What's The Point?

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Debbie shuffled from one envelope to the next, making mental notes as she made her way back to her house from the mailbox. "Water bill, Visa, Danbury Mint catalog," she mumbled. Suddenly her brow furrowed when a familiar, yet unfamiliar, red envelope caught her attention. "Honey," she said, making her way into the kitchen, "Did you sign us up for a new DVD service?"

"Huh?" David grunted from behind his newspaper.

"A new DVD service," she repeated, and held out the envelope. "It looks like a Netflix envelope, but it says Qwickster."

David folded his paper and said, "Oh, that," while giving a pleasant chuckle. "Netflix is Qwickster now."

"They changed their name? Why?"

"Because they raised their prices," he said.

"I don't follow," Debbie said. "What does one have to do with the other?"

David released a long sigh and motioned for Debbie to seat herself on the breakfast stool next to his. "As you know, people have been able to rent disks AND watch videos online from Netflix under a single price package."

"Right," Debbie said with an attentive nod.

"Well, at the end of August, Netflix announced they were going to sell the services separately. Each service would cost less than what people were currently paying, but ordering the two services together would cost more. People were outraged; blogs flamed the plan, Twitter was all atweet with disgruntled customers. It was a PR nightmare."

"Where does Qwickster fit in?" Debbie asked with a cocked head.

"I'm getting to that," David reassured her. "On September 19th, around 2am, CEO Reed Hastings sent what initially looked like an apology email all the customers of Netflix. Once, customers read the message though, they discovered a plan to split Netflix into two companies. Netflix would stream video online, and Qwickster would mail the DVDs."

"Wait," Debbie said. "Didn't Netflix start as a DVD mailing service and add the streaming video later?"

"Yup," David said.

"So, the new company will provide the original service, and the original company will provide the additional streaming service?"

"Yup," David said.

"And, the prices will go back down to their original levels?"

"Nope," David said. "The newly announced prices still stand, only now they'll appear as two line items on people's bank statements instead of a single total."

"Billing people twice won't increase overhead and their costs?"

"Probably will," David said.

"Will people's queues still be tied together?"

"Don't know," David said.

"What makes the separation of companies worth the higher prices and increased book keeping?"

"Qwickster will rent video games as well as movies."

"They couldn't have offered games as an additional paid service under Netflix, and kept the rest of the prices the same?"

"Probably could've," David said.

"Why are they increasing prices, bureaucracy, and over head simply to add a new service to their product line."

"Don't know," David said.

"Then, what made CEO Reed Hastings think the announcement of the split would put people's minds at ease over the price bump?"

"Don't know," David said.
-
Epilogue:

On October 10th, 2011 the following letter was sent to all Netflix users.

Dear David,

It is clear that for many of our members two websites would make things more difficult, so we are going to keep Netflix as one place to go for streaming and DVDs.

This means no change: one website, one account, one password…in other words, no Qwikster.

While the July price change was necessary, we are now done with price changes.

We're constantly improving our streaming selection. We've recently added hundreds of movies from Paramount, Sony, Universal, Fox, Warner Bros., Lionsgate, MGM and Miramax. Plus, in the last couple of weeks alone, we've added over 3,500 TV episodes from ABC, NBC, FOX, CBS, USA, E!, Nickelodeon, Disney Channel, ABC Family, Discovery Channel, TLC, SyFy, A&E, History, and PBS.

We value you as a member, and we are committed to making Netflix the best place to get your movies & TV shows.

Respectfully,

The Netflix Team
-

A Fool and His Pleasure

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Jake left the poker table of the Big Star Tavern, sat himself at the bar, and unsnapped his black leather motorcycle vest, revealing his muscular sweat drenched chest. Jake fancied himself as a tough guy and everyone was going to know it, so he kept himself clad in leather regalia whenever he left the house. Nobody in town could recall ever seeing him without his dark glasses, black vest, black chaps over tapered blue jeans, boots, and leather tourniquet-like arm bands above his biceps.

Jim, the bartender, set a glass of beer in front of him. “Fierce competition tonight,” he said.

Jake nodded and sipped his beer.

“Having fun?” Jim asked, attempting to make conversation until the next libation was ordered.

Jake stared inquisitively at the barkeep, as if he’d just asked how the weather was on Mars. “I don’t get what you’re asking,” Jake finally said.

“It’s a fairly straight forward question. Are you having fun tonight?”

Jake shook his head, mimicking the clearing of cobwebs, and shot Jim an even more perplexed glare. “Of course I’m not having fun, I’m still here.”

“I don’t follow,” Jim said. “Playing cards and drinking isn’t fun for you?”

“Only one thing’s fun for me,” Jake said, gleefully bobbing his eyebrows up and down.

“Really? Only one thing? What’s that?”

“You know.”

“No, I’m fairly certain I have no idea,” Jim said.

Jake gave a frustrated sigh, stood, and pantomimed pulling something toward his groin several times while repeatedly thrusting his hips. Then, he sat back down and took another pull of his beer.

