Tag Archives: beer

Hints From The Personality Wars

Personality Wars
Personality Wars
samplex

Date: Tue, 10 Sep 1996 21:40:28

Nobody's yet responded to my note saxing this Situationist group, but Laurent's short muffin has everybody stirred into great swirls of chatter. Tom must be right. I am FRAUD. BOLD CAPS. A bossy brass blowhard (nee: that WIRED online discussion with SUCK and ECHO) clueless and simply not built for the imaginary beanies of his take on Topeka KANSASS. No, just crass, that's what he'd say. The dirt worst. A pathetic loser wired out on a messy wordslop. Uhmmmm...a Chas been, off chasing fickle dogs, chewing red meat son of a gun. And a good handful waste of moxy bandwidth to boot...ragged imperialist, cancor at the root falsetto. Nix iMote, he might say, it's NOTHING. Just a jackass I know I heard. Or to remain self-righteous I can snort back, "Oh Tom just knows how to push my buttons, and according to him, he doesn't like what I'm doing to his."

Steve issues a statement, "Spent too much time talking about myself in my last message to comment in full on the Howell/Thy exchange. Did read it through, however. To see ourselves through other people's eyes ... or mouths, as the case may be. Though I actually did start writing a response. Started off with a cheap kitchen metaphor, but realizing that was not accurate bidirectionally and not wanting to rewrite Goethe's treatise on colors ... how did that line from that Rites of Spring EP go?"

wrote SAST
& I mote

But yesterday I could have passed. I was ready to pass, take a rain check on that opportunity to visit with Bob, chow, and chortle, but I conceded with a certain joy. And we subsequently tore the leaf off the fig. Had a good time. Tim stepped in after work dead tired but micromanaged a string of Shipman logistics to finish his chili mac specialty of the Bob before retiring to his mat. Yeah Bob. Thanks for the memories, the perspective, the piss in the wind. Next door neighbor for 3 years, ain't it Bob? Bought the house next to the one we mortgaged just shy of ten ago. And just like it says on the label we've been some sort of sneaky friends for twelve now...
Blum came over last night for a chili cookoff conspired by his afternoon phonecall. He'd slept for three days straight thru Monday he announced while admitting he'd gone out a couple of times (took in the town is more like it) & he woke up in a birdzing straight & flinging. Or maybe not. Does Bob do that? Ever? Okay, we need a Bob mimic. Anybody here?

Awake by afternoon he now seemed bouncy enough, on an even keel as we used to say down coast, to wax poetic over chili and beer, so we mixed & matched ingredients, and warbled with our talents. We were out of stuff so Bob went to the Safeway. Returned grinning with six varieties of peppers. Needless to say a warming torch during this morning's constitutional had me grabbing for more than grain as my next of kin. Sue followed Bob. I had a stiff neck upon waking that morning, and with all the it of yesterday crawling exactaways down between my shoulder blades as the day wore on—driving spiked letters, plumfiring fearsome and weary words with the puffs versus enuffs we all were relieved of by that alcohol binge with the boys & Baby by evening. I think again I've noticed this deathkick pattern I can't escape until the grave. Every time I don't partake of at least one beerglut a weekend by Monday I fail the polyglot, hang a stiff neck, or am bound to broker a bad intestinal tract. All of which then pertly leads me straight to a beer fix and another series of egg questions we all have to sit down with but mostly right now it just seems MY problem. Am I to fix this broken machine of personality disorders, work a savvy solution or two, or three, or just perpetuate it by mimicking it, or stumble through that popular sin of omission by simply ignoring it. Not an easy tally to finesse. Always results in a mudslide of rambling wreck claims. But yesterday I could have passed. I was ready to pass, take a rain check on that opportunity to visit with Bob, chow, and chortle, but I conceded with a certain joy. And we subsequently tore the leaf off the fig. Had a good time. Tim stepped in after work dead tired but micromanaged a string of Shipman logistics to finish his chili mac specialty of the Bob before retiring to his mat. Yeah Bob. Thanks for the memories, the perspective, the piss in the wind. Next door neighbor for 3 years, ain't it Bob? Bought the house next to the one we mortgaged just shy of ten ago. And just like it says on the label we've been some sort of sneaky friends for twelve now...

Now mind you not too many weekends pass me dry, except in the mouth on hangover dehydration mode, but it is uncanny how my tensed up natural reactions to life enforce their nerve ending moxy along my spinal cord, specific to my neck and shoulder areas, and as it's put to me by fate's own finger, a single night's guzzlement tends to soothe the savage beast of course tagged with an ogle of limitations and side effects walking right on in with assorted blessings & barnacles, as bait for the U mote I Mote we all Mote for iMote debate...

