A Random Image

Archive for September, 2003

 
|| September 7, 2003 || 7:03 pm || Comments (10) ||

I see my boy, lanky and easy, all fluid-moving five-feet-one of him, and I marvel. It was five years ago that he started playing in the league, and next year –his twelfth– will be the final one here; he will be old enough to play ball at school after that. I can almost see the man he is becoming, but as he steps focused and sure into the line, lightly adjusting his hip pads before bending at the waist….well, still I get these heartrending flashes: The images superimposed upon the manboy are those of a second-grader who barely stretched to my hip, helmet wobbling, pads swallowing him up, looking scared as all hell. At sixty-seven pounds, he was one of the biggest boys on the team, even though you could hardly see him when he turned sideways, so they threw him to the bears: “You’re a defensive lineman.” Part of a boy becoming a man is having a momma who knows when to shut up and just sort of be stoic while cringing on the inside.

Sweet mother of God, the boys on the other teams weighed in at one, one-ten and my boy had to tilt his head back to look them full in the chin. They grow ‘em big here in Bammy, and my already-whittled nails saw great action from my teeth that first season.

One game out of the many still stretches out, unfolding full and completely detailed in my mind’s eye. The other team was the hugest of the huge and our wee boys looked like lawn gnomes sent to take on a herd of Goliaths. Some of our best plays came out of our boys actually running through the other team’s collection of beefy legs. That day was pure comic genius and we had somehow secured a marginal lead when the rain began to fall. No lightning snaking across the sky means that the game can continue and the field quickly became a slippery, frustrating mess. One big boy, number fifty-five, was incredibly fast for his size and dogged our sprightly quarterback incessantly. The coach gave the order to my son, “‘At one rightere’s yours, Sammo.” and though Sam’s eyes got big, he nodded, glancing back to me.

I formed a circle of my index finger and thumb, it’s okay, Samuel, it’s ohhhh-kay and mouthed the words ‘hit. and. stick’, the mantra he’d heard so many times in backyard drills and practices. He knew the rest: ‘Until he falls, until he falls, untilllllllheeeeefaaaaallllls.’ ‘STICK’ I mouthed forcefully for emphasis before nodding him toward the field. The boy went out, lined himself up solidly in front of ole double-five and waited on the play to begin.

He came off the line quickly, hitting FiftyFive in his soft middle, encircling (well, sort of) the boy with his arms and promptly began to slide down the big child’s wet polyester jersey. FiftyFive looked confused, then as Sam slid to knee length and was able to pull a tighter hold FiftyFive began to try and free himself from my boy’s clutches. It was muddy and slippery as all hell and here was coach yelling, “HANG ON, SAM.” and here was me screaming “DIG, DIG, DIIIIIIG, SON!” and Sam continued his downward slide, legs pumping furiously, hoping to fell the tree, helmeted noggin firmly planted between FiftyFive’s ankles, who was trying desperately to shake himself of this small nuisance and growing more frustrated and pissed off by the second because he could not seem to do so. He couldn’t even lift his feet, couldn’t turn around far enough to even overbalance himself smartly and fall so that he could slide away from this tenacious boy’s clutches and then find his feet again.

And there was this delicious little touchdown –made by the elven quarterback– while my son provided comic and defensive relief for all of Sand Mountain PeeWeedom. We won that game, and all my son could say about his heroics afterwards were that they were mere acts of cowardice and self-preservation: “If I let him go before that whistle blew, momma, he was gonna kill me. He kept telling me so!” and I kissed his sweet seven-year-old face over and over, laughing. I could do that back then, because seven-year-olds don’t wipe the kisses away and they aren’t embarrasssed to have the world know that their mommas love them.

Oh, he’ll still take a kiss from me now, and he doesn’t really wipe it away, but it has to be matter-of-fact and sometimes I see the hand hover as if he were pondering removing all traces of the kiss before he recalls that most times (save for the cases involving dark-hued lipstick) they are, after all, invisible.

These boys….when they were tiny, they were all catcalls and pratfalls and caterwaul and innocent-goofy. They bumbled and fumbled and galloped up and down the field. Sometimes we parents would roll our eyes and groan at their antics: “Hey, Stacy, you see what your boy just did??” and sometimes we’d whoop and holler at great feats of athleticism that defied convention: “Tim, my man, your boy’s shapin’ up to be quite the little ball player.” We were crazily naive, not truly realizing that when the boys assembled the following year they would be two full inches taller and just the tiniest bit broader through the shoulders. They rolled out onto the field tumbling over one another and laughing like a barrel full of hyenas.

