I awake to find myself homeless. Clothes tattered and dirty, as eyes look toward bare feet covered by newspaper. A gentle breeze tickles my soul, and I arise to the sun-rays shining between skyscrapers. As I look around, I see these midtown Manhattan streets desolate with trash strewed, as if through some major event civilization had been wiped out. I walk, dizzy or mayhap drunk, swaying as my stance tries to find its balance and I’m just an unwilling participant.
Somehow, I make my way to the corner.
And as I stand on this, north-east corner of 49th Street and 7th Avenue, I look to the right and there are no cars in sight; not parked on the street, nor in motion. Nothing stirs but the wind where debris moves within, and the only sound to be heard is the eerie metallic echo of a can as it rolls along concrete. — Towards my back, in the distance I see, what appears to be a man trying to flag me in order to grab my attention. I hasten my stride in his direction; a light jog; more like jogging at a walking pace with weakened / sluggish / gentle steps.
As I reach him, I don’t know what to think. He appears to be homeless like me, a black man about three shades darker than I. Dark enough that the whites of his eyes stand out. — I ask him, after giving a brief description, if he awoke similar to me. And as he says yes, I can see that he doesn’t remember anything that happened prior. He points to another guy, that I had not realized was there. He hides behind a dumpster … afraid, as if he had been through some traumatic experience. A shattered caucasian man of average height, weight; wearing an army jacket, with green scully obscuring his eyes, and underneath slightly displayed semi-long salt & peppered hair beguiling his age.
As he points, he says, “the same thing happened to him.”
I ask where everyone went, but he hasn’t the foggiest idea. He gestures in the other’s direction, as the other finally works up the nerve to approach. “He thinks aliens attacked us”, the other guy says in his stead with an undeserved discerning tone of mid-30s skepticism. I reply, “that’s possible, though I do not know, and am going to find out. Stay, or come with.” I walk away quickly, eager to discover what the fuck happened. The other guy (let’s call him ‘social’), urges the shattered one to hurry, and says, “wait up!” My strides subside, as I look behind to see them struggle to keep pace.
More considerately, we move away from 6th Avenue, back towards 7th.
Upon reaching the corner, I begin to wonder if everyone went underground. It would seem that if some tragic event happened, many would seek a pseudo bunker, and there is none better in this city than being a few stories beneath solid earth and concrete. Fortunately, there is a train station entrance on the corner. A few steps ahead, I turned and said, “I’m going to check something out.” “You shouldn’t go by yourself”, retorted Mr. Shattered. I silently decline his warning, but they join anyway. We jumped the turnstiles and proceeded to the platform.
Nothing.
Not the sound of trains nor voices, nor even a waft of wind. Not the squeak of a rat or its scurrying. The lights worked, electricity was running, it was just devoid of any life and so … deafeningly … quiet … that, the sounds of breaths from my momentary companions were only interrupted by the shallow drip of water. I told them to pause their respiration, to see if I could hear anything in the distance. Closely I listen. Nothing. I descend onto the tracks in attempt to get a closer look down the tunnel.
No one stirs.
Still, I think that maybe we should remain underground for safety; an idea put aside, startled by the electric sizzle of the third rail, as besotted carelessness is put into perspective. Besides, we’re probably more prone to run into others outside. I turn around, and the others patiently stare, awaiting my departure of what appeared to them a trance of thought, and Mr. Shattered asks, “is it okay to stop being quiet?” I laugh at the irony, and merely say, “glad to see you’re being more vocal now.”
“We should continue above ground.” “But what if people did go underground?” “No, he’s right. It’s easier to miss people above ground, more places to hide. We can check the tunnels every couple of stations.” I nod silently as Mr. Social finishes that statement, and venture ahead. My legs, feeling more stable and strong cause me to skip every other step as I ascend, and upon emerging I’m slightly blinded by a reflection of sunlight against a window. Instantly, I shield eyes with my left forearm.
And with blurry vision I peer toward movement on 42nd Street.
One by one, the traffic of bodies increase as people literally fade into existence. As they materialize, they move as if going about a normal business day. “What the fuck is going on?”, I say quietly beneath a breath, as the other guys peer mysteriously but are at a loss of what I see. I say, “there are people on 42nd.” “Where?”, Mr. Shattered inquires. “There”, I say while pointing. “Are you sure?”, Mr. Social double checks, and I look at him with eyes conveying, “I’m not retarded”, but I only utter, “let’s go.”
