#and they say Sinclair's heart grew three sizes that day | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

veridium · 4 years

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fake happy

Well, whaddya know! The College AU is back, baby! Unfortunately June was pretty much hell in a handbasket, so writing took a backseat. But, we are far from done. Thank you to everyone for sighting tight, and to @bitchesofostwick for being a very patient co-author.

So, where were we? Ah, yes, the holiday weekend from hell. On with the show! Title bought to you by a great Paramore song.

masterpost // last chapter

“Hey baby cakes!”

The moment she hears the shrill greeting whilst getting out of her car in the sandstone-colored driveway, Olivia knows she’s in a chapter of Dante’s Inferno. All the calmness she had with Ellinor earlier that day is gone; it is easier said than done enduring four days in the house of Paula Sinclair.

“Hey,” she rushes over her shoulder, pulling the side lever to release the trunk where her bags are kept. Just two, one of clothes and toiletries and the other books and supplies to do assignments. She’ll need the preoccupation as an excuse for the gauntlet of trials her Mom will invite her to.

As she’s filing her luggage out onto the driveway, she sees her Mom’s shadow approaching. She glances and sees her in all her glory: an olive green sundress with one of those straw pool hats. She was probably out basking in the sun all afternoon before this. Olivia is surprised she thought to put down whatever spiked beverage she must have had with her to come outside and greet her only child.

“Did you have a safe drive? You certainly did not rush to get home safe,” Paula says, halting and crossing her arms.

Olivia slams the trunk closed and huffs, slinging one bag’s strap over her shoulder and the other on her opposite forearm. “I woke up late, and had to help Ellinor pack.” Sorry, Ellinor.

“Ellinor! I will miss her this year.” A lie said out of convenience. The whole time Ellinor stays with them, Paula shoots her peculiar questions about her personal life or her political views. Ellinor knows better now after these last couple of years how to play them off, but Paula can’t help but size people up. It’s how she cultivates all her complaints.

“I will, too,” Olivia lets out as she makes her way to the front door, past the splendorous potted plants and fake green grass turf. Her Mother saunters behind her through the open door.

Once inside Olivia notices what’s missing, and sets her smaller bag down.

“Wh--”

“No no, do not just leave that there! Take it to the mud room or your bedroom.”

Olivia bites back a groan and turns around to face Paula as she shuts and locks the large-ass, gaudy-ass front door. “Fine. Where is Nemo?”

“Nemo?”

“...the dog, Mother.”

“Nemo! Oh, psh,” she waves her acrylics. “He is off in the yard. I kept him outside because the carpet steamers came this morning. You know how his muddy little paws are! Now, do I not get a hug?”

Olivia tenses up from head to toe, seeing her Mother coming in for the hug she didn’t wait for permission for. At least Nemo isn’t mysteriously gone -- she’s read too many horror stories online of people’s parents being complete monsters about their old family pets dying, and not telling the children who live elsewhere -- but Paula keeps Nemo out in the yard for days at a time when she gets the carpets cleaned. He will need company, and not just the husband going out and practicing his golf swing adjacent to him.

Oh, right, there’s a husband around here.

Paula hugs her with her arms draped over Olivia’s shoulders, rather than around her waist like a good bear hug. Something Dad would know how to do.

“I imagine Fred is off shooting, stuffing, or smoking something,” she mutters over her Mother’s shoulder, to which Paula gently swats at her shoulder and guffaws.

“No, silly! He’s in the yard with Nemo, your fellow prisoner,” she teases, picking up on Olivia’s dread with her trademark passive aggression. Only three minutes in the door, a new record.

“I didn’t say he couldn’t do those things out in the yard.” Lord knows he has before.

“Where do you think our holiday meal comes from every year?”

“COSTCO, like God and Uncle Sam intended, right?”

“Ugh, Olivia, your humor changes every year you’re at that College. Don’t be so morose.”

She takes a breath and picks up her eyesore of a bag so that it does not further desecrate the sanctity of the foyer, and makes for the curved staircase just across the pristine hardwood. “I’m just tired from the drive, Mom. I’m going to go upstairs and get settled.”

“Okay, and come downstairs soon! I wanna catch up, okay?”

