Archive for 1996

Pulp Exhaustion Spatially Explained

27 Dec


Standard Operating Procedure


Bracken just spilled outa here. Using MacLink Plus to convert his DOS MS Works pages into Mac MS Word docs. We added an extra step taking his Works to Word 2.0 DOS, but we've been losing quite a bit of formatting, and Len isn't looking forward to handsetting it again. By staying in Works, we are hoping the trip straight to Mac Word 5.0a will take hours off our stress times and put smiles in all the right places.
Hey Landry, just a short one to tide me by. Hope your spirits are just where you want them. I'm afraid my friends are beating me up again with their shit for sherlock behaviors. Tim's hanging on by a thread. I asked Steve to stay away. Jennifer will be arriving Saturday for a romp until January 3rd. I wonder how much of her delightful self I will be able to gratify without cracking under the strain of the "oh so coy" gone beserk! Thanks for the card, and merry mucking to all concerned. Hey, I've got Jack's autograph stashed somewhere in a stack of cards. Why would you need it?

I loathe bitterness in any creature, but why do these [punk] actors continue to abuse my natural good humors? What am I doing about it? I guess I'm trying to shake free with an abrupt refusal to step into their fly splat worlds anymore. I gain nothing but aggravation working either side of the equation as I have been known to do, neatest of the neat, noisiest of the noisy. But day after day, year after year, I am forced to choose between an "in my face boredom" and the "sheer terror of the bingeing without consequences".

But the consequences DO EXIST, and even now the Tattooed Elephant is buckling under the weight of these riotous friendships with little or no solid justification, just the dead weight of momentary blather sticking to our ribs. I'm sick of it all, exhaustion confirmed, and them who have or will continue to pursue it...

(and the buzzard winks trying to get a piece of her. She’s enjoying the attention, but she’s not as easy a target as they might beg to think, and will make them work for every inch.)

We are supposed to be taking a limo out for New Year's Eve, courtesy of Skip Bafalis, a partner at Sue's firm. Two potential complications: no driver has been found, and Skip the owner was rushed to the hospital Christmas Eve, spent the whole next day having exploratory tests run to no conclusive end. He was released sometime yesterday. Still no solid lead on a driver, but bangedup Sue has a maybe or two up her sleeve.

Steve was originally invited, well, he sorta presumed he was invited by default, but last weekend he brought much chaos to this house, and has perpetuated it by further examples of his mute reckonings. Say anything, do nothing. A mile a minute flows off his tongue, uh, followup, what's that?

But neither Sue or I are in our middle to late 20s, or even 30s. Get a grip people, get a gashwhipping grip upon yourselves, and know that you are talking to someone who knows what it is all about. This is a private home and studio apparently shy of staff beyond the principles. Keep the puns in the pants. I can't care anymore. There is no other interpretation.
Tim has been cashing in on street crack, bringing crack dealers and cracked friends to the D-house. A fucking idiot, pimping that shit here after I had made it clearly an uncool deal! The handwriting's in the till that I will probably smack him with the pink slip by early spring if not sooner. He doesn't want to leave, and he doesn't want to lose his lifestyle. I can't blame him, but nobody can plug Tim's life better than himself. And you know me, "I'm a very possessive asshole. I'm trying to bring order to this mess I call my life of peers and all I get from this friendship ring is a future filled with agitation, no no no no peace essence at all."

I am scheduled for a battery of five or six tests in the new year, including brainwave and brain physiogomy scans. Full blood work. Doctor seems to think my problems are neurological in nature, neck and nerve pinchings rather than a brain tumor, but I'm testing the whole noodle kaboodle to rule out the latter. Brain cancer is dropping folk in high numbers in the late 90s it seems. I may or may not be one of them. Most relative I suppose is mother's younger sister Kitty, who died in February at 52 of said vermin.

So all in all, things are rather normal with the Dollhouse ground zero gang. Abused by friendship, alienated from most of the family where it really counts, I only find comfort, despite our plethora of well-inventoried flaws, in my baby baby baby sue...

Lynn, why do I despise the noise when so many seem to embrace it? The problem is not the noise and chaos itself. That I handle quite well in dosages I administer to myself with the greatest of ease. Achievements GT are legendary. But I know I can no longer riot as persistently as this class of 1996, and I want out. Of course Sue loves Tim, Tom, Steve, Jack, Mouse and whomever no less than I, and she DOES LOVE rent day, but something has got to give, me or the outside world. And she said three times denied, three wishes granted. I mean, what is the meaning of meaning if we scat in our own master's house, and act like, uh, catch ya next time, anywaze?

