Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Friday, November 07, 2003
Fun With Language
What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

An Exaltation uff Googlezurches
Funny Expression # of hits
"business is a disease" 5
"money is a disease" 41
"sex is a disease" 45
"getting her needs met" 236
"not getting her needs met" 26
"getting his needs met" 243
"not getting his needs met" 40
"getting my needs met" 340
"not getting my needs met" 72
"love is a disease" 435
"getting our needs met" 687
"not getting our needs met" 106
"getting your needs met" 1,290
"not getting your needs met" 175
"meet my needs" 28,200
"meeting your needs" 45,700
"meet our needs" 63,000
desire 14,100,000
sex 23,200,000
freedom 28,600,000
love 51,500,000
money 77,000,000
business 267,000,000





7:45 AM | link |


"The rush of postmodern reaction from the old certainties has swept some people headlong into a worldview even more radical than that of the constructivists. Many voices can now be heard declaring that what is out there is only what we put out there. More precisely, what I put there -- just little me, euphorically creating my own universe. We used to call this solipsism; now we call it New Age spirituality."

from Reality Isn't What it Used to Be

I hate you so bad
You are the "I hate you so bad" happy bunny. You hate everyone and everything and you're not ashamed of it.

cute but psycho
You are the "cute but psycho" happy bunny. You're adorable, but a little out there.

which happy bunny are you?

4:44 AM | link |

Gestalt Therapy
All We Need Now Is the Fuckin Orkin Man...
All day today, while the creditors called and called and called and I didn't answer, I read Upstart Spring: Esalen and the American Awakening and (by the same author) Reality Isn't What It Used to Be: Theatrical Politics, Ready-to-Wear Religion, Global Myths, Primitive Chic, and Other Wonders of the Postmodern World, with various side dippings into Humanistic and Transpersonal Psychology: A Historical and Biographical Sourcebook and the wonderful and amazing Fables of Abundance: A Cultural History of Advertising in America. Whew! Huh? Here is my report...
Mr. Natural Fritz Perls
'twas ever thus!
Whatever it is that's happening, it keeps on
happening no matter WHAT! Right?
If you don't know by now, don't mess with it.
Always use the right tool for the job.
Say, are you on acid again?
Nov Schmoz Ka Pop.
Keep on truckin.
Lost it again!
The Gestalt Prayer
I do my thing and you do your thing
I am not in this world to
live up to your expectations,
and you are not in this world to
live up to mine.
You are you and I am I
and if by chance we find each other,
it's beautiful.
If not, it can't be helped.

editor's note: you may understandably ask yourself just how "beautiful" it must have been. take another look at that face!

yup, sure looks like ya got some real bad root-rot goin' on here...

2:45 AM | link |

Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Can't Buy My Love
How Advertising Changes the Way We Think and Feel

Can't Buy My Love
"Sex in advertising and the media is often criticized from a puritanical perspective -- there's too much of it, it's too blatant, it will encourage kids to be promiscuous, and so forth. But sex in advertising has far more to do with trivializing sex than promoting it, with narcissism than with promiscuity, with consuming than with connecting."

"The problem with advertising isn't that it creates artificial longings and needs, but that it exploits our very real and human desires.... Above all, advertising promotes a corrupt and bankrupt concept of relationship.... In the world of advertising, lovers are things and things are lovers....

It may be that there is no other way to depict relationships when the ultimate goal is to sell products. But this apparently bottomless consumerism not only depletes the world's resources, it also depletes our inner resources. It leads inevitably to narcissism and solipsism."

3:25 AM | link |


1:54 AM | link |

star light, star bright...
I wish I had a book about symbolic interactionism tonight
Just added a cool little hack that pulls your (or in this case my) Amazon wish list into a blog page. Or any page for that matter. As I'm still flat broke and (no foolin') downrigt penniless it'll be a regular feature here. For a while anyway. It's down below in the left hand column following my sadly-out-of-date blogroll. But for those of you too lazy to page down that far, here's a sample of what it retrieves, just in case you've got some extra money burning a hole in my pocket.

You can grab the code from the link from "powered by amazonbox" at the end of the list -- which you must read through and buy a book for me before that link will work. Who said the internet was about free shit? Back in 1993, I did write that we should all think about "giving something back" -- but what I meant was: giving something back to ME! Here's your big chance (unless you already gave at the office; you know whom you are; for which: thanks!).

1:52 AM | link |

Talk About Your Teenage Mutants!

Disguised by day as a mild mannered reporter for NPR, she transforms by night into the cunning femme fatale... NINJA

1:26 AM | link |

yahoo personals ad [modified]

1:24 AM | link |

Sunday, November 02, 2003
Alright, Moving On Then...

I want to make one thing perfectly clear. These are not Leslie's breasts. As far as I know. They arrived by unsolicited commercial email, sans head. So who knows. It could be her, though I very much doubt it. However, I did just leave a totally unrelated comment on her blog just now. You may be asking: unrelated to what, precisely? Well, pretty much everything. Go see for yourself.

That was, however, Halley's ass. Oh no. I must be getting horny again. Does this ever let up? I mean, is it a phase I'll outgrow eventually? I turn 56 on the 12th, so I can only hope. Some people get carpal tunnel from too much mousing. I'm gonna get it from the other thing. So that's why I'm asking if there's ever going to come a time when I won't... wait. This is getting a little personal, isn't it?

