Let your fingers do the walking. Or something.

** HINT: **
alt+back arrow to come back here between listens.

And a-one (Whereupon I dive right back into voice posts.):

And a-two (Where I foolishly believe my post to have been eaten. DAMN. IT!):

And a-three (Let’s repeat ourselves, ramble, and totally run out of time, windbag!):

UPDATE (dee to the ee are):

You lucky jagoffs! The counter on my ‘posts remaining’ says I have 65,532 remaining. Next time I promise to giggle considerably less. I SWEAR THIS ON ALL THAT IS HOLY.

I’m going to stop speaking my plans out loud.

Oh, for ham and hell. Need I remind you people where I was planning on going when Katrina hit?

Damnit, that wacky Mathias NEEDS a website.

The Super Adventures Of Ben And Noah!

lazy, laaaaazy girl

Today, for many reasons I won’t go into here, are for moving slow and ‘getting back to the roots’. I’m doing two things: Digging through history and making art. The two, it seems, are not mutually exclusive. There are links to inspire you, and to make you jealous that you weren’t lucky enough to be born in the richness of the South:

As always, I remain a huge fan Butch Anthony and his Museum of Wonder.

The great and glorious Shack Up Inn. I’d like to host a blogmeet here some future weekend. The Delta is fuuuuun.

These Fleeting Moments

(righting a wrong)

I swear, the best damn fast-food burger you’ll ever eat is made by Back Yard Burgers. One of the very first franchises (like, number four or five or something) opened in my hometown in ‘88.

Here’s your basic Delta horticulturist and all-around basic Memphis quirkyperson/living legend.

Coming up, I thought William Faulkner was a god. The first time I visited Rowan Oak I was around seven. I never wanted to leave. I also wanted to have twins when I grew up; there would be one girl and one boy and their names would be Rowan and Oak.

One thing that bothers me is how the paddleboats that take my breath have changed. I hate that a yankee company bought the Delta Queen and a couple of her sisters and made it an uppity, cheesy affair to take a little steamboat ride.

I believe I may go here for my birthday next year. Join me, anyone?

Take note of the name:

Paulina Stuckey-Cassidy

Should you need to buy me a present, this one will do.

The rest of her work can be found here.

(something you may not have known about me)

I attract –and conversely, am attracted to– wackadoos.

Also, I got a brand spanking new cellicar (what the homies call it around some of these parts) phone on Friday afternoon!

Also-also, it was promptly stolen on Saturday afternoon, just right after I’d treated myself to an assload of goofy ringtones and gotten all of the handset settings just so. It was, however, just before I’d transfered all my information to the phone and put the spiffy-clean new SIM card in. Which, as you all know, would have been preceeded by my pulling out the OLD card and putting it (and all my fucking IN. FOR. MATION.) away, warm and comfy, in the fire safe.

Damnit, I don’t even have my own mother’s phone number. None of you people tell her that, or I will be in really big trouble!

This is all a rambly, embarrassing way of primly asking you folks whose contact info I used to have to text or e-mail your work, home and cell numbers if you don’t mind too terribly much breaking from your busy day to do so. I’m very, very penitent, I swear. Sweet Mother of Jiminy Cricket, puhleeeeeze don’t make me rebuild my two-hundred and forty-seven number phone list from scratch and/or old phone records. I am already cracked enough. This could send me completely over the edge.

Look at it this way: How in God’s name am I to phone you, all drunk and sweet-talking (and funny! How can we forget fuuhhhhhhny??) from the sands of Coral Gables two weeks from now if you don’t supply the digits? Touch-tone tango, people, that’s what I’m sayin’.

pee ess…Happy-happy, you fuckin’ cereal bowl wearin’ yonk. Your (ex?) wife is still snooping around in your e-mail. Repeat after me: “I am GROWN. I can CHANGE the password.” Now go do it, champy.

My sweet merciful bobby haysoos, I hate myself thoroughly (AND I’m ashamed).

Look, I SET UP A MYSPACE PROFILE, okay? OKAY??

If you have one you should totally send me an invite and I’ll friend you or whatever it is we MySpace fuckers do.

(This morning when I left the gym, my boobs smelled like vinegar. VINEGAR, YOU MUFFINASSEDLY PEOPLE. What? I think it may be related to the MySpace thing.)

I’m off to groom myself and face the day. By ‘face the day’ I mean buy a stash of baby Snickers&reg, hide them in my desk drawer and gorge on them all day because this month’s period is FIERCE. I have acne and everything; this is not cool, because I didn’t even have acne in HIGH SCHOOL, for hellsakes.

How’s your day, spiffy? Everybody drop in and at least sneeze. Let’s do the olden-days thing and comment pithily and with great aplomb, bouncing clever sarcastic rejoinders off of one another’s asses like we are the best thing going in this new thing called blogging.

Love you, MEAN IT!