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Archive for August, 2003

 
|| August 31, 2003 || 8:08 pm || Comments (2) ||

How can my skin help

But stammer beneath your touch,

Trailing nerves straight to my heart;

The same one ablaze

With all the words that

Tongue can in no way do justice,

Waiting dumbly behind all that I feel

–Have ever felt, will feel

On the occasion of tomorrow

And tomorrow and tomorrows compounded.

They don’t have to be promised

Not even implied, but….

At the very least tell me, please tell me,

“You’ll lurk there in the shadows always;

I will not abandon you to the past.

“Count that as oath.”

Then I can sleep. Then my flesh

Can recount you in dreams,

A delicious nocturnal sigh.

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

I want to feel something better / I want to run from this cold, cold weather / You want me to listen when you speak / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good

I always liked you in the Spring / You just lay there and let that telephone ring / I wish I’d listened to you then / ‘Cause it was for my own good / Yeah, it was for my own good

I wish I’d listened to you then / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good / You say it’s for my own good

You say it’s for my own good

// The Damnwells, “For My Own Good”

 
|| August 31, 2003 || 1:47 am || Comments (0) ||

Some letters to celebrities, ‘B-list’ or otherwise:

Dear John Taylor,

I can’t help but be troubled by the fact that you look not a whole lot like the John Taylor of my youth, the one who spawned my knee-shakin’ fondness of Bass Players In General. Quite frankly, John Taylor, you remind me that I am aging as well, and that’s just a little thoughtless of you in light of my devotion to you and all.

I’m thinkin’ that flipping your bangs back down over your generous forehead (rather than electro-shocked up, as you’ve taken to wearing them) might help just a tad in preserving the ‘I’m-not-getting-older-just-better-baby’ thing that I desperately sought when seeing you on the tube here in two-aught-aught-three. Has it really been two whole decades, John? Has it been nearly twenty years since I surged up and down the soccer fields with ‘Hungry Like A Wolf’ playing taught and jagged in my brain? All those shots that found the net…I know I’ve never let on, buy they were allllll you, baby. Aaaaalllll you.

Had it been during the ‘Power Station’ era, my team would’ve been screwed. I’d have been so dancy-pantsed and overcome by your smokin’ basswork on the re-work of ‘Bang A Gong’ that I’d've been good for fucking nothing.

To wrap this up: Thanks for all the hot action in the daydreams of my early puberty and quit reminding me that I’m no longer that Young Teen Dynamo.

Oversexed, underpaid, and never over you,

Jett ‘Ohhhh John’ Superior

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

Dear Kate Beckinsale,

Damn, girl…you hot.

I’ma go watch that new movie and won’t even care if it sucks large because a) see paragraph above and b) you play a vampire and c) not only do you play a vampire, you play a kick-butt vampire.

Twitchily,

‘Your’ Jett Superior

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

Dear London Boys (whom I love equally but am forced to admit that Jason is sorta moving up into the ‘Little Bit More Enamoured With’ spot….),

I realize that it’s been some time since I mentioned you here at [All blogged up and nowhere to go.], so allow me to reassure you in good faith that you are no less in my heart than you were last Tuesday or even a couple-hunnert Tuesdays ago. I also realize that my boyfriend Norman has been getting press from me, but recall that Sam Rockwell and Edward Norton have not received as much exposure here as the two of you have in deference to your feelings toward me and fanly gushings over other celebrity-actor-type men.

Breckin Meyer? That insanely cute fella from the Aerosmith ‘Sweet Emotion’ video? Nary a nod, even though they put a bit of the tingle (you know, the tingle) in the nether regions of Yours Truly. It’s all about you guys.

Come to think of it, I haven’t mentioned beer and sausages for a while either.

Beer and sausages for everybody!

But you, sassy London brothers, you are allll miiiiine.

Still breathless (and just a little flushed) after all these years,

Jett ‘London-burning’ Superior

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

Dear Howie Mandel,

Good Lord, I couldn’t even BEGIN to tell you how I ended up at this place. Never ONCE have I ever searched “How To Tattoo A Goat’s Pink Parts”. I thought, however, that you might find the link amusing and in keeping with your rather off-the-wall sense of humor. I would’ve sent it to Robin Williams, because he’d probably really dig it, but ‘you know how he can get’, if ya follow me.

If you don’t mind me mentioning it, you’re really kickin’ that bald pate thing; I think you should stick with that look for a while.

Lookin’ out for your best interests AND slidin’ some material your way,

Jett ‘Friend of the Common Funnyman’ Superior

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

Dear Josh Todd,

Your band website is rather cool-ish (I especially enjoy the little floating shower-curtainy graphics for the links and the ’shit selected’ header for your merchandise order page), although you shouldn’t try so hard to be poseboy in your band’s pics. You’re supposed to be the poster boy for excess, not a J.C. Penney layout.

