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Archive for September, 2004

 
|| September 14, 2004 || 1:36 am || Comments (2) ||

See you in Amsterdam!

In roughly twenty-four hours from now I’ll have a layover there. I’ll be the one singing ‘Hash Pipe’ and giving you just one more fucking reason to hate Americans.

Okay, not really. But I will hum it loudly and invite you to join in. Come meet me and buy me an opiate-laced latte!

UPDATE: To alla you guest-posty people, self-pimpage somewhere within (or at the end of, what do I care?) your entry is acceptable and even recommended! Bye now, for real!

 
|| September 12, 2004 || 7:27 pm || Comments (7) ||

“Lunatic fringe, I know you’re out there.”

Okay, here’s your shot at fame, fortune and all the Muffinass Lovetm you could kill yourself on! There might be beer and sausages, too; I’ve not decided that one yet.

As most of you that read for comprehension know, I will be leaving for Parts Formerly Unspoiled By Superior on Tuesday afternoon. I’ma do something entirely unprecedented here at [Abuantg.]: I’m opening my blog to guest posters that I’ve not personally groomed to do my bidding via my mind-controlling boobies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m asking a few of the locals (a couple I know really well, some I know not-so-much but really dig) to post in my absence. However, I’ll be accepting e-mails full of wheedling, cajoling, and bribery –begging is not altogether dismissed from the fracas if it’s real, real good– from the whole mess of you explaining why you’d like to craft entries in my stead. You catch my fancy (and sometimes doing such a thing isn’t all so complicated as one might imagine) and I send you an invite along with a date you’ll be responsible for; it really is that simple.

So get to e-mailing, because I’ma send out invites in the next twenty-four hours. Posse up! RIIIIDE!

 
|| September 11, 2004 || 2:40 am || Comments (1) ||

Forget? Cannot. Will not.

one / two / three

 
|| September 9, 2004 || 10:25 pm || Comments (5) ||

It’s not panhandling, it’s CAPITALISM!

Now, I realize that I’m shooting myself in the foot by waiting until now to do this (like the White Rabbit…”No time! No tiiiime!”) as Fridays are a lag day to post, but, but, but…TUESDAY! We leave out on TUESDAY for the Scotland trip; our expenses and a good chunk of materials/supplies got funded, and I’m very, very thankful for that.

Frankly, I’d like to have some pocket change of my own. In order to buy a plateful of haggis or whatever other meager little pleasure (a Scottish fella on a motorbike?) catches my fancy.

So, without further delay, I’d like to offer up some photos of a few pieces from the most recent batch of cigar box purse designs at a Super! Discounted! Rate!

This one’s scattered with Catholic medals ‘held in place’ by carpet tacks; the tag in the center cheekily says ‘(covered)’. Iridescent bead handle and burgundy chain tassel.

Collagey feel with authentic vintage bottlecaps (the ‘chaser’ one is my very own favorite out of all of them). Honestly, it was the first time I’ve made this kind of handle and boyyyy, was it a bitch threading the wire through the cord. But it turned out surprisingly cute and next time it’ll be no sweat and much, much faster going.

I love the holy hell outta this design. Little worry people scattered across a Caribbean-feel handpainted background and a suede-and-canvas strap. Sometimes things come out even better than what I see in my head. Imagine that.

Every gal needs a fancy-dress purse. This one fits the bill with black dupioni silk background, oodles of sparkly rhinestones and faux-pearl and lampwork bead handle (two of the beads are nestled in the sweet little fur fluffs at each end of the purse handle).

Okay, this photo is a little washed out. For closer representation of actual colors, please see the photo below. The vintage feel to this purse is achieved by the old-ass trim and buttons I found lurking quietly (plotting evil things like the return of the leisure suit) in one of my aunts’ closets. The flowers are these nifty three-dimensional things, and if you bribe me hard enough, a matching scarf pin (oh hell, wear it wherever you want it if you don’t wear scarves, I could give a damn) could be had. Yesss, it could!

Each purse comes fully lined in fabric that coordinates to the design’s theme or color scheme, depending on how much tequila I’d consumed while making it (or how quickly I wanted to be shed of the project so I could go play We Are Adults Having Adult Fun with Maxim) and I’ve Scotchguarded the shit out of every last millimeter of textile visible to the naked eye.

