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WashBoy

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About WashBoy

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  1. I'd love to move forward. Has anyone heard anything from Snowguard? Anyway, I liked the game and I liked the way it was playing out. But things have been dormant for quite a bit so I've only been checking in every 3 or 4 days.
  2. Bax returns the phone to his pocket just as the elevator doors slide open silently. He walks out to the main area of the food court -- a tastefully appointed circle tiled in stone with cafe sized tables and cane chairs distributed around a subtly interactive fountain. A low level buzz of conversation, the occasional high pitched yell of a child, and various ring tones, buzzes and bells of personal electronics provides the ambient noise, just as the last strains of "Come As You Are" give way to an equally banal string version of "Rape Me." "Must be a party block," Bax mutters to himself. He doesn't pay much attention to the shoppers eating their farmed unagi and gourmet-style empanadas, and heads over to a side alcove where Cafe Giuffredo is nestled next to a small gelateria. Hanging his coat on a hook next to two burnished nickel stools and a high table, he throws a smile and a wave over to Lorena, the tall, curvy, striking Columbian mix barista who runs the La Marzocco FB7000 espresso machine on the morning to mid afternoon shift. As much as Bax has ever gotten out of her over the last couple of months is that she is a student, although where or in what he has no idea -- he has a sense that trying to find out much more information would ruin the easy smiles and flirtation, which is something he definitely looks forward to on days like today. She starts preparing his usual, a double redye with a splash of foam, as he lights up his fifth hash flavored cig of the day.
  3. Bax picks up the phone call. "7 on State is the food court in the lower level of Marshall Fields. Just keep looking for escalators down and you'll run into it. Oh, and if you're wondering why I suggested meeting in a shopping area, just be content knowing that when I know you better, I'll spring for the full body contact meal."
  4. Bax's AV angles in over the Chicago River and then begins a slow, rotating, programmed descent onto Marshall Fields' rooftop platform. As slow as it is, Bax's stomach still dowes a mini jump as his vecotr of movement shifts. Bax angles the Swan into an open space and throttles the fans down. Under the brightening silver sky and the scream of other AVs overhead, he walks over to the attendant kiosk, his coat billowing out from wind kicked up by other landing patrons. For a moment, he can't tell whether the two Haitian attendants are having a political discussion or talking about the last World Cup in their rapid fire French mix dialogue, but guessing at World Cup he makes a disparaging remark in French about the English team that draws a good laugh from them. He takes a pale green parking ticket and hands off 5 eb to the attendant for luck. He doesn't take notice of the parking rate -- anything he can expense he doesn't worry about too much until it gets into quadruple digits. No one else is present in the lucite cube containing the elevator down, so he waits for a moment in solitude and then enters the warmth of the wood and marble box. "Food court" he says to the elevator terminal screen, which is currently showing impossibly beautiful men and women in various states of undress in an advertisement for pheromone laced fragrances for men and women on level 3.
  5. Hanging up, Bax smiles for a second and drops his phone into the breast pocket of his Paul Stuart navy suit. He takes care of a few housekeeping matters for fifteen minutes or so, grabs his PDA, and then walks out of his office, shrugging into his Burberry topcoat on the way (widely advertised as providing style and security for the 21st century executive). On the way out, he stops at his executive assistant's desk. He's still getting used to Brady, an Asian American a year or two younger than Bax, working his way through an Infocomp-sponsored night business school. But he's generally found him very competent and eager to make an impression. "Brady, I'm at Marshall Field's making a field info contact for the next two hours or so. Anything comes up, I can be called. Also, when you get a chance, let me know when the intern events are coming up over the next few weeks -- I haven't taken the chance to get to know anyone and that's a shame, don't you think?" He walks to the express elevator to roof parking, and within a few moments is directing his Swan AV autpilot to the parking structure at Marshall Fields. He fits his mirrored glasses across the bridge of his nose as a jazz trio from the French Quarter, recorded from a performance over the last weekend and downloaded just last night, filters through the AV's sound system, and the city slides by underneath him.
  6. "Well. I suppose one should never underestimate the breadth of Joe's interests, should one? I tell you what Johnny -- happy to meet with you. Do you feel like grabbing an espresso? The food court in Marshall Field's isn't the best in town, but the barista there -- she's one of God's great creations. And they've got a pretty decent cannoli. Meet me there in an hour. Sound like you're from out of town, so in case you need an address, it's 111 North State."
