Microserfs

Japan Airlines inflatable 747

official Hulk Hogan WWF focus-free 110 signature camera

antique Ghostbuster squeeze toys

Nick the Greek professional gambling home board game

Ping-Pong table

shoe box full of squirt guns

blenders (2)

vegetable juicer

dehumidifier

unopened cans of aerosolized cheese food product

M. C. Escher pop-up books

far too many Dilophosaurus figurines

huge Sony box full of collected Styrofoam packing peanuts and packing chunks from untold assorted consumer electronics

The big surprise? Everyone sold everything—everything—even the box of Styrofoam. Bug’s right: We’re one sick species.

And my car sold, too — in a flash, to the first person who came around to look at it. Wayne’s World did wonders for the secondary market of AMC products.

Actually, the Hornet was such a bucket I was surprised it sold at all. I was worried I’d have to drive it south. Or abandon it somewhere.

Now I am virtually possessionless. Having nothing feels liberating.

* * *

National Enquirer:

“Loni’s Diary Rips Burt Apart”

He threatened her with a gun in jealous rage

He locked her out of her honeymoon suite

He hid vodka in water bottles

PLUS: Burt: “I wanted to ditch her at the altar.”

Exclusive interview on his tell-all book

I do not want this to be me.

SUNDAY

Today we left for California and Karla did her first major flip-out on me. I suppose I was being insensitive, but I think she overreacted by far. In packing her Microbus, she buried all of the cassettes we were going to be using for the trip deep inside the bowels of luggage. I said, “God, how could you be so stupid?”

Then she went crazy and threw a toaster oven at me and said things like, “Don’t you ever call me stupid,” and “I am not stupid,” and she piled into the van and drove off. Todd was standing nearby and just shrugged and went back to bungeeing his Soloflex on top of his Supra. I had to take off in the Acura and catch up with her down by the Safeway, and we made up.

Karla said good-bye to her old geek house’s cat, Lentil, named as such because that’s how big its brain is. Nerds tend to have cats, not dogs. I th this is because if you have to go to Boston or to a COMDEX or something, cats can take care of themselves for a few days, and when you return, they’ll probably remember you. Low maintenance.

Bug was like a little kid, all excited about our “convoy” down to California and was romanticizing the trip already, before we’d even left. The worst part was, he had his ghetto blaster on and was playing that old ‘70s song, “Convoy,” and so the song was stuck in our heads alld

Cars for the trip:

Me:Michael’s Acura Karla:her Microbus Todd:his Supra Susan and Bug:their Tauri with U-Haul trailers

Todd said that our “car architecture” for our journey is “scalable and integrated — and fully modular — just like Apple products!”

Somewhere near Olympia, Bug’s car rounded a bend and it was so weird — gravity pulled me into an exit off-ramp. And then everyone else trickled in, too. Served him right for lodging the virus of that dopey song in our heads. It was like in third grade, when you ditch someone. It just happens. Humans are horrible.

Then we all felt really horrible for ditching Bug, and we went out chasing him, but we couldn’t find him and I got a speeding ticket. Karma.

1-5 is a radar hell.

During a roadside break I asked Karla why she didn’t want to go visit her parents in McMinnville, but she said it was because they were psychotic, and so I didn’t press the matter.

The Microbus is covered in gray bondo with orange bondo spots all over it. We call it The Carp.

We found Bug south of Eugene. He didn’t even know about the ditch, so now all of us have a dark secret between us.

Along 1-5, just outside a suburb of Eugene, Oregon, there were all of these houses for sale next to the freeway, and they were putting these desperate signs up to flog them: IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU WOULD BE HOME RIGHT NOW. Karla honked the horn, waved out the window of the Microbus and pointed at the sign. Convoy humor.

We made this rule that we had to honk every time we spotted road kill, and we nearly burned out our horns.

On a diner TV set we saw that in Arizona, the eight men and women of Biosphere 2 emerged into the real world after spending two years in a hermetically sealed, self-referential, self-sufficient environment. I certainly empathized with them. And their uniforms were like Star Trek.

We switched vehicles and I drove Karla’s Microbus for a while, but the Panasonic rice cooker in the rear filled with rattling cassette tapes drove me nuts. It was buried too deeply inside the mounds o’ stuff to move, so around Medford we switched vehicles again.

We crossed the California border and had dinner in a cafe. We talked about society’s accelerating rate of change. Karla said, “We live in an era of no historical precedents — this is to say, history is no longer useful as a tool in helping us understand current changes. You can’t look at, say, the War of 1709 (I made this date up, although no doubt there probably was a War of 1709) and draw parallels between then and now. They didn’t have Federal Express, SkyTel paging, 1-800 numbers, or hip replacement surgery in 1709 — or a picture of the entire planet inside their heads.”

She glurped a milkshake. “The cards are being shuffled; new games are being invented. And we’re actually driving to the actual card factory.”

Psychosis! We were discussing Susan’s new image at dinner, when I told Karla about this really neat thing Susan’s mother did when Susan was young. Susan’s mother told Susan that she had an enormous IQ so that could never try and pretend she was dumb when she got older. So because of this, Susan never did feign stupidity — she never had any fear of science or math. Maybe this is the roots of her whole Riot Grrrl transformation.

On hearing this news, Karla went nuts. It turns out that Karla’s parents always told her that she was stupid. Everything in life Karla had ever achieved — her degrees and her ability to work with numbers and code, had always been against a gradient of her parents saying, “Now why’d you want to go filling your head with that kind of thing — that’s for your brother Karl to do.”

“Karl’s nice, and we like each other,” Karla said, “but he’s a total 100 — center of the bell curve and no way