Tag Archives: Steve Taylor

The Telephone Song (And Dance)

GuyKawasaki
Guy Kawasaki
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Originally published on October 1, 1996

Still haven't processed my photo op with the Mac Guy Kawasaki...

Have you heard from Landry since the middle of last week? I haven't. And did I tell you what happened when I tried to research the current status of the home ISDN bill still before the Public Utilities Commission (every last one of those 1400 plus dollars) on what is supposed to be a $250 per month flat rate with zero message units? I'm thankful Peter's friend Bret Mingo configured the line and files the papers properly, and alerted me to this nasty little message unit scam that phone companies like to run on us small fry IT startups.

And now that I think of it, it's been a week since I requested a copy of the commercial specs and pricelist by phone. But anyhows, I got quite a bit of runaround at both the telephone company AND the PUC, finally getting a call back from someone in the Department of Energy a few days later(which dazed me for a few seconds until I finally figured out the relational matrix of ifs, ands & buts since he didn't know why he was calling either). Still nothing. He told me I should call the PUC. I told him that's who I thought I had been referred with digits by the telephone company to call. Alas, I rang his office instead. He admitted to being somewhat part of the process, but....

I think I need a telephone job. To know nothing is to fulfill the obligations of the job.

GT

Wednesday July 2, 2003: The Wonderful Launch of RSN

jack-kerouac
Jack Kerouac by Dewitt
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Wednesday July 2, 2003

Howdy Chazroe—here are those heraldry prints I promised you. Enjoy. Trust everything is decent with you and Pops, the dog, the job, the school, the dream. It's been a whirlwind summer since taking my sabbatical (perhaps permanent???) from the photo lab at the end of May. Am currently building an online radio station (the Radio Scenewash Network, RSN) which will be best accessed through a broadband connection (DSL), although I am formatting it at the 56kps rate which should allow those with dial-up modems to stream with decent results. Once we go live, I'll send you the details...Still busy compiling the song database, synchronizing bit rates and line levels, but should start stitching together that first playlist within a few business days. To sum up the station in a few words or a simple label would be impossible, but probably the college radio venue might come close to describing the eclectic selection of classic and local punk, hard and soft rock, country, folk, and even electronic and spoken word compositions I plan. Eventually I'll be creating my own vocal lead-ins and radio chatter with some special spots by Tim Shipman and other local voices to round out the sets. This is the most excitement I've been able to generate for myself in several years. Psyched...

That said, Sue and I are heading up to New England for a few days, leaving tomorrow, stopping first in New Rochelle, NY to see the Thomas Paine museum there, then onto Darien, CN for the first night's snore, then on up for a night on the Boston Harbor (Back Bay), before peeling off to just north of there to Lowell, the hometown of Beat writer Jack Kerouac. Then the trip veers south to Philadelphia where we should spend Saturday night, copping a visit to the Museum of Modern Art nested just a spit and a smile from our friend Steve Taylor's house. There, we'll catch the Marcel Duchamp collection of dadaist art pieces he donated them in the 1920s...

We don't get away very often, but I've been planning this trip for years. Although what's left of tropical storm Bill will make this a soggy spin, we've already postponed this trip once for similar rain invasions. What a spring & summer! After five years of extreme drought, we've had nothing but rain, rain, and more rain, not to mention all the snow we had this winter.

Anywaze, lemme hear from you sometime...

Happy trails,

GT

Friendship Wars, Frontlines, and Full-Moon Felonies

clues
No Clues, No Bruise
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Date: Wed, 29 Mar 2000 04:00:08
From: Timothy S. Shipman

I can only... guess, after my comments of the other night regarding not having furnished Steve with my home e-mail address, that you, prior to that night, not being aware as to my dilemma regarding, enabling or getting dragged under by one Steve Taylor, must have furnished him with it inadvertently. I'm not attempting to place blame; rather I dislike the unexplained; it bothers me. As you may have concluded, I've received two e-mails from him in the past two days.

I can't be sure as yet, but I don't think I've e-mailed him since the home e-mail has been installed. Either from home or work. So I'll be checking my work e-mail logs tomorrow to see if I can get to the root of this. Any enlightenment you might shed would be appreciated.

