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Archive for November, 2003

My pocket people rock way harder than your pocket people.

We interrupt this bout with exhaustion masquerading as a raging, debilitating chestcold to bring you this:

Look, if you’re not watching theDane’s weekly vidblogs, all I want to know is why, Why, WHYYY? You are certainly depriving yourself of …..something. Since you’re all lazy bas For your convenience, I’ve grouped them all here in one place. Hint: They’re in reverse-chronological order. Okay then; click the pitchers and get to rollin’.

The jazz in the background on this one is a superb touch, but if I’m not mistaken, this is the SECOND vidblog that he’s ended with a smarmy little kiss at the camera. This is a ruse, as our dear Dane wants you to THINK he’s being smarmy. Truth be known, he’s actually going all soft on us. Girly-man, girly-man!!

I received a verrrry kind e-mail from theDane regarding this particular video: “Knowing how much you despise our crustacean friends, I feared that you may have missed my vidblog tribute. If you want you can pretend that the lobster is you.” Ahhh, blessed altruism.

Look, don’t make the same errer erroe error in judgement as I did and assume that he’s wearing a lame-ass flap hat in this one. It is clearly NOT a lame-ass flap hat, as I so mistakenly told him over the phone (and thereby garnering angry, link-ridden e-mail); rather, it is a SPACE HELMET, crafted lovingly by MamaDane. As you can so plainly see, it still fits him as an adult because he had notoriously big hair as a child. That, or he has a disproportionately small adult head; I’ll leave that one to you to ponder, wonderful Muffinasses.

|| November 12, 2003 || 12:25 am || Comments (10) ||

My childhood memories are being traded on eBay.

It’s true, God help me.

I remember being four or five years old and having that exact same record case. I loved me some Donny and Marie, let me tell you. I was camped out some eighteen inches from the tube (back when I was the remote control and there were three networks not counting PeeBeeEss and knobs existed to turn them on and off –they really did– and those knobs made a loud click and I think I remember hearing the television hummmmm as it warmed on up to my upturned cherubic face, oh yes) each and every, hmm, Thursday night I think it was, freshly scrubbed and turned out in wee bare feet and a ruffle-hemmed nightie. This little piggy went to market and I’m a little bit rock and roll, Just Like You, my Donny.

I always had that record case right with me on those occasions, because it solidified the Osmond Bondtm that I so obviously had and no one else did. Especially other girls, little or big. No one was anywhere near my standings as the future Ms. Donny, oh no.

Yes, that record case was right at my side as I drank in the yummy Osmondy goodness each week, only my case looked not nearly as poppin’ fresh as that one does; I have to question the existence of a soul in someone who could keep a record case that pristine. For the love of pete, even if you don’t kiss the vinyl(ish?) covering right off of Donny’s (or Marie’s, even though those times were not as, ehm, ‘progressive’ as the ones we live in now) toothy fucking face, how could you not near-mangle that cheapish little (essentially glorified cardboard) box with the simple act of wagging your music around everywhere with you, pulling it out, listening, putting it back in again? How? How, I ask you?

As my tastes had not yet reached the refined level that they would by say, age eight, most of what got carted around in that box consisted of storybook records –”When you hear the ‘DING’ turn the page!”– of which, Jack and the Beanstalk seemed to be my favorite (even then I sympathised with adventurously running off to faraway lands). Oh, there were a handful of regular forty-fives in there, as well, but I only really recall one of them. That one being Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime” (dee dee dee deet dee), the flipside of which was –DO YOU REMEMBER??– “Mighty Man”. Okay, I vaguely remember some “Beans In My Ears” song, too, but I can’t go to bat on the artist or the b-side on that one.

Why didn’t anybody love that record box, huh? Why wasn’t it Loved Right To Piecestm??

All of this ire just a long way of saying that I wish, very much, that I had that fucking box. I don’t love Donny so much now, and I don’t have any storybook records to fill it lovingly with, but I got memories aplenty that would elbow one another for room and crowd out the fucking thing to such a degree that the seams just might pop.

|| November 11, 2003 || 12:15 am || Comments (7) ||

Wherever you roam~

Dear Marines, Sailors, Soldiers and Airmen,

I know that some days you feel so very far removed from those that you are beholden (whether by heart, by contract or by both) to serve. I know that you feel like the ‘Average Joe’ could never possibly understand the fear, the grief, the overwhelming pride, the absolute sense of purpose you experience at times based on who you are and what you do. I know that there are times when you feel that your job is an ugly, thankless one. I know that there are times when it causes you headache and heartache and internal conflict. I know that you know restricted liberties of speech and action so that the rest of the citizens of our fine republic may know them intimately.

I know that you leave behind lovers, family, friends…the general comforts of hearth and home and fellowship. I know all too well the aching gash that this separation fires open in your chest. I know the days of tedium and lonely, just wanting to look into a particular pair of eyes or hear a certain voice. I know that some days some of you feel utterly alone and forgotten –as if no one recalls you and your call to duty– even if you serve stoically and do not voice it.

Please allow me to disabuse you of this notion.

