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Archive for November, 2003

Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket??

Remember my friend Eric? The one I referenced in my one-hundred things? [ref: numbers twenty-four through twenty-six]

In a very *ahem* inventive Halloween twist, he snagged a priest’s cassock, had the arms removed*, went out and bought a timeout kid (also known as corner kids), strapped it on and went as your favorite Controversial Catholic Character. Observe:


That’s him on the far left. As if you didn’t know.

As a matter of fact, all my friends are creative geniuses, thanks for asking. It’ll make hell more fun.

His mother, upon my query, responded that she was horrified and ashamed at his choice of costumes.

“You know what, Eric?” I said upon being introduced to the whole getup, “You’re either gonna get the living hell beat out of you or get a whole lot of pussy out of this.” He called me afterward to share the news that at least a dozen other women had told him the exact same thing, to which he responded, “You wanna be next? You know, after the kid?”

This is all so very funny because Eric is truly one of the best men I know in the whole world. He is awesomely funny and caring and cultured and well, just cute as all hell.

You know…that place where he’ll be spending all of eternity.

*Me: “Are you kidding, Eric? It’ll be too fucking hot for that thing.”
Him: “I know, that’s why I’m cutting the sleeves off. It’s great, because they’ll be what I use to strap the doll to myself!”

I hate to detract from the flow of bile from the last post, but…..

Look, you people. I need a big-ass image of a radiological hazard symbol. Any ole color scheme is fine, and I give a fuck not what format it’s in.

Okay, .pdf sucks, but I’ll even take it in a pinch.

Can any of you point me in the right direction? Preeeedddy, preeeedddy please?

The one where I am politically informed and on top of things.

Dear Howard Dean,

It’s funny, viewing the degree to which you are a fuckjobber. Oh yessss, what a fuckjobber you are.

And not for the reasons that your fellow politico assgrabby peers are citing.

From one Southern Gal to the lot of you:

Fuck all y’all.

That’s MY official party line.

Truly and sincerely,

Jett “If I’d Like To Fuck Things Up For A Living I’ll Be A Demolitions Expert And Not A Politician” Superior

 
|| November 6, 2003 || 1:13 am || Comments (12) ||

I’m game.

Acidman posed a set of questions yesterday over at his site, and they kind of tie in with something I scribbled earlier in the week. A real similar post made a few days after mine was brought to my attention by redclay t’other day and now there’s something by The Pie Queen, as well. All food for thought.

So anyway, without further ado, his questions, my answers:

1) If you’ve read a blog for a while, do you start to believe that you KNOW the person who writes it, even though you’ve never met that person?

Hmmm, this one is kinda complex, because the answer varies and is dependent on the blog author himself, really. There are those who pull no punches on their blogs, and there are those that are supreme fluff while still being engaging and enjoyable to read. I never labor under the illusion that I know all and see all based on a few paragraphs left to dry on my screen, but there are some instances where you can get a solid feel for a writer based on their words. If I like what I see, if it toots my horn, then I stick out my hand for a shaking and see if anything in the way of a friendship develops. Interaction is the only way to really know someone, and sometimes even that cannot be trusted.

If I’m not mistaken, you’ve explored that topic once or twice before.

2) If you met that same person for the first time at a blog-meet, would you be at a loss for conversation?

Well, fuck no. This has a little to do with having read the person on a regular basis, and a whole lot to do with my raising. One weekend might find us at a truck-and-tractor pull. The next might find us at the ballet. I made mention of the wide array of cultural outings that my momma made available to us in a conversation with her a couple of years ago; I told her that since I’ve become a parent it’s grown quite clear to me how much effort and planning and sacrifice she put into me and my siblings. I mean, I was aware before, but it is absolutely crystal now. Her reply to me?

“Sis, I wanted you to be able to walk into a room of fifty people and have at least one thing to conversate on with each and every one of them. You never know what flavor of person repels you until you engage them in discussion.” Everybody but everybody should be blessed with a momma as grand as mine.

3) Do you believe that blogging attracts the same kind of people to that medium of expression?

To a certain degree, yes. Hell, everybody wants to be heard: It’s a human instinct, scientifically documented as one of the pinnacle needs, even. Beyond that, there’re a myriad of factors that come into play: How engaging are you? Have you found a voice; do you use it to full effect? Do you encourage interaction? There are more personality types in the weblog end of the Cyberian wordpool than I could count on my fingers AND toes. Shit, my readers alone (many of whom are webloggers themselves) are testament to that.

4) Are you afraid to speak in a room full of people that you don’t know very well? If so, THEN DON’T BLOG!

Why, hell no. I’m as worthy of being heard as anybody else. If the crickets sing at the end of my speechifying, well then…they sing.

Most times they don’t, however….or, if they do, I can’t hear them for all the voices in my head and/or the drunks surrounding me.

God bless Brother Alk E. Haul. Amen and pass the peaches.

5) Do you read some blogs and have this overpowering urge to jump the writer’s bones, even though you’ve never seen that person before? If so, email ME.

