elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, June 12, 2004
|have you seen your mother, baby
standin in the shadows?
|from Business Week Online, June 21, 2004, "Getting Real -- And Getting Real Rich"
"...a growing band of detractors believes [Dr. Phil] McGraw's entrepreneurial zeal is becoming unseemly. They argue that he is capitalizing on his celebrity status by positioning himself as an authority on any number of serious psychological and medical issues -- from how to talk to kids about the photos of prisoner abuse in Iraq to how to lose weight -- that he may not be entirely qualified to address. 'It's not clear he's staying within the limits of his expertise,' says Peter M. Barach, a psychiatry instructor at Case Western Reserve University. After all, they add, the guy hasn't had a real practice in 15 years."
5:37 PM | link |
honey just allow me one more chance
to ride your aeroplane...
For those of you not too young to recall, the title and subtitle slugs, above, together constitute a Dylan line (Bob, not Thomas). I realized this was going through my head today, the quote that is, and somewhat later reflected that we -- my friends and I back in the mid-60s or so -- could go for whole days of what we thought were deep and profoundly meaningful conversations without ever saying anything that had not already been sung by Bob Dylan. Plus, recall that, as this was roughly 40 years ago, he hadn't yet sung even a significant fraction of what he would eventually sing. This meant we had a pretty limited vocabulary, though we never complained or tired of parroting things like (always with the best nasal Minnesota twang we could manage): "you shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you." Or: "I wasn't very cute to him... was I?" Or: "yes, I think it can be easily done!"
Of course, if you were born any time after say, 1999, these phrases will be meaningless to you. (It's a moot point, granted, since you'd then be about five years old and unlikely to be reading this blog. Who knows, though, what with today's fast-track educational programs for toddlers.) Yes, uh... Oh, right! The point is that I became somewhat concerned as to whether I might not be regressing. I mean, here I was talking -- to myself no less -- in Dylan lyrics. What could have caused this, I wondered?
Then <snaps fingers> I realized it was all Mile Golby's fault. Yes, that was it! I'd been reading his blog recently and had been culturally infected by his fondness for (let me not say obsession with) quoting Bob Dylan. Damn, that was a close one. Whew! No, I hadn't (quite yet) entered my "second childhood." No, I had not come down with some weird form of brain damage. I mean, no worse than what I'd already incurred back in those halcyon days of dope and roses. No, it was none of those things, thank god. It was merely, that's right, you got it...
Greatly relieved to have figured this out, I lit a cigarette on a parking meter and walked on down the road.
honey, just allow me one more chance
to ride your aeroplane.
honey, just allow me one more chance
to ride your passenger train.
well, I been lookin' all over
for a gal like you,
I can't find nobody
so you'll have to do.
just-a one kind favor I ask of you...
'low me just-a one more chance.
2:35 AM | link |
A Rare Disclaimer
Whereas I have replicated Hunter S. Thompson's official logo (below), and whereas I have elsewhere gone on record as associating myself with some of his views (to wit: his take on so-called "objective journalism"), and whereas I have laughed my ass off at some of his excellent writing, I, the Party of the First Part, being of (relatively) sound mind, do willfully and voluntarily make it
it did get weird enough for me!
1:52 AM | link |
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Ronnie We Hardly Knew Ye
or: the Alzheimlich Maneuver
For some reason, the recent saccharine gushings of postmortem praise for yet another Dead President, bring to mind this clip from Hunter S. Thompson's eulogy for Richard Nixon, titled simply "HE WAS A CROOK." First published in Rolling Stone, then shoehorned into Better Than Sex, you can now read the whole thing on this Atlantic Online page.
"If the right people had been in charge of Nixon's funeral, his casket would have been launched into one of those open-sewage canals that empty into the ocean just south of Los Angeles. He was a swine of a man and a jabbering dupe of a president. Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw his pants on every morning. Even his funeral was illegal. He was queer in the deepest way. His body should have been burned in a trash bin."