Original hardware is kept where practical, but if not sturdy or mean-looking enough, I replace hinges and clasps and the like. Some purses have feet (but don’t come with jogging shoes), but due to the nature of certain clasps, putting this detail on every one is unnecessary.

‘Plain’ boxes are also available, as the pieces are just beautiful sans embellishment. Same handcrafted handles and linings apply. If any of you want prices, want to see detail pictures or want to see other designs/creations, drop me a line and let me know. Only serious inquiries, please, as I am pressed for time right now what with trying to tie up loose ends on my cases before leaving, with trip preparations and with other trifling mundanities none of you people want to hear (trust me on this one).

And now, for the artful close to the pitch:

Please buy my artsy-fartsy crrrrap!

You need Christmas presents. Or the overblown sense of self-importance created by the notion of supporting a drunken artist. I need jingly pockets. My kids need something tacky and plaid brought back from Scotland as a souvenir. Thank you and goodnight.

“I’m trying to spell what only the wind can explain.”
or, “Hi there, Franny.”

Certain things do it to me, put me in this exact sort of mood, make me soft and sweetly awakened, plump my lips. The song ‘Colorblind’ by the Counting Crows is one. A rainy day is another.

I arise in the dark of this morning to the sounds of rain, and it colors the beginning of my day: I am warm, well, happy to be alive. I drive the children to school, the announcement of which pulls a hands-clasped Superior Dance of Glee from the legs of Scout and Mathias while Sam –immersed in preteen cool– smiles embarrassedly. Scout and Mathias (in true elitist fashion) despise the schoolbus, so they hold a fervent hope in their hearts for days such as these that preclude them waiting at the stop. Sam likes the jouncing, loud communal spirit of the daily ride: Anarchy on wheels, replete with the dried-up snaggletoothed driver of early schoolbus lore.

Today is a rarity; Maxim and I are afforded the hardly-ever opportunity to ride together to work. I am driving his car today while mine is in for minor repairs

(Dear Rotors,

Thank you veryfucking much for flopping over and making like dead this week. Would it have killed you to have waited until my return from Scotland??
How I hated writing that check. Bastards.

Love, Jett)

, necessitating my dropping him off. Only, I’m not really dropping him off, as he is driving. It’s more like he’s dropping himself off and I’m high-fiving him on his way outta the car.

The weather couldn’t be more perfect. Rainy days have a narcotic effect on me. More specifically, it’s like an advertising slogan in favor of endorphins: “All the high, none of the felonious charges and grody repercussions.”

[aside: When seeing Jimmy Chamberlin at the now-defunct (but ever-fabulous in my heart!) 5 Points South Music Hall, I was all, "Oh holy shit, would you look at the size of his guns?" Maxim nodded sagely and said, "Endorphins". Jimmy had been clean a couple-handful of months by then. My God, though, his arms were nothing shy of huge. /aside]

I pull into the gas station, David Gray’s ‘Flesh’ locked and loaded. I love that his laughing-in-a-deliciously-natural-manner visage is emblazoned across the disc. Track four, oh my-my-my lord. The first time we heard this album, well…

MAXIM: He sounds very Irish on this one.

JETT: And very, ah…angry.

MAXIM: Well, don’t the two go hand-in-hand?

My response was to smile and think of my great-gran and his wife, whose namesake I am. He was Irish, she was angry. They sired nine children and every one of them lived to a ripe old age. I guess Irish and angry make good stock. And maybe a revolutionary fighter or two.

(…and you are not allowed to quote me on that last bit, friends. My family forced me to sign a confidentiality agreement, despite all my best anti-establishment objections.}

So, track four, and the gas station is so empty that it just kind of feels like a big ole carport with gas pumps conveniently jutting from the pavement at accidental, strategically-placed angles. I turn up the volume just a bit and step out of the car, unscrew the gas cap, press some buttons and begin fueling. As I stare (mildly askeert) at the stupidly generous amount of cards they honor, I grow uncomfortable with a sense of helpless foreboding. I do this sometimes, and many times I thoroughly ponder the object of my discomfort. You know, let my brain run laps around it so as to make the fear drown in the sweat of my synapses.

