Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Friday, October 24, 2003
forces that do not originate
within the system itself

2:51 PM | link |

Science Fiction / Double Feature

Yes folks, there he is, The Father of the Self-Esteem Movement as pictured on the back cover of The Psychology of Romantic Love. Now tell me he doesn't look a lot like Exeter in This Island Earth. in fact, I'm convinced it's the same guy! [thanks to Don Williams for the scan -- of NB, that is.]
from With Charity Toward None: A Fond Look at Misanthropy

page 124: "At the age of sixty-three she [Ayn Rand] expected thirty-seven-year-old Nathaniel Branden to find her sexually desirable because she was his 'highest value.'"

page 126: "Rand cloaked her misanthropy in various lesser guises: aloofness, and intimidating formality, the half-loaf of misogyny, and contempt, 'a term she used again and again to describe her feelings for most of the people around her,' writes Barbara Branden [Nathaniel Branden's ex]. 'It is a term that -- accompanied by a dismissive wave of her hand and a grimace of distaste -- dotted her conversations.' She [Rand] advised her followers, 'Don't withhold your contempt from men's vice,' a practice she herself followed so often that she was constantly breaking off relations with friends of many years' standing. Said one, 'She seemed almost to invite a break, as if it would confirm her attitude toward the world.'"

Narcissistic Personality Disorder Diagnostic Criteria
from DSM-IV-TR, American Psychiatric Association, 2000
[slightly modified]

Individuals with Narcissistic Personality Disorder often have a grandiose view of themselves, a need for admiration, and a lack of empathy that begins by early adulthood and is present in various situations. These individuals are very demanding in their relationships. This pattern is indicated by five (or more) of the following:

  1. Has an inflated sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without corresponding achievements).
  2. Is overly concerned with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love.
  3. Believes she is "special" and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions).
  4. Requires excessive admiration. Is often an "artist" or calligrapher.
  5. Has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of very positive treatment or automatic compliance with her expectations.
  6. Takes advantage of others to achieve her own ends.
  7. Lacks empathy: is unwilling to identify with the feelings and needs of others.
  8. Is often jealous of others or believes that others are jealous of her.
  9. Shows arrogant or domineering behaviors or attitudes.
from Individuation and Narcissism:
The Psychology of the Self in Jung and Kohut

"At the end of the eighteenth century the development of the Narcissus theme was lent new impetus by Herder and the Romantics. The mirror symbol became very important and was frequently used. One of the prominent themes of the period was that of genius, the glorification of the great individual's creative power. The soul of the artist was seen as a mirror of the world, thus justifying artistic subjectivism despite the attendant danger of self-admiration. The artist-as-Narcissus motif cropped up first in the works of W.A. Schlegel (1798), who said: 'Artists are always Narcissi!' The more that attention was focused on Narcissus and his reflection, the more the story as a whole receded into the background. This narrowed view is often blamed on the psychoanalytic concept of narcissism, but in fact it goes back to the Romantic tradition, which also revived the neo-Platonic interpretation. In the work of F. Creuzer (1810-12) the searching soul finds mere illusion instead of existence, and Eros, insulted by overweening pride and egoism, demands expiation. Much is made, too, of the narcissus flower, seen as a symbol of the artist who has lost his real self and can find it again only in the dream world of poetry.

A very well-known twist on the theme of a man in love with his own mirror image was created by Oscar Wilde in his book The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890). Narcissus/Gray gives up his soul so that his portrait will grow older instead of his physical body. The portrait mercilessly records the traces of his excessive, unscrupulous life style, until he can no longer bear the sight of his 'mirror, mirror on the wall,' slashes it with a knife and thus destroys himself. Quite another view of the matter was developed by André Gide (in La Traité du Narcisse, 1891), Rilke (Narziss, 1913), and the late Valéry (Fragments du Narcisse, 1926). All three writers saw in Narcissus the symbol of the ascetic, meditative spirit, for whom unification with another in love would mean diminution and waste. Rilke has Narcissus draw back into himself the beauty he had radiated outward. This rather ascetic concept of Narcissus clearly influenced the naming of the character Narcissus in Hermann Hesse's novel Narcissus and Goldmund (1930). The contrasting character is Goldmund, whose life flows outward into the world of the senses, especially of women."

