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Archive for June, 2003

|| June 8, 2003 || 11:41 pm || Comments (7) ||

KY Warming Gel: The mainstreaming of kink.

Granted, a little warming gel is not wandering along the outside fringes of Fetishtopia; it’s right there in the the realm of innocuous with flavored body paints and dayglo condoms.

But, remember when such things weren’t advertising fodder for prime-time programming? I do, because it wasn’t all that fucking long ago. I can’t decide whether or not I should land squarely in the role of prude on this one. Enlightenment is a good thing, yes, but a little ‘no-no’ stigma is necessary sometimes, don’t you think? So yeah, ‘prude’ is winning out with me here.

Thoughts on erotica and sexuality predicated by a television commercial. Thank you, Johnson & Johnson.

Funny that I should see this commercial (three times in the last hour, I swear) when just earlier while riding in the car I had a myriad of deep thoughts on the art of taking your clothes off for money. Sure it’s rare, but still, certain songs do that to me. And maybe the near-humidity does it to me as well.

Being raised a Southern girl, I was of course taught ‘the ways of a propah laydee’. Strangely enough, this was the culture that had you –at four, five, six years of age– swimming in the nearest watering hole co-ed style, sporting only underwear, brown-as-a-bean skin, and smiles as wide as the high school football field. Central High…Go, Cougars!

The bigger part of what constitutes being a Southernn lady are nevers: Never call boys (they phone you, or you go unspoken to via Ma Bell), never sit with your knees even the eensiest bit apart, never know the feel of a backseat and a fifth of rum concurrently, and never take your clothes off in front of a crowd for money (most importantly, do not let anyone know if you engage in any of the previous if you in fact do).

Yes, there are occasions for nudity in a crowd free of charge, but we’re not covering those situations here and now, as they carry specific rules and are fraught with complexity.

So, taking your clothes off….there are many songs that beg to be stripped to, some I’ve mentioned here before (‘Stranglehold’), but tonight’s inspiration was the Stones’ ‘Start Me Up’. And yeah, honeysuckled air blowing in through the windows.

I don’t think that I’d ever be a woman that could strip for money. It’s never held any fascination for me, to tell you the truth. I have a theory that most strippers are there not primarily for financial reasons, but because there’s an element of pleasure in the whole undressing-for-strangers thing. The money is just gravy to them.

I would be dishonest if I told you that I’d never participated in a little pre-action peeling of the textiles. I’d also be dishonest were I to tell you that I’d never thought of disrobing to a heavy backbeat under a room of appreciative eyes. There is no appeal, however, in doing it for a large crowd, or for four walls holding complete strangers, or for grubby paper tender. I once had sex in a glass elevator some twenty stories up, overlooking I-40 in Memphis; any exhibitionist tendencies were, for the most part, sated then. Were I to strip, it’d have a ‘Pussycat Dolls‘ flavor and I would know everyone in the room. A dozen or so men, selected by me for various reasons, would make up the audience. There’d be songs like the aforementioned ‘Stranglehold’ and ‘One Time Too Many’ and andandand….

And I’d make eye contact. I would more than likely smile. When my set (do strippers call them that?) was over, I’d shimmy back into my clothes and join the spectators for drinks, enjoying the rest of the show. Later there would be a simultaneous poetry slam and poker game.

Shut up. This is my fantasy. There may be many like it, but this one is mine. *snort*

|| June 8, 2003 || 6:07 pm || Comments (6) ||

I am going to be drinking a LOT and saying rude, rude things later tonight! You’ll be somewhere nearby, if you know what’s good for ye.

|| June 8, 2003 || 2:57 pm || Comments (3) ||

Everything in the world is just made up of pieces of other stuff.

No wonder there’re so many crazy physicists. All they do is contemplate that one basic notion day in and day out.

|| June 7, 2003 || 5:54 pm || Comments (4) ||

My friend Dave was in a motorcycle accident and is all fucked up. Engage in hearty prayer, mojo, whatever it is that you groove on.

He’s a good daddy to his baby girl, a good friend to his buds, and (one day I hope to find this out in person) a righteous cat to throw back a few brewskis with. He’s going through a divorce and a shaky professional life. He deserves a fucking break.

