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Jeez, Oh, Jeez! Give me one more Gig please!!! by JFK Harris Printer Friendly

yo yo yo! word up from philly!

although i submitted at the tail end of hate week an egregiously long

and spiteful email about something i have no idea about, primarily

the friendship forming webrings of death, i must say i immensely

enjoyed not only the strangelands and its semi-planned well-served

thought of hate week, but actually hating as a means to end, that is,

returning to my bed in the same ill manner i left it that morning.

maybe i should give up sleeping altogether.

it never worked for me as a youngster and ever since, every single

sunrise has prompted the rings around my eyeballs to increase in

diameter, nearly two-fold over the course of a six hour nightmare

landscape.

anyway, i just wanted to say how much i appreciate the time you put

into the portly boy art of ranting, starving, fucking and dreaming.

you all might just play a major role in turning my hate of weblogs into

more of a dislike...

...i curdle at the though of such a half-assed cop out...show me the hate

baby!!! yeah!!!!

so, ray's recent call for hatemail inspired me to

sit and think not hate, but love neither.

that said, i'll come right out and agree with your stooged (deep

down, not so deep down) 2005 feelings on resolution and purpose, both

of which i tend to lack with cunning grace and an acute sense of

clarity.

i find myself wallowing through the times, to work, to the john, on

the bus, always on the periphery of neither love nor hate, rather

slogging helplessly along in the solemn sludge of indifference.

and yet, exactly when all mental besiegery ceases to be, there comes

a brief thought, a tinge of bodily sensation which normally travels

upward from the groin region to the nether lands of the neural zone,

a roundtrip microcosmic vacation of which i brag a stealthy briefcase

of frequent flyer miles.

an inspiration of course!

one to defile what seems so simply pleasing, or better yet an

exaltation! Exalting with excessive enthusiasm those who deserve less

than the tattered, worn sole of a shoe.

This soul tickle releases me of my apathy as i begin to recreate,

redefine and redistribute my thoughts of solace and redemption with

myself and the world in which i, we so wearily at times, reside in.

of course these funny feelings tend to revert back to themselves.

love and hate become once again that lizard-chasing ying-yang ball

symbolizing the infinite union of the light and the darkness, the

black and the white, the war and the peace, the penis and the

vagina...

so therefore, in spite of a world nibbling its own toes, lets aspire

to that ever enlightening simulacrum of the cat, dog, tail-less

bi-ped chasing its own caudal appendage and toast one another:

to our wierdness!

and the pantry closet:

for our favorite grandma's stolen brandy!

salute

ps. this letter i would like all of you to know will be sent

simultaneously from both pinkerton, whose life, rather lifestyle has

taught nothing and whose expiration even less so; as well as from the

new and asofyet not overly boisterous, nor unconscionablly zealous,

yet suredly antsy for the ol' skip-to-my-lou buffoonery-slinging that

represented pinkerton so, so

so...

fuckit.

death to pinkerton.

my new email is

brieweasel@bluebottle.com

i suppose feedback is encouraged

pss. i'll stop using big words if you do.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

--Brief Thoughts on joining MySpace

and various other internet-based Friendbanks--

how big IS MySpace?

comparable in size to say... that "tom" cat,

who alleges he can answer all my questions,

solve all the technical problems and matters

related to technical support and troubleshooting of a system

that beguiles the average user?

Surely his gigs are bigger than mine, after all he is tom,

a cute, karaoke-singing, 2 million befriended,

21st century masterpiece.

and why is he the first to message me?

i'd rather be i-m’d by real friends first,

friends who are not nearly as hot nor cool

nor double-date savvy as tom appears,

guys and gals who join groups to make pals

yet form them out of a queer-felt necessity or

a boredom lingering because their jobs require them

to sit in front of a screen all day and update

the backup files of mysterious clients,

which takes five minutes at the most,

and what to do then but engross themselves in email,

surf the personals, the wanted, the unwanted,

the sold and bartered and free, to fill up the day

with a feeling that pay arrives not always, just sometimes in vain...