Thanks to you and Sue for Sunday afternoon and evening, again!

Tim

Nope, no clues, no bruise from over here. I haven't emailed him in weeks, and haven't mentioned you at all in ages to him, so I'm not sure how he got it either, Tim, except we might have mentioned Earthlink over the phone that night, and like Jack, Steve is a resourceful fellow with something that appeals to his own sense of espionage and personal cleverness, and if Steve is anything, he's web savvy, at least on the surf. And yes, it was great having you here. Thanks again for everything. We got an offer on the house from that Kevin and Marcia Rader-Rhodenbaugh couple that swept through here Sunday, about five grand lower than we are willing to accept, so we chipped away a little from our listing price, and counteroffered. That other house we wanted on Connecticut Avenue is gone. Poof!

The Sue and Gabriel show may finally wind up on the street without a place to live yet.

The mortgage banker recommended by the Virginia realtor has stalled, or is a heavy procrastinator in giving us a nod or anything at all, so we may have to look elsewhere in saddling up with our own new mortgage services, and that next step is crucial. Anywaze, yeah, I miss Steve, but he's a jackass, worse than me it seems in terms of the friendship wars. If he would just grow up and try to be there for "his" friends once in a while rather than always needing somebody to be there for him, then he'd be a great person to know, but nobody can expect Steve to step outside his own calendar, so otherwise, yikes, let me out the door, splat, before this thing goes terminal...

GT

Sock It To Me If You Must, But Let Me Hear From You, Space

cities-strive
Cities Strive
samplex

Date: Tue Dec 7, 1999 8:32:10 AM

Space—hey man, wish I knew why it is you have written me off. You've ignored my phonecalls and quit responding to my email September a year ago. Being of paranoid mind and body I would have thought that perhaps that little BBM resignation crisis in some unintended twisted way sealed the vault, or even that Steve Taylor on the ride back to Philly might have said something to you to blacken my rep, but we, you and I, actually traded a couple more friendly notes after your flight back to Seattle right up to the time when I scooted for vacation, and while away, had my Internet pipeline severed which signalled a very hellish year where my ISP and Bell Atlantic were screwing me at every turn through absolutely no fault of my own, which translated means I had no two weeks of solid uninterrupted service for over a year due to a long series of unrelated, complicated and ridiculous snafus on their end.

But upon my return after a week in South Carolina visiting family, from you, nothing, nada, kaput. What gives? Did your computer get fried? This note is merely a dove looking for a twig. Perhaps you still have the same AOL address, perhaps you do not.

I'd just been sorting through some of the emails we shared back in 1995 with great fondness when whammo, the Seattle riots break into the news. I've been hosting on my computers a listserve of highly opinionated, aptly educated folks of various stripe scattered across the globe who have made it their business to rage against the capitalist machine, and I'd been talking your name up when this WTO thing exploded into our consciousness, and thus I grew doubly anxious to reunite with my old friend.

Please. Let's end this lockout, Space. Sock it to me if you must, but let me hear from you. This past year has been awful for me. I watched only pieces of a mere handful of baseball games, three, maybe four until the playoffs and Yankees, but finally in October my ISP and the telephone company finally delivered on a relatively inexpensive, somewhat fast fulltime connection, and yep, it's been stable, finally some relief from these 21 hour days monitoring my damned service. You wouldn't believe how cramped and crimped my life had become. And looking back, despite all my stress and imagined immobility, perspiration and stagnation, a lot has been accomplished, even if not as much as I would have hoped.

Meanwhile my neighborhood has become a warzone of drug dealers and self-confessed whitey haters. Blumstein has sold out, and lemme tell you, THAT is one long greasy story, but life is not ever as simple as it seems. You've missed out on some of my best writing, and I know I have missed out on yours. Can't we fix this?

