Of late, the Prince of Polyamory has been strangely silent on all things Elly, including the recent and tiresome mutilation of her web site.

W


onderful news! The Mining Company, a distributed online indexing service, is training Cardigan to prospect the Web for content! Cardigan, as you've no doubt forgotten, is the man who gave Elly an award in the same paragraph with OpheliaZ and Lucy Huntzinger. Of course, that was back in the hey day of Cardigan-Elly polyamory, when a web page called luvelly.htm actually existed (oh look, it still does!). Of late, the Prince of Polyamory has been strangely silent on all things Elly, including the recent and tiresome mutilation of her web site (in lieu of a far more conclusive meatspace suicide). This is despite the fact that his site is hosted within her domain. Anyway, what with Cardigan now actively groping the web for content, I expect an even greater number of ludicrous MIDI-croaking angel-sodden web pages (tended by prozac-popping polyamorous psychos) to receive officious accolades and garlands.

When Apple recently decided to resume its old proprietary ways, my faith in the Macintosh was severely shaken.

By the way, have you ever notice how Cardigan's prose reads like Phantom dialogue? Yessir, nearly every sentence is a fragment consisting of nothing but a bachelor predicate. This is embarrassing, Lucy, I know, but Cardigan was once accepted into the prestigious online journal webring known as Archipelago. He only lasted there about a week. When he discovered that some people there made use of a suspicious rhetorical tool known as irony, he bailed. That was a close one! Imagine a select group of online journals that also contained Cardigan's dreary paraliterate blather! I'd rather be lost in a ring of the journals of 8 year olds.

Oh, how I do love the Macintosh. All the same, I kind of want to buy a 233 MHz 686 system. The sadness I would experience in the prolonged absence of the Chicago typeface could probably be managed. When Apple recently decided to resume its old proprietary ways, my faith in the Macintosh was severely shaken.

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I recorded a brief little a cappella snip of the famous Queen song "We Will Rock You," complete with a simplistic percussion accompaniment.

W


hen I woke up this afternoon, I dusted off my old 4 track. Remember when I bought that, thinking I could be a lowfi rock and roll God? Well, today, I intended to use it for a completely different but thoroughly lowfi purpose. I recorded a brief little a cappella snip of the famous Queen song "We Will Rock You," complete with a simplistic percussion accompaniment. I recorded one percussion track (me banging on an empty pint can of Guiness and a little cardboard box) and three vocal tracks, all of me singing in different scales, kind of out of tune and ridiculous. This was to be used as a little garnish for the Frat Boy Machine. When that was done, I took a nap so I'd be ready for action tonight. Matthew Hart was also taking a nap for similar reasons.

I


  awoke later than I'd hoped, just a little before I was expected to unveil my machine at the Artspace. In sort of a panic, Matthew and I rooted around looking for an outfit for the fratboys my machine was to manufacture. We really didn't have anything adequate in our house, so I set off for the Haunted House, where Rory and, more importantly, Tyler, live. Tyler used to be a UVA student; perhaps once he was even an actual fratboy. We managed to take a number of things that Tyler didn't actually want us to borrow, for example a "Wah-Hoo-Wa Muthafucker" teeshirt ("Wah-Hoo-Wa" is the UVA football cheer). But he proved to be an excellent source of khaki shorts and an official UVA tee-shirt, complete with orange V.

For additional fratboy supplies, I went to the JPA Fastmart and bought a six pack of Natural Lite, the single most insipid beer on the planet. I also bought some Red Hook wheat beer to put in the Natural Lite cans when they were depleted of their original contents.

Rory chauffeured Matthew and I to the Downtown Mall in his big pea-green 1972 Ford. He wasn't even drunk, but still he drove like a maniac, slamming on his brakes and skidding for a distance right past an oblivious bicycle cop. We were already drinking the fratboy Natural Lite.

It reminds me of all those really bad "space jams" that the Grateful Dead used to do, the kind where you never knew when the instrument tuning ended and the actual music began.

I


n the Artspace, Jacques deBeaufort and others were on a low stage noodling away on guitars, playing what is known as "ambiant" music while projections of animated computer graphics and movies played across them. Ambiant music is the anti-techno. It has no rhythm, just unstructured melody that comes and goes like clouds overhead. It isn't the most interesting thing to listen to, since it reminds me of all those really bad "space jams" that the Grateful Dead¹ used to do, the kind where you never knew when the instrument tuning ended and the actual music began.

For tonight's multi-media extravaganza (called "Festival of the Ambiguists"), Jacques had assumed the identity of a character he called "Cobalt Blue." Part of getting into character involved his painting his face deep blue.

I ran around getting things together for my first ever demonstration of the Frat Boy Machine. This mainly involved me getting into costume; a guy named Amistead who was once a print maker but is now a medical student brought me his white lab coat. When I put it on I looked like a very young, very mad scientist.

Cassidy was very eager to be converted, if a wee bit nervous.

