He sat in the back of the large auditorium, quietly, alone, and although never daring to raise his hand, he wished the speaker would just simply–out of a crowd of about fifty– call on him. But you see they were all alone; this fact the speaker’s slides, though humorous, couldn’t hide. The bots didn’t care about them. The spiders would pass over them with ease. Their ten-thousand listeners, readers, and viewers wouldn’t cause even the slightest color-change on a corporation’s pie-chart. The speaker could show them how to use the tools, but he couldn’t make them matter, not to someone that mattered. And just as our man in the back wanted his voice to count, so did those who sat proudly in the front with a hand raised up, but none of their’s did. The whole depressing thing (truth) made the speaker himself, usually an enthusiastic man, revert to an infectiously dull and sad demeanor.
As the session was being brought to a close, the lonely man realized that he had missed one more opportunity to connect and slowly began putting his laptop back in it’s bag before the speaker had even stopped talking. However, when the closing ‘question time’ came, he didn’t, as usual, feel upset at his inability to ask one, but actually began to get angry. The questions were the same again: “Why can’t I get sponsors?” and “Will they ever unlock that software” and “Can’t they, just once, listen to us”. It was this last one which made him almost drop his computer. Don’t they realize how lucky they are, he thought, this room will listen to them, isn’t that enough? And, overcoming his fear in a way that only anger can achieve, he stood up.
“You know”, he said loudly, “you could all just plug-in to each-other“. The room got completely quiet as they all turned their heads around to see who had spoken. His bravery quickly faded, as he realized their gaping mouths must’ve been a sign of hatred (it wasn’t) and that he had said something stupid and inappropriate (he hadn’t), but having come this far he realized that he had to finish and, his head titled down in defeat, he added “like, maybe
that
way you
could just ‘game’
the system….”“like, maybe that way you could just ‘game’ the system….”
He started to hear a shifting noise move throughout the room. He was too afraid to bring his head up and see what it was, but it quickly grew so loud they he couldn’t ignore it anymore. They were passing business cards back and forth, people who knew each-other, people who didn’t, people who were located on different sides of the room, all were exchanging the information that made them them. Those who had no cards took out the day’s schedule and tore pieces off, hastily writing down names and websites on them and giving the pieces to those around them. The speaker too, caught up in the excitement, started walking down the rows handing his cards out until he had no more. Only the quiet revolutionary himself was unable to feel the energy. He had said ‘you‘ meaning them and had left himself out, (but that’s okay, they wouldn’t.)
Sobering up for a moment, and having no more cards left, the speaker began to realize the need for a few precautions. The bots could be beaten, but the battle would have to be fought underground. He looked to the lonely man in the back, the man who lit the flame, and–with a smile on his face– spoke:
“Hold on one minute everyone.”, he said and the room momentarily stopped it’s frantic information exchange, “could you please close those doors and lock them.”, he asked our hero, “and then come back and we’ll really talk.”
–For Chris Brogan and all my new friends from PodCamp Boston. Thanks for letting me in on the conspiracy.
Photo by CC Chapman. Click on it to see lots more (I’m in there somewhere).
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.
This piece has some kick to it. Thank you.
I loved this write-up. Glad you dared. : )