Many times I have asked folk to arrive on a date and at a time I specify. Many are the times when playing it by ear is the only game friends will play. Well, I've rolled that carpet over. I've had my fill with self-gonads at the expense of my own overwhelming desires that I continue to put aside in order to entertain yet another stiff torture at the wiles of the wolfpack.

That’s the way it is among all of us, bound by handshake uselessness & special moting, too offcentered to get much more done than self obliteration one adult beverage after another, word gaming for prizes void in several states, and ogling sessions that defy a national screening; we, the slurfish leisurely class, spamming the spectacle dot dot dot.
I played the idiot punk quite fantastically. That role is a part of me, now. The world will not soon forget that part of me, but geez Louise, this ain't a bar, or a hotel anymore, although I'm not exactly sure when we were penciled in for those tours of duty, it is certainly a reality checkpoint. But neither Sue or I are in our middle to late 20s, or even 30s. Get a grip people, get a gashwhipping grip upon yourselves, and know that you are talking to someone who knows what it is all about. This is a private home and studio apparently shy of staff beyond the principles. Keep the puns in the pants. I can't care anymore. There is no other interpretation.

Do I sound mad as a Mississippi monk on morphine? dear pets? After all these words of banishment I now contemplate staying home in exile even should limosine wax available, wave as the gag orders go their own chauffered way, as I stay back to protect my dwindling investments and bruised heels, aching heads and breaking shoulders, keeping my own puns to the grindstone...yuck what a miser of energy, spirit, and tailwind. But conservative reckoning is a day I must endure, and will embrace as a grand homecoming, despite all the kidz who would steal my middle age thunders kicking me in the shins when it's my pain they can't stifle.

Bottom line: I am tired of being treated as if I were both deaf and mute as my memory reviles and reputes the waste of conversation which never engages real meaning for longer than any particular drunk and hangover harry. At least when I remake the bed in the morning I know I feel better for it, and meaning is multiplied into dividends. No so with a three day drunk where nothing is everything and reality quotients are deemed counterfeit in a fuzzy display of carelessness and forgot me knots...


Human Spam, All Too Human

Bitter blizzard of sins my own carelessness purchased on credit and oops, a ditch. The barge of Bob's party proved that friendship resolutions are best kept at room temperature. Tilting ambition quotas task me as I crumple, long too busy with luck sucking. Periphery bucks buckling. File jitters fluttering. Poor judgement furniture. Pass or fail remarks. D-house or bust. Ain't got the holy chimes to tell everybody everything I know about them, and ain't got the battle bones to listen to all their own rants and riddles about it. Too tight. Too loose. That’s the way it is among all of us, bound by handshake uselessness & special moting, too offcentered to get much more done than self obliteration one adult beverage after another, word gaming for prizes void in several states, and ogling sessions that defy a national screening; we, the slurfish leisurely class, spamming the spectacle dot dot dot.

Sick and tired of the never-yielding pap. Oh I love my spanking fresh weekdays. Short? You betcha, but my sanctuary for creative work that makes sense to me as I lay in store against the coming weekend of friendship madness.

Bracken just spilled outa here. Using MacLink Plus to convert his DOS MS Works pages into Mac MS Word docs. We added an extra step taking his Works to Word 2.0 DOS, but we've been losing quite a bit of formatting, and Len isn't looking forward to handsetting it again. By staying in Works, we are hoping the trip straight to Mac Word 5.0a will take hours off our stress times and put smiles in all the right places.

I'll keep you all jigged on the fleet fool nostril. Which reminds me of then and now. What do you call a fool in the mirror? A loof...

Flawed and flogging it...


Untitled Because It's Christmas

05 Dec


Just Sign Here


Originally published on December 5, 1996

Thumbs up. Nuff said. I wouldn't change a word of it. Thanks for the input. Can't wait to lay eyes on the output. Love to stay of top of things, even if it's standing up rather than sucking silence flat ass on my belly.

Glad you're coming. Just give us exact details when you get them, and I'll keep things moving on this end. Everybody's gonna be whipped in yahoos when they hear of your decision. That's all it is. It's about decisions, decisions. Damn Yankees. Damn decisions. And followthrough. Dollhouse is reeking of holiday spirit, and you're Swanky Doll. Counting down the hours, sweet love. Grab a rocket. Get down here. Stick a sock in it. Sorry Frank. We'll plead the fifth and muster up with the bloated roughy Jennifer and learn to live with the details of the coy...

Certainly a frenzy is brewing and I'm taking names...

Untiled because it's Christmas,


Armed Robbery & The Revolutionary Pose

02 Dec


Allure Of Red Meat


Originally posted on December 2, 1996

Well, Peter, I've been busy as a muscle spasm in Tim's backside trying to banish all the unjesus around here organized to a T. A rotting basement door led directly to rat attacks in October. Poison and ingenuity killed three Tim found in the utility room where they came in, and he then buried in the trash. An adult and two ratlings gone gratefully with not too much hassle. Dead carcass under kitchen sink, however changed our lives in a bigger way. A terrific three week odor no human should be forced to abide had us cursing the nature of death.

