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Archive for July, 2005

 
|| July 29, 2005 || 11:25 pm || Comments (9) ||

I have been tagged…

…and since I love music better’n near anything, as well as feeling deep, deep chagrin at the lack of recent content (carving out time to write when your life is careening wildly about is a difficult thing), I will bite, Oh Mistress O’ Meme.

The instructions are to list ten songs that you are currently digging … it doesn’t matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they’re no good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying right now. Post these instructions, the artists, and the ten songs in your blog. Then tag five other people to see what they’re listening to.

You people know me; I’m a wordy bastard and will give you a brief background, as well. Buckle up, here we go.

1) A******s (full-length version) by the Damnwells

I have no idea why the fellas felt the need to asterisk out the word ‘Assholes’, especially since I find so much joy in shout-singing, “EVERYBODY GREW UP AND TURNED INTO ASSHOLES!!” This is a very satisfying song as of late.

2) 1989 by Clem Snide

If you do not know Clem Snide, you are robbing yourself of clever, funny, melancholy sweetness. When I’m all stressed up with no one to choke, I listen to these boys. They relieve my stress, evoke sentimentality and set my brain to rights again.

3) 99 Problems by Jay-Z

Because I do have ninety-nine problems, and most of the time a bitch ain’t one. I despise most current rappers and their tired-ass music. Jay-Z is talented AND smart and hard not to admire. When I’m feeling very ‘fuck you’ toward the world (which happens to be a lot lately) I slide this into the Magic Stealth Vehicle’s player and rough up my ear drums. It’s just great fun to sing along to, as well.

4) Back In Black by AC/DC

My eldest son has recently discovered the magic of these boys from downundah. Firstly, Angus’ kneebritches slay him. Secondly, like most pubescent males, he immediately latched onto guitar-heavy, testosterone-drenched music when he Officially Turned Teenager. I am overjoyed, because I sort of get to live my youth again vicariously (oh, the wonders of discovering ‘baaaaad’ musicks!) and my son and I have just one more connection.

5) Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me by Elton John

I love some Elton John, fellas, and I am unashamed in the face of my gushiness over his crooning; the first one of you fools to make fun of that is the first one of you to earn a beatdown. Elton emotes like no other gay popstar diva. He emotes, damn you!

6) I Still Do by The Cranberries

Recently I was slapping yet another coat of delightfully-hued paint on one of the Muffinass Mansion’s interior walls. I had pulled out each and every Cranberries disc I own (which is to say, all of them) as accompaniment. Piper poked her head out of her room to ask, “Who’s this?” She really liked them. It appears am doing my job as a parent and musical mentor well.

7) Polaris by Jimmy Eat World

I’ve been a fan of Jimmy Eat World since waaay back at the beginning, before anyone thought to say, “Cheer up, little emo kid.” Scout loves them, as well, and one or t’other of their ceedees is borrowed out of my collection with a frequency. Even though ‘Kill’ is my favorite track off their last album, ‘Polaris’ really speaks to a certain situation in my life; therefore, it eats me the fuck up.

8) Skateland South by Cory Branan

Someone clued me into Branan recently and come to find out, I loosely know this kid. ‘Skateland South’ is a song about the skate rink in my hometown, and it makes me laugh like ass to know that a (good) song has been written about the place where I met and was subsequently felt up by my gypsy boyfriend Tommy Gorman, where over half of the high school dances I attended were held and where I spent so many pre-driver’s license Friday nights in general.

9) Break Away by Kelly Clarkson (Mathias’ rendition)

So, Mathias has been going to Arts Camp. It was his first year, and he was pretty keyed-up about it. For the last two weeks in one of the music classes, each age group has been learning accompanying sign language for a contemporary song. Much as I despise the American Idol nonsense and the crock of shit ‘careers’ that it churns out, I have grown to love this song recently. Hearing my six-year-old sing the lyrics “I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly / I’ll do what it takes till I touch the sky / And I’ll make a wish, take a chance / Make a change, and break away.” all het up and impassioned-like rips at my momma-heart.

10) I Should’ve Known by The Pierces

Hot damn, I love, Love, LOVE these girls. They have these gorgeous, throaty voices and they employ heavily-layered harmony masterfully. ‘I Should’ve Known’…sigh. I miss you like hell, rj.

