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Archive for August, 2003

|| August 21, 2003 || 10:49 pm || Comments (8) ||

School days, school days, yay!

My algebra class met for the first time today. Here, I’ve stabbed kerosene-soaked pencils through my eyeballs. Could you please set them ablaze? I cannot see to find my lighter.

Proof positive that math is for the birds:

And that’s straight from the mouth of the beast…the math club, baby.

Why is it that the twitchiest girl with the loudest body cream or cheap cologne always zeroes in on me as a seat neighbor? Maybe I should stop bathing and/or brushing my teeth so as to insure an Island of Empty Seats surrounding me. I’m not being paranoid; this occurred during the summer mini and has happened in every class thus far this semester.

Here, a diagram of my usual seating in every class I take:

No, smartass, the seats aren't depicted in straight rows. How many classrooms you ever see with perfectly straight rows?? Shut up. It's late. It's late and I am a technotard.

The exception is computer lab, of course, where I fix myself in the back row in hopes of scoring some moments to entertain the masses with this here weblog. I found myself sandwiched between two obvious geeks (verrrry cute, long fuzzy hair, questionable hygeine –they don’t smell, but look as if they should– t-shirts with obscure tech references or band names) that I’m sure at some point will invite me along between classes: “Hey man, you wanna go blaze one?”

Speaking of which, there is a girl in one of my classes , wheelchaired, who would be otherwise unremarkable save for a few facts: She looks and (per the dankbud snifftest) smells as if she sparks up every other class period, she fixes her feet to her chair with a bungee cord (which I find quite raucous and utterly fascinating), she has unruly chickenfluff hair and wears t-shirts that say things like ‘FIGHT THE POWER.” on them. Maaaan, I think that even I would be a tad frightened to get into her head.

Something that never escapes my notice (and ohhh, how I try to turn a blind eye) is that there is an overabundance of the greek-shirted co-ed, most especially of the sorority variety. These things come in the most stupid color combinations ever thunk up by a biped and boast no shortage of simpy, rah-rah sayings and dancing palm trees or small children in dress-up regalia having saccharine-tender handholding moments. In my humble opinion, PETA is far too concerned with fur and not worried near enough that people are killing innocent cotton in order to clothe themselves in such a fashion. There are even flip-flops, for the love of fuck, emblazoned with one’s favorite House O’ Gang Rape And General Snobbery.

In keeping with the general spirit of things, I feel I should identify myself, as well. I plan on sporting my ‘DICKWEED’ shirt sometime soon. I will smile a whole lot on that day, I’m sure of it.

My chem professor is incredibly cute. I’m going to adopt her as my surrogate mama on principle, because she didn’t bait-and-switch me like some unnamed disguised-as-nicelady lit instructor did: “Your final will be comprehensive.” I love you, Madame Chemistry. I look forward to making crazy concoctions with you. I can show you how to make corn likker; can you teach me how to make my own nail polish remover? I have fingernails now, you know.

It is very, very difficult, kind reader, to not think of classes as huge, unfettered blocks of time to write. The first time I went to college, I saw them as huge, unfettered blocks of time to enjoy the aftereffects of the smoke-out had with my pals Casey and Murph out in the parking lot between various and sundry classes. I would make Murph sit across the classroom from me and Case because he had this maddening habit of wanting to express the wonderful stoned thoughts he had about music and life in general to me while I was trying like all-fuck to a) not fall right the fuck on out of my chair and b) do things like recall the difference between mixolydian and locrian modes. If I put a few desks and two or three bodies between him and me, he generally forgot I was there until class wrapped. Most of the time I would sit behind Case, because Casey were a big ole fella; although he didn’t weigh up like a sack of rocks he was some six-foot-four and broad-shouldered. He had the very real plus of being as pretty to look at from the posterior view as from the anterior. I’d scribble away on sheets of staff paper, floating along on kind bud and the delicious waft of Casey’s cologne, setting down bits and snatches of songs to be fleshed out by Murphy and Casey and me when we gathered at my home later. Woe was me when our professor decided to skewer me with a question. Half diminished seventh, what ma’am?

