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Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 28, 2018 || 2:23 pm


Hello lovelies. Consider this your official notice that swap signups are open. All the details you can shake a stick at are in previous posts about these shenanigans. More specific instructions will follow for participants, though.

Comment below (please include your email address!) if you want to join our rowdy, cheer-laden asses and I’ll send a group email a week from today with further details. WORD!


Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 27, 2017 || 9:50 pm


Hey errbody. It’s time! All the details you can shake a stick at are in previous posts about these shenanigans.

Comment below if you want to join our rowdy, cheer-laden asses and I’ll send a group email this Saturday with further details. YAYUH!


Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 27, 2016 || 11:53 pm

Swap Seven!

So I will spare you all the stuff about life getting in the way and just tell you that life got in the way and what was supposed to have been last year’s Magical Holidaylicious Superior Ornament Exchange, Part the Seventh, became The Big Jett Flake-Out because of work junk and family junk and gosh, aren’t disclaimers and explanations sofa king tiring, though?

So here we are today and it is ON, All You Preciouses.

Brand New Participants, you can check out the past swap posts to get a feel for how this thing goes. Don’t be afraid, the previous participants aren’t completely batshit. I like my friends to have Big Personalities and felony records on the ’safer’ end of the spectrum. Wait, I think I’ve said too much. Let’s back up.

The basics are that you comment below with your name (real or imagined) and an email address that won’t flag me for spam. I then start spamming you with a Great New Business Opportunity reach out to you with the best way to submit your info to me so that I can set you up with a recipient. The goal this year is to have all the participants herded into the Good Cheer paddock by Saturday, 3 December and then we’ll aim for Tuesday, 13 Dec as the mailing deadline. If your recipient is in another country, I ask that you try to hit the ground running and get their ornament in the post as far ahead of that date as you can.

There are not a lot of rules for this thing, because rules are for suckers and we are all mostly-free spirits here. Here are some basic ground rules, though:

1) Meet the deadlines. It sucks to be the starry-eyed exuberant person who does all they can to make someone else’s day, only to be left out of the fun when people are sharing their boodle via social media (which isn’t a thing, but people do it*). So don’t, um, be a jerk. Set an alarm or tell Uncle Google to do his due diligence and remind you to work your magic.

2) You can make or purchase an ornament; said ornament should have a retail value of seven to twenty dollars. If you Make, you should be able to sell your creation on the open market for the aforementioned price range. If you are using one-dollar felt, you work some seven-dollar magic on that stuff, baby. I believe in you: I really and truly do.

3) There is no religious, geographical, age, sex, etc. etc. standard or limitation at play here. Red and yellow, black and white, you are all precious in my sight. We’ve had eight-year olds on up to sixty-eight-year olds get involved. Jews and Agnostics and Protestants and Buddhists and None-of-Your-Businesses (and maybe even a couple of Pastafarians or something) have thrown in on this jolly good time in the past. We are equal-opportunity dingdongs for sure, is what I’m saying. The only characteristic you need is a mindset of joy and mirth and inclusion (and hell, we’ve even had a couple of grumpy fuckers join us in the past, so like I said…everybody is welcome). This is about fun, and about surprising someone, and about maybe making a friend. Lots of connections have been made as a result of this thing, and your friendships and joy blooming are fun for me to watch.

This one is not a rule, but a preference: If you’re not making and would rather buy (no shame in that; I too have gone that route at times in the past), I’d like to gently suggest that you buy from a Maker. Artists bring humanity and soul to the table, and that is something we are forever in need of, whether you consciously acknowledge that or not. Spinners of humanity and soul require fancy things like electricity and groceries to fuel them.

And I ain’t gonna front even one little bit: I am fairly touchy about perpetuating the influx of cheap and exploitative import shitgoods into our country, so there’s that. Be the change, suckahs.

I love you. Let’s do the dang thang!

P.S. Feel free to invite all your pals so that they can be my pals too.

*how are we seven years into this thing and I’ve only JUST NOW thought to do an Official Hashtag for this business? more on that in the email to follow, Lort.


Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 5, 2015 || 11:42 pm

He watched her go down the halls, untethered and unawares. He watched her stand easy in her own skin, laughing with people, ducking her head and covering her mouth, mirth leaking past her fingers.

Everything about her called to him, and nothing about her knew it.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

She always appeared to be present in the moment, alive in a way that none of her peers had yet learned. There was a constant part of her, though, that was out there, called across the ocean, fixed on a heart that she’d fallen into unintentionally.

Because she was focused on the hum of it, on keeping that signal, she missed other more subtle intonations.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

He didn’t know what it would be like to be with her; he had not the first clue, but he wanted to know.

He wanted to know.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

She lit up when she saw him, warm with affection. She liked his unassuming way, and she saw the spark of quiet fight that danced deep in his eyes.

Others may have missed it, but she caught it.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

He woke up one day. He rolled over, face to the wall, and decided.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

She woke up one day. She was still asleep, adrift over the waves, holding signal.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

He had decided, so he watched. Today was the day. Everything in him was taut with knowing that, so he watched for the when of it.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

She gathered her things: a stack of three thick texts, a sweater she draped across her arms. She clenched her keys, oblivious.

The parking lot was big and quiet. The fall day was perfect, mild, beautiful.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

He saw her go out the side door. For the first time that nervous day, he hesitated.

The instincts he woke up with took over again; they propelled him forward.

“Hi,” he said to her as he caught up. She turned to him and squinted against the sun.

“Heyyy,” she said back.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

“Can I?”


She felt a strange skip in her middle when he stretched his arms out, “Can I take those from you?”

When they got to her car she unlocked it and turned to retrieve the stack from him.

“Wait,” he said.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

He sailed into it. He’d not rehearsed, because he was somehow wise enough to know that, in the moment, no amount of practice would matter.

He told her how he loved her, how he’d always loved her, how his guts fell apart at the sight of her.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

She listened, feet fixed to the pavement, car keys dangling in the door lock.

The look on his face: Far before he finished, the look on his face made her decide to sidestep her promise.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Before he even knew they were coming out of him, he pushed the words toward her, bunched-up but sure: “I would give anything in this world just to touch you one time.”

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

The hum was overtaken by the racket of a thousand angels shouting. They urged her to dive.


Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 31, 2015 || 9:19 pm

When I was small, my paternal grandmother gifted me with a little yellow suitcase. When I left home to see the world at age eighteen, it was one of the things I left behind.

Thinking about it now, that surprises me a bit, but more on that in a minute.


About four years back, my parents decided to sell their house and travel full time until they were too old or infirm to do so. I enthusiastically supported them in this notion, and so I went to help them sort through their things and shuck their household into different directions: Storage, thrift shop, yard sale.

I felt like a disproportionate amount went into my vehicle, but I indulged my mother, because I knew that there were certain things she didn’t necessarily want to keep but couldn’t bear to part with. I went home with several things I felt sort of ‘Meh?’ about, because my Mom is a fucking saint and has been my champion the whole of my life. What’s a little cartage in the face of her mom-heroics?

One of the things we unearthed was the little yellow suitcase that I’d so loved. Mom couldn’t bear to let it go. She could sell the piano I’d gotten for my ninth birthday and parcel out my dolls to my younger cousins, but the little yellow suitcase stayed. It eventually became a place to house certain paperwork so that it bore the title ‘useful’ and had an actual purpose. A purpose meant a reason for being kept.

small blue thing

This is me around the time that the suitcase was gifted to me. I thought that suitcase was brilliant and gorgeous. There is a layered irony now in the fact that it was given to me by my paternal grandmother, but at the time all it represented to me was promise.

A suitcase was a very adult thing to have. It was also a very individual thing to have. It meant that I was seen as a person independent of adults. It meant that my things had to share space with only my things. It meant that I could pack my own bag as I pleased, and I could set off on adventures if it suited me.

So that’s what I did.

It started with me packing the suitcase and going out into the backyard to play. Then I packed the suitcase and went to the end of the driveway. Then I packed the suitcase and went to the neighbor’s house.

