A Random Image

Archive for July, 2006

|| July 30, 2006 || 1:48 am || Comments (2) ||

YouTube is terrific.

Specifically, this girl here. She has a ferret named Boba (Boba Ferret, geddit?), for crapsakes. AND, she does a skit called ‘SadEyedAnimeGrl’.

This one looks like an older, brunette version of my niece, who is twelve and blonde.

…and this is just for Melly, who loves that sort of thing.

|| July 30, 2006 || 1:14 am || Comments (2) ||

Because stating the obvious is king.

People magazine reports that Lance Bass is gay.

Well, duh.

|| July 22, 2006 || 11:04 pm || Comments (2) ||

Summer(s) in the South

I do believe I could eat myself a tomato sandwich twice a day, every day, if the maters were vine-ripe and near-bursting (because all that damn flavor is near-dying to get out from under that skin) all year ’round like they are in June and July.

And you? The you I got off the phone with around twelve ay emm Eastern?

Go fuck yourself. Come back when you’re satisfied with doing so and have cleaned up sufficiently to merit my attention. I remembered tonight why I made myself –absolutely FORCED, with a great deal of EFFORT and DEDICATION– hate you for a minimum of seven years before deciding that it was every bit as exhausting as loving you to the end of the ends: You deserved it.

|| July 21, 2006 || 10:42 pm || Comments (3) ||

Just another night.

It’s nearly midnight on Friday night, and here I sit, Dukes of Hazzard on the telly and Irish Coffee in my cup.

I never drink coffee at night, really. Sometimes things change, if just for a little bit.

Enos is still a jackass. Some things invariably never, ever change. There is both comfort and boredom in that.

We had a late dinner tonight. Mathias and I knocked around the neighboring town for most of the late afternoon and early evening. Even at the wee age of seven, he enjoys things of old and so he will patiently crawl through antiques shoppes and downhome art galleries with me. We both find treasures in these places: I a cobalt bottle remarkably intact despite the generous crack overwhelming its side and he an old photo button that he finds fascinating because “That man has a neat face, momma.”

“That is amazing!” he exclaimed after our last stop, “When we went in there, it was bright daylight, and now it is soft night.” We split a soda as we crawled the nighttime miles to our house.

Maxim was tired and frustrated when we got home. It is easy to get arrive at such a state when dealing with the sheer volume of people and numbers that he does every day. He is a good boss to have, but I wonder if they know it. Some days I want to roll over and tell him, “You stay in bed. I will drive all over Hell’s Half-Acre so that you don’t have to. At each stop, I will make an example out of the loosest cannon there by wrapping my terrific long fingers about their neck and shaking violently yet precisely. I will not kill, but will walk up on the doorstep of it, and by the time I am finished with Each Prime Example, the whole of the staff at that locale will bear the demeanor of little mewling lambs. Henceforward they will be happy to serve you with stellar efficiency and without complaint. Then I will move on to the next location and start over again. It will be a day of legend in your company, but only because I will wear my favorite Replacements tee shirt and matching orange tennyshoos while commanding they stop all the monkeyassing around.”

I find that when I have a hard day, exfoliation is key. This is especially true when the days have been as ungodly humid and blisteringly hot as they’ve been this week. I suggested this to Maxim. He is a boy, and boys don’t have a true grasp on the machinations of effective exfoliating, so I volunteered to help him by standing at the back of the shower and giving a demonstration. Hands-on action is key is many circumstances. We both emerged with a beautiful glow and commenced to make dinner together.

I watched us from outside myself as we danced gently around one another in the kitchen doing prep work and talking. I wore a tank top and panties and bare feet; he wore jeans and naked chest and feet to match mine. This is my favorite look on a man: He will never be so beautiful as he is when wearing jeans and jeans alone. Something about the sight of it enchants girlbeings and a fellow could just about get away with murder wearing naught but denim pants. Our feet padded quiet on the wide, cool black tiles. The smells of summer –cabbage and yellow squash and juicy tomatoes and crisp cucumbers and melon that bursts at the touch of a knife because it is so ready and willing to proffer up sweetness to you– permeate the kitchen, saturating even the rough brick of the walls and wafting on up to our plank ceiling.

There are murmurs and touches as we pass one another, as we reach around and under for bowls, utensils, spices. We have a relationship of deep comfort and steady passion that peaks in waves that we can sometimes hardly stand and I am still overwhelmed by this after eight years of marriage. There are a little over twelve years between us: Six months as co-workers and acquaintances, three and a half years as dear friends and beer buddies (ten months of which found us as band mates, crammed into the odd vehicle or motel room or crusty bar), six months as lovers and the remaining time as spouses, furthering our friendship and feelings of lust and tenderness toward one another. How fortunate we are!

