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Archive for September, 2002

 
|| September 30, 2002 || 12:50 am || Comments (6) ||

I’ve come to the weighty conclusion that, were I to ever climb up on a catwalk sporting a thong, tasty accessories and a lusty look (have your fives and tens ready, Big Daddy, fuck those measly singles), I would want the song Stranglehold to be the soundtrack for The Event.

Yeah, I could totally grind a pole to that shit.

And while we’re on the subject, I could simply wax a gift certificate over there. After all, a girl never gets too old to play with her baby dolls. And let’s not forget dress-up, shall we??

 
|| September 29, 2002 || 3:09 pm || Comments (6) ||

This can’t be right. I am going to vomit.


What revolution are You?
Made by altern_active

Ah, what the hell. Here’s another….


WATER OF FIRE. You are energetic and dramatic. You don’t hesitate to take the initiative and aren’t normally comfortable being cooped up in the house. You need to be involved in some kind of cause or activity. Your charismatic personality gets you plenty of attention. You’d make a good artist and are very creative. You have a strong will; beware of jealousy or instability. You fiery wench you.
Quiz
created by Polly Snodgrass.

Quizzes courtesy of Sir Gilbert, one badass motherfucker.

 
|| September 29, 2002 || 2:35 pm || Comments (3) ||

Saturday Nights On The Cusp Of Fall are perfect for meeting Someone Who Is Not Originally From Here Just Like You and sharing a few pints. Especially if the Someone has wonderful green eyes (always your favorite) that always seem to be smiling and you both end up sloshing your pints around while singing honest-for-true Irish folksongs in the best brogue imaginable because you both had drunken Irish grandaddies to learn them from. Life is funny sometimes. April Love and I were just discussing the Irish accent yesterday afternoon as she is in a panic over a part she landed: “My Irish sucks, Beth….it always mutates into cheeky British.” I told her to watch ‘Angela’s Ashes‘ over and over and over.

While I’m thinking about it, here is the key to a good Irish accent: Think absolute, abject misery…you know, drowning in it. Then give that misery a good glaze of gleeful, “Fook bayin’ oonhappay!” then marinate lovingly in copious amounts of red lager and there ya hov et. Trill them arrrrs, baybee. Never forget that.

I woke this morning with my body well-rested and screaming, “WAAAATERRRRR!” Thirty-two ounces of iced-down aytch-two-ohhh later I felt centered again and watched ‘Me, Myself and Irene‘ (what a waste of celluloid) while folding clunky sweatshirts and dainty underthings. At one pee emm I recalled that I’d not eaten a thing in sixteen hours, so I slid into a t-shirt dress and my favorite brown thong sandals to go to the grocery. I left on the mussed hair because I was uninterested in taming it and besides, it’s too humid for hope anyway. The humidity brings crooks and twists in my hair that are normally easily-camouflaged but hopelessly stubborn when presented with hurricane-leftovers weather.

Stares from males at the store were indecipherable as to whether I’d made a bad hair decision…were more of them than usual ogling because I looked like a hellcat or because I looked hellish? Hard to say. Even harder to give a fuck.

April Love loaned ‘Sixteen Candles‘ to me and I gave her a slice out of my Edwards Key Lime Pie two-pack. What am I gonna do, eat them both?

Contemplating a story with an antagonist by the name of ‘Tangle Eye’….but it’s a very sad story about being eaten alive from the inside and best left to another day. Today is a good day in my world. You can join me if you’d like. I like to share my riches.

Speaking of sharing riches, I forgot to remind you fuckers lovely critters that TACKY PACKtm submissions were closing, so they shall remain open until the first of October. Of COURSE, with Halloween being right around the corner, this month’s PACK will have a Halloween-y (Halloweenie?) theme. Tell me something scary, and if you’re selected as the winner, I shall send you spookified boodle. Ciao for now!

 
|| September 27, 2002 || 9:28 pm || Comments (2) ||

I know you saw me looking, and I know you liked it. Intrigued. Intrigued is sexy.

Cheers, baby. *heh.*

 
|| September 27, 2002 || 1:09 pm || Comments (6) ||

Dear Dumb Bitch At The Phone Company~

You’ve already been made aware of my service problem; after all, it was you that I wrangled into counting the (fifteen) days sans service (from February to August) up for me.

So I’m not writing in regard to that. Don’t Panic.

I’m not even writing to gently remind you that this is the FOURTH DAY IN A ROW (something tells me that you are out to totally massacre the last six months’ record of 2.5 days out per month) we’re without home phone service.

Actually, we’re doubly out, because we have dial-up InterWeb access and I am unable to update my site, [All blogged up and nowhere to go.] (perhaps you’ve heard of it?), leaving hordes of Cyberian Fans O’ Superior downhearted and directionless.

