Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Saturday, October 23, 2004
are spammers just stupid
or what?
-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Control Prem:ature Ejac:ulation
Date: Sun, 24 Oct 2004 03:15:56 +0100
From: Carole Winston 
Reply-To: oabnnmkftdtoo@yahoo.com
To: Clocke 

Hey! It Worked Great For Me! I Love This Stuff

7:52 PM | link |

absolut elsewhere
I just posted something on Corante -- my Ad Hominem blog there -- concerning mail I received today from either Nat Ebogchgu or Polly Wucopec, it's not entirely clear which. Go have a look.

Meanwhile, as a sort of booby-prize bonus (since this post is uncharacteristically terse) here's a photo we recently unearthed of RageBoy® as an infant. Notice that even at this tender age, his mohawk was sufficiently grown in to push up the blanket swaddling him.

1:56 PM | link |

Thursday, October 21, 2004
self promotion by proxy
worst practices three years later

Today Eric Norlin surprised me with this...
October 21, 2004
Go Read Locke

Doc's posting about blogs, money, commercialization, use by coroporations -- all here.

EVERYONE involved in that conversation should go read Gonzo Marketing by Chris Locke.....he nailed this topic years ago -- before most people could pronounce "blog".....maybe the world is now ready to hear what he wrote.

once Digital ID World is over, i'm heading to a beach in florida for 5 days -- i'm bringing GM w/ me to read - again.

About a week ago -- one I missed entirely -- David Weinberger wrote on JOHO the Blog...
October 13, 2004

Gonzo Marketing revisited

I've been re-reading Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing and I've been struck again by what a damn good book it is. Chris writes so well, and so entertainingly, that it's easy to forget how profound his ideas are. Gonzo is a visionary work, which is not a word applied to many (any?) marketing books. And it's got more ideas in its little finger than most marketing writers have in a lifetime.

So why didn't Gonzo knock Who Moved My Stinky Stinky Cheese off the best-seller list? It didn't help that Gonzo was published a couple of weeks after 9/11. (Oh, thank you, terrorists!) And, frankly, I don't think the title helped: It sounds like it's about how you can pull off wacky marketing stunts when in fact it dismantles marketing's basic assumptions and points it in a new direction: micromarkets, voice, engagement.

There's plenty I disagree with, and, sure, a voice as strong as Chris' doesn't appeal equally to all, but so what? At least there's lots to disagree about and at least it has a voice. Go buy a copy for a friend in marketing...

Eric and David, thank you so much. Your checks are in the mail.

2:38 PM | link |

we the sheeple...
the blind leading the deaf
The following is from John Linton Roberson's blog I Didn't Write That! ("completely unfair and slanted political Jeremiads")...
Some of the quotes Paul O'Neill has shared with we, the sheeple:

"This meeting was like many of the meetings that I would go to over the course of two years. The only way I can describe it is that, well, the president is like a blind man in a roomful of deaf people. There is no discernible connection." -- Paul O'Neill, describing a March 19, 2001, Cabinet meeting to discuss the California energy crisis.
via Technorati's pretty cool beta Book Talk page.

2:17 PM | link |

4:21 AM | link |

gapingvoid / hughtrain

"Cluetrain is basically a wildly uneven, insane rant that makes little sense. Nor does all of it stand up to intellectual scrutiny. But since when has marketing been sane and rational? Since when have people's purchasing habits been sane and rational? If people weren't inherently psychotic, my day job would be a whole lot easier. We need an insane book because insanity is much closer to the truth."
phaTTboi (a.k.a. Paul Scheele; I'll be damned if I can find a home page for his blog; though I note he has nothing to disclaim at this time; good line) sent me this link tonight, saying: "Something you might mention strategically, should opportunity present itself..." I took that to mean I should go look. I looked. he was right. here's the first thing I saw...

sounds kinda familiar. on the "hughtrain" page I also see this: "(NB:This thinking was all inspired by Cluetrain, of course, hence the name etc.)"

I leave an insane comment half hoping no one will read it. I realize with some horror how isolated I've become. except for my cat, who is getting cooler by the day. and fatter. I've named her kitty-kitty. I harbor a nagging suspicion that I'm utterly fucked. but I'm OK with that. it's not really so bad once you get used to it.

not really my cat. but close.

2:09 AM | link |

the heart of the matter
even though... even though...

