Tag Archives: Steve Taylor

Very Strong Design, Señor Scenewash

viking-blum
Drawing by Bob Blumstein
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At 11:07 PM -0400 8/18/97, Steve Taylor wrote:

Checked out your Scenewash site—very strong design. Let me know as you fill out the content. Btw—are you able to keep the content on the same TabNet server space?

No. I went with SimpleNet, drawn by their persuasive stand behind unlimited storage, unlimited hits. They figger it's a math game they can't lose, balancing less with more, that sort of crunching. I've still never been billed a penny by TABnet, and as I knew I was running out of space with them (30MB), it wasn't good sense to rock the boat by upping my site load with the same account info. The SimpleNet solution presents new variables. Pharaon sits on one of their servers, but because of certain parameters I will register Always & Forever with TABnet (should they decide to accept my 3-tiered proposal submitted yesterday August 18.

In other frivolity, here's a shard of poetry I posted in combat with some other mortal delinquent who likes to tail me, make me look, force me to snarl...

              Aggressor, trangressor, bodily snatch.
              Fire in the cranium, mire in the blood,
              Billions still screaming, "I'm misunderstood!"

              So tell me oh headstones of time and potlatch
              How many stooges does it take to explain
              Nothing truly sinister is ever that lame?

Thanks for the big cheese, Mouse. Reality's real whether you like it or not. Mine doesn't have to be yours. Actually no two realities are exactly the same, like snowflakes, DNA, retina scans, fingerprints, pair of tits, and voices in the wilderness, Master Jack and Billy, too. But it's still reality, and it's facing us down. Besides, there's only so much one man can do to help another. Personally, I've given up the lost cause. It's a killer con, dried me all up inside. Unless an understanding of the reality of one's own analog choices is as powerful an emotion as despising the common jack be nimble of the land, there's no hope worth the word spit. Might as well pack it all in. Trust is everything. Hot air is for balloons. Enjoyed our conversation after we moved past you importing automobiles into Saudi hands. Afraid I'm a disbeliever on that note, dude. Reminded me of something Chas would say. Of course, that's only my opinion. I could be wrong. Meanwhile...

Keep writing. But tell me the truth.

GT

"Don't ask me nothing about nothing, I just might tell you the truth..."
—Bob Dylan

Moving Along The Assembly Line

grillyard
The Grillyard
samplex

Originally posted 7.9.97

Thanks, but no. I've had my fill. Time to coordinate and articulate all those hours I've already spent chasing the images of a 144,000 sloppy but willing . . . and the cage is definitely out of the question. My underwear is caked in blood every morning after a fresh dressing at night. This is not an easy surgery to "put behind one" in the rush back toward the routine of merely sitting and gardening, such is my life as writer and designer.

The 8600 finally arrived in woeful condition. The cardboard box and styrofoam packing both looked as if the world's angriest pit bull had slipped them the big one. The CPU was not even inserted into what was left of the packing. The mouse and powercord were missing, the visibly fatigued cardboard sooted and sullied, loosely retaped with the metallic footprint showing through the three inch gap at the bottom flaps. The floppydrive coverplate was missing one of its two snap-on prongs, the other needed a ninety degree twist back to normal.

Of course, the plate doesn't not stay snapped into place as a result of the missing prong. Apple said there was nothing they could do about it, when Liberty called to report the horrendous UPS service yesterday. Ran her a long line of probable first day on the job bullshit even telling her that Apple could not track the shipment (to verify any details, how long it took to get to us, etc. after telling her it was a money back return deal ONLY in the first seven days AFTER they shipped). Sue defied them in her usual weak way that indeed SHE had tracked the whole shippping path since June 20 (uh, to July 6, considerably longer than a seven day loop) from the UPS website, which she was sure he too could access since it was Apple who had E-mailed us the UPS tracking number (actually my version of the argument is probably more detailed than hers, unfortunately).

Bat criteria? Simple. One that FEELS good and LOOKS good in the hands of the slugger. I’d ramble off a few brandnames and some arcaneia about appropriate lengths and weights to suit the needs and style of the hitter, but the doodads are calling. . .
Back and forth, the adjutant experience of telephone dancestepping was remarkable only in its poverty of polite and accommodating feedback from the once highly touted Apple service side of the equation and the frustratingly weak powers of articulation on the consumer side. I had snapped a photo of the sorry package and was prepared to send it to Apple to document my complaint, whether they accepted it as proof without belonging to an official chain of evidence, or not. Something or someone had banged that box up hard. There were missing parts. What were we as loyal Apple consumers to expect? They finally hung up, nothing resolved except a 90-day warranty which we already came with the purchase. I will fret upon this a few days before deciding whether or not to step into the ring to mandate satisfaction, or else simply let it go by pushing the limits of the machine in the first 90, find some spare parts elsewhere if I need them, and get back to business, challenging myself to never buy directly from Apple ever again (this ain't the first direct buy that's gone sour).

Miraculously, the damned thing booted right up. It's running OS 7.6.1 which we'll upgrade to OS 8.1. Still haven't decided on a server package, but as is my wont, I'll probably settle on the Mac industry leader, spend the bigger bucks on WebStar, and top it all off with the full throttle of nifty add-ons. And soon be competing with the best and the rest, right here from the Dollhouse Studio Z.

