hi there i'm a degenerate whatcha dont want my kind round

Daniel A. Foss (U17043@UICVM.BITNET)
Fri, 5 Jul 1996 03:54:54 CDT

...here, whereverthatis!

Well, hello there, Hugh Jarvis, nice meetin' ya, and I'd like to start
off by saying, it's been an outandout great two years in Chicago, you'd
never believe. Firstoff, nobody's accused me, yet, of rape, murder, or
rapemurder, as in serial killing, as was done frequently in Stony Brook.
One look at me, and it was prima facie, I couldn't possibly've been Not
Guilty; at best Uncaught. My outright smarted move was renting a hovel in
a Retirement Hotel, giving me nothing good to look at. There aint no dorms
in this place, and the computer labs got no locks. Which makes it easier
for your Normal woman, the kind who's expected to glance edgily in my
direction, you never know with My Kind, to get out faster than I can get
up outta this chair, the old back is killing me. For a better, more enduring,
solution, well, the Second Virginity Project's coming along. The Middle Ages
didn't die for nothing.

None of this should ever happen. It does. What I am, since I can't use
Informants, hafta go by *inference heuristics*, which give me, by all kindsa
Special Precautions, Evasive Actions, and Pretendings Not To Notice, is a
Degenerate. This is a social category broad enough to encompass all the
specific stuff I'm sure I've been called to my face. A Degenerate, in his
(the female stereotype is poorly developed, and the lowest stratum of women
is almost chivalrously treated compared to men analogous thereto) capacity
of *psycho*, especially, is someone most in need of factual information,
who said what, just exactly why, wherein was somebody oblivious to vitally
trivial minutiae ignored for good reason by Normals; but he's told nothing.
What I call The Innocent Blood Rule. Governs Normal-Psycho interaction-
etiquette like you'd never believe which, being a Normal as you are, is just
exactly what you should do, believe nothing I tell you, cuz it can't possibly
happen, look what is telling you, after all.
This is social epistemology at work. If you don't get it from a Normal, of
preferably higher station than your own, it's delusional. System default. Who
can blame you. Now, justabout here, I stopped writing for a fewish seconds, a
minute, just to look at Normal people doing Normal things. Which I can't do,
like forinstance having a Normal Conversation, a bewilderingly complex piece
of behavioural chamber music I can't even hardly appreciate, let alone
replicate. I was on ANTHRO-L lo those many years to figure out what these
Normals do, pick up on, acquire, by sheer emulation, by osmosis, even. How
does one of Adrienne Dearmas' informants know *when* to get that lip ring,
nose ring, discreet (or should it be garish) tatoo-thingie? Were I a genius,
I'd never calculate this stuff one step at a time.

NOTICING? HOW DID IT HAPPEN, this armenia of ours, got engineered physically
to sell cars to itself? What happened with the folks like me, too, uh,
deficited to operate a car? Did they all die, were they killed? Millions did
die, I added the death tolls up. Added to the distinctiveness of my appearance.

Pontiac got me after the bars closed, I was on a bicycle. The man from
Allstate invaded the hospital room, with a witness present, and gave me a
sob story about the horrible scratches inflicted by my bycicle upon the
Pontiac, poor thing. As I'd recalled it, the Pontiac, if moving at speed
limit, woulda been short of the intersection, light was with me, anyhow,
as I made a left onto the shoulder, letting it pass. What passed was me,
out. Never knew a car moving at 75-80 swerved drunkenly, from tireskidmarks,
*off the road* to be goodandsure they nailed me!
Greedy? Not on yer life I wuz. If I had a pile of money, which I coulda had,
why bother working, and when you aint working, man, you are a *Degenerate*, a
lowscum, can't answer the question, "What do you do?"
Two years in Chicago, I have had two responses to "What do you do?" To
wit: (a) "I do not divulge personal information." (b) "Sorry, couldn't make
out whatcha said, gotta run." Which is followed thence by the total isolation
from Real (meaning paid money) social scientists. Real anything. Followed in
turn by the deteriorated, etiolated, well, hell, fuckingInferior quality of
the dreck I have been posting! Why bother? Practice, practice, practice. With
hard work enough and time, I shall evolve a mode of nonexpression no longer
transparent to myself. I would, really should, add <hee hee> to that last
sentence, but it'd be so blatantly symptomatic, you'd seize on it, wouln'ya.