There is always the dream to go back to where I came from, to build meaning from the sky down until people suddenly find themselves in the lap of luxury stuck with the problems of their lives knowing nothing they do can change THAT fact, but here is Gabriel barely in print thinking this misery that's upon us requires attention. We can tame it, or we can let it eat us alive.

Everywhere I spy I see it's just that "doppleganger?" gig or how's that go in the bigs baby? Tracking with the whole saider figs?

The taunt to be like them, not MORE than them, but less than them I CAME NOT to be.

—Shave Pierre

GT

Bra Swappers Near The Kranepool

Styx On The Run, (Madam's Organ)
Styx On The Run, (Madam's Organ)
samplex

Date: Thu Aug 29, 1996 3:14:54 PM

YAST passing up good beer and illustrative dress rehearsal to all things considered means I'm three cards shy of a full smashguard! My Lord, what's happening here? I queried Tim about dining full flush, and his standard "oh I don't know, guess we'll have to see how things and money blah blah" was the very next thing I remember hearing. I wasn't sure if the spacecraft from which I'd just been beamed back had interrupted my normal continuum, so it's tough to say if Tim prefaced his remarks with any noticeable interest in the meal deal of the week, or not. Since you've written yourself out of the Blumwreck beerfloat already, does this also mean Little Ethiopia won't see us darken their doors either? Sarcasm is the best of weapons with Blum since he often prefers to be licked to liked. Flames or female impersonators. Take your pick. The proof is in the pud. Ding! My popcorn is ready, so I'm off I to see the wise aardvark of Anacostia with a cache of dirty limericks a bunch of us wrote back in the pearly years as a last gasp Prodigy hunch. Back pack fresh. Catch you guys on the fly. By night. Fall is almost here. Yeah! Birthdays. Anniversaries. Death warrants.

What's this about dark skinned maidens of high quality serving finger food and honey wine. I haven't had Ethiopean food in ages (nor has a number of actual Ethiopean residents. Suddenly I find myself wrapped up in the plot to reserect Adid, thou he may be less worm eaten than we suppose! What with a simple case of beer can be suddenly construed as a tub of Tej. I guess this Labor Day remains unplanned as usual. —BLUM

Bob, why did you send the above penile implant as an attachment? I had to dig thru a half dozen folders plus launch MS Word just to read it. We have plans to eat Ethiopia back into Sam Kennison's joke graveyard this weekend. No solid plans have been made, just the idea to do it, but I can tell you right now I am not going to eat raw hamburger. That's Sue's (a STOO?) delight, not mine. You are certainly welcome to join us, but at this writing neither place nor time has been established. I'm leaning toward Fasika's myself, although I certainly have no qualms about the Red Sea. I'd just as soon avoid Georgetown if that's okay with you two ex-Georgians. Uh, wowser! that makes four ex-Georgians and Tim a gonzaga...

And Madam's Organ sounds okay. Might run into Styx. Need to return her stuff since she's reluctant to make the trip to Cap Hill from Church Street for swappers. Will tote her baggie full of underwear and condoms just in case we do. I suggest Friday night bullseye since I am kind of anxious to get out of the house, the earlier the better. Any pert rebuttals? My Labor Day Plans, are, oh gawd, not another holiday!

Date: Tue Sep 3, 1996 11:55:53 AM America/New_York

Bob, it's an emergency. I tried this weekend to mail you a "cc" along with five others. Your name was fourth in the "cc" list. After trying three times to post the note only to jam at your name with hard enough error to trigger the message box that your specific mailing address was problematic, I wiped you off that posting, and must try again. This is a trial nicker.

"We're all guinea pigs!" chortled the sandpicker.

Arguments 4 Sisters in-shacks-and-shod, left on the curb outside SMASH!Records sucking from a cup of joe forced to listen to some point blankers strumming in the alley, making more foreign noise than certain neighbors I know like to allow? I hear Tom's voice now. I don't see him. The bluescreen strikers have probably circled the wagons around their fearless leader, and allowed Tom to slip through them on his way to hitch a ride with Croyden back to The Thin Whistle where, yep, everybody knows his name, and a few will buy him drinks. Your bottom dollar, Tom Howell knows the ropes in those venues where secret handshakes are not something...
Sorry I fell out early Sunday night. I was beat, and had tried to arrange an even earlier bed for myself, but hoardes unfortunately in some cases create their own dancecards. We gone out to Madam's Organ the night before, left dynamited, came home to more. Can't sleep forever, even in hangover mode, so I was up, and was ready to go down again around eight. Steve wore me slap out with his buzzfly antics that afternoon as I was trying to learn a next level of webmaster skills.

