Posts Tagged ‘Bob Blumstein’

Been Too Long A Time


01 Jan

bob-dylan

Bob Dylan

samplex

Date: Thu Jan 1, 1998 8:14:17 AM America/New_York

Oh, fatter than ever, but the only time I hear that old handle is from the Nuthouse gang, and in particular, from you. That's cool though. Too bad "Space" was long taken before you got to AOL. Man, I had written you off for good after two phone calls (I think) were not returned and you blew me off a mere week before I thought I was traveling to Philly for a ballgame or hosting you here in DC. Whew! Glad to see you made it back into the scene. We'll certainly have to catch up.

Life is pretty much the same ole shake for us. I'm been doing freelance web design for some time now in addition to working on my own stuff when I can pull something together. What's your computer fix look like these days? Oh yeah, that reminds me, we were gonna lend you this old Mac Classic. Reckon now that you've resurfaced on AOL, you must have finally snagged a modern machine somehow somewhere.

We kept a rather low profile this holiday season, and for most of this year actually. We're definitely feeling our ages, even Sue, a wonderhorse for years of party thirst for rowdy times far beyond the call of duty. She still keeps close to her wine bottle on a nightly basis, but I have cut back my drinking to almost a monthly rather than the thrice weekly routine of the past decade or so. Of course food, bad greasy, chunk exploding food has a way of finding itself into my mouth, and it's not a pretty sight or a healthy feeling. I've really got to get myself on a healthier track. My pains are too mind-numbing to detail, and all these bloated beastly Hollywoodites are dropping like candied farley flies. Scary man. In this age of processed instant gratification, we have processed on an accelerated scale. The fork in the road has a greater fraction of us living longer well past what our grandparents expected and another greater fraction are dropping even earlier than diagnosed due to all the crap we pump through our eager holes and soft machine cylinders. No doubt I fall into the latter category. A complete mess, a distant cry from that young sprout glistening with undeniable untapped potential oh once upon a time.

See there, see here. Sob stories abound. You know you're gonna have to cough up some tales of the torrid past eventually, but yes, you have found me. It's good to have you back on the E-train. The phonecalls were fun but I'm usually far too self-conscious and enfeebled in telephone conversation unless I'm drunk (with its own accompanying pitfalls) but writing just flows like blood on the money most of the time. Besides I can get away with pretentious floods of irregular phrasings the oral traditions just don't usually allow, eh.

Yes indeed. Seattle's back on the map. Atlanta's a dying breed. The front office has lost its mind, and the bats grow cold in the clutch. Geez, Louise, what's there to say. You'll have to check out my web sites one of these days, if'n you've got enough machinepop. Since I don't know your condition I'll save the details of that stuff for later. Happy New Year and all that jazz. The neighborhood was crackling last night for about a half hour after the calendar flipped pages. I was suprised Sue didn't even roll over in bed because she was insisting that she wanted to watch the silver ball drop on TV, but I knew she wasn't going to make it since she was already nodding out at eleven.

Meanwhile I was standing in line debating whether I should sell my ticket for a profit and leave the lonesome scene with Sue & Ken instead. They insisted I stay to see the man who was nominated last year for a Nobel in Literature (believe it, it's true. He lost to a Italian septegenarian novelist whom I'd never heard of . . .)
Saw Bob Dylan in an up-close and personal venue a few weeks ago, early December, when he was in town to receive a lifetime achievement award at the Kennedy Center. I wasn't there THAT night, but we caught him at the 9:30 Club the night prior to the Kennedy. We'd stood in line for several hours in the cold gnarly AM when tickets went on sale earlier that month only to be among about three hundred turned away. On the second night of the show (he played two nights there to a thousand bobbing heads each), Sue, Ken Borden (an old friend of Bob Blumstein), and I stood again outside hoping to score three tix. Borden had successfully found entry the night before, benefactor of a simple twist of fate. An old friend of his carried an extra after his girlfriend bailed with sickness. Instead of drawing lots, we rationalized in which order each of us would be entitled to tickets as they surfaced. Three hours later the line hadn't moved and no tickets were within shouting distance. Finally I saw an old friend. Lo and behold, he had a friend trying to dump one. That was mine. Bought it for fifty bucks, fifteen over advance price. Borden and another chick we chatted up that night had paid eighty the night before. I owned the first ticket since Borden had seen Dylan the previous night, and Sue had gone to the Stones at the Air Arena (basketball/hockey) a few week prior, a gig I passed on even though the tickets were free. Sue, at my suggestion, then invited and was escorted by old pal Tom Howell who enjoyed himself much more than I possibly could have sitting in the stars and seeing nothing but smoke and hearing little but poorly packaged noise. Meanwhile I was standing in line debating whether I should sell my ticket for a profit and leave the lonesome scene with Sue & Ken instead. They insisted I stay to see the man who was nominated last year for a Nobel in Literature (believe it, it's true. He lost to a Italian septegenarian novelist whom I'd never heard of . . .)