But, ohhhh, the times that we’d play with contrapuntal melody, delving deeper into complexity and fancy musicianship as time wore on, piling line upon line up there on the greensogreen chalk board, covered up to the elbows in yella chalk dust when something more than the sum of its parts was emerging. Excited. Exhilerated. Gleaming. I’m shit at math, but strangely enough, I can throw off some gorgeous, well-crafted counterpoint when I fix my attentions on it. The pot seemed to help in this regard.

Imagine that.

She of Musical Doctorate could spot one miniscule needle of error buried amongst a haystack-full of notes: “That’s not allowed,” she’d tell me, and (hearing it all the while in my head) I’d say, “…but ohhhh, listen to how beautiful…’” and run to the piano to play it. Always I would hear “You have to know the rules, Elizabeth, before you may break them.” and I was undaunted e’en though. The way I saw it, the men who wrote the rules, they didn’t know jack shit but a love of craft when they started cranking out the notes, and I’m convinced to this day that the rules merely emerged from their own particular style(s) of playing and nothing more.

At any rate, I passed my theory classes, survived my end-of-semester juries and rocked it like a trooper for my final recital — the one that was pass/fail and determined whether or not all my other efforts toward learning were in vain– and got my music degree.

Now I’m back in the classroom in full-on Florence Nightingale mode. Maybe I’ll make up songs for people as I poke them with sharp, shiny things. That is, if Algebra doesn’t whip my ass first.

|| August 20, 2003 || 7:26 pm || Comments (10) ||

“Guess what?” Maxim whispers excitedly, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Jett ask-es, curious.

The Spin Doctors are back together.” he says in a tone of awe-filled glee.

Jett pats around on Maxim’s crotch a wee bit.

“However on Earth are you able to contain your erection?”

|| August 19, 2003 || 8:40 pm || Comments (3) ||

I’m making a cheeky face at you. Right now. It’s a really good one, too.

Too bad you canna see it, since I’ve not offloaded the new photos from the camera yet. I’ll get right on that. Sadly, however, my faces canna be duperlicatiated. They are –like great art– one-of-a-kinds. Though if you hang around long enough there will be another one coming down the pike eventurly.

Remember me telling you about the precious ChristoCarto making a movie with my boyfriend Norman down on the Gulf Coast? The movie was called ‘Grift’ but seems to have been changed to the very stupid-sounding ‘Tough Luck‘ (retch…what are they doing to yooou, Normie?). As promised a million-and-one moons ago, Superior Industries, in keeping with a proud tradition of satisfying the needs of our sweet Muffinasses (and the random, flighty webwanderer to boot!), hereby presents you with a photo of m’boy Christo and m(mmmmm)’boyfriend Norman in full makeup on the very sexy carnival set, complete with a backdrop of the coast’s beautiful twilight skyline:

Notice the moony look in my Norman’s eyes. It is chemically-induced, yes, but they are chemicals of the thinking-randily-of-m’JettGrrrl variety. He is OBVIOUSLY pondering salaciously my undying passion for him, dwelling on the fact that I will be overwhelmed with lust at the sight of the pseudo-scarcutthing on his left cheek. And is it just me, or can you just catch a very teasy hint of the junk lines lurking below the t-shirt? My boyfriend Norman is so low-key sexy like that. You people should take a lesson, even you girls. Aspire to be as Normanlike as you can possibly be!

I can’t in good conscience end this entry without telling you the joke that ChristoCarto shared with me this week:

There was this really well-to-do fella driving home one afternoon in rush-hour traffic. Things were moving fairly slowly, and he noticed a man on the side of the road pulling up fistfuls of grass and eating them. The guy was pretty lean and hungry-looking, so well-to-do fella pulled over and said, “Sir, sir! You shouldn’t be eating that grass; it’s got road sludge and oil and who knows what all seeped into it! It’s so bad for you. Why don’t you come home with me and we’ll fill your belly.”

