Tag Archives: City Paper

The Revolution Continues To Flog Us Overstated Friends In Arms

Shirt Off My Back
Shirt Off My Back
samplex

Date: Fri, 07 Aug 1998 12:39:38

Still see the same stuff on your site, Rusty. even the old Bigfoot link. Are you swinging by to watch the DC space video and pass me back the books, and whatever else, when? tomorrow? which part of the day?

Have no long range weekend plans to fly anywhere this weekend but to maintain the general "work around the clock" map I rarely get to navigate for all the damned fool interruptions that storm in under some wishy washy flag of fun and relaxation in unreformed jestivities. Yeah, right. Can't emphasize any stronger how much solid work on my site brings me the kind of peace and contentment i have heard about in all the media that I will scream to protect with a big fuck you to any who try to convince me otherwise, the nagging idiots. Of course, I'm talking about my so-called friends-in-waiting...

As for the database server, as i said, Sue's got the personal publisher end pretty much under control after just a couple of hours in the spec and at the controls on Sunday. The listserv demo has expired but you could download another copy and try it again, now that we've got a more robust mail server on hand. Actually, the mail server is also a listserver, but its features are not as powerful and cool as what i know LetterRip Pro is supposed to bring to the network.

Bracken and I no doubt share more than a few strategy-limp personality traits, but we quarrel against each other's leadership like two unrighteous brothers mopping up in a backyard brawl. As I now have undeniable proof with the recent City Paper publication of "Bracken's Own Psychogeography" I should simply wash my hands of the fine fellow, but he simply won't go away. So I task you, young friend, tell me who is the pluckiest moron here?
Me? I need to map a plan for 'XusNET (as Philly Steve calls it), and Bracken needs a couple of pages for the latest issue of his xerox zine EXTRAPHILE. Reckon I will oblige him. He wanted me to write a glaring expose of the Nothingness list. I may include a ref or two to the list, but I told him the only topic I was interested in submitting to his zine is my pyschogeographic engineering phase called the GASS in which I am launching a full critique of existing plans for the area with the resolve to influence the necessary consensus with high profile litigation, if need be. He consented. So now the record is straight. As usual, I once again had to tell Bracken to fuck off. He still doesn't believe me and continues to flog me with mid-day phonecalls he dubs interruptions meant to bring a breath of joy into my daily drudgery...et cetera ad nauseum. He makes me ill, sometimes, with his high concentration of shell games. I'm telling you, you two should meet. You might like each other, you might not. I'm not quite sure. But it would be fun to observe, and help get him off my shoulders all the time. And he still thinks that because a certain number of people think Bill Brown is a bloody idiot, that suddenly he, Len Bracken, is not one, not just another preening idiot lost in a textbook fantasy he thinks everybody else must be envious to join. Bracken and I no doubt share more than a few strategy-limp personality traits, but we quarrel against each other's leadership like two unrighteous brothers mopping up in a backyard brawl. As I now have undeniable proof with the recent City Paper publication of "Bracken's Own Psychogeography" I should simply wash my hands of the fine fellow, but he simply won't go away. So I task you, young friend, tell me who is the pluckiest moron here?

Moi? because I haven't used the ax on Bracken as my wife desires, or me, because indeed Bracken is great shakes as an important philosopher and upright man, a clever writer and a supportive friend and in my own best interests I dare not resist his sad swarming ego-jinxed attempts at proselytizing charm, or HIM, because he just simple ain't.

I also want to discuss the Greater Anacostia Surveyors Society [GASS] in deeper detail with you, Rusty if you are in anyway assdriven in such a way that you prefer to get things done rather than talk about them until doomsday, all puns only incidentally intended.

GT

Ping Ping Ping

death-cult
Death Cult by Gabriel Thy
samplex

Orginally published on February 26, 1997

Yes, it's official! Actually sometime early last week I got my rejection notice from City Paper stating both the editing and design jobs had been filled but please try again in the future. By the way, I really appreciated your comments the other day about the Dollhouse Fevers serial. That rather dry response I muscled out did not really indicate the true boost to my spirits your encouraging words sparked. To the point, I've noticed an ample loss in energy that obviously relates to your comments...

"Boy, I am really enjoying this. I know it is the telling of a true trauma tale of friendship gained and lost, but as a piece of writing it is absolutely wonderful. I await Day 3."

...in that after writing on the topic I collapse, physically drained, numb in body and spirit. Surely a strong indication of the intensely personal nature of the writing, knowing that those persons being profiled no doubt will read the very words which could only drive the wedge between us even deeper than the events discussed.

Trust things are have gelled on the homefront. While visiting with Steve this weekend at his local watering hole in Philadelphia, he blurted out that he had been carrying on this secret E-mail campaign with you. I suspected as much, Landry. That was as far as the revelation went, but it followed on the heels of his patented rata-tat-tat speedwhiz monologue which on this occasion was employed to explain that he wasn't addicted to alcohol, oh no, but that he was addicted to irresponsibility.