"Hope you bag the cracker," each Cardinal taking the field tossed under his breath.

I wore him slap out in a letter I sent yonderways over the globe with too much spin so to knock a hole in your POP sockets, I'd guess. We'll shrink back just a quarter beat, the Steveskier & I. Two weeks is usually the bag limit for fragilities, but left field is always kept open by STOO for short term sorrows. Mixed metaphors are an extreme method for exciting and immediately exploiting the synapses of any number of slave subjects. Driver habits will cause mileage to vary. But all this is to be expected. In these Dollhouse Crime Committee Reports he's not any different than any other j-birds jonesing into the DH jawingroom, simply yet another. Lemme tell you whattaburger Bob, I know you put a lot of time and effort into your friendship arks. I manage only by default person to person, bellicose ripwriting & jawpicking, and a better balance of barnyard jawboning, all natural litter-strewn ruts scraped into stone, granite, interjected the Navy adjunct who had been Pop's best friend for all this tiny fact mattered during that limited trust, sunken subliminal pathways I still haunt in my eye to eye contacts. An anonymous pirate's reward often short a pisspot, why am I so greedy for my own writing pad privacy, and if not that, then my own command launcher? None of this mushy chaotic middle ground democrapic stuff-of-testosterones which is nothing but insult to the (uh, working needs of my people...?) exclamatory largesse, and should never affect my orders to execute all the specific declassé inertia I survey. Call that runaway liberalism to the mat in asking why is it I am such a prick without a price on my head? Am I batter-suited as the do then talker or the talk then doer, and how to I get to know the difference between the lion and the lamb? The beginning or the end? I am both reported the Jew who was to diasporas as I am to diapers. What does that make ME I ask him. Brothers-in-arms-and-legs-only? Arguments 4 Sisters in-shacks-and-shod, left on the curb outside SMASH!Records sucking from a cup of joe forced to listen to some point blankers strumming in the alley, making more foreign noise than certain neighbors I know like to allow? I hear Tom's voice now. I don't see him. The bluescreen strikers have probably circled the wagons around their fearless leader, and allowed Tom to slip through them on his way to hitch a ride with Croyden back to The Thin Whistle where, yep, everybody knows his name, and a few will buy him drinks. Your bottom dollar, Tom Howell knows the ropes in those venues where secret handshakes are not something...

Well, had enough here. Gotta go sow some mo' iMote somewar elts...

"When in doubt, start a commune, not a bomb hoax" whispered Salome with four thumbs on my knot. Then some piker leaned over, checking out her cleavage as indifferently as he could manage with the eyes he had, to grab the mike away from her, and plunge a marginal apology sharply into her neck of the woods. "That's bogus." she said afterwards.

GT

In Jobs Begin Responsibilities

delmore-schwartz
Delmore Schwartz
samplex

Originally published on May 15, 1996

You wrote:
Hope you don't consider this an invasion of your privacy, but while checking some screen names for work, I was curious to check on what your whole list of handles was.

I wrote: Well Steve, I suppose you are entitled to quote a tired old windbag recently heard around the Dollhouse, "Hey it's MY JOB!" And to paraphrase old Delmore Schwartz, "and in jobs begin responsibilities!"

DS was one of James Laughlin's original wonder boys, a saber-rattling drunk, poet, and hapless mad Jew, perhaps in that order. Sent several women to suicide and sanatariums. My own Betty Sue, however, earns her stars and stripes, a remarkably strong if somewhat unmotivated woman. Her life is basically her job. Pride of roof over head is the most dominant consoling factor, when analyzing my relationship to her remarkably strident loyalty, but I'm getting off track and still staring through dirty windows. Delmore wrote a short story that brought him a vigorous measure of fame from peers and critics called In Dreams Begin Responsibilities. Glad you picked up The Recognitions. Wish you'd complete it, but life's not a bike race unless you make it one, and you must follow your own pace, of course. No beer? Cracker jack, me neither, but then I have a non-fungible excuse. I'm too old, tired, and cranky already. Alcohol dries up the brain fluids. I often feel the chemical blahs, and must liquify with other chills to balance the death wish with the lust for living alternately flooding these low energy reserves with sleep and excitement for what's happening now at the Dollhouse, at odds with any remaining residue my own dreams and responsibilities can provide me.

Love to share, hate to waste. Not greedy, just discerning. If the guilty and the innocent share the same bedpan in the afterlife, why am I arguing this over that in the present one? But my list of handles? Now where did I put that thing...

GT