elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Sunday, December 29, 2002
Offline Fooling With Nasty Computer Problems
First Outlook got weird, then everything started getting weird and blue screens of death began to multiply. It was like a plague of frogs in the Dark Ages, only worse. There are those who say I should buy a Mac (those who say this should send money immediately, and when enough accumulates I will.) I am now semi-functional again, and am off to download all the Nigerian offers that have been piling up on my panix popserver. I tried to install the new DSL modem tonght along with everything else, and I did everything right, but no dice. I think it's because of the address I picked: firstname.lastname@example.org -- after all, they say the devil is in the details.
4:35 AM | link |
Sunday, December 22, 2002
4:26 AM | link |
Saturday, December 21, 2002
A More Intellectual Medium
Unlike the mindless "content" offerings of television, the World Wide Web -- especially via the hot new phenomenon called "weblogging," "blogging" or, to it's most avid practioners, "shit slinging" -- has proven a much more thoughtful, intellectually penetrating medium. For instance, on Ad Hominem yesterday, I wrote: "I saw you flip me off in your blog. Hope you saw my reply." Soon after that appeared, Ross Mayfield posted the picture at the left, with a note saying "Hey Chris, right back at you." Of course, not being one to be outdone, I am returning the two birds of paradise on the right (that's his big toe; probably; though hmmmm). Did mass media ever accommodate and support this high level of intelligent exchange? Never. But then Mayfield goes and screw's everything up with an actual attempt at reviewing Gonzo Marketing, the gist of which is where he writes: I fear the world in which too many people read this book. Well, Ross, you can rest easy, as the fucking thing was published five weeks after 9/11 when all anybody wanted to hear about was anthrax, the Taliban and the evils of Islam or the beauties of Islam or some such obfuscatory sleight of hand about a part of the world that's knee-deep in camel shit. My theory is that the whole thing is a plot on the part of commodities traders who have shorted bat guano. You laugh, but history will bear me out. On a stretcher most likely. Christ, what did I ever do to deserve any of this?
To make matters worse, or better (I'm having trouble with differentiation in this area), I get a call from Marek J, the insane Polish Nigerian. First he is screaming at me in some Eastern Bloc accent -- a piece of cake for him -- about not meeting my collective's Fortran 77 production quota. I say Comrade, we cannot eat compilers. We must have more tractors. Then he becomes a Spaniard going on about something or other I didn't quite catch. As he is living in a state of neo-Dallas-Warsaw minimalism, his apartment has this godawful echo, made worse by an extraordinarily bad cell connection. This madness soon deteriorated into retellings of Peter Sellers' Pink Panther routines, Monty Python recaps, scenes from Exterminating Angel and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, and ended in a longish rant about how Marek feels about meta-neologisms built around the word "blog." Jesus Jumping Christ, he says, what next? Blogiverse, blogaria, blogosphere, blogiston (rhymes with phlogiston; but he didn't say it; I did; so dibs on copyright and give me none of this "fair use" horse puckey; I'm with Eisner on this one), blogarithm, blogaratsum, blogadogadingdong -- his voice is rising, cracking -- BLOGOSITY, BLOGOPHILIA, BLOGAHOGOLISM, BLOGABLAVATSKYITE... He's ranting, panting, losing it. I'm laughing so hard my lungs are about to explode out through my nose. STOP! MAREK! Listen to me. Can you hear me? FUCKING STOP THIS NOW! He stops. Thank God. But not for long. What about BlogJob, he asks. Then explains that this is when you tell people you've added them to your BlogRoll and ask them to add you to theirs. "I just gave you a BlogJob, man, so how about you give me a BlogJob." The technology will never catch up with Marek. He is so ahead of his time, he is living in GMT+352,864,912. We appear to him as mere mutant weasels through the wrong end of a radio telescope. Aricbo is tracking his multiple personalities. The KGB has given up. NSA is perplexed. "Who is this Marek J?" they're all asking. The secret is so closely guarded that not even he knows.
