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EGR - Shiver & Kick
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Christopher Locke
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Jul 03, 2000 02:05 PDT
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EGR is graciously underwritten by Entropy Web Consulting
http://www.rageboy.com/ewc/people.html
"Industry Heavies Saying Nice Things About Us, For Money."
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armed only with imagination,
we're gonna rip the fucking lid off
clocke / the cluetrain manifesto
Valued Readers:
It's a beautiful day out there. I think. I'm sitting here in my
underwear with the air conditioning turned up full and the gain on the
speakers cranked so high I'm levitating. So loud it's altering my
consciousness. Good. And of course the point is not just to open the
doors of perception but to invite the whole world over. Let me be your
neighbor. So is this superboosted bass getting through? No? Here then,
let me tweak it some... Oh crap, there went the whole Western grid.
Lucky thing I have this plutonium-fired backup.
Well hey, it's almost the Fourth of July. Another swell Independence
Day. I'm sure damn glad we're free, aren't you? Patrick Henry, Paul
Revere, Will Smith... you remember about those guys, don't you? If
not, this is the day we commemorate beating the shit out of the
aliens. Our struggle freed us from outrageous oppression and created a
great nation founded on liberty. That's why today, we can punch the
timeclock of our choice and kiss anybody's ass we feel like.
Actually, there's somebody's ass I'd love to kiss, but I'm not sure
I'm ready to tell you about her. Everything has at least two meanings,
have you noticed? But because you're so practical and all, so focused
on "solutions," I know you're going to ask what it's worth to know
something like that. Put it this way: semantic drift has been very
good to me.
So drift with me here a little, since what the hell, I already slipped
into something more comfortable. Another life. And it feels so good.
So fine. Your eyes, your voice, your darkening dreams in mine
awakened. Laughing now reading this, imagining you laughing. Oh no, an
inside joke. But you know what they say, no secrets left. No secrets,
right? The Valued Readers will get it anyhow. That something's up.
That something's going down. Everything has at least two meanings, but
they're wicked smart, as Weimeraner says. They wouldn't be here
otherwise. And they're starting to bug me. Again.
When are you going to write some more? Or have I missed something?
Haven't got a note from EGR since May...
Just wondering,
Dale Anne
Quaker from Ohio
Wow, has it really been that long? Wondering right along with you. And
quaking too. When the sprit moves me to speak, I'm never sure to whom.
To all of us, I guess, whoever we are. Lovely beasts all, you open me.
I am multiple. I sing the network connected.
So drifting, yes? This is how it's done. I bought you a present last
night. Some writing paper. To litter with letters in your elegant
hand, not these ephemeral photons. And the cover of the package quotes
Borges: "Writing is nothing more than a guided dream." I am in love.
There, I said it. Tigers come out of your jungle and devour me. Cool.
What is it worth to know something like this? That was the question,
remember? Come on now, focus, focus... worth. Yes well, I've been
thinking a lot about how value gets determined, weighed. Love over
gold says Dire Straits, and Mark Knopfler's soaring guitar riffs say
it even better. That's the whole point, right there. We thought we
beat those bastard aliens, but no. They took over while we were
getting ready for the exciting Fourth of July celebrations in Disney
World, Washington DC and America's other great theme parks. Do you
have any idea what I just paid for two RevereWare cooking pots? The
British are coming! The British are coming! Give me liberty or give me
a break. At least a coupon. Something. And the way you can identify
these aliens is that they are completely literal. They fail to
understand the simplest segue. Perhaps we need an enterprise-wide
solution to tell who's who. OK then, diagnostic enemas for everyone!
Where was I? Oh yes. When I first heard Sultans of Swing on the radio,
it stopped me in my tracks. I pulled off the road. It's still
happening, I thought. We're all still out here. Amazing. I'd
forgotten.
You get a shiver in the dark
It's raining in the park, but meantime
South of the river you stop and you hold everything
A band is blowing Dixie double four time
You feel alright when you hear that music ring...
