Posts Tagged ‘Steve Taylor’

A Basis For Back To The Basics In Ithaca

23 Jul


Our Lady of the Flower(s)


Date: Wed, 23 Jul 1996 8:26:08

Point of Origin: Itaca, New York

Hey, well, wherever shall I begin???!!

Had a great time with my mum and aunt. We went to the Cornell museum and botanical gardens...they are duly impressed by the first school I've attended that has a real campus—just like the ones in movies. My mum's parental fantasies and ambitions for me appear to be being realised—at least for the moment. We also worked on decorating my bedroom—its draped in black lace—their idea strangely enough. Next time they come we're going to make a black lace canopy for the bed—very Morticia Adams-ish. It seems that they're finally willing to decorate according to my tastes, realising that my interior decorating tastes like my fashion tastes will never be quite the same as theirs. Of course while they were here I gorged myself on the milk of maternal kindness and charity getting as much free stuff, labor, and meals as possible. The basics.

Unfortunately my indulgence (indirectly) led to a problem. After leaving a Thai restaurant (where I has a couple of beers), we went to the grocery store to get Asian food products—the store has an extensive selection. After leaving, as we sat at a traffic light waiting to leave the parking lot I was in an accident. A van in front of me suddenly went into reverse, backing into me. The driver ( young w/ pigtails, a nose ring, and a Henry Rollins t-shirt) became rather belligerent. My mum went to call the cops, although the other driver protested it. It turns out he doesn't have insurance, the van was a rental, and he only had a student id (Ithaca college), no driver's license with him (and the one he does have is from another state and expired—he just received a ticket last month for that). Thus his reluctance to involve the cops. But I insisted on getting them. After exchanging phone numbers, he left and I waited for the cops. Got an estimate yesterday—its going to cost a $1,000 to repair the car, but at least its driveable. Meanwhile this guy—Patrick Kennedy—has been in contact. He doesn't have much money—and will soon have even less since the cops have issued him three tickets—a fact which has him very upset. He seems to blame me for this, feeling, as I've said, it was wrong to involve the cops. I've tried to explain my position which is that without an official accident report I have nothing with which to pressure him into paying for the repairs. Anyway...

I was of course drinking all the while. He ended up making the usual offer of giving me his phone number and in a haze of beer and sexual fantasy I called him (he’s in NYC) and we talked until long past dawn. But oddly enough it didn’t involve any phone sex. He’s sent me some e-mail and I’m planning to reply.
It's good to hear Steve has been welcomed back into the bosom of the Dollhouse family. I have also had a reconciliation of sorts with a friend. I'm sure you've heard me speak of Themis. We had a falling-out a week before I left the city—drunk as usual—I can't remember what happened—blacked out as usual. I only know that it happened somewhere between my flat and a bar a few blocks away and that it must have been pretty bad cos I've never heard from him again. I suspect I told him a few unwelcome truths (aren't they always unwelcome?), not for the ifrst time, but appparently for the last time. In any event late Saturday night he called me, having got my number from the phone co., acting as if nothing had ever happened. We talked for awhile, but neither of us mentioned that night. I don't know if we're friends again or not or what prompted him to call. I can't decide if I should call him or not or perhaps e-mail him (my fave occupation). I'll have to write you about him and our strange relationship—but I'm not in the mood right now.

Went online yesterday and had an encounter in the ever-popular members rooms with a certain BenofDover. Went on for quite some time—he's a sub in search of a little discipline which I was naturally willing to virtually administer. I was of course drinking all the while. He ended up making the usual offer of giving me his phone number and in a haze of beer and sexual fantasy I called him (he's in NYC) and we talked until long past dawn. But oddly enough it didn't involve any phone sex. He's sent me some e-mail and I'm planning to reply. I'll let you know what happens.

So what is going on with you and this prostitute??!! What exactly were you planning and who was the friend who was arranging it and who was interested in the sex? Are you still pursuing this?

