A Word of Explanation

Okay, a word of explanation.

When I wrote the proceeding blog, I used Word’s strikeout feature to black out my friend’s name (as if you wouldn’t see it). So it originally read something like Michel R. our friend. Unfortunately, Blogger doesn’t seem to support strikeout.

A Three-Donut Vacation: VI. Getting the Go

Lucrezia Borgia Bartolomeo Veneziano

Boris Badenov, Natasha Fatale, and Fearless Leader

Written 23 June, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

VI. Getting the Go


GROUP NOTICE

TO: Group Members, Sweetie’s Super Secret Spy Sorority

FROM: The Incomparably Dressed and always Perky Sweetie

RE: Raid on TSA Headquarters Secret Stuff

We are meeting at 4 pm Linden time at Pele the volcano on Whimsy to hear a message from our leader. Please arrive fabulously attired and be no more than fashionably late. Virtual finger foods will be provided.

Tell no one. Loose lips sink sims.

-----

Sweetie was anxious. “Do you think there’s enough food?”

“Vell,” I said. “Lady vingers, petit-fours, cucumber sandviches, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and wodka. I should think so. And if we run out, we can just make copies. But more importantly, do I look all right?

Sweetie gave me a quick up and down. “Morticia Addams, right?”

“No!” I said, stung. “Haven’t you been listening to the accent? I’m Natasha Fatale, dollink, from the Rocky and Bullvinkle Show. I’m the intellectual superior of that no-goodnik Boris Badenov and a member in good standing of Local 12 of the Villains, Thieves, and Scoundrels Union.”

“But who am I?” asked Sweetie. She was wearing a gown suitable for a medieval French or Italian court and her elaborate white hairdo was wound high on her head. A miniature electric train ran around and around in her tresses.

“Mata Hari?” I asked.

“Mata Hari? That early Twentieth Century Dutch tramp? You silly girl! Don’t you see the skull and crossbones on the hollow poison-filled ring on my finger? I’m Lucrezia Borgia!”

-----

The first cell member to arrive was Michel R-- I mean a close friend who cannot be named. She was completely invisible. Even her tag wasn’t showing. “Hssst!” came a voice from thin air. “Is it safe?”

“It’s never safe,” I said. “The TSA could nuke us at any time. But I swept the sim for bugs and to be safe I’ve disabled scripts on the entire island—to the chagrin of some honeymooners, who got bounced off their pose balls. We’ve taken all appropriate measures.”

“Good,” said our friend xxxxx, and turned off her invisibility. She was dressed head to toe in camouflage.

“We’re busted!” I cried. “It’s Whimsy’s top cop!”

“No, no,” Sweetie said. “She’s gone deep undercover to infiltrate Second Life’s Wall of Blue.”

“That’s right,” said xxxxx, “so cool your jets before I run you in.”

The minutes went by. No one else arrived.

“Where’s everybody else?” I asked.

“Silly spy,” said Sweetie. “Cells have only three people. You guys need to start your own cells.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We’re waiting to hear from our Fearless Leader.” She nodded toward a plume of pink and green smoke.

I looked hard at the smoke. I thought I could make out a shadowy oval shape inside.

“Friendly greetings!” it said.

“OMG,” gasped xxxxx. “I know that voice! It’s Tor—“

“Shush,” said Sweetie. “Only code names from now on. We’d better make some up.”

“You can call me Fearless Leader,” said Fearless Leader.

“I’m Fashionista Bandit,” said Sweetie.

“Wait a minute,” I cried. “I wanted to be Fashionista Bandit.”

“You can be, um, let’s see, “High Priestess of Fashion,” said Sweetie.

I liked that, but I wanted a promotion. “Goddess of Fashion,” I said, sulking.

Sweetie sighed. “You’re competitive, even with names,” she said.

“I’m not competitive!” I said. “I'm not! I’m the most noncompetitive person there is! There is NO ONE less competitive!”

“See what I mean?” Sweetie said to no one in particular.

“I’ll be Top Cop,” said xxxxx.

Fearless Leader spoke. “Your mission, should you choose to accept, will be to infiltrate the world headquarters of the Teleportation Security Administration and there carry out instructions known only to your cell leader. If you fail in your mission, Linden Lab and the world community of watermelons will disavow any knowledge of you or your actions. This cloud of smoke will self-destruct in ten seconds.”

