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Archive for August, 2003

|| August 15, 2003 || 10:15 am || Comments (8) ||

I see two problems with the world today: There are far too many boys with muttonchop sideburns and there is no place to park my gum (that the wine is not coming fast enough is no issue at present; it may just be in another two minutes…that will probably be just long enough to remedy the gum dilemma, but not near long enough to address the sideburn thing).

Birmingham (Bummingham), Alabama is hotter than four hells today: Take-the-Lord’s-name-in-vain hot and I sit here with a slick of sweat over my cleavage, the same sweat curling the hairs unruly at my neck. This is the kind of swelter that suggests you might do well to peel off the clothes down to underthings (maybe blessedly further) and shave every hair on your body, allowing the perspiration to roll southward unfettered. Either that, or find another body to writhe against for a time, pushing the heat to a fever pitch so as to feel infinitely cooler afterward.

The shade of indoors, the plum-colored tables and stools offer no great respite. Purple –any shade of it– is the last fucking color in the world I want to see today. The blues aren’t blue, they are as purple as the crucifixion cloth and soaked just as deeply with vinegar, blood and tears (there are other bodily fluids in there I’m sure, but I’ve no mind for speculation today). This begs the question (I can’t help that these questions occur to me, I can only release them the best way I know how so that they cease to plague me) of whether or not Jesus would have received a pint jar of bathtub gin had one been offered. Jesus, after all, knew the muddy dirt of humanity better’n anyone. Yeah, Jesus knew the blues and other sordid ruminations. Jesus was the father of the blues.

“My God,” he cried, “My God, why hast thou forsaken [ed. note: emphasis purely suppostion on my part...] me??”

“Waitress,” I said boldly upon climbing this here stool, “I will be drinking my lunch today.” She masked her surprise well, but the eyes jumped a little. What, lady? Don’t I look like the type? Is there a type?

“While I am whiling away the afternoon drinking,” I smiled sweetly at her, daubing my chest and neckline with a paper napkin, “could you gather directions to the nearest Catholic Church?” I must go light a candle and pray for my pathetically (im)mortal soul. I wonder if it’s still a penny, or has the economy wrapped its noisome tendrils about salvation, as well? How much should one pay for absolution? For grace? Comfort is far too expensive a luxury, I’d wager.

Or? Is it thought a cheat to light a candle for one’s ownself? Parochial school was forever ago.

Funny, I can’t tell if that sticker on the pole outside says ‘Raise the Guns’ or ‘Praise the Gods’. Not that it matters anyway. It seems I have done a good measure of both in my life and been ineffectual. This is not due to a lack of heart or conviction in either case. It all goes back to the simple truism that ‘Momma just says it be’s that way sometimes’. A lot of times. More times than I can count, but for fucksakes I keep putting myself out there. No regrets. The best slip of paper I ever discovered in a fortune cookie said, ‘Many a false step is made by standing still.’ You bet your sweet ass. At least I’m stupid enough to keep trying; I’ve got that much going for me. I wonder sometimes though….will I one day reach an end to my resolve? Will it sputter away and leave me essentially lifeless? Sometimes it seems such a charming option, but in reality it is one that simply scares the shit out of me. Most people can’t or won’t or don’t try because they are cowards; with me it is an inverse proposition.

I exhaust myownself, slamming headfirst or chestfirst into a wall over and over without a helmet, with only the frail skin and bone of my psyche, my emotions.

It would be somehow better today if my sorrow and confusion would stomp forward, roaring, and engulf me for a time. There’s just this mournful hollow that moves back and forth, dancing between my stomach and my chest. I’ve not ventured near a mirror, but I’d say it’s a safe bet that part of it’s camped out in my eyes. They betray; always they are giving me away to the world, so that I am forced to drape them in a disdainful scowl.

My husband said to me last week (in so many words) that my dislike of people in general is unacceptable, especially in light of the fact that I have such an understanding of them.

“Think about what you just said,” I replied, “Can’t you see that the one is born of the other? People hurt. They either hurt themselves or one another. I cannot handle the constant hurt.”

So yeah, the empty sad that I mask so carefully from you people is all I can think of right now. Though I could never do it myself, I can see where those people who take up sharp things and mar their own flesh are coming from. Somewhere to focus that empty hurt would help to purge it. I just need a grassy meadow to lie in and be inordinately sad for awhile. You know, because I told myself long ago that drugs are no longer an option. You know. You know.