Sounds good, right? Hell, what could be bad about such a basic Christian virtue?

And who would stoop so low as to want to "get even"? Gosh.


...here's a clip from the above. Just a little something to think about.
Sweetie pie.

Introduction: Reasons to Be
Cautious about the Use of
Forgiveness in Psychotherapy

Sharon Lamb

Forgiveness is in the air -- public figures making public apologies, movies depicting loving kindness offered to murderers, and psychotherapy programs promoting forgiveness in individuals as well as in marital couples. It is a gift, an offering, a blessing, a cleansing event. Professionally speaking, within the field of psychology the literature on forgiveness has arisen with little criticism and developed without the generally accepted process of hypothesis testing in a neutral context. Rather than neutrality, there has been an almost wholesale acceptance of forgiveness as a virtue and, because of this, little concern about advocating forgiveness in psychotherapy.

Indeed, this trend is in line with other trends in psychology that have been promoted by American Psychological Association president Martin Seligman and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi on "positive psychology." In a recent article, the two define the field of "positive psychology at the subjective level" as being about valued experiences such as "well-being, contentment, and satisfaction (in the past); hope and optimism (for the future); and flow and happiness (in the present)." ("Flow" is a term coined by Csikszentmihalyi to describe the feeling of well-being a person derives from mindful engagement in an activity she or he loves to do.) They go on to describe what positive psychology means for the individual: "The capacity for love and vocation, courage, interpersonal skill, aesthetic sensibility, perseverance, forgiveness, originality, future mindedness, spirituality, high talent, and wisdom."

I believe forgiveness has become a popular notion among therapists today (see chapter 10) because of this new "positive psychology," which is indeed an extension of the three-decade long growth of cognitive-behavioral methods. The step or stage process toward forgiveness, the encouragement of benevolent attitudes, and the reframing of negative thoughts that are a part of many forgiveness counseling goals today have their roots in the cognitive-behavioral methods originated by Albert Ellis, Albert Bandura, Aaron Beck, and Martin Seligman. These men all researched and advocated a form of therapy that asked patients to change the way they think about their problems in order to change the way they feel and behave toward them. In a sense they overthrew the humanistic psychology movement of Carl Rogers and Abraham Maslow in the 1960s, which emphasized acceptance of feelings and self-discovery, and replaced it with a more directive approach to therapy, with homework assignments and sometimes even argumentative therapists whose goal is to show clients the errors in their thinking. Although, like all therapies, cognitive-behavioral therapy originated in the clinical setting, it aspires to be a more scientifically based practice and positions itself in opposition to "softer" (less scientifically based) practices like humanism and psychoanalysis . Indeed, cognitive-behavioral theorists like Seligman and Csikszentmihalyi (2000) frequently belittle humanistic psychology in particular, saying it spawned a "myriad of self-help movements," a psychology of "victimology," a legacy of "crystal healing, aromatherapy," and books that help one find one's inner child.

Many forms of forgiveness therapy follow this cognitive-behavioral track in psychology. Advocates believe that if one changes the way one thinks about one's pain, one's perpetrator, and one's injury a person can forgive and that this act, this change of heart, this new way of thinking about one's injuries can bring about happiness and contentment. The belief is that a person has the freedom to choose to forgive, to think differently, and to feel differently. �s in Beck's therapy for depression, Ellis's therapy for life's problems, or Seligman's optimism, through challenging old thinking patterns and old ways of responding, a person can free him or herself from responding to the past.

While current practices of forgiveness in therapy follow this model, recent forgiveness theorists and researchers have not ignored the philosophical history and the religious underpinnings of the concept of forgiveness. And there is now an extensive literature in the field.... In spite of these extensive reviews of the philosophical, religious, and scientific dimensions of forgiveness, few have challenged the idea that forgiveness is a virtue to be endorsed and taught in a variety of circumstances. This volume is borne of two curmudgeonly but different responses to this literature: one from a philosopher concerned that psychologists were not taking seriously the philosophical questions that arose in their promotion of forgiveness, and the other from a feminist psychologist who saw problems specific to women as well as problems for psychologists whose goals ought to be the exploration, understanding, and accepting of negative emotions as well as positive ones.

Abraham Maslow, Carl Rogers, Albert Bandura, Albert Ellis, Aaron Beck, Martin Seligman, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. Hey, fuckin-A, the gang's all here! Expect to hear more about this misbegotten lot of looney-tunes losers a little later on. Meanwhile, keep your dial right here. And kids?