Ping ping ping—the roll call of topics zing past faster than even a sober mind can retain—without rhyme or reason—ping ping ping—life has a way of explaining itself under the influences of irresponsibility. But enough of all that. While writing this I've been watching Ricki Lake gushing at the surprise baby shower thrown in her honor, hosted by Joan Lunden. John Waters was there, gifts and videoconferenced goo goo, all near and dear to you, I'd presume...

GT

Babyhead Angst

babyheadsamplex

Originally published on June 3, 1996

So, what's new at the Dollhouse, you ask with a wink and a nod, knowing we had long moved in concentric circles, loathing the bourgeois claim we had clumsily staked, now preparing to collapse the dot, the vanishing point of another failed artist flogging the trapeze act, already in view...

Nothing new. Your name came up more times than Jesus Christ this weekend, but nearly always was answered with an I dunno, or a muffled uhmmm...

Yeah, Lynn is cool. I just don't know what to write her in response to the Babyhead show. It was an event worth noting if only for a few days. Frankly I hate critiquing others' work, especially in a genre where I haven't mustered up much myself in the way of surpassing or suppressing it. I liked the shows, but I was glad when the last one was over. I was nearly ready to bolt, already drunk, smoked, and tired from yet another long day saith the old man busking in dungarees. Tom Howell groveled over earlier in the day with a photography project he needed me to pull off, uh, taking a picture of a fat shiny tow chain he knew I had.

It was to be a typical Howell BIG PRODUCTION with bogus color-reflective transparency drag, but he pocketed a roll of film, and we staggered off to the Babyhead Festival together. Tim met Gigi on his bike. Tom already knew most of the actors, directors, and producers of the show. Safe to say, Lynn was about the only person he didn't know, yet I'm thinking he probably did meet her at Buck Downs place this past New Year's Day. Remember? We'd planned to walk the couple of blocks there after we left Wayne Curtin's absolutely weird houseblessing that evening, but I passed out instead, having had little sleep for several days prior...

Tom was struggling to comment on her work as we were waiting for food at this Sheesh Kabob joint in Georgetown after tiring of the reception at the Clark Gallery following the fest. Noticing he didn't want to slam her, I filled in the blanks with a typical GT gust of hot air...

"Uh Lynn is an attractive and very intelligent woman, but her acting skills are certainly not ready for prime time..." Tom interrupted with a quick sigh of relief, nodded his head furiously and said, "Yes, precisely!" Tom thought Buck was a natural, however.

I could say, "Oh I liked this." Or, "I liked that." But let's just leave it the way Tom put it: It's not like everybody in the audience would be back next week to watch these flicks again. Oh well, you know me; at the time I couldn't leave it at that. I countered his remark with a perspective-kissing, "Well, I don't think too many people there would line up to see A Few Good Men again a week later either. Tom was in gear high with his Talleyrand tongue, suggesting that the Vampires Suck video we did in 1985 had measured up to the standards we saw upon the screen this night, signalling a been there, done that attitude which I guess summed it all up for both of us. Sue of course didn't have much of anything to say on the subject. Thank God. I might have begged to differ.

Truth is I guess I don't know how to give or receive praise. You know the drill. No need to bark up that tree right now. And yes, I checked out the City Paper blurbs and your picture (which I barely recognize as you), but unless no one else sends you the CP, I won't.
The artsy-bosomed women at the Clark Gallery reception however were well worth the price of staring. I knew I had to escape that place soon before I got the urge to touch. This was the same gallery which showcased our pal Scott Farnum's little portraits of Bluegrass Greats last spring. Four by sixes framed, that's 24 square inches of rough little paintings depicting genuine hill folks like Bill Monroe and Roy Acuff for which he was asking over $400 a piece after he decided to pick up the paints following a weekend trip he'd made through the Virginia Smokeys down to Nashville. I made the throw away comment that perhaps they were a bit overpriced, and Scott went ballistic on me. "Why can't you just be happy for me!" he bellowed. I was more than jizzed for him, and would have been over the top jizzy had I been able to afford one. I muttered to Sue, backing several steps away from Scott, that I thought $75 might be a more encouraging price point, not aware the freshly jacked artist could hear me, but from his 350 pound girth he shot back, "I've got that much in the frame alone." Well, hell's bells, somebody must have seen this guy coming. Nice, flat black frames, rather common, and probably six bucks a pop, but that was it, so I quickly shuffled off to another section of the gallery, pulling my red-headed baby behind me. I always made a point of supporting my artist friends when possible, but others apparently had different methods of dealing with artistic or business criticism. Scott and his wife Amy never talked to us again after that night. And by the way, since I am forwarding this to Lynn, there is news Jack might be interested in: Big Dave Weist and Marcy Dewey, less than a year after marrying each other have split. Marcy has moved to California, uh, where I dunno, but that's the latest via the Quag...

Thanks Lynn for the truly spectacular performance. I did very much enjoy the night as my awkward nights tend to go. It's just pretty acolades don't roll off my tongue or even my keystroke finger as easily as bad beer slips down the old dry gullet. Truth is I guess I don't know how to give or receive praise. You know the drill. No need to bark up that tree right now. And yes, I checked out the City Paper blurbs and your picture (which I barely recognize as you), but unless no one else sends you the CP, I won't. Your fans will surely not let you down, buck or no buck.

GT