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Archive for March, 2006

|| March 31, 2006 || 9:50 am || Comments (0) ||

While cooking dinner together last night:

JETT: Ew, ACK! Mathias, did you fart?

MATHIAS: *cuts eyes to side stealthily, raises eyebrows, puckers mouth and speaks from its corner* Welp, mayyyyyybe.

In other news, I am a shlub. I had pizza for breakfast and just spent the last hour washing and folding towels and bathcloths. Yessss, we had that many. ON TO THE UNDERWEAR!

|| March 29, 2006 || 11:49 pm || Comments (7) ||

Every heartbreak and every imagining

We are fierce creatures,

though shambling and weak:

Dressed for darkness and hoping

for light we piddle away time,

tide and one more baseball season

…poor gurus make good

one night stands (oh,

you can make bank on that).

One more again I caught

myself babbling the same litany,

“Father Lord, sir,

save me from what I want.”

I am all angles on

nights like these: elbow

and chin, collarbone refracting

a dozen empty exchanges.

Wherefore art thou, Timothy

or Will or (for Godsakes, no!)

Chance -so apt a name

for so boring a person- ?

I haven’t one in hell, I guess.

Silky’s was as good a place

as any for dreams, I suppose;

before time and circumstance

Ran Up On One Another and

Shut Her Down, this place,

This hallowed ground of the

Great Sainted Me And You…

I still see the purple

dancefloor lights gleaming

royal off of your face with the

more-than-ridiculous smile

that took my patience and my knees

away from me, catching myself

in the mirror and surprised

at transformation there.

Who is that feral girl? Oh my.

I never thought I’d have

free-speeh concerns down the line.

Why can’t I speak your name aloud?

Why won’t I shout it, scream it, growl it

A thousand times a week, mirroring

the constant voice below my breastbone?

You are in every heartbreak and every

Imagining that I can feebly conjure up.

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

Dear Robinson:

I pushed and pulled at this one for some time. There is something strained about it, but then I thought better of polish, because maybe there should be something strained about it. The sort of underlying tension that mirrors the actual experience.

I am so unsure of my poetry, always, because it comes from another place entirely. Maybe that’s what makes a handful of lines just as fun as pages of prose.

There is great irony in the fact that, as I edit this piece all to hell and back, Maxim’s sleeping on his side, facing me, his beautifully breathtaking hand resting on my inner thigh. Only one secret between us and it could very well break the bank. Because, you know, infidelity of the heart is somehow so very much more treasonous than infidelity of the body.

Shit, you know, or you wouldn’t like the poems as much as you profess to. They’re all about the same damned thing.


Jett “Hot Damn, Did I Just Hang Every Last Bit Of It Out There Like That?” Superior

|| March 28, 2006 || 2:34 pm || Comments (0) ||

Sam’s musical education continues

I knew if I was patient for a few months, it would happen. Sam’s fawning addiction to AC/DC shifted. His tastes are mutating, expanding. He is open to suggestion now. His logic runs thusly: I owned AC/DC albums long before he did, so I must know a little something about something.

Maxim and I, we are coaching Sam gently, spoon-feeding him. If you put something in his face and holler excitedly, “OMFG, BBQ, YOU MUST LISTEN TO THIS!” he runs, frightened, away and it takes eons to coax him back out of the enclaves of his teenagercave. If we let him have the approach and play twenty questions (“Who’s Geddy Lee?”) for a bit we typically can burn off some new listens for him.

So recent forays have consisted of some B.B. King, some Johnny Cash, some Zep. We are laying a multitonal foundation and Sam seems to be digging okay. He is very, very near to The Almighty Revealing Of The Sex Pistols, you people, and I’m dying of anticipation.

While I was ferrying Scout around this past weekend, the two of us had our Buckcherry rock hats (and matching rockfists!) on and were enjoying ourselves mightily. Struck with inspiration, I came in and handed the ceedee off to Samuel for a spin.

“Buckcherry…isn’t that the guy who did Johnny B. Good?”

“Chuck Berry, son. CHUCK BERRY. This is something altogether different.”

We still have a ways to go.

|| March 27, 2006 || 1:26 pm || Comments (3) ||

Help me, Superior Muffinasses.