This has been a public service announcement.

1:01 AM | link |

Monday, October 18, 2004
The Unconscious v. WYSIWYG
or: why what you see is often so much less than what you get

My sister Liz sent me this photo today along with the following
text that accompanied the forward from who knows where...
This came from a Rig Manager for Global Marine Drilling in St. Johns, Newfoundland. They have to divert the path of these things away from the rig by towing them with ships. In this case the water was calm and the sun was almost directly overhead so the diver was able to get into the water and click this pic. They estimated the weight at 300,000,000 tons.

2:59 PM | link |

Sunday, October 17, 2004
the end of fan mail as usual
letter from a young reader
The following arrived this morning...
Subject: fan mail as usual
Date: Sun, 17 Oct 2004 16:49:19 +0000
From: Jenny *
To: clocke@panix.com

Hey, Mr. Locke, my name is Jenny and, though I've tried to restrain myself from writing to you what you've probably read a good few thousand times, I'm too tempted to tell you how much I appreciate your books and your blogs. Gonzo Marketing has made me look at business in a whole different way (a more positive one..just thought I'd clarify that before you start banging your head on something solid for ripping apart a poor child's brain!..just kidding) and there was a time fairly recently where I printed out your blogs in the evenings to read in the mornings on the bus to school. they've woken me up and helped me assume a happy look when there wasn't one naturally. people started to stare at a teenage girl laughing at seven in the morning.. pure outrage! once I began reading the more serious posts, I was almost surprised that someone with such a wonderful sense of humor can be sad..I became sad with you. I hope this doesn't freak you out heh. all my friends now know about you, and it's given me a chance to bond with my dad who recommended you to me.

anyway, enough rambling, I doubt you'd want to hear any of this in the first place. toodloo. .

I wrote back...

what a wonderful letter! it may surprise you to learn that I don't get all that much fan mail. depending on my mood and the phase of the moon, I think this means a) everybody's scared of me, or b) everybody hates me. The notion that most people are just too busy never occurs to me. I mean, how can they be too busy for ME!? Mi-mi-mi... (Practicing my voice exercises.)

Would you mind if I blogged this? I could just say it was from "Jenny" -- or, if you have a blog and wanted me to, I could point to that. I have a teenage daughter (14) who I'm just about to go pick up for lunch and the usual light (or heavy, it depends) banter. She never tires of telling me what a lamer I am -- usually while doing quite an excellent Napoleon Dynamite impression. Anyway, if the idea doesn't freak you out, it might win me some points with Selene (her real name, duh).

in any case, I was very glad to read this. thank you so much.


I got a response very quickly. She said, "go right ahead, but no, I have no blog as of yet." Adding, "have fun with your daughter!"

I did tell Selene about this exchange, and I could tell she thought it was pretty cool. She even said so, which is rare praise indeed, coming from her. There is a lot of love between us, but it's not something that fits too well into so many words. Whoever your dad is, Jenny, I suspect he knows this. And that you do too. I hope you'll thank him for me for the recommendation that resulted in your mail today. The image of you cracking up over my stuff at 7am on the school-bus just blows me away. A world worth living in is made of just such small stories. I bet someone reading this is getting that right now. So you've already passed it along. As far as I can figure, in my fifty-something years of figuring, this is how it works. Keep laughing, and -- don't tell your dad I said this part -- rock on with your bad self!

7:59 PM | link |

A Letter to Madame Levy
who lives in France now
I hope you won't mind that I'm blogging this instead of sending it in mail. Not sure I can repeat the performance if I try to edit it down to the bits I want to send to everyone. I just don't know if I have it in me. I just don't know. I don't know. Echo. Listen for the echo...
"The sociological imagination enables us to grasp history and biography and the relations between the two within society.... No social study that does not come back to the problems of biography, of history and of their intersections within a society has completed its intellectual journey."

The Sociological Imagination
C. Wright Mills


I don't know quite how it happened, but yesterday I picked up my landline phone, and I had 17 msgs going back to September. I'd used the phone in the interim, and there was no beep-beep-beep, the usual sign that there are msgs waiting to be listened to. Odd. Probably has something to do with the fact that I've been using (720) 304-8077 for dialup until my DSL gets installed. in the meantime I've been using my cell to make and take calls: (720) 530-4897. both are good, but the 8077 one is likely to be busy.

