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Archive for May, 2007

|| May 31, 2007 || 8:58 am || Comments (6) ||



I know it’s probably a sick sort of throwback from my cheerleadery days, but man do ponytails ever make me happy.

I! HAVE! A PONYTAIL! Ain’t nothin’ gonna bring me down in light of that fact.

Please do weigh in with your opinion of ponytails. Should you not have any insight on that subject, then expounding on ponies –Shetland or otherwise– will be acceptable in lieu of ponytail-talk.


pee ess…a flickr search on the phrase ‘redneck fun‘ yielded this result. Those wacky French!

UPDATE, seventeen minutes later: Oh. Oh my.

|| May 30, 2007 || 10:14 pm || Comments (2) ||


Today I placed my hand on the back of a guy’s neck, leaned in to him and –with my lips a mere inch from his ear– whispered, “I don’t usually do this, but God says that He already released you and now it’s time for you to release yourself.” He put his head in his hands and cried. He was from Wyoming, I think he said.

Today the Young HotDoc said to me, “Thank you Baby Jesus for ‘Rocketman‘,” and lifted his eyes toward heaven. Or maybe it was the ceiling-mount speakers, I dunno. I said reverently, “Selah.” and I also said, “You know, that is the most profound thing you’ve ever said to me during working hours.” Then we had apple slices smeared with peanut butter.

Today when I got out of bed, I said, “I just want to be a blessing to somebody today.” Sounds very, um, Pollyanna, doesn’t it? I say that most every day when I get out of bed. Only, today it felt sort of rote and stale. That startled me and I didn’t like it.

Today I thanked my green Bic for being readily available and steady in service whenever I need it. It’s not the first lighter I go looking for, but it’s always there when it’s the last. There is some profundity in that, I think. I used it to light a candle. That candle smells really, really good.

Today I stopped at the Mexican Trucktm to buy a plate of tacos pastor. I always adopt a persona when I go to the Mexican Trucktm and that persona is the one of Wacky Blonde Gringa. I speak to them in a melange of hand gestures and fluid Spanish and staccato English. I always ask for extra cilantro and I also always ask if they have salsa verde. Nine times out of ten they do not (they hoard it up like gold, I swear); those nine times I writhe around for a minute like I’m being killed and moan “Oh nooooooo….” Then I gather my composure right up neatly like nothing of the sort ever happened and say, “Okay!” brightly. Three brothers run the truck and the most handsome of the three is always the one that has his face poked out of the window some eight feet in the air, taking in my antics merrily. I think about if the roles were reversed; how, if I and two of my Italian cousins were packed into that truck pushing cannoli, he would banter with me. But Italians don’t do the food truck thing, so that’s just a silly thing to reckon on.

Today I had a conversation with my VGF (very good friend, if you aren’t in the know) Richard via the mighty GTAWK. He was telling me about his two-years-old niece and her languageplay:

Richard: she stacks words together until she gets a response

[note to the masses: we had just covered an impressive 'colorful' phrase she's apparently been barking as of late]


Jett: and I mean, NO REALLY I LOVE THAT

Richard: no doubt

Richard:it’s kinda your MO too

Jett: I’m going to quote you on that, you know

In short, his niece is brilliant, squishy cheeks and all. That must make me brilliant, as well, squishy cheeks and all.

Today I was part of a travelling music revue. While Sam and Scout swapped out lead on ‘Golden Days‘, Piper and I took backing vocals and Lili and Mathias handled percussion (what, you don’t have a set of One Shots and some sweet little bongos readily available in your vehicle? these item are important to carry along in your car: a roadside emergency kit, a stash of extra napkins, a small first aid kit and Some Percussive Things) as deftly as any seven- and eight-year-old ever would. We had the windows down and the night halogen and waning humidity swirled around us as we swapped singing parts on ‘Accidental Man‘. We closed with ‘I Am A Leaver’, how apropos:

See my soul makes it home / I’m high in wretched why / I’m standing here alone.

I left you on the street / With a face so long, that it touched your feet.

I am a leaver / Is my time wasting well? / I am a leaver / How have I landed, since I fell?

We sang it in concert, all one voice and pushing, insistent rock-and-roll vibe. Our hair whipped like tendrils of fire around our heads and the brokenness in each of us got left five miles back on the road somewhere to catch up later.

That was what happened today. Some of what happened today, anyway.

|| May 29, 2007 || 10:09 pm || Comments (0) ||


Um, wow, man.

We are in just as much awe over our giftings as you are!

Yet another new phrase has been coined in the (Super-Happenin’ and Wocked Incredible) Superior Domicile: ding-a-lingo.

It is –quite loosely, of course– defined as:

1) the vernacular of someone known as a ding-a-ling.

“He spoke so much ding-a-lingo that he gave himself away!”

2) the act of talking about one’s penis.

“Who gives a shit about some Vagina Monologues? Let’s have a little ding-a-lingo up in here!”

Funny how ‘analysis’ is right next to ‘anarchy’ in the dictionary.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I guess I may have reached the conclusion that all those crop circles out there were created by Scientologists. It just seems like the sneaky sort of thing they would do.

Please, fold my beliefs wholesale into yourself without question and save us all a little teeth-gritting and cold sweat on the back end.

I think about how –in a short ten or fifteen years– that people in even tamish sorts of hamlets will have to lock their cars up at night and never, ever forget to set the deadbolt, even during waking hours.

I mean, I still see the beauty, but more and more I feel a creeping sense of dread clawing for purchase square between my shoulderblades.

I used to talk at length with this dreadlocked boy from Winter Haven Florididia by the name of Kelvin. Given my annoying propensity to give everyone I give a damn about a smarmy nickname, I’d call him Kornflake or Kornelius. He was the biggest effortless genius about chord structure and patterns in music I’ve ever come across. He wore coveralls all day and, ironically enough, moved pianos for a living. He’d bitch to me about the fat ladies who required their instruments be grunted up to a second-floor enclave only so they could play trite hunt-and-peck melodies when the urge struck them. He was ate up by this, by their self-indulgence and lack of disciplined reverence, in the way it irks me to see a house abandoned and falling in on itself.

“Somewhere there is somebody who would love and appreciate and care for that if only given the opportunity. Why is it going to waste??”

If foliage is overtaking the house from the inside, something goes a little screamy and nutso deep inside of me.

Certain things grab hold of me and won’t shake loose. For instance, I am terrorized by mathematics, but numbers and patterns enthrall