The man on the side of the road was noticably touched but distraught at the offer: “Well, I have a wife and kids, they’re hungry too….”

“Hey, no problem, they can come too!” said well-to-do.

The unfortunate man hesitated and then spoke again hopefully, “I have parents and brothers and sisters, they’re hungry as well.”

This pissed well-to-do off. Indignant, he said, “Look, sir, just how much grass do you think I have on my lawn??”

By the way, before I forget, ChristoCarto said that Armand Assante was really kind of assholey on-set. He obviously knows not whom he dealeth with. Knows not the friends in strange, deluded high places that young master Carto posesses. Knows not the power that this weblog just may wield in crushing his puny, forgettable (okay, there was that Mambo Kings thing, but still, you’re no Desi Arnaz, Jr.) career. You better check yourself, Assante, and next time clink a beery-beer with m’boy Carto. You been warned: Don’t unleash the madness and the fury, tater!

The rest of you: You have a good’un. And oh yeah, Cesaria Evora. Do it. You shan’t be sorry.

|| August 19, 2003 || 8:59 am || Comments (11) ||

I’m all about smell and texture today: “Mmmmmm.”

The richness of how things feel against my fingertips and cheek, the shadow of scent playing sweet or pungent in my nostrils have totally captured my attentions thus far this morning. I’m always amazed when this happens, because there is this overwhelming sense of wonder(ment?) that comes with it. Like being three and in awe of the world again. I am dumb with senses and it’s refreshing.

Also, oddly enough, I seem to be fascinated with my hair and my cleavage today. I keep catching myself running eyes and fingers over one or the other and smiling.

On a related note, I got fingernails last week. The cute little judgemental manicurist kept looking at my stubby, bitten ones and shaking his head, clucking his tongue. Then he would mutter to himself in Korean.

“Normally they really aren’t this bad,” I reassured him in my best I’m-not-making-excuses tone, “I’ve just had a really, erm, rough week.”

You see, I got to looking at my hands and realized that while I take awesome care of the skin elsewhere on my body, I’ve shown no special care for my paws over the years. They are very capable hands, to be sure, long-fingered and seemingly always busy fixing, doing, creating, animated (because words are just not enough, and besides, it’s my right as someone of woplike heritage and Southern expressiveness to dance them about as I speak). They sport the scars of a life lived: A couple fingers and the back of the right one bear the long, thin lines of guitar stringings/pluckings gone awry, the back of the left subtly shows bad choices via a white, puckered half-moon that was inflicted by a lit cigarette on a cold winter’s eve (“This is your lesson,” he jack-o-lantern grinned at me while grinding it there). The mound above my right thumb still has the pale speckling far beneath the skin I acquired when nearly having said thumb ripped off by a running poultry belt. The only things that saved it were an immense lung capacity that enabled me to bellow loud enough to be heard (over the clanging machinery and earplugs and hissing cacophony of hundreds of steam guns washing chemicals in unison) and my mother’s cameo ring….the one that my father had custom-made for her on their first anniversary and the one that, according to policy, I was not supposed to be wearing on the plant floor. Thank God for my big mouth and penchant for disregarding rules.

So I was looking at my hands, and while they’ve not aged so that anyone else would notice, the years of laundry and gripping pens and washing dishes and throwing balls and remembering to moisturize only after every third or so washing have started to take a recognizable toll. I don’t want to be one of those crepe-handed women in their forties, young and vital everywhere else, hands betraying the age I feel and the rest of me looks. So yes, panic in your thirties and start playing catch-up.

Plus, there is the matter of waking up one day and finding that, despite my three decades of escaping their fates, suddenly I have the stubby fingers of all my uncles; the ones whose nails are so bitten back into the beds that they’ve become a wavy fucking monstrosity and you can no longer tell where the nail ends and the finger begins. Ewwww.