Maggots emerged, and at the 3-week mark, now fat stupid flies. I've swatted some fifty five flies in four, almost five days. These are dumb easy marks. It doesn't take a solid swap to fell them. And they don't buzz too far away after a miss, and just a little patience leaves me smiling that I've smacked another on the windowpane with only a slight mess. They've been coming out at a rate of ten to twelve a day, for about five days. I take down the ten, and tomorrow another ten replace them. Eventually the carcass will decompose completely, and this crises will be behind us, but geez what a long filthy look at reality in all its amazing distinctions!

Which segues to this armed robbery mess of your own. Tim and I were speculating, but of course were shy of information. Maybe you've written about it already, something you could forward here. All of us care enough to want to know more details.

Just purchased a 200mhz 2.4GB Mac Performa 6400 which crashed hard and died in its very third day, and now a month later parts are still unavailable, motherboard and chassis. Apple is rotting from the core it seems. I also am building an 8500 AV whiz machine, slow going, but most of the hardware is in place. Just a few minor details left. After I finish reading my mail this morning I'll hop on the web to check out your pages and email you from there with a few impressions. I've been taking most of my own web material down in a restructuring and consolidation move as I work this 120 mhz 80 MB RAM 8500 (only a month old as well) into full gear.


Taking Back Control

Reorganizing my rather vast Syquest domain to configure with the next wave of GT computing has been eating up most of my time not spent in general housekeeping. But life is feeling pretty good these days. Sorry, you still cannot stomach my existence (according to Tim, and of course I trip on the paraphrase...), but maybe one evening as you look forward to the morning star you'll find yourself sponsoring a vision in some new fashion you can count on, and you won't feel so threatened by my presence, but then again, maybe it is written that you'll always be my adversary.

Thanks for writing. Good luck in your move. Is your "Saint August" AOL address still valid? This address is good and you can reach me at "" also.

For some reason, I am reminded of the time I was held at gun point in the Corpus Christi barrio by a crazed maybe drunk young man maybe in his late twenties or early thirties sitting in the front seat of my Yellow Top cab, while a woman old enough to be his grandmother sat in the backseat. Hell, I was barely twenty-five, looked like John Lennon or Jesus Christ many pointed out at the time, but fearless, such is that youthful faith that being nice and completely dependent on a mountain of words from ancient pious Jews and the open sky solved all problems. After some broken English negotiating back and forth coupled la senora's ra ta tat tat Spanish persuasion, the poor fellow put the gun away, and I proceeded to their requested destination. She paid, and the man said he was sorry.

God was powerful and generous with me back in 1981...must be a Texan since no such killjoy miracles have covered my path since arriving in DC. Or maybe I've just swallowed too much gaff to notice.

Armed robbery & the revolutionary pose,


A Declaration of the Independence of Cyberspace

22 Nov


My Mind under Surveillance


What innocence! What naîveté! A Declaration of the Independence of Cyberspace. Hahahaha! The kids are coming of age, and they seek a new paradigm. How cute. Shall I recite a rhyme? Shall I eat a peach? Maybe two? While I devote my life to this machine as the tool which gave me access to write which was my strongest compulsion since I was a reading kindergartener, it didn't take another George Orwell to point out that the commodity goldfingers and shock miners and basic evildoers of this crackling world would make for themselves a system of laws and taxes, tracking and recording devices, on the fly scratch and sniffers where they could make the rest of us miserable and themselves the masters of the tweak and tremble soon enough again. Governments could not be kept out if they wanted in, and why wouldn't they? It's what they do. We are the holes they want us to dig for them because the light and the dark alike give us our thrills. And thrills and ills of all things must be controlled, says government. To that end I've dug up this old manifesto, and as I did back in the day I would again like to reprint it so as to remind others of how liberty felt when it was born again at the beginning of this latest great social experiment in universal communication and cooperation. How easily we fool ourselves into thinking, into ignoring what we has been given to us in warning that this early excitement too would soon fade, as the cold feckless machine realities of its awesome power slowly reveal themselves. So here it is, as spoken of in those heady days:

A Declaration of the Independence of Cyberspace

Governments of the Industrial World, you weary giants of flesh and steel, I come from Cyberspace, the new home of Mind. On behalf of the future, I ask you of the past to leave us alone. You are not welcome among us. You have no sovereignty where we gather.

We have no elected government, nor are we likely to have one, so I address you with no greater authority than that with which liberty itself always speaks. I declare the global social space we are building to be naturally independent of the tyrannies you seek to impose on us. You have no moral right to rule us nor do you possess any methods of enforcement we have true reason to fear.

Governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed. You have neither solicited nor received ours. We did not invite you. You do not know us, nor do you know our world. Cyberspace does not lie within your borders. Do not think that you can build it, as though it were a public construction project. You cannot. It is an act of human nature and it grows itself through our collective actions.

You have not engaged in our great and gathering conversation, nor did you create the wealth of our marketplaces. You do not know our culture, our ethics, or the unwritten codes that already provide our society more order than could be obtained by any of your impositions.

You claim there are problems among us that you need to solve. You use this claim as an excuse to invade our precincts. Many of these problems don’t exist. Where there are real conflicts, where there are wrongs, we will identify them and address them by our means. We are forming our own Social Contract. This governance will arise according to the conditions of our world, not yours. Our world is different.

Cyberspace consists of transactions, relationships, and thought itself, arrayed like a standing wave in the web of our communications. Ours is a world that is both everywhere and nowhere, but it is not where bodies live. We are creating a world that all may enter without privilege or prejudice accorded by race, economic power, military force, or station of birth.

We are creating a world where anyone, anywhere may express his or her beliefs, no matter how singular, without fear of being coerced into silence or conformity.

Your legal concepts of property, expression, identity, movement, and context do not apply to us. They are based on matter. There is no matter here.

Our identities have no bodies, so, unlike you, we cannot obtain order by physical coercion. We believe that from ethics, enlightened self-interest, and the commonweal, our governance will emerge. Our identities may be distributed across many of your jurisdictions. The only law that all our constituent cultures would generally recognize is the Golden Rule. We hope we will be able to build our particular solutions on that basis. But we cannot accept the solutions you are attempting to impose.

In the United States, you have created a law, the Telecommunications Reform Act, which repudiates your own Constitution and insults the dreams of Jefferson, Washington, Mill, Madison, DeToqueville, and Brandeis. These dreams must now be born anew in us.

You are terrified of your own children, since they are natives in a world where you will always be immigrants. Because you fear them, you entrust your bureaucracies with the parental responsibilities you are too cowardly to confront yourselves. In our world, all the sentiments and expressions of humanity, from the debasing to the angelic, are parts of a seamless whole, the global conversation of bits. We cannot separate the air that chokes from the air upon which wings beat. Nor can you, therefore we will not allow you to try.

In China, Germany, France, Russia, Singapore, Italy and the United States, you are trying to ward off the virus of liberty by erecting guard posts at the frontiers of Cyberspace. These may keep out the contagion for a small time, but they will not work in a world that will soon be blanketed in bit-bearing media. So, of course, you will shut it down, price it out, bury it in lies and damn lies.

Your increasingly obsolete information industries would perpetuate themselves by proposing laws, in America and elsewhere, that claim to own speech itself throughout the world. These laws would declare ideas to be another industrial product, no more noble than pig iron. In our world, whatever the human mind may create can be reproduced and distributed infinitely at no cost. The global conveyance of thought no longer requires your factories to accomplish.

These increasingly hostile and colonial measures place us in the same position as those previous lovers of freedom and self-determination who had to reject the authorities of distant, uninformed powers. We must declare our virtual selves immune to your sovereignty, even as we continue to consent to your rule over our bodies. We will spread ourselves across the planet so that no one can arrest our thoughts.

We will create a civilization of the Mind in Cyberspace. May it be more humane and fair than the world your governments have made before.

Davos, Switzerland
February 8, 1996

Two Kinds Of People

05 Nov


Originally published on November 5, 1996, as one of the first, if not the very first missives contributed to the post-situationist listserv arm of the fledgling Nothingness entity. First I struck a nerve. Then I struck oil. The oil that would lubricate finally, a conversation that was about to take place. Or at the very least, I expected something resembling a conversation.

I write:
Just wanted to go on record that of all those waking up from last night's America TODAY, there are only two kinds of people. People who vote, and those who don't.

Sam then wrote:
There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who divide everything into simple dichotomies and those who do not.

This Sam, turned out to be Sam Hutchison, from Atlanta, who later became a strong ally in the Bully Marxist wars that followed on that particular list against NYC rivals Bill Brown and Curtis Leung. But with this early exchange, I was immediately incensed by what I had to consider the familiar ring of snobbishness, and the fact that Sam had signed off his one liner with a kicker and a nickname that summed up my original assessment, sent me to the mattresses looking for my poison pen. His kicker, "Oh yeah, down here I'm considered the apotheosis of cool." signing off as "the sewer urchin." Needless to say, I found my metaphorical pen, and as to whether it was filled with poison or healing medicinal concoction, the distinction is all in the dosage. You be the judge.

