Some Stupid with a Flay Gone Hooper

I decided yesterday that Barrett Brown on NBC Nightly News the other night was using a device, although this is not a decision and decisions are quite rare, requiring much computer power because they use matrices.  It’s a discovery. 

How did I discover that?  Well, if I say, “First of all”, then you are going to know that I have an agenda.  I do have a list, because these posts are torture to write and I would rather not log in at all.  Do I have an agenda?  Yes, beyond the mere manufacture of methamphetamine, for, how would I make money from a bunch of people doing that?

I know, I did it for the lulz.

My true agenda is the one thing that I say and the Church of Scientology also says: We hate psychiatry!  As long as there is a period in this sentence, I may as well go on to intimate that it is not right to have goons come up to you on the street and drag you away.  Would you like to be held without a trial?  But what if you were suffering from schizophrenia?  These are deep issues.

By the way, if I have feelings, they are deep, and that does not mean buried.  It means touchy.  I don’t have anything deep.  Other people make me look shallow.

I only have two ways things happen to my fellow human beings, “slight”, if they say it and it is true, or “deep” if it is a female in oestrus, with a burning sensation wherever they get it, accompanied by “need”.  What does she have?  A deep need.  Where will it get her?  Slightly pregnant.

I also hake writers.  They don’t write fast enough.  I appreciate that Brown used my exact phrase in the opening to his new monologue on YouTube.  However, the people whom I am copying when I “come up with” words do occupy that first 29-year period, I must admit.  I figured out that Brown said 2030 will be as opaque to the language of 2010 as 2010 is to 1990 for a reason, which is that he must riff off of a gigantic backlog of experience.  Heh.  It happens before he is born, see?  So, I reasoned that he was lamenting this fact and deploring the paucity of the sources.  It would be a shame to have a genius mind, sacrificing your health with cigarettes to keep going, possessing all the tools and yet not really seeing the stories laid out as only serious drug users can who have risked life and limb to obtain these stories along with their high.  When you are stoned it takes a pretty memorable event to penetrate the fog, and this has indeed occurred.  We can’t, for the most part, divulge all that.  I share Brown’s love for the language.  I agree and will comply.  Until I realized this his point was lost on me.  I really don’t see how language can ever fail, no matter how fast it changes.  To no little import, there is no single group of us communicating with everyone else.  My memes are downloaded here from 1990 for the first time, appearing in the title block of my posts.  This is post 680 or thereabouts, so, approximately half are titled with half-truths I alone was aware of up to now.

Take that title (above).  In the original 8-track era, the music was too fuzzy to hear the words at all.  With the advent of the Walkman, I could hear that which you see above.  I especially liked walking around as Godzilla (Godzira in the original Japanese), “under (the influence)” of Godzilla, by Blue Oyster Cult.  I’d go into the 7/11 and remind the clerk, “Man, don’t you know history shows again and again how nature points up the folly of men?  Sheeit.”  I liked Frankenstein when it was coconut incense and coconut floor mats in a VW full of rad smoke.  Then I found out it was spliced, and I thought, “Of course.”  The splice and the 3 1/2 recording speed played back at 7 inches per second (chipmunk), or this one the reverse way (sounds slow and deep and dumb): “Did you hear the one about the giraffe?”  “No.”  “Well, neither did I (laughter)”, and that is from 1962.  In fact, I can refer you to the writer, Gary Pock.  He’s about 63.  He was 15.  I was ten.  In fact, you can’t tell who I like and who I hate now from these stories, nor why.  I received a letter from Gary when I was in Kentucky.  He put the name on the return address as Garius Pockus.  All of that is genius flotsam and bears the caveat that in my opinion I lost more valuable contact material from sources who acheived great fame, therefore I am basically a cretin.  One of those was Tom Wolfe.  This writer is a titleing fool.

“It’s not every day I get a letter from the only perfect human being in the world.”  “That’s a mean Eberhard Faber Number Two you write with.  Someday I want to write a whole novel in HARD PENCIL.  So much agon goes into the grooves.”  “Oddly enough, this is only the beginning.”

He was diagnosing schizophrenia.  You don’t have to be a psychiatrist to see that.  That’s okay.  I was looking at the paper in front of me, white it was, and I said to myself, “I don’t care.  This is a boomerang and I am going to get this guy to write me back.”  It worked, at such a cost, and Hunter S. Thompson’s letters may show that he and Wolfe could quibble over priority.

That was 1970.  I lost that letter in a flooded basement in 1980.  I sold my first edition Marvel comic books, ten or twelve of them, in 1972, for fifty bucks at a used book store.  I sold the other 1,000 in 1978, when the San Diego ComiCon was in the El Cortez hotel, and bought a plane ticket (and some biphet to sell), for $750.  Maureen Joyce and I flew back East and I was nervous seeing the rooftops so close to the wingtips coming back in.  The pilot greeted us upon exit, and I asked him if he were nervous flying into this town.  He said, “Every time.”  A few weeks passed before an incoming plane, Flt. 182 heavy, crashed in North Park.

Even Anonymous dates from way back when.  More later.  Why, why, why.  I will tell you why.  Any major dude will tell you.  The planet Earth is a gigantic ball of dirt.

That’s from—

[my ‘puter shuts itself off every morning between 9 and 10.  This time it was 9:25, yesterday it was 9:13.  Thank God for WordPress]

It’s from, Smoke on the Water.  Here’s the real lyric: after I d/l the pron: Oh.  I can’t deliver the quote on my clipboard I was going to use.  I wonder what that was.  Oh, I remember.  Very fucking weird fucking word, rumember.  You gave credence to the Beatles’ infl—don’t crash, bitch—uence in your life, you are on the Wikipedia page for, “I Saw Her Standing There”, backside of “I want to Hold Your Hand”, which you did mention.  But, this post is not off-topic for the following reason (imagining the topic to be whatever in Hell went on in Tex-ass): you said patience, but you did not sign it in alphabet code, so, I am going with, “You said patients.”  If and only if you left that door open then and only then this is here.  Wut?

I Saw Her Standing There, is really, “I saw (Billing)hurst and in there”.  What’s it like?  Well, it is as to have the entire backup support of the whole Hearst empire, Sam.  What are we?  I can’t even begin to dribble out the dribs and drabs of the, uh, drivel.  Patty Hearst was in Mexico on the lam.  My friend finger-banged her right there on that couch, and he fucked her, too.

Naw, my brother is a journalist in Sweden.  I never knew what he was up to, but he bought an Apple computer in a backpack and moved to Sweden thirty years ago.  You could say he was a draft-dodger.  Here he is: http://www.voanews.com/english/news/Nobel-in-Physics-Awarded-for-Super-Strength-Material-104350964.html

Here or whatever some of this all is.  I burned the place to the ground.

1377 mfw

Fishes don’t know about my roentgens.  Augh!  I can’t stop writing, even in my head while I’m trying to leave.  Hold that thought, Steve.

I have read up to the “early WikiLeaks strategy” emails of 2006-7.

[edit 12:21 am 3-13.  for future reference, it’s Gojira (/b/)]

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One Response to “Some Stupid with a Flay Gone Hooper”

  1. sbillinghurst Says:

    See you just muttered that part as some kind of demented reference to the last transmission. I would like a start of end transmission. Ending it in sideways, Ows, day of, died of, dod, date of death, ley stanley june, lee.

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