A Random Image

Archive for May, 2003

|| May 22, 2003 || 4:47 pm || Comments (1) ||

I am so fucking tired that I went on the nods like, FOUR TIMES today. Four times. On the nods. If life weren’t so hectic, I’d seek medical attention. The last time I did this (went on the nods, not sought medical attention) was….

Oh hell, I can’t even recall a last time. I’m too fucking tired. Okay, yeah, there was that time I nearly went sailing off the I-55 overpass; whew, thank God for those little bumpy things at the edge of the road, right?

Speaking of God, I have rock-solid proof that he is great and good and balancer-outer of all things unfair: I am myopic as all fuck (legally blind in my left eye without correction, if you want the facts), but my optometrist is haaaaaht. Hot, I tell you! I left his office an hour ago and am still a bit squirmy.

He’s been telling me that if I have the same scrip/level of horrid sight for three years running that I can have the lasik surgery that I’ve so been craving. The good news is that he cleared me today. Now to rob some liquor stores for the thirty-nine hunnert bucks that it’ll cost at one o’ them places….what was it? Blind No More? Vision’R'Us? WalletRapers?

Fuuuuck. I need some sleep. You need some Duct Tape Accessories. Trust me on this one. My friend Tim made an entire suit out of Duct Tape one Halloween. It got him felt up like twelve times and laid at least thrice that night. Who knows what that belt or wallet will snag ya? I’m ordering MaximTheBassGodtm a strap. It is, after all, the very least I could do.

Good Christ, this is so boring that I’m nodding off again. Brilliance to ensue soon. No, reallly.

|| May 20, 2003 || 11:24 pm || Comments (3) ||

Today found me at my desk, cradling the phone on my shoulder and dialing the number I needed on the ten-key in front of me.

I know it’s only Tuesday, but this week can fuck off.

…and since I have nothing queued up that even compares to the brilliance of last night’s post, I’ve deemed this “AIM snippet Tuesday”:

zachisjonah: if mike tyson bites off jesus’ ear in a fight, is it a
foul or a sacrament?

JettSuperior: mike tyson is going to hell, no
matter what.

JettSuperior: so I say foul.

zachisjonah: hahah! i love you. goodnight.

zachisjonah signed off at 12:08:44 AM.

|| May 19, 2003 || 10:42 pm || Comments (5) ||

Things to do with a sisal sponge when you are bored:

// Have a tea party with it. Be sure to compliment its lovely hat.

// Pretend it is a rich society type; practice kissing its ass and getting ground under its priveleged heel.

// Carry it around town, telling everyone its your long-lost illegitimate Vietnamese brother.

// Cry on its shoulder.

// Smoke a doob with it. Make fun of it for ‘not being able to hold its smoke’.

// Have a passionate argument with it. Swear on your eyeballs that Mister Potatohead ‘means nothing…nothing, I tell you!’

// Take it to the dentist. Tell the staff that you’re worried about unsightly plaque buildup, therefore, the sponge needs a thorough cleaning. Winking while saying the emphasized ‘thorough’ is optional.

// Have a love-in. Sing ‘Kumbayah’ (did I speel spell that shit right?).

// Take a craft class together. Flip out when they come to the lesson on sponge painting. And I mean flip way. thefuck. out.

// Enter the sponge in one of those model/talent search mall scams. You’ll need to have a very elaborate sponge portfolio, showing the broad range of images and moods the sponge can project (If you need help here, I know a guy, he does good work and is real reasonable as long as you talk to him in a Dutch accent. If you make it Russian, he knocks like ten more percent off.).

// Grate the sponge and put it atop a salad. Tell everybody who asks that it’s one o’them snotty, Yer-Uh-Peene crumbly cheeses.

// Mail it to a pal with a note on embossed ivory vellum card stock saying, “Happy Hygeine Week, Daaaarlin’.”

Okay, I’ve done all I can do here. Pick a household object, any household object and tell me how you’d while away a slow, writer’s-block rainy day. I’m feeling a little midnight-snacky. Chex Mix and daddy’s homemade plum wahn, anyone?

|| May 19, 2003 || 12:27 am || Comments (2) ||

I gotta give this guy credit. He’s either crazy as a tree visiting a chainsaw dealership or cool as the underside of an ice tray.

I can get behind either one.

|| May 17, 2003 || 1:28 pm || Comments (3) ||

…and speaking of seals of approval, I present thee with

[ It's Rational! ]

The Ayn Rand Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

I have it. You can have it, too, if only you’ll see things the ‘right’ way…

::: :: ::: :: :::

see jane. jane has a good heart. jane has a good brain. jane has big boobs and is cuter’n hell. jane has a pretty new layout (that I keep forgetting to point out to you, dear Superior Muffinasses). run! run, see jane!

