Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Friday, August 27, 2004
the social construction of meaning
the essence of blogging
Stavros the Wonderchicken, whose true name is hidden in the mists of time, blogged a thing recently with the unlikely title Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy, which refers to some pretty amazing changes he's put his body through by working out at a gym. Personally, we don't believe such pursuits are entirely natural. If God had wanted us to have flat abs he would have more intelligently designed the evolutionary process. Or, leaving the creationist quasi-rational pseudoscientific explanations out of it, simply plucked His/Her/Its magic twanger. Oh Froggy!

Anyway, we were implicated or somehow at least entailed in that post, so we (that is to say RageBoy® and myself) decided to add a little comment. The "comment" grew to nearly a thousand words, so we're replicating it here, to underscore the point that, yes Virginia, size does matter. Or something. However, reading Stavros's post first may be is necessary to make even partial sense of what follows.

after just reading this I am now feeling somewhat baddish wondering if my testimonial played any part in messing up your head by making you self-conscious, or more self-conscious. my earliest days of writing EGR as a webzine list in 1995 (my god) taught me many things. two heuristics stick with me, have become glued into my messenger RNA in fact, such that I don't think I could shake them if I wanted to. fortunately, I don't want to. unfortunately, I suspect these molecularly embedded turns of mind are at least in part responsible for my present state of financial ruin. so be careful of what I am about to impart. be aware that these... perhaps principles they could be called... might very well fuck you up to the point there is no WHERE to return to. on the sort-of-plus side, I tell myself that there never was such a WHERE to begin with, so there's no risk involved, only perhaps some degree of terror. and what's a little terror among friends? However, as in all cases, YMMV. and of course such dire warnings and counterbalancing assurances serve as the most irresistible form of seduction. temptation. think St. Anthony in Bosch's manic nightmares. that could be you. please allow me to introduce myself... etc.

if you read further, you agree to indemnify me from any and all damages you may incur as a result of this transmission. to be freed from it's spiritual and psychic bindings, you will have to pass it along to another willing to accept these same powers and chains. this is the way these things we given to me. I look forward to my own liberation should you accept. this concludes the required statement of terms and conditions.

well gee, after all that, I think you may be let down by these two things I have to impart. they're just little stories, not much. nevertheless, the spooky language above still holds. and as this is getting rather longish for a comment(!!!) and I'm thoroughly wasted behind sleep deprivation, I suppose I'd better get on with it. so...

When I first started writing EGR, I quickly realized I could write anything. anything at all. and this was wonderful in the writing I began to discover was in me -- I truly hadn't known this much freedom before the net. who had? but when I was finished writing and obsessively editing -- so many times I thought I'd go blind -- then came the terror. I would think: I can't send this. it's too much. it's too personal. too confessional, too off-putting, bizarre, outrageous, pornographic, emotional, illegal... I just can't. Not *this* one. And I'd sit there, finger hovering over the send key, paralyzed with every form of trepidation you can imagine -- and I imagine you know what I'm saying here. Always, I'd finally hit the key and the terrible, monstrous, vile, beautiful and confusing thing that had come out of somewhere inside me that I'd never known was there, would fly through the pipes and wires of the internet to people I didn't know, had never seen or spoken with in any way. intimate pieces of myself going out like SETI probes: is there anyone out there? do you know what this thing is that I've sent you? because I don't. it makes no sense what we say until it's heard. unless someone says something back that begins to build something else, something larger, more complex and mysterious, yet more familiar at the same time. so I would wait and sweat and go through, you know, changes man, every time I sent out one of THOSE. we all know, anyone who really writes, when it's one of THOSE. one where you've bared a part of your soul -- even though I don't think we have souls, something else inside. just us chickens. once in a while a wonderchicken. a rare enough event. unique and miraculous I would say, if I put much stock in modernism or miracles. but still... however, the point was my waiting in a nervous jangle of conflicting emotions about the implications of what I'd just done, what I'd -- oh my god! -- actually sent to thousands of perfect strangers.

This one will be much shorter, but it holds the magic bit. Which is that whenever, and I mean *every* time I sent out one of THOSE, I would get the most wonderful, heartening, deeply felt responses from people I'd never heard from before. they would de-lurk if I'd somehow managed to write from that place that can only be said to be THAT place. you've been there, you live there, I can tell from what you write. there are many who have no idea what THAT place is. take me, for instance. I don't know either. but I can read a lot in the bounce. how it strikes other humans, touches them. the echo of that opened my heart a little more each time it happened, and what I wrote got scarier to send, more naked, more willing, more courageous in a way that felt often stupid, bufoonish... bombastic. that's why it took courage to send it. OK, I'd say, this one is a piece of shit, and it makes me a clown and a fool, but fuck it, it's going out. and the weird thing is that people would cheer me on. say, please oh please, whatever that was, more of THAT.