7:29 AM | link |

Hire the Handicapped!
Will consult for food. For $100 per hour I'll talk to you on the telephone about serious business stuff. For $40, I'll provide 50 minutes (that's less than a buck a minute!) of my patent-pending form of crypto-surrealist psychotherapy. For $20, I'll insult and berate you for 10 full minutes (you may not interrupt or defend yourself; any backsass I hang up; no refunds). For $5, I'll chat about this and that if you have anything interesting to say. People tend to be most scared of that last one, but you'd be amazed at the range of things I find interesting. Mail RageBoy for personalized payment arrangements. Please indicate your preference: Business, Therapy, Abuse, or Idle Chit-Chat. I been doin this shit for a long fucking time (as you can see below), so your satisfaction is virtually guaranteed. If you are not entirely happy with the results, you can come over here and try to get your money back before I spend it. Good luck.

"When anything can be put on the market with a couple of clicks of a mouse, there will be even more stupid movies, dull books, sloppy data, and bad analyses -- 'infoglut,' in the aptly ugly term of Christopher Locke, editor of Internet Business Report...."

Thomas A. Stewart
[now editor-in-chief of Harvard Business Review]
"Boom Time on the New Frontier"
Fortune, September 27 1993

"'Companies in the electronic publishing market are beginning to see they want the largest possible market,' said Christopher Locke, general manager of Mecklermedia, a Westport, Conn., publishing and exhibition company. 'They don't want to be trapped in markets that are Balkanized or private.'"

John Markoff
"Britannica's 44 Million Words Are Going On Line"
The New York Times, February 8 1994

"The [Cluetrain] Manifesto is the pretentious, strident and absolutely brilliant creation of four marketing gurus who have renounced marketing-as-usual.... Mr. Locke, the hub in this network, has a history of getting in early..."

Thomas Petzinger, Jr.
"Web Rebels Try to Make Managers Talk Like Humans"
The Wall Street Journal, April 9 1999

"Mr Locke started in 1993 the Internet Business Report, the first publication to cover what would eventually become the dot.com industry, then sold the idea of what would later be called a 'portal' to one of the web�s first entrepreneurs, Alan Meckler."

Chris Anderson
[now editor-in-chief of WIRED]
"Lost in Cyberspace"
The Economist, December 18 1999

Christopher Locke is an Internet industry expert and a coauthor of The Cluetrain Manifesto: The End of Business as Usual (Perseus Books, 2000). He is currently at work on Gonzo Marketing: Winning Through Worst Practices (Perseus Books, 2001).

author bio
Harvard Business Review, December 2000

3:55 AM | link |

Thursday, October 23, 2003
Hello World - Fishrush is BACK!

You gotta see this. Trust me.

[via Jeneane]

10:52 PM | link |

Amazon adds full-text search

The book cover to the right should get an award of some kind. The author is the same guy I mentioned here some time back (maybe last year, maybe last week, who can tell about these things) who also wrote The Anatomy of Disgust -- perhaps you will recall the cover where a dog is taking a shit right next to the table at a formal dinner party. However, neither disgust nor faking it are directly related to the substance of this post.

Rather, I wanted to alert you to new search feature that Amazon introduced just today. (No, the company isn't paying me for this, though it should be, dammit!) Now you can search the FULL TEXT of more than 120,000 books -- "all 33 million pages of them" says Bezos in a letter on the site's front page at the moment. And he's right to be excited about this news. I sure am. The search pulls up a set of hits (if any), which hyperlink to imaged pages anywhere in the book! This is some powerful shit for any kind of serious motherfucking scholarly research. [More info here.]

For instance, I just searched for "narcissism" in The Myth of Self-Esteem and got nine hits. Opening one of them took me to page 133, where I read the following. Yeah, I had to crunch TextPad down to smallish slot overlaying the Amazon page and copy the text out by hand, but hey, that's a lot better than not knowing it's in there -- even if I do own the book, which in fact should arrive tomorrow or so. Not all publishers are comfortable with offering so much of their wares online, but this is only because most publishers are bone-stupid about a) intellectual property, and b) marketing. The publishers who have put those 120,000 books into the system are going to sell a lot more of them, no question in my mind. This is significant news not only for Amazon, but for the web in general. More words! As Doc told me last week that someone once told him: "Information doesn't want to be free. It wants to be $6.95!"