Bat criteria? Simple. One that FEELS good and LOOKS good in the hands of the slugger. I'd ramble off a few brandnames and some arcaneia about appropriate lengths and weights to suit the needs and style of the hitter, but the doodads are calling. . . .

Bucking The Will To Dominate

cicatrizll
Cicatrizil
samplex

Originally posted Mon May 26 16:09:27 1997

As per my last note, Steve, I just want you to get well, so that we can finally collaborate on a more mature level than the past has allowed us. But as for dialing you up in sunny Pennsylvania, just to shoot the bull, I don't know what I would have to say. Just get well man, just get well. Let's work together. Let's quit all this fantasy crap, and get down to the real business of selling web design and maintenance services, something we both fantasized about as far back as November 1995 when you first sniffed out GeoCities.

It's your move, Steve. So let's JUST DO it, or at least get out in front of this trainwreck and pull the damn plug on the partnership because there's no sense in bucking the will to dominate. If that's what you want to do then measure up to it. Otherwise, you just aren't.

It's been raining all morning, but the sun is out now, it's not too hot or too cold, and Bob is back from Pittsburgh with girlfriend. Plans are we will be grilling shortly.

What motivates me to make my mark this way is unclear.

GT

Computilization

Means Of Production
Means Of Production
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Originally posted Sun 18 May 1997

The next day fallout...

[ootmop = owner of the means of production]

"recalcitrant (adj.) 1. Marked by stubborn resistance to and defiance of
authority or guidance."

I have to deal with recalcitrant support staff on a daily basis, and I don't expect it from a fellow billing professional. Yes, you own the means of production. I own the means of producing the potential of work and, thus, money. No love lost over your inability and/or /unwillingness to conform to my schedule yesterday; however, don't criticize your client or his middleman. Sure, there's a time for criticism, but contract negotation is *not* the time. Understood? Are we still in this together?[SET]


We are "still in this together" as far as my word has taken me, and as of this writing, that translates into one thing and one thing only: I am waiting to hear from you on the status of the IAG job. That job and that deal. Beyond that, we have nothing but the same quarrel I observe between us, as stated in Saturday's memos. And that is all I have to say on the matter at this time, in order to ... oops, you just called and want to come over to play, and as a weak link or a good leader (a polemic no doubt open to debate), I said okay... [GT]

Postscript On Skills, Puppy Mills, And Petitioning For Redress of Grievances

collage
He's Got Skills
samplex

We had decided to launch a web design business. I had shown initiative and a certain level of flair as a designer in these early days of low bandwidth and high expectations. I needed a sales force. The always debonair Steve Taylor was indeed a force of nature, but the looming question was would he find this business partnership something he would take seriously enough to apply some of those "looking good selling ice to Eskimo" skills.

My own brother Clyde, a home and commercial roofing magnate in Atlanta, after six months of prepping me to run a new satellite office he wanted to open in the DC area, went silent, just a few weeks before, and I had sensed something was fishy, and that this "opportunity" was not going to happen for me. Clyde finally answered his phone that morning, and acted as if nothing was supposed to be going on between us although just a few weeks before this was to be a life-changing transition for both of us. Finally, I pressed, only to hear him say to me, wryly, without apology or irony, that he had just bought a boat. Yep, I knew it. Clyde is the type of person who obsesses and is always churning over the details of a new financial strategy, and was doing just that for months on end with me until the tell-tale silence two to three weeks before.

Steve, my closest friend at the time, was also given to similar mystifying behavior. I knew Clyde's to be pure selfishness, down to the last atom in a Heisenberg count like any achievement oriented American businessman because that's what it takes in today's guttersnipe environment. Mr. Taylor however, was apt to opt for degenerative spiraling for what seemed it's own sake, a nasty habit I knew salted my own basket of fries from time to time.

That background bring us to this rather muted exchange between Steve and myself, though the poison of past experiences was bubbling just below the surface tension of events real and imagined, traded calmly via email on Saturday, 17 May 1997.

GT: I know we can do this web design thing with great rewards, but there are things to work out and follow through upon. With the three of us wanting the same thing at the same time, the world doesn't stand a chance denying us. I am ready. BUT IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE? (Moody Blues 1971), So your early morning enthusiam about getting together early this afternoon is already waning?

What usually happens is that I’m making a joke from frustration in trying to reach you, a joke you would probably volley in infinite jest if we were face to face or even voice connected, but be assured I’m frightfully aware the problem is mine, and that I need to improve my voice machine skills to a more Stevelike level since I do tend to puzzle you, or rather grizzle you with my sour messages from time to time.
[TaylorS] If I mentioned getting together early this afternoon, that was at a point when I thought that the Help Desk would pull me off Saturday coverage (a previous, months-ago commitment.) As is, I was required to work until at least 5pm today as you hint about games in the park, and suggest we can't brainstorm if I drink.

GT: Whoa! That would be a first. SET dropping by to pow wow without drinking.

[TaylorS]—Point withdrawn.

GT: But I've been needy all afternoon thinking it would be great to have a confidence builder named Steve Taylor in my orbit, but as typical, I seem to be on my own with every personal tragedy always in some queue, while others seek out me as a close ear over and over again. Perhaps you feel I let you down the other day, but I didn't.

[TaylorS]—I don't feel let down. Your work helped solidify a reputation I was already building with a reputable media contact. Maximum respect to you. Every thing you do at Howrey or wherever is your own autonomous call, but not every thing you do is self-edifying, gratifying maybe, edifying no, and that's all I tried to point out.

