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Archive for September, 2000


Hooray, hooray!!! Michael is coming to bounce some stuff around tonight! I smell fresh gigs, boys and girls…

|| September 14, 2000 || 11:18 pm || Comments (0) ||

Were you there for the wilding?
Were you party to the vicious caress?
It lived and tossed of its’ own accord
At the impetus where breathing and brain function are ragged and sharp
And colors define themselves….
It is there where corners bend to touch;
Where broken strings come alive to sing.
What if you were never to return??

|| September 14, 2000 || 12:45 pm || Comments (0) ||

I just made a startling realization. My children’s birthdays are all a multiple of 7 (or divisible by 7, however you choose to view it in your own infinite wisdom). The day of the month, I mean. Not the entire birthdate. THAT is not the realization, however. I figured that one out a while back. I also figured out that there must be some greater cosmic spin to all that, but it has yet to be evidenced to me. I can only fantasize in my grandiose way and then go back to being the person who washes the pajamas and cleans up the crumbs in anticipation of the time that they will be completely self-sufficient so that I can go back to performing full-time instead of catch-as-catch-can. I hope that when that time rolls around they will still want to hang out with me ~I think that they are pretty neat people and I would tolerate them even if I didn’t HAVE to~, be it in the living room or backstage.

My realization is this: I started this blog on July the 14th….7/14. SEVEN FOURTEEN. S-E-V-E-N F-O-U-R-T-E-E-N. You know your multiplication (or division, however you choose to view it in your own infinite wisdom) tables, right??

And I am floored. There is some kind of subliminal message about my life in there, but I don’t choose to be analytical at this time. Right now I am just viewing it as an astounding co-inker-dink.

|| September 13, 2000 || 11:50 pm || Comments (0) ||

Fer God’s sake, it is not really even the middle of September yet and I am sitting here shivering.<–wish I knew of some funky little snippet of code I could slap in there and make the word ’shivering’ quiver like newly-set Jell-O….that’d be tres awesome!

Anyhoo, I was saddened by the news about this cyberguru-to-some. I’ve not been visiting long, but the visits that I DID make were unsettling and thought-provoking. I like this guy because I don’t necessarily have the level of courage to be so forthright and raw with my web spewings. We have lots in common, D. Maybe you find comfort in knowing? Maybe not? Either way, I should have made you aware of that fact sooner…hope to hear from you again real soon.

|| September 11, 2000 || 9:25 am || Comments (0) ||

Blah, blah, blog.
(a tiny little ditty inspired by blogger)

Blah, blah Blogger,
A wonderful publishing tool…
I can be prosaic
Even though I have no clue.
You help me get it done faster,
I praise your good name;
One of my most valued cyber-toys
‘Cause my ‘puter skillz are lame.

All mad props to the inimitable Mutha Goose.

|| September 11, 2000 || 12:22 am || Comments (0) ||

~giggle~ Pneumatic chairs are the bomb. AHEM, now that I have THAT outta my system we can move along, folks.

Ever partake of something the 20th time out and it still seems fresh and new to you? Something about it simply sparkles and it appeals to you on many levels?…I know you know that feeling. We all know that feeling about something in our lives; those of us who are incredibly fortunate have felt it from more than one aspect/in many respects. If you’ve never had it happen, don’t worry. It will occur (even if it takes until your dying day).

One such thing for me is ‘Lawn Dogs’. The fact that Sam Rockwell (some names are so FITTING) sets the old Lust Bus en route notwithstanding, he is one fuck of a performer (sorry, Sam…that’s the best way I coulda put it. I’m at a loss; how cliche). It simply loosens my jaw to know that I have never heard him credited as one of the hottest commodities in Hollystrange. I mean Hollyweird. Nonono, it’s Hollywood. Yeah, that’s it: Hollywood.

So now you know one valuable thing about me: my true feelings about Hollywood. I’d make a shitty entertainment lawyer; or a great one, I dunno….

I should mention that part of the appeal is the character “Devon”; her fancy-schmancy hyphenated last name temporarily escapes me. Yuppies, SHEESH. “We are such full, interesting people that lead such full, interesting lives and live in such full, interesting houses with children who undoubtedly have full, interesting futures ahead of them and we should possess names that are just as full and interesting.”**HEY, HERE’S AN IDEA….perhaps you should earn one more hyphen with each successive ten mil after the first five or so.**

ANYWAY, all kidding aside, I was telling you about Devon…. somebody who knew me as a child talked to some writers and I was incorporated in some aspects into this character. That’s the only possible explanation….tooooo uncanny, mkay? These traits emerge and rub up against me with an air of familiarity that leaves me awestruck. How did they know that I would go out into the moonlight barely clothed on mild nights and look up at the unpolluted sky and feel all those places where I was not? To know that sorrow that accompanies a homesickness for a place you had never seen, a person you’ve never been? Does every little girl know talismans? Is it incorporated into the female makeup? Did we all climb trees and tie ribbons to each branch in need of a shiny piece of satin? Were/are there other young women that knew the disdain of their microsociety? I never pissed on my dad’s car, but had I thought of it, I might’ve. I NEVER would’ve entered a stranger’s house uninvited or unannounced; this was not from fear but from thinking it ill-mannered. I wouldn’t have done the fly-in-the-cookie thing either. Why waste a perfectly good cookie? The dolls, the doll parts, the exacting-punishment-where-punishment-is due…..yeah, toned down a half a click it could’ve been me.