I’m totally going to add the statement, “I have a superb eBay feedback rating” to my resume.

My only problem is this: What section should that go under? It really is multi-purpose information.

Hot damn is it cold; yoga pants and floppy sweatshirts are king.

This post will be choppy and meandering. I’ve a lot of thinks to think.

Why so wordy, Jett?

Last week, for Maxim’s birthday, I bought him a ticket to the Suwannee Springfest down in Live Oak. My very first set of in-laws live down there in Live Oak. While he was strapping, mostly intelligent and pretty hot-danged handsome, they were a little bit scary. They used to talk about entering me in the Swamp Buggy Queen pageant. I tried my best to not let them smell fear.

So Thursday, as he was kissing me goodbye, Maxim said, “I betcher gonna make sweet, sweet love to the laptop this weekend.” Well hell yeah, suckah, if I ain’t gettin’ laid, I might as well be posting drivel to my fellow Cyberians. And if you are indeed reading this, oh dear husband of mine, I absolutely did not use the wasted space of that five square inches below the keyboard as a coaster. I don’t care what your gut instinct tells you. Or the sticky Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCo!) ring, for that matter.

Heard on Elimidate in the wee, wee hours of yesterday morning

“The presidents? First it was Washington, then he chopped down a cherry tree and it was Lincoln second.”

Why is it increasingly necessary nowadays to choose between beauty and brains?

You may have guessed, but this one just bowled me right the fuck over.

I got to wondering at some point after about six vodka gimlets ten pee emm this evening whether or not I might be bipolar. I found this little quiz and buzzed through it. I scored on the high end of the ‘mild to moderate mania’ designation. Did you people suspect this all along, and am I simply fooling myself when I fancy myself a big ole bastion of normalcy? Motherfuck, I’ve got to go find six more tests to take along these lines to make sure I’ve a decently fair and balanced report.

Jump-starting the morning

Scout and I hopped into the Magic Superior Stealth Vehicle to do our do this morning. She hauled tail out the door with her favorite truly rad calf-length Chucks in hand and proceeded to put them on. To do this, it was necessary for her to place her foot on the back of my seat. At some point, while she tightened the laces, her heel slipped and Our Dear Scouty kicked me in the the head so hard I saw stars.

She sat in silence, eyes big as ‘56 Chevy hubcaps until I finally shook my head to and fro slowly, then faster, then fell into big gulping laughter. Scout joined me and all was well, the end.

On calling the muse forth

Sometimes, as I’m pulling up to the ‘puter to push out a bouncing baby entry, I make little crib notes.

Sometimes (okay, A LOT O’ TIMES) said notes make not one whit of sense to me a mere six minutes later. For instance, I scribbled this on a piece of teal notebook paper:

“Next thing you know, I will be telling you that I’m a cross-dresser named Merle.”

I’ve no context for that shit. Ab-so-lute-ly nooooo idea what in tarnation it could mean, but speaking of Merles, hey: Here’s a good band.

Scout wouldn’t split an order with me.

“I don’t eat hotwings. They smell like stinky feet.”

(a confession)

Those MySpace people frighten me in a way I can’t adequately explain.

Also, I signed up for a LiveJournal account. I may just tell the deepest, darkest secrets of my soul there. Or filthy stories of me acting like an unseemly, trampy dirtygirl.

Wait, that’s two three confessions. The mathtard is on the move again.

My buddy has a new girlfriend.

He also has an ‘interesting’ (where interesting=carnivorous cannibal girlfriend-eater) mother. Nic and I were drinking with the new gal pal tonight and we began to tell her what the warning signs were for a potential impending attack by CCG-E. Helping our fellow man, as it were. This girl’s got a job of her own and a body so hot it should spontaneously combust; Nic and I were looking out for our pal.

“You guys are scaring me to death.”

“Look, East Texas, just let me tell you, had I been in Tokyo, I’da warned them about Godzilla.

“I wasn’t, but I’m here now, and I’m warning you: She will gnaw your sweet face off. Why you think I never fucked him?”

