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Archive for September, 2001

 
|| September 30, 2001 || 10:17 am || Comments (0) ||

Woo-HOOOOOO!!!!
I got in on the seventh and last round of postcards over at mecawilson.

Don’t pretend to be all aloof and unaffected. You know you’re jealous, so pony up with it already.

 
|| September 27, 2001 || 12:15 am || Comments (0) ||

Man, he was the most beautiful thing, with his full lips and sleepy eyes. “Read to me,” he’d say, “Your voice makes everything alright.”

And I would read to him, all manner of things; short or long, poetic or raw, it didn’t matter…..all found their syntax as I went along, sometimes my voice not breaking for hours. Often I was parched after soothing him and I drank glass after glass of water.

I try not to think of him much as it always brings a sense of regret and loss that chokes me and makes me quite literally shake my head to clear it.

He’s thinking of me, perhaps even trying to find me, and here’s how I know:

This morning, I noticed the answering machine had come unplugged.The digital machine crapped out a couple of months ago and I finally got around to digging the old tape machine out. Hell, I liked it better anyway.

Anyhow, I plugged the machine in and it went through its’ little Loss Of Power Ritual, which is to fast-forward the tape to the end and then fully rewind. You then have to play back to clear it.

The first message punched me in the gut. It was a sign, for sure, because that message had been long recorded over. I KNOW it had. Hell, there were messages from this weekend right behind it.

A sign.

A sign that sucked all that has been building inside me for the last week or so right out.I wrapped my arms around myself and was inexplicably sad. I cried….

His voice (still tinged with east coast cocksureness thought he was transplanted to Cali while he was a young teen) brought him right back to me; it was as if he were standing here close enough for me to count the smattering of pale freckles that graced only his nose, close enough to tuck a stray strand of hair (we have the same unruly lock that likes to situate itself over the left eye) behind his ear, close enough to smell the chalkdust-and-paint scent that one who immerses himself in art always seems to carry.

His last message to me….the one he left as I was overhauling my life and making what I deemed as ’smart decisions’ (smart decisions that no longer seemed to include California and painters and picnics and passionate lovemaking on swingsets).

“Elizabeth, please answer the phone….it’s Cri-i-issss…. Hello? Please answer the phone if you’re home; I wanna talk to you more before you go — Oh man. *sigh* Barring that, I love you. Don’t you ever forget it. Can you tell how tired I am? I think I’m just gonna go back to sleep.

“I love you.”

His last message to me…why is it here now? What does this mean, Cris? Are you trying to locate me? Christ on a cracker, but how I’d love to talk to you.

This one’s for you:

here we go to another candle I know / all the girls there playin’ on a jelly roll

time to take a ride – time to take it in a midnite eye / and if you wanna go – get on below / pinking out the day – dreaming out the crazy way / finger on the love – it’s all above

everywhere it’s six-sex-six by luck / a satellite wish will make it just enough / you’ll be making out with a witch in a coffee truck

time to rock the road – and tell the story of the jelly rollin’ / dirty boots are on – hi di ho / pinking out the black – dreaming in a crack / Satan got her tongue – now it’s undone

I got some dirty boots – yeah dirty boots / I got some dirty boots – baby / dirty boots

// Sonic Youth, “Dirty Boots”

 
|| September 25, 2001 || 11:46 am || Comments (0) ||

Quite by accident, I found that this font is a little bigger (rather than anything resembling BOLD, if you can dig that) when you slap a ‘bold’ tag in front of it. So, out of respect for Unx’s pesky little myopia, I’ve decided to wrap everything in a bold tag before presenting it to y’all from now on. BARGAIN.

I’ve got ‘Undone (The Sweater Song)’ by Weezer making the rounds through my head today. I know I could exorcise it if I could just find the CD and play it, but one of the younguns took a shine to it a couple of years back and I’m pretty positive that it’s squirrelled away in his bedroom beneath a pile of important rocks and other scratchy things.

Oh yeah, JENNIFER.

 
|| September 24, 2001 || 8:33 pm || Comments (0) ||

Hey, you know what? I hate it here. On planet Earth, I mean.

Also, were I full-blooded Native American, I believe that my name would be “Runs With Scissors”.

Some days it’s so hard to stay sane. Or was I ever sane in the first place? I have been drug-free for quite some time now, but sometimes I wonder why I bother. I mean, there are these days when it seems that the whole purpose of my existence is to see how fast somebody can rocket me off to the nutfarm to compete in the drool races with all the other people that were convinced they were sane all along.

Back to the whole wondering why I bother thing: if I DO end up on the nutfarm, they’re gonna medicate me anyway, so why don’t I just go ahead and self-medicate to make it all better and save a whole lot of effort and expense on the back end of things? ~gotta love this train of logic, don’t you?~

Have I mentioned lately that I hate you? And by the way, I hate your mother, too. I just thought you should know.

