Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Saturday, October 26, 2002
Laissez Le Bon Temps Rouler

7:06 PM | link |

Coyote Meets His Match

Once Coyote met a beautiful woman walking along the road. "Where are you going?" he asked. "I am going to my father's house to bring him this cornmeal." Coyote looked at the woman and thought about it. "Give some to me," he said, "I am hungry." But she would not. "Tell you what," said Coyote. "If you give me half your cornmeal, I will give you the moon and the night. They will be yours forever." The woman did not quite believe him, but finally, she was too curious to resist. "OK," she said, "but you must give me the moon and the night first." Coyote said that was fair enough, but that they would have to wait for the darkness to come. "I'll walk with you until then," he said. So they set off. When the sun went down, Coyote said, "We'd better go lie in that field, so you can see your gifts properly. You must be looking straight up to receive the moon and the night." However, as soon as she lay down, Coyote got on top and started making love to her. The woman said, "No, no, you must not do this!" But she did not push him away. She began to enjoy what he was doing. Soon she was enjoying it very much. When they came together, she cried out, "Oh Coyote!" She held him close and wept into his fur. "You may keep the moon and the night," she said. "That was enough for me. You are a good lover, Coyote." Coyote laughed. "You can keep your cornmeal too," he said. "I don't eat that stuff, and anyway, I wasn't really hungry." The woman looked at Coyote and thought about it. She laughed too. "This time I want to be on top," she said.

3:29 AM | link |

Don, I hope you get back from Mexico soon. The new meds don't seem to be helping much. I'm afraid to call you on my cell phone, as I'm pretty sure the NSA is listening in. I've been getting cross-talk with some sort of instructions, it sounds like, telling me to do things I don't really want to do. Plus, I've been picking up these LANDSAT transmissions on the fillings in my teeth. Is this normal? Not sure I can hold out till Monday. Should I go to the 8,000 mg Thorazine sooner than we'd discussed? Please advise.

Also, I think unauthorized people are reading my blog. Now I'm getting really worried. I thought this was a secure system.

1:10 AM | link |

12:58 AM | link |

12:02 AM | link |

Thursday, October 24, 2002
Viva Las Vegas:
A Rant in Four Parts, Plus an Appreciation

from The Bombast Transcripts - Trip Report...

So that was what happened in Maui. A little intimate, perhaps. From my "personal life," as we are wont to say in these strangely twisted times. But I've been thinking: what other kind of life is there?

And to the engineers I said, no corporation has ever fallen in love. But they had no idea what I was talking about. I said, what is happening on the net is people falling in love with the world again. Listen.

I refined this a little in DC, talking to the Federal webmasters and agency chieftains. I said this is a radical conspiracy that you may have heard of, called democracy. But that didn't sound right to me. Not even half dangerous enough. So in Las Vegas, because of the venue and in honor of Elvis I said, I sang (I actually did) Suspicious Minds from the podium to Sun Microsystems and their largest clients and I said no corporation has ever fallen in love and that is why corporations, which have never really incorporated in the true sense, are so suspicious of the net. Words to that effect. And I gave them shit about being "the dot in dot.com" and who really gave a rat's ass about that anyway? They laughed. They sorta got it. And I thought to write a poem called Viva Las Vegas, in honor of Elvis again, of course, about how all the stupid things in the world add up to a world that isn't stupid at all if we could only see it from high enough up. I was in an airplane at the time. But I never wrote that one because I was crashing.

So I crashed and I wrote:

if you hear me in the silence
then am I real.
if you see me in the darkness
then am I music
to your music.
if your heart is empty
yet fills with joy
then are your colors
my colors.

Something is shaking, uncovering itself. Is it just me? Or have you sensed this too? I felt into it deeper. I went to Denmark.

Shortly after Denmark, I got together with my now ex-date, Anomalie Aescalapius. Early on in our, uh... Relationship, she gave me this book titled Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom, by one John O'Donohue (a fucking Irish Catholic, no less; thanks, Mom), recommending that I read, especially, the passage at the right...