As we get closer Mr. Social begins to see them, but he isn’t seeing what I am. He doesn’t see the people materialize in front of us, it all seems normal to him. However, Mr. Shattered doesn’t even see the people at all for another couple of blocks, but eventually, as he does … 7th Avenue begins to fill with people. Block by block, entire groups of people materialize, with greater speed as it progresses downtown. Yet, everything above 42nd Street is still desolate, and no one is even attempting to walk in that direction (uptown), as if that was the limit to their droned existence.
When we arrive at 42nd I attempt to stop a woman as she heads east.
I give slight chase, “excuse me. Can you tell me what’s going on?” She doesn’t hear me. “Excuse me”, I say again while standing in front of her. She walks around me but makes no indication of otherwise acknowledging my presence. I attempt to stop a man who passes in the west direction. “Excuse me, sir” … he too does not hear me. I try to grab his arm, and he pulls away without rude intent; as if, his jacket was caught on something and he was merely trying to free it. Then, I notice their attire. They are all dressed in professional attire like straight out of a Dick Tracy movie; circa 1930.
Everyone aside us were wearing trench coats of varying colors. The previous woman was wearing a red dress beneath an open tan trench coat; the man, a grey suit also beneath a tan trench coat. And we stand between 7th Avenue and Broadway on a on 42nd of a design prior to the bright lights of advertisements. — Oddly appears a heavyset woman in modern casual attire. She is wearing blue jeans and a red knit sweater, carrying a little girl on her left hip while walking a little boy held by her right hand. She’s startled by the sight of Mr. Shattered, and responds with disgust. I try to ask but she avoids us like the plague.
As I watch her from behind, the times seem to converge as others from varying periods slowly appear intermixed in this predicament. “What is going on?”, asked again to myself as I notice the majority of traffic heading east. To the others I say, “it seems we won’t be getting answers from these people.” “What do you suggest?” asks Mr. Social. “I have none.” “Everyone’s been brainwashed!” interrupts Mr. Shattered. “Maybe. Your guess is as good as any, and at this point I’m open to all ideas. Perhaps there are answers within the flow of traffic.”
Without further discussion we head east.
Upon almost reaching Grand Central Mr. Social breaks our silence. “Everyone is just going about their day normally.” “Yet, no one is paying attention to one another.” “This is New York, that’s not odd.” “It wouldn’t be, if there had been even a single person interacting with another. It’s as if everyone is in their own world. Even the ‘mother’ did not more than her duty. Have you see anyone speak or interact?” “No, but that’s coincidence. Our timing is off.” “They’re all robots!” interjects Mr. Shattered. I laugh, “on many levels that’s so true; akin to being programmed what to do.”
We pause in front, across the street from the main entrance, and I sense that this is where it all begins. “I think we should split up.” “But, but if we separate they might abduct us!” “There is strength in numbers.” “Tell that to a group trapped in a building. Regardless, I have no desire to lead, and we can cover more ground.” “What time should we meet back here?” “If we make it back at all, it will not have taken me more than an hour.” “So in an hour then.” “I bid you safe journey”, I walk off without saying more.
We enter through the front doors, as a flood of people are exiting the station. The flood divides us, and the others go with the stream of traffic entering. As I move against the grain as bodies graze, I decide to stop and survey in the midst. Something, just doesn’t seem right. My every bone aching defiance, and after wrestling with the idea I give in to the compelling sense to go off the grid. I walk to the left of the initial corridor. My companions a few feet ahead as moving with the flow was easier. They go until I am unable to see them, and I walk along the inside circumference of the building.
Even from the outside looking in, it all seems quite ‘normal’. But it does not shake this feeling. Previously things appeared odd, and now it doesn’t … but it ‘feels’ odd. So much, that it causes the urge to want to throw up; with every other sense not allowing me to digest what I currently see. Lost within this blind juxtaposition I eventually make my way to the back of the building. I do not know how long it took me to get there. I do not recall what occurred along the way. I only know that I am there, and there’s no one around.
To the right distance I can see people by the entrance, but in front of me there are stairs descending.
Compelled to keep going, I acquiesce. At the bottom is a train platform, to the left is an empty track and a wall. To the right, another track and platform in parallel; a sequence that repeats to infinity. There are no trains in sight, nor people. — I move forward, walking to the end of the platform where there is a wall bisecting each train tunnel. I turn around, and begin to wonder how the people got there with no trains. “Where are the trains?!”, as I verbally ask, I look towards the end of the tracks and the stairs I descended from are no longer there.
