Originally published on September 19, 1997
Thanks for all the little notes you've wafted down this way lately. Read them, bookmarked accordingly, grinned when our own thoughts have been replicated in the "real" press, et cetera.
Been busy finishing off the A&F site. Now I move into the promotion and maintenance phase. A six-month contract. Sue's going out to Hector's farm today to load AOL on his Performa out there, and also to begin formulating his farm site by gathering up horse pics.
News. Peter Burris is moving into the Dollhouse basement next weekend for a season or two, the Sunday following my 42th birthday. Yes, happy and all that. We'll be hosting a few a quiet gathering after work on Friday. Blumstein celebrates his last day at Columbia Research on the same night. He hasn't responded to my E-mail inviting him and Allie over, but I reckon he might have other celebrationary options up his sleeve. We still haven't talked since that night of the pokerfaced airconditioning mishap a month ago.
We plan to throw a lot of cash and sweat at the basement as you've already been made aware. Timing is gonna be tight to get all the damned ducks in a row, but everybody involved is psyched to making it work, and so Peter might be camping out for a few days or a week until we cut the ribbon. This has all been rather sudden. A year ago I would have never dreamed that PHB would welcome or be welcomed in this house on this sort of long-term familiar basis.
Time does tend to change our perspectives for better AND worse, n'est pas? Karen may have landed us a huge trucking company account, but it won't kick in until late October as the owner puts the finishing touches on a multimillion dollar startup company. It's not in the basket yet, but is almost a sure thing, as he's an ex-and-wouldbe-current beau. She's really excited about her new role as GSIS sales rep. So are we. And best of all, she's no mirror mashed maniac like the rest of us. She's a levelheaded bubbly sort, who just has too many potential contacts to not exploit. So we've all stepped up to the plate looking for that fat pitch down the middle.
By the way, Karen gave Pitch a major bitching over that condescending kissoff note he wrote me, from her own volition. She told Sue about it later. Pitch had CC'd the note to her. Apparently she read it the same way I did. Sue's often characterized Karen as not being too awfully smart. I haven't been around her that much, but she continues to impress me with her downhome country wisdom. She's nobody's fool. She loves Sue, and is always cratcheting Hector about undervaluing Sue. And her mother loves me, in Karen's words. Now isn't that just gravy for an old roast like me. We have suddenly found ourselves bright-eyed and bushy-butted, primed for the feast.
And just think, not too long ago . . .
GT
Showing posts with label Taylor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Taylor. Show all posts
Monday, September 17, 2007
TODAY IN HISTORY
Originally published on September 19, 1997
Thanks for all the little notes you've wafted down this way lately. Read them, bookmarked accordingly, grinned when our own thoughts have been replicated in the "real" press, et cetera.
Been busy finishing off the A&F site. Now I move into the promotion and maintenance phase. A six-month contract. Sue's going out to Hector's farm today to load AOL on his Performa out there, and also to begin formulating his farm site by gathering up horse pics.
News. Peter Burris is moving into the Dollhouse basement next weekend for a season or two, the Sunday following my 42th birthday. Yes, happy and all that. We'll be hosting a few a quiet gathering after work on Friday. Blumstein celebrates his last day at Columbia Research on the same night. He hasn't responded to my E-mail inviting him and Allie over, but I reckon he might have other celebrationary options up his sleeve. We still haven't talked since that night of the pokerfaced airconditioning mishap a month ago.
We plan to throw a lot of cash and sweat at the basement as you've already been made aware. Timing is gonna be tight to get all the damned ducks in a row, but everybody involved is psyched to making it work, and so Peter might be camping out for a few days or a week until we cut the ribbon. This has all been rather sudden. A year ago I would have never dreamed that PHB would welcome or be welcomed in this house on this sort of long-term familiar basis.
