A Random Image

Archive for March, 2003

 
|| March 20, 2003 || 1:22 am || Comments (0) ||

I just got the most disgusting fucking e-mail ever:

BOMBS FALL IN BAGHDAD AND YOU MAKE MONEY!

Little-known defense contractor poised to return 100% profit even if Bush never declares war on Iraq, and 500% profits if he does. FREE research report gives details on this pure defense play and 4 other “stealth stocks” that have managed to fly under Wall Street’s radar. Best part: Our “stealth stocks” system keeps you safely in cash when market sentiment turns negative. Safest way to make money in today’s market. We’ve already earned gains of 58%, 108%, even 241% … generated consistent positive gains – and handily beaten the S&P using this method. FIND OUT MORE…(Ed. note: linking disengaged, thankyouveryMUCH)

I wish I could punch the fucker that wrote this square in the throat.

 
|| March 19, 2003 || 12:13 pm || Comments (3) ||

So, I am up at the asscrack o’ dawn this morning, feeling well-rested even though I only slept a few hours last night and have lost tons of hours over the last few days (something in the air, what can I say?). Proactive and ready to pounce, I kissed a half-awake Maxim and wished him a Happy, Happy Birthday! before I went walking in the rain. Damn, a good walk in the rain is SWEET. I then came home to shower and wake the kids.

I do the requisite girly frou-frou stuff that makes me feel good: The shaving of legs, the administering of facial, et al. I’m out of the shower, into sweats and greeting my children in clockwork fashion. I’ve even downed 24 ounces of my daily requisite 100 ounces of water before I gently shake them awake.

I help Sam understand that the socks he wore to last night’s events are NOT acceptable to recycle for school, I help Mathias wriggle into his favorite SpongeBob shirt, I help Scout put up her hair. Oh, my beautiful chirrens. I feed them breakfast, which goes along smoothly with no bickering and nonsense. Off to school with everyone!

I drive to Wal-Mart (shut up, Delmer, you’re there just as much as I am) to pick up a couple things and upon entering the parking lot am dumbly reminded that the BRAND NEW SuperCenter opened today. Holy mother of Israel, it’s gonna be pure madness for just some paper towels and baby wipes. I put on my “I LOVE HUMANITY. NO, I REALLY DO.” face and park the car way out in BFE because that just so happens to be the closest spot. Upon entering, I notice a large crowd gathered and some speechifying by local perceived bigwigs is going on. I am promptly informed that the store doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes and if I would like to join the crowd I am welcome to do so.

I prefer not to; my hair is still wet and twisted behind my head, I’m No-MakeUp Girl and I really just wanted to get the fuck in and get the fuck out. So I settle in against a wall and wait about as long as my patience can stand, which, if you know me at all, amounted to roughly ninety seconds.

“Screw THIS,” I say to the couple nearest to me (who appear to work there or something), “I’m here for paper towels, not pomp and circumstance. You can find me on aisle five, folks.” With that, I sashayed past the checkout stands and into Magical Retail Land. Nothing has been clearanced here yet, so I am wildly disinterested, but the new smell of everything is pretty neato.

I come back with the paper towels and wipes to find that they’ve gone decidedly over schedule and I stand there, shifting purchases and wallet and weight from one side to the other. DAMMIT! HURRY UP, YOU FUCKERS! DAMMMMN it!

When the checkouts open up and I head toward them, two associates jump crazily in front of me, grab a tin of Altoids and cry, “WE WANT TO SPEND THE FIRST WAL-MART DOLLAR!” I give them the ‘give me a big fucking break’ look, but they, in their glee, miss it. What a waste of a good face.

Well, they got to SPEND THE FIRST WAL-MART DOLLAR, but I had the proud distinction of being the first Wal-Mart customer to have the CSM called over for a problem at the register.

This, fine readers, does not bode well for their future.