1:40 PM | link |
The Air(head)borne Toxic Event
I was reading George Sessum's blog last week, and this BioLab fire he talked about sorta blew my mind. The depth of my amazement was not, as you might reasonably think, based on the event itself so much as on its uncanny similarity to something I'd just been reading in the bathtub (last time I was in a bathtub, that is, which is more days ago now than I feel entirely comfortable revealing). I was reading a book by Don DeLillo, which is unusual in itself, as DeLillo is an Actual Author of Serious Books, and reading that sort of thing generally makes me feel desperately inadequate. Not that White Noise is all that serious, at least on the surface. The New York Times blurb on the back cover of my (now slightly soggy) copy says: "One of DeLillo's funniest novels to date..." Actually, I think it would be "funny" to date just about any novel, but maybe that's just me.
To get back to why I was amazed: Part II of White Noise is titled "The Airborne Toxic Event" and it involves a... well, an event just about exactly the same as the poison gas cloud released in the general neighborhood of George, Jeneane and my darling-if-devilish virtual niece Jenna. Holy shit! Synchronicity City's getting really spooky. Plus, this doppelganger of deadly drek began to serve as a personal metaphor for another, even more fatal, form of noxious miasma, but in this case, a baneful pollution of the inner environment. I think of it as the Air(head)borne Toxic Event. And this is an "event" that is not so constrained by time as these brief belchings of chemical corruption, but is, rather, continuous and ongoing in our so-called civilization.
Listed below are the various elements which, when combined (and they are constantly being jammed together), produce a sort of spiritual Bhopal, only much bigger -- a cloud of poisonous shit that has already covered North America and seems manifestly destined to extend to the rest of the globe. Never mind petroleum politix, arms sales to crazed Third World nazis, the disappearance of the ozone layer, or global warming. This is the one that's going to do us in. The following, then, are the deadly elements which, when combined, spawn a strain of crypto-spiritual Ebola analogous in its pathogenicity to the effects of dumping Three Mile Island and Chernobyl into Love Canal. May I have the envelope please...
- Vaguely (if at all) understood "eastern" notions of selflessness (Sanskrit: anatman), which is thought to be A Good Thing, as opposed to ego, which is thouight to be A Bad Thing. Thanks to decades of intensive psychoanalytic investigation, the meaning of abstract concepts like "self" and "ego" are less certain in their meaning today than they seemed a century ago. One might guess that this radical ambiguity would raise reasonable suspicion about attempts to translate the terms used to convey these quite probably disparate ideas between vastly dissimilar cultures, e.g., Kansas and Kathmandu. But no.
- Very western (ride em cowpoke) notions of self-esteem, often euphemized as "healthy narcissism." The "healthy" bit is based on an old wild-assed guess that infants are born into a state of autistic self-absorbtion, and that some purportedly positive hangover from this cozy heaven world continues to support adult wellbeing. This ungrounded hypothesis about human infants has now been entirely discredited, so it's a bit hard to see what exactly is hanging over what. Entertaining such (let's call it) "healthy skepticism" is, of course, taken as a sure sign of a) denial, and b) low self-esteem.
A huge and ever growing semantic network of highly questionable neologisms such as "codependence," "love addiction," "emotional enmeshment," and new age code phrases like "body, mind and spirit," and "spiritual-but-not-religious."
- An affluence so out of control that those bent on "simplifying" their lives now constitute a significant market segment in hot pursuit of fewer, but more aesthetically pleasing, and thus far more costly, things.
There are probably more factors and dynamics that combine to produce the Air(head)borne Toxic Event that I've been attempting to document here over the last several years. But they're basically permutations of the vectors suggested above. And besides, Granny's gettin tired now, having blogged her poor ass off all fuckin night. However, I'm told that if you squint your eyes j-u-s-t so, and look up yonder, you can see the Star of Bethlehem. Go ahead, try it...
9:49 AM | link |
Orwell's Anti-Sex League as Nonfiction
can you believe this shit?
