Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Sunday, January 26, 2003

one begins to read between
the pages of a look.
the sound of sleepy music
and suddenly you're hooked.
I saw you... coming back to me.

Jefferson Airplane / Surrealistic Pillow

So there I was, searching for some x-random image on Google, when, whether by chance or synchronicity, if there's a difference, my eye was drawn to a book-jacket graphic that led to a book store that pointed to the website of a woman I knew a long time ago. She wasn't really a woman, technically speaking, back then. She was only 14 and I was about three years older -- in those days a difference that made a difference, to quote Gregory Bateson somewhat out of context. I didn't really know her, either. We'd met a few times. I was struck by her beauty, which was remarkable, and a certain attention that I found myself returning without grasping quite why or what to do about it. I was painfully shy around girls in those days. Hard to believe perhaps, today, babe magnet that I've since become (thanks to my shameless self-promotion and your willing suspension of disbelief). But I was. To say I was clueless would not be going too far. Not so clueless, however, to miss the fact that I was looking at major jailbait. But it wasn't (just) that. It was more in the way she was looking at me while I played my guitar and sang to her (I mean shy compared to now). There was something magnetic, compelling, arresting in that look. Something memorable.

I'd run into her books everywhere for years -- she was publishing at 22, long before any such notion crossed my mind -- and I'd think maybe I'll drop her a note. This meant looking up her publisher, though, finding an envelope, paper and stamps. Another few tokes and I'd forget about it. Another few rounds. Another few years. But here I was, suddenly on her site without any plan to have ended up there. I looked for an email address. Had to dig a bit, but found one, and wrote. That was two weeks ago. In another two weeks she's flying out here. If all goes well, as we both expect it to, perhaps she'll let me reveal her identity. Perhaps. There are many factors to consider in this, not least the number of unsuspecting minds our long-awaited alliance could severely blow. Many many, and not just your own, Valued Readers. Ah well, as they say, you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelette.

Watch this space. And wish your favorite spaceman luck.

7:19 AM | link |

Saturday, January 25, 2003

EGR: The "Lost" Sends

"The clouds in the east are colored with the pink newness of the
day. Now I see that this place remembers me, is tending to me.
Blind for so long my eyes are opened in tears and sunrise."

"Sentimentality is a superstructure covering brutality."
Carl Gustav Jung

On May 7 last year I wrote, in Mourning Becomes Electra:

"As many of you have noticed, I deleted the last four EGR sends from the Topica archive. However bright the writing may have burned (some seemed to think so), they were attacks on someone I love and who loved me. Attacks that were keeping me going at another's expense. And they were. Keeping me going, breathing, able to feel I had any world at all worth speaking of."
In retrospect, I finally realized that love didn't have much to do with it (queue Tina). From her end anyway; nor friendship from mine. If my words cost her something, the expense was as insignificant as I became to her overnight -- for pretzel-logic "reasons" that made about as much sense as one of my favorite EGR issues: DiChirico Fends Off the Spectral Bats of Andalusia.

Readers interested in pursuing the actual reasons and the convoluted psychological dynamics underlying the irrational surface rationalizations may wish to explore any or all of the following: So... taking my usual deeply ethical view of such matters as life and love, grieving and forgiveness, I figured, well, fuck the bitch. So here again, by popular demand, are URLs for, and selected clips from, The "Lost" Sends -- on Yahoo Groups, where they've been all along. Just for the record. And the exorcism now in progress...
  • Date: Sun Jan 20, 2002 12:42 am
    Subject: EGR: Burning Down The World

    I once knew a woman who dreamed of a snake. She told me about this dream, in which the snake was coiled near her, within striking distance, dangerous. But she didn't try to get away from it, and it didn't bite her. She sat where she was and watched it, paying close attention. After a while, it simply slithered away. It was an important dream, I could tell. I could tell that was why she was telling me.

    The problem with stories is that they often speak in tongues, to each who hears them differently. If we share the same vision, we grasp the same meaning. Look in my eyes; speak my language. But the stories themselves are how we say: "here is the way I see." Not what, but how. Like a hologram, another metaphor, the whole not only includes the parts -- the usual case -- the parts also include the whole. We have only these images, these words. When vision is occulted, despair is a black whole. The game is good if your heart is true. But true to what? We're getting to that.

    Or are we?