So, alright; TAG! YOU’RE IIIIIT!

+ Skillzy

+ Juan

+ Marc

+ Sugarmama

+ BLAMB!

 
|| July 25, 2005 || 12:39 am || Comments (5) ||

You know what, interwebnet?

I’m perfectly sick of hearing people who have perfectly lovely homes, cars, families and lives in general bitch and moan about their ’state of things’ and how tedious or horrible or unfortunate they are.

Look, everyone has an off day now and again; I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about people who have no earthly right to complain, yet still do over and over and over and fucking over until I want to twine both hands in my (silky, shiny, bouncy) hair and scream,

“Shut UP, you big fucking petulant complaining-ass moron! SHUT! UP!”

Why oh why do people not get tired of living like that? And why do others consistently encourage their asinine behavior by cheering it on? It’s not called support, dearhumanrace, it’s called enabling. Make it stop.

(this vague rant brought to you by the letter cee and the number twenty-eight.)

(real, actual content pretty soon. things have been nutso in my life for a magical thirteen days or so)

 
|| July 14, 2005 || 8:30 pm || Comments (0) ||

General Orders A Humble Request

Alright, folks.

Most of you who’ve been around here for a bit know that I’ve got my pet causes and such, but I don’t march them out in front of you much, beyond the links list and the once-a-year thing I do with the Blogathon (I am one of the one-oh-one original bloggers that got laughed at, thankyouverymuch!).

But you know, I really am sexually attracted to like and respect and am rooting for this lady right here very much. If you’re not familiar with Moody, she is compassionate and hard and sassy and very tender. She’s everything a good woman should be and then some.

A few weeks ago she, with much angst and hand-wringing and chagrin and whatever, posted a link to Light the Night and requested sponsor donations toward the local cancer walk planned for September. In a grody, ironic, suckass sort of twist, it was not long after that when she found that her sister has cancer.

Frankly, worrying for her sister (among other things) is starting to grind on her.

SO, since –for various and sundry reasonages– I’m unable to do the Blogathon this year, I’d like to propose that my regular readers-slash-sponsors take your little hot selves with your massive fistfuls of cash on over to Moody’s site.

She has about a hunnert-fifty dollars in the kitty thus far. Last time I blogged for charity (Blogathon ‘03, before the ‘thon took a year’s hiatus), you people got me up around the seven-fifty, eight-hundred mark. I sure would be appreciative if you guys would raise the numbers over there. I don’t think a thousand dollars is a whole lot to ask.

The quicker you fill the bucket, the quicker I stop stumping for her. Easy math, you cuties.

There’s no shame in puking at the end of a race if you ran your guts out.

You know, certain days are akin to walking around, hammer in hand, smashing yourself in the head with it over and fucking over.

Friend, the whole point is that you start that day and you byGod finish it.

Right about now I’m staring down tomorrow and growling, “You best not even think about it, motherfucker.” I guess that’s my way of telling you –if you had the same sort of shitty, nerved-up day I had– that things will be better when you wake up in the morning.

You have my permission to have beer for breakfast just to make absolute sure of that. Cheers!

How ’bout you Ess Tee Eff You before I have to take off my Badass Robotic Leg and beat the piss out of you with it.

Today I went to have the ugly blue cast (I must’ve been in pain when I got it; powder blue is not my speed) hacked off, WOO!

WOO! I said, you people, WOOOWOOOWOOOO. You need to be aware of the following facts about my trip to the Boneman’s office:

1) Punknurse was jazzed to see me. And not just because I baked those cookies I blogged about last time. I make her laugh; many, many people speak in a shamefully poor fashion to Punknurse and bring her down, yo.

2) Punknurse got a haircut. Haircut=less product. She did her makeup to match. The girl is lovely, and less warpaint is an improvement.

3) I had to have Ex Rays before I was allowed to molt my fiberglass casing. This caused mild consternation and me half-shouting, “NO FAIR!” like a glorified kinnygartner because this veered away from The Day’s Master Plan by yours truly.

4) Boneman greeted me enthusiastically. This is good, as he is ay) brilliant and bee) grodily wealthy. In my experience, sometimes those types of folks ‘forget’ to be courteous and friendly.