“Stand back!” cried Sweetie. “That watermelon is about to explode!”

A Three-Donut Vacation: V. Double-Naught

Symbol of Our Fearless Leader

Written 19 June, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

V. Double-Naught

“Why have you been moping about so?” This from Sweetie.

I’d been neglecting my appearance. My inventory was growing cluttered with objects called Object, and I hadn’t built anything in ages. “You know why,” I said.

“Why?”

“I’m just part of your cover,” I said accusingly. “I mean nothing to you. I’m just an assignment to you.”

“How could you think that?” Sweetie asked. “You know we were together before this TSA business started.”

“Gosh, that’s right,” I said, perking up.

“Yeah. I was first approached after that whole Sweetie vs. the United States of America thing. They said they liked my style.”

That made sense. But I felt terrible.

“But why wasn’t I recruited? I wanna be recruited!”

“Silly girl,” she said. “You were recruited.”

“Was that why you sent me that offer to join your group Sweetie’s Super Secret Spy Sorority?”

“Of course. You were the very first member of my cell. And shhh! Don’t say the name out loud.”

I felt inestimably better.

“Who recruited us?” I asked.

“Sssh! It’s a secret! A champion of personal freedom.”

“But who?”

“Promise not to tell?

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Torley Linden. He always gets pulled aside by TSA because of his watermelon colors. It has turned him into a radical.”

“Good old Torley! It’s not easy being pink and green.”

“But you must never tell anyone.”

“Mum’s the word. But what happens now?” I asked.

“I’ve been holding off until we had all the free clothes we can handle. I was going to tell you tomorrow.”

“We’re going there,” I said, “aren’t we? To TSA headquarter?”

“Yes, Sweetie said. “There's a reason why Torley publishes so very many snapshots on FLICKR. I get my instructions there, in code. Torley is going to instruct us to infiltrate the secret world headquarters of the TSA.”

Three-Donut Vacation: Part IV. Fashionista Bandits

Dakota, Shortly Before Being Shipped off to Oxford

http://cheyennepal.blogspot.com/2007/04/boyfriend-ii-oxford.html

Teleport Tom is LIVID!

Written 19 June, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

IV. Fashionista Bandits

And that’s how we became known as the fashionista bandits.

Robbing banks did little for our bottom line, but the fringe benefits were marvelous. We were soon haute coutured out the gills. When my inventory went over 20,000 items I started passing items to my alt to hold. Her name is Dakota Burns.

“Waaah!” she said. “I hate this. Can’t you just put them all in a box?”

“I tried that,” I told her. “I put stuff in boxes and boxes within boxes until I had 10,000 items in a single box. Every freebie I ever picked up, copies of all my textures, clothes, everything. And then I took the box into inventory.”

“It worked?” Dakota asked.

“Almost.”

“What happened?”

“I lost the box.”

“Okay, so I’ll hold these old lady clothes for you, but it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Can I have a place to live on Whimsy?”

“Absolutely not. You stay up way too late and play your music way too loud. How does 500L sound?”

“Sounds about right,” she said.

-----

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Sweetie said one day.

I looked at her. “What?”

“I’ve not been entirely truthful with you.”

“Who is he?” I said. “I’ll murderize him!”

“No, not that. I have a secret.”

I’ve seen enough Maury Povich shows to suspect I wasn’t going to like the secret. “What?”

“You remember that first bank?”

“Yeah, the anomalous Ginko. What about it?”

“Remember when I went into the vault? Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“C’mon now, I know you’re not a guy in real life.”

“No, not that. I’m—I’m—“

“Spit it out!”

“I’m licensed to kill,” she said. “Double-naught.”

“You’re a spy?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, and the robberies were a cover.”

“That Ginko was no accident, was it? You found something in the vault.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I did.”

“Well?” I said.

“I’m now in possession of the location of the secret headquarters of the Teleportation Security Administration.”

I laughed. “Teleport Tom won’t be very happy about that!”

“He’s not. For the past month the grid has been in Condition Teleport Tom is Livid.”

A Three-Donut Vacation: III. Watch This!