Supplication. Just a little for me, but not for me, you dig? I’m asking on behalf of a pal. The Pastry of God thanks you, dear little Superior Muffinasses.

|| June 7, 2003 || 3:59 pm || Comments (1) ||

There are things, even now, in the midst of almost too-reasonable discussions of feelings and expectations and divorce, that flash funny to both of us. Things that give a glimpse of how nobly we actually are carrying ourselves at this point. (Hm, it seems that I may have forgotten to tell you how, after letting my stomach gnaw on itself for the first twenty-five minutes of waking last Tuesday –fucking Tuesdays!– that I beckoned for him to sit on the bed and then met him calmly with the statement, “You know, I think it would be better for all parties involved if we just weren’t married anymore.” Not how I had planned it by a long shot, but it’s out there now, for whatever that’s worth. At least I’m not being eaten alive with it anymore, but it’s a shame how that ‘eaten alive’ thing never really goes away and instead opts for transferrance….now he’s the one being eaten alive. I thought we would be in it together. Turns out I was wrong and there’s a remarkable sense of peace to replace years of feeling somehow inconsequential in the whole scheme of things. He was suitably calm and suitably crushed and said, –shitchoo not, man– exactly as he said he would some months ago, “I told you that you’d get tired of feeling this way and that one day you’d say these things to me and that on that day I would be totally flabbergasted and caught unawares.” I want to say in response to that, well, Jesus Christ, if you knew all that, then how in the fuck can you still honestly claim surprise? I don’t get that, but I know that stranger dichotomies exist, so I do get it, too.

Anyhow, how fitting, both of us sitting in the marital bed, void of clothing. Naked bodies and naked emotions and naked truths dealt out there between us. We are artistic collaborators even to the end.)

For example, he, in a goofy caricature of himself, ruffling his hair, bucking out his teeth, waving and saying in his best cartoon voice, “Deh-hyuck, thurr goes life passing by, ain’t it purrrdy?” and we both laugh, because you either laugh or cry, and there is plenty of time to spill salt(water) later on. Everybody is discussing, nobody is blaming, there is a true desire for understanding and for clarification.

…which is all a wordy way of saying, “Who the fuck knows, you know?”

He is my friend and I do not want him to hurt, because I love him and like him and value him as a person. He is an exceptional father. He is an exceptional person. He is, for lack of a purer term, a good man. A little naive, but good nonetheless.

But me, in the quite dead-on words of a friend, I’m ‘trailin’ blood in the water’ (whiskeyed philosophers is the best kind, oh yes they is). Oh yessir. Yessir, I am. But you know what? I’m almost constantly ‘trailin’ blood in the water’. Most days, however, I’m just pretty handy with a bucket so that the rest of the world never knows. Pass the beer and sausages! We have revelatory goings-on here!

Quite haphazardly, I finally found where I stashed that copy of ‘A Meaningless Collection of Random Songs’ that you sent (on some subliminal level, I’m quite sure I hid it on purpose), so I finally put it in to listen to it. When ‘somebody‘ began pulsing out of the speakers, I was fine. By the time the first line was sung I was flat on my face and sobbing into the carpet. Damn this human frailty thing all to hell.

Screw you, poets! Bugger you, dreamers! Up yours, writers of ballads and singers of same! I’m saving all my blessings for the fermenters of grape tonight.

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

Come to me now / And lay your hands over me / Even if it’s a lie / Say it will be alright / And I shall believe

I’m broken in two / And I know you’re on to me / That I only come home / When I’m so all alone / But I do believe

That not everything is gonna be the way / You think it ought to be / It seems like every time I try to make it right / It all comes down on me / Please say honestly you won’t give up on me / And I shall believe / And I shall believe

Open the door / And show me your face tonight / I know it’s true / No one heals me like you / And you hold the key

Never again / Would I turn away from you / I’m so heavy tonight / But your love is alright / And I do believe

That not everything is gonna be the way / You think it ought to be / It seems like every time I try to make it right / It all comes down on me / Please say honestly / You won’t give up on me / And I shall believe / I shall believe

// Sheryl Crow, “I Shall Believe”

|| June 6, 2003 || 12:21 pm || Comments (11) ||

My God, I love those pop-ups that advertise “HOW TO PUT AN END TO ANNOYING POP-UPS!!” Makes me wonder whether or not the people that create them are worried about going to hell, even a little bit.

waistdog sums up being an artist and having to deal with the business of galleries ‘misplacing’ his art:

Art should have a pleasant ring….