6:44 AM | link |
When Society Becomes an Asswipe
Skills Training Manual for Borderline Berserkers|
Rage Boy, MD, DDS, PTSD, Rockland Hospital, Mountains of Madness|
Sure, everyone wants to be borderline, but until Dr. Boy's step-by-step Skills Training Manual, few knew how to go about it. Now you can experience what it's like to flip right out of your fuckin mind -- and be back for a couple sets of tennis before lunch. Forget bohemian bourgeois, feng shui, carbon-14 dating, and all the other spiritual paths you've sampled. Personality disorders have finally come to the suburbs, and Dr. Boy shows you how to be the first on your block!
( Recommended: Why? Because you're a fucking borderline! That's why.)
Escape from Intimacy by Anne Wilson Schaef (WhackJob)
( Why indeed?)
When Society Becomes an Addict by Anne Wilson Schaef (WhackJob)
( Why indeed?)
Women's Reality by Anne Wilson Schaef (WhackJob)
( Why indeed?)
5:46 AM | link |
now these are babydolls
I had to like >>
look it up <<
4:20 AM | link |
via (and backatcha!) golby
Mother of God! What is wrong with me? I just spent nearly four hours trying to replicate this magazine cover as closely as possible using local HTML and (ripped off) grafiks. (hacker cluetip #113: yes, it'd be easier by far to just pull most of it from this rag's site, but  then you don't get to fuck with anything, and more critically,  then the lawyers come looking for you. They're gettin real twitchy out there about this copyright shit, and some outfits are even starting to look at their referer logs. Word to the fuckin wise, ay?) But OK, part of the reason it took so long is that Halley just called me from Logan and we had to go through the whole find-the-bus-to-take-me-to-the-lot-so-I-can-get-my-car-and-pay-for-parking-it-and-drive-back-to-Lexington-in-the-middle-of-the-frickin-night-and-won't-you-keep-me-company-instead-of-doing-whatever-the-fuck-you're-doing-over-there-in-Boulder? Of course, being by nature chivalrous, I said sure. As a reward for which natural grace (though no coup was being counted), she called me "babydoll." No one has ever called me "babydoll." That was kinda nice. So here ya go, Golby: laissez les blog temps roulet...
Feast your eyes on what we've got lined up for you in our June, 2004 issue!
ON THE COVER
Forget the burqua! Put that shopping bag away! When he says you'd look better with one over your head, just pull this comfy and extensible turtle neck right up over your face. Get hip to his tricks. No more getting dumped in theater lobbies and gas station rest rooms, no more anguish and needless tears for you, fair lady!
1:38 AM | link |
Monday, June 07, 2004
Ricky don't lose that number
11:04 PM | link |
Shock the Monkey
and other skullduggery
I was tripping through that search page I mentioned in the previous post, and well... it's kind of amazing what you can find in a blog archive. Even if it's your own. Maybe especially if it's your own. And specially especially if you been doin this shit for awhile. I finally set up my Blogger profile yesterday...
(I think they misspelled Bore.)
...and I found out some stuff about myself I didn't even know myself. (Yes well OK, so this keeps happening, but that'd have to be another post or ten.)
I direct your attention to the Words Written field. That's a lot of frickin words, sportsfans! But oh wait... Then I start looking around at some of my blog children and am shamed to find that some have written far more in far less time. (That doesn't sound right, does it? Far fewer time? A gratuitous observation, yes, but what the hell; I need to catch up on my Words Written stats.)
However, this was supposed to be about tripping through my archives, not just the usual garden variety tripping demonstrated above (below too, I guess.) And I found these couple hits. Nice grouping. Or groping. At any rate, quite in the dark, in retrospect, in media res, in flagrante delicto...
The first title-slug URL, above, is still working (though the page now informs you "114 used & new from $0.50"). The second URL went missing a long time ago. It was a copy of an article ("Igniting Imagination: Responding to the Numinous Through Our Hands"; no comment) first published on Letter Arts Review; on which article I once spent some goodly time scanning, OCRing, marking up, FTPing, you get the idea. Gone now without a trace. Like so much else. There was always something funny about that piece. You might say.