Remember, it's not a delusion till I believe it tomorrow. You call the
ambulance, they say, you said this, you believe it, I say, hell no. "A
belief which is [obviously][self-evidently] untrue." Official definition.
Recall, I watched grad students in Clinical being raised from kittens. Well,
I gotta tell you lotsa stuff tonight "which is [obviously][self-evidently]
untrue," but it actually was, its wasness isn't anything can be done about
it. What I should do is, get out of here, make a difference. What would
make a difference? Writing a book, so when the Normal sez, "What do you do,"
I sez back, "I'm a writer, see, this just came out, wanna copy?" The rule,
in establishing Normalhood among the non-Functioning, which is why people
are Writers when they don't have academic posts establishing their Smartness,
is, Functioning hurts like crazy. The clock. You gotta worship it, it's worse
than God. Functioning, mixed engineering-medical metaphor, says you are,
firstly, decently and respectably under the Command, autocratic fashion, of
Someone Else, that you are capable of being and remaining a Moving Part in
that someone else's machine. Secondly, with the minor exceptions comprising
the weekend, when you are permitted to move about slightly, always with Monday
dominating your concerns, unto Them is Known the precise location of your
body, with laminated ID card ascertaining mindlessly, for you and it, that
you indeed were Out, you furtherindeed are not In, and ultimately, not at
your discretion, you will be released once more Out.
For you, easy. Me, impossible to do. Got a PhD instead. In those days, you
were too young, they promised you you'd never hafta Function again.

There is no point, aint no damn point to this at all, except, I AINT LIKE
YOU. Which doesn't ensure to a 1.0 p-value cetainty that we aint gonna like
each other, but makes it highly likely. Cuz Stuff, you kow, gonna happen to
me which, if *anyone* toldya it happened to them, they're delusional, right?
Starting with a PhD, nine years college teaching experience, and Ending Up
a Degenerate. How did I manage it? Incompetence. Microbehavioural deviance.
Can't do no damnthing right. 'Cludes speaking English as a first language.
Got the Big Two. See the Big Two on any guy, you for sure are looking at a
psycho, or at least, a walking stereotype. I insist, in the name of Gender
Equality, that women get labelable as selfevident psychos onnacounta two
little Thingies. For the guys, it's Slurred/Garbled Speech and Something In
His Eyes.

LIVE IN FEAR OR DIE! This is what I have learned. If I go out on the street,
just s'pozin', and Scare a Normal, say, a woman, for worstcasescenario, and
she goes EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! then the cop comes, blows my head off.
Here is actuality. In Oct 1994, I went to a place called the Heartland Cafe,
where arty types seek to impress one another with personal weirdness. What
could go wrong. Well, I din't know anyone, wandered around, seemingly or by
inference made facial gestures whereof I was not aware, failed to do the
socially proper thing, whatever that was, which I have concluded was to have
left quickly, and failed to onnacounta I wanted so desperately, dig, to have
a conversation with any old organism at all. I did wear my $300 suit for
disguise purposes; either overdressed or disheveled, it's binary, can't help
it. So finally, beat down in despair, I sank behind a table in a heap. Where-
upon I found myself staring into the drawn guns of Chicago cops. Who had been
called by the management, reporting me as "an armed mass-killer." The imagina-
tion was breathtaking. There weren't even sufficient quarters in my pantspocket
to give misleading appearance of alleged firearm. They searched my bags, found
floppydisks, FOR DUMMIES yellowbooks, indexcardboxes containing vast quantities
of floppydisks, learnedly boring volumes, and the most incriminating items of
all, toothbrush and toothpaste: Just try and have Attention Deficits and fixate
upon food particles, it is inhuman.
One of the officers sternly pointed out that, according to my address on the
ID, I was out of my nonwhite skidrow neighbourhood. As I already knew. The
precise moral being inculcated or transmitted eluded me; portends perhaps the
introduction of Pass Laws, Race Classification Boards (whence I'll get my Due
as a one-organism race), Townships for Degenerates; nothing omitted.