GT: Sue just called, and rushed in with consoling voice to comfort me in what she knew was an agonizing afternoon after that Clyde bomb. Very sweet of her. She was there this morning. She heard my side of the conversation and she knows Clyde first hand and why I had to finally tell him what I told him.

[TaylorS]—To hell with Clyde.

GT: But I understand, Steve. If you don't want to come by, simply don't. You know, I'm too cynical to beg. Do drop by when you feel it convenient. Blah, blah, blah.

[TaylorS]—My main concern with stopping by is bike time. I would rather not put my [currently] less self in the line of traffic fire for too long.

We all have to eat and blow great wads of money in places we think make us feel manifest, moxy, and maximized carbon-based lifeforms, but I am simply saying, let’s get serious, or else just simply quit this shadowboxing shit. It’s wearing me out, and going nowhere fast, uh slow? And now that the Clyde and Ricky show is floating belly-up, I’m feeling a little, no, a lotta sick inside.
GT: Okay I got that garbage out of the way. Uh, where does that leave me? Oh yeah, standing smack dab in the middle of your maybe. Bottom line? I think we can discuss formulative details if you leave you own neuroses at the back door, and I leave mine there too, and we talk real talk and real turkey without bombast.

[TaylorS]—That could happen.

GT: This Clyde thing is synchronistic fatalism at its most timely. Let us learn from that fiasco, and invent ourselves properly. And another thing. Answering machines (despising my own voice) somewhat intimidate me, as does writing e-mail seems to intimidate not a few others. I know I come off rather sarcastic at times on the box, but I don't really mean to sound that way, nor do I wish to impugn your work habits, especially at the jobplace. What usually happens is that I'm making a joke from frustration in trying to reach you, a joke you would probably volley in infinite jest if we were face to face or even voice connected, but be assured I'm frightfully aware the problem is mine, and that I need to improve my voice machine skills to a more Stevelike level since I do tend to puzzle you, or rather grizzle you with my sour messages from time to time. I apologize for any and all.

[TaylorS]—Thanks for clearing that up. understood.

GT: Okay you just called and it seems we are on for this afternoon. Great! Let's make it mean something. With all this defeat in the air, I feel like shit, real nasty run down my leg and up again shit...

[TaylorS]—We're on.

GT: And I also realize I grow a little short and disrepectful of you at times, and really don't want to continue down that path, but indeed you should start measuring up at the plate, and I think all will be just dandy between. Let it be said you and I are not my brother's brother...

[TaylorS]—Hey, I've certainly started to scorn youthful hubris in early-twenty-somethings, so I can see from where you are coming.

Earlier, this is what I posted to Sue:

What was not mentioned in that note to Peter was, no, I am not expecting SET to stop everything to focus on OUR project. We all have to eat and blow great wads of money in places we think make us feel manifest, moxy, and maximized carbon-based lifeforms, but I am simply saying, let's get serious, or else just simply quit this shadowboxing shit. It's wearing me out, and going nowhere fast, uh slow? And now that the Clyde and Ricky show is floating belly-up, I'm feeling a little, no, a lotta sick inside.

Dollhouse Jitters v4.2

gabriel_thy
Gabriel Thy
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Having long realized the repeated pleas I kept making to the same proven players to tighten up their respectful games so to stretch the sails of success still possibly available to this wretched ship of business on the one hand, while amply compromised by the sharp tendon-seeking harpoon of irksome friendship on the other, were becoming nothing more than the tools of my own self-torture, brief sightings of my own anecdotal white whale, I had arrived at the place where I knew I must finally best my faux Epicurean foes or finally sink into the straits of oblivion, that deep oscillating blue gray brine, that contemporary patch of something that nothingness claims as its home base from which nothingness is accorded a rightful position as a literary device only because nothingness itself probably will be soon facing its own purloined Waterloo burdened by an unspecified difficulty factor of zero minus one where not even floating point negativity can pull you through when faced alone with the white sheet of one's own periscopic blind. Like I insisted to Tom Howell a few years earlier as we both sat in opposing chairs in the Dollhouse living room not long after tacking my own 95 theses to the front door back when he was renting our sofa bed a couple of years ago, "Life is a submarine." What I never did quite understand was what Tom that early smokey morning had to gain by emphatically resisting my characterization, telling me I just could not make up words and phrases that made no sense. We battled over it, but I stopped cold when after I counterpunched, "And life is a bowl of cherries makes sense?"

Most recently a young catcher on the New York Mets named Mackey Hatcher suddenly could not return the ball to the pitcher without doublepumping his arm. His throws to the bases, say to second on a steal attempt was not affected, but over a several year period this phenomenon continued to plague Hatcher’s game. Sometimes it goes away as quickly and mysteriously as it appeared. Hatcher eventually lost his starting job to another catcher, and unfortunately I don’t know what happened to his career since Hundley replaced him.
Yes, it does, he said. It was famous, he said. "And we all live in a yellow submarine makes sense?" Knowing this was a lyric from the Beatles that summed Tom up neatly in what some might call "spiritual" terms better than anything I could ever muster, I was not surprised when he answered, "Of course." It was then everything crystalized and I fathomed that this master of snark was just arguing for the sake of telling me I was no writer, and to just get over it." And yes, these were the créme de la créme of punks and hippies and addicts and phreaks who wobbled around my words and works to find their way into my 95 theses. I would probably post those here, but that document appears to be lost or at least carefully preserved in some cardboard box stacked like a sailor's bunk in the basement keel losing zeal with each half-life of a uranium smile.

