Tag Archives: Greg Ogden/Gregg Oden^*++$

July 23, 2021 · 2:24 pm

00270416

Kolya also claimed the larger bamboo house at the very center of the sim owned by the same rental company. 128/128, he thought, standing upon it. This will be *my* center as well. I can finally find myself, see who I am. He looks around.

“Shells? No no no no no. I’m through with shells.” Alysha manifested in the chair below the indicated art, helping him out again.

“You need to focus on the *monster*, Kolya. *Can* — you do this?”

Kolya remembers the name friends call him: Can. This was a friend. They, together, were looking for not necessarily a foe but indeed a fiend, removing one important letter from the equation. He(-she) had been here a long long time; Kolya was picking up on that as well. Black Lake. Circle of 4. He knew that the lakes would attract him, tiny to not so tiny. He must make a map.

“You must make a map,” Alysha spoke back, in his head as well but also with her mouth.

—–

He soon determined that this was the Black Lake in question, not the other more rounded water body just to the west. And it was more symbolic than anything. But he was not in his actual form any longer. He had turned into a painter. Oil me up, I suppose.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0027, 0416, Crisp Sea, Lower Austra, Nautilus, Wild West

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July 23, 2021 · 4:21 am

Paperweight

He sat at the table outside the bamboo hut he’d rented several days back and thought about All Orange and what he’d lost. The phone rang (D Flat). The phone never rang.

“Hallo?” He was expecting someone jovial, not saturnine. He was surprised. He stared at the missing blue eye on the Book of Monsters before him as she continued to chatter. He dare not crack the cover lest the other one roll off. Especially now. Would he get a word in edgewise?

—–

She hung up the phone. “We’ve got to keep an eye out on him,” spoke Jeffrie Phillips, glancing over at his bamboo hut across the water. “He may even try to off himself, say.”

“No he won’t.”

Her hair was now the green of seaweed but she was no monster, or at least Jeffrey thought. Was she?

“What next?” he queried about her appearance. “Your skin turns green?”

“Maybe,” she shot back quickly. Both knew that if this happened she was lost for good to him. Maybe even the mohawk would reappear.

Something was happening on this sim. A painter paints. A complainer complains. ART appears. A perfect circle. Pooh with his honey pot moves away from the scene with little to no impact now.

A perfect circle, eh? I thought, yellow included. I knew what this meant.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0027, 0414, collages 2d, Crisp Sea, Lower Austra, Nautilus, Wild West

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July 10, 2021 · 9:16 am

saturnine

She looked down at her, this Winnie, but obviously Wendy again. As she was Wendy. We’re all Wendy in this Second Lyfe of ours, a Wendy City of sorts through and through. Cub Run. Centerpoint. “Release the Pooh!” she wanted to command from afar with voice so loud you could hear it clear over to Heterocera. “Allow Winnie to become Wendy!”

Someone asked once why she wasn’t herself in Our Second Lyfe and instead always in disguise, a strange question at the time but perhaps starting to make some sense. The man-woman uttering it was obviously kind of insane, though. She suspected a sea monster because of the seaweed hair, despite the pink tutu. Release the Pooh, she also mentioned. The famous toy bear rolled the wagon with the honey pot down the cobblestone street of town, pausing in front of Perch to peer in at the past. Spaced Ghost turned back into Space. The honey pot was suddenly something else; the held red umbrella was both inside and outside at once…

The pirates were coming and she didn’t know what to do. Directly over the throne now, they had stolen her mistletoe. She wasn’t jovial about it.

They’d make landfall by nightfall. The clock kept ticking, tick tick tick.

I should strike first, she suddenly realized, thinking of the Big Wheel and the 12 at the top. Everyone was scared of her, after all.

“Gotcha!” she exclaimed at 12:37.

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February 23, 2020 · 9:44 am

directions

Whenever Ben gets lost or confused in his wanderings, he just types BENA into his map search box and returns here through it, to the center of Bena, formerly Bennington — with his bar straight ahead. Through this practice he’d learned, quite a long time ago at this point — about the time of the Vampire Coup I suppose — that his home sim now called Bena has a double, also named Bena. Or beginning with Bena. Anyway, it’s an ocean sim or water sim, more in the western reaches of the continent. And, just to its northwest, a kind of parallel town to here. One day he’d use this trick to escape the bar, the vampires, even his old werewolf friends that still come by his establishment every now and then, despite what the vampires told them to do. “Stay away,” they exclaimed after the coup. “The bar is ours, the *town* is ours. And then they brought in that foreign lawyer Rebl to seal the deal. How many forms did he have to sign back in the day? Too many to remember. Bennington to Bena, pheh.