But today is no day for that. It is raining, I am feeling small: The lone –save for a Co-Cola truck and its uniformed soda shuffler– carport-dweller playing at being a grownup. My stance is solid in my boots, my hands steady. I look off into the easy gray of the skies, far, far off and think of how one day my stance may not be so sure, my hands markedly less so. I think on these things as the wind pulls yet another curl loose from my piled-up hair; rainy days make my locks desperately try to escape the conformity of a straight, sleek line. I’ve learned to just let the weather do what it will to my coif and not sweat it very much atall. I got a hairbrush, after all, and it’ll always have its time somewhere down the way.

This affable school of thought was helped along by an instance with a lover some years back. We were in the midst of a tumble, the humidity we created wreaking havoc on any hope of a smoothly sexy look from the crown up. At one point I made my way to the top, and he mock-exclaimed, “Help! I’m being attacked by a lioness!”

Two things make my eyes the most startling, amazing shade of blue you’ve ever seen: Rainy days and tears. Fortunately for the world, the two have not coincided thus far. It just might happen that children and passers-by would drop dead, preachers would gibber at the sight, clocks would run backward were they both to occur on the same day. I can tell by the look on your face that you think I exaggerate. You err, sir.

It is a good day for my eyes, and as I aim them toward the horizon, a voice calls over to me, saying one word. I’ve left the car door open, pulled up the volume just a notch or two so that I can hear the exquisite things delivered to my soul via my ears.

And, you know, mouth along.

So one word, and my head whips to corner him, because he’s named the album and Co-Cola drinkers might not be so bad after all. Although, he may indeed merely deal the product and not sample off of it. I don’t ask; I don’t think to. I am this shocked that he knows the album, and –on an entirely different level– it sure is something to hear a complete stranger under an otherwise-empty awning say something so simple and powerful as the word flesh to you.

“Flesh.” How magic.

Even moreso, how spectacular that I am privileged to be part of said hoodoo.

The day swims on, and I am blessed with no traffic mishaps, with spicy vegetables (the Irritable Chinese Guy was pleasant to me today. Pleasant! Doesn’t he know I have a readership to entertain with his surly dog-and-pony show? The nerve!), with sweet faces, with kind e-mails.

There is an origami elephant a friend of Sam’s crafted from a dollar bill and presented to me.

There is laughing and collectively working at the dining room table and chili and kissing damp, freshly-showered noggins on my way out the door to work.

This one case entails a lot of driving, so there is much conversation between us. But tonight, on the way home, she is different. She starts speaking her heart to me; her beautiful heart with all its misgivings and desires and everything wrapping them together trickles out, coating the words like some rich and powerful and inescapable indulgence. She is earnest, but even more poignant than the earnestness is the sense of hope that it is sprinkled across it. I listen, and despite my vow of a couple weeks/months/whatevers ago I am buoyed up on a sea screaming things like PROGRESS! and BREAKTHROUGH! and HAY-ULL YEAH! out at the circling birds and whomever else will listen to the shouts of the waves.

And then she says something to me so perfect, so suitable, so fitting an end to the wonderful day I’ve been given with the wind and the rain and the quiet soul:

“I just wanna be half-ass normal.”

There are worse wants.

 
|| September 7, 2004 || 12:20 am || Comments (18) ||

Oh bloody hell.

It is twelve-twenty-two ay emm on Tuesday (IhateTuesdays) morning and I have a raging case of the hiccups.*

This is, as you might well imagine, aggravating the shit out of me. Most especially since I wanted to be in bed by ten, ten-thirtyish tonight.

What causes hiccups? Is it a deep-seated nervous condition? Is it retribution from the Gods because you slipped up and forgot to sacrifice a pig somewhere down the line? Is it a lack of something rudimentary in your diet, like potassium?+

Were potassium indeed the culprit, I could just jingle up our pal BLAMB! (isn’t it so fun to do that with his name? everybody, c’mon; do it with me….BLAMB! BLAMBBBB! rolls out of the diaphragm and off of the tongue so very nicely) and order up one of his specialty nanner sammiches.

Hold the mayo, please, BLAMB!. I’m not that kind of girl.