So you aren't able to roadtrip. Perhaps its just as well—I'm quite busy, desperately working on grant proposals, a task I've shamefully neglected. The fall semester, school, and grant deadlines are breathing down my neck and I'm beginning to panic. And I was feeling rather uncomfortable with your roadtrip requirements.



Nothing But A Creeping Annoyance Was Lost

21 Jul


There's A Word For That


Date: Sun Jul 21, 1996 1:11:28 AM

Brave sister—Steve is back in the Dollhouse fold, safely tucked in righteously as an original DH cast member after we kissed and made up, laughing and muddling thru blanket apologies, a case of beer, a few games of "perquacky" and juicy cat calls from the next wave of memory hounds setting up camp. Licking the Pussy, Nickel Ball, and Perquackey stalk our energies for reasons neither of us can quite make the case. Sue should telephone early Sunday morning after the cruiseship docks at 8:30 in Miami, a mere seven hours away—right before she gears up to cross the long Floridian peninsula depositing her Aunt Lou back in Albany GA, where Sue will fold into the lives of her shiny folks for a few days. The well-publicized whore in a box scenario was scuttled by default. Mouse failed to call at midnight after getting off work. Indifference had already settled over us like a rude collapsing smog, so nothing but a creeping annoyance was lost.

How was Mum & Auntie's visit? Did you make it to the Ontario waterworks? Today was a beautifully crisp sunny visitation. I signed a neighbor's petition in his race to get on the ballot for the DC School Board. I told him I din't speak the language of public schools. I wanted the Feds out of schools, and perhaps give schooling over to capital and its minions. Ha! The candidate scoffed at my suggestion like any good Republican trapped in an ultra-liberal jurisdiction would. The government sugar daddy model is the only configuration these major parties know, especially in dealing with the poor and the stupid and the college educated who need money for every project a new brood can think up. Watch your toes, professors...

Yep, keep 'em poor and stupid. Now that's a job for those who like motorcycles, trap doors, and house warming blessings in the name of Jesus Christ without knowing the Nazarene was a Jew down to his dying breath, so I want to be one too, leafy spinach & spam balls, and country music exercise videos. I'm sure there's a word for that. Despite the position of the mid-day sun in the Eastern sky where you sit to study strange behaviors of people still moved by ordinary magic, I can be such an ass sometimes. I wanna go with...

Good luck, Wayne Curtin! You'll need it...


The Slacker Conspiracy

08 Jul

The Garden of Friends

The Garden of Friends


Date: Mon, 8 Jul 1996 09:46:36
To: Sue Hedrick

I am sorry Steve has been such a shit lately. I am sorry to have to dismiss him as a friend. We are not enemies in my book; we are simply competing for the same role, and frankly Steve loses, just as Howellnyms lost in the starving artist department around here.

As I put it to Tim: I don't know all that is going on here (although that Jack Johnson & Celestine Prophecy thing about manipulation & psychological control pretty much sums up my interpretation of recent events), but the slacker conspiracy he inspires is old hat, and I can no longer tolerate it on my turf at this point in my own life. He is a decade too late for those shenanigans. It pains me awfully, but our relationship has been severely corrupted. Not beyond repair, mind you, but certainly far beyond the normal protocol of hey what's happening think I'll drop by tonight for yet another sloppy weekend routine that has ruined my earlier expectations of finally a friend to whom I can relate on more than a goddamned drunken orgy level. He either wakes up to understand my own despair in these matters and quits thinking you and I are here to validate his own chaos, or the whole friendship thing will simply fade away. He is NOT acting like a friend. Nope, in a desparate move to cast his own harried quest for sanctuary from a restless and shadowy mind, he's acting precisely like (who predicted it, and called IT by name?) Yet Another Steve Taylor... and he can do THAT anywhere, and in this case, SOMEWHERE ELSE. Unfortunately I've got My own ancient problems to combat. They don't go away simply because the unSETled one presumes he's entitled to hang out and reap the benefits of OUR labors...(while he fidgets).

