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Archive for August, 2004

|| August 14, 2004 || 3:12 pm || Comments (2) ||

Tales of the strange and true.

Okay, holy shit. GRAFTED TO THE COUCH, is what that said! Link stolen from Clayton, to whom I am shitty pal, because his birthday was yesterday and I neglected to do this:

Happy Birthday,

Actual quote overheard in the dollar store just thirty minutes ago:

“Naw, man. We live in Alabama; don’t you know that it’s okay to sleep with your cousin here?”

I didn’t look to see who it was. I was afraid to.

Also, this is creepy. Not so much for the fact that someone would do it, but more for the fact that someone would have it done.

|| August 12, 2004 || 10:07 pm || Comments (3) ||

Sometimes multi-tasking doesn’t pay off.

Say, for instance, you put in some of those nifty little Crest White Strips and you get an urge to eat one-a them there oatmeal cream pies.


*I notice that this is not mentioned here. Should be, damnit.

Dear Paul Simonon,

I’m sorry that you had to be the first (and indeed, the only) to suffer the shame. It has notathing at all to do with you. You couldn’t help it: Look what you were up against.

Yes sir, Pauly-doll, I am indeed apologetic that you carry the stigma of being the first (and again, only) bass player I’ve ever thrown over for a lead singer. In your very real defense, it could not be helped.

He was Joe Fucking Strummer, after all.

Love and Rockets,

Jett “Anybody Seen Joe?” Superior

These two put the 'lash' in The Clash.

So, the other day I was home throwing down a turkey sandwich (whole wheat, fresh spinach, spicy mustard) when the phone rang. Some guy identifies himself, starts firing off questions at me –albeit nicely enough– regarding our cable and some service upgrade he’s supposed to do and “Isthisthebestwaytogettoyourhouse, ma’am?”

This poor fella committed two distinct offenses: He started lobbing questions to me before I could suss out and get a grip on the situation, and that fucker Ma’amed me.

So the long and the short of it is, Maxim ordered an upgrade to our cable –specifically, a DVR box– and neglected to tell me. So there I was, giving this guy (SERIAL KILLER!! SEEEERIAAAALLL KEEEELLERRRRR!) unhealthy doses of my suspicion and the poor dude was just doing his freaking job. aside: Maxim got a spanking for a 411 offense /aside

Let’s hear it, everybody: “AWWWWWW, cable-tech-personman, AWWWWW!”

So the situation was cleared up with a quick call to the spousal unit and a genuine, truly heartfelt apology (albeit telephonic) from Your Gracious Hostess. When I got back home, there was a brand-new, shiny Bouncing Baby Black Box Of Digital Potential. Technology and I, I should remind you, are very passive-aggressive toward one another: It is a truly, truly love-hate, slobbery kinda relationship.

And, like a wonderful gift from the Cosmos, Maxim casually tossed off, “Oh, the first movie I recorded was Rude Boy.” I tore into him, snarling, and took him right there on the rug in plain view of that DVR box. With my Docs still laced.

Okay, not really, the kids were still awake and meandering about the domicile. But I wanted to.

That wonderful hunk of man, he’d christened the box in the best of all possible ways. Rude Boy. RUDE. BOY.

“You seen it before?” he asked, the dear lamb.

My eyeballs made a sound something akin to ‘AhhOOOOOgah’ all cartoony-style and popped four inches out of my head.

“You ever see that Grateful Dead movie ovair on the shelf?”

[ed. note: For those of you that are new around these parts and therefore unaware that we are an anomalic couple in that he is a smelly hippie and I'm a bonaFIDE punk rock girl, the previous was a rhetorical question.]

So I’ve been playing this movie for two days, pausing, rewinding, slo-mo-ing, droo-ooling, and just being generally agape at the screen which lovingly sends glimpses of Joe Strummer out to me. I’m so taken with Joe that I even find the way he sends a fat string of saliva to the stage –without even blinking– while performing endearing. Oh Mr. Mellor, would that all the guys were like you, chipped tooth, shorter than me and all.