Color me waiting to hear from you,

Gabriel
aka Fats Bullwinkle

C-Nic Routes, Statisticians, And Pulling Yet Another Steve Taylor

c-nic-routes
C-Nic Routes A Chance
samplex

Date: Mon Aug 24, 1998 12:38:44 AM America/New_York

Space, I forwarded your note to Steve. He must be on mail strike. What is this the fourth, almost fifth day since I asked him what his plans were. He has this really bizarre way of dealing with plans by ignoring them. He probably will not call you in Philly, but that would be cool for everybody I'd presume, but then I wouldn't be surprised if he did. Why he suddenly ceases our nearly daily correspondence when some positive planning is in the works, I no longer even want to burden myself to fathom. His record for consistency in this matter speaks for itself. I'm assuming he understands my stated plans and will work to accomplish his own constructs accordingly, but I've been wrong on both of these counts too many times to matter with Steve Taylor on an intelligent level . . .

Not by any stretch of the imagination is poor communication the prime suspect in this behavior. We both communicxate just fine. It's the message that's such a terror matrix. Steve simply likes to PLAY IT BY EAR, and that reminds me, I've got an infection which is driving me to the doctor very soon like as soon as I can find a doctor to take me in my left ear, the one in which I already muster a mere 30-40% normal hearing range, having suffered a constant tintinitus there since August of 1992 after a bout with a loud rock show [Zodiac Mindwarp, in a show where I remember thinking during the show that this was definitively the loudest band I'd ever heard and I've videotaped many a loud band during my 1980s punk rock era] and later flight back from London via Iceland, always having been one to suffer inner ear troubles after long flights. The itching, stopped up feeling and downright pain started early yesterday and has gotten increasingly worse. Although not exactly the same, it sort of reminds me of your agonizing ear bit a few months back.

This Pontiac is a definite thief magnet. I split Wednesday morning to have the Lo-Jack tracking system installed. I've dumped the Caller ID. May get an answering machine hooked back in or simply subscribe to voice mail as you suggested. Haven't really made a decision. Confirmed the return policy on the box so I'm grateful I'm not out the $65 spent there.
I'm just getting around to the C's tonight, so I haven't even seen the damage. Thanks for the update. ON a whim Sue and I bought a new car yesterday. It's a killer car no shit. A groovin' 1995 Pontiac Bonneville Super Sport Edition, 41K mileage. Forest green skin. Tan cockpit, unbelievable instrumentation and interior features. Gold trim and wheel package. Baby Sue loves the car to death. It had gotten to the embarrassing stage of her NOT having a decent car to drive to work, and somehow seemed an injustice since she envied one. We had no idea what we were looking for when we decided to go looking after hours of chat the past few weeks, months, but found this car, and fell hard for it. She deserved it. I've kept the old magical Dodge, 1989, 120K miles. Yikes! Can we pay for this automotive luxury? It WAS a stretch. I may really have to take an HTML design job out there in the war zones, leaving my post here at the Grillyard unguarded, but a lot of money has been spent and a lot more is needed, and so, uh Rusty, I may be following up on those contacts you passed me just before this unspeakably nasty rectal surgery took me out...

I do admit to a certain well-informed paranoia. This Pontiac is a definite thief magnet. I split Wednesday morning to have the Lo-Jack tracking system installed. I've dumped the Caller ID. May get an answering machine hooked back in or simply subscribe to voice mail as you suggested. Haven't really made a decision. Confirmed the return policy on the box so I'm grateful I'm not out the $65 spent there.