Instead, at the end of each platform is an arch which leads to an outlet in the building. I can see people in the distance on a level above two sets of opposing circular stairs that ascend to the main level. No one ventures down the stairs. While wondering why, at the beginning of the platform / end of the tracks, an old black steam-engine train begins to fold out into existence like an accordion. A ominous voice says, “you should not be back here.” — This voice, with bellowing tone that came from behind nothingness sent shivers up my spine. To say, “it scared me to death” would be an understatement.
I had not known such fear prior …
and so, I run.
Running with the fervor of an olympic sprinter being chased by Cerberus, the destination a perpetual horizon that cannot be reached. After awhile, I am no closer to the beginning than when I started running. The trains expanded until they reached or I reached them, either way moving backwards is getting me nowhere. In an effort to get away, I desperately dash into the train to my left (the previous right). — Through the train car I hasten, and exit at the next door. I cross the next platform and enter another train, running through the car like before, while being pursued by a figure unseen.
And though I went through at least five trains, I finally reach the outlet to only find myself one platform away from where I started. I reach the bottom of the circular marble stairs, and see my previous companions descending towards me. I urge them, “don’t come, get away!” They progress another step. “What did you say?!” yells Mr. Social. They cannot hear me. “Don’t come near me, get away!” They walk forward another step, and end up on the opposite staircase away from me. Startled, I stop momentarily and look across to see them parallel to me.
They too are looking over at me, and though I cannot see it I can feel the figure in pursuit getting closer. I’m almost there. As my foot touches the top, the stairs extend further. However, I no longer pause; I keep running, refusing to let myself be caught. — Looking down at the stairs which morph from marble to black metal akin to those on a fire escape. I look up and see that I’m caught in a loop. I look out and can see the people in the station on the ground level below. They have stopped moving and are watching me on a spiral staircase unsupported by walls.
A woman points, afraid for me.
At the end of her vantage is a man or thing that’s chasing. He / it resembles the portrayal of the Mad Hatter by Johnny Depp if you removed the ‘fun’ from his character. Though quite a few lengths behind me, when he speaks it sounds as if his lips are right next to my ear. “Why are you running?” he asks with a tone of desperation and resounding voice that still sends shivers up my spine. “Because I don’t want you to catch me!” “Why do you not want to be caught?” “Because I’m afraid!” “What are you afraid of?” “You!!” “Do you know who I am?” “NO!!!” “You know who I am. Why are you afraid?”
“…”
“Stop running.” “Stop chasing me!!” “You blame me, when it was you who sought the truth.” “I do not want this!!” “You did. You wanted all of this.” “I DID NOT!!” — I reach the end of the stairs signified by a small gate that goes to no where, and I can see people who appear like ants below. I turn around and press my back against the gate as he gets closer. “The end of this was your desire.” “It wasn’t, you’re trying to trap me!” “Stop blaming me. You wanted to experience the array, the greatest joys along with the pain, sadness, loneliness that comes with it. Each person’s world is their own. Its destruction and birth is of your own design.”
Getting closer.
“You are the architect and yet condemn me for actualizing the world exactly.” “I DO NOT WANT THIS!” “Everything in life is of your own choosing.” “Are you telling me that the pain others go through, the death, all of it is my fault!?!” “I am.” “I refuse to believe that!” — As he reaches me, I can see the heartfelt tears in his eyes, and makeup smeared by crying. “And so, instead you make a mockery of me.” — The sound of those words cause me to crumble. I fall to my knees, and begin crying. He hugs me, and I say, “I am sorry …
… I am so sorry.”
- Prasand J.
On: SocialScope: A Journey Through Twitterland
Yesterday I posted a link on Twitter for others to download SocialScope, a Twitter client for BlackBerry smartphones. — If you haven’t downloaded it already, you can do so here:
http://www.socialscope.net/Engadget
—–
SocialScope is a client that I have been personally waiting for awhile. I first learned of it back when I was an avid TwitterBerry user. — I grew tired of how slow TwitterBerry was. It had not been updated recently, it lacked features I desired, and the Twitter API changes caused there to be some issues with it. I disliked having to go to Slandr in order to do the things I couldn’t with TwitterBerry (because she wasn’t as experimentally freaky). I disliked that people who were following me at times didn’t know what I was addressing (because it doesn’t include the ‘in reply to’ / threading details).
As such, I was eagerly awaiting an alternative.
Then I heard of this beauty named SocialScope, and read the reviews. I thought, “I want her!”, and in typical fashion, what I want, I seek. However, I went to her mansion the security basically said, “talk to the hand” as I sought those pearly gates. The program was in the alpha stage of development, and that testing was closed. I could only submit my name, email address, BlackBerry model, and await their acceptance.
Months passed and I heard nothing from them.
