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Archive for March, 2003

 
|| March 13, 2003 || 4:04 pm || Comments (8) ||

All my music-lovin’ friends! They make me laugh so haaaard…

Blueangstrom: The guy from Creed?

JettSuperior: he’s NOT cool.

JettSuperior: he’s a poser dork.

Blueangstrom: Hey, watch what you say about Jesus
Vedder

JettSuperior: And you know, I can only
remember that guy’s name (scott stapp)
because it reminds me that I want to
shoot staples into my head when I hear
his music.

Blueangstrom: I just love singing along with Creed and
making up lyrics like “Ooohhhh, I am Jesus
Vedder…ooooohhh, I am the son of God’s stand in…”

And, for the Sender Of Yummy-Mix-CeeDee-Goodness, a (“Why you callin’ me, BITCH?!?”) song. I remembered the title about two minutes after we hung up.

went out today / to try and phone you / I guess you didn’t / recognize my call / the lady on your end / said you got caller id / and I’m feeling sorry / that you’ve been / woken up so much / and I’m feeling guilty / just talk to me / please talk to me

I hardly know you / is it too late to even try / I want to know you / another twenty cent goodbye

I found a payphone and it’s busted / another broken hearted fool / but still I pick up the receiver / my lips are touching / someone’s drool / please make this worth it / you’re all I’m thinking of today / I know you’re worth it / just talk to me / please talk to me

I hardly know you / is it too late to even try / I want to know you / another twenty cent goodbye

goodbye / another twenty cent goodbye / another twenty cents

// Goldfinger, “20ยข Goodbye”

 
|| March 10, 2003 || 11:23 pm || Comments (17) ||

Knee-jerk, Falling Down moments come when I should probably maintain as much composure as possible in order to get my message across. But then I suppose that were I the maintain-composure-at-specific-times kinda gal, I would not be the charming soul that you all have come to know and love. Okay, know and tolerate sometimes, love sometimes.

I’ve been known to click on a random link or two here in my travels around Cyberia. I’ve found things (weblogs, most especially) of intrigue, of interest, of inanity. Of course, I find things of ignorance, too. Ignorance sometimes grates me, but sheer thoughtlessness and stupidity infuriates me like damn near nothing else. There is no excuse for carelessness. NOT ONE.

So I was looking in on a pal and I happened to follow a link from his comments area. What I found was this post, an excerpt of which follows:

But I’m now in Tom Green territory. One of the language options is Tourette Syndrome, or at least a programmatic approximation of it. Really offensive words/phrases, randomly interspersed with the regular text of this blog’s entries.

Is it offensive? Quite possibly. Is it funny? Depends on the beholder (or, you know, behearer or whatever). Am I taking it down?

Nope. You don’t like it? Switch back to Plain ol’ English. Nobody’s making anyone do anything here.

Anyone who reads this blog on a semi-regular basis (especially those that have been coming around since its inception nearly three years ago) knows that I have a son with Tourette Syndrome. You same folks also know that I don’t highlight it as an exceptional part of our lives. It’s just something that is, like breathing and blinking. It’s another part of the whole, and I’m pretty fucking blessed as a person, so I don’t get mired down in self-pity over it. As I’ve said before, the kid’s not dying and TS isn’t the be-all, end-all in our home. It’s hardly given a nod in my blog entries because it’s hardly given a nod in meatspace.

As a whole, you’d be a wee bit fibbish if you were to tell anyone I’ve got particularly thin skin. I don’t have much in the way of love for All Things PeeCee. Preaching to the choir a little bit more, I don’t think much of censorship in any form. Free will and expression of same ranks high on my list of things to protect. I don’t have to subscribe to your beliefs/views any more than you have to subscribe to mine. As a matter of fact, there are people on my links list that I think are amazing and we have certain thoughts and opinions that stand diametrically opposed.

Some of those same people are those that I hold in the highest regard.

