Blog Abandoned?

Many people have noticed and commented on the fact that I haven't been writing lately. There have been a combination of factors at play. For one thing, not a whole lot has been going on. Sarah has backed off somewhat, but she still has a tendency toward bitchiness. The live truck now has a transmission leak that hits the exhaust pipe and causes it to smoke. Wendy is still... Wendy. There just haven't been many major developments or stories to tell.

So I've been spending my time reading science fiction novels. I discovered the wonderful creative work of Dan Simmons and read the entire Hyperion series (which in part inspired the previous "Fiction Bastards" post). Then I moved to Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. Next I think I'll start on some of Phillip Dick's work, since the Scanner Darkly movie is coming out soon. As I've mentioned before, I get most of my reading done for free at Borders, simply sitting in the cafe and reading their books, then reshelving them and hoping that nobody buys the last copy before I come back the next day for another few chapters.

It's a simple existence. I awaken. I read. I go to work. I sleep.

I was trying to fit blogging into that routine as well, but I have been somewhat puzzled by the responses to my writing. First and foremost, I appreciate the advice and encouragement I have received. But for the past couple of months an ugliness has been building that has finally overshadowed the positive feedback and taken away any pleasure I have received from writing.

Some people continue to criticize me for airing my station's dirty laundry. I've had some accuse me of hating women. I've been called a loser for continuing to work here. I've even had people accuse me of making the whole thing up. That last one I understand the least; if people hate me because they think I'm some kind of liar, why do they continue to read it, then send me hateful emails? What does that accomplish?

People have asked me, so I'll answer. Is everything here accurate? Not entirely. I have changed certain details to protect my identity and the identities of my colleagues. Why would I do such a thing? I think it's a perfectly reasonable attempt to protect my privacy, but perhaps I should let this email from one of my readers speak for itself:

Dear 'Max,'

I know that's not your real name. It doesn't matter, because you will be found out soon enough.

You have no business airing your station's dirty laundry. You have no business working in this business. I'm sure you think it's funny. Well now the joke is on you. I figured out where you work. I know who 'Sarah' is. It won't be hard for your nd to figure out who Wendy is. They won't appreciate hearing what you wrote about them.

I figured you would like to know that I just emailed your nd with a link to your blog. Here's what I said.

'Dear [name omitted],

I thought you might like to know that a photog you recently hired is airing your station's dirty laundry on the internet. He has a blog he has used to smear you personally as well as your reporters and producers. He is behaving unprofessionaly and doesn't deserve to represent your institution.

His blog is www.ironshoulder.blogspot.com. I think you may find it interesting reading.

Signed,

A Concerned Citizen'

So how do you like that, 'Max'? Better start making tapes, because your days there are numbered.

Whoa. Someone actually went to the trouble of emailing a news director to get a blogger in trouble. However, it wasn't MY news director he emailed, and I never heard anything more about it. He got the wrong station. Somewhere some ND probably ended up reading my blog and trying to figure out how any of it applied to his station. Hell, maybe he's now one of my loyal readers.

So how much of this is real? Most of it is. Yes, the casket story really happened. Yes, the sheriff really ran into me. Yes, there really was a kid who brought guns to school. The parts that aren't 100% accurate are simply shaded to conceal my identity. I wouldn't try to pass any of this off as newspaper articles, but "Sarah" and "Wendy" are real people. As are "Jake" and "Al." As am I.

I've been asked why people can't find these stories by searching the Internet. Maybe their search skills suck. I do know our website sucks, simply because it's run by one guy who is also our entire "creative services department" and is usually busy making commercials for local mattress dealers. I doubt it has been updated in months. It actually still has a reporter listed on it that no longer works here.

Our local newsrag didn't even cover some of this stuff. Still, I did find some of this material in my own search attempt on Yahoo. If other people can't find it, it's either because I've ommitted or shaded certain details that would help them zero in on it, or maybe they're just too stupid to do a thorough search.