And then there is now: There is the same field, the same group of boys, only today they are deeper-voiced, keen on competition, hard-faced and ready when their cleats meet the grass at the fifty-yard line. They have somehow grown into their pads, somehow grown serious about this game, somehow doubled in height and –sometimes– in weight. They tape their laces of their own accord, they wear gloves and neckrolls and magically look like ballplayers. They keep track of the hits and the misses, the hard-earned knicks in their helmets, the bruises and the mishaps.

And we parents, we schlep the equipment, adhering to the forced-marched schedule of practices and games for twelve weeks in the fall, we applaud and cheer them on, we grin like silly fools when our children have a moment of excellence, we advise on the art of good sportsmanship, we hope they are learning and do our best to see that they have a good time while doing so.

But in those moments where flashes of memory like the one recounted above shock us with the such-a-short-time long distance sense that it is all falling away (even as it should) so, so very rapidly, we grieve for those times that they were the smallest boys in the league, giggling from beneath too-big helmets and swallowed from waist up by pads so that you could hardly tell one from the next save for the numbers on their jerseys. It is hardly given a thought that we are aging, but the notion that they are sometimes captures our attentions and oh my, how very grinding and bittersweet that is on a thirtysomething’s heart.

 
|| September 6, 2003 || 9:13 pm || Comments (15) ||

It is abundantly clear to me, two days after having been gifted with the ‘Instalanche‘, why Glenn Reynolds has the designation of ‘Tall Dog’ (as Acidman lovingly refers to him).

Exhibit A, my e-mail to Mister Reynolds:

From: Jett Superior

Subject: [All blogged up and nowhere to go.]

Date: Thurs, 04 Sep 2003

To: Glenn Reynolds

Mister Reynolds,

Holy shit.

I’m tempted to type ‘that is all’ and leave this correspondence at that (as my momma always said that brevity is best in all matters except for sex and paychecks), but I’ve got to lay the tried-and-true line you’ve heard before on you:

I’ve had more hits in the last ten minutes than in one whole day. ‘Instalanche’ (as sayeth the very fine ‘sugarmama‘), indeedy. INdeedy.

Thanks for my five seconds in the spotlight,
~Elizabeth, boldly pos(t)ing as Jett Superior for the benefit of the unwarshed Cyberian masses.

Exhibit B, his reply:

From: Glenn Reynolds

Subject: Re: [All blogged up and nowhere to go.]

Date: Fri, 05 Sep 2003

To: Jett Superior

Hope you got some quality long-term readers out of it!

Like I told Liz (who was ‘Instalanched’ in the same post as me): “And I say, ‘BULLY, OLE FELLA, THIS IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT.’” Mister Reynolds has a ‘Tall Dog’ designation, in part, due to his gentlemanly tendencies.

I need to thank sugarmama as well; I don’t think he’d've ever found me if she hadn’t written haiku (very touching and flattering haiku, I might add) about me earlier in the week.

While in the general neighborhood of being on the subject,
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the phone call between theDane and me this morning:

TheDANE: I cannot believe that you are waking me up at this hour. [ed. note: it was eight ay emm Pacific]

JETT: Dude, I cannot believe that you are waking up at this hour! I figured for sure I’d get the voice mail and leave a message.

MUFFLED GROAN-CHUCKLING FROM TheDANE [ed. note: the groan-chuckling thing sort of skeert me.]

JETT: I got your voice mail and hell, I figured you were calling me to fuss about the bandwidth, so I was gonna let you know what happened. [ed. note: he was, in all actuality, calling to change one of his song picks; how OCD is that??]

JETT EXPLAINS THAT, LIKE MANNA FROM HEAVEN, SHE LUCKED INTO AN INSTAPUNDIT NOD.

TheDANE: Oh no; you are allowed thirteen readers a day. Thirteen!

So, you know, some of you just may have to leave and stuff. I want to make this very clear, however:

All of you Navy boys (I noticed that there are a few of ya) that have been directed here from Glenn’s site? You may stay. I’ll run off some of the regulars, if you’ll only tell me how many of you there are.

Hell, they’ve all got hot buttons. I could do it. I coud so do it. Burning bridges is a specialty of mine.

Or hey, as an alternative (for the ones I especially like): I have all their phone numbers; I could just call and read my entries to them. They wouldn’t mind, really. Really they wouldn’t.

 
|| September 5, 2003 || 9:12 pm || Comments (18) ||

Okay, I’ve kept quiet about this until now, but NO MORE.