There is such a thing as common decency, though, and I was enraged to see this man’s glib treatment of something that is so hellish to so many people. I’ve written of this and things relating to it before, because I’m all about getting the word out where I can. Hell, the Tourette Syndrome Association was my chosen charity for the Blogathon last year. My son even granted an interview to me for that endeavor. As naive as it may sound, I think that every situation comes with certain degree of responsibility, especially if you’re not all about being a victim. The key to making every Touretter’s life easier is information, and I’m always ready to answer questions. I never turned a kid away at the ballfield last year; instead, I sat and patiently fielded their questions. I was glad I did, because simple, direct information allayed the fears and concerns and curiosities of my son’s peers and their parents. I spoke with my son’s best friend for over an hour via phone one night as my child lay, drugged and snatching blessed bits of sleep, on the sofa. The boy called, upset, not knowing how he could help his friend, what he may do that had potential for harm.

“Tell you what, Jay. If he does something great, tell him so. If he does something to make you angry, fuss at him. Do everything you normally do. And, you know, you can ask him what he thinks he needs from you. That’s okay, too. That’s what best friends do.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s what my mother said, too.” God, how I love that kid’s mom. If I ever decide to bat for the other team she may just be one of the first ones I call.

But I digress, as I’m straying off-topic. Back to Me in all my Fit-Pitching Glorytm. I was incensed a bit earlier (kinda still am, really…) because I think it was stupid and irresponsible of this (supposedly grown) man to insert the code for what he considers an amusement into his website. An ‘amusement’ that pokes fun at people with a very complex, never-any-two-cases-the-same, frustrating neurobiological disorder. It made (and still makes) me so mad because he KNEW. He fucking KNEW, somewhere in his squidgy little organ called a heart, that this was wrong. Why, otherwise, would he have posted a DISfuckingCLAIMER??

It appears that he has a kid, so I’d like to pose the question to Mister DickThoughtless: If your child had a peg leg, would it be okay for me to invite him/her over to use as a lawn ornament? If he/she had cancer, would it be rude of me to ask if you shine his/her groovy bald pate for the purpose of styling your own full head of hair? Would that, O Prince of Shitheads, be too goddamn insensitive?

Yeah, well….despite the notice on his site that, “Comments about the offensiveness of the content will either be ignored or publicly ridiculed, according to our whim.” I plunged in headlong, because it’s what I’m famous for. And here is what I wrote:

Yeah, it’s pretty fucking funny until your seven-year-old son is diagnosed with it.

It’s pretty goddamned funny until, on the cusp of puberty at age ten, the often-cagey disorder comes roaring forth and you are afraid to go to sleep for fear he’ll wake up ticking and harm himself.

It’s pretty fucking funny when your kid, who has an exceptionally high IQ and excellent grades, cannot be afforded special curriculum adjustments at school when he misses two weeks due to dystonic tics that leave him drawn up and birdlike….because, ‘his grades have not suffered quite enough yet.’

It’s also pretty goddamned funny that the general public is so fucking IGNORANT of this disorder and assumes that everyone with it displays coprolalia. THAT, you sillly fuckpuddle, is the tic that ONLY ten to fifteen percent of Touretters are plagued with…the one that causes uncontrollable spewing of epithets.

I can handle humor. Humor has gotten us through the days when my kid isn’t your ‘normal’, happy-go-lucky little dude. What I CANNOT stomach is thoughtless cruelty, you emotionally gimpy bastard. Childlike humor, my ass. The children at my son’s school could teach you a thing or two.

As an afterthought:

….and it’s the Tourette Syndrome Association, you fucking feeb.

You can find it at http://www.tsa-usa.org . You should visit there and learn something.

This motherfucker, I don’t know him, but I despise him and those of his ilk: “Hyuck-hyuck, it don’t involve me, it don’t concern me, so it’s purdy fucking FUN-ny.”

