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Archive for July, 2003

 
|| July 24, 2003 || 11:47 pm || Comments (0) ||

And, for the record, Maxim says I should tell you that there was no Lebanese hooker.

She was Armenian.

 
|| July 24, 2003 || 11:05 pm || Comments (8) ||

Dear Co-Worker of My Spouse,

Hi…you and I have never ‘officially’ met, talking only briefly on the phone as we have, so this post is rather awkward for me. As you can see from this space, I have a propensity for speaking my mind. I can put on a pretty face for the public, can be decorous and tactful with the best of ‘em when I so choose, and I do when necessary…if only to make life a little simpler for my spouse and my children.

But this place, this little section of Cyberia, it is mine to decorate unfettered by the pinheaded convention that I have to muck through in everyday life. I am a big fish in a little pond. I don’t know why the fuck I am still here on this mountain, still among people that –ultimately– view me as a freak and an outsider and always will. But I bear it for now, as this seems to be my lot, and I bear it well. I do not remove myself from the community that would just as soon excise anyone like me from its midst.

You see, I find Sand Mountain crippling; it chokes me and has ever since I was power-played (something of the ‘if-you-want-to-be-a-family-then-you’ll-come-here-otherwise-I-want-a-divorce’ nature) into coming here eight years ago. The reasons I started and as yet maintain this site are manyfold, but one of them is that I can exuberantly be ME here: The me that plays with words and ideas and swears like a sailor and laughs at and muses over life in turns. The creative me, the individual me, the me that this community squelches to a degree. The me that I missed so long after coming here; the missing me that I mourned so deeply at one time that I would have rather taken my life then step one more boot outside onto the red clay of this place.

My site is liberation of mind and soul until such time as I can pack a trunk and get the fuck off this godforsaken hill, doing my damndest to not have to look back. Having said that, I must tell you that it was a horrible invasion of privacy that my husband committed this afternoon when he brought you here. He had no right. There are maybe two or three local people who read what I hang here, and that’s because I’ve shown them this place, because they’ve merited it, because I can trust them to not roll my business all down mainstreet like a cheap parade (as people here are wont to do, but you know this, being from this area). Okay, maybe my former boss reads it, too, because she’s a nosy bitch, the sort that digs through the trash for seemingly innocuous scribblings haphazardly thrown out (hi, you backstabbing cunt…I don’t work for the company any more, and you can BET I’ll have some things to say to you when I’m in your neck of the woods….sorry I’ve not phoned, but I’ve been saving them for a little vis-a-vis thing, you unnerstand. Didn’t think I knew you were here, did you? Didn’t think I knew about the trash thing either, didja, you silly twat?).

Sure, I never ruled out the possibility that one day someone from our town or one of the handful surrounding it would find this site…I just never entertained the idea much, as it was slim to none and I’m not paranoid to such a degree. I generally choose to deal with things as they present themselves rather than worry about potential nothings.

Anyway, my husband bringing you here was invasive to and disrespectful of me. He knows the semi-anonymous nature of this site, and it was thoughtless and, to a degree, unkind of him.

And honestly? It hurts that he would have so little regard for how I feel regarding this. It speaks of an insensitivity and a disregard for my feelings on the matter. I know how and why you came here, and I could have told him exactly where to find it, had he only called. This one little incident speaks of larger issues, and it is not my wish or intent to wash you in any of the muckier bits of our marriage….

It’s nothing personal, co-worker, but I just don’t want you here. Please don’t come back. If you do, then at least bookmark the site and don’t keep entering the way you came. At least that way I won’t have to think about your presence here. I don’t want you here because I am the ‘freakshow wife’, but because my words draw you in and make you catch your breath, or think, or, or, or….you get the picture.

My spouse knows that he is free to come here at any time and wander around, but I laid down the rule from day one that nothing appearing here should be tabled for discussion. Most things, hell, we’ve already volleyed between us, but I don’t want to know the whys or whens or the wherefores of his visits here. It would simply be too cumbersome for my fingers to have this knowledge, a knowledge that might retard their effectiveness in communicating my ideas and feelings. So, as we don’t discuss it, I would ask you –if you choose to come here on a regular basis– to do the same. Read what you will if you must, ponder it, comment if you like, but don’t make what I put here fodder for your discussions with my spouse.

I hate that I even had to write this. I fucking hate it.

~Beth

 
|| July 24, 2003 || 11:01 am || Comments (2) ||

WOO! My Blogathon project, Parts of the Whole, made the Popdex Top 100 today! Wheeeeee!


Won’t you sponsor me?

 
|| July 24, 2003 || 5:58 am || Comments (2) ||

Today is Setharina Hahntastica’s birthday. He is OLD. He is OLDER than OLD, for today he turns thirty.