About the time I think I'm getting down to some real work around here, some technical fuckup or creeping malaise works itself into a knot, and I'm suddenly sandbagged again. I did get a lot of photoscanning done last week, and felt nifty about that. Also have been reading a short Antonin Artaud biography to relax in between production shifts.
UnixusNET is in shambles. The 8500 web server and its 2 partitioned drives must be reformatted, as does my 8600 and its unpartitioned 9GB sidecar, the 750MD, drive, and Sue's G-3. I had hoped to get this project done this weekend. NOT. I've got troubles I need to fix. My minimum files sizes are 272 K on one drive, and I am no longer able to filke share on certain machine since Sue installed another program designed to allow me to remotely control the server. That experiment was a failure, and I've lost my ability to share these drives. We tried everything short of what we must try now, and since I've been wanting to upgrade my file storage protocols anyway, the time is now since I apparently need clean installs to clear up this drive sharing problem. When the focus date is certain I'll let you know Rusty how things stand. Perhaps with enough prior sleep I can tend to the web & mail server in a wee hour...so as not to disturb your mail service. And I'll have to get back to you on the directory level issue. You are presenting me problems that I haven't had time to solve or even study. Perhaps it's a WebStar issue, but I've given you mindfire. Any other folders at that level just clog up my webStar directory with YOUR projects, and until...My point is, we're back to the aliasing aspect we talked about earlier in this exchange of whatevers discussion. Until I learn how to easily alias the folders in your mindfire directory to resolve the shorter URLs, I'm afraid you're going to have to work from within the mindfire directory I've already set up.

This Saturday morning scouting trip down a stretch of the Anacostia River was a ripping success, a real eyeopener, but more on that later. About the time I think I'm getting down to some real work around here, some technical fuckup or creeping malaise works itself into a knot, and I'm suddenly sandbagged again. I did get a lot of photoscanning done last week, and felt nifty about that. Also have been reading a short Antonin Artaud biography to relax in between production shifts. What a wingnut he was.

The Weight Loss Update: Now 20 pounds lighter than pre-surgery weigh-in of 293...

Apologies for the group letter format. Hopefully there's at least something new of interest to each of you on this list even though certain passages may not make appeal to everyone. It's been wild & hairy here at the DH slot of late, and my ear troubles are keeping me fuzzy. The Nothingness crew will get something from me tomorrow I hope. Just sign me the tone deaf ex-poet playing it by ear, or simply holding out for something better...

GT

C Level

C Level
C Level
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Date: Fri Aug 21, 1998 8:57:58 PM America/New_York

Space—can't possibly think of anything you could bring, but C Level enthusiasm. I have pretty much have everything I need in spades...uh, except help on all these damned projects I've got going, but enough of that. Steve is pulling his usual silent treatment. Two days of dead air once I mailed him your confirmation afterhe was posting daily inquiries about the game tickets and your plans. As soon as the whole world is confirmed, he goes off into his world of silence until the very last minute when he's ready to move. He does this EVERY SINGLE TIME we try to make plans. Without fail. It's uncanny. Once upon a time it was interesting to observe his operations, but now it's simply a nuisance of his friendship (remember that note you wrote three or four years ago lamenting the English language void of words describing the different tiers of acquaintences one has where using the word friend seems an abuse of clarity? I do, and have pondered the essence of your brilliant query many times before and since, acknowledging the truth of it.)

Steve is an enigma to himself, not because he is inexplicably mysterious or undeserving of the best of anything he or anybody else has to offer, but merely because he cannot seem to pull himself together to commit to anything or anyone for more than a wisp of time. Any commitment is a death trap for him. He's gotten a bit better on the personal level, but his disappearing routine will pop up occasionally when he's out on the town, and is always present when it comes to nailing down plans. I'm only slightly exaggerating when I say it wouldn't surprise me in the least that we discover sometime in the eighth inning at the Yards that Steve had left his seat during the seventh inning stretch and shot for home. He does THAT kind of shit almost by rote, although I remarked to him a few months ago that he seemed to have chilled on that behavior somewhat.

The most casual get together is always marred by this refusal to commit to anything save an active extension of his desire to do nothing but play, to remain rudderless, engineless, mendaciously debonair on his own callous terms. God, he drives me crazy. But, he is my friend, even best friend by virtue of our close proximities these past three years...
Not that his commitment for next week is that critical in this situation EXCEPT that he be gone somewhere else by Sunday afternoon. But I did want the three of us to get comfy with each other, but he may have other plans. Dunno. He has said two or three times now that he's hip to the game, but Steve always like to change the rules, so I'm just gonna let this thing unfold as he likes it. I've told him that he should come early, say Thursday, if he needs a longer visit, but that I wanted him gone after Sunday brunch so that Sue and I could gear down properly for the following week.