So, taking my lifestyle preferences into account, this quiz says that the following substances would be my best bet (drat! gunpowder wasn’t listed):
# 1 Dexedrine (dexies)

# 2 Hash

# 3 Marijuana

# 4 Codeine

# 5 Opium

# 6 Ritalin

# 7 Methamphetamine (Crystal)

# 8 PCP

# 9 Psylocibic mushrooms (magic mushrooms)

# 10 Cocaine

# 11 Crack

# 12 Ketamine

# 13 LSD (acid)

# 14 2CB (a form of ecstasy)

# 15 Absinthe

# 16 DMT

# 17 Heroin

# 18 Inhalants (gas, paint ect.) why don’t you just kill yourself now?

# 19 Mescaline

# 20 Morphine

# 21 Peyote

# 22 Barbituates (sleeping pills)

# 23 DXM

# 24 GHB

# 25 MDMA/MDA (ecstasy)

I think that coke (my former favorite happy monkey) ranked so low because I ticked the box for ‘No’ when asked if I were interested in a lifestyle drug. Hard to manage a lifestyle drug when I am busy cooking for five, doing enough thinking for ten and being looked down upon by the linen sack-dressed fellow elementary school moms. You know the bitches I’m talking about: they have stiff hair and clay jewelry painted to look like safari animals and they have screechy, nasally, saccharine voices. I want to tie them all together and lock them in a room and see who turns cannibal first. *snicker* I know, I’m a sicko, but Good LORD, what a funny image dances through my brain! The last one standing would be wearing ALL the linen sack-dresses, ALL the clay jewelry and would have the tibia of the most petite kill stabbed through her non-moving, heavily-highlighted coif. She would be babbling unintelligibly in some ancient language that she discovered buried deep within her psyche. It ain’t about the content, baby, it’s all about the programming. *pardon me as I fall off my chair whilst hooting with laughter*

See? That’s all it takes. A little dark, perverted humor and I am lifted from the murky depths, carried along on peals of laughter.

I wrote this story one time about a young woman who invited a fellow over for a romantic meal. It was very sexy (but not in that erotic way, just….sexy. I dunno.) and the buildup was delicious. There were candles and good music and a charged atmosphere and she served him fine wine. After the first glass and as he was starting the second, she began to kiss the tips of his fingers. She began to flick her tongue across his fingers and he allowed her to, thinking he was transfixed. Just as she bit clean through one of his index fingers he realized that he was not transfixed, but paralyzed. The dirty bitch had drugged him, and he was incapable of movement or sound. She got to feed on him both physically and emotionally, completely enjoying the look of horror in his eyes.

I know, I know, a psychiatrist would have a field day with that one. But don’t look so fucking stunned. Shit like that happens on the X-Files all the time and nobody blinks.

I hope all your tomorrows are swell. Good night, fellow revellers.

 
|| September 24, 2001 || 10:09 am || Comments (0) ||

I feel strange today.

I feel like I did on the night that our pal Dirty Bed offered us all magic peppermints and I partook. Halfway through our set I felt really disconnected and floaty and things started curling around the edges. On our break I ran around in a near-panic asking everyone I could get hold of, “Man, I feel craaaazy….Dirty Bed wouldn’t have dosed me, would he??” because I started getting all paranoid about the fact that he referred to the candy as ‘magic peppermints’.

In case you didn’t know I am afraid of LSD and always have been, even at the height of my junkiedom. My brain bends in too many directions as it is, fellas.

Eventually I settled down, attributing the goggly feeling to too much Rolling Rock, not enough sleep and the heat of the stage lights. I got back up there and finished the set and all was well. That was the night that I traded Doc Martens with a guy two rows back for the novelty of it. Luckily, he had no cooties nor fungal infections for me to deal with at a later date. Sometimes I just don’t think things through when I am in the moment.

 
|| September 24, 2001 || 1:05 am || Comments (0) ||

Welllll, Nash Bridges is on, so I am forced to come out here and bathe you in sunshine. You lucky little webjetter you.

You know what? I just checked the drivers on my modem to see if they were the latest version or not. Don’t laugh, fool, because two years ago I couldn’t have done that without three books open in front of me as well as tech support from the modem manufacturer in my left ear and tech support from my ISP in the right.

I said, “Don’t laugh, fool…” Don’t you realize how far I’ve come?

