Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Saturday, October 19, 2002
If on a Winter's Night a Traveler
"Perhaps at first you feel a bit lost, as when a person appears who, from the name, you identified with a certain face, and you try to make the features you are seeing tally with those you had in mind, and it won't work. But then you go on and realize that the book is readable nevertheless, independently of what you expected of the author. It's the book in itself that arouses your curiosity; in fact, on sober reflection, you prefer it this way, confronting something and not quite knowing yet what it is."

8:37 PM | link |

Thursday, October 17, 2002

6:13 AM | link |

Call Waiting

You know that feeling when you're sitting all alone at night waiting for the telephone to ring, but it never does and nothing will ever be the same again because the one person you wish more than anyone else in the world would call you, won't? Won't answer your calls, either. Doesn't care to. Doesn't care, really, if you live or die, if you're there or gone, which you can easily get to thinking, you might as well be. What difference would it make? And this goes on for months, years, decades. Eventually you stop waiting. But there's a silent telephone somewhere deep down in your heart, and at times you wonder: was that for me? But it turns out someone is talking to somebody else. That's when you know it's still there.
Then something amazing happens. Something you never expected, never dared to dream, though perhaps you did in some long forgotten sleep. With all hope gone, knowing it's finally over and done, you give up. Not without a fight, but the fight has been only with yourself. There's no one left but you, sitting in an empty house in an empty town with an empty heart.

The phone rings. It's not who you thought you'd hoped for so long. Not the one who drained the color from your eyes, your sky. But someone you barely knew six weeks ago. Some impossible angel you never expected, never dared to dream.

"Hi," she says. A world opens out on an in-caught breath. And you say, "Hi yourself, Beautiful. But baby, what happened to your jeans?"

12:54 AM | link |

Wednesday, October 16, 2002
Good Vibrations

I've been meaning to recommend this company for some time now. Their service is excellent, and their products have never failed to delight. I've been a satisfied customer for years. Contrary to an astoundingly persistent Amerikan puritanism -- even more astounding in blogland, where it seems counterintuitively overrepresented -- nice girls do. And so do nice boys (even RageBoys). That's what's so nice about it. So do give each other the gift that keeps on giving. Coming soon to a mailbox near you. Beats Amazon wish lists all to fuck.

Disclaimer: Despite Halley's recent comments re The Money, this is strictly a public service announcement. Of course, if Good Vibes were to offer me a lifetime supply of the cock rings pictured above left, I suppose I could find a use for them. Forget all that penis-enlargement spam. These puppies really work! You won't get any more of a kickback than I do for promoting them, but your lover might get a serious kickforward. Might say whoa, dude, how'd you DO that? Just trying to be socially relevant here. Really.

3:55 AM | link |

Tuesday, October 15, 2002
The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Cribbed from the 2002 Results page...
  • Like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built, Portia was sleek, shapely, and gorgeous, her red jumpsuit molding her body, which was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires, her eyes flashing like bright hubcaps, and her lips as dewy as the beads of fresh rain on the hood; she was a woman driven -- fueled by a single accelerant -- and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from his views, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf Romeo.

  • Sheila was easy as opening a jar of pickles, not one closed by a man who has virility doubts and closes a jar so women and young boys get hernias opening it or at least the boys get them; although I heard about a woman who had a hiatal hernia so I guess women get them too but doctors don't ask them to cough unless their malpractice covers sexual deviance but a jar closed by some ninety-year-old whose grip on the jar as well as reality has slipped.

  • As Professor Wincklespoon took a sip from his coffee, craving the caffeine that scalding hot water had seduced from the beans, his eyes fell on an old equation he had written down years ago, metaphorically speaking, for the falling of his eyes should not be taken literally, and suddenly it struck him, as if his mind had been cleared by the same stormy wind that had brought a dark cloud overhead, two million volts of electricity from that same cloud and gone were the man and his equation, the solution to the theory of everything.

  • It was then that Caroline remembered her kitchen back in Montana, with a stove that she might or might not have turned off, and so with a heavy sigh, she put down the penguin.

  • "Mummy's gone to Paris to buy hats, and Daddy's pranged the Bentley," Fiona responded with a m´┐Żlange of wry acceptance and distant promise, her ring-less fingers playing slippily on the moist champagne flute in a way that suggested to the normally jaded Sir Jeremy far more than merely imbibing Bucks Fizz.

  • Having opened my 40th birthday present from my husband -- a kitchen window fan -- and now on my way to the bakery to pick up my cake, I started thinking: What if I get hit in this intersection, and, struck with amnesia, I hobble to the edge of the highway, hungry and confused, and am picked up by a lonely trucker headed for McDonald's and since I have no memory, I've forgotten I hate McDonald's, so I hop in, and he -- just thankful for the company -- figures I'm a middle-aged housewife looking for love in all the wrong places and he's got several of them?

2:44 PM | link |


2:00 PM | link |

Never Stop

What with all my expectations long abandoned
My solitary nature notwithstanding
You're the one who pulled me
Out of that crash landing
My stunning mystery companion

Jackson Browne     

10:22 AM | link |

As AKMA and I (briefly) discussed at Digital ID World...

It's high time for White Collar Crime.
Take a priest to lunch this week.
You'll be glad you did.

12:18 AM | link |

Monday, October 14, 2002
on the other hand...

Thanks to Stanford University for their unwitting support
of doing what I like. A mind is a wonderful thing to waste.

4:18 PM | link |

"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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