The cashier is all goofy and flustered, but I am remarkably patient with her and leave with no ill will. I head to the gym, where I see that someone has bled over into my tanning bed time slot and I’m patient this time for all of ten minutes. Maaaan, I’m on a regimented schedule, I’ve only got so many fucking hours in a day, so I approach the woman at the desk to inquire. She comes to my rescue as do several teenage boys who start banging on the door and yelling, “BRANDON! Get the heck outta there! We’re here to WORK OUT, not to lay inna tannin bed!” A boy emerged, smiling goobery at me, his drawers exposing miles of asscrack, pulling on a tee shirt.

“You wipe the bed down?” I ask, and he looks at me dumbly. One of his male companions has to repeat the question to him. Earth to redneck, come in, redneck…

“Uhh, naw.”

“Well, could you please do that?” I crinkle my nose. He still looks at me dumbly. The boy who appears to be the most intelligent of the four explains to him: “GO CLEAN OFF THE TANNING BED FOR HER.” I’m all about standard procedure in matters of hygeine.

I head back home, hop into the shower once more, do more girly stuff, get outta there feeling fiiiiine, condition my hair, brush it thoroughly, down a protein shake, apply a facial. For the second time. Oops!

I scoop up my toothbrush, but the toothpaste is nowhere to be found, so I look in various places in the house, frustrated, until finding it in Sam’s room (what the…??). Then I go back to the bathroom to grab my toothbrush, which has disappeared. I look updownandallaround for IT, but cannot locate it. When I stop to take a breath and assess the situation, I stand and think for two full minutes before discovering that it’s in my fucking hand and I had been toting it around all this time.

I’m ironing my clothes when I realize that, although I did massive amounts of girly frou-frou nonsense in the shower, I forgot to wash my hair, only wetting it instead. Not once, but twice…both showers. For fucksakes.

Stupid head. Stupid clouds. And the butterflies a-dancin’.

 
|| March 19, 2003 || 9:54 am || Comments (4) ||

d00d, I’m dying to use the word ‘peripatetic’ today. Somebody give me a context to frame it in.

 
|| March 18, 2003 || 3:34 pm || Comments (3) ||

Some four or five months ago a man walked into my place of employment and he looked so startlingly like what you might look like in twenty years that I stood there, slack-jawed and nearly overcome. It didn’t help any that he had a New England accent.

I tried to assist him, cool and pleasant and professional, but the feeling was so overwhelming that I had to confess to him; I had to apologize for the stutterfuck pattern of my speech, for thoughts dropping from my brain’s grasp before the mouth could deliver, for the flush on my cheeks, for staring at him like he was the second coming.

Funny that I have never even possessed a photograph of you, but I could recall, without fault, what you looked like.

“I’m so sorry if I’m addle-brained and staring,” I finally said, “but you look an amazing amount like someone I once knew.

“An amazing amount.”

He wasn’t put off in the least. Odd how complete strangers –ones you know for a fact that you’ll never see again– sometimes open right up to you and for you, like a morning glory unfolding towards the sun. Odder still is that you allow yourself the luxury of what could easily have been trespass, had the stranger not been so engaging and receptive.

So I told him about you. Not all the gory, glorious details, but even in my reticence he could feel the weight of what I was telling him, of who you were to me. Of what we were together. I was unsurprised when he told me about his chanteuse over in Germany from some time ago (how fitting that he was a military man)…he had no idea whether she was alive or dead or still in Germany, because he couldn’t find her. One thing he made clear, though….he knew. He knew like he had two arms and two legs that she loved him and thought of him. He said, “Looks like you and me, we didn’t let it slip through our hands like most do; we ran like hellfire from it.”

And he sealed the deal right there; I knew he was a genuine kindred soul from an experience standpoint. He bade me good-bye, and blessed me with his hope that I find you.That damned man. That damned fine man….

“You broke my heart.” Well, of course I did. You broke mine first, over and over in little ways. But if I could take back a million and one times that look on your face the night that I cleaved yours cleanly in two, then I would. I knew what I was doing, yeah, but I simply didn’t realize.

So here we are now, fates smiling down on us, stirring us up with their buttery-sweet fingertips. You with your “C’mon, giiiirl…” and me with my “Boy, please.” And all this time like a river between us, and us yelling instructions from one bank to the other on how to cobble the raft so that we’re not drowned. Welcome back; you never left.