Formidable personal stylist and rock critic,

Jett ‘In the Motherfuckin’ Know, Biznatch’ Superior

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

Yep, my work here is done.

 
|| August 28, 2003 || 11:41 pm || Comments (1) ||

And in the interest of furthering the belief by outsiders that webloggers are so self-absorbed as to link only within the ‘Blogosphere’ (or whatever inane, silly-sounding thing it’s being called this week): Best post about mold this weblogger has ever read.

 
|| August 28, 2003 || 11:03 pm || Comments (35) ||

I’ve an idea for a project! woo!

It may just be stupid, but I’m interested to see what comes out of it.

Use those comments down there or send me an e-mail, I don’t care, but I want you to list one song for each category, and maybe even suggest more categories:

What’s your favorite ‘do-me’ song?

Which song buoys you up/inspires you?

Which song evokes the ‘big wallow’ (heartbreak, regret, longing, all that hooey) in you?

When you rage, what’s the musical accompaniment?

Your favorite ‘just be silly’ song?

I need at least fifteen different responses, listing a song* under EACH category. I’ll make up ceedees from them, each with a theme, slap a stupid title like “Muffinass Music: Volume Angst” on them and spread the musical love around. People (hopefully) get to sample off some new tunes and I get to use pop psychoanalysis on the respondents. Whatchoo thank, mang?

If this project rolls smoothly enough (and, for the record, there are no guarantees on the time frame of it), I’d like to include quotes from different contributors/participants in lovingly hand-crafted liner notes. Ready, break!

….and oh yeah, if you get here and see fifteen suggestions already, go on and put yours down. As history has proven, I’ve no aversions to drawings conducted with a mess of giggling kids (“I’m part of something HUGE here! I’m playing God, I’m determining a fate.”….yeah, those middle-schoolers go apeshit with the notion of power) and a tupperware bowl present.

*Please include artists’ names and songs’ full, exact** titles.
**Okay, fairly exact.

 
|| August 27, 2003 || 4:21 pm || Comments (11) ||

Living in a house with two busy pre-teens means that on the weekends, if they’re not wanting to run off somewhere, they’re wanting someone to run off and come join us for a night and a couple handfuls of daytime hours. I try to accept visitors in moderation, because I don’t want every last bit of my family’s truly free time sucked into the sinkhole of constant company and sleepovers, but in all honesty I don’t mind. Once there are three kids between your four walls, a couple-three more thrown into the mix don’t make any significant difference. In fact, they sometimes distract the ones that actually live here long enough for me to get something done.

This past Friday I had to work, but Maxim was off, making it okay for Sam to have company over for the night. One thing I’ve prohibited my children doing over the years is the ‘last-minute dance’; you know the one — where a kid waits until the day of to say, “Hey I want to go spend the night over at so-and-so’s/have a birthday party to attend tomorrow/want to go to the movies/would like to have a friend over.” We are all just so busy that I’m like a conductor, carefully blending everyone’s schedules (hopefully in a complimentary way) in the symphony that is our lives: Bring the football practice up, insert the grocery shopping, drop in a staccato piano lesson, fluidly pick up the little one from preschool. A missed beat can sometimes throw off a whole day, and one of the ways that I avoid that on the far-too-hurried days in particular is to require notice. I don’t want to kill the notion of spontaneity, but I want to raise children that are courteous, as well.

All that having been said, one of my biggest pet peeves is when my child has issued an invitation to another five to seven days in advance and is put off and put off until the very last second. This prevents my child from asking another child and it prevents me from making plans for our time. It’s plain ole fucking RUDE.

Such was the case this past week, when my son invited Johnathan over to spend Friday night. Johnathan was asked on Tuesday, and come Friday a yes or no answer had not been issued by his stay-at-home mother. The boys have played baseball together for three years now, and Sam has been over to Johnathan’s house to play one time, to spend the night on another occasion. Johnathan is a good kid and I like him a lot. I thought I liked his mother until the events of last Friday unfolded.

I had a case to handle, so I was on the road around four pee emm when Maxim called, sounding a little belligerent and really miffed. Maxim is about as low-key, forgiving a person as you could hope for, so I knew something was genuinely afoul. It seems that when my son called after school to get the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ he’d been waiting for all week, Johnathan’s mother got on the phone. As best as I can piece it together, here’s how the conversation went:

J’s MOM: Do your parents drink beer?
SAM: Well, sometimes, but not all the time.
SAM: My stepdad knows how to make it.
J’s MOM: That’s all I needed to know.
SAM: Why, did you want to know how?
[ed. note: We've been working on Sam's propensity to give too much unwarranted information. *siiiiigh*]

And then Sam was informed that no, Johnathan would not be able to stay the night. Quite unceremoniously, I might add.

