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Archive for February, 2003

 
|| February 23, 2003 || 1:32 am || Comments (4) ||

To my father, there were two great sins in life: Being a whiner and being a wino. He regarded them with equal disdain, as they both reflected weakness.

There should be book surrounding that eensy little paragraph. There should.

 
|| February 23, 2003 || 1:19 am || Comments (1) ||

Not going to New Jersey isn’t procrastinating, it’s common sense.” ~Igby

From the “Hello, Live With This” section of the memory banks:

Hangin’ out on a summer night. New Jersey, straight off a loud, punk-tinged musical high. Muggy, low-key drunken revelry. Street corner parties have their plusses, a soft parade of city lights and interactivity with the community being two of them.

Some of the boys, all braced and laced and overtough, were passing a bottle of Night Train amongst them. To say most Skins have a death wish is doing them a great verbal disservice.

I, given my predilection for suspecting that more people than not have some form of cooties (or, The Cooties, as they are referred to in presence of royalty and highsoc types, real or imagined), was sipping on my very own bottle of Absolut Citron (vodka gimlet without the prissy glass, yo), palming it in fine, unsophisticated fashion.

A junkie on the curb, kit being employed for the God-knows-how-manyeth time that day, about fifteen feet away: It was only three ay emm and he was already rockin’. We were paying no attention to him until he shot the words lazily into the air.

“Whatcha drinkin’ over there?” He was all tied off, head bent to the task at an angle that allowed a green cast to come over his face. Neon dermatitis.

Bemused, where hours back and sober he would’ve told the junkie to get the fuck off his street and maybe worse, Cooper laughed and called out, “Night Train, man. You wanna swig?”

The junkie, watery-eyed and sinking the steel, said, “No way.” And as he deftly did the push, he jabbed at irony and changed Coop’s beverage of choice for a lifetime.

That shit’ll kill ya.”

 
|| February 19, 2003 || 11:47 pm || Comments (10) ||

Presently I am eating a lime fruit juice bar, delectable in its own little frozen way, a small slice of happiness in an otherwise fairly shitty world. That’s what it’s all about: Small slices of happiness where you can find them, savoring them with as much of yourself as you can muster in ass-chewing times.

So I’m all about the frozen lime goodness, and were you people here I’d share one with each of you. I’d pass out lime fruit juice bars to the lot of you’ns (unless, of course, you prefer raspberry) and we’d sit in a circle and sing songs and make fun of one another in a snarky-but-not-unkind way. We’d laugh, for a time, and if you wanted we could cry, too. Or you could cry and I could pat you, as I’m no good with tears unless I’m in the throes of a solid block of R.E.M. sleep or watching a movie with even the slightest hint of sappy….everybody knows that when the tough chicks go, they go hard and they go alone.

Everyone could bring their favorite comfort food and most prized brand of spirits (or Kind Bud, if you prefer…I’d dig out and dust off the RedBong just for youuuu) and there would be ample room to talk without fear of being interrupted by No-Listening Bastardstm because I would eject said Bastards post-haste and in a fashion that would totally make your day. You would laugh and cheer and I’d say, somewhat humbly, “I’m Jett Superior. That’s just what I do.”

Or we could, y’know, pick boogers and flick them at one another.

Something.

 
|| February 19, 2003 || 11:33 pm || Comments (1) ||

Just a word to a pal whose comments system hates me tonight:

These things are frustrating because we want the unfucking to happen overnight, but we are fully cognizant of the fact that things just don’t work that way.

Having had to fight in the past to (for lack of a better term, GAG) ‘find’ myself, I know what a gutwrench of a struggle it can be.

At the risk of sounding incredibly cold, FUCK nice. Save yourself while there’s still a you to save.

I’ll be praying that !UNDERPANTS! can get onboard.

pee ess…switch your meds. HA! Only keedingk…

 
|| February 19, 2003 || 10:40 pm || Comments (7) ||

Listen up, fuckknuckle! If you’re gonna walk in the dead of oh-dark-thirty wearing black clothing, then you have absolutely no right to get peevish and indignant with me because I nearly hit you with the supersexy little Saturncar.

Besides, I think that the world could do without one more dipdoodle, and wearing dark clothing while walking on a darkened road after the sun –of all things– plink-plinks beyond the horizon firmly plants you in dipdoodle territory, thankyouveryMUCH.

Anybody got any suggestions as to a good, RELIABLE site tracker, hmmmm? Sitemeter is about to have to kiss the southbound end of a northbound Jett Superior. They’ve got more downtime lately than the panties at Mustang Ranch (before the last hurrah, I meant…).

This girl has a teddy bear with a dorky name and her own moniker is ‘Ashlyn’. ASHLYN! She needs to explain to me why she feels comfortable making lame jokes about the stupidity level of Hellabamians (I can bitch about it all I like…I fucking have to LIVE here) when she has a name like that.

I’d like to know why anyone would do this. Just to annoy me?? Or mayhap, gentle reader, it annoys you too? WHY PUBLISH IT IF I CANNA RRRRREAD IT, COPTIN?

And, whaaaaa?”

 
|| February 18, 2003 || 11:34 pm || Comments (0) ||

 
|| February 18, 2003 || 11:30 pm || Comments (1) ||

That Laura San Giacomo just makes me want to stab flaming forks into both eyeballs and maybe dig around in there for awhile.

She just bugs the fuck outta me, man.

AND, If she had any sense at all, she’d not allow this photo


of her looking coked-up and freshly battered to hang as her head shot on IMDB. FIRE YOUR PUBLICIST, San Gia, FIRE HIM!