Monday, October 22, 2001
The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
Coming in January 2002. "Wandering barefoot on the Lower East Side of New York, over a thousand dollars cash in my pocket, looking to score, bring back for the holy freaks the one good thing. Odysseus adrift. Also in my pocket, the Tarot, the Waite deck I'd just bought that day. I went into The Eatery on Second Avenue and my waitress saw the cards. 'I was raised by Gypsies,' she said. 'I will tell you about the trumps if you like.' I had just dropped another tab and had little time left I knew, but she sat with me and pointed to each of the major arcana, the Lovers, the Fool, the Tower, Death. Then stopped. 'You have two Magicians,' she said...."
10:43 AM | link | comment
Saturday, October 20, 2001
Laurie Doctor - Igniting Imagination
"It does not matter whether it is winter or spring, summer or fall. Whenever I come around the bend on Highway 84 and the land changes, as if in one movement, from open sagebrush to high curved orange and red buttes, I feel a change in my breath and my senses expand. I am approaching Ghost Ranch in New Mexico..."
4:48 PM | link | comment
One day I was playing this Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers CD, and ol' Tom, he's going...
And she says, "What does he mean 'don't do me like that'?"
And I say, "What you think he means, baby?"
And she says, "Oh."
And later -- we're talking much later, alright? -- I'm thinking, how weird was that? Almost like saying, "How smart are they? Do they know?" Almost like saying, "When I shock the monkey, can the monkey tell it's me doing it?"
Depends on the monkey, I suppose. Took me a while to figure it out. And I think I'm a pretty smart monkey. It's probably not about smart, though. It's about willing suspension of disbelief, so important to fiction and love.
I often find myself blogging about whatever I was listening to on the radio on the way back from seeing Don. Today it was another Petty tune, which was what got me going on all this. In fact, I quoted it in Gonzo Marketing (I think it was). And it goes a little like this... Maestro?
And for the record, no, I won't back down. Not that anybody's asking, really. But since I'm hard at work (not to mention hard of hearing) on my Grand Unified Theory of Rock & Roll, here's an interesting (I thought) clip from Leo's Shock the Monkey page:
Gabriel actually recorded this in a version with German lyrics and he's done it in German on stage too, which really takes balls: "Ja, du weisst: das schockt den Affen!" I can't help quoting a comment from Brigitte Jelinek's beautiful site (which pulls together comments on PG's music from all over the world): "Will someone please tell a frenchman what the song "Shock the monkey" is about?" He didn't get any straight replies.
Hmmm. That's funny. I thought everyone knew that.
9:32 PM | link |
her secret life
This is one of the very few, if not only, online pictures of Shelley, or Burningbird, as she sometimes calls herself. Contrary to the character of her often contrarian online avataresse, she is actually quite shy. Even in this rare photo, you can see she is facing away from us. What hardly anyone (besides me) knows is that Shelley is an accomplished dominatrix. Yes, you read that right. In this other, supersecret life, she is known as Mistress Sheena. She has her own virtual dungeon and everything!
If you click on her photo to the right, you can see various allusions I've dropped over the years to our... let's say delicate relationship (though it can get pretty rough when she wears the thigh-high spike-heel boots). I once wrote a blog entry all about our special bond, you might call it. But I never quite finished it, as it contained HREFerences to someone I once knew (or thought I did) that were, to be honest, quite cruel. And as you know, it just isn't like me to be plain old mean. My motto is if you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all. Which goes a long way toward explaining certain multi-month "vacations" I've had to take from blogging.
Yes well, anyway, as I just wrote something in email to Shelley and a couple dozen of your standard nethead whackjobs -- something that could be ever so easily misconstrued -- I went looking for that old unfinished blog post, thinking to take out those nasty links and otherwise spruce it up for company. However, I couldn't find the goddam draft. Can you believe that? Yeah, and I have search tools here that would blow your fuckin mind!
Turns out the file must be on that other machine that crashed and burned about 60 gigs of irreplaceable shit, including my great American novel, Been Down So Long Looks Lahk I Cain' Get Down No Mo. But losing that is nothing compared to losing the post about Mistress Sheena. Shelley, what can I say? I am so saddened by this terrible loss. But again, folks, you can click on the image below to recover what few hints remain.
was this review helpful?
3:52 PM | link |
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Saved by the Überbitch!