"In our culture, there is an excessive concentration on the notion of relationship. People talk incessantly about relationships. It is a constant theme on television, film, and in the media. Technology and media are not uniting the world. They pretend to provide a world that is internetted, but in reality, all they deliver is a simulated world of shadows. Accordingly, they make our human world more anonymous and lonely. In a world where the computer replaces human encounter and psychology replaces religion, it is no wonder that there is an obsession with relationship. Unfortunately, however, 'relationship' has become an empty center around which our lonely hunger forages for warmth and belonging. Much of the public language of intimacy is hollow, and its incessant repetition only betrays the complete absence of intimacy. Real intimacy is a sacred experience. It never exposes its secret trust and belonging to the voyeuristic eye of a neon culture. Real intimacy is of the soul, and the soul is reserved."

here come ol' flatop...

he come gr-o-o-o-o-vin up slowly...

Now, as a much needed but rarely delivered public service, I would like to point out that the toxic nostalgia and saccharine sentimentality expressed above constitutes the most pernicious form of New Age BULLSHIT. Anomalie always protested vehemently that she wasn't New Age. Nuh-uh, not her, no way! I guess she must have missed the cover blurb by Deepak Chopra, head-case poster boy for every stripe of obfuscatory crypto-mystical shinola ever to come down the Parapsychological Pike. Namaste to you too, motherfucker.


But back to Anam Cara, the so-called "spiritual friend" with whom you can cozy up in some comfy non-neon, non-internetted psychic cocoon that allows you to spawn the niftiest delusions about how fucking wonderful you are, emanating as these multiple-choice self-estimations do -- I am a) The Goddess Ishtar, b) in tune with the Source of All Wisdom, c) better than you; are you kidding?, or d) all of the above -- from your very own private Inner Light, with no one the wiser that you're blowing a forest fire's worth of smoke straight up the Kozmik Poopshoot. This is what it is to live and love in Boulder, Colorado. I am so fucking sick of this idiocy I could fucking scream.

The tenaciously popular notion that the Internet is somehow located on the other side of the tracks from the purported Real World is the by-product of limp intellects inhabiting substandard physical vehicles they have repossessed via Tantric Tapdancing, Esoteric Echolalia, and the ingestion of one too many Echinacea cheeseballs. These people are, in short, full of shit.

I myself have formed extremely intimate bonds with some truly terrific folks on the Web. Pam, Kathi, Bambi and Alexandra here (eyes left) are a lot smarter than you might think: caring and insightful soul mates. O'Donohue whimpers on about lonely hunger foraging for warmth and belonging. So? What's this guy's problem? A lot of these jerk-off Jeremiahs just need to get laid more often. I know I do. And when this self-righteous prick bemoans "a simulated world of shadows," what's he really telling us, huh? That he's afraid of his own Shadow, that's what. Yeah baby, Jung alert! The archetype nobody wants to talk about. It's so, you know, ewwww, negative. Well, look deep into my eyes, you timid lying cocksuckers! Take a walk on the wild side before I take a stroll down yours. I'm the monster under your bed. I'm your worst nightmare, and I'm comin ta getcha, asshole. Boo!

A curse on these unctuous, smarmy charlatans with their ludicrous claims to self-knowledge and their lofty moral posturing. Fuck em.

Anyone who whines about the Internet undermining intimacy has clearly never blogged. Or learned to work a cell phone, for that matter. These people have no sense of humor and need to be killed. The world would be a better place if there weren't all these fucking asswipes running around trying to improve it. Of course, this is merely one man's opinion. You are entitled to your own. Depending on whatever harebrained notions these opinions support, however, don't be surprised if I sneak up on you some dark night and rip your lungs out. Fair enough?


What I really wanted to say in all this, but had first to explain my passion for saying it, is that I have in fact made wonderfully intimate heart connections on the web. With people who, in some cases, I have yet to meet. Naturally, many if not all of these are bloggers. If they weren't before, I browbeat them into it. In return, they've saved my life. A fact, not a cliched turn of phrase. Many of these bloggers are women. It's not just because of their sex that I value their friendship so highly. Though yeah, that's a lot of it.

