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all around you are familiar faces
Apr. 1st, 2012 03:37 pmLife tends to be a matter of delayed reactions to Mark Zuckerberg. It's rare for him to realize the full impact of a decision in the moment, hard for him to take into account the very visceral and human reactions that overcome people, since they so rarely grip him in turn. But notice them he still does, now being one of those times. It's been days since he's seen Wichita, weeks even, and the sudden realization hits him late at night as he stares up at the ceiling, resolving to see what's wrong.
The last place he expects to find her is on the Compound roof, and yet, there she is. He thinks it's her, anyway. Sometimes in the dim light of dusk, it's hard to tell with people who share faces, all of them carrying a general sense of enthusiasm about them.
Stepping forward, Mark cranes his neck to get a better view. "Wichita?" he asks, voice hushed.
The last place he expects to find her is on the Compound roof, and yet, there she is. He thinks it's her, anyway. Sometimes in the dim light of dusk, it's hard to tell with people who share faces, all of them carrying a general sense of enthusiasm about them.
Stepping forward, Mark cranes his neck to get a better view. "Wichita?" he asks, voice hushed.
inside a zoo, what a thing to do
Dec. 6th, 2011 10:45 amLet's be honest. Plenty of boys go through a period in their lives when there's nothing that they want more than a dog. I had that phase myself. With books like Shiloh and Where the Red Fern Grows dominating children's lists of classic novels, it's impossible to grow up in the US and not be, at some point, accosted with the notion that a dog is man's best friend. I'll admit it. I pined for a dog. Whined for a dog. Went through the whole nine yards, but once high school approached and it became clear that my potential years throwing sticks were limited (hopefully by the advent of college), I gave up on the idea.
Or at least, I thought I did. But during what some people are referring fondly to as 'powers weekend,' and the limited WiFi hotspot that I'd been able to access in that time, I had discovered on my facebook page that a sheepdog was apparently in my imminent future. Shared between myself and Priscilla Chan.
That it's chosen to show up in Tabula Rasa is nothing short of perplexing. I don't know what to do with it. It keeps on following me around, like I'll know what to feed him, or give him a bath, but aside from hauling a rug to the house and asking around on what types of foods are probably both acceptable and accessible for him to chow down on, I have no idea how to take care of this dog.
Fortunately, he's quiet. Usually.
Seated in the kitchen of the Compound (or whatever they've chosen to call it, these days), Mark's fork hovers over his meal as he stares warily over at the small puppy circling around the tables. He's had about twenty-four hours with the dog, yet still hasn't the slightest clue what he's supposed to do with the puppy. The possibility of handing it off to someone more capable of dealing with a pet— for a second, Eduardo crosses his mind— is a tempting one, but there's something about the fact that the dog is his that leaves Mark hesitant to abandon him. Give him away.
Whether it means that he's not that heartless, or if it simply means that he's too unnerved to fight the status quo, Mark isn't sure. All he can do is continue to watch as he scoops another bite of potatoes up with his fork, the food one again not quite making it to his mouth as Beast bounds back on over and climbs onto the seat next to him.
"What do you want?" he asks, eyes narrowed in confusion.
Or at least, I thought I did. But during what some people are referring fondly to as 'powers weekend,' and the limited WiFi hotspot that I'd been able to access in that time, I had discovered on my facebook page that a sheepdog was apparently in my imminent future. Shared between myself and Priscilla Chan.
That it's chosen to show up in Tabula Rasa is nothing short of perplexing. I don't know what to do with it. It keeps on following me around, like I'll know what to feed him, or give him a bath, but aside from hauling a rug to the house and asking around on what types of foods are probably both acceptable and accessible for him to chow down on, I have no idea how to take care of this dog.
Fortunately, he's quiet. Usually.
Seated in the kitchen of the Compound (or whatever they've chosen to call it, these days), Mark's fork hovers over his meal as he stares warily over at the small puppy circling around the tables. He's had about twenty-four hours with the dog, yet still hasn't the slightest clue what he's supposed to do with the puppy. The possibility of handing it off to someone more capable of dealing with a pet— for a second, Eduardo crosses his mind— is a tempting one, but there's something about the fact that the dog is his that leaves Mark hesitant to abandon him. Give him away.
Whether it means that he's not that heartless, or if it simply means that he's too unnerved to fight the status quo, Mark isn't sure. All he can do is continue to watch as he scoops another bite of potatoes up with his fork, the food one again not quite making it to his mouth as Beast bounds back on over and climbs onto the seat next to him.
"What do you want?" he asks, eyes narrowed in confusion.