I tried to put a stop to the bullshit by turning on comment moderation here on the blog. Assholes still continued to send me comments. Then they started emailing me. When I ignored them, they posted whiny messages on message boards trying to discredit me. When I refused to respond, they accused me of "running away."

Yet, how the hell can I respond? The only way I can "prove" this is real is to reveal my identity. Great solution. Then the asshole who wrote the message quoted above WILL know who my ND is and will get me fired. It's a catch 22.

This is the only response I intend to make on this issue. If you don't like my blog, don't read it. Go read a book, or watch American Idol, or do whatever the hell it is you people do. I really don't care. I don't make any money off this. I only do it for writing practice and for my own pleasure. Take away the pleasure, and there's no reason to continue.

Have some fiction, you bastards.

Three o'clock in the morning, and my implant screams to life in my head.

"Incoming call! Incoming call! Incoming call!"

"Sleep mode!" I scream out loud to silence the buzzy voice. I really don't have to speak the commands any longer, now that the bugs have been worked out of the latest neural interface firmware. I could just think the command, but old habits die hard.

"Priority override!" screams my implant. "Incoming call! Incoming call!" I have the station's voice terminal set in my override filter, so that even in private sleep mode calls from the station can get through.

I stumble out of bed to my own terminal. "Voice only," I say. I'm still in my underwear, and I really don't want Wendy to see me sitting here half naked. "Accept."

My terminal screen flashes to life. Yep, it's Wendy, the person I least want to see at three in the morning.

"Max, signal 37. Hey, I don't see you. Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," I say. "Signal 37. Where is it?"

"I'm forwarding the address to your implant now. The radio traffic on this one's a mess, so this may be pretty good."

"I'll be out the door in five," I say. "End!" The image on screen collapses to standby mode.

"What's going on?" the young redhead in my bed asks. She's not a real redhead. The last natural redhead was born over seventy years ago. This one has had TGR (targeted genetic retrovirus) treatments to simulate the, um, natural redhead look, but she still can't pass the genes on to her kids.

"Where is this?" she asks, watching me pull on my pants. At the moment I'm drawing a blank on her name. Rachel, maybe? My head is throbbing. I had a lot to drink last night. So did she, which would probably explain why she's in my bed. Lately the rage among these college girls is to get drunk and fuck old men. When I was 22, girls wouldn't even look at a guy my age. Now I can't keep 'em out. As if I would want to.

"Oh, yeah," she says. "You're Mark."

"Max," I say, no longer embarrassed to have forgotten her name. I grab a hangover pill and swallow it as I reach for my shoes. By the time the laces are tied, the headache is already subsiding. Wonderful thing, those pills. I wouldn't be legal to fly right now if not for them.

Five minutes later my vest is booted and the fans are spinning up on my hovercar. I don't really need to wear the vest any more, now that I have storage implants, but old habits really do die hard after more than 80 years in this business. My second wife tried to convince me to have my access shunt removed, but I kept it. Now I plug my vest into my neck and verify that all banks are empty.

"Destination?" the car asks. I silently transfer the address from my implant to the car's navigation system. "Notice to Airmen," the car says. "Temporary Restriction in place over destination." The heads up display on the forward windscreen flickers to show the TR area superimposed over the city map.

"Transmit clearance request," I respond. "News4 Unit 7, holojournalist exemption."

"Clearance granted," the car says. "VFR flight plan filed with Arrington Approach." With that exchange, I'm able to fly anywhere the police hovers can go. It's times like these that I appreciate living in the country of California, where Freedom of the Press is still enshrined in our Third Amendment and ensured by fifty years of case law. I really don't know how newsies in the Republic of Texas or the Manhattan Protectorates can get their jobs done with such restrictions on access. Despite the pressure in those territories to simply report the government releases, they still keep trying. God bless them.