Like I told you on the phone, he's heard and read this speech dozens, yes, dozens of times from me, but he always presses for an extra day, or whatever, in that cavalier manner of his, and I quietly acquiesce, but not so this coming visit. His ongoing insanity at my expense must come to an end. The most casual get together is always marred by this refusal to commit to anything save an active extension of his desire to do nothing but play, to remain rudderless, engineless, mendaciously debonair on his own callous terms. God, he drives me crazy. But, he is my friend, even best friend by virtue of our close proximities these past three years...

I do hope you get to meet him. Although it is rare for Steve to simply blow off a semi-solid plan completely, it would not surprise me if something suddenly came up to shut down his DC visit. He's a jealous god and may not want to compete for air time with someone else he might or might not awe. God, he drives me crazy.

Sorry about all this interpersonal stuff about somebody you only know as the manager of the Rhubarbs, a true baseball rookie (having NEVER played or followed the game until this year), a rookie, that is, who bounced our Walter Johnson cognizant asses right out of the ballpark. He's a genuinely good fellow, but his self-image has taken a few hits lately, and that's not settling well with him as he gets older and performs less, and yet still sees himself as the next great CEO of whatever will satisfy his Paul Bunyan ego somewhere down the line. Man, he drives me crazy. Man alive. Do I ever look forward to your visit!

Fatz

Philadelphia Breadcrumbs

philadelphia-sisters
"Philadelphia Sisters" by Gabriel Thy
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Originally published on October 16, 1997

Steve, search AltaVista with the keyword SCENEWASH. Man a monopoly, but it shouldn't last forever. I don't recall ever signing SWORG with AltaVista or any search engines for that matter, since I had no active content there, but oooowwwweeee, what a presence!

How are you "set" for a fall classic in the City of Brotherly Glove in the last weekend AFTER Halloween with two or more proles from the City of Neverending Elections? Depends on how things shape up around here with bookcases and client bases, but we might be settled enough by then to take a slow drive to the north country. Some ten dollars in tolls is enough to make this a rare visit, as I'm sure you're aware, but of course as a native son of Philadelphia you are bound by cleverness to find a way around the tolls given enough time to wander the backroads. I haven't discussed this with the Bug, but surely we'll jump at the chance to eat in a unfamiliar restaurant where all the snappy waitresses fire off salty checkerboarded accents and the center of attention melts in the center of town, not in our hands.

Meanwhile I'm still frying in the pan as I hit pocket after pocket of web cramp and creativity null in my struggle to reinstate my SCENEWASH infrastructure, formerly of iMote (where that picture of us on the Perquacky Deck resides somewhere in the Literary Chip stack, oh yes, the Misguided Tour of the Literary Chip, don't ask me again, use your bookmarks silly, if'n you can't find your way back through the breadcrumbs of your mind).

GT

Postscript: The Misguided Tour never really got off the ground, tethered as it was to hard work in a busy, infrastructure laying era where failed cooperation was hardly a minor bump or soft shoulder in the road but was a major pothole which grounded smart aleck motorcycle kings faster than the DC Department of Public Works on a sudden 20" snow day. Building this monstrosity of self-indulegence, whether it has any passing artistic value or not, has taken time, but in the end I can attest to its worth to me is immeasurable. Others have moved on with their lives, but here sits I, Gabriel, doing what I said I wanted to do, for better, for worse, these are the days of my lives...dated 10/25/13.

Odd & Ends Of The Hard Gee

throne03xsamplex

Originally published on October 10, 1997

Just in case you wanted to join in this offshoot from Engst's Tidbits, and one should perhaps also drop this to Berman, ha ha ho ho! And did I tell you? Garfinkel snuffed the IAG account, poof gone. I deleted the web server files earlier this week. His letter graciously thanked me for my efforts, but admitted that the site was a failure. Not that he gave it much a shot. Just another dreamer that a tiny fledgling website would instantly suck in a flood of specific visitors. Of course he ended with the obligatory carrot of future work, yuckety yuck...

