Why am I following Jon Gosselin?
Jurassic Park 4 concept;
In the year 2093, a planet has been discovered that has strikingly similiar properties to Earth. Several species of dinosaurs have been found on this planet. They are similar to the dinosaurs that once roamed the Earth, except they are highly evolved.
A special research team led by Tim Murphy IV, travels to the planet to study these “new” dinosaurs and chaos ensues.
Well, this sounds like the worst I’ve ever heard.
I’ve accepted a position at the Silent Hill Academy of Mimes (SHAM).
Facebook makes me hate people I know, Twitter makes me like people I don’t.
tumblr tells you absolutely nothing about a person.
Band-width was exceeded: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.
The permit was signed by the councilman, the clerk, the mayor, and the chief constable. Grimm signed off on it. And Grimm’s name was the only one that mattered. The band was protruding over the line, spilling out of frame, out of sight, out of mind. This was unacceptable.
Grimm knew then that the band had crossed the line? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Grimm has been overseer for as long as anyone can remember. The town council trusts him, as does the mayor. The constabulary fears him, as does the mayor. He has a keen eye. Some people say he has three.
All the decrepit, forbidding Grimm had to do was look down from the top of his empirical glass spire onto the streets below to see the disorder. But Grimm hasn’t looked out of a window in years. The windows look in on he.
“What did I say? Nine meters, no more no less. I see nine and a quarter!”
“But but but but Mr. Grimm, it’s the tuba player, he is rather wide, much like his tuba. He needs that extra quarter.”
“He needs an extra quarter of space like I need an extra hole in my head! Now hear me, Bracket. The band is allotted a nine-meter wide bubble. If fatso tuba cannot squeeze the whole of his gelatinous goo into the monitoring area, then he shan’t be there. You know the rule. We have every minuscule speck of our peaceful society under round-the-clock surveillance, but just barely; we do not have time or space or patience for overflow nor the tools to implement redundancy. There is no margin for error, for adjustment. Nothing has happened since the tragedy that left my late partner, your late employer, Stern, dead as a doornail, along with countless others. If the Eyes of IMG cannot see all of everyone, I do not know what they are or aren’t up to. Take no chances. Am I to assume the partial tuba player is perfectly innocent and not up to no good? I should hope not. Either he fits in the allotted space, or he goes.”
“The boys’ choir can spare an extra tenth, Mr. Grimm. If we could just—”
“Oh, the boys’ choir? Is eight and an eighth too much for them? Let them fit to seven and nine tenths then!” Grimm pinched his fingers against the glass surface of his desk and zoomed in on the image of town square.
“But, sir! That’s impossible!”
“If you cannot crop the boys’ choir to the new specifications, then the Christmas pageant shall have to do with no boys’ choir this year!”
“But but but Mr. Grimm, my boy Tim is in the boys’ choir. He’s been so happy since he was chosen. His health has improved. You should hear his voice, it’s like that of an angel.”
“Is that to say, Bracket, that his voice is non-existent then?”
“Sorry, sir? I don’t think I follow.”
“Have you ever seen an angel, Bracket?”
“Well, no sir, I haven’t.”
“Then why is it that you believe in something that you cannot see or hear?”
“Sometimes not seeing is believing, sir. It’s called taking a leap of faith.”
“Bracket, you can take your leap of faith out of my window. Don’t come in here with that superstitious hogwash. I only believe in what I can see. Look around you, Mr. Bracket; every single frame lining the walls of this room is focused on a subject and area of my safe and secure society. And soon one day the country and the whole world will be under watchful eyes. There shan’t be a nook or cranny where the unblinking eye of IMG cannot see. If the eyes do not have it, it cannot be.” Grimm moistened his dry eyeballs with a sponge. “I don’t believe in angels. I don’t believe in ghosts and goblins. And I certainly don’t believe in Christmas! You want to hear your tiny Tim’s voice? He can sing to you at home all you want. Consider the pageant canceled!”
“Mr. Grimm, sir, you can’t. They’ve worked too hard—”
“Worked? Hard? Since when is singing and dancing work?” Grimm fingered a red button on his desk; there was a loud buzz and the image of an old woman with thick trifocals and strained, bloodshot bug eyes popped up in front of him. “Miss Demeanor?”
“Yes, Mr. Grimm?” said the woman on screen. Her skin was gray. She smoked like a chimney.
“The pageant is off. Disperse the crowds below. I want all town square camera quadrants clear in ninety seconds. Anyone left on screen after that will be subject to search and seizure under the fifth article of monitorization. Make it a code red, it being Christmas and all.”