Sam, have you ever crawled inside a wet sewer pipe down upon your hands and knees through a stinky brick and mortared shit-infested rat-renewal art-survival sewer "MANHOLE", a hole in hell clopped up with soggy kotex and johnny paper, root infiltration and a world of nasty whiff? Ever sat in a row boat hand-dipping test tubes into a lake of shit sludge testing the toxicity of said sludge as it's filtered and treated with chemical du jour before the big drip drip drip back through the lay of the land via some "no swimming allowed" river or some off-kilter stream of consciousness?

Go swallow an apple, or chop down a cherry tree with the excuse that it was on line (old surveyor’s joke), and then step into the shallow pond to pontificate on the differences between good and evil, dead or alive, one and zero, win or lose, voting and non-voting.
Well, my friend, you are currently communicating with one who has not only proposed the question, but I HAVE PERFORMED these awesome uninviting tasks many times in that petty proletarian life of my younger days before I took up dividing the world into simple dichotomies. Beyond this brief but colorful description of a few of my duties as a low totem, then ranking crew chief member of a survey party hired to a civil engineering firm in Atlanta serving five SE USA states specializing in waste management systems, I dare say I have also been known to chant around certain quarters that I am indeed the anithesis of cool.

My pose as THE ANTI-COOL is not a transparent facade I must mainatain in order to spew forth the vomit I have reserved for the lukewarm chic trendy jabberwockies of the café chit chat set. No, I am not chic. I sweat. I sweat, and foam, and seethe. And more than a bit overweight, one might add. But I was not always this way. I was once a child of simple intelligence and structure. Despite the William S. Burroughs role as the Commissioner of Sewers I would point out that WSB has declared the Evil One as a freckled face kid sitting in a boat out in the middle of some woe-begotten lake. Damn. How did he manage to describe ME in one my my strongest childhood memories to a freckle? Sitting in a row boat with my Navy dad in the middle of some large body of water completely flummoxed as to what was required of me. This was no dream. I was about four. We did it. I remembered it.

So I ask you Sam, is it not the very root of situationist thought (this swindle) that simple dichotomies are the backbone of the revolution: He be rich. I be poor. Therefore he da master. I da slave. Are we not swapping verbs and nouns on a situationist listserv? Viva la revolution! Sure. But how is the business of this post-revolution world to be conducted? Magick? Hmmm...

And so I reveal my true stripes: there are no simple dichotomies outside of SELF and THE OTHER (Derruda, Pynchon...)! Go swallow an apple, or chop down a cherry tree with the excuse that it was on line (old surveyor’s joke), and then step into the shallow pond to pontificate on the differences between good and evil, dead or alive, one and zero, win or lose, voting and non-voting.

And Sam, whomever you are and wherever you ponder, thanks for contributing to the iMote way...


"I fought with my twin, that enemy within, 'til both of us fell by the side..."
—Bob Dylan

Two Kinds Of People, Reprise

05 Nov

Voting Patterns

Voting Patterns


Date: Tue, 5 Nov 1996 14:13:01

Just wanted to go on record that of all those waking up from last night's America today, there are only two kinds of people. People who vote, and those who don't. It's no startling headline that the non-voters can be, in some self-flattering way, more political than the vast majority of the voting population who do however associate themselves with the process by ballot. Whether one believes in the process is irrelevant. Just because it is a fun and a different sort of thing to do, to waste away a few minutes, or hours in some cases, and for those of us independents—having no ego party of our own, who only vote in November elections, we can lodge a repeated memory association of the slightly crisp November air under the bright stunning orb of morning sun beaming down upon neighbors of all flavors filing in together brings to the occasion a special feeling worth celebrating and abiding.

The fact that a huge chunk of zombie voters mope around in a state of cluelessness not only on certain issues, but remain fogged in by the sheer unbearable lightness of the candidates' stances on the issues no more solid than pieces of bad paper blowing in the wind, their conflicts, and their similarities, changes nothing. Distrusting the vote is not a revolutionary act. Staying home does not improve your lot in life. Experiencing the ballot box, however, might very well impact your day in surprising, pleasant ways, and revolutionary ways if you know how to listen to the world around you.

Those who resist the vote merely parrot their own sense of uselessness, supposing themselves above the fray, which is just not true any more than their reluctance to work elevates them from poverty. The non-voters miss out on the chance events, the derivé of the ballot box spectacle, which is okay for those who lead busy revolutionary lives, but for one who rarely leaves the house, I enjoy myself on these annual November outings under the guise of fulfilling some ephemeral patriotic duty to god and country, beggarman, thief, doctor, lawyer, indian chief...