I’ve seen this man have a crippling panic attack and I’ve seen him boldly stand eyeball-to-eyeball with my insane ex-husband and explain in measured, manly tones how I will no longer be bullied in my own home. I’ve watched him weep over a friend’s addiction and give a wad of cash and a bag of hamburgers to a dirty, tired and embarrassed little boy whose momma was too shiftless to work. I’ve seen him spend our own last dollar on yet another bass that was not needed. I’ve yelled at him and caressed him, I’ve had his baby and I’ve listened to him ask, “How does this look?” every damned morning for well over three-thousand days (“My GOD, Maxim, I bought that for you, why are you even asking??”). I’ve put up with his bossy grandmother and he tolerates my fix-it daddy. He nursed me through recovery from a horrible accident and subsequent surgery; my children told me that he confessed to them how very blessed they all were that I was still here and not being lowered into the ground. He never once complained through the long hours of caring for me and the extra hours he had to put in at work to make up for some of my lost income.

We sat at our table tonight, the one under the huge dining room chandelier, the one that seats nine, the first really nice piece of furniture we acquired together. We sat there with our young son between us (the other three children are developing lives of their own, it seems), a veritable bounty of nature’s freshest in front of us, clasped hands and thanked God for allowing us the luxury of one another and the comfort of our home and the blessings that are folded into our lives. Maxim brushed his gorgeous full lips across the back of my hand, and my heart leapt for what may have been the hundred-thousandth time, thighs and heart warming simultaneously.

Um, stupey, don’t you know that’s counterproductive?

Typically I don’t pay any mind to such things, because the fourpack is generally pretty busy yammering at me and trying to outdo one another in the “Let’s make mom guffaw and/or yell at us in public” departments, but the contents of the buggy in front of me at Wal-Mart tonight just baffled me.

He put it all on the conveyor belt with nary a blink nor an ironic smirk:

  • three packs of Spam Bites&reg
  • a box of Stackers&reg
  • white grapes
  • about four South Beach Diet&reg bars
  • an eight-pack of Sprite&reg
  • two twelve-packs of water
  • two cans vienna sausages
  • a box of low carb frozen fruit bars
  • two Snickers&reg bars

    I know they shouldn’t, but people amaze me so damn much. I should be a fucking behavioral scientist.

    Behavioral scientists, as I understand it, don’t get infuriated or appalled by their subjects. Condsidering that, I’d be pretty crappy at it, overall.

    || July 8, 2006 || 1:09 am || Comments (6) ||

    The wonder of reconciliation.

    We spoke, words

    Hard-lining the air between us

    Eyes lit up like coals,

    Bright, burning, obsidian.

    Naught could cool them.

    Over same words we climbed,

    Seeking purchase in a pause,

    Footing on a comma:

    Avoid the periods;

    They are hard to get over.

    Somewhere we met, again

    And oh, again we reached,

    Clasping wrists…each pulling

    (we learned not to tug long

    ago; tendons pop) the other in.

    Back into the eddy

    Where understanding swims

    Soothing us into caresses,

    A hand on throat (mine, yours)

    Fingers wound in hair (yours, mine).

    Lips still release words,

    But these are for the soul

    Rather than the gut and

    The eyes, they are

    No less bright and now smolder.

    || July 7, 2006 || 12:07 am || Comments (6) ||

    I’m long overdue on a post….

    …and holy hell it’s late here, so I’ll not finish any of the half-dozen stories that I’m about ten-thousand words into. Enchanting tales of Marianna, Arkansas and the homeless man enthusiastically singing to his hot dog in a Memphis TigerMart at two ay emm will just have to wait until another time.

    Let’s do that patented copout linkdump thing that some of you stellar young Muffinasses are so hotdamned fond of, shall we?

    Swizzle-Stick. Bookmark it. Though it is half-hiated at present, soon it will be dusted off with a shiny new layout and a passel (does a minimum of three make a passel? I forget the rules for such things.) of writers, one of whom will be your very favorite Jettgrrrl. Yes, you heard it here first: Chip Midnight, music-writer and -lover extraordinaire, had the brilliant insight to invite me aboard to wax rhapsodical about one of my most very favorite subjects. The benefits are multifold; I get loads of free new music and he gets a wordybastard writer and you, You, YOU get to hear even MORE musical opinions from me than you do here at [Abuantg.]. We are all lucky children of the process.

    I would like to take this opportunity to offer up a very large, multihued fuck you to iTunes (no link, for I am shunning those shitherders) for denying my music-passionate self admittance to their affiliate program. Sure, I should’ve asked when my readership was in the hundreds and not in the tens, but my numbers are trivial; if they can increase their consumer base by even one, would it not be worth it? Plus, iTunes, my layout is better than yours any day….wouldn’t you like to be cool by association?

    Anyway, back on point: Chip found me via my extreme fondness for the Damnwells. The boys have some more of the new album’s material up over on their myspace place. I witnessed ‘Golden Days’ live some time ago, and it will garner a top spot in Damnwells rotation. While I prefer the slower tempo version, there is a lushness to the album version, and I can appreciate it as well. The Damnwells’ newest album, ‘Air Stereo’, is due out August fifteenth (TED? ALEX? WHERE IN CRACKER HELL IS MY ADVANCE COPY?); I’ve heard many of the tracks, seen them performed, and this album is one of sure-footed growth. They were already a bunch of artists offering up musically and lyrically solid product….I’ll be head-punch amazed if ‘Air Stereo’ doesn’t bust the seams wide open for them. I will expect them to buy beers for me every time they are in Birmingham from now on if that proves to be the case.