8:01 AM | link |

Open Letter

Eros and Psyche

"Psyche had come for psycholanalysis....
Judith Herman in Trauma and Recovery and
Besssel van der Kolk and his colleagues in
their neurological and psychological studies
of Traumatic Stress identify loss of voice
as the psychic core of traumatic experience:
the loss of the ability to tell one's
story.... But as the folk tales show and as
we have repeatedly discovered, people do not
lose their voices; they lose the desire or
the courage or the will or the ability to
use their voices to tell their stories."
the birth of pleasure / carol gilligan

"without the mask
where will you hide
can't find yourself
lost in your lie"
evanescence / amy lee

"either go away or go all the way.
look at what you hold..."
jefferson airplane / grace slick


Locked in our perfect boundaries, bound in loving thrall to ourselves alone, and finally from this endless worldstorm safe within, we turn within spiraling deeper with each turn, the widening gyre this time inward, for solace, for nurture, for some much needed comfort that we never knew, pulled on, compelled by the invitation, call of an elusive falconer, the language indistinct but strangely moving, ineffable, obscure yet fascinating, voices that almost seem to be saying... almost... can it be? words and pages that are nearly readable as in dream, trying to make them out, get closer, focus, let go of all fear, of all doubt and hesitation, fall into pure meaning, unmediated, unconditional, come to the place, to the center from which there is no more direction in, a point of light indistinguishable from darkness, and there find at last that those gods who called us here are dolls of straw, kachinas with blank unseeing eyes, and know them as the toys of our childhood, how we clumsily stitched them together from bits of rag and buttons, held them and rocked them and told them our stories our secrets our hopes and fears, invested them with the magic only a child can weave, from bits of loneliness and beauty, and there find at last those gods of our own creation, silent, bound in loving thrall to ourselves. Alone.

Do you understand now why I tried to break you? Tried to pry open the rusted-shut doors of your heart? No. You don't. You never did. "He sees me!" you told your friends, who were happy for you then. The same friends who would later counsel you to escape, to flee, to protect your precious inviolable self. Because, what I saw in you and loved you for was more than you saw in yourself. Deeper than you were willing to go, instead holding in the middle depths, toying with a numinous obscurity whose true power you have never fathomed.

"Does it scare you," I asked, "when you paint?" And you said well of course it did. Of course. But your eyes said you only partly understood the question. Just enough to be scared by it. Understood that without touching real fear, without descending to that final place in which we are nothing but ourselves, we can bring back nothing. Nothing of value, only hints and posturings, only art that is artifice, intimations that we have touched the fire, let it burn us till there was nothing of us left, and without that only lies, only shameless pretense.

You never let yourself fall into that believing -- your line. Never let yourself go all the way. And you tell yourself today, well who does and why should I? That way lies madness, darkness, negativity.

Let me tell you something, although you'll never hear it, fingers stuffed into your ears, eyes blindfolded to my seeing that you once so loved. That way lies the shadow of your sunny funny-money dis-position, which guards the threshhold on which you pretend to stand waiting, from which you beckoned, on which you dared me to join you. But you have never crossed that line yourself, but made of it a line, a come-on, an accessory to ornament your pretty lovelessness, let others pay the toll for your deceit, your cowardice, your vaunted "integrity" with which you beat me for not loving you enough.

So hard to weep for you. So hard to see and keep seeing what you have made of yourself. Locked in your perfect boundaries, so proud, assured that what you did was not betrayal, after so long, after so much, of us both.

And let me tell you one last thing, though you have let me know in every way you could you are no longer listening. It is this: that from that darkness, Psyche, from which you shy and flee, to which you have convinced yourself you need never repair, from that last and deepest darkness, and only from that place, emerges the one truly simple choice. Life or death. The place from which Prometheus, defying the gods, brought back fire and the alphabet as gifts to the human race. And was punished for it, suffered endlessly. But this fire is life itself. It brings both light and pain, joy and grief. And these letters here, these words and sentences I write today, no longer for you, but for the people, all of us, whom you placed yourself, in your empty arrogance, so far above -- this alphabet burns with a passion you will never know. If it burned you it was not my curse, but the blindness with which you were so fascinated, via Borges and the rest, or Celtic runes, Egyptian hieroglyphs, always some fabulous new bullshit, more icons of your false and faked-up insight that left you dreaming, spinning in that ever deepeing cocoon of silence and withdrawal: you yourself alone.

Pay your own toll.

Yes, I saw you. Saw us together, each and both. I see you still, a wraith, a ghost, an absence of your own design, a vacuum of disconnected desire.

And this anger all that I will give to grief. Though it burn me forever, I will not forget. The black blood from this pen, forming this letter, then that, the next, breaking open the heart of the world from which it flows, my only legacy to sorrow for what might have been.

Go then. Be gone. Make some world more to your liking. Find your own story from whatever bits you can plagiarize with your daddy's dark blessing of your self-absorbed black bricolage. Write your vision, on tablets of stone, on papyrus, on vellum, on the fucking wind for all I care, to someone who'll maybe half believe it. Eros will not be winging his way to wake you this time, babycakes. Your only vision the perfection of death. Fleeing your shadow, you become one, folded forever into Persephone's funereal embrace.


4:57 AM | link |

"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
~D. Weinberger
28 October 2004

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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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