Comet doesn't currently have a policy of silencing information the instant it becomes unpopular.

T


oday I learned that the skinheads recently sent one of their number into the bowels of Comet to complain about my web pages and my recent flyer-based musings promotional campaign (which featured the now-familiar image of a friendly neighborhood richkid skinhead). Not surprisingly, the emissary didn't prepare very well for the complaint session. He came armed with no printouts or specific instances of egregious musings. All he could say in response to questions from my superiours was that my musings were pissing a lot of people off. Unfortunately for the skinheads, Comet doesn't currently have a policy of silencing information the instant it becomes unpopular. The skinhead was forced to leave without accomplishing his desired objectives. Reportedly, "intimations were made" that if my musings weren't silenced, the skinheads would mount a hacking campaign. I have my doubts, however, if even one of the skinheads has the requisite skills for the job. Let's face it, having lucrative technical prowess would seem to work at cross purposes to an allegiance to anti-intellectual skinhead ideology.

They've been so busy acting tough that they've neglected the most powerful weapon.

It really is a sad state of affairs for Charlottesville skinheadim that they find themselves complaining to an internet provider about information on its servers. What's become of all the tough guy ass kicking that was supposed to work such miracles in causing us faggots, queers, punks and goths to tow the line? And where are the reenforcing legions of out-of-town tough guys who were supposed to relieve this town of my curse? Most of all, what in my writing are they so afraid of? I think I've figured it out. Not a one of them can compose a single intelligible paragraph in English. They've been so busy acting tough that they've neglected the most powerful weapon. Yes, Chaz, the pen is mightier than the smiley.

Of course, the most sophisticated thugs, the original nazis, knew this. They sure loved their book burnings.

Today, throughout the world, the fascists and totalitarians know the power of the pen.
It's awfully hard to publish anything but good news in North Korea, even in the midst of famine.

Someone had knocked everything off the coffee table and jumped up and down on it until it had all been broken into shards of glass, porcelain and plastic.

But this, friends, is America. And hello there, I'm the Gus. I can smell the liberty and it makes me feel powerful.

And if Chaz and friends think the best way to affirm their respective manhoods is ganging up on individuals and beating them in the head with bicycle locks, then they'll have to deal with my exposing them. On the Internet, the substantial wealth of Chaz's family has no power. Nor does his bicycle chain. He is nothing, because his head is devoid of all but simple fascist hatred.

A


s I returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka this morning, I saw a well-scrubbed UVA girl sweeping up a swath of smashed blue glass in the end of Observatory Avenue. She angrily asked me if I knew anything about it, but of course I didn't. I'd been at work all night. I disappeared into the house. The devastation inside was sickening. Someone had knocked everything off the coffee table and jumped up and down on it until it had all been broken into shards of glass, porcelain and plastic. My Taurus Rising was deeply offended. In my mind, I blamed Leah. I imagined that Matthew had been caught screwing some thirteen year old girl and Leah wasn't going to just take it. Still, this was far worse destruction than anything I'd ever seen authored by Leah. I found out later that the people responsible were actually Redheaded Diana and Matthew Hart.

For all the trouble I've had with enemies of late, it turns out that the only people I really have to fear are my friends.

This confirmed all the generalizations I've made about rich kids, including some made in preceding paragraps related to Chaz the tough guy. Diana, whose parents died in a car crash when she was young, has never had to work a day in her life. Property for her has no value; a substantial inheritance assures that she can replace things broken on the slightest whim. When her parents' car crashed all those years ago, it sent a tidal wave through history that ultimately lead to this morning's devastation in my house. For all the trouble I've had with enemies of late, it turns out that the only people I really have to fear are my friends. I don't know why they can't be civil at home and wait until they're elsewhere before they start breaking things. You know, last night Diana complained about how obnoxious I was at Coney Island when I'd been drinking liquor. But there was a limit to the amount of trouble I could cause her there. Today I find myself thinking "at least Diana intends to be elsewhere all summer."

I


n the afternoon, I was back at the Downtown Artspace putting the final finishing touches on my Frat Boy Machine. I added more circuit boards, hoses and metallic paint. I painted on sleek blue-black lines and a product name, "Greeklegion 9000." I also added a bottle labeled "Bovine Testosterone / not for human use." It's not like I could ever afford a big bottle of human testosterone. And it takes a lot of testosterone (no matter what the source) to make a proper Frat Boy.

I loved this stage of the work, since I was completely free of the task of "getting it started," "making some progress," or "finishing it." It was already complete; what I was doing was refining it and adding little elements of texture and humour, the sorts of things that make the difference between good and great. I could tell I was wrapped up in it in a thoroughly right-brain way, because I found myself becoming extremely irritated by distractions. And working in the Artspace, I get my fair share of distractions. There's always people wanting me to hold something so they can tape it up or help them move some heavy object.

While I toiled away, the others worked on their projects. Jenfariello used an extremely expensive camera to test-shoot pictures of Jacques, Liz West and I in her fantasy fotobooth. It was like a sauna in there with those spotlights in my face.

It's amazing how bad beer smells when you haven't been drinking any.

B


ack again at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I attempted to sleep, but all I could do was toss and turn. So instead, I joined a group of merry Schlitz drinkers downstairs. It stunk of beer down there. It's amazing how bad beer smells when you haven't been drinking any. Among the people present were Matthew and Leah, Deya (who has paid up her rent!), Monster Boy, Natalie and friend Sarah (remember her?) as well as another college chum, an very tall, very drunk, bearded man. He kept getting up in my face and uttering unparseable sentences or else interrogating me about my art and philosophy. When he wasn't talking, he could be seen wrapped around someone, usually (but not always) a girl.

Raphæl and Ana also came by briefly, along with Raphæl's brother. They couldn't stay long though, because (horror of horrors) they'd left Nemo home alone.

See some images captured from video shot on this day.

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