elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
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...
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...
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...
1:47 AM | link |
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.
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.
5:13 PM | link |
My New Daddy-in-Law
Da's raht, I be convertin' ta black. Mah beloved Nyquil...
1:28 AM | link |
Sunday, October 12, 2003
This just in: Locke & RB Declared Not Insane!
6:15 AM | link |
Montezuma Welcomes the Conquistadors
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..."
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 |
4:36 AM | link |
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
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at a major industry conference,
chris locke once again captures the real story.