A Random Image

Archive for January, 2003

 
|| January 16, 2003 || 8:24 am || Comments (3) ||

A few weeks ago I was describing a t-shirt concept I had to a pal. The idea was to print these in a limited-edition run, and maybe do a new design every few months. In response, the very fabulous fish surprised me with this:

She whipped this up with no poking, prodding or wheedling whatsoever. I fucking LOVE it. Note how the girl and the rat look equally euphoric.

 
|| January 15, 2003 || 1:29 am || Comments (5) ||

One of the Superior Heatherns brought in a D.A.R.E. ‘contract’ and dropped the thing on my desk earlier.

“I signed it, momma, and you need to sign it, too. I have to return it to my teacher tomorrow.”

“Okay…” responded I, “check this very desk in the morning. Do you need it in triplicate?” Groans, mumbling of the ‘why’s-my-mudder-serch-a-smartASS’ variety. For the record, my children are not disciplined for their own smartassedness, because I set such a lousy example.

Nosiree, it’s that fancy insubordination crap that gets you the strop around here, not cheeky mouthiness.

So anyway, I set about reading the thing, pen poised and ready to sign. While I do not support propaganda of the Channel One variety, I support D.A.R.E. propaganda. I support it because, Good Lord Willin’, maybe a flood of information and lack of a nearby rich-kid Catholic high school will keep my children from wandering down the path of addiction at the tender age of thirteen like their good ole momma, will keep them from ‘poking themselves with pointy things’ as the dear waistdog says.

But that strop is always waitin’, jest in case.

So okay, I picked the thing up, intending to peruse and sign, and began to read. Here’s what the first paragraph said:

“Welcome to the D.A.R.E. program. You are about to begin an exciting 17-week (Ed. note: Jeebus a-jumpin’! The Marine Corps doesn’t even brainwash for that long!) program to help you recognize and resist the pressures that may influence you to experiment with tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, inhalants and other drugs. You will also learn how violence hurts everyone.”

And I swear to you, fair and fine reader, I swear on all that is holy and pure in this crapfuckingtastic world of ours that I had to read that sonofawhoring (that particular expletive not necessary, I know: It was simply thrown in for color) paragraph THREE times before it no longer read, “…program to help you recognize and resist the pleasures that may influence you to experiment…”

Heaven help me, I smoke, I gnaw on my nails and I eat protein bars by the caseload, but the body (as I’ve told you before) won’t let the mind forget. I fear the day that I have to tell my children of my own proclivities for excess, raining all the muck of my unholiness down upon them. I hope that day nevernevernever comes swingin’ around, beating all ornery and mean on my door, stamping leaden boots on the porch.

For, gentle readers, that will mean that it’s time for some impassioned pleading because one of my little roundfaces has already taken some sort of experimental dip. Because, as I and others have proven, it’s not in their genes to merely swish toes around coyly, but to take a headlong dive in, only to be left mired and flailing and maybe not caring overmuch about rescue.

pee ess….the sick, twisted side of me wants to sign this thing all goofy and scrawling, then attach a note that says something along the lines of “Sorry so sloppy; I don’t scribble so well when I’m this high/experiencing D.T.s/jonesin’ haaaard for a hit, even an eeeeeensy one.” I know. Send hatemail.

 
|| January 14, 2003 || 6:23 pm || Comments (0) ||

Found: Analog Roam, via redclay, whom I’ve decided to fixate on though he pays me no nevahmind. None atall.

Yeah, anyway….Analog Roam.

 
|| January 14, 2003 || 4:41 pm || Comments (2) ||

Were you aware that, here in the South, ‘raisin’ is not a wrinkly, dried fruit but the means by which your parents usher you from birth to the age of accountability?

I just felt that clarification on this issue was an imperative. Thank you for listening, my little muffinasses.

Beer and sausages, anyone?

 
|| January 14, 2003 || 4:38 pm || Comments (2) ||

Quite entertaining to hear your eleven-year-old son singing “Jenny From The Block” (or whatthefuckever that piece of pop shite is titled) falsetto without the merest hint of self-consciousness.

I wonder, will I be so amused if, in ten years, he tells me that he aspires to be a Vegas Showtart? Hmm.

 
|| January 14, 2003 || 4:22 pm || Comments (0) ||

Our besotted corporate culture births scrawly, cynical masterpieces in the gaping void.

God bless America, you know? Reckon he’s single? More importantly, does he have all his teeth?

Hugh MacLeod, I find you pretty spanky.

 
|| January 12, 2003 || 12:43 am || Comments (6) ||

I worked at a very prestigious ad agency/PR firm once. We had an immaculately- and lavishly-decorated front sitting area for our clients and vendors, both would-be and existing. Resting on one of the linen-covered tables there was a dessert plate of the finest bone china. On this plate sat a sno-ball and a chocolate cupcake, both carefully manufactured by Hostess, maker of fine junque cuisine.

The sno-ball and the cupcake were calcified beyond reason, little petrified snack cakes. The purpose of their stone-like consistency was twofold:

a) we had an eensy camera feed that led to a little monitor back in the creative director’s office so that he could capture the looks on people’s faces as they poked, prodded and fondled the treats. The reactions and goings-on were, in fact, priceless.

b) anytime someone was sent on a business trip requiring luggage, it was the duty of the rest of the drunken diligent, client-maddened happy-go-lucky staff to make sure that the confections were ferretted away somewhere in the traveller’s luggage. Not as easy as it sounds by a long shot.

Oh, to be a corporate professional-type fast-tracker once again…