::: :: ::: :: :::

Because of my hero gjoe, I now know how to do a screenshot. Observe:

See, gjoe, just because Michelle is demanding and brilliant does not mean that the rest of your readership is.

Wait a minute; that didn’t come out right. My apologies to gjoe’s readers. I am in no way questioning your intellectual capacities. Sort of.

And thanks again, gjoe, you cagey bastard, you. I must get to work on that knot straight away.

::: :: ::: :: :::

My GAHD, he uses words like ‘fucktoolery’ (whydint*I*thinkofthat??), has an aversion to hairy feminists (not to be confused with skipping the razor for several days during the winter, okay?), likes a woman who can shoot a pistol, he doesn’t trust people without some sort of discernable accent, is into sexual roleplay and he tells horror stories to small children. He says ‘got-damn’ (thataway, it ain’t takin’ the Lord’s name in vain, you dig?) just like the one and only redneck I ever dated; I dated him because he were a very special redneck.

Damn it all to fuck, why haven’t you people informed me that this man was blogging?

::: :: ::: :: :::

I’m really, really liking the ‘When I Was Little’ project. I’ve been perusing it for three days now. I especially like these submissions:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33 / 34 / 35 / 36 / 37 / 38 / 39 / 40

I would participate, but it’d seem a little redundant since I did Firda’s web babes thing way back when and my grown-up self eyeballs you from the top of this page each time you visit.

::: :: ::: :: :::

Apparently I was the only returned result when someone plugged the word ‘vague’ into the search function over at the ageless project. Not sure what to do with that information, save to ask the visitor, “Well, was it all you hoped it’d be??”

|| May 15, 2003 || 9:50 pm || Comments (16) ||

Here’s something that I don’t understand: Why do supposedly-grown people write on desks, phone booths, bathroom stalls, etc.? What the hell is that about? Once, when I was six, my friend Michelle H. was writing on the back seat of the bus. She did this for over half an hour, enticing me to do it the entire time. When I finally caved to peer pressure (one of the few times in my life), I wrote two letters (“B-e”…was gonna write ‘Beth’) and was BUSTED.

Bus driver: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOUNG LADY??” *note here that I have always hated being referred to as ‘young lady’* Me: “Unhhhh…” and I pointed to the fledgling start of my name. Meanwhile, Michelle had scrawled all over the fucking place.

Well, we were snatched up and deposited in the principal’s office. As you could probably guess, our parents were called. Jimmy and Deborah (her folks) showed up.They had a conference and left. Gwendolyn and Henry (my folks) showed up. Ah, hell, I am in BIG doo-doo. Henry never these sorts of appearances; Gwendolyn (alias ‘the sound and the fury’) normally handles this kind of stuff. I am the apple of dad’s eye and he hates to punish me…Henry usually plays the traditional “silent, stoic and seriously scary” father role. Henry+being involved directly=big trouble for me. Plus, he worked nights at the time and I was interrupting valuable sleep time; another mark against me.

Before I knew it, WHAM-BAM! it was all over and my punishment was set. Paddling at school and later, a Henry-dealt spanking at home (a true rarity…Gwendolyn usually handled the beatings), so I understood the gravity of my actions. But, a bonus awaited me (my parents were crafty, intelligent people and well-suited to raising a precocious, smarmy child)! I feel it is important to note here that my mom conferred with the parents of Michelle H. on the bonus discipline and they declined, saying that Mich had been paddled at school and that was quite enough. I am convinced to this day that that is why she has done serious jailtime and I haven’t (as of yet, anyway).

Saturday morning came around. My mother, knowing how much I enjoyed sleeping in, –even at the tender age of six– woke me at six-thirty ay emm. She fed me, told me I would be missing my soccer game that morning (shit!) because I would be otherwise occupied. She then packed a bag containing two sack lunches and a couple of her books (mom was a voracious reader). She filled a bucket with cleaning supplies and rags. ‘Whaaa? What is going ON here?’, but I was afraid to verbalize the question. She dressed in her typical nice manner and put me in rough-looking denim cutoffs and an even rougher-looking John-Travolta-as-Vinnie-Barbarino t-shirt. I smelled a rat.

We drove to the school. It was a gorgeous fucking day…I remember that much. Mom turned me out of the luxurious blue Monte Carlo (why’d she ever get rid of that car?), handed me a bucket and marched me to the spigot at the edge of the brick building.

“Fill it”, she commanded. I did — my mom is six feet tall. She has a German-Irish temper. Geddit? You don’t argue. She gathered the cleaning products and rags as I lugged and sloshed the bucket to the car.