And this was going to have been a productive evening working on that damn interview for Frank Paynter, who it now appears has hosed my first interview question by posting that Mr. Natural strip. Jesus, jump the gun whydoncha, Mother Superior... and right here my computer crashed. Again. This has been happening a lot lately, thanks to the superb protection afforded by those fine software craftspersons at McAfee, may they all rot in hell forever. I uninstalled all their shit two days ago and took out the disc to reinstall Norton Mega-Everything 2005, but got interrupted by a phone call. Right after the latest BSOD crash incident, I said to myself OK enough that's it, I need to reinstall that Norton crap right now. But now the disc is missing. My office is maybe 12 X 18 and everything that's come into it in the last two and half years is still here, in no particular order you could say. So finding a CD in this chaos is a good three-year job. Entropy. Fuck it I said and put on Remain in Light. So far so good.
In the middle of some part of the above, I got another call from an old friend in Japan. As I am fluent in Japanese (and 2,368 other distinct natural languages), I cannot transcribe precisely what she said. But it was something like "I have found a good bathroom here. But it is not traditional. There is no bath." Excellent, I said. This makes me wish for you the purple congratulatory clouds, as it is now the end of this solar cycle and I love you more than the nine moons of Jupiter viewed with good nitrogen-filled Japanese fogproof binoculars with Bak-4 prisms and multi-coated lenses from the summit of Mt. Fuji. It doesn't translate well, but she understood me perfectly.
And you may ask yourself: well, how did I get here?
10:52 PM | link |
I used to have to do all my bragging for myself. Now I've got other people doing it for me. Must mean my plan for world domination is working. The following was posted by William Slawski at the blog called out in the title slug, above.
Sometimes I can't help myself but think that Chris Locke is a piece of work. I mean, he speaks his mind regardless of what's on it, or how people will perceive him. He often exhibits a great capacity for compassion, and love, and even lust on his pages over at Rageboy.
Of course, some of that is jealousy on my part, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Consider the best selling and critically acclaimed books he has written or co-authored, as well as a manifesto that many would be proud to have a hand in. I'm not there, and I may never be there. Admiration? I don't know if you can call it that. Respect? Probably.
I took one of those online personality tests that seemed to be all of the web not more than a few months ago. It determined "which blogger you are." My result was "Chris Locke." Chris who? I found out, and was humbled.
Maybe we share a few traits when it comes to temperment, but talent? Mr. Locke has a way with words and images that is at many times amazing. For instance, on his new venture over at Corante called Ad Hominem: the sociology of IQ, Chris Locke writes:
What we are seeing today on the web -- discounting the plethora of corporate spew -- is the emergence of ourselves as human beings discovering what it means to be human. If you're not doing that, do it. Spook yourself. If you're already spooked, don't quit now. We've only begun to scratch the surface. Why is the net getting so much pushback from the top-down hierarchies of power that freak if they can't control everything. Because it's working, that's why. We're giving ourselves permission to be outlaws.I've been hesitant to do that here. Not a good thing for someone who calls his blog Bragadocchio. Maybe if I work at it hard enough, I can be a piece of work, too. And I mean that in a good way. Sort of like Chris Locke.
3:23 PM | link |
Friday, December 20, 2002
Frank Paynter has been fucking with my head again. It's true I did agree to be PayntedTM, and this time I actually meant it. Problem is, he's really got me thinking with his questions about Archie & Veronica, Superman and Scrooge McDuck. So much to say there that I've been in a regular psychic fugue composing my reply. Of course, I've been in that state for about a year now. But still. Then he throws some Freudian Pinocchio spin at me and I'm all a-dither with zeitgeistian permutations and modulations on that theme. All of which I am trying to write up tonight behind massive administrations of espresso and anti-anxiety meds. I find they buffer each other rather nicely.