When Maxim called and told me about this, my first reaction was to giggle. I phoned Johnathan’s mother straightaway and was greeted with the answering machine. My message was, verbatim, “Hey Glynda, I think there was a little miscommunication going on when you spoke with Sam earlier, and it may have had a bearing on your decision to let Johnathan spend the night. Could you call me so we can talk?” It’s now five days later and I’ve not heard from that flaming cuntbag woman.

Look, I have no problem if this woman does not want her child exposed to alcohol, ever. I don’t know what’s in her past: Whether or not it was a ‘religious’ decision, whether or not she had an alcoholic ex who used to spend the house payment and beat her and the kids in a blind drunken rage, whether or not there is a strong propensity for alcoholism in her child’s genetic make-up and she doesn’t want him tempted to any extent to experiment with drink.

What I DO have a problem with is her cowardly tactic of birddogging my kid and leaving him to feel as if was being punished by and for his honesty. It was a low, low, childish and yellow-backed thing for her to ask my child these things rather than asking to speak to one of his parents with regard to the matter. The fact that she did otherwise is simply unconscionable. This indicates so many things on so many levels about this woman, and since I’ve had several days to stew on it, it puts a cramp in my hands from wanting to strangle her so badly.

I would douse her in a yummy Pale Ale as I did so.

Had Johnathan’s mother simply phoned me or asked to speak to Maxim, we’d have been very forthcoming with her. We don’t owe her that, but both have a great deal of respect for involved parents, as we are a rare beast nowadays. She would have learned that we have never, ever consumed alcohol (hell, I’ve never even so much as smoked a cigarette in the presence of one of my children’s playmates) in front of one of the Superior children’s friends and we rarely do so in front of our own. There is the occasional glass of wine or stout with a meal, and my children have never seen more than one of either beverage go down the hatch in a sitting. They’ve never been in the presence of a polluted adult and I plan to keep it that way, because we are trying to instill in our babies a respect of elders and all that jazz. I also want them to view adults as by and large a safe species –worthy of feelings of trust and security, as it were– and seeing a grown-up absent of faculties is a scary thing for a child.

I think that she was probably afraid that we might tell her to fuck the fuck off and call her a nosy, wheedling douchebag. I most certainly wouldn’t have, because she ultimately had her child’s best interest at heart and I respect that shit like mad. When her child’s best interest ran roughshod all over my own child’s, however, that all changed. She can bet her sweet fucking ass that I’ll have PLENTY to say now. Had she just been the adult in the first place, or again when she was presented (graciously, I might add) with the opportunity to phone, the verbal assault she’s in for could have been prevented.

For the record, my own mother is no fucking help at all. She called me while I was working yet another case the next day, after having spoken with Maxim, and said, “You know, if you people weren’t such drunkards maybe my grandbabies could have some friends.”

That woman is a vile, vile smartass and I love her like no other. But she’s getting ‘The Home’ one day if she doesn’t watch it.

 
|| August 26, 2003 || 12:23 pm || Comments (8) ||

The following is an open letter to my sixth grader:

Boy,

Mommy’s brain is taxed. I can only stuff so many things in there.

Son, ask me how to diagram a sentence, ask me how the ice on an Alaskan glacier feels beneath the crampons strapped to my feets, ask me how to make a batch of cookies so delightful that they’ll make a grown man cry, ask me how a roomful of drunk Russian military officers smell. Ask me about sex, God, taxes, death.

Good Lord, just don’t ask me how to plot any of them in latitude and/or longitude on a globe for you. You have a daddy and a stepdaddy for that.

I love you and hope you can live with my imperfections,
Momma

This is where my kid stops being amazed at the breadth and scope of things I do know and starts silently condemning me for the things I don’t. Junior high, feh.

 
|| August 25, 2003 || 6:49 pm || Comments (1) ||

God has seen fit not to bless me with riches because I would squander part of my fortune on (immeasurably cool) things like this.

You people should be reading gangstories. I’ve always said that Hollywood ain’t got shit on the Real. There are those that have lived it and had sense (plus luck?…I have to think that in my case, a little bit of good fortune had something to do with it) enough to extract themselves from it, but not many are articulate enough to communicate it in the kind of manner that sheltered whitebreads can understand. To date, there is no ‘blame game’ being played over there. That gets the biggest hat-tip of all from me.