“Follow me. Bring the bucket.” With that, she led me to bus eight — my bus. I was beginning to become aware. She deftly pushed in the doors and swung the bucket to the top step. She chunked in the rags and set the cleaners beside the water bucket. She looked down at me and pointed into the bus.

“You will get in there and scrub down that seat that you and ‘Chelle scribbled all over. There had better be no traces of writing left. You will then scrub every other seat on this bus until they are all clean and new-looking. I will be over there” –she pointed to our car–”reading. Do not come out or call me unless you are finished or bleeding to death. Get it ALL. You got me?” I nodded glumly and climbed the steps. If I had known the word FUCK at that time I would have used it copiously. My mom perched her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and settled into the car with a book.

I scrubbed and scrubbed. She called to me at eleven-thirty and handed me a lunch. I sat grimly but rapidly chewing in the passenger seat. After twenty minutes I was back at it, and by two-fifteen I thought I could pass muster. Mom inspected my work and after a once-over of a half-dozen spots, gave her approval. My back was all knotty and my arms were like rubber. I smelled so thickly of pine that I could have personally won the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval or at least nested a couple of birds.

Thanks to the ingenuity of my mother and father, a career for me as a graffiti artist was nipped in the bud. Those aversion-therapy bastards from ‘A Clockwork Orange‘ had NOTHING on my folks. Being part of a military family was such a boon to my childhood.

|| May 15, 2003 || 12:20 am || Comments (7) ||

“Do it.” he demands. I tell him no.

“Oh come on. Just do it. Once.” There is no again.

do-it-do-it-do-it-do. IT.” he chants in a monosyllabic childish litany, so I bump my tounge, meaty and full, against the bottom lip of my closed mouth, making it a perfect imitation of the famous Silverstone down-cornered pout.

“Therrrrre’s my Clueless baby!” he gurgles. He’s always ebullient. His mother says when he was a baby, he sang words before he actually spoke them, just like me. She says that his first song consisted of the word ‘happy’ (unlike me, whose first songs –according to my mother– were comprised of throaty wails and a smattering of doo-wop for good measure), him rocking in his crib, sing-songing the word over and over. This makes complete sense, knowing him as I do now.

I’ve missed Payphone Mike while he’s been away from me, but it is the kind of missing that goes remarkably unnoticed until I am once again in his presence, howling with laughter and with tears streaming down my face. Even as we cut up and play deftly off of one another, there is a sadness that washes over me, one that reminds me of how sweet the friendship we share is and how little I laugh from the tips of my toes when he is gone….even though I think I laugh in such a manner. It all pales in comparison. I’ve had good friends in my life –hell, I still have them– but none of those relationships even play in the same yard as the one I share with Mikey.

So tonight found Payphone Mike and I at the darkened ballfields, sitting on the tailgate of his daddy’s old built-sometime-in-the-seventies Ford (“Jesus, this thing still runs, maaaan?”) swatting the newly-developed and ravenously-hungry skeeters, passing a forty between us. Not because it is superior in taste, and not because we can’t afford better beer or even separate bottles, but because it is a nod to our humble beginnings and what we used to drink when we shared the little two-room house on Highway One-Sixty-Eight.

Because passing a forty is communal. Because we love one another with a fierceness and fondness that says we should have been born siblings. Because we are big dorks in the truest sense of the word when we’re blessed with one another’s company. Because our time together is sacred and worthy of being dressed with objets de symbolisme. Because, the two of us –while not being exclusionary– tend to have that ‘alone together in a crowd’ thing going on. I’ve seen the way other people look at us when we are out and about together. The natural assumption is that we’re a couple, when in fact all we are is a couple of ‘tards geeking off one another. Hell, even with Maxim, I get the sense of some quiet envy at work when Mikey and I are doing our George-and-Gracie thing, hooting like barn owls, laughing so hard that we can barely stutter at one another.

Chomp. Pa-chewy-chewy chomp.

Payphone Mike has always, with gleeful aplomb, told everyone that I’m his own personal Courtney Love Makeover Doll: “When she first wakes up, before the caffeine and nicotine are handed over, she’s Courtney pre-publicist. After she’s showered and dressed, she’s Courtney post-publicist.” You can see how I’d be thrilled beyond belief at that analogy. /sarcasm

Back when we were roommates, he’d take great delight in the days that we were both unencumbered by job or school responsibilities. I had the bigger room (him, lousy with sincerity: “You’re a girl and you have more furniture. You take the front bedroom.” me, not fooled for a fucking minute: “You sure it’s not because that room is twenty feet from the road and you’re afraid of a chicken truck plowing into it at ninety to nothin’ around two ay emmish?” him: “Honeeeey…”), but he had the bigger closet, so most of my clothing and shoes were stashed in his bedroom. On the days we were both free, he’d bounce on my bed before it was reasonably safe to do so and yell, “Dress-up day! Dressss uuuuup daaaaay!”

