Bracken says his critical letters to Nicholson-Smith have gone unanswered.
Sensibly enough. Bracken is incapable of honest criticism and an open >exchange of ideas: mostly he is skilled at emotional obfuscation, manipulation and bad faith. He doesn't seem to get it that the SI can't exclude Nicholson-Smith and all the other "recuperators" A SECOND TIME.
Agreed on the personality gaps in Bracken's world. I've known him now for almost three years, and am trying to find a way to just ease him out of my life. All he's really interested in is getting laid, and bores me with a weekly or twice-weekly phone or office visit just to brag about some latest sex scandal he's perpetrating, or some ridiculous graffiti campaign he's planning. There's not much linkage to his lifestyle plagued by indecision and petty ambition with the philosophy he supposedly believes will set men and women free at last. Sorry Len. That's about the tall and short of it as this one contrarian sees it. Perhaps one of your co-conspirators will pass you this note and you will break this charade of friendship off before it completely atrophies without substance.
We can't freely discuss ideas because you dismiss so much of my perspective before I even get it out of my mouth. Yet I read your books. Have heard your rants. Shallow as a mud puddle facing the edge of the child's shoeless foot. Your episode with DFW's Infinite Jest was preposterous and telling. Face it bud. You're an imposter. At least you eat right, exercise properly, and may live well into your self-satisfied eighties, even nineties, while people like me die of boredom and sedentary self-dissatisfaction like so many lilies stomped beneath the footsoldiers of truth, or else impaled upon untold odd branches of divinity still striving for ascension just like yourself.
Other than that, he's a fine fellow and a diligent friend.
Thumbs up. Nuff said. I wouldn't change a word of it. Thanks for the input. Can't wait to lay eyes on the output. Love to stay of top of things, even if it's standing up rather than sucking silence flat ass on my belly.
Glad you're coming. Just give us exact details when you get them, and I'll keep things moving on this end. Everybody's gonna be whipped in yahoos when they hear of your decision. That's all it is. It's about decisions, decisions. Damn Yankees. Damn decisions. And followthrough. Dollhouse is reeking of holiday spirit, and you're Swanky Doll. Counting down the hours, sweet love. Grab a rocket. Get down here. Stick a sock in it. Sorry Frank. We'll plead the fifth and muster up with the bloated roughy Jennifer and learn to live with the details of the coy...
Certainly a frenzy is brewing and I'm taking names...
Just when one thinks that it would be easier to drain all the seven oceans of salty fish nip than to squeeze another drop of self-pity from the rather mundane story of my life, then boom, another couple of notches later, I find feeling as if downing a jar of extra large crunchy Greek olives and sardines is the highest compliment I can pay myself for the failure of another unpersuasive idea...
This morning while taking out an armful of corrugated cardboard recycleables, I broke my left foot, again! I'm beginning to feel like a sad parody of Tim and his annual collarbone. The foot snapped lengthwise with characteristic audible clarity. I was stepping from the house to the front porch and my unfastened sandles slipped to trigger the occasion. Ten minutes later, wincing on the sofa, with vigor and gruff I jump up at Sue's notice that a man is foraging through our big blue plastic, metal, and glass curbside recycle bags. Once at the door I yell that rather than plunder the dozen or so smaller bags neatly packed inside the big blue ones he should just take off with the whole shebang.
Why is it that I have to guess at you breaking a limb? Why make me assume such nonsense rather than just say it out straight 'I broke my GD left femur!' Don't assume anyone in your audience knows all the details so you can discuss such as old news.
He was an older, maybe sixty year old black man, well-attired, did not exude the aura of a lifelong wino (would it matter?), but he immediately shot back that he wasn't gonna leave a mess. He was merely taking a few cans. I stared in dreaded white silence for ten to fifteeen long seconds before telling him to go ahead. I watched him scavenge for coke and beer cans, leaving the glass wine bottles and plastic milk jugs behind as he rummaged for parts of a penny. I took a bag of cans to the plant once and got nine dollars for what must have been a thousand crushed cans some years ago, never again. Ah, as I write this, the truck pulls up and regards the trash, and rather early today. Two pickups ago, they missed our whole street altogether. Dutiful citizen on even numbered years, I called Publics Works for a rescheduling. Three days later the trash was snagged, after I was told to leave the stuff at the curb indefinitely until pickup. Neighbor Chisley did not, and so had quite a mess two weeks later the next time. However, without too much gross exaggeration it is safe to say we sprawl along the curb other Tuesday more than the whole side of this block of Eighteenth Street combined. The scavenger in good news to the scafflaw followed his word, and the curb was nice and neat after he left, so I guess my starring role as the Billy Goats Gruff foul-toothed troll who lives under the bridge to the 21st century is safely undisturbed.