But I wanted to say, before I begin on all that, after finishing Phase I of a Secret Project I've been working on, that Frank's peripatetic penis/nose-lengthening ruminations have got me thinking about creating a new form of psycho-spatial interior design. I figure I'm qualified on the psycho part. The spatial dimension will be derived from the patent-pending mystic intuition that led to the organization of my hovel here at EGR World HQ. I call it Dong Schwing, after the apocryphal Taoist alchemist, Dong-Tu-Long-Doobie-Du-Down-Down, who first decided to throw shit randomly all over his meditation cave. Stay tuned for more on this late-breaking story.
Meanwhile, since there are so few Shopping Days left until the reenactment of the Baby Jesus being whelped into a manger in an area of the world about to explode with 1000-year-old internecine hatreds whipped to a frenzy by US arms dealers and oil companies, here's something apropos you can still send to your favorite artiste or cybercrone...
Product Description: Flight-tested and ready for your magical journey! Handcrafted in the wiccan tradition from a shaft of gnarled, unpainted corn wood, our witch�s broomstick is often used in handfasting (marriage ceremonies). Unmatched for authenticity! With leather loop.
Handfasting? Gotta be a typo. Nonetheless, this lovely item is from The Pyramid Collection, under the category Wiccan Way. But do browse around; there's so much more. Lots of Celtic shit, Goddess paraphernalia, Crystals, Tarot, SuperHot Tantrick Sex Videos. Something for all the New Age wackos on your list. More to come on this front too. How could I resist such a treasure trove of endemic self-estemic delusion.
Also, since I seem to be on some sort of roll here (the espresso is winning), I missed a phone message from Doc Searls last night. We now communicate exclusively by voice-mail. He's telling me about driving through Malibu in a car that burns more oil than gas, has only one headlight, and whatthefuck is he doing driving through some monster SoCal monsoon anyway? Then he said, and I quote: "I can't even begin to follow what the fuck's going on with your life, man. I don't even know. I just know it's incredible to watch. It is just... It is a trip. Whatever is going on with you, man, it is a trip. And maybe not figuring it out is part of the thrill."
As always, Doc gets it.
12:35 AM | link |
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
10:11 AM | link |
Monday, December 16, 2002
My Inbox is Hosed
I have something like half a million email messages in my Outlook 2000
folders. Last night, every time I polled mail, it would download but
not show up in my Inbox. This morning, I tried again and got a message
saying I needed to use the "Inbox Repair Tool." And where is this tool
and what's the exe called? You don't get to know that, evidently,
without searching on Microsoft for an hour, then searching your entire
fucking hard drive for the app. Then you get to wonder for another
couple hours where fucking Outlook stashed the monster *.pst files
containing those half million msgs, which include your entire
professional life (no snickering) for the last five years, the losing
of which would kick off the dreaded avalanche into financial ruin and
the subsequent culinary joys of dumpster dining, etc.
But I remain as cheerful as ever, having kicked up enough shit in
blogspace that the dust may not settle for years. Plus, I got a
wonderful phone call this morning from my best friend, who opened the
conversation by saying she was definitely registering for the Isis
Invitational Nude Golf Tournament. This meant so much to me, I can't
tell you. Especially considering that she loathes golf.
More as my system comes back up. If ever...
2:17 PM | link |
Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery
Your Own Ass With Both Hands
A weeklong workshop with RageBoy®
On 2.3 acres of underground parking structure beneath millions of tons of concrete, steel and glass, a week of breathy mystic horseshit, pompous posturing,
bush groping, panting, writhing & two sharp bitchslaps.
February 13 - 21, 2003
Arrival by 5 pm Saturday. Isis Invitational Nude Golf Tournament.
Departure by noon Friday.
Motel 6 - Coyote Fart, New Mexico
Room & Board: $450 To secure your place, send $175 non-refundable deposit
payable to RageBoy.
Materials list will be sent upon
receipt of deposit.
Questions? Contact RageBoy®.
Entropy Gradient Reversals
930 West Moorhead Circle, Suite D
Boulder, CO 80305 tel 720.304.8077
1:29 AM | link |
Sunday, December 15, 2002
10:34 AM | link |
Saturday, December 14, 2002
Fascist Whispering Campaign Quashed & Other News
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:email@example.com]
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:firstname.lastname@example.org]
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.
