A Random Image

Archive for May, 2002

 
|| May 24, 2002 || 11:51 pm || Comments (2) ||

Feed the daytime with indifference / Watch the twilight starve the sun / Shuffle home against the darkness / Turn the key and bite your tongue

And please be strong / You don’t know it but you’re coming right along

Call belated, leave a message / Wait for hours just to talk / Feel like slowly getting blown off / Stretch your eyes, invite the clock

And please be strong / You don’t know it but you’re coming right along / Please be strong / You don’t know it but you’re coming right along

Cry as if to say you’re sorry / Sight a life and hate your own / Try to think of what to mention / Leave the television on…

And please be strong / You don’t know it but you’re coming right along / Please be strong / You don’t know it but you’re coming right along / You don’t know it but you’re / Coming right along / Coming right along / Coming right along

// The Posies, ‘Coming Right Along’

 
|| May 24, 2002 || 12:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

I don’t know any Seths, but when I was dating, I knew so many Julies and Jennifers that if any messages came in reading “Julie called” or “Jenny called” without a last name, I wasn’t going to risk calling them back!

The anti-George Lucas/Star Wars jihad just keeps going and going and going and a theme seems to be apparant: He’s worse than Osama Bin Laden and the greatest danger to the human race, overtaking a giant asteroid slamming into the Earth as top item on the “Not Good Things” chart.

Disgusting. A major rant is in the offing. If a mainstream site doesn’t print it, look for it here at “Jett’s Haus of Not Calling Dirk Anymore”. (Not that I’m bitter or anything. No, not at all…)

 
|| May 22, 2002 || 10:51 pm || Comments (4) ||

A certain post (see 20 May entry) by a certain Dane got me to thinking about the parade of Seths in this, the latter third of my life.

I never knew any Seths until I hit my twenties. The first one came wrapped as a sweet-faced little blonde baby. I was the mother of two young children, ages 7 months and nearly two years. I wanted to stay at home with my kids, but I still wanted some pocket money and I wanted my children to have the social skills necessary to make the eventual transition into school easier. The natural decision was to take in other people’s children and care for them, as well. A myriad of children came and went, as most people who utilize home care are not too stable in many different ways. They’re ultimately not doing it for their child(ren)’s benefit, but to cut some corners financially.

Susan was an exception. On my third month as a childcare provider, she came to me, little towheaded monkey-boy on her hip, and filled out an application. We hung out together for the most of one afternoon, and I couldn’t get over how much I liked her and her child, how well our parenting and life philosophies seemed to mesh. She took the rest of the paperwork with her, promising to call me the next day with her decision.

It didn’t even take that long. She called me that evening and asked if I was interested in having Seth on a full-time basis. I readily agreed, and it turned out to be a very fine decision on both of our parts. Susan and Seth, along with the rest of their family (Jim and Jake and Allyson) proved to be a great blessing to me and my children over the next two-and-a-half years, in more ways than I can (or even care to) recount here.

Susan and Jim came to refer to me as Seth’s ’stepmom’, Sam would drag Seth around by his hand and announce to people, “This is my liddle bruv-ver Seffy.” Scout and Seth’s birthdays were two weeks apart, they both had big sky-blue eyes and white-blonde hair and chubby cheeks; when I’d place them together in the basket at the grocer’s or drug store, little old ladies would declare, “Myyyyy, what a beautiful little set of twins, honeeeey!” After a while explanations became tedious, so I would just smile and nod.

They all entered a preparatory pre-school together when Scout and Seth were 3 and Sam was 4. The summer before that, though, brought me my second Seth.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning that summer I would round the kids up and we’d attend pre-school swim lessons at the local pool. My kids quickly made themselves known as a fearless bunch, so much so that Seth and Scout would have to be watched with hawk eyes every time they were there. The two of them would have a tendency to grasp one another’s hands and leap willy-nilly into the pool if not caught in time, floaties or no floaties. The lifeguard-instructors really adored them.

Second Seth happened to be one of those lifeguard-instructors. That summer he sported Coolio braids (a definite anomaly in our neck of the woods), an unbelievable tan, and the sweet, easy grin that I came to know and love. That Seth taught my Seth, as well as Scout and Sam, to swim.

I came to know him as a fellow blues lover and a mighty fine musician. You may remember me mentioning him here before. He was a good soul, one of the best people I have ever known and I had the great privelege of making music with him before he died. When I think of him, I find that I don’t have the words to adequately frame what kind of wonderful person he was and what kind of impact he had on those whose paths he crossed. He was, simply and far-too-patly put, good people. Gooooood people.

My third Seth, I don’t even remember how or exactly when I came across. He popped up on my monitor one day (after some random -maybe even indiscriminate- clicking) and my first thought was, “Heyyyyyy, this is one smart cat.” I began visiting him on a regular basis, appreciating his humor, intelligence and insight, and eventually I left a comment here, a comment there.