    In the dream of my friend, I tried to read if I truly was her friend and she mine. Reading, as ever, between the lines, I did not believe it showed that. I saw myself as the snake. I am dangerous to her, I thought. She is hoping that I -- or that part of me -- will go away. Without causing trouble. Without poisoning her. Even though I knew I could be wrong, was very likely wrong about what this dream meant to her, I felt a terrible deep sadness. She saw me and knew what I was. She made no judgment, didn't flee. And still, my leaving restored the balance of the world. Things as they are and should be. A deep and abiding sense of peace.

    Like a fool, I fought with her. I said to hell with that, I will not go gently. It is not peace you want. You are afraid. And I am not here to ease your fear or help you ignore it. I come out of the darkness that is also within you. You know me better than you think.

    I knew I was wrong about her vision. I thought I knew. I said, I think I am wrong about this, but I feel it anyway. This darkness is at the heart of how I see the world, so here, I want to show you: my anger, my refusal. And she said I cannot trust you with my dreams. It was our first real fight, but not our last -- yet another word that has two senses. Last can mean latest or final. Wherever the corrosion of trust began, we are no longer fighting. [more...]

  • Date: Wed Apr 24, 2002 2:23 pm
    Subject: EGR: Day Tripper

    Dynamics. Some of these people did get raped. For real. Others metaphorically, but just as real. Got their worlds torn down, or never got to build one. Oppression, yeah, a real thing. My heart goes out. Genuinely. No irony. But still others looked at all that and began to pick up on the subtle bennies. A certain sympathy, a certain indulgence. And spinning those promising semiotics through the cultural mix of the times, came up with a whole new way of Healing. Here's how it works.

    You are in a desert. Nothing makes any sense. Every time you have trusted anyone, you've gotten fucked over. Bad. If you want to keep living, breathing, you're going to have to reach out to someone. Cautiously. Carefully. You look for someone who understands. Someone of the same sex. Has to be. Because the original damage came from that quarter most likely. And finally, after waiting so long, look! Here are sisters who care. They speak to you of going down into it, the hurt, the pain, the terrible Jehovah-like rejection. Too often to count: Dad. They help you understand this. Maybe. You want it to be true. You want the pain to end. You want to believe so bad, you would give anything.

    Yeah. Sounds familiar. Sounds real as it gets. I'm not hacking on any of it. Except there's that Maybe. It's a big maybe from many perspectives. Maybe the helpers will know what the fuck they're doing. Maybe they won't be vampires, feeding on your pain. It ain't all Buffy Goes to Suburbia out there. And maybe you won't have just found the custom-made algorithm to become a vampire yourself. One that can walk in the light. That can wrap itself in Light, in the Mystery of Mysteries, and never be exposed. Because exposure equals death. Relegation back to the desert, the empty place, the place of no warmth, no blood, no heart.

    The modern term is narcissism. As you might suspect, I know something about this. I speak from experience. And we're talking Special People here. Like me, and yet not like me. From next to nothing, we construct a world, a world in which we are esteemed. Supremely. Without question. Unconditionally. That's what we want. That's what all of us want when we're two years old. Some of us don't get it. Some of us learned to compromise. Ambiguity, slop in the system, neglect, disorder. Life. Genuine acceptance. But there's another kind of "acceptance" which is supplied by others. Proffered willingly, love. Dangled as bait, desire. Doesn't matter. Makes no difference. All is taken as food. As fuel for an esteem of self that becomes an inverted religion. Disguised as spirit, a hunger so dark it remains forever hidden. So sealed, it admits nothing but itself.

    The words and catch phrases are significant, charged. They become sacred. "Ground" becomes an obsession because there is no ground. No earth. No human birth. Only a construct, an unacceptably accidental accretion of unconscious flotsam. Nobody home. And the fear of that. The dread. I speak from experience. We all know about this. It's not so funny when you get up close. Is it? We all of us know, but most of us do different things with it. Make different choices. I hope. I hope I make different choices. Not to sacrifice another life to my own willing blindness. Not to mistake "needs" sanctified by sleight of hand for love. Not to trade an open heart for a vacuous sense of ease and beauty. Otherwise, boundaries become critical to keep vision at bay. All the time masquerading as vision. A shallow vision, a tightly bounded surface. A thrilling reflection in a breathless pool. Calm. Serene. Deadly.

    Her voice was soft and cool
    Her eyes were clear and bright
    but she's not there...

    Too strange? Too twisted? Too much to swallow? Count yourself lucky if you have no idea what I'm talking about.

