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Archive for April, 2007

If a Muffinass wants a recipe, byGod, they’re gonna have a recipe.

For you, Shamrock, I busted out the trusty-dandy family cookabook. What follows is the VERY EASIEST homestyle cobbler recipe you will ever endeavor to assemble.


Preheat your oven to three-fifty.

Grab one-a them 13×9x2 dishes (or thereabouts). Melt a stick of margarine or butter into it.

Now you’ll want to get two cups of water. I like mine warm, to aid in the chemical process that ensues, but whatever. Cold works, too. Put two cups of sugar in there. By the force of your will, make it dissolve as best as possible.

Now gather up these things:

1.5 cups of flour

.5 cups of shortening

.5 cups of milk

2 cups fruit, any variety (if frozen, thawed and ready to rock and roll)

Now you’re gonna want to cut that shortening into your flour. Add your milk. This concotion is a simple pastry dough. Pat said dough out onto a flat, stable (and emotionally giving?), floured surface.

(ed. note: your heroine jett uses a basic pastry sheet, because she has Respect For The Desserts. you can live more dangerously than all that, if you’d like)


Cover your dough with the fruit. Roll like a jelly roll (the dough, not you. well, you too, but later, after you’re done cooking). Cut the roll into slices, which you need to place in that buttered dish. Pour your sugar mixture over the rolls.

Bake one hour, or till decently browned, or even till it starts looking all cobblery. I trust your judgement, for the most part. Please don’t let that trust be misplaced.

It is recommended here in the South that all cobbler be served warm and with a generous scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. However, –being whip-smart despite the fact that we speak slower than the rest of the country– we know there are emergency situations (like work, or going off to war) that preclude both hot cobbler and ice cream. Cold cobbler is like sex, to rip off and convolute an old saying about pizza. When it’s hot, it’s amaaaaaazing, but when it’s not hot it’s still pretty fucking delicious.

|| April 12, 2007 || 11:04 pm || Comments (3) ||

and-a-one, and-a-two

There is a slip of paper from a fortune cookie (henceforward known as a ‘fortune’) mounted loosely to the lower corner of my monitor. It’s just below the screen, but a couple of inches above the display settings buttons. This fortune reads, “Sing badly, if you must, but sing.”

The wife section of the Bonaduce marriage has filed for divorce. This makes me sad. I used to watch the show in the alone of my bedroom, flossing my enamels, lotioning my calves, painting my toenails. I’d yell at her there on the tube, “I KNOW THAT MAN IS DIFFICULT TO LIVE WITH, SHIT, BUT LOOK HOW HARD IT IS TO BE IN HIS FUCKING HEAD!” I feel a certain strange sort of kinship to Danny Bonaduce, who can officially be entitled Loveable Lunatic, methinks. I mean, I wouldn’t fuck him or anything, but I’d hit him upside the noggin when he got out of control and then stroke his temple, his head in my lap, when he finally settled the fuck down. Bless his heart. Some people are too much brain, too much heart, too much life for one body. I hope that boy can find some peace.

I’m not one to go all a-mush when a public figure goes keeling off the mortal coil, but I certainly did shed a tear when Stevie Ray Vaughan died. Also, I felt sort of sick and sad at the demise of Joe Strummer. When dear and sweet June Carter Cash went, I spoke plainly and with authority: “Johnny won’t last eight months without her.” And he didn’t; he only went half that. Now Kurt Vonnegut has up and left me, and who can my heroes be now? There is always Willie Nelson, of course, but I reckon most of my top ten entitled ‘Real Good Uns, v. Alive’ are rudely shifted to another, longer column. Jesus happens to be top of the pops on that one. He is followed damn closely by Memaw Susie. I reckon Mister Vonnegut falls not far behind her, somewhere in the top five. I was always prone to write just as far back as I can remember, but that man made me want to bend words and ideas, to possess them (unwieldy as they can be), at least for a time, to shove them brazenly out and fully convey something meaty in an applesauce world.

I was watching one of my favorite films early-early-early this morning (thank you, oh thank you, Mister Linklater. And again, thank you) and I found myself dissecting Ethan Hawke and my begrudged attraction to him. I find him sort of grotesque, really, from a physical standpoint. The boy really couldn’t be considered my type. Plus, there is a largely stupid part to him, I would imagine, to have given up such a fine (and Lordy, don’t forget gifted) specimen such as Oomer. There’s me, digressing all over the place again. So. Hair, eyes, gait, body type, nasal-pitched voice: Nothing about this creature appeals to me. He is effete in a way that grosses me right out. However –and a big ole however it must surely be– I am mesmerized whenever I see him onscreen and I think I’ve finally figured it out. He knows how to hold a woman like he means it. Even in his casual touching of the opposite sex, his gestures are screaming, “I know what I’m doing and I’m here to devour you.” I hate it, folks, but I actively dig Ethan Hawke. I will figure out a way to make amends for this someday.

I’m trying to sing –badly if I must– but I’m tired and my voice sounds hoarse, harsh, grating….if I can hear it, that means everyone else has for some time.

