Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
Another cup? Why not!

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Saturday, May 22, 2004

9:32 PM | link |

My Book Proposal
finally! whew!
A hyperintelligent alien race lands on Earth only to discover that the indigenous population is too intellectually dim to appreciate the (literally) stellar advances in philosophy and psychology the visitors have brought as gifts. In fact, the humans hunt the aliens for sport. So the star travellers transmogrify themselves into the semblance of rabbits and hide out in warrens (which they call "blogs") on the internet, hoping against hope for a rise in the IQ of the native populace. As this seems increasingly unlikely, the "rabbits" are forced to disguise their teachings as simpleminded anecdotes - in effect, to Water Shit Down...

7:04 PM | link |

from my amazon wish list
only trouble is, gee whiz...



1:44 AM | link |

Friday, May 21, 2004
Net Worth
I'm down to 10 cigarettes, no food to speak of (and my intent was not to speak of it, but rather to eat it), and look at this: even PayPal has had it with me! Oh my god, I'm gonna die! I know. That'd make you real happy wouldn't it. No more RageBoy to kick around. Now I know how Nixon felt. You bastards! I hate you all! But please give me money anyway. Look, I'm only kidding, you know that. And besides, I've always hated you! A buck? Spare change? Whatever...

!!! HELP !!!

5:06 PM | link |

A Critique of Poor Judgment

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this "more fun with spam"® post
is respectfully dedicated to
the incomparable
(often imitated, never duplicated)
tom matrullo

3:43 PM | link |

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

7:58 AM | link |

Monday, May 17, 2004
Madness Takes Its Toll
that'll be a buck seventy-five
What is that buzzing?

I'm not sure. Sounds vaguely ominous. But when my phone rings at 3:15 in the morning, I don't wonder "My god, who can be calling me at this hour?" I know. And Caller ID has nothing to do with it.

"Morning, Halley," I say before she can get the first word in. "You're up early."

"Are you awake?" she wants to know. No, I always pick up in my sleep. But I don't say this, because I know she does -- then has no recollection what she's said. This can be a lot of fun, but it's not really fair, so I don't do it on purpose. It's just that anyone who goes to sleep before 8pm has to expect to be waked up occasionally, even by the most well meaning of callers.

"Yeah, I'm awake. Reading The Constant Gardener by John LeCarré. It's pretty good. Damn fine piece of work, actually." But Halley doesn't want to hear about gardeners, constant or otherwise.

"You know what you need?" she says. And before I can even hazard a guess -- a stuffed ostrich? days of wine and roses? nights in white satin? a year's supply of Hamburger Helper? -- she says: "[some unpronounceable French] triple lifting cream."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," I say. "That's very spooky," I tell her. "I was just sitting here wishing I had some triple lifting cream."

She has the decency to laugh at this point. After all, she called me. Had I called her, the shoe might have been on the other foot.

"By the way," I say, "did I miss a segue there, or was that the world's most seamless non-sequitur?" I guess so, as, now that I think about it, there was no preceding discussion. It's pushing the Hour of the Wolf, and The Divine Ms. H has rung me up to extol (one has to suppose) the considerable benefits of some cockamamie girl shit.

Suddenly the buzzing is back. Damn, what the hell is that?

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" I ask, concerned that I've somehow infected her with my own problems along these lines, though this hardly seems possible over the telephone. Still, despite the over-touted and now thankfully elapsed Decade of the Brain, we are only just beginning to scratch the surface of the mind. Mine is fairly well abraded at this point.

"You know what I did?" she says, changing gears again, triple witching cream already long forgotten.

I can't imagine. Well, I can imagine, but I know it's a rhetorical question and that I'd better not try. I learn slowly, but I do learn. Usually the hard way.

"No, what'd you do? I can't imagine."

To do this in dialogue would take all night, so I'll just tell you, if that's OK. Halley's coming out here for this conference at the University of Colorado, Boulder's local emporium of Higher Learning®. The theme is yet another form of cockamamie girl shit, in this case "Women in Technology," as if there aren't already enough of them. And it's never the nice ones. It's all these relentless power bitches amped up on C++ and Java.

"Do you think they even know how to fuck?" I ask. "Look, I realize I'm a man and all, but maybe I could do a remedial workshop on reproductive biology. I'm a little rusty, and it is on short order, but maybe I could work something up. All part of the service, you know?"

Halley says that's OK, maybe next time. But it wasn't about that. It was about lunch plans for tomorrow, which is now today, such uncertainties being integrally interwoven with the vicissitudes of the temporal red shift. If you catch my drift. Anyway, we were going to get together with Eric Norlin of Ping Identity, which meeting I've been avoiding for a couple of months now. However, I figured with Halley there he wasn't likely to hit me. Halley and Eric have talked a few times via email, possibly by phone, who knows, but they've never met. So Halley was wondering what he looked like. Which is only natural. For example, I'd like to know what you look like, and I don't even know who you are.

Curiously, Halley was unable to see the one picture on Google Images that is clearly marked "Eric Norlin" because -- get this -- she had porn filtering turned on. "Why?" is another question entirely, but beyond the scope of the present monograph. Actually, it's two questions: 1) why wasn't it turned off? and 2) why did Norlin's picture therefore fail to appear?