  7. Taking his eyes away from the retreating backside of the intern, Bax pauses for a moment before answering. "Well, Johnny, always happy to help Joe out. But a lot of folks go missing all the time. Joe tell you anything about this particular John Doe?" Bax leans back slowly in his ergonomic desk chair and hangs one oxblood tasselled loafer off the edge of his glass topped desk.
  8. Looking away from the emails that had accumulated in several project subfolders while he was at lunch, Bax picks up his cell. His mind is a bit numb from having spent the better part of an hour and a half running through research with the fixed income boys from Merrill Asukaga and Finch. But at least they picked up the tab at Charlie Trotter's and properly treated lunch as part of the cost of getting a summary of the info Bax was carrying around from the division's latest retainer project. This, as opposed to those pricks from the Pac Rim houses who always made it seem like you were now in hock to them because they threw some middling grade sushi at you while asking mildly hostile monosyllabic questions. The new intern from U of C business school walks by the plexiglass internal wall of his office with a file, off somewhere else, but gives him a rather too toothy smile. He returns it while absently mindedly brushing his finger across the talk button on the cell. "Fontenot," pronounced Font-e-neau with a pleasant southern tone.
  9. I agree with Malek. Any dystopian government or profit driven corp worth its salt would try to positive spin this thing to death (pun intended). And even make it sound like an empowering option. Your Choice; Made the Choice; Chose Exit (connotes an actual choice about leaving; can be verbed "he exited," "she was exited," or pumped up "exit stage left") Extreme Altruism (pumps up the concept that one less human means less resource use) And then on the purely ridiculous side Kevorkapalooza Helping out with Soylent Green Production
  10. Edward Baxter Fontenot usually introduces himself with a smooth, deeply pitched, "Pleasure to meet you," with just a trace of a pleasantly rounded southern accent. One's first impression of him is of an attractive, pleasant intensity -- he is tall and rail thin, mid-20's, with dark curly hair kept short, extraordinarily smooth olive skin, and an aquiline profile – naturally chiseled cheekbones, deep set eyes, and dark eyebrows. His clothes seemed designed to complement, but not distract from, his good-looks. He wears understated but well tailored business suits, favoring dark shades and monochromes. His personality is similar -- confidently reserved, and able to make others feel at ease around him. His card reads, E.B. Fontenot, Manager, Special Prjects Division, Infocomp, Chicago. If you want to know what exactly that means, he'll be happy to explain it over a real bourbon and water.
  11. It is interesting to put all this in the larger context of how food's developed over the last 50 years. The fifties and sixties really saw prepackaged food become the rage in lower and middle class households because of expense and convenience. This trend was only recently counterbalanced in the last fifteen years or so by the steady, persistent work of haute cuisine advocates like Julia Child and the fresh food movement a la Alice Waters -- it is actually far more common, at least in middle class households, to purchase fresh produce and actually prepare meals than it was when I was a gummer. The recent carb craze has also had a significant impact on US eating habits. But there is still a significant portion of the US populace that eats packaged food or relatively inexpensive delivery or dining out for a majority of their meals. Given the more significant gulf between the haves and the have nots, would seem that in the CP2020 world this tendency simply accelerates, with a couple of glosses. First, there are always niches that will continue to put a premium on fresh food, no matter the higher cost, and will figure out a way to get it. The example mentioned above of Asian immigrants is a good one, so too would be the Orhotdox Jewish community or those under similar dietary restrictions. Second, the marketing for kibble and prepack is going to be a hell of a lot better than "Buy Solyent Green" or "New Kibble Bits." Prepackaged food, whatever it's made of, would undoubtedly be marketed as having 18 essential vitamins and minerals and made out to be so mouth watering good you'd be insane NOT to buy it. Thsoe who know better, know better, and food becomes yet another hallmark of sttaus among so many other things (as it is today, just more obvious).
  12. The major domo corp smart enough to stay in play and alive, but not so ambitious (and suicidal) as to be the guy out in front. That is, not the guy on the Board of Directors, but the guy you want to talk to so you can talk to the guy on the Board of Directors. The goal would be to know where just enough bodies were buried so people would think twice before burying mine.
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