"And the color of the sun
until the birds have flown away;
and the fishes in the sea
have gone to sleep."
- erasure

Ya know, life was just great! No, I'm not kidding, it WAS! But, there is always something that comes around and makes it miserable. But, luckily, I'm not going to talk about that. After all, everyone knows what misery is like; but, who really knows about ecstatic jubilation. (Well, besides the Atlanta Braves, but then, though had to go through enough misery to get there.) There's just no point in me making you miserable just because I'm miserable. Ya dig? Maybe. Maybe not. But it really doesn't matter because I'm gonna tell ya what I wanna tell you, weather ya like it or not! (Egad, I could never stand writers who used dialectical spellings! Reminds me to stop.)

Well, you probably want a plot - one of those general sequence of events that a story follows. Fine. I was born, I had fun, I was miserable, and I had more fun. Then I died. There. I hope that satisfies your desire for a plot. Now, all you plot fiends can leave. That's about as deep as my life's plot goes. It's not that nothing happens in life - it does. But it never happens how it's supposed to. But, as long as I have fun doing whatever I'm supposed to be doing, (or even more fun doing what I'm not supposed to be doing) life's great.

But, this story really isn't about my life. Or is it? I haven't really decide yet. You'll have to go on this exploratory mission with me. The only advantage you have is that you can read faster than I can type - maybe. Maybe not. Nothing is absolute in this world. We could also bring in the theory of relativity. Suppose one of us is walking forward on a ship traveling at light speed.... Nah, let's not suppose that. Why waste precious brain cells on somebody else's THEORIES. Who really cares about theories unless their your own? I sure don't. But, I hope you do, 'cause I'm giving you a motherload of mine.

Wow! I'm already on the fourth paragraph, and you don't have a clue who I am. (Or why I started with an erasure quote.) Maybe I am Vince Clark... not! He's famous. He amounted to something. (What? You've never heard of him. Better take some lessons in pop culture. Howcome we spend years studying ancient British pop culture, but never study semi-modern stuff - the stuff that has true value in our life?) Am I famous? No. maybe. I dunno. It's all relative. I still don't even know who I am. I guess it's better that way, isn't it?

How about if I relate a nice little anecdote to you. Then you'll understand more about me. But, wait, I was never good at telling anecdotes. People always interrupt, or leave in the middle. Either that, or I bumble the hit line. (I think I've finally gotten away from the heavy introduction stuff - boy I hate people who spend hours on irrelevant facts.... But, then, I often leave out very relevant facts. BLIP!) Maybe I shouldn't tell you the anecdote. Ah, what the heck. You can't interrupt me. The worst you can do is stop reading. (No, I take that back, you can always burn the book, thus polluting the atmosphere, and leading to the imminent death of the eminent. [did I botch the homonymal spellings, like usual?])

Back in 1955 there was this dude named Marty McFly. Luckily, he has nothing to do with this story. This story focuses on what happened to me in 1985. It was summer. I was really bored. I mean really bored. You see, our computer broke down. I love video games - computer video games, not those cheesy Nintendo trash-clones, but real Commodore video games. Unfortunately our computer was dead, so I had nothing to do. I was so bored, I even had the audacity to tell my mom.

Never tell your mom you're bored. She'll find plenty of ways to alleviate that boredom. "Well, you can start with the windows, then clean those marks off the wall. The carpet needs to be vacuumed - here use this 'Love My Carpet' stuff. You have made your bed, haven't you? You can also clean your room. Don't forget to vacuum it-" "Not that kinda bored, mom! I mean the fun kind of bored."

"The fun kind of bored? Hmm... I never knew boredom could be fun."

"Just look at Dunbar."


"Yeah, in Catch-22. I loved boredom. He thought it was a blast. Unfortunately, I don't. I wanna do something."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Go swimming."

"You just lucked out. Look what we got in the mail today: A twenty percent off coupon for joining the local swim club."

"Whoa! I didn't mean that kinda swimming-"

"Sure, it will be greta for you."

"But, mom, I can't swim worth squat! Shouldn't my little brother be the one-"

"He's playing baseball. You did want to swim, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but-"

"All sign you up right now. It starts tomorrow. You'll love it. You always complained about being in the house too much. Now is your chance to get out."


The next day, dad took the computer in to get fixed. All it was was a blown fuse. If I had kept my mouth shut, I could be playing Zork now, but, nooo, I have to go to the pool at eight. Me and my big mouth. Well, at least I'll be out in the pool. I'll have the nicest tan in the family. And the smell of chlorine - most triumphant. And, hey, maybe I'll find someone with a commodore:

I'll be drying off, then I'll here someone with blood-shot eyes stub his toe on a chair, "Pesky grues! If only I had some repellent."

