What are ya like?
There's been a lot of talk about Raze. Maybe, maybe too much talk.
Ha! In my dreams. Or as my friend Pete used to say whenever I started talking like a complete tosser: "What are ya like?" Still, it's nice to have my detractors. I feel that I've arrived, in some subtle but important way.
Here are some of the specific complaints that have been levelled against Raze:
What's it all for? Well, it keeps me off the streets, dunnit? And into your monkey brain. Heh.
"You don't have your address on there. You don't have your real name! You don't have a picture of your dog, or the story of your life, or anything!"
- Guilty as charged. It's not my home page. And I don't have a dog. But for the record, I live in Surrey Street, Darlinghurst, Sydney, Australia; which by a not-terribly-great coincidence is also home to Surrey Street Aerospace.
"It's just a bunch of in-jokes about you and your friends."
- Sigh. I bet real Web publishers don't have to put up with this. Look. Give me a little credit? If you'd venture down into the Raze archives, buried in a bunker beneath the Lucas Heights nuclear reactor, you'd find fiction, satire, Cosmo-style lifestyle features, plus obits for a dead princess or three. You'd find one or two pieces on my exquisite passion for corporatist life. All that, and a bunch of in-jokes about me and my friends. Value!
"I went to Raze to find out your boyfriend's surname, and it wasn't anywhere on the site!"
- Actually it was. But he prefers to be known just as Jeremy. The original and best. Accept no substitutes.
"What's all this stuff about the Frock Advisory Council, anyway?"
- I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Sorry.
So, smart person, why don't you mail me?
Monday, 8 December 1997. Ever responsive to client needs. Happy birthday, Mark.
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