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Archive for February, 2005

|| February 27, 2005 || 10:40 pm || Comments (3) ||

De worl’, she ees craysee.

Best post ever (this fad-person is delightful…why have I never caught wind of him/her/them before?) about whacked-out symbols of love by way of tissue experimentation.

“It’s for people who want to give a bit of their body to each other,” says Nikki Stott, a jewellery designer at the Royal College of Art in London.

And here I thought a round, fleshy object in your partner’s mouth on a semi-regular basis was gift aplenty. Silly ole me.

(please note the astounding lack of puns in this post, despite the fact that there is an ample supply with regard to this subject matter and I could’ve mercilessly peppered y’all with all of ‘em)

|| February 27, 2005 || 1:04 am || Comments (4) ||


Now I’m hunched over a typewriter

I guess you call that paintin’ in a cave

And there’s a word I can’t remember

and a feeling I cannot escape

And now my ashtray’s overflowing

I’m still staring at a clean white page

Oh and morning’s at my window

she is sending me to bed again

// Bright Eyes, “Another Travelin’ Song”

I used to be the girl who barked strange-ish things out of nowhere like, “I need comfortable pants! I need my notebook! I need more pot!” At these moments my companions would help me strip to my panties –regardless, it seemed, of locale– while scrambling to find me a scrap of paper and just one more pass of the peace pipe. (“Is this funny? Is this saaaaad?” my brain asks.) Then I’d read my scritchings and scratchings aloud for a brainstorming session, a free-for-all vocal fest, or rabid hissings and catcalls.

Good friends (or at least pretty passable drankin’ buddies) are better than any ole smoky, two-dollar-cover* dive patrons could ever hope to be.

I think about them sometimes, these pitiful-wonderful moments from my past. There’re those times when they make me smile. They can just as easily pull tears. Sometimes they do both and I’m an even bigger mess, let me tell you.

Then I wonder when I stopped being her, or if I have stopped being her, or if I’m allowed to be her always, somehow. That girl, that too-bright spark from somewhere back there.

The more I run laps around it in my brain, the more I can’t shake the thought that your thirties are somehow a reemergence of adolesence in slightly ramped-up form. Like everdamnthing is being reevaluated and resituated: Your heart, your ambitions, your perspective, your value system.

Boys and girls, I can’t be the only one to have had this pesky discovery. Even so, it’s really quite overwhelming.

While it’s amusing and ego-stroking when someone says something like, “That your mom or your big sister?” to Scout, I also get quite alarmed nowadays when I hear it. Nothing major, just a little panicked tic down in my middle and I certainly don’t know what to make of that hooha.

Couple of months ago, there was a program at school. Afterward, one of my children’s friends came up to me in the hallway and hugged me. Just me and her there in the hallway, in the middle of the maddening crowd of proper-and-wonderful parents, walking side-by-side and talking. She asked me a couple of pointed questions about the tattoo on the back of my neck (floppy ponytail day, natch) and I answered them openly.

Out of nowhere, she says to me, “You are the coolest mom.” Eegads. It clumb up on my back and hung there, the beast.

Do I really want to be ‘THE COOL MOM’?? What does THE COOL MOM have to bring to the table but a poor example of female behavior that parents everywhere can hold up in illustration about the evils of







occasional spitting


tree climbing

the number 1,137


too-loud laughter



women with dictionarys

flying monkeys in general

extensive footwear collections

fast driving

the south and all what’s in it

lack of premarital counseling

bass players


poor meal planning


dating a sailor

I mean, am I the mother that the other mothers are sneering at?? Probably. That makes me just a little sad.

But my kids know couth and crass, they know justice and compassion, they know a whole host of other contrasts that I’ve found immensely valuable in my walk thus far. They know because I’ve tried damned hard to teach them.

They know real, for ham and hell, and that counts for an almighty lot.

Mostly, I’m okay with me, but I’m itchy to learn new things. Just like always. Now, though, I seem to have this hyperawareness of the fact that when you learn things about one thing, you let the truths (the misconceptions?) about another thing go. The losing of things, of these priceless intangibles…well, that one gets me every last time. No matter what it was, the losing of something has always chewed my guts.

I claw for change, am desperate fot it, but I hate it. Every last fucking minute of it. Go figure.

*or, ‘fifty cents and brang in two more uhhhhglay wimmin’

The tunes what backed this hoedown:

‘Everything’ – Alanis Morissette

‘Another Travelin Song’ – Bright Eyes

‘Collide’ – Howie Day

‘Gypsy’ – Stevie Nicks

‘Arms Of A Woman’ – Amos Lee

‘You Gotta Be’ – Des’ree

‘Miracle Drug’ – U2

‘Burning In The Sun’ – Blue Merle

‘Beautiful’ – Moby

‘Something’s Got Me’ – Lori Carson

…and damn, did I forget how lovely ‘Telephone Line’ by ELO is.

