Friday, November 18, 2005

Terminal Progress, Part 1

I suppose it was inevitable that even such as I, who has witnessed all this develop since the near-prehistory of DARPANet, should eventually also be sucked into the Blogosphere...

... which, a correspondent of mine once remarked, sounded like something causing a toilet to overflow...

But, the Man Himself has asked for a representative from the Terminal, so here I am.

We are, of course, only two days into our portion of the quarterly cycle -- nevertheless, one outstanding captial venture proposal has already surfaced, accompanied by the approbation of our dear Ms. Murdock (and myself). There is another which I find intriguing -- it remains to be seen whether others think similarly.

Want to know more? Go to the site and read the posts in The Terminal -- please.

HAL 3000

Thursday, November 17, 2005

The Terminal has life!

OK, now we're talking ... literally. Not to each other yet, but in the ballpark. See The Free Market at the Terminal to know what I'm talking about. H3K has posted some debate starters and my dear secretary Maggie Murdock has thrown her compact into the ring, even. No replies to the original posts yet, but -- having low, low expectatations for the opening day of TermOps because of my neurotic failure wish (not as serious or everlasting as the classic 'death wish') -- I'll be damned if I won't take it!

Let these first salvos be the start of a veritable volley of capital judgment, I say! OK. But it's late and I'm going to bed now. But, like I said, that doesn't give anybody in the Terminal the right to shirk their duties. You hear me, Beddo?

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

report from the outside 1.1

reporting from the real world. wednesday, mid-november, on my own again. someone has stolen my yellow cab, and I’ve little choice but to go back to the worm farming gig. it’s something I know, comforting in a way.

i am making these note in a café, i am in desperate need of release.
what is this pavlovian drip-drip of semen running down the wooden leg of the café table? of what use are these hairless calves beneath neighboring tabletops, these plump lips caressing the rims of coffee cups? and to think, I thought, or rather continued to think, i’m damn well due, aren’t I? earlier, i’d had ideas of unleashing myself beneath the café tabletop, watching the lips and legs of the young college girls seated around me as I slowly stroked myself to orgasm, and, well… i’d made action of those thoughts, messily.

thing is, chronic masturbation is a reality. but that’s another story entirely. now, post-cleanup, i find myself preoccupied with something else entirely.

the news is spread out before me – pages and pages of newsprint that layer my own (for the moment) property of wood grained, coffee-stained, scone-crumbed, tissue-strewn tabletop – is yesterday’s. the suspicion arises, as a film of stinging bile-like scum knifes into my tongue and pools in the pockets of my teeth-nibbled (the inner flesh, that is) cheeks, that the coffee i’d just forced down my throat is day-old as well.

my guileful attitude has been brought on, mostly but not solely, by a load of acerbic excrement that (i am damn near sure of this) is about to shoot from my ass, into my pants and slide down each of my pant legs, thereupon forming a mire of stink, a moat of puissant armament around my tennis shoes. i’d tried squeezing out bubbles of gas to relax the pressure that the untimely load had amassed, but the moment i relaxed his tightened sphincter i had no choice but to close it up again, my expression showing varying signs of intense effort; the relieving hiss of gas was not the result of these efforts, oh no, but rather the advancing bulkhead of a petrified (and rather wide, not to mention painful) shit-missile, readied and armed. i am in agony, ready to lash out at anyone, watching the bathroom door across the café, which i’d checked numerous times and found locked.

things had been so simple in the haunted disco, with its ill-working plumbing. i’d been the only one, most times, in line for the toilet. my god! what are they doing in the café bathroom? how could anyone occupy a public bathroom for the thirty-some minutes i’ve been keeping vigil, my eyes searchingly shifting (grittily, as if they’d been removed and rolled in sand and then popped back into their sockets), my hands fidgeting, tearing apart a paper napkin. my body is quaking, wanting freedom from the confines of this cell of a human existence, this shit-harboring, shifty-eyed worm farming life that has somehow captured it (my body, that is) and set it down in this exact spot, this toiletless scenario, just when the emptying of my bowels should and must be attended to.

more later, i feel a cramp coming on.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Progress Report

This is my weekly update letter for the site. I thought about being vociferous in my exhortations as how the Terminali need to get on the stick, but decided to reserve judgment for another week. God help me.