I treated you bad / You bruise my face / Couldn’t love you more / You got a beautiful taste / Don’t let the days go by / Could have been easier on you / I couldn’t change though I wanted to / Could have been easier by three / Our old friend fear and you and me / Glycerine / Glycerine / Don’t let the days go by / Glycerine

// Bush, “Glycerine”

pee ess…Thanks a mil, Kate. You’ll never know, man.

 
|| March 18, 2003 || 8:03 am || Comments (1) ||

Listen! If you are in the Ell Ay area, then maybe you could go get your cul-chah on and do it in my stead.

Yes, sadly, the Superior air yacht is in the shop for repairs. The crazy mechanic was yelling something about not putting fireworks (okay, pipe bombs) near the intake “just to see what they’d do”.

So, here’s where you come in. Mark Ryden’s newest exhibit, ‘B L O O D: Miniature Paintings of Sorrow and Fear” is on display at the Earl McGrath Gallery. The opening reception is Saturday, 22 March from four to six pee emm, with the exhibit running through May tenth or thereabouts.

On your way in the door, spit on the ground, hitch up your pants and growl, “This is for my homey JETT.”

That is all.

 
|| March 17, 2003 || 1:30 pm || Comments (3) ||

CAVALIER PLAYBOY AND WANTON WEBMASTER TAKEN BY STORM…

…and would you just look at the size of the ice that came hailing down?

According to sources here at Superior Industries, hotly-pursued and much drooled-over Clayton has found the woman of his dreams. The once-cynical (and slightly bitter about wimminfolk, if you ask friends) bachelor was bowled over some months ago by the lovely ErinLynn while on a work assignment in Colorado. It was no time before they were making like snow bunnies, canoodling and generally making the rest of us queasy giddy with their love-struckness. They decided to cohabitate a few short weeks ago, and last Friday night seems to have been the dealmaker.

Clayton told yours truly that on 14 March, “…we were in this perfect romantic setting… upstairs at this quiet, dark restaurant… in a room by ourselves… no one else there… live pianist, cellist, and violinist downstairs playing wonderful romantic music… we were talking over some yummy wine and she stopped and was just looking at me…

” I asked her what was on her mind and she started telling me how much she loved me and wanted to spend the rest of her life with me… so I figured, damn… this is just a perfect time… so spontaneous me got down on one knee right then and asked her…

“…and then I pulled out the ring.”

There are sources that say EL (smartly) played it coy, making Clayton writhe around on the floor and beg and wheedle for a short time before saying yes. We have to profess a great deal of admiration for her because of that, and also because she’s a fellow hip and bitchin’ stogie-puffin’ babe.

Plus, she makes our friend immensely happy. She’s a bit of a faith-restorer, that girl, and that’s a wonderful commodity in this world.

At this time, the couple reports that there is no definite wedding date set as of yet and that, regardless of all else, we can look forward to raucous blues and a river of Grey Goose at the reception.

Congratulations, my friend, whom I love…and to your lady, whom I love because you love her. I lift my gimlet glass to your future.

 
|| March 17, 2003 || 1:46 am || Comments (4) ||

Surfeit.

I was ten, ten-and-a-half at the most. I never really thought about how very young that is until a few moments ago. I always felt so grown, even before I could really understand the meaning of the word.

It was a fairly large house, and had I been sleeping in my upstairs bedroom (being savvy, and as a covert nod to my independent spirit, they gave me the run of nearly the whole floor up there) I probably would not have heard much –if anything at all– of it.

Fred was in the neighborhood of eight at the time. I can’t for all the life of me remember why I was there in her room for the night. Sometimes my mother would request that I bunk with my sister if the threat of an Oklahoma tornado was brewing. These requests were always under the guise of my own safety, but were made also with the recollection of my sister’s deep, quiet fear of storms. Although I played Chief, Cook and Lead Tormentor, I was also afforded the role of Crazy-Fearless Heroine In Times Of Need.

Titles may shift and erode with time, but legends stand.

