Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Friday, September 27, 2002

Hey now, all you sinners
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you lovers
Put your lights on, put your lights on

Hey now, all you killers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you children
Leave your lights on, better leave your lights on

Cause there's a monster living under my bed
Whispering in my ear
There's an angel, with a hand on my head
She say I got nothing to fear
There's a darkness, deep in my soul
I still got a purpose to serve
So let your light shine, into my hole
God, don't let me lose my nerve...

put your lights on / supernatural / santana


the following is part of an EGR I wrote on May 3rd of this year, but never finished, never sent. Been listening to Santana all morning, trying to kick the same old poison blues. Which is strange, because I'm in love today, so much to be glad about. She say I got nothing to fear. I tell her that too. We pass it back and forth. Say there's no monster living under our bed, whispering in our ears. It's a question of faith, or courage under fire, of love. So hey now, all you killers, put your lights on. Put your lights on...

gimme your heart
make it real
or just forget about it

smooth / supernatural / santana

Valued Readers:

Last night I went out and had a T-bone steak and eggs at Denny's. Because nothing else was open at that hour. Also because I love slumming with the underclass. Not bad. I was hungry, hadn't eaten all day. Forgot. So I ate and left. Not a lot of small talk.

On the way back, I figured I better pick up cigarettes, running low. So I go into this gas-and-groceries place near where I live and this thing off the Santana Supernatural CD is playing. Quoted above. Because that's the line. Beat of the street. Macho guitar, that voice. Uh! When you got nothin' and the world is burning: strut. Hot nights, straight-up love, no compromise. "I could change my life..." and the towering sneer as he lays it down: "to better suit your mood."

Or is that just me? The sneer? I mean, it was a huge hit, a Latin love song. Everybody grooves on those. I don't know. I'm reading my own trip into everything these days. Maybe it don't mean shit. Is this stuff in my head or really happening? Real, or the monster under my bed? Ah fuck... just forget about it.

Gimme your heart.

I was trying to remember the name of that gas-and-groceries place this morning. Go there all the time. Open 24 hours, etc. Couldn't remember. Today not anything like yesterday. Yesterday was overcast and I felt pretty good. Almost past it. Today it's sunny, perfect weather. The kind of day you want to be out there with someone. And I'm trying to sit on the speed. Check the rearview. Panic racing up the outside lane. So I get in the car to go get the name. That's all I'm looking for. A short ride. Nothing else to do. PDQ. That's what it's called. So there. Now you know. For completeness.

I go in. Might as well get something. Don't want anything. This time it's Nirvana doing Come As You Are. As you were. As I want you to be. Christ, I gotta get outta here. I grab a quart of Gatorade, the most artificial color I can find. Looks like anti-freeze, tastes like catpiss. As a friend. As a friend. As an old enemy...

Outside I walk to the edge of the store (just typed "to the edge of the story"), the grassy verge along the highway. A little stone table and bench to sit looking at the mountains. God, the mountains! What a day. Too beautiful. The ache in my chest is back. She's gone. For good. For ill. Why won't this stop? Let up?

I keep telling myself I've gotta get to work. On something productive. Bring in the bacon, put food on the table. Yeah, but then I say, what if there's nobody there to eat it? Be kind of a Pyrrhic victory then, huh? So I cop that my work right now is to write and keep writing. My work this week is to save my life. And what if it's not just this week you gotta worry about? I ask myself these questions. What if it goes into overtime? I keep thinking I've come to the edge of the world. Come to a place I can stand, if not quite yet stand still. But there's more. There's always more. Everything I know, I learned on acid. It all comes in waves, so roll with it. Roll with it. Let them pick you up and put you down. Feel into the swells. Keep rolling.


All those words I wrote said I love you come back. You know me, they said, but not all the way down. There's more to go. And I know you, but not all the way in. You say I don't know you at all. That I'm making it up. That I'm using your words and your silence against you. And in public. With strangers. With everyone looking. And this works against conversation.

What conversation?

3:13 PM | link |

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"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
~D. Weinberger
28 October 2004

Chris Locke's photos More of Chris Locke's photos

Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of. I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos." It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.

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