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

As long as you hold me I’ll get by / As long as you need me I will try not to die / I don’t want the shame / I don’t want the blame / I don’t want the fame anymore

If only they’d tell me, tell me why / If I could believe them and their lies / But I don’t want their name / I don’t want their pain / I won’t play their games anymore

I always look at the last page of the book / How will it end? / The suspense robs me of lovers and friends

I don’t want the shame / I don’t want the blame / I don’t want the fame anymore

// Kirsty MacColl, “As Long As You Hold Me”

|| August 14, 2003 || 10:38 pm || Comments (0) ||

And before I forget: Photos of a white-haired man wearing a black cowboy hat while driving a turquoise Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce (’roundtail’ is supposed to be fitted into the description somewhere, but I’m tired, man). Soon, my pretties.

|| August 14, 2003 || 9:44 pm || Comments (4) ||

My heart hurts.

Words of wisdom, please. There will be no mocking or flippant disregard. Cross my hea hangdog, bruised, hurty thing.

|| August 13, 2003 || 3:02 pm || Comments (6) ||

The Second Annual Sexiest Female Blogger Contest!

I nominated my little melliloulou because she calls me ‘beffis’ and also because this move is sure to get me some tongue when she and I finally meet. I’m all about planning for the future, baby.

|| August 13, 2003 || 10:54 am || Comments (5) ||

It’s days like this, the ones that find an emotional maelstrom going on beneath the surface, that I appear the most calm and focused. There’s so much going on internally that I wonder if I’m ever destined to find my full-on groove. To be even, to catch myself in mid-tumble is all I ever strive for some days.

However, I wouldn’t trade being me, oh no, not for all the penis pops (DAVE!) in the world. But I would barter away a chunk of self for a good long span of time spent riding on a Portuguese sailing-ship, the winds of circumstance forcing tears into my eyes, the warm, full sun seeping through my pores and down to my very bones. To sail, and to toil for day’s sustenance, to be, the knots determining themselves while I throw head back and laugh, full-throated and fine, into the snapping sails.

This is where I am now: Ready to trade away today with anticipation of tomorrow, be it one or a thousand of them. I won’t look behind the curtain…not just yet. Sometimes the jazz is in the not knowing absolutelyforsure, but simply in the low-rumbling of an anticipatory gut.

|| August 11, 2003 || 10:59 pm || Comments (2) ||

Matt Rossi’s book is out! Rock.

Get thee thither with thine credick cahd and order up one, Muffinasses.

|| August 11, 2003 || 12:49 am || Comments (8) ||

If you got a lady and you want her gone / But you ain’t got the guts / She keeps naggin’ at you night and day / Enough to drive you nuts / Pick up the phone / Leave her alone / It’s time you made a stand / For a fee / I’m happy to be / Your back door man

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap / Dirty Deeds and they’re Done Dirt Cheap

Concrete shoes, cyanide, TNT / Done Dirt Cheap / Neckties, contracts, high voltage / Done Dirt Cheap

// AC/DC, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap”

The recent ability by yours truly to download music will be the death of this here weblog. I’ve been in an orgasmic music-downloading fervor as of late.

Word to the wise: Your average AC/DC fan sports a shitty connection. Coincidence? I think not. Regardless of all that, here I sit listening to ‘Thunderstruck’ and giggling (yeth, giggling) giddily. I am such a baaaad girl.

Surely to God AC/DC (betcha never seen those two names side-by-side in a sentence, huh?) was a staple of every American youth’s music experience. We all cut our teeth on them when learning to be bad, dangerous and absolutely feral, right? Right???

I first heard the boys when I was a wee girl of nine. I was riding to soccer camp with the oh-so-cool high-school aged head coach, Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret was three things I found fascinating: Gorgeous, raven-haired and Catholic. Mary Margaret, carting a shrieking gaggle of cleated, shinguarded coltish girlchildren from the ranchtown of Verdigris into the mecca of Tulsa, casually reached out and flicked the van’s radio on. That was back when such a deed was accompanied by an audible ‘sssnick‘ sound and you had to hand-tune the dial with a knob.

She deftly found KMOD, which was commonly referred to as ‘the commode’ because they played all the trashy, ‘dirtymusic’ that would have sent your parents into apopleptic fits had they known your pristine, yet-to-be-pierced ears were being assaulted with it. Yes, KMOD –long may she rawk!– was a harbinger of back-seat pregnancy and general disrespect. I immediately loved the shit out of it.