Nothing occrs, as I said, the way it should; occurrences do indeed occur
which, by all that is holy, rational, and ostensibly in accord with the Laws
of Physics in the Book of Leviticus, should never do so. If I knew all the
details, that is, if a Normal bravely risked Innocent Blood for the dubious
benefit of my attaining the state of Fully Informed, if I didn't do anything
about it, I'd for sure figure it out. But alas, this is Utopian. Let me be
a QELF, for surely I cannot be Else. (Quasi-Extraterrestrial Life-Form).

Now, what you did to me, quite recently, was, you induced a recrudescence
of the occasion when I was raped on February 10, in its emotional horror, its
driving me to SOMETHINGMUSTBEDONEism, which was the way of the Lemming, yet
also imposing what had better, thought I, the IRON NECESSITY OF MAINTAINING

How could I possibly have been raped? Out of the question. But...I was.
There were these people who had this fantasy they wanted to include me in.
Which I wanted out of. There was a transient psychic state when I was
obsessional. A psychiatrist, evaluating the timing and, testing the hypothesis
that it was possible to modulate the obsession might, if he could not affect
the content of the obsession, just possibly could induce disorientation, such
that a loud, authoriative-sounding, military-style Command, uttered at just
the right instant, could yield effects comparable to perpetrating disgusting
acts upon a drunk or catatonic. That you cannot accept that it happened, this
is readily understood. You cannot deny the intensity of the aftereffects, which
went on, and on, and on for months. Which are at this time still going on.
Having abated for some weeks, maybe even a couple of months. But now obsessive

Tell me, Hugh W. Jarvis, HOW DO YOU USUALLY GET RAPED?

Of course you do not, like most men, usually get raped at all, except for
those occasions for those men incarcerated in prisons or suchlike venues for
sodomizing the (relatively) helpless. That's how you know who they are, by
what they get done to them. Now, I wasn't sodomized. I was coerced into
submission to acts intended to look sexish, whilst the other party indulged
his voyeurism. No sexual sensations, to the best of my awareness, were felt
in or by any of the three organisms, including the one objectified, me. What
was intended was the exercise of control, of power, over a haplessly passive
"victim," as in the perpetrators' fantasy roleplay.

Enough of this shit.

Back to you. Say you got raped. These things do happen to Normals who're
found by the wrong sort of people in areas said Normals are considered not
allowed in. Or just because there's a mistaken-identity arrest, and there's
a rapist in the Sheriff's van. Old stuff.
The Normal presses charges forthwith, acquires services of an attorney
which the Normal most likely purchases in the market, and criminal, or
perhaps criminal *and* civil charges are pressed. There is punishment of
an organism vaguely resembling the perpetrator, and the Normal resumes the
pre-existing Normal life, except that, see, something's Happened, which can't
allow the restoration of the status quo ante.

To put this into more commonplace idiom, imagine yourself a Normal woman.
In former times, which is only yesterday, women were not Normal. They were
not Complete Human Beings. In thus wise, what they said, when raped, lacked
*gravitas*, in terms of sexist Roman society. Literally, women weren't
"heavies." To charge rape itself entailed the seemingness of masochism to
defy their own Unseriousness (from the standpoint of the Fully Human), with
the consequent and correlative imputations of "asking for it," charges of
refraining from gross overdressing in hot weather or omitting to steer wide
of male-only or predominantly-male streets and street-related business
establisments where, worst of all, alcohol might have been sold. Women are,
however, a gender. There is, in the present issue, only me that *got it*.