"I too am resolved to take better care of myself, starting RIGHT now," I continued to type heart and soul, fingers and toes, mind and matters of high and low estate out to my fellow genius friend and foe, Little Stevie. "Hence all these doctor's appointments to see the neurologist. Hosting the Steve Taylor Straight Past Sunday Show at the Dollhouse DOES NOT improve my chances for achieving this goal. Sorry my take on world events differs so much from your own; the harsh dovetones of this flying email of fuck thee my friend are not easy for me, because you are quite dear and karma-seutical to me, but present fact is stronger than distant fiction, and distant fiction is what we seemingly feast upon to help ourselves get through another speeding mist of snit and snotty mindswirl. So please, do me this favor, leave me alone. Let ME play it by ear, hearing nothing and all things simultaneously in damned well my own due time to prove whether or not I can survive your toying serpentlike silences. Bracken will soon be gone, as well may Shipman in the beckoning future of Dollhouse fates. Needless to say, there are plots and counterplots already in the works. Meanwhile I will light a candle to wedge into my sass for all eternity for each of my adversarial friends, each who believe in their deepest of competitive souls that they possess something of vigorously vital interest to me. That's just not so. I cannot sustain the conflicting desires of conflicted minds without losing my own endowments to the howling winds of inconstancy. I might even boast that I have history on my side in these abrupt appraisals, my friend. You play it by ear, so now hear this: STAY AWAY STEVE TAYLOR BECAUSE GT IS SICK AND STEVE TIRED! Is that enough SAST for you? Maybe these are my fevers making themselves known in words today. Test them as I know you shall, but beware, not a line on this page is as bogus as the hopping genius you bar none but spare all."

And that ended another email that would be forgiven or ignored, whichever would come upon a midnight clear ever so lastingly.

And so here again in another life, I was experiencing this very strange onset of a similar type of failure. Why I suddenly could not look at Steve and call his name was baffling. I had known him for a couple of years, and Tim a decade, Tom even longer, but the phenomenon never failed to appear during this period of mixing their names. Some deeply disturbing psychological mist-feeding bots have been picking and probing the hardwired Gabriel much the same way search engine robots work the Internet, upsetting my throughput.
A quick sidebar to newcomers. Steve and I work this ruthless game of acronymics which simultaneously insults and delights us as we plug in words to match or extend our given initials. Another variation on this passionate and rich wordplay is the psychology-based or habit-driven puns we derive from a combination of two people's names who share a discernable time-revealed psychological or sociological habit. For instance, to pull a STIM (a combination Steve and Tim habit) might be spilling a beer in a no no situation, or since Gabriel is not so free from this ghastly flaw himself, we might call that "pulling a GAST!" There is the STOO (Steve, Tim, and Sue), say anything do nothing approach to sliding past a particularly debilitating lethargy. Or in Sue and Tim's case, the SIM, responding to a question with a self-evident answer while missing the point of the question entirely. A GOO (Gabriel & Sue) work til we drop modis operandi fat ass config. If Tim were ever to develope this habit around the Dollhouse we might redub this event a GOOTS. A STAG (Steve & Gabriel) qualifies as fast as lightening, smartest in the room, analysis a million ways to Mars approach to daily murmuring. A JENSET (completely in love with themselves, immenselyand publically proud of their own physical prowess, beauty, and sense of fashion). We can extend this into a STACK (Steve, Tim, and Jack), a tendancy to usurp, and add Gabriel with his barroom boorishness to that mix, and you've got simply a GASTACK, or a SETSTACK might indicate a fast-talking never say die 'tude. A JOO (Jack & Sue) can be summed up as the cult of the secret fucksters. And on and on. Of course we can all say "we pulled a PETER..." once or twice in our lives.

This game originally evolved to its brutally hybrid level one afternoon down in the basement as I was chatting with Steve and Sue. Tim was elsewhere, but I had fallen into a strange habit of late in saying Tim when I meant Steve, saying Tom when I meant Tim. It was wild, creepy, a megahaunting thing, and explainable perhaps only with an example taken from baseball history.

Occasionally, and it's happened enough times in history to not beg disbelief, including to this writer in his own youthful baseball days, that a player suddenly can't throw the ball in the particular fundamental routine he had long ago mastered. Most recently a young catcher on the New York Mets named Mackey Hatcher suddenly could not return the ball to the pitcher without doublepumping his arm. His throws to the bases, say to second on a steal attempt was not affected, but over a several year period this phenomenon continued to plague Hatcher's game. Sometimes it goes away as quickly and mysteriously as it appeared. Hatcher eventually lost his starting job to another catcher, and unfortunately I don't know what happened to his career since Hundley replaced him.

