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Archive for September, 2004

 
|| September 17, 2004 || 12:36 am || Comments (0) ||

Blamblog & Happy Creature

 
|| September 16, 2004 || 6:10 pm || Comments (3) ||

Of a Leaf

In a time of falling, we had attempted to climb; separate trunks to be sure, yet we both reached the canopy of Twilight’s arbor in time for it’s purple tinted fading light to draw from dark sources and shake us loose, leaves falling from a shuddering tree.

At a truck stop in Kansas, she approached me, her arm brushed the back of my hand so softly I still believe I imagined it, a sensation scryed from a cauldron of loneliness and loss. I was smoking at the edge of a pasture, considering the deep ruts cut into the earth and the historical marker that claimed these were left by thousands upon thousands of Conestoga wagons, persistent in Westward belief. I left only bits of rubber from motorcycle tires, perhaps a drop of oil now and then, all of it waiting to be washed away with the coming of the next rain.

“I’m trying to get home,” she announced.

Her face was a latticework of tears and eyeliner. There was a sweet face beneath it, shaking softly above a skinny neck. Dark circles, sobs, and a manner of dress combined to suggest a narrative well enough for me to know there was little point in asking.

“Look, I can give you what you…”

I turned to face her fully and cut her off. “That isn’t an offer I’m prepared to entertain. How old are you? No. Don’t. It’ll go better if you don’t tell me. Do you have any jeans in your pack? You can’t ride in that skirt.”

“Why?”

“It is too damned short. As soon as a trooper sees your panties from a distance of seven miles away, I’ll get to explain why I’ve got a teenage runaway sitting bitch on my bike. I’m a bit old for them to think we’re high school sweethearts.”

“I’ll tell them you’re a retard who got left back.”

“I’m starting to believe that myself.”

She cleaned up in the restroom and when she returned, we picked out some jeans and a sweatshirt with the Wicked Witch of the West on it. Outside, I gave her my helmet and jacket, kicked over the Norton and told her to hold on and we entered the rippling heat of that Kansas noon. She yelled her story into my ear for hours. I only gleaned a fraction of it. I didn’t matter. I knew in my heart what she had been through. While it might have helped her to elaborate, it would do little to flesh out an understanding that was already ripe.

We crossed the Wyoming border, exhausted and under a full, disapproving Cheyenne moon. Fishing in our pockets, we came up with enough for a room and a pizza. We flopped upon our respectable separate beds and watched a weatherman gesture at a blurry map with a pointer topped by a turkey head. I don’t recall falling asleep.

I woke, feeling her climb into bed with me, sobbing violently, half asleep.

“I’m so cold,” was all I understood her to say.

I pulled her close and held her, rocking her softly. As her breathing eased, I heard her story in detail. I pulled my face away from her, slightly, so she wouldn’t feel my tears. She was me. I wanted to die knowing that she knew what I knew.

“Maybe going home isn’t such a good idea. Maybe we can figure out someplace else for you.”

“He’s gone, now,” she whispered.

She rocked herself back into me and reached back to touch my face.

“No. We’re friends. I’m not here for that.”

“But I owe you.”

“No, hon. Now you owe someone else. Someone you don’t know yet.”

She drifted off, shuddering in her sleep; her leaf still falling. I cried until morning knowing that the wind blew too strongly, she bobbed upon its current. I would never catch her. I could never catch any of them. No one could catch me.

“Try to ride the wind to the tall, soft grass, to the field bisected with the grooves of hope and promise,” I whispered in the tiny ear then kissed. She rolled over.

“Change your mind?” she paused, leaving me suspended. “I’m kidding. And I’ll try, okay?”


V. suspects he shouldn’t be here, but should have stayed on his inglorious black cloud instead. He lives in Virginia and writes travel articles that are primarily internal monologues about his inability to relate to others.

 
|| September 16, 2004 || 1:24 pm || Comments (5) ||

Hello hello!

Jett invited me to guest it up all over her blog’s face while she’s away gallivanting in Europe. If you ever get a chance, you should see her gallivant. It’s breathtaking.

I figured that you, the reader, would pretty much be like, “Who the fuck is this chick already?”

And so, I bring you…

Who The Fuck Is This Chick Already?

–by Kristin

My name is Kristin Tracy (Last Name), and my diary is located here: http://kristintracy.diaryland.com. I don’t blog, in the strict sense of the word (which should be recognized by MS Word, by the way. Hey MS Word guess what? It’s not 1999!). I write journal entries and post pretty much every weekday. I have never used Blogger before, so hopefully I won’t fuck this up royally like the time I was off by 1 question on a test and totally jacked my Scantron form. Sorry about that, Mrs. DeNardo!

I thought up a few questions to ask myself. These questions, I feel, give you a pretty good sense of what a person is REALLY like. But before those all-important questions, a quick stats-style thing:

Birthplace: Corpus Christi, TX

Parents: still married (!)

