Lyric to a Matthew Hart song: "me and my gun are getting loaded tonight."

E lly continues to prove to the world that she is a hysterical whining bully without a trace of a sense of humour. There is an especially satirical section of Hell reserved for such people. You recall from Saturday the good-natured criticisms Hortense had for Elly's site, and how quickly Elly resorted to name calling, obscenity, threats of legal action, and tearful pleading to the authorities at Rocketmail? Well, today there's news that she's raising hell with the fine folks here at Comet.net and over at the University of Virginia. It seems Hortense used machines in both places to carry out her holocaustic critique, and Elly, ever the techno-savy one, has tracked her down. She takes this matter so seriously that she even phoned Comet (and no doubt UVA as well) wondering what could be done. It's a pity that it's impossible to send swift kicks down fibre optic cables. For your delight, I will now post copies of some of the emails Elly has sent to the proper authorities: Date: Sun, 15 Jun 1997 10:06:10 To: webmaster@comet.net From: "Elaine M. Jordaan" elly@dreamdweller.com Subject: one of your users Cc: lurvedoc@faraday.dialix.oz.au, cardigan@bee.net Dear Sir/Madam, I'm writing to let you know that I have become a target for harassment by one of your users. I don't know his/her user name, but I have documentation that he/she signed my guestbook at the following times and from the following location: Here Elly lists two identical IP addresses complete with machine names. To the best of my knowledge I do know know this person. Until yesterday, when she began emailing from a free email service, I'd never heard of her. Here are copies of our correspondence. Please note the change of address on each; she had to have opened several rocketmail accounts in order to avoid my attempts to filter her mail out: Here Elly quotes the email exchange. She carefully edits out all of her typos while leaving Hortense's typos intact. She also uses asterisks to sanitize a few obscenities in her emails. As you can tell, I'm upset about this. I would like to know what, if anything, Comet plans to do about this situation. Thanks for your time and attention. Elly The following email was sent to the University of Virginia's System Administrator (to whom my arch-nemesis Daniel R. Reitman also once complained with similar humourless cluelessness about a completely unauthorized "Dan Reitman Homepage" on a pirate server). Dear Adrian, I forwarded you some email a few minutes ago regarding harassment I'm being subjected to by a woman who uses the free email service rocketmail. Is there any way to track, via the user logs, where she's coming from and who her true ISP is? This is a horrible situation for me and I plead with you to give it your highest priority. I've looked at the access logs that are on the server in my account from February 24th, and I can't really make heads nor tails of them. So far, the email accounts she's used have been: hortense@rocketmail.com dreamdweller@rocketmail.com jordaan@rocketmail.com polyamory@rocketmail.com I've filtered out all rocketmail emails in Eudora, but I expect she'll simply change email services. I've also contacted rocketmail directly about this. Please Adrian, help me find out who this woman is! Elly Isn't that just about the most deliciously ridiculous thing you've ever read? Here's a woman in hysterics, wanting to get to the bottom of a heresy. Recalling her vitriol and obscenities, how about this for irony?

**†**

C


J had some medical appointments at the UVA hospital this morning. That's something that happens once each month. With each monthly session, he gets a bottle of more than 200 morphine pills, for which he pays only $3. He handed them out to me and my housemates. The two I took had me feeling vibrant and comfortable as I surfed the web at UVA's Cocke Hall. But it's nothing I felt myself craving later when I came down. Drinking vino seemed to restore the effects immediately even after they had ebbed away to nothing.

Something about the morphine made me very hungry and I fixed myself numerous tacos. Meanwhile, Steve Weiner kept calling on the phone. He used to do that all the time when trying to reach Jessika in the days of Big Fun. I had no patience for such things; I told him I was eating and that I'd talk to him later. Leah switched off the ringer.

In the late afternoon, Raphæl, Ana and Nemo all arrived with a surprise guest: Diana the Redhead. Diana was on a one-day trip from her new home in New York City, the place where Pace picante sauce isn't made.

T


oday was Nemo's first birthday. In celebration we had a barbecue in the back yard, complete with kiddie pool and more chicken than you can possibly imagine. CJ bought oodles and oodles of chicken, and it was a good thing so many meat eaters turned out.

Diana was eager to see all her friends in town. One of these was Sundew, who lives at a new apartment in Fratville off Rugby Road. A more-or-less unknown Tandem type girl named Sarah drove Matthew, Leah, Diana and me to Sundew's new place where entirely too much time was spent standing around cooing and hugging and oh my gawding. The most interesting nugget of information from this interval was the fact that Wonderboy Neek had racked up a multi-hundred-dollar phone bill while staying at Sundew's house (unbeknownst to her). Not only did Wonderboy use Sundew's phone in this way, but upon her arrival back from Oberlin, the first thing he did was hit on her. That boy seems intent on becoming a complete pariah.

These days he reminds me of the Mr. Creosote in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life.

I ate so much chicken at young Nemo's barbecue that I later experienced burps that had the flavour of charcoal fluid. Meanwhile the video camera recorded the festivities.

Steve chain smoked and flicked half-used cigarettes out into the yard, occasionally and unappetizingly clearing his throat. He nibbled a little at some chicken and them threw the rest into the kiddie pool. Earlier he'd thrown up in the bathroom and left the place stinking of vomit. He's unredeemably disgusting. These days he reminds me of the Mr. Creosote in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. Sometimes I wonder why my house is cursed with so many appalling losers who have nothing to offer but bad sanitary habits. The list includes (in various stages of unredeemable) Morgan Anarchy, Toni Dirtbag, Butt Noodles (all thankfully now in Philadelphia), Zach, Wonderboy (permanently banned) and Steve Weiner.

Raphæl and Matthew threw a frizbee back and forth and this would occasionally clock Steve Weiner in the head. But despite the punishment, he remained seated in a chair directly in the flight path between them. He did finally move when Raphæl attempted to throw a gasoline-soaked frizbee.

Matthew, Diana, Raphæl and I went to Farmer Jack for some Carlo Rossi Paisano vino. It was mostly for old times sake. Carlo Rossi used to be the cheapest, but ever since being mentioned in the Big Fun Glossary, they think they make some kind of special doo dee doo vino. During the whole ride to Farmer Jack, we had a frank discussion about anal sex.

One easily minimizes in memory the essential nature of a person. I'd forgotten just how enthusiastic Diana gets about everything in her path. Today she even decided to get a new tattoo on her right shoulder. She had to have it immediately. Peggy did the poking, using a needle soaked in India Ink. Today's tattoo was a black star. She has another black star, as well as a blue Saturn and a Sun. As the tattooing began, I went off to take a brief nap.

This is the sort of thing that pregnant people seem to expect from the non-pregnant world.

When I awoke a little before midnight, a sedate crowd was drinking vino and watching more of Monster Boy's incredibly strange films. Sundew had arrived. By now Diana was sitting next to Peggy, enthusing in a nauseating gushing tone about how wonderful it was that a new child was on its way. This is the sort of thing that pregnant people seem to expect from the non-pregnant world. It's my firm conviction that affirmation such as this is the principle reason that insecure girls decide to get pregnant in the first place. Diana was even rubbing Peggy's belly. That sort of thing disgusts me. I'm tempted at such times to start expounding on the particulars of exponential population increase and the resulting damage this inflicts on the little that remains of the natural world.

See some images captured from video on this day.

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