To have rocked out with fringe establishment junkies for a over decade with little to show for it but several thousand fotographs hardly interesting in themselves stuffed into boxes of unfinished business to prove that it indeed did happen, a neurosis that is killing me, and a final ending to a dream that never happened, I can thank the participants in my long fall from self-grace to the miserable lech I’ve become for their best intentions, but I am certainly glad for the freedom to carry on more quietly without having to maim myself for a friendship that is as suburban in some respects and as dead end in others as any tract housing of the mind I’ve ever heard condemned in some ranting pop anthology cursing the hackneyed norms of the strait and narrow.
However, I developed a similar affliction when trying out for second base on a new team after our family moved to a new town in a different county where nobody knew my name or past stardom. I threw the ball fifteen, no exaggeration, feet over the first basemen's head every damned time I fielded a ground ball. It was preposterous, daunting, downright wicked and demonic to this hopeful infield candidate. I knew at fourteen that I had somehow, for some mystical reason beyond my grasp, succumbed to this strange affliction I had read about somewhere as I voraciously consumed all sports data I could plow my eyes through. But I really wanted to win that second base job. I did not want to get stuck in the outfield, which is where I ended up, so this was no pretend thing. I was a star athlete the previous year, and would do okay this summer, but during this spring tryout this mysterious baseball fluster swooped in and blew any opportunity for infielder status I had in front of these strangers in the new town. Needless to say, none of these kids or the adult coach were hip to this odd baseball phenomenon, and I knew there was no need to explain it. A second baseman was worthless if he couldn't thud the first baseman on a groundball, even if it wasn't his own fault.

And so here again in another life, I was experiencing this very strange onset of a similar type of failure. Why I suddenly could not look at Steve and call his name was baffling. I had known him for a couple of years, and Tim a decade, Tom even longer, but the phenomenon never failed to appear during this period of mixing their names. Some deeply disturbing psychological mist-feeding bots have been picking and probing the hardwired Gabriel much the same way search engine robots work the Internet, upsetting my throughput. This game of ours was destined to be willed into existence. For on this particular afternoon as I was looking right at Steve and Sue and referring to in a quite obvious way to Tim, I stumbled over S-T, stuh, catching myself, switched gears, finished with I-M, and STIM was born because at that very instant Gabriel and Steve both realized the genius of the tongue slip, and Sue followed in a little slower, but we all shared a great meglomaniacal guffaw since the reference I now forget could have just as easily been describing Steve. Well, we spent the next few hours racing up and down the possibilities like a rabid dog trapped in a narrow dog run. Once again, genius had won out over routine expectations.

So where were we?

Addendum Of The First Kind
... because of the several requests for the next installment of the Dollhouse Fevers, I finally buckled down to publish this much today. I do not compose these things over days or weeks, but try to get as much down in one or at most two sittings before I am so cramped up by the sheer horror of what has happened, what was said, what was left out, and what I am now feeling as a result of what most readers of this already know as the dismissal of one, maybe two of my longest running if not deepest cryptically-maintained friendships I've boasted in DC, or anywhere else for that matter. Combine these with the alienation of Jack Johnson in an affair which Tim was also slightly involved but of little relevance to the underlying issues of my Jackpast, this past year of 1996 has really cleaned house. For that I am honestly grateful. The DHF narrator's sentiments are real, rather unrefined, and by nature self-centered, but as close to the oil in my veins as they get to reality hype for me. To have rocked out with fringe establishment junkies for a over decade with little to show for it but several thousand fotographs hardly interesting in themselves stuffed into boxes of unfinished business to prove that it indeed did happen, a neurosis that is killing me, and a final ending to a dream that never happened, I can thank the participants in my long fall from self-grace to the miserable lech I've become for their best intentions, but I am certainly glad for the freedom to carry on more quietly without having to maim myself for a friendship that is as suburban in some respects and as dead end in others as any tract housing of the mind I've ever heard condemned in some ranting pop anthology cursing the hackneyed norms of the strait and narrow. True, we are all more than and simultaneously less than any song, any label, any criticism spewed against us in whatever forms vengence and circumspection take, but in the end, it's all about respect. We will all pay this price in some coin or another. I do intend on finishing this raw version of what happened to me last New Year's. This Day 4 installment will probably be published in three segments. This ends the first. Day 5 and Day 6 will be rather short. Extremely short.

But I, like a pit bull gripping an only child's leg, will not let go of the memory that separates a responsible idealogue from the reeling irresponsibility of those who have been given a mouth but have never learned to use it in a way that benefits others as much as they think it benefits themselves in having no ties to its effects.
The Epilogue may spill rather long as I attempt to resolve all the loose threads and restitching of this cloth several months after the original sequence of events. Even as I look at the clock on the wall a few feet away from my Macintosh, knowing I have spent all of this and last Saturday mornings composing this insult to people I still love like a parapalegic loves his wheelchair, my neck is all crinkled and noisy, popping stiffly, as my back is twisting in agony of sharp pain, and I realize with a grashing of teeth that grace is as often found in forgetting as in remembering. But I, like a pit bull gripping an only child's leg, will not let go of the memory that separates a responsible idealogue from the reeling irresponsibility of those who have been given a mouth but have never learned to use it in a way that benefits others as much as they think it benefits themselves in having no ties to its effects. The only way out of the abyss is to invent the perfect game. A game where one answers a question with a question. A game where that question is constructed in the form of a surrealistic entendre which must somehow logically and I emphasize, logically (yeah, what a gas...), commit the next question also constructed in the same surrealistic form to match and then succeed it, the forerunner. This game has been invented. It is the 21st century.