Despite this leg drop injury I refuse to rush to the hospital, unmoved by the indignity and the expense of THAT trouble. If I hadn't heard the snap, crackle, and pop at the time of the 265 pound stomp and roll I'd even doubt it was broken. I can even put steady weight upon it, and feel arrgglike pain only when I bend, drag or rest it in a bezier curve along the sofa. But the icy and instant numbing at impact and consequent prickly twinges further identify my condition. Ooh well dearies, fortunately it wasn't my ankle or heel. I still have a fine pair of wooden crutches I inherited for $30 from my last left foot catastrophe in September, 1993. The blood vessel knot and prickly numbness will no doubt subside in a few days if I don't aggravate it by jumping for joy if that Apple monitor ever frickin' gets here. Sue suggests the doctor. Says we've got insurance. Uh, workman's comp for injury on the job? I just ain't inner rested. Who will putter around doing the countless manipulations it takes to keep a hint of order around here? Who wants to lug around some ridiculous cast for six weeks. Oh I know. We'll hire a nanny...
Nausea. Sartre. Simpletons and Simon Magus. Surely I am blessed among men...
Oh course soon after writing this note I receive another nasty reply from my next door neighbor Blumstein, who types, (obviously from his workstation on the job, a job he wished upon me as often as the spirit moved him:
Gah Bree Elle,
Why is it that I have to guess at you breaking a limb. Why make me assume such nonsense rather than just say it out straight 'I broke my GD left femur!' Don't assume anyone in your audience knows all the details so you can discuss such as old news.
But the reality is that if you did break your leg, whichever left and/or right, you should get it professionally set before it heals in an obnoxious way and must be broken again to correct it thus fucking it up even more. God I hate martyrs...
It was interesting to discover he cared, even if it took the form of a Blumfisted flame.
Well Bob, it wasn't my left femur, but some bone, perhaps the cuboid, in my left foot. You're right. What I thought was obviousI stepped on my foot wrong, I suppose some folks, yourself included, might presume that I had stumbled so hard and so recklessly that I would have been hurled forward, broken my leg, or even my neck, such is the beastly public image, brimming creative minds like your own have deployed as the real Gabriel Thy. My apologies.
Today's Sue's 47th birthday. She's still asleep. I ache all over with a variety of old age outa shape self-abuse seasonal change ailments. Sinus. Pinched nerves. Left earbuzz half death and in a state of perpetual ringing caused at the Zodiac Mindwarp show in London [in '92]. Brain tumors. Colon cancer. The works.
Richard is leaving today on his way to Philadelphia to visit an old friend berfore returning to Georgia. It's been a rather enjoyable three days, but I think we've gone as far as we can go. He'll be seventy in February, has a classical art fetish, and knows little about the 20th century other than what he can remember from yesterday's news, although he has recently redeveloped his fondness for the Beatles. He gave us a nude he painted. The model is a Southern Baptist virgin schoolteacher he likes to tell for the laugh, although he actually paints from pictures in magazines or photographs he has taken. In this case, the former method was used. His style is impressionistic much in the fashion of Renoir, whose works the two of us took in at the Phillips Collection earlier this week.
I'm rather peeved that my fancy monitor hasn't arrived yet. If it doesn't show today, Apple's three week delivery projection will have been proved bogus. Meanwhile, the 8500 just sits on the table unattached. Of course, I recall your PC sat in the box for quite some time before you developed the right combination of enough interest, nerve, and need to string it all together...
Appreciated your last letter as usual. Everybody's beginning to stir, so I 'll sign off and join them...
To all friends whom I rousted out of their slumber with grand offers of a free webpage secured by YOURS TRULY, uh, uhm, I don't know what to say. Here it is, early AM, nearly 12 hours after I posted my requests, and received verification (all except for final verification which will come to YOUR E-mail account, which by the way, for those of you who were to depend on me to html author OUR MUTUAL page, can forward me with a click), there are whacky results. Two of the five sites I claimed yesterday have been "homesteaded" by other microgeeks (Don't ask me which ones they are. I was too steamed and forgot to write them down). The other three have not changed in status. When a claim is made, the icons change from a "darkened house vacancy" icon to a "bright key" icon in addition to the member name and directory updates. Perhaps Geopages is just being slow. Empirical past evidence shows this can sometimes be the case. However, this does not explain the two addresses which have been given unto others. And THIS is not supposed to happen, since Geopages fires up its search engines to scan & report on duplications in any and all of the original fields, and finding duplicity, will request that you make another choice in the incriminating field. Maybe it's just an IP detection bust, which would indicate that my land grab is frowned upon by the Geo.
At this time I plan no other turf grab surges in the name of friendship. For those of you who know your way around the cyberblock. Now that I've alerted you to the process I would expect you to followup on your own if you are indeed interested. I of course will continue to monitor the status of these accounts, but yesterday's initial rush of excitement has turned sour in my mouth. However, please forward any possible correspondence Geopages may emit. Sorry for the confusion. My previous five stakes were charted flawlessly.
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""