    This is, hands-down, my favorite online blackjack game. I like to wear polyester doubleknit stretch pants, a beehive hairdo and fuschia lipstick while I’m playing. It ‘realities up’ the experience. I would smack some Juicy Fruit loudly and imbibe in cheap gutrot gin, but even I have standards. I do (!), even if most of you can’t follow the the layout of them.

    Hey! Blogathon time is here. Even though I’ve been passionately devoted to it in the past, I think the shoulder thing is going to keep me out this year. Sad, but over it, I guess. You should go pick some people to sponsor and follow along in the fun. I’ll be doing at least that much.

    How To Give A Good Christian Blowjob. Not much that I could add in the way of clever quips. Don’t drink anything while you are reading this.

    Dear Citizens of the World,

    Please stop losing your fucking mind.

    No, really


    Jett “I’ve Had Near About ENOUGH” Superior

    Can I just say that I fucking loooooove this whole Co-cola thing in the news? It proves and/or underscores two things: The makers of Co-cola employ rotten, sneaky bastards, while Pepsico is noble and good and upstanding. We Of The Pepsi Mindset will prevail, I tell you, even though some of you have been bold enough to argue that point with me over the years. At the very least, you have to admit that the leadership over at Co-cola are big doodyhead dummies; even if you do (mistakenly) find their product superior, you must acquiesce on the point of their poor judgement in hiring yellowbelly traitorous types and their overall sloppiness in keeping fambly bidness in-house. We of the Pepsihood curtsy to you politely, but we are giggling into our knickers as we do.

    You should be TEH COOLZ and take the Star Trek Quiz, just like me!

    Take the Star Trek Quiz

    I’ve been churning out the bloggy schlock for damn near seven years now. I remember the first time I heard the word ‘blog’ on prime-time teevee. I nearly ay) choked on my jigger of takillya, which hasn’t happened since I was six (or maybe seven, I find it hard to recall things from childhood these days) and bee) damn near pissed myself and cee) felt sort of sad. Now the DoD is doing a study. Just great…let’s just fuck the party ALL THE WAY up. Shit.

    Okay, I’ve been telling you people this all along. Stop doubting my wisdom and prowess, all ye lesser beings.

    Everyone knows by now that Rob Smith died. Some folks are conducting themselves fucking shamefully. To the asspill that said, somewhere in the midst of all the manufactured dramalamadingdong, “In the South, we always have a little drama at funerals….” I’ll thank you to shut the fuck up and quit pontificating on what all the rest of us Southerin folk do. In my south, that sort of thing is NOT the standard, it is the aberration. All of you people who have been petty (note I did not say ‘honest’…there are some very stirring and honest posts out there right about now) should sit back and take stock of your miserable lives; go find something fulfilling to take part in, you piranha-like fucks. Enrich yourselves. You don’t have to give to the world, but stop sucking it dry. That also goes for all of y’all that are lapping up the manufactured controversy like dogs. You make me sick. You are an embarassment. This gentleman had the right idea. A touch of humor, a touch of grace. Elegant as a soft shoe in tophat and tails. Also Rob’s friend Catfish, who has trotted all over Cyberia leaving words of kindness and compliment for all range of folk, offering comfort to them, even though lots of them never laid eyes on the Acidman in person. He seems to be exemplary in his grace and gentlemanly way of handling all this, and the man knew Rob for several decades, damnit!

    Back when my ‘interwebnets’ friend waistdog died, I don’t recall there being ANY of this nonsense. There was just a community of folk, crazily banded together somehow over the ether, who loved and supported one another. There were a handful of looky-loos, sure, but there were no dramatics and bullshittiness about it. We grieved. We felt strange, because we were all in uncharted waters, this grieving for a keyboard-wielding friend. Strangely enough, he died over health matters, too. They could have been corrected, but we didn’t have all the information…at least not in time. I still love and miss Rick. I can still hear his voice. I still reminisce with the circle of friends that got to revel in his wackadoo style. All we focused on as a group of people was how damned lucky we were to have this guy in our lives, no matter the brevity of our relationship, no matter the medium in which it was formed.

    Great. Now I’m all het up. Let’s do something distracting. The tried-and-true ‘wheeee!’ squirrel. Forty reasons to love John Cusack.

    One last thing: If I have the good fortune to die before my tits sag to my knees, all you Muffinassedly people had better say just one thing. That one thing is, “Thank God she’s gone. That bitch hogged up too much of the takillya for far too long.”

    Alternately, you could reiterate that I had really good hair. And that I loved the Marine Corps (at least, my fair share of them, ar-ar!). And that I sure did know how to pack for a road trip. You know, the important shit.