Microserfs

Susan said that the unifying theme amid all of this Gappiness is, of course, the computer spreadsheet and the bar-coded inventory. "A jaded cosmopolite in the Upper West Side buys an Armpit, Nebraska-style worker's shirt (in 'oatmeal') and Gap computers" (doubtless buried deep within a deactivated NORAD command center somewhere in the Rockies) "instantaneously spew out the message to Asian garment manufacturers, 'Armpit worker shirts are HOT.' Likewise, an agrarian soul out there in Armpit, pining away for a touch of life away from the silo, buys an oxford cloth button-down shirt at the local Gap, and computerized Gap-funded looms in Asia retool for the preppie revival."

Bug said that, "Deep in your heart, you go to the Gap because you hope that they'll have something that other Gap stores won't have . . . even the most meager deviation from their highly standardized inventoried norm becomes a valued treasure. It's like when you go into a McDonald's and they're test-marketing Lamb McNuggets, or something, and you know that it's an experiment."

Ethan broke in and agreed wholeheartedly: "Last December at the Eaton's Centre in Toronto I purchased a 'GP 2000' Commander Picard-like red-and-black sweatshirt that I have yet to see in a Gap anywhere else. Was this a test-marketing of a new line that tanked, or a marketing SKU that simply bombed? I ask you."

Then Michael pointed out that a few years ago there was a minor furor over the ethics of Dairy Queen, who sent their franchisees hamburger patties that were pseudo-randomly shaped, with little bumpies around the patty's edges, so that burger's consumer would feel more as though they were having a "handmade" burger. "In this same spirit, one wonders if the Gap randomly assigns nonstandardized clothing items to its various outlets so as to simulate the illusion of regional variety."

To break the trance that was forming, I shouted, "Gap check!" and everyone in the office had to guiltily 'fess up to the number of Gap garments currently being worn. Karla, the only Gap-free soul, for the remainder of the day wore the smug, victorious grin of one who has escaped the hungry jaw of bar-code industrialism. We Gap victims, on the other hand, fast-forwarded to an entirely McNuggetized world of dweeb-free, standardized consumable units.

We got back to work, and Dusty got to thinking "It would appear that to be a dweeb becomes a political statement - a means of saying that 'I choose not to ally myself with the dark forces of amoral, transnational, bar-coded, GATT-based trade practices.' "

"So let's be dweebs," I said.

"But how to be a dweeb, then, Dan?"

"Well, you could maybe make your own clothes," said Bug, but we all said, "Naaaahhh . . ." if for no other reason than the fact that nobody has free time these days.

"You could buy clothing that predates computerized inventorying," suggested Susan, but then Bug replied that you'd become a retro fashion victim.

In the end, we all figured that the only way to be a dweeb was to have your mother buy your clothes for you at, like, Sears or JC Penney.

Or have Michael buy them.

* * *

Susan couldn't be less subtle about her entrancement with Emmett if she tried. And Emmett's so thick, he misses every clue. It's a wonder humans ever manage to propagate.

Today for Susan it was hotpants and a Barbarella mesh top with plastic hoop earrings and a Valley of the Dolls wig. She was like a 1967 Life magazine cover. This outfit, coupled with the day's warm weather, Todd's working shirtless, and with Dusty's rehearsing Iron Rose IV competition practice sessions (Karla and Susan learning the poses) - the office now reeks of sex. This is not natural!

WEDNESDAY

Abe:

Someone scrawled on the bathroom cubicle floor here:

MATES = BRAKES

Below it someone else wrote:

OVERWORK = POLYGAMY

MICROSOFT! You know how it is here - singles overwork to make themselves shine, but the *Marrieds* become the managers, and move up the ladder more quuickly, Elearnor Rigbies need not apply.

Got yesterdays faz. [I'd faxed along the instruction kits to a Lego 9129 Space Station Kit.] I think yours was the first fax I’ve had in years. Faxes are like email from 1987. Thanks.

* * *

Susan walked in tonight after dinner clutching a handful of crappy little objects: a bent fork, a bruised apple, a Barbie's head, and the plastic top from a Tylenol container. She laid them out in a row on the floor and asked Todd, "Hey, Todd, what's this?"

We all looked at this sad little row of debris and none of us had a clue.

Todd said, "I Dunno."

She said, "It's a Russian garage sale."

We all said, "Ooooh . . ." expecting Todd to freak out, and he did get

huffy.

"I know, I know," she said preemptively, "the Russians are supposed to be our friends now. But face it, Todd - they'll never get it right. Capitalism is something that's ingrained in you from birth. There's more to developing a market economy than pulling a switch and suddenly being a capitalist