Then, I'd start talking to him - "Grue? Have you played the Zork video game?"

"Yeah, I've almost won them all. Just a little more to go in III."

"You've won one?"

"one one?"

"Won Zork I"

"Oh, won one, not one one. Yeah, I just won it a couple of months ago. It was the hardest of the three."


"No, but I was stuck on it for a while - figuring out the ropes of the system. I was also trying to play Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy at the same time."

"Do you have that too? I've always wanted to play it. My friend had a copy."

"Yeah. In fact, I have it right here with me. And, here's the book, too. You need it to get past the first part of the game, then its not of a whole lot of use."

"Hey, cool. What other games do you have?"

"Just about everything. My dad works for a game company and gets about 500 copies of every new game before it comes out - and then he gets a bunch that don't even come out - some of those British games are killers. They have the baddest graphics and sound you have ever seen. If you want to come over sometime, I can show you."

"Sure. Where do you live?"

"On E street."

"Hey! That's right next to my house. I'll come over right after we're done today."

That would be total coolness. Then while I'm there, he'd throw me all sorts of cool computer stuff.

"Here's an extra printer we have laying around. And this modem. They accidentally shipped us 14 instead of 4, and refused to accept the return. Here's this disk drive, and this hard drive we have sitting around. We even have an extra Amiga that we never use. I'm sure you can make a lot better use with this then we can. Oh, and all these speech things. Take a handful."

I'd finally have a decent computer setup, and dad could stop bugging us about getting an IBM. Jeesh, I hate IBMs. The only reason they got popular is because they were so expensive. If someone started selling Atari 2600s for $4500, they'd become the business 'computer' of choice. Maybe I should do that. I could come up with a huge fortune that way. But, hey, if this dude gives me all his gear, I can finally start on my new, super-powered game, and make my own fortune, and start driving a Porsche. (but, first I have to get a license. But, I could build my own 'non-car' instead. That would be a lot more beneficial to us minors.) And maybe he'd also be a whiz at programming, so he could help me out in my programming business. That would be so cool.

"Stop pacing around, and get your stuff. We need to leave in five minutes."

"Yes mom." What do parents have against pacing. Well, I better get ready for swimming. Hey, maybe it won't be so bad after all. I can't wait to get all the stuff.

Swimming was torture. The guy constantly griped at me for my poor strokes. What does it matter what kind of strokes you use? As long as you get across the pool. Maybe that is what he was griping about. I rarely made it all the way across the pool. I have trouble breathing while I swim. That's why I love swimming underwater. After swimming, I was so dead, I wouldn't have even noticed a dude talking about grues. I went straight home and to bed. My muscles were soooo sore. The next day was just as bad. Boy, swimming is torture. I'm never going to do it again. But, I think I am getting a tan. However it's taking away from all the time I could be playing the computer - now that it's fixed. I hate being in swimming. It takes too much time away from the time I could be playing video games. I can't wait until I get older, and never have to do anything. Then I can spend the whole time working on the computer, and I can finally design my game and make a million dollars. But, today, I need to go see Back to the Future.

Well, that was the anecdote. I hope you liked it. For some reason, I forgot the point of it. It wasn't really humorous. Maybe I told you it to give you some information about me. I dunno. That's what I hate about anecdotes. I always forget the point after I've done about half of it. So, it's usually too late to just stop cold turkey, but it's too early to.... Drats! I forgot what I was going to say. It's not a secret, but I just can't remembering. My life is so confusing. It's all those little conversations with myself that mess it up. Though, today, they're a little more controlled then they were back then.

You see, back then, I actually thought all the conversations would come about. Today, I know they wont. Sometimes, I've got conversations to come up that are similar. But, most often, they never even come up. It's weird. It's all part of my futility of planning theory. Planning is such a waste of time. Because, if you plan, then you satisfy one area of your brain - it feels that you have already done it, so it feels no gumption to continue working on it. That's why I never plan anything. I just let things happen as they happen. Life is so much more beneficial that way.

But, you probably don't want to hear about my theories on Life, the Universe, and Everything. (It was a great book, but not quite as good as the other three books in the 'trilogy'. Douglas Adams and Rush. They've got a little confused over the real meaning of trilogy. But, does it really matter how many parts there are to a trilogy? Probably not. It's all relative. What if the original Greek really meant four, and we've just messed it up all the time. Boy would all these criticizers look like total fools. That's why there is no point in criticizing. No, there are plenty of points to complain about stuff. Just the right stuff. I dunno. I just managed to confuse myself again.)