Were Mister DickThoughtless standing in front of me, I’d be mildly compelled to wrap my hands around his fucking neck and squeeze, effectively crushing his windpipe and smiling with glee as he sucked in vain for wind. The world is long on assholes (I mean, come onnnnn…he thinks The Olive Garden is haute cuisine!) and I for one don’t think he’d be missed much.

 
|| March 10, 2003 || 11:08 pm || Comments (0) ||

Sweet mother o’ Pete…I was coming here to tell you guys something that happened during the newscast this evening and I check my referrer logs to find that someone has found me using the search term ‘tactical humor’.

Get this….I am the only result for that particular phrase. That is so titties, man. Even moreso when the funny I was about to share gave a nod to military goings-on.

So, the local weather guy was doing usual pre-commercial break teasers and said, “Tennessee valley weather coming up” and followed it with, “We’ll take a look at the weather in the Middle East.” Cut to commercial.

I turned to Maxim and said, in my best hearty broadcasting voice, “As for the weather in the Middle East, well, it’s about to come a shitstorm in Iraq.”

No really, it’s okay to laugh. It is. No matter what side you’re on, that’s a pretty decent funny.

 
|| March 10, 2003 || 11:10 am || Comments (9) ||

Meth is baaaad, mmmkay?

“About a month ago, ex-addict Penny Wood avoided a prison term by agreeing to let authorities use these before-and-after photos of her to steer people away from the ravages of methamphetamine use. Now, she regrets the deal, saying the fliers have become an embarrassment for her, her children and grandchildren.” (AP Photo/Pekin Times, Tazwell County State’s Attorney)

Article courtesy Yahoo! News

 
|| March 9, 2003 || 1:59 am || Comments (2) ||

The windows are dirty but the food is good and I consume the meal with a sense of quiet pleasure. It is nice, not being known here. Nicer still is having no one aware of my whereabouts, if even for this brief blink of an afternoon.

I’m accountable only to myself, and I shovel beans and sauteed tomatoes onto a tortilla while I just breathe and take the words of James Joyce into myself. Feeding the body, feeding the mind and –ultimately– feeding the soul. There is music and a woman is crying and accusing as she sings: “Mentiro-o-o-oso-o-o-o!” It makes me smile knowingly.

Eventually I push the plate away, ordering a shot of tequila. The petite waitress places it in front of me almost shyly, and as I suck the lime with great aplomb, my eyes meet those of one of the busboys. He has eyes that sparkle even from across the room, and while my hair is stringy today, my lipstick is crimson and perfect and nothing else matters.

I hold the heavy shot glass aloft in salutation of the sparkle-eyed fellow. Working men appreciate gestures best, and this pretty and rugged one is no exception. He meets my gesture with one of his own, a nod and a grin and a flat hand extended to say ‘Drink up, enjoy yourself, mi encantador…

I do, returning his smile, which has warmed my belly before the liquor even gets there.

 
|| March 6, 2003 || 11:42 pm || Comments (5) ||

Myth-dispelling time:

Women in primitive socities didn’t/don’t hide away during their menstrual cycles because they were/are unclean. The God’s Honest is that they were gorging on chocolate and were/are too ashamed to do it openly.

If you menfolk need me to expound further on the complexities of female behavior, ask away. I’ll do my (limping) best.

 
|| March 6, 2003 || 12:42 am || Comments (9) ||

Look, it may be an Ugly Thing To Saytm, but Mister Rogers being dead means that he never tapes another episode of that godforfuckingsaken show.

Maaaaan alive (pun not directly intended, but pretty spiffy nonetheless), did I hate that fucking show, even as early as the discerning age of four.

“NOT MISTER ROGERS!!!” I’d shout, pumping my ribbon-bowed Mary Janes against the floor (I was a tap goddess, didn’t you know?). The skirts of my flouncy, too-expensive dresses were wadded in agony by my little fists: “NOT MISTER ROGERS! PUT ON ELECTRIC COMPANY! HEEEEEEyyyyyy YOUUUUUUU GUUUUUUUUuuuuuyyyyssss!!! ARE YOU LISTENING?? NO! MISTER! ROGERS!!!”

Thankfully, and unlike the here and now, they didn’t medicate kids as a routine matter of course back in those days.