It's lamentable that they each could have had the entire keychain to friendship if they weren't one by one too damned selfish, presumptuous, and lazy to put in around here even a fraction as much as they took. Despite the occasional rough edges and loose threads, we at least know how it is supposed to work, don't we?

What would our life had been like without these aggressive friends of ours? Less interesting? More so. More productive? I can't imagine being any less productive than I am with these friends. Friendship among the slacker classes is wretched. I can finally admit that I'm not all that comfortable around the self-satisfied stooge, the petulant bottomfeeder, the repeating rifles of nothing new under the sun types, and the poised for popularity or punishment crowds, although I know they exist at every strata. I've always been an eye to eye, word for word, work by work, across the bow kind of guy. There's no doubting that, so why diddle the nurse while Washington burns? Steve has truly been the best friend I've had in terms of intellectual compensation for my own presence here, and I love him above all others in a solid kinship of amazing minds, but his need for creative loafing and victory chaos at this point in our own lives is way past its appropriate use by date, and he just doesn't seem to understand that we are just too old and otherwise pre-occupied to waste ourselves away like this much longer.

So, these have been the days (and nights) of our lives. Why concern ourselves with what might have been, when there's nothing there anymore, especially since I am at least encouraged by faith and by curse to concern ourselves with what still might become...

Tomorrow is another day. These are merely my most recent thoughts to my sweetie.

Love you,


Date: Thu, 22 Aug 1996 14:59:59

Cool page dude. I think finally with the Soho/4447 effort an earnest pattern is now visible to outsiders hinting at what you are trying to accomplish in the way of chainthinking and chainthinkers. Keep on pushing. And on another note, with the disappearance of the old Teacher's Pet alias at Soho, the lesson for today is gone, so lemme get it down again for you:

Lesson for Today. Picture reality. Picture something else. Describe the difference.


Another Checkpoint Charlie

20 Jun

Another Checkpoint Charlie

Another Checkpoint Charlie


Date: Thu Jun 20, 1996 6:09:23 PM

Why Don't I write more often? Maybe a nice innocent game of canasta for the 4th 'o' July weekend. I can simulate retirement in a Boca Raton Condo-village.—Blum

With this weather who knows what will come next? Another Checkpoint Charlie. Just saying hi. Busy as usual, working like madness on my bad poetry pages, Blowpoets Ad Nauseum I call them. Love being busy, having purpose, even if no one else gets the punchline. After all, I never really cared for Elvis, and look how many people did and do. My life is a little like crunchy peanut butter. It tastes good even if its not in good taste at white glove affairs.

Were you serious about perhaps throwing in your two cents on an ALL-CANASTA WEEKEND? It's either too wet or too hot, but maybe one salty day soon—oh stutters, I don't know, with all due respect to secret sauces and special spices, time was when making high meld, even more so than laying in a stack of canastas, or books as Pops called them, was a stealth orgasmic move...

In my case it was six kids and an alky dad on a rare dry spell sprawled around a huge converted door now table where for hours upon days those cards were shuffled, reshuffled, dealt and played out hand after hand. So perhaps that weekend may prove fertile for a game or two. Cards are more relaxing, therefore more productive than TV because of the mild competition among flesh and blood. The brain and central nervous system allow adrenalin junkies to reassert themselves, to push back, to win and to lose, to earn exhilaration, to taste the humility of defeat, and in general, as a result, life just seems rosier. Don't smirk. Life is just killing time, after all, waiting for the greyhound messiah from Hialeah to kick the filthy door down on all our petty miseries, with no room for killjoy surveillance or biopics....