It took me a while to debug the problem, but when it became clear we were seeing different sets of images, I asked her if she had filtering on. Uh huh. When she turned it off, she could finally see what Eric looks like.

Or, I should say, what he looked like, as this shot was taken some years ago when Norlin was a brash young punk covering the NSA for The Washington Post (I suspect he must've used a pseudonym back then). Don't get me wrong, he's still a punk. He's just not quite as young. I told Halley I'd email her a more recent photo. I took this one myself late last year.

It's a little shocking what a couple years at Ping has done to him, but he does seem a bit more serious these days. And focused? My god, just look at those eyes! This is why I abandoned the high-tech entrepreneurial rat race. I mean sure, having a fuckload of money would be nice. But I have my principles to think about. And my looks.

But recursively nested digressions aside, none of this was what I was supposed to guess that Halley had done. It was this. She was scheduled to arrive at Denver International at 12 on Monday, whereupon I would pick her up and we'd meet Eric for lunch downtown. Good plan, especially as Halley told me he'd specifically promised not to get violent. However, upon closer inspection of her itinerary, she noticed she was due to touch down not at 12 noon, as we'd discussed, but at 12 midnight. This pretty much put lunch out of the question.

"Maybe it's the triple lifting cream," I say.

"You think?"

"Could be," I say. "This is a pretty serious fuckup, Toots."

But then she says, "Wait! Maybe I could change my ticket and come in tonight!" followed by much typing and "web surfing" and, ultimately, no dice. Otherwise, I'd be at the fucking airport right now. And as she's flying in on something called Code Blue Airways (!!!), I'm not putting a whole lot of stock in that midnight arrival time.

...because you never know...

2:11 AM | link |

Sunday, May 16, 2004
Tips for Better Mental Health
and who couldn't use a bit more of that?

It's a beautiful day in Boulder, Colorado. Crisp blue skies, golden sunshine, hyperwhite clouds drifting way up high. And I'm in my soon-to-be-forclosed-upon condo bondage with all the blinds drawn, drinking coffee and taking the maximum recommended dosage of Effexor XR® from Wyeth®, which I just now learned has a website specifically devoted to this amazing seratonin-and-norepinephrine-boosting antidepressant. I was a little disappointed that the site doesn't describe the North American distribution deal it cut with the Medellin Cartel (a mistake in my view, as this was an absolutely brilliant business move).

Effexor XR� 150mg� 30� $175.67�
Effexor XR� 150mg� 60� $276.96�

I was, however, surprised to learn that, in addition to having my depression antied, I am also undergoing a radical sex change (see graphic, above right). I had suspected as much for some time, but it was a great relief to be officially informed. How else to explain my sudden need for a 38D sports bra?

"Back to Me"
RB shows off his new physique

Yes, well, all pharmaceuticals have their little side effects, and I can't say this one is entirely unwelcome. Given Boulder's overall gender-preference profile, I find that women are now paying much more attention to me. Before Effexor XR®, they never gave me a second look. But it was tips of a different sort I promised you, and tips you shall have. I pass along the following remarks from the Wyeth product site, having found them unusually insightful and compassionate towards those of us who suffer from depression. Do take a moment to scan the following and let me know if you don't agree.

You can do a lot to help others understand what you're going through. At any rate, it's good to keep telling yourself this, even in the face of massive evidence to the contrary. By helping them understand what you're experiencing, you'll be able to pave the way for better communication. Even people close to you who love you dearly, or pretend they do, may not know enough to be able to give you the support you need. They may want to reach out to you, but not know how. Conversely, they may not give a damn. As a result, their frustration with wanting to help you may come out in inappropriate ways. They may:

  • Tell you to "just snap out of it."
  • Push you to do more than you feel ready for.
  • Make light of your feelings or symptoms.
  • Tell you to "eat shit and die."

To involve yourself again with family and friends, you often have to take the first steps. Select times of the day or week when you're at your best, and when you feel up to it, follow the guidelines below. You also might want to check the local statutes pertaining to homicide in your country or region. While outright murder is not condoned by Wyeth®, we realize that sometimes it's the only way.

Involving Your Partner
When you are depressed, keep in mind that your partner is going through a difficult time as well. In these cases, be as realistic as possible, understanding that these expressions of tortured angst are often code words for "eat shit and die." He or she may feel stress about your situation and may feel angry or blame you for being depressed. Or, as suggested above, he or she may simply not give a flying fuck. Be patient and try to explain that you are doing as much as you can to get better, including taking your medication as instructed by your doctor and not whining quite as often about "how much it hurts." In other words, try not to be such a sniveling drain on other peoples' limited emotional resources. You can also say that there are some times when you just want someone to listen to you, and other times when you'd just like to fucking kill them.

You might want to suggest that both of you see a therapist together. Or, that if she were seeing a therapist, maybe you wouldn't have to be paying street-drug prices for all this goddam Effexor XR®. Different forms of talk therapy (baloney) have been shown to help when used in combination with medication and/or more direct interpersonal involvement. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, more than 80% of patients with depression show at least some improvement when they receive appropriate treatment with medication, talk therapy, contract "hit" services, or all three.

was this review helpful?

5:13 PM | link |

Spam Made Me a Commie!
and now I want to work in a steel mill

12:07 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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