I’m too fucking punchy to be writing my own name tonight, much less an inane, rambly blog entry. Sumbitching hiccups.

Everybody! Go down to the comments and yell the first thing that comes to your mind!! And use many, many ex!clam!ation! points!!! This is a participation entry; participate, damnit!

pee essworship the flying cow. that is all.

*Or, for all you raging traditionalists out there, the hiccoughs.

+Because potassium imbalance surely must be the root of all dietary evil.

 
|| September 5, 2004 || 1:27 pm || Comments (8) ||

For To Whack Him About The Head

It’s been hella, hella ages since I posted any fan mail for your amusement and delight (because we all know that if it amuses and delights me, it must CERTAINLY amuse and delight you, yes?). In the fine tradition of My Jacky and Gary T. and the Now World-Famoustm Anonymous Fan-Mailer, a fella by the name of Cute Rick has strolled up outta the digital darkness and opened up a discourse.

God helps the brave souls. Or watches out for fools and little children.

On with the mail!

From : Cute Rick

Sent : Saturday, August 28, 2004 2:33 PM

To : amazingjettgrrrl@hotmail.com

Subject : Your website is awesome

…but I am sure you have heard it all before.

Of course this somewhat smarmy opening merited a reply.

From: amazingjettgrrrl@hotmail.com

To: Cute Rick

Sent: Wednesday, September 01, 2004 5:19 PM

Subject: RE: Your website is awesome

DEAR CUTE RICK!

I should be laughing like hell at your nick. Instead, I find it strangely endearing. Way to go!

Thank you for your e-mail. If you would like me to send you a list of things that I HAVEN’T heard before, I could certainly arrange that.

Now tell me, dearest CUTE RICK, a little something about you. Preferably things I can use against you in the event that you betray me somehow.

Love and Rockets,

Jett

pee ess…..thanks for readin’!

Simple enough, right? Well, here’s where it all grows fuzzy and an eensy bit complicated; it seems Cute Rick is out farming the internet for marriage-worthy material.

From : Cute Rick

Sent : Thursday, September 2, 2004 5:22 PM

To : amazingjettgrrrl@hotmail.com

Subject : Re: Your website is awesome

I would never betray you – I hardly even know you.

Hey, you sound perfect for my brother – will you please marry him? He lives
in Savannah, GA and rubs people’s backs for a living (he should be stroking
their egos – you can get a lot farther in life that way). Please forgive my
over-use of hyphenation.

Cute Rick

No better place to look, right? But (my own happy marriage notwithstanding) I needed clarification before I could commit to anything long-term. Witness:

From: amazingjettgrrrl@hotmail.com

To: Cute Rick

Sent: Friday, September 03, 2004 11:56 PM

Subject: Re: Your website is awesome

CR,

Think nothing of it. I heartily abuse commas.

~Jett

pee ess…perfect, as in how? Like, perfect as in ‘I think you could whip that loser into shape’ or perfect as in ‘You would fully cause him to question his manhood, therefore placing his overblown ego in check’ or perfect as in ‘He likes him some feisty woman, heh-heh’? Specificity is a wonderful thing in certain instances.

This being one of them. Bang on!

Rick was fairly quick with an answer.

From : Cute Rick

Sent : Saturday, September 4, 2004 3:12 PM

To : amazingjettgrrrl@hotmail.com

Subject : Re: Your website is awesome

Perfect, as in, he is a whiny-ass with no balls and a perpetual look on his
face as if someone has smeared shit underneath his nose and you can smack
him upside the head and say, “Get over yourself.”. But what is in it for
you??? Hmmmm. I will have to think about that one and get back to you.

Rick

To Rick I say, “I’m waiting here with bated breath. A la Maggie Gyllenhall in Secretary, I will not leave my chair nor remove my hands from mine keyboard until I hear back from you. Even if it is a holiday weekend. Even if I do get a cramp in some previously-uncramped region of my body. Even, Cute Rick, if I have to pee all over my fairly-pricey wedding gown in my oh-so-perfect office chair.

To all you whiny-ass fellas out there with no balls and perpetual looks on your
faces of someone having smeared shit underneath your noses I say, “Rest easy. You have brothers on the lookout for a good woman for you. And byGod, they knows one when they sees one.”