How did a cobbled mess of a

resume, pet photo, and lists of

one's CDs and favorite links

become the blueprint for a home

page? Maybe your Luddite pals

are right to fear the net - when

the predominance of information

on the Web consists mainly of

net.cadets barking their names,

ranks, and serial numbers, it's

not unreasonable to smell a

fascist in the house. But if the

prototypical slobbering drill

sergeant demanding strict

stupidity exists, he's been

internalized.

Some see this situation as fodder

for cocktail party laments;

others see opportunity. If you

assume that most communications

media rapidly become overwhelmed

by their commercial sponsors, it

only makes sense to recognize

the commercials as the only

honest programming - and afford

them the critical attention they

deserve. This is considered a

half-assed coping strategy until

your stench overpowers that of

your subject - at which point

you're left on stage, mic in

hand. It's kinda nice when,

without missing a beat, you're

able to career effortlessly into

your own schtick without

humiliating yourself

irreparably.

No, we're not masturbating in

public again - these retarded

ramblings are the afterglow from

surfing Gregg Beato's Traffic

site until every damn link

burned purple. If you insist on

knowing what sort of murk you're

diving into before you leave, we

could mention that Beato and the

odd contributor have posted

ruminations on the rock 'n' rap

spiritual pick-me-up of Addicted

To Jesus, the mass-manufactured

"craftsmanship" of the Pottery

Barn, the ludicrous direct-mail

tactics of the New York Review

of Books, and the apparent

godhead status of

jack-ass-of-all-trades John

Tesh. Maybe the best way to get

an instant feel for Beato's

method is to check out his

submissions guideline

(literally), which we've already

flogged ourselves for not having

dreamt up.

No editor working on the Web

today would run stretches of

text even half the length of

most of Beato's, but in the

course of traversing Traffic we

probably read half of everything

before it occurred to us it might

be easier on the eyes to just

print out the rest and camp out

with the paper under our desks.

Ever thought you'd have the

patience to work your way

through a twenty-screen

imageless work on the Web? Try

the Serial Theater, the first

installment of a play revolving

around a fledgling cult leader

who owes more to Larry Ellison

than Jim Jones. It's a first -

of what, we're not precisely

sure...

But look, not only did we never

learn to take a compliment, we

never really learned how to give

one - and we've long grown

accustomed to receiving megs of

angry email whenever we try. So,

instead of repeating our custom

of blathering on ad nauseum with

crude jokes about cripples,

we'll adjourn class early and

simply urge you to follow any

given link and enjoy - you could

do much worse and probably will,

over and over again.