One day he disappeared. DRAT. He stopped posting on his blog (something to do with ‘retard sandwiches’ or ’stupid sandwiches’, I dunno….) and there was just stillness there. Dead air.

Then some two weeks later, out of the blue, I received a pat message from him with URL attached. w00t! This made me happy.

He linked me and attached silly comments to my posts. He never said, “Girl, stop swearing so dang much. Your language disgusts me.” He’s never put forth any kind of negative vibe, really. He has opinions and views that he’s firmly grounded in, and speaks on them with the utmost conviction, but I can honestly say that he’s not contemptuous or chiding in the way that so many ‘educated Christians’ are.

In subtle ways, Seth has been a remarkable blessing to me, although he may not even know it. I’ve never had the privelege of meeting the man face-to-face, but I can tell that he’s special and I begrudge the fact -however smilingly- that I don’t get to hang out with him and shoot the shit from time to time. I make do with the occasional e-mail (and I do mean occasional, because we all know I suck at the whole e-mail thang) and random rollicking AIM session….like me, he has bouts of insomnia and a retarded, skewed sense of humor, so we are excellent 2 ay emm (woozy) electronic companions.

Seth is magnanimous in spirit and generous to a fault…he built the kingdom that is the Decablog and cobbled each of it’s inhabitants their own little castle within the boundaries of the kingdom….to include the one on which your browser now sits perched. He did it all for free and with a smile. How swell is that??

He has repeatedly made me smile, and I’m sure others can boast the same. When you get right down to it, Danester, that’s what it’s all about. You give of yourself in kind gestures and deeds with no thought of remuneration. You are thought of more highly and more frequently than you might ever, ever know.

I’ve said it before, and here I am to say it again: “You make me SMILE! Your joy and exuberance are OVERWHELMING!”

I’m really fortunate that God keeps on sending me Seths!

 
|| May 22, 2002 || 9:34 pm || Comments (1) ||

“The case was about justice for the victims but also vindication for a self-conscious Southern city long tarred by images of racial violence.”

Vindication? Vindication?? You’re shitting me, right?

I call foul, and my outrage boileth over. The conviction of an old man who probably won’t even see five years of the cinderblock interior in his new home is not vindication (NOR is it fucking JUSTICE), and whomever so states (be they black, white, or green with orange polka dots) is worthy of mockery –both yours, mine and ours– for many moons to come.

Politicians and prosecutors can cheer themselves and strain those arms with all of the ferocious back-patting they’d like, but I’m not buying the dog-and-pony show for one instant. I hope like fuck that the rest of the nation still has one shred of its’ sanity and isn’t putting mortgages on the family farm, either.

This should have all been taken care of by ‘68, when the case was officially closed. At the very least, Cherry and cohorts should have been brought to justice even 20 years ago, when they were middle-aged and had some chance of serving a healthy chunk of what could have truly been considered a life sentence.

“‘God has spoken in Birmingham,’ said the Rev. Abraham Woods, a longtime civil rights leader.” Go ahead and tell yourself that, Reverend Woods, but I am not so easily mollified by unilateral platitudes. Nobody spoke today except for the politicos.

And you can be damned sure that if it wasn’t to the ultimate benefit of the aforementioned in the serpentine realm of their aspirations, then none of those ‘good ole boys’ –least of all Bobby Frank Cherry– would have ever seen the inside of a courtroom. I hope that the whole of this country is watching ever-so-closely and is not easily placated, either.

 
|| May 22, 2002 || 9:30 am || Comments (1) ||

Funny to me is the fact that the educational bureaucracy has need of 17 pages of (their version of) carefully-worded, single spaced documentation and twenty minutes to review said documentation to represent a two-lettered, monosyllabic word:

NO.

The primary reasoning for declining my son an ‘enhanced’ or ‘alternative’ curriculum seems to be that he is not presently suffering academically. His grades are A’s, his intellectual scores are remarkably high.

“Of course,” I was told this morning by one of the nine people present, “if this changes, we will consider re-evaluating his case.”

Layman’s terms, baby: ‘We don’t try and prevent the anticipated hiccups in education that will most likely affect your child in the next two-to-five-year span, we will react to them. If he stumbles and falls into a crack, we will explore options then. If he just so happens to slip through that crack in the time that it takes for us to type, proof, xerox, get the requisite twenty-eight signatures, xerox some more, fax away for records that we already have, xerox yet again, collate and staple all the forms we need to get together, then, errrr, ahhh….’