Finally the line was moving. We hung together until I was frisked at the door. I waved goodbye. No more tickets. Sue was to get the next available entry, since she hadn't seen Bob, but now even that seemed a moot point. I had barely pushed my way into the place, among the last dozen in line, up cozy to the closest bar, when I hear Borden wailing and Sue jibberishly in joy waving arms akimbo. They'd made it. Two more tickets at fifty bucks a pop. We were all there snuggling among other Dylanistas, an older crowd speckled with the occasional fresh bunny or hardly harried hipster comfortably awed. Downside. Beers cost $4.50 apiece, and we all wanted at least three.

GT

P.S. Bob lived up to expectations again, spending most of the night banging out notes on a twelve string. This was my fourth time seeing Dylan. Worth every dime. Most money I've every spent on a ticket.

Bra Swappers Near The Kranepool


29 Aug

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

Another Checkpoint Charlie


20 Jun

Another Checkpoint Charlie

Another Checkpoint Charlie

samplex

Date: Thu Jun 20, 1996 6:09:23 PM

Why Don't I write more often? Maybe a nice innocent game of canasta for the 4th 'o' July weekend. I can simulate retirement in a Boca Raton Condo-village.—Blum

With this weather who knows what will come next? Another Checkpoint Charlie. Just saying hi. Busy as usual, working like madness on my bad poetry pages, Blowpoets Ad Nauseum I call them. Love being busy, having purpose, even if no one else gets the punchline. After all, I never really cared for Elvis, and look how many people did and do. My life is a little like crunchy peanut butter. It tastes good even if its not in good taste at white glove affairs.

Were you serious about perhaps throwing in your two cents on an ALL-CANASTA WEEKEND? It's either too wet or too hot, but maybe one salty day soon—oh stutters, I don't know, with all due respect to secret sauces and special spices, time was when making high meld, even more so than laying in a stack of canastas, or books as Pops called them, was a stealth orgasmic move...

In my case it was six kids and an alky dad on a rare dry spell sprawled around a huge converted door now table where for hours upon days those cards were shuffled, reshuffled, dealt and played out hand after hand. So perhaps that weekend may prove fertile for a game or two. Cards are more relaxing, therefore more productive than TV because of the mild competition among flesh and blood. The brain and central nervous system allow adrenalin junkies to reassert themselves, to push back, to win and to lose, to earn exhilaration, to taste the humility of defeat, and in general, as a result, life just seems rosier. Don't smirk. Life is just killing time, after all, waiting for the greyhound messiah from Hialeah to kick the filthy door down on all our petty miseries, with no room for killjoy surveillance or biopics....

Landry is Jack's girlfriend. You met her in October at the crabfuss I reckon. I know Byron & Buck through Tom Howell, digital video artist & poet, respectively. I know you as some guy, my neighbor. The rest of this string of linear howls is too much work to exert here, and will be divulged only on a need to know basis. A few of these people would like to see you, some guy, grace the Biograph with an appearance. Previous engagements and life-threatening emergencies of course take precedence. If boredom and that low tired feeling of inertia sag your bones, then likewise, a quick, "Go away, I'm Rick," will suffice.