GT

Dollhouse Jitters v4.1

vababies
Living Proof
samplex

Now for the flipside. Spillage? Duh. Not allowed. Smoking of any sort inside the automobile. Buy a vowel, Timothy! Not allowed. Insubordination? Rule One of this experiment, Gabriel's game, Gabriel's plume. No subterfuge allowed. Swift and unrestrained punishment would be meted out to transgressors who dared steal my harp. Ursurping authority? Well, that's just a restatement of the previous thou shalt not and pretty much sums up the control mechanisms by which we each must survive this night, so by my own calculations, I had mapped out a simple common sense strategy of fun and freedom, not one of sterility and oppression, and logistics were pushed to zero tolerance. Of course I, Gabriel would master the tunes. No usurping of powers allowed. While the idea that I would push the envelope of decency off the cliffs of Dover with shank hopes of creating a frisky sex scene may startle critics with an ax to grind, but one can't diminish the axiom that in a closed environment of money grubbers, he who sweats the gold controls the rules, and thus rules the controls AND the grub, and since Sue was footing a $500 tab, I didn't see where anybody else had much of a visceral say, particularly since Jennifer and I had already discussed the parameters of consent, and she certainly had not shed a glimmer of submissiveness now simmering beneath her cloak of many surprises away from the stronghold of Gabriel's intentions, so the point was quickly becoming a moot point, still a thorn in my side, but manageable, and you can bet I was aware of it at every flicker of the candle's dimming light.

Although I was equally certain that Steve would have lost most of his enthusiasm for Jennifer as a possible conquest after knowing Tim had taken her down, he certainly could have prevented Tim from ever making it back into the goodies on my watch because of the added complexity of the situation. Steve as usual was playing it by ear, according to Tim, even after I had written him out of the script.
Not a nickel would be expected of our guests, just a simple civility generated from Sue's terminology. Of this I felt obliged to share with Tim before I would allow his accompaniment. Of course he was eager to comply in word. What was there to disagree with? Although he was aiming to roll his 'rettes in the car, we told him no way Tim, you either pre-roll, or buy a pack of Marlboros or whatever. One word on the freedom of speech WITH consequences clause. Since we were winging this event of course the situation might arise where we would find ourselves free of pre-destiny and ready for a suggestion. Suggestions would be accepted, but the final prerogative, of course again fell to Sue and Gabriel. Odd to admit that I knew that I would have to labor over these general protocols with this fine group of friends of mine but to quote Dylan Dylan Dylan once again, to live outside the law, one must be honest. We would be ready to pump. And honesty, while always appearing in bombastic drag along stinking beer-soaked fringes of a sardonic circle constructed of frayed synapses, free radicals, hard candy, ghosts in the machine, fairy tales and trapezoids-in-training, she winks, and rarely hangs around long enough to make a speech, but usually ducks out in favor of her hyphenated twin sister, defensive-rationale.

We had made the peace. Tim was in. Jennifer too. Even though I had uninvited Steve already, Tim was still hoping to bring him back into the fold. In my own mind, wrong as it can be, albeit rarely, 2 to 5% of the time as a carefully constructed set of campaign statistics might show, Tim is such a sucker for friendship and comaraderie, especially after ending this long dry spell in the sack, I felt he simply wanted to share his enthusiam by parading his quarry before as many friends as he could muster, not realizing that any of them could intercept his own intentions and make them their own. Although I was equally certain that Steve would have lost most of his enthusiasm for Jennifer as a possible conquest after knowing Tim had taken her down, he certainly could have prevented Tim from ever making it back into the goodies on my watch because of the added complexity of the situation. Steve as usual was playing it by ear, according to Tim, even after I had written him out of the script. This was December 31st, the final day of 1996. Jennifer had arrived on the 28th. Yet on Friday the 27th, the day BEFORE Jennifer's bounding leap into the fevers, after still having heard not a peep on the Della front four days overdue, I wrote the following to Steve:

To: "TaylorS"
From: Gabriel Thy
Subject: One Flu Out (WHEN IN ROAM...)
Date: Fri, 27 Dec 1996 12:50:56 +01
Cc: llandry@mail.mkdirect.com, BLUMSTEIN_ROBERT.at.P-CRC@hq.navsea.navy.mil, ben@sfabrik.de

termsRead your incredulous note in the wee hours this morning after a full day of Bracken's breath yesterday, finishing up his Debord photoscanning. Ninety-nine pictures of Frenchy fried brains in all...today we work on converting his text to Mac format, and probably some PageMaker work will do us until after the New Year.

I will be busy with work, guests, and doctor's appointments until after the new year so I guess I'll see you down the road in 1997. Had enough of this say anything, do nothing camp for one year, if not a lifetime. In other words, try these on for size SAST. Stay Away Steve Taylor. Sick And Steve Tired. And between the two of us, you won't be missing anything you haven't already mastered.

Sometimes friendship is only a foul investment in the trickle down nonsense of time's ruthless monopoly. Sometimes it is GOD.
Our limosine plans are now quite iffy. Skip Bafalis, the owner, was rushed to the hospital Christmas Eve, spent the whole next day having tests run to no conclusive end. He was released sometime yesterday. Still no solid lead on a driver, but Sue has a maybe up her sleeve. Since you cannot resist playing coy with details on your end, I think we should simply disengage. In Dollhouse vernacular, I am pulling a Blumstein of 1985 by disinviting you for that holiday drive in the jingle jungle jangle which may not even happen anywaze, and ALL activities sandwiching the wild duck. You deal with the consequences on your end. I'll deal with them on this end. Hey, that's the way we've been playing the game all this time anyway, right? Very little teamwork, a whole lotta garbage mouth, promises, vows, big plans, narcissistic meanderings, hip to hop to hap flap we go, to ground zero where nothing ever happens but an effort to cheat the chatter of reality. Can't play that man. That seems to be your game, and I just can't deal with it for the next few weeks, hey even months. As for you seeing Jennifer, if she wants, she can meet you elsewhere, but I am commandeering control of the Dollhouse at this point in time, and as SAST, you simply can't seem to commit to anything but the moment, and then the moment's gone...

