Microserfs (27 page)

Bug said that the Gap is good "because you can go into a Gap anywhere, buy anything they sell, and never have to worry about coming out and looking like a dweeb wearing whatever it was you bought there."

Susan responded that the only problem now is that everybody shops at the Gap (or an isotope of the Gap) and so everybody looks the same these days. "This is such a punchline because diversity is supposed to be such a hot modern issue, but to look at a sample crowd of citizens, you'd never know it."

I figured that Gap clothing is what you wear if you want to appear like you're from nowhere; it's clothing that allows you to erase geographical differences and be just like everybody else from anywhere else.

Dusty agreed, saying this is good in that it spoke vaguely of social democratic notions, promoting the illusion of a unified, consensual monoculture, "But it's maybe li'l bit sad, because this is all that democracy's rilly been reduced to: the ability to purchase the illusion of cohesive citizenry for $34.99 (belt included)."

We also figured that Gap clothing isn't about place, nor is it about time, either. Not only does Gap clothing allow you to look like you're from nowhere in particular, it also allows you to look as though you're not particularly from the present, either. "Just look at the recent 'Khakis of the Dead' campaign," said Bug. "By using Balanchine and Andy Warhol and all these dead people to hustle khakis, the Gap permits Gap wearer to dissociate from the now and enter a nebulous then, wherever one wants then to be in one's head . . . this big place that stretches from Picasso's '20s to the hippie '60s."

Todd wasn't there, so we didn't bother asking if Lenin wore khakis.

Karla pointed out that there are more Gaps than just the Gap. "J. Crew is a thinly veiled Gap. So is Eddie Bauer. Banana Republic is owned by the same people as the Gap. Armani A/X is a EuroGap. Brooks Brothers is a Gap for people with more disposable income whose bodies need hiding, upscaling, and standardization. Victoria's Secret is a Gap of calculated naughtiness for ladies. McDonald's is the Gap of hamburgers. LensCrafters is the Gap of eyewear. Mrs. Fields is the Gap of cookies. And so on."

Susan said that the unifying theme amid all of this Gappiness is, of course, the computer spreadsheet and the bar-coded inventory. "A jaded cosmopolite in the Upper West Side buys an Armpit, Nebraska-style worker's shirt (in 'oatmeal') and Gap computers" (doubtless buried deep within a deactivated NORAD command center somewhere in the Rockies) "instantaneously spew out the message to Asian garment manufacturers, 'Armpit worker shirts are HOT.' Likewise, an agrarian soul out there in Armpit, pining away for a touch of life away from the silo, buys an oxford cloth button-down shirt at the local Gap, and computerized Gap-funded looms in Asia retool for the preppie revival."

Bug said that, "Deep in your heart, you go to the Gap because you hope that they'll have something that other Gap stores won't have . . . even the most meager deviation from their highly standardized inventoried norm becomes a valued treasure. It's like when you go into a McDonald's and they're test-marketing Lamb McNuggets, or something, and you know that it's an experiment."

Ethan broke in and agreed wholeheartedly: "Last December at the Eaton's Centre in Toronto I purchased a 'GP 2000' Commander Picard-like red-and-black sweatshirt that I have yet to see in a Gap anywhere else. Was this a test-marketing of a new line that tanked, or a marketing SKU that simply bombed? I ask you."

Then Michael pointed out that a few years ago there was a minor furor over the ethics of Dairy Queen, who sent their franchisees hamburger patties that were pseudo-randomly shaped, with little bumpies around the patty's edges, so that burger's consumer would feel more as though they were having a "handmade" burger. "In this same spirit, one wonders if the Gap randomly assigns nonstandardized clothing items to its various outlets so as to simulate the illusion of regional variety."

To break the trance that was forming, I shouted, "Gap check!" and everyone in the office had to guiltily 'fess up to the number of Gap garments currently being worn. Karla, the only Gap-free soul, for the remainder of the day wore the smug, victorious grin of one who has escaped the hungry jaw of bar-code industrialism. We Gap victims, on the other hand, fast-forwarded to an entirely McNuggetized world of dweeb-free, standardized consumable units.