“Yeah, okay!”

She glances behind her but her Mother is already vanished. Sure, catch up, but not too quick! Releasing her bated breath she lurches up the rest of the stairs. The place is heavily renovated from the home it originally was when her parents bought it. In the beginning they didn’t have much -- well, much compared to what Paula has now -- and so their first nest was a fixer upper. Year after year, corny wallpaper became fresh painted walls, and thick upholstered couches handed down from in-laws became brand new installations from the boutiques downtown. Two additions to the place upgraded it from a modest family home to a wannabe mansion. Olivia grew up in this ever-changing little kingdom of improvements, but only when she was a newly-minted adult did she realize she was one of its fixtures.

The one comfort had always been that her Father dwelled there with her. He brought heart and humanity to the kingdom of objects: his muddy shoes by the front door, not the “mud room.” His fishing rods hung up on the garage rack. His barbeque out in the yard. They weren’t all state-of-the-art, but they were his. But, by now, they, too, were all gone. ‘Improvements’ in every stead, including his.

Olivia had one sacrosanct place left, and that was her childhood room. Walking down the hall decorated with big, framed portraits of the family -- none of her Father, though, to be sure -- she found her door, the second one to the right in the west hallway. “West” being the original upstairs hallway, the only hallway, before construction added the one referred to as the “East.” She pushed the ajar door open and slid in to see it as she remembered: the bright lavender purple walls strewn with posters, pictures, and a tapestry up behind her bed. The pearly purple carpet smelled of the carpet cleaner, but it did not mask the smell of vanilla she expected. On the opposite wall from the door, her princess bed complete with ivory white canopy was freshly made. Her bedspread was white, with pillows in alternating shades of green and lilac. Years ago she fought endlessly for her Mother to let her paint her room a darker color than the baby pink it was first. Thanks to her Dad, they “compromised” with purple. Sadly, Paula took that as “the lightest shades of purple” and so it was.

In the details, though, there was Olivia’s rebellion. The posters, Paramore, My Chemical Romance, and an old one from a Sheryl Crow concert she found on Amazon, contrasted the brightness with a grit. To the left by her small balcony doors, her vanity mirror and stool were covered with polaroid pictures, concert tickets, movie ticket stubs, and bracelets. She had taken all of her incriminating, “immodest” makeup with her to college, so all that remained were an old bottle of sunscreen, some pastel eyeshadow palettes, and lip glosses. So many lip glosses.

Olivia dropped her shit in the middle of the floor and made for the reading chair in the far corner, where she collapsed into a curled, reticent ball of conflicted emotions. She predicted this -- she dreaded this -- and now, here she is. The first day is always a test of anxiety, more so than enduring mistreatment. Paula is always good on the first day -- great, sometimes. She is generous, and outgoing, and doesn’t sweat the small stuff. The grueling part comes after the first night ends and she realizes she has to do something with her daughter who isn’t just in for dinner and giggling. That’s when she remembers how she actually feels, and who she actually is. And with no one like Ellinor to buffer and provide excuses for her not standing in one place for too long, it’ll be particularly concentrated.

She slides limply against the plush chair and closes her eyes. It was a stressful drive full of hasty college kids getting home to their more harmonious families. Olivia was in no rush, though. Three trips through various drive thrus surely added time.

Her phone goes off, and she slips her phone out of her back jean pocket.

Ellinor: You ready to walk the plank yet?

Smirking, Olivia replies:

-- I am already keeling over the edge. How is your family?

Ellinor: I nearly did a drop and roll out of Lyssa’s car on the way here, but they’re bearable. They are who they usually are. No surprises, this holiday season!

-- One of these years we’ll be successful enough to buy everyone therapy for Christmas.

Ellinor: No shit, I’m making them pay for mine first.

Olivia is replying when another notification comes up, an instagram like this time, from Maryden. Grinning she taps on it. Maryden finally saw the group pic they all took at the fair: her, Ellinor, Cullen, and then Olivia and Cass in the bottom corner. Olivia had made Cass hold the phone due to height advantage. Her grin expands before it sinks fast.

Ah, fuck.

