of the stuff every week. The guy there tells me their usin’ airplanes to drop the stuff over the crops.”
Jesse looked to the sky for evidence.
“Well, can’t say I believe that. They prob’ly figured out a way to use it as a fertilizer and are stockin’ up so’s no one else can have any,” Jesse said.
The man got into his truck and leaned out of the window with his arm grasping the side of the truck.
“All’s I know sir is, if you aren’t pullin’ at least double what you are now, it ain’t gunna be worth my time to keep comin’ all the way out here just for two stinkin’ barrels.”
Jesse looked back at his strawberries as the truck drove away. They looked smaller. In the last two years, Jesse had prayed to God harder than he ever had before. When he first heard about the farm opening just outside of Cleveland he knew that it was too far away to compete with Bentley farms in Winesburg. The transport would cost too much to make them much profit. His prayer in the mornings grew to three times before lunch when he heard that the farm covered almost three miles of land. Jesse prayed a dozen times before dinner when he heard that larger warehouses made of corrugated metal housed enough food for the state of Ohio to eat for one year. ‘Impossible,’ he thought. “Tell me it isn’t true God.” He said this moving through the house as David brought more and more material through house and plots of land, all headed to the new additions of the old barn. “Tell me it isn’t true God, that you haven’t given the abundance you promised me to an undeserving heathen. Tell me God, does this man, this successful man serve you any better? How many times a day does he pray to you Lord? I will double it, triple it…I will do anything.”
In the coming years the Bentley farm had suffered hard losses—drought, tough competition from the farm up the road, and the worst economic collapse the country has ever seen. But the farm survived. The farm survived because David had planned for the worst. David insulated the barn to protect the harvested fruits and vegetables from bad weather. David had hired desperate men to work for pennies after the crash. David had purchased insurance and received enormous tax breaks because his grandfather had built a church on the farm when he was just a boy. The government helped too. The president of the United States had done a lot to keep the Bentleys and other small farmers from disappearing by providing some government money to get them through the tough times. As David became more and more involved in the operations of the family farm, Jesse grew a little sad at the distance the business had created between him and his grandson. Despite this isolation Jesse felt, he still prayed twenty times a day, thanking God for the abundance he had showered them with. The town had steady work on the farm for anyone struggling to get by, the farm continued growing, and Jesse could see his strawberries stretching into the distance nearly any month of the year.
As Jesse got older he spent less and less time near the new barn and more time in his humble little church at the edge of his property. There, Jesse grew a small garden of lettuce and tomatoes, basil and mint, corn and squash—just enough for a thanksgiving dinner. Now and again Jesse heard the trucks drive up the new paved road, each time the engines got louder and trucks got bigger. David stopped greeting the men at the trucks, but instead sent a young man to sign the packing slips. One day, the young man that signed the papers came to speak with Jesse.
“Sir, excuse me sir.”
Jesse looked up at the young man form his garden. He had been pulling off the leaves the bugs had been eating. He played with a ladybug that had crawled onto his gardening gloves.
“Well look at that,” Jesse said. “She’s crawling all the way up my arm. Can you believe that?”
Jesse smiled as the ladybug made her way up and down the old cracked farmer’s skin.
“Sir, I need to talk with you about this set-up you got goin’ here.”
Jesse looked up but the sun hit his eyes. He looked away and at the church.
“What do you need son? David’s the one you need to be talkin’ to, not me.”
The young man pointed to a blinding white piece of paper reflecting the sun’s rays. Jesse moved his eyes back around and saw a pen in the young man’s hand.
“What’d ya need son? My grandson’s the one that ___”
The young man handed Jesse Bentley a firm clipboard with a letter attached to it, embossed with a gold-leaf letterhead reading, Bentley’s Old Time Farms.
“The boss needs this plot sir. We’re expanding the treatment plant and the new drainage pipe needs to go through this plot to get to the river.”
Jesse looked at the young man and stood up. He had little breath in him, but he managed to get out one word, “David?”
The young man pointed once again at the golden letterhead with Jesse’s name on it.
“You can always move the garden and rebuild the church sir. Sign here.”

The Norden-Cambria Conflict

The Norden-Cambria Conflict
I’m here in the center of total chaos. Norden’s economy has collapsed and the people are out of control. I spoke to a college student here in Norden, who discussed with our crew, her family’s struggles over the last few years.
Student: My father owned a bank that has been in the family since his grandfather settled in Norden. My great-grandfather started the first local branch in Larsberg with money the family made from farming when the town was developing its first paved road.