3:12 AM | link |
Monday, December 09, 2002
How We Rolled a Hoover for the Holidays
I'll warn you right out front, this could turn out to be a long story. Maybe it was Technorati or maybe it was Google, I don't recall, but I was ego-surfing last week, maybe two weeks ago, time being relative and all, and I came across some RageBoy hits on Ann Craig's blog. So I went there. Hmmmm.
On her About page, I read:
"I'm common. and simple. and petulant. and self-involved. and very wanky. I am not a
musician." I was so moved by this brief biography that I totally believed she ran a bed and
breakfast somewhere in Texas. If you study that page more closely than I did, you'll see that my enthusiasm must have considerably damped-down my IQ, as the collage there clearly depeicts a historic marker for Intercourse, PA.
There was also this picture of her with a baby lion. Now, there is nothing I love more than baby lions. So I sent her mail. But first I should explain that I didn't know Ann at all, except that she had blogged news of Marek J (who is currently sulking in his shut-down blog about who-knows-what) when he was sick. In the hospital for something I now forget. And no, not as you might expect, a mental hospital, where he probably belongs, for being Polish if for no other reason, of which I suspect there are plenty, judging from his poetry, but no, a regular medical hospital. So, as far as I could remember, which isn't very far these days, Ann and I had had no previous communication. On this score, I seem to be wrong, as I just now sorted the 20,751 msgs in my Inbox and found something from her dated February 22, 2001: "Now leave me the fuck alone and keep me laughing." The proximate cause
of this arcane comment is now sadly lost forever lost in the mists of time. Then on
September 5th of this year: "You raging, fucking lunatic. What are you so pissed about? It's infecting the populace. Is it worth it? Marek J. has been dead for how long now? What are you enrolling people into? Huh?" A touching note, indeed, but not atypical of the mail I get from EGR readers pretty much every day. However, as I said, I had forgotten receiving this, and whatever precipitated it, possibly my entire output since the end of April. Understandable that it would have upset her mental balance, as it clearly had. But anyway, we're now back to a couple weeks ago, the bogus bed and breakfast, and the cuddly baby lion. Here's the email I sent.
I was not surprised to hear nothing back from her. Women the Internet over receive such trolls from me on a regular basis, and (possibly due to some background conspiracy hatched over at Blog Sisters) have been warned never to respond to them. However, that was not the case in this case.
About a week later I was cc'd on this mail from Marek, whose server serves Ann's blog, and evidently handles mail to her old address:
From: Christopher Locke [mailto:email@example.com]
Sent: Tuesday, November 26, 2002 9:19 PM
Subject: a lion? really?
do you really have a lion? a bed & breakfast in Texas?
how much of anything is real? as if anyone would actually
know. but even if you don't, drop a line. or call me. what
From: Marek J [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Sunday, December 01, 2002 5:24 PM
To: email@example.com; Ann Craig
Subject: RE: a lion? really?
I have intercepted this dangerous email from a maniac they call
Rageboy. I believe he wants to copulate with your lion and have
you watch him do it. He doesn't know that you changed your email
to firstname.lastname@example.org because this polish guy marek fucked up
the frontfoot domain email for everybody. Hope you are doing
great in San Francisco and you are sticking things in and out
and not letting them pull out.
I'm not sure what that last part means, but it probably had something to do with the job Ann had evidently gone to San Francisco to take on. Possibly a switchboard operator for the National Security Agency or the KGB. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Naturally, I wrote back:
From: Christopher Locke [mailto:email@example.com]
Sent: Monday, December 02, 2002 11:51 AM
To: 'Ann Craig'
Cc: 'Marek J'
Subject: RE: a lion? really?
Imagine how embarrassed I am! And how shocked that Marek would
breach the sanctity, nay, the inviolate sacred trust of private
email to suggest that I wish to perform unnatural acts with an
I am outraged!
of course, as this is my natural condition, it really
constitutes no earth-shattering news.