“Yes, Mr. Grimm.”
“And light the boiler. I want the streets seared and that snow gone.”
“Right away, Mr. Grimm.”
“But sir!” protested Mr. Bracket. “You can’t!”
“I can and have, Bracket.”
“Attention. Attention.” Came the cold, unmistakable voice of Miss Demeanor blaring loudly over the town’s emergency alert intercom system. “This is an official statement from the Voice of Reason, authorized by Mr. Grimm himself on this, the twenty-fourth day of December in the sixth year of monitorization. The Christmas pageant has been canceled. Repeat: The Christmas pageant has been canceled. All loiterers, riffraff, townspeople and waifs shall clear the premises in and around town square within ninety seconds. Anyone found lingering will be subject to search and seizure, fines and/or imprisonment until after the new year. Parents shall not be fined full demerits for abandoning slow-pokey children. Said children will spend the remainder of this year working in the power station below the Seventh Street Furnace. Furthermore, the streets within a nine-block radius of IMG Spire are to be cleared within a boiler. That’s five minutes for those unfamiliar with protocol. Anyone still on the streets after release at nineteen hundred hours will be boiled alive. Have a nice day. And remember: We are watching.”
The various monitors projecting the images from town square erupted in chaos as panicked people went into a frenzy trying to flee the scene. Parents hurried their crying children along, carrying them, some even dragging them on the hard, cold pavement. Others left them behind. There would be no grace period after the minute and a half deadline. It was bedlam. If Mr. Grimm could grin he would have, however his face has long been paralyzed.
“Oh, one more thing, Bracket.” Mr. Grimm got up from behind his desk, something he rarely did in the presence of others, and approached the east wall of the great room, summoning Bracket to join him, who did ever so cautiously. The walls, ceiling and floor within Mr. Grimm’s Room of Monitorization were made up of perfectly square glass screen tiles, each gridded with thumbnails representing every point of monitorization throughout the entire town. There was nary a place or citizen that could not be seen. Grimm tapped a tiny thumbnail with the crusty tawny nail of his long, slender pinky and it blew up, filling a large portion of the wall with the image of a sad, flaccid Christmas tree beyond a dire need for water. “What is this, Bracket?”
“It looks like a Christmas tree, Mr. Grimm.”
“Whose Christmas tree, Mr. Bracket?”
“Well, sir, it looks much like the Christmas tree in my home.”
“You recognize your own home then, don’t you Bracket?”
“Oh course, sir.”
“I see.” Mr. Grimm slid the image away and a new image of a tiny porcelain doll popped into frame. “And this?”
“It’s my wife’s, sir. She’s had that doll since she was a little girl.”
“Yes, but why is it blocking my eye?”
“Well, Mr. Grimm, that is the IMG eye in our bedroom.”
“I’m well aware of its location.”
“Well, it’s just that, my wife and I are trying for another baby.”
“I wish you’d work that hard at your job. Let me make one thing clear, Bracket, your right to privacy is superseded by the responsibility of this consortium as authorized by the government to ensure the safety of its citizens. If you block even just one eye you create a blind spot. Blind spots are uncertainties, and uncertainties are disconcerting and suspicious. What is our motto?”
“See something, say something.”
“Yes, but then how can I say if I cannot see? This tiny porcelain thing is perched and sat right in front of my eye. If you choose to hide then you must have something to hide. What is it that you are hiding, Mr. Bracket?”
Grimm pinched the screen and the image zoomed in every so slightly, sending the porcelain doll toppling over the edge of the bookshelf. A faint sound of a ceramic shatter resonated off the walls of the room. “Skies are clear, Bracket. You may go. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
“But but, Mr. Grimm, tomorrow is Christmas.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. Public gatherings and rompings and leisurely strolls are at a height over the weekends, you know this. You are in charge of public monitorization, are you not?”
“Then I shall expect you here, bright eyes at the ready. And you best look sharp. Don’t strain yourself trying for another tax deduction this evening.”
“Of course, sir.” Mr. Bracket walked to the door. He paused, hesitated and turned back. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Grimm.”
“Be seeing you, Bracket.”
I want to open up a coffee shop in Newton called He Brew Coffee.
I can’t figure out how to reply to comments on my own posts. Is it even possible?
Between the wind blowing outside and all of the “settling” noises coming from inside the house, it sounds I’m in the hull of a ship.
This house is like 150 years old. That’s pretty fucking settled.