It's day five of snow. Of slush. Of buttoning himself up more times than should be considered legal— were it not for the snow that's gotten his clothes wet with every excursion, Mark might have chosen to sleep in them altogether. The fifth day of huddling by the fireplace, unable to adequately spread the heat throughout his apartment. (Make no mistake, though, he's extremely glad for the fact that his cushy island estate has transformed into a house of equal comfort in Victorian London, but as the house wasn't made to overly fight the climate back on Tabula Rasa, neither is it great against the elements here.) All things considered, however, the day wouldn't be too bad if Mark could find himself an excuse to stay indoors, pop a slice of bread by the fire, maybe some cheese to melt into the grain. Unfortunately, as he walks around with three woolen coats draped over his shoulders, Mark discovers that his carefully kept store is now empty.
Meaning he needs another trip to the Compound.
Adding another couple of scarves on top of the three draped coats, Mark thanks the puppeteers— marginally— that the snow has abated for the moment, and wraps one of the scarves higher around his nose and mouth to keep the air from biting on the way down. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he starts making decent progress towards the communal kitchen. Until he hears a yip and a bark from the distance.
Raising a brow, Mark finds a shaggy white puppy bounding towards him, and watches in horror as it paws at his legs.
"You can't be serious."
Meaning he needs another trip to the Compound.
Adding another couple of scarves on top of the three draped coats, Mark thanks the puppeteers— marginally— that the snow has abated for the moment, and wraps one of the scarves higher around his nose and mouth to keep the air from biting on the way down. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he starts making decent progress towards the communal kitchen. Until he hears a yip and a bark from the distance.
Raising a brow, Mark finds a shaggy white puppy bounding towards him, and watches in horror as it paws at his legs.
"You can't be serious."
sometimes you gotta fit in to get in
Nov. 30th, 2011 08:24 pmWhile the rest of the island wines and dines, dressed as though prepared to walk the red carpet, I'm seated in the third floor lounge of the Compound with a tall stein full of beer to the side and a controller in my hands. In my defense, I tried to stay for the whole of the party. I made a valiant effort. But pleasantries can only go on for so long before they start feeling like a burden. Which defeats the purpose of a party.
I'd much rather be in the company of Elites and Grunts. (I realize that turning away from Frodo Baggins, Natalie Portman, and Batman loses me some of my geek cred. I can't be bothered.)
But for those who would be comforted, at least I can tell you that I was playing on Legendary.
The X-Box in the third floor lounge may not be equipped with the latest games that Mark Zuckerberg's needed to catch up on, but there are times when he simply enjoys a bit of old school, first generation HALO. Huddled on the couch, for a few minutes, the only sound that one can hear aside from the roar of the Covenant on the television is the rapid succession of tapping on his controll. Some people button-mash. Others liberally apply grenades.
Not Mark. He snipes.
The Hunters waiting by the enemy base roar and charge their guns, but to no avail. It takes some clever maneuvering to take one out after the other— the shot of the gun makes his location all too clear to the felled Hunter's partner, and these types aren't exactly keen on waiting around— but eventually Mark manages, a slight curve on his lip as he shoots thrice into the soft orange section of the Hunter's back, felling it with a thud. Quickly, he cracks his knuckles, before settling in for the next stretch.
I'd much rather be in the company of Elites and Grunts. (I realize that turning away from Frodo Baggins, Natalie Portman, and Batman loses me some of my geek cred. I can't be bothered.)
But for those who would be comforted, at least I can tell you that I was playing on Legendary.
The X-Box in the third floor lounge may not be equipped with the latest games that Mark Zuckerberg's needed to catch up on, but there are times when he simply enjoys a bit of old school, first generation HALO. Huddled on the couch, for a few minutes, the only sound that one can hear aside from the roar of the Covenant on the television is the rapid succession of tapping on his controll. Some people button-mash. Others liberally apply grenades.
Not Mark. He snipes.
The Hunters waiting by the enemy base roar and charge their guns, but to no avail. It takes some clever maneuvering to take one out after the other— the shot of the gun makes his location all too clear to the felled Hunter's partner, and these types aren't exactly keen on waiting around— but eventually Mark manages, a slight curve on his lip as he shoots thrice into the soft orange section of the Hunter's back, felling it with a thud. Quickly, he cracks his knuckles, before settling in for the next stretch.
baby, you're a rich man
May. 14th, 2011 11:58 pmLikability. I should have known that everything would come down to that. Years have passed since I last even set foot in Kirkland House, since those days when I shuffled from class to class as that nameless nobody who managed to ace CS problem sets or even gave a crap about getting punched by the Phoenix or the Porcellian— with the money I've made from facebook, I could literally buy Mount Auburn St., I could probably take a crack at University Hall, I could double even the billions of dollars of endowment that Harvard has in its vaults, and people know it. Scratch being the next Bill Gates, now everyone's projecting that I'll make Man of the Year all on my own, no need for help from a trophy wife or a washed up musician. And yet, when it comes down to it, it's still one big popularity contest, and I've got black marks on my record. Like publicly shaming Erica Albright over the internet. Or like comparing people's school facebook pictures to...