Yada yada. So I finally got your message from, what? A week or more ago. Would have liked to talk, so I'm sorry we didn't connect.

I've had a really weird sort of relapse day today. Didn't sleep well at all last night, then woke up feeling like homemade shit. Took my meds and moaned a lot. Invaded by those same old memories of loss and abandonment. Jesus. You know? I think you do. Yesterday was so different. I was feeling great. Got money from my Chicago client, wrote a "press release" that made me laugh. Jim Lipton sent me all kinds of presents from my "Wedding Registry": a beautiful large cobalt blue Emile Henry Couleurs Pasta Bowl, an elegant black S&M-lite "Foxtails Soft Flogger" (not really into being flogged; I don't think; he says "I missed the wedding, but perhaps this will help with the ongoing nuptials." Not sure how he got the thing, as it seems to have been discontinued.), a DVD of The Lost Weekend with Ray Milland, and a book by psychoanalyst extraordinaire Otto Kernberg on Love Relations: Normality and Pathology. They were all sorta jokes on my Wedding Registry for me and RB getting married, but all were very nice surprises. Especially the bowl, which is lovely, and the Kernberg book, which I've wanted to have a look at for years. The DVD player still isn't set up, hasn't been for two years, but the kitty likes playing with the whip.

Evidently, Jim was inspired to these acts of outrageous largesse by his "spiritual advisor" (he tells me), The Happy Tutor, who recently writes: "We need martyrs. What we have are whores. I should know." I've done my best to warn Jim about his devotion to someone as... volatile as the man who fronts his blog with such fare as this.

But so far the influence seems to have been salutary. Makes me think I should update my Wish List. Hmmm... I see I have lots of chocolates on there. Must have been hungry when I did that. And coffee, naturally.

Also, I had a good session with Don yesterday. I was feeling like The Depression was finally gone. After crawling through Barnes & Noble for a couple hours, went over to my son Jesse's house (his wife is away somewhere) and watched a cheesy movie with him -- The Core -- which is what we often do together.

Then this morning: crash. Fuck shit piss.

And the best I can do today is tell myself: "Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown."

Hope I'm not bringing you down with this. I know it will pass. But so weird to wake up and feel so lost and find myself again holding my head in my hands, rocking back and forth and wanting to cry. Chinatown. Somehow, I don't know why, thinking that helps. It's Chinatown. We'll never understand why things happen the way they do. But of course we can't forget. At least there are other people who understand that too. Like you. I have such wonderful friends. I do. Otherwise I don't know what I would have done in the worst of it. And it helps me to remember that this, today, is not "the worst of it." No. But there's this Stones song I sometimes think of called, I think, When Blue Turns to Gray. The blues, when they're happening, when I'm fully in them, hurt so bad. But when they leave, when it's over, then... what? Can't even feel the loss. The loss of loss. What a thing to long for, to invite back, because it feels deeper, more real, more connected. Something.

I guess I need to write. This is the place I can sometimes write from and say things I can't even begin to find words for when I'm holding my head in my hands. I think I'll try to write something, anything. There may be echoes of what I've written here in it, whatever it turns out to be.

Please don't let this make you sad. But, hell, how can I say that? I can only write this stuff to you because I know, or have a pretty good idea, that you know what it feels like to be in this place. I never read it, but I think: desert of the red night. Not the real title, but something Burroughsian. Don't know why. Always wanted to read him, but never have been able to. Something too scary about where he lived in his head. I imagine that. That it's too scary. He used to ask his students here in Boulder: "What do snakes dream about?"

All that beat stuff. Desolation Angels. Dharma Bums. Mexico City Blues. Kerouac drinking himself to death. Visions of Gerard, did you ever read that? About his brother. so tender. Sentimental even. Then burning out in some Boston backstreet with his maiden Aunt. They all play on the penny whistle you can hear them blow, if you lean your head out far enough on Desolation Row... Dylan of course. Who I don't really like anymore. Like after all his beautiful blasting he knows nothing at all. That's how he strikes me. I don't even listen to him. I read last night that he turned the Beatles on to pot. and I thought: so what.