Journalist: And what happened? You said he used to have the bank, so…what hap__
Student: We ended up selling it, and luckily, we have enough money to hopefully keep us safe until things settle down here. What’s interesting is how we ended up with that money—how we ended up getting more than we expected.
Journalist: So how did you manage to sell it when even the major banks couldn’t pay their loans? I can’t imagine how a small, or sorry, modest bank could sur__
Student: Sure, sure. That’s what we were thinking. The loans that were crippling the bigger banks are precisely why we got out of it all ok.
At his time, an enormous bomb had gone off, no more than two or three kilometers from us. That is what the pop was on the audio that you heard. Let us now return to the student’s story, central to understanding the collapse of the Norden economy, and the beginning of the Norden-Cambria conflict.
Journalist: Did your father not have these crippling loans?
Student: Exactly, exactly. My dad needed to sell the bank in the first place because he just couldn’t compete with the major banks, and all that money they were making selling these giant loans to other banks. The majors felt like they could keep buying as long as the loan market kept expanding the way it was. None of them ever thought it would end, or if it did they never wanted to consider when and where it would end. Guys were making millions every week selling these gigantic, unimaginable loans in every sector you can imagine. My dad was too scared to get involved in the buy-up because he couldn’t back it up with the few assets his bank had. He would never be able to repay a 4 billion dollar loan to weapons manufacturers if he had to first get the money from a larger bank. The larger bank would come knocking and our family business would be over, so we struggled. Our bank was doing all right, but it wasn’t worth that much.
Journalist: So, how did you make any money then when you sold it?
Student: The majors were all in the hole millions of dollars. My dad’s little bank was one of the few that had no debts and a handful of assets. Once he put it up for sale, the majors were practically stepping over each other to buy us out. They needed the assets I guess.
This is where my brief interview with the girl ended. Just beyond the Larsberg district, there was gunfire and shouting. The young girl asked me to keep her anonymous because of her father’s wealth. She explained to me that the rioters and looters would kidnap, rape, and ransom her in an instant if she exposed her name to any radio network.
Larsberg, only a few years ago, was considered one of the prime real-estate areas in all of Norden. At one time, her neighborhood had a modest population of only one thousand people, give or take a dozen, but contained 70% of the nation’s total capital. After the invasion of the Cambrian militia, the neighbors were very quickly wiped out, either financially or existentially. Those that were wise enough to anticipate the fall of the Norden economy left early, and moved their wealth to more tropical countries halfway across the globe.
Our crew caught up with the former Norden Director of Warfare in Buenos Aires, two weeks into the Cambrian invasion of Norden. The former director had been staying in a hotel downtown, and agreed to meet us in the lobby over lunch.
Journalist: Director Thordendal- excuse me- former Director, you were recently interviewed by Cambrian journalists in an investigation concerning whether or not you had prior knowledge of the attack. Would you care to elaborate on this issue?
DirectorT: Nothing new. This is nothing new. Every country throughout history immediately looks to the commanders of war as suspects in a coup.
Journalist: So, what do you say to those who point to documents suggesting Cambrian military sent memos to your staff containing coordinates that correspond to the first breaches of the Norden border in the first hours of the conflict?
DirectorT: I will tell you the same thing I told the others. These were coordinates that spies leaked to us in order to put in place the necessary forces.
In between sips of a Corona cervesa, Director Thordendal assured me that his young successor, Director Havenstrom, was more than capable of handling the Cambrian Militia. I asked him about the reasons being discussed, in the opening weeks, for the invasion of the Cambrian militia immediately following the financial collapse of the Norden economy.
Journalist: Mr. Thordendal, many people have questioned the reasoning behind the Cambrian attack following the economic crash in Norden. Can you help our listeners to understand why this happened, and why now?
The whirring sound you hear in the background is a combination of the wind hitting the former Director’s beer bottle and some intermittent whispering between Mr. Thordendal and two men that had brought him his lunch along with a credit card and a few pieces of paper. There appeared to be a short squabble over the bill before the former director reluctantly gave a signature to the waiter while a man in an expensive looking suit waited patiently a few feet away. The former director sat back down and grabbed at his new icy beverage containing two colorful toothpicks and one glass straw.
DirectorT: Look, I don’t have all the answers. That’s what the new guy is supposed to figure out. Now if you please, I have to get back to my lunch.
With only a few days left before our story was to be finished, our crew returned to Norden for some answers from the new Director of Warfare, Tomas Havenstrom.
Journalist: Director Havenstrom, can you tell us what you have discovered about this conflict since you took over Director Thordendal’s position?