Anyway, here's the sample I typed out...

"If people define themselves and seek self-esteem only by looking inside them, and connect to the social world only by a sense of alienation from it, then in a certain sense they do not have selves at all. The worst fear of the critics of narcissism would seem confirmed.... If there were widespread agreement on [the meaning of self-esteem] -- and especially if that meaning were the one intended by many of the conceptual entrepreneurs -- then there might be cause for alarm. For in its purest expressions, the myth of self-esteem does encourage a socially disconnected, solipsistic, narcissistic experience of self."

from The Myth of Self-Esteem

3:39 PM | link |

Tonight I had to move my car because they're paving the parking lots for the next three days, and any cars remaining in those lots will be towed, and they always add: at the owner's expense. Couldn't have that. And I am forgetful these latter days. Of some things, if not -- as I have been reminded -- of others. But we'll get to that. We'll get to all of it eventually. I recall here a song The Lovin Spoonful sang. I saw them once in Buffalo, the drummer it was rumored, having been holed up in the van all day on a bad trip. Solly, the lead guitarist, later on a bad trip of his own for turning states evidence on other heads to save his own skin. Yeah and a daydream may last you for thousand years. But it wasn't that one. And it wasn't Do You Believe in Magic, though that's what I asked the first time I really spoke to her on the street one day down by the Post Office at 15th and Walnut. All this means nothing to you, I know. All this is gone now, as you said. All this is, as you reminded me, no longer. Gone forever. And the colored girls go doo doo-doo...

And the Buddhist millions, godless heathens all, go GATE GATE PARAGATE PARASAMGATE BODHI SVAHA. I quote from memory, mother of the muses, as the just-published 11th edition of Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary tells me. Adding helpfully, by Zeus. Right you are. I'll take Greek Mythology for 400, Alex. By Zeus, I'll take you for what you are, for what you meant to me, for all you're worth. So that's the title slug for you, what it means. The Sanskrit (and Tibetan in the grafik) translates something like gone, gone, gone beyond, gone beyond beyond, no longer there: awake.

I quote from memory. Yes yes yes, she said. And I wrote to her just last week: "you fucking liar."

Keep in mind any number can play. As the hometown band noted: it's all mixed up.

And as one thing leads to another, always has, always will, I am put in mind of another song, this one by The Incredible String Band, than which there were never more hippie musicians, unless it was The Fugs doing Blake.... Ah Sunflower, weary of time... etc, etc, as Alfred Korzybski, general semanticist par excellence (who can also get in line to kiss my ass, the map having become indistinguishable from the territory since the precession of simulacra came to town) said we should always add to any statement to show that there's more, etc. There's always more, as she said, though in a much different context. Much different. Much more. Those who do not study the past, someone else said, probably somebody famous, are doomed to repeat it: the intertext an endless palimpsest, a canvas stretched across time, a long look backward to the Indo-European, wolfsong on the steppes, repetition compulsion for madmen only, and they sang...

Sleepers awaken
The night has gone and taken
Your darkest fears and left you here
And the sun shines bright and clear.
O awake for the world is wonderful.
The Incredible String Band, that is. I used to sing it some mornings when I felt like that. And the Blake thing too. But I haven't forgotten where this started out back there -- with The Lovin Spoonful, remember? -- three paragraphs or thirty years ago...
I will be there in the morning if I live.
I will be there in the morning if I don't get killed.
And if I'm never no more,
girl, what can I say?
be sure to
remember me....
Something like that.

So as I was saying, I had to move my car. Which I did, not feeling able to withstand the fine this time for forgetting. For forfeiting memory. For the backwards fugue of Godel's Escher's Bach, an infernal Holden Caulfield. In short, for waltzing four-four time, the web and the rock, and you can't go home again. Be sure to move the car I was telling myself all day. Be sure to move the car. Like Samuel L. in The Long Kiss Goodnight -- gypsy woman tol' my mama... do-do-do-do-doo... day I was born...

Be sure to remember me. Etc.

