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Archive for June, 2003

|| June 27, 2003 || 11:25 pm || Comments (10) ||

It is never advisable to confuse the terms ’smegma’ and ‘magma’ in polite conversation. Take that one to the bank, baby.

Best quote of the night? It was easily, “I’ve listened to enough Loveline to know that if someone laughs or pisses during sex, then there are some serious issues going on.”

|| June 27, 2003 || 4:31 pm || Comments (4) ||

Comments should be fixed. And, miracle upon miracles, I do not appear to have broken anything in the process.

UPDATE: It seems that I am in good company; apparently Neil Gaiman is having difficulties, as well. He sums it up rather nicely, I think:

“If Blogger improves any more, I’m investigating Movable Type.”

Yeth, yea verily.

|| June 27, 2003 || 7:56 am || Comments (2) ||

Do not go to bed, oh readers of mine weblog, with pigtails in your hair. Trust me on this one. You will pay dearly for that brief moment of forgetful laziness.

I have the house deliciously, profanely to myself. For four days! The fam took the annual trip to the beach without me, as I was unavoidably detained with the work shutdown and wrap-up. My god, do I need the reflective time, filled with, in turns orange juice and soft music, wine and soundless air.

I also need the time to drink and masturbate, but that’s neither here nor there, really. Sorry I mentioned it.

If you would, wonderful Superior Muffinasses, take a look at the comments on the last entry. But Jett, you say, there’re no comments to be seen on that last entry! Yes, upon quick glance one would have to agree with you. BUT, click the link and voila!, magically comments appear!

The only thing different about this weblog is the fact that Blogger ‘changed’ some things.

Okay, I don’t typically curse Blogger, even when it chews up and spits out a lovingly-crafted post. If I lose something for lack of saving it before it’s proven published, it’s my own damned fault. I’m using a free service, and I fully believe you get what you pay for. In this instance, I’ve gotten three years’-worth, really, more than I’ve paid for.

So, Blogger has been mucking around, ‘changing’ things. But the ‘changes’ implemented here aren’t so wondrous as to merit the gnawing-through of my comments feature. I will try to get hold of theDane as quickly as possible for a look-see, but in the interim, do any of you have any idears? The lovely timato was quick to point out that the number assigned to the post and comments are unusually long compared to previous posts, but he’s an MT user and has no use for Bloggery knowledge.

FUCKING BLOGGER! Fucking up my shit! FUCK! I can understand why they would want to confound some of the newer “My parentz R so unkewl, i cant go out on fri nite.” users; stop up the floodgates of inanity, if you will. But longtime users that actually occasionally have something to say? It should be like the ‘New Coke’/'Old Coke’ issue. I should have had a fucking choice, not yanked right the fuck into the new system. Why couldn’t I have opted out? Does Blogger want all of their consistent, quality users to migrate away? Many, many people have been espousing MT to me, fussing for me to get with the program, for a long time. theDane has even offered to install it if I want to run it, but I’m nothing if not loyal, especially if something has treated me well consistently. Yeah, Blogger is free, and up until now the kinks (where I’m personally concerned) have been minimal, but free doesn’t give it excuse to be an ungodly pain in my ass.

In short, if Blogger starts mimicking the bad boyfriend (“…babyIloveyou, I’mhurtingyouforyourowngooood…”), then I’ll hit it on the head with a skillet and burn its clothes in a fifty-five gallon drum (like the LAST bad boyfriend I had).

FUCKING BLOGGER! Fucking up my shit! Any input will be appreciated.

m0rgaana: i’m wondering how they could tell
strom thurmond was dead?

JettSuperior:FACE=”Tahoma” SIZE=2>mmmmm….he stopped eating

JettSuperior:this must be breaking news.

m0rgaana: this morning i think

JettSuperior:because, maxim is out of town and I don’t
get the news while he’s gone.

m0rgaana: the puddle of drool under his head
on the desk didn’t continue to grow?

JettSuperior:that’s it! the country really IS going to hell
now, no handbasket required.

m0rgaana: i usually glance at google news
before work

m0rgaana: despite scalia’s best efforts at
keeping sexual organs for procreation use

JettSuperior:yes. we should all be free to take our
sexual organs out and scramble them for breakfast if we so

m0rgaana: mmm….eggs….

JettSuperior:grits and toast and ovaries, yum!

m0rgaana: heh

|| June 26, 2003 || 6:33 pm || Comments (4) ||

I’m sure you all thought that someone had finally strangled me and left me for dead (or, at the very least, veryvery annoyed and gasping for air), but have no fear! I’ve been inordinately busy these past few days; so busy, in fact, that it feels like a week has passed and I’m just now coming up for air.

