Clarice: No, I'm fine.
Hannibal: No, you're certainly not fine, Clarice. You fell in love with the
Bureau, the institution, only to discover after giving it everything you've
got, that it does not love you back; that in fact it resents you, resents
you more than the husband and children you gave up to it. Why is that do
you think? Why are you so resented, Clarice?
Clarice: Tell me.
Hannibal: Well, isn't it clear? You serve the idea of order, Clarice. They
don't. You believe in the oath you took. They don't. You feel it is your
duty to protect the sheep. They don't. They don't like you because you're
not like them. They hate you and they envy you. They're weak and unruly,
and believe in nothing.
--David Mamet from *Hannibal*.
It's a fine thing, what Mamet has done with the character of Dr. Hannibal
Lechter and the illiterate majority of critics have gotten it wrong as
usual. Here we have a remarkably gifted man, a man of art and science, a
person sophisticated by a deep psychoanalytical understanding of how the
*Hate Nature* of man works, a man who has learned to hate back and to hate
better than the best of those who have hated him all his life for the fact
of his gifts.
Now that is a wonderful kind of hate to learn, as Dr. Hannibal Lechter has
learned it, but then, perhaps not quite because he finds himself literally
eating the faces of those he hates, getting himself in trouble with the law.
How much better to learn a way to eat the faces of those one hates by not
laying one sharp incisor, not one touch of a wet, hungry tongue upon them.
Violence is always counter-productive, especially when it leads to murder.
Obviously, when you have beaten the person senseless or stabbed him or her
through the heart, the fun of expressing all your hate must come to an end.
If you can torture a person within an inch of their life mentally,
spiritually, psychologically, if you can bare their worst fears and torment
them in that way, why fool with mere physical torture? Beauty is only skin
deep, and so, in a sense is mere bodily pain.
What is it about a man like Hannibal Lechter that tortures people so
fiercely before he even so much as lays a hand on them? That is the thing
to lay hands on, the hands of understanding. It is his giftedness; that's
what tortures the bastards; they see it in him while they can't find it in
themselves, and without even knowing how they covet his gifts, they hate and
resent him for the very fact that he has them. Sure they do, and they envy
him without knowing their hatred for the envy it is because the thing that
drives Dr. Lechter toward learning is not in them, for if it was they'd be
as gifted as he. No, it is not in them, that desire to give one's whole
being to an almost religious zeal for the learning and practice of every
excellent art and science.
All those shallow, superficial dark souls who have not that spark in them
never learn what it's like to have such a passion burning inside; their
lives are taken up by other mere drives like sex, like hoarding possessions,
like striving for position in society and politics and because those things
entirely consume their lives and consciousness, the appearance of a person
whose life is given to the artistic, spiritual and scientific matters, the
sort of thing that can really set the soul of man aflame, well that is all
just too much for them, and so it is their opinion that the people who
pursue such things are oddballs, weirdos, nerds, eccentrics and crackpots.
Then along comes a man like Hannibal Lechter who eats the faces of those
hateful, dark souls. He doesn't fuck around with 'em. He eats their face
with fava beans, and a nice Chianti, as he listens to a Chopin Nocturne. He
lets them know who the boss is and who the real "nerds" are in this social
universe: he let's them know who is the master and who are the cattle. He
eats the cattle.
I said that the resentment of these dark souls is "envy" but perhaps I am
mistaken so to think, at least as it might regard the sickness as it's most
commonly considered. Obviously to envy a thing which is the possession or
gift of another, it would seem one would first have to harbor an
appreciation for the gift that is envied, so that the envious resentment
which comes in the sense of having a lack in oneself of that gift might then
be made real proving itself for envy. But what if the spiritual/intellectual
state of the person is so low that there can be no such appreciation? For
what reason then, in that case, would there nevertheless arise a resentment
against a gifted person when the value of the gifts remains unrecognized?
This is a mystery; this is the revelation of a condition in the heart of man
that is even lower than envy, the presence of an animosity that is so base,
so animalistic, so heretofore unconsidered that the damn thing doesn't even
have a name!
When I was a kid, I got into some trouble with the law that was serious
enough to have resulted in a stretch in the state reform school. Lucky me,
my mother was a Social Worker who was able to arrange for her dear boy to be
sentenced instead to a home for "Wayward Children" upstate, for the duration
of my high school career. It was run by the Lutheran church, co-ed, boys on
the main floor and the girls upstairs. We had Counselors and Social
Workers, it was a very forward thinking psychoanalytically oriented approach
to reforming juvenile delinquents, not by punishment but by treating our
"acting out" as a "problem" that could be rooted out of our psyches by
weekly visits to a psychiatric social worker.
