Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Saturday, November 23, 2002
Bad For You, No, No!

Swirls of chocolate & smoke, alluring, poisonous...

2:48 AM | link |

Friday, November 22, 2002
Nasty Email

"I just sent Christopher Locke a nasty email," blogs one Jonathon Mays over at Stretching Thought (The pain you feel is the pull on your brain... ). And indeed he did. Well, as one good turn deserves another, we reproduce in full this twisted individual's surly and venomous invective.
From: Jonathon Mays [mailto:mail@stretchingthought.com]
Sent: Sunday, December 08, 2002 8:49 PM
To: clocke@panix.com
Subject: Freakin angel I can't take it--I gotta have it

Dear Mr. Senor Sir Locke (and all his Lockishness)-

I mean the angel thing. Then there is Laurie. Or whatever.
See, whatever is the problem. I need specifics. Man how am
I suppose to do consulting work with your shit when I am
having to BS my way with your BS. It makes for truth
almost. That is exactly what I don't want. I need good
jargon. I need a chart not some fuckin picture of real
life. I dont want to converse with complications. I need
it pointed so I can gossip about it. Then I can feel good
about my own miserable existence. The only thing this
angel bitch is doin is making me drink more. I have even
taken a Tylenol 3. By the way, new James Bond movie has a
bunch of advertising shit in it. 8 mile is like good and

Anyway, I am just saying a bit of this and that. Mainly
cause I wanted to say, "Hi, the name is jonathon (jscott
gecko) and over at www.stretchingthought.com you have
managed to make a friggin difference." Thanks for that
shit. Thanks for letting me curse. No one allows that
anymore. Fuck them.


J.Scott Mays
Someone has got to start curbing this out-of-control bloggism. And soon.

5:38 AM | link |

Precisely Which Part Of "Yes"
Didn't You Understand?

4:39 AM | link |

Only One

2:58 AM | link |

My Paxil Period

For about five months this year, I found myself unable to write anything. More to the point, I was unable to bring myself to publish anything. This is not to say I wasn't engaged in creating a major, if admittedly minimalist, artist's statement. By the time I was up to 60 mg of Paxil per day, this work absorbed my total creative energy, which was approximately 0.00003 neuromicrovolts. I share it with you here for the first time, painfully cognizant that it still does not fully convey all that I was struggling to express in that uniquely challenging timeframe.

1:33 AM | link |

Once Upon A Time

From www.lauriedoctor.com...
Once upon a time people took their vision, their imagination, their dreams and committed them to paper or clay or cave walls. Vision is made new when it becomes physical. Without vision being voiced or voice made visible, we are lost. Nothing changes. Today, paying tribute to what is unseen is an answer to despair. It makes transformation possible. It is both an act of recognition and a cry for recognition. There is time left...
I wrote part of that. It was a joy to shape the words together, to say what about that way, do you mean to say this? Until some meaning emerged that felt right to both. So it seemed. Vision voiced and voice made visible. The cave paintings at Chauvet, 30,000 years old. An answer to despair and a cry for recognition. In and around and though these words I wove my contribution to what it appeared we were becoming. Only by acknowledging darkness is it possible to shed any light. So I thought. And still do, though the price has been high. As it turned out, there was no time left. By the date of the workshop this passage describes, we had become strangers.

Some things are too personal, some say, to write about in public. But I have always thought that what we're doing here, one of the things we could be doing, is to show each other what it is to be completley and uncompromisingly human. In Gonzo Marketing I wrote the following bit in the chapter titled The Value Proposition:

Something animated and vital looks out from our children´┐Żs eyes. Whatever it is, we recognize it and know it is precious. Yet except in rare cases today, that spirit is broken early and irreparably. The light goes out all too soon. We know, because at some inarticulate and dimly conscious level, we are those children. We feel the wind of spirit move us at odd moments, but put it down to nostalgia or temporary possession by some impractical flight of fancy. We shake it off and get back to work. Robbed of a voice to speak of these things, something animated and vital looks out from our own eyes, but only in rare, unguarded moments -- and even then, wary, circumspect, suspicious. We let no one see what we fear no one will understand.

Where is the value in this, I wonder? What is the cost? Catching the light, a flock of pigeons turns through the sky over the highway. I am driving and remembering and feeling how much is lost, how precious this life.