I can’t adequately express how many times you fucking Cyberians have made me horny (and jealous! oh so, soooo jealous!) with the words you’ve strung together across my screen. There are some webloggers that, yeah, make me squirm in my seat consistently. They can be talking about any ole thing….the price of bread, sun flares, chair webbing. It’s not what they’re saying so much as it is how they’re sidling up to me to say it. It mimics meatspace: Packaging counts for a little, but packaging ain’t the be-all, end-all. You can be pretty all day long, but in the end, what things of worth do you have to bring to the table? The weight of a weblog lies in its delivery.

And, for the record, this is how I break it down. If someone is clever with their words, that signifies some strength of intellect peppered with at least a dash of creativity. Creativity between the ears doesn’t usually have a propensity to stay there; it manifests itself in many, many areas, if you catch my drift….wink-wink, nudge-nudge. Plus, if you can get into my head, baby, if you can challenge me there first and foremost, then the heart and pants may soon follow (I think I’ve only slept with one truly, cripplingly dumb guy in my life….but he was a superb lay, so I don’t count that one wasted…we consistently made one another’s toes curl and we byGod had fun).

Assuming I were single, which I’m not. But if I were, honey, some of you would be in SO MUCH trouble! You’d not come up for air for days at a time.

And there you have it, folks. Asked and answered.

HERE’S TO ME, HERE’S TO YOU, HERE’S TO KISSING THE MORNING DEW.
~or~
He’s seen fit to spare me again, woo!

I felt creased as I was leaving the house this morning. A recent burst of creativity has me feeling energized and spent all at the same time. I vividly remember that as I was starting down the mountain, I thought to myself that I could use a couple taps to the head to bring me up out of myself and fully into the day. After all, nothing like a good beatin’ to get you going. Just ask my kids.

I’m sure there’s some idiot out there that took that remark seriously and is now questioning my parenting skills. Welcome, lunatic. I say those things to crank yo gears.

It started raining sometime early this morning; I know this because I was up into the wee hours, alternating studying with sanding and painting and drilling. Perhaps I should take a shop class so as to perfectly marry all of the above. I’d take auto shop rather than wood shop just so I could sing “GO-OHHH GREASE(D?) LIGHTNING, YOU’RE BURNING UP THE QUARTERMILE….”

Started out a gullywarsher….that lasted all of twenty minutes before subsiding into a lazy drizzle, the kind that loosens all the trapped oil from the roads without completely vanquishing it to the shoulders and medians. The kind that lulls drivers into a lazy complacency and a security that their cars, just as always, will stay fixed and steady on the road until they reach their destinations.

My first reaction upon seeing an accident, a wreck, whatever-you-choose-to-call-it is almost always (and without much rate of failure), “Oh poor [fill in name of car here] driver.” Part sympathy, part concern, part hedging my bets against the universe flinging my and my car toward the same fate.

The mountain highway I travel each day is like this: Two lanes down, two lanes up, standard-issue grassy center median. On the way down there is a foliage-covered cliff face traveling sharply up a wall of pretty and friendly greenery. To the far left, beyond a miniscule barrier, lies more tree-covered mountainside, a steep-faced, trunk-encrusted invitation to death, seatbelt or no.

One-third of the way to my destination, there was a taupe-colored Lumina that had tired of the journey; it lay on its left side, like it had rolled over cleanly for a nap, wheels facing the side of the mountain, top turned to me. The wreck was so new that there were no emergency vehicles there yet, only a pained-looking man with cellphone to ear who I assumed belonged to the SUV canted — pulled off quickly, it seems– at the roadside some eighty yards up.

The look on his face settled unease on me.

Another mile up, and here was a vehicle that decided to pull out the stops, to not go half-assed, to raise its chassis to the sky in some odd supplication: “Take my driver, please!”

There was a paramedic truck; it apparently beat the state troopers. There was a red pickup, shiny and new. There was some yayhoo in a yellow safety-taped slicker waving orange flags to beat the band. This apparently fucked with the eyeballs of the driver in a navy Sentra to my right. Said eyeballs then fucked with driver’s brain. Said fucked-with brain then gave the erroneous command to veer unnecessarily into my lane sharply and reactionarily hit the brakes (rather than the thinking man’s option: Speeding Up) when observing that I was two licks from ass-ending him/her.

I did what I’ve been taught is proper in such situations: I sent the car to the left, and my wheels –given the rate of travel– were immediately inclined to suck the whole fucking plastic-and-rubber-and-fiberglass (plus an eensy bit of metal and glass for flavor) contraption off of the road and into the median.

I am calm in times like these: “Nerves don’t fail me now,” and they didn’t. The median grass was tall enough to not be slick, dense enough to slow me a bit and offer some traction. However, I was still traveling fast and concerned that I’d flip the sweet Saturncar if I hit either roadside shoulder again too quickly. That, or do a Thelma and Louise –without the benefit of sistah-from-anotha-mistah companionship– off the mountainside.