This weekend was an outside weekend. We hit the doors at 8:15 ay emm Saturday morning and didn’t roll back in until 11 pee emm, sunburned and smelling of fresh air and margaritas. With the threepack away on visits yesterday and half of today, we kicked up our heels. I felt so rejuvinated by all the non-stop activity that I bounced out of bed this morning and started working on the yard. Save for a couple of one-hour breaks, I stayed out there with the dusky smell of earth and crisp smell of flora mingling wonderfully in my head, singing tunes by Robert Johnson and Nina Simone and the Violent Femmes to myself happily. I battled weeds and hauled small limbs and lobbed back woefully-neglected bushes. To my delight, I found a magnolia tree coming along quite nicely over in the side yard and I trimmed back some limbs from a neighboring pine so the four-foot magnolia could be blessed with some sunlight. God must’ve been paying attention to my efforts, because as I sit here pounding this out, a rainstorm is unfolding. I am covered in scratches and mosquito bites and my nose and forehead are the tiniest bit of pink and I am at peace. I feel like I caught up with myself this weekend.

Marvel, for this is not the norm. I myself marvel because I don’t know how it happened, exactly. It just did, and maaaaan, does it feel good.

As I was mowing the impossibly-big-for-a-push-mower back forty, I noticed the neighbor d00d and his pal Doolittle taking part in the time-honored Southern tradition of “Eyeballin’ Yer Neighbor”. Didn’t really bother me, as one of my last neighbors was a thirteen-year-old with a tendency to unabashedly gawk. Coupled with observations/questions like, “I noticed that your light was on until 3 ay emm last night. What do you do when you stay up so late?”, he fully prepared me for any and all sorts of neighborly invasions in the upcoming couple of decades. (Does that make me disaffected or unaffected? Wouldn’t YOU like to know…)

I was mowing, as I said, with a push mower and was only slightly conscious of their eyeballs making the laps with me. Sam and Scout arrived home and joined me outside to help.

I killed the mower in order to give them instructions on picking up the larger of the sticks that the trees insisted on sloughing off into my grass-cutting trajectory and I hear a snide comment from the peanut gallery. It was something along the lines of, “Ain’t never hearda nobuddy needin’ to be told howta pick up a stick.” snortsnort Thank you, Rife With Sarcasm Gang.

I calmly asked my children to go inside and grab a snack. Scout looked at Sam and smirkingly said, “Uh oh.”

After the kids were out of earshot I turned toward Our Daring Duo and called out, “Hey, Donny, you wanna watch it. I’m not above carting on down all grassy and sweaty to the Baptist church where I know your wife and kids are shovelling up seconds on the potluck fare. Wouldn’t that just be a riot? Be even funnier when I tell her that Doolittle’s here on a Sunday and that the day’s entertainment is to ogle me while I’m on my knees pulling weeds. Don’tcha think, D?” Doolittle’s left cheek sorta twitched. I went in for a glass of water and by the time that the kids and I emerged, the Daring Duo’s lawnchairs were empty.

Lemme tell you a little something about Don. He’s the kinda prick that will let his lawn go until you get out to mow yours. It’s then (as if it were a competition) that he climbs onto his riding lawn mower and zips mockingly around the yard while you are panting and heaving that pushmower all about your own grounds. And never once does he take a couple of pity laps around your yard as you would if the situation were reversed. So much for heppin’ a brotha out.

He has a kid that has brown teeth and throws his potato chip bags down in my yard and brags to my son about his criminal-in-training exploits and his lack of respect for all grown-ups in general.

One day Sam came home shaking his head. When I asked him what it was about, he said, “Oh David and Brandt are sitting on their bikes at the corner. When I asked them what they were doing, they said they were hollering at hot chicks going by.” I raised an eyebrow. My right one, to be exact. The right one’s always good for that sort of thing.

“That’s so stupid, Mom. I mean, if you think someone is hot, why not just introduce yourself and talk to them like any normal human being? Hollering from the seat of your bike looks real dumb.”

Moments like those make you wanna do an Apollo Creed victory shuffle, play-at-home parents’ version. Danny, you are raising Just One More Idiot in the Overwhelming Sea Of Idiots. My child has common sense, nyah-nyah.

Anyway, the day came to a close with Frito Chili Pie a spirited Captain Underpants book and an impromptu pillow fight where Mathias amazed us with his ‘playing possum‘ skills. He unfolds a sneak attack like no other can.

After everyone was in bed Maxim and I watched ‘Waking the Dead‘ and agreed that it’s a winner. Doesn’t Billy Crudup look like he could be Jimmy Smits‘ younger, better-looking brother? And is that Jennifer Connelly an android, or what? She never seems to age one bit. I have two words for her, though: pixie cut.

This stream-of-consciousness thing is now annoying even me, so I’ll take my leave of you. Big, stanky, sloppy wet kisses to you all.

 
|| September 18, 2001 || 11:02 am || Comments (0) ||

WELL, DUH, for fuck’s sake.

I hate the media.