It’s good that he sits in a chair and pushes pixels for a job, is all I’m sayin’; you know, because of the OLD thing. Because OLD people have trouble sustaining the labor-y type vocations (*cough*realwork*cough*) like moving bricks or playing kazoo in a strip bar.

Anyhow, I don’t want the Dane to feel like he’s OLD, I want to deceive him into thinking he’s virile and wonderful and loved, so you go on over there and wish that long dranka water a happy birthday, okay??

Pee ess….don’t tell him I told you all this. You know, he’s OLD and bit feeble and it might make him cry. You know how over-emotional OLD people can be….especially OLD people with strange sentimental attachments to lobsters, man.

 
|| July 23, 2003 || 10:46 pm || Comments (4) ||

(…written with discussions of discontent in mind…God bless you, New Friend….)

“Don’t you know that’s bad luck?” she says to me, but I rarely even registered her voice any more, much less her foolish notions like bad luck or ipsum fatum or whateverthefuck…

“What? What this time?” I shoot at her crossly, the tip of my tongue coming to rest between my teeth. Strange, the little quirks we affect without a hint of awareness about them. Those things count only later, when they’re seemingly the only things you can recall. Important, as they say, is subjective…just like morality and fear.

“You’re not supposed to tear the calendar pages off ahead of time.”

“I doubt, Trinny, that I’m fucking with the time-space continuum here. They’re just calendar pages. I’m bored with today and tomorrow and next Tuesday; let’s bring Wednesday the fourth on down the pike! Heeeeey, Wednesday the fourth, you’re the next contestant in the disappointment that is my life! Come on downnnnn.

By now I am bellowing. This always makes her equal parts squirrelly and ashamed. For me? For meeee?

“Your sarcasm is duly noted and fully unappreciated. It will be brought up as evidence against you in your next moment of vulnerability,” she says evenly.

For good measure, I rip off Wednesday the fourth as well, drawing a blackened, jaggedy heart on its face before offering it to her. She hesitates –that one hesitation that turns ‘do’ into ‘die’– and I tear Wednesday the fourth and its accompanying stilted sentiment into eensy confetti bits of another wasted day.

 
|| July 22, 2003 || 10:17 pm || Comments (2) ||

I swear to you that I’ve never laughed so hard in my life; Courtney Love running around hollering, “Don’t get my ass! Don’t get my ass!!” over and over was just too funny in light of this, what I jotted down last night:

I just realized something.

First, some background: I leave my blinds open almost all the time. I’m big on natural lighting, and I often forget to wind those suckers shut when darkness settles over the land.

Anyhow, the bathroom is right across the hall from the dining room, which has big ole windows in it. If I leave the door to the bath open (as I often do when taking a late-evening piss) and the blinds happen to still be open (as they often are), then the house full of college boys down the street totally gets to see my naked ass making the downward descent toward the toilet.

Wouldn’t it be cool if they have it on video?

My psychic throttle is wide open; I got my mojo workin’, baby.

You people are so weird for coming here to read this shit.

 
|| July 21, 2003 || 9:26 pm || Comments (3) ||

HIPPIE AND HOSER GO TO TOWN, PART ONE

Okay, what happens when a hippie and a hoser meet one of their musical heroes?

They shake so badly they can hardly hold the farging camera, is what. Out of twenty-eight shots taken on Saturday, only about seven were usable for the company website. And hell, even those aren’t all that great:

Michael is one of the most intellectually grandiose people I know, but apparently Dave Mustaine (and maybe the introduction of his newest signature guitar, too) reduces him to this. He is suddenly fifteen and Beavislike again. Yeah, Michael, Dave has never seen that money shot before. Jesus Christ.

This is one part of the reason that I didn’t accompany the fellas to the NAMM show in Nashabill the other day: I can’t handle pure-d idol worshippin’. I prefer the “Hey, you’re mighty talented” approach, versus the giggly, jellylike, drooly one. Guess which one gets you backstage? Guess which gets you swappin’ musical ideas and licks? Guess which one gets you invited along for beers? Guess which one has you exchanging correspondence down the road?

Ahem.

The other is because, well, if you’ve been to one of these things, you’ve been to them all, and I’ve been to my fair share. *yawn* Maxim hasn’t. He’s fairly new to this end of the industry.

Regaling me with tales of their adventures (which included a Lebanese hooker –no lie– and Michael taking a piss on the federal building during broad daylight in downtown Nashville) when he got in late Saturday night, Maxim said, “He kept eyeballing me hard and saying, ‘Where do I know you from? I know you from somewhere…’”

JETT: “Did you tell him that you were his future bass player and he saw you in a vision?”

MAXIM: “Well fuck no.”

JETT: “Why on earth not?”

MAXIM: “Because I didn’t want him to look at me like my head was on fire.”

JETT: “Honey, haven’t you ever noticed that it’s the people who get looked at like their heads are on fire that get someplace?”

Give me a fiery fucking head any day, man.