This is the actual transmission: write anything that comes into your head. and let anything *into* your head. send everything. now you are free. and permanently bound -- to the readers who make meaning with you, with me, with all of us.

goo goo ga joob, bro.


2:36 PM | link |

Thursday, August 26, 2004
beck and call
whatever you think, it's not what you think

Strike a pose
Strike a pose

Greta Garbo and Monroe
Dietrich and DiMaggio
Marlon Brando, Jimmy Dean
on the cover of a magazine...

Madonna - Vogue
I feel I should warn you at the outset that the whole first part of this could be a red herring. Also possibly the second and third parts. If there is a third part. I can't remember. Think Virginia Postrel. Think style, not substance. Think, hey: just a ripping good read!
So what I want to know is: who the fuck is Steve Nakamoto? He keeps turning up in the sidebars of a whole lot of the searches I run on Amazon. But as a whole lot of these searches are for new-agey relationship shit, I at first just ignored him. I mean, this whole research agenda is masochistic enough. However, not to be so easily thwarted, the bastard kept popping up so often, I finally looked at a couple of his "So You'd Like To..." guides, wondering if one would be like "So You'd Like To... Strangle Me With a Live Boa Constrictor," and a box I could check for YES. It was just what I expected, though: shit. Though it could be valuable at some point, I told myself, as it's so pure, such 100% grade-A hogwash. Not a single book he lists has any redeeming social value. But then, I told myself some more, this is hardly anything, in itself, to write home about. There are so many examples of this sort that they constitute the quotidian mean, the hump in the bell curve of unadulterated idiocy that has come to characterize nearly everything written today about "love." So hey, just another garbage-bargeful of nauseating drek.

But tonight I searched for something by Aaron T. Beck, "the father," as it says in the mini-bio on the back of one of his many books, "of cognitive psychology." He is too: full fathom five. <!-- I wonder should you add: "Thy father lies." Hmmm, I suppose not. The smart ones will get it the way it is; you'd just be insulting their intelligence by spelling it out too plain. And the dumb literary-allusion challenged ones wouldn't get it anyway. OK, so no. But should you tell the hosers Valued Readers that we piss on cognitive psychology? Nah, not yet, requires too much explanation. Later for sure, though, right? And as long as I'm making these little personal hidden comments to yourself, also don't forget to explain, like you promised -- what? five-six months ago? -- why Abraham Maslow, co-court-jester to Esalen Institute along with Fritz "I am not in this world to live up to your expectations" Perls, was a dangerous fool. --><!-- uh... what's that? Oh yeah, I see, good point. But remind me later, OK? --> And there he was again, Little Stevie Nakamoto. Damn! That tears it, I opined. <!-- Christ, don't say opined! It's a stupid word. C'mon. Only bad science fiction writers say opined. And besides, "that tears it" is hardly an opinion. --><!-- RB, would you PLEASE just shut the fuck up! --> So I went to his profile page to see what I could see. What I saw immediately was that he seems to have cobbled together 39 of these "So You'd Like To..." guides. Count em, thirty-nine!