Had to shake Steve off eleven days ago, late Sunday night, after guest status had worn thin from too much Steve. You know me. I like aloneness and pay the piper in loneliness sometimes, but not nearly as much as others seem to fear being alone. And true to form he's vanished and except for a quickie E-mail from his dad's account when he was visiting Bloomsburg last weekend I haven't heard from him since his AOL service was disrupted after he bolted for higher ground to rethink this career thing over once more from scratch. For six months or so we wrote volumes to each other every day, now nothing.

Target 2%. Bad drugs induce female breasts. Obviously a spectacular flaw in this maam's rodeo to favor with fine lace and loose cotton. Making that list, sir. Frivolous lawsuits to follow like homeless mutts. Where spending is allowed, law is prepared. And somebody always takes a hit. There are no limits in the field. Gozloc carefully disagrees.
Yep, you predicted it Bob. I snatched up a couple of toadstools from the backyard yesterday. The almighty rains are a curious colonial girl with awfully straight hair. And still more on its way. We aren't even close to the oracular Mississippi Delta where heavy rains fall like thrones, nearly 867 miles as the Chevy flies from one ballgame to the next, scout to scout, so we, Space and I, might pitch a tent. Yet...

Quite hilarious, Bob, your ironclad Arthurian handmaiden's tale, Gallahad, the guillotine and missing tongue. I forwarded it to all the usual suspects. Sure, they'll laugh, then what? Nostrils flared, eyeballs cued, Tennessee cured hams in my two dollar pockets, hardly an Artic fox on the steal, but hell or high water I'll stand with you on your neckline meat corner any day, against those rogue troops, holding my silent "H" low, sir. It's only out in Forestville Minor that apartments continue to explode into epic flames and eventual freedom, letting the blazing cat out of the bag for outside investigators to flag, and if the Western wind is right, restore the catalogue of pet projects to its original condition, shaving points off the tail, insisting the catastrophe was meant to be, for undisclosed reasons. This is not an evolutionary outlook, so the objections are many. Trusses are weak. The chemical makeup of certain fibers woven into a little blue dress found on the scene is the likely determinant in the novel procedure invented by a Ukrainian viceroy who claims his ecological orbit has earned him enough status to make a play for a starring role in a Hollywood motion picture, his words. Gozloc's procedure is said to defy dysfunction. The residents there have poisoned themselves by intentionally swallowing room temperature detergents better suited for the cleansing powers required in rarely admitted top secret transnational scarcity matters. But some say, using Gozloc's procedure, their own awesome lineup will finally start to take a good look at the cracks in the vats of the system next February. Target 2%. Bad drugs induce female breasts. Obviously a spectacular flaw in this maam's rodeo to favor with fine lace and loose cotton. Making that list, sir. Frivolous lawsuits to follow like homeless mutts. Where spending is allowed, law is prepared. And somebody always takes a hit. There are no limits in the field. Gozloc carefully disagrees.

That damned George Cantor did a pitiful job on your back lawn. I caught him banging on your front door one morning looking for his money. I peeked out from the computer room window and gave him your message concerning your weekend trek, and payment when you returned. He swore you were home because last night the fan was not on, and this morning in question it was. I argued a couple of volleys until finally shouting, "Fine George, fine! Fine, Just fine!" and slammed my window shut. He then left.

GT is RSN

The Croyden Affair Meets Andy Corrigan's Big Event


28 Mar

Private Neurosis

Private Neurosis

samplex

Date: Thu Mar 28, 1996 3:23:30 PM

Bob, since you were not shy or coy in voicing your infatuation with Our Lady Elizabeth of Croyden this morning on the phone, I thought you might also appreciate Tom's fresh reply to my blast. In the following piece, you may recognize the name of Franz Anton Mesmer (whom Tom is conspiring to sketch among others of similar ilk in his "Psychic Investigator" CD-ROM treatment), but you should also know that this Schwartz mentioned is Laurens Schwartz, an equally wacky youngish New York talent rep, who took Tom on after I composed and printed for him twenty or so a postcard queries to spearhead his search for an agent early last year. Seems he & Elizabeth are indeed moving that tour forward. Bravo! Theirs is quite the sembiotic relationship, shark and little sucker. Enjoyed our chat. It's too bad we are deemed socially incompatible. We do ebb a strong conversational tide when we allow ourselves the luxury our more sober inklings insist upon.