I pull up on the collective and shoot a hundred feet into the air, bank hard left and point the car toward the north end of town. Even at this low altitude I can already see the flashing red and blue emergency lights at the scene. The nose of my hovercar dips as I transition from hover to forward flight and quickly accelerate toward the column of black smoke upon which all the lights seem to be converging.

The ride is short, but it's long enough for my mind to wander. I'll be 103 years old in two weeks. As a youngster, I never thought I would live this long, much less still be working. Hell, I thought I was going to die when I had that hovercycle accident thirty years ago. A ninety foot fall that once would have ensured a certain death left me with ceramic bones and artificial muscles in my legs that are stronger and faster than anything nature could provide. Now I could leap 90 feet if the governors allowed it, but I'd probably give myself a heart attack in the process. I'm proud to say that, unlike so many of my colleagues, I still have most of my own internal organs, and my heart is still pumping as strong as when I started in this crazy business.

This business. I've seen so much change. When I first started "shooting," as they used to call it, we were just making the transition to high definition flat display technology, or HDTV, as it was known then. Dozens of acquisition formats (including tape!) appeared and went obsolete before their sales even paid for their research and development costs. Then came affordable holographic projection, and everything flat was obsolete.

Those first holocams were monsters. We had grown accustomed to HD minicams that would fit in a palm. Suddenly the cameras were back on our shoulders. BOTH shoulders, with lenses on both sides for the stereoscopic view required for holographic display. The first time I wore one, I thought somebody had put a goddamned jet pack on me.

To think we've come to the point where I can get better 3D modeling out of a unit that I can wear like a pair of old spectacles. Some of these younger kids are now actually getting ocular implants, so that they don't have to wear any external gear at all. I personally think these smaller in-the-eye cameras don't produce as good a holo, but the viewers at home don't seem to be able to tell the difference.

The biggest problem with these ocular cams isn't the holo, but the operators. The human eye naturally flits around several times per second, even when the head is perfectly still, to bring various aspects of the scene to the attention of the brain. These things were sold with the idea that the audience would be able to "see what the operator sees," literally, so that the experience would be like being there in person. The problem is that what the viewer wants to see isn't necessarily what the operator wants to see, so simply having the viewer go along for the ride is extremely disorienting. When it's projected in 3D holo, it's even more disorienting, when what might seem like a natural shift of vision when viewed from straight on suddenly becomes a sidewise rush when viewed from any other angle in the room. In other words, it's a mess.

To compensate, operators are now trained for "ten count stares," but few of them can really do it. The ten count stare involves focusing on a single point for ten seconds at a time. The operator counts to ten, then shifts his gaze to something else. Five minutes of unedited holo usually has less than a minute of usable fixed gaze, as instincts take over in between "shots" and eyes flit around as normal.

Most of us old pros still prefer the eyeglass configuration. It's simply much easier to hold your head still for ten seconds at a time than your eyes. Plus, with the larger lenses available on external units, you have much better optical zoom ratios. Read: higher quality.

My own holocam is clipped to my vest as I approach the scene. I look down through my side hatch at the devastation of another terror attack, probably by the Mexicans or Texans. It doesn't really matter which. Ever since Civil War II California (which now includes the old States of Nevada, Arizona, Oregon, Washington, and parts of Utah, Idaho and British Columbia) has been a target from Mexican nationalists from both territories. We've suffered sixty years of these attacks, dating from when Governor (and later President) Lindsay Lohan ordered all the Mexicans out during the war.

They've blown an apartment building. From the looks of it, they used conventional explosives, but the entire block is levelled. My hovercar's environmental sensors indicate no radiation. Yep, it was a good old fashioned bomb. I grab a few aerial holos from the hover, careful to avoid the shifting fire containment fields being generated by emergency management. I access my implant for the location of the command post and land a block outside the perimeter the cops have set up.

Suddenly my implant speaks up. "Incoming call!" It's Wendy.

"Status?"

"I just got here," I say.

"Do you have any word on how many victims?"