As if one could forget the precedents of common law. Even if one wanted to. And one does. Yet one doesn't. The Lord is my Shepherdizer. I shall not want: the Lexus nexus or the rosy crucifixion, the miller's tale, sexus plexus and the air-conditioned nightmare. I shall not want. I will not desire. An endless river. An endless palimpsest. A canvas stretched to breaking. And I thought to myself: this must be the place.

Yes yes yes.

The hallways all looked the same anyway. And nothing doing down any of them anymore. As you pointed out. In case that had escaped me. As if only some of us needed to go back there. As if holding these things now gone forever were the source of this grief instead of its harbingers and handmaidens, doomed to repeat, to repeat after me: you got a man child comin'... do-do-do-do-doo... gonna be a son of a gun...

I was born for good luck
and money too.
I got seven hundred dollars, baby,           {{{so Euan tells me}}}
gonna mess with you,
'cause I am...
Everbody knows I am. Including and especially you. Your eyes that night. Broke my heart. But I understood. Thought I maybe did. I always understand. Think I maybe do. It's that ol' empathy disease makes me so angry, baby. Drives me wild. I love you. I chose the pain no matter what. Call me crazy. But don't say it, don't think it, let go. It will only hurt more. There's nothing here for you. Nothing left. Thanks, I really needed that. Sex, lies and film at 11. But I gotta say, you're really bad at it. Lying, that is. Did I ever tell you I wrote this for the Everlies in 1960? That I was with Linda when she hit with it in '75? Damn what a woman.
I've been made blue.
I've been lied to.
When will I be loved.
Unless what your eyes were telling me is true. In which case, false. In which case... what? Must be my arrogance kicking up again, to say I know you better than you know yourself. My truth. Your truth. Fuck that. That was never our game. There was no game. No eye, no ear, no body, no mind... Those heathen Buddhists chanting in my head again. I love you no matter what you do or say. No boundaries. No limit. I was born for it. Yeah that, and money too. It is to laugh. But you don't see me laughing. Can't keep you straight anymore. Can't tell you apart.
I bought a book this afternoon, after I dropped Selene off. Selene whom I love so much. Who is so smart and alive, so beautiful, such a pain in the ass. You think everyone's a narcissist, she said. Do not, I said, but I've known a few. Yes you do, she said. You think everyone's a narcissist. I guess I was talking about my first girlfriend. Who was one. Trust me. And my last. So there's that. My whole life sandwiched between sexually alluring psycho vampires. I attract them like flies. (May I have a kitten next time, Master?) Selene loves to give me shit. The book was Telling Lies: Clues to Deceit in the Marketplace, Politics, and Marriage. I showed it to her in Borders. Said I needed to get some new tips. She said Asshat! I got home around 3 and wanted to read it, but I knew I was going to crash. So I put on Scream III. I've been falling asleep to movies for the last couple months, as the only talk radio I can pull in is some rabid Christian whacko shit, and I started thinking I was going to wake up one day and want to bomb abortion clinics, kill queers, and support our Commander-in-Chief.

Just as I was nodding off, Jennifer Plastic Girl, who is playing Gale Weathers in Stab III (it's complicated if you haven't seen the movie, or even if you have) is complaining bitterly to Dewey (not the Dewey of Huey and Louie or the Decimal System). She says of the "real" Gale Weathers: "She's a narcissistic psycho bitch!" I woke up. I ran the tape back. Did she really say that? If I'd imagined it, Selene was right: I was in deep psychological sheepdip. I hit play. Plastic Girl said, "She's a narcissistic psycho bitch!"


I called Selene, left a message on the answering machine explaining all this. She knows the Scream movies inside out, so it was easier than with you. "She's a narcissistic psycho bitch!" I said. I said, so see? Wes Craven and me. Like minds. I wonder what her mom must've thought. What she doesn't know is that Selene and I also talk about things she might find useful in her schoolwork. Like how the money that supports the Nobel Prize came from the fortune amassed by Alfred Nobel after he discovered nitroglycerine and how you take a little bit of that sublingually if you feel a heart attack coming on. History, science, medicine, all worked neatly into a single paragraph.

"Dynamite, huh?" I say. I think I'm a pretty good role model.

"You're scaring me," Selene says. "You're very fucked up, you know that."

"I know," I say, and very loud, "I NEED MY MEDS!!!"