  3. Attract Love Into Your Life Naturally!
  5. Become A Master Listener & More Compassionate Person!
  7. Catch & Release: Keep Your Relationship Alive and Well!
    <!-- Oh lookee, it includes Unmarried to Each Other: The Essential Guide to Living Together as an Unmarried Couple -->
    <!--Yeah, followed by Get Anyone to Do Anything: Never Feel Powerless Again--With Psychological Secrets to Control and Influence Every Situation. Nice segue, Steve! -->
    <!-- Not to mention my own personal favorite, I Hate You, Don't Leave Me: Understanding the Borderline Personality. -->
    <!-- And how about The Dance of Connection: How to Talk to Someone When You're Mad, Hurt, Scared, Frustrated, Insulted, Betrayed, or Desperate? -->
    <!-- Sounds like a borderline to me.. -->
    <!-- Well, let's run down the list. Mad, check. Hurt, check. Scared, check. Frustrated, check. Insulted, check. Betrayed, check. Desperate, check. Yup, definitely borderline. -->
    <!-- That's by that Harriet Lerner bitch, isn't it. Didn't someone tell us she's a total cunt in real life? -->
    <!-- Yeah, I seem to remember something about that. But I'm surprised to hear you say such a thing, RB. What do you know about "real life"? Look, hey, this is great fun and all, but it's almost 6am. Could we like you know move on?. -->
    <!-- What? So I won't ask you what YOU know about "real life"? Yeah sure, let's move on. Asshole. -->
    <!-- I guess it's a "blind" spot because you can't see inside your own mouth. I never thought of that. Man, this Steve guy is some kinda smart! -->
  11. Find A Man's Love Weakness!
    <!-- Wouldn't it be funny if it was bad breath? -->
  12. Get A Man To Commit With An Unshakable Attachment!
  13. Have Tons of Fun Meeting Quality Men!
  14. Hook Up With A Nice Catch Online!
  16. Increase Your Attractiveness To Men
    <!-- THE BABE MAGNET! -->
    <!-- Yeah, THE BABE MAGNET!!! You go, RB. -->
  18. Land The Love of Your Life For Keeps!
  19. Learn Advanced Communication Skills For Dating & Love!
  20. Learn the Secrets of Unconscious Rapport
    <!-- Hey, wait a second. If it's unconscious, how would you know you had it? -->
    <!-- Read it again. It's a secret. I bet it's a spiritual thing, you think? -->
    <!-- Or maybe he means when you're both asleep. -->
    <!-- Or fucking. I could see that. -->
    <!-- Something Tantric then, yeah. That's probably it. -->
  21. Let Go Of The Big One That Got Away!
    <!-- Hey, my Big One never gets away! -->
  23. Make Your Attraction Mega-Powerful!
  24. Manage Your Love Upsets With Men!
  25. Men: Fall in Love With the Right Woman!
    <!-- Yeah, good fucking luck with that one, Men! -->
  30. Score Points With Your Mate When She Has PMS!
    <!-- Hold on, I think I know this one. You say, "Sweetheart, I know why you're being such a bitch. You're on the rag!" -->
    <!-- Does that really work? -->
    <!-- Every time. -->
  31. Separate the Men From the Boys In Your Love Life!
    <!-- She'd have trouble with us! -->
    <!-- What do mean "would have"? She did. -->
  32. Size Up The Men In Your Love Life More Accurately!
    <!-- "Alright, listen up! All you guys with eight inches or more, over here. The rest of you can hit the road." -->
    <!-- It's that "catch and release" thing again. -->
  33. Succeed At Love (Men) Or Get Happily Married (Women)
    <!-- How come you can never find a feminist when you really need one? -->
    <!-- Is that a joke? If it is, I don't get it. -->
  34. Surf The Internet For Love!
    <!-- You get that one, though, doncha RB? Speaking of which, I've been meaning to talk to you about the 30 gigabytes of JPEGs I found on the Mac this morning. -->
    <!-- Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river. -->
  36. Take Up The Slack In Your Small Talk!
  37. Understand the Unconscious Dating Secrets
    <!-- Christ, first it was Unconscious Rapport. Now it's Unconscious Dating. -->
    <!-- No mystery here. It's anima stuff. You really need to brush up on your Jung. -->
  38. Win Points Instead of Lose Points With The Bachelor!
  39. Women: Learn How To Talk To Men

OK, you say. All right, I give up. So who the fuck is Steve Nakamoto? Other than some x-random bungwipe who thinks he knows WHAT MAKES WOMEN TICK.

Why, you mean you didn't know? He's no less than a former "Life Mastery Trainer" for "motivational expert" Tony Robbins. Plus a "Human Relations/Communications Instructor" for Dale Carnegie & Associates. That's who! Wow, huh?

However, as you may have guessed, this isn't really about Steve-O. It's about America's -- and therefore, by way of export, the world's -- funny ideas about credentials. In other words: what counts toward credibility these days? These other words are necessary here because the specialized term of art, "credentials," is so freighted with academic connotations: doctorate, post-doc, university affiliation, number of journal articles published, number of peer citations, fellowships, chairs, membership in (the right) professional associations, and so on. And so very on, in fact. Notice I haven't mentioned salary, number of palms greased, conventional beauty of wife and/or lovers (or rugged good looks of husband and/or lovers), lavishness of dinner parties thrown, number of institutional power brokers invited to lavish dinner parties, currency with cutting edge jargon, vocal support of ideas already safely well supported, vocal non-support of ideas not supported by those higher up in the hierarchy, unqualified faith (or at least well-voiced lip service to the idea) that The Hierarchy is an inherent given of Existence -- the Way Things Are writ large.

