Welcome to Taiwan / The Toilet Redux

I'm still enough of a scholar at heart for a library to leave me breathless. This one, at NTU, is brand-new, enormous, trimmed in shiny wood, with English signs, study rooms, conference tables, endless study cubicles, flat-screen computers galore... and even self-checkout.

Now I know what's meant by the phrase "world-class university library."

NTU itself is more reminiscent of Stanford than Harvard, with palm trees everywhere, and buildings sprawled out over more acres than I've been able to explore yet. The street leading up to the library is essentially Palm Drive, except with taller, healthier palm trees, a rectangular less grassy version of the oval, and a different name--"Banana Avenue."

I'm actually at the library playing "hookie" from our afternoon classes (on Chinese and aerobics) in order to work on my thesis--which is due in about four days. Yesterday, I tried doing the same, but an HCAP representative tracked me down at the local Starbucks and escorted me back to Politics and Film. "Don't you want to enjoy afternoon class?" she asked, and I had no good response ("Yes, but I really want to enjoy my thesis instead," didn't really cut it.) So back I went.

Ten years later, I'm apparently a varsity student.

Anyways, I have a lot to write in this blog--as you might guess. But I should probably focus on my thesis first. This is, after all, my last academic assignment in the foreseeable future--and I can't think of a much better way to end my back-and-forth college career than at a library in Taipei.

* * * * *

A couple closing notes. Yesterday night, we were hosted for dinner at a local sort-of-French restaurant by four NTU professor. Mine professed a passion for Taiwanese beer. He ordered us several bottles. I managed about five long swallows. It's--quite foamy. Perhaps due to the beer, which I don't normally drink, or the long day preceding it, I had to visit the bathroom by meal's end--and when I sat down on the toilet, it spoke to me.

"Welcome to Taipei," it said.

Then it broke out in bird song.

* * * * *

I criticized Dick Cheney on Taiwanese TV today. Standing on the steps of the legislature, I happily blinked a few times at all the cameras, then fired the first volley of my campaign for--um--tbd.

* * * * *

Last night we were up till three at a karaoke lounge. I still can't sing, and I still have a blast not singing very loudly.

A Crisis of Faith

Today I lit sticks of incense at a beautiful and very well-fed Buddhist temple in downtown Taipei. Acid rain ran over my forehead. Our guide, Karen, kept reminding us to be "sincere." I mostly wanted to be dry.

"This is the Buddha of academic things," she said, at the fourth of seven altars, "Place a stick of incense in here for good luck on your studies and your homework."

"Like my thesis?"

"Yes," she said.

I figured it couldn't hurt. Bracing myself for another rush of rain, I stepped forward to slip my stick of incense into the appropriate cauldron.

Of course, I figured wrong: I burned a finger--and dropped my incense onto the damp ground. The rain snuffed it out before I could stoop down to pick it up.

This may not bode so well for my thesis.

The last time I felt so conspicuous--and so uncertain of what to do next--a yamikah had just slipped off my head into a gutter in front of several rabbis.

The Bugs Take Round One

Last night, I came up with a plan to avoid further mosquito bites on my increasingly swollen arms, especially around the elbows: I slept in my windbreaker.

The plan kind of worked. No more bites on my arms. Instead, I woke up to an itchy left index finger... and a second bite square in the middle of my forehead.

FABulous

Today we attended a presentation at a company, PowerChip, in the local equivalent of Silicon Valley, a government-sponsored science park spanning a hundred square miles of San Jose-style suburbia.

Two engineers proudly showed us a fifteen-minute video about the company's latest and greatest achievement: the world's first 12-inch FAB. The video went on to describe the implications of the new FAB. The prospects of the new FAB. The superiority of the 12-inch FAB to the 8-inch FAB.

When it was done, I had only one question--which I think dismayed the engineers.

"Thank you," I said, "For sharing that with us. Your company seems very impressive and we're honored to be here. But I'm wondering--what is a FAB?"

Echoes of Iowa

I did it. Into a microphone. And I don't intend ever to scream like that again.

Presentation Day

Three hours of sleep later, I'm chugging down soymilk tea and trying hard to focus on the presentation I'll be delivering today. All I know for sure so far: at some point, I plan to scream like Howard Dean.