“You mean sex?”

“Orgasm,” Jake said with a look of immense pride, “and boy have I had a lot of fun over the years, I tell you what.”

“That’s the only thing that’s fun for you?”

“Yup,” Jake confirmed with a satisfied nod.

Jim scratched his bald head, which was cocked in confusion. “If sex, or orgasm, is your only source of fun, why play poker? Why sit at the bar and drink, for that matter?”

Jake shrugged. “They’re ways to meet people,” he said. “Social interaction increases my chances of landing a gal to screw.”

“And, you have no other goal in mind beyond finding a partner for sex. Is that right?”

“Poker has the potential to make me money, which in turn increases my desirability to a perspective companion, but yeah, sex is always the goal.

Jim rested his hand compassionately on Jake’s. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Jake pulled his hand away briskly and released a vulgar sexual suggestion. “What do you mean you’re sorry?” he said.

“It sounds like you live only for your next orgasm. That’s sad.”

“Sad!? Don’t talk to me about sad. You had to go without it for six years, while you were in prison. Now that’s sad.”

“That WAS sad,” Jim agreed. “I mean, I was strong enough that I could’ve had it if I’d chosen to.”

“A cell bitch, you mean.”

“Sure, but I looked at my fellow inmates, who chose to go that route, and it never seemed to give them any pleasure.”

“Because it was with a guy you mean?”

Jim shook his head. “Because, there was nothing behind it. It was a superbly executed act, followed by a moment of physical rapture, but there was nothing behind the act. It wasn’t conveying tenderness, love, or even compassion. It was a base animal-like activity void of joy, or, in your words, fun.”

“OK,” Jake said. “You refrained in prison, so I bet you missed it.”

“Sure,” Jim said with a shrug. “To tell you the truth though, there were things I missed far more.”

“More than sex?” Jake said wide-eyed. “What could you have missed more than sex?”

“Lots of things,” Jim said. “I missed eating what I wanted, when I wanted, and cooking it exactly the way I wanted. I missed seasoning a steak on the grill as it sears until it’s just pink in the middle. I missed washing the first bite down with a nice glass of wine.

I missed watching an old movie late at night, with a bowl of popcorn in my lap. Hell, I missed deciding what to watch. The basic pleasure of controlling the remote was a fond and distant memory.

I missed Christmas shopping. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to stroll through crowded shops looking for just the right book for Sal, or cologne for Steve, while kids told Santa what they wanted for Christmas. I missed drinking a steaming hot mug of spiced cider while I wrapped my purchases that night.

Even the ability to walk to the lake, and take in the scenery, on a summer afternoon was a luxury I’d have given anything to enjoy one more time. I missed spending the day fishing off the banks with a thermos of coffee and a couple of salami sandwiches beside my hip.

I missed sitting in my window and watching the rain pour from the sky with the power of God’s fury. I missed watching snow blanket the town.

I missed gorging myself of sweet corn at the harvest festival, then cutting a mean rug that night to work off the calories as the sounds of Merle Haggard blared from the juke box.

Sex is good, great with the right person, but little things like that, moments of fun and joy, are what I missed. They’re what makes life worth living.”

An order for whiskey, from the far end of the bar, abruptly interrupted Jim’s train of thought. He sighed, picked up the bottle of J&B, and proceeded to fill the order; leaving Jake to drink his beer, with only himself for company.

The Horn Blower

-
Josh shoved his hands into the pockets of his caramel colored slacks, once the button to the lobby had been pressed. He didn’t typically walk around that way, but he was afraid he might belt someone if his hands were free of his pockets.

“Happy place, indeed,” Josh thought to himself in disgust, as he stormed from the elevator. Asking him to close his eyes and visit his happy place, was like asking a quadriplegic to perform somersaults. Every time Josh shut his eyes, he relived the single most terrifying moment of his life.

He could clearly see himself leaving the Thrifty-Mart, with his bag full of frozen dinners and discount beer. He recalled mentally debating whether to nuke the Mexican Trio or the Turkey Feast for supper that night, when he heard the first loud crack. Two more cracks followed in rapid succession, chased by a searing pain in his back. He remembered the pavement racing toward his face an instant before everything went black.

Three years had past, and the memory was still as vivid as if it had happened a week ago. Now, the only psychiatrist who’d accept Medicare, was telling him to picture bikini strewn beaches in his head. He stormed from the skyscraper’s glass doors, fit to spit acid into the eyes of passers by.

At first, his rage hid the music from his consciousness. A trumpet, playing Serenade In Blue, served as soft background music to a tapestry of angry musings. As Josh approached the sidewalk of Market Street, the music began to tickle the fringes of his awareness. Each note drew him closer to their master, until he found himself staring directly down at the source of music.