From the—It's "Jiff" and I Don't Want to Hear Another Word—department, I find that while logic may dictate the "g" in GIF (Graphic Interchange Format) is pronounced hard, like gift or gefilte fish, that hasn't stopped dozens and dozens of readers from offering opinions, many of them hilarious.

However, several people wrote to say that they either worked with folks at CompuServe or read the original GIF specification, all of which specified a soft "g". None of us at NetBITS understand why we haven't seen the definitive word before, so here it is. Charlie Reading writes:

"I worked with the creator of GIF (Steve Wilhite) when I was still employed by CompuServe. Steve always pronounced it "jiff" and would correct those who pronounced it with a hard G. "Choosy developers choose GIF" (spinning off of a historically popular peanut butter commercial)."

Well I, for one, will stand by the hard "G" as in gipper. I prefer the all natural crunchy peanut butter, anyway. And I'm not about to be given pronunciation lessons from a Compuservant. Interesting bit of history, nonetheless. Over the years I've noticed that almost all graphic arts types pronounce it hard, while a certain percentage of computer types go soft...

There's Nothing Straighter Than True Plumb, Bob

friendship-wars
The Friendship Wars
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Originally published Aug 19, 1997. Italics Steve Taylor, plain text mine.

Damn. I just clicked on an iMote page, and it is all twisted. Wrong graphics in the wrong places, and another graphic skewed. Gotta go investigate. Maybe Bob's right. My life ain't life. Maybe he'll let me join in his weekly WWII strategy board game, or watch his stockpile of Japanese anime videos. Now that's life. I know I'm just being petty here, but it really burns the bone that among friends and neighbors every choice one makes is shit, and Bob has always done that to me. My poetry is bad. My writing makes no sense. My web work is not life. Even after all the GT vs. SET fires belching in the belly, and that most recent flamewar certainly left scars, I can at least say that you have always encouraged me in my struggle to express my loneliness and insights through writing and creative images and with the technical additions of web producing, you've been my only true visitor. I don't know what that says about you, but thanks anyway. And again, congratulations on your new aspirations. You are indeed cock of the walk when it comes to nailing job interviews.

You are quite welcome. And thanks for letting me know. It does mean much to me to have some positive impact out there—and it is nice to keep in contact from here in the PA void. I'm glad that I now have had time to read, write (a bit, anyway), surf, relax...and actually think about what works, what matters, what the hell...I kept busy and manic enough in DC to keep myself from realizing how unhappy I was—AOL caught me on the downside for a while, so I just kept fighting at Howrey, thinking that I could make well-enough work into something great. Hah! Oh well, looking back on the last few jobs I had—ones for which I've been envied by more than one person, I see that I was fooling myself to ever accept them. I had forgotten that I could do more than be a lackey for underskilled, Peter Principle poster children who didn't care about the product but had just chosen a career and insisted on sticking with it without truly caring about what they were doing.

They simply become too easy too soon and don’t allow room for the type of growth and development that we need to keep breathing. iMote and Scenewash (and others projects of past and future) can give you that. I’m hoping that I will end up webmastering Fox Chase Cancer Center, and that the job will have enough challenges to keep me interested, honest, and sane. For now I wait for the call from Philly. Right now, I mow the lawn.
But each time I made the mistake of falling into jobs when I needed the money and was able to rationalize my way into accepting what I knew would wear out soon. Then I was able to add something to the job to make it seemingly great for a while. Then they didn't want a star, just a good team player. Well, I can be a good team player, but when I'm being asked to wash the uniforms and the team truly needs me in another position...enough sports metaphors...As I'm feeling some of that DC-bound bitterness resurfacing, let me bend this back to a less combative reality: I made some terrible judgement calls. But at the time, there weren't any better options I could have seen. I was too blinded by my defense mechanisms. And, even with the confidence I was often able to exude, for a period of time there, I didn't truly believe in myself and my abilities to do anything and do it damned well. I know that I can put together any web site, any magazine, any promotional campaign or technical budget. I just might have to work at it.