More maths

This afternoon I saw a car tag that read, “96% excitement”. I thought that shit was grrrreat. I wonder what the other four percent is comprised of.

my short-ass attention span

I’ve been doing quite a bit of gadding about between states and I keep forgetting to drop some post cards around. By postcards, I mean the free stack I got printed with a big eyeball and some smarmy comments on one side and [Abuantg.]’s URL on the other. Stock photos are not aces. Next time I’ll do my own artwork. Nonetheless, the overall cheesy effect acheived more than delighted me.

I’ll probably never get around to dropping them anywhere, as I’m easily distracted by the rudiments of packing a bag for travel, so if any of youse guys wants me to send you a handful to play three-card with or use as coasters, e-mail your request to the standard place. I’ll be stuffing the envelopes with other crap, as I’ve not sent out a TACKY PACKtm in a long damn while.

Shower me with laughter and bruises

This morning, there was this upright bathing thing going on. I shaved the ole laigs and, in a hurry, decided to moisturize in the shower so I could pretty much pull on some clothes and head out afterward. Put my right foot up on the edge of the tub, oiled the leg with both hands, quickly put the right down and the left up. Only, well….I came down too fast on the post-tractor cankle that faintly remains and slipped.

What do you do when you slip? Whyyyy, you throw your hand(s) up to catch you on the overbalance, that’s what. HOWEVER MY DEARS, if you have body oil on your hands, shortly after they connect with the shower tile you’re gonna eat some bathroom rug. And possibly tear the shower curtain down all Psycho-style on the way toward your faceplant. That’s what I did, anyway.

The best part is, I actually looked around in case someone saw me. In case someone saw me in the locked, windowless bathroom. Because lord knows, only Candid Camera could have seriously set up such a goofy set of circumstances bent on shaming someone. I may not only be bipolar, there may be just a touch of OCD in there too. You better just bet I’ll let you know what the quiz results on that one say.

I read or heard the very most boss one-liner today:

“…I would stick a flag in you and own you like a country.”

“Talk to me, Goose.”

Damnit, there were five people there and not a one of them would play the movie quotes game with me.

Some kid called at ten-twenty tonight.

“Where’s Piper?” he says by way of greeting. Oh, you must not know me, boy. I brush my teeth with road flares and have cast-iron panties.

“Son, in this house we have a phone curfew. There are no calls before seven ay emm or after nine pee emm. Also, I would expect that ‘May I speak to Piper?’ is gonna get you a lot further in the future.”

Tomorrow I will hunt him down and eat him for lunch.

And finally, for your amusement…

A picture of a real live Swamp Buggy Queen.

|| March 24, 2006 || 7:54 pm || Comments (4) ||

Well, then.

Two of Sam’s bandmates (one of whom is Piper’s boyfriend) take out their brains and play with some high-tech toys.

Good God, I can only imagine the heinousness that would be floating around out there if I’d had internet access and an A/V setup when I was in high school.

pee ess…Ryan Adams’ ‘29‘? I’m all over that today. Like, facedown in it and inhaling deeply.

|| March 18, 2006 || 12:29 pm || Comments (9) ||

The unbearable Fuck You of being.

or, “Don’t lean on the bar if you ain’t drinkin’, there, Bad Haircut!”

My lorrrrd, the appalling lack of updates (okay, there is some bad portry waiting in ‘draft’ status, but you are being spared that particular injustice*)! I would apologize, but my computer went belly-up, whereupon I ran out and purchased another and promptly waited like ten days to get it set up. Call me inefficient, see if I care!

There are Memphis Stawrys, but I won’t tell them right now. What I will tell you is that I warned traveling companions thusly: “I feel like I must tell you a couple of key things about myself before we fully embark upon Mayhemian Pursuitstm: I am a veritable magnetar for off-the-beaten-path occurrences, and you will likely have a low-key celebrity encounter while in my presence.” Done and done, and I will recount those things on another go-round.

Today we will explore events from last evening, when the two reigning Superiors actually got to leave their offspring with a creature named Nana and hit the mighty, mighty Nick for some fine musicks, some not-too-unreasonably priced booze and more second-hand smoke than we’ve seen in a year of Sundays. Plus, there were the idiots….I was hanging on the front porch around four this morning and heard one of the barkeeps say to one of The Guys Who Runs Around Doing Many Different Things, “This is worse than New Year’s.”

