Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Wednesday, August 27, 2003
joy /sorrow / memory / love

country moon turns cloud to sailing sleep you dream me
moon cloud sails
wind turning dream
another country
dream turn moon
turn wind turn cloud
to country sleep

2:58 PM | link |

Online Internet Pharmacy *

nowhere is / there warmth to be found /
among those / afraid of losing their ground
* Swimsuit Issue
click me! click me! click me! click me! click me!

12:38 AM | link |

Tuesday, August 26, 2003
I Don't Think So...

Hey, hey Paula...
I've waited so long for school to be through!!!

out for summer
out till fall
we might not go back at all


5:11 PM | link |

Monday, August 25, 2003
omelet dat side - jes doan doit agin

11:01 PM | link |

In Lieu of Work, Part DCLXVI

2:17 PM | link |

The New Bricolage: Repurposing Spam
It's been occurring to me that perhaps I should try to explain some of my more recent posts. Several of you have inquired whether I really have a girlfriend who towers above the Denver skyline. I wish. But no, this is not (as others of you more astutely guessed) physically possible. Nor is that an image of any actual woman of my personal acquaintance. She is strictly a creature of spam. As my email address, clocke@panix.com, is fully ten years old this month, you can only imagine the amount of unsolicited commercial email I receive each day. For years now, I, not unlike yourselves, have been outraged by this egregious violation of my electronic boundaries and personal digital space. For years now I've wondered, as you've no doubt asked yourself, what could be done to stop it.

Then, one day this Spring, as I was marvelling at the wonder and beauty of Nature -- how she neither forces or allows herself to be forced, how she accommodates herself to the mindless predations of Man -- it struck me that I was looking at the problem from a typically High Modernist perspective. Was there another, a more fully PostModern way to view the situation? Was there a Zen-like mindlessness I could achieve with respect to mindless spam? Considering these new questions was at first disturbing. My equanimity hung in the balance. My mind was fogged with misery and confusion. All was koyaanisqatsi.

And so it was that, in a blinding flash of insight, I realized I could deflect, divert and coopt the nefarious purposes behind the very phenomenon I had come so much to despise. I could learn to love spam, especially that naive Korean spam, and begin to embrace and study it, searching for images that could be bent to my own ends (as soon as I discover what these are).

12:03 PM | link |

Memo to Turner
Gary, you freak! You gotta quit dressing me up in these weird outfits. What's my new Yahoo Personals girlfriend gonna think? We'll she's not really my girlfriend just yet, but you know what an optimist I am. True, she's a bit taller than me (especially in heels), but she does love to read. And the way I look at it, that's the main thing. But what is she going to think if she keeps finding these twisted grafiks of me that you insist on shooting up all over the damn web? Look at me in that picture! I look like a psycho killer, alright. I look like a goddam Hell's Angel is what I look like! One of the ones from Altamont, probably, who stomped that guy that just kept talking, talking, TALKING, until I couldn't help myself, I swear. And I only gave him a little push is all. So yeah, that's what she's going to be thinking. Because no way can I like disguise myself or anything. Say, "RageBoy? No, never heard of him. Why do you ask?" Well, OK, actually, I did mail her the pointer to your blog so she could go see for herself. But I told her all about you first, the voices, the recurrent fantasies that you're really someone else, the fits of mania that require you to launch whole new websites due to overwhelming compulsions that come over you merely by looking into your own refrigerator, the campaigns, the obsessions, the self-deconstructing narratives, misdirections and irrational delusions, yes, I told her all of it. And yes, I am well aware, believe me, that some would argue it is simply wrong, morally and ethically repulsive, to air the mental health problems of others in a public medium such as this. I have heard these arguments, yes, and I have attended to them. I have looked at them and turned them over in my mind. I have given them due consideration. And after much thoughtful reverie of this kind, and of other kinds I am not at liberty to go into here, as they entail my own state of cognitive cohesion, I have concluded that, no, it is not wrong or odious or maladaptive or immature or even just plain stinking rotten of me to alert the world to the dangerous and tortured mental state of people like yourself, who think it fun, nay, a great guffaw, to impugn my hard-won dignity, my impeccable record of adamantine integrity in the face of withering public scorn, besmirchment and humiliation, just so you can have your little chuckle at my expense. Therefore, I am booking a flight this very evening to your rat-infested so-called country, where I will hunt you down and dispatch you as I would a yammering beagle. There was going to be more... I forget now. But just you wait, Gary Turner. Just you wait!

all part of the service
Didn't I see you down in San Antone
on a hot and dusty night?
We were eating eggs in Sammy's
when the black man there drew his knife.
Aw, you drowned that Jew in Rampton
as he washed his sleeveless shirt,
You know that Spanish-speaking gentleman,
the one we all called "Kurt."

Come now, gentlemen,
I know there's some mistake.
How forgetful I'm becoming,
now you fixed your business straight.

I remember you in Hemlock Road
in nineteen fifty-six.
You're a faggy little leather boy
with a smaller piece of stick.
You're a lashing, smashing hunk of man,
your sweat shines sweet and strong.
Your organ's working perfectly,
but there's a part that's not screwed on...

Come now, gentlemen,
your love is all I crave.
You'll still be in the circus
when I'm laughing...
laughing in my grave.

.....Jagger/Richards, Memo From Turner, 1968

1:31 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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