elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
Boulder Writers Alliance Keynote
Tonight, I drank four iced espressos (my usual pre-talk regimen), then made a complete spectacle of myself in front of this unsuspecting group of 150 or so mostly tech writers. I started by explaining my attire. I was wearing jeans and a pinstriped white button-down shirt, sneaks. "I usually get $20,000 for a talk like this," I said. "For that, you get the Dockers and a better cut of shoes, a decent jacket. For $150,000 you get the tie to go with. For pro-bono gigs like this, I usually arrive naked, so all-in-all you're ahead of the game."
"Also," I said, "since you're not paying me jack shit, I don't much care what I say. So this should be pretty relaxed."
Of course, it was no such thing. I proceeded to rave, froth and fulminate non-stop for over an hour. I told them I wasn't really Chris Locke -- they wouldn't know -- but that I'd just bumped into him downtown, and he'd promised me 20 bucks if I'd come here tonight and say whatever came into my head. I told them that the secret of my success was lying and making shit up -- and that there was a fine line between those two. Even I had no fucking idea what I was talking about. Not that that's anything new. I delivered strong opinions on matters I know nothing about, fabricated a revisionist history of the world economy since 1983, and laughed at all my own jokes. Sometimes the audience laughed along. I suspect to pretend they had the least clue why I was laughing. I sure as hell didn't.
We all learned something, I think. Me, that I can extemporaneously pontificate on any totally x-random bullshit and make people (or at least myself) believe I'm a bloody genius. They, that I should have been sedated and taken to a quiet place.
I found this email waiting when I returned to my cold, empty lair.
I told him, no, I didn't drink, but that I do accept free dinners in 5-star restaurants.
By the time I got home, everyone I know was either asleep or under surveillance, so I couldn't indulge my growing phone jones. However, I did fill up several voicemail boxes from London to Lahore. As the Rolling Stones once noted, it's not easy living on your own, Jagger artfully underscoring the point: and it's a pretty hard thing....
However, I observe that this relatively minor complaint in fact represents a significant step forward in my glacial recovery. Having finally accepted that the fantasy world is my friend, I feel an orgasmic surge of unwarranted self esteem. Shit, a month ago I wanted to kill all sentient beings and stuff them for target practice. I wanted a bumper sticker that said "I Blew The Dalai Lama," contemplating with joy the fatal traffic accidents it would cause here in Boulder, Colorado. Which is btw where I live. For those of you who are new.
Apropos of nothing (see previous paragraphs), will somebody please
send me some interesting fucking email before I go fucking batshit over
here? Like I'm already not. But thanks in advance for understanding.
2:44 AM | link |
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at a major industry conference,
chris locke once again captures the real story.