These are a couple things I wrote earlier this year. The memory of loss is still raw, unrefined, not yet settled and fixed and filed safely away. I return to these things, to these words and the hope they carried, not to torture myself as some friends (and they are true friends) have suggested, but to remind myself of what my heart can bear, and has. To remind myself of what I will never lose.
Monday, February 4, 2002
what I forgot to say tonight

what I forgot to say
was how brightly the stars
burned through the trees
in your hidden courtyard
the night so cold
just outside the warmth
of your kitchen
your spirit fire
two candles in the snow.
And me there wondering:
had it been snowing
when last you lit them?

what I forgot to say
was how much at home
I felt at last
in the night that was once
too big, too infinite,
how you had taught me this
how I had listened
all those years
for a sign, a song
even when my heart
could not contain
your music.

what I forgot to say
was nothing
when the only words
I could find to speak
held no memory of you
no faith, no fire
no coal black sky
so deep so dark a dream
no morning.

what I forgot to say
was that I need to sleep
to take this darkness down
into my heart's own healing
which I did not find today
and failing, let myself believe
cannot be found
under that same moon
that same night wind
in which your candles prayed.

what I forgot to say
so many times
was that my darkness
once a comfort
is no longer
no more familiar
no more a gift
than it ever was.

my hands are empty.
my dreams are broken.

what I forgot to say
was how
under all the words I said
if I am still now
I can hear
the night
your smile
a deeper faith.
these broken dreams
these empty hands
opening into a silence
that breaks like dawn.

why my only one
do I forget these things?
how can I tell you then
that I have not forgotten?

somewhere the tree
does not bend or burn
the night does not end
yet morning always comes.
somehow I find
all the ways I need to say
I love you.

Wednesday, February 6, 2002
I wished tonight that I was Pablo Neruda so I could write
you poetry like that, with windy dark nights and the moon
the color of blood in the river. with old trees blasted by
many winters, yet covered with blossoms in the spring.
with smooth stones and rough wool blankets by a fire dying
slowly under the stars and the warmth of your eyes my last
memory before morning.

12:59 AM | link |

Thursday, November 21, 2002
Get Back

Angel, I'm going to miss you something awful. Why you feel you need to go to Tierra del Fuego precisely now, just as things were getting so good with us, is beyond me. I can't figure you out. Incidentally, this has nothing to do with the post below. Or with the grafik at the right, which shows George Harrison's first sitar.

12:32 AM | link |

Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Think What's Possible

Maybe the message of this pop-up ad was intentional. Or maybe it was a major marketing fuckup. Who can tell with these people. But two lovers walking on a sunset beach imagining what's possible... as a pitch for genital herpes ju-ju? That's not what I'd be thinking was possible. I dunno. Maybe I'm just not focused enough on safe sex. btw, does anyone out there know if you can get genital herpes on your tongue?
You can? Really? Man, I better get checked right away.

Muddy Waters is reputed to have once said about Magic Dick, the harmonica player for the J. Geils Band, "If that white boy eats pussy like he blows harp, he's a motherfucker!" [In addition to the website linked above, this quote is also cited in Cultural Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know by E.D. Hirsch, Jr..]

11:51 PM | link |

Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Pink Floyd, Eminem, Norlin & RB: An Unholy Alliance

sometimes a curse is a sideways blessing.
not always. but sometimes. coyote can wait.

Then again, because there's always a rule that proves the exception, a sideways blessing is often a curse. As is the case with the brilliant new credit-card marketing campaign conceived by Davezilla. You must see this. Namaste!

Plus, I think we need at least one more paragraph's distance from the just awful, tasteless -- and very likely actionable -- material below. Putting a bag over your ex-lover's head, even in jest, is inexcusable. I know. It's just that she's been so fucking mean to me. And yeah, I know, I know already. Guys aren't supposed to whine about this sort of thing. If some woman feels like treating you like homemade shit, that's just the way it's gonna be. Or some man, yeah, yeah, I don't want to start stereotyping or generalized woman bashing here. But have you seen the way they drive? Jesus Christ! Of course, one has to take these things on a case-by-case basis. In this case, the woman was a stuck-up little snot. Can I go to jail for saying that? God, I hope so. I haven't watched TV in two and a half years, and I know the Boulder Country slammer has HBO. But perhaps I'm getting a bit off-track again. What I'm trying to say here is that now that I'm fifty-fucking-five years old, you might expect that I'd have acquired a little wisdom along the way. Sadly, no. Underneath my reserved business-guru persona, I'm just a street punk who crashed the e-commerce party and made off with a nice little piece of loot for telling everybody they were fucked up. In other words, the simple truth. I see no reason I should not apply this demonstrably winning strategy in my personal affairs. What it's come down to for me though is major mid-life decision. Truth or celibacy. Come to think of it, wasn't there a television show called that?