We're standing at a stoplight. A woman in the passenger seat of a car three lanes over turns around and looks. Selene and I are laughing. We stop so I can get an iced espresso. She begs me not to. I buy her a raspberry sorbet. She calms down. "How is it?" I ask. "Pretty good," she says. "Asshat!"

So Telling Lies. Yeah. Here's an unrepresentative clip from the chapter titled "Lying, Leakage, and Clues to Deceit." The rest of the book is not necessarily as amusing, which is not to say it isn't good; just more serious; as in: as cancer. I do wish I'd read this bit a couple years ago, though, as it might have come in handy at a particularly noxious Boulder gallery showing.

"Another technique that allows the liar to avoid saying anything untrue is the incorrect-inference dodge. A newspaper columnist gave a humorous account of how to use this dodge to solve the familiar problem of what to say when you don't like a friend's work. You are at the opening of your friend's art exhibition. You think the work is dreadful, but before you can sneak out your friend rushes over and asks you what you think. "'Jerry,' you say (assuming the artist in question is named Jerry), gazing deep into his eyes as if overcome with emotion, 'Jerry, Jerry, Jerry.' Maintain the clasp, maintain the eye contact. Ten times out of ten Jerry will finally break your grip, mumble a modest phrase or two, and move on..."

I stood at the edge of the parking garage and smoked a cigarette. There was a party going on somewhere. I looked at the sky and felt myself looking at it from the inside. The color of the clouds at sunset. The color of how I was looking at them. I am here. It was more than a thought. And less. I myself.

Yesterday I read something that reminded me of that. Interiority, it said. Something about interiority.

Tonight after I moved the car. I took a walk. I thought how long it's been. How long since I walked here. And I knew why. All that I carried, held. All that I lost. I was afraid. So I made myself keep walking. There's a clue. Down the path that begins at the end of the street. A place I'd been many times. When I first moved here. Memories of you. Whichever one you are now. But I took the other fork this time, walked into the darkness. No moon. No one to know. Some people seek solitude, I thought. I don't even have to look. There was appreciation in it, gratitude, even if mixed with a little irony. Same boy I used to be.

I heard a strange noise. I stopped. Listened. What was it? Coming from over there in the field on my right. No, coming from right above me. No, just ahead. Then it stopped. I was a little scared. Just a little. But out there, you know? Out there where it could be anything. A breeze came up and I heard it again, this time all around me. And I knew what it was then: dry leaves on the autumnal trees along the path, rustling in the wind.

When spirit moves under the stars, memory stirs like a rattle of snakes, like scorpions rising to the cool of night, these eyes, this love, this lifelonging taste for the beautiful terrifying edges of the world. And self is the trace it leaves passing through. No matter what.

1:27 AM | link |

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Can Love Last?
it's not looking too good out there...

I can't remember if I ever recommended this book here. I guess I could search the site...

Yeah, it looks as if I mentioned it en passant back in April. I wrote there: "Check chapter 4 on why intimacy and anger, love and hatred, aren't opposites. Contrary to the notions of many new-age fuckheads (see above)." Of course, to "see above" you'll have to click the "back in April" thing in red, above here. Do you even know how the web works? Do I have to explain fucking everything? Jesus, read a book!

Anyway, in that selfsame Chapter 4, titled "Aggression and the Danger of Desire," Mitchell ends with this:

"Passionate hatred derives from humiliation and endangerment to the self. Because romance generates hope, longing, and dependency, and because hope, longing, and dependency always risk humiliation, love is necessarily dangerous. Aggression is love's shadow, an inextricable accompaniment and necessary constituent of romantic passion. The degradation of romance is not due to the contamination of love by aggression but to the inability to sustain the necessary tension between them. Since the effectiveness of aggression is directly proportional to how much one knows about one's target, aggression is much more dangerous in long-standing love relationships than with strangers; the capacity to love over time entails the capacity to tolerate and repair hatred."
It's not often that you encounter anyone these latter days who is willing, not to mention qualified, to speak of love and hatred in the same breath. Not just aggression or anger or -- my favorite -- negativity (ewww!), but full-out real-deal hatred. And, notice: without prescribing the repression, removal, "cure" or "overcoming" (not to be confused with [caution: click at your own risk] bukkake, another stellar contribution of Eastern Thought) of such atavistic affects, as is the case with the recent book (one of the thousands, it seems; it's amazing what CIA backing can do for your PR program) by the Dalai Who-Can-Kiss-My-Ass Llama and Daniel Once-President-of-the-Association-for-Transpersonal-Psychology-Who-Can-Also-Kiss-My-Ass Goleman.