"No," I say. "I just landed. I'm headed to the command post now."

"We want to take your head live as soon as you can give us a holo of the scene."

"I've already sent you some aerials," I say.

"Yeah, they're here on my screen now," she says, "but I want live head."

You and everybody else, I think. "I'll leave my radio open," I say.

This is one of the problems of working as a one man head. In the old days we would go out in pairs. One of us would handle information gathering and link it to the other through our implants. The other would concentrate on image acquisition. Trying to do both at the same time, while fielding calls from some producer who probably never used her implant for anything more stressful than chatting on the telesphere, can be really exhausting.

I find the command post and jack in with the other half dozen journos and holojays who have arrived. I get the initial nugget of information PIO Ramirez has released, but I'm just in time for the man himself. I don my holocam and begin sending data to the storage packets in my vest.

You might wonder about the name. Yes, Ramirez is Mexican by heritage, but his family dates back to nineteenth century California, one of the so-called "Old Families" that were allowed to stay during the purge. That's not to say that he hasn't met his share of discrimination and racism. His wife was actually murdered by Skinheads, and he was beaten and left for dead in the attack. Cops tend to stick together, however, and some of his old Academy buddies hunted them down and killed them. All of them. Now there are no Skinheads left in California; or if there are, they're not letting themselves be seen.

"Well, let's get started," says the PIO. Ramirez likes to take control early, getting his first word out before most of us have our feet under us on the ground. I hear Wendy chirp in my implant that she's taking my head, so I stand very still and focus intently on Ramirez.

"At approximately 2:53 this morning a blast levelled the entire block along 118th Street in the Franklin Heights area. None of the structures in the block survived. We believe an explosive device was planted in the basement of the apartment building that stood at 1104 118th. We have found some survivors, but our initial estimates are 1231 dead, 85 injured. Those are preliminary figures which will be revised throughout the morning.

"We have already received a claim of responsibility from the Texas Liberty Riders. We are tracking several suspects at this time, and we hope to have something more for you later this morning. That's all for right now; I'll have more for you in a couple of hours."

Ramirez quickly disappears into the mobile command post before the assembled journos can hurl too many questions at him. I hear Wendy give me the all clear in my implant.

Suddenly the ground opens up under the command post and flames shoot thirty feet in the air. I'm thrown to the ground by the force of the blast, but I've been doing this long enough that my instincts take over. I keep my head level and storage packets recording. I can hear Wendy screaming in my implant over the ringing in my ears. "What the fuck was that? What's going on? We're taking your head live again now!"

I get to my feet just in time to see...

Eh, maybe I'll finish this. Maybe not.

Six Months

I hadn't been in the building five minutes this afternoon before Rick, my chief photographer, came looking for me.

"I need to give you your review," he said.

I was a little surprised, because I had heard nothing about this. My first thought was that I had done something wrong. I soon learned that this was just routine.

"Today's your six month anniversary," he said. I smiled at the mistake. I had a girlfriend once who insisted on celebrating our "one month anniversary." When I corrected her and explained that the word anniversary implies that a year has passed, she got irritated with me and said she was sick and tired of my trying to make her feel stupid all the time. We didn't have a two month anniversary. I remembered that lesson and said nothing to Rick.

"This'll be quick," Rick said, once we got into the conference room. "You're doing fine so far. On the positives, you learned the truck faster than anybody I've had and your shooting is solid."

"Thanks," I said. It felt awkward to smile, but I couldn't help it.

Rick continued. "On the 'need to improve' list, you should try to get along with the reporters and producers a little better. I know they can be frustrating, but you don't always handle it the best way. I can't have you refusing to do stories."

"I haven't refused anything," I said.

"Maybe you haven't outright refused, but you've given the impression you're going to refuse to so what you're told."

"Wait, so I'm being reprimanded for what Wendy thinks I might do?"

"No, you're not being reprimanded, and Wendy doesn't have anything to do with this. This is just a review, and I have to put things in here for you to improve."