Landry is Jack's girlfriend. You met her in October at the crabfuss I reckon. I know Byron & Buck through Tom Howell, digital video artist & poet, respectively. I know you as some guy, my neighbor. The rest of this string of linear howls is too much work to exert here, and will be divulged only on a need to know basis. A few of these people would like to see you, some guy, grace the Biograph with an appearance. Previous engagements and life-threatening emergencies of course take precedence. If boredom and that low tired feeling of inertia sag your bones, then likewise, a quick, "Go away, I'm Rick," will suffice.

Had to shake Steve off eleven days ago, late Sunday night, after guest status had worn thin from too much Steve. You know me. I like aloneness and pay the piper in loneliness sometimes, but not nearly as much as others seem to fear being alone. And true to form he's vanished and except for a quickie E-mail from his dad's account when he was visiting Bloomsburg last weekend I haven't heard from him since his AOL service was disrupted after he bolted for higher ground to rethink this career thing over once more from scratch. For six months or so we wrote volumes to each other every day, now nothing.

Target 2%. Bad drugs induce female breasts. Obviously a spectacular flaw in this maam's rodeo to favor with fine lace and loose cotton. Making that list, sir. Frivolous lawsuits to follow like homeless mutts. Where spending is allowed, law is prepared. And somebody always takes a hit. There are no limits in the field. Gozloc carefully disagrees.
Yep, you predicted it Bob. I snatched up a couple of toadstools from the backyard yesterday. The almighty rains are a curious colonial girl with awfully straight hair. And still more on its way. We aren't even close to the oracular Mississippi Delta where heavy rains fall like thrones, nearly 867 miles as the Chevy flies from one ballgame to the next, scout to scout, so we, Space and I, might pitch a tent. Yet...

Quite hilarious, Bob, your ironclad Arthurian handmaiden's tale, Gallahad, the guillotine and missing tongue. I forwarded it to all the usual suspects. Sure, they'll laugh, then what? Nostrils flared, eyeballs cued, Tennessee cured hams in my two dollar pockets, hardly an Artic fox on the steal, but hell or high water I'll stand with you on your neckline meat corner any day, against those rogue troops, holding my silent "H" low, sir. It's only out in Forestville Minor that apartments continue to explode into epic flames and eventual freedom, letting the blazing cat out of the bag for outside investigators to flag, and if the Western wind is right, restore the catalogue of pet projects to its original condition, shaving points off the tail, insisting the catastrophe was meant to be, for undisclosed reasons. This is not an evolutionary outlook, so the objections are many. Trusses are weak. The chemical makeup of certain fibers woven into a little blue dress found on the scene is the likely determinant in the novel procedure invented by a Ukrainian viceroy who claims his ecological orbit has earned him enough status to make a play for a starring role in a Hollywood motion picture, his words. Gozloc's procedure is said to defy dysfunction. The residents there have poisoned themselves by intentionally swallowing room temperature detergents better suited for the cleansing powers required in rarely admitted top secret transnational scarcity matters. But some say, using Gozloc's procedure, their own awesome lineup will finally start to take a good look at the cracks in the vats of the system next February. Target 2%. Bad drugs induce female breasts. Obviously a spectacular flaw in this maam's rodeo to favor with fine lace and loose cotton. Making that list, sir. Frivolous lawsuits to follow like homeless mutts. Where spending is allowed, law is prepared. And somebody always takes a hit. There are no limits in the field. Gozloc carefully disagrees.

That damned George Cantor did a pitiful job on your back lawn. I caught him banging on your front door one morning looking for his money. I peeked out from the computer room window and gave him your message concerning your weekend trek, and payment when you returned. He swore you were home because last night the fan was not on, and this morning in question it was. I argued a couple of volleys until finally shouting, "Fine George, fine! Fine, Just fine!" and slammed my window shut. He then left.


A Toast To An Equality Bum

30 Apr


"Don't expect me to shut you up..."


Originally published on April 30, 1996

Yo Steve, your gnat is gnawing at my forehead. Was too depressed, especially after re-reading your clutch notes yesterday to respond with anything worth a van Gogh ear. Did get back to Tom Howell, however. He's a practicing HTML author now, quite proud in his jest, and sent his brag to "Gabriel" just like family. He always manages to bring a smile and leave with sarcastic froth in his mouth.