And the copies of those seventeen pages they collated and handed me for this go-round are Pepto-Bismol pink. How appropriate, because I have all this bile that’s agitating in my depths right this very minute! Oooooh, the cleverosity!

 
|| May 20, 2002 || 10:27 am || Comments (1) ||

Last night, after the chirruns were in bed, Maxim and I were lying on the (super-mondo-huge) couch talking, facing one another, legs tangled. As we spoke, I doodled in my Mountain Dew (Proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCotm) note pad. Suddenly I hit upon an idea. I carefully wrote this header across a blank page:

Five things that strangers should know about me:

And I said, “Hey Maxim, what’re five things that strangers should know about me?”

Naturally, fearing he was part of some little reverse-psychology bullshit, he eyed me suspiciously (HEY! Don’t waggle your finger at me, mister/miss haughtypants….this conditioning is a by-product of his first marriage…).

“No strings, no worries, and be brutally honest.” I said. “It’s not particularly for anything, it’s just something that popped into my head.”

Well, he lost count and gave six answers instead of five, and the next question for him already had a five in it, so being the pattern freak that I am, I had make a set of six questions and each of them had a declining number of answers. Here are the results:

Six Sunday Spouse Questions
Asked of Maxim Superior by Jett Superior on 19 May, 2002

What are six things that strangers should know about me?
“That you DON’T like to repeat yourself.”
“That you area a very caring and giving person.”
“That you are stubborn in a beyond-all-comprehension sort of way.”
“That you are very adept at meaningful conversation.”
“That you are very knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects.”
“That you are a wonderful parent.”

What are five things about me that annoy you?
“Your fingernail biting.”
“That you don’t empty your ashtrays.”1
“That you can make anything into an ashtray if you can’t find yours.”2
“Your aversion to tofu.”
“The way Pepsi and/or Mountain Dew (Proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCotm) is a necessity,” (here he pats my knee), “but you’re getting better with that.”

Four reasons that you love me are?
“‘Cause you’re my best friend!”
“You’re very honest.”
“You’re outgoing.”
“Man, you’re just beautiful…” SQUISH!

What are your three most favorite happy times with me?
“When we both cried at our wedding…the way that it was like nobody else was there but me and you…” 3
“The entire first week we spent together.”
“When Mathias was born.”

The two awfullest times with me?
// ….long pause…. //
“I honestly can’t think of any.”
// ….another pause…. //
“Honestly.”

Hey, what’s one wish you have for me?
“For you to finish your [Master's] degree and get your dream job.”

1I feel this one needs a bit of clarification, before you all go thinking I’m a nasty-ass hillbilly or something. I smoke three to six cigarettes per day. The ashtray is never full, per se, so I walk away and forget to empty it. When I return, the ashtray is always magically empty. Maxim does it before I can remember to….
2Patently untrue, beloved readers. I never use the toilet to extinguish/dispose of my smokes. I hate when people do that. It’s SO fucking TACKY!
3My retort: “YOU cried, you pussy….I had something on my contact!”

 
|| May 19, 2002 || 4:58 pm || Comments (2) ||

Clay-ton! Clay-TON! CLAY-TON! CLAY-TON! CLAY-TON!! CLAY-TON!! CLAY-TON!!!

I found Clayton’s website today. Not like it was lost or anything, but *I* went there for the first time today.

I like Clayton’s entries, but his photo freaks me out a little bit. He looks exactly like Terry, a boyfriend of mine from high school. Terry’s middle name was Marlin, and I see from Clayton’s most recent entry that he digs fish. Spooky beyond belief, huh??

Anyway, maybe I told you about Terry? Maybe I didn’t? Please jog my memory for me. He was the one that drove the champagne-colored, absolutely cherry sixty-five-and-a-half mustang with the original pony interior. I was the one that kicked the passenger side door in one afternoon with my boots.

Okay, I’ll be honest….I was wearing heels that afternoon. It was a messy breakup nonetheless. Word of advice to you females out there: never give a male virgin his first piece. He won’t leave. you. alone. Thus the dent in Terry’s door on that fateful afternoon.

Funny thing is, Terry and my ma ended up at the same bank after his college graduation. They worked on neighboring floors and had coffee together all the time. Terry always loved my mom, and my mom always said I was too hard on the men in my life. No telling what kind of shit they said behind my back, har-har (or not…).

Terry married a sorority girl and built her a big house in a nice suburb on the outskirts of Memphis. He plunders and pillages with extreme financial success for a big corporation.

He still drives that ‘Stang, though. And ever since my mom took ill (thereby being forced out of her profession), he’s made it a habit of picking her up regularly to take her out for lunch.

He still has that dent in the door. Mom asked him one time why he hasn’t had it fixed, to which he replied, “It symbolizes the marriage of two great loves in my life: your daughter and this car. If it was up to me, I’d still have both.”