TGWRADMDT said, “It’s nowhere near as crowded as New Year’s.”

“No,” yon barkeep contended, “not the size of the crowd, their level of stupidity. It’s like they’ve never been to a fucking bar before.” See, you people? It’s NOT just me!

So, the objects of our aural affections were the Damnwells, who have been appropriately fawned over here before, and Caddle. FYI: Cad=yucky gentleman, Caddle=herd of yucky gentlemen. Also, more gorgeous free musicks from the Damnwells boys here. Please, please love the hay out of ’she’s the nyc skyline’, just like me.

Okay, the very notion of going to a show was at once breathtaking and terrific….and I mean that in a multi-tenses for both words kinda way. I’ve not really been to a show since my most excellent encounter with a tractor (and I’m glad the last one before that heinous eedle bit of happenstance was Jason Mraz, as he makes me smile so very, very much. It was unseasonably cold for my birthday, there was a spiffy venue, we wore hoodies and bounced up and down a lot, we hobknobbed with a crazily disparate crowd, Maxim yelled, “WHY YOU SO SAAAAAAAH-AAAAAAD? DON’T BE SAAAAAAAH-AAAAAAD!” at the SuperEmo opener. Who, by my estimation, is retardedly overhyped. HOWEVER, in his defense, he gives a greatly entertaining and blunt summation of his Birmingham, Alabama experience: “Tonight we’re starting a short support tour with Jason Mraz at a place called the Sloss Furnaces. We speculated as to what sloss might be, and what happened when you burnt it, but when got there, it was self-explanatory.

“This the first place on the tour where I actually felt foreign. Not because everything was outlandish and strange – quite the opposite – but because I felt out of place with my posh English accent and unruly hair.

“I assume they thought I was a fucking limey faggot hairdresser.” I’m kinda sorry that I encouraged Maxim in all his shouting….egged him on, even. The SAAAAAAH-AAAAAAD boy can actually write amusingly.)

So, the week leading up to Saint Patty’s, I was all, ‘whatevah shall I way-uh??’ In the end, I said a rousing FUCK NO to heels and something cleavagealicious. I ended up, ironically enough, sporting the same goofy rhinoceros hoodie that saw Mraz action and my favorite orange tennyshoos. Embracing my dorkitude entirely, there were pigtails, even if they do indeed make the Baby Jesus colicky. *shrug* I won’t be able to wear pigtails convincingly in my forties and I wasn’t much interested in them in my twenties. It’s just that simple, joo interenets poeple.

All day yesterday I batted ‘New Delhi’ around my brain. Hot damn if that wasn’t the first song in the Damnwells’ set. They ripped into it pretty well; not surprising since they tend to rock the teeth out of that one and ‘Death After Life’. They are deft hands at folding a decent bit of new material in with trusted favorites. This has been (and will likely continue to be) instrumental in growing their audience exponentially in music-hungry towns like the ‘Ham. The first song I ever looked forward to hearing live at one of their shows was ‘Sleepsinging’; the bloom has fallen off the rose with that one, and it has been supplanted in my heart’s Highly Anticipated chamber by tunes like ‘Electric Harmony’ and ‘I Will Keep The Bad Things From You’. I’ve yet to hear ‘For My Own Good’, one of my favorite Damnwells songs, live. There must be someone somewhere who can tell me why exactly that is.

Dear the Damnwells,

Why the hell won’t you ever play ‘For My Own Good’? Is it because I might start humping the stage??

Well, I wouldn’t. Word on the street is that my mother would be horrified by such behavior once she finally finds this site and starts reading it. I, of course, would be obliged to tell any story involving a stage OR humping. Holy damn, my readers will stand for no less.