These outwardly endorsed semantics of what "credentials" confer or infer credit for -- as well as their concomitant, if always implicit, self serving suggestions -- have been around for a long time. As long as the Academy, in fact. Which, suffice it to say, might as well be fucking forever. Please note that I do not mean to indicate by this description any measure of undue esteem.

Granted, there are many good heads (not infrequently accompanied by good hearts) who have survived the credentials racket and refused to let it prevent them from advancing the state and store of human knowledge worth knowing. Their cred is of a different and a deeper kind. Such people, when I come across them, command my profound respect, and whenever I can, I commend them to yours.

Nice paragraph, huh?

I mean, for someone who barely finished high school.

And therefore has no credentials to speak of.

Which point is intrinsic to the larger point I'm building toward. That is, if I can remember at this point what it was, and this potential for mental slippage -- as you, Valued Reader, know all too well -- is always a clear and present danger.

My little detour though the academic world was to differentiate (if not distinguish) it's notion of credibility from the credibility that has come to count in popular culture. Instead of differentiate, I was going to say compare and contrast -- echoes of the classroom; hey! teacher! -- but that's not really right, not the same thing. Because the popular view of what's credible is not in contrast to the view from the academy, but rather, is firmly founded on it.

Universities gave us a sort of standardized system of weights and measures for assessing what is good, valuable, interesting, laudable and possibly even true. It's the system, not the weights and measures themselves -- the specific gravitas -- that pop culture has inherited.

Potentially annoying but needful aside: The highly undisinterested ideological project that has sought to distinguish "high culture" from "low culture," "high-brow" from "low-brow," is what is technically referred to as a rhetorical blivet. A blivet being ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. It's purpose was to re-animate (see adjacent figure) the God-given validity of an "upper class," not as measured by economic status, but as conferred by that noble if somewhat rarefied abstraction called culture. See, e.g., Mathew Arnold on Culture and Anarchy. Yes, as in mere lawlessness loosed upon the world when the center of centers does not hold. That already-here millennium in which the falconer cannot recall the Millennium Falcon. But is legally forced to recall the Pinto because the gas tanks blew up. All of which is to say that one of the many things postmodernism means is never having to say you're sorry.

Aside within potentially annoying aside: Note that "culture" is the root of "agriculture." Curious, no? And that "cultured" people are people who pretend to a high degree of "cultivation." Curiouser still. And note further that this cultured cultivation has come to distinguish so-called civilized people from so-called heathen primitives (we don't call the Darkies that anymore for reasons of political correctness, a.k.a. abject fear). The irony in this nomenclature is that it's no accident that culture and agriculture share a common etymological... uh... root. They are both all about roots. About digging in the dirt. Just as "cultivation" is largely about shit. That is to say, heaping shit on roots so that they'll grow. All these words are about farming. And why did cultured, civilized society come to be called the "landed gentry"? Because they had land. Duh! That's how they got rich and got to be powerful and control shit, just as they once controlled how much shit they put on the crops they cultivated, like corn and cotton and coffee and tobacco and -- oooh, oooh, I know -- opium! They got so rich that they colonized and now control even language -- think universities, publishing, radio, television, advertising -- such that we have forgotten what culture and cultivation used to mean. And that they were once farmers. If you don't believe this, don't believe in the power of agriculture, or think these observations reflect mere quirks of evolving usage, then you probably also don't believe that the real reason the war in Viet Nam went on so long was the staggering profits reaped from heroin shipped home to Amerikan ghettoes in the body bags of soldiers who grew up in those same brokendown sub-cities. And that before those profits were reaped, opium poppies had to be reaped by the billions in the Golden Triangle. The power of agriculture. Believe it.

Ah, but I see that I'm getting ahead of myself.

All this purposeful obfuscation has been to set up an example, which if I were a smarter (or less perverse) fellow, I would have presented first to help you understand what I'm talking about. But I'm either not that smart, or I don't give a fuck about helping you. Take your pick.

Here's the example. You ready? I've left it nice and big because I like the title typeface. And also so you won't miss anything. That's a hint. And you may need this hint, as there will be a pop quiz directly after the grafik.