When I got into the car to go to work this morning, ‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’ was playing on the eighties station and it somehow felt like a sign from the heavens. I’ve not heard that particular tune in ages and how could anything possibly be amiss on a day when the Cosmos is telling you that every little thing you do is magic? I headed down the street to see that down by the corner I would have a difficult time navigating my car down the narrow street because there were a half-dozen vehicles lining both sides of it in front of a pretty little yellow house.

Eyeballing the four large Suburbans and the two Lincoln Towncars that comprised those half-dozen vehicles, I quickly realized that a drug bust was in full swing, YAY! I just moved onto this block where all the lawns are perfectly manicured and the cute little old peoples in their cute-little-old-people-houses tuck themselves in by seven pee emm every evening and there is a fucking drug bust happening across the street and four houses down. There were all the (hey I’m compensating in automobile size for what I lack elsewhere) vehicles, about six or seven doughy men milling about and there on the porch sat a young man and woman, mid-twentyish by the looks of them. They were cuffed, sitting Indian-style and there between them sat a rocker car seat with a baby fastened in it. I give the cops credit for waiting on DHR before they hauled the adults away, because by the looks of the turnout, they were expecting to find something big. Around here, if that many big men with that many huge vehicles show up, they WILL find something big –a meth lab or a room stuffed to the rafters with merrywonka– because the DEA in this county isn’t big on fucking around and/or looking situationally foolish. We have so many helicopter flyovers on this mountain that you’d think this was the heart of Drug Trade Central or somesuch.

This evening there is debris on the lawn and a lone car has gone back and forth several times in the few minutes I’ve been home. Lives broken, it seems.

Later on, sitting in the heat of midmorning, headed for the bank to close out the business account, I spied a bumpersticker on a garishly large-and-blocky minivan that said “God allows U-turns” which set off in me the runaway desire to have a bumpersticker (or several, for that matter) printed, saying “God DESPISES cliche”. I might just do that. I just might.

I thought I would have to work one more day past this one, but I was wrong. I was pleasantly surprised by the healthy work ethic of the temporary people brought in to tear down and pack up and just generally make my job easier while I focused on things like forty-leb’m phone calls –all with distinct and conflicting instructions– and making sure everyone’s severance package was in order. I wasn’t much concerned about my own: I have the boss’ home address and phone number, after all, but I wanted to make sure that my people were taken care of for the short haul until their unemployment goes through.

We all seem to be taking the rerouting tack with our lives: Everyone taking the opportunity presented not to sink into the doldrums, but to re-think and re-prioritize and start as fresh as possible. Everybody going back to school. Everybody planning to get the fuck up out of here in their own little ways. People are brought together for a reason, believe you that; we all were seated in our corner of corporate uhmerikuh to help usher one another into this period of change and growth.

I believe that. Everything has worked like clockwork to bring me to this place in my life, cleanly and almost (discomfitingly) effortlessly. For shitsakes, the new boss assigned to me in these times of change some three weeks ago is named Hope.

Hope, y’all. There are road signs and then there are road signs.

I’m at the cusp of newness, and it brings a warbling song to my heart. A relief. A growling readiness. My eyes are darting for about for trail, feet are itching to pad down an unbroken path.

I was the last one out this evening, carrying my basket of personal things and office supplies that I’d absconded with (is there anything more wonderful than pens and paper and staples and such?). As I walked, a large blue-and-yellow crepe flower that my daughter crafted and hung in front of my desk escaped the basket and fell to the floor. I sat the basket down, bent over to pick her art up, and when I straightened to my full height I looked around at the fifty some-odd boxes, the palleted and shrink-wrapped fixtures, transfixed by the largeness of the now mostly-empty space.

“Eighteen months,” I said to myself, “Eighteen months in this place, gone just like that.” It slipped blithely away, just slid right on past while I plink-plinked along, collecting a paycheck, going home to a maelstrom of laundry and ballgames and dinners to be cooked and towheads lying on pillows waiting to be kissed goodnight so we could greet more sliding moments with the next bleating of an alarm.

I must not waste any more moments of my minutes here on the nonsensical blue marble. I must stop just letting the moments slide past. I must no longer be surging forward, higgledy-piggledy, toward tomorrows and their infinite unrequited promise(s). I must greet right now warmly and craft it into something beautiful, all the while letting it craft something beautiful out of me.