She pulls up her messages again and sees the one Cassandra sent her while she was driving and unable to check.

Cassandra: Text me when you arrive safe. ❤️

The heart emoji. Olivia’s cheeks turn hot, and she hastily types.

-- Here in purgatory!

The sound of a man shouting something, and then laughing, rings from the balcony windows. Fred must be huffing and puffing about something amusing, like meat or guns. She can’t wait for all his odd comments and attempts to “relate” that almost always devolve into him talking about whatever season of sport he’s onto and her nodding along. Poor man. He makes sea sponges seem like sophists.

Soon after sending, Cassandra replies, an opportunity Olivia doesn’t predict:

Cassandra: Awesome. my Uncle has stopped us for gas, still about 40 minutes out.

-- That’s good. Hopefully you won’t get stuck in rush hour.

Cassandra: My Uncle sucks at navigating traffic, so I wouldn’t bet on it.

-- Lol

Cassandra: You alright?

Olivia is sort of surprised by the question and its sensitivity, albeit direct.

-- Just tired from the drive, that’s all

Cassandra: You love driving. You would drive the entire stretch of the coast highway without blinking once.

Damn, Cassandra. A bold insight. A correct one, too.

-- 🤷🏼‍♀️

Five seconds after she hits send, Cassandra calls her. She nearly drops the phone on the floor, and her slack posture goes full vertical. She checks that the door is closed, only to decide to leap, rush, and lock it just in case. Then she hurries to the farthest corner of the room and hits answer right on the last ring.

“No, Detective, I will not submit to the polygraph.”

Cassandra’s voice rings almost playfully. “Very well, we have other ways of making you talk.”

There’s the hot blush again. “Uh, a-alright, who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” She hushes a bit, and hopes Cassandra doesn’t notice.

“Nothing! My Uncle is in the gas station doing who-knows-what, so I’m stuck in here, boot and all.”

“I’m not kidding, I saw that Liam Neeson movie, I know how this goes. I have a special set of skills--”

“What do I have to do? Express my distaste for something? Quote Plato?”

“...It would be reassuring.”

Cassandra laughs coyly, and despite everything, it livens her spirit. She didn’t expect Cassandra to be in so playful a mood traveling back home. She was cool but unhappy about it that morning when they parted ways, entertained only by Olivia’s presence and a strong cup of coffee. Without the ability to drive due to her ankle, her illustrious but mysterious Uncle had to be the one to pick her up and take her back to her family.

“I was just calling to check in on you.”

“I thought that was what the texting was for,” Olivia replies more curtly than she intends. She gnaws at her bottom lip.

“Sometimes it is worth the extra effort to call.”

“That is very un-millenial of you, you know. Horrifying.”

“Maybe so. Ugh, what is that man doing?” there’s sounds of Cassandra rustling against the leather seat, probably checking in through the window. “Probably searching for that expensive jerky he gets at Trader Joe’s like it will just magically turn up at an ARCO.”

“Who’s to say it won’t? People of all walks of life can enjoy finer things.”

“Yes, but not just the ‘finer’ things,” she then huffs. “Look, I don’t have much time, so if you aren’t in the mood to talk about what is bothering you, I can let you go and we can talk later.”

“I don’t know if I will be able to. My Mom wants to ‘catch up,’ which in her language means I get a hundred questions and the occasional asinine one from Fred.”

“Fred’s your stepfather, right?”

“He’s...my Mother’s husband.”

“I see.”

She mulls her teeth and looks around aimlessly. Cassandra goes ‘hm’ but nothing else.

“How are you able to talk so much?” Olivia asks, diverting the subject. “Aren’t you worried your family will pry?”

“The good thing about holidays in my family is there are so many people around, you can get a great deal of private time if you are smart enough. Which is exactly what I intend to do. Ugh...he...oh, sorry. I thought my Uncle was coming back, but it was just another man.”

“Yeah, but you said they have superhuman abilities for nosiness.”

“They do. And I have superhuman talents of evasion. They’ll peck and prod about the ankle boot, though. Usually I can slip away to the gym or for a run to get away from them but...of course...can’t do that. Doctors don’t trust me to set foot in a weight room and it’s been weeks since my injury.”

