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Archive for August, 2004

 
|| August 22, 2004 || 12:38 am || Comments (4) ||

Jett Superior, Rock Promoter Extraordinaire

There are so many things to talk about, but this cold has just freaking zapped my energy completely. The notion of sitting here pecking away for the next half-hour is pretty abhorrent at present.

There was this girl at the show tonight, however, and I feel I should tell you about her. She was fifteen, with striped kneesocks (yellow and grey) and striped arm warmers up to the elbone (grey and black) and black Chucks. She had short, flyaway brown hair that looked as if it had been in a scramble with some sort of lawn-grooming implement (not to be confused with the ‘purposely messy’ look that is oh-so-chic these days). She had on baggy, grey (washed so much they was butter soft, they was) cut-off-at-the-knee denim shorts and a white t-shirt with ‘THE CLASH’ yelling out from her chest in yellow block type.

She had a two-inch red star sticker plastered above her left eyebrow; that’s what sealed the deal for me. We talked and talked, this kid and I, when I was not busy running around the venue, TCOS.

She was quite possibly the coolest person from a ‘neato’ standpoint that I have met all farging year. She makes me hopeful for the future of womankind: She was that awash in massive radness.

My wish for you, lovely Muffinasses, is that you meet someone like Darcy in the near future. What a treat.

 
|| August 21, 2004 || 2:22 pm || Comments (3) ||

NOTICE (damnit)

I, in an extreme moment of fatige fatigue and fucktardery, have ‘doctored’* the comments thread to the story post. I’ve managed to screencap the read-only file and will commence to editing down and posting those comments previously entered later so that we may continue (thangs was jes’ gettin’ good).

That is all.

Your Humble and Technologically Inept Hostess

*Where ‘doctored’=summarily deleted original thread(whoopsies)

 
|| August 20, 2004 || 11:55 am || Comments (5) ||

Thus far unvoiced.

Even now, I get the occasional hit from waistdog’s place. It makes me wince, but at the same time –in some crazy, hopeful way– I go running over to his site to see if anything’s changed.

It hasn’t. Rick hasn’t magically appeared to offer me some pith, some wisdom, some liquid-through-the-nose humor.

I haven’t said so, because I love all your comments, but I really, really miss waisty coming around these parts and bouncing clever one-liners offa me. He was one of the ‘originals’ (and booooyyy, was this place a hoot then!): chum, hans, trouble, unx, theDane, Samurai Barber, timato. I had maybe twenty hits a day and what inhabited the comments area was rowdy, smart and full of unmitigated glee.

I miss Rick’s e-mails, I miss hearing his voice. I miss the three-way volleys between melissa and me and him. I miss my friend immensely. There is, quite frankly, a disappointment when I open the comments box to read what has been placed there for me and see that he’s not one of the ones gifting me with his thoughts, his responses, his words.

Skits and I had a little exchange after he first died, and she was the first (actually the only) person to voice what I had screaming in my heart and head after Rick’s untimely death and subsequent spike in traffic because of looky-loos:

“GO AWAY!! Go away, you fucks, you did not know him! Leave us to our grief.”

Only she put it in a much nicer fashion than I ever could’ve.

I wish I wasn’t such a fucking technotard. I would like to be able to write a little script or sommat that would automatically –like, as soon as I hit ‘publish’– assign a blank comment signed ‘waistdog’ at the end of every post. Just as a little tribute. Just to make me feel a bit better.

I’ve only shared this with a couple of people, but the day I pulled the site for the “ten-YEAR-long-redo” (Skillzy is such the exaggerator!), I wrote an entry and one hour later the site was down. The post was entitled, ‘My plans for world domination, part one‘.

Waistdog was the first –and only– person to comment that morning. How fitting that he be the only person to respond that day, and that he be the last person with commenting privileges before the hiatin’ commenced. And, last but not least, how ironic what he wrote:

“Luckily, the world will still be there to dominate…..tomorrow.”

It breaks my heart even now to read it.

Boy howdy, do I miss that grand and wonderful fucker.

 
|| August 19, 2004 || 1:09 pm || Comments (5) ||

Let’s play.

Stuart was always going on and on these days about the burnt taste of his peanuts. It drove her nuts. So much so that every time he opened his mouth any more, she passed the time when she was to be listening to him imagining odd and sundry things being stuffed up in there.