(and it's not who you think)
I've been in a very weird mood tonight. I know what you're thinking: "How unlike you, Chris!" But it's just been one unholy fuckbuster of a week. Not that they all aren't. It's just that, you know like when you're singing that little Beatles thing about how it can't get no worse, and then it does? Like that.
So let's see... what did I do today? Blew off Eric Norlin's good advice (no, not about branding; about women). Finally fell asleep at 6:30am. Got up at 12:30. This is all part of my new Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy regimen, which involves being cheered every time I think of the pack of brain damaged moron losers who promote Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy. Aaron T. Beck, kiss my ass!
Then I checked mail to see how many people didn't say dick about my text-and-graphics demonstration-by-sampling of unformulated experience, which is, of course, the key to the whole thing. (Where's that other ass-kissing grafik? I know it's around here somewhere.) Then I fucked with my computer for awhile. They've all died except for the Dell Inspiron 7000 laptop, which was a hell of a box back around the time of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Who, btw, can also kiss my ass, if only for his essay on "Self Reliance," the basis for new-age self-help cults from here to Calcutta and back. Fucking fast-buck closet Theosophist. Ptui!!! Then I made spaghetti sauce. And emptied the trash. And washed a pot. Progress not perfection.
After dinner, I lay on the couch for about two hours feeling weird in the dark. Everybody loves Saturday night. But I was restless. Thinking there must be an answer. Or something. At least it cooled down some and I took off my shirt. So there was that. And eventually, I came up here to delete more spam (a man must have a purpose in life), in the course of doing which, I came across this mail I'd seen a few weeks ago but dismissed as representing the next stage in sophistication of the unsolicited commercial email evildoers...
Hi RageBoy, I am the writer of Bitch Blog, the Uberbitch. I will gladly link to you as well. My blog is located at: www.krautgrrl.com/blog
Now, looking at it again, I thought, well damn, that's pretty courteous for even sophisticated spam, and it didn't say she had a webcam and was jes dyin ta MEET me, like those Puerto Rican girls Mick was talking about. OK, so maybe this is from an actual human person, I reasoned. Even if she is whoring for links. I don't know what it is about the internet that has made me so cynical. Something in the water, I suspect. And it's made me mean, too. So even though I clicked the link, I wasn't expecting much. These fucking people you get now online? Ptui!!! <rossperot>Know what I mean?</rossperot>
Thank you RageBoy.
Oh, she's in Missoula. Or Montana. One of those M states. At least she's local. But there's a husband. Shit. Well, then she's probably a north woods soccer mom, and I've had just about all I can take of them. But now wait. Why am I chuckling, then? The title slugs alone are intriguing. "Ex-husband Needs Fellatio," for instance. Maybe soccer has changed, I'm thinking, grown up. After scanning the headlines, I perk up a little at this: "Puke, I sound Catholic. I hate that when I sound Catholic." Yes, I know what she means. I don't think I often sound Catholic (though I could be wrong). However, I do often feel Catholic, and that's when the idea of suicide is most alluring. Those fucking negative introjects can just ruin your whole day! That beastly motherfucking superego nagging! You get that too? It's a bitch, ain't it? Speaking of which, the Überbitch writes (apropos Friday Night Film People "about this guy, who is 'in' film"; an admirably perspicacious use of quotation marks):
"I know women kill but not for sex. We just aren't as passionate about sex to get it by force, and it really disturbs me that men think that's acceptable. What�s up with that? Did they have a messed up childhood with an overprotective, trapezoidal mother?"
OK. All right. I can relate. Personally, I do kill for sex, but she does have a point about Mom. Plus, there's good stuff about how blondes really are as stupid as they seem, and a terrific piece on the science of healthy eating. This is not quite what I was expecting, which was: not much. And then, the capper: "Since I'm a former stripper..." That does it. She's going on the old blogroll. But after Swan, my one true love, who is a current stripper. And besides, we all know what it means to be at the top of my blogroll. I don't need the husband coming after me.
Michele, you are a trip. No no, thank you for reminding me that it's too early to throw in the sponge on the SETI Project.
1:17 AM | link |
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||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.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.