The first person I was to convert to a fratboy was to be Cassidy, the little eight or nine year old step daughter of Jamie Dyer. Her genetic father, by the way, is Dave, the singer/guitarist for The Ninth, another local lowfi band. Cassidy was very eager to be converted, if also a wee bit nervous. I explained that hte machine was sort of a magic trick and she wouldn't really end up being a big guy with a baseball cap and a can of Natty Lite.

The demonstration of my machine kept being delayed substantially after the time for which it had been scheduled. Somehow I kept getting delayed by poets who wanted to do their thing. First there was Aaron the SHARP, who delivered his verse with predictable bombastic menace. He was on stage for a very long time, and I wonder if maybe Jacques was considering using a stage hook. I won't bust on the SHARP any more than that; reportedly by the end of the evening he was making amends with and even hugging Matthew Hart.

The second poet was a sexy brunette alterna-chick. She read a number of brief but irritatingly pretentious poems. The very last one was a very straightforward little number about intercourse, and it left me feeling uncomfortable.

Then I was handed the microphone. I gave a brief little monologue that went something like so:

Hello everyone, thanks for coming. As a noted scientist in the Human Genome Project working at the University of Virginia, I was often disturbed during my lunch breaks to find, on the Corner, examples of ...how should I put this?... freaks. Yes, people not conforming to tried and true convention. I considered the matter and began work on the machine I'm presenting here tonight. The purpose of this machine is to convert people of any type into fratboys, by far the most useful type known. I have never tested it in public, and there are probably a few bugs to work out, but let's hope everything goes smoothly. Do I have any volunteers who would like to be converted?

He hammed it up good, saying he was nervous, but that he thought being a fratboy would substantially improve his lot in life.

And with that, young Cassidy came running up, eager to be a fratboy. She was looking glamourous in her feathered scarf and glittery mask. I took her by the hand and led her to the machine.

But when I opened the door and showed her the black void into which she'd be stepping, she became terrified and fled into the arms of Dave, her daddy. Everyone in the now substantial crowd thought that was pretty cute & funny, and her chickening out didn't much matter; I had no shortage of volunteers. The first person to actually be converted was a little Jewish looking guy with curly black hair. He hammed it up good, saying he was nervous, but that he thought being a fratboy would substantially improve his lot in life. I pushed him in and shut the door.

I flipped on the controls, the red and green lights, typed a few little random things on the keyboard, and flipped the final control. It wasn't perfectly working and I had to figure something out. But then the process began. A loud and twisted canned chant filled the artspace from my machine:


boom boom chick boom boom chick
We will we will rock you
boom boom chick boom boom chick
We will we will rock you

When the pre-recorded chant ended, I opened the door and there stood a fratboy. He wore a backwards baseball cap, garish sneakers, khaki shorts and an official UVA tee shirt. In his hand was a can of Natural Lite. Success! The only thing that was weird was that if you were to take away the clothes and the Natural Lite, you'd swear he was none other than the infamous Matthew Hart.

Then I converted Liz West. She was even more eager to be a frat boy than the first guy had been. And again, the frat boy she became looked exactly like Matthew Hart in fratboy clothes.

I was just then picking my nose, and I felt it appropriate to flick in his general direction, not that my nose picking had actually produced anything.

The fact that the thing worked without a hitch in front of so many visibly pleased people did wonders for my ego. I was a proud inventor.

My mother, who had come to town for the evening (and who would be staying at the Omni, not Kappa Mutha Fucka), just missed my first set of Frat Boy Machine demonstrations. But I showed it to her and promised to run it again soon. By now people had begun to use it as an additional way to get to the bathrooms, walking into its front hatch and out the secret back door into the backstage area adjacent to Jenfariello's dark room (where the theatrical fratboy substitutions had taken place).

A


t some point, I guess in an act of defiance to the skinheads, I walked out on the Mall, past the middle and down towards Chap's Icecream. The skinheads, whenever they're on the mall, are always near the steps behind the central fountain. There was nothing interesting going on, so I headed back to the Artspace. I saw the little rich kid skinhead Chaz eyeing me. Since I was just then picking my nose, I felt it appropriate to flick in his general direction, not that my nose picking had actually produced anything. He and the others began shouting at me, but I ignored them and continued on. I could tell they were following, their idiotic bellowing wasn't fading into the distance as it should have.

But then there they were, shouting and posturing in their usual embarrassingly ridiculous manner.

Phil Ginini, the everpresent street musician, along with Gerry, his sidekick accordian player from Ireland, were between songs, and I stopped to chat with him, continuing to ignore the approaching skinheads. But then there they were, shouting and posturing in their usual embarrassingly ridiculous manner. One of them made a violent move towards me and Phil, in an unthinking instant of loyalty, jumped up in an instant and menaced him back. Phil's not an especially big guy, but he can sure move fast.