Now, what do we notice about this cover that's a little odd, a bit fishy? Class? Anyone?... No? How about you Billy. Why don't you explain to us what's wrong with this picture -- as you seem to be doing nothing but drawing pictures of Tyranosaurus Rexes on your math book and you haven't heard a word I've said. Why don't YOU tell us!
Faint strains of primitive music drift through the classroom window from a chopped Camaro breaking Mach 2 on the street outside. We don't need no education...

Billy, looking up from his paleontological reconstruction, and looking, moreover, terminally bored, drawls:

That's easy. Since when is fucking Vogue a credible arbiter of what's "definitive" [he does finger quotes here like he's flipping the bird] in any domain beyond lamer "fashion" [he flips the quotes again] and pathetically obsolete delusions of what's "hip." Beck and his marketing handlers are clearly pitching this cognitive "psychology" crap to the self-help morons who, if they could help themselves, would be cruising a different aisle, so to speak. And if they had half a brain to cognize with, would be like LOL, dude, when they spotted this blowhard blurb, wondering how anyone could be stupid enough to believe for a New York nanosecond that Vogue -- fucking VOGUE??? -- would know dick about cognitive psych, which is a crock to begin with, a black boxful of simple-assed algorithms pretending to explain the most complex organic structure in all of like fucking NATURE, man, not to mention what people can do with it, or how twisted they get behind what it gets off on doing back. And what? Did positivism stage a come-back while I was drawing dinosaurs? Gimme a break. It's a load of shit.
The teacher, though clearly floored at this totally unexpected answer:
You watch your mouth in here, Billy Milligan!
Billy, laconically:
Blow me.
Strikes a pose.

...to be continued...
The author wishes to acknowledge the generous support he has received for this work-in-progress from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the National Science Foundation, the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, and the Pugh Charitable Trust. But however munificent, these pale in comparison with the Gonzo PayPal Blog Grants that continue to pour in from...
You, The Valued Reader!

<!-- Jesus, am I ever glad that's over! Do you realize it took us all fucking night to write this worthless swill? -->
<!-- Yeah. Whew, huh? But wait... Shouldn't we say more like "dribble in"? I mean, if money was pouring in, we wouldn't be eating cat food. Now would we? -->
<!-- No, I think we should leave it "pour." Then people will think, well damn, if everybody else is giving them money, I guess I better drop a C-note on the button too! -->
<!-- Bloggers? Are you shitting me? -->
<!-- Hey, at least we're eating good cat food. Where do you think that came from? -->

11:02 AM | link |

Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Linked In
or locke'd out?
These goddam Koreans are starting to get on my nerves. What does this mean? The number 19 with hearts coming out of it. Is that supposed to... what? I have no idea. Why don't these fucking people just leave me alone. Maybe Wonderchicken can explain it. Though that link is primarily to thank him for the wonderful lead to his recent "Politics Chafe My Scrote." Never have I seen fellatio and the Caucasian Chalk Circle so succinctly juxtaposed and dispatched. Good work there, Stavros. So what the fuck is it with this Cabalistic spam about the love of 19. A 19 year old girl, I could understand, but this came in one of those rare emails I receive every other month or so that is not from a porn site. They're infrequent enough not to interrupt my contemplation of the other mail I must study so carefully, but these little hearts have got me irked. Don't these people have better things to do with their time? I understand they make excellent kim-chee. So credit where due, I say. But if you have any sway over there, Mr. Wonderchicken, Sir, would you ask them to knock this shit off? Thanks.

However, that's not what I meant to write about. I just had to get it off my mind first. Blow out the old pipes, you know? A man can only take so much.

My intended theme this time out concerns all these myriad goddam social networking schemes. Seems there's another of the motherfuckers every week now, each vying to add bells and whistles the others haven't dreamed up yet, all in an effort to what? I'll tell you what: make us fill in more bloody forms than the IRS could invent if they hired ten thousand more lifetime-tenured civil servants with the IQ of goldfish and the vicious demeanor of starving Rottweilers.

Jesus Christ. Wasn't the point of all this -- now forgotten somewhere back there in the dawn of Internet Time -- to stop feeding databases with fixed-field hor's doerves culled from the least interesting minutiae of our already beleaguered lives? I could never remember my own phone number before the World Wide Web. Now I know it by heart. I ask you: is this progress?