    Look to the audience. If there isn't one, beware. If it's you, unamaze yourself. Disenthrall. Whatever it takes. Or else you're going down, for good, and the waves will close silently over you, a tribute to her bountiful care and kindness. Her unparalleled, unquestionable beauty. [more...]

  • Date: Sun Apr 28, 2002 11:52 pm
    Subject: EGR: Rubber Soul

    And so down and around again back toward my car. A girl is smoking outside the Indian restaurant. "Cigarette break?" I ask, flashing my own smoke. A kind of brotherhood/sisterhood thing I'm thinking. Weak, but what the hell. She smiles. Yeah. I'm going to walk past but I stop and say did you eat here tonight? Was the food good? Do you always hang out smoking between courses? Do you feel like shooting the shit? Words to that effect.

    And she does. Feel like talking. So I ask this and that. Where from, where to? Doing what why when? She's been married to this older guy, she says, for 12 years. Had a driver's license for nine, but he always drove. Very controlling. They were in Tucson but now she's at the Sunshine Community in Loveland, cooking. Oh yeah? I did that too, I say. For nine months at a Buddhist dude ranch up outside Fort Collins. This is Colorado talk. Mountains and edges of mountains.

    It was a recuperation sort of thing, I say, for me. I forget to mention that when I got shipped there, I'd just spent five days in the slammer.

    Oh yes, Sunshine is a spiritual community too, she says. I'm sort of finding myself. He had to leave. It was a pretty bad scene, she says. Ah yes, I know how hard that can be, I say. Yes, she says, but I was the one who wanted to end it. End it finally. We broke up three times. He called me last night. I haven't heard from him in seven months. It was a good talk. But I'm someone else now. I'm not the same as I was when I was with him. When I started driving, it was if I'd been driving all along.

    Out of the blue, with no provocation, people will tell you anything.

    So I say, and what do you do up there other than cook? I'm an artist, she says. Oh really? I say. And aren't we all? And that explains everything. But I don't really say those things. Instead I say, what kind of art? And she says well symbolism mostly. I swear to god. So I ask, what medium are we talking here. And she says acrylics. Primary colors, and secondary, and sometimes I throw in some earth tones. The garden is completely organic.

    By the way, just so there's no mistake, this isn't like me imagining I'm getting off on smack. This was a real person I met tonight walking past The Tandoori Grill. She isn't a character I'm making up. Not some allegorical bit player. I'm mostly not into symbolism myself.

    So you paint, I say, piecing it together. Oh yes, she says, and it comes from my Source. Somewhere way back in. Sometimes animals. Usually a male and female theme. I bet that feels good, I say. Oh yes, she says, it feels wonderful! Is she coming on to me with these furry male/female Source beings? I bet I know what they're doing back in there. But by this time I know I'm not coming back on to her, even if she is. Not that it hadn't crossed my mind.

    I'm a little sorry to realize it, but I'm now doing research for the book. The book I just flashed is the book, the book I've been looking for for a year and it just came together today. I also realize I'm fucking with her head. Not in a mean way. It's just that this conversation has gone so far south I'd have to leave my flyway. And after the events of the last few days, few weeks, months, decades, I'm thinking: better hold, better wait. Better take a pass. Until hell freezes over.

    Sounds archetypal, I say. Oh yes, she says, I am totally into Jungian Philosophy. I'm starting to get cold. Her friends come out of the restaurant. Oh she says, I have to go. I shake hands with her. Why, I'm wondering now. Whatever for? Perhaps to signal that we've had a like totally mature, adult interchange with no ulterior motives. She's thinking: I'm going to make it. I'm thinking: she's going to make it. I'm also thinking: I'm not usually this covertly cynical. I ask myself if I've let it show. I tell myself no, I haven't. Good. Goodnight, she says. Good luck, I say back.

    How totally weird. Friday night, full moon in Scorpio... I'm way into Jungian Philosophy myself. Solve et coagula, baby. Make my day. [more...]

  • Date: Wed May 1, 2002 9:19 am
    Subject: EGR: Here Come the Miracles

    ...let's be realistic. And OK, I admit that when I get realistic, it's a little different from when most people get realistic. But that's what makes it interesting, right? Sure makes it interesting for me. To demonstrate, here's a completely realistic down-to-earth conversation I remember having when I was about 18...
    Grace Slick: Don't you want somebody to love?
    Me: Yes.
    Grace Slick: Don't you need somebody to love?
    Me: Yes.
    Sure everybody likes to dump on the '60s, but as the Bard once said, love is not love that alters when it alteration finds, motherfucker. However, it might need to get an image upgrade. Dante had to go through hell to find Beatrice. Me, I'm a modern sort of guy. I don't go in for this heaven and hell shit. I go to Starbucks.