Johnny Depp, FUCK YOU.

Dixie Chicks, FUCK YOU.

And, charming readers, FUCK ANY OF YOU that dares to defend their fucknoodle bullshit.

Earlier Maxim and I were setting the table for dinner and talking about this whole ‘dumb puppy’ brouha and I said that Depp deserves whatever assgrating he gets over this, just as the Chicks deserved what they got/are still getting.

“Oh sure,” Maxim said, “free speech is great until someone stands up and speaks out against the government.” I spun on my heel, nearly flinging the bowl of stir-fry I carried all over the damned place.

“My problem is not that they voiced their opinions,” I said, biting the words off so hard that I am now amazed that anything multisyllabic made it out of my mouth, “My problem is that in both cases, it was done on foreign soil. Their fucking First Amendment rights don’t extend beyond our own borders. Far as I’m concerned, it’s vile and treasonous behavior. He’s already taken steps toward expatriation; I say we force him the rest of the way there.

“That sorry ungrateful fuck did not say ‘the American government’; he said ‘America‘. He can suck my red-white-and-blue dick and choke on my patriot juice.”

Once again, in the stench of the unexpected (what the fuck planet do these entertainment dipshits live on, anyway??) aftermath we hear those famous, panicked “I was quoted out of context!” wheedlings. You know what? I give a fuck not. That’s the price you pay for speaking to a foreign journalist, particularly one that is likely as not surfing along on the wave of very real anti-American sentiments. You persons of dancy/singy/acty persuasion know that it’s all about the spin, baby: You look even more like jackasses when you claim surprise, because as dumb as the populace can be, we’re just not that fucking stupid, you simpering asswipes.

Tell you what, Depp-ole-boy….if indeedy America is a dumb puppy, I vote that you (since you’ve so obviously not renounced your citizenship) be looked upon as an official representative of this fine, fine nation.

Yep, you’d be great as the Designated Asshole.

Not like I have ever owned any of the Chicks’ music, but DAMN, I loved and wanted to buy ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ and I sure did want to see ‘Once Upon A Time In Mexico’. Eh, easy come, easy go.

 
|| September 4, 2003 || 9:04 pm || Comments (8) ||

Nothing else on earth quite turns a ho-hum day around like having your Big Gay Best Friend call and sing cabaret songs to you over the (long, sooo long) miles.

Having a Big Gay Best Friend is culturally enlightening, as well. Where else would I hear the term ‘booty flu’? WHERE, I ask you??

 
|| September 4, 2003 || 11:28 am || Comments (8) ||

My oh myyyyyy: Steve Burns made a gorgeous, positively luminescent first album.

Okay, okay, let’s get past the fact that he was the ‘Blue’s Clues’ guy for six years, shall we? Steve has plenty of fun poking his history with the stick of humor (“The show was a smash hit, sucessful among the preschool set, their moms, the occasional stoned college student and Swedish au pairs.”), but he’s been fiddling with sound since he was roughly the age of the average Cluephyte and it shows.

Steve’s lyrics are thoughtful (‘i’m just a boring example of everybody else / i threw out the old one as soon as i found something else / i’ll never tell you what i do on saturday‘) and playful (‘we can roll around on my floor / that’s what it’s for‘) in turns without becoming insipid and the musicianship is a solid melange of rich, textured sound that never gets weighted down with a heavy-handed touch (as is sometimes the case with music this full). The one weak track that will merit a ’skip’ from me often in the future is ‘Maintain’ because it seems to lack the personality that the other tracks have; the lyrics and vocals both sound forced and merely plod along. However, eleven out of twelve better-than-just-good songs is an excellent sweep, especially in light of the plethora of cookie-cutter badbadbad music on the market nowadays.

Production and engineering assistance in the form of The Flaming Lips‘ Steven Drozd and Michaeal Ivins, respectively (You can hear their touch quite vividly on ‘A Snivelling Mess’, what I count as one of the best tracks on the album) may have given this album a leg up, but Burns’ vocals and lyrics never diminish in the face of the music’s thick-and-yummy quality; they hold their own even on stripped-down tracks like ‘A Reason’ and ‘Stick Around’.

‘Superstrings’ gets my nod as Very Favorite, while the buoyant ‘Mighty Little Man’ (no doubt destined to be the first single) and crunchy-bouncy ‘A Snivelling Mess’ both trail close on its heels. ‘Trophosphere’, with its sweet imagery, is destined to become a late night tequila-and-tap-tapping-on-my-keyboard staple.