Before I was aware of bands like the Sex Pistols and the Buzzcocks and The Slits and the (later but oh-so-yesssss) Dead Kennedys, The Clash came into my field of vision. They set the stage for much musical discovery in my formative years. These guys weren’t particularly outlandish in their mode of dress (they looked for all the world like tired schoolboys who’d shrugged on whatever fell under their hands upon waking) or hairstyle. They looked like anypluggedinbody else standing there strung up in instruments and sound equipment.

Until they started to play, that is. I can even tell you what I was wearing the first time I saw them; bare feet are conducive to electrified, wiggling toes and a blue, floor-length nightgown enhances (rather than inhibits) the throwing about of the body, propelled by sound. Here was music, here was Music, here was MUSIC all trucked-up and set tensely on “GO!” at any given moment, just like me. It quickly found a home beneath my breastbone, wrapped up all cozy around my heart.

I still wore plastic barrettes when I became a fan of punk. I still had a couple (barely-regarded, badly-treated) Barbies lying around. I still called my father ‘Daddy’ and assigned him godlike status.

Joe Strummer and company woke me up. I only wish I’d been afforded the opportunity to see the fellas live and in person while they were still together. What a time we’d've had.

(pee ess….the Pope, he wear Docs.)


I love that fucking girl completely to bits, but…

….if melly ever tells you she is done with fark, tell her you know that she is a fucking liardy-liarpants LIAR.

|| August 9, 2004 || 11:29 pm || Comments (11) ||

HOLY CRAP! Where has the year gone?

Scout says, “WHEEE! I’m in junior high now!”

Mathias says,Cake rolls for snack, momma.”

Sam says, “I worked my butt off at football practice today.”


Jett says, “Oh, my babies!”

All my wee ones are in school now. *misty-eyed* I didn’t cry. Mostly.

All I got to say is: They better get scholarships to college, because they’re growing so quickly that they’re wearing their college funds.

|| August 8, 2004 || 10:23 pm || Comments (3) ||

Travel Log, Stardate Himminy-Hommina

Mister theDane left to go to Romania for two weeks. I talked to him today as he sat in LAX amongst the busy, rude Californians and international travelers that LAX is prone to shuttling through like so much bipedal cattle. Apparently you can get there (Romania, not Ell Ay) via airways and not even have to utilize buses and pack donkeys as I had previously misled myself to believe. The fact that theDane took the long route there the last time and told me all about it did not help factual interpretation at all.

After all, you people must remember that theDane is a sneaky punk and will eat your eyes made of meat.

I think that I successfully talked him into including his family (theDaneMom and theDaneDad, too!) in some vidblogging while there. If not, well, there’s plentya sheep in Romania, yeah? I hear sheepses really ham it on up for the camera.

But that could be just ugly ole unreliable hearsay.

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

image Okay, Darling Superior Muffinasses, the first round of my eBay crrrrrap is up. I used words like ‘cool’ and ‘hella’ in the description titles so as to spark interest and drive up the bidding fervor (I foresee words like ‘wicked’ and ‘bitchin’ to describe the next batch). If you want the link, e-mail me (click on m’name below) or shoot me a line in the comments. Love ya, mean it!

|| August 7, 2004 || 11:39 pm || Comments (2) ||

Superior conversations

Maxim and Jett are having dinner in the living room. Little do their children know that they do evil, heinous things like eat while parked on the sofa when the wee ones are away. There is conversation as Maxim peruses the Lowe’s sale flyer and Jett watches the Weather Channel to see (and we quote) ‘if it’s gonna be hotter’n four hells out there tomorrow.’

MAXIM: Hey, did you know that there’s a toilet out there that will flush like thirty golf balls?

JETT: Maxim, do you honestly know anyone that shits golf balls?

Jett is distracted by a blurb about Portugal.

JETT: Ohhhh, Portugal. I’ma go there some day.

JETT: But first I guess I better learn a little Portuguese.

MAXIM: I know a little Portuguese.

JETT: Yeah?

MAXIM: Yeah. His name is Manuel.

It’s Saturday night and we’re sitting at home eating healthy foods, reading sale papers, watching the weather and having conversations like this. We’re so fucking boring and stupid.

And did I mention how very unsexy all of the above are, especially concurrently?

Quick! Somebody send us pasties, bootleg liquor and a cabana boy.