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From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:20:24 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-18
BE IT EVER SO HUMBOLDT...
#18 in the second online CAA series
by
Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
Eureka, CA; 1,153 miles.
January 1, 1987
We would have pedaled down to Ferndale today if it hadn't rained.
For over a week we've been planning our New Year's Day departure from this
place that has grown TOO familiar. All through December the sun shone brightly
-- by Christmas I was so sure that it would rain on January first that I almost
called the National Weather Service to offer them a hot tip. Hitting the road
on a bicycle is a more reliable rainmaking technique than washing your car...
try it sometime.
Oh, I suppose it's just as well -- we were up until four A.M. celebrating
the end of 1986 and the resumption of our travels. Imagine the scene:
Over a thousand rubber bands turned loose in a small house, with seven
schnapps-soaked loonies firing them at every hint of exposed flesh -- raising
welts, cries, and crazy guffaws of short-lived victory. Maggie in the new
mini-dress, her pantyhose-clad cycling legs an achingly inviting target; June
sniping from behind furniture and giggling at every strike; Micki dashing into
the open for ammo only to yelp at the unexpected zinging barrage from all
sides. The Fathers of Trollo waged their own war, thundering at each other
like F-4 Phantoms as I crept about on missions of private intrigue: gathering
ammo, ambushing the unwary, and hiding rubber bands in odd places to serve as a
perpetual reminder of our visit. Yes, it was a gentle night... at the stroke
of 12 we dashed to the alley and fired salvo after salvo from Ken's homemade
oxy-acetylene cannon -- potatoes mashed against distant walls, our ears
ringing, our retinas seared with hot streaks of muzzle flash, the
scratchin'-lickin'-bitin'- snortin'-stinkin' dog trembling against June in
mortal terror. More schnapps... more nachos... more rubber bands... and then
gradual acquiescence after far too many hours of defying gravity, bodies
sinking to couches and floors, whimpers of pain and exhaustion mingling with
the surreal sounds of late-night television and the dwindling drunken traffic
of my third New Year's Eve on the road...
And there are thirteen years until the 21st century.
So. It's 1987. It is traditional for columnists to rhapsodize at length
about the past and future as viewed from the standpoint of that infinitely
small point moving between them. But the former is colored by the present and
the latter is pure conjecture, so instead of putting travel predictions in
print I'll just tell you what I WANT to do.
If you've been following these writings for a while, you have probably
noticed a certain variance of purpose. Sometimes FUN is my bottom line;
sometimes I'm seeking a resolution of the old freedom-vs- security trade-off.
Sometimes I want to travel forever; sometimes I get all misty-eyed over the
sense of HOME that appears wherever I take the time to look. I go on great
technoid binges of logic design and system integration, getting so deeply
immersed in electronics that streets with NO OUTLET signs seem vaguely
primitive -- then I turn my back on all this gizmology and refuse to discuss
it. Peer over my shoulder one day, and you'll find me celebrating my nomadic
lifestyle for its variety of contacts; do so the next and you'll hear me
muttering about the exhausting sameness of endless beginnings.
about it is an ideal lifestyle for a
confirmed generalist living in fear of commitment. It sounds a lot like
large-scale Brownian motion, but my life can actually be reduced to a simple
formula: I open doors with my bizarre key, make observations about what goes
on behind them, draw inferences from related experiences, and then pass stories
and commentary along to the rest of the world in exchange for enough of a
living to keep going. It's just a form of street theatre: The Computing
Across America Traveling Circuits...
And, interestingly enough, it more or less works. Publicity happens with
little or no effort, and even though people generally recognize the Winnebiko
instead of the guy sitting on top of it, the net effects are the same: brand
recognition, invitations, publishing opportunities, free hardware or services,
and even, amazingly enough, that absurd yet flattering "groupie effect."
Now. Let's turn all it into something that doesn't depend upon momentary
whims and chance encounters.
Throughout history, writers, satirists, commentators, cartoonists and
other interpreters of the culture have been supported by the population --
whether through salary, spare change tossed into passed hats, or the generosity
of patrons. We pay these people to expand our vision, to digest reality and
present it to us as "entertainment." What sounds at first like something
essentially playful, however, turns out to have critical importance in the
evolution of our culture: it is the job of these people to raise human
awareness, sniff out absurdity, spotlight political nastiness, recognize
trends, and define our collective self-image -- all the while inviting us to
step outside the routine of daily life and be entertained by what they have to
say. Every component of popular culture, from the Sunday funnies to 60 Minutes,
is part of the ongoing education of our complex society. It is the measure of
Berke Breathed's success, to pick one of many instructive examples, that he can
convey an elusive and essential message in the middle of thigh-slapping
laughter.