Most of us, both boys and girls, were just a bunch of rowdy punks who stole
cars, committed burglaries, abused booze, there were even a few armed
robbers amongst us, and then there were the others who were incorrigibles,
truants and runaways. Most of the girls fell into that category.
The tribal setup was the same as everywhere, the only difference being that
since we there were no stinking Jocks, you were either a punk or a "simp". T
hese simps were different than the rest of us because they didn't give a
shit about appearance, mostly they couldn't even hardly be considered JD's
because their "crimes" were restricted to mere matters of chronic truancy,
incorrigibility, running away from home. We even had one kid who was there
simply because he was a diabetic who wouldn't take his shots, he'd worn his
mother out with the responsibility of chasing him down to jam that needle
into him every day. Jesus I felt sorry for that kid.
The simps were sloppy dressers, they never had their hair carefully
duck-tailed and coifed with Vitalis or Brylcreem, and they never even spent
any of their weekly allowance on that stuff. But I did, because I was very
vain about my appearance. This was 1961 and '62 and the "Mod" styles were
just starting to come out of England and Europe, even though that word was
not yet being used. We talked about the "Continental" style of dressing
which entailed sharply pointed black shoes, or Flamenco boots, tightly
"pegged" slacks all the way down to 13 and 14 inches at the cuff, and
tab-collar Gant and Cirro shirts -- nothing else. No other shirt would do,
no stinking Arrows or Hathaways or JC Penny because they didn't have the
right cut, the buttons were not cross-stitched, the collars were always
wrong and the seams were not double stitched. It was Gant or Cirro or
nothing -- unless it was Rothschild's from Minneapolis.
Along about my second year in that joint, as my psycho-therapy continued
leading to a gradual increase in a self-esteem that was no longer so acutely
seeking to be established in the eyes of others as a need to be recognized
as the sharpest dresser and the punk with the most successful scores with
the chicks upstairs, or a need to look "bad" in the eyes of the other guys;
well, like I say, as things progressed, I found that a sense of peace with
myself was happening, and this process all sort of revolved around a
confrontation between me and a certain bully by which I finally found the
guts to kick his ass to make up for a lot of previous mistreatment, and
after that, ever so strangely I found that I no longer gave much of a shit
what anybody would think of me, in case I wanted to do something that was
considered very bad style for a punk, like doing my homework, which was in
fact, the thing that led to my fight with the bully after he knocked my
books on the floor one afternoon while I was studying.
Ever since I'd come to that place, I'd been warned not to associate with the
simps because they were the "Oppies". What the fuck was that? It came from
the word "Opportunity". Well -- opportunity for what? Okay, most of those
guys were "Homebound" students who were being given an "opportunity" to get
ahead, or just get along, or catch up, as it were. They studied with tutors
right there in the home and didn't go to the local high school with the rest
The assumption among us punks was that the Oppies were a bunch of simps,
which is to say "simpletons" or retards. From the very first I was warned
not to hang out with the "Oppies" lest I should get the reputation amongst
the punks that I must be a simp, too. The only permissible interaction with
an "Oppie" was to take a punch at one of 'em if they happened to passing you
in the hall on the way to their rooms. The rest of us, for the most part
stayed in dorms, but the Oppies usually had two-man rooms, they had their
own Group Counselor. For some reason, in all the time I was there, I had
never once felt the need to express my own sense of personal wonderfulness
by taking a punch at an Oppie. Just never saw any reason to avail myself of
that privilege of a punk--I suppose I was considered a little strange, if
not "wimpy" in that regard.
One night after supper, I left the table of the usual bunch of punks I
always ate with, went upstairs and instead of heading to my dorm, I went all
the way down the hall to the room at the end where I knew the Oppies always
hung out. I came in through the door, and as I did, I saw every one of
those poor bastards flinch and jump. The white-haired kid in the lower bunk
banged his head on the frame, the big tall pimple-faced one immediately
split from where he was standing to head to the back of the room, and
they're all freaking out, asking, like, what did any of them ever do to me?
So convinced were they that like most the others, I'd come down to give them
a good thumping. What else could I possibly want with them?