Believe it or not, I am not even writing to bitch about the fact that the phone worked for the two minutes’-worth of time that it took that sorry bastard Heath to call last night.

I’m writing to inquire about something that I find curious: Every time I phone your (dis)service and (dis)repair department, you people ask me to unplug every phone in the house and then see if the service is operational.

At the risk of sounding blunt, just how in the holy motherfuck am I supposed to tell if service is down with no “units” (how you people manage to make a simple telephone sound like ‘dirty bits’ of anatomy is beyond me, but I swear you do…) plugged into the mothereffing jack? Is there some fancy phone company magic that I am unaware of; some dark hoodoo you’ve been hiding? Or is this another one of your fancy-shmancy “stonewall-and-confound-the-commoners” showboating?

I’m on to you motherfuckers. That’s why I braved the hour-and-a-half holding pattern yesterday to claim my fifteen-dollar credit toward my next bill. That fifteen bux is a-killin’ ya, ain’t it??

Please stop telling me the weather’s bad, because I know this. I know this because every time it so much as sprinkles for twenty-five minutes or more, I lose phone service. God help me that we’re seeing hurricane-related storms; I expect to have my phone restored no earlier than March. And that’s if I continue to pay my monthly bill on time, a practice which I am strongly considering changing my stance on.

Hey, while I have your attention, could you please call the U.S. Postal Service and ask them just why in the fuck it costs twenty bucks to mail a smallish, two-pound box to Canada? You see, due to that whore Isidore, service on the ‘celica foam’ is sporadic at best. From a technology standpoint, I am pretty much fux0r3d.

But I have two sticks, and I’m not afraid to head for the hills and rub ‘em together. In fact, right about now I’m sorta inclined to. I’d sure like for you to respond to my query before I depart, though.

Thanks in advance for the further useless tripe wisdom you shall bestow upon me in short fashion.

Lovingly and not at all sarcastically,
Jett ‘Incommunicado’ Superior

 
|| September 24, 2002 || 12:47 am || Comments (5) ||

Show me a junkie who proclaims like a rabid street preacher that they never-never-no-never-ever wanna fix again and I’ll grin like a shitheel and spit baccy in their fervent and lying face. Then I’ll calmly explain to them that they are in one of those little stages that you hear so fucking much about: The monstrous and grandiose one known as denial. For some people, denial can last a lifetime, because it’s safer there in that little box. Denying is what causes you to slide into a comfy little tryst with the shit in the first place. You are denying life as it exists for you in order to embrace an alternate, self-regulated (HA!) reality that is ‘as it should be’ and (at first) seemingly without the stark bitter taste of the one you were born into.

Maxim and I talk about this sometimes, and it is mostly late at night, when the stillness lies between us and we recline, forehead nearly to forehead, whispering loudly over the scream of quiet and darkness. He asks the questions that I am not afraid nor ashamed to answer….just sorrowed to. Always he comes around to it, to the point where he confesses that it’s his biggest fear in all the world — the fear of losing me to the abyss crafted of a needle in the thigh and a pleasure center in the brain.

“Functions…are….susssspennnnnndeddddddd….”

It’s okay to fear this, is what I have to remind him. Sometimes fear keeps me awake and alive.

You see, a real junkie, practicing or non-, will tell you that fuck yeah, drugs are cool. They are sexy. They are fun. They are delicious and the embodiment of God (but not the actualization of Him, if you can dig). That’s if they are being real with you, if they are telling you truly and exactly how they feel rather than some politically correct, watered-down NA version of The Truth. The same junkie, still being honest, will tell you that it’s the aftermath that’s Simply Not. The aftermath is the antithesis of the preferred substance. After all, it’s not the high that you are chasing after a (sometimes deceptively short) time, it’s the Avoidance Of Aftermath.

So, in essence, it’s not so much that I no longer want the stuff in my body as it is that I don’t want the consequences that putting it there renders….because, believe you me, the body still knows the ache. It may be sporadic and very rare, but my body still knows that heated want and agonized cravings.

I am more afraid of the fallout than that actual fall. So I stay clean. I don’t play with all the pretty colors and all the ways to ingest them into me in order to get them across the blood-brain barrier as quickly as fucking possible anymore. I never fucked anyone but myself for drugs. Yeah, I fucked myself plenty….I fucked myself over, I fucked myself up, I fucked myself out of a purity of mind and body. I can’t say in all honesty that I wouldn’t do it again if given those choices, my past, back. But I can say in all honesty that the fear I’m supposed to carry is there. It’s not the garden-variety blanket fear that has me jumping at shadows and other tedium, but one of a higher purpose that keeps me in the here, in the now, and reminds me to avoid certain street corners or parts of town or people. It reminds me to be vigilant, to be cognizant of my system. It reminds me not to run for the medicine cabinet for the simplest of aches, because what if one tylenol isn’t enough next time and I take two? And then what if two isn’t enough and I have to have four? And if plain ol’ tylenol isn’t enough, and I have to have must have need something stronger??