Palm Drive, Taiwan

This may help explain why I feel quite at home on the campus of NTU.

SPF 15

Today's discovery: that my sunscreen (which I shared with about a third of the delegation) and insect repellant are antonyms. I go to bed a bit itchy.

The Alpaca Rug Effect

Extraordinarily sleepy again (I'll probably be nocturnal by the time I get back to the States) but am happy to report (1) that I'm in good hands at National Taiwan University, and (2) today I learned the prehistory of the DemiDec alpaca.

For a long time all I knew was that Esther Tsai, our poetry writer, came to DemiDec already an alpaca aficionada and that one person's fetish soon became the whole company's mascot. For legitimacy's sake, we held a vote; the alpaca handily beat the emu. However, the election was marked by low turnout and many cute pictures of alpacas. If it had been held in a former Soviet country, emu supporters would probably have stormed DemiDec HQ to overturn the results. (At such times, it's handy not to have an actual HQ.)

So when I had coffee this afternoon in Taipei with Chi-En Chien, one of Esther's teammates from Palos Verdes Peninsula, I learned the backstory. Esther came to alpacas during a week in which the entire PV team essentially moved into one team member's house (the two girls commuted, the seven guys slept there.) One day, Esther noticed two poofy rugs on the floor. Intrigued, she asked the Decathlete who lived there, Etai, what they were.

"Alpaca rugs," he said.

What was it Darwin once said? From so humble a beginning...

Anyway, the two students who brought me to the computer cluster have said it's time to return to the guest dorm to greet the rest of the delegation. Off I go... but first, one feature Boston subways should have, that I witnessed (and used) today in Taipei: a light that blinks to let you know on which side the doors are going to open.

Wish I Could Try This at Home

Forget the toilet. My room's #1 coolest feature: a rectangular section of the mirror stays fog-free even when you shower with hot water and the door closed. I want.

Some Things You Have to Grow Up With

I pressed the button. There's now a nice wet spot on the bathroom ceiling.

Nightcap

This room has special lamps for my feet.

Editables

For the first time in my life, I have a heated toilet seat. Apparently this seat can also "shower" me if I press the appropriate button, but I haven't pressed it yet.

This will be a shorter entry than I'd have liked, because I'm hovering on the edge of dropping into the very low, very white bed and falling straightaway to sleep. I'll be sure to write more either tomorrow morning or in the evening, from Taiwan proper. But first, some assorted thoughts and observations:

"Restaurant-style" service on Japan Airlines simply means that instead of pushing a drinks cart down the aisle, flight attendants walk back and forth with specific beverages to distribute. One man carries a black tea pot, another man a green tea pot; others are in charge of coffee, orange juice, Coke, etc. The meals themselves are nothing remarkable, though they do come with actual silverware.

There was, alas, no miso soup.

I left my hotel not sure where to wander in Osaka at night, so I let my feet choose their own path. They guided me down a neon-lit sidewalk, around a bustling corner--and straight to the local Starbucks.

I bypassed it, of course, in favor of munching on midnight noodles at a small udon bar tucked down a side alley. The chef had distinguished white hair and a short, neat beard; he looked like someone who could be Secretary of State, or maybe call me Daniel-san.

I was mistaken for a hotel employee and asked to sign in when I entered through the wrong door. (I thought I'd found a very sketchy lobby.)

The room service menu is titled "Editables." It's also bright pink.

Everywhere, vending machines and slot machines. Also scattered American franchises, like Wendy's and Seattle's Best Coffee (which I believe is covertly owned by Starbucks, too.) But overall the American stores are swamped by a dizzying bevy of Japanese restaurants with plastic food on display.

So I've chugged down a whole bottle of "SWEAT" that I picked up at a Lawson's convenience store, and I suspect that while it isn't the purified water it appears to be (it's too citrusy for that) it's also not caffeinated. Off to bed... or maybe I'll try pressing that button first.

Osaka

Just wanted to check in from a wireless hotspot I found right outside the China Airlines lounge at the airport here in L.A. I'm about to fly twelve hours to Osaka and should be able to update from there--at the very least I hope to describe Japan Airlines' so-called "restaurant-style" food service. I'm hoping for miso soup. Yum. Spent most of the night awake working on math exams and then taxes--so I expect a nice, comatose flight ahead. Last time I flew to Japan I scared away my neighbor because I had a cold.

