A Jubilant Snatching

"My disc! He reached up for it as it descended slowly; he took it reverently, jubilantly, snatching it to him, hardly able to believe his eyes."
--pg.127

A Slow Descent
Taking It Reverently
A Jubilant Snatching.

When your disc descends, you must prepare for a jubilant snatching. You must reach up for it, you must slow its descent. Now is your moment.

Have You Seen The Bridge?

"Tron thought he could see, through the blurring of the intangible outline of the ship, figures standing within the remaining portion of the bridge."
pg. 163

The City Has Changed

"The City had changed since Tron had last been there."
pg. 103

It's true what they say: you can't go home again. You travel for miles, hundreds, thousands of miles, propping your head against the vibrating side of the airplane, shivering in the recirculating air, stomach rumbling ("Chicken or Fish?") with every jerk and jolt... you almost miss the bus but you catch it, sitting cramped with sore knees, reading crappy magazines ("Angelina & Brad SHOCKER! Angelina wants to adopt Jennifer Aniston!") and eating crackers and cheese... braving the tiny bathroom at the back and then returning to your seat right across the aisle from the fragrant gentlemen with the lobotomy scars who is Staring Right At You. In the bus station parking lot you shoulder your pack and whistle for a cab. The driver, an alcoholic ex-boxer, weaves in and out of traffic, leaning on the horn, shouting curses, flipping people off. At a corner he gets into a screaming match with another cabbie who gets out of his cab and advances menacingly. "Stay here," your driver says, reaching for a tire iron. "This could get ugly."

You leap out of the cab and split, leaving a handful of thrown dollar bills floating in your wake. You walk down the strip, past Diamond Joe's Liquor Guns & Pawn, past the hooker in the bikini, cowboy hat and a fake fur coat ("What is that-- Rat?") arguing with a drunk man wearing a wifebeater t-shirt and a shower cap. You walk the remaining miles, feet blistering, backpack strap chafing, sweat dripping down your forehead and stinging your eyes but you're almost there, you're so close-- turning down the tree-lined laneway, breathing in the smells of summer: lilacs and freshly mown grass. You're almost there. You turn the corner:

And your home, your childhood home, is now a concrete parking lot for the Christian Scientist church next door.

Breathe deep-- stay strong. You have your memories, don't you? Share them with family, share them with friends. And not everything has changed. While you're in The City, why not go to that BBQ joint you like? Mmm-mm, Ribs.

The Digital Hobo

"'I, uh,' Flynn fumbled, knowing now that this was no digitized man of the Other World."
--pg. 82

Ah, yes, the Other World-- a world of train whistles and lonely boxcars, cans of beans simmering above cook fires, the lip of a greasy bottle of cooking sherry wiped with a shirtsleeve and passed on... a world without Health Insurance and Mortgage Brokers, without Guest Towels and Lawn Mowers...

A world in which it is possible to lie on one's back and flip open one's tattered and battered copy of 'Tron: A Novel by Brian Daley based on a Screenplay by Steven Lisberger Story by Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird' to the 'About The Author' page and read this: "Brian Daley was born in rural New Jersey in 1947 and currently lives at no fixed address."

That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen. I refer to none other than the world of the Hobo.

But wait-- A Digitized Hobo? Does such a being exist? Someone who tosses their Blackberry in a Bindle and hops onto the Information Monorail? Behold The Wisdom of The Internets: "Some hobos now communicate via cellular phones and e-mail."

In this Brave New World of Digital Hoboing, one can approach a friendly house with hat in hand: "Excuse me, Ma'am. Spare any Bandwidth?"

Ah, woe. Whatever happened to the simple hoboing days of yore? When a man could get beaten up by railroad bulls without instantly running down to the local internet cafe to blog about it on Hobobeatdown.com? Those days, my friend, have flown-- retreating ever father into the sepia-toned sunset of history.