So worth. I didn't forget. I can sometimes ride entire minutes on the
same train of thought. Let's talk about the The Four P's of Marketing
then: Product, Packaging, Position and Price.
Sultans of Swing: The Very Best of Dire Straits
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00000DGUY/entropygradientr
You see what I'm getting at here? For only $13.99 plus shipping, you
can get the same CD I'm listening to right now. More like terrorizing
my new neighbors with. No, I don't mean you. Did I mention I just
moved? Of course not. Chalk it up to promises kept. well
baby
you
change
you
change
you
change
you
change
you
change...
that from some very old EGR pages...
http://www.rageboy.com/transport.html
http://www.rageboy.com/transport2.html
And no, I'm not taking drugs again. Somebody always asks. But we were
talking about worth. And what it all comes down to: money for nothing.
Because we all have a price on our heads. What, you never saw it?
Tattooed onto the back of your neck so you can't see it in the mirror.
Get a friend to help. Just make sure it's not one of those fucking
aliens. They all say "What price? I don't see anything back here,
Jack? You're clean. You're scott free, Ace." I killed the last three
said that. But I stopped. They're so hard to mop up. Plus, when you
smoke em, they give off that new-car smell for weeks.
Forget product, packaging and position. Who gives a rat's ass about
those? It's all about price these days. But more, it's about value.
Take me for instance. My price is going up fast. You don't get this
shit for cheap, trust me:
Christopher Locke, Speaker of Substance
http://www.leighbureau.com/speakers/l/locke_c_main.html
However, am I delivering more value? Evidently not. Let me illustrate.
I recently spoke at a conference in San Francisco. It was hosted by
the Association for Quality and Participation:
http://www.peoplenewecon.org/faculty.htm
I think I look a little like Eddie Munster in that shot, don't you?
And note the reference to "the widely acclaimed webzine, Entropy
Gradient Reversals." You know why it says that? Because I said that.
All you mediawhores, take a tip. Anyway, I even did this one for a
marked down rock-bottom price because, well, I tend to like quality
heads. Except for that Six Sigma crowd, who all need extensive
psychotherapy. Or capital punishment. Never mind that though. Before
the talk, I stayed up all night plumbing the depths of my soul, then
in the morning stumbled down six flights of stairs, arriving only
minutes before my 9 o'clock keynote, whereupon I rapped for an hour
without so much as pausing for breath. All of which, personally, I
thought was pretty fucking impressive. Especially as this was no
lightweight plumbing job. Not just spackling my own ass crack, if you
take my meaning. Or maybe I was, but look, can we just get on with it?
I mean, one more diversion and... Jesus H. Christ!
So continuing then. As I discovered the hard way, value is in the eye
of the beholder. Sometimes known as the customer. It seems that there
was an individual in attendance at the AQP gig who had previously
booked me for another talk next year. I forget where. And on the
strength of the performance I thought so stellar, she cancelled me.
Just like that. Well, shit. Just because I said "fuck" a couple-three
dozen times. And maybe because when someone asked what would
constitute good preparation for managing in the fast-paced dynamic New
Economy, I said LSD. I mean, everyone laughed. And I said I was
kidding. Well, I said I was half kidding. OK, what I really said was
"Psychedelics might help some of you anal retentive control freaks to
loosen your fucking death grip a little."
Is that so bad? Instead, I guess I could have suggested acupuncture.
And left out "...up your butt with a pitchfork."
This is weird if you think about it. I mean, the cancellation. These
sad-assed groups invite me to come talk to them after reading a book
in which I say we're gonna rip the fucking lid off. What do they
expect? But I think it's not really the F word that gets them so bent.
I suspect it's what I say after I get the Tourette's under control and
stop spitting and twitching.
I say the power of business is based on a bad metaphor: incorporation.