Oddly, they called two days ago to let me know my flight would be delayed by two hours for technical difficulties. I have no idea what kind of technical difficulty takes only two hours to fix but is also known 48 hours ahead of time.

Speaking of technical difficulties, I haven't broken anything today, but last night I stopped the Officemax cash registers for about fifteen minutes by trying to buy a mini-tripod.

Thirty Minutes or Less

Last night in my weekly RPG, I drag raced a minivan against a pizza delivery truck. My van had freshly-installed nitrous injectors (whatever those are) but my co-driver and I still lost. Alas. We also blew up a nightclub (it was an evil nightclub.)

A Cup of Coffee

Today I entered Starbucks after a hefty brunch determined not to ask for anything too heavy. Not a latte, not a hot chocolate or a chai, and definitely not a frappuccino. When I got to the front, though, I realized I had no idea how to order just a cup of coffee. I couldn't even find it on the menu.

"What would you like?" asked the barrista, a bearded man.

"Just coffee," I said, uncertainly.

He flipped around, played with a machine, and presented me with a steaming cup of "Verona."

It smells okay. I added three sugar packets and it now sits quietly on the table. But I'm still a little wary.

Also Not Named Tina

Misty as a puppy; alas, she never grew up into an alpaca--but she's still very cute.

Column Three

Some of this echoes what I already wrote in my blog, but I thought I would post it here:

-----
Where am I writing this column?

I could be writing it longhand in a notebook overlooking sometimes-Lake Lagunita. But let’s assume for a moment that I’m on a laptop, and that I require high-speed Internet access to research and procrastinate effectively.

I could be at a coffee shop. A lot of people work in coffee shops nowadays; Starbucks reinvented itself as a place to check your e-mail when it introduced T-Mobile wireless hotspots two years ago, and lots of smaller competitors followed suit. Even McDonald’s is adding wireless Internet access to all its restaurants, with the charming slogan “Bites or Bytes—We Do Both!”

Or, I could be inside an eggshell. But this would require that I be flying Japan Airlines in its new egg-shaped business class seat—redesigned for privacy and comfort, and the ideal way to avoid single serving friends. Several other airlines are introducing wireless Internet access in the sky, including Lufthansa. More would have earlier, but the original venture, called Connexion, lost steam after 9/11 (so did the Concorde, which should have checked with Al Qaeda for scheduling conflicts before holding a public demonstration of its safe return to flight that same September morning.)

I could be at Kinko’s. Kinko’s certainly wants me to be at Kinko’s—it claims to be “your office away from the office”, with no bites required. But frankly, Kinko’s is too much like an office, and not a particularly nice office, for me to want to spend any extra time there (though I did shave at a Kinko’s once. Never again.)

I could be tucked away in a back alley leeching free Internet from an unencrypted source. But this means finding the right alley, which is too time-consuming to be worth it unless you have one of those hotspot tracking devices.

I could be writing while my professor lectures. This is hard in smaller classrooms, but I know at least one person who uses a tablet PC to quietly check e-mail without clicking any keys.

I could be at a municipal park with wireless Internet, like the JFK Park in Cambridge. But when it’s sunny, I can’t see my screen; and this time of year, when it’s not sunny in Cambridge, it’s cold.

I could be at a random motel in western Wisconsin. I’m not, but I did finish a take-home final at one in January. The proprietor was very gracious when I charged into his lobby claiming my paper was an hour overdue; he set me up with a table and a king-sized Snickers bar.

I could be in Half Moon Bay. Like more and more small cities, from Athens to Corpus Christi, Half Moon Bay provides public wireless access anywhere in its downtown area. You can still get a latte with your e-mail at La Di Da Coffee Shop—but now you can take both to go.

Or, I could be at the mall: not just at a café in any wireless-enabled mall (there are lots) but at the Internet Home Alliance’s experimental “Connection Court” in the Willow Bend Shops in Plano, Texas. Unlike the cubicles at Kinko’s, these are plush, featuring Aeron chairs, cherry oak desks, waiting areas with plasma TVs—and yes, easy access to the food court. Laptops are even available in case you left yours in the car.