It wasn't until the third or fourth nightly visit before those guys finally
started to relax their skepticism about my presence there with them to start
talking semi-freely in it, among themselves and with me. What a shock for
me to discover that these guys were as far from being "retards" as you could
get. They were all highly intelligent, well-read, cultured guys. All this
time, they had been back in that room talking about the books they'd been
reading, and for one or two, the Classical music they would listen to on
their phonograph back there.
Only lately, after thinking it out, have I finally realized that the reason
those guys were Homebound students was because their reason for being there
at the home was because they had all been terribly picked on in their high
schools back home, really abused to the point that they had run into trouble
with the law for truancy, running away, or for totally blowing it by going
ballistic and trashing a school room after some particularly terrible
session of being ganged up on. They'd all been burned so bad by the
experience that even the Administration there at the Home had determined
that these guys would be kept out of the public school system entirely. They
would graduate at the school I went to, but strictly on the basis of the
teaching they received from the Home's staff of private tutors.
Now in point of fact, I *hate* a world that treats its gifted people like
that. A world with people like that is *insane*. That insanity is proven by
one shockingly obvious fact: The punks thought those guys were retarded,
but in fact, it was us punks who were the retards, not the Oppies.
Now although I am calling myself and my fellow chums at the Home "the
punks", that designation is not restricted to the Home but to the jock jerks
in the high schools that the Oppies had formerly gone to. In other words,
*you* fuckers are the "punks".
People have done well to teach me the value of hate, but I think that up
until just recently, these past few days, I had not learned it well enough.
Oddly, weakly, stupidly, like a fool and a dreamer, I had always left a
small sort of porch-light on at the doorstep before my heart, a little light
turned on and burning there, a light that is now burned out, never to be
replaced over this heart that shall forever remain doubly and triply locked.
I hate you people. I hate you with a passion that is finally equal to your
hate. Till now, I have stupidly let that burning light obscure by its slowly
dimming glow the darkness of the hate that was being held at bay in me and
which gave the result that your hate was always greater than mine, as you
made me the fool for leaving that light on, and your hate just kept winning
But now, you will see how much like you I can really be, now that the
light's been snuffed; now that my darkness is as utterly dark as yours is
dark. Now we will see the full head-on collision between your hate and
mine, now that there is no more light to get in the way. Yes, now that all
the light is out in me, now I can begin to love hating you with my whole
heart, loving the opportunity to virtually and verbally, intellectually and
morally beat you, and bludgeon you, strangle you, cut you to pieces and
murder you in a million ways with my black hate as I eat your face.
And before I'm done, I'll know I will have won when not one among you is
left standing outside the graveyards of your own killfiles. Your virtual
dying day has come you bastards. Just wait to see how I begin to dissect
you, and tear you apart in pieces and feed you to the dogs of my rage.
"I've often regarded my life as a series of fights; my fight with these
guys, my fight with those guys: I've finally come to see my life as
entirely one long fight." -- Dalton Trumbo
> I hate you people. I hate you with a passion that is finally equal to your
> hate. Till now, I have stupidly let that burning light obscure by its slowly
> dimming glow the darkness of the hate that was being held at bay in me and
> which gave the result that your hate was always greater than mine, as you
> made me the fool for leaving that light on, and your hate just kept winning
> the day.
So people who hate are weak and unruly and believe in nothing?
I don't hate you. Actually, I don't much care about you. That doesn't
mean I dislike you; it means I simply don't care. This is the first post
of yours I've read all the way through since, like, three or four names
Don't you really have anything better to do with your time than write
these endlessly vituperative, mostly uninformative trolls? Take any food
supplements? Exercise? Bathe?
You're just too much of a squeaky clean stinkpot of a jock to get it, aren't
you? Oh yes you are. I have always detested your sort, and you know it and
that is why you don't like what I write and that's just too fucking bad,
Jock Strap. I'm a Punk and you're a Jock and NEVER the twain shall meet. I
hate your guts. Know that. Get used to what you always knew. Two gangs.
Fuck you, and fuck your mother, twice on sundays, Jock.
Nah. Not a jock at all. But I do bathe periodically, now that I think of
I don't like what you write because it's badly written. And it's badly
written about nothing particularly important. Two strikes. Shoot it out
and then later issue corrections. Skillful.
