- cross-posted to:
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- cross-posted to:
- [email protected]
Well. I think at this juncture I am required by law to post the excerpt from Snow Crash. You know the one.
Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.
Oh, they used to argue over times, many corporate driver-years lost to it: homeowners, red-faced and sweaty with their own lies, stinking of Old Spice and job-related stress, standing in their glowing yellow doorways brandishing their Seikos and waving at the clock over the kitchen sink, I swear, can’t you guys tell time?
Didn’t happen anymore. Pizza delivery is a major industry. A managed industry. People went to CosaNostra Pizza University four years just to learn it. Came in its doors unable to write an English sentence, from Abkhazia, Rwanda, Guanajuato, South Jersey, and came out knowing more about pizza than a Bedouin knows about sand. And they had studied this problem. Graphed the frequency of doorway delivery-time disputes. Wired the early Deliverators to record, then analyze, the debating tactics, the voice-stress histograms, the distinctive grammatical structures employed by white middle-class Type A Burbclave occupants who against all logic had decided that this was the place to take their personal Custerian stand against all that was stale and deadening in their lives: they were going to lie, or delude themselves, about the time of their phone call and get themselves a free pizza; no, they deserved a free pizza along with their life, liberty, and pursuit of whatever, it was fucking inalienable. Sent psychologists out to these people’s houses, gave them a free TV set to submit to an anonymous interview, hooked them to polygraphs, studied their brain waves as they showed them choppy, inexplicable movies of porn queens and late-night car crashes and Sammy Davis, Jr., put them in sweet-smelling, mauve-walled rooms and asked them questions about Ethics so perplexing that even a Jesuit couldn’t respond without committing a venial sin.
The analysts at CosaNostra Pizza University concluded that it was just human nature and you couldn’t fix it, and so they went for a quick cheap technical fix: smart boxes. The pizza box is a plastic carapace now, corrugated for stiffness, a little LED readout glowing on the side, telling the Deliverator how many trade imbalance-producing minutes have ticked away since the fateful phone call. There are chips and stuff in there. The pizzas rest, a short stack of them, in slots behind the Deliverator’s head. Each pizza glides into a slot like a circuit board into a computer, clicks into place as the smart box interfaces with the onboard system of the Deliverator’s car. The address of the caller has already been inferred from his phone number and poured into the smart box’s built-in RAM. From there it is communicated to the car, which computes and projects the optimal route on a heads-up display, a glowing colored map traced out against the windshield so that the Deliverator does not even have to glance down.
If the thirty-minute deadline expires, news of the disaster is flashed to CosaNostra Pizza Headquarters and relayed from there to Uncle Enzo himself – the Sicilian Colonel Sanders, the Andy Griffith of Bensonhurst, the straight razor-swinging figment of many a Deliverator’s nightmares, the Capo and prime figurehead of CosaNostra Pizza, Incorporated–who will be on the phone to the customer within five minutes, apologizing profusely. The next day, Uncle Enzo will land on the customer’s yard in a jet helicopter and apologize some more and give him a free trip to Italy–all he has to do is sign a bunch of releases that make him a public figure and spokesperson for CosaNostra Pizza and basically end his private life as he knows it. He will come away from the whole thing feeling that, somehow, he owes the Mafia a favor.
The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in such cases, but he has heard some rumors. Most pizza deliveries happen in the evening hours, which Uncle Enzo considers to be his private time. And how would you feel if you had to interrupt dinner with your family in order to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel for a late fucking pizza? Uncle Enzo has not put in fifty years serving his family and his country so that, at the age when most are playing golf and bobbling their granddaughters, he can get out of the bathtub dripping wet and lie down and kiss the feet of some sixteen-year-old skate punk whose pepperoni was thirty-one minutes in coming. Oh, God. It makes the Deliverator breathe a little shallower just to think of the idea.
Damn, I gotta read this again.
Sorry I’m very confused - what’s the context for this?
It is a book. Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson.
Basic synopsis: In the grim dark future, there is only commercialism. Published in 1992 and with the story set presumably some time in the early 2000’s, Snow Crash describes just about the day after tomorrow, when the US government has almost completely dissolved and the country is now ruled by private megacorporations. Everything is a business. Everything is a franchise. Everything – The suburb you live in, the police (with competing agencies vying to the the ones to bust perps on your block), the jail they put you in, and the Mafia now run a highly successful chain of pizza delivery restaurants – described above. Even the Federal government is reduced to a private corporation that maintains sovereignty only over the dirt what physical buildings it still has left are standing on. And the internet has evolved into the “Metaverse:” a full immersion, virtual reality environment accessed by wearing goggles connected to your computer.
Did you ever wonder where Facebook and Mark Zuckerberg got the name and concept of the Metaverse? It was this book.
The story follows Hiro Protagonist (who has deliberately legally changed his name to this just to be an ass), aforementioned part-time pizza Deliverator, hacker, and one of the founding programmers of the Metaverse protocol; Y.T., a young skateboard Kourrier girl; Raven, generally agreed to be the Baddest Motherfucker On The Planet who rides around in a motorcycle equipped with a sidecar that’s got a nuke in it, wired to a dead man’s switch. They all get involved in a plot by their world’s Rupert Murdoch/Ted Turner type who plans to use the titular Snow Crash virus in both the Metaverse and the physical world to literally program people’s minds and, of course, take over the world.
Along the way there are lengthy explorations of the Tower of Babel myth, the ancient Sumerian language, sword fights, Reason, and lots and lots of technical detail on how technology/the Metaverse/computing in general works.
I will never see Domino’s as anything but rat shit pizza
Dominos is engineered pizza for nerds. If you want to create the exact pizza you have in mind, their online tool is great. And it’ll be darn near exactly the same every time you order it, minimal surprises. Dominos is generally a safe bet. But for sure get to know your local setup.