Alright then. I've been offline for several days now, trying to get my mania under some semblance of control. Nothing has worked. I write tonight under the influence of several prescription pharmaceuticals (Lorazepam and Venlafaxine), a generous blend of fine arabica coffees, a heady taste of Shoshana Zuboff's latest recipe for overhauling capitalism from the ground up, and two other phone conversations too funny to do justice here. In one case I shall not dwell on, it would not be justice that would be served, but rather warrants. The second I can say more about, however obliquely my retelling may spin the multivariate subjects we discussed. Having gotten lucky on Friday the 13th, now minutes from it's close here in Mountain Time (GMT-7), I feel I have escaped the worst. Unless, that is, the power supply on this 19" monitor implodes in the next four minutes, sucking my head through the jagged glass protruding from what's left of the screen, and giant capacitors discharge into my occipital lobes, killing me instantly.
It took slightly more than three minutes to write that, so just a second...
...OK, looks like I made it. Let's proceed.
I've been torn these last few days between trying to stave off sure financial ruin, and blogging the twelve million words necessary to describe in full the taxonomic structure and underlying dynamics of hoover rolling. The latter I solemnly promised Ann Craig I would do, as we laughed ourselves nearly blind on the way back to Denver International Airport almost precisely 37 hours after her arrival via same (see: the only evidence that she was here at all). As it transpired, Ann's hoover rolled her on to Dallas, while mine listed back in the general direction from which she'd come. Neither of us will know the ultimate outcome of these moves until we declare our each and several selves to be Hoover Complete. It became clear to me upon reflection that describing even this simplest of Hooverian Principles would entail the compilation of a massive encyclopedia. I began jotting down the basics, thinking it would be relatively easy, but soon despaired that the project could be finished in the paltry bit of lifetime left to me on your planet. Here's how far I got.
That's as far as I got before realizing I'd only scratched the surface of an epistemology so profoundly alien to the human species that no amount of explanation would ever fully suffice to explicate its intricate nuances. The beauty of a well-rolled hoover only exists in the eye of the beholder. In other words, if a tree falls in a forest and there is no one there to hear it, it makes a deafening crashing noise.
- A hoover can only be rolled by an individual sentient entity.
- Hoovers can be combined (this is becoming more common thanks to blogging), but the outcome of the roll is always personal. The players may end up as lifetime lovers or dog catchers working on different continents.
- It depends.
- The rolling of a hoover must be a fully conscious act. Fucking up your life by accident doesn't count.
- "The hoover has been rolled" is semantically equivalent to "the die is cast." That is to say, once a hoover has been rolled, it cannot be unrolled.
- Play continues until a player declares him or herself to be Hoover Complete. Part of the magic is that this is not a subjective call. For once in your miserable life, you will know.
- The karmic consequences of abandoning a hoover in mid-roll are roughly the same as rolling a faux hoover. Either of these recusals from raw reality often end in insanity, incarceration or, in the worst cases, marriage.
- A faux hoover consciously enrolled upon invokes all the cosmic terror of a genuine hoover, but confers none of the benefits. In other words, it is far better to fuck up your life accidentally than to pretend that you know what you're doing. It is often difficult, but always crucial, to distinguish between these delusions.
- Group rolls are possible but may cause sunspots.
- Nested rolls are ill advised, though some have led to happy results. These cannot, however, be discussed in the presence of hoovernewbies, farm animals, or The Wholly Unconscious And Not In The Good Way Either.
- Recursive nested rolls are reserved to Holy Rollers of the First Water.
- Anyone who has rolled a hoover and is Hoover Complete immediately recognizes others who have achieved a similar state of hooveration. The protocol for such meetings include The Rolling of the Eyes, making The Sign of the Inchoate Narwhal, and The Consuming of the Slim Jims At Adjacent Barstools.
- Hosing your hoover is bad. Very bad. While recovery from a hosed hoover is possible, the procedure generally requires the application of neurolinguistic anal probes under deep anesthesia. It is not pretty.
Or sometimes a crashing bore. As in the case of Mike "Orbital" Sanders, who showed up through the back door to unload this steaming pile of vomitous spew:
Ah Mike, you have not the least inkling what it is to tangle with a nasty schmuck such as myself. But you're about to find out. It would appear that Sanders has been "annoyed" with me -- though too cowardly to say so to my face -- since I blogged a little ditty on the Ides of March this year called
Keep Trying Meets Fuck It Give Up. For those of you who may never have perused his bathetic wallowings (I'd guess roughly 99.999%), they're collected in all their sophomoric splendor at a blog he calls Keep Trying. I suggested he do just that. As in: it isn't soup yet, Mikey.
From: Mike Sanders [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Friday, December 13, 2002 7:39 AM
Subject: What's up with Locke
I read Locke's recent piece and was very annoyed. It was in worse
taste than his usual offensiveness.
A few of us are fed up with Locke and his disregard and lack of
respect for everyone. In fact B!X recently posted that he gave up on
Locke when he realized he was just a nasty schmuck.