    You see what I'm getting at here? You do, don't you. See, I knew you'd pick right up on it right away. You're amazing really. Practically reading my mind. (Think about that one for a second.)

    Of course, maybe I should resist porting these fantasies altogether. Lest I cause harm. You'll hear certain people express such concerns these days. Especially if you happen to live in Boulder, which is crawling with Buddhists. Or if you live anywhere on planet Earth, such is the incredible power of the Dalai Lama's literary agent. Jesus Christ, how many books has that fucker published now? About 683, I think.

    But as I was saying, might I not better renounce my defiled grasping so as not to cause harm to others? This sounds good in principle, but it's so unilateral. How about if they stop first? Could we maybe work something out? Get a like pre-nup or something on general all-around pain causing?

    Here's what I think. When you hear people talk about "not causing harm" you are listening to the words of either saints or liars. Guess which is more likely.

    So this notion of forgoing human (read sexual) relationships until I have achieved Perfect Great Enlightenment is just not gonna fly, Orville. I mean, if I'd gone down that road at 18, I'd still be sitting on my ass in some louse-ridden ashram going OM all fucking day and still wondering what the hell was up. And I'd have no stories to tell you, so what good would I be? And then what of the happiness of all sentient beings?

    Instead, I've put myself in harm's way, you could say. I loved and got laid just as much as I could. For, as I also heard, around the same time, from the fulsome lips of St. Jagger himself: an empty heart is like an empty life.

    Sex, lies and TCP/IP. You could almost dance to it.

    What's amazing me today is that I'm angry. And it feels good. Not like one of Liz Keebler-Wroth's denial-ridden Polly-Wanna-Cracker Stages of Grief. No, like being good and fucking pissed. Angry to have been tossed aside like a spoiled calligraphy. The last time I saw her, she showed me this piece she'd just finished. It was exquisitely done, as usual. But see here, she said, I misspelled a word. Can't you fix it, I asked. No, she said, probably not. I could tell she was upset. It was a fatal flaw in an otherwise perfect work of art.

    The word she'd misspelled was "judgment." No comment.

    No, comment. Did you know that "to spell" originally came from the same place in our collective history as "to cast a spell"? Do you believe in magic? No? How about self-fulfilling prophecies? Like trying to tell a stranger about rock and roll: that spoon, that spoon, that spoonful...

    Amazed at myself because always before I was so sorry I'd ruined everything. So devastated, guilty, ashamed. But I ain't gonna take the hit this time. I never was your artwork anyway. Cry me a river, I'm not ruined. Not an error of judgment. Not going down for this one.

    I tell myself these things, I feel better. Not good, not glad. Just better. As in: can't get no worse. Gods willing. [more...]
To the friends and lovers who've reached out to me and helped me through this last year, my undying gratitude. You know who you are.

as ever,


3:35 AM | link |

Friday, January 24, 2003
Repurposed Spam, Item #824

Halley wanted me to link this to something on her blog,
but I forget what. Probably one of the many Alpha Male
entries there. But I like the following much better.
The girl has defininitely lost her mind.
Two cannibals are eating a clown. One says to the other:
"Does this taste funny to you?"

2:06 PM | link |

Tuesday, January 14, 2003
My "Refrigerator"


Not sure if this qualifies for your refrigerator page, but I have gotten quite a lot of utility out of the unit. As you can see on the left, it is really a biosynthesis device, and quite effective, if a little slow. I usually get one woman per week under normal operating paramaters, and find that generally sufficient. Typical results -- Monica, in this case -- shown emerging below.