I am a junkie, motherfucker, and yes, I want drugs. I want to smokesnortpoppushwallowin them. It’s easy to float. The comedown is grueling. I choose The Real, though, because while it’s difficult and not regulated by me, the latter is infinitely more complex and divine than either of the two former.

I am worthy of divine things. Fuck the synthetic and its’ aftermath. I deserve the reward of the divine.

But I will never, having said all that, tell you that I don’t want drugs. I want them, I choose (sometimes with a great deal of consternation) not to have them. To say it any other way would be an outrageous lie.

 
|| September 23, 2002 || 1:01 pm || Comments (5) ||

“This is how change happens. It happens in the dark, in spurts, to a person who doesn’t want it to happen.”

~ Michael Barrish

Funny that I found that quote today, on the site of one of my favorite writers, while I was turning over in my head what would become this post.

Not too long ago that intellectual blue/green/whatevershadeithappenstobethisweek-haired hunka hunka burnin’ love Matt Rossi had a mouse-over feature to all the links in his sidebar. I was immensely flattered (red-faced, even) at the text that graced mine: “She’s real cool, and real sharp. Kind of like a knife you keep in your freezer.” It happened to coincide with some pondering I was doing on other people’s perceptions of me, especially within the context of my being a female.

As far back as I can recall, I’ve been told how pretty I am. As young as the age of two or three I remember random strangers stopping my parents to comment on the chubby-cheeked blonde girl they had in tow.

“What a beautiful child!”
“My, she’s so pretty!”
“Don’t you ever let her out of your sight….why, someone’d steal her right away!”

To my parents’ credit, I don’t ever remember looks being an issue with them. I don’t think I heard them remark one way or another even once. I was just me: Smart, zealous, bouncy, outgoing, bossy. They fed my ravenous need for knowledge and its application with books and pens and a myriad of learning tools, not the least of which was their time. I was the only kid I’ve ever heard of who begged their mother for flash cards at age three. They made available the tangible aspects of learning as well as the intangible ones.

By intangible I mean just plain life, or (for lack of a better term) experiences. When I was four we went on a whirlwind tour of seven Southern states, hitting the high points of each one. As I grew, I was exposed to a broad range of culture. One month we might go to a truck and tractor pull, the next might bring art and history museums. My mother disliked the opera, so my father took me to my first. My father hated sitting through ballet performances, so my mother accompanied me. From circuses to Cezanne, from rodeos to Rimsky-Korsakov, they covered a lot of ground and gave me a solid foundation to work with in defining my tastes and furthering my self-education. Some years later I marvelled at the precision in this and the forethought (not to mention energy and funding) it entailed. I remarked on this to my mother, whose smooth reply was, “I wanted you to be able to walk into a room of fifty people and have at least one thing to converse about with each person present.” The stark common sense of such an undertaking just blew me away. She went on to explain that with more opportunity for conversation came more chance for learning and expanding. How absolutely cool is that? While some rich, vapid shithead’s parents were socking away for a trust fund, my parents were really investing in their kid’s future.

Oh, and the endless stream of questions they answered!….

But I’m roaming off-topic. So, looks weren’t an issue to my folks. Intellect and experience were. As you might guess or know from your own wanderings, the world is not so inclined.

I heard all the words that are used to compliment a female on her looks. There was pretty, beautiful, gorgeous. I accepted these not with the air of one who is conceited, but with the air of one who is oblivious. I never grew to believe them overmuch, thank God. I was simply unimpressed, because my parents had never made looks a matter of importance. The praise I relished acknowledged my intellect, my quick tongue, my love of words.

Chum and I were talking one time (I think I’ve shared this with Mikey, too) and I ended up sharing with him the tidbit that I befriended and many times took up for (I got into a lot of fistfights with boys when I was in elementary school. Love of frilly dresses or no, if I was morally outraged I was gonna scramble. I didn’t give a shit if my rhumba panties showed) the ‘nerds’ and ‘dorks’ throughout my school career. I was the pretty girl that took up for the geeks. I was their friend. I respected and liked them. They were oftentimes a fuck of a lot more interesting than my fellow jocks. And I always have had a soft spot for the underdog, coupled with a desire to help them.