Or, I could just be at home, or in Tressider. These are both difficult for me, however, as I don’t really live anywhere in particular, and I haven’t been on campus since February.

So—where am I? Here’s the answer: I started this column yesterday in a Boston bookstore café. Then I spilled green tea on my laptop. It kept working for about a minute, long enough for me to e-mail myself a few files—including a thesis that I was about three hours from presenting—before it sizzled fragrantly to a halt.

Afterwards I relocated to my school’s harshly-lit computer cluster for the night. Around eleven, I decided to get a drink. The vending machine only took my dollar bill after a half-dozen tries, and when at last I pressed the Sprite button, it clanged, then gave me a Coke. This reminds me why I avoid computer clusters (and vending machines, which—speaking of innovation—really ought to accept Paypal, or at least credit cards.)

Fortunately, today my backup laptop arrived from California, and proving that it takes a lot to change a bad habit, I’m at another café drinking tea again.

------

In his weekly RPG, Daniel answers to the name Cannister; on the Internet (wherever that happens to be) Daniel answers to dan@demidec.com.

Not Named Tina

They guard my apartment while I'm gone (I'm testing the new Blogger Photo feature in Picasa--let's see how it works.)

Sitting on Eggshells

Bin Laden would be pleased: Microsoft Word recognizes Al Qaeda as part of the dictionary. Condoleezza, too.

I'll be spending at least a third of this DemiDec summer in Texas. Here's one place we're likely to hold DemiDec events.

Done with my latte, on to Lapsang Souchong tea. I first drank this after a long hike in Banff with Sheldon. Canada apparently peppers its national parks with teahouses. This particular tea is so smokey that one person behind the counter here at 1369 can't drink it--it reminds him of when his apartment burned down.

Okay, back to writing my column for the Daily. Something I've learned today: If you fly Japan Airlines business class, you get to sit inside an eggshell.

All-Beef Hot Dogs

After a Decathlete from Granada, Molly, observed that she'd seen me in the same red sweater a lot, I wore a new jacket to the California Decathlon competition the next day. It's sort of a rough-cut collarless piece with cool tattoos on the inside. Not my usual jacket; I tend to wear things which are big, yellow and poofy.

Anyways, yesterday I wore it again for my thesis presentation (where I was definitely underdressed among my very professional public policy peers.) Later I stuck my hand in one of its pockets, only to find an unfamiliar receipt for an all-beef hot dog at the Arrowhead Pond.

The receipt was dated March 2004. Nine months before I even bought the jacket. In fact, I've never been to the Pond--but someone apparently wore my jacket there and spent $3 on ground cow. Maybe his date went badly, so he blamed the jacket and returned it. Good thing there are no mustard stains.

After presenting my thesis, owing to the anti-Centrino properties of green tea, I had to work in the Kennedy School computer cluster. There are two drink machines in the hall outside: one serves soda, the other Dasani water and Minute Maid juices. Both refused to take my dollar bills. The soda one eventually relented, so even though I really wanted water, I decided on the next clearest thing, Sprite, and pressed the appropriate button.

The machine did nothing for a while, then grumbled, and finally dropped out a Coca-Cola.

Darn objects.

"Quiche"

A few minutes ago, I spilled hot tea on my laptop. This had two consequences: the laptop sizzled, then stopped. And it now smells pleasantly of green tea and rice.

In two hours, I'm presenting my thesis before members of the faculty and fellow students. This may be difficult given that my PowerPoint presentation is sort of gone, yet I'm surprisingly calm--perhaps as a consequence of the very pleasant grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich I enjoyed while the tea was still too hot to drink and destroy things with.

High energy. Low anxiety. Thank you, Weber. Thirty-minute impromptu, here I come.

* * * * *

In other news, the local chowder shop expanded its menu. Its sign now proudly indicates: We now serve "Quiche".

And DemiDec will now serve comic books.

How to Earn a Free Latte

I'm writing this entry from the baggage claim area of the airport in Madison, Wisconsin, after an overnight flight from Los Angeles via Chicago. My suit, sadly, decided to spend an extra hour in Chicago--so I'm waiting for it to arrive on the next flight before I head down to the Wisconsin state competition. I could probably do without the suit, but my alpaca sweater's in the bag too, along with ten little alpacas.