Were they prejudice? Did they turn away BlackBerry Pearls, with an upturned nose, as if we weren’t worthy of acknowledgement? Were only the elite allowed? Periodically, I climbed the gate, banged on the door, checked the windows, and backdoor. In hindsight, it’s possible that my impatience caused me to lose my position on the list; with every submit of my email address. I guess in my desperation I didn’t think of this. Oh wait, actually I did, I used a different email address each time. Regardless, I did not hear a thing from them, and after 40 days and 40 nights I saw a land unpromised, but was grateful.
That land was called: UberTwitter.
I had seen what they created, and was satisfied; maybe even in some ways elated. The interface was significantly more efficient. They really thought about a user’s interaction, and where relevant information should go. For example, click on a tweet and along with the entry it shows the details of the person that posted (location, bio, etc). For others, it included the link to the relevant tweet of that reply. We could even add our location details to an individual tweet, and / or the profile.
My gripes about it were minor.
Mostly those were in the form of branding. I disliked: the icon, that the replies didn’t integrate with the mailbox, the way it notified of new replies, the lack of a notification sound, the battery drain which prevented it from being able to remain open, the fact that when you upload an image it forwent the standard TwitPic service I’ve become accustomed to. Instead they chose to host the images themselves.
That was fine, but by re-inventing the wheel (or wanting to keep control of their traffic), they caused fragmentation in a user’s galleries; and I’m all about consistency. I dislike fickle women. However, I’d rather make sense (to have links to what I’m replying to), and forgo the rest. Besides, I’ve already alleviated much of those things due to my relationship with TwitterBerry. I mean, it’s not like you could keep TwitterBerry running the entire time and expect to receive notices.
Even with the Alt+Escape trick.
So I resigned to using services like: TweetBeep, to notify me of replies. SocialToo, to notify me of my new followers, and unfollowers (in a daily summary, with approximate reasons the gain or loss). FriendOrFollow.com, to let me know of mutual followers, etc. I even Moniterred many things, and preferred to relax while sitting on the TweetDeck. — I did not need her to be running all of the time, so I surely did not need UberTwitter to do so.
I divorced TwitterBerry and moved in with my mistress.
Yet, despite the compensation it doesn’t change the fact that she was draining. So I set it to the slowest update speed and would leave, or shut her down regularly to retain my battery. During my walks, I would sometimes think about my wife. Especially, as I looked at the ugly ring my now live-in mistress had me wearing. I missed that blue “T” shaped, ghetto ring made of gold and false diamonds (depressed silver). I missed the immediate acknowledgment others would give, the moment they read: Twitter”Berry”.
She was renown, with such prestige even her name invoked acknowledgement.
Then, one day in the park, this primate gave me a banana. While I ate it, he told me that my wife had sought therapy while I was gone, and she’s much better. So immediately I went to the house, to see if that was the case. Only to see, that the situation was one of, “too little, too late.” The substance was there, but after so much plastic surgery to compensate for her deficiencies, she began to look like a crackhead to me. That woman which used to be so beautiful even with her flaws. Maybe it’s my fault for not truly appreciating; but isn’t that cliche? We don’t know what we’ve got til it’s gone.
Disappointed, I walked away.
Unwilling to make the same mistake. I came back to my mistress’ bed, felt up on her booty, and proceeded to bang her repeatedly. She didn’t complain, it was quite the opposite. However, she wondered what had gotten into me. — As we laid in exhaustion, within our pillow-talk, I told her that despite our issues, she’s good to me, and I appreciate it immensely. Granted, there still aren’t any public pictures that we’re taken together … but that’s fine. She knows at the end of the day, I will return to her.
Or at least that was until yesterday.
Call me a slut if you wish. It’s cool. But as soon as I saw the new hot chick that moved into our building, I couldn’t resist. I ran into the elevator with her, and asked what was her name.
“TweetGenius“, she exclaimed, with a raspy, yet seductive voice.
Always looking for someone to work with in fashion, I pay attention to relevant matters. I told her, I liked her style, and asked if she models. She wrote down the address to her online portfolio. I said I’d check it out when I got the chance. We parted ways, and then I rode the elevator back down (surely, I wasn’t going to go back to our apartment).
Eventually I checked it out.
She’s great, I must say. I love how she so diverse. She forgoes the usual considerations of workflow, and opts for something more dynamic. Her experience speaks for her. To be able to handle any situation. The ability to do anything from any screen. No menus necessary. She has location awareness like my mistress. Even if she only supports GPS enabled phones (and doesn’t do approximate location via cellular towers like UberTwitter). We can post such details at whim, and the readers will be presented a link to a Google Map. I would love to see someone integrate Google’s Latitude accounts (to be able to add the details to those accounts).