Like the song the birdies sing.

Instead it’s like the hornet’s sting….

A nasty fucked up, sucky thing.

I’m wearing my hair in Pocahontas braids today and have a nice halo of fuzz around my head due to the inclement weather. Make what you will of that.

The erasermousething is not so heinous anymore; I can finally track the cursor with it quite well, except for when the infantile cursor gets it in its head to play a pesky game of hide-and-seek.. The eensy keyboard continues to be quite the bother, however. My fingers must be free to roam the open plain of letters, not be confined to the regimented laptop bullpen! Where are those marvelous expansive rolly-uppy keyboards they’ve kept promising us? The techno’tard extraordinaire can get behind that sort of advance, brethren and sistren!

Lace-up pants are really very unfortunate things when you have Girlbladdertm. Girlbladdertm, for those of you uninformed on such matters, is when one second you have absolutely no inkling nor urge nor need to pee, and within one second more you have ten gallons of piss resting in your bladder that simply must be expelled NOW. NOWNOWNOW and no two ways about it. So unfair, but I guess that’s the price we pay for getting the funbags (what Davey refers to –quite fetchingly, I might add– the tits as)….in all honesty, I think that the bladder knows I’m wearing the lace-up britches today, because I’ve peed as many times in the last hour as I normally would in a half-day. What a great fun time my bladder is having with me. To hack it out with a serving spoon seems a little excessive, however, so I’ll just deal. I love my lace-ups and will not cave to my mischevious innards by not wearing them when I damned well feel like it.

Why the fuck doesn’t everyone have one of those little ‘blogroll me’ buttons at the bottom of their blogrolls? It’d make it so much fucking easier to scoot you onto my list were I so inclined.

There has been someone from Johns Hopkins coming here to read for months and months now. I wonder about that person sometimes, and would like to tell them hello. So, “HELLO, Johns Hopkins staffer or student! Welcome, intelligentsia!” I’ll bet you didn’t know that it was once my aim to audition for admittance to the conservatory there in order to pursue my Master’s….


Keith, new place. I’ll miss the now-defunct GIParty, but am eager to see which direction Keith heads in creatively; he’s got a lively mind. Sour Bob, kaput. Piss.

|| June 5, 2003 || 1:46 pm || Comments (14) ||

Reader mail!

Dear Jett,
I have a burning question. Since you seem to be more than a little….intolerant of people in general, why then are you studying to be a nurse? How will you cope?
Best of luck,

Firstly, I must commend your parents on their choice of names. Lars, in all honesty, is a name that really kinda does it for me. Secondly, I must commend you, dear Lars, on your very astute comprehension and assimilation skills. I, in fact,

a) do hate the whole of humanity as a general rule and
b) am embarking on an education and subsequently, a career in nursing in July.

So, this was a very fine question, and my answer to it is as follows: While people in general do indeed provoke great ire in me, and the strange compulsion to exist solely within my own four walls, I still move and function (quite actively, to tell the truth) amongst them. I do this because I’ve come across those in my life that I’ve shared a somewhat magical connection with and they have had a profound impact on me. Those wonderful individuals are what make the rest of you loosely-put-together sots tolerable, along with the realization that there may as yet be an untapped vein of even more wonderful individuals out there. Thus, I plod on despite the inanity, the ignorance, the cruelty and just plain rudeness that most of the populace presents as its game face.

While I will have to work directly with people when I am a nurse, those people will have an excuse for the inanity, ignorance, (maybe the) cruelty and just plain rudeness by way of the simple fact that they or their loved ones are sick or injured, which (in my humble opinion) gives valid excuse for fear- or pain-based irrational behavior. I will, in short, be much more sympathetic of and compassionate toward the masses that suffer from physical woes, seeking assistance for same than all those wandering the globe with a whole host of mental and spiritual ailments and doing fuck-all about their situashee.

Thanks for the inquiry!