The self-created parallel storyline WAS me. Always ticking out the next string of words in whatever drama I was destined to lay to the page. Not an escape, not a way to enliven a dull existence (for it wasn’t a dull one), just something that was. Like breathing or blinking. Simply an inherent part of the whole.

So watch ‘Lawn Dogs’ and know that it gets me right there, even if it doesn’t do a damned thing for you. Then e-mail me with what holds your multi-layered magic. Or better yet, set up your own blog and tell the world.

Pee ess….I am almost NEVER satisfied with the endings that are unfittingly served to us, but there could not ever in the history of the planet been a more suitable and filling wrap to a story. TRULY.

|| September 9, 2000 || 3:20 am || Comments (0) ||

Q: What’s the difference between a Northern fairytale and a
Southern fairytale?
A: A Northern fairytale begins “Once upon a time…”; a Southern fairytale begins “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this

So here I sits, at 3:37 a.m. CST, eating eggs covered in The Original Louisiana Hot Sauce with a chocolate chip muffin on the side and some skim milk washing it all down. Normally, my lovelies, I near-despise eggs, even those cooked to a fluffy scrambled heavenliness a la my ma’s infamous recipe. On occasion, though, I do gets a pireful hankerin’ fer tha thangs, and tonight just so happens to be one of those times. The baby sits to my left, easily observed through the french doors of my office/dining room, watching The Brave Little Toaster with a look of amusement mingled with bliss (the same exact look he’s worn the 300 other times that he has taken said flick in). We are fresh offa a 1 a.m. visit to the E.R. *sigh* and he is on a sugar high that promises to last until 4:30 or so….

Was having a great time with the hubby *wink-wink* around midnight when the phone rings. I moan “Ignore it” and we both do until we hear the semi-frantic voice of mom-in-law beseeching us to pick the phone up and baby whimpering in the background. This is very uncharacteristic; my mother-in-law is never frantic and most usually quite capable in all situations. Cursing and fumbling to find the cordless ensues and by the time it’s found, she has hung up. When I call back, she tells me that my 20-month-old normally happy baby awakened her with screaming and was on fire with a 104.5-degree temp. She chucked him in the tub and I yanked on the nearest matching ensemble. Hubby has to work today and someone has to stay with the other two children, so I vote myself out the door and into the car to retrieve the young master.

Poor little thing. He is Mister Go Lucky normally, but was crying forlornly at the mere mention of his name. The bath seems to assuage his fever the tiniest bit and I give him some children’s ibuprofen on the fly. He scribbles jaggedly and angrily on his MagnaDoodle while riding to the hospital. Once there, the whole process goes rather swimmingly, which is no small feat for the hospital that we loosely refer to as “Medical Shitsville”. We are ushered in straight away (to my utter amazement) and seen within 15 minutes. HO-LEE SHEE-YUT. Zoinks, Batman!

End result is strep throat and he is given two cups of juice while awaiting an antibiotic shot.

He muttered “ohno,ohno,ohno” the entire walk back to the room we were assigned, so on some level methinks he knowed it was coming….he is highly intelligent and we can’t put much past him.

Keeping in mind that he was not feeling too snazzy to begin with and had already been subjected to the whole icky rectal temp thing twice, the shot was not well-received and he subsequently scored two yummy popsicles after the nurses got done cooing over him. He is a real beauty, what can I say? The popsicles were not quite enough to temper the situation, so as he sat on my lap he touched my lips repeatedly and said “lalala”. This means he wants songs to fill the moment, a throwback to when I would singsong “La la la, connect the dots” while he was an infant.

How can I possibly refuse this feverish little moppet, his curls sticky with sweat, his eyelashes matted from tears? I break into the standards, the repertoire of no-fails that have been honed to perfection by nearly 9 (GOD! Has it been that long?) years of mommydom…

After the requisite 15-minute post-injection observation period and handing off of the prescription, we are free to go and he is nearly a new man, fussing with his blanky on the way to the car.

All the way home he babbles and chatters at me in his loose baby-cum-toddler lingo. He is enchanted by the clear night and all the bright-shinies that it contains. As we hit the old country roads, he is delighted to play peepeye (translated as “peekaboo” for all northeners and foreigners) with the moon, which is low-slung and bright white. He keeps exclaiming “WOOK!” to me while pointing at it bobbing to and fro within the trees. This moment reminds me….

One night on the drive home, my daughter (then 2-and-a-half) turned to me and said excitedly, “Look mommy, the moon is following us. It must like me.” This was followed by a few moments of silence and then she turned to ask, “Mommy, can the moon come home wif us?” “I dunno, sweetie, you’ll have to ask the moon if it wants to.”

She asked me to roll down the window, which I did, then she politely asked, “Moon, would you like to come home wif me? I would like you to.” The moon followed us and she felt very special to have garnered its’ attention.

And here was my boy, sugar-loaded and fascinated with the moon. And here was me, caught between two moments in time and utterly fascinated by it all.

And oh yeah, I am eating eggs. The end.