We got back to work, and Dusty got to thinking "It would appear that to be a dweeb becomes a political statement - a means of saying that 'I choose not to ally myself with the dark forces of amoral, transnational, bar-coded, GATT-based trade practices.' "

"So let's be dweebs," I said.

"But how to be a dweeb, then, Dan?"

"Well, you could maybe make your own clothes," said Bug, but we all said, "Naaaahhh . . ." if for no other reason than the fact that nobody has free time these days.

"You could buy clothing that predates computerized inventorying," suggested Susan, but then Bug replied that you'd become a retro fashion victim.

In the end, we all figured that the only way to be a dweeb was to have your mother buy your clothes for you at, like, Sears or JC Penney.

Or have Michael buy them.

Susan couldn't be less subtle about her entrancement with Emmett if she tried. And Emmett's so thick, he misses every clue. It's a wonder humans ever manage to propagate.

Today for Susan it was hotpants and a Barbarella mesh top with plastic hoop earrings and a Valley of the Dolls wig. She was like a 1967 Life magazine cover. This outfit, coupled with the day's warm weather, Todd's working shirtless, and with Dusty's rehearsing Iron Rose IV competition practice sessions (Karla and Susan learning the poses) - the office now reeks of sex. This is not natural!

Abe:

Someone scrawled on the bathroom cubicle floor here:

MATES = BRAKES

Below it someone else wrote:

OVERWORK = POLYGAMY

MICROSOFT! You know how it is here - singles overwork to make themselves shine, but the *Marrieds* become the managers, and move up the ladder more quuickly, Elearnor Rigbies need not apply.

Got yesterdays faz. [I'd faxed along the instruction kits to a Lego 9129 Space Station Kit.] I think yours was the first fax I’ve had in years. Faxes are like email from 1987. Thanks.

Susan walked in tonight after dinner clutching a handful of crappy little objects: a bent fork, a bruised apple, a Barbie's head, and the plastic top from a Tylenol container. She laid them out in a row on the floor and asked Todd, "Hey, Todd, what's this?"

We all looked at this sad little row of debris and none of us had a clue.

Todd said, "I Dunno."

She said, "It's a Russian garage sale."

We all said, "Ooooh . . ." expecting Todd to freak out, and he did get

huffy.

"I know, I know," she said preemptively, "the Russians are supposed to be our friends now. But face it, Todd - they'll never get it right. Capitalism is something that's ingrained in you from birth. There's more to developing a market economy than pulling a switch and suddenly being a capitalist

overnight. As a child you need to read about Lucy's 5-cent psychiatry booth in Charlie Brown; game shows; mailing away for Sea Monkeys - it's all a part of being 'encapitalized.' "

She removed the Barbie head from the lineup of objects: "Probably too good."

Later on, Susan and Karla were cackling together. I asked them what about and they shot guilty looks at each other.

"Barbies," said Karla.

Susan added, "It's like every girl I know did all this incredibly sick sex shit with their Barbies, and in the end the head and/or limbs would fall off and you'd have to hide her but your Mom always found the dismembered Barbie and would say, 'Gee, honey - what happened to Barbie?'"

"Oh God - you'd just be dying of shame, remembering the debauch that landed her in the degraded state."

(More cackling.)

"I remember when my Barbie discovered my brother's G.I. Joe's," said Karla. "Talk about a spree. She was in fragments within an hour."

"Oh my God - me too!" said Susan.

"Hair gone, too?"

"Yup."

I was feeling a bit excluded and cut out discreetly, leaving more cackles in my wake. How can the two of them both have done the exact same things?

My body no longer kills me when I come back from the gym. However, I had a moment of total humiliation today: theoretically my ideal body weight is 172 pounds and I weigh 153 Ibs. The woman at the gym calibrated my fat/water/meat/bone ratios, made an inward gasp and I asked her what was wrong. She said (after a tentative, you-have-cancer pause), "You're what's technically known as a 'thin fat person.' "

It was so degrading. Not only am I skinny, but what meat I do possess isn't meat at all, but lard. I have to burn that off before I can even begin beefing up. I don't even deserve the honor of calling myself carbon-based, let alone silicon-based - maybe I'm based on one of those useless elements like boron that don't do anything.

I'm not telling Karla about this one.

