A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || May 9, 2005 || 9:41 pm

“You’re not a human being; you’re a waltz.”

That’s a quote from one of my favorite movies. It is not one of my favorite movies because it has an exceptional story line, but rather because of the following:

1) Andy Garcia (of whom I am not typically a fan) (although sources say he is indeed a fan of yours truly) is so godblessed slick in that movie, so very textured and touchable and as close a thing to real as you will ever see onscreen, that it matters not a whit to movie purists that the plot is goofy and not in that sexy way all the kids like. He overwhelms the “HOLY HELL, WHAT A PERFORMANCE!” buttons; they get stuck on WOO!, or something akin to it. ‘Slicker’n jizz on a whore’s gold tooth’ (see Rob? I told you I’d use it one day…risk-taking is my forte!) about sums it up.

2) There are characters named things like ‘Critical Bill’. CRITICAL BILL, OH YEAH! Critical Bill sounds something not unlike the names of certain characters that, alas, did not spring out of my head, but someone’s actual loins and have peppered my life with some interesting tidbits. Read the archives if you don’t believe me, suckah.

3) Christopher Walken. Any movie containing him, a reference to him or someone speaking his name automatically gets a free pass. Christopher Walken is the cheese and we are the helplessly-drawn mice.

4) The very inspired scene in which, All Chivalried Up And Noone To Duel With At Dawn, Andy’s character walks into a boardroom meeting and begins to rather aggressively re-seat the tie that moments before hung languidly about a certain accountant’s neckmeat. The part I like best about this particular scene is not so much the fact that he strolls into this meeting, greets the accountant with a quick, “Hi there” prior to cinching him up in his own tie and then lectures like a Baptist preacher after the prom while strangling Ye Olde Beancounter with his own off-the-rack couture; it’s the fact that when one or more of the suits shakes off enough flabbergast to dial up security, security drags Andy out but Andy is crablegged to the accountant and fucking him up the entire way. I’ve always been incredibly moved (artistically and otherwise, hubba-hubba) by tenacity. Tenacity coupled with violence? Well, the only thing that could make a fella more perfect in my eyes would be the fact that he owned a winery.

Now that we have that out of our systems, on to more pressing matters. I call this segment of the post “Somethings. Or, some things.” I’m warning you: There will be subheaders. Don’t stub your toes on them, pretties.

(there are reasons for the whole not posting thing)

And there are, indeed. Read on for further details.

Scout: First surgery, minor or otherwise!

Why does this always happen during ball season? These injuries, I mean. She misses half the season, some piece or bit of her below the elbow region wrapped, splinted or sutured, preventing her from being the full-season hindcatcher she so longs to be. To answer any and all inquiries: Yes, she is fine. Yes, it was minor. Yes, we have no more bananas, we have no more bananas todaaaaaaay!

If you barf when I gush, then I’ll stand back and by all means, proceed!

I got this referral while I was away. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it firmly. What makes me look at it and go, “Awwww!”, however, is the links list. I’m seated there among some of my favorite reads, and some very finely-honed literary voices nutjobbers; I am in fabulous company! Any time I follow a link and find myself on the same lists as people I really, really admire from a pencil-pusher’s standpoint, it makes me feel goofy and fuzzy and notatall able to be thankful enough that people see me in the same league as the others listed in the near proximity. I don’t care if you people believe that. I am the dork and I declare it thus!

More proof the state views me as a fit parent

First foster kid is on the scene. One day, we’re a happy family of five, plugging along merrily despite the trials and trevails (I so want to throw in the word ‘trivet’ somewhere here, but even *I* don’t go that far) and soONsoFORTH that life wantonly flings at you. The next, it’s “Here! Have a bouncing bundle of fifteen-year-old!” and you’re off! Her name, for bloggy madness, will henceforward be Piper. Piper Superior….yes, that’s nice. I didn’t want to truly introduce her to you all until we were sure she was a fit. In the interest of confirmation, I humbly submit a tiny exchange:

JETT: While I was doing the trim in your room, I got a little bit of paint on your blue shirt.

PIPER: My favorite blue shirt? The favorite one?

JETT: That’d be about the scope of it.

PIPER: *goggles*

JETT: Hey, I told you to get your stuff out of the way so that I could finish up in there.

PIPER: Sure, blame the victim.

So yeah, ‘fits’ is an understatement. We are now an official six-pack, for three years, 60K miles, or whenever her parents get their act together. Whichever comes first, cats and kittens.

Jack Kerouac and good intentions

During the period that I would like to refer to as The Era Of The Impending Death Rattle (affectionately shortened to Whiner’s Glee, if you so choose), I actually quit smoking. I felt like such shit that I didn’t even think of things like coating a few alveoli with tar. Then, when I actually did kindasortamaybe think about it, I couldn’t find the halfpack of Marbros that were lying about before The Onset of Certain Death, I’m So Very Sure Of It. I kind of shrugged and stopped caring.