“Cass, it’s been two weeks, almost precisely.”

“I said weeks, didn’t I? Look, overextending is not the same as knowing my limits. They’re the medical professionals, but they don’t live in this body 24/7.”

Olivia grimaces with sympathy, though she can’t say she agrees given how easy it is for Cassandra to throw herself into things without caution. “Uh huh.”

“Ugh, forgive me. I won’t be able to talk everyday, but I would like to try sometimes, okay? I promise it won’t all be about my messed up ankle.”

Olivia smirks. “You’re being very…”

“Very…what?”

Olivia stalls. Is it an asshole thing to do, saying your girlfriend is being more sensitive and caring than usual? Maybe not “more,” but in a different way. An unusual way. She could have really taken Olivia’s hurt feelings over how she acted about her injury. She could be really trying. But now, in the lion’s den, Olivia’s unsure about whether the timing of it is...well, ideal.

“Nevermind, I lost my train of thought,” she excuses. “I appreciate you.”

“It’s no trouble. Now, I think my Uncle is coming back. Ugh, he got a whole bag of things...probably for me. Seeing me with my boot triggered his overprotective nerve extra hard.”

“Oh, no, sour patch kids! The torture!” Olivia teases. An ounce of her regular self bleeds through.

“Very funny. I will text you later. Be safe, alright?”

“Alright. You, too.” She then remembers and slips it in before they hang up: “L-let me know when you get home, too, okay?”

“...O-okay.” There’s a pause, the kind of awkward pause when the thing you say -- the particular thing -- happens. But since they aren’t there yet, it’s full of pause and anxiety.

“Okay,” Olivia takes her turn to smooth it over. “Bye!”

“Bye.”

Hanging up kills the feeling of safety. She looks into the big oval mirror at her dresser vanity and watches her grin crack, then disappear all-together. The scene in her reflected surroundings loses its luster. Even with all the impossibilities, she kind of wishes Cassandra was with her. It almost makes her laugh at herself: what, would she have driven up with her in the passenger’s seat, hear “hey baby cakes!” and smile, saying “hey Mom, here’s my girlfriend! You’re suddenly not biphobic, right? Oh and by the way she’s a Pentaghast, so, there’s that!” and they all retire to the sitting room for tea and introductions. Right.

She turns and sees her unpacked bags, her only company. She rubs her forehead slowly with the back of her hand. She has experience being left to her own devices with her Mother. Hell, she has a lifetime of it with her. A long weekend won’t be anything particularly gruesome, and if it is, well, she’s survived them before.

Fifteen minutes later she has everything organized and put away -- she won’t unpack much, anyway. A quick change into some leggings and a t-shirt, a toss of her hair into a ponytail, and she’s ready to face the music. She’s careful to shut her bedroom door before she descends down the hall and the stairs, betting that her Mother is out in the yard on one of the lounge chairs. She finds her there, indeed lounging, with that missing cocktail restored to her.

Unmoved but always observant, her Mother inquires: “Settled in?”

Olivia puts on her best polite grin and sits down on the lounge chair five feet away. On the grass, Fred is dressed in pastel blue polo and cargo shorts like the overgrown fraternity pledge he is, throwing a frisbee for Nemo. Nemo, the 10 year old yellow lab, who can scarcely go up the stairs without being winded these days. Too bad for Fred the minute Olivia shows herself, the grey-faced dog bounds in his own way over to the long last playmate.

“Nemo! You little prince!” she smiles, crouching down to embrace him. His tail is wagging a million miles per hour, and he fills her face with old dog breath. His tickling gets her to finally laugh.

“Good grief,” she hears her Mom say, “Olivia, don’t let him lick your mouth!”

“I’m fine!” she says through her giggles, rubbing his chest and back as she stands upright. “It won’t kill me.”

“Ugh.”

That joy was short lived. She returns to the chair she chose and does her best to make as little eye contact as possible as she sits and sprawls her legs out. Nemo follows circles around her, tail still going.

“Do we know what the plans are for Thanksgiving?” Olivia asks, expecting the same answer as always. Dinner at home with Fred’s relatives and those in Mom’s family who she isn’t on the outs with, all above the age of 35 for the most part, and vote like it. Another dinner she’ll have to dress way too modestly and matronly for her age in order to fit in for the group photo.