This bit's for Blum. Yet another example of how a picture is a thousand times more damaging that a misplaced word. Poor guy should have been down at the docks soliciting an unused portion of a dirty magazine rather than downloading and storing such junk on the US Navy's nuts and bolts. And he better wash off that virtual tattoo he had burned into his private idahos just before the sugar hit the fan...

Here's somebody on the Spectacle site asking a silly question:"What about Windows? I don't have a Mac." My response, "Given your situation? My advice? Love the one you're with."


"I fought with my twin, that enemy within, 'til both of us fell by the side..." —Bob Dylan

"If the pen is mightier than the sword, the send button is a heat-seeking missle..." —Gabriel Thy

A Frilly-Mouthed Backwater Courtesan

05 Nov




Date: Tue, 5 Nov 1996 12:16:19

Check out what I did from scratch this morning while waiting to jolly off with Blum and Sue and somewhat less so with Tim to vote. (Tim votes in a different precinct since he's never notified the voting board of his change of address):

Ben's recent critique about the ugly font disturbed me, although I recall you liked it so much you asked its name. Your own recent behavior however has influenced me in other ways. Together THE MOTE is the world's...

Odd events hover about this 8500. Pull down the SPECIAL menu bar for RESTART and the machine freezes forcing me to the keyboard juggernaut some three dozen straight restarts. Of course the machine then responds with an extended 2-bit intro, a very very slow reboot, and finally the message box that the machine was improperly restarted. It's been doing this since Saturday, a week after working fine. We have reinstalled the system software twice. Have run SAM 4.0 and Norton, Disk Doctor and my fat fickle fingers through my hair, all to no avail. Sue and I spent all last weekend picking thorns off the Mac. I'm beginning to lose my MacEnvangelista edge...

I really like my new page even though it only leads to two places, well actually one, because the eMail button is simply Netscape's mail interface, but you know what I mean...

The interface clean, friendly, although like a frilly-mouthed backwater courtesan in a few places she is just a damned mite too courteous. There are two dialogue boxes I wish I could turn off but research in that area has offered no solutions.
It's like the road to heaven and hell. It doesn't lead to two places. It only leads to one which is the absence of the other.

Will probably whip up some new minimalist approaches to the West Hollywood and Motor City sites today just to free myself from the strain of low production anxiety blues. Athens needs something but I sort of like it the way it is. Tokyo Beach is still under wraps. Needs beaucoup attention. Blowpoet work still dormant. will feature a JERUSALEM, ROOTS, and GSIS HOMEDOCK section as well. The latter will be the more hip, flippant, eat me, beat me, call me names side of the domain.

Mostly been keeping busy organizing & troubleshooting the new Mac, and from La Cie the contents of all my removable data. Some of the older 45 meg syquests are far too sluggish, hinting at imminent failure even though after reformatting them Norton gives them a clean bill of health. So I may toss or donate those to the man on the street whose name is legion...

Dig this new Eudora Pro. URLs are clickable. The interface clean, friendly, although like a frilly-mouthed backwater courtesan in a few places she is just a damned mite too courteous. There are two dialogue boxes I wish I could turn off but research in that area has offered no solutions.


Pollyanna On Uppers

31 Oct


America the Pollyanna


(Originally published on October 31, 1996, in a letter addressed to Ben Voos in Germany)

Just received your latest terrific turns of phrase. Forwarded the whole thing off to a few friends. You've done it again with that web site. Minimal. Elegant. Thought-provoking. I voted. The lined box to the far right, which was in essence, voting with the herd. I studied long and judiciously at the boxes before making my choice. What was I choosing? The one which reminded me of feelings I associated with something pleasurable? Or did I pick the ugly one out of the crowd because I am prone to exhibit low self-esteem at regular intervals? Or, perhaps I simply not know why but went with the leader, thinking others' good taste was what I had in mind when I explore a path of raw nerve?

That's a tough one. I immediately thought of lines drawn in with chalk generally in athletic arenas, basketball & tennis courts, uh, the far left box with the rose colored demarcations, right angles, parallel lines and yellow diamond, but too it's not, I just went back and voted a second time, this time for the first box. The absent of controlling rules worked to my advantage. I see your liquor bottles made the cut again, as did the kingdom of the grid blip.

I'm really embarrassed by my slow entrance onto the WWW. Just bought that new Mac 8500. It's allowing me, finally, after days of organization to bring some order out of the mess of HTML files and graphics I've been creating, storing some here, some there, inadvertantly losing some to the trashcan monster it seems more than once...

Your queries about domain costs: Paid $75 to have a third party register the name and paid $100 for the first two years of registration, after which I will be billed $50 annually to maintain ownership of the iMote domain name. That's the sum of it. The German full Internet charges you mentioned are rich...home ISDN line service is the BIG deal here in my neck of the woods. The tiny nearby state of Delaware recently passed a law mandating a $29/month ceiling for residential ISDN service anywhere in the state of Delaware. In the District of Columbia however, I cannot even GET residential ISDN line service, and they want over $500/month for a business hook-up.