It was more difficult for me to quit smoking than it was for me to kick hard drugs, no exaggeration. It was ridiculous, as I was only lighting five sticks or so a day, and that was on heavy days. But quit I did, friend, and as much I miss it, I’ll stay quit.

See, when I was sicksosick, I couldn’t breathe. It was scary as a motherfucker. When I could in fact breathe, my lungs were still so fucked up that they weren’t getting/processing/doling out enough oxygen to my body and I felt constantly short of breath and tired. I felt like I was getting a picture of what, in thirty or forty or fifty years, I might feel like if I kept on smoking and rang in with a case of cancer or emphysema or Godknowswhat.

Hang with me as to how this ties in to not posting. Used to be, as I’d ploink out ideas and turns of phrase on my keyboard, I’d have delusions of granduer, fancying myself Kurt Vonnegut with the obligatory mouth-phallus jouncing up and down as the smoke and chemicals rousting up the cells in my body brought to life amazing words that were possessed of a certain reader-groping magic. Smoking was inexorably woven with the act of writing, which is so pleasurable to me that I could envision myself fully Sybian in nature: Just add keyboard and stir vigorously.

Therefore, blogging kicks up what little jones I do in fact have and turns it into a snarling, ravening beast. Damn the luck.

So I’ve been roughing up the old parchment with a nib of pencil and a hearty ferocity as of late. Back to my roots, as it were, and several good things are coming of it, or so I imagine. But that brings us to our next point.

Woe is me.

Also found was a very nice referral way back (and it’s just showing up now? the fuck? wha?) from thispersonhere. Apparently, she had me linked at one point and I’ve since fallen from grace in her eyes. To her I say, prime your links list for my return, baby. I’m shoring up the content, stripping down walls, punishing the brutes, making a mad mockery of formally-trained ‘writers’ everywhere. They will cry to their mommas and you will re-link me, by all that is holy!

I always said that he could grow no more stupid. Eatin’ them words, pally.

My ex-spouse, the inimitable Biff, met him a woman.

Now then, I’ve been praying –LITERALLY praying– that he be sent someone to date, fool around with, get to paint his toenails, whate’er he does for jollies since my cutthroat departure from his intimate life several years ago.

So he meets this gal, introduces my kids to her after a mere two weeks (bells! whistles! me counseling him on wisdom and the kids’ emotions and how he should utilize one to deal with the other!) and then proposes to her after three.

This once very attentive father (every weekend, once during the week) has dropped level of participation in their lives significantly (one weekend a month, and doing charming things like going to his future stepson’s parent-teacher conference rather than picking Scout and Sam up on their usual Wednesday night). I am not bitter, but I’m a damn sight angry, because that silly motherfucker used to have to be beat off of our family time with a stick. Now he does nothing of quality with these children and can’t even manage to at least phone them in (pitiful) lieu of regular visits. His kids are hurt and confused, and once again I’m the one scraping up the pieces of them in his wake.

Look, he shore were pretty, but I am growing a little too old to be able to use that as an acceptable excuse as to why I procreated with the pinhead.

How about, “He shore were pretty, and the military gave us free obstetrics.” instead?

(actually, it cost us like twenty-four bucks to bring Sam home, and nineteen or thereabouts for Scout. but who’s counting?)

Anyway, to sum it up: My ex-spouse, I divorced him for being a chickenshit bastard….which, coincidentally, is the same reason she’s marrying him. Mazeltov, or sommat!

Here I am to tell you:

That no, just because someone might happen to send a get-well card with fuzzy kitties on it and write syrupy things about friendship and rainbows and ribbons and fluffy bunnies and lollipops, it does not lower his masculinity quotient.

The fact of the matter is, when that card is counter-balanced with the birthday copy of Napoleon Dynamite (we have all been yelling, “TINA! YOU FAT LARD!” for a fabulous month now) that will inspire someone to show said cardperson their breastesses in some as-yet undisclosed lack of future discretion, welllll, son…..I’d say that puts you a nose ahead in the tester-esterone departy-mentaaaay.

“For my sheets, they ain’t a-chaaaaanginnnnn….”

(sung to the tune of you-know-which Bob Dylan joint)

Among other things and wishes, Skillzy sent me a Sex Bomb for the ole birthday. I finally got around to using it four days ago (sampling it for the first time, see), and I was so overwhelmed by the deliciousness of it that all day I kept sticking my forearm in people’s faces saying utterly insipid things like, “SMELL THAT! Doesn’t it make you want to LICK THAT ARM?? Bite it? SOMETHING?? mmmmMMMMMMmmmm.” Plus (bonus!), when I later slipped between the flannel sheets with the ice-skating penguins on them that bore me up immediately after the Bath O’ Magictm, I was drowning in the yumminess all over again. I’m not washing those penguin sheets until I can scrape up another order and effectively scent each successive linen set I stretch across the Queen’s Poofy Box O’ Sleepity Goodness.