He turned around in place and stared at Northeast Bloodbath Castle, so named because of a bath of blood (the king’s favorite in olden days) instead of a murder spree of some kind. “Wonder if that Rocky Racco writer guy ever made it over there to fish?” he wonders aloud. “Guess I should have told him about the sea monster that guards the place, hehe.” Ben Wolf ponders about the last time he saw Gregg Oden, aka the “monster”. Probably 20 years ago at this point. Just walked in the bar, ordered a Baileys and poured it in his shoe and drank it down, and then walked back toward the bay, shouting, “I’m Gregg Oden!” before the waters took his slimy green, pink tutu wearing figure again. He’s always looking for a man-wife after he shows them his shiny man-gina, and perhaps this Rocky Racco will turn out to be a suitable one this time. But the odds are stacked way against him.

Ben exits the bay and walks into town, but passes his bar — empty anyways (day hours) — on the way to Rocky’s now vacated cave, his old home when Bena was Bennington. The “Wolf Den.”

He could live here again, he ruminates while sitting on the soft, cushy pillows within. But that would mean…

The pack wouldn’t understand, despite the weakening down through the years. They’d still tear her to shreds, pull out her head and all her limbs and wave them about while howling their crazy “traitor songs” maniacally. Once married to a wolf, always a Wolf yourself, he understood. The surname Phox she cooked up one drunken evening was a sardonic play on words. She knew it was Wolf still and told it to everyone who asked, saying the other name was a joke and then usually laughed a bit to emphasize this. Funny Phyllis Phox, people thought about her. Guess that led to the stand up comedy. Which led to the novels.

No, he’d have to think of another way. Perhaps involving this other Bena, yes…

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0018, 0214, Benangatron+, Corsica

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November 17, 2019 · 9:34 am

JuliaN

“Two Joint Joints, side by side. One in Gaston — here. The other: NWES. How could this be?” Then Greg Ogden remembers who he is, deep down. He loses the hair, the campy hobo shirt. The Red Cross returns.

He recalls bastard pirate Randolph two (motel) doors down, not one to cross by any means.

4×4: it was all coming back to him.

He has to reach Climax.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0016, 0603, Gaston+

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November 17, 2019 · 7:43 am

DEAD End Street

He wasn’t budging, this Big Black Smoke. “I have as much right to be here as you, red boy,” he declared from his cheap, green box seat. “You ain’t paying no rent.”  He settles back, crosses his arms behind his head. “Neither am I.”

Greg Ogden argued that he is about to pay the rent but is still trying the apartment out at times.

“Times what?” replies the larger, black man. “42?”

Greg didn’t know the answer to that. He didn’t know everything. He remained silent, contemplating whether to leave. But *he* had as much right to be here as Big Black Smoke.  This remained a stare down for now. He told him that.

“Hey,” then declared BBS. “You ain’t that red dude who’s going to marry that red haired gal in the church next door this coming Sunday? She’s been talking about you. About how you become cross sometimes.”

Greg said he wasn’t this person, although he likes to dress in red. Greg Ogden explains that he use to be a red mechanoid playing in a punk band with 2 other, differently colored mechanoids. “We got kicked out of Olde Lapara Towne due to a noise ordinance,” he furthered. “We came here to escape, to *hide* and regroup. But this place…”

“I know I know,” responded Big Black Smoke, looking around at all the red walls surrounding them. Like a cell. “This place changes you.” He was starting to feel sorry for the boy. “You know Golden Jim, the police chief? Don’t confuse him with Golden Joe. That’s a chef. You see what I mean about this town, boy? This New (Lapara) Towne? Same as the old town, hmph.”

Greg says he’s trying to leave but can’t. “Stewart’s dead,” he offered, nodding toward the window with the bay view. “Newton owns that ship out there now. That’s his brother.”

“I *know* who Newton is.” Big Black Smoke resisted the urge to call him ‘fool’, but he’s certainly trying to step off a ledge now. “You can’t leave once you stay here long enough.” Big Black Smoke had figured out who Greg Ogden was, and that this was his old apartment. Golden Jim had told him about the 2 Greg(g)s, one with the extra ‘g’, or, better (explained Golden Jim), the ‘g’ *stolen* from his last name. This theft bought him some jail time. Golden Jim wasn’t here then, but, again, this was legend. Like the day Pierre Schaeffer rode into town and stole all the Berries and took them off to La La Land. Even nimble Thimble couldn’t escape. Ahh, Thimble, thought Big Black Smoke, traveling back further in time to a thinner physique. Those were the days. The Dark Ages. I wish those old times could return. But Pierre changed all that. Him and the eye guy.

“This is *Jasper*, fool.” Big Black Smoke couldn’t help himself. “You’re stuck as much as those *flies* over in Central Park!”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0016, 0602, Gaston+

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November 13, 2019 · 7:53 am

Belt

He was having a dream again of that planet. Totally red, totally rusty. He was looking for Stewart this time, but Stewart had passed on to another realm. The Land of the Living. Because, in the dream, *he* was instead dead, trying to make his way back from, shall we call this Hell? No, Greg Nash Ogden corrected himself while staring around. Too luminescent, he decided, to be that place of anguish and gnashing of teeth. But certainly red like that place. No fire, though. Better wander around while I have my wits.