Jeneane Sessum Jeneane has made me laugh at times when that seemed unthinkable. She has more heart than a herd of bull elephants -- let loose in a China shop. She is much more dangerous "in person" than she sounds on her blog. But she's working on it. Still waiting to read the whole story about Uncle Daddy and Aunt Grandma. I thought I'd piss myself. Our phone bills this past summer were astronomical.
Halley Suitt Halley is a serious intellectual trapped in the body of a Vestal virgin. Either that or a black junkie blues singer from New Orleans. btw, Big Bill and Clarence say hi and to tell you the ring-binder bidness be doin pretty good. Oh yeah, and she can write. Thanks for switching bodies, minds, emotional states, and for the wake-up calls when I couldn't tell day from night.
Shelley Powers Few (if any) would (or could) imagine Shelley as a closet Dominatrix. I got to see that side of her, and it was pretty cool. You may suspect this is some sort of slur on the Burning Bird she is within, but it's high praise for a woman unafraid to flaunt gender convention and be a right bastard once in a while. She even made me write down shopping lists, and demanded that I clean my office. Neither of which I followed through on, of course. Shelley, I owe you a long overdue call.
Denise Howell Denise has touched me in more ways than I can express. A radio-controlled wooly mammoth seems small recompense for all her care and kindness. It's ironic that she credits me as her inspiration to start blogging. Unlike myself, she actually works at it. Writes stuff almost every day to circle the legal wagons and protect The American Way. Which, as we all know, is rampant plagiarism and copyright infringement. But Denise, I think you should relax, ease up. At least drive a little slower.
Esther Dyson I have known Esther since 1985. Not in the Biblical sense, of course. That came much later. As our torrid love affair was outed in Denver earlier this month at the Digital ID 2002 conference, I guess I can now divulge the lurid details of our surreptitious romance. Watch this space. (Esther, maybe this would make a hot keynote for PC Forum. Think about it.)
Nanna Cotta-Schønberg Nanna is the lovely and mysterious woman with whom I damn near fell in love in Copenhagen. You can read about it in the Trip Report that kicks off this now absurdly long blog entry. (Click the link up there, or even better, buy the book.) We just recently got back in touch after a rather lengthy mistake on my part. I just now went to her blog and found this: "Seems I just received a kiss from Denver. HA! - Rage Boy is back! - Love that guy..." So Nanna, now that we've both had a few years to think about it, will you marry me?
Anomalie Aescalapius Bought the painting, built the site. Bought the ticket, took the ride. As in the song, someone like her made it hard to live without... somebody else. Anomalie taught me several invaluable lessons: 1) that I cannot be trusted, 2) that I am sleazy, and 3) that I lack any shred of integrity. I guess this item proves all three. No wait, there was one more: in future, to be more careful what I wish for.
I would include my 12-year-old daughter Selene here, but I don't allow her to read my blog now that her daddy has become an Internet pornographer. It hasn't been just the women, though. Many blogger dudes have also come to my aid and succor, if only to inquire: "Hey, you're not still thinking about suicide, are you?" Guys don't have quite the touch the girls do. Goes without saying. For instance, I couldn't get a single one of these men to hold and caress me. Bunch of pussies! But I love them no less for their staunch male values, which basically amount to treating emotional pain as roughly equivalent to being out of beer, and an inclination to punch the air a lot while shouting "YES!!!"
Don Williams Having said that, Don doesn't punch the air a lot. He's my therapist, so he probably feels more like punching a hole in his office wall after hearing me go on, day after day, with more amateur psycho-speculation than Carter's has pills and, worst of all, infinitely detailed accounts of all the chicks I've been hitting on at Starbucks. There's just something about The Starbucks Girl. For the longest time, I couldn't figure it out. Then I figured it out: they're all gay. Or 22. Not that I'd let either of those things stop me. So Don, hope you're having a ball in Mexico, dude. I bet you're not thinking about me up here in El Norte popping Atavans like they were fucking Pez. I hate you, Don. You heartless bastard!
David Weinberger A Cluetrain co-author and general partner in crime, David has remained a good friend despite the unmerciful shit I've given him for many years now. Referring to him as Dr. Weimeraner, for instance. Calling his book, Small Pieces of Ass Loosely Joined. And so on. David is a true friend, and the only person I know (with the possible exception of AKMA) who can say "hermeneutic exegesis" with a straight face. Since Small Pisces was published, he is rapidly becoming known as the Hans-Georg Gadamer of the web.
