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...
aka Fats, Kidscissor...