It's abundantly clear what you're against. What are you for? Do you have
any constructive passions or is your life devoted to the hatred and
blindness that you show here? Day after tedious day. It's unfortunate
that you have to create these small fictions to mark your life. I almost
never read your posts because they sound like a symphony played on one,
out-of-tune string. You claim all these swaggering events. You claim all
these cool events (like talking about the mod look in 61 or 62 in the US
in the original post in this thread) that aren't possible. I saw the
smacks you got for not knowing what a Cinderella Liberty is.
Why can't you just be a real person instead? What prevents you from
talking about your history in real terms? Are you practicing for some
bizarre sort of publishing exercise? Some electronic performance art
that makes no sense? You're peeing down your leg if you think any
publisher would risk money to put your stuff on paper. It's so
solipsistic that only you could possibly think it might have any sort of
merit for anyone but you.
Mostly you just rant. That's not a category in the Dewey Decimal System.
"John P David" <dadd...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
Jervie, you really should learn to write less and say more, because
what you have to say tends to disappear and thereby discourage people
from reading your posts at all.
>Here we have a remarkably gifted man, a man of art and science, a
>person sophisticated by a deep psychoanalytical understanding of how the
>*Hate Nature* of man works ...
<paragraphs of stuff about why people hate snipped>
"I do not like him? Why? He is better than me. How often have we heard that
Why does it take you 15 KB to say what Nietzsche deftly captured in one
"Be careful should you choose to fight monsters lest you become one."
An interesting attempt to tackle human psyche but its been done, and for
over a hundred years.
Hey John, what is the purpose of your writing, seriously. Are you primarily
a novelist? I see your sig has a reference to an online novel? Is that a
work in progress or is it completed? I'm sorry you've had such difficult
times growing up, but is this the most productive course of action? You
always seem to allude to an ongoing history of being attacked. Why do you
think others might attack you? Do you really think they're jealous of your
"genius" or are they really just "getting your goat?" Has the troll been
trolled? Has the hunter been captured by the game? While I admit I sometimes
post OT, what does any of this have to do with the Grateful Dead? Do you
like the band? Have you ever been to any shows?
This is what I was talking about. Up to this point you have a story with
growth on the part of the protagonist.
Why spoil it with a rant about how much you hate everyone else. It seems as
if you haven't learned the lesson your character did.
Those who do not remember History
are Doomed to repeat big chunks of college
"Bob Pastorio" <past...@rica.net> wrote in message
news:3BC97C37...@rica.net... to John P David:
> Mostly you just rant. That's not a category in the Dewey Decimal System.
COMMENT: Wrongo. It's 320.42.
I welcome Email from strangers with the minimal cleverness to fix my address
(it's an open-book test). I strongly recommend recipients of unsolicited
bulk Email ad spam use "http://combat.uxn.com" to get the true corporate
name of the last ISP address on the viewsource header, then forward message
& headers to "abuse@[offendingISP]."
"John P David" <dadd...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
> What is it about a man like Hannibal Lechter that tortures people so
> fiercely before he even so much as lays a hand on them? That is the thing
> to lay hands on, the hands of understanding. It is his giftedness; that's
> what tortures the bastards; they see it in him while they can't find it in
> themselves, and without even knowing how they covet his gifts, they hate
> resent him for the very fact that he has them. Sure they do, and they envy
> him without knowing their hatred for the envy it is because the thing that
> drives Dr. Lechter toward learning is not in them, for if it was they'd be
> as gifted as he. No, it is not in them, that desire to give one's whole
> being to an almost religious zeal for the learning and practice of every
> excellent art and science.
No, he's just a bastard with a boarderline personality who likes to twist
people's knobs. He started out doing it initially in high school, just to
see what it would do. And because it made him feel less alone. Possibly he
was gay. Possibly he was even Jewish. They hated him for his intelligence,
but that wasn't the only problem, by far. The problem was his constant need
for attention, and his anxiety. To get attention, which reduced his anxiety,
he learned to say the opposite of what everyone else thought, just for the
shock value. That made other people anxious. He became Oscar Wilde,
Nietzsche, Howard Sterne. Guerilla theater. Any kind of theater ("If you
prick us, do we not bleed?"). He was theatrical if nothing else. He twisted
people's knobs like he twisted the Senator's tits about her daughter in
Silence of the Lambs. Naturally, they hated him for it. Naturally,
eventually he learned to hate them just as much. Here we are.
Psychiatric help 5cents.