In the entourage of skinheads were:

Chaz (of course)

Noel, the supposedly non-racist skinhead friend of nazi skinhead Eric Huffman. Noel's presence seemed to be necessary in order for little Chaz to feel secure.

the dark guy who spit on me that one time (he's the only skinhead type who is willing to completely make a fool of himself in defense of Chaz's noble honour). For need of a name, I'll call him "Sergei Pistov."

the increasingly plump girl who wears camouflage pants. She's evidently been scene-surfing; I remember her two years ago when she used to wear one of those silly little backpacks and was more of a raver.

I don't usually get spit on by an aggressive stranger and fail to mention it in my musings, after all.

Sergei Pistov was bouncing around like a marrionette, bitching about my mentioning him on my web pages. But, I mean, come on guys; that's something he should have anticipated. I don't usually get spit on by an aggressive stranger and fail to mention it in my musings, after all. Sergei seemed to have been substantially emboldened by the tough guys in his ensemble.

For my part, though, I was mostly just bored. I have much better things to do than deal with primitive throwback primates coming out of the trees and threatening me with the weakest, least original form of retaliation: raw violence. In this case, their retaliatory posturing had a strong element of cowardice as well, since none of these guys acts very tough when he's by himself.

I looked in disdain at young Chaz and chuckled, "richkid skinhead!" The wickedly elegant truth of that label apparently really gets to Chaz, and he flew at me, but only to shove me, and then only weakly. He doesn't have the mass to be an effective football player. I suppose that's why he's a skinhead. All these little mini acts of violence were calculated and precise so they could be backed out of in an instant. No one escalated with weapons or fists. No one wants war, even if the skinheads do find it paramount to show their friends that my insults won't be tolerated.

This sent me flying down the stairs a few steps, but I never lost my balance, which is a miracle considering my intoxication at this point.

I turned and walked into the Artspace, continuing to ignore the jeering and posturing of the skinheads behind me. They didn't attack me from behind for some reason; perhaps they were adhering to some sort of chivalrous rules of engagement. Anyway, they taunted me from the top of the Artspace stairs, asking why I was retreating and wasn't man enough to fight them. To this I had to laugh, "all six of you, and your bicycle chains?" But then I flew into an irrational rage, loudly cursed at them, and ran up the stairs and careened into them. I believe Chaz and Noel were standing in the doorway at this point, and of course since they commanded the high ground and out-numbered me, I couldn't really achieve anything by this gesture.

As I turned to walk back downstairs, Chaz gave me a push from behind. This sent me flying down the stairs a few steps, but I never lost my balance, which is a miracle considering my intoxication at this point. I caught the hand rail in an instant and righted myself. Before I knew what else to do, Jenfariello and Jacques deBeaufort were flying up the stairs to chase off the skinheads. The skinheads are fairly ladylike when it comes to beating up on girls; one of them left scratches in Jen's hand. But they were vanquished all the same. The people in the Jefferson Theatre called the police.

Bewildered, I re-entered the artspace and discussed the strange matter with my mother. She had only been dimly aware of my troubles with skinheads. She was very concerned about some measures for my own protection that I admitted to her, but she ended up donating another one to the cause!

I ordered an expensive beer and drank it quickly, leaving a five dollar bill and disappearing unannounced when I became bored.

My left thumb had apparently been sprained when I caught myself as I fell down the stairs. Moving it was painful and impossible, and the adjacent palm had begun to swell.

Liz West did her presentation in a demented little set of glowing phallic forms made of wax all set about with lacey little curtains and pillows. She herself wore a wedding dress. I have no idea what she was saying, but it was visually rather interesting. I know she'd experienced much frustration setting up her little performance.

I gave another demonstration of the Frat Boy Machine, this time successfully converting little Cassidy into a Matthew Hart fratboy clone. The vodka concoction in the cooler had by this point put me in a stupour. I walked down the Mall to Millers and sat down at a table with some girl who had been very impressed with my Frat Boy Machine. I ordered an expensive beer and drank it quickly, leaving a five dollar bill and disappearing unannounced when I became bored.

Indeed, when she went out to smoke a cigarette, I went off to my room to sleep alone.

I passed out on a couch in the Artspace while a world beat/Reggae band played. When Jen and Jacques awoke me, I accepted a ride home from them. I wasn't so incredibly drunk any more, though Jacques was blasted. He was all up in my face, spitting as he talked, telling me how wonderful my Frat Boy Machine had been. He'd never said such great things about my art up until this point.

B


ack at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I was in a weird mood from the evening's combination of successes and violence. So I cuddled with Sarah (Natalie's friend) on the couch. This wasn't really meant to be a sexual thing; indeed, when she went out to smoke a cigarette, I went off to my room to sleep alone.

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View an index of links concerning skinheads and skinhead violence in Charlottesville.

¹I had to hear a lot of Grateful Dead when I attended Oberlin. If you wanted friends, Grateful Dead was one of the things you had to deal with.

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