All of which is why it sickens me that the clueless dipshit publisher of Mitchell's profoundly humane and intelligent book attempts to foist upon the unsuspecting, and/or the stupid, the following marketing spew: "Not since Thomas Moore's Soul Mates has a major thinker redefined our most basic human emotion."

Oh sure, right. I hate these publishing salesdroids that try to link every goddam book they kite to some hotselling POS New Age trash. Comparing Stephen A. Mitchell to Thomas Moore is like comparing... well, let's say Christopher Moore to M. Scott Bungwad Peckerwood.

Caveat emptor: If you click on that Stephen A. Mitchell link, above, be forewarned that Amazon's notion of a bibliographic database is fundamentally braindamaged. To wit: you will also get the works of one Stephen Mitchell, who is not the same guy. The latter is, in point of fact, one of the aforementioned new-age fuckheads. So watch out you don't mix them up or you could get your brains badly scrambled. For instance, if you find yourself perusing titles like The Bhagavad Gita, The Tao Te Ching, or The Enlightened Heart, you're in the wrong pew, dude.

In contrast, Stephen A. Mitchell is one of the writers I've come to most respect. The guy had heart. And a rare ability to sort out and make sense of disparate psychoanalytic theories, practices, and human relational dynamics. He died a few years ago, very young, which was a real loss. Can Love Last is the most accessible of his books, and perhaps the closest to the bone. Highly recommended by this reviewer. Five stars.

And what the hell, while I'm at it, I might mention Nathaniel Branden, the undisputed czar of self-esteem, who for quite some time was boinking Ayn Rand, until she dumped him -- and dumped on him -- and was responsible, back in the early '60s, for a good half of "Rand's" (Brandon's name doesn't appear on the cover) eye-opening book, The Virtue of Selfishness: A New Concept of Egoism , which, if one digs a few centimeters beneath the surface -- and it's pretty much all surface -- turns out to constitute Aynie-baby's foundational apologia for Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal -- essentially, a strident brief for free-wheeling yee-hah no-brakes economic rape. But it's in the summation of her, if you'll pardon the expression, "philosophy" -- For the New Intellectual [gag, choke] -- that we get a real taste of how the old bat thought about women and "self-esteem." The book consists mainly of passages collected from her fictional works (if these can be distinguished from the purported non-fiction). Here's an included selection from Atlas Shrugged if you can stomach it...

"Do you remember what I said about money and about the men who seek to reverse the law of cause and effect? The men who try to replace the mind by seizing the products of the mind? [wha???] Well, the man who despises himself tries to gain self-esteem from sexual adventures -- which can't be done, because sex is not the cause, but an effect and an expression of a man's sense of his own value.... No matter what corruption he's taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which he cannot perform for any motive but his own enjoyment.... an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exaltation.... It is an act that forces him to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and to accept his real ego as his standard of value. He will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience -- or to fake -- a sense of self-esteem. The man who is proudly certain of his own value will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer -- because only the possession of a heroine will give him a sense of an achievement, not the possession of [are you ready for this?...] a brainless slut..."
And if our man in Havana does not follow the dictates of his "self-esteem"? Why, then...
"His body will not obey him, it will not respond, it will make him impotent toward the woman he professes to love and draw him to the lowest type of whore he can find.... And he cries with despair, because he can feel nothing for the women he respects, but finds himself in bondage to an irresistible passion for a slut from the gutter."
EDIOTRS NOTE: needless to say: emphasis added -- to reflect my ever-burgeoning amazement. (A shaggy garment, indeed!)
I am not kidding, sportsfans. That's really what it says. Holy fucking shit, huh? But dig it: "With a Ph.D. in psychology and a background in philosophy, Nathaniel Branden is a licensed psychotherapist, a lecturer, a corporate consultant, and the author of twenty books, including The Psychology of Self-Esteem, Honoring the Self, The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem, and The Art of Living Consciously. Worldwide his books have sold in the neighborhood of four million copies and his writings have been translated into eighteen foreign languages." And to think that a brainless slut like Ayn Rand wound him up and set him loose on the world. I guess there must be a God after all.