Your job as literary mariner, erudite barrister of science, and master of the elements of conventional style, often paint you as a strange man on a high horse. Both creatures of signature bombast—delight in sporting the absolute finest in men's Italian shoes and scarves, dark shades and French lids—but the only one of you whom I love dearly is however, combining three parts incredulity and two parts wrecklessness a fifth at a time in taking its existential toll on me. A small justifiable toll, I grant, so is one I recognize and simply weather, like you do the gale storms I sail your way just to show you I know we're both bobbleheading in the same pernicious seas. That's just the price we pay for playing ourselves in real life. I'd sweat doughnuts to have your job in some office working on the best Mac in the land laying out a century-old nationally-subscribed monthly magazine. So there's to gravy, now to the grease.

Wish I could help you in your continuing status search, but one quick glance into the mirror in the age of the button down suit and cleavage bearing white blouse or comfortable sweater is solid evidence I have failed to measure up in the corporate fashion department. Just color me uncomfortable in my own clothes, skin, and genetic slingshot. You are well-groomed, great teeth and jawline, always have a domestic parachute with two active parents of immediate and sustainable pedigree, and are riding a career path with options in both the here and now and then whatever else opens up down the pike worth pursuing, but you slum like a rogue, fester in cubicle culture disputes and self-imagined feuds in the corporate world you actually own in character and candlepower, so as a result it is your fate to have stumbled all the way down to us. Gabriel the post-engineer stay at home white cracker punk rock pin-up stooge from a crumpled past, and then there's Tim, the drug-infested slum child, roll your own bicycle hop, pick 'em up, put 'em down, broken collar bone shipwreck reeling from such a farce of family unity that we, Tim and I, stand front and center as those two imaginary sticks of dynamite you keep in your saddlebag for blowing yourself out of this job and into another because you imagine the game is all in jest, a jovial antediluvian joust, a sealed with a handshake junket to the top rungs of the corporate ladder in a few hops or less. Been there, done that, mister. Only the entertainment savant can come out of nowhere. Everyone else waits in line because there are far more people chasing your job than there are struggling for a record contract, as queer as that sounds.

There is still some confusion in my box whether she knew her spanky new luggage was due at the house yesterday. It came, but was delivered across the street to house no. 110. Don’t even know those people, but I do know the neighborhood and let’s just say we were lucky to get our package. Insert racist remark here.
So here I am. A captive of my own mind at ease. Took a rusted out old cargo boat straight to the bottom of the sea that will never be. Trust you'll grip the bow tighter for a better aim than I did. Be careful in whom you hustle with your wrinkles and your rhymes, your jokes and your throwaway shines. And once you leave the game, you can never get back in at a level you think you deserve. Not from these chambers. That sort of hopscotch is reserved for those who have already beat the game once and earned that immunity, that pass, and never really left their circle but just took a sidebar. But's let's not kid ourselves, once you've embraced the deadbeat, the deadbeat will never embrace you.

Friendly messianic impulses recoil as we try to separate the body from the mind, or the mind from its redeemer, commander, or jolly hat sized mimic, accompanied by the same long checklist of equivocating characteristics we've known about ourselves from the earliest memories of our own precocious lives, characteristics and traits we name just so we can slap them about the therapy room, traits we probably called by different names then, but as we begin to learn that words have consequences only when backed by power structure assets that reject language as important, do we embrace the paradox of greater understanding. It is then that conservative idea must come to pass in out lives again. This is the genetic or scientific approach we sense as the true path, or else we stumble across it like hobos, remember hobos, crossing over the rails for a better view of the same thousand feet of track, and figure we don't have a white man's chance in Harlem to actually re-invent ourselves to suit the new opportunities we find writing code in flipping mash upon our former world in word and picture, skin and tragedy, speed and oblivion, frick and frack. We clutch for hope that our highest aspiration remains our surest fallback position as we dally with a strengthening opposition. Yes, just like that rolling stone you admire, no contribution known...