“Well, that is what I wanted to surprise you with,” Paula answers.

Olivia side-eyes her Mom, and delays opening up her phone to scroll through Twitter. “What?”

“We will be having dinner with the family as always, but earlier this week we received a surprise invitation for us to attend a holiday party later on this weekend.”

“You aren’t going to spend the holiday campaigning, are you?”

“‘Campaigning’ has a broad definition, Olivia, and it is never a bad idea to become more familiar with one’s community constituents.”

Olivia frowns and resumes scrolling. Great, likely another fundraiser or gala, not something substantially humble like volunteering time with those genuinely in need, who are also her “constituents.” She saved the label for those she could depend on to write a donation check -- the other 80% of society barely existed.

“I assume then you are expecting me to go?”

There’s a sound of Paula’s magazine of choice turning a page. “What do you think the surprise was?”

“That as much as you would like me to come, that you respect my choice not to so that I can have a quiet, restful weekend at home before Finals are in full swing?”

No response for going out on that limb. The proverbial crickets chirp, and Olivia knows her point was deliberately missed.

“Or,” she corrects herself, “that you want me to go.”

“Yes, silly girl. And for your information, even if I didn’t want you to come, the invitation specifically noted you.”

“P-pardon me?” She looks up.

Paula shakes her head and smiles. “When were you going to tell me you were making friends with the Pentaghast family?”

“I...I-I’m not!”

“You must be, there was a handwritten note in the card, your name and all.”

Olivia can feel a stroke coming on. The heat of the day now feels like a vise around her throat, a semi-truck on her chest. She jerks up and turns to look at her Mother dead on, who is still flipping through her latest issue of Vogue, sunglasses and sunhat and all.

“So...so they wrote me in? Me, specifically?”

“Yes, that is what I said! Goodness, calm down, you’ll give yourself a heat stroke.”

Too late. “Why? Aren’t they one of the big blue families? Why would they want to invite y--”

“Are you insinuating that I do not belong in a bipartisan space? Olivia, I work in one for a living. This whole business of networking is par for the course. In fact, it is a long time coming. The Pentaghasts should be taking the ‘other side’ more seriously. I have been in this town’s political realm for seven years, now. They cannot always hide behind their old money and liberal hypocrisy of “inclusion.””

There is that rhetorical savvy and venom. Quintessentially Paula. Olivia falls back on the lounge chair and stares out into the lawn, mouth open and words lost. Where to begin? Hey, Mom, don’t think so highly of yourself, they’re only inviting you to get to me! Because they want to sniff me out as one of their many daughters’ lovers! You’re full of shit!

“Do I have to go? I am serious about wanting rest. This semester has been a lot, an--”

“A semester that I paid for,” Paula cut in, turning yet another page. “It is restful to be with your family. You should consider yourself lucky, Olivia, that spending time with us is so comfortable. You have this nice home to come back to, and good people to spend time with, and beautiful parties to go to. A girl your age in a lesser position would claw someone’s eyes out for the chance to live the life you get to. Is it so really so demanding?”

The shots to the gut have started early. So much for the easy first day. She wishes even more she could pop her Mother’s balloon, but it would mean ultimate disaster for her in the end. Out in the open Fred is still trying to get Nemo to chase the damn frisbee, clearly aware that he should stay away from the two debating blondes. Olivia rolls her lips shut and tries her hardest to swallow the hunk of pride at the back of her throat, but there’s no room in her stomach. It’s completely filled to the top with anxiety about what it means to be going to this party.

Then it hits her: Cassandra is going to shoot through the roof.

“Fine, Mom. I’ll go.” The clock then starts ticking for her to find a covert way out of it beforehand. She’s dove deep into her head, and only catches half of her Mother’s pleased response.

“--something classy, the party is black tie optional.”

“Okay.”

“I also have an appointment for us to get our nails done tomorrow at 11, so do not sleep in too much.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. She does another fake smile as she pulls up her messages on her phone in order to deploy the distress signal:

-- Change of plan, I need you to call me as soon as you are able. Your family sent an invitation to mine for their big party this weekend. My Mom is insisting we go. Code red.