Educators, take note.
So what's all this have to do with me, my compu-bike, and big plans for
1987? This: I have become a living caricature of information technology, a
wandering commentator on the zany American scene, a generalist/journalist with
a 220-pound press pass, and a rolling media event. That's almost enough to
insure success... but not quite. What's missing is marketing, that mystical
process that turns ideas into products and products into necessities.
Publicity alone doesn't pay the bills.
"Marketing" in the context of what started out as a personal getaway
adventure sounds like sacrelige. It calls to mind vendor decals and slick
packaging, product slogans and pithy superficial distillations of my life that
can fit onto a bulk-rate glossy flyer. But here, dear readers, is the reality:
Weekly online columns make valuable contacts but earn just enough to buy
one reasonably fine restaurant meal a month, assuming moderation on the bar
tab. Occasional freelance pieces sometimes pay the rent back at the Ohio
office. A book about my travels is due in two months from a publisher that has
never tried selling anything outside the exciting but small world of library
and information science. A little bit of random consulting work pays well but
draws precious energy from the adventure itself. And I depend more than I'd
like to admit on the generosity of new friends, feeding us after a long day and
sheltering us from the night.
This -- a shaky hand-to-mouth existence -- is what supports that exuberant
grinning figure you've seen on national TV, in Time Magazine, in USA Today, and
hundreds of other places. I never really understood the difference between
public relations and marketing until now: CAA is a PR bonanza and a marketing
fiasco. I have media coverage the average small company would kill for, but no
standard products other than these weekly columns and a forthcoming book about
my first 10,000 miles.
So that's the plan for 1987: adding business survival to my
long-established objective of FUN. It's not just an adventure, it's a job!
But there's one subtle problem... my essential message is FREEDOM -- that you
can accomplish anything if you want it enough, that risk is healthy, that your
resources of intelligence are probably a lot deeper than you think. We have
new technological tools to free us, new worlds to explore, and even a new
population of people who cavort freely in Dataspace unconstrained by location,
color, appearance, or education. FREEDOM. It's an exciting message, and
people easily relate to it in these days of urine testing, polygraphs, poorly
maintined credit databases, economic pressure, horrifying new social diseases,
and a resurgence of misguided puritanism. A whiff of freedom perks up the
imprisoned like that first hint of morning coffee.
But try living as a public paragon of personal freedom within the
bottom-line-oriented constraints of a marketing plan. There's the challenge:
treating this as a business without having it look like one.
* * *
Let's close this week's installment on a playful note, something that
every reader can relate to. Something that touches us all deeply, evokes
intense memories, and rouses strong feelings...
I floated easily in a nitrous fog, the Walkman pumping Bob James into my
head, my wool-shrouded toes tapping in their well-worn Birkenstocks. Through
half-closed lids I saw the needle approach my mouth and prepared to wince,
flashing painfully on the closing scene of the movie "Brazil." But the nurse
tapped my arm, some kind of swabbed on local anaesthetic numbed me, and I
failed to notice the violation of my gums. So far so good.
Mega-numb -- no way for me to transcend dental medication. I was calmed
by the delightful gas but intellectually nervous, my normal dentist-chair panic
elevated to a sort of bemused abstraction but still very much in evidence. I
had never been to a painless dentist and didn't truly believe them to exist...
and he was probing a very large hole in a broken wisdom tooth, the subject of
many a horror story.
Jazz swirled through my head; I heard the drill scream. It entered,
rising and falling in pitch as it carved living tooth, raising a cloud of hot
enamel-dust that shocked my nose as would my own burning flesh. Yet the
sensation was of someone drilling into a block of wood lodged in my mouth:
multiple smooth hands, the glint of stainless steel instruments, the suction
tube, the detail of the overhead light, the smells of rubber gloves and faint
perfume and powdered tooth... but no pain. Stunned, I waited for it -- 5% of
my brain quailing at each approach of the drill while the rest soared through
the pure bliss of the Touchdown album and wanted the experience to never end.
And then the smells of solvents and sealants; the welcome poking and
prodding that bespeaks an end to destruction and the beginning of
reconstruction... and soon the vaguely depressing news that I had already been
on pure oxygen for five minutes and did I feel normal again? NO PAIN. This
had to be the most unusual Christmas present I had ever received: a gift
certificate from Ken (of Trollo and Bionic Taco fame) good for "X-Ray &
anesthesia with a filling or extraction" at the offices of Michael Holland,
D.D.S. -- and then to find the experience genuinely pleasant as well!
Ain't technology wonderful?
See you next week, from somewhere south of here. This time I really mean
it.
-- Steve