My own most glorious excitement of the day was Sue allowing, even offering to keep the whole house cool today with air conditioning. She never sets rules, never makes demands, or bemoans her fate with me, and I mean never, never chooses what meal to cook or restaurant to choose (God, I hate that she is so inert), so I was a bit tickled yesterday when she told me with an unfamiliar authority that it was too early to turn on the AC. There is still some confusion in my box whether she knew her spanky new luggage was due at the house yesterday. It came, but was delivered across the street to house no. 110. Don't even know those people, but I do know the neighborhood and let's just say we were lucky to get our package. Insert alleged racist remark here.

Do we ever avenge past failures? Acquiescence to this chain in life, however fragile an acquiescence, is to accept one's bland experimental kinetic placement in this whistling dixie of a world. Doing due diligence in all matters is the only path I can recommend from one moment to the next until breaking away and deliverance is within grasp. Acquiescence. It's a role. A puzzle. An almighty gig just as big as anything we played in the game thus far.
Thus, baking in the raw configurations of cause and effect seeking motives & derivations of man, and god, and country I had to face the repeated crisis of being home yet again, just upstairs with only a small fan compensating for repeated delivery failures posting an argument against me. My half-deafness may also contribute. More than likely the air was blasting at that point. I turned it on around 1:30 yesterday in the computer room, and around eight last night as I nodded out with QUE's Netscape 2.0 in the sofa shortly before Sue bounced into the room and removed my glasses. I slept another few hours there in the royal chair before sliding myself into bed just after midnight. A long & heavy dream sequence followed me after I pounced up slightly dazed at seven oh nine. Still depressed. Alienated by having to growl in sweat past the courier's light knocking on my door, yet once more again.

Missing a delivery irks me enough. Knowing that I didn't even know to expect a package that day had me twisted in knotnumbing speeches to myself. She surprisingly got on the phone and gave that piece of mind that almighty customers are supposed to inspire. But knowing a delivery was coming hasn't kept me from missing eight to a dozen deliveries over the past few years. Ah, but what is missing from this picture? Sue must have known it was coming but she neglected to tell me, or remind me because this transaction was initiated on her order. Yes, she surprised me by harrassing UPS (it turns out; I mistakenly thought it was a JC Penney's direct delivery with a glance at the delivery paper. UPS is not mentioned anywhere, but Sue obviously called with knowledge.) Anyway, I've let go of that issue until it pops up again. Her luggage is sassy, and bless baby with baboon oils, it's obvious her Carribbean cruise is shaping and tidying up in her mind as the calendar drills onward.

That brings us full circle back to you. I can't respond to your unSETled or UNsetLING loops except by running it back onto you. I figure you figure Tim, Sue, and I are your set. But while each of us chagrin in general challenges to what appears to be each of our individual, and better or worse for it, our collective fate, we surf day to day realizing each wave and splash will take care of itself one way or the other just as you do. So you seem stung by the most grievous tentacle in the sea, as you wing it touting credentials of full blown vanity.

Would Colin Powell really think he would be any different a man whether he is president of the United States or simply a retired soldier, a self-confessed Republican, a busy and influential party member at that, good husband and father, and distinguished symbol for an amazingly broad spectrum of people?
All we are saying is not give peace a chance (although that too), but just face up to the fact that "life" ain't gonna like us if we don't like it. So now let's figure to solve in the equation: Life=x, where x is whatever ONE can achieve. A second equation: (Good)Life=(Good)x may first appear redundant, and needs to be reduced to its simplest form, the linguist feeling unserved by pure mathematics would insist words are self-modifiers, and not to its own finite standards decipherable like numbers in a numbers racket. Seeing goods in stores one once lusted after but which now seem plastic and faraway does not change the relative value of the goods, or does it?