My roommate Sasha often noted that I had a "unique relationship with objects." He reached this conclusion after I broke his laptop by standing near it. (Not on it. Though I've stood on a laptop before too, and that didn't end well either.)

In recent days, I've speculated that this relationship may extend to web sites. But yesterday, I had a good old-fashioned experience with physical objects. First, at Starbucks, picking up a toffee nut latte, I asked the woman behind the counter if she could recharge my Starbucks card--and if it would take too long, as I didn't want to create a line. She waved negligently. "Not long at all," she assured me. Moments later she reported my card didn't work. We tried another. It also didn't work. Okay, I'll just pay with my credit card, I said. But the credit card didn't work either. By now a line was steadily growing toward the door. I'll just pay cash, I said, and offered her a $10 bill. She shook her head. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Just go."

Apparently, my Starbucks card broke the cash register.

Much later in the evening, I was boarding my United flight. I used miles to upgrade, so was one of the first people on the plane, toting along my new travel pillow (acquired in Providence) and a Carl's Jr. bag. I slipped my boarding pass into the giant "I will devour your boarding pass then spit it out again" machine--then heard a grinding sound familiar from years of photocopying for Dr. Hurlbut.

Yep. I had jammed the giant "I will devour your boarding pass then spit it out again" machine.

As a result, I was the last person onto the plane for a while. The upside: this gave me plenty of time to eat my bacon-less guacamole bacon burger.

Vodka

Just got in, so about to shuffle to bed, but wanted to mention that I wasn't the only one startled by my neighbor's aroma on the plane earlier; the flight attendant felt so bad for me having to sit next to him that he kept slipping me complimentary bottles of vodka.

Since I don't ordinarily drink, and had no interest in doing so at 30,000 feet, I brought them home as souvenirs.

Tilted

My laptop is tilted on my lap so my neighbor on this flight can't see what I'm about to write, which is mostly that he smells.

Time to shut down... off to L.A.!

Broken-Yolk Fried Egg Sandwich

I can't sleep, but the breakfast menu makes great reading. "Sourdough bread with cheddar cheese, maple pepper bacon and grilled tomato." Yum. Or: "Almond-granola with fresh berries." More yum.

Have I mentioned I'm a little hungry tonight? It's a good thing this room doesn't have one of those little refrigerators full of Kit-Kat bars and Pringles potato chips, or I might run up quite the bill.

One more nugget gleaned from the menu: a "Greygoose Martini" is apparently a "Carb-Conscious Beverage." Who knew?

BitTorrents

The title of this blog refers to two things: (1) what my blogging was like today (lots of bits, in a torrent) and (2) the current background activity of my computer, which you might say is making good use of this hotel's high-speed connection.

So I got off the train in Providence thinking the hotel was next to the station. A lingering quality of my having grown up in California is that even when a police officer says, "Oh, it's a couple more blocks," I cheerfully walk on, forgetting that below-freezing temperatures can actually freeze you--or at least your ears.

Joe

On second thought, I felt bad for Joe, too, when his girlfriend Iola was blown up in Book 1 of the Hardy Boy Casefiles.

I'm on another train now, this one much less bumpy than the "Downeaster" from Portland.

Cafe Guy

The guy from the cafe is bounding up and down the cabin wearing a tight red polo shirt and chewing gum. As for me, I'm now too sleepy (post-pastrami) to accomplish much productive, so I've watched a TV episode and lamented that I left my novel on the plane.

What I've read so far this trip: The Path of Minor Planets, by Andrew Sean Greer, and Oracle Night, by Paul Aster. A reviewer claims that the first masterfully explores "the emotional lives of highly intelligent people." While I enjoyed it, it may have taken someone more, um, highly intelligent than me to completely get the ending.

Great astronomy imagery, though. And I felt for the characters. Of course, I feel for pretty much any character better developed than the Hardy Boys.

Osmotic Pillowcases

I'm writing this entry on a train from Portland, Maine, to Providence, Rhode Island. I just took off my tie and am fighting off a cheerful drowsiness that comes in the aftermath of my second latte (the first one was white chocolate blackberry from a drive-through coffeehouse in Kinnelon, the second a more traditional Starbucks toffee nut.)