Director: Lady, I don’t have time. You know how sometimes a boxing match in Vegas can be rigged so that the guys in the front row can make a killing—and their blonde wives are getting spit and blood sprayed onto their faces—meanwhile their both smiling at each other, gettin’ turned on with all that money, anger, and blood floatin’ around?
Journalist: Are you saying that__
Director: I’m not finished. Well, you know how the suits are sittin’ there lickin’ their lips while the tired black guys are beatin’ the hell out of each other—the same guys that would be rotating their tires, stealing their car stereos, selling them cocaine, or …
Journalist: So, if I can just guess here what you are trying to__
Director: If I can just finish my thought—Look, the boxers know. These half retarded laborers-turned-boxers know. Both of them know. They still gotta fight lady. They still gotta fight. So place your bet, and get the f__k out of my way. Now if you’ll excuse me.
The profanity that was bleeped out at the end was not essential to the story. However, if the listeners are interested in a full transcript of each of these interviews, please log onto our website where you can purchase the full story (credit cards only). This program is made possible by Liberty Mutual and The South American Primary Bank.

Don't forget about My Birthday

Don’t Forget about My Birthday
September 4th, 2009
One more week. One more week and I’ll be 16. I dropped hints for the last two damn years, so they better get it for me. My stupid brother doesn’t think they will but what does he know? He’s a goddamned retard. He got a truck when he turned 16, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t get one. His truck is alright. It’s silver, which is stupid, but he lifted it and put some bigger tires on, so at least it looks a little cooler. Last year my retard parents gave me a stupid gift card to the mall. What am I ‘sposed to do with that? I bought some video games but they’re all played out. They’re boring now. One more week. One more week. They better get it. They better get it.
September 5th, 2009
I dropped a few more hints to my mom. Actually, I straight up told that bitch, “Mom, I want a truck for my birthday.” She gave me that stupid parent response, “We’ll see,” as if I don’t know what that means. She’ll get it. She just wants me to think I might not get it so I’ll be surprised. Don’t they know they can’t fool me anymore? My retard brother deleted my blog account today. Piece of shit is gunna pay. He’ll feel like shit when he realizes my truck is gunna be ten times better than his. I won’t even have to customize mine like he did. I bet my dad will do all the work for me so I won’t have to blow all my money fixing it up like Randy did. I changed my blog account password so there’s no way Randy’s gunna crack that shit now. If he does, I’ll crack his goddamned face in! I’ll take that baseball bat of his right and wipe that skinny, pale, peach fuzz, buck-toothed fuckin’ grin right off his face. Then I’ll take his Kansas City Chiefs hat and crap all over it.
September 6th, 2009
My dad picked me up from school today in the station wagon. Why does this whole family insist on making me look like a retard? I hate him. My dad the big goober with his high-water khaki shorts on up to his nipples and those stupid novelty t-shirts of his. One of ‘em says For every animal you don’t eat, I’m gunna eat three. God I hate them all. The worst part is I couldn’t tell him what an asshole he was for embarrassing me like that because I want to make sure I get that truck. What did he think he was doing? They do it on purpose. Always trying to embarrass me and make me feel like a retard. Once I get that truck though, I’ll be outta here. I’ll steal my mom’s bankcard; pull everything I can out of the ATM and go work for EA or Microsoft testing video games. They won’t give a shit that I don’t have a degree when they see how much I know about gaming. Fuck homework. I’m gunna play video games for a living and these assholes are gunna really feel stupid when they realize I played them for the truck and their money. HA!
September 7th, 2009
‘Jack, when are you gunna clean your room? When are you gunna? JACK! JACK! JACK! JACK! JACK!’ SHUT THE FUCK UP MOM!
She comes into my room with that stupid house coat on. The thing is practically a muumuu. I could even see her old flabby titties bouncin’ around in there. Lose some weight Ma! Anyway, she comes in here like it’s her room with that tent of a house coat on and her bleached blonde hair as big as a house, smoking a nasty long cigarette demanding I clean my room. She damn well knows I don’t allow shoes in here and what does she do? She wears those dirty ass flip-flops in here that she just had on outside.
The scene went somethin’ like this.
She opened the door all lazy and tired. She flip-flops into the room with that old-lady cigarette dangling between her long chipped red fingernails practically knocking over my WWF figurines.
“Jack, when are gunna clean up this pig sty?”
She had that glassy look in her eyes like she was hung over again. I shut off my computer monitor, cuz what business is it of hers to look at my stuff?