But for now that’s a pipe dream.
She has great skin; flawless, perfection. Polished, she reminds me a bit of my wife before her recreational drug habit. Even the ring she wears is reminiscent. Yet, she’s on another level. She uses TwitPic efficiently. Will even have such features, like groups (eventually). She seems like the one-stop solution. However, she needs work. In the elevator she told me that although she indeed does work, in this recession, it’s not too often nor as quickly (sluggish at times). Nor is it with many clients (limited to the Bold 9000, or Curve 8900).
She said she’s going to be seeking a broader range of clients. So for now she works at a lower price because she understands her current marketability and situation ($4.95 which I think is definitely worth the purchase, $9.99 after she’s available to others and thus will be in high demand). However, she’s far too good for me (Pearls and popular Curves are not supported yet, but the Curves will be in a few weeks). As such, the reality is that currently for me she’s not an option. And so, I thought I’d have to return to my mistress, who I had not seen in days. Until I walked into our building and got the mail, hoping I’d see TweetGenius again.
I opened this letter, which had no return address.
It seemed like many others before it, so I didn’t really pay it much mind (didn’t think it applied to me). In it they discussed the woman that I covetted from the distance, and her achievements. I enjoyed what I read, but thought I could only live vicariously through their experience with her. However, as usual, I tried again.
Low and behold, I was accepted!
Immediately my hedonistic ways kicked in, and I told others about the party that was happening. However, I didn’t wait for anyone. First dibs, no sloppy seconds. I ran to our apartment, shaved (cleaned out programs), made sure everything was nice and neat. Then went out the door, and headed to her mansion again. — Upon my arrival, the guards remembered me from the times before, prepared to reject me again. Hautilly I showed them my invitation.
They reluctantly let me in.
Upon entering the foyer, I noticed that it didn’t seem as glam as the outside, signs, and pictures I had seen before. Determined, I continued to explore. Functionality that was missing, they addressed in the letter, so I decided to look at the invitation again. It said something like, “all guests of Engadget we thank you for your interest, but you will not get that which they did. Or at least, not yet.”
And so I understood.
However, I knew that if they prepared something different for them … there must be another entrance. So I exited the house and checked for another door. Eventually I found one which was not at the back, but instead to the left of the main entrance, labeled: get. Although I had seen this door before, I did not pay attention because it was inaccessible to me.
However, in my invitation I was provided with a key.
You have to go through the main entrance, before you’ll be granted a key (download and install the version that was linked at the beginning of this entry, in order to be able to run the program which makes you register it / create a user account / login that you can later use on the site, and download the latest or previous versions). Then dust yourself off because that entrance is quite dirty (uninstall it). Then proceed to the next entrance. Which upon opening you’ll see the difference.
The utter decadence, and perfect contribution to your lack of work productivity.
She’s no TweetGenius, that chick in the elevator is a breed of her own. However, she has class, and respects those who came before (TwitPic). She may not let you proclaim your location, because she doesn’t like to cause a scene (no GPS updates). However, she’s more experienced and as such, has already achieved that which TweetGenius desires (grouping). She’ll give clarity to those who listen to many voices. Furthermore, she permits attendees from other lands (Facebook), and you can interact with them conveniently.
Ultimately I think she’s great.
Definitely my speed, and her branding isn’t half bad. In ways her ring suits. I even left her doing her own thing (running, and she wasn’t plugged in). I fell asleep and when I had awoken, I realized she stayed by my side the entire time (barely used any battery life). However, other’s have claimed that she’s very draining. Maybe it’s because she was just acclimated to me (BlackBerry Pearl). Maybe it’s because of how I dressed (my settings).
So I will tell you those things, to use if you are too having a problem.
Public replies: alert (all others: disabled), Stream view: extended, Twitter Name: username, Escape to Tabs: checked, Connection: TCP, TwitPic Connection: TCP, Update Rate: Auto, Refresh On Launch: checked. In order to use TCP connections, you have to set your BlackBerry’s APN settings. If you have a WI-FI enabled BlackBerry, switch those connection settings to Auto (or else it won’t use wi-fi when available).
Hopefully she will satisfy you, like she has me. If not, there’s the others listed.
- Prasand J.
(if you have difficulty with the Engadget invite, and know me personally. Let me know, I’ll give you another method to download and register).
Published on May 9, 2009 12:07 pm.
Filed under: Work Related Tags: Commentary