A Random Image

Archive for February, 2002

 
|| February 10, 2002 || 2:49 am || Comments (0) ||

Will you start my dreams / Or will you end my schemes / Or will you let me go down so low?

You and me baby / Well we got no friends / Except for you and me baby / This is journey’s end / And I try to hang on to all those precious smiles / But I’m tired of walking and it must be miles

Every time I took your hand / I felt so moved / Did you feel it too?

You and me baby / Well we got no friends / Except for you and me baby / This is journey’s end / And I try to hang on to all those precious words / But they don’t come easy / No I know they hurt / You and me baby / We’ll help each other / And I’ll be your sister if you’ll be my brother / And we won’t be parted / And we will be friends / ‘Cause it’s you and me baby / It’s journey’s end

Every time I took your hand / I had a first class ticket / To the promised land

Rosebud, oh Rosebud / He turned to me and wept / A vaguely coded message / I could never intercept

You and me baby / Well we got no friends / Except for you and me baby / This is journey’s end / You and me baby / We’ll help each other / And I’ll be your sister if you’ll be my brother

// Kirsty MacColl, “You and Me Baby”

 
|| February 10, 2002 || 1:00 am || Comments (0) ||

Reading a friend’s post about high school reminded me of something.

My mom has had this great bookshelf in her home the whole of my life. It housed some great fucking books, man. I first discovered Poe there. When I was in the third grade I finally started keeping that one in my room, as I spent so much time with it. I would pore and pore over the things good ole E.A. wrote, fascinated by the way he arranged phrasing, erotically repulsed at the premise of this or that plot.

HEY! Calm yourself; stop freaking out. I read all the Ramona Quimby books that year, too. But my teacher sure did pop a big one when she sent us out into the world to learn a minimum of six lines of poetry and I came back a recited The Raven to my little moppet consortium. Class discussion after that resulted in a few stammering questions from the teach, the sound of crickets and many puzzled looks from all the little Izod-wearing desk decorations in the room.

That bookcase -as I was saying- was mighty fine and held works that ran all over the literary map. There was a Reader’s Digest book or two, a Vine’s, the aforementioned Poe, Hope of the Nation, Portrait of a President, The Iliad, The Arabian Nights, Flowers for Algernon, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, cummings, Diary of Anne Frank, a battered brown-covered, gilt-lettered dictionary, A Separate Peace, To Kill A Mockingbird, I Am The Cheese. There were lots more, but they escape me right now….

Funny side note about I Am The Cheese…I’ve always had a habit of reading two or three books concurrently. Around the same time I pulled I Am The Cheese from mom’s bookshelf and cracked it open, I got a copy of Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret from my fourth-grade classroom shelf. Mom saw me reading it one day and flipped out when she found out they had that book on school shelves. I Am The Cheese was acceptable reading, somehow, but Judy Blume’s tome of pre-teen angst was unequivocally NOT. I still laugh my ass off at that one. I mean, Margaret was concerned with her blooming womanhood and the lax pace of puberty, but Adam (the kid from Cheese) is psychologically fucked ten ways to Sunday, and my ma objects to the former? *hoothoot!*

I spent day upon day just standing in front of that bookcase, pulling the books out, thumbing through them, arranging and rearranging them, running the tips of my fingers across the spines. All different sizes, textures and colors to be had. *sigh* I read many of the books there time and time again, but always halted at the thin copy of The Iliad. It was an unassuming volume, bound in supple salmon-colored leather, pages crisp and burnished and set with small, even type. It was light in my hand and I always marvelled at this because somehow this book was so imposing. I would thumb through it for a while and then place it back on the shelf every single time. It was a hopeful sort of gesture rather than a defeated one. No matter how frequently or drastically I resituated other books in the bookcase, that book always occupied a shelf above my head. I would look up at it after returning it to its perch, touch it gingerly and say, “One day I’m gonna read you. Not today, but someday…”

 
|| February 9, 2002 || 2:16 am || Comments (0) ||

Pedantic. Why won’t that fucking word leave me alone tonight?? Sorta strange, really.

 
|| February 9, 2002 || 1:28 am || Comments (0) ||

Today Maxim brought home a clear plastic box with big, fat cinnamon rolls neatly lined up inside. Lots of times, after romancin’ one another, we like to share a little treat in bed. He had already consumed one today, and was going on and on about how good they were. While he turned to the stove to stir the chickpea soup I had on, I pinched a bit of one off to sample it.