#fic update #college au #modern thedas au #college!olivia #olivia sinclair #ellinor trevelyan #day & age #WE'RE BACK BABY

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megacircuit9universe · 4 years

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What Will the 2020s Be Like?

DEC 13 2019

I focus a lot in this blog on technology, because it’s something I understand, and also because it does very much transform society and civilization. The cotton gin made slavery sustainable, and the Civil War, therefore, inevitable.

Tech made WW1 the deadliest war ever, and many believe that the advances of tech in the 1920s (radio, telephone, automobiles, etc) was so disruptive, it made the Great Depression inevitable.

WW2 wasn’t so much brought on by advances in technology, but more than any other event before it (or arguably since) it catapulted technology forward. From the first rockets and computers, to the first atomic bombs.

I grew up in the 1970s, which was the peak of the analog world... the world of newspapers, and three-network broadcast TV. There was an antenna on every roof... a pay phone and a mail box on every street corner. Cameras used film, recorders used tape, and electric typewriters had ribbons.

Your watch and your clock were analog, as was your record player. Your electric guitar had pick ups that fed an analog signal to an amplifier with a tube inside it. And your car... well all the gauges on your dashboard had needles. Any feedback systems it had, such as the automatic transmission, power steering, or the carburetor, relied on fluid dynamics or vacuum pressure.

Tech-wise, the 1970s wasn’t much different from the 1960s or the 1950s, other than doing all these things more cleverly... as one would expect after several decades of honing techniques.

Politically, however, the 1970s was a lot different from the 1950s, because of all the upheaval and transformation that happened through the 1960s. Civil rights were finally being taken seriously. The Draft had disappeared in favor of an all volunteer military. Social conformity was out the window forever. Secularism was on the rise, abortion was legal, and divorce was becoming more common and more acceptable.

Conservatives have never gotten over these political changes, which is why they have, in every succeeding decade, fought dirtier and more desperately to regain control of society... still dreaming to this day of overturning Roe V Wade, for example, but also longing to bring back racism, the subjugation of women, the persecution of gays, and state sanctioned Christianity to the exclusion of all other religions... and of science.

Not that I want this entry to be a screed about conservatism... so let’s just acknowledge that they’ve always been out there, through the 1960s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s, and teens... struggling like hell to claw us all back to the 1950s any way they can... and move on...

Having grown up in the 1970s, I became of teenager of the 1980s. So I can recall clearly that what made the 1980s different from the previous three decades was the advent of, “electronics.”

I put that word, “electronics,” in quotes to emphasize that this was still a world that did not have computers as we know them now, and nobody thought of their electronic devices as being, “digital”.

Yes, home computers existed in the 1980s... for hobbyists. I even had a very crude home computer, the Timex/Sinclair 2000 in the early 80s, but there wasn’t much you could do with it, and after it flopped, all support for it vanished.

This was the story for a lot of home computers in the 1980s. If they were useful for anything, it was teaching you how to program in BASIC, and learn the fundamentals about how these analytical engines worked, but many people saw them as kind of a fad.

Only super hardcore computer geeks really stuck with them through the 1980s. The rest of us just kind of lived our lives, knowing they were out there, but not really thinking they would ever matter much.

Electronics, on the other hand, was seen as a different kind of tech that really did revolutionize our everyday lives in this decade before the World Wide Web came into its own.

The term, “electronic,” was for any device from the analog days, that now had a circuit board inside it... with transistors on it... maybe a chip? People didn’t talk a lot about chips in the 80s, even if they did exist inside our devices.

A Telephone, for example, was an analog thing in the house, with big curly cords. In the early 70s, they still all had analog dials on them. By the late 70s, they all had all become, “touch tone,” with a keypad that sounded, “electronic,” tones to do the “dialing.” But the first truly electronic phones, were the magical cordless phones... with the stubby antenna on the handset that you could amazingly take all the way out to the front stoop!