“GETTHEFUCKOUT!” I’d snarl, whereupon he would quietly and meekly go get me a Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCo) and a Marbro Laht, backing out of the room afterwards so as not to attract various hurlable objects. The perils of living with Not A Morning Persontm, what can I say?

After twenty or so minutes, half a Dewcan and a coupla Marbros (I’m sure the grumbly swearing dying down had something to do with it, as well…), Mikey would reappear, smiling widely, dragging me out of bed so that he could use me as Barbie.

I tried, against my own personal convictions with regard to the trollop, to buy him an actual Barbie and wardrobe one time. “Oh she’ll never do. You have better hair than she does, darlin’.”

The next couple-three hours would be spent digging through my clothes and jewelry and makeup box, this look and that emerging. “THIS” he would announce breathlessly at times, “THIS is the look for clubbing this weekend.” Polaroid snaps were taken so that said look could be replicated without error.

We would swap up, sometimes going to predominantly straight clubs, sometimes going to gay clubs. The straight clubs had platforms with dayglo chainlink fencing or shiny steel cages to dance in. The gay joints had the best DJs, hands-down. The straight clubs were for dancing with one another and/or the crowd we blew in with. The gay clubs were less meat-markety and encumbered; they were for dancing with everyone.

Sydd (resident best gal pal and possibly soulmate…what is that, sistah from anotha mistah?) and I used to laugh so hard at the straight joints, because Payphone Mike is a big, droolingly gorgeous hunk of man, thus causing all women in a one-mile radius to come around sniffing up on him. One time, this absolutely primo female was all over Mike, giving him the come-on in a bigass way. Shimmy-shimmying her shake. Putting out the ‘take me home and brutalize me’ vibe. She couldn’t understand, this girl who’d probably never been turned down for anything in her life, why this boy wouldn’t play. The steadier she rocked it, the more uncomfortable and repulsed he got.

“JUST TELL HER YOU’RE GAY, DUMBASS!” was what Sydd yelled at him over the pulse of the music when he gave us a pleading look. “TELL HER, AND SHE’LL BACK THE FUCK OFF!” But I knew what he was thinking. This girl, given the information that this stunning piece of d00d was homosexual, would pursue harder for the challenge (“I changed that tiger’s stripes, heh.”). Some folks is weird like that.

One night, Mike said, “We’re gonna do something different. A little social experiment, if you will.” He then proceeded to dress me for our night out: Gigunda olive drab cords, thick black belt, men’s ivory henley two-button undershirt, tight, unbuttoned so as to let the cleavage fall where it may. My best-loved and most worn Docs, shiny black. Three-inch black leather wristlets. Barely-there makeup, bobbed hair in loose curls. “There. You’re even more gorgeous as a boy. The bartenders at the Vieux [Carre] will love you.” And they did, as did an effete server with an amazing body and beautiful head of long, dark hair that everyone knew as ‘PeeWee’: “Oh honey, I’m SO bi, but I’d seriously consider the straight life for YOU.” I two-fisted it all night and didn’t pay for the first drink.

That was the night that I was told to leave home without the “HELLO, I’M” (’straight girl’ was sharpied into the large white rectangle of space) badge that I wore sometimes on these excursions. That was the night that I caught the goofy, lanky boy staring and drooling while Casey the Verycute Lesbian and I danced together through song after song (I felt bad about her…there was genuine, self-conscious interest on her part –”I go to the gym, can you tell?”– and I neglected to tell her I was straight because she was a mighty fine dancer). When she took a break, I danced for a while by myself, then beckoned him over. He gave the classic, “Who, ME?” gesture, I smiled and nodded, pointing to the floor in front of me. He joined me and tried to make small talk, whereupon I looked him full in the face and said, “Don’t talk, just move.” He was a fair partner, despite surrendering a basic lead to me, and finally worked up the nerve to ask me in stilted fashion.

“So are you…” Not wanting to hassle with all that, just wanting to dance, I smiled wistfully (maybe even kindly) and shook my head ‘no’, because the word ’straight’ was gonna cap his sentence had he the nerve to finish it. He greeted the movement of my head with such a look of disappointment that I just had to laugh out loud and call PeeWee over to get him a drink.

“He was a cute boy,” Mikey said tonight as we talked, watching the moths dance in streetlamp-glow, “You should have given him a shot.”

Please, honey,” I replied, “I’d've wiped the floor with that boy, and he was just too sweet to break.”

Payphone Mike grinned his prizewinning smile, “Yeah, that’s what I told him when he asked about you that night….”