> I have always detested your sort, and you know it and
>that is why you don't like what I write and that's just too fucking bad,
Lots of times, you know, when people hate what you write, it's not
because they have hidden reasons they refuse to accept and need you to
Quite often, it's because your writing is unadulterated crap. That
could be true in your case, and, indeed, is.
You're a very, very bad writer, John-boy. You can pretend till you're
blue in the face that it's not that, it's something else. But it's
that. It's very much that.
Your stuff is dogshit. Now, instead of railing at the reader, what are
you going to *do* about it?
You know, that is just so weird that it's impossible to even so much as get
a fix on it. That's the trouble with other people's fixations that appear
to be dervived from their own peculiar little narcissistic hangups and
self-told lies. I'd adjudge that this one of yours is a little mendacity
that you entertain in your vanity that goes something like, "Well, he sure
can write a lot better than me, but that's because unlike me, he doesn't
have to spend so much time down at the Turkish Bath."
Hey, Sweetie Buns, if it works for you, like, get it!
> I don't like what you write because it's badly written.
But far better men than you say otherwise, the exact opposite, take Mike
Jahn's statements in "Wicked Stepsister" . . .
----- Original Message -----
From: MICHAEL JAHN <me...@worldnet.att.net>
Sent: Tuesday, October 09, 2001 10:38 PM
Subject: Re: Wicked Stepsister
> and I can't keep
> track of the various email handles he uses ("Daddio" is one). But this man
> is very talented, and he needs to be published somewhere. That paragraph
> excellent, and some of the other bits in the "My Triumph" post are
[His praise was not so qualified as this *before*, as I suggest, he started
getting those slanderous emails. He wasn't talking about "bits" then.]
> He writes with an anger and a humor, the two together, that make for
> good literature. He comes up with some very clever phrases and wonderful
> contrasting images. And he's got a hell of a tale to tell, his travels
> through the sixties.
So, like who the fuck are you, man? I can go to my local library and take
out one of his "Bill Donovan" novels. Who the fuck are you? I'll tell you:
>And it's badly
> written about nothing particularly important.
That lie you tell yourself in order to escape the pain of conviction from
what I write about your type, Jocko. My writing from beginning to end is
AGAINST cheap, would-be little bullies like you, Jock-Face, my writing
exposes the cruelty and depredations upon the truly good and clean folk that
the ugly filth in a person like you would besmirch. Yeah, I'll bet you have
to bathe four or five times a day in a weird-ass ritual to try and rid
yourself of all the residual guilt left over from your High School and later
sadisms against the nice people, you motherfucking whore; you punk, you
scum. Your ass-kicking has been long overdue, and now look how you squeal
while you're getting it. Bam! That's your face kissing my heel, ya fucking
> Two strikes. Shoot it out
> and then later issue corrections. Skillful.
He's reading from the standard "Jervis Cheatsheet", going down the list of
traditional clueless quibbles from the minds of other blindmen leading the
> It's abundantly clear what you're against. What are you for?
Idiot. What I'm for is clearly exposed by what I'm against. Idiot. Liar.
What I'm for is what you refuse to face, lest you should have to face the
hate in yourself. Fool.
> Do you have
> any constructive passions or is your life devoted to the hatred and
> blindness that you show here?
Fuck your "constructive passions" in the midst of a world at war you pussy.
It's time to face the evil and darkness and to face it fully, squarely and
finally before we even begin to speak of the light buried at the bottom of
>Day after tedious day. It's unfortunate
> that you have to create these small fictions to mark your life.
There it is. The same old lie. You cocksucker. Every word in this account
of my teen years is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
You dirty cocksucker.
> never read your posts because they sound like a symphony played on one,
> out-of-tune string.
> You claim all these swaggering events.
Look at the envy! Look at it! The motherfucker is jealous of somebody who
had to fucking wind up in what was for all practical purposes a God damn
reform school? You're envious of that? Of my hell? You are really
>You claim all
> these cool events (like talking about the mod look in 61 or 62 in the US
> in the original post in this thread) that aren't possible.
You dirty, lying sonofabitch. Go back to that text and see what it says.
I'm not going to repeat it, but anyone who did read it knows how you lie.
You lie like a dog-pissed rug. If you can even so much as sit there and
DARE suggest that guys weren't wearing pants with a 14" peg and the whole,
what we called *Continental* style then you better fucking get down to your
nearest Black Vinyl shop and dig up a record called "The Continental", look
for a group called the "Continentals", get the fuck down to the nearest
priest and confess your sin you piece of shit. God damn your eyes, I said
that it was the "Mod" look even though that word was not yet being used.