Sweetie's Gucci Holdup Bag

Our Life of Crime Netted Us Many Fringe Benefits

Written 19 June, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

III. Watch This!

We were back at Whimsy.

“Watch this,” said Sweetie.

She opened a three-way IM box to me and Nonna Hedges. “Thank goodness she’s online,.” Sweetie said in chat. And in IM: “Nonna, did you hear the news?”

“About the robbery? It’s all over SLTV. Do I know you?”

“No, and let’s keep it that way. Did you hear what the robbers were wearing?

“One of them was wearing my gown,” said Nonna. “The nerve!”

“How are sales?” asked Sweetie demurely.

“Come to think of it, way up. Say, who is this?”

“Let’s just say I own a certain famous Nonna Hedges gown.”

“What do you want?” asked Nonna suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing,” said Sweetie. “Just wanted to let you know it was us. And to tell you we’ll both be wearing Defleur when we pull our next job.”

“You can’t do that!” said Nonna.

“We can’t?”

“Well, I guess you can,” admitted Nonna. “But please don’t.”

Sweetie winked at me. “I’m afraid I don’t have another Hedges gown.”

“Well—well, we can fix that! I’m dropping my entire line on your profile right now. To both of you!”

Sweetie said to me in chat, “Now for Defleur.”

-----

Disclaimer: 1. Remember, this is a fictional blog. We have to tell you, however, that Ms. Hedges and Defleur gowns are absolutely fabulous. 2. Nonna Hedges was not actually contacted for this blog, nor is she open to blackmail. Nor is she engaged in outrageous criminal schemes to promote her gowns through guerilla marketing. Didn't we just tell you the blog was fictional? Duh!

A Three-Donut Vacation: II. A Life of Virtual Crime

Inconpicuous Getaway Car. Most of the Smoke is Coming from the Volcano

The Infamous Fashionista Bandits. Sweetie is wearing Nonna Hedges, Chey R. Fyre.

Written 19 June, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

II. A Life of Virtual Crime

Constant reader, I take you now, via that convenient literary tool called flashback, to the not-so-distant past—for I must relate the events that led Sweetie and me to the first-class compartment of a hijacked plane.

It started when we bought Whimsy.

“Where are we going to get $295 US for tier?” I wailed.

“You should have thought of that before you bought a sim,” said Sweetie smugly.

“Our landowners and renters bring us about $85 US, and sales from the store amount to about $2 US daily, and we’ve taken in tips worth $32 Lindens. Where will we get the rest?”

So began our life of virtual crime and high fashion.

It was Sweetie’s idea, of course—but if we’re ever brought to justice I’ll fall on my sword and claim it was entirely my own. Sweetie is too artistically sensitive to survive in an environment as ugly as a prison. She would be dying to tweak and all the objects would be no mod. It would be a horrible fate.

We began by robbing the last remaining branch of the Ginko Bank. Ginko is gone now, of course, banned and good riddance, by the Lindens— but due to a faulty sim rollback, there one stood. I rezzed our getaway car (a 1957 Primouth, a completely anonymous vehicle), and we approached the building.

“Quick. Slip this on your head,” Sweetie said, and handed me a .5 x .5 x .5 plywood prim.

“Sweetie, we have hundreds of avatars,” I said. “Dragons, trees, whales, blimps, grandfather clocks, rocks, robots, roaches, fish, birds, hedgehogs, skunks, bears, angels, devils, imps, and the notorious test female and test male. Why a box?”

“Just do it,” she said. “You’ll see why later.”

“Shouldn’t we change into something more apropos,” I asked. “Like prison stripes?”

“No,” she said. “Our splendid attire is the whole point. Now hurry! We have to act before they reverse this anomalous sim rollback.”

“I’ll say it’s anomalous,” I said. “It’s pre-flexi. Must be from 2006. Makes you wonder how far back the backups go.”

“Shhhh!” whispered Sweetie. “No talking. I left my voice changer at home. We’ll do it all in chat.”

Prim boxes obscuring our heads, we burst through the door.

“This is a rubbery,” typed Sweetie. “Everyone on the fluor.”

Nobody moved.

“She means floor,” I said, and everybody dropped.

“Drop all the money in this attractive virtual Gucci handbag,” said Sweetie. “And you!” she nodded her prim box head at a teller. “Your earrings. They’re fabulous.”