He eventually stumbles upon the underground base, vast in size.

A robotic weapons factory, at least in part.

But no food. He realizes he might starve down here. To life?

He receives a name on a back wall. Mars.

Greg Ogden wakes up, his mouth dry as desert.

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November 12, 2019 · 9:21 am

skipperless skipper

He stares out at Stewart’s boat in the bay while calling.

“Hello, Stewart?” Indistinguishable answer. “Oh, cool. Stewart’s big brother. I remember you.” Answer. “Oh… sorry to hear that.” Answer. “Oh that’s too bad, oh man. When’s the…” Tangential answer, still indistinguishable. “Well, my deepmost condolences, Newton.” Final reply. “Goodbye. Let me know if I can help in any way.” He hangs up with this. “Guess I won’t be using *Newton’s* sim skipper out there tomorrow after all. Maybe never. Mr. Babyface is going to be *so* disappointed. I’ll have to find another way off this isle of isolation. Poor Stewart! Disappeared inside a watery sinkhole.

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November 12, 2019 · 7:50 am

Steamboat

Mr. Babyface looked down at the large palm tree The Man About Time was currently referring to. “The Hole is gone,” he had just said about the mysterious object formerly underneath it. “When Mick jumped in, the effect was gone. The great 2-n-1 was over.”

“Takes 2 to know, yeah,” Mr. Babyface says in response now, thinking he needs to phone up Greg Ogden as soon as possible. Or, on the other hand, Gregg Oden, if he’s in that form presently. He’d been romancing a living, breathing Mandela Effect for months and didn’t know it, didn’t know the term for it. The Man About Time is attempting to clear this up.

“Gaston has a lot to do with this,” then offered MAT in his mild voice while scratching the back of his neck on the couch. “Changes people, and sometimes not for the good.” He scratches more. “Sometimes… for the bad.”

“And that’s where Greg said he was going in that letter he wrote me,” completes Mr. Babyface while turning, more eager than ever to pick up the phone.

But which way to go, he thinks, receiver in hand just later. Does he go to Gaston or does Greg come here?

“I’ll come to you,” responds Greg Ogden at his red Gaston house. “They frown on mutanty looking people around here,” he said, referring to Mr. Babyface’s baby faced head.

“Well I *never*.” But he was coming back and that was the most important thing. He was pulling him out of *there*.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0016, 0514, Collagesity Fordham-, Gaston+, Lower Austra, Nautilus

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November 10, 2019 · 8:20 am

pretty Improvio

“Anyway, I thought I’d just pop over and tell you that your old house is up for rent. Better get back to the brood.”

“Wait, Gambler,” Greg Ogden implored. “Before you go, tell me more about this Core-Alena, how she got to Gaston, how she passed through Purdy here on the way.”

“I already told you,” Gambler projected. “She passed through centers and then she just uprooted herself and started walking from the original ‘Purd’ — this Purd*en*.”

“As opposed to Purdy here and also the Purdue University related sim. I get that. But why couldn’t she start walking, say, *here*?”

“You know that too,” came the reply. “Purden is actually the secret centre of Our Second Lyfe itself. Triple 128 — only one.”

“The…” Greg Ogden attempted, then let Gambler take over again, seeing the stumble.

“All the axes measure the same: height, depth, length. A, B, C: the great 3-n-1. But in Core-Alena’s case it is also the center of a 256x256x256 sim cube. It’s what makes her, well, *unique* unique.” Gambler was referring to the all important tree being as a she because that’s how she knew him-her in Gaston.

“But she’s not at this centre any longer,” continues Greg Ogden, chattier thanks to the (doped) coffee. He suddenly realizes this, and holds his mug out in offering mode. “Sure you won’t have any?” He was hoping to get the whole story today, whatever means. *Whatever* I mean here. Gambler was an old girlfriend over in Gaston for Greg Ogden, having met her shortly after changing from machine to man (but still keeping a lot of machine characteristics, like an obsession with symmetry). She came here to tell him about his old, empty house, yes, but there was more to it. He could feel this. Something about Purdy. He was a purdy man, true. He knew this — all the ladies end up, in the end, telling him so. Gaston changed him forever in this way. Sister Improvio too. Earie as well. He became Greg Ogden, Improvio became Pretty Man — wait. That’s *it*. Gambler, all along, was…

He could see through her disguise now. “Boy this coffee is good,” he declares, taking another draw from the toxic concoction.

—–

“We’re both purdy,” she ended. “Too similar to each other in our red and blue. We had to create Earie in the middle. Ear. Between the sun yellow legs.” She stared up at the brightest star in the sky, not looking away. The only star. The daylight one. All turned black.

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