I took a bite, chewed once, chewed once more thoughtfully and immediately burst into an unexpected wash of hot, miserable tears.

He turned to look at me, and in the voice that he reserves for the children when petting them, said, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

He knew it was nothing physical, because when I am hurt I cry out in pain quickly, but then get very silent and focused on ridding myself of the pain of injury. I don’t cry over physical ills or woes.

“This cinnamon roll,” I choked out, “It tastes just like my memaw’s…..” and that was as far as I could get before another small hiccuping sob took over and he folded me in his arms, placing one hand on the back of my head. We stood like that for several minutes, me shaking and crying quietly, him pressing his lips to my forehead, until I could compose myself. Then I explained to him what troubled me so.

It was not that the cinnamon roll reminded me of my grandmother’s lovingly-prepared rolls, and at the same time it was. Since my grandmother died I have not been able to find a cinnamon roll or a coconut cake to rival hers. It’s been like a closet pursuit of mine, a magic chalice that I quietly took some comfort in because it was unattainable. But now here’s this cinnamon roll and it tastes exactly like the ones she so painstakingly prepared for her family. Just how many times have I declared, “There’s not a person walking that can make a coconut cake like my grandmomma could, or a batch of cinnamon rolls, either.”? And now here’s this fucking store-bought roll that tastes every bit like she had a hand in it and I am swiftly and strangely crushed.

I am a total loon. Somehow this is revealing, but it is too disquieting a prospect for me to journey into Self-Discovery Land over this right now.

I fear becoming elderly a great deal (we’ll delve further into that one later) but I have never for one minute in my life feared death. This has been especially true since my teen years. I guess the fact that she is waiting over on the other side for me lends to this lack of cowardice. If I die, then I’ll get to be with her. I’ll get to lie my head in her lap and feel her hand on my head, caressing it.

Sometimes I feel like she is so close, but so unreachable…..like she is just concealed behind some thin membrane, some tenative and stretchy part of our world and if I could just find that spot I would be able to reach through and touch her once again, feel her soft but firm hand in mine, smell the easy, floral essence she carried with her. Part of me takes pause every so often and I am agonized, knowing that she is present and I can’t see her physically manifested. I want to just have her for an afternoon and pamper her the way she did everyone else, with that unfailing strength of character and grace of manner. I want to sit and have coffee and hold her hand and hear her laugh. I want to know her opinion on the world in general and me in particular. I want to ask her how she put up with my grandfather’s shit all those years; did she really and truly love him, or was she his wife of over fifty years because that’s the way they did it in her day? I want to know how she could have eight children and thirty-eight grandchildren and still manage to know us, to know us as individuals and make each of us feel special. Especially me.

I think she was probably knew me better than anyone in my lifetime has known me thus far, and that includes my own mother.

Maybe I am taken by this whole cinnamon roll matter because someone has taken away a bit of the magic that was my memaw. Some mere mortal can do something to the same degree that she did it while she was here (I hesitate to say ‘alive’, because she is every bit as alive to me now as she was then….now she’s just unattainable) and that is a shock to the system. It lends to those brief moments of doubt when a little voice at the back of my noggin says fucked-up, grody shit like, “What percentage of it is real and what percentage of it is myth? Have you deified her unjustly?”

I haven’t, and I know I haven’t, but my brain is really great at playing the asides for me, the groovy dog-and-pony tricks with me.

I’ve missed her for so many years now; you’d think the missing would eat itself up, but it hasn’t. I just want to be with her again. She understood me like no one else did, and she never even had to tell me that. Like the adage goes, “Those who speak don’t know. Those who know don’t speak.” I’ve just always known without her speaking it. It’s part of her magic, and I am fortunate to have been her grandchild.

 
|| February 8, 2002 || 2:26 pm || Comments (0) ||

I feel, in all honesty, that I must retract my last post.

This is because that I have found an honest need in my home, and it requires addressing.