Time does tend to change our perspectives for better AND worse, n'est pas? Karen may have landed us a huge trucking company account, but it won't kick in until late October as the owner puts the finishing touches on a multimillion dollar startup company. It's not in the basket yet, but is almost a sure thing, as he's an ex-and-wouldbe-current beau. She's really excited about her new role as GSIS sales rep. So are we. And best of all, she's no mirror mashed maniac like the rest of us. She's a levelheaded bubbly sort, who just has too many potential contacts to not exploit. So we've all stepped up to the plate looking for that fat pitch down the middle.
By the way, Karen gave Pitch a major bitching over that condescending kissoff note he wrote me, from her own volition. She told Sue about it later. Pitch had CC'd the note to her. Apparently she read it the same way I did. Sue's often characterized Karen as not being too awfully smart. I haven't been around her that much, but she continues to impress me with her downhome country wisdom. She's nobody's fool. She loves Sue, and is always cratcheting Hector about undervaluing Sue. And her mother loves me, in Karen's words. Now isn't that just gravy for an old roast like me. We have suddenly found ourselves bright-eyed and bushy-butted, primed for the feast.
And just think, not too long ago . . .
GT
Thanks for all the little notes you've wafted down this way lately. Read them, bookmarked accordingly, grinned when our own thoughts have been replicated in the "real" press, et cetera.
Been busy finishing off the A&F site. Now I move into the promotion and maintenance phase. A six-month contract. Sue's going out to Hector's farm today to load AOL on his Performa out there, and also to begin formulating his farm site by gathering up horse pics.
News. Peter Burris is moving into the Dollhouse basement next weekend for a season or two, the Sunday following my 42th birthday. Yes, happy and all that. We'll be hosting a few a quiet gathering after work on Friday. Blumstein celebrates his last day at Columbia Research on the same night. He hasn't responded to my E-mail inviting him and Allie over, but I reckon he might have other celebrationary options up his sleeve. We still haven't talked since that night of the pokerfaced airconditioning mishap a month ago.
We plan to throw a lot of cash and sweat at the basement as you've already been made aware. Timing is gonna be tight to get all the damned ducks in a row, but everybody involved is psyched to making it work, and so Peter might be camping out for a few days or a week until we cut the ribbon. This has all been rather sudden. A year ago I would have never dreamed that PHB would welcome or be welcomed in this house on this sort of long-term familiar basis.
Time does tend to change our perspectives for better AND worse, n'est pas? Karen may have landed us a huge trucking company account, but it won't kick in until late October as the owner puts the finishing touches on a multimillion dollar startup company. It's not in the basket yet, but is almost a sure thing, as he's an ex-and-wouldbe-current beau. She's really excited about her new role as GSIS sales rep. So are we. And best of all, she's no mirror mashed maniac like the rest of us. She's a levelheaded bubbly sort, who just has too many potential contacts to not exploit. So we've all stepped up to the plate looking for that fat pitch down the middle.
By the way, Karen gave Pitch a major bitching over that condescending kissoff note he wrote me, from her own volition. She told Sue about it later. Pitch had CC'd the note to her. Apparently she read it the same way I did. Sue's often characterized Karen as not being too awfully smart. I haven't been around her that much, but she continues to impress me with her downhome country wisdom. She's nobody's fool. She loves Sue, and is always cratcheting Hector about undervaluing Sue. And her mother loves me, in Karen's words. Now isn't that just gravy for an old roast like me. We have suddenly found ourselves bright-eyed and bushy-butted, primed for the feast.
And just think, not too long ago . . .
GT
GINSBERG AIN'T HOWLING NO MORE
Originally published on April 7, 1997
WE 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 had 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.Your files meanwhile are blank doc icons, not even PC tagged.
So I file-shared IMOTE (my Mac) with HEDRICK (Sue's), and 3/4 of her drive was locked, feeding me garbage about not having enough access priviledges. 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 the 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.
WE 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 had 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.Your files meanwhile are blank doc icons, not even PC tagged.
So I file-shared IMOTE (my Mac) with HEDRICK (Sue's), and 3/4 of her drive was locked, feeding me garbage about not having enough access priviledges. 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 the 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.
BREAKING ON THROUGH TO THE OTHER SIDE
Originally published on December 27, 1996
A note 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 STAB (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, immensely and 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, 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. Somewtimes 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.