This is depression, I guess. Maybe the meds aren't working right. Or maybe it's Chinatown for real. Dunno, dunno. There was once a time in the worst of it that I was trying to train myself not to say "I don't know." It was hard. I don't think I ever got to the place where I could stop saying, feeling that. Carol Gilligan says something about saying "I don't know" in The Birth of Pleasure. Good book. Struck me as good in a lot of ways, but also has some weird shit in it about her work with Terry "I Don't Want to Talk About It" Real. Terry Real. Everybody's got an angle. Everybody KNOWS. I don't. I don't fucking know. I hope not in the same way I think Dylan doesn't know. Seems like he's run out of things to believe in. A lone Jew in the desert waiting for Moses to tell him to stop fucking with that golden calf. Waiting for God.com heh.

I'm reading some about the Puritans. Those whiter-than-white people who came here. City on a hill, all that. God-fearing motherfuckers all. Fire and brimstone, Jehovah losing it on them. Cosmic abuse. Cosmic trauma. Amerka in the borning. I want to write this, slashing crashing triumphal bring down the goddam walls of Jericho kinda writing. I don't know. But loud! I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!!! You miserable peasants! You fakirs with your fucking turkeys and weird hats. Wait. Those were the motherfucking Pilgrims, weren't they. All chummy with the Indians -- put a fish in the hole when you plant your corn, they told the White People. And it worked. Were those the same as the Puritans? Stuffing fish in their corn holes?

OK, I laughed. Pilgrim's Progress. Heh.

I'm interested in the "Awakenings." There was one about 1670 or so. Something like that. Whole lotta shakin goin on. The entire population flipping out on God. There was a lot of embarrassment later. I read that somewhere a couple days ago. Not sure what they did, but can imagine it got pretty excessive. One guy broke his own neck he was writhing around so much. Died from it right there. Wow. Then there was another Awakening around 1840. The Second Great Awakening, it's called. And then it got all tied up with Manifest Destiny and god's on our side and let's go kill the fuck outta them Mexicans and Indians and Niggers.

Reason I'm interested is Tom Wolfe's essay on The Me Decade and the Third Great Awakening. Which, simply put, is about narcissism. In our own time. About how religion gets into it and then oh look out he says.

And what will the Real Me be like? It is at this point that the new movements tend to take on a religious or spiritual atmosphere. In one form or another they arrive at an axiom first propounded by the Gnostic Christians some eighteen hundred years ago: namely, that at the apex of every human soul there exists a spark of the light of God. In most mortals that spark is "asleep" (the Gnostics' word), all but smothered by the facades and general falseness of society. But those souls who are clear can find that spark within themselves and unite their souls with God's. And with that conviction comes the second assumption: there is an other order that actually reigns supreme in the world. Like the light of God itself, this other order is invisible to most mortals. But he who has dug himself out from under the junk heap of civilization can discover it.

And with that . . . the Me movements were about to turn righteous.

The Me Decade and the Third Great Awakening
Tom Wolfe

At one point -- yeah it was in The Worst of It -- these were clues to something, some way of explaining what happened to me. Saved me to be working on it, like watching the detectives, dragging the lake, getting closer to understanding how that all happened. Why I was hurting so bad. Holding my head in my hands. With the blues all in my bread, like the song says. Coffee and Ativan. Books everywhere. Just trying to stay alive, keep breathing in the lostness, empty desert except for my wonderful friends none of whom I would have ever known if I hadn't tried to write about it. I thought it was only women who could feel it. thought that for a long time. but some of the men, too, I think. They don't say much, but they give me money. Send presents. How cool is that? I thought the men were only like hey buck up, have a beer, watch the game, get laid, pull yourself together dude, don't say these things because you'll bring us down be strong be stoic be manly and rock steady like we are, see? How we go right through it without missing a beat? Talk about Microsoft v. Linux and Bush v. Kerry and technolibertarianism and antidisestablishmentarianism or whatever shit is passing by on the screen of life as we know it, we know it goddamit. We do! We are sure! We are Doing Our Best. We are blogging as if there were no tomorrow. Telling it like it is. Yeah. that's what I thought. And it fits in enough cases to be practically true. True for all practical purposes that is to say. Pragmatic. But now I think they're not all like that. Maybe none of them. Because I've gotten to a few. I know I have. Peeled away the veneer, the comfortable assuredness of knowing that things are this way for a reason and we don't have a clue why but are we not men?

We are Devo.