I need money for a plane ticket. Lots and lots of it. Does anyone have any ideas?

(Kind of an) Open letter to my mother, who I’m pretty sure has been sneaking in here for a while and who is celebrating lots of years of glory, blood and guts today.

You are the ballsiest woman I know, and also the very most gentle.

I often wonder if you would rather have been just a little bit more, erm, bored while mothering me.

Also, I love your laugh; I love it most especially when I am the one who elicits it.

I don’t have to yell from the rooftops, touting your sacrifice and pain on my behalf: The fact that I’m even alive today, much less healthy and thriving, is testament to that.

I really, really love you. More than that, I respect you, and that respect is born of the love I just spoke of. Happy Birthday. Happy, happy, haaaaappy birthday.

|| April 10, 2007 || 11:30 am || Comments (2) ||

All in a day’s woik.

So, last Friday all of the girls down here in the front of the orifice were swapping recipes for various things. This was necessary because, der, family Easter dinners-slash-egghunts require the cartage of one dessert, one side (Memaws usually bring the ham, natch) and possibly one two-liter of Pepsi. Like the good and true Southerin women we are, of course we would all be upholding this tradition.

In the midst of all the food talk flying about, Young Hotdoc’s significant other came through the front door. Miss Caro –the office matron– called to her, “Hey Kris, would you like some recipes?”

“Recipes for what?” Kris asked.

“DISASTER!” hollered Tess, slamming her hands down on her desk. I yelled “CHAOS!!” nearly right on top of her while flinging my arms out.

“Where do you people put your braaaaains?” Miss Caro asked us, “Because you sure don’t bring them to work.”

(I made a strawberry cobbler and an Asian noodle sallit, by the way.)

|| April 7, 2007 || 2:35 am || Comments (2) ||

right-now lovin’

….for these and for this.

|| April 5, 2007 || 3:57 pm || Comments (2) ||


Some weeks are like being shot out of a cannon.

This week has been akin to, oh, being shot out of a cannon and then running to climb back into it and be shot out again.

Seventeen times.


Three conversations about one thing: A Fool am I.

About two weeks ago:

PIPER: Momma, what do you want for your birthday?

JETT: A million dollars IN A BROWN PAPER SACK!!

PIPER: Awww. I don’t have a brown paper sack.

(um, baDUMpum)

About a week ago:


oh speaking of sending things

i have a pre-emptive apology to make

for your (super-awesome) birthday gift arriving late



oh wait.


it’s coming from a boutique that is very infrequently open




and even less frequently open during hours of my availability


as in w00t all the waaaay!

is it a flower vase of artistically arranged dildoes?

a dingo-skin pouch?


I know!


no it is a piece of fabric from siberia

illustrated with a jungle of erections


A ticket for a guided trip through a posh new gulag



the reason I’m apologising now is


you suck in the most delightful way?


if you wanted to drop hints about some sort of easier-to-obtain and hence less awesome but still arriving-on-time place-holding gift, now would be the time to do it


I would say “Oh, Rich, your fond affections and deep friendship totally fill the bill.”

and that would not be untrue, but man do I love some DOSH.


big wad of cash it is




non-sequential serial numbers and everything



carefully-encoded ones?

with a secret language


while we’re making shit up, yeah, why not


wait, you can’t possibly promise me green things and not deliver. that’s like getting your hand in my pants and then saying

“I just remembered. Not really hetero.”

Friday afternoon::

Tessa called me.

TESS: HEY! Whatcher doin’?

JETT: I JUST GOT THROUGH PEEING. What you’re doingk?

(me and Tess, we are excitable when we get together and go a mock-yelly at random points in the conversation. for this, we aren’t especially sorry)


TESS: Okay. Do you want your birthday present today, or actually on your birthday?

JETT: Um, what do you think?

TESS: Wellll, what would you like me to do?

JETT: What do you want to do??


JETT: DO-it-DO-it-DOOOO-it!

TESS: GREAT! I’ll be there after I walk Ezekiel (ed. note: her dog). Get ready, ‘cos it’s a BIG OLE BAG OF MAGIC!


Yesterday I pulled a largish envelope from my mailbox; in it was a picture of the Mississippi River, taken from my favorite levee around where Mississippi, Arkansas and Tennessee meet and make friends. My mother had written this on the back of it:

Sweet one, treat each day as a birthday present from the Lord that gave us the greatest gift of all and you can be the happiest person on this earth.

Much from the two that love you, Mom & Dad

Above what she’d written were two dates, April 1, 1971 and April 1, 2007. These were encircled in a wreath of flowers she’d drawn and smudged with the hint of my favorite colors.

What I believe she’s telling me in her own Gwendolyn language is that I’ve come full circle as a person, and I choose to receive and embrace her sentiment.

Tonight I bought myself new silk lounge pants and a German chocolate cake. I’m sitting here in those new pants, legs crossed lotus-style and slowly enjoying a hunk of richness one bite at a time.