Lovely readers, the unthinkable has happened. Upon opening the frig this afternoon, I found that I am slap out of Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCo). I think it would be just the oh-so-nicest of gestures toward my family if my meager but generous readership were to assure that this never was to happen again. We all know how my family suffers if I am not caffeinated enough.

I have provided a handy, simple way for you to donate to this most worthy of causes. Kindly click on the nice button below and donate to this most worthy of causes! Keep America Free! Make Babies Smile! Make Me Tweak Daily!


I thank you, and so does my innocent family.

 
|| February 7, 2002 || 5:20 pm || Comments (0) ||

Because my phone line has been iced-over and sporadic this week, I am just now getting around to posting this. Which, coincidentally, compounds my fury. Angry and impotent. Funfunfun.

I prolly can’t add anything to the argument. This, this (<--I especially adore the fact that, like me, she uses the word fucktard as a noun AND an adjective) and this spoke it quite well, and very close to my own point of view.

Here’s the breakdown, if you don’t have the stomach to go and read it yourself:
Wil Wheaton, whom I have previously mentioned for his repulsive antics, has suggested to his readers that they might like to donate money toward a nice Valentine’s Day shagfest ‘for his wife’ (uh, pardon me, young Wheaton, won’t you be going out with her??) since he spends so much time away from her, working on his website ‘for his fans’.

Let me briefly touch on my own personal objections to this:
~ Could young Wheaton not use his celebrity for a better cause than garnering donations for a fancy night on the town? Blogathon, perhaps?
~ Why is he special because he’s broke? Do like the rest of us do, monkeyboy, and make a nice dinner at home if yer strapped for cash….
~ Wheaton gives nothing, and I mean nothing back to the blog community. Ever see him linking any ‘commoner’s’ blogs? Ever see him comment ON them? He auto-responds a gross percentage of his e-mails, fer Chrissakes!
~ This is NOT the same as putting an innocuous button somewhere on your site to defray costs. This is guilt for neglecting family in favor of site.
~ The same people who are clamoring to give their last five bucks are the ones who rarely (if at all) donate to a worthy and respectable cause. *pardon me while I vomit* I’d bank on that one.
~ Valentine’s Day is about YOU doing something special for YOUR beloved….NOT finding a way for others to foot the bill. Lemme tell you something…if *I* am the one paying, *I* better byGod be the one getting the fine piece of ass at the end of the evening.
~ The lovely Ms. Wheaton has previously asked her spouse not to involve her or her sons in any great degree with/on his site. She has also requested that he throttle back on the site some. Past activity on his site plainly shows that he has ignored both of these simple requests. If *he* doesn’t value his wife (and by virtually ignoring her requests he evidences this), then why the fuck should his readership??

My own lovely Maxim Superior, who normally doesn’t give two shits about the weblogging end of the internet, peeked in on wil’s site to get the skinny for himself after I sketched it all out. His pacifist tendencies flew out of the window and he sent Young Wheaton an e-mail. It said something along the lines of, “Hey, dickface, after you rake in the cash from the saps, why don’t you multiply it by three and send it on along to me. The money you are collecting for one fucking meal could probably feed my humble family of five for a fucking MONTH.”

Well said, Mr. Superior. I just knew you had it in ya.

50,000 monkeys at 50,000 typewriters can be wrong. They certainly are this time.

 
|| February 6, 2002 || 11:42 am || Comments (0) ||

Okay, I signed up for Blogger Insider and all I got was this lousy t-shirt my first COUPLING was with nerdboymikey. You can see my questions and his answers over at his place. Here are his questions and my answers; don’t forget, mikey loathes caps!

1. my standard question for women… what are you wearing right now?

My blue suede shoes. NOOO, really, it’s pretty cold out today so I am presently wearing a long, bulky sweater and thick, floppy socks. My regular readers may know that that’s it, but you won’t, so I’ll tell you: just those two (three, if you count the socks individually) things, and that’s it.

2. the Amazing Jett Girl, Jett Superior… how’d you get those
monikers?

