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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 28, 2004 || 9:26 pm

Vacation Journals, part one

//Thursday, four twenty-eight pee emm

Statement of Goals for this, My Beachy Excursion:

~Endeavor to make the bracelet of pale skin surrounding my wrist (where my watch generally sits) disappear.

~Forget, by whatever means necessary, that my very best friend ever died horribly a mere two weeks ago and I won’t be able to make the memorial. Just for this weekend. Forget, forget, forget.

~Do damn near whatever the kids want. They have been really patient while I endeavor to go to skoo.

~Buy one last pack of smokes, as I am too young to die of cancer.

//Friday, ten-oh-two ay emm

It seems that a child has left behind a pale blue Dora the Explorer bandaid. It’s wiggling up from the sand next to my blanky. Gross, man.

//Friday, twelve-fourteen pee emm

I seek comfort in the arts –literature, music– constantly. I adulate over the works of painters, poets, sculptors.

Sitting here watching my children dance through roiling surf, examine the intricacies of a tiny shell, build elaborate tunnel systems and turrets out of sand brings forth a quiet epiphany…I no longer seek comfort as I once did in the greatest display of art on the planet: Nature.

(note to self: fix that shit, girl)

Maybe this is part of the reason why, nowadays, I sometimes am tugged by the phantom sense of being incomplete somehow. I used to find renewal in the alone times when I’d set off into parts pristine and (mostly) untamed. There was me and a notebook in a field full of wildflowers on a spring day back when bugs weren’t an annoyance; rather, they were things to be examined as they’d light on my leg or trundle their way up my arm. There was driving waaaay out into little-of-nowhere to set up a lawnchair at the edge of an old wood plank bridge; I could be still and watch the water eddy and bubble for six solid hours without being disturbed by a car or truck passing by. Even then, they’d crawl at 15 MPH or so, driver nodding and me responding with a lazy smile.

Here I am thinking; something –for many reasons– I’d vowed not to do on this trip.

Must start drinking.

Friday, one-ten pee emm

So, I’m scribbling away in this here notebook and a fiftyish woman to my right (her brilliant green eyes and white blaze of hair make a startling combination; but then again, I’ve always had a thing for the green eyes) calls to me, “So you’re a writer, eh?”

I ponder this for a moment.

“Yes ma’am,” I squint toward her, “Yeah I am.”

Of course, the only appropriate response to this is for her to interrupt the threading-together of thoughts I’m taking a running stab at. She begins an attempt at engaging me in conversation. At first I cringe inwardly, but then I forgive her and carry on with an exchange because she is a Yankee and more than likely knows no better and also because ‘Hey, I’m here to experience things, and sometimes very marvelous things are born of one solitary conversation with one unlikely person.’

We talk of this (Groton, Connecticut) and of that (how delicious the American Movie Classics channel can be) and also a little of t’other (hard to find a good Sidecar –even in classy joints– these days). Before she settles back into her towel, I remember to ask here how she divined my Official PenPusher status.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she says to me, beautifully nasal and flapping one hand, “My husband used to bend over the page and frown intently, writing away furiously. Then he’d stretch back and take in some point in the far-off for a while. You do that, too.

“He was a writer of some merit.”

She is gone still and quiet –presumably dozing– before I think to ask her if maybe I’ve heard of him.

I think I’ll go have some tuna salad. Maybe she’ll be here when I get back. I’ll bring a double batch of mugaritas, just in case.

Friday, two forty-two pee emm

Mixing up my double batch before leaving the condo: I set a bowl of ice, the margarita mix and tequila on the counter (there is no triple sec, as my husband and in-laws did the supplies shopping and they do not know Margarrrrita As Art Form like yours truly). Chuck in a double-handful of ice. The tequila is next, and Maxim stands quietly to the left, observing, as I do spinny magic tricks with the cap. I lift and pour generously. As I’m putting the bottle down, I hesitate and pour yet again. I place the bottle back on the counter, appraise the blender pitcher and the tequila bottle for a brief moment before again splashing more tequila over the ice.

“There,” I grin contentedly before replacing the alcohol’s cap.

‘Rita mix, chop-blend, chop-blend, yesss.

I remove the eensy measuring cup portion of the blender’s lid and peek in, one-eye style. Then I remove the lid, lifting the pitcher to my lips for a delicate sniff and dainty sip.

