A Random Image

“Oh, candleinthescentof mediterranean fig, how I love you so!”
Or, “Even more praetorian in Two-Thousand Five!”

Okay, I just had this great epiphany. I was sitting here, doing my damnedest to sort of tabula rasa-fy the inside of my head, when it occurred to me that I’ve had cable for ages upon ages and I’ve not grown to love nor heartily abuse (according to past personal patterns of Yours Ever So Fucking Truly) all of its features. More specifically, the music channel portion of the service.

Not MTV (the acronym which stands solidly for ‘more turdy videos’) and its ilk. I’m talking about those stations above all the pay-per-view and obscure channels (‘Purple Asian Clowns In Finger Cuffs And Other Specific Goofy Fetishy Crap’ Porn-A-Look Channel). You know, they’ve got the combo letters-and-numbers station designation and they just sit there playing music.

Used to be that said channels showed you a blank screen and you got the music floated out to you. That was it: Sound and the illusion of infinite black seated firmly above a convenient title bar. Now they’ve got this setup where they pimp themselves heartily with a big chunk of screen, then surround that with tidbits about the current song and the artist(s) responsible for shit like ‘Living Next Door To Alice’ (by the ever-impressive and shark-bit* Smokie!)

None of the rest of that hoo-ha I just talked about is the epiphany. The epiphany deals with the realization that I’ve never moseyed on up to those channels because they fucking frighten me. I’m scared I might bypass being one of those people who (and thereby marking themselves clearly as ‘Normal and Pretty Dang Well-Adjusted’) just turn those stations on as background jabba and head straight on to being one of those people (persons?) that sit and watch the music facts spin into and out of the digital void for hours on end.

Tonight –as on many occasions in my lurid, checkered, yet rosy and delightful past– I dealt with fear head-on by immersing myself in the object of misplaced neuroses and rolling around for a little while. If I itch when I jump up from the briar patch, all the better, pard.

I scrolled through the many offerings; they weren’t as specialized and varied as the pr0n channels, but beginners can’t especially be choosers, as the ill-strung cliche goes.

Let me just say here that I cannot stand the days when I can’t decide what type of music will sit way up and holler straight into my soul. It is on those days when I feel as if I’ve got cheap polyester stuffing holding up my insides. You know which insides: My waydowninnerr insides.

I couldn’t decide what to listen to while I sat here and jackhammered the keys in pursuit of perfectly balanced consonant-vowel hookups. I was gonna put some cheese into the party with the eighties-dedicated station, but the description of the channel scared me in a mighty way:

Hear doves cry with the best pop songs of the ’80s! Prince, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Cyndi Lauper, George Michael, The Bangles.

I mean, despite the fact that I worked meticulously to learn every nuance of the vocal harmonies with regard to those Banglegirls’ remake of ‘Hazy Shade of Winter’ AND was crushed upon hearing the news that George Michael and his flaming white PopGod teeth were unequivocally homosexual, I do have a line in the sand. Right next to that line is a placard that states firmly,

“Beyond this lies some cool music, but woefully bad hair and clothing fashions will plague you. BE WARNED!”

And then there was that ‘Hear doves cry…’ line. Just had to pass on it, folks.

Besides, the most magnificent cheese lies in the seventies! Come on, a duet between Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks? Priceless, folks! That’s like, I dunno, the equivalent of John Tesh and Courtney Love climbing into a studio together nowadays. Wait. I am brilliant! Somebody arrange that! Hurry, before Love sails past the recent Bozo the Clown look and straight on into an experimental phase loosely entitled ‘wormfood’.

Poor Courtney. Heh. ‘Poor Courtney’: That should be the name of the next icky psuedopunk band to come down the pike.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Nothing quite measures up to ‘Hahhh-owwww can I hold you when you ain’t even mine???’ being pulled directly from the testicles of Maurice Gibb and being set into vinyl forever and always, or at least until it is eaten by some sort of high-fallutin’ chemical reaction. YEAH!