Could I go to the police? Hell no. Consider the probabilities. Besides,
I was at least partly aware that I was in no condition to encounter strangers
of any sort for any reason. First of all, the cab I called to make my getaway
refused to come until one of the rapists kindly[!] assured the dispatcher that
this was cool & upandup; seems there was Slurred/Garbled Speech. At LaGuardia
Airport, the cabdriver remarked, unsolicitedly, that "You don't look so hot,"
and, "You sure yer allright, now, onnacounta to me you don't look good at all."
Meaning, starkravingmad.

For six weeks I managed to keep mention of the whole business at a very low
level. I did request the assistance of Ruby Rohrlich in finding "a smart
feminist lawyer interested in extending the boundaries of existing definitions
of coerced sex acts." This, it was plain, Ruby Rohrlich dismissed as delusional
ideation. But I do not to this day consider the request unreasonable.
It should be noted that, when the lid finally came off, circa March 12, it
was Ruby Rohrlich who got most roundly lambasted. Beneath the outright insanity
I had a grudge; I got angry over a real material refusal to help. Whether the
request was "reasonable" is not a matter I am willing to leave to you, Hugh
W. Jarvis, or to a vote of the subscribership of ANTHRO-L. Nor do I care how
it looks, nor do I care if I get thrown off the list. Because I'm unsubscribing
as soon as this is posted.

Now, let's go back to that weekend of March 12. I'd kept the lid on for six
weeks; it could be kept on no longer; there was leadpipecinch certainty that
complaining aloud to the ANTHRO-L subscribership would be construed as aught
but a psychotic episode at best. Yet I gotta, just simply gotta, break the
deadlock. Between SOMETHINGMUSTBEDONEism, stupid, very stupid idea, and the
what never had a Direct Experience of the existence of Will and other shibbo-
lithic fantasies of the armenian Protestant faith, where if you're Jewish,
osmosis will do it too [note: the shibbolithic is believed to have occurred
or persisted for no very good reason for about fifteen hundred years, during
which time there were numerous arguments, debates, conferences, presentations
of "papers" written on deerskin, bark, or suchlike, whatever, which have not
come down to us. It'd make tedious going had we possessed the documents, of
the general tenor, "The Neolithic, How To Prevent It." One such fragment
has been recovered from the Koczynski Culture, in the former Gdansk Corridor,
now widened into an Expressway.]

Well, I was gonna damnwell blow up, and in that state, give the widest
possible, which wasn't much, circulation to the charges of coerced attempted
- and no damned good anyway had anyone felt anything except power, which wasn't
me, for sure - since I'd have to be Reality-Impaired, as the disgusting phrase
goes, to do any such disseminating. Which I wuzgonna; the heat under the
pressurecooker was HIGH, was HOT AS HELL. Whereupon I did make the announcement
regarding the names, addresses, e-mail account, and phonenumber, I forget, of
the perpetrators, which I have at this time failed to work myself up into
divulging again, not that I didn't give it the old college try tonight, too.
To which I add, "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww."

We come, at long last, to the night of July 2/July 3, 1996. What this is
all about. And once again, something which can happen to *nobody* happened
to me (OH NO NOT AGAIN I WON'T LET IT NO NO NO). I excavated the Iceman. Yes.
Him. Rock as the ies, Bould as the der. Seems I'd followed Mike Shupp, who's
got an instinct for locating *really cool* lists, onto this farout, as we
useta say, Thingie, <Arch-Student@lists.Colorado.EDU>. I'm tellinya, never
have I FELT for the Neandertal like I did behind Mike Shupp and whatshername,
associated with the Internet node WUSTL. It was a heavy Neandertal trip. At
last, something on cable worth watching. Until the Iceman cometh:

[continued following third line of hyphens, below]
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From: Robert Johnson <johnsorl@Colorado.EDU>
To: "Daniel A. Foss" <U17043@UICVM.CC.UIC.EDU>
Cc: Architecture-Student <arch-student@lists.Colorado.EDU>
Subject: Re: professionalism, foo; freelymorphed ideation, yea!
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On Tue, 2 Jul 1996, Daniel A. Foss wrote:

> Come now, Robert, metaprogram thyself, ingest LSD in untold quantities
> (certes not by us), loosen the obscenity up.