Childhood through high school: Marine Corps brat, lived all over, president of my elementary school, started dancing when I was 3 years old, was a professional ballet dancer for 5 years (like that was my only job), from 1994-1999, did not go to college due to dancing thing

Most hated place I have lived: Sarasota, FL

Most loved place I have lived: Laguna Hills, CA

Where I live now: Annapolis, MD

How old I am: 28

When I will be 29: May 6th, 2005

Marital status: single

Job: secretary for a large corporation

I think that pretty well covers the basics. On with the questions I asked myself…

What is your favorite sandwich? New York style Reuben (cole slaw instead of sauerkraut)

What is your biggest pet peeve? People who take themselves Too Seriously.

How do you take your iced tea? Completely and totally unsweetened

What color are your fingernails right now? I’m glad I asked that! They are ridiculously long and red. Like so long when I go to hit the “w”, I sometimes hit the “2”.

Do you touchtype? See above.

How much do you hate to take showers? You have no idea. The whole routine sickens me: undress naked dry naked wet naked dripping naked towel off naked dry naked bathrobe naked clothes. It’s so goddamn irritating. It makes me irate! It calls up my ire like nothing else. Is “irritating” derived from “ire”? Is there an etymologist in the house? My point being: I don’t shower absolutely every day. Sometimes I’ll take a pass, but I promise I don’t stink.

Did you get totally naked in the basement this morning, for the second time in two days, because you were too lazy to bring your laundry upstairs on Tuesday night? Yes.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I’m pretty happy with who I am, but I guess I’d really like to get that whole laziness thing squared away.

What steps do you plan to take to make that change? Dude. I just told you. I’m fucking lazy. The answer is obvious: nothing.

I think that went pretty well. See, those are great questions because everyone loves to talk about food and everyone loves to bitch about stupid shit.

Now that you know a weensy bit about me, rest assured that I shall return and post here again. More stupid shit to come! All together now! woo.

Sincerely like always,

Kristin

 
|| September 16, 2004 || 10:53 am || Comments (3) ||

It is with much honor I arrive here with. It is quite exciting to be given the opportunity to keep Miz Jett’s site all fresh and purty while she’s off doing noble and honorable things.

I hope I don’t fuck it up.

Well, even if I did, Miz Jett would surely forgive me and at the very least laugh that laugh at me that she laughs when I do dumb shit things.

I have a bit of problem in that I schedule a meeting @ 1:30 and I’m very short on time to do this. The meeting is to photoshoot fruit baskets for a client that is legally deaf, but lip reads and speaks intelligbly, and I only tell you that because I think you would find it as humorous as I do that everytime I meet with this woman, even though I know she can read my lips, I find myself s h o u t i n g at her by the end of the meeting.

That being said, I’ll leave you with a little something I just posted at my own web site because I’m certain Miz Jett would laugh her muffinass off reading it when it when she gets back…

A friend that is a local web person, too, asked me to proof some new text he had written about our town’s history, to be put on a web site. He asked me to do that because he knows I’m into the history of this town, and know quite a bit more about it than the average citizen. I read it through, everything seemed right, dates seemed to be correct. No problems – except for that one thing that I know everybody always seems to leave out when they write these things….

Way back when this town was setting itself up it was the last watering hole off a main road before getting to the warehouses and docks in the next town. Most of the people coming “down off the hill” had been traveling a long hard day or more, and they would lay over here before heading down to the next town with to pick up or deliver their wares. Emphasis on the words ‘lay over’.

The truth of the matter is, the way it was explained to me, the is a tiny side street just off the main drag presented itself with some of the finest brothels this side of Buffalo back in the day. Most of the houses are still standing, as is the house with the spring loaded second floor parlor (for dancing) out the main road a piece. Turns out, this town wouldn’t have had any of the historic, opulent buildings it has now if it were not for those brothels bringing money in.

I don’t understand why they never publish that little historic tidbit when they do these things. *shrug* One of these days… (right before I leave, I think) I’m going to write a book about the true founding mothers of this town. LOL

PS: Yes Darlin, I managed to fuck it up the first go round.

 
|| September 15, 2004 || 12:53 pm || Comments (1) ||

Speshull rekwest

Hello, all you Jett-worshippers. I figure, Jett is just the kind of person who has the type of friends who can help me with a special request. And I know that in the time of dire need, Jett, with her heart of gold, would reach out to help those who are direly needy.

 

You see, my power is going out probably tonight or tomorrow, and that leaves me with a bad situation. Without power, I will have no Jerry Springer or Maury Povitch. No stereo and bass speakers to play my music. No Playstation2 or X-Box. No internet porno. If you get my drift, I will be VERY BORED. And thus, I need some crackrock and a crackpipe.

 

I’ve never asked for donations before on my blog, so I’m using Jett’s blog to keep from tainting my blog’s no-bleg policy.

 

So, gimme a crackpipe.

 

And some crackrock.

 

Thank you in advance for your generosity!

