Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Thursday, October 16, 2003
Spam Is Pretty

10:59 PM | link |

Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Save RageBoy Limited Edition Calendar
Gary Turner, that fine & noble Scot, has taken it upon himself to try to help us out over here. Locke is too proud to beg, but I ain't. I really am in dire straits, kids, and no coffee and cigarettes and meds is gonna make me meaner'n hell. And you know what that could mean! The library here has free terminals, and if I'm crashing from all those bad habits at once you just KNOW I'm going to release the DOOMSDAY WORM I've been working on all these years down in the Yucatan labs. So please, if only for your own sake, and the sake of your unborn children, give generously! Plus, who wouldn't want a picture of fake vomit on their kitchen wall? Ah, if only I hadn't been such an "acquired taste" all these years. But it's too late to change now. Or... is it??? Here, let me try...

Namaste, motherfuckers!

[well, I'll keep working on it. maybe get some hot tips from Tupak Chopra.]

5:08 PM | link |

That's All Folks
The money's gone. My phone's been shut off and soon this pipe will go down. So it's looking pretty grim over here at EGR HQ. No, this isn't a joke, for once. If any of you should want to send postcards, I'll be here until they evict my ass...

RB c/o Acme Acres
760 West Moorhead Circle
Apartment F
Boulder CO 80305

I'd like to take this possibly one last opportunity
to thank all those wonderful people in my life who
made me what I am today.


3:11 PM | link |

The Fish is on sabbatical...

...said his jaws needed a rest, and that, after all, his brain is only javascript. He asked us to thank you for understanding.

1:47 AM | link |

Thin Ice
Sometimes after a long depression, a time so long you can't remember what you felt like before it began, or when it began, or even why, sometimes after a long time of feeling like you've been walking on thin ice all your life, simple sadness brings a special kind of solace. A relief to let down and feel the world still there, the moon chewed away by time, the night, the city wrapped in its million dreams of which you need dream only one. You. What can I say? Came out on the ice with me. Knowing the danger. Knowing you might never make it back. We none of us make it back, but most pretend we can. Black ice. Let me hand it to Gibson here, speaking of hopeless romantics. Or was I? Lost in the circuits, the exchanges, potlatch of memory, so many of us who have passed this way. The earth shaped to our wandering feet, trekking further, deeper, well past the point, so long ago, of no return. The sky itself eroded by our vision, wondering, in awe, carving constellations into the night, projecting patterns where no patterns are. Once in a great while, once in a blue moon rising, we stop, amazed, and see in each other's eyes this is no mystery, no secret. I know you and you know who knows. Something happened on the ice. Touched us. Changed us. Something like a sadness that is hard to tell apart from joy.

I sit here in this little room, where I have learned to appreciate being alone. Savoring it sometimes, when the shaking stopped long enough. When the ice held, let's say. Which is not always. Not every day. And each time I walk in here, where this deck sits, this old machine on its last legs, barely able to hold these too many buffers open, so crashing, and I think perhaps this is an analog for grief, our metaphors so thin, so etched in substrates we have never seen or touched nor would have wanted to remember if we had. Each time I walk into this room I see a black notebook, the pages black paper, ruled, on which long ago I wrote with a pink gel pen, how luminous, how wondrous in itself...

I went to the South on the Day of the Dead. The sun was a black rose in a turquoise sky. My eyes hollow sockets, my bones rattling as I walked. All this felt familiar. The village children screamed in fright and ran away. They are so beautiful, I thought, but I understood their fear. The women though, some of them, would come out to greet me, weave flowers through my rib cage, around my hips, which they would kiss with great longing, remembering love. And the men, a few of the old ones, would take off their hats and look down. My heart went out to them. Why only now do we see, I wondered, blessing as best I could our blindness. I was looking for you there, a sudden memory from another time. The day faded into night, but I could see everything, for miles. Coyotes and scorpions came to me out of the desert. Sat around me in a circle. I sat down too, there was nowhere to go. I wept. Waiting for you as I have always waited, knowing you will never come.