Still up for Andy Corrigan's Big Event tomorrow, Bob? Three o'clock. Still haven't talked with Sue this evening to determine her status. She often plans to knock off early, and only 2% (one in fifty) of the time ever pulls it off, unless she's heading out of town towards home which I figure she must take rather seriously. Ah, Richmond. Sure be interesting.

Heeeere's Tom...

Right on I agree with every word, that is, I would agree, I mean COULD agree, (Tom loses his train of thought here) if that last missive were put in form of an agrument, which it was not, or I could respond point by point if it were a prose essay, which it was not—what da' hell was that?! Anyway, it had the ring of truth. Elizabeth is a piece of work, a squirming mass of contradictions (see? you got me talking like that now). Anyway, I follow in the footsteps of Master Mesmer, and I'm taking my hysterical patient to Cleveland to get 800 color copies made, and then on to Philadelphia were Elizabeth's private neurosis will be on display at a comedy club. The back to D.C. on Monday to check e-mail and pick up snail mail and then up to New York to present four bound volumes to the Schwartz. —Tom Howell

Numbers Said Bob Make Mention Of Me


01 Dec

Bob Said

Bob Said

samplex

Date: Fri Dec 1, 1995 15:10:12 AM

Well, yes, Bob. This would be your very own FREE web page. You were among the "HTML sophisticated ones" I included in that batch. Several others across the country are either newcomers to the online world, or simply stuck in the past with old slow modems, or whatever, having never surfed at all. I have recently created three pages you might find if not interesting, then perhaps best described as friendly fire. Steve Taylor has compelled me into authoring HTML, and low & behold I'm just frantic with anticipation for others to join the ride. After all, this Geopages crowd out in Beverly Hills, CA is offering this opportunity to any and all takers as long as you have a valid E-mail address. They have their very own HTML emulator that you can use to create your page right there in a forms format. Just enter pertinent info in the fields, and presto! you've just created a home page. I did one that way, but soon learned enough used HTML to create them FTP the appropriate files over to the server.

One page took 24 hours to spring up, and the other only took an hour or so to pop up for general access. Just imagine. I only opened a PPP account a couple of weeks ago, and now I'm shadowboxing in the HTML badlands! Go figure!

Just checked out your HP, and as usual your comments ring a deafening bell tone in the bell curve of my own desires to be and not to be, to flee and not to flee, or simply, in the words of Piss Factory, to pee or not to pee. As little as self-indulgence seems to mean in your neck of the woods, and rotten poetry the futile clearing of your storm, art clichés are more a commodity for the heavily flavored than a sustaining power for the weakly favored, and frankly, I wish you would cut it out!

My heart, my fart, whichever you prefer. If these be the flames of betrayal and the aims of messianic denial, I'd say we are just about even. Meanwhile as both our neuroticisms and superiority complexes merge into one foul mood, I wish to comment on your prediction of the next wave of child prophets (rockers) being that of the clean cut Mormon rank. I agree, and I would also suggest the END is near for it is written that this generation of clean sheets following in the wake of the Devil's wordslayers will be the last, of course until the path of righteousness begins all over again in heated argument over the meaning of some ivy-spined love surrogate's last scream. Feast or famine? Lean years, fat years? Is there much difference beyond a few zeroes and maybe a decimel point or two? Thinking is a lie. Art is nothing but a glimmer of hope, and an economy few will ever afford without loss of the quenched thirst. One geek's self-indulgence is another geek's training ground for sainthood in a spreading pool of blood-soaked antics. There is nothing left for puppy dogs and perverts of inner circle design but paradox weaned, lion and lamb divined, fashion and fraud skewed, better halved than quartered alone. That sir, we cannot change, but since you asked in muted prayer, I'll change my ways for you, if you'll change yours for me because bad poetry is the ONLY art save THOU ART. Look around you. Even Milton was a liar. Stupidity and rigidity reign. The beautiful live forever. The ugly perish until they finally learn to absorb the laughter of the jackals.

And by suffering them you must also suffer me...