Yours until you stop talking to me before, during or after shows,

Jett “Discerning Music Spectator and Enthusiast” Superior

Amusing pre- and post-show adventures are always likely. Let’s get the things I hate out of the way:

1) Girl? Girl with the long sheet of blonde hair? Yes! Yes, yessir, I mean you. Do not flop at the waist, finger-pick your mane, flip it back over your head dramatically and re-seat your sunglasses atop it just…so. That is stupid. For one thing, it’s eleven o’clock at night. We know that those sunglasses give you a little self-esteem boost despite the fact that they appear kind of goobery. We also know that their career is mostly as head-dressing and they likely haven’t seen the sunlight at all. Why don’t you know it, too? And the hair-flipping thing? Stop it. It’s a fucking bar.

2) GUY! GUY AT THE BAR WITH ARMS ENCIRCLING GIRLFRIEND –NOT IN A PROTECTIVE, BUT RATHER– IN A THREATENING WAY! You fuckface, if you are not going to order, THEN STEP AWAY FROM THE BAR SO THAT THE DRUNKARDS MAY READILY ACCESS THE NECTAR OF BACCHUS. You turdbag. You could have at least given leeway because I was a female. It was not necessary for you to be so assy, requiring SOME WORDS from me. Next time I hope you’ll ponder a few less humiliating options and employ one of them. Plus: See the last sentence of number one above.

There are amazingly spectacular things that happen in the presence of rock music and booze. One of them is the fact that normally lonely and shy girls will become sudden automatic drip friendmaking machines. This is an especially common occurrence in lines for the restyroom. I do not tolerate random approaches by your general overliquored stranger very well when I am concentrating on important things like “It’s not really socially acceptable or endearing to do the peepee dance in an over-twenty-one extabbishment.” However, I am friendly and accommodating, because I have an innate understanding of this person’s desperation for friends and/or basic human interaction; also within the scope of my understanding is the fact that a drunk enough lonely person, insulted at the precisely wrong time, might go home and experiment with such silliness as gingerly placing a couple of barrels on what they view as a fairly useless tongue in order to go to their happy place on more than a timeshare basis.

Upon my return from one of the wee queue-gatherings, Maxim leaned in and recounted to me the sad shenanigans of the drunk, super-happy-to-be-there girl I kept gesturing toward all evening. She’d approached him, plopped down in my recently vacated seat and leaned into him,

“ALAN? IS THAT YOU? Are you Alan? Is that your name?”

Yep, she was that hammered. Dear Maxim had to tell her no, sorry, I am not the He you seek, that’s not my name.

“Oh.” she semi-pouted, “Oh, I thought you were Alan. I lost my virginity to him.” Maxim was freaked out by both her absolute conviction and her resigned desperation. He threw in another Uhhhhm, nooooo before she stumbled away. I returned with beers, he told me the story, and the next time I went to play Pee Away The Booze, Go Get A Refill, the hammered girl’s friend decided that she owed it to her friend to officially apologize to any offended parties. Maxim was, not to anyone’s surprise, one of the duly apologized-to. How delightful!

I am convinced this was some sort of goofy good-cop, bad-cop routine in order to rook poor sweet trusting Maxim and lure him back to their house for a threesome that might end in certain crashing disaster if his darling wife were to find out. Maxim=smart to take a pass on a little strange.

Before the Damnwells went on, I noticed a guy wearing a vest and The Whitest Tennis Shoes Ever. He later climbed onto the stage. It was Alex Dezen. Alex, your shoes were sooooo white. Super!

I hollered at Phillip from Caddle, “Where’s that ceedee you said was coming the last time we talked??”

“It’s absolute shit, but you can have one.” Have one, hell. I was gonna buy one. He eventually offered to mail me “…four of the fuckers. Hit me up with the e-mail!” We both made fun of his hometown. He blurted, as he is wont to do at times, “You’re HOT.”

“You told me that last time you saw me, Phillip.”

“I know. That’s because YOU’RE HOT.”

“And you’re drunk.”


I started to respond, “Only if you will sit in my lap while we do” but I could only see that as leading to trouble and I rearranged the vowels so that “I don’t think my husband’d be down with that” came out instead.

“That fucker, where is he?”

“Bathroom, I think.”

“BAStard!” *gesturing in the general vicinity of the men’s room*

I shrugged. I love my life. It is made up of music and moments and magic, all jumbled up just like that.

*for a time, anyway. duh, hineyscratchers!