Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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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.
ad hominem

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
Dong Schwing
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

Finding 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, pretentious artsy-craftiness, 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
Workshop: $495
Materials: $38
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 fax 720.555.1212


1:29 AM | link |

Sunday, December 15, 2002

10:34 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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