You want me to toss the ball around with you in the coming months before Howrey hits the diamond in the rough? Well, I will honor that commitment even as you struggle with pecking order on your side of the moral equation. Meanwhile I am still GT. Yesterday I invited Bracken to join us at the cage. Len's quite the sportsman himself, although I am led to believe his game of choice is hoops. But now you hint that you may not even break spring training wind as you may spin off to web wonderland in the taunting twists of fate we both can appreciate for its razzle and its dazzle, but only one of us will be worn to a frazzle chasing the dreams of the other. And I think we know who that person is. Good luck, and get well, Steve, of winter aches and gains, and this enfilading brain seizure gripping your soul, a hellava ride, but one always threatening to spin outa control...

Sometimes friendship is only a foul investment in the trickle down nonsense of time's ruthless monopoly. Sometimes it is GOD.

I drugged up last night with a handful of decongestion pills and a swallowful of green death as I too felt the oncoming freight train of disease approacheth. This morning I am groggy but clear minded on the issues. Read this note twice, read it five times if you must, but read it clearly. Gabriel is marking SAST up for insubordination, NOT FOR SPILLING BEER TWICE, NOT FOR ALL THE FAIR ARGUMENTS YOU PLACE UPON MY NECK, HEY, NOT FOR ANYTHING YOU HAVE OVERTLY ACHIEVED, BUT, BUT, BUT, FOR WHAT YOU HAVE COVERTLY IGNORED IN THIS SHORT AFTERMATH OF THE PLANNING STAGES OF THIS, THAT, AND THE OTHER THING...

Sorry we won't have the opportunity to meet Della, but then, DID WE EVER?

Intranetus Injection, Or Baking In The Technology Bloat, Sunrise Edition

looks-kill
If Looks Could Kill
samplex

Mon, 7 Apr 1997 03:58:07

The navigation bar you created, combined with the color (which looks great on my Wintel machine and fantastic on my Mac) is simply brilliant. I hope that no one will protest the button bar at the top. In creating a very simple text on solid background image, I noticed huge differences in the saturation of the image between the two monitors. Just tried adjusting the brightness, with great success.

Thanks again for all your help—I'm back in the game...

Peace. Love. Imagemaps.

SET

P[e]S: Place all of these attachments in one folder, and start with opening.htm. Much work to be done, but gotta take care of some techie stuff first. Also, feel free to call at any point. If you're up early, I will probably still be up. And any comments on my material would be welcome (keeping in mind that it's still pre-alpha, of course).

***

blindWE MOURN THE PASSING. Allen Ginsberg's dead.The poet laureate of the Beat Generation died Saturday at his home in Manhattan. His liver quit living.

Steve. Tried to read your files first thing this morning. Nothing I have would read the text. I discovered that I did not have MacLinkPlus which I used successfully to convert Bracken's DOS WordPerfect files, on my machine just a few months ago. Poor housekeeping. Remind me to reprimand Hazel. Your files meanwhile are blank doc icons, not even PC tagged. So I fileshared IMOTE (my Mac) with HEDRICK (Sue's), and 3/4 of her drive was locked, feeding me garbage about not having enough access privileges. I went on to other things. Later I called Sue to troubleshoot that little annoyance, but have been too focussed on building the iMote Bookskellar to tear away. Will eyeball and get back to you later on that.

Did I already tell you that yesterday afternoon that Betty Sue's colleague Karen, and her boyfriend Pitch, brought her home from the airport? Yes I did, but did I tell you that he works in Public Relations for the Navy at the Pentagon, was impressed with what he had the short time to see of my site, and is perhaps interested in farming design work my way.

Mmmm...maybe you primed the pump, Intranetus.

GT

Casting For Type In All The Wrong Faces

Artist Unknown
Artist Unknown
samplex

Mon Apr 07 18:49:19 1997

>But you beat them there with a better image.--->SET

NOTE TO READERS: Steve Taylor was always looking for the next killer tweak of the early WWW which had only been invented two years earlier with the first graphical browser, Mosaic. He was tireless in his pursuit of gadgetry, bandwidth maximization, and the possibilities of the fledgling technology. To my own credit, I was doing a similar thing, but was not interested in what others were doing. Instead I was ecstatic that I finally had a platform upon which to create, and was taking each step to push my own possibilities. Steve's noetic opinion that I was one of the very earliest designers who was continuously pushing the envelope for animated GIFs and image maps in both functionality and aesthetics was perhaps not as appreciated by me, as it should have been. Those early months of the WWW negotiating HTML tricks, bandwidth limits and competing screen resolutions were indeed heady days. I was always looking for a partner, not flattery. I still think the sabotaged partnership a great shot for both of us, but I am thankful that Stephen Edward Taylor was there to offer his running critiques.