Maxim, previously silent, begins to guffaw.

“What?” I exclaim, “I’m checking to see if it needs more takillya.”

“What that concoction is lacking is NOT tequila.”

Satisfied, I pour the divinely-crafted blend into the hefty, insulated MugO’Doom (so named because it is emblazoned –quite aptly– with the frenetic, randomly-placed stars that its contents will have me seeing in a coupla hours’ time).

Green-eyed Lady, Ocean Lady is not there when I return. My Gracious Southern Hostessing Duties are derailed; such a damn disappointment to drink her share, you know.

Friday, three forty-four pee emm:

MAXIM: Put a fancy dress on you, and you’d be Boozarella.

JETT: Shut up, bitch.

MAXIM: “Does this shoe fit you?” “I’th never sheennat shoe in my ligh-uffth.

JETT: The only reason you’re getting away with your mockery is because I have consumed a significant portion of the MugO’Doom’s contents.

to be continued

11 worked it out »

  1. Skillzy 6.29.2004

    Ahh, the ice planet Groton (pronounced Grow-tahn), for four long years the home base for my drunken debauchery and sailorly craziness. One incident from those days stands out due to the fact that I’m not sure whether it was real or a dream. It involved fat whores and a lost submarine. Anyhoo, hope you had fun, I’m headed to the Riviera mahself in a few weeks, looking forward to it.

    Oh, and I’m glad you’re really back now, and not just teasing.

  2. Kandy 6.29.2004

    Lawd girly, I’m so glad to click on your link and see something of color appear instead of white! Happy, so happy that you have come back.

    My deepest sympathies regarding your friend.

  3. Mac 6.29.2004

    It’s amazin’ how a bottle of worm innards can illuminate ones life…even while staring at the world through a pair of Oakley’s.

  4. Hans (delmer) Dibbler 6.29.2004

    Jett, good to see you back from the scholastic and redesign abyss!

    I particularly liked the introspection on the lost comfort of wonder. Where is it when adults lose the wonder of youth? Certainly it’s different for everyone, but is there a common denominator that can be pointed to? Is there catalyst, maybe a watershed event that leads to the gradual erosion of these rocks we once tied ourselves to? It’s not like anyone wakes up and says “I am going to abandon (these) simple joys today:” I suppose the most disturbing aspect is the trouble I have found trying to regain my lost repose. When such elemental fascination was my solace, they were never focused upon as an escape, perhaps even taken for granted. Observed, but under appreciated little points of ponder that were just there to add depth, perspective and provide fascination to a want of a life that was more than plain existence. Now, like some Chinese finger trap, the more I make myself take time away and focus on such things, the more it seems forced and so different from the euphoric moments I remember.

    Eh, what the hell do I know?

    Welcome back.

  5. ntexas99 6.29.2004

    mugarita is one of those you should copyright … such heft, and a plethora of takillya in that frosty expanse

    good to see something in this here space when I clicky-click … funny you should mention our sense of wonder at the world around us … that’s zakly what I wrote about yesterday. After nearly wanting to kick my own butt for missing out on lots of wonder, now I figure maybe I’ll save the butt kicking for another time, and instead just open my eyes to the wonder again.

    really good to see you here … ciao

  6. I got a postcard

  7. Jettomatika 6.30.2004

    Did it have boogers on it?

  8. skillzy 7.1.2004

    Hey since you don’t love me no more and never write (despite my gmail coolness), I have a t-shirt idea to run by you. Black, with the new ABUANTG scrawl on the left tit (with or without plaid background), and the big boot on the back with one of your oh so cheeky sayings under it. Gimme gimme!

  9. Jettomatika 7.1.2004


    …I’m about to do a project that will need some funding and was toying with the idea of limited-run, collectable tees to fund it.

    What say ye, the masses?

  10. Skillzy 7.1.2004

    This mass only requests that it doesn’t take as long as the dang site makeover. Oh, and make them pretty!

  11. hans 7.1.2004

    It’s better than selling “get a free ipod/plasma tv/robotic killer monkey with laser shooting out it’s eyes” info packets on eBay!

    For the shirts, might I suggest:

    “Porn built the internet, Jett made it interesting” on the reverse, with a list of google search returns that pointed people to your site.


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