Those were my words you pathetic lying God damn pecker-licking silverfish
from the sewer of envy.
> I saw the
> smacks you got for not knowing what a Cinderella Liberty is.
Another lie! One right on top of the other. I damned well know what a
fucking Cinderella Liberty is. But your stupidity is doubled and tripled
and made all the more obvious by the fact that you so easily fall for the
lie of some other fool just like you. Did you see the footnote to that
title, in that post in which I mentioned the movie with James Caan? That
movie is about a fucking Sailor on Cinderella Liberty. Did you see that
footnote? Get down there, open your lips and suck my footnote, you lying
pig. Suck it! Suck it! Suck my footnote to *Cinderella Liberty*. Ah! Ah!
That's the way. Suck it!
> ..........To get attention, which reduced his anxiety,
> he learned to say the opposite of what everyone else thought, just for the
> shock value. That made other people anxious. He became Oscar Wilde,
> Nietzsche, Howard Sterne. Guerilla theater..... >
Gee Steve, you're obviously an intelligent guy, but I'm not sure you have
Nietzsche pegged here. While what he said went against the conventional
wisdom and norms of the time, I really don't think he did it for shock value
or attention. He criticized his own assertions throughout his writing since
many of his ideas were so novel to the time. He even seems to address the
type of people you describe with the following aphorism:
"I dislike a man who doesn't explore his passions almost as much as one who
can't control them."
One could classify the need for attention with the more traditional notions
of the passions.
Also, consider this:
"Let my only form of negation be turning away."
Most "little" people aren't even worthy of your hatred, why waste this
beautiful human ability (the capacity to hate) on those which aren't worthy.
It's also no secret that many of his assertions about human psychology and
human nature laid the groundwork for many of Freud's ideas.
Then again, you're probably right, his relationships with his father and
women in general caused him to seek attention and say the opposite of what
everynoe else thought.
I guess he would defend himself (if he felt the need to do so) with the
"It is the music in my heart and dance in my conscience with which all
puritan litanies, moral homilies, and old fashioned respectability won't
But really, drawing a parallel between Nietzsche, Stern and John David is
just down-right wrong. Nietzsche had enormous talent as a writer. His use of
metaphor is gripping and his parables, imho, are extremely entertaining and
require the complete attention of the reader. If one is not fully attentive
when reading Nietzsche, it is easy to confuse when he is being sincere or
sarcastic and ridiculing a particular issue.
> Psychiatric help 5cents.
You're under-charging, Lucy
My goodness, Ol' Daddio does get excited now, doesn't he.
I've added new groups to the crossposting. They are:
> Hey, Sweetie Buns, if it works for you, like, get it!
> > I don't like what you write because it's badly written.
> But far better men than you say otherwise, the exact opposite, take Mike
> Jahn's statements in "Wicked Stepsister" . . .
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: MICHAEL JAHN <me...@worldnet.att.net>
> Newsgroups: rec.arts.books,misc.writing,rec.music.gdead
> Sent: Tuesday, October 09, 2001 10:38 PM
> Subject: Re: Wicked Stepsister
> > and I can't keep
> > track of the various email handles he uses ("Daddio" is one). But this man
> > is very talented, and he needs to be published somewhere. That paragraph
> > excellent, and some of the other bits in the "My Triumph" post are
> [His praise was not so qualified as this *before*, as I suggest, he started
> getting those slanderous emails. He wasn't talking about "bits" then.]
> > He writes with an anger and a humor, the two together, that make for
> > good literature. He comes up with some very clever phrases and wonderful
> > contrasting images. And he's got a hell of a tale to tell, his travels
> > through the sixties.
Very nice, if true. Questionable, but nice. But one compliment that
hasn't gone anywhere is hardly anything other than merely words.
> So, like who the fuck are you, man? I can go to my local library and take
> out one of his "Bill Donovan" novels. Who the fuck are you? I'll tell you:
I like to talk to myself, too. Avoids all that unpleasant reasoning,
logic and information that happens when you listen.
> >And it's badly
> > written about nothing particularly important.