You don’t know me, so let me share a little background about myself. I have a father who showed me courage in the face of fear and the importance of bearing. He was a Marine. I have a daddy who continually teaches me a greater worldview and the importance of kith and kin. He was a Navy man. I was the wife of a young man who loved his family and the young men he led fiercely; he taught me much about a sense of duty and faithfulness to one’s cause. He was an Army Airborne Ranger. I have a sister who diligently cataloged and shipped everything from armaments to toilet paper with great care because she knew lives depended on the job she did in the rear. She was Air Force. I have a brother who serves even now, sometimes in a capacity that he is not allowed to divulge to momma and daddy or even his wife; this has taught me fortitude and patience in times of unquiet and roiling emotion. These are just those in my immediate family. There are more: Cousins and uncles and friends that I love beyond measure flung from one point of the globe to the other. They dot huge bases and obscure airfields, they bob along on ships alongside the coasts of places that I’ve only seen pictures of and sometimes don’t know a thing about or perhaps have never even heard of.

My family has been represented in damn near every conflict that the United States has ever engaged in, both foreign and domestic: I touch on this with a fierce sense of pride. What you do is not an easy thing, and sometimes appears to be supremely thankless, but I want you to know that I for one am grateful.

It may not be much, but I thank you, and I pray for your safety and welfare and good spirits (sometimes even without conscious awareness) more often than I can count. No, it may not be much at all, but I do remember on more days than just this one, and I hope sometimes that you have even the slightest notion of that, as well as the comfort of knowing that there are more like me out there.

God bless, Godspeed, and Good Fucking Job (oooooooorah!),


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

He deals the cards as a meditation / And those he plays never suspect / He doesn’t play for the money he wins / He doesn’t play for respect / He deals the cards to find the answer / The sacred geometry of chance / The hidden law of a probable outcome / The numbers lead a dance

I know that the spades are swords of a soldier / I know that the clubs are weapons of war / I know that diamonds mean money for this art / But that’s not the shape of my heart

He may play the jack of diamonds / He may lay the queen of spades / He may conceal a king in his hand / While the memory of it fades

I know that the spades are swords of a soldier / I know that the clubs are weapons of war / I know that diamonds mean money for this art / But that’s not the shape of my heart

And if I told you that I loved you / You’d maybe think there’s something wrong / I’m not a man of too many faces / The mask I wear is one / Those who speak know nothing / And find out to their cost / Like those who curse their luck in too many places / And those who fear are lost

I know that the spades are swords of a soldier / I know that the clubs are weapons of war / I know that diamonds mean money for this art / But that’s not the shape of my heart

// Sting, ‘Shape Of My Heart’

|| November 10, 2003 || 12:15 pm || Comments (4) ||


Look, all the short entries are bugging me, too, but I just had to tell you that I just got the best fucking spam EV. ER. See for yourself:

From : DeEtte Blythe

To : amazingjettgrrrlAThotmail.com

Subject : Try this

Date : Mon, 10 Nov 2003 11:25:12 -0500

Try kissing at lest one fart hole a day it will change your life

Everyone on the planet should have interweb access!

|| November 10, 2003 || 10:24 am || Comments (9) ||

Yet another letter to the ill-informed.

Dear Random Guy In Computer Lab~

I can excuse the fact that you are wearing a soft green polo shirt with heather-colored sweatpants, even though both a) color and b) styling are a tad clashy. We all have our bad days, after all.

What I cannot press myself to do, however, is excuse the fact that you tucked that polo into your sweats.

Don’t ever do that ay-gain, sir, for I cannot make any guarantees as to what will or won’t happen.

Jett “I’ma Learn You People Or Else” Superior

|| November 10, 2003 || 10:18 am || Comments (7) ||


Me to theDane:
“Dude, I think I’ve got another layout in the pipeline. A good idea for one, at least.”

TheDane to me:
“Cool. How does Michelle Kwan figure into it?”

Okay, listen up. I can begrudgingly concede to a continuing nod at lobsters, because no matter how I despise them, theDane’s fixation with them is marginally cute. But I can’t bear the burden of displaying a perky Asian ice skater in perpetua. I just cannot!

|| November 9, 2003 || 9:17 pm || Comments (7) ||

Various and sundry conversations.

MAXIM enters room, notices tape measure languidly draped about JETT’S neck.

MAXIM: Oh no, you’re eBaying again, aren’t you?

We get the distinct impression that our heroine is rather…distant when wheeling and dealing and prostituting wares during the course of online auctions.

JETT: No, I’m measuring my ego.

MAXIM: Oh, well hell, then….you’re going to need about eight more of those things.

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

JETT is annoyed. MAXIM ponders this.

MAXIM: You know, that’s the second time you’ve called me a ‘fucker’ today.

JETT: Look, this one’s easy. Stop earning the title and I’ll stop bestowing it upon you.

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

MAXIM and JETT are hurriedly gathering items at Hobby Lobby so as to make it to the infamous BANDITO BURRITO in short fashion.

MAXIM: Baby, you’re so sexy when you shop for sheet metal tools.

JETT cocks one eyebrow and him and keeps walking.


JETT is busy. JETT has no time for this; she has roughly twenty items to gather in that many minutes.

MAXIM: Dirty girl on aisle seventeen! Dirty girl on aisle seventeen!

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

Funny how when we get to spend a solid chunk of hours alone –just the two of us– we recall that we really, really like one another a whole lot.