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Archive for April, 2003

 
|| April 17, 2003 || 8:39 pm || Comments (2) ||

Maxim and his non-sellout principles:

JETT: Baby! Look! My stock is up to a buck-eleven a share and it’s all bought up!* I’m thinking of looking into doing a split, whaddaya think?

MAXIM: Don’t be whoring that shit around, girl.

*Well, it was at the time.

 
|| April 16, 2003 || 11:40 pm || Comments (10) ||

Jeebus Maheebus, I got an e-mail from corporate that left me slack-jawed and shaking my head, wondering where the fuck these people get this stuff.

UnnamedLocaleNumberOne and UnnamedLocaleNumberTwo appear to be the twin collossi [sp.] that dominate the FictitiousCompanyName landscape.

All I could think was, “This is somebody’s goofy-assed joke, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Stapler, meet head. Now you silly gits, you stop that. See what you made me do?

Twin colossi, for shitsakes. TWIN COLOSSI. Who the fuck talks like that? Someone who’s been to one too many management-slash-motivateyerpeople seminars, that’s who.

What do you wanna bet that I get an e-mail one day that uses the word ‘umbrage’ with no sense of embarrassment?

 
|| April 15, 2003 || 11:01 pm || Comments (13) ||

I once wrote a suicide note addressed to my mother; it was exceptional in its anti-climactic quality. In it I left my cameo ring to my daughter and my class ring to my son. Everything else I left to her to do with as she saw fit.

I closed the note with, “Just let my babies know that their momma loved them above all else; I just was not a strong enough person to deal with the writhing things in my head any longer.”

I was given a gift on that day. It’s not really any of your fucking business what it was.

But it was phenomenal.

I can’t stand to fly / I’m not that naive / I’m just out to find / The better part of me

I’m more than a bird / I’m more than a plane / More than some pretty face beside a train / And it’s not easy to be me

I wish that I could cry / Fall upon my knees / Find a way to lie / About a home I’ll never see

It may sound absurd…but don’t be naive / Even Heroes have the right to bleed / I may be disturbed…but won’t you concede / Even Heroes have the right to dream / And it’s not easy to be me

Up, up and away…away from me / But’s all right…you can all sleep sound tonight / I’m not crazy…or anything…

I can’t stand to fly / I’m not that naive / Men weren’t meant to ride / With clouds between their knees

I’m only a man in a silly red sheet / Digging for kryptonite on this one way street / Only a man in a funny red sheet / Looking for special things inside of me

Inside of me / Inside of me

I’m only a man in a funny red sheet / I’m only a man looking for a dream / I’m only a man in a funny red sheet / And it’s not easy

It’s not easy to be me

// Five For Fighting, “Superman (It’s Not Easy)”

 
|| April 14, 2003 || 5:27 pm || Comments (5) ||

Rubber Soul‘ is inarguably the best Beatles album.

I said ‘inarguably’, so don’t you squirrelly bastards go to contradicting me in the comments.

 
|| April 13, 2003 || 11:20 pm || Comments (2) ||

Blubblubby? Can you feel your brain?

Blug Blub bub. Yes. It feels orange.

Classic.

 
|| April 13, 2003 || 10:59 pm || Comments (4) ||

Ahh, for ham and hell…someone must’ve slipped me a mickey.

I just got completely sucked in and overcome by that farging show ‘Providence’ (somebody tell me the rule here….Strunk and White are in Margaritaville; do you italicize titles of television shows? do you put them in quotation marks, whaaat? protocol! tech support!). I mean really….Zorro kissing Bo Peep and a Russian painter much younger Russian painter falling for the older woman, Doc Whatserface.

Did I mention that the painter has a large tumor and has to choose either his life or his eyesight? Did I mention that he’s not been outside his home for most of his life for fear of deportation?

That motherfucker tugged at my uterus. No lie.

 
|| April 12, 2003 || 10:49 pm || Comments (12) ||

My sister, all five-feet-beautiful-eleven inches of her, is going to her junior prom tonight. She’s nervous as all fuck.