"Farm animals," Mark said, his voice tense with resignation, fingers tapping on the side of his laptop.
The deposition room was empty at last, save for Marylin, and why she lingered, Mark didn't really know. It was the first time that he hadn't minded someone bringing him bad news since leaving Harvard. By the time facebook's momentum had started building, most people neglected to let Mark know the full extent that his actions would have on others, preferring to linger at the safety of their desk rather than piss the CEO off. At first, it had been novel. The rewards reaped from a long, tireless effort on the biggest project of his life, perhaps even of his generation. After a while, though, the shine wore off. People seemed disingenuous, kind only for their own benefit, vultures just waiting to descend at first opportunity. As much as he'd come to agree, in his own way, with Eduardo's assessment of Sean Parker as being paranoid, blinded by his own fifteen minutes of fame and the strobe lights of the party he demanded that his life be, sometimes Mark could still understand.
His eyes carefully followed Marylin's slight nod. "Yeah," she agreed.
At least she was honest. Mark rolled his eyes, shook his head, memories from years ago all dredged up in the past couple of months to the forefront of his mind. Some details had faded away with time, some conversations feeling unnatural out of context, but at the bottom of it all, Mark knew. Had always been self-aware. It just hadn't mattered much, what other people thought of him, provided those few steady constants remained in his life. With the barest of exhales, his fingers trailed along the edge of his laptop. "I was drunk, and angry, and stupid," he admitted, not sure if the disdain in his voice was self-directed, or at the inability of others to let such a minor detail go. Maybe both.
"And blogging," Marylin added, shaking Mark out of his reverie.
His expression darkened. Right. The internet's not written in pencil, Mark, it's written in ink.
"And... blogging," he agreed, his eyes traveling along the ceiling of the room, deliberately avoiding Marylin's gaze. It wasn't really the money he was concerned about, it was the pure principle of the matter. One stupid night. One stupid night, leading to one of the most revolutionary networking sites that the world had seen to date, yet a stupid crack about a girl's bra size and putting into practice what guys did on a daily basis on the internet (who didn't compare the hotness of women, it was practically a man's rite of passage) threw all of that into its shadow.
"Pay them," Marylin suggested, her gaze even, expression frank as she arched a brow. "In the scheme of things, it's a speeding ticket. That's what Sy will tell you tomorrow."
As she shifted to stand, Mark glanced over, fingers playing with his laptop, ready to open it again. "Do you think anybody would mind if I stayed and used the computer for a minute?" he asked, thoughts still swirling.
"I can't imagine it would be a problem," she replied lightly, heels clicking on the floor as she readied to leave.
"Thanks," he said, eyes darting from her to his laptop a few times, before he opened it again; her quick exit probably meant that she had better things to do than linger over a case that was, in spite of being connected to facebook, probably an easy close for the firm. The time she'd taken to outline everything for him, that was her own, not part of the job description, and it softened him just a touch. "I... appreciate your help today."
"You're not an asshole, Mark," Marylin remarked, the tapping of her heels coming to a halt. His brow furrowed as he turned, not expecting the statement, or indeed anything other than hearing the swish of the door as she left. The look on her face seemed sympathetic, inexplicably, and Mark wasn't sure what to do about that. Wasn't sure what to say to it, and so only stared as she spoke up again. "You're just trying so hard to be."
The glass doors and walls made it easy to watch Marylin's progress as she left, but soon enough Mark turned back to his computer, gaze distant. He liked that aspect of the room. Wondered if it was a deliberate design, or at least a marked choice on the part of the person who had booked the room for the deposition, putting it somewhere people couldn't hide. Where even outsiders would be able to read every last expression. Revealing. But as he'd never had anything to mask in the first place, it didn't bother Mark any more than the open desks at facebook's headquarters ever had. Hearing every last keystroke echo in the room, he curiously opened facebook up, typing in a single name: Erica Albright.
Huh. Apparently she had an account.
He clicked on the friend request button, not sure if it was a morbid curiosity that drove him there or an actual desire to reconnect. Knowing himself, probably more the former. Regardless, it only took a few seconds before he confirmed the request, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, expression the very picture of levity, even as his finger reached over to press the F5 key. Twice. Thrice.
She said he could use the room, after all.
It was only when Mark looked up properly, prying his eyes away from the screen, pausing before hitting the refresh key again, that he realized something had changed. No longer seated in a newly purchased Herman Miller chair, no longer surrounded by panes of glass, Mark's eyes met slightly yellowed walls and his hands ran over the grain of an old, worn wooden chair. Shortly thereafter, his eyes flew to the corner of his computer screen.