There was no discernable shift between sleeping and wakefullness, no being dragged up through the murk, surfacing to consciousness. There was dead to the world and then there was a defined sense of being in the hereandnow, the air around me nearly vibrating and electric.

There is no explanation as to why I love the sound of breaking glass: That night should have driven any romantic associations with the sound far away from me.

There went the panes of the bay window in the dining room, the one whose padded seat I loved to sit in and look out over the lake (I just typed ‘lack’ in there, heh…). Glass skittered across the heavy oak table that my father had given my mother on their tenth anniversary. It was the oval, monstrous beauty, its face coated and polished to a mirror sheen, that we would later assemble around –the four of us strung loosely amongst the ten high-backed chairs, not clustered together at one end like good families should be– for The Announcement, the one that told us of the impending separation and divorce.

The windows of the family room were next, and the amber lamp that sat atop my piano to light my long-but-clumsy fingers as they sought the notes past the hazy afternoon and on into the dusk of day. Beethoven For Beginners. Billy Joel. “Blues, Mrs. Simmons, gimme blues. Gimme Frenchie plink-plink pieces, easy-but-hard Faure. Gimme something raucous and dangerous. Make my fingers work to hear. Help me to master the silences between the notes….

He came further on, careening into the walls of the hallway, pingponging as if it were natural to him to bounce from one wall to the other, only inches from one contact point to the next. Somewhere in here is where I became aware of Fred clinging to me, soundless and beginning to sweat with panic. New things frightened her immensely.

There was contact, and voices, and me sitting up in bed, “Mom?” called tenatively into the darkness. Pictures still being torn from each wall and glass still breaking with an angelic, shimmery sound.

“Everything’s okay,” she called out, voice flat but somehow still sincere, “Go back to bed, baby.”

I lie there, patting Fred’s shoulder, listening to the goings-on. Wrecked your car, Gwendolyn. Thass not perfume, are you crazy? What’s the difference, if I’m here when you wake up? I am being quiet. Ah, shuddup. Goin’ ta bed. No, no talking! We can talk when I wake up.

Then it grew painfully quiet. It seemed that my mother listened to him snore for an eternity before I heard her go down the hallway. Then there were scrapes and rattlings from the other end of the house, but only shadows of them. It was too far away to thread them together into a series of careful steps; it was just a jumbled mess of little kitchen noises, too insignificant to make heads or tails of.

When she came back down the hall I could hear the crunch of glass under her slippered feet, and I worried that a triangular slice would find its way up through the leather sole and into the tender meat of her arch. She seemed to walk heavier than usual, and I heard a muted clink that I simply couldn’t place.

After a few still seconds I heard a generous splash and what sounded like my father hitting the wall with a sharp intake of breath, spluttering and cursing my mother.

So there were four new things that night: my father without a trace of his usual haughty decorum, my father drunk, my father in the throes of an angry outburst, my father swearing at my mother.

ARE YOU TRYING TO DROWN ME, YOU BITCH?

My mother’s swift and silent reply was to bring the now-empty-of-icy-contents stoneware pitcher cleanly down on the top of his head. It’s a wonder he was not killed (testament to his and subsequent offspring’s thick heads), as she had sailed the flat-bottomed crockery down in a smooth arc onto his noggin. She culled the housekey off of his keyring, drug him to the front door, rolled him onto the veranda. She collected the spare key from the marble planter at the foot of the steps and went back on inside to pack his bags; when she finished, she sat them upright next to his prone body and stepped inside, pulling the blinds.

I get it; I too would damn near kill a motherfucker if he scared my kids like that. I don’t necessarily know where I stand on the insult, but the punishment for breaking the idyll was excommunication from our collective female presence. It’s not like it mattered; he hadn’t spoken to her in a good six months anyway and he was very emotionally unavailable to Fred and I for that last three or so weeks. Had he died, maybe it would have been a favor, a pain born of haphazard passion rather than neglect. But then, I’m sure I’d be an entirely different person if I’d had to visit with my mother through an inch of supposedly unbreakable glass, so I don’t ponder the conveniently horrible.