That statement seemed a little odd and took me off guard. He has to put things in there? That made it sound like he was under mandate to find fault, even where none exists. Even so, I let it go for the moment.

"I also have to include the incident with the live truck--"

"But that wasn't my fault! That guy hit me!"

"I'm not saying it's your fault," he said. "But I have to include any damage to equipment in the review, even if it's an accident. It doesn't count against you."

"If it doesn't count against me, why is it there at all?" I asked.

"See, this is what I'm talking about, about how you handle stressful situations. You're raising your voice and getting angry, and that's not the proper way to handle this."

I held my tongue and fumed.

"You really need to work on that anger issue. So, overall, it's a satisfactory review. Do you know about the scores?"

"No," I said.

"I can give you a 3, 4 or 5. Three is 'needs improvement.' Four is 'satisfactory.' Five is 'good.' There's also a two and a six, but two gets you fired and we aren't allowed to give sixes."

There was another "secret" mandate. I wondered why the company had a six in their review score if they weren't allowed to use it. "What if somebody really deserves a six?" I asked.

"Nobody deserves a six," he said. "I'm not even sure why we have it."

"Has anybody ever gotten a six?" I asked.

"I think the sales guys get them sometimes," he said. "But that's just some kind of incentive they have. I'm not allowed to give sixes. Anyway, you have a four, which is fine. If you can keep up the good work until your year review, you'll normally get a raise then. It won't be much, like a dime or something."

"Okay," I said. I wasn't feeling very good about this review process.

"Now I just need to sign this," he said, scribbling on the bottom of the second sheet, "And you need to sign here also."

I looked at the paper he handed me. There was a signature line for me at the bottom, above where he had scribbled his own name. Above that was a brief statement which read:

I have read the above and understand it to be an accurate reflection of my performance during the review period. This review has been thoroughly discussed with my supervisor, and I have been given an opportunity to answer and correct any statements herein which I feel do not adequately describe my job duties.

"I can't sign that," I said.

Rick looked surprised. "Why not?" he asked.

"Because I don't agree with what was said about me in there."

"You don't have to agree with it," he said. "You're just signing that you received it."

"That's not what it says," I said. "It says I 'understand it to be an accurate reflection of my performance.' I don't think it's accurate."

"Well, uh... What's not accurate about it?"

"I told you. I haven't refused to do anything I have been asked, and the live truck accident had nothing to do with me. If anything, that's the station's fault for sending me out with faulty equipment."

"I told you that stuff doesn't really matter," he said. "I have to put that in there, but you're doing a good job. I hope you're not going to screw it up by causing a problem with this."

There was silence for a few moments while Rick stared at me, and I stared at the paper. Then I broke it. "What happens if I don't sign this?"

"Well. I don't know," Rick said. "Nothing good, I'm sure. For one thing it will cause ME a headache."

I thought about it for another moment, then picked up the pen and struck through the words "and understand it to be an accurate reflection of my performance during the review period" and "I have been given an opportunity to answer and correct any statements herein which I feel do not adequately describe my job duties." Then I initialed both sections and signed the paper.

Rick took the paper and looked at the lines I had drawn. He seemed to be struggling to decide whether he could accept that. Finally he said, "Well, uh. Okay, I guess. Keep up the good work."

And that was that.

I have had employee reviews before, when I worked at the bookstore. Those gave us the option of disputing whatever was in the review, in writing, and they didn't require us to sign that we agreed with the assessment. It was weird to be instructed to agree to an assessment I believed was wrong.

Later this afternoon I was talking with Dax about it, and he said the GM actually requires the managers to find bad things to put into their employee reviews. "They make you sign that you agree you have problems, so if you ever cause any shit they can pull out the paper and say 'See? You even admit you fucked up.' You could save somebody's life and shit, and they still wouldn't give you a good review. Ain't nothin' you can do about it, so don' worry about it."

I guess I won't. I guess.