The first song I heard there was ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’, and I deemed it sufficiently nasty so as to merit my approval. It evoked what all puritan parents both feared and predicted: A delicious psychotic hitch in my young impressionable gut, WOO!

Yes, I’m holding one forked hand aloft and headbanging for emphasis. Too bad you can’t see it; you’d simply die with hysterics.

A few weeks later, cut to our way-too-large family room. My mother had asked Joy, the Good Baptist Girl Whom We Adored and Loved To Be Babysat By, over to teach her how to weave the too-thick tresses of my sister and me into that fancy new French (freedom?) Braid Thing. As my sister had her head assaulted by the biddy attack, I fiddled with the tuning knob on my father’s monstrosity of a stereo. I found the commode, and guess what was playing? DDDDC, and I began to sing along for all I was worth:

“Dir-taaay DEEDS anna DUNDERCHEE.”

Joy’s head snapped up and she concernedly hissed, “HowdoyouknowTHATsong??” I shrugged, nonchalant, “Heard it before.” Joy gave my mom ‘a look’, whereupon my mother answered with one of concern (“What? Whaaa?”) and then they both turned to face me.

“Okay,” Joy continued, making my sister squirm because she grasped the hair in her hands a bit too tightly, “where‘d you hear it?”

“Marymag’s dad’s van, on the way to the Green County tourney last month….” I beamed. I didn’t really realize I was maybe getting my favorite raven-haired gorgeous Catholic girl in trouble. What I did realize, however, was that I was freaking two grownups (okay, one grownup and one near-grownup) right the fuck out. I had already been damned straight into the bowels of the fiery, ass-poked-with-a-pitchfork pit. There was absolute scandal, and I was the vortex of it. Fuckin’ right on, man!

Poor Marymag. She never saw it coming. She thought the Pope was bad? He got nuttin’ on the Baptist Women’s League. They like to have prayed that poor girl into a nervous breakdown. There would, sadly enough, be no more van trips to Tulsa that did not include some sort of parental somebody.

Hi. I am Beth Bigmouth, ruiner of all prepubescent worldliness training. But my hair does look lovely in French (freedom?) Braids.

Some years later I was the proud owner of an actual paying job. This naturally led to a membership in the Columbia House Record and Tape Club. You know, back when they actually sold records and tapes. I eagerly received into my sweaty, oversexed teenaged palms the entire works of AC/DC. On any given morning I could be seen bebopping down the road in the Blue Escort of Mayhem, merrily punctuating the air with a ‘Big Balls‘ singalong. Angry, frowny daybreaks were accompanied by knitted brows and ‘Hells Bells‘. I circumvented the watchful eye of my mother by keeping my catalog of AC/DC works in other tape cases: Those plastic clamshells that formerly housed Cat Stevens’ Greatest Hits and Amy Grant’s ‘Collection’. Those that I wasn’t presently listening to were shoved way back under my mattress.

Sadly enough, my lack of vigilance in paying Columbia House with a somewhat timely regard is what got me busted. There on a statement of things that had gone as yet unpaid was AC/DC’s ‘Back In Black’. Thus, I lost it (as well as Motley Crue’s ‘Shout At the Devil’) to the trash compactor. After mom had turned purple and yelled. And unspooled the tape. But not before she hit it a couple good times with a meat tenderizing hammer thingy. My eternal soul was at risk, after all.

Please recall that I am the same girl whose cousin Richie took her to see Kiss at a verrrry young, impressionable age. The fact that I fired up for the first time at that show is really neither here nor there, so I won’t mention it.

When I was seventeen, I saw AC/DC for the first time at the Mid-South Coliseum. It was a hilariously campy, high-energy arena rock show, and I saw them two more times at two other venues because they were just so much fucking fun. Sadly, I was out of the loop for the Bon Scott era, but by damn those Young boys sure can put on a show, and my rabid affections for bassists in general were not atall wasted on Cliff Williams‘ fine, skinny arse. He was lean and loose and big-pawed like all good bass gods should be. My recommendation is a hearty thumbs waaaaaay up should you ever be faced with the opportunity to catch AC/DC live. It’s just a damned fun show, if for nothing more than seeing Angus Young wearing knee breeches and getting massively spastic while still managing to churn out some mean guitar riffs. More’n likely you’ll see lots and lots of boobies courtesy of the crowd and there will be a mean contact high to be had. WOO! Fun for all!

On a lighter note, I’ve also gone way cheesey-retro and downloaded ‘I’ve Never Been To Me‘. Would you mayhap like to hold hands and sing it in round, hmmmm?