The black man’s legs were folded into yoga’s bound angel pose, as he leaned his back against the cement dividing wall, and blew expertly into his shiny brass instrument. A set of dark, almost black, fingers protruded from a pair fair raggedy fingerless wool gloves and operated the sparkling keys with precision. His cheeks puffed into replicas of plump ripe tomatoes smudged with garden soil. The glistening horn made the blower’s long musty coat and hole ridden trousers seem all the more dull by comparison. Yet, as the horn blower manipulated the instrument, which almost seemed to be a part of the blower’s body, Josh could sense a contentment emanating from the man.

With his hands still firmly in his pockets, Josh leaned his shoulder against the wall and closed is eyes, really closed his eyes. As the music filled his pores, he allowed himself to rest in the moment.

Out Of The Blue

-
This just came to me last night, and I had to write it down.
-
Buxley Fuller had the perfect job and the perfect life. It was his job to decide which network shows aired in which time slots. Taking in to consideration which demographic would watch TV at which hour and buy from which sponsor, was sometimes complicated, but it was a far cry from what anyone would call hard work. For completing this task on a regular basis, he was paid a more than generous seven figure salary.

His life was indeed perfect. His suits were silk Armani. His shoes were Italian leather. His TV was sixty-eight inch wall mounted plasma. Whatever he owned it was the best, he had no need to buy anything but the best. The best part of all, was the fact that he lived alone. There was no one to eat his food, scuff his furniture, or make him wait for the shower.

While Buxley lived alone, he never needed to wake up alone if he didn't want to. Companionship, like any of life's other pleasures, was simply a matter of proper shopping. If he wanted a companion to share his bed for the evening, he'd take himself to an upscale club. It didn't matter which club, as long as the drinks were expensive and the parking was valet.

Upon entering such an establishment, the pulsing of the music and the smells of liquor and sweat would flood his senses, practically giving him a hard-on on the spot. He'd composed himself though, he had to be composed and in control at all times, and begin the selection process.

The first order of business was to find the pretty people. True, such places were typically lousy with pretty people, they were practically sexual smorgasbords. Yet, there was always that one cluster of truly pretty people which stood out like the cream rising to the top of fresh milk. He'd migrate toward that cluster, nonchalantly at first. He'd introduce himself by offering to buy the next round of drinks, an offer which was never rejected. One round would turn into two, two would turn into three. A few meager hours later he'd be their best friend, supplying them with entire bottles of Dom and even nose candy upon request.

Everyone in the group was had beautiful bodies, so once his gifts produced their desired effect, it was simply a matter of selecting the female who was least in control. He'd take her back to his perfect home, enjoy a night of carnal delight, pay a taxi to deliver her home the next morning, and that would be that.

Since all that was the norm, why was his mind so fuzzy and his eyes so blurry this morning? Who was this gal lying next to him? She was a redhead, and judging by the trickle of drool running from her glossed lips to her pillow, she was still fast asleep. Why couldn't he remember bringing her... Wait, this wasn't even his home. He'd gone to her place? He'd never done that before.
-
That's all I've got so far. It just came to me all at once, and I have no idea where it's going IF it's going anywhere.

The Mental Narrative Of A Bus Rider

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In order to keep my mind and writing skills sharp, I perform writing exercises. One of the most useful exercises is the writing of mental narratives in which I put myself into the mental shoes of someone from society and simply write what they’re thinking. I must confess though, this first piece isn’t from too far outside my own experiences. In fact, it was inspired by my close familiarity with the city’s mass transit system.
-
"Lord, my head hurts today. Please mister don't pull the rope, we just stopped thirty feet ago. Don't make the bus stop again simply to save yourself ten yards of walking. I'm tired, my head is pounding, pounding, pounding , and I need to make my connection. I simply want to go home, medicate myself, and eat something hot. I suppose I'm being self centered, but I just can't care. Its not as if you're old or infirm. You're fully capable of walking the thirty feet. Please, don't pull that…… You pulled it. Gee, thanks.

Oh good, a baby's crying . That's going to cost me two more pain tablets once I get home, whenever that is. Why can't buses be adults only vehicles? I swear I'd vote for the candidate who promised that law. Of course, we'd still be left with those bastions of etiquette who make the bus stop every thirty feet. Please mother, please, please, please, silence your child. Give him a bottle. Give him a rubber nipple. Give him your nipple. I don't care, simply silence the child.

For the sweet love of I don't know what, look what's climbing aboard now. Another mother and six of her slimy brood. Well, they're not all slimy, just that one. What is he, three. At least wipe his nose before you sit him down. No lady, no, don't sit by me, don't sit by….. Hi, how ya doing? Nice weather isn't it? Out buying Pokemon cards today, were you? I would probably be more impressed if I had some inkling of what that was.

Jesus, she's rubbing up against me, and her skin is clammy. She's sweating. Why's she sweating? Who sweats in sixty degree weather? She looks like she used to be pretty, which would account for the six offspring. Yet, after pumping out six kids like so many biscuits, with obviously no more than eighteen months between each delivery, her hips have become misshapen and her belly permanently distended. She's apparently given up on the whole makeup thing too. I just wish she'd quit rubbing against me. And, what is that smell? Lord, my head hurts today."