Oh christ. oh holy moses, Leslie. Maybe I am discovering my Inner Jew. Wandering in the wilderness waiting for some messiah. No, that's bobby dylan. He doesn't deserve the name he took from Dylan Thomas, who wrote from his guts and then died of too much good high octane booze in New York pubs it must have been a burning to remember. Drunk on the night on the sky who bore him angels he said dying for his unfaithful wife back in Wales. Wailing wall. But B. Dylan had it once too. The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face. No one got acid down the way he did in Visions of Johanna. The harmonica plays, the skeleton keys of the rain. And these visions of Johanna...

So maybe I am being unfair and unkind. Perhaps jealous. I am: of those lines. Of how he, how both of them, could capture that in words, in music, make you feel it down in your maybe who knows soul.

Why I am writing any of this is beyond me, but I am writing dammit and that's better than sitting here with head in hands being lonely and depressed. Jesus. I don't give a fig for jesus btw. I can't understand how people get so worked up about him. Some fucking guy in Galilee. Where the fuck is Galilee anyway? Someplace we're probably bombing the holy shit out of right now. My cat just saw something outside. Comes to abrupt attention like a pointer dog. This is reality right here right now there are crickets chirping the day is beautiful outside last of the summer last days last light last ever forever and I? Sit here typing all this stuff coming out of my head my heart bleeding still for some lost door like Thomas Wolfe whom I read as a boy, you can't go home again and all that. Some echo of innocence anger what's the word... poignant. Touching. A world saturated with memory present not past. Alive with everything that's ever been. The American night. the American dream. Thomas Wolfe. Not Tom Wolfe in the white suit and the right-on call about the Third Great Awakening of narcissism in our time. The American Way. The American Century. Fuck, it's true: we're different from Them. From the ragheads and Eurotrash, asians and spaniards with their rinkydink gods and visions of conquest and what it was like at the bullfights with the ladies throwing flowers for the bull. Minotaur, labyrinth, cretan sun Durrel in Greece with the child remembering, trying to remember, Justine. As if, as if... there were another place for us, orphans huddled in the night so big too big. Maybe go to France. The whores there, my god. And later in Big Sur he mellows down easy. I liked the older Henry Miller. Thought he had attained a kind of wisdom. He liked himself, you could see that. Not like narcissism, not at all like that. He had become his own friend. Good friend. I read The Air-Conditioned Nightmare when I was a teenager. Read all kinds of stuff that bent my head. All I remember from that book is he comes on a wall in some city and someone has written in big letters on it GOD IS LOVE. And it floors him totally. Blows him away. And later at Big Sur he says stand still and the world comes to you. The Oranges of Hieronymous Bosch. I studied Bosch. Deeply. A lot. That's why I read that book. Because of the title. Bosch. Wow. I read recently he was contemporary with Leonardo Da Vinci. Holy crap. Like two timelines crossing. Bosch medieval in his vision, Leonardo trying to fly with mechanical wings. I could relate to Bosch much better. Always thought Da Vinci was kind of a flatlander despite or because of his Renaissance Man poster boy image. Bosch was crazy. Mad. Demons and tortures beyond imagining. The world gone mad. It's so modern.

So Leslie, my dear... thank you for letting me go on like this. Of course, you couldn't stop me, as you're in France and I'm in Colorado USA. But it makes such a difference not to be writing to myself, you know? And I think there is one thing in all this spew that sounds true to me, and that's that we are Americans no matter what we do or think or where we go. It's a blessing and a curse, but it is our fate. I don't believe in Fate, of course, but I mean we have inherited this along with whatever personal traumas and delights and history. And I think, for the first time -- I've never thought this before today, writing this -- that understanding something about what it means to be an American is necessary to understand the rest. Sounds weird as shit to me too, but I think there's something in that. We usually go for Human -- what it means to be Human. Or Jewish, or Catholic, or (saints preserve us) Spiritual But Not Religious. But those Puritans were brewing up some strange gris-gris, mamma, back in those early colonies. Some psychotic devil's brew still all wrapped around our ancestral DNA. America is insane. But how it got that way is fascinating. The grip of mass hallucination so profound it still shapes the space the place the oh baby blue eyed master race. Anglo-Aryan motherfuckers armed to the teeth and high on God.

So yeah, as I was saying, thanks for letting me write all this. Thanks for being there. Thanks for reading it.



2:38 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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at a major industry conference,
chris locke once again captures the real story.

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