Actually I applied for a rates and service spec from the Telephone Company a month ago and it never came. Seems in this polarized city a widening gulf between the haves and the have-nots, as usual, is the culprit. Big business and big government versus 50% of the population at poverty level being left in the dust by a crisis-building tax revenue shrinking middle class fleeing the gang-infested city for promises of cleaner suburban living. Problem is the crime and the gangs are moving right along to the suburbs in the same moving vans with these noveau bourgeois parents who always think it is somebody else doing the troublemaking...

Meanwhile, kudos again on creating an interesting site. And don't worry about what your EXPERTS say. They are saying the same thing here. Ripsnorting business and smiley faces are what makes this country get a hard-on for anything. Lord knows it ain't flashy nude television gameshows (like you Germans). America is a full-color gloss Pollyanna, but after a rough gamble with freedom and artificial habits up the nose, she's beginning to show some cellulite and wrinkle. I smell tragedy in that rag...


Camille & Liberty Sue For Rights

29 Oct

Camille Paglia

Camille Paglia


Originally published on October 29, 1996

Paglia, eh? Great. You're a leg up on me with that pair of trousers, but yes, she's plugged into my short shorts of writers I intend to exploit on my own terms, buttressing hers, by reading a fuller body of her work.

You are waving at battleship clowns though, in pointing out what you read as gross generalizations on maleness, presuming, as we agree, the topic is her announced speciality, because far too many books I have read on race, gender, even pop ass religion & nuclear physics are written by ascendant experts guilty of similar transgressions against their own daring models of zero, not zero. But if her generalizations of "her men" are just that, aren't those of "her women" just as general and no less caricatured than those of Henry Miller, Mick Jagger, or Gloria Steinum?

If the defining factor of her work can be said to bestow truth to the fact that the man on the hipper side of the manhood schematic is as driven to be "a man" by forces he struggles to control and improve against great odds of acrimony and self-doubt as those which women bear inside themselves—which they, grabbing their own perspective, conclude as just and feminine (but perhaps not righteous for all?). As a woman speaking on this topic, your subjectivity remains the trait you can never escape regardless of race, gender, creed or dvisibility by less than anything I have to say on this or any subject matter. Such is the human condition in reality. All else is politics, art, and the place on earth where stupid remarks are taken for granted because human frailty and the language they have invented has made it that way.

Absolute gender essence is a fiction, but factors forcing us into certain camps are just & natural all the same. While we may find it fascinating to sit under a banana shrub tree with a cool drink to pine for a formula that would equalize the world, nothing is further from the true, and is simply a fuzzy concept developed to bring a better cohesion between differences in a crowd. While some political theories have tried to erase, other smudge the inherent differences between men and other men, women and other women, alliances and enemies cross pollinating the lines, so the best we can hope for is an active intelligence when this whistling dixie of topics is brought to the table.

If Johnny can't read. That's a problem Johnny has. If nobody in Johnny's class can read, maybe that's a class problem, or perhaps a rude statistical anomaly. Solving for a class problem is a one Johnny at a time scenario, no matter how many times Billy's, or Rachel's or Al-Amid's class (who can all read after a fashion, but in emphatic degrees of speciality, one to and against another, and so we say there is no class problem, but an individual level of compliance to a standard which suffers in a state of flux, never at rest, but always evolving with new imput). And so it goes. Natural selection. Crowd warfare disguised as crowd fanfare. We both know the issue is more complicated than Johnny. His home life, his specific subculture, and the tumultuous uber culture drive the imagination into places no young mind can handle without strong guidance, and simply overwhelm the attention span where little teaching, even if made interesting and important to the student can penetrate. I'd like to know, Landry, of a few Paglia clichés you find utterly testing reality. It could prove an interesting exchange between us.

The body must go. Recycle this dirt is what I say. I feel alive only when co-opting the conspiracies of language as my own private sandbox. One day I'll probably lose this damn limb to bad circulation, gout, diabetes, stroke, or what have I, so I guess I'll just have to find myself a woman who has a sick thang for amputees.
I hate being traffic cop and lone cleanup crew around here, but I am a natural for the job. I live among two wood bees who tend to be slobs. Tim & Sue give a good bawdyhouse try at neatliness and order of the court, but they wear blinders as narrow as my hunt for the perfect job. Am I a braggart to state that each of them exercise weaker powers of observation, and ply a more sluggish recall from whatever ROM hard drive they've in the belfry? So I get to play the neatnik butch Gabriel who says, I'm running the show and I said THIS is how WE do it. After footing the bill Sue's a gem trapped in the goo of sporadic bursts of saltwater taffy which describes our push and pull dichotomy, and puts up with it only because she understands the efforts I put in around here go a long way toward making the whole Dollhouse balancing act work.