She’s had her dress for eighteen months now, a gorgeous shimmery grey thing that defies description, and I’ve been scooping up accessories here and there over time for her to pick and choose from (best offering: the fashionista purse made from rough muslin and delicate silver wire slung with rough-hewn beads here and there). It took an hour and a half this morning to craft her thick auburn hair into the intricate latticework of tendrils that she craved.

Boy Extraordinaire has a father that has a plane and a pilot’s license. Boy Extraordinaire and his Resident Best Friend saved up the money for fuel so that they could take the young misses to a land far away from Hellabama to dine and while away the day. My sister is being, rightfully so, treated like a princess by Boy Extraordinaire. I like that immensely.

SIDE NOTE/WHINEBITCHWHINE: My older sister was greeted at the door by a chauffer and a nanny one afternoon, who advised her that she was to gather her coat and purse. The chauffer took her to the airport, where my brother-in-law and some buddies had a private jet waiting. Lorrie and the other men’s wives boarded the plane, finding lovely wrapped boxes with their names on them in their respective seats. Upon opening the boxes, the gals found a pile o’ cash each, along with a note that said, “Buy nice things today. Theater tickets and dinner reservations await us in New York.”

Where is MY plane, you sonsabitches?? endSIDENOTE/WHINEBITCHWHINE

Emma has been all about this prom. She’s on the committee, has painstakingly planned and carefully picked so that she and her compatriots are promised a night of pubescent romance and bliss. She’s nervous as a bride in June, and just very painfully sweet about it all. I have been smiling and smiling about the prospect of helping her get ready, about taking the photos that she will someday look back on fondly. She is wide-eyed with wonder and sentimental to a fault over this whole thing.

My own junior prom, pfft, I had no interest in attending. The Young Marinetm, however, was all about the pomp and circumstance. And all about having a leggy blonde date with large breastessess.

Seriously, I’d been to my share of proms and cotillions (YES, there are such antiquated, ritualistic things in the South and they are glorious) and military balls and formal dress-up whositswhatsits. I just didn’t want to go to prom that year. As was to be expected, my family said, “Screw what you want, let’s make some memories and pictures.”

I am nothing if not good at digging my heels in over a matter, but I was no match for my loved ones. The Young Marinetm went out and bought a dress, faring quite nicely in the size (I can just see him in the shoppe, circling his hands, ‘Her waist is about this big,’ and then cupping them in front of him, ‘Her boobs are about this big…’) and style department. My mother bought my accessories with no input from me save, “If you come home with white stockings, they better have a seam up the back!!” Ended up that she didn’t find those particular stockings, so I hauled The Young Marinetm all over Memphis to every major mall and little specialty shoppe to find them. That was the deal-breaker: If I didn’t have white, back-seamed stockings, it was a no-go. Never underestimate the Marine Corps. They stormed the beaches at Normandy, and they can reconnoiter specialty hosiery with the best of ‘em.

They will also carry you a block-and-a-half in their arms, bride-style and without mussing their tuxes, just for show. And so you won’t turn one of your spike-heeled feet on the pebbly walk. Chivalry. Mayhap sometimes it’s a means to an end, but chivalry is chivalry, byGod and no doubt about it.

So we danced and goofed and generally had ourselves a good time before leaving the big city for the little country back roads, him wearing my garter across his sinewy bicep, me demurely sporting his bow-tie and tails.

We parked the car and made our way through the foot-high grass of a freshly dewdropped field. Somewhere out in the middle of it, like a gift from the naughtiest of the fairy-folk, was a weather-beaten mattress, smelling of sweet outdoors. We, in amazement and silent praise, lie down on it while the humidity and barely-dancing wheatgrass wrapped themselves around us, shielding us from the world. The katydids serenaded and the stars sparkled come-hitherlike and that boy and I made love five, six times (the one that would ask my momma for my hand in marriage some three weeks afterward) before setting ourselves to rights and heading home.

“Did you have a good time?” my mother asked when we entered the foyer, flushed and content.

“Yeah, but I can’t walk properly,” I said effusively, “these damned shoes….”

I helped Em pick out slippers. With barely a hint of a sole, much less a heel. She’s a good girl, approaching this prom and everything else in life in an entirely different manner than I did, but I’m no fool.