Improving self inside and out seems to be the theme as of late, so in keeping with that I went boldly to the nail salon, which is somewhat like a dentist’s visit for me. There are little scrapy things and drilly things and I desperately wish there was laughing gas for manicures. Or that the experience could be like childbirth in the fifties: Knock me out. Work your mojo. I awake to find a bouncing set of shiny new nails. Ohhh, that it were so.

But I suffered for beauty, and the Manicure Man (strange Heart parody running through my head, oh yessir) quite intelligently made the nails shortish so that the system would not be thrown into complete shock. I had them polished a lovely iced champagne color to match my favorite shade of lipstick and stared at/fiddled with them novelly for the first three or so days, flicking them and clicking them and tapping them. Then I began to grumble somethings along the lines of “fuckingfuckingfingernails, allusintheway, cain’t do halfawhat I needa do…fingernails, feh”, but I will perservere. Getting them filled (they are due now, as a matter of fact) for six to eight weeks will prolly significantly weaken the nailbeds beneath them, but by then I figure that my own nails will be at a decenty length and I will have grown somewhat accustomed to them, typos notwithstanding. Yes, NOTWITHSTANDING. I can justify the somewhat apalling expense by namechecking it under the heading of ‘general health’ rather than having it sit wiggling there under ‘SO VAIN’, vexing me as gauchely unnecessary.

Being a nailbiter all these years signifies an incredible lack of discipline, but having ugly hands made it all the more excusable to clench a fist in anger or dangle a cigarette between long, graceful fingers. Both of these are rendered more difficult with actual nails, somehow….aesthetically and theoretically.

The strangest things in life sprout symbolism. And vanity. And ruminations on both.

As a postscript, because I promised melly, a photo of my new make-me-see-when-I’m-sick-of-contacts thingies:

Boys don’t make passes, my ass.

|| August 17, 2003 || 11:15 pm || Comments (15) ||

I think it is incredibly unfair to classify pie as a ‘want’ rather than a ‘need’, most especially when I am on my period. It should automatically, without question, slide from one column to the other the minute that menses commence and seat itself neatly back again when the whole bloody mess (PUN! HAHAHA!) ceases.

I think that most of the people over here are big, stupid gits. The reactions from them are just UNREASONABLE. For ham and hell (and fwicasseed wabbit), moral outrage is only effective when it is applied to something that MATTERS. (link found via the very cute Ryan)

What do clingwrap and Roy Orbison have in common? Not a damn thing, unless you’re completely farging insane. (link found via theDane)

Need a button to declare your proud Muffinass status? There are these


crafted by Keith, and of course, there is the original lovingly offered up by Angie

I have to go get my driver’s license renewed this week. BITCH! I’m thinking of maybe wearing white lipstick and piling all my hair into a side-ponytail. Because the eighties are hella coo again, you know. Seriously, I always manage to take a surlyface photo; I will attempt this go-round to remedy that. TRY-TRY-TRYYYYY!

The song ‘Kitty‘ by the Presidents of the United States of America is wholly sassifying early Monday morning music. Wholly…although, ‘Blank Baby‘ is rapidly gaining ground as my theme song, arrrr matey.

|| August 17, 2003 || 2:31 am || Comments (11) ||

Patti! Patti is the most recent addition to the Mayhemian Pursuitstm Club! Yes, my dear Muffinasses, it was Patti that I called when I was on the road tonight: “Hey, pssst…you wanna be a co-conspirator?” This was met with very little ‘ehm’, ‘ahhh’ and stammering before I got a conciliatory “Yokay.” You got to love New Yorkers on principle, because they play with the language almost as much as we Southerners do….and they are almost as full of shit.

I was working out in the sticks. That coupled with the lack of internet in the lovely little Saturncar and me being goaded by my swirly brain compelled me to call the ‘I’ma be up late tonight working’ Patti Ann Hesitant-But-Go-To-It Gal.

“Hokay, Patti…I need to find all flights departing Memphis within the next twenty minutes and heading straight-on for Seattle.”