It means: to become flesh. And pretty clearly, companies don't do
that. Therefore, corporations have no heart, I say. I get blank
stares. No, I don't mean how much your company gave to the fucking
United Way or fucking Save the Children. I mean literally. Here, try
this, I say: corporations have no sex. No balls. They've never gotten
laid. Never fallen in love. Yet they say "We love our customers" and
"We love our workers. It's the people!" But without any possibility of
love in the first place, these are lies.
That's why they hate me. Not because I say bad words or talk about
recreational spirituality. But it pains me when companies
misunderstand me and fear me for the wrong reasons. I want them to
understand me and fear me for the right reasons: because the truth is
terrifying and expensive. No matter how deep their pockets, they can't
afford what I'm selling.
No corporation has ever fallen in love. But we have. Every one of us.
Love is our natural state except when our lives are manipulated by
psychotic ego vampires tripping on strychnine greed. Sure, there's
more that gets in the way, but that's good for starters. Pony up or
piss off. Love opens our hearts. Makes us reach out of the dark and
fearful place that's all we have if we believe in our little world
alone. Love wakes us up to greater life, makes us interested, curious.
Love makes us crazy with desire. Makes us want to fuck each other. Not
as in some brutish back-alley business deal, but with tenderness and
care. With heart. Love makes us want to fuck the world that way too.
Fuck with reality. And unless your head's been terminally twisted by
the puritan pornography of price, of corporate value propositions,
this is genuine worth. It's beautiful. It's what we do, it's who we
are.
...and we play Creole...
It's also sometimes called imagination, a richly embodied faculty to
which disembodied corporations are completely blind. But people get
it. People see. We bring our life, our juice. We all need someone we
can cream on. And honey, you can cream on me.
When everything has a price, nothing's worth anything. But power is
shifting. The semantics drifting. If you don't love me, I can't
recognize you. If you risk nothing, I won't take the chance. You look
like a thief. And that's the only real problem with commerce today
when you get right down in it. Corporations are a pack of lying
thieves. Am I articulating this clearly enough? Werewolves.
Permission marketing, you say? Hey, I'll give you permission. To go
fuck yourself. Don't put your price tag on me. Don't give me shit
about my language. It's older than you are. Older by eons than your
laughable pretense of shock. I'm just razzing you, jazzing you,
improvising. Jamming on a dream. Cooking up some tasty Creole gumbo.
If you can't take the heat, get out of my kitchen.
The only subtext worth a nickel in this culture is coming from the
bottom of the slag heap. From artists who haven't had their balls cut
off by a sexless roulette wheel economics that masquerades as soul and
tries to substitute for highjacked spirit. What am I talking about?
What Jerry Garcia said despite it all: I will survive. Laughing,
flowers blooming out of empty eye sockets, on Dia de los Muertos the
Dead still speak. Talk about your grim fandango. Talk about your dire
straits...
through these fields of destruction
baptisms of fire
I've witnessed your suffering
as the battle raged higher
and though they did hurt me so bad
in the fear and alarm
you did not desert me
my brothers in arms.
And sister hear the ancient longing in that break. I forgot you so
many times I can't remember. Comfortably numb but numb no more.
Shaking and shivering in the dark, so hard to kick but kicking.
Leaving Las Vegas. Leaving Motor City behind for good. Kicking out the
jambs. Stepping right up to this microphone...
I'm a motherfucker, baby, your mind my sky, your eyes my fire. This
world, this life so intricate, delicate, complex. Precious beyond
measure. And I'm slamming my head against the walls of empire, the
habits of power, enraged. Blasting and burning for your love.
Imagining the network finally connected. Imagining joy. A wall of
horns and drums and dangerous magical noise. I'm bending over my
Fender, working the circuits, incendiary, incandescent. Rocking in the
free world, serving notice on Babylon. Ain't in for a dollar, ain't in
for a dime. Ain't going down for no two-bit dream.
Armed only with imagination, I'm back in your arms tonight. Everything
has at least two meanings. But one thing girl that I want to say, love
is love and not fade away.
Yours for the duration, yes.
yes yes,
The Management
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