I simply wasn’t dressed for the occasion of a dramatic exit. Plus, I had no Rachmaninoff or Faure for cinematic effect.

There was also the issue of coming to a complete stop and getting stuck in the median. Frankly, Gorgeous Reader, I can’t afford the tow. I’m still one car payment behind from when I bought books at the beginning of the semester. GMAC be damned.

/COMMENCE ASIDE/ I’m convinced that most people have accidents because they become too relaxed in the following notion:

“I have insurance. Insurance will fix or replace.”

Me, I don’t have the time or the funds (deductible, tardy rental delivery/reimbursement, etc.) to lose to that mindset. I try harder to grease out of tough situations, knock wood. /END ASIDE/

I swung back up onto the roadside and into my rightful lane after what I believe to be about 120 yards (luckily, luckily, luckily not encountering any turn-arounds or severe ditches in the interim): Thank you, accommodating green Celica. Fuck you very much, burgundy Whatevercar. You will both be adequately compensated in the afterlife, as Jesus is my friend and not just the friend-of-a-friend.

The rest of the twenty-minute drive was uneventful. I thought the usual thoughts, turned the usual turns, I got on with my get on. The adrenaline bath happened upon exiting my car.

The thing about a good adrenaline rush is that it very much mimics a good drunk. If you’re sitting down for either one, you don’t realize to what degree you’ve been affected until it comes barreling down on you when you rise to a standing position. When you’re throwing a drunk, the sauce travels with no compunction or argument toward the lower extremities and is locked down in your feet, shins and calves by the bend in your legs. Alcohol simply cannot battle that ninety-degree angle, so it doesn’t even fuck around with trying. Once you excuse yourself from the table and rise to hit the head for a little bladder relief, you free up the channel and it’s anybody’s game–you wobble near-immediately.

With adrenaline, it’s just the opposite. It floats innocuously about the head and shoulders (less thick musculature to rattle up there, you see) and upon rising the puddled ring of it falls in a wet, jellied curtain down, down, dowwwwn.

That, sisters and brothers, is why I stepped out of my vehicle, bent quickly and cleanly at the waist and efficiently ejected the contents of my stomach, i.e. my breakfast, on the yellow stripe of my parking space. Glory hallelujah. The only time I’ve done it cleaner and quieter involved a foul popcorn-chardonnay combination, my stainless steel kitchen sink and me asking my roommate, “Nobody heard, did they?” You see, there was a potential new beau in the next room who’d brought sterling roses to our little dinner party. Luckily, I’d already digested the almond torte eaten some seven hours earlier.

That was not the case with this morning’s meal. The Total flakes and already-congealed milk departed gracefully. The honey-almond granola I’d sprinkled atop it put up a bit of a fight. Damned surly granola.

 
|| November 4, 2003 || 1:07 am || Comments (13) ||

Public! Service! ANNOUNCEMENT.

The next (and I mean THE VERY NEXT) person who says to me that my frustration or disappointment or blinding rage or tendency to get snippity when immersed in any of the former ‘surely must be pee emm ess’ is getting beat half to death with the business end of a tampon.

I started to say, ‘…beat bloody with the business end of a tampon’, but that was damn funny and I’m not trying to convey humor at this very moment. But I reserve the right to use it on the occasion that I am.

THAT OKAY WITH YOU INGRATES??

 
|| November 2, 2003 || 6:13 pm || Comments (12) ||

I come by it honest.

This could also be titled ‘No more hand-sewn costumes, EVER!, regardless of how much I love you people.’ Please observe the following:


Mathias: “Wookit my funky hay-udd!” Yes indeedy, young man.

Scout is sporting a hand-sewn vampiress number skillfully whipped up by my mother. Enclosed in the box with it came the following missive:

Dearest Daughter and Granddaughter:

When you really learn to sew you will find that
1) care of your eyes is necessary when you are young if you want to sew on black material when you are old
2) Bangladesh sweatshop knits do not play well with cheap Chinese satins
3) only loving grandmothers would attempt using these (without fittings), but only for Halloween costumes, not for normal occasions…i.e., Sunday School dresses, prom dresses, first trip to the strip club get-ups, etc.

Hope it fits and if it doesn’t Scout please don’t pitch one; Memom tried. Love you!

I got as far as cutting Mathias’ out before muttering ‘FUCKIT’ and shoving it into a bag to take elsewhere and have it sewn. Didn’t I do a beautiful job??


Sam being suitably pre-teen surly. Pffh.


Mathias has the scary thing down pat: “How ’bout I come home with YOU? Grrrr.”


This photo turned out wicked cool.


Giving love to the object from whence all hallowed goodies flow.

And I’m tellin’ ya, if you’ve never taken a bunch of ten- to twelve-year-olds out on a scavenger hunt, you haven’t lived. The boys on my team made me laugh so hard that I hurt the next day. Yes, I’m positive it was them and not all the tequila I consumed at the ‘adult’ festivities later.