> That lie you tell yourself in order to escape the pain of conviction from
> what I write about your type, Jocko. My writing from beginning to end is
> AGAINST cheap, would-be little bullies like you, Jock-Face, my writing
> exposes the cruelty and depredations upon the truly good and clean folk that
> the ugly filth in a person like you would besmirch. Yeah, I'll bet you have
> to bathe four or five times a day in a weird-ass ritual to try and rid
> yourself of all the residual guilt left over from your High School and later
> sadisms against the nice people, you motherfucking whore; you punk, you
> scum. Your ass-kicking has been long overdue, and now look how you squeal
> while you're getting it. Bam! That's your face kissing my heel, ya fucking
> hatebag punk.
You know, Jerv, definitions aren't one of your skills. You don't have me
even remotely pegged with your desperately virulent and desperately
off-the-mark insults. You write such intensely physical nonsense and
just don't seem to realize that those swaggering threats and would-be
forceful assaults are electrons in an ethereal space with even less
reality than your small writings.
> > Two strikes. Shoot it out
> > and then later issue corrections. Skillful.
> He's reading from the standard "Jervis Cheatsheet", going down the list of
> traditional clueless quibbles from the minds of other blindmen leading the
Hey, look at me when you're talking about me. See how stupid it looks
fro you to use those physical words? I don't have to read from anything
about you. IN the past couple weeks you've done this issue it, fix it,
fix it again thing more than once. You did it. I saw it. Simple.
> > It's abundantly clear what you're against. What are you for?
> Idiot. What I'm for is clearly exposed by what I'm against. Idiot. Liar.
> What I'm for is what you refuse to face, lest you should have to face the
> hate in yourself. Fool.
That has the "almost meaning" of typical schizophrenic ranting. I have
precious small hate in me. Nothing threatens or scares me enough to
change my fear to hate as you appear to have.
> > Do you have
> > any constructive passions or is your life devoted to the hatred and
> > blindness that you show here?
> Fuck your "constructive passions" in the midst of a world at war you pussy.
> It's time to face the evil and darkness and to face it fully, squarely and
> finally before we even begin to speak of the light buried at the bottom of
> it. Fool.
So we should all get into the preposterous head you've crashed yourself
into? There has never been a time when there wasn't war and it's
surprising that you seem to have just discovered it. Nah. Constructive
passions are the only thing preserving the light. Evil and darkness need
to be fought with constructive passion or it's all an exercise in
demolition and there are no winners there.
> >Day after tedious day. It's unfortunate
> > that you have to create these small fictions to mark your life.
> There it is. The same old lie. You cocksucker. Every word in this account
> of my teen years is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
> You dirty cocksucker.
Buy a freakin dictionary. Stating an opinion isn't offering a lie. What
seems to be lies is these lives you've manufactured. The final test of
good writing is verisimilitude. Does it seem real. In your case it
doesn't. That isn't a lie, it's an opinion based on reading some of your
> >I almost
> > never read your posts because they sound like a symphony played on one,
> > out-of-tune string.
> More lies.
This is laughable. How on earth can this be a lie?
> > You claim all these swaggering events.
> Look at the envy! Look at it! The motherfucker is jealous of somebody who
> had to fucking wind up in what was for all practical purposes a God damn
> reform school? You're envious of that? Of my hell? You are really
It's astonishing how far you'll stretch to make events, comments and
ideas fit your preconceived notions. I envy no one. Certainly not a
whiner of a would-be writer. If you want to be a writer, then write. But
do it for higher stakes than the annoyed smacks of a disinterested
> >You claim all
> > these cool events (like talking about the mod look in 61 or 62 in the US
> > in the original post in this thread) that aren't possible.
> You dirty, lying sonofabitch. Go back to that text and see what it says.
> I'm not going to repeat it, but anyone who did read it knows how you lie.
> You lie like a dog-pissed rug. If you can even so much as sit there and
> DARE suggest that guys weren't wearing pants with a 14" peg and the whole,
> what we called *Continental* style then you better fucking get down to your
> nearest Black Vinyl shop and dig up a record called "The Continental", look
> for a group called the "Continentals", get the fuck down to the nearest
> priest and confess your sin you piece of shit. God damn your eyes, I said
> that it was the "Mod" look even though that word was not yet being used.
> Those were my words you pathetic lying God damn pecker-licking silverfish
> from the sewer of envy.
Hey, Zippy. The mod look was a very long way from that greaser look that
included pegged pants. "Continental" back in the 50s had nothing to do
with Europe. It had to do with what Elvis looked like. Pink and gray (or
black) Greased hair. Collars up. Not even remotely mod. That was the
whole British thing a la Mary Quant and the other designers who
stretched those fashion horizons.