Just a refresher on those arguments you made here in the Dollhouse one afternoon I think not long ago. Of prospects and promises, uh, which one do you prefer, Bob? No, I saw it first. No, I did dammit...the hole in the ground was the whole of it, said Gabriel, in the old days before the advent of Styx and the completion of the proper post-punk cycle, suggested the leper who said thank you, the kid who scissored you to make a point in twelves, or slightly more, but not more and more and more and more until it all made the entire Joan Jett crew vomit, probably still stuffed on the hog heaven carpetbagger's special sea of beads they gobbled before the Bayou show full of suburban derby queens and BCR mullets. Scanning the packed crowd my own sharp black & orange mohawk posh caught her dangerous eye several times, but the hour the music died, without fanfare, we shuffled back to the SAMPLEX cave with Bennett & Lauren to stir the kettle twice the card. I'd be so shook up with chaos and blame, trick numbers in an off-alphabet game, knowing both Little Miss Jett and Monster Jeep ad sworn off the other like plague blankets in an earthquake, that I'd lamely end up settling for half-measure 3.5 inch head flat on my back, Lauren systematically snarking the red rag excuse, plainly playing for boa feathers instead of the usual black hearts flush of dick tag. VR snip? Bennett and Sue, sitting on opposing sides of us kept to themselves, not to each other. Their beautiful and knew it foo-foo Samoyed, Max, and our "hump anything this side of the Mississippi algorithm" Lab-shepherd mix, named Nickel Dog were caught and duped apart during the act of slapping, smacking and fellating each other, accounting for more drippy innuendo than any of the four tepid punk rockers in this stack managed that night. It'd be another six or seven years before I would gaze at Lauren naked again.

Wanna borrow the weed whacker, just show up at the door. You know you are the only person in the city I can say that to during these friendship wars. Well, maybe Len Bracken.

I dreamed I saw Saint Augustine,
alive as you or me...

GT

aka Fats, Kidscissor...

Bright Flesh, Quickening Fingers & Stark Art Foolishness


20 Nov

Fox & Hound Survivors

Fox & Hound Survivors

samplex

Date: Mon Nov 20, 1995 11:49:15 AM

This is a test of the internet clark spacial relationship. If you open this file I should be getting a receipt back...BLUM

Everything is working, Bob. Did you get your plunks? Last night I had six messages. Today I had four. Sue called last night. She bought a Performa 6400. Her old hometown chum wrote out the cheque, and Sue will pay her back in monthly installments. It's not a Power Mac, but I reckon I'll survive the letdown, and the shock of adding another terminal to the BZT rig. Soon you will have no choice but to come over more often and ride the wave to a neater, sweeter, meatier, middle class, middle aged, life's work.

Steve Taylor wrote: You were a bit loud at the F&H (Fox & Hound). However, I did pay for all of us before I left. I had one of those "Steve" must get home now moments. Don't sweat the bar thing—we had a great time. And I knew there was a reason I was avoiding my workplace—on Friday, I discovered that 15+ employees were layed off and there will be no raises coming up (including COLAs).

So, our interactive magazine running off Gregor's server will happen within two weeks. Any title ideas? BTW—what is his e-mail address? Now is the [a] time when we can put many of our ideas into effect in real time—the distribution can be left up to the discretion of the x million web users who just might stop by. Let's do it free now. We can charge or get ads later. Let me know what you think. —Steve

I wrote back telling him of the 5 Mbs I have at ClarkNet. So here we are, moving to the next level of art foolishness, the virtual eye of the beast, the angel transformed into abundant light. Since there's nothing less to live for, a flaming riot over the sparkling glazed wires should be just about where I belong.

In other latent news, I left, therefore I lost my motorcycle gloves at the Fox & Hound. Serves me right for guzzling and gabbing too damn loud, even for a polyploisboian. And you don't need a flipping government stud to admit that talking too loudly in a loud booze joint is just as bad a bummer as sleeping too loudly in the same, but I am often told I do each, and all too frequently I am accused of both at the same time. Methinks many people just do it to tweak my growth industry muscles, but I apologize nevertheless.

Thanks for the drinks, mate. I wouldn't even know.

Gabriel

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


Top

Login