I was merely conveying my regards.
at least it got me mail from MJ, who has all but slipped the
surly bonds of earth except for the occasional incomprehensible
Polish poem. Well, that and impersonating female Harvard
that's what I love about the Internet. you just never know
WHAT'S gonna come next.
Little did I know how prophetic that last graf would turn out to be. I received the first response from Ann last Friday night:
As it happened, however, she called me, several hours later, thinking she would get my answering machine. Of course the Great Oz must work in a steel-and-glass tower somewhere and have 13 layers of personal secretaries to protect him from the common rabble. "Chris Locke," I said. "Oh shit," she said, "I thought I'd get your answering machine." She was clearly cowed by my deep masculine voice and far-flung reputation as a Total Genius. I told her to relax and take deep breaths, that this was a common reaction on first speaking with someone of my stature, but that she'd soon get over it. She did, and we talked for a while. I forget about what. How great I was, mostly. And how stupid for getting sucked in by the bed and breakfast gambit. "I thought you were supposed to be smart," she said. She got over it quicker than I thought she would. Damn. But then I got 32 calls from my daughter Selene who was goofing around with her pal's cell phone, and another call during all that, which I took and talked with that wondrous person for a long time, after telling Ann I'd get back to her. Which I never did, sleep suddenly intervening. However, I did call Selene back, who was having a better time than any young child should, and had left three very silly voice-mail messages in the meantime, berating me for being a bad daddy and correctly guessing who I'd been talking to. I sent Ann mail the next day saying sorry about that, let's try again.
From: Ann Craig [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Friday, December 06, 2002 5:14 PM
Subject: RE: a lion? really?
I so enjoy other people's embarrassment! Thanks for that.
And of course I have a baby lion. And a B&B. And a winning
lotto ticket. And the clap and a cure for cancer and no body
odor and a truly delightful way with damn near anybody.
I am sort of in a state of dislocation at the moment. I am
currently in San Francisco and am looking for a j.o.b. . . .
which means I have too much time on my hands, not enough $$$
and am probably not very good company. So, given your seemingly
perpetual state of agitation, you ought to drop me a line or
So she called the next night, which was Saturday, for those of you keeping track, but my son Jesse (who is 29) was over, and we were about to go out to dinner, I told her. We ended this brief exchange with a promise to talk about sex next time, at which Jesse, who was standing there listening to this, rolled his eyes to heaven.
Today -- or what was today yesterday -- was pretty much of a bummer for me. I've been doing this whole Babe Magnet routine lately, and in some ways it's worked all too well. Not that I'm complaining. Not one bit. But certain problems have arisen (that I can't go into here; or anywhere), which have led me to rethinking my whole approach. And what I was thinking today was that it really hasn't been working too pretty good. Here I sit, girl-less still, lonely as a porcupine at a water skiing exhibition. I was looking at my four walls again, my spam-only email, and thinking how much my life sucked. With nothing else to do, I went back to reading the novel I started last week about cloistered Carmelite nuns, mystical LSD visions, and state-of-the-art neurosurgery. After a couple chapters, the phone rang.
It was Ann Craig. "Oh hello, Ann." We were old friends now. Blogging has this strange effect of accelerating time and general inappropriate forwardness. Does for me anyway. And evidently for Ann as well. Soon we were exchanging masturbation techniques and comparing vibrators. This was all non-performative and rather casual, even though we both agreed it was a bit surprising to be sharing such information with each other after speaking on the telephone only three times. We reflected on this oddity a while, then decided, fuck it, it didn't matter. Thus is genuine trust built. It's not based on anything. You do it or you don't, and that's all she wrote.
But we somehow ran out of outrageously sexual topics and wandered back for a moment to The Technology. Ann was explaining why her blog was hosed -- MAREK -- and she said, as I only later understood, "Marek rolled over it." (I'm still trying to figure out what that meant.)
"What?" I said. "Did you really say Marek rolled a hoover?"
She laughed. I laughed. I said, "That sounds like it could become a new meme, like all your base is belong to us. Like: 'He received his MBA from Stanford but then rolled a hoover in the ensuing financial downturn.'"