but worth every penny, every mini-task accomplished,

every paper copied, signed, licked and sealed,

delivered with a mona lisa smile or a jack torrance smirk,

and all this work makes jack a dull boy

and so on and so on and so on,

until, thank god…it’s lunch.

so do i have to invite my quote-unquote friends

to join my group or do they just arrive,

spontaneously, at free will with baskets to give

full of gifts: recycled love, stolen drugs,

maybe a soft muenster cheese?

will they quote their favorite film star line,

or skip their beloved philosopher’s stone

leaving thoughtful, near messianic ripples across the screen,

struggling to believe and to be believed,

to come to terms with this new form of friendship,

this ill albeit efficient variety of communiqué

conversed through optical cords and copper wires,

a love by proxy bouncing around the globe,

from heart to hand to an Arizona dryland

whence its zapped off from terrestrial station

to the noiseless hovering satellite above,

then back, the same route as if it never left the mouth,

nor intended for the heartstrings of another,

always there, automated and updated,

placated with pop-ups warning of melt-downs,

reflecting our friends, who stand now placid, mindless,

morphed into the fax machine with coffee stains on their trousers.

could i possibly hire a dwarf-secretary

to do all my profiling for me,

or an Indian untouchable I’d never meet,

just send an e-check to through paypal,

ensuring a professionally executed job well done?

or do i have to do everything myself,

like back before the internets existed,

when there was only the ups and usps, no fedex

not even dhl to deliver the mail?

Just random men, like random snails,

chased by random dogs with an all too familiar bark,

replaced now with an electronic champagne glass clink,

or optional door knock to let you know,

you’ve got mail, people still care, where are you

and why haven’t you checked your voice mail in the last fifteen

minutes?

do all these girls really want to meet all these guys,

and what's up with the whore and the gigilo,

both seeking relationships over just plain friendships,

who declare nine hundred and six friends between the two

then claim in writing that they'd would just love to meet all of

them, and maybe you, as if your accessible, as if more time were available

to meet in the middle?

and then the queasy feeling i get about joining the space,

which still permeates all and everything,

rocketing my anxiety as i fill out my personal profile

or update my account settings.

how long does this ill feeling continue?

does it dissipate as i collect friends?

does it come and go with the cybernetic weather?

Somedays perky and efficient,

all is bright and aloud and the colors gleam at 64 bit...

or more dreadful days, hung-over, yet still smarter,

quicker that the hard-drive, to the patience-level boiling point

when the ram broils and drives the real player

to skip and sputter and annoy and disturb

all that is sacred about the silence of a basement office space.

What’s the catch? Where are the perks?

Who’s the babe and what the fuck is this jerk

doing on my friends’ list. If I have to delete

him one more time, I swear, I promise,

I’ll unsubscribe from this impersonal,

wretched, rat-trapping Website,

and join friendster.

--

So here we are gathered together,

warming our brain sludge with the mud of

radiation leakage and cell phone tom-foolery,

all plucked weblings in the vast void

of god's cybernetic cosmos,

consecrating our lapsed bodies of old

these withering sacks of mortal bones,

blanketed in sinful flesh toward and into

the new and hollowed technocratic embodiment of

freedom, choice,

and unlimited spam-blockage.

So Websters of the World!

Irreverent drunken sailors of the world wide Sargasso Sea!

Desperate delvers of demonic sadness and your deconstructionist

intentions!

Arise from your shallow graves!

Those mind-numbing, hard-drive crashing cubicles of sloth and

boredom!

Spout your few and far between whimperings upon the far too hopeful

masses that constitute the ol’ address book!

Extract, unzip, text then send your mixed messages inspiring a call

to arms against the same mind-benders and money-whores who protect

us from ourselves!

Lament the active participation in the delusional and fractured

process of democratic grandeur and delusional self-propagation!

Sit on your fences and moan about love, about loss, about hate,

about aol and netzero costs!

Websters of the World! Unite!

or find another chat room.

- the brieweasel


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