You need an album of sweet songs about love and science, so run (or click) right on over to buy “Songs For Dustmites”. Me? I’m purchasing several* to give as gifts, which is the highest form of praise that I can bestow on an album and its creator.

*See, musicians, SEE? See what happens when you make a full album available for the music-lovin’ masses to listen to? Sit up and take note.

 
|| September 3, 2003 || 2:03 pm || Comments (9) ||

Okay, I know I’ve been very quotey as of late, and I promise some real, real content real, real soon, but I could not let the day go by without sharing this with you, you gorgeous readery-type people you:

fuckee acknowledges receipt of the warning regarding the ridiculous length of fucker’s abstinence from fucking, and is aware that fucker has been involved in a rather fanatical fitness program during the long long dry spell and understands fully that the fucker was a freak to begin with and now is a freak with a dangerous combination of frustration, strength, and stamina.

And that’s a mere snippet of ‘Don’t be afraid, my lawyer says this is just a formality.’ You should go and read the rest, especially if you need to spew coffee/soda/tequila on the monitor.

Especially.

 
|| September 1, 2003 || 9:52 pm || Comments (3) ||

Smells like weblog:

[this post dedicated lovingly to wastrel, my (oh-how-I-wish-I-were-fortunate-enough-to-have-a) Scottish boyfriend, who has not updated his site in some time (and has now departed Coolio's) due to procuring a 'real' job]

Adam Wade is the fucking coolest (he is very, very exuberant AND he managed to diss a snotty-acting Tim Robbins a couple weeks ago…Tim must be a friend of Armand Assante. I am sort of miffed at my Jodi; She could have TOLD me there was an Adam Wade). Adam knows the very real pleasures of a good day’s work and free food scored at same. Link him now, for he is bursting with Bloggy Wade Goodness and never fails to make me smile when I visit!

Funny, but going straight to hay-ull!! …and this is what I get for searching the term ‘grab bag’ on eBay. I think everyone’s Christmas gifts will somehow incorporate FeTo beads this year. I went excitedly to MetaFilter to slap these two up, but disappointingly enough, the mefites had already beat me to them. Once again, defeated by snotty interweb elitists with waaaaay too much time on their hands the mighty!

Neat project. Rather than having me bore and/or confuse you with my description of it, whyn’tcha go on over and try it? I got one really smashing result:

the beautiful trouble forever

the laddie night

lugger fall

or tenuous

lies the ordinary heather

saviours lost darkness through you

Best quote of the week:

To expect Muslims to speak against a vocal (and frequently exploding) minority is absurd.

(read that thread….it blew me away)

I love Christopher Walken, but I loves me some stick people, as well.

The best thing EVER to come out of the whole Judge Roy Moore debacle. Note to the rest of the country: We Hellabamians are truly sorry that so much bandwidth, newsprint and airtime have been sucked into the vortex of this mess. We’ll get right on that.

The LJ Times updates every half-hour, substituting snippets from LiveJournallers’ posts for Washington Post headlines. Sometimes riotous, and sometimes it reads like ‘real’ news.

Is that music ‘RIAA safe’? Find out before you download.

I got googled a couple days ago for ‘anonymous penis‘. Please note, darling Muffinasses, who ranks number one on the returned results: Now I can die a well-rounded woman (and, for the record, I blame all this penis-ness on Patti).

Spent a good chunk of today listening to Whole Wheat Radio courtesy of this post by Phil Ringnalda. Spent a couple hours throwing precious time away (a testament to the utter cool-beyond-measure factor of that community) chatting with the good folks over there and collecting Wheat Berries (you just have to experience it, really). I have over four-and-a-half million Wheat Berries now….PH34R.

Speaking of ph34ring and all that shit, A Prince Among Geeks and Some Girl Stuffed Into Cardboard had the treat of a long weekend for their birthdays….Happy Boidday, guys! I love both of you very much!

And, speaking of love, I’d like to offer up the following for my eedle pal Clayton and his new bride, Erin Lynn:

If I could take you

Even no further than into my arms

You would be where you belong.

To possess you for even so short a time

and, with your arms around me, to be possessed

Two helpless pawns, controlled

by the fire and sweet gravity of desire

Holding you

I would chase and catch the lights that burn in your eyes

Until for just a moment they shine brightly, just for me

And then, sweetly smoldering, your curtains close

Leaving me to dream

Knowing even the sweetest dream could not compare

~R. Bankard, ‘Response’

May the two of you always know passion; God bless.