1:53 AM | link |

Sunday, January 12, 2003

he most dreaded of all Cherokee witches is the Raven Mocker, who robs the dying of their life. A Raven Mocker can be of either sex, and there is no real way to know one. They usually look old and withered, because they have added so many lives to their own.

uring the night when someone is sick or dying, the Raven Mocker goes there to take the life. She flies through the air with her arms outstretched like wings. There will be a wild wind noise around her, and sparks trailing from behind. Every once in awhile she will dive, and make a sound similar to a raven's cry. All those who hear it are afraid, because they know that someone's life will soon end. When the Raven Mocker makes it to the dying person's house, she often finds others of her kind there. Unless there is an Indian Doctor watching out who knows how to drive them off, they will all go inside (they are invisible) and frighten and torment the sick person until they kill him. Sometimes, those who are attending the sick think the person is just fighting for their breath.

fter the witches take the life, they take out his heart and eat it, and by doing this, they add to their own lives as many days or years as they have taken from his. Nobody who is attending the sick can see them, and there is no scar where they have removed the heart. Upon further examination, they will find that there is no heart left in the body.

nly a medicine person with the right kind of medicine can recognize a Raven Mocker, and if that medicine person stays in the room with the sick person, the witches will be afraid to come in. When one of them has been recognized in her right shape, she must die within seven days. Often, when the friends of a traditional Cherokee know that there is no more hope, they will try to have one of these medicine people stay in the house and guard the body until it is buried. Witches will not steal the hearts after burial.

ther witches are usually jealous of Raven Mockers and are afraid to enter the same house with one. When a Raven Mocker finally dies, the other witches sometimes take revenge by digging up the body and abusing it.

The above is taken from Sky's Cherokee Website. He says "We will not be presenting any 'New Age' information on this website." Good. In the interests of affirmative action, I have changed the gender references. .

12:14 AM | link |

Saturday, January 11, 2003

Halley is One!

(one what??? no, no, no. her blog is one year old.)

10:12 PM | link |

11:19 AM | link |

Excuse Me Officer, I'd Like To Report Myself
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consetetur sadipscing elitr, sed diam nonumy eirmod tempor invidunt ut labore et dolore magna aliquyam erat, sed diam voluptua. At vero eos et accusam et justo duo dolores et ea rebum. Stet clita kasd gubergren, no sea takimata sanctus est lorem ipsum dolor sit amet lexus et veritas.
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12:53 AM | link |

Friday, January 10, 2003
Got My Mojo Workin'

My computer (Clarence T. Mojo) has been down for two freakin weeks, but I finally whipped the motherfucker into shape. Thanks to everyone who suggested I should buy a Mac. Next time, fer shure. So now I can redownload and reinstall 4,000 apps, which is the best medicine I know to ward of productive, paying work. Wish me luck! Oi vey is mir.

9:31 AM | link |

Wednesday, January 01, 2003
Doc & Locke - Separated At Birth?

"Wear the helmet as much as you can, especially during times
that you feel you are usually abducted. Some persons report
complete success just wearing the helmet at night, others report
that the aliens became aware when they were not wearing the
helmet and took them when they weren't wearing it."

Thanks to Jim Sterne for the tipoff on this fine beat-the-aliens page.
And no, no relation. Far as I know...

4:57 AM | link |

Still Crazy After All This Year

"The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to
hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time
and still retain the ability to function."

F. Scott Fitzgerald
(who went barking mad)

At the end of one interminable motherfucker of a year, the Exalted Ones of Shaula Lambda Scorpii pay homage to RageBoy for completing yet another cycle of his dangerous but crucial Earth mission. By this time acclimated to the planet's pervasive aura of poisonous neurosis, RB accepts these worshipful ministrations with characteristic equanimity.

Monday, December 31, 2001

Fall In

Write without reason.
Go too far. Fall in, fall in.
Say I am here, my palms are open
even though you are lost
and don't know who you are.

My hands are empty.
I have forgotten my name
and the sound of it on his tongue.
All I have left is the scent
of something I once touched.
Memory of the sound of color
streaming from the stars

So now I am praying and writing
to remember back my name.
Praying that this gloom laden night
becomes music to the stars
and your great remembering
happens to me.

Wishing you a surprising, renewing and joyful New Year.

Warm regards,


Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Full Circle

Skill without feeling.
Blather away. Write on, write on.
Say I am fine, my palms are swaying
even though you are stranded
on some desert island of the mind.

My heart is empty.
I have forgotten his PIN
and the number on his Visa card.
All I have left is the scent
of my scintillating self-importance.
Memory the color of blood
streaming from the wound I carved
into his back.

So now I am lying and posing
to cloak my betrayal.
Imagining the damage I will do
with this overwrought bullshit
and the precious Work of Art
I'll make of you.

Wishing you the kind of nifty surprises you handed me Last Year.

Cold comfort,


4:39 AM | link |

get your badge here.

"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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