“Mom, I’m doing stuff right now. I’ll do it later.”
She turned away from me huffing and puffing away on her cigarette staring at my stuff like it was garbage. What would she know? All she likes are stupid ceramic figurines and a bunch of useless crap.
“Well, that’s what you said nearly two weeks ago and I ain’t seen you do shit yet?”
The stupid dirty bitch put her cigarette out in my cup of Dr. Pepper. Can you believe that? This is the kind of bullshit I have to put up with from these retards.
GOD DAMMIT. WHEN IS THIS BITCH GOING TO SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE!? I told her like five fucking times this week to pick me up some pizza rolls at the grocery store and she still hasn’t done it so why do I have to clean my room, huh? Give a little, get a little mom. Is it really too much to ask for one stupid thing from the store? It’s all I asked for and she couldn’t even do that. Randy cancelled MY GOD DAMN BLOG ACCOUNT THAT STUPID ASSHOLE IDIOT! I’m gunna kill him. I’m gunna kill him. I’M GOING TO KILL HIM. At the very least I’m bleachin’ his best pair of Levis.
There she is again with that shouting. “Jack, did you clean your room yet?” “Jack if you clean your room I’ll go to the store and get your pizza rolls ok?” Fucking Bitch. I’m tryin’ to do stuff here. Hold on. BRB.
Alright I’m back. Once again I told her I was doin’ stuff. What does she do? Storms right back into my room and treats me like I’m her fucking slave. First of all she slammed my door open and put a fist size hole in the drywall and my god damn Randy Travis poster.
She’s yelling at me from across the fucking house. She’s ALWAYS got to be yellin’. Then she wonders why I’m pissed off at her all the time. Why can’t she come in here and talk to me like a civilized person?
Instead, she storms in here, knockin’ over all my stuff and grabs me behind the ear talkin’ to me through her teeth like a god damn animal with her stinkin’ old-lady breath all up in my face.
“No Jack. No, god dammit. Your father is havin’ people from work over and he’s tellin’ you to do it right now, got it?”
Then she flip-flops outta my room like the fat tard that she is.
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Finally finished my stupid room. I finished it in like 10 minutes. That’ll show her. She thinks she can get me away from the computer with these stupid chores but how’s she gunna know I just shoved everything in my closet? No one’s allowed in there anyway. I’m gunna play World of Warcraft right now. BRB.
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FUCKING RANDY! FUCKING STUPID PIECE OF SHIT BROTHER! MOTHER FUCKER CANCELLED MY WORLD OF WARCRAFT ACCOUNT! I’m really gunna kill that piece of shit now.
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ARRRggghhhh! I tell my mom what Randy did and what does she do? NOTHING! UUUUURRRGGGHHH! She’s pissed at me. Not Randy, me. Just cuz I yelled at her. What else was I gunna do? She yells at me from across the house. Why can’t I do it, huh? Double fuckin’ standard, that’s what it is. So yeah, I yelled.
“Mom! Mom! Get in here! Mom! God Damn Randy! You jerk. You stupid jerk. I can hear you laughing outside the door Randy.”
And I could too. Piece of shit was laughing at me from behind my bedroom door.
“I can here you asshole. I hear you laughing,” I told him.
Then when forever went by and my mom just sat on her fat ass, I yelled.
“UURRRRGGGHHHH! Mom! Fuckin’ do somethin’ already!”
Then I get slapped. Me, not Randy, the real perpetrator. All I did was cuss and I get slapped. Now I’m gunna have to pay for a new World of Warcraft account out of my allowance. No. NO! Fuck that! My mom’s payin’ for it, whether she knows about it or not.
So what’s the one thing my mom does say to me?
“What’s the problem Jack? Your father has people from work over. Do you have to make such a big deal over everything?”
What a bitch.
See? See what I mean? They’re so stupid they can’t even see who’s at fault here. Stupid brother deletes my World of Warcraft account and my blog account and she yells at me instead. RETARDS! They better get me that truck. They better. I’m gunna run right over Randy. vvVVRRROOOOOM! Right over his pimple covered stupid head. SPLAT!
September 8th, 2009
It was so funny. Today in class, people were looking at me like, “Do I get an invitation? Am I gunna get to go to your birthday party?” Pppfffftttt. You wish dorks. I only gave out two. I’m pretty selective. I gave one to Jenny and one to Todd. Of course Todd gets one, cuz he’s my best friend, the only one that deserves one, and Jenny just cuz she’s hot and it would be nice to have a hot chick at my party for me and Todd to look at. She’s kinda stupid, but what do I care? Most chicks are stupid anyways. She actually did not know who Randy Travis was. Can you believe that? I went up to her in the cafeteria the other day when she was sitting with the other cheerleader bimbos. I plopped down next to her to let her know who’s boss. Chicks like it when your authoritative ‘n shit.