Skillz, I’m a sucker for your love. And ylang-ylang. Lick my arm. Smell my sheets. Thank you for olfactory bliss. Your four-thirty plus shipping was wisely invested, sir.

There are big fat kudos. And a glass of milk.

They are all for the carton o’ generosity that one anonymous somebody had Lush send out. Putting in a purple slip of paper signed only, “Happy Birthday, Asshat” was THE BEST EVER, I’ll have you know! I laughed about that one for days; you must be a long-time reader. Please ‘fess up, so that I can put you in line (near the front) for sexual favors should my very-loved current spouse fall into a hole somewhere.

One more excuse before I go:

My cousin Kerri was shot by her psycho ex-husband. I’ve been spending a lot of time corresponding with her, stoking up the coals of self-esteem that I see still timidly pulsing at her core. It is taking a lot out of me emotionally. Pray for her, please, if you’re the praying sort.

Since I was asked…

No, I will not go to the spring formal with you. Or you, or even you.

But thanks, really, for inviting me.

14 worked it out »

  1. RONWAIKIKI 5.10.2005

    Oh my.

  2. Jettomatika 5.10.2005

    See? SEE??

  3. Skillzy 5.10.2005

    Well, then. Welcome back. I knew my threats would work! I am teh BOSS!

    I look forward to licking your arm, and will be happy to keep you supplied with sex bombs in exchange for unlimited licking privileges. Or boobons. Both? HeaVen.

    My phone line is always open if you need to rant about the ex. EXCEPT for the aforementioned Friday evenings at 6. And try to remember that this too shall pass, and some sort of equilibrium will be reached, and it will most likely be some happy medium which is what you wanted anyway.

    Your cousin is in my thoughts and prayers.

    As far as the writing thing, I’d recommend a pipe. A TOBACCO pipe, missy! You can borrow one of mine if ya want, alcohol kills cooties. And nothing says writer like a big hunk of wood clenched between the teeth. I intend to smoke mine heavily as I work on my audio journalism project.

    Finally, that whole jizz on a whore tooth thing? So very true. Trust me. But watch out for rhinestones, they can scratch.

  4. skillzy 5.10.2005

    postus scriptum: you don’t have to actually light the pipe, just wave it around and chomp on it

  5. Jettomatika 5.10.2005

    It just so happens that waving and chomping are two finely-honed skills of mine!


  6. sugarmama 5.10.2005

    I’m glad you quit smoking. That feeling you get when you can’t breathe, well that is what happens to people when their lungs collapse from smoking for 30 or 40 years. But their lungs don’t get better. They get on oxygen and become immobile and then they stop breathing and die, like my uncle. He had a perfectly good everything else, but his lungs quit working.

    I also quit a bad habit. I quit agnosticism. Whee for all!

    Skillzy sent me a CARD for my b’day so he can kiss my booty.

  7. skillzy 5.10.2005

    Well, Sugah, you balked on the whole birthday panties thing, and I didn’t know what to get ya. And since Jett sent me SQUAT for my birthday, next year you get your stuff and hers too.

  8. Jettomatika 5.10.2005

    I call foul! My kid was having surgery, and I was breaking in a whole new kid, for Chrissakes!

    I love you Skillzy. Please stop sucking.

    Also, SM: I missed you very much, too.

    Also, Skillz: I was earnestly thinking about the pipe thing while I was in the bath tonight. I just may do it.

  9. skillzy 5.10.2005

    There was no suckage! Check the rules, I’m entitled to one pity party, and that was a mighty small one. I let you off EASY this time, Dodger!

    Oh, and I love you too.

  10. Howard 5.11.2005

    Um. Wow. Now that’s how to make a comeback. Great read, Miss Jett, from a new fan.

    PS – If I say dumb shit, please blame Skillzy. I find you through him and SM.

  11. Howard 5.11.2005

    Um. Wow. Now that’s how to make a comeback. Great read, Miss Jett, from a new fan.

    PS – If I say dumb shit, please blame Skillzy. I find you through him and SM.

  12. skillzy 5.11.2005

    However, if he says dumb shit TWICE, blame crack, not me.

  13. Jennifer 5.12.2005

    Why DID I stop reading? I have no idea – links get lost along the way, I guess…

    Always was an avid reader, though… you didn’t happen to add an RSS feed yet, did you? :)

  14. Jennifer 5.12.2005

    Woo hoo! You DID. :)


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