I was a really active child, always on the move, always ready to ‘take off’, so my parents would say things like, “There goes our little jet-girl again!” But it didn’t sound so Ward and June when they said it, I swear. My mom said she should have made my middle name “Go” rather than elizAbeth. The second ‘t’ on the name came from a friend of mine in high school whose own nick ended in two t’s. The ‘amazing’ came from a party stunt performed back in the early nineties. The ’superior’ is from my own over-inflated ego and from meeting up with my online partner in crime, Dirk Belligerent. I saw HIS name on ICQ one night and immediately fell in love with it. About the same time, I was starting my blog and needed a word to fill the ‘last name’ block. Kind of anti-climactic, really.

3. when i eat a kit kat bar, i always chew off the top wafer first,
then the chocolate on the sides of the remaining two wafers, then i
split those, and eat ‘em separately… do you have any specific,
strange eating habits like that
?

Has anyone ever suggested that you seek help for your food issues? The only two things that come to mind are
a) when I eat anything sweet it must be accompanied by a glass of skim milk and
b) whenever I eat pizza I have to have a small cup of marinara to dip the crusts in.

4. ok, so you say you’ve got big hoots… when you’re out and about,
do men more often talk to them or to your face
?

I can count the times on one hand that men (and to be honest, one woman) have just blatantly looked at my chest and spoken solely to it. More common is the ‘flick-to-breastesses’ maneuver, i.e. make eye contact while talking, flick eyes rapidly down to breasts and then up again, facetalking-flick-facetalking-flick-flick. This makes me laugh every time, the whole gross show of ’subtlety’.

5. what aspect of your personality is most child-like?

My sense of mirth. I laugh often (don’t confuse that with manically and at inappropriate times, snoogums) and it is really unencumbered laughter. Sometimes I find it hard to stop.

6. are you a moaner, screamer, or mostly quiet?

Depends on several variables, but mostly I am very vocal. I mean, it only makes sense. I write and I sing, so words and sounds are intrinsic to who I am. Why should it be any different when I am horizontal or *otherwise*?

7. did you automatically assume i was talking about sex?

Of course I did. My potty mouth came with a matching potty brain.

8. i was.

I know, fool, you’re of the male persuasion!

9. do people in general automatically assume that, since you live in
Hellabama, that you’re a hick
?

A good percentage do….but I take no offense, because ultimately I believe this makes them more hick-like than me by default. Besides, I am one of those fiercely proud-to-be-a-Southerner types. The South has its’ own great rhythm and a richness that’s like no other place I’ve ever been. I’ve come to know, also, that the simplest of folks have a wealth of common sense, and common sense does it for me every bit as much as heady intellect does.

10. do you prefer taking pictures or having your picture taken? or
dya always have a mirror handy, so you can do both?

I don’t mind having my photo taken, but I KNOW what I look like. I prefer to capture the world I see around me. Every person with a camera in hand has a different perspective on things. Pictures that you take can often be more telling than the ones you pose for.

11. what’s your secret weapon when it comes to getting out of trouble?

Depends on who I’m in trouble with. Blatant honesty has always done the trick for me. Barring that, sheer intimidation works really fucking well, you know?

12. do you remember the name of the first boy you kissed?

Yes. To my way of thinking, there is something lacking in a person who cannot remember the name of their first smooch-victim. His name was (ironically enough) Mikey. He kissed me, but I definitely kissed back.

13. last question, and i know you love music, so… ok, so you’re
anticipating a night of wild, dab nasty sex, and you want to burn a CD
of fuck music. ya got 15 songs, list ‘em
:

(In no particular order)
‘Dirty Boots’ ~ Sonic Youth
“The Scratch” ~ 7 Year Bitch
‘These Arms Of Mine’ ~ Otis Redding
‘Your Body Is A Wonderland’ ~ John Mayer
‘tbd’ ~ Live
‘In A Lonely Place’ ~ Bush
‘One Time Too Many’ ~ P.J. Harvey
“You Belong To Me” ~ Bob Dylan
“Come On In My Kitchen” ~ Robert Johnson
“Sweet Lover Hangover” ~ Love And Rockets
“To Love Somebody” ~ Nina Simone
“Supernova Goes Pop” ~ Powerman 5000
“I Wish…” ~ Drain STH
“You Knocked Me Out” ~ Linda Perry (featuring Grace Slick)
“Witness” ~ Sarah McLachlan

I hate having to narrow the music down; there would have been about fifteen more….