“Do you really like them?” the teller asked.

I menaced the teller with my freebie watermelon gun. “Just do it!”

Soon we were hearing ka-ching! sounds as money from the tellers’ drawers hit our Gucci tip bag. $300L. $900L. $1349 L.

“That’s enough!” I said. “Let’s go!”

“Not yet,” said Sweetie. And to the bank manager: “Open the vault.”

“I don’t have the combination,” he cried.

“Not a problem,” said Sweetie. She tried to rez a prim and failed.

“Turn build on,” she said.

The manager smiled nervously. “I can’t do that, ma’am, but I can add you to the Ginko group.” Straightaway we got group invitations.

Wearing the group tag, Sweetie rezzed a cube, sat on it, lassoed it, and, using the edit menu, moved herself into the vault. I heard a muffled voice say (I think) “Got it,” and she was by my side again.

“Kill that prim,” I said, “or they’ll know who we are.”

“Of course we’ll know who you are. We can see the tags over your heads,” said the bank manager. Right away I could see he was wishing he hadn’t.

“How much do you make for managing this bank?” Sweetie asked.

“I get 4L every 10 minutes,” he said. “Those bastard Ginkos!”

Sweetie tipped him $100L. “And who will you say robbed your bank?”

“Uh, two gorgeous ladies with prims on their heads?”

Sweetie stared at him. She said, “No, two gorgeous ladies with prims on their heads and gowns by Defleur and Nonna Hedges. And be sure not to forget that last part.” And we were away.

A Three-Donut Vacation: I. Three-Donut Vacation

I don't think most of us get extra screening because they think we are terrorists. I think we get it because they know we're not. They screen people who are not terrorists because it helps them pretend they are protecting us, in the same way doctors in the middle ages used to wear tall hats: because they couldn't cure you. It's all show...

This is a flying nation. We fly. And everyone knows airport security is an increasingly sad joke, that TSA itself often appears to have forgotten its mission, if it ever knew it, and taken on a new one--the ritual abuse of passengers.

-- Peggy Noonan, Wall Street Journal, 23 February, 2006


For a history of our problems with the TSA, see the blog entry http://cheyennepal.blogspot.com/2007/05/teleportation-security-administration.html and the dozen or so posts that follow.

I have to say my vacation was the best I've ever had. I even had two days at home after the trip to lounge about and catch up on the mail. It was truly a three-donut vacation.

Oh, wait, did I say that out loud?

What I MEANT to say is OMG, I am SO glad to be home after the most horrendous misadventure with the Teleportation Security Administration!

It began, as most things do, innocently enough. Sweetie and I were doing a routine teleport.

Well, routine for us. Sweetie was wearing a bomb avatar. It didn't help that she kept making that whistling I'm-Falling-From-the-Sky sound.

But even then, we would have been okay if that TSA bastard at the security gate hadn't tried to nab my bottle of perfume.

"What's the deal?" I said. "It's in a quart-sized Ziploc bag, as regulation 44J-23-10-A2 requires."

"Ah, yes," he said. "But 44J-23-10-A2 says you can transport a 3-ounce bottle of liquid. This bottle is four ounces." He reached for it.

I moved it out of range. "What if I had two three-ounce bottles?" I asked.

"That would be acceptable," he said.

"So it's okay to bring six ounces of potentially explosive plane-destroying liquid aboard, but not four?"

"Pretty much," he said.

"I'm going to stand right here until I use up an ounce," I said. I imagined it would take weeks.

"Won't work," he said. "The bottle would still hold four ounces. And you would technically be loitering."

"Do you have a three-ounce bottle you could lend me? Or sell to me?"

"Afraid not," he said, and grabbed the bottle.

Strangely enough, when he tried to snatch it away, the bottle remained in my hand. His hand was attached to it, but didn't seem to be connected to the rest of his body.

"Sweetie," I said. "Tell me you didn't!"

"He was messing with my girl," she said, wiping her katana carefully and sliding it into its scabbard.

"My hand!" screamed the TSA agent. "They cut of my f***ing hand! I was just following procedures!"

"Oh, grow up!" Sweetie said. "This is Second Life. You can always reattach it."