Is this an inside joke between you and Locke or is this another
example of his schmuckiness.
As to b!X, a boy with a handle indistinguisable from line-noise, he posted his nasty schmuck remark on his mommy's blog. Brave lad. Rather than have words with this insignificant weasel, I deleted him and his croney dame from my blogroll and good riddance. I don't provoke easily, but when I do, sometimes your house burns down or your teeth start getting a little overlong. Different things can happen. Mostly though, the sheer caloric output required to bring down the Real-Bad-Mofo-Mojo-Gris-Gris-Whup-Ass just ain't worth it. Not for the likes of these halfwits, anyway. For anal retentives who take themselves too seriously, I can wholeheartedly recommend the Purple P-Spot Plug Kit pictured at the right. There is nothing quite like it for grounding hopeless crypto-narcissists in the fundamental (pun intended) Here & Now.
I'm saving my strength for more worthwhile rituals. For instance, on January 23rd, I plan to levitate George W. Bush at a televised press conference, then telekinetically yank his pants off and spin him up to 5 G's till he pukes blood. Let him explain that to the American People. If there is one principle I have always lived by, it is not to waste time on unproductive disputes. I know we could all get along.
If only we weren't all so stupid.
High on the list of the stupidest things a person could possibly do is sending lickspittle-lackey trolls about RageBoy to Marek J. Let's see how he replied, shall we?
[blogged with permission of the sender]
Now, anyone who has followed closely the trajectories of my own, Ann Craig's and Marek J's recursive nested hoover rolls will immediately grasp how disastrous a mistake was Sanders' McCarthyesque slander gambit. When Ann arrived in Dallas, I was just pulling up at my psychotherapist's office, but saw that I had a message waiting on my cell phone. I guess I missed the call because I was blasting Gimme Shelter at 9,000 decibels as I tore across boulder in my new All-Terrain Hum-Vee. The 50mm cannons mounted on the front fenders and the excruciating pain inflicted by the Stones at such volume -- although deaf myself, I can still tap my foot -- tend to incline people to get out of my fucking way without me having to use the horn a whole lot. So I dialed up the message. "Marek here at Dallas-Fort Worth," it said. "The package has landed. The package wants coffee. Talk to you soon."
From: Marek J [mailto:email@example.com]
Sent: Friday, December 13, 2002 6:37 PM
To: Mike Sanders
Cc: Chris Locke
Subject: RE: What's up with Locke
You want me to agree with you? You want my reinforcements in saying
that Locke is a medicated sociopath or what? How should I treat this
email from you? When you say 'a few of us are fed up with Locke' then
what is this. Call to arms for me to pick up and lead you on the
absurd battle to say 'Locke sucks and should be locked up'
jesus bunker fucking shit man, You have small fucking problems. There
are thousands of people brainwashed every day around the world. People
are being bejesus bombed in their homes. Some 16 fucking thousand
people die from aids and tb in Africa and the best you can come up is
that some fucking 55 year old man living in Boulder Colorado annoys
you and you have to vomit these news at me. Fuck you and fuck off
If you don't like him you should call him or email him and stop
fucking bothering my ass about it. He is not paying my bills. For the
record this is not any conspiracy between me and him and I cc him on
this email cause I fucking hate private gossip shit. Let it be public
And talk we did. Some about this silly shit re the man with the world's tiniest dick. But that petered out pretty quick. So we launched a plan for my new Ontological Human Support Total Maintenance Contract. This was suggested by the earlier Zuboff reading, but considerably enhanced by various value-adds interjected by Marek in cackling Polish glee. Meanwhile, the package, who had switched for the evening from coffee to vodka, climbed into Marek's front seat, which, thanks to the miracle of cellular telephony, was where this conversation was taking place, as well as from my now-fabled downstairs couch, and was shouting her greetings across MJ's arm, raised to fend her off. Listen, I said, the girl wants a little attention and I'm hogging you. No, he said. But yes, she said. So we wished ourselves well and rang off. What a difference a day makes.
And so, as the hoover turns, all things are made whole. In this case my faltering bank account. And here's how it's gonna work. For a mere $300 per year -- just in time for the Holidays! -- you can call up RageBoy in person three times a month and talk each time for up to one hour. RB will suffuse you with a deep sense of blissful surrealism and dark anarchic menace, sending you back to your meaningless quotidian life with a renewed commitment to radical slack, golfer bashing, general disregard for the so-called Real World, and a supreme lack of respect for everyone. Starting with Mike Sanders. To engage in these re-energizing conversations, prospects (that's you) will have to sign a waiver relinquishing any claim to privacy or legal recourse from random savaging. The transcripts will then be published by Perseus as the multi-volume Encyclopedia of Dada. I will get rich just by hanging on the phone all day, which is what's sending me to the Poor House today.
So once again, worst practice rules. And to all a good night!
This post is dedicated to Jeneane Sessum
for reasons that should be obvious.