> > I saw the
> > smacks you got for not knowing what a Cinderella Liberty is.
> Another lie! One right on top of the other. I damned well know what a
> fucking Cinderella Liberty is. But your stupidity is doubled and tripled
> and made all the more obvious by the fact that you so easily fall for the
> lie of some other fool just like you. Did you see the footnote to that
> title, in that post in which I mentioned the movie with James Caan? That
> movie is about a fucking Sailor on Cinderella Liberty. Did you see that
Nope. I didn't get that far. It was hopeless way before that point. The
misuse of the image tarnishes whatever small value it might have had as
I told you that I've been unable to read all the way to the end of very
many of your posts. You're of the "if one word will do, let's use 12"
school of ranting. It's valueless labor to read all the way to the end
of anything you write.
> Get down there, open your lips and suck my footnote, you lying
> pig. Suck it! Suck it! Suck my footnote to *Cinderella Liberty*. Ah! Ah!
> That's the way. Suck it!
> Thank you.
> <Zips pants>
> Uncle John long_go...@nobodyfeelsanypain.com
> John's Joint:: http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
> On-Line Novel, *Amador Green*, MP3's and Usenet Archive
> "I've often regarded my life as a series of fights; my fight with these
> guys, my fight with those guys: I've finally come to see my life as
> entirely one long fight." -- Dalton Trumbo
You know, I will concede that your strung-together vulgarisms carry a
certain crass charm. Generally non sequiturs merely to indulge your
crippled sense of how to deal with the world, but interesting anyway.
Unfortunately, that's all your offering is. Your vitriol and
uncontrollable rage serve you badly. They make it impossible to see if
there's substance beyond the steam. You smoke up your own mirror.
Why don't you get off your lazy ass and send stuff off to a publisher
yourself? Why are you waiting for the charity of someone who may or may
not be real? What's stopping you from being this aggressive, forthright
squabbler you claim to be? What are you afraid of? Why not actually send
stuff out for publication like writers do?
I don't hate you or, really, anyone. I just don't much care about you.
This has been recess time in a very busy schedule and I fear I have to
back to work now. Hang in there. If you work diligently at the writing,
who knows. Some lying idiot of a publisher might publish it.
> I'm a Punk
In the event anyone doubted Jerkis's "two years in a federal slam" was a
_Nobody_ who's ever laid out a fine over thirty days in a county jail,
let alone done real time would ever refer to himself as "a punk."
Some uh, connotations there.
Stories, poetry, "Notes From the Top of the Hill,"
and some funny stuff.
Listen to MP3 "notes" at
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---AND BUY AMERICAN!!!--
--Uh, if you're an American, that is--
Mamet wrote the screenplay to "Hannibal."
Jerkis watches a lot of TV and video.
First off, you're spelling the name wrong: it's Hannibal Lecter
(no H). Second, why are you assuming that Mamet is doing the character
of Dr. Lecter? Thomas Harris wrote the book, which Mamet adapted for
his screenplay. The Lecter of Thomas Harris's _Hannibal_ (the novel)
is different from the Lecter of Thomas Harris's _Silence of the
--realizing the futility of entering this thread,
"This means, in effect, that the `same' entity can exist in more
than one world, if there is accessibility among the worlds in
question. But `same' in what sense? Eco addresses this question
too, formulating criteria for what he considers transworld `identity'.
If an entity in one world differs from its `prototype' in another
world only in accidental properties, not in essentials, and if there
is a one-to-one correspondence between the prototype and its other-
world variant, then the two entities can be considered identical
even though they exist in different worlds...
... [entities] can also migrate between two different fictional
worlds. Cordelia is still Cordelia, still in some sense the `same,'
whether she appears in Shakespeare's original /King Lear/ or Nahum
Tate's eighteenth-century revision, even though in the original she
suffers a tragic destiny while in the revision she ends happily. The
tansworld identity of Cordelia, it appears, has been preserved. It is
not always so. If a prototype and its replica differ in essential
properties, and not just the accidental ones then, according to Eco,
this may be a case of mere /homonymy/ rather than transworld identity."
-- McHale B., _Postmodernist Fiction_, Routledge, (NY 1989), p35-36
> --realizing the futility of entering this thread,
The last time I saw Peter Schickele speak, he said he was declaiming
from behind a speaker's prop that had come over the Alps via elephant:
the Hannibal Lectern.