That’s the start of a story. Each of you gets three sentences, just like me…only yours go in the comments. First commenter pick up where I left off, second one pick up where first left off and so on and so forth. Thread ends when I slap a finish on the whole shebang.

None of you fuck this up or I will hurt you with a wild and vicious passion. Have fun! Readyyyyy, BREAK!

 
|| August 17, 2004 || 11:58 am || Comments (14) ||

Congesty and Reminiscy.

The combination of the two is killing! me.

I, lying amidst the finest of bedlinens, –my hair spilling out golden across the poofiest of luxuriosly-covered pillows– old letters surrounding me, rattling like a freight train full of mucous and headache, just watched the dumbest fucking movie ever in the history of man and squalled like a bairn for a tit.

No e-mails returned, no posts until I’m up and despising the world again.

pee ess…should I have entitled this ‘Heartaches and Headcolds’?

 
|| August 15, 2004 || 10:13 pm || Comments (8) ||

I don’t know why I craft these entries.

(alternately titled ‘You Fucker’)

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many prayers I’ve floated skyward regarding you. Thing is, they’re not your standard prayers: Not the typical “Take care of this one, if you would,” or “Bring it around again, please, please, pleaaase.”

Nope, none of that. They’re more like, “Just let me forget, let me forget,” and “Help me leave this to the past.” It’s not sane to torture oneself this way.

I was reading something somewhere one time (can you get any more vague than that?) and this young woman about my age was talking about how she was the one to clean out her grandmother’s house and wrap up her legal matters after her grandmother had died. She said she learned more about her grandmother in those couple of weeks than she had known about her for all of the thirty years they shared.

She went through books, papers, letters, photographs. She found a picture of a young man in a Navy uniform over and over when she went through albums and boxes. On the back of each photo was simply a first name: Clyde. There was one photo that he had inscribed,

“I miss you every minute of every day.
“Love, Clyde”

in one corner.

There was a locket with Clyde occupying one frame while the woman’s grandmother sat perched in the other, a sweet smile gracing her lips. There were letters –and oh, my, the letters…the words flung between the two were amazing.

The woman marveled at all these things. Who was this Clyde? Why had her grandmother never, ever mentioned anything of him? Not one thing.

And there was no resolution to be found in all that correspondence. Nothing hinting as to why the demise of this elegant passion occurred. Later on, there was an ersatz journal found. It had snippets of poems, favorite quotes, brief thoughts from its keeper. There was one entry, some two years before grandmother’s death, saying something along the lines of, “Even now, I miss Clyde. I wonder about him often.”

I don’t want to be that person; that’s why I pray for it to be taken from me. Even still, this dance of wills will follow me to my grave; I suspect it will linger around yours, also.

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

The summers when we lived

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp heartbeat to heartbeat, you and I

The dry-fire click of the screen

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp door the surest of punctuation

On the rambling run-on sentence

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp of hazy day after hazy day

You’d say,

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “Okay, forget for five minutes

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp that you’re beautiful.”

And me:

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “How do you forget things

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp you never knew?”

The frogs whispered at the tops

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp of their lungs, drunk with bugs

The rocks would flirt with the water’s surface;

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp they dropped down to kiss it five or three times

~Once even a miraculous seven~

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp before dipping into the wet dark without fail or flail

I’d say,

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “My arm’s tired and I’m satisfied,

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp you ready to head on?”

And you,

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “I’ll carry your sandals if only

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp you’ll hold my hand.”

Fella once told me (drunk as he was and drunker’n I was)

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp ‘the tides in your blood, your heart proves you got in you’

Making me nearly fall over from shock and almost fall out from relief

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp because you can’t doubt words of a drunkard evenifyouknownottotaketheiradvice

And sometimes, even though you know it…well

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp you’d just as soon hear somebody else say it

He said,

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “he already has”

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp but you should know that was after

I’d said,

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “you know, there’s a part of me that says

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp this boy will wreck me like the titanic.”

 
|| August 15, 2004 || 12:23 am || Comments (0) ||

R.I.P.

My condolences to the family of Andy Houghton.

…and blessings to those mothers, fathers, spouses and children who quietly wait –hearts hopeful and hurting all at once– on the homefront for their loved ones to return.

Related:

Fisher House

Gmail For The Troops