1:11 AM | link |

Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Roy F. Baumeister

I just ordered several books by this guy, about whom I knew nothing except for the Amazon writeups. Just now checking his CV, I encountered this...
"After graduating from Princeton, Roy F. Baumeister never parachuted out of an airplane or swam the English channel. He never participated in terrorist bombing campaigns or international money laundering. He never had sex (not even oral sex) with White House interns. Too bad. He was never involved in any high-tech shootouts with postal workers. He was not taken hostage during 1988. He did not found an esoteric religious cult in which group members participated in bizarre rituals with mass nude chanting (of Roy's spiritual name) and poisonous snakes. He did not pillage Skokie. He did not write any rhymed verse in Portuguese. He is not a lesbian. He does not remember being abducted into flying saucers for medical experiments. He has never impersonated a census worker. He was not seriously injured during a volcano eruption. He has never worn one of those yellow ties with little black dots. DNA tests did not conclusively prove that Baumeister fathered a two-headed baby named Phil. He has never knowingly eaten blowfish. He never appeared on the Jerry Springer show or refused an invitation to join the Spice Girls. He did not serve as head of the chamber of commerce of Butte, Montana. He has never publicly claimed to be an expert on horticulture or even to know what that means. He is not in communication with space aliens by means of tiny radio transmitters implanted in his molars. He does not have a "thing" about shrubs. He is not responsible for global warming, nor has he publicly come out in support of it. He has never said the word "Jeepers." He does not know any of the really big prime numbers. He has never spanked a supermodel. He has never had a corndog."
Aside from the books (see Evil post from several days ago), he seems to have written some interesting stuff on my favorite topic: self esteem. Which is, more often than not, a code-word for a culturally dressed up -- if with still no place to go -- narcissism.
Baumeister, R.F., Heatherton, T.F., & Tice, D.M. (1993). When ego threats lead to self-regulation failure: Negative consequences of high self-esteem. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 64, 141-156.

Baumeister, R.F., Smart, L., & Boden, J.M. (1996).
Relation of threatened egotism to violence and aggression: The dark side of high self-esteem. Psychological Review, 103, 5-33.

5:13 PM | link |

My New Daddy-in-Law
Da's raht, I be convertin' ta black. Mah beloved Nyquil...

...say she won' marry me 'lessn I do. Mah mean ol' mothafuckin' pappy-in-law-ta-be, he say...

"There's a little 'salt-an-pepper' action going on at the RageBoy camp and I'm not talking about the beard on "that [expletive deleted], Dave Winer". Some thirty od years ago I went to school with a girl named Vicks44 and a few months back I got a call from a young woman name Nyquil. You figure it out. Her hair is in Locs like mine as well. What was I supposed to do. I figured Uncle Rage would make a nice son-in-law for me ya know, help me out with the family business but instead, Nyquil is putting RageBoy to work; Housework!"

Mah mean ol' mothafuckin' pappy-in-law-ta-be (doan he look mean?) say to clik on hiz pitcher...

1:28 AM | link |

Sunday, October 12, 2003
This just in: Locke & RB Declared Not Insane!

It seems it was the coffee after all.

6:15 AM | link |

Montezuma Welcomes the Conquistadors
Land Hall So there I was putting on my most faux-professorial face in the conference room of Land Hall, HQ it would seem for the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. What I was really thinking at that moment was the Dylan line from Tombstone Blues that goes: "now I wish I could write you a melody so plain / that could hold you dear lady from going insane / that could ease you and cool you and cease the pain / of your useless and pointless knowledge..."

I was concurrently delivering a short, succinct lecture about how the indigenous peoples of Mexico welcomed the Spanish Conquistadors, and saying this was a pretty fair metaphor, I thought, for how the entire thrust of BloggerCon -- which was celebrating its own success in the Great Hall from which Frank Paynter and I had briefly escaped -- was to welcome with open arms those same old rigid credential-oriented semantic straightjackets from which blogging had, for a few historical moments, liberated us. So come on Legitimate Press, come on Academe, come on Party Politics! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

Remember what FM radio was like in the 60s? No, of course you don't. Therefore you will be condemned to an unbreakable addiction to the endless blatherskite of Top-40 "A-List" bloggers who get invited to conferences to underscore their own self-importance. The Medium is Dead. Long live The Medium! I used to be disgusted / and now I try to be amused... Gimmeabreak, OK? Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

"Edwin H. Land: A Harvard dropout, Land went on to
invent polarizing filters and start the Polaroid company.
In 1947, he introduced the world to instant film."

6:01 AM | link |

Shelley's Been Paynted

This must not be the same Shelley Powers I know. The one I call Mistress Sheena. The one with the exciting S&M Dungeon and the lovely lacerating whips and chains. And those beautiful thigh-high patent-leather boots. O Mistress, please! May I kiss your spike heels?

No, this seems another person altogether. Sensitive, perceptive, taking in the whole world, holding it for a heartbeat, tasting, savoring, then breathing it back to us in thoughtful prose and elegant photography. I ask myself incredulously: could Mistress Sheena really have written something like this?

"Some say that sex is a way of reaffirming that we are alive. The act of touching and being touched, the intimacy, and the release, are all ways for us to celebrate life and, if we're lucky enough, love with another person. But tonight as I drove down the road and listened to the music and felt the wind and the warmth of the night, I felt alive. Earlier when I walked in the Park and took the photographs, I felt alive. Tonight, when I wrote this story, I felt alive."
She's a lot more complex than I thought, I guess. But then, she's never allowed me to speak in the Dungeon. Being bound hand and foot and always having to keep your eyes cast down makes it hard to really get to know a person.

4:45 AM | link |

EMPATHY outside...

Ordered a couple other books by the same guy today: Meanings of Life, and Breaking Hearts: The Two Sides of Unrequited Love

4:36 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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