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 is worthless if he can't thud the first baseman after a groundball is hit his way, even if it isn't his own fault.
And so here again in another life, I was experiencing this rather 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 psychology robots must have been poking 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 communication or literary 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?
A note 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 STAB (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, immensely and 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, 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. Somewtimes 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.
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 is worthless if he can't thud the first baseman after a groundball is hit his way, even if it isn't his own fault.
And so here again in another life, I was experiencing this rather 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 psychology robots must have been poking 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 communication or literary 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?
ONE FLU OUT (WHEN IN ROAM...)
Originally published on December 27, 1996
Read 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.
Our limosine plans are now quite iffy. Our friend, 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 1986 (sic) 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 think his game of choice is the game of 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 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?
I too am resolved to take better care of myself, starting RIGHT now. Hence all these doctor's appointments. 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 note are not easy for me, because you are very dear to me, but fact is stronger than fiction, and fiction is what we seemingly feast upon to help ourselves get through another speeding mist of 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 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 ass 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 be aware, not a line on this page is bogus.
Read 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.
Our limosine plans are now quite iffy. Our friend, 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 1986 (sic) 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 think his game of choice is the game of 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 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?
I too am resolved to take better care of myself, starting RIGHT now. Hence all these doctor's appointments. 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 note are not easy for me, because you are very dear to me, but fact is stronger than fiction, and fiction is what we seemingly feast upon to help ourselves get through another speeding mist of 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 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 ass 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 be aware, not a line on this page is bogus.
DIAMOND DOG & NICKEL COMPARISONS
Originally published on March 10, 1997
Whoa! Un mistek! It should read "and I reckon we'll see you Friday night at Howrey Simon near ten..."
You'll have time to sign-up at your new sportsclub, get your first sweaty whacks in, recover and greet us by then I would suppose.
Batting cage residues: not as sore as you predicted. In fact, not sore at all, just tired, and that's as much a response to excess spirits in a bottle as pumped up team spirit in the batting cage. How's your arm feeling this morning? Uh, not that you were exactly slinging bullets, but it IS a new activity, and spring arm is simply a fact of diamond lifestyle. I feel a slight ache in my throwing muscles. Next week you should really try to flex your own a little bit more in that department, and you definitely need work in the fly ball depth perception routine, but I am confident your natural grace will aid you as quickly as your confidence, not cocksurity, or over-confidence, but simple humility-driven confidence, rises to the occasion. Even infielders must snag a pop fly on occasion...
As I write this I am remember Kerouac's fondness for baseball, and Bukowski's overwrought distaste for it...
CB was simply a jerk, preferring instead to stress his ingenuities and flex his flopmop muscles at the racetrack. A twenty spot staked on a figger-rigged mare of many sure beats running around the bases after just swatting the long ball, in his book I reckon, but man, baseball IS the game! Anybody can play at some level. And you don't have to lose a lot of money to the mafia in the process...
GT
Whoa! Un mistek! It should read "and I reckon we'll see you Friday night at Howrey Simon near ten..."
You'll have time to sign-up at your new sportsclub, get your first sweaty whacks in, recover and greet us by then I would suppose.
Batting cage residues: not as sore as you predicted. In fact, not sore at all, just tired, and that's as much a response to excess spirits in a bottle as pumped up team spirit in the batting cage. How's your arm feeling this morning? Uh, not that you were exactly slinging bullets, but it IS a new activity, and spring arm is simply a fact of diamond lifestyle. I feel a slight ache in my throwing muscles. Next week you should really try to flex your own a little bit more in that department, and you definitely need work in the fly ball depth perception routine, but I am confident your natural grace will aid you as quickly as your confidence, not cocksurity, or over-confidence, but simple humility-driven confidence, rises to the occasion. Even infielders must snag a pop fly on occasion...
As I write this I am remember Kerouac's fondness for baseball, and Bukowski's overwrought distaste for it...