You know, two-thousand four was a difficult year in many ways. I’m glad it’s finally stepped out the back door. Come to think of it, every year that I’ve sported matching (versus coordinating) double-digits has been difficult. Eleven was a big deal. Twenty-two was a big, BIG deal. Thirty-three wiped me out without my conscious knowledge of it (Haha, Karen Carpenter’s ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ has only just begun on the teevee). You know, like crossing your legs and having that whole my-top-leg-just-went-dead-numb-outta-nowhere thing. You just don’t realize until it’s time to get up on that sucker and run to catch the frisbee that you’ll be gimped up for an eensy bit.

Last year I learned that one of my ex-husbands remembers me in two seperate but equal fashions: My Personal Whore and My Little Bookworm. Last year I spoke to my father for the first time in well over three years. Last year I watched in awe as my pretty clever eldest child staunchly refused to banish the newly-arrived Letter Cee from Report Card Kingdom; he chose instead to shift it around all sleight-of-handlike from subject to subject (whee! like a family game!). Last year found me putting a period at the beginning of the whole shebang and closing it with an expectant semicolon. Last year, I got to take one of my children out of her country of birth and into a new land to explore. Last year saw more people than I care to count buried physically and several dug up spiritually through letters and photographs and whispered conversations about could haves, would haves and should haves. Last year I learned that the fervency of my effort counts for the sum total of fuck-all if there is not an earnest love behind it. And compassion cannot be overlooked, even if it is sometimes terribly inconvenient.

I rang in the New Year in grand fashion. I had some good food, some hearty laughs and a couple of really solid, skin-screaming orgasms. Then a couple days later I got to press my luck with a cop.

Here’s me, chugging down the highway, gettin’ on with my get-on, deftly navigating the lovely little Saturncar. I come upon an Officer Ub Dalaw and ride merrily behind him. The speed limit on this four-lane stretch of road clearly reads 65, but he is puttering along at 55. He finally pulls to the right-hand lane and I pull contentedly forward.

OUD drops back behind me, follows me for a ways and then slaps on his lights (bastard!). I pull over, and the following conversation ensues:

OUD: Ms. Superior, do you know why I stopped you?

Friends, I love the shit outta this one. Because if I know the answer to his query, I adore being patronized before discovering his deft skill with a pen and a citation pad. Because if I don’t, I similarly love to be patronized. I also love moonlight walks in the park, fluffy kittens and chocolate-covered raisins.

I peer out from under my ballcap and squint one eye.

JETT: Ummm, no.

OUD: Let me put it to you this way:

He really does say ‘put it to you’ and that brings to mind visions of him tossing me across the hood in exaggeratedly pornographic fashion, HA!

OUD: Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?

JETT: I work for social services,

(flash him ugly badge and stretched-too-far smile)

JETT: I’m always in a big ole hurry.

He talks to me in that kindergarten teacher voice that those in mock-authority use on lesser beings.

OUD: Okay, well, am I slowing you down?

JETT: ??

OUD: You were riding my bumper so closely that I could barely see your headlights in my rear-view mirror.

JETT: Ohhh. Well, see, I was always told that the left-hand lane is for faster traffic. Is that in a manual somewhere, or is it entirely untrue?

The whole time I sent out the ‘Gimme the ticket if you must, but please shove the lecture up your butt and ensure that it stays there by chasing it with your billy club, please sir.’ vibe. Plus, I finished with a terribly bright smile.

He admonished me for being such a dirty-naughty, tailgaiting bad girl and let me off with the warning that they were ‘gonna be cracking down on this sort of thing’ in the near future.

In the midst of all this hilarity, I found my catch-phrase for two-aught-aught-fiver: I’m gonna follow a myriad of statements and observations by others with the comment, “They’re gonna be cracking down on this sort of thing in the near future.”

*Okay, I made up that shark-bit part.

2 worked it out »

  1. Skillzy 1.8.2005

    Yay! You’re back! Happy dance!

    And it takes a special kind of crazy woman to tailgate a MARKED COP CAR. You shoulda gave him a bump, and told him you were just racin hard.

  2. Jettomatika 1.8.2005


    (look, I realize that there are good-natured, well-intentioned coppicemen out there, I just don’t know many; most could be very adequately described with the word ‘cockknocker’)


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