“Hey Jenny. What’s up? D’ya get the new Randy Travis cd?”
She flipped her bleached blonde hair over her shoulders and kept her bimbo eyes on her lunch. She practically ignored me. All she said was, “No but my sister gave me an old Def Leopard cd and her Alanis Morissette collection.” She just chomped away at her bubble gum and her stupid friends just giggled and got up to leave. I told her those bands were gay and if she wanted to listen to somethin’ good to give me a call.
When she sees my new truck though, she’ll notice me then. Guys aren’t that shallow but you know chicks are. I see all those cheerleader chicks hangin’ out with all the tough football guys with their big lifted 4x4s covered with mud. She’s gunna shit when she sees mine. Damn she’s hot. I’m gunna go take care of business before I slept. Damn she’s hot.
September 9th, 2009
Bitch totally ignored me in the lunchroom today. I sat down at her table to tell her how cool my party was gunna be. This time I didn’t plop down. I eased in there like a cheetah, right before he moves in for the kill. Real smooth. Just like how I’d fuck her.
“Hey Jenny. Boy I feel sorry for the suckers who aren’t gunna be there at my party,” I told her.
I did this while looking at all the other retards in the cafeteria, but not at her. Chicks like it when you ignore them.
She stood up and left her tray of food behind like I was some kinda disease. Bitch was even wiping her hands off with a wet-nap, as if she’d catch something from me. She used the expensive kind too. I think they were Kleenex brand. Why can’t she just use a regular napkin like a normal person? She made up some bullshit excuse about needing to do some homework before class. If she doesn’t get with me, she’s gunna feel like a retard when I get my new truck on Friday. Then I’ll just go out with her friend Priscilla and make her super jealous. I’ll arrange for Jenny to come to my truck for something when Priscilla’s goin’ down on me. Then she’ll feel like shit. Two more days. Two more days.
September 10th, 2009
Finally got back on World of Warcraft. My mom had to pay for me to get a new account. I told her I’d burn down the god damn house if she was gunna let Randy get away with that. She knows I was bluffin’ though. Hopefully. I don’t want to mess up getting the truck. I did the dishes for her after dinner just to make sure. I tried calling Jenny to remind her about the party but her mom said she wasn’t home. I left like four messages so she better remember. Todd came over and played video games today. Todd’s kind of a dirty S.O.B. but I don’t mind. He’s a hell of a gamer. Even if he is like that kid from those Peanuts cartoons. What’s his name? Pigpen! You know, the one that always had a cloud of dust around him. I told him my plan. He thought it was sweet that I’d be playin’ video games for a livin’. He asked me if I could get him a job when I get to Silicon Valley but I just gave him that stupid parents’ answer, “We’ll see.” One more day. One more day, and I’m outta here.
September 11th, 2009
I did it! I did it! I couldn’t believe how easy it was, but I did it. I couldn’t believe how surprised those fucking retards were. They got what they deserved though. I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad at all. I feel great. How could they? How could they have done that to me and not know what was comin’ to ‘em? Cuz they’re RETARDS THAT’S WHY! What did they expect me to do, wheeling out that piece of junk clunker on me? Right next to the garage door, where of course the first thing I would grab would be Randy’s bat. How come they looked so surprised huh? How come they didn’t even move or try to run? Because they’re fucking retards, that’s why. You should have seen the thing. A tiny little S-10. It couldn’t have had more than 4 cylinders. It was a joke. The paint was comin’ off and it was rusted just about everywhere. You couldn’t even tell where I bashed it in with Randy’s baseball bat cuz there was so many dents in it. Good thing Jenny didn’t see this. Chicks don’t like violence. When they see blood they always freak out like it’s a really big deal. She probably would’ve called the cops and told ‘em everything. “Oh my God, Oh my God! You bashed their heads in.” Yeah, well, she wouldn’t say that if she knew what retards they were. How they treated me like I was nuthin’ all the time. Always trying to embarrass me. Always trying make me look like a retard. Todd didn’t come either but it’s probably better that way. He’d prob’ly go to the cops too. He always was a tattletale. Well Randy. You stupid jerk. I got your truck. What now? I guess silver ain’t so bad. Silicon Valley, here I come.