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Archive for September, 2003

 
|| September 22, 2003 || 9:21 pm || Comments (6) ||

Oh, and there is this:

You’re a PANTSER! A pantser writes without forethought to where the plot is going–sort of by the seat of her pants method. You’re a free-spirited, creative person. You write with passion about what inspires you at the moment, and you probably have a strong voice. Don’t worry about writer’s block–you’ve a different story. You’ve got more story seeds than a hive has bees. When you write, it’s in disjointed segments. You may write sequentially or in flashes of inspiration, where you connect all your flashes later. People might say you ramble a bit in your work. Your revision process might take several passes, because you really have to whip that first draft into a more marketable shape. Youre novels either hit it big or miss. Theres no in between. Readers either love you, or hate you. Learn to channel that creative energy into a masterpiece and we’ll be seeing your name on the NYT Lists!

Find Your Writing Personality!!
brought to you by Quizilla

Well. Didn’t we all just know.

And, well, you know I’m sorry to post more than one quiz result in a month’s time, but how could I not tell you my pirate name?

Your pirate name is Iron Ethel Cash.

A pirate’s life isn’t easy; it takes a tough person. That’s okay with you, though, since you are that person. You’re musical, and you’ve got a certain style if not flair. You’ll do just fine. Arr!

I got flair ten ways to Sunday, y’all, and don’t you forget it. I rather like this ‘Iron Ethel Cash’ name. I may look into making it my legal moniker. How’s about you people call me that for a few days so’s I can try it on for a precise fit?

I was assigned my disarticulated skeleton at skoo. WHO KNEW that every little divot in your cranium has a long Latin name and that if you want to practice any kind of medicine (even something as simple as poking people with sharp, shiny things) that you have to know and actually remember each and every one of those divots and ripply bits of bone?

I sat there looking at the skeleton today, saying to him (for it is, of course a him….a him with not-so-great teeth, as a matter of fact), “Why does a hump on the inside of your skull require a name of its own, Chauncey? Isn’t that more than a little self-important?”

Yes, I named him Chauncey. Chauncey Adolph Disarticulated: Has a nice ring to it, yes? We are planning a small, intimate gathering of friends soon; Chauncey just has to get himself together a bit (HA! I FUCKING KILL ME!). Be sweet and your name just may make the guest list, dear Muffinasses.

 
|| September 22, 2003 || 5:44 am || Comments (1) ||

I’m absolutely enamoured of the scrolling panoramic header-thingy over here. That, coupled with the choice of song that loaded upon my entrance made it a very pleasant click-through.

 
|| September 22, 2003 || 5:10 am || Comments (10) ||

Screw mornings. Screw them all to hell and back. All hours after four ay emm and prior to eleven ay emm should be eradicated, save for Sundays. Yes, on Sundays we could re-instate ten ay emm because Sundays are the days that the elusive animal known as ‘brunch’ appears.

Brunch is a beautiful thing, baby.

It’s raining; it’s a gorgeous, leisurely rain and that is the only thing, I think, that could have turned my foul waking mood on its ear. I have the window open, breathing in the magical rain-smell and hearing the drops fall fat on the newly-laid carpet of leaves outside in the dark. Though I canna see them for lack of daybreak, I know that the rain makes the fiery crimson leaves the dark scarlet color of passion. Knowing this somehow makes the day easier to face.

It’s the little comforts, you know?

pee ess: plus, I smell like coconut-lime verbena…life is too short to not smell as lovely as possible at every imaginable turn.

pee-pee ess (or pee ess-ess, whatever): you have yourselves a lovely day! meet the week with a fierce face and singing heart!

 
|| September 21, 2003 || 2:15 am || Comments (1) ||

And, for the record, I was the number twelve result when someone Googled ‘‘O++DAD,pOOR DAD, mOMMA HAS HUNG YOU IN THE CLOSET‘ tonight. However in the fuck do these things happen?

 
|| September 21, 2003 || 1:59 am || Comments (10) ||

I just attempted the ole audblog and failed miserably. Perhaps it was because I gleefully kept hitting buttons. Maybe it just takes a bit for it to show up. Maybe you will miss the Merlossa and Jettquila show, and what a shame: Melly actually peed while I was recording.