“The EffBeeEye is going to come knocking on my door regarding this, aren’t they? What are you doing to meeee?” was Patti’s agreeable reply.

But Patti’s a sport, and despite her reservations she soldiered on. I’ma Thelma and Louise that girl yet. My big fantasy, actually, is to cram her and melly into a car, head it straight into Arizona and kidnap chumley so’s he can disgrace his family name right and proper by being seen with the three of we’ns in public. melliloulou will be humping the jukebox, Patti-My-Patti will be dirtydancing with some sexy young bald thing and hollering “PENIS! PEEEE-NIIIIIS!” and I, of course, will be throwing back tequila while mocking and just generally pissing off the local populace, inducing a riot with me as its nucleus.

The call dropped just shortly after I got the information I needed wanted, and by the time I called her back, she was already in bed (pfff…lightweight). I told her daughter with some measure of glee, “Hey, tell Patti that if the EffaBeeEye comes knockin’, she needn’t worry. They already have a file on me. Just tell her to point ‘em Southward.” snickersnicker, and the daughter’s all, “Ooohhhkaaaaay…….”

Of course your family doesn’t think all your weblogpals are freaks, Patti-ole-gal. OF COURSE NOT.

I keep forgetting to point you people in the direction of Patti’s newest project, ‘Every Picture Tells A (Short) Story’….really cool idear, and it works like this: You submit a photo to Patti and if she grooves on it, she posts it, OR you write a short about one of the photos already posted. You can also be a stage-hogging bastard like me and do both.

Here’s the photo your very own Jett Grrrl submitted, and here’s the (poorly formatted and riddled with typos) story I wrote — second one down.

If you don’t see a photo that tugs you, amble on through the archives. There’re more.

Patti’s projects, whee! I always have a great deal of fun with them.

….and after tonight, I must tell you the fact that I call melly ‘friend’ is a full-on neener-neener thing: I am so very lucky to have her (not that I wasn’t before, but most especially tonight). Her, and Matt, who just gets it and Unx, who –when I was having my government-induced nervous breakdown– was on the phone immediately doing what logical people do (factfinding, informing, brainstorming alternatives), and Leslie, who cooked me steak and makes me feel hugged over hundreds of miles on a reggler basis, and Cal, who is just so very as a person, and Dave, who (when people upset me terribly) makes like a good blogdaddy and offers to either send money or go beat the shit out of somebody if need be, and Laura, who knows how to nod and say ‘yep’ and ‘nope, yer not crazy, just a little crazed’, and redclay, who knows the importance of pet names for womenfolk and exactly the right music to send and when, and Keith, who is just a fucking dear, and chum, who lays on with the world’s BEST plaintive sighs and codgey one-liners and tolerates my oddly-timed phonecalls well despite not being a ‘phone person’, and Seth, who fears for his job security (*snort*) if it is ever found out that he hosts a heretic such as myself. That, and the fact that he is oddly adept at making fun of me (as well as inciting me to play along and enjoy it) while simultaneously making me feel good about myself: “I associate you with lobsters. No, really. Lobsters are intriguing.” See what I mean? I allus thought that lobsters were smelly and disgusting-looking, but here I find out that even though that may indeed be so, they are intriguing and I am a lobster by association, as Seth has no instance of sniffing me with which to gauge a similarity.

Not that I’m aware of, anyway. Seth is pretty weird. Who knows what clandestine sniffing operations he may well head up?

|| August 16, 2003 || 3:13 pm || Comments (10) ||

(…because my own poetry is so wholly unsatisfying today, and because this one brings the noise, I’m reprinting one of redclay’s here. now.)

you can have all my stuff

people asking me how i can still love somebody.

how, after we stopped gettin nekkid, we can still talk.

they ain’t no off switch.

hell, i still got fishhooks in my heart from a girl in

second grade.

:: afternoon wait :: birmingham, 08.14.03

‘aftermoon wait’, birmingham, 14 august 2003