(The posts take longer with fine music trailing you all over the planet, kids.)

|| February 25, 2005 || 10:41 am || Comments (4) ||


This notice is to inform Jett readers of the immediate seizure of ABUANTG by Hard Times Publishing until further notice. Miz Superior has been counseled on numerous occasions concerning her lack of posts, as well as her inability to respond to e-mails and faxes from her devoted Muffinasses™ in a timely manner. Management had exhausted all available options in dealing with this matter, and was forced to resort to drastic measures.

Please rest assured that once Miz Superior has completed her customer service and etiquette re-education, she will be allowed to return to blogging. In the meantime, we will strive to maintain an acceptable level of lunacy via guest posting and copied and pasted posts from random blogs. We appreciate your patronage and thank you for your patience during this trying time.



|| February 18, 2005 || 12:14 pm || Comments (8) ||

(since I dint post no sappy shit for valiumtimes)

Conversations With Past Loves: A fugue.

“I like to drink from a glass that means business,” I said to him.

“That way, when I get drunk and decide to throw it at your head, it’s surer to connect with its mark.”

|| February 16, 2005 || 11:19 pm || Comments (2) ||


Lois, the mom on Malcolm In The Middle, has the greatest lines:

“You’re gonna do your standard police thing and my son’s gonna die in a hail of bullets!”

Reese got off a good one tonight, too.

“I’m really sorry. And your dad is a tool.”

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

So, I’ve been asked to write my life story for a project. My writing often jumps around willy-nilly and whole paragraphs form long after a handful of prescient sentences have been scried out of my head-sausage. Also, I sometimes use stupid words like ’scried’ in run-on sentences.

Back to this life story thing: The first thing to pop out of my fingers was the following:

‘I’d like to think that if I had known in advance that there would be things like call waiting and baseball strikes looming ahead, I’d have just stayed put in the Floaty Dark Place.’

Sometimes this happens. I write things out that I never really realized I felt. Then I stare in amazement at the words and kind of hiccup.

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

In two-thousand three I posted some of my goofy-ass song lyrics. Shortly thereafter (in two-thousand four) someone, in an orgasmic fit of inspiration, submitted their musical interpretation of those lyrics. I promised a contest if people would throw their renditions my way, and I actually got some entries.

So now, in two-thousand-FIVE, I’m making good on that. Plus, I’m re-opening the call for entries. This is because someone over at Skillzy’s was dang near excited about the notion of recording their own version. To quote last year,

If the rest of you yayhoos lovely folks want to take a stab at ‘My Heart’ (AHHHHAHahaha, I kill me!), I fully invite you to and ask that you send me the results. If I have, say, four or more submissions (including theDane’s), we’ll make a little contest out of it, whereupon the entire Kingdom of Superior will turn out to vote, and the winner by popular opinion and wholesale bribery of yours truly will be eligible for all SORTS of prizey goodness!

Ready, break!

Only, amend that to ‘a little bit of prizey goodness’.

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

And now, a totally unrelated link to an obscure entry on Dictionary.com. I have no idea how I ended up on that page; thank you and good night.

Five minutes of the Grammys and I was feeling a little homicidey.

It is a sad fucking day in music history when a Beatles song is completely carried by the lead singers of Green Day and Aerosmith while everyone else is woefully off-key, stomping all over the tempo and/or flat.

Billie Joe, despite the fact that I despise you and your simpy-ass pseudopunk (three chords and a sneer do not great punk make, my friend!) music*, you did a great, GREAT job on ‘Across The Universe’.

(Ditto for Mister Tyler, but that was a given, as out of all the hundreds of shows I’ve seen, he helps his band put on one of the top three.)

The rest of you sapsuckers? You want to do something charitable for someone, then lip sync, please.

As they closed the goofiness by changing the last line to ‘Something’s gotta (gonna?) change my world’, Maxim summed it up nicely.

“I don’t think it’s gonna be that song.”

*Okay, ‘American Idiot’ is a sweet little piece of songwriting. ‘Bout time.

|| February 13, 2005 || 1:10 am || Comments (0) ||

There is bone wrapped in string

Dangling reminders, drowning remainders

And there are forevers

That I am not privy to

I never knew what to think

Starting with the pink ribbon

And, lollygagging through time,

On up through you grinning yesterday

Pushing against the sheath of understanding

I am a burden more to myself

Detonated at a word, a scent

Left picking shards from my clumsy heart

Afraid the crystal would simply shatter

Before I could even open my mouth to sing

(Measured against now, my pre-you singing

then resembled merely an excited hum.)

More afraid the crystal bits there on the floor

-pretty and dangerous things as they are-

Will cease to glow like fire if the moon

Outside decides to up and hide away

Grief and laughter heel-toe, heel-toe

Always a puzzle two steps past solved

Seeking the okay in whatever form

Chasing deed, word: Kind or not

I stopped and I grew cold

Skin shivering with spilled breath

Cramp on my soul

Willing the recollection of your voice away

A hard thing to do, this, when

That thing echoes through my marrow

And there are forevers

That I am not privy to