I don't suppose it would help if I said I'm not really crazy, would it? I mean, shit, if I were reading this blog for the first time, and I was a normal person (bear with me here), I'd think whoever wrote it belonged in an institution. I was in one once, but I escaped -- a story my daughter delights in telling her school chums. "Yeah, that's nothing. My dad escaped from a locked mental ward." Maybe I should have stayed. But they were going to turn me in to the cops for the kilo of grass they found stashed under my bed. So, after hiding in the graveyard for a while, it was off to New York. Helluva town. I dunno, I guess I might have made a wrong turn somewhere along the line. But fuck it, you know? And besides, I think this whole mental health thing is way overrated. I mean, it's not like I've killed anybody yet. It's true that I get very very angry sometimes and blog things I feel bad about later. Sometimes right after I stop laughing my ass off, like with the bag thing. Sure it's in bad taste, but do I give a shit? Is a proven sociopath supposed to give a shit? No. That right there would be bad form. I try to at least be predictable so people can get out of my way when they see me getting that certain look. Of course yes, I occasionally do say not very nice things to women I am otherwise fond of going to bed with, and then I can go whole years without getting laid. So like I said, it's a problem. But I'm getting help. I'm working on it. And with the grace of God, by gosh I'm gonna lick it one of these days! btw, what'd you think of the eye chart? Who would have guessed the font was Rockwell something or other. Not me. That part alone took about three hours. Hey, if it's all the same to you, I'm logging off now. I haven't slept in about 59 hours and I'm getting trails from the meds. I thought this shit was supposed to make you better, but look at me. I'm a wreck. My nerves are shot, I can't get any action, and I suddenly think everything is funny. Frankly, I'm getting a little worried myself.

10:59 PM | link |

think back baby

back a bit girl

1:44 PM | link |

Monday, November 18, 2002
Still Hallucinating After All These Years

only trouble is, gee whiz, I'm dreaming my life away... "There is a tribe of native Mexicans, the Huichol, who live in the mountains surrounding Banderas Bay. They continue to live in pretty primitive conditions, and follow a very rigorous spiritual life. They use peyote and other hallucinogens to achieve a dream state, and produce fantastic artwork depicting their dreams."

So write my good friends Michael and Catharine Whitby, great aficionados of the sea, as you can see. They always drop in at EGR's Yucatan HQ when they're cruising down this way. As my entire staff consists of Huichol Indians (except for the Eurasian serving girls), there's always plenty of peyote and ayahuasca floating around. We're usually all so tripped out we don't know whether we're here in the Yucatan or on some other planet. Personally, I have this recurring fantasy that I live in Boulder, Colorado, and was once involved with some artist there who was convinced she was Cleopatra's second uncle once removed. Actually, once removed, she stopped having this strange effect on me, and the Colorado hallucinations have pretty much ceased to be a problem. I do have quite a large number of these Frigate birds flying around inside my office, so that helps with the orientation. It's a spacious office. I'd say more, but it's time for my daily shock treatment.

3:11 PM | link |

Sunday, November 17, 2002
A: Bush, Rich Women & the Roman Army

3:23 AM | link |

How is a Raven Like a Writing Desk?

Special Agent Raven

There's a man who leads a life of danger.
To everyone he meets he stays a stranger.
With every move he makes another chance he takes
Odds are he won't live to see tomorrow...

Special Agent Raven, Special Agent Raven.
They've given you a number and taken away your name.

Beware of pretty faces that you find.
A pretty face can hide an evil mind.
Ah, be careful what you say
Or you'll give yourself away.
Odds are you won't live to see tomorrow...

------ lead guitar ------

Swingin' on the Riviera one day
And then layin' in a Bombay alley next day.
Oh no, you let the wrong word slip
While kissing persuasive lips.
The odds are you won't live to see tomorrow...

Special Agent Raven, Special Agent Raven.
They've given you a number and taken away your name.
The raven is in the collection of the author.
The gripping graphical mystery adventure is not.

1:25 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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