Doc Searls Another Cluetrain co-author, Doc has found his m�tier in blogging. He inspired me to get serious about it (maybe "serious" is the wrong word, but you know what I mean). Shamed me into it, is more like it. He is the master of one-liners, brilliant headlines, and pithily penetrating glosses on the foibles and fuckups of The Industry. We hadn't seen each other in about two years when we recently hooked up again at the Digital ID thing in Denver. It was like getting together with a long lost brother. Both strongly committed to TCP/IP and Open Systems, we keep in touch as best we can by v-mail.
Eric Norlin Eric, Eric, what can I say? Ex-spook, ex-freak (???), ex-officio Chairman of The Titanic Deckchair Rearrangement Corporation (NASDAQ:TDCRC), and tireless (actually very TIRED by Friday, October 11th) organizer of the recent and highly successful Digital ID World conference, Eric is a true Renaissance man puked up in the 21st century by powers beyond his control, or indeed, his comprehension. He soothes his frayed psyche with beer, Eminem and Kid Rock. In a word: nuts. But a good man to know if you ever need to invade Libya.
Gary Turner I first met Gary in London, which meeting he has immortalized (well...) in his retelling of The Chukka Bar Incident. Gary is an insanely funny guy, as well as a genuine man of heart. His encouragement meant a lot to me in the bleaker parts of this year (basically, January through what-time-is-it-now?). Kept me going to know I had friends out there who really gave a crap if I lived or died. Try that sometime in the wonderful world of secret souls that that mick O'Donohue is on about (his actual name is John). Don't get me started. Where was I? Oh yes, Gary yer a fuckin brick. btw, is the kid soup yet?
AKMA A.K.M. Adam, known to his friends and family (not an MCI plan) as AKMA (pronounced ack-ma) is an Anglican minister, theologian, author and teacher. Also, a monster blogger. I count him as my spiritual advisor, though he is in no way responsible for my many infractions against the laws of God and man. Recognizing neither as having any more validity than the random gurglings of my toilet tank, I am nonetheless inspired by AKMA's clear-eyed compassion and boundless faith. Grace and Peace, bro, and pass the ammunition!
Tom Matrullo Tom is an eloquent and erudite agent provocateur and an endlessly engaging conversationalist. He'll probably ask how the fuck I'd know, as we haven't spoken in ages; mea culpa. But I know he's there. He wrote the first review of The Cluetrain Manifesto for Comcast's website in Sarasota, Florida. I still haven't listened to The Fugs CD he burned for me over a year ago, but at least I found it again, so there's still hope it'll happen. Who else could talk with equal ease about Pindar and Tuli Kupferberg? Probably only Tom himself could answer that one, as there's a good chance no one else reading this has a fucking clue what I'm even talking about. Starting with me.
Dave Winer Dave and I have had our differences, it's true. Of course, it's also true that Dave and everyone else online have had their differences, so I don't feel especially special in this regard. Having said that, the guy has a big heart (no joke intended) under that 800 pounds of gorilla. He's thrown me a rope more than once, for which I am ever grateful. Hitting Daypop with nothing to show but digital surrealism is always such a rush. Thanks, buddy. I'm smoking this cigarette for you so you won't have to. Yeah, that's right; it's a boddhisattva thing.
Frank Paynter Frank is delusional, but fun. Today he thought he saw female genitalia in my previous post. I told him he had a dirty mind. Even though we both already knew that. I include him here because he's at the ass end of my blogroll, which I know has cheesed him off no end. Placing him here at the end of this might just put him (paradoxically) over the top. And then I wouldn't ever have to write that interview I keep promising him. It's almost done, Frank, really. Would I lie to you?

I could go on. Already have, as you see. Which is why it's now pushing 6am even though I began this yesterday morning. Apologies in advance (lame, I know) to all those I should have included here. Their ranks are legion. There are so many other things I should be doing, but I've been thinking about this one for a long time now, both the rant and the serious thanks I owe to the best friends I've ever known. Not just those listed here, but you, the Valued Readers. You know who you are. And to one very special Reader in particular, to whom I have opened my heart as to no other. The road is long, the night is dark, pitch black. It is the hour of the wolf. Perfect time to ring her up. Wish us well. Wish us luck and love and no end of mysterious surprises. We send it all back to you. God bless us every one.

6:06 AM | link |

Wednesday, October 23, 2002
angels ascending into the empyrean

O! the more angel she,
And you the blacker devil.

Shakespeare / Othello

4:44 AM | link |

Monday, October 21, 2002
folding like origami birds into a paper sky

3:58 PM | link |

Sunday, October 20, 2002
Shape of My Heart

9:10 PM | link |

2:05 AM | 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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