CB was simply a jerk, preferring instead to stress his ingenuities and flex his flopmop muscles at the racetrack. A twenty spot staked on a figger-rigged mare of many sure beats running around the bases after just swatting the long ball, in his book I reckon, but man, baseball IS the game! Anybody can play at some level. And you don't have to lose a lot of money to the mafia in the process...
GT
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
PISSING AT THE PEEPHOLE
Originally published on September 16, 1999
Arthur - I have no burning desire to cull the herd of genuine interested parties, far from it, and I certainly appreciated your first response a while back, and now again, when pressed, it seems you have indeed brightened my day just in hearing from you. Smells like loneliness, doesn't it? Not really. It's just that sometimes my own sense of failure and frustration in building an active community where different voices can be counted upon to seed the common causes and indeed foster that notion of belonging to a focussed group greater than oneself, gets the best of me, and I plot yet another "situation" to stir the soup.
I mean, one does get tired of groveling for input. But I've had a rough year myself since this list was founded last November, and certainly do not crave the ax just to exercise some phony sense of authority. The names you mention: Matt, Kubhlai, Michael, and Gabriel, none of us have met in the flesh. But Len Bracken, Steve Taylor, and Lynn Landry all have met me, and have each pleaded cases of personal friendship with the GT, but something is drastically lacking in these friends who hardly have a word to share with this project. Friends indeed, I say to myself. In full-bodied candor, their absence is my strongest resentment of the moment.
Rebunk down in Australia, well, I dunno where he's floated off to, and there is only one other new name (to respond to Matt's query) on the subscription list, but this person has NEVER piped in with a word, not once in the several months since signing on. This person has a UK address, but has remained mum. Again, there is no criminal breech of etiquette in this behavior, but I do interpret a slight rudeness I think for a list this small already.
To me, this present anxiety is not a matter of seeping paranoia over the content or stylings of these conversations, uh, falling into the wrong hands or some utter nonsense like that; as incendiary cant they barely make muster, but there is a pinching personal disappointment fueled by a periodic suspicion that perhaps the SWILL is indeed nothing more than a crass waste of time since there are many other lists out there which seem to attract all sorts of opinionmaking noise, of the feverish sort or the mundane, but here, uh, well you know what I mean.
And I really despise the fact that I am whingeing over this.
Arthur - I have no burning desire to cull the herd of genuine interested parties, far from it, and I certainly appreciated your first response a while back, and now again, when pressed, it seems you have indeed brightened my day just in hearing from you. Smells like loneliness, doesn't it? Not really. It's just that sometimes my own sense of failure and frustration in building an active community where different voices can be counted upon to seed the common causes and indeed foster that notion of belonging to a focussed group greater than oneself, gets the best of me, and I plot yet another "situation" to stir the soup.
I mean, one does get tired of groveling for input. But I've had a rough year myself since this list was founded last November, and certainly do not crave the ax just to exercise some phony sense of authority. The names you mention: Matt, Kubhlai, Michael, and Gabriel, none of us have met in the flesh. But Len Bracken, Steve Taylor, and Lynn Landry all have met me, and have each pleaded cases of personal friendship with the GT, but something is drastically lacking in these friends who hardly have a word to share with this project. Friends indeed, I say to myself. In full-bodied candor, their absence is my strongest resentment of the moment.
Rebunk down in Australia, well, I dunno where he's floated off to, and there is only one other new name (to respond to Matt's query) on the subscription list, but this person has NEVER piped in with a word, not once in the several months since signing on. This person has a UK address, but has remained mum. Again, there is no criminal breech of etiquette in this behavior, but I do interpret a slight rudeness I think for a list this small already.
To me, this present anxiety is not a matter of seeping paranoia over the content or stylings of these conversations, uh, falling into the wrong hands or some utter nonsense like that; as incendiary cant they barely make muster, but there is a pinching personal disappointment fueled by a periodic suspicion that perhaps the SWILL is indeed nothing more than a crass waste of time since there are many other lists out there which seem to attract all sorts of opinionmaking noise, of the feverish sort or the mundane, but here, uh, well you know what I mean.
And I really despise the fact that I am whingeing over this.
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