Today begins that chapter, the one where I no longer sit back and just be life’s pupil, but instead strive to be life’s scholar. Join me.

|| June 23, 2003 || 1:03 pm || Comments (11) ||

JETT’S FRIEND’S VOICE MAIL: I’m not answering the phone blahblah; Jett, I know it’s you, blahblah (okay, that part was unspoken, but still); something funny that makes Jett laugh blahblah; BEEP!

JETT: Welp, I’m heading to see the Irritable Chinese Guy and I just knew you’d want to come along.

Then I proceeded to put the call on hold instead of hanging it up (whoopsies!), which my pal tells me later leaves him straining through five minutes’-worth of ‘hold silence’ to hear the Irritable Chinese Guy and Jett having an exchange which will surely to Pete be something of great comic proportions.

Serves you right for not taking my call, fucko.

|| June 21, 2003 || 4:58 pm || Comments (0) ||

It’s been brought to my attention that while you, wonderful readery people that you are, realize that I have about fifteen hunnert lead balls in the air, you are sick of the punchy, short entries that have not really a point in their pretty little paragraphs. In short, I’ve been told, it’s time for an entry with some meat in it. Plus, I promised this little ditty to Acidman some time ago. Welllll, here you go.

Back when I left my really fat paying job at the ad agency to take the leap into radio, I really didn’t have enough sense to know what I was doing. Like any great endeavor I’ve ever undertaken, I just kind of let ‘er rip with the not-quite-sane laughter and jumped in feet first. I was in the Pacific Northwest, a Delta girl with great legs and wide smile and a smart mouth from which Southernese flowed, to the delight of my companions and co-workers. They’d take one look at my five-ten frame, hear one drawly something-or-other and assume I was an ignert backwater hick who couldn’t spell her way out of a paper sack, much less conjugate a verb. I think, for a short time, I was viewed as an ‘easy mark’.

I’m not really sure if I was aware or not that I’d been lured away from the agency because the station had just lost their ‘eye-candy’ AE, but I didn’t care. The firm I was working for had just changed ownership and a lot of the electric, fun-creative atmosphere our motley crew of decidedly non-corporate heatherns had crafted was swallowed up in the merger with a more traditional, straight-laced firm. I had problems with it. There were a lot more females on staff at the other place, a lot more ‘typical-woman’ females, and they tried their damnedest to make it uncomfortable as all-fuck for the handful of women that came from our agency. We were of the mettle that could throw back tequila with the roughest of the menfolk during our Friday afternoon ‘creative meetings’, that could take a push and then push back with verve. If there were any tears, it was after work, on our own time, and that won us points in the respect and camraderie departments.

So yeah, I was recruited on over to the station by this guy known industrywide as ‘The Snake’. This guy, he’d do anything to get a contract signed. He didn’t care who he fucked up, fucked with or fucked over to fatten his wallet. He was good at what he did, but in a bad way, you dig?

The Snake recruited me and after my newbie orientation, he was assigned to ride with me on both cold calls and appointments I’d lined up. One of the appointments I landed was with a local furrier, an older gentleman who was notoriously hard to deal with and even more famously difficult to garner a signature from. But I’d gotten an appointment with him, which no one else had been able to do for years.

Snake and I showed up for the meeting, both crisp and professional-looking, million-watt smiles freshly charged. I (and I don’t remember exactly how now) got the guy to sit down and actually look at some run schedules, was coaxing him into the salesmanship end zone, when somehow I dropped the ball. Well, not so much dropped the ball as stumbled while carrying it, thus kind of whoopsy-daisying the whole thing and trying in a somewhat grabass fashion to get ahold of things again. Then The Snake started interjecting and the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket. The furrier was not inclined to listen to a fucking word that guy was saying, and his irritation grew more and more obvious with each second that ticked. Finally it was like he just drew the mental sash (made of iron…CLANG!) and there was nobody coming back to the door. Snake and I said our good-byes and left.

That fucker bitched at me the whole way back to the office. He was still bitching when we walked through the doors, and Lori, the savvy receptionist/Girl FridaySaturdaySunday asked what was up as I took my briefcase and my barely-checked anger toward the kitchen for some coffee.

“She had him right there, Lor, and she fell over into the mud. I tried to hammer it back together, but it was just gone.”

Lori asked him for the details, and before he was halfway through she shut him down with, “You can’t pick someone up and carry them outta the mud, dumbass, you’ll both sink. You help them out, but most times you let them pick themselves up, scrape off the muck and try again.” Maybe she’s blown it, was her unspoken message to him, but you’re seasoned and you should have known better.

