Friday, May 30, 2008

DB #'s 6-11! One Lonestoner deserves another, or Fuck you, I know what I said!


It's been several days since my last blog entry so this one is extra long to make up for lost time. I've been preoccupied with Burning Man stuff, my apologies to all my faithful daily readers.

Both of you!

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The other day, just for fun, I tried Googling Lonestoner to see what would pop up. I've Googled myself plenty of times but this was the first time I've tried Googling an alias. (Sounds dirty doesn't it?) The results were quite unexpected. First off let me start by telling you a little about the name and how it came to be, at least in my case.

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My very first internet screenname, way back in the old dial-up AOL days, like 94 or 95, was bongheadbob. While apt, this name could in no way be called original. One night, while sitting up alone and smoking some herb, I was trying to think of a new name, and it occured to me that most of my herb smoking was done alone, and that I very much preferred it that way. I'd always been a loner, and at age 13 was well on my way to becoming a stoner. I was a stoner loner... I was like the Lone Ranger of pot smoking. No wait, I was...

The Lonestoner!

And indeed I was. Keeping my silent vigil over the sleeping masses, blowing smoke rings of protection, my only companions Jay and Conan, and sweet Mary Jane. And so it began.

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Getting back to the Google results, I say the results were unexpected mostly because of one Douchebag, who has the nerve to call himself Billy Bud Toker (of Da Unda Hoggs, no less!) a wannabe gangsta rapper who not only took it upon himself to claim the title of Lonestoner, it's the title track of his album! Naturally I was curious to hear the song, but after much searching the closest I got was a 30 second sample. It was enough to go from curious to furious. For those of you who are interested, you can purchase the song for about a quarter, but after listening to the sample I can promise you won't get anywhere near your money's worth. Luckily I won't have to take any legal action against Mr. Toker, since he seems to have faded back into the obscurity from whence he came, but it still pisses me off to have my nome de plume associated with that kind of garbage.

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The other search results weren't nearly as infuriating, and some were downright cool, like Lonestoner the banjo player! http://www.banjohangout.org/myhangout/home.asp?id=3497

Then there was Lonestoner the online Pokemon player, with an impressive record of 0 and 1.

http://gamebattles.com/ds/pokemon/team/lonestoner

And who could forget this hopeless romantic from Kentucky: http://www.love.org/105/lonestoner.htm

I believe this one might be an old account from way back in my hardcore gaming days: http://www.gametracker.com/player/RSB*%20lonestoner/?game=bf2

And of course there was the REAL Lonestoner: http://people.tribe.net/5d67d1a5-b113-47b2-92a4-8347aa7ca925

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A Google blog search will turn up this blog, but thankfully no others. All in all I guess things could be worse, and I like to think there is a little bit of Lonestoner in all of us!

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And now I'd like to end this post with a bit of gibberish verse, reposted from Crypto's nonsense thread on Tribe. The first one is mine, the second is by my Tribefriend Adam and was the inspiration for my gobbledygook.

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Lyrics+babbling stream of consciousness=?

By: Lonestoner and various artists

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I was born a thorn away from the rotten petals, a forgotten rebel, crafted in the absence of Heaven's heavy hands to develop an evident level of benevolence, so it's probably better I sold my soul to the devil and gave Jebus the shirt right off my back. .

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Like Buddy I know about the keys, and the door, and the bees, and yes they call me the breeze, I keep blowing down the road. The only road that I have ever known, and I can't wait to get on the road again, drinking beers and smoking tea. This infantry life's the life for me..., for nothing in this world is free. Except Freedom. NO, wait... .

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The killer put his boots on and, walked on down the hall!! He was late for work. Killing was his weekend hobby, just a little something to pass the time while his wife was out of the house. She was supposed to be shopping but in reality she was going down, down, down, to Cedartown to sleep with his brother. Oh brother, where art though? Am I my brothers keeper, and please won't you be, oh please won't you be, my neighbor? I'm not the lizard king, I'm the king of cats. I like funny hats. .

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I built a bridge across a stream of consciousness that almost seemed to be overflowing. Up Shit Creek with out any paddles, but still I'm frantically rowing. Reaping what I'm sowing, Wait, without even knowing, I seem to have started badly rhyming. I hate this stream of consciuosness shit I need to quit, I'm over it, hit the switch I'm done with this, that's why I'm not a poet, and the red, red, robin goes bob, bob, bobbin along...

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My seeing-eye dog chased a car around a blind corner, you should have fucking seen it, damn your bloodshot eyes! I had to quit using my computer for awhile because of a really nasty virus. This PC works fine I'm just a sick, sick bastard...

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I got the rockin pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu baby, so hit ctrl, alt, delete, and end this task.

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Here's Adam's:

... so I was a hippy mall-rat supertramp; entirely unfocused on anything other than my own self-similarity. I saw that in a dream that was a lot like a Williams S. Burrough's novel written on used single-ply toliet paper. Therein my existence became entwined with dust that will never... EVER... dislodge it's grainy little soul from my Coleman sleeping bag. The woman at the free psyllocibin coffee shop was emphatic that I needed to wake up all of my strands of DNA. It was time then to catch the glactic green turtle train to the rainforest which was recently raised to the ground due to the rising demand of cheep beef. I made the journey and sat with all of the now homeless forest critters smoking bongloads and commiserating over what a fucking bummer it is to be out of a home.

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Time shifted drastically upon meeting the roadside shaman with rapsheet a mile long. I am sure that he put something in my drink because I started this post in the nineteenth century and it is now a quarter past eleven in the new millenium. I can't sleep when I think about what it is that one would need to conquer their little slice of the world. I scream for donuts but all I get is powdered sugar, there's no substance there for a person in need of doughy goodness. Not that any of this makes any sense at all. It is not supposed to make sense and their are people trying to save my soul by putting it in a jar under their kitchen sinks right next to the two-year old bacon grease.

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Then everything folds in upon itself again and there is a break in the world of make believe and what truly is. They dance in constant flux always breathing into each other, kissing without ever touching, bending but not breaking.

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