Has x changed, or has the quality quotient changed? What caused us to change?

This is a mystery I suggest the philosophers, the mathmeticians, the psychologists, the theologians, the aarTvarks, the united we piss paragons, and the warbugles get together to solve, but then again, the word fails us also. Until the word can mend as well as it melts the flesh as mind, we cannot rest as advocates of full knowledge, and replicated consciousness in those who would be anybody's avengers. Do we ever avenge past failures? Acquiescence to this chain in life, however fragile an acquiescence, is to accept one's bland experimental kinetic placement in this whistling dixie of a world. Doing due diligence in all matters is the only path I can recommend from one moment to the next until breaking away and deliverance is within grasp. Acquiescence. It's a role. A puzzle. An almighty gig just as big as anything we played in the game thus far.

To actually have done this over here ain't much different from having done that over there. To achieve anything without factoring in this finer evidence stoolpigeoned up against our biases and our prides is to fool ourselves of our misplaced recognitions. It's not about value or unvalue. It's about both, and there is no separation of state and status. Would Colin Powell really think he would be any different a man whether he is president of the United States or simply a retired soldier, a self-confessed Republican, a busy and influential party member at that, good husband and father, and distinguished symbol for an amazingly broad spectrum of people?


And communication boils, hot springs
we flock against in hordes still wet behind the ears
from our last visit to the sources of good

riddance and circumstance
lockjaws rifled by the word
timed riddles still waters

flooding our echoes
flames filled and felled
as the woods the would nots

and the teachers resort to tears
comic fears basic hogwash
mister to clean our stripping

canons of doubt
figures in between the couch
the clue and the closet

salvaged for memories
lost pretension
segregated ifs

or something else entirely.


Bright Flesh, Quickening Fingers & Stark Art Foolishness

20 Nov

Fox & Hound Survivors

Fox & Hound Survivors


Date: Mon Nov 20, 1995 11:49:15 AM

This is a test of the internet clark spacial relationship. If you open this file I should be getting a receipt back...BLUM

Everything is working, Bob. Did you get your plunks? Last night I had six messages. Today I had four. Sue called last night. She bought a Performa 6400. Her old hometown chum wrote out the cheque, and Sue will pay her back in monthly installments. It's not a Power Mac, but I reckon I'll survive the letdown, and the shock of adding another terminal to the BZT rig. Soon you will have no choice but to come over more often and ride the wave to a neater, sweeter, meatier, middle class, middle aged, life's work.

Steve Taylor wrote: You were a bit loud at the F&H (Fox & Hound). However, I did pay for all of us before I left. I had one of those "Steve" must get home now moments. Don't sweat the bar thing—we had a great time. And I knew there was a reason I was avoiding my workplace—on Friday, I discovered that 15+ employees were layed off and there will be no raises coming up (including COLAs).

So, our interactive magazine running off Gregor's server will happen within two weeks. Any title ideas? BTW—what is his e-mail address? Now is the [a] time when we can put many of our ideas into effect in real time—the distribution can be left up to the discretion of the x million web users who just might stop by. Let's do it free now. We can charge or get ads later. Let me know what you think. —Steve

I wrote back telling him of the 5 Mbs I have at ClarkNet. So here we are, moving to the next level of art foolishness, the virtual eye of the beast, the angel transformed into abundant light. Since there's nothing less to live for, a flaming riot over the sparkling glazed wires should be just about where I belong.

In other latent news, I left, therefore I lost my motorcycle gloves at the Fox & Hound. Serves me right for guzzling and gabbing too damn loud, even for a polyploisboian. And you don't need a flipping government stud to admit that talking too loudly in a loud booze joint is just as bad a bummer as sleeping too loudly in the same, but I am often told I do each, and all too frequently I am accused of both at the same time. Methinks many people just do it to tweak my growth industry muscles, but I apologize nevertheless.

Thanks for the drinks, mate. I wouldn't even know.



"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""