Cut to three months later: I had come off of my draw plus commission paycheck and was doing well on commissions alone. So well, in fact, that my commissions had been bumped to the next level a few months early. Then one Wednesday afternoon the big boss, Grady, summoned me and the one other female AE to his office.

“Ladies,” he greeted me and Deb when we’d all sat down, “I have something to run past the two of you.” Deb was ten years my senior, a tall, attractive black woman with a graceful manner but a suspicious, distrustful nature. She immediately pulled to her full height in her seat.

The basic gist of the conversation was that there was this client, one we’d landed some years ago, that was a significant portion of the yearly gravy at our station. He spent an enormous amount of money on advertising, and he preferred to do it all in one whack, one time per year. The time for renewing his contract was here, and Grady needed a rep to draw everything up and meet with him. The catch was that the AE had to be a female. Sherry, the previous eye-candy, used to handle all of his business. Now that she was gone, it had to be Deb or me.

I knew of Sherry. She was known in the local industry as a savvy businesswoman. She had looks, a killer instinct and a fat bank account. She was also of questionable integrity, which probably aided her bank account quite a bit. She and The Snake were the best of friends before she moved to California, if that tells you anything about her character.

Deb cocked an eyebrow, “And??” she asked, “Because, Grady…I’m pretty confident that there’s an ‘And’.

Grady had his poker face on, but you could see the internal wince, which was surprising. You could tell that he was searching for the best way to word what came next.

“Aaannnnd….he likes to fraternize with the rep that handles his account.”

“So what you’re saying to me is,” Deb paused here to suck on her teeth, “Is that this man wants some play for his pay.” Grady looked very, very uncomfortable, and this was before the Age of Rampant Sexual Harassment Lawsuits.

“Ahh, yes. Yes he does, if the past is any indicator.” He hurriedly finished with, “But, I won’t force either one of you to take this account.” The room went deadly quiet for about two minutes, though you could hear everyone’s gears whirring. Deb was starting to grit her teeth when I looked at Grady.

“I’ll take it,” I said, “I’ll handle the account.”

I went to my desk and immediately got Mr. Moneybuckets’ secretary on the phone. I scheduled an appointment for the following Tuesday; it was a late-morning slot so as to allow us a ‘working lunch’ if necessary. Some copy and time order specifications were already available to me; I spent the biggest part of my weekend setting up the contract and working to flesh out the rest of his runs and writing up new material to have recorded for sample spots on Monday.

Tuesday morning I didn’t even go into the office; I spent that time getting ‘purty’ at the salon. Then I went to the bank and drew out a hundred-dollar bill.

“Make it the crispest one you’ve got,” I told the teller.

I was nervous as I approached Mr. Moneybuckets’ building, but I greeted his secretary warmly and introduced myself. She ushered me into his office where there was a table already set up for us: It was laid out with coffee and tea (bleck, never touch the stuff, tastes vile as allhell), finger sandwiches and light pastries. Moneybuckets eyed me from behind his desk as I pulled some paperwork from my briefcase, along with a pen. I cruised around the table, the hundred palmed in my right hand. Just as he was opening his mouth (to say something smarmy, I’m sure), I slapped the hundred-dollar bill down on his desk.

“Here’s a hunnert bucks, go get yourself a blow job.” THWACK, I slapped the contract down on the desk next to the cash.

“Here’s the contract I’ve drawn up,” THWACK, I slapped the pen down on top of the contract, “here’s a pen.”

“Now sign the thing.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, for what seemed like nine years and I started steeling myself for the worst. I figured surely an ass-chewing, if not an ass-beating, was about to commence. But I was ready for anything. My momma always taught me that if you ball up your fist like a man and hit like a man, you better be ready to get beat down like a man. I was in a sure state of high-heeled, business-suited readiness when that old fucker let out the biggest spate of genuinely-amused laughter I’d ever fucking heard in my short life. I thought he was gonna pop a valve from laughing so hard. When he finally straightened up in his chair and wiped his eyes, he gestured and said, “Let’s sit down here at the table and go over the specifics before I actually sign.”

I left there that day with a lot of fucking money in my pocket. That money was made all the sweeter by the fact that my dignity rested in there with it.

I don’t know whether or not he paid to get his peepee sucked, but that fucker kept my money — and my pen, too. Prolly had ‘em framed.

|| June 20, 2003 || 11:43 pm || Comments (21) ||

I just heard on the radio that Renee “Bee-Stung Face” Zellweger will play Janis Joplin in an upcoming ‘epic‘ about Janis’ life.

I am fucking fit to be fucking tied.