"Help! Help!" he screamed, and a sea of blue shirts began to move toward us.

"Run for it!" I screamed to Sweetie, and I dashed through the metal detector and toward the nearest aircraft. Sweetie was close behind, despite stopping to have her boarding pass scanned. Sweetie is by nature law-abiding.

We scrambled down the jetway and through the entry door of the plane. Sweetie, behind me, pulled the door to and latched it.

"Listen up!" I yelled. "We are commandeering this aircraft in the name of the independent nation-state of Whimsy. We will be departing for Whimsy immediately. Stay calm and in your seats and everything will be fine. Nobody will get hurt. And extra peanuts for everyone!"

"What she said," said Sweetie, who had taken a post beside the pilot. Her katana was out again, its burnished blade reflecting the multicolored lights of the instruments. She waggled the tip at the pilot. "Quick, now! I want to hear those turbines!"

Fifteen minutes later, having hustled the first-class passengers back to the tourist section, Sweetie and I were sprawled in plush seats and knocking back Cosmopolitans. Sweetie was rapidly getting plastered.

"Do you notice something unusual about the stewardess?" she asked.

I took a long look. "No," I said, "although she looks a bit like..."

"Exactly," said Sweetie.

The Donut of My Vacation

Written 10 June, 2008

The Donut of My Vacation

I'm back home after three weeks of bliss, and I'm happy to say I returned ten pounds lighter than I left. That's due to a lot of walking and judicious eating. Fruits, nuts, low-glycemic carbs, and no donuts.

Well, there were a FEW donuts.

Just down the street from the house in which Sweetie and I were holing up was a produce stand with a country bakery. I would walk the kilometer there most mornings and buy tomatoes, cucumbers, leeks, onions, carrots, mushrooms, broccoli, asparagus, and other fruits de terre.

On the other side of the door was a bakery filled with wondrous things: thick loaves of rye and multigrain bread, baguettes with glistening crusts, cookies of all variety, brownies with chocolate icing and M&M sprinkles as a bonus treat, apple and blueberry and cherry turnovers, coconut cream and apple and peach and cherry and pecan pies in 6", 10", and personal treat sizes, nutty rugelach, scones, cream puffs, cheese straws, and other miracles of pastry science.

And donuts. 3.5"-wide, 1.5"-thick apple cider donuts, plain cake donuts, and beautiful brown donuts rolled in sugar crystals.

It was the last of these I favored.

I told Sweetie I deserved a vacation donut. She didn't discourage me, for I was up every morning, walking, while she slept the sleep of the innocent.

Well, that may be stretching the point. While she slept.

So there came the day when I bought it. My donut. Sixty-nine cents worth of nutmeg-and-cinnamon flavored deep-fried sugary sweetness. The smell was heavenly.

The donut weighed heavily in my hand as I sat on a bench and began to stuff the day's vegetables into my backpack.

Now, I've heard of German shepherds, and Belgian shepherds, and even Dutch and Australian shepherds-- fine dogs all, I'm sure. But who ever heard of a Uzbekistani shepherd?

Not I, certainly, but there one was, a four-month-old black-and-white puppy with a gleam in his eye and mischief on his mind, the guardian of the vegetables, I supposed. He nosed his way through the screen door and came outside and sat on his haunches. I could tell by his manner he fancied my donut, but he was not going to get it. Well, maybe I would give him a piece of it.

But I was robbed of any chance to be generous, for that 75-pound puppy made the first move. In complete indifference to the height of the donut (I was holding it above my head), he climbed right up me and snatched it from my hand. I was left with only donut memories and a dusting of fine sugar crystals on my fingers.

Yes.

That dog ate the donut of my vacation.

Burn This Message!

Written 3 June, 2008

Burn This Message!

Oh, constant reader, I'm so glad you're here!

Here, take this! Read it!

Yes, it reads 864Ak#@55xz41010104gk.

It's a code, you see-- one that unlocks the darkest secrets of the Transportation Security Administration. Those bastards would kill for it, so I want you to memorize the code and burn the paper. Immediately!

It worse comes to worst and I don't make it back to this blog, I want you to seek out President Obama and give him the code. It'll make his job easier.

In the meanwhile, Sweetie and I are on the run with a head in a duffel bag.

Three guesses whose head it is!