While I'm still probably not back to fifty percent normal, the Dollhouse clutter piled up for days until I couldn't help myself but to storm around all day picking up in a slow painful hobble. Of course everyone including Lizbeth& Chris last weekend has predicted my left foot without a cast will heal to an ouchy mess, even though my choice to forego the cast was one of the doc's original options as he groped the swollen mob of purple toes and x-rays last week. So I'm taking my chances with Providence, but haven't I always?

Do it for MEEEE, she pleaded in the sweet pitched cajoling voice of protestant communion she pulls out for these special darling occasions which eventually will all blur together after a while and I guess that’s what we for lack of a better word call love. And so I did.
The body must go. Recycle this freckled pail of dirt is what I say. The best notion of life, that time when I most feel alive in duty and occupation, no matter what my lesser aptitudes may say about me, is when I am co-opting the language conspiracies of men and women into my own private sandbox. Exercise of the walkabout flesh is very painful to me. I've always needed a specific purpose to getting out and going over and above, sustaining my own life. Longevity appeals only in the sense that I might reach a level of success in this exploration of mind. One day I'll probably lose this damn limb to bad circulation, gout, diabetes, stroke, or what have I, so I guess I'll just have to comfort myself in a woman who has a sick affection for amputees. Sue only this morning after complimenting me for swallowing a couple ibuprofrin and I goo gooed in pointing out how tickled baby dance silly she gets when I'm popping pills, said back that she just wanted me to get better so I could stomp around again. Hmmm. Baby likes my stomping around better than my gimping around. That's normal, ME too, but it's always a fart when Sue dishes out a pill because she seems to have this weird buddy system relationship with pain pills.

She ain't no JUNKY by any stretch. We're just talking over the counter stuff, but she's really blows a goose whenever the pillbox is passed around. In my case, it's as if—if she can just get me to pop a pill—she has performed a recognizable measure of social work in heading me in the right direction of the fit & well. But I DO have to give her credit for some fine sweet words of caring as she nagged me into submission about finally going to see Doctor Ford. Do it for MEEEE, she pleaded in the sweet pitched cajoling voice of protestant communion she pulls out for these special darling occasions which will eventually all blur together after a while and I guess that's what we for lack of a better word call love. And so I did.

And I am redeemed with honors (called GETTING THE CREDIT in Dollhouse parlance) for having been right as a pat hand of three aces and a greenhaired Jack in both diagnosing & proscribing a laissez faire attitude in the first place, but it was good to get professional confirmation. That's the best health care I can suffer. Emergency blockades. Damage control. Squeaky clean is somebody's else triumphant life. Blind faith in OVERCOMING the body in all these war wounds is the method of least resistence I cling to, it's a motto, a white flag, black flag, label of a thousand filthy warthogs rutting in the mud...

As for this blurring of categories I often speak of, especially in what Miller sarcastically loathed as literature, I do not stand on ceremonial demarcations of fiction, biography, lasting truth, evidence of genius, email correspondence, men of letters, rogue pundits, cultural betters, dry bone or snot-nosed detractors. Distractions, all of it. Like a drop or two of kerosene in a steaming pot of outdoor stew, it'll all boil off in the end.


Bukowski And Lemonic Apples

18 Oct

AV Power Mac Display

AV Power Mac Display


Gave up momentarily on the ISDN chase. Nobody in DC knows a damned thing, but as I predicted somewhere long ago while tucked between the page 3 girl's left and right tit, all would never never be well in the Power Mac ghetto. Sue gabbed half an hour with Apple last night, leaving her miffed and sexist. She absolutely HATES talking to female tech support. Says they are snotty, know nothing, airheads on ice. Well, okay, Sue wasn't as colorful, but you get the drift. I tell her that I have experienced male support just as pitiful, but seem to get along splendidly with the online gash (uh, Bukowski's word). Although I recall a ClarkNET Sally who was a pile of ketchup beans. Is there, uh, something here the professional anti-sexism radicals are missing in this delighful picture? All I know is we know what works for us...

Meanwhile she is taking the CPU into her office this morning to check it against other monitors. The CPU light came on last night but the monitor did nothing, yet all suspicion rests with the CPU she and Apple are saying. SHIT, more delays, lemons and apples, go figure...

Will keep you updated. That huge monitor is awesome looking on the new table we bought. But of course RAM is nowhere in sight until we get this Mac up and running. Guess that's what I get for trying to save eleven hundred bucks...

Were you expecting more dope on Bukowski? Sorry, Charlie. No more tuna on this channel. Catch me on the flip flip.



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