Los Angeles, 2026
Ted got busted because we do graffiti. Losing Ted was a big setback, as Ted was the only guy in our gang who knew how to steal aerosol spray cans. As potent instruments of teenage social networking, aerosol spray cans have 鈥渉igh abuse potential鈥�. So spray cans are among the many things us teenagers can鈥檛 buy, like handguns, birth control, alcohol, cigarettes and music with curse words.
I tried hard to buy us another spray can. I鈥檓 a street poet, so really, I tried. I walked up to the mall-store register, disguised in my Dad鈥檚 business jacket, with cash in hand. They鈥檙e cheap, aerosol spray cans. Beautiful colours of paint, just screaming to get sprayed someplace public where everybody has to see what鈥檚 on our minds. The store wouldn鈥檛 sell me the can. The e-commerce system simply would not allow that transaction. The screen just went gray and stayed gray.
That creepy 鈥渄ifferential permissioning鈥� sure saves a lot of trouble for grown-ups. Increasing chunks of the world are just鈥� magically off limits. It鈥檚 a weird new regime where every mall and every school and every bus and train and jet is tagged and tracked and ambient and pervasive and ubiquitous and geolocative鈥� Jesus, I love those words鈥� Where was I?
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Right. We teenagers have to live in 鈥渃ontrolled spaces鈥�. Radio-frequency ID tags, real-time locative systems, global positioning systems, smart doorways, security videocams. They 鈥減rotect鈥� us kids, from imaginary satanic drug dealer terrorist mafia predators. We鈥檙e 鈥渟ecured鈥�. We鈥檙e juvenile delinquents with always-on cellphone nannies in our pockets. There鈥檚 no way to turn them off. The internet was designed without an off-switch.
So my pal Ted, who stupidly loved to tag his own name on the walls, got sent to reform school, where the security is insanely great. Me, I had a much higher grade-point average than Ted, but with no handy Ted to steal spray cans, the words of the prophet have vanished from the subway walls. So much for my campaign to cover the town with graffiti street-stencils of my favourite teen pop stars: George Orwell and Aldous Huxley.
And Shakespeare. I used to hate Shakespeare, because the teachers would park us in front of the webcam terminals, turn on the Shakespeare lessons and leave the building. But then, somehow, they showed us Macbeth, a play which actually MEANS something to us. Grown-ups don鈥檛 understand that (or they wouldn鈥檛 be teaching it) but Macbeth is the true authentic story of my generation. This is Macbeth鈥檚 world, and us teenagers just live in it. Dig this: those 鈥淭hree Weird Sisters鈥�, who mysteriously know everything? They can foretell anything, instantly, like Google? Plus, the witches make it all sound really great 鈥� only, in real life, it totally sucks? Well, those 鈥淭hree Weird Sisters鈥� are the 鈥淚nternet of Things鈥�, they鈥檙e 鈥淯biquitous Computation鈥�, they鈥檙e 鈥淎mbient Findability鈥�. The truth is written all over the page (or the screen 鈥� my school can鈥檛 afford to give us any 鈥減ages鈥�). Just read that awesome part where they鈥檙e boiling pseudocode in their witch-cauldron! They talk like web designers!
鈥淭he words of the prophet have vanished from the subway walls鈥�
Macbeth stumbles around seeing ghosts and virtual-reality daggers. That sure makes sense. Every day of my life, I see people with cellphones yelling eerie gibberish in public. The world of Macbeth is totally haunted and paranoid! You can鈥檛 get one minute鈥檚 privacy, even inside your own bed!
So, I did my class report about Macbeth, and every kid in my English class instantly agreed with me. I鈥檓 not the most popular guy in school, but they started CHEERING me. And Debbie, this wacky Goth chick in my class who identifies with Lady Macbeth鈥� After my class report, Debbie sleep-walked out of the classroom and pretended to hang herself! Of course the teen-suicide subroutines in the school jumped onto Debbie immediately. Debbie broke the software rules, so Debbie is toast, just like Ted.
My Dad 鈥� he鈥檚 still alive, apparently 鈥� he sent me an email from China and said I ought to 鈥渞ecruit鈥� Debbie into my 鈥渟ocial group dynamics of online identity production鈥�. My Dad always talks like that. I haven鈥檛 seen Dad face-to-face in six years. Look: I am a 17-year-old male, okay? I don鈥檛 want to send Debbie any hotlinks and digital video. I want to take Debbie out! Maybe we could take some clothes off! But there isn鈥檛 any 鈥渙ut鈥� for me and Debbie. There isn鈥檛 any 鈥渙ff鈥�, either.
Okay, I admit it: Debbie is insane. The fact that Debbie really likes me, that just proves it. Debbie ACCEPTS this sick state of reality. She EMBRACES it. We are doomed.
Imagine that Debbie and me somehow go out together. We want to network with our peer group, teenager-wise. I need to figure out what鈥檚 hip and with-it and rebellious, and Debbie needs to know what the other cyber-Goth chicks are wearing. Is that okay? No!
It鈥檚 not that we can鈥檛 do it: it鈥檚 that all our social relations have been reified with a clunky intensity. They鈥檙e digitized! And the networking hardware and software that pervasively surround us are built and owned by evil, old, rich corporate people! Social-networking systems aren鈥檛 teenagers! These machines are METHODICALLY KILLING OUR SOULS! If you don鈥檛 count wall-graffiti (good old spray paint), we have no means to spontaneously express ourselves. We can鈥檛 鈥渇ind ourselves鈥� 鈥� the market鈥檚 already found us and filled us with map pins.
At our local mall, events-management sub-engines emit floods of locative data. So if Debbie and me sneak in there, looking for some private place to get horizontal, all the vidcams swivel our way. Then a rent-a-cop shows up. What next? Should we go to Lovers鈥� Lane? There aren鈥檛 any! They eliminated all those! They were tracked down with satellites and abolished with Google Maps.
Okay, sure: I know I sound pretty depressed. Us teenage poets depress easily. You know what they tell me whenever I rant like this? 鈥淕et a hobby.鈥� Play imaginary fantasy computer games! That is allowed me! Wow, thanks! When she nursed me as a baby, my Mom dropped me right on my head to play Wonder-World of Witchcraft. I sure know where that story goes. If 鈥渞eligion is the opiate of the people鈥�, then immersive multiplayer 3D virtual worlds are hard-core Afghani heroin. My Mom will never make it back into the labor force: Mom鈥檚 way too busy building herself up to 146th-level SuperMasonic Tolkien-Fantasy Ultra-Elf Queen. Like that helps! Look, I can show you Mom鈥檚 gaming environment, right on the screen here. My Mom鈥檚 a Welfare Elf Queen (CR) (system crash) (hard reboot)
Debbie: why do you access me, when you know that makes things hard for me? Why do you tag, and link to me? Why do you telephone? And why, why, why do you write me silly notes on paper? I am so sick of you, Debbie. Why, why do you hack me? It is just to see the things that you know I am writing about you鈥�
Debbie, you believe in us. You think we are the future.
I am so miserably happy, just now.