“OhmyGOD, melly, you’re actually peeing! I thought you were fucking kidding, man.

“And oh yeah, happy birthday, Daniel. And many mooooore.”

The liquor had nothing to do with it. Nothing, you hear me??

And look, little melliloulou and I are once again slogging through all the bits and pieces of information the world has to offer up in order to bring you gems like this one:

MELLY: So I was drinking Crown Royale

JETT: Waiddaminut….Crown Royale? You mean Crown Royal?

MELLY: Gimme a fucking break, Beth, I’m from Texas.

JETT: ‘Cause, you know, Crown Royale sounds like a drunken wrasslin’ match.

And then somebody said something about whiskey dick and somebody else said “AHA! CROWN ROYALE: A drunken wrasslin’ match with your dick to keep it up!”

These are the things high-class ladies talk about. No, really.*

*Tomorrow melly may yell about me posting all this, but I should remind her of her parting words: “Ahhhh, post whatever you want; I don’t give a fuck.”

 
|| September 20, 2003 || 1:23 am || Comments (0) ||

Right over here.

 
|| September 19, 2003 || 11:51 pm || Comments (7) ||

Today I sat at an intersection where there was a square-headed black dog resting on its haunches, a little old lady with Alzheimers on foot, a Jehovah’s witness on a bike and me in m’Saturncar, each adorning our section of the crossroads in front of a large, ornately-windowed church. The streets were unusually empty and quiet.

Save for me, the dog, the little old lady and the Jehovah’s Witness, of course. There seemed to be a pregnant pause where we all took turns looking at one another in detached earnestness, but that could’ve been fatigue working its mojo on me.

“This,” I said to myself, “is how really great independent film starts.”

Earlier tonight I sorted through a pile of pennies garnered from my so-ugly-it’s-adorable piggy bank, searching for just the right one, and by ‘just the right one’ I mean one with a certain year on it. In that mound of pennies there just so happened to be one and only one with that certain year, and I smiled to myself at the marvel of there being a solitary penny with the certain year amidst the couple-hundred that the bank spat out. These sorts of teeny reckonings set me on fire sometimes, and move me in ways that great happenings cannot or do not.

The one-cent piece was grungy with age and I set about polishing it with the copper cream that resides under the kitchen sink, my insides warm and grinning at the thought of the delight it would maybe bring its recipient in a few days. I like facilitating happiness in others, I like it beyond all other likes, I think, and all the better if they do not see it coming or –better still– if I can do it anonymously.

I know that none of this makes any sense to any of you, really, but I think often on how things tend to settle out, on how we are instruments of the universe sometimes without even trying, on how there are things delivered to others through us that we

a) sometimes have no knowledge of at all and

b) that can make such huge and wonderful impacts on lives and spirits, even to the point of being absolutely life-saving or life-changing.

It is this knowledge that feeds my faith, that buoys up in me a hope, that gives me an able nugget of peace and rightness to savor in times where nothing should make sense and everything has the appearance of being disjointed.

Quite by accident –or was it?– I insisted during an online chat one night four or so months ago that one friend should call another, as I was exhausted and insistent on going to bed at a reasonable hour for once. They two count it as their luck, but it was all the more lucky for me, really, that I was utilized –chosen, as it were– in that capacity (haphazard as though it may appear) and two people really, really connected as a result.

Quite on purpose I sat polishing a penny tonight, humming a tune in the key of A (my favorite, it seems), looking forward to some sort of magic to come from it when it lands in the faraway hands that I’ve never seen but can almost picture in my mind’s eye.

It’s a mighty privelege to gift others; remember that. Act on it. Be amazed, be taken aback, be. Know that you are a gift, somehow and in some way (whether it is completely clear to you or not in this moment, right now) to those that you come into contact with, and maybe even to some that you don’t….not directly, anyway.

You have a purpose, and it is deliciously, randomly exact.