No wireless signal.
"Farm animals," Mark said, his voice tense with resignation, fingers tapping on the side of his laptop.
The deposition room was empty at last, save for Marylin, and why she lingered, Mark didn't really know. It was the first time that he hadn't minded someone bringing him bad news since leaving Harvard. By the time facebook's momentum had started building, most people neglected to let Mark know the full extent that his actions would have on others, preferring to linger at the safety of their desk rather than piss the CEO off. At first, it had been novel. The rewards reaped from a long, tireless effort on the biggest project of his life, perhaps even of his generation. After a while, though, the shine wore off. People seemed disingenuous, kind only for their own benefit, vultures just waiting to descend at first opportunity. As much as he'd come to agree, in his own way, with Eduardo's assessment of Sean Parker as being paranoid, blinded by his own fifteen minutes of fame and the strobe lights of the party he demanded that his life be, sometimes Mark could still understand.
His eyes carefully followed Marylin's slight nod. "Yeah," she agreed.
At least she was honest. Mark rolled his eyes, shook his head, memories from years ago all dredged up in the past couple of months to the forefront of his mind. Some details had faded away with time, some conversations feeling unnatural out of context, but at the bottom of it all, Mark knew. Had always been self-aware. It just hadn't mattered much, what other people thought of him, provided those few steady constants remained in his life. With the barest of exhales, his fingers trailed along the edge of his laptop. "I was drunk, and angry, and stupid," he admitted, not sure if the disdain in his voice was self-directed, or at the inability of others to let such a minor detail go. Maybe both.
"And blogging," Marylin added, shaking Mark out of his reverie.
His expression darkened. Right. The internet's not written in pencil, Mark, it's written in ink.
"And... blogging," he agreed, his eyes traveling along the ceiling of the room, deliberately avoiding Marylin's gaze. It wasn't really the money he was concerned about, it was the pure principle of the matter. One stupid night. One stupid night, leading to one of the most revolutionary networking sites that the world had seen to date, yet a stupid crack about a girl's bra size and putting into practice what guys did on a daily basis on the internet (who didn't compare the hotness of women, it was practically a man's rite of passage) threw all of that into its shadow.
"Pay them," Marylin suggested, her gaze even, expression frank as she arched a brow. "In the scheme of things, it's a speeding ticket. That's what Sy will tell you tomorrow."
As she shifted to stand, Mark glanced over, fingers playing with his laptop, ready to open it again. "Do you think anybody would mind if I stayed and used the computer for a minute?" he asked, thoughts still swirling.
"I can't imagine it would be a problem," she replied lightly, heels clicking on the floor as she readied to leave.
"Thanks," he said, eyes darting from her to his laptop a few times, before he opened it again; her quick exit probably meant that she had better things to do than linger over a case that was, in spite of being connected to facebook, probably an easy close for the firm. The time she'd taken to outline everything for him, that was her own, not part of the job description, and it softened him just a touch. "I... appreciate your help today."
"You're not an asshole, Mark," Marylin remarked, the tapping of her heels coming to a halt. His brow furrowed as he turned, not expecting the statement, or indeed anything other than hearing the swish of the door as she left. The look on her face seemed sympathetic, inexplicably, and Mark wasn't sure what to do about that. Wasn't sure what to say to it, and so only stared as she spoke up again. "You're just trying so hard to be."
The glass doors and walls made it easy to watch Marylin's progress as she left, but soon enough Mark turned back to his computer, gaze distant. He liked that aspect of the room. Wondered if it was a deliberate design, or at least a marked choice on the part of the person who had booked the room for the deposition, putting it somewhere people couldn't hide. Where even outsiders would be able to read every last expression. Revealing. But as he'd never had anything to mask in the first place, it didn't bother Mark any more than the open desks at facebook's headquarters ever had. Hearing every last keystroke echo in the room, he curiously opened facebook up, typing in a single name: Erica Albright.
Huh. Apparently she had an account.
He clicked on the friend request button, not sure if it was a morbid curiosity that drove him there or an actual desire to reconnect. Knowing himself, probably more the former. Regardless, it only took a few seconds before he confirmed the request, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, expression the very picture of levity, even as his finger reached over to press the F5 key. Twice. Thrice.
She said he could use the room, after all.
It was only when Mark looked up properly, prying his eyes away from the screen, pausing before hitting the refresh key again, that he realized something had changed. No longer seated in a newly purchased Herman Miller chair, no longer surrounded by panes of glass, Mark's eyes met slightly yellowed walls and his hands ran over the grain of an old, worn wooden chair. Shortly thereafter, his eyes flew to the corner of his computer screen.
No wireless signal.