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?"
& I mote
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 ondriving 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.