Before long, I was toting that bag down the block and around the corner and to the store and to the library (on those excursions I could scarcely carry it home, because I was bringing it back full of books). Over the years I carried my suitcase to my Uncle’s bowling alley to earn a quarter doing small jobs, my Aunt’s bakery for a cream-filled donut, my cousin’s house because I wanted to pet his dog. Sometimes I ended up staying the night with various family members by virtue of the fact that I had a little yellow suitcase that was packed with a pair of pajamas and a set of clean clothes. I was very fortunate in that I was a well-loved and well-regarded child, with multiple sets of ‘parents’ by way of a large extended family.

For as strict as my parents were in many ways, my vagabond tendencies –stoked by my first suitcase– were very indulged. My saddle oxfords got worn slap out.

This early tolerance of my independent streak and my love of finding new things, of seeing new places, set a tone for my life. I’m very thankful to my Mother and Father for this.

I’m thankful, too, to Mary. She is the person who gave me the little yellow suitcase. She didn’t gift me much else in my life (of substance OR of spirit), and I grew to despise her as I crept toward adulthood. I learned a couple of years ago that Mary’s mother left her on the side of a tree-lined gravel road when she was thirteen. Mary had one thing in each hand: The hand of her ten-year-old baby sister and a suitcase. My heart has softened to her some, because I’ve come to know that what I don’t know fills galaxies; they are galaxies that are populated with hard things like want and sorrow and truth and understanding.

The understanding I have teased out of one of those galaxies is this, though: Mary gave me that suitcase, and by doing so she both opened a door inside of me that I stepped through, and she prepared me for my life.

I was a small blue thing with a little universe in a box. Glory hallelujah.


Jett Superior laid this on you on || February 23, 2015 || 10:43 pm

“When are you going to die?” Sherry asked me.
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about that part.”

I’d told her about how I’d always known I wasn’t going grow old; I’d touched on the dreams.

“Why not?”
“I dunno, Sherry, it feels like blasphemy.”

I’ve never wanted to be here anyway. Dying young wouldn’t be a big deal. That doesn’t make me suicidal, though.

“Will it be soon?”
“Sherry, come on.”

My whole life I’ve experienced intense bouts of Missing. Homesick, but this confounding sort of homesickness for a place I’ve not seen with my eyes; I’ve seen it with my heart.

“No, you. YOU come on!”
“Why isn’t it enough that I told you?”

You can’t just go around telling people about stuff like this, because they think you’re mentally ill. One thing I’ve always been is crazy. One thing I’m not is mentally ill.

“You know that thing where someone tells you that they have a surprise for you and it makes you nuts? You say that you want to know everything or nothing at all. Well, I don’t know nothing at all, and that only leaves everything.”

I can’t stand when people use my own logic and belief systems to get the better of me. The fact that they can means my logic and belief systems are flawed. So are yours. So are that guy’s over there.

“This isn’t going to go away.”
“Forty-four. I think it will happen when I am forty-four. Nobody else on this planet knows that, so keep a lid on it.”


Jett Superior laid this on you on || January 26, 2015 || 12:22 am

When Lucifer dropped down from Heaven
And yanked a third of it, streaming, behind him,
Babies throughout time startled in their mother’s wombs:
A sudden jolt of a kick to interrupt the outer goings-on.
I’m told this was only a smudged exclamation point
In the unfolding history of Everything That Ever Was:
Emphatic, but blurry.

My Mama once told me that the Devil turns up his ear when I pray,
So, cracking my eyes open just the slightest
(In case things in my room started shaking and
Falling apart through the middle, books leaping off of shelves)
I’d sometimes address him as an aside:
“Hey. Why you so troublesome. Is jealousy worth all your tired anger?
Satan. Do you ever put down your dukes?”

I always did like to poke a bear, and I always dug after answers.
The way I was raised the Devil was the biggest trouble
But there were no answers that weren’t worth troubling even
Ol’ Beelzebub, because ignorance is worse (by far!) than death.
So: If I’ve not avoided challenging The Old Man himself,
Why on Earth would I not hazard to
Also question the way the Church behaves?