5) I was wearing something sleeveless today, and Boneman inquired as to the meaning of the Latin on the tat. If you’re new to these parts: ‘Virescit vulnere virtus’: ‘Courage grows strength from a wound.’ He grinned broadly and then pointed to my Ex Ray to give me the lowdown.

6) I am not quite healed. My bones are not filled with the magic awesomeness that I thought they were and therefore I do not have a leg up (ar-ar) on all you lesser beings out there. Shhh, let’s all just keep a lid on that. I’m only telling you because you are the trusted Muffinasses and as such will never betray me!

7) I am, however, right on freaking track and healing nicely! He waved his magic orthopaedist’s hand and decreed I be loosed from my cast and placed in this VERY AWESOME ROBOTIC (not really, it’s manual and crafted of plastic, foam, velcro, air pouches and gore-tex, but you all knew what I meant) LEG BRACE. I wanted two, BECAUSE IT IS JUST SO FREAKING COOL LIKE THAT. Can you tell I’m trying to talk myself into everything I just said? Is it terribly transparent? Truth is, though, I don’t care what a fucking doofus I look like…because my skin can breathe! I can totally take baaaaaths, lawsy yayus! I can give myself a five-toe pedicure on that right foot rather than the two or three toes I had full access to!

8) While Punknurse sawed my cast, I hacked away at it with vicious-ass scissors. Let’s get our cut on!

9) I’d not really itched under the various casts and wraps I’ve been subjected to lo these two months, but as soon as the cast came off my nerve endings stood up and saluted. I began to scratch and gobs of skin came off in my hands (yeah, it’s alright for your gorge to rise up in defiance here…I forgive you). “Eww!” I yelled, “EWWW, Punknurse, I must address this immediately!”

10) The sink was rather tall (even taller than your heroine, can you imagine?), so I hopped my ass up onto that counter, stuck my leg into the sink up to the knee and proceeded to scrub my skin and foot with a stiff brush while making various oohing and aahing noises. I was also cautioning myself, aloud, to not forget the fact that “…all that mess down there is still tender, God heppit.”

11) The top of my foot is still pretty swollen. My ankle looks as if it has a baseball shoved into it. Compared to the cantaloupe of two months ago, I am jazzed, but I’m still a titch worried regardless: Will I have a cankle? Don’t laugh, you fuckers! No cankles or I will be vain and cryyyyy!

12) I can’t get over the horror that was my leg. Pale, dotted up, semi-manhaired, yuuuuucky. Couldn’t wait to shave and moisturize.

13) The boys (Sam and one of the SkateFeebs*) got a massively big kick out of the VERY AWESOME ROBOTIC LEG BRACE (hereinafter known as VARLB, mkay?). They walked beside me in the parking deck, making the vocal approximations of the rise, forward movement and fall of a ‘botleg. It echoed like crazy and I wanted to demurely say something Wonderful And Southerin like, “Huhhsh, bow-eez,” but I was unable to due to my hyena-like, barking laughter. I am the very definition of genteel and don’t you forget it.

14) The very most important thing you should know about all this is that I got to take a bath! All the Superior children recognized the utter sacredness of this moment and let me soak in there for an eternity uninterrupted. When I emerged, shrivelled and teeth chattering (yeah, I let the water get crazy-cold) and smelling of caramelly honey, I don’t think I’d ever been so relieved and happy in all my life. Keep in mind, I’ve given birth. Three times!

15) Even now, my leg still retains the shape of the cast somewhat, mimicking all the lumps and grooves. AHHHhaha! But it is clean-shaven, and that redeems it of any unshapliness for the time being.

16) I have a series of tendon-stretchy ultrasecret ninja moves to practice, and I go back in four weeks. Punknurse was making over me, exclaiming, “You’ve hardly a limp! You’re a determined thing, I can tell!” She’s right; I *am* determined…I’ve been stretching and flexing that sucker as best I can inside that cast. I’m ready to be back in fighting shape. He has not officially released me yet, but I’m going to try to do some light casework next week and see how things roll. As expected, some of my clients are falling slap apart. Some, however, are doing quite well, so I will not go back to fully discouraging surroundings. There is hope yet.

There were other things that happened today (as relating to the entry’s title), but this post is already way too long and I’m heading off to momma and daddy’s ( a big Kermit the Frog YAAAAAAAY! here)early tomorrow. I’ll finish the tale upon my return.