Today I announced a potential new DemiDec product, osmotic pillowcases, to much amusement and interest among coaches and Decathletes in both New Jersey and Maine. I think we'll have to produce them, if we can figure out how. The idea would be to fill these pillowcases with facts for Decathletes to absorb about the curriculum while sleeping.

Based on how much this train is honking, there must be a lot of other trains on the tracks. However, there aren't very many other passengers--just two, an older couple that is debating the squishiness of various seats.

My taxi driver in Portland didn't understand the word "train" very well, so took me to the Grayhound Station. He insisted it was the train station, though I pointed out the window several times at the street and repeated, "No tracks. No train." Eventually he called a friend for help. I made it, naturally, in the nick of time.

A small DemiDec crisis presents itself: we're running out of alpacas! If you read this and would like to visit Ecuador Monday to pick some up from an indigenous market in Otavalo, please let me know.

Munching on a pastrami sandwich. I hesitated asking the sleepy-looking cafe manager to make one, but felt better after he pulled it, pre-manufactured, from a refrigerator. Not bad at all, and somehow, like ginger ale on planes, appropriate.

Shepherds of the Andes

"Ranchers have discovered that llamas bond with sheep. They will chase coyotes, gather sheep and stand between the two with little or no training. "Guard llamas" also stay on the job longer than guard dogs."

http://espn.go.com/outdoors/conservation/s/c_fea_animals_study.html

Practice Interviews, 25 Cents

I'm camped out in the lobby of the Anchorage Hilton offering practice interviews to teams finishing the speeech event (their actual interviews are tomorrow.) I put up a little sign at the table and am sipping chai and writing e-mails between students. Alaska is a warm and welcoming place.

Klondike Bar

It hit home that I was in Alaska when I couldn't get into my hotel parking lot because it was surrounded on all sides by walls of snow. I finally found a little break in it and parked on a patch of ice -- leading me to wonder whether my car would roll away if the ice melted. Anyone from a cold weather place know the answer?

Incidentally, I'm lucky that none of the teams I've met this year have asked me to deliver my speech.

YKK

About to leave for the Alaska state competition, and the zipper broke on my jacket--meaning I'm heading to Anchorage jacketless. But no worries, I have gloves. :)

Honk

Today I co-pondered what Thanksgiving would be like if Squanto had supplied the pilgrims with a goose.

Dilated

My college advisor, Dr. Hurlbut, used to console us when we came down with colds by describing them as chemical-free opportunities to experience "an altered state of consciousness."

Having your eyes dilated is also an altered state, albeit not chemical-free, and your typical Starbucks sure does look more interesting when it's a big bright blurry blob.

Ramada Inn Bayfront

Running behind, but just had to post a little something about the hotel I first stayed at in Corpus Christi. My room at the Ramada Inn Bayfront lacked (a) a desk (though the manager kindly sent up a table from the cafeteria), (b) working outlets, (c) a functioning alarm clock, (d) a bed that wouldn't sag to the floor when you sat on it.

Did I mention there was only one working lamp?

Other teams staying at the Ramada reported malfunctioning locks, no running water and scary encounters with shabbily-dressed guards who were roaming the second floor. Basically, I think the place was haunted. It was built on the site of another hotel that burned down in the 1980s, so some poltergeist probably stuck around to irk the guests--which this weekend included not just Decathlon teams but a bunch of middle school teachers and a Catholic association that was offering confessions in the lobby.

I have to say, despite (and even in part because of, for reasons I will detail later) the ghosts, it was a wonderful weekend. I shared a floor with two amazing teams and had the chance to spend time with many others at competition, at an aquarium and even at the airport. I saw a giant alpaca on stage (and had nothing to do with it.) I hugged a sort-of-purple teddy bear. I met, in short, many many cool cool Decathletes, their coaches and their mascots.

More to come about Texas in the next post...

Meanwhile, in less happy news, I stayed up all night Saturday before the awards trying to write a column for the Stanford Daily. I'm still feeling it today. (I would sleep for ten-to-twenty minute snatches in my chair, getting little writing done but not much resting either.) My column's ostensibly regular theme is innovation, so this time I wrote about narrative innovation. The editor, DemiDec poet Chuan-Mei, chose not to publish it because it wasn't sufficiently in keeping with the so-called innovation theme. Anyway, I suppose I could post the piece here. The beginning should be familiar to those of you who read my original Ecuador posts... I still remember Jean-Luc Picard cutting off my leg at the knee!