However, LinkedIn seems to have a distinctly cut-above approach to facilitating serious business relationships. The system is well designed to prevent the sort of free-for-all messaging whereby one suddenly finds oneself in receipt of 793,482 emails, half of which reflect hot debate about the best etiquette to adopt when attending a rodeo in Montana so as not to alienate the kind of dunderheaded local halfwits who frequent those barbaric events. In this, I would say LinkedIn has achieved a bit of an edge.

And it's true that you get a better class of people there. Not so many of the sniveling illiterate morons who have gravitated like lemmings to "the blopgosphere." Oh please! At least there's been a bit of a letup this month as they all got themselves positioned to attend these distasteful conventions that seem to be taking place. (Can anyone tell me what this is all about? Some new form of sporting event, I imagine.)

At any rate, I noticed that Kyle Shannon was on LinkedIn, and I haven't spoken with him for ever so long. I dropped by his sweatshop loft in NY City in the summer of, I want to say 1995, but it could have a year either side of that. Kyle is a great guy, very funny, and brilliant. Creative? Whooo-ee! As we say out here in Colorado. But only when we feel we really must.

I could have just sent him mail, which I've been meaning to do for a couple-three years now, but I decided to play along with LinkedIn's rather labyrinthine Way of Doing Things. I should explain that my visit to the Mac infested sweat shop was before he and his partner, Chow Yun Fat, cornered 93.7% of the then burgeoning web-mill racket. Then turned around and sold Agency.com for $723 billion to a South American herbal remedies cartel and started playing golf with the Bushes and Trumps. In other words, Kyle (I'm thinking) is fucking loaded, while I (I am certain; no surmising required) am dead broke. Can you connect these dots, class? Yes, that's correct. I've turned over a new leaf lately, deciding to get serious about earning a living again, even if it means I have to work.

First, it seemed I had to send Kyle some quasi-formal proposal concerning my desire to infringe on his time and good graces. Hmmm. I had to think for a second. Then I started typing...


RageBoy here. Listen, man, I think we could make a killing right now in nanotech reassemblers for temporal shifting. it's the future of entertainment. yes. not to mention the megabuck futures in GEOGRAPHIC transmission and reassembly. put the airlines, hotel chains, whole cities, even countries out of business overnight. I say we develop this at a convenient Lagrange point, say L5, to keep prying eyes away until we're ready to release the translight sub-beta BuckyBall refibrillation units to the usual Alpha Centaurian subcontractors -- after all they do have more experience with the Cauchy-Riemann equations and K-shell time-bending processes than any other outfit within a dozen parsecs. Am I right? I mean, am I right, dude?

Yeah, we make enough off this one to buy up two or three outer planets and set up The Migration from there. I'll split with you 60-40 in your favor (seed money advantage) but I get the slot in the 23rd century history books. Deal?

c'mon, man, it'll be FUN!!!


Then it seemed I had to go through an intermediary who is already "linked in" (get it?) to both Kyle and myself. Thus have the good folks at LinkedIn not only spared us the bother of random overtures from strangers with harebrained ideas, they have also single-handedly reinvented the Department of Business Prevention for the Age of the Web. Good going, fellows. So next I wrote the following, which, as you will see, is to petition this contact-in-potentia to accept my offer of bilateral linkage...
From: "Christopher Locke" <clocke@panix.com>
Subject: Cortical Delamination on LinkedIn?

Kyle-san, you scurvy dog!

I found you while I was searching through my sock drawer at LinkedIn. Let's attack Poland so we can help each other with referrals. Does that make sense? I'm not sure. But if we also attack Northumbria, both of our networks will begin to glow with a strange subaqueous aura and our evil powers will be increased manyfold. Cool, huh? To add me as your corporate concubine, just follow the trail of bread crumbs below.

Yours for Transgalactic Migration!


Now all I have to do is wait by my email client or phone and we'll be in business. And then, all you people who laughed at me for begging cheese whiz and pretzels will be laughing out the other side of your face as I go riding past in my brand new Cadillac Escalade and flip you a quarter out the window. Yeah, so who'll be crying then? Tell me that.

2:29 PM | link |

night falls in circuit city

oh! and how did you get here?
with your stars and all and your hair all flying sideways

6:51 AM | link |

Monday, August 23, 2004
learned optimism
say cheese

but your teeth are so BIG, grandma!
your eyes so bright!

5:04 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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The Cluetrain Manifesto

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...the ventriloquial voice is both an attempt to imagine and pit the the speech of the body against the speech of culture, and an attempt to control that illegitimate speech, to draw it into discourse...

Sein und Zeitgeist

Samuel Pepys

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