b r [ a ] c ] k [ [ e t ] b [ r ] a c k e [ t
b y p [ a u [ l s [m ] e [ d b]e r g]
Coffee in hand, I turned the corner and immediately broke out in a sweat.
There was Dillman, with a gun — both were loaded.
"Hey Dillman." I said with attempted courage and good spirits. The "Hey" quavered just a little bit.
"You sonnoofaabiiitch. You deep linked into my site." Dillman gestured the weapon in my general direction and flicked off the safety with his thumb.
"Look, Dillman, I'm, like, driving traffic to you." A car went by at the far end of the alley. "Who the hell is that?" I yelled suddenly.
Dillman turned to look. I knew I had just one chance. My jackrabbit reflexes sprang into action as I threw my scalding hot coffee at him.
Unfortunately he was at least 15 feet away, and the coffee just puddled about 10 feet short of the mark. I tried to recover: "Would you like cream or sugar with that."
"Your kind of traaffffick I don't need." Dillman was staggering in my direction, waving the heavy gun in an attempt to keep his balance.
"But the pages I linked to, man, they had banner ads, they made you money." I was backing away from him.
"I want them going through the . . . gauntlet."
Dillman blinked heavily. "I want them starting at the home page and schtepping through all the interfuckinmediate pages with all the ads until they get to the deshtination." He could barely stand.
"But the search engines do it all the time. They do a deep link way down into your site." I hoped that if I just kept him talking long enough he would pass out before he could shoot me.
"Yeah, but you're focushing on the same topic areas that I'm focushing . . . on. I did the work of prodooosching thish content, an' you're gwanna come runninnn innta MY village, an taakin MY CHILDREN You . . . You . . . Bash . . ." His eyes glazed and his torso swiveled as he collapsed into a heap on the pavement,
the gun chattering along the alley,
his head hitting ground
with a sound like a single
dampened note on a marimba:
Sometimes my day job requires performing the high art of real estate photography. (Hint: Use a wide angle lens for interiors; for exteriors, shoot in late afternoon or early morning, depending on when the sun will best strike the building.) Sometimes the shot goes crazy in an interesting way. Such is the basis for the collage above. (Actually it was the scan that went all funky.) |
There’s this building in Boston, the Lindeman Center, that has at its center a chapel that's been sealed up since just after the building opened in 1972. Why? Because different people react to architecture in different ways. Read in The Architecture of Madness from Metropolis Magazine about an architecturally interesting practical joke gone horribly wrong.
D e [ e ] p
L i n] k
commission of the Fine Arts Commission of the
US Central Intelligence Agency
A glass-encased book. Is there a metaphor here or what.
History of Creation and of this world
from its beginning up to the present time
is composed of seven chapters.
The seventh chapter is not yet written.
I'm a sucker for anything that's called
"A Secret Doctrine".
This one from 1888 penned by Madam Blavatsky
the queen of the occultists in the last half of the 19th century.
You've seen them at parties.
They dominate the US congress.
But, what did the real Cretans drink?
Probably wine and beer together.
It looks like a mistake.
Its really cool.
It must be art.
"What sort of waivers would
you have to sign
before allowing yourself to be
do we really know what words and signs mean?
And why should we believe these guys?
Language Patterns Used By Cults
Works just as well for political speeches.
Due to its wide range of movements
and postures and the balanced melange
of the rhythmic and mimetic aspects
lends itself well to experimental and fusion choreography.
Tesla's FBI records
Tesla, father of the AC motor,
well, the father of AC in general,
and father of broadcast
. . . rather than over wires . . .
electrical power distribution
was the prototypical mad scientist inventor
View of the Rube Goldberg Competition 2000 from backstage, behind the scrim:
This is the appendix.
The part after the main part.
Filled with a different sort of matter.
Different from above.
Same topic usually.
Not in this case.
This is a different topic.
This is the appendix.
Let's call it Appendix A.
Which implies an Appendix B.
So, let's not delay the inevitable. . .
This appendix left intentionally blank.
I wasn't sure I'd have a "C" appendix.
But here we go.
I hope you're as excited as I am.
The last appendix.
[Bracket Bracket] is crafted out of thin air and misfiring neurons by
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