Word leaked out at the office that I'm a thin fat person (the gym lady blabbed to Todd) and I had to endure a barrage of crude jokes at my expense for 14 hours. Todd pulled me aside and gave me a canister of amino acids and a pep talk.

Dad started work today at Delta. He popped into the Oop! office to show his face on the way back. Susan, Bug, and Michael pleaded for some access into the Delta system or at least something they could start to hack with. Michael wanted to add ten million frequent flyer points to his account: "I want to fly to the South Pole, first class, Saudi Airlines, with a sleeper seat, and Reuben Kincaid sleep goggles made of passenger pigeon breast feathers."

Across the street from our house, these little kids were having a tiny garage sale: a single, spine-worn copy of Cosmopolitan, two filthy Big Bird toys, a paperback of Future Shock, and a cowboy boot remover. It was so depressing - and eerily similar to Susan's joke about Russian garage sales. Karla said, "Susan's right. The Russians'll never catch up."

Ethan, over for a visit, said, "Au contraire, pal, they'll probably outlap us shortly."

Dusty was barfing all over the office sink when I came in this morning. She said she'd been working out too hard at the gym.

Abe:

My magnetic card keys fucked upa nd I couldn't get into the building and I gfelt like I'd stopped existing

Todd burst in this morning: "I'm a Maoist now!"

The rest of us are so numb from politics now we couldn't even muster up the will to shoot him a yawn.

"You do know the three forms of Communism, don't you?"

"No, Todd. But I'm sure you'll let us know."

"Oh good . . .

"First, there's Marxist Leninism.

"Second, there's Stalinism - well, actually, Stalinism is an application, not an operating system. I mean, if you want to wipe out 40 million people, you install Stalinism on your hard drive. It's like a political ebola virus."

Susan likened the Stalinist purges to those at IBM.

"Finally, there's Maoism. Maoism is about the total elimination of all culture. Anything that smacks of culture is bad. Everything from cocktail umbrellas up to Mozart. It all has to go."

I said, "That's dreadful, Todd - culture is everything. Without culture we're nothing. You're telling me you'd have all existing Bob Newhart reruns destroyed!"

"Bob Newhart romanticizes decadent, self-absorbed bourgeois liberal therapeutic culture. It is redeemable only in that therapy repudiates the Church."

"Sounds like a pretty chuckle-free universe to me," said Karla.

"More to life than chuckles, Kar," said Todd, frappéing a can of Del Monte pineapple and some form of protein powder in the office blender. "It's obvious - culture must perish."

"Why?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. Just that it must. I'm working on that one. Oh look - there's Dusty down on the street - we're off to our posing seminar. Gold's just had new daises delivered. Ciao, comrades."

Glurp. Guzzle. Chug. Slam.

"Be sure and flex one for me."

"Can't those two just code?" moaned Michael in a rare show of feeling. So now the Gang of Two (Boris and Natasha no more) are onto their next political kick.

Abe:

Went into Microsoft. Spent most of the morning entering my old vynyl records into a database Iv'e built. Filemaker Prod by Claris gets to Track my CHS tape collection . .

Questions: Can you gusess what this is by the ingeredients?

SD Alcohol

Water

Tween 20

Glycerine

Flavor

Sodium Sacchharine

FD&C Blue No 1

"Made in USA"

Keep guessing. I'll give you the answer later. [Answer: ice

Drops icy-mint breath freshener.]

Dusty was telling us later on all of this cool body stuff: about an aerobic drug, RPO, that enhances the body's ability to metabolize oxygen. Rumor has it a French bicycling team all died of heart attacks using it. And she discussed how too many steroids make women grow hair and can make users "acromegliac" - their craniums distort.

Oh - Dusty barfed up whole Lake Superiors of muck all morning. I wonder what's up with that.

Some new diet regime, doubtless.

Ethan says Type-A personalities have a whole subset of diseases that they, and only they, share, and the transmission vector for these diseases is the door close button on elevators that only get pushed by impatient, Type-A people. Ethan pushes these buttons with his elbow, now. I'm starting lo worry about all of us.

I

n the spirit of Ethan's neurosis, we made a dry wall list of keyboard bill tons we would like to see:

PLEASE

THANK YOU

FUCK OFF

DIE