elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, September 28, 2002
Please Mr. Postman
Free-associative intertextual deja-vu precursor to the previous post. From the introduction to The Bombast Transcripts (the book no one ever fucking buys)...
My resume looks like the routing manifest for some displaced person after WWII. I am merely a high-tech migrant worker, following the harvests like Sisyphus rolling his rock. Rocking his roll. Locking and loading and finally going postal from the high bell-tower of a mind at once unhallowed and unhinged.
11:38 PM | link |
Friday, September 27, 2002
Coming Soon to a ZIP Code Near You
8:54 PM | link |
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
Cause there's a monster living under my bed
put your lights on / supernatural / santana
make it real
or just forget about it
smooth / supernatural / santana
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.
3:13 PM | link |
Thursday, September 26, 2002
In Which I Rant Into Gary Turner's Answering Device
2:12 PM | link |
1:53 PM | link |
London Calling: Anarchy in the UK
"i'm out of time tonight, we spent three hours in the maternity ward
getting tests done - everything's ok, just first pregnancy jitters
So, the voicemail's gonna have to wait until tomorrow people. but it's
worth the wait, you'll die with laughter when you hear an quadruple
espresso pumped locke ranting about putting fucking tivo machines onto telephones so he can dictate novels to people, how he hates voicemails
that only give you 2 minutes to leave a message and just as he's
getting into his stride the three minute cut off message appears and
he totally loses all composure before being cut of in mid expletive.
he should be locked up."
So, the voicemail's gonna have to wait until tomorrow people. but it's worth the wait, you'll die with laughter when you hear an quadruple espresso pumped locke ranting about putting fucking tivo machines onto telephones so he can dictate novels to people, how he hates voicemails that only give you 2 minutes to leave a message and just as he's getting into his stride the three minute cut off message appears and he totally loses all composure before being cut of in mid expletive. classic stuff.
he should be locked up."
12:30 AM | link |
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
The Untapped Power of The Weblog
Blogging will get you through times of no sanity better than sanity will get you through times of no blogging.
1:03 PM | link |
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 |
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
Paynter Loses It Entirely
It was bound to happen. Stretched to the breaking point by my repeated bogus promises to do an interview on Sandbag Turk, not to mention his placement at the ass-end of my blogroll for unspecified crimes against women (how could he have done that to sweet little Gretchen Pirillo?!), poor Frank has finally lost it. As in snapped. As in slipped the surly bonds of earth. He seems to have been hallucinating again. Thinking he's been seeing body parts appearing on and disappearing from my blog. "I see intermittent pussy," said Paynter when questioned. This is a common symptomatic precursor to full-blown dementia praecox.
He writes: "One also assumes that RB and Her Anonymousity are okay with this teasing!"
Ask your momma, Frank. She told me it was cool.
"And of course," he adds parenthetically, "the underlying assumption to all of this is that the tree is actually falling in this particular forest."
Unsure as to which particular forest Frank has been frequenting of late, I can only surmise that he is speculating about whether "Her Anonymousity" a) exists, b) is a figment of my imagination, c) is the erstwhile newage artchick, d) is Dave Winer in drag, e) is sweet little Gretchen Pirillo, f) I have forgotten to take my meds again, or g) is my virtual dream lover for real with whose various body (mind, and other ineffable) parts I have unexpectedly yet utterly fallen in love.
The answer will be fully revealed (over her dead body, she says) in my forthcoming Dunghill Trope interview, on which I am already hard at work. No, really.
"Back to my bond analysis," Paynter ends the item.
Good idea, Frank. Glad I'm outta the market.
12:40 AM | link |
Monday, September 23, 2002
Dr. Coyote Meets Pink Floyd and Finds True Love
Come on [come on, come on...]
I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.
Relax [relax, relax...]
12:46 PM | link |
Sunday, September 22, 2002
12:55 AM | link |
from EGR, May 15
It is not a mistake to love. All it says on the page in front of me. Red pen new notebook. So hard to get started sometimes, but that's not it this time. Watching a storm come in all day. From up on the mesa. Smoking on Don's front doorstep at 4. Out in front of Starbucks. It finally hits, outrider winds slipping down over front-range thermals like cool angels. Sitting on a park bench eyes closed in freefall. Hit me change my mind this sky is moving baby no mistake.
12:21 AM | link |
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.
more / archives|
|live dangerously. subscribe to EGR|
at a major industry conference,
chris locke once again captures the real story.