Don’t blow up the world or go skydiving without a parachute in my absence. I prefer to have a front row seat on all the action. Which reminds me: The marriage of one of my favorite super heroes and Christian Bale, who is officially TEH HOTTNEZ: Full-on Rowr, with a cappilull are. His growly speech affection when he was immersed in cowl was cheesy, and somebody should have reined that shit in, but all the best ones are flawed in some glaring fashion, aren’t they? I hold to my initial Rowr. Catch you on the flip side.

*what I call him and his skate team. I love those boys; they make me hoot like a madwoman.

Tried to watch the pathetic coverage of mindless sheep watching mega-millionaire rock stars encouraging them to vote away their own wealth to fund African despots, but MTV seemed more interested in having their VJs yapping at each other and showing interviews with geo-economic and political luminaries like Dave Matthews and Natalie Portman.

Even Sting seemed irony-deficient as he sang a modified version of “Every Breath You Take” – threatening the G8 leaders that “we’ll be watching you” obviously thinking of his villa in Tuscany he could be conducting said surveilance from. Ahem…

In case you were wondering why ANOTHER concert was necessary when we’d clearly solved world hunger with the original Live Aid show 20 years ago (didn’t we?), a hint can be found in
“Slaking a thirst with a fire hose” by Wesley Pruden:

This must be Tuesday, because poverty in Africa ended Monday.

All it took were a few chords, a lot of screaming, several acres of dirty hair and a cloud cover of lethal body odor. When the last guitar strings snapped Saturday night at those Live 8 concerts across the world, promoter Bob Geldof’s over-the-hill gang had the prescription: just stuff a few billion dollars down the bottomless holes on the Dark Continent.

“This is the greatest rock show in the history of the world,” cried the announcer at the London concert. Gushed a disc jockey on XM Satellite Radio: “This is the single most important concert ever.”

No one wanted to stop there. Shouted one of the “musicians” of a group called Coldplay: “This is the greatest thing that’s ever been in the entire history of the world.”

As if we didn’t need another reason to think Coldplay sucks.

Since “the entire history of the world” includes the extinction of the dinosaurs, the eruption of Krakatoa, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the construction of the pyramids, the Resurrection of Christ and man’s landing on the moon, Live 8 had to be impressive mush.

But this week the grown-ups take over, as grown-ups always must, when the G-8 economic summit commences in Scotland under the baton of Tony Blair, who not only wants to eliminate African poverty but to end global warming before Christmas.

The nations of the West must do something to ease the brutal pain of generations of unbridled greed, ignorant incompetence and rabid corruption in Africa. It’s our Christian duty. But it will require discipline that is out of fashion in the 21st century, and it certainly isn’t what the simple-minded noisemakers of Live 8 had in mind.

The example of Nigeria says it all. Figures released last month by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, as reported in the London Daily Telegraph, reveal that in the 45 years since Britain granted independence in 1960 a succession of despots squandered $387 billion (that’s a “b,” not an “m”), almost to the dollar the sum of all Western aid to all of Africa between 1960 and 1997. One of the despots, Gen. Sani Abacha, now safely dead, is believed to have looted Nigeria’s vast oil reserves of more than $5 billion in just five years.

Tony Blair’s No. 2 man, George Brown, talks giddily of a Marshall Plan for Africa, but Nigerian despots alone have already pocketed the equivalent of six Marshall Plans. George C. Marshall’s miracle scheme for rebuilding Europe worked because mature European leadership was determined to rescue the continent from the ravages of World War II. There’s scant evidence that Africa’s “leaders” want anything more than to drink from the fire hose.

Live 8 concerts are nice, and the photographs of starving children will break the coldest heart, but unless Europe and the West accompany aid with the kind of supervision nobody has the courage to impose, the aid will wind up in the usual Swiss banks, and 20 years from now another generation of children will die while naive hearts bleed.

It’s not cruel and inhuman to want to prevent aid from going to tyrants – it’s cruel to attack those who want to provide REAL aid, not just have a self-congratulatory concert so that we can all pat ourselves on the back and tell each other how noble we are because “we care.”

 

The New York Times takes a look. Of course, since it’s the Times, this may all be lies.