And that's what these McTech/McMedia jobs I've had have not given me (and would not give you or anyone else with vision and drive). They simply become too easy too soon and don't allow room for the type of growth and development that we need to keep breathing. iMote and Scenewash (and others projects of past and future) can give you that. I'm hoping that I will end up webmastering Fox Chase Cancer Center, and that the job will have enough challenges to keep me interested, honest, and sane. For now I wait for the call from Philly. Right now, I mow the lawn.

But now, I've gotta attend to those pesky HTML brats. Keep it clean, and the dirt will follow anyway. Busy with beaver and loaded for bear...strange how those epiphrases just jot themselves down along with the mustard and relish of a personality mirage. Lynn has not responded, although I certainly had no idea the phrase was anything but a toss-off. Tell me how it goes. I presume, it's like the "playing it by ear" and "that's my story and I'm stickin' to it" SET tune of the month. I can hear it already reverberating off the whispering pines of friendly Pennsylvanian platitudinal grace. Look forward to the update, but frankly, I think you and I are the only ones who "get" most of our poetic hucksterism. Occasionally Bob in good mood is generous with a Boblike compliment with adjectives like hip, post-modern, whacky, subterranean sprinkled in to authenticate a true Bob true grit compliment, and they certainly have increased over the years, but like Bracken, most often he's just a little quick to dismiss and a little slow to hammer out the dots, plumb the heights, and probe the depths but like all of us, prefers to hear his own voice than those of his neighbors.

GT

Those imps of HTML will need some reintroducing to me—it's been a while since I've actually dug into code. Gotta go back to the basics a bit—save that source, localize those graphics, and start
playing with other folks' designs. Tables, frames, imagemaps, CSS...it'll take me a while, but I'll get back there.

Peace. Love. Digital Neighbors.

SET

Remembrance Of Things Past Their Due Date

Remembrance Of Things Past Their Due Date
Remembrance Of Things Past Their Due Date
samplex

Did it again today, and it seemed to have been successful. So, perhaps my earlier attempt worked and it sensed the duplicate. Life? Ate the cereal, played the game—prefer the cereal. But the untrademarked life...

I'll tell you when it's over...

The crazy binges, late night screams, titty bars, misguided yutes, obscene bar tabs, missed moments, all the young crudes—they were fun and they still can be. But it's not the substance of life. It can't happen every night. Coughing up phlegm and stomach acid into the toilet every morning just isn't the best way to start a day. For some people, perhaps living in a fog is better than facing a reality that has nothing to offer them and which they have nothing to offer. I would like to feel that we can produce happiness, satisfaction, excitement, or whatever emotion or intellectual charge without any other thing or any other person. Of course, that would be life in a vacuum, and it wouldn't be ideal either. I still want to be out there among others (just not all the time—even Steve Taylor needs down time, as I'm appreciating right now), I still want to have my drinks, and I'm sure there will be more than a few crazy evenings out there. But back to the way they used to be—adventures, not escapes. Balance—not in the sense of moderation in all things, but in the sense of what combination of elements, external and internal, work for me. If the only answer I could find would be drinking cheap beer in a dive reeking of cheap cigarettes or pulling on a Martini in a luxury hotel bar inundated with an expensive haze of cigars, then—damnit—I'd find a way to spend as much time as possible doing that. However, while some fascinating hours have been spent in places like that, my experience has been much broader and has given me playing, reading, writing, exploring, watching, listening, dreaming, working (with hands, mind, etc.), creating, learning...and I haven't been doing enough of these over the last x number of years. Vive la balance, or something ...

—Steve Taylor

But, I’m way off the path of solitude when I let Bob crash my peace. He gave a blanket apology. Back to the crickets in my bad ear, the purr of the fan at my feet, and the allure of the Internet where anybody can be somebody and everybody can be nobody, but none of us can ever know the difference until we do the work.
Proud As Steve Taylor? Thanks for your recent writing which has strangely enhanced this retro-isolation nostalgic quiet peace of 1979-1980 I've been infected with these past few days. General happiness and resolve, that's the notion I think that's winning the race. Out with alcohol. In with solitude. Yep, I'm beginning to equate life with a noise based on faulty definitions and random arrogance still on the rampage way past its due date (or best used by date for literalists). I feel like I'm already sixty, and frankly sort of like it there, as Bracken keeps calling trying to get me to go woman-chasing with him. I just wanna puke at his tired words, and tell him to, what else, "get a life!"