***

Ugh. What a 70s flashblack mess that site has turned out to be today with a hack or two of rogue code. Okay, I liked the "Dig Your Own Hole. Click here!" animated GIF, but the rest of that gizmodo is too much. I've never been to Las Vegas, and don't really want to if I had to ante up my own dime. Maybe with an expense account like Hunter S.... Of course there is some decent style here and there on the Sonicnet, but I really am annoyed by the flashing goo goo...reminds me of this 1970s-1950s retro burger drive-in in the south, cheesy and greasy, NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. But this topless bar peep show motif is just nasty, creepy design...

Don't know if you checked out the Bookskellar. I had a couple of errors in EVERY page that took me two swipes of file repair and FTP to alleviate, but it looks good now, except when testing just now I couldn't get a connection to AMAZON DOT COM, so I've still not seen complete and replicable success!

GT

She Called But Crashed

gabe-sue
Gabriel & Sue
samplex

Originally posted on Sat Apr 05 08:22:39 1997

Yep, from the Albany Public Library on her cellular. Yesterday. Place was packed with Power Macs, with a minority of Wintels, which of course colored me pink with passion as I tried to waddle her through the surf. It's amazing how Sue maintains this mental block about the Internet, can't quite get her mind around it, but because I know what I know, my own level of expertise far outstripping what little she does know, it makes some sort of weird GT-BS sense. We tend to rush into each other's void. I still prefer to let her troubleshoot my OS when there's trouble but in the last few months of fixes, managing very nearly on my own, I've regained a confidence I lost to boredom even in that area, although Sue usually can instantly answer a system question and she still has the edge in local area networking savvy, while I grunt at such mundane interruptions to my more natural work.

Excited by the prospects of testing for speed and resolution differences between the Albany machine and iMote, I settled in to be wowed by praise and prattle. Unfortunately, BS suffered Netscape 2.0 problems in a big way viewing my pages. Crash. Crash. Crash. Crashed. Javascript resistence. Plus she had trouble typing in the proper GEOCITIES URL, but surely that was her own failing, although she claimed there were no typos. That must have been frustrating, even humiliating had I been sitting in her seat. She had taken her Aunt Lou and Richard Waller, an octogenarian and a septengenarian, respectively, to the library to show them what I did, and wouldn't you know the Internet with its embarrassing glitches would show its ugly side...

She could quickly and maniacally transform into a mankiller on a nickel, in a wildcat hustle, clawing flesh and sheetrock leaving clumps of DNA all over any later testimony, especially when drinking past her stopping point. But on this sunny May afternoon we were merely romping through the city without restraints or vile poisons in our blood, enjoying ourselves at an Internet café on the softer side of rock and roll. I felt the spirit of Blumstein enter me as I said to myself, “Dammit, I felt like a rock star showing off my designs, the blueprint of my future victories over self-loathing. Thanks for noticing, you flatter me you clever girl.”
They were finally able to view the Peachmyth page with the Hedrick partial family photo. Aunt Lou was not in the picture, although Richard and I were. Aunt Lou tried out some ancient wit by proclaiming that the women in the picture looked better than the men, but who would ever declare otherwise? Not me with my upstart motto of "Give me women or give me blindness..."

When Sue was finally successful in loading a page, it was slow, slow, slow. My loads beat hers by a factor of four if not greater. She couldn't give me any modem or CPU details. Her first machine froze, so she moved to another. The second machine dazzled her with reload speed after each crash, but with a skeletal OS framework, there was no surprise there. I didn't even bother trying to get her to check the Navigator memory cache; the damn thing was crashing on that Lily Artwatcher page, a very simple, and hardly graphically burdened upload. I had her try to mail me from a Netscape/iMote link, but the library has no POP3 service, so THAT failed. All in all, a nightmare on Elm Street (is that the street the library is on???). Nope, a quick check. It's on Pine Street. Close but no cigar. Not quite the bohemian hip we managed at New York City's@Café last May with Jennifer watching and nodding favorably, carrying on in her own words "that my online work was sort of like rock stardom..." Always seductive, but dangerously frosty under certain conditions, Jennifer could spell the most charming kindness and come off as the most untethered supportive girl a man could ever want to know when she wanted, and she didn't even have to be chasing something at the moment, but I never doubted her sense of entitlement in the bloodsport of our age—star fucking. She could quickly and maniacally transform into a mankiller on a nickel, in a wildcat hustle, clawing flesh and sheetrock leaving clumps of DNA all over any later testimony, especially when drinking past her stopping point. But on this sunny May afternoon we were merely romping through the city without restraints or vile poisons in our blood, enjoying ourselves at an Internet café on the softer side of rock and roll. I felt the spirit of Blumstein enter me as I said to myself, "Dammit, I felt like a rock star showing off my designs, the blueprint of my future victories over self-loathing. Thanks for noticing, you flatter me you clever girl." True however, was the dumb fact that I had passively aggressively coerced her flattery by mumbling something to the effect that "Well, it's not as glamorous as being in a band, but I do enjoy creating pages..."

On the beachhead, check out the freshly ported Literary Chip pages, slighted overhauled from the GeoCities look. You can access them from the main page (the second one) by clicking on the Lily Artwatcher link located just under the word—slaphappy. Sue grew up in the house in which her parents, Wilma & Dermot still own and reside a single block off the old Albany family-named Slappy Drive, Albany's most notable commercial avenue? Hence, slaphappy.

GT