It's a tough call, but the man of integrity will know what is right and make the choice that best reflects the true estimation of his own self-worth. Or sex-crazed auto-eroticism, whichever comes first, so to speak.

ayn rand
gutter slut

One of Branden's older titles is (take a deep breath if you move your lips when you read) The Psychology Of Romantic Love: What Love Is, Why Love Is Born, Why It Sometimes Grows, Why It Sometimes Dies. I wish my scanner was working, because the picture of good old (actually then quite young) Nathaniel Branden [NB] on the back of my shopworn out-of-print edition, with his square manly jaw and no-nonsense-look-right-fucking-through-you GAZE is a piece of genu-wine motherfuckin art, I wanna tell ya. Even in photos taken 30, 40 years later, he still looks very much like that big-headed interocitorized alien smartypants Exeter dude from This Island Earth. Separated at birth? You be the judge...

Exeter Branden

Here's an Amazon reader review of The Psychology Of Romantic Love...

"I have always wondered if I really even understood what real love is. This book explained it all to me. It's history, how my self-esteem effects it, why selfishness is a normal and valid part of love, what characteristics help love to succeed, and what missing links cause it to remain unfulfilling. I'm going to make my children read this before they get married. Everyone needs to know this stuff."
Yeah, Mom, make em read it! You dumbfuck twit. And another...
"This is a great book about the nature of romantic love over the centuries. It puts the kind of love called romantic love into perspective with other kinds, and talks about what makes for a stable relationship. As a spouse of 27 years, I find it is very interesting to try to understand the nature of love and commitment. The fact that Branden is an authority on self-esteem also helps for this topic. I have read the book from the library, and now I am trying to find it to buy."
Everyone out of everyone who voted on both reviews found this mindless drivel "helpful."

You can even go to the dickhead's website, where you are greeted by Deep Thoughts such as this: "If you choose to live non-self-responsibly, you count on others to make up your default. No one lives non-self-responsibly on a desert island."

Island? ISLAND! Wait. Was he thinking about Exeter too, do you suppose? I feel like I'm living in a game-show universe when I read this kind of shit. Somebody change the motherfucking channel before I go totally batcrap!

Oh, that's right, I forgot. Too late.

7:50 AM | link |

People Be Jes' So Fine Sometimes
It Blow Yo Mine!
Mandarin Design posted the foxy appeal you see below. I just now ran across it. I am basically, fundamentally, essentially and existentially floored at the kindness I've been shown by all of you. Even RageBoy is touched, though he's doing his best not to show it.

Euan Semple set up a PayPal fund if you want to send cash to Chris Locke. Give whatever you can (if you can) and spread the love.

12:42 AM | link |

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
More fun with unretouched spam
Well, you knew it had to happen sometime. Yes, this is how the New Agers are disporting themselves these days. Shocking, isn't it? The large picture on the right is of Eckhart Tolle's younger sister, Ayah Tolle. The inserts show Tupak Chopra after his recent (and quite successful) sex change procedure. As Tupak and I are thick as thieves, he invited me to attend the operation. I am proud to say that the attending surgeon offered me the privilege of personally cutting his dick off. It's a moment I will always treasure. (btw, be sure to click below where it says (duh!) "click here.")

3:01 PM | link |

Ars Longa Than Urs

"Yee see, O friends,
How many evils have enclos'd me round;
Yet that which was the worst now least afflicts me,
Blindness, for had I sight, confus'd with shame,
How could I once look up, or heave the head,
Who like a foolish Pilot have shipwrack't,
My Vessel trusted to me from above,
Gloriously rigg'd; and for a word, a tear,
Fool, have divulg'd the secret gift of God
To a deceitful Woman: tell me Friends,
Am I not sung and proverbd for a Fool
In every street, do they not say, how well
Are come upon him his deserts?"
samson agonistes / john milton
However, unlike yourself, I'm still here...

2:49 PM | link |

Getting Busy

This is me at home practicing how to look like Richard Gere editing a filmscript.

How'm I doing?

1:30 PM | 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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