The Lost Column

One night over winter break, I dreamed that I was in Hell with the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I don’t know what this says about me—I don’t really want to know—but it did get me thinking about the way Star Trek, and storytelling in general, has changed in the twenty years since that show first premiered.

I’m no expert in this. I declared English as a major, then undeclared it a year later. So this is purely speculation based on observation—and maybe too much observation, thanks to my TIVO.

On that note—first, television. What I’ve witnessed is a transition toward “story arcs” in TV series. Arcs are plots that span multiple episodes, in which regular characters can change, have their eyes poked out, even die (see Buffy, or The Sopranos.) In Star Trek and most other weekly shows, writers were instructed to make sure that the cast ended each episode approximately in the same place as they started. If Data manufactured himself a daughter, you could be pretty sure she would expeditiously disappear, be destroyed, or sacrifice herself by the end of the episode. The same went for any character’s new love interest. Similarly, Gilligan and company would never find a way off the island, the fugitive wouldn’t be caught, Alf wouldn’t be found out, etc.

But later versions of Star Trek began to experiment with story arcs, like prolonged wars with evil shapeshifters. These weren’t exactly groundbreaking: daytime soap operas had been doing them for decades. Otherwise, how could you have last season’s villain return for this season’s finale? Strangely, though, a show about the twenty-fourth century took thirty years to catch up to Dawson’s Creek. Story arcs have several advantages: they drive existing audiences to come back every week, they allow for more interesting plots, they require writers to come up with fewer “new ideas” and instead to focus on creating a few really good ones. Characters can pay the price for their mistakes in one episode several episodes down the line. Their disadvantage is that they make it harder for new viewers to get involved, which may explain why very good shows like Angel, Jack and Bobby and even the recently cancelled Enterprise (which I heard was good but hardly ever watched for that very reason) tend not to grow their audiences over time.

Different things have happened to literature over the same period. Consider my sophomore year roommate, Sasha. When he was little, he wanted to be a postmodern philosopher. Eventually he became an international tax attorney, then ran away to music conservatory in Holland. In between he experimented with writing “postmodern fiction.” His stories were ostentatiously weird. In one, a romantically involved pair of older Jewish women (one of whom becomes a man around page four) walk from Burbank into sub-Saharan Africa while nearby monks chant in honor of the Big Mac and then visit Wal-Mart. It was whimsical, almost nonsensical—yet deftly written. I remember him showing me a book called something like Eight Devices of Postmodern Fiction. “I included all of them,” he said.

What’s happened, the way I see it, is a lot of these devices that back then very forcibly stylized have been internalized by writers and readers as quirky but no longer revolutionary. Thus, a novel like Middlesex can switch between a first-person and third-person narrator as naturally as the plot moves back and forth through three generations and two continents. In The Confessions of Max Tevoli, a man is born old and becomes younger as he ages—but the science of this is never questioned, and parts of his story are told in reverse order. What used to be referred to as “magic realism” (a literary genre in which unconventional things are accepted as existing in the everyday world) has bled over into fiction in general. Maybe this is why science fiction clichés, like time travel and memory manipulation, can form the bases of critically acclaimed films like The Butterfly Effect and Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind without their even being branded as sci-fi.

One result of all this is that plain old linear storytelling seems increasingly dated. Instead we have novels like The Time Traveler’s Wife—a selection of the very mainstream Today Show Book Club—in which a woman is married to a man who skips around in time, so that in each scene, he is a different age. Things happen at the beginning of the book that actually take place late in the plot. Trust me, it makes sense when you read it. Part of this new comfort with complex narratives might be blamed on (or credited to) the Web, where hyperlinks have gotten us used to reading in bits and pieces that connect in different ways.

Today in Corpus Christi, I talked to a high school junior who was writing a set of short stories. “Each one follows the other,” she explained, “But is from a different person’s point of view. And sometimes they see the same things through different eyes.”

She didn’t seem to think it was anything that unusual.

It used to be that if an author hung a shotgun over the fireplace at the start of a novel, it had to be fired by the epilogue. These days, it’s more likely that in the last scene, it turns out that the shotgun was the narrator all along.