I don't know whether Daniel Foss has posted to this list before,
but he is an example of the price to be paid for 1st Amendment

He posts "only" words, therefore you can decide to be affected
or not.

Foss can be somewhat amusing until at times he reaches a point
where any with half a heart would not come to feel for him.

Hugh Jarvis, listowner of anthro-l, regards Foss as positively a
folk hero. Also, be advised, Foss has a habit of extreme vulgarity
which Hugh Jarvis has tolerated for some time now.

Maybe Hugh can explain Foss in more elegant terms than I.

I'm sure if Foss has not posted to this list before, it was Hugh
who told him to subscribe.

Such is the price of Freedom.


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Date: Wed, 03 Jul 1996 12:57:13 +0100
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From: Doug Weller <archaeolog@ramtops.demon.co.uk>
To: arch-student@lists.Colorado.EDU
Subject: Re: professionalism, foo; freelymorphed ideation, yea!
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In message <Pine.GSO.3.94.960703001135.2123A-100000@ucsub.Colorado.EDU> you

> On Tue, 2 Jul 1996, Daniel A. Foss wrote:
> > Come now, Robert, metaprogram thyself, ingest LSD in untold quantities
> > (certes not by us), loosen the obscenity up.
> Hugh Jarvis, listowner of anthro-l, regards Foss as positively a
> folk hero. Also, be advised, Foss has a habit of extreme vulgarity
> which Hugh Jarvis has tolerated for some time now.

Hugh's not listowner any more -- I think the board has tolerated Foss,
but not completely, and from my chats with Hugh I'd have to disagree
that Hugh thinks Foss a folk hero. I think they either kicked him
off or something for a while when he started to libel people and post
phone numbers.

I don't know why Foss is posting here, but please Daniel, can't
you stay on anthro-l?

Doug Weller
[continued from hyphenated line preceding first included post]
   Robert, I would not be part of any folk that would have me as a Folk Hero.
Since it aint Jarvis, the folk mentioned gotta be YOU. Thus do I abolish the
Folk you'd have me folkheroing for: <POOF!>
   ["Check that out, folks, aint nothin' left o'coyote, not even th' tail!"]
   I do not, and have not, expected Hugh W. Jarvis to have paid any attention
to the what and the why of ALL THAT STUFF. I have composed this document for
the TOTALLY STUPID purpose of establishing a full and complete record, not
caring if it be plausible or read. This was merely an incompleted task which,
without attaining its final completion, would remain a standing reproach for
the remainder of my life, however brief. This, in psychology, is called
*Zeigarnik Effect*, after Barbara Zeigarnik, its discoverer. Quite simply,
if you're forcibly restrained, say, by closing of the Computer Lab, from
completing an uncompleted task, it bugs the shitouttaya. Which makes a whole
lotta sense to me. I go in, rather, for UNSTARTED tasks, whereon I never get
anywhere near the lower middle. Or was that supposed to be upper middle. I
care not. The hour is late. No, the hour is fine, I am late. This is the
winter of our discontents, but it's July.
   See ya in Hell, Robert, where I'll teach you, then teach you some more,
and so long as the demons don't torture us and disturb our equanimity as
requisite for scholarly pursuits, I shall make you in death what I'd attained
previously. It's worth waiting for, Coyote <hee hee>. There *is* school after
death; and I know what thousands of years of scholarship failed to discover
by this wise. But the other side of it is, Robert, there's Grades, and I'm
a hard marker.
Daniel A. Foss