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July 23rd, 2000
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Send Me (What Else?) Money!
Since I don't get many hits, I figured I'd go for really big bucks over, say, asking for a quarter. The code behind the button is complicated, but quite legal under the new federal digital signature law that was passed by the feds earlier this month, so any of you who clicked on it (inadvertently or otherwise) will soon be visited by representatives of your bank looking for their money. That little voice you hear in the distance, wafting in over the wind from a beach located on an island in the middle of the Pacific is mine, a colorful drink in my hand raised in toast to a rapid recovery from your current clearly deteriorating mental and financial condition: "Ciao baby. Say hello to the boys from the bank for me."
OK, so I'm not sure money would help. Like the photography, it's a hobby. If I had no money, I'd still find a way to post, this being one of those horrible little "artistic" adventures you muck about with in college classrooms and talk about in artsy coffee houses. Like my coffee house. Down the street. By the lake. My excuse is this is a practice space, not a serious adventure at all, a doodle book never meant for public consumption. Oh, well. I'm comfortable with it, this never ending stream of how Wuss looked last week, the current company turmoil and the Jeep I decided I didn't want so I bought an old box with a transmission problem instead. Maybe one day I'll step up to a serious effort (I tell myself), but under a different moniker and a different domain in a far future where ambition and energy flow like water, twenty five cents a bottle, and I'm skinny again. You know the day. Too well.
One additional little detail: the button doesn't just remove a million dollars from your account.
It's a techie thing, really, a web experiment, just to see if I could pull it off. It takes your money, yes, from your checking and savings, but then it runs a search against your 401k and transfers any interesting stocks (those with symbols beginning in s* and m* as well as i* and l* and e*) to a blind box I maintain in the Cayman Islands, then checks your cookies for books read, videos purchased and groceries delivered, aggregates the data, and sells it to a large American corporation which resells it immediately to a select list of HMO's and insurance carriers that pay good money for this stuff. It also checks for jpegs with too many body parts and sends an email to everybody on your contact list requesting that cash be immediately wired to a blind box in the Cayman Islands or else the Bolivian narco terrorists who are now holding you hostage in a filthy Sucre City basement will cut off your ears, squash them flat and send them to your mother stapled to a birthday card. I skipped your credit cards. Everyone already knows how to grab your credit cards.
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The photograph was taken at the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade. The quote under The Sole Proprietor title is anonymous.
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