“He’s sixty pounds lighter than you!! You like someone at a disadvantage, huh? Well pick on ME, motherfucker, I’m a GIRL! You should REAALLLLY love THAT!”

Ahhhh, capricious youth. But I was a friend to the nerds. I was befriended back and enriched by the exchange. I like to believe that a large part of that is due to the fact that my parents didn’t care fuck all about having a pageant queen for a daughter.

I never dated any of the nerds, though (at least not ’til they were grown men). You see, guys have this strange code of behavior they rule themselves by. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s referred to as “Outta My League”. What the fuck? As odd and as fucked-up as most women’s point of views are, I have not EVER, IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, heard one say, “HIM? I can’t go out with HIM! He’s OUTTA MY LEAGUE.” That’s one instance where I can say that womankind does me proud. You can observe some homely, without-prospects girlchild, see that she is fantasizing and romanticizing over the captain of the football team, dreaming of the day that he’ll notice HER, just HER in a hallway full of able-bodied yummy-looking chippies and she will not cap her healthy, happy fantasy off with a gut-checking, “FUCK. That will NEVER happen. He’s OUTTA MY LEAGUE.” No way, man. She will go right on hoping, dreaming, sighing, praying, staring. And that’s how it should be. There shouldn’t be limitations on your fantasies. And eventually, you should have license to bring them to fruition.

So I never dated the nerds until later, when they had the nerve to approach me from behind the bold shield of facial hair and confess their long-checked affections. For the record, nerd boys make pretty men. Stable men. Compassionate men. (Many times) Men of voracious sexual appetites….they didn’t get laid much (if at all) back in high school. Men with good jobs and good educations and a headful of great conversations to offer you. Stop overlooking the nerds, you vapid bitches!

Ahem. I’m off-topic again. So, I heard my whole life every sweet compliment used to get into the pants of chicks dumber than me describe physical attractiveness, delivered in varying degrees of heartfelt sincerity. While thankful for those compliments, they didn’t move me.

The best compliment I’ve ever received from a male? Here it is, in the three varied forms it’s been delivered by, of course, three different males:

“You’re cool.”
“Man, you’re so cool.”
“Hey, you’re pretty cool.”

Yeah! I know how you feel…rocked me back on my heels too.

When I started this blog, there wasn’t a picture of me to be found anywhere. That was for a reason. It was for me, and I knew what I looked like. Then people started reading, and there still weren’t pictures of me attached to it because –let’s face it– people are inherently shallow. I wanted people to keep coming around because I had something worth reading and pondering, not because there were blue eyes and big tits hovering around the sidebar to glom onto. If a person communicated and read for a time, eventually it got around to picture-swapping because I like to see the face attached to the voice I dig. I assumed that others work much in the same manner.

When Seth was setting up the Deca, he asked for a pic to post on the splash page. I hesitated, but sent him a link to a page of photos with instructions to swipe what he needed and he did. One night as we were chatting on AIM, we were shooting photos back and forth of various things and I was all, “HEY, look at THESE ugly things!” and sent him the series of surly, tired pictures snapped one (baddaybaddaybadday) morning in my car last winter. Before I knew it, he had scrapped the original layout idea we’d bandied about in favor of the one you see here. The one with those same ugly pics –dark wedges under eyes and slash of a mouth– perched at the top, pretty as you please. He did it with a great amount of (though not malicious) glee. I consented, because it worked.

“I didn’t want my photos attached to my blog, Seth,” I told him.

“I know that,” he responded and shot me an emoticon with a big, friendly grin. And he knew why I did not. That’s ultimately why the ‘ugly pics’ went up (I realize the whole Dane/Jett logic thing may be screwing you up, but trust me, there’s a weird sort of basic…ohm… to it). They are pictures of me on a bad day, looking less than appealing. Looking tired and out-of-sorts. Looking human.

Seth has a great intellect and a sort of sophisticated sense of humor most of the time (sometimes it leans into kindergarten territory). His incorporating those photos into the layout is another way for him to get in an establishment jab, another way for him to convey a message through some medium other than text: The pretty girls have shit days, too, and there is more to some of them than meets the eye. Look out!

Seth is my digital nerd and I am very fond of him. He pushed me and I didn’t push back, because he was ultimately right.

I want to be a person who is fully worthy of people like Seth (and chum, and Eric, and Rossi, and Delmer “Fuck yeah, I drive a tractor!” Skeets McGee….those who call me ‘friend’) in my life. I want to be a woman of grace and nurturing. I want to posess a wisdom that surpasses understanding. I want to shine intellectually and emotionally; I believe that’s really the only way that the outside will glow and I will truly merit all those adjectives that describe physical attractiveness.

I want to be a woman of beauty from the brain and heart outward.