Ann is a quick study. Soon we were making up subtle new connotations and usages. "I totally rolled a hoover when you picked up the phone on Friday," she said.
"Yeah, well I rolled a hoover when you told me about that purple thing."
"That was your purple thing," she said. And it went on like this for an about an hour until she made me promise to go blog about rolling a hoover. "Right now!" she said. "Before it's too late!" I said I thought it was already too late.
And indeed it was. Soon we had decided to live together. You know, spend the Holidays in bed and watching movies and walking around Boulder making fun of the natives. The more we talked about it, the more perfectly insane it sounded to both of us. I got up and hauled myself to the terminal. "Let's check Expedia. Maybe I can pick you up at Denver International tonight." But it turned out there were no workable flights until tomorrow (now today). Also, we said, let's reconsider what we're doing here. This has to be a really truly a bad idea. "A worst practice," I said. It turned out Ann had not read Gonzo Marketing, so I had to explain. "A worst practice is something that's totally the opposite of what you know you ought to do, so you do it anyway, being contrarian by nature and essentially without moral scruples or the usual psychological dread that protects most people from making horrible mistakes that lead to unbelievably happy serendipitous consequences."
"I love you," she said. "I am rearranging my molecules."
"I love you too, baby. I'll meet you at the baggage claim around 10."
"This is nuts, you know?"
"No, it's perfect. It's the fucking Holidays, after all. We would otherwise be separately miserable in these two random cities we happen to be inhabiting for no good reason really. No time for you to be looking for a goddam job, that's for sure. And I have a fireplace here and a big bed. Big enough."
"OK, I'm coming to Colorado."
"Good. Great. We can ring in the new year together. What the hell. We'll have fun. We'll love each other. We're both ready for that. And we'll walk around. Look at stuff. Talk our heads off."
"Yeah. And make love a lot."
"Right. You bet. See you at tenish, then..." And her phone died.
Later, I go to Ann's blog again and find an entry titled "My True Love" dated 11/2/02 and linked to the very blog you're reading now, followed by my (then) entire blogroll. And also an item titled "yo baby yo diddy diddy whad up?" which includes the line "boom. boom. boom. boom. boom. yo. babydiddydiddywhadupcuzyoulookinfolovinanigotsomthinsomthin..."
I start to blog all this, then think: Wait. I am crazy. I am taking various medications in sometimes odd and non-sequential combinations, and I've been sleeping a lot, erratically, dreaming strange dreams, then waking, then falling asleep again. Like all day yesterday. Maybe I hallucinated this whole thing. I find the number and call her. A guy answers. "Is Ann Craig there?" I ask. "Yeah, just a minute." She comes on. "Hello, this is Ann Craig."
"I was just talking to you, right?" I say. "I'm blogging this, so I need to make sure."
"You're WHAT?" she says.
"You know, blogging about how you're flying out here tomorrow and moving in with me. I'm calling it 'How We Rolled a Hoover for the Holidays.' What do you think?"
"Perfect," she says. "This is so totally wrong. I'm so excited!"
"Me too," I said. "I can't wait." And then we said a bunch of other stuff before her phone crapped out again. All those brilliant scientists, I thought. Why can't they ever get the technology right.
Ann & RageBoy jointly blog their truelife adventures in Boulder, Colorado.
4:49 AM | link |
Thursday, December 05, 2002
1:44 AM | link |
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
I am a dog. I am friendly. I will not bite. Do you want to play? Do you have a ball? A stick, then? What? You're going to Saskatchewan? You're not leaving me here all summer, are you? Hey, I'm not that friendly. I'll eat your damn furniture! I'll chew your first editions to confetti. I'll crap in your calfskin loafers and pee on your Armani suits. Take me with you. That would be much better. We could play. Do you have a ball? A stick? I am friendly. I am a dog.
2:14 AM | link |
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
4:14 AM | link |
Sunday, December 01, 2002
7:57 PM | link |
get your badge here.
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||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.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.