 

Sincerely, and may the Good Lord Jesus be with you in your time of need,

 

sugarmama

 
|| September 15, 2004 || 12:55 am || Comments (3) ||

this map has coffee stains on it

Hello, my name is gjoe. It’s a pleasure to type to you tonight, thank you for coming.

I was going to crank out a story, so typical of the stuff I’ve been writing for the last couple months, where I would bemoan how life sucks and how happy I will be when this stage of my life passes. But that wouldn’t be fair now, would it? I mean, how is the casual reader supossed to just pick up in the middle of a story that has been slumping along for this long?

So then I decided to crank out a flashback story, like the sitcoms do when the writers go on strike. You know, they show clips of old episodes loosely strung together around some thin plot line. But that’s no way to treat a guest-posting invitation, is it? Of course not.

So then, gentle reader, a retrospective. How does a 25-year-old guy end up waiting tables while he lives in his parents’ guest room? How does he end up with 7 years of college under his belt with no degreee to show for it? How does that guy have rolled up 25 jobs since he started working at the age 14? How is it that doing his taxes requires a Texas Instruments Graphing Calculator?

Hard to say, really. I’m not sure I totally remember anymore.

Rememeber when you were a little boy or girl? People… adults… they have only two questions for less-than-high-school age kids. (1) How is school? (2) What do you want to be when you grow up?

School, of course, is always a drag. Find me a 10 year old who says he loves school and I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.

The second question is a loaded question. All that pressure! I mean, what’s a kid supossed to say? I remember giving some adult-perspective correct answer like a teacher or astronaut or whatnot. But of course, it was all a lie. By age 10, I had given up the dream of being a professional baseball player. Found out I would never make it as an artist working in the crayola-watercolor-paint medium. Tried playing piano, no luck there either. *sigh* Only 10 years old, all the cool jobs were already off the table.

I remember thinking it would be cool to be a taxi driver. All the neat people you’d meet! Or maybe an over-the-road truck driver. All the neat places you’d go! But one trip to Showbiz pizza taught me that no matter how many gold tokens I pumped into the Grand Prix Racing game, I couldn’t get my car very far without running into a wall or going off the road. A career in transportation didn’t seem promising.

I wondered if there was a job I could get where I’d sit at home and play The Legend of Zelda all day long. Like maybe I could get sponsored by Nintendo and people would watch me find heart containers by placing bombs on the smooth-sided rocks. Prospects of sponsorship or professional gaming proved to be quite slim.

One thing was for sure: whatever I did in life had to be interesting. I wouldn’t stand for a dull life. A cool job was a definate must.

I never did figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. Had a pretty good idea for a while, plans to be a restauranteur. Lots of plans, actually. Research, cost projections, some equipment purchases. A business plan. Some guy who offered me several thousands of dollars (he would, several glasses of whiskey later, recant on his offer and threaten to kill me like he killed the gooks is ‘Nam because once you have tasted the blood of a slaughtered man you want more chances to kill those commie bastards and f**k ‘em all! I then cut him off, suggested he pay his bar tab and go home before the policemen put him up in a room for the night).

But, like so many of life’s dreams, they come and go with the fleeting abandon of a 10-year-old’s fanciful whims. So here I am. Twenty-Five years old, in my last (again) semester of college. On the cusp of new beginnings, at the foot of a mountain I’ve never climbed before. Winds of change are a dangerous mistress, because they make you choose the devil you don’t know after you’ve given up on the devil you know. I’m sure life will get better one day, I’m certain that life won’t always look this particular tone of brown. Lord help us, I pray it will one day look a different shade of brown. Or perhaps green, yellow or orange.

Well, gentle reader, I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I’m starting to learn that most people at 10 or 25 don’t really know what they want to be either. Some of the most interesting 75 year olds I’ve ever met still don’t know what they want to be if they ever grow up, either. I guess life doesn’t always demand such an exact answer, something will come along that will fit for a while and suffice for a phase in life.

But man, it won’t come any time too soon.

 
|| September 14, 2004 || 8:47 pm || Comments (3) ||

Wow, I’ve never posted on a cool blog before. I have to get used to this new Blogger, I left right before they fixed everything. But I digress, on to business:

If you’re supposed to be an admin, but didn’t get set up because you were a lazy slacker (I mean heck, Jett gave you like FOUR hours to get signed up before she poofed), let me know and I’ll try to set you up. We need some more because right now it’s me, Sugarmama, and The Dane, and there’s a real good chance me and Sugah will be without power for a while when Ivan blows through. If you want to be a guest poster and didn’t get invited, let us know in the comments and we’ll try to get you in. Just realize that your posts had better be damn funny and somewhat confusing, in the proud tradition of ABUANTG. We have a rep to uphold here.

Finally, Jett has encouraged all the guest posters to remind us about your own sites so that everyone can go check them out. Of course, I’d never do something that crass and selfish myself.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot – fuckity fuck fuckin fucktastic fuckers! Have fun evvabody!