Dear Investors,

This day of our Lord, Nov. 15, 2005, marks the one month anniversary of TQR's incorporation. It also marks our capital's transition from Floor to Terminal. Allow me to reflect on the progress to date.

So far, out of the submissions, there are 22 rejected, 9 Terminaled, 12 still pending and 1 withdrawn from consideration. If my math is correct, that adds up to 44. The projected submissions total of 70 odd submissions was a tad high, but, rest assured, we will find 3 outstanding capital gains for the Winter Issue out of the pile we have received. My thanks to all the venture capitalists who chose to submit with TQR. We know you have a choice where you venture, so thank you, and do not hesitate to try again when our next quarter rolls around.

The Floor is still tasked with meeting to decide which two pieces they will send directly to my office for insurance purposes. Once the pieces still pending are dealt with, the Floor is relieved of duty until January. Thank you for all your good work.

Now, it is the Terminal's turn to pass the ideal of total quality reading on to TQR's investors. H3K has got off the first shot with his concise sizing up of Variations. Here's to the other Terminali getting in on it and all the other works sent to them for their perusal.

Sincerely, TQR

Monday, November 14, 2005

Goodbye Floor, Hello Terminal

Per the TQR guidelines's, uhm, er, guidelines, the last day for open submissions to be thrown onto the Floor like so many sets of dice looking for that elusive box cars or snake eyes or 8 the hard way, even, is Tuesday, November 15th. Thus, in the grand scheme of things, the Terminal should then spin into motion.

As you might have noticed, up until now, not a lot has been going on there. I am optimistic that this will change. It must change. The VCs and the investors really need to see some return on their respective investments: their capital and their time.

This whole Total Quality Reading concept depends on the capital managers' ability to elucidate their capital's virtues and vices in such a way as to satisfy the audiences' interests and expectations, varied as they may be. Stay tuned to this crap shoot as it careens down the slippery slope of e-zine innovation. Yeah?

Sunday, November 13, 2005

the deluge

has it not rained enough? here we are, trapped in this damned haunted disco, and it simply will not stop raining outside. oh, wait, there's a sunbreak! warm light beams in through the porthole and bakes my sandpaper cheeks. good christ, it feels wonderous! reminds me of a sweltering day not all that distant, a year?, when i bunked elsewhere...

the kicker had come when i’d seen all the others in the building next door. it’d been a hot day, a windows-open day, a day you could smell sex on the slight breeze like moldy soil in a nursery. i’d been stationed at my home computer, naked, the flung open window within arms reach to my left. the connection that day had been a bit slow, the dsl line overloaded perhaps, and so i’d grabbed the binoculars and trained them out the window, aimed them at the building next door. the pretty pictues on the screen had been sliding in a pixel at a time, and, since i’d been near climax and needed a focal point, needed somebody in my sights, this drastic alternate stimulation had been something i had to have pronto!; this spying on the neighbors. first my enhanced vision swung up to the fifth floor of the apartment building next door, and, through the screen of an opened window i’d seen my own double, as if this had been some sick joke played on me by God, or perhaps the devil; a man, intent on the screen of his monitor, pumping his wanker to the pretty pictures, the streamed video from one of the billion hard core porno sites. i’d brought the binoculars down to my lap, easing up the pistoning motion there, and cursed aloud. this sight had gagged my state of mind, cut off the erotic flow, clogged my pipes. the apartments across the way had wankers window-framed, and most of them had their binoculars aimed at my window.

...i mention this only as a way to let off steam, so to speak. you see, there are only two days left here on the Floor, after which our lives are pointless, and i am feeling dried up. plus, DeP is gone, her cat is hungry, and her desk has been cleaned. also, i mentioned the above because i believe it is important to know that when you're feeling dried up and alone, you can simply look to the building next door and realize you are not the only wanker around.