Ha! ha! Don't get me wrong. I lust the warm soft tenacity and specatacle of women with every fiber in my body like any red bloodied rot gut, but those same fragmented overfed fibers are smartening up enough to know where they have a better chance to succeed, and it ain't in some damned cut-up chase scene with Bracken sounding the charge.

That Jim Carroll biographer chick, Cassie Carter, has been after me again, but that's good because unless Amazon is scamming me on their weekly reports which actually list some 150 hits by book title referrer, nearly all these visitors are coming directly to my site, or rather, directly to my Jim Carroll page, from hers. Meanwhile, FTP'd the whole ex-iMote over to the new scenewash directory yesterday, and will need a few days of restoking to clear the links of debris and don't ask me what else. So it's back to work for the weary. Finally a rain day. The first in over a month here in DC.

I was 24-25. Young, thin, even skinny. Full of zest, vigor, and peace. Life is not a home-brew. Life is what happens to you when you are busy making plans for something else. I stole that from Lennon before, but that’s the fat and the gristle of it. Nothing’s any more clear than that. Now the chicken farm is gone. My mentor (of hard work) has been dead for ten years, and the farm I helped build torn down.
Sue celled in from Saint Thomas last evening before reboarding the liner. She & Aunt Lou are having a bang up time. I could smell the fun on her breath from here. It's really strange without her at home, but you know me, I'm soaking up all the quiet I can. I miss her, but it'll be Labor day until we baby dance together again. With that ringing in my left ear I've carried since the Zodiac Mindwarp show in London 1992, my days and nights pass eerily as if in the woods or the farm, crickets and the silence of nothing but the fan. Alone, no pressure to succeed, no terms of regret, no inkling of failure, no sizzle, no sap. Hints of a new routine, say for instance an evening walk around the neighborhood, a dip into the city, a relaxing drink in the backyard nirvana. No, I've stuck inside avoiding the heat, but I've noticed these inner stirrings. Today is twenty degrees cooler, but even so, I hack away at this terminal, working, planning, fooling myself I'm living life with some great plan to succeed. Me, I just do what I can, and try not to aggravate or be aggravated by every whim and weasel this world has to offer. Guess I'm still stewing over Bob's bluster because I don't know where it came from, life? Life? That word just swooped in on me and I cannot fathom why or how he intended to mean it other than demeaning me. But, I'm way off the path of solitude when I let Bob crash my peace. He gave a blanket apology. Back to the crickets in my bad ear, the purr of the fan at my feet, and the allure of the Internet where anybody can be somebody and everybody can be nobody, but none of us can ever know the difference until we do the work.

I associate these feelings with Lofton Creek FL, the chicken farm days, the cabin, forty thousand birds, long lonely weeks without ever seeing another human, my daily summer skinnydipping, vegetarianism, cheese and grapes and rye bread lovers, writing my first serious, better poems of a lifetime, poems I still read with enthusiam today (aching to plug online), those ten mile hikes into town, Dylan Dog who looked and acted just like Nickel Dog, getting buried in three hundred year old literature checked from the library, Will Durant, and a steady feed from PBS. I was 24-25. Young, thin, even skinny. Full of zest, vigor, and peace. Life is not a home-brew. Life is what happens to you when you are busy making plans for something else. I stole that from Lennon before, but that's the fat and the gristle of it. Nothing's any more clear than that. Now the chicken farm is gone. My mentor (of hard work) has been dead for ten years, and the farm I helped build torn down. Life? Yeah Bob, lemme sit at your feet, such wisdom.

Have you heard the recent uproar about the thousands of fish sporting nasty abcesses on their smelly bods first in North Carolina, and now proin the Chesapeake? After nearly a year of mystery, the problems are being blamed on chicken farm runoff, shit tragically high in nitrogen and ammonia gases running off into the streams and creeks and into the ocean. That's some powerful stuff that survives the plunge into the sea.

GT