This same kind of transformation happened to everything... from digital clocks, to electronic tape decks, cameras, speedometers, and even typewriters with little LCD screens on them, that could save what you were writing to little discs... which they called, “word processors.” :O

There were a million hand held devices... I remember owning an electronic dictionary and thesaurus, about the size of a small tablet today, and twice as thick, with a tiny LCD screen. It allowed you to play a few shitty word based games like hangman. It seemed like a modern marvel.

Video arcade games, of course, had a massive impact on our lives in the 1980s, as well as the first home game consoles, for those who could afford them... usually the upper middle class families that also could afford cable TV.

And after video games, the other huge tech that really transformed our lives was the video recorder. Again, you had to have some money to own one back then, but those giant, klunky camcorders of the day were a massive improvement over the old Super8 film cameras that only recorded video, with no sound.

With a camcorder, you not only could capture both video and sound, but on magnetic tape, rather than film... which meant you could watch it immediately. No need to have it developed... or rent a projector!

I could go on, but the point here is that the 1980s was a time when the analog world of the 50s, 60s, and 70s, was being magically transformed by electronics, and we really felt like electronics were going to allow us to do anything... and yet nobody imagined home computers, networked together, would be a part of that.

The original Ghost Busters movie from 1984 is a wonderful example of this, because it’s set in the real world... which is beset by the supernatural problem of ghosts, spirits, vengeful gods that range from nuisances, to existential threats, but heretofore have never been tangible, touchable, or provable.

But three, clever, modern men of the 1980s have developed an arsenal of electronic devices to deal with these ghosts. They can detect and analyze them, track them, attack them, trap them, and hold them in a containment grid... all with state of the art transistorized tech.

The movie really captured the feeling of the times, like no other... that we can use electronics, here on Earth (rather than in a galaxy far far away) to deal with problems in our everyday lives (rather than hacking into NORAD to teach an AI that nuclear war is pointless) and be heroes in our home town.

Young people did take that message to heart, embracing electronics to do what young people like to do... create stuff. In 21st century parlance we would say they were creating, “content,” but at the time, the big problem was in publishing said content.

Garage bands recorded songs and albums. Others recorded videos, both long, short, and very short form videos. People wrote poems and prose on their word processors... started, “zines,” which were published using photocopiers, in stapled booklets.

All this stuff we attempted to shop to big publishers, who’s gate keepers ignored it, so we tried to sell zines, and indie tapes in local record stores, or showcase local videos at get-togethers in coffee houses. We developed an, “underground,” of indie music, video, writing, comics, etc... which relied on a network of high school and college students disseminating copies of content from hand to hand, throughout the country, and across the pond.

Most of the greatest musicians and other artists of the 1980s... the ones who did get signed to indie studios to produce more professional material... were never acknowledged by the mainstream media... which by the 80s was under the control of 30-something baby-boomers whose only agenda was to celebrate their own youth, and crank out cheep garbage pop for commercial consumption.

So, when the 1990s arrived, and the World Wide Web came into being, with cheep, but reliable home computers that had dial up modems to get anybody with a paycheck online... that underground movement from the 80s took it over immediately.

Most of us had at least some prior experience with BASIC, as mentioned above, and knew the fundamentals about computing... even if we hadn’t used that knowledge much for several years.

Now, those skills were suddenly relevant, and most of us were still young enough (in our twenties now, rather than our teens) to take on the learning curves necessary to do everything from code HTML, JavaScript, and CSS, but learn how to work on and upgrade our machines, how to master operating systems and all the big applications... the word and graphics processors, the animation tools, the video tools, the audio tools... how to get freeware... how to make freeware... you name it.

The teens of the 1980s, including those hard core computer hobbyists mentioned above, who helped build the primordial backbone that would become the WWW a decade later, built the internet. We pioneered it, formatted it’s culture... of memes, piracy, boundless creativity, and the free sharing of ideas and technology.

And we did it all in the late 1990s and early 2000s before the mainstream media had any real clue that this silly internet thing could be come kind of a threat to their carefully curated analog kingdom.

Flaming and trolling were things back then... conspiracy theories, fake news, and disinformation were problems back then... but they were manageable. Nothing like what they are now, at the end of the twenty-teens.

The problem there, is that in the twenty-teens, the old conservative farts finally left the safe confines of AOL and began to slowly populate places like Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter... as did all the AM radio shock jocks they listened to.

At the same time, “Big Media,” began to take the internet seriously as a threat, with YouTube and Netflix stealing so many of their captive eyeballs and earlobes, and launched a hostile takeover of the internet that continues to play out to this day... with Disney buying up every franchise and attempting to shut down Netflix, and net neutrality itself having been destroyed by the Trump administration two years ago now, allowing ISPs to partner with big media outlets and throttle competitors content, as they all attempt to stamp out independent, original content altogether.

YouTube’s on life support, for independent creators. Tumblr is a zombie husk of what it was just two years ago. Twitter is a hellscape. Facebook is for lifeless mannequins. Vine is dead. Blogger and LiveJournal are forgotten to time. MySpace, Geocities and AngelFire... all ashes now. All destroyed by blind corporate greed and the same army of bigoted killjoys we’ve been trying to beat back since the dawn of civilization.

Still, technology continues to evolve, and the internet of 2019 is not the desktop computer based internet of 1999. Twenty years later, it’s become a wireless internet that’s expanded to include very powerful handheld devices which can do everything every, “electronic,” device of the 1980s did, and much more... all in a thing that fits in your shirt pocket.

This changes the game going into the 2020s, as smart phones settle into their final form factor... and slowly begin to assume their ultimate role as the, “mission brain,” for an individual’s life.

In the 2020s, my phone will not just bluetooth to my watch, and be the thing I bank and shop with, as it is today. It will talk to my car, if I still own a car. It will talk to my house, if I own a house. It will talk to my smart glasses, overlaying my view of the world with augmented reality. It will be even talk to me... and work with me to solve any problem I might have... from finding a dog walker, to complex legal and financial issues.

From a political perspective... it will represent me in polls... the way today’s smart phone and land line phones have never done. And it will register me to vote, remind me when to do it three weeks early, and clear my schedule, and get me a ride if necessary... meaning voter turnout will be far higher than ever before among the younger demographics... from 18 to 55... or GenZ up to GenX... with aging Boomers still sitting on Facebook at their desktops, paying their bills with paper checks unable to understand why even primaries and midterms are largely decided by the time they show up in their walkers to vote straight Republican down the ticket, like what’s worked in their favor for many decades.

The bigger picture here, if you zoom back... is that, with the form factor of smart phones having been worked out in the twenty-teens, the big advances in the 2020s will be in the AI those devices have.

And that coming level of AI, will allow individuals to continuously circumvent any roadblocks the corporate and political behemoths of old try to lay down for us... from bureaucratic red tape and voter suppression, to monopolization of media and markets, to censorship and the moderation of free speech.

I know all of that sounds idyllic and Utopian... and loudly echoes the original view of what the internet was gonna do for humanity, back in the 1990s... but much of what we have today would have seemed overly-futuristic and impossible just twenty years ago.

I’m sure there will still be a dark political backdrop to deal with, as today’s upsurge of racism and fascism around the world struggles to stay relevant.

And the effects of climate change through the 2020s will be another big source of darkness and drama like we are only beginning to see at the end of the teens... which will trigger major transformations in the way we all live.

Homes will get smaller and more efficient. Car ownership will dive to new lows. Families will get smaller, and suburban sprawl will ebb backward, creating, “ghost subdivisions,” haunted by the spirits of Karen and Craig.

They will follow the trend of today’s abandoned shopping malls, which will also only get worse.

Meanwhile, weed will come to be legalized nationally... as it is already doing state by state, leading to an eventual end to the War on Drugs, and much of the gang violence related to drug trafficking... as well as an influx of tax money, even before we’ve figured out how to tax the rich at a fair rate.

The 2020s will not be without their tumult and tribulations, but I believe that on the whole, compared to the twenty-teens, they will be a lot less crazy, and a lot more hopeful.

Time traveler traffic... also... won’t be nearly as heavy.... which will ease the craziness considerably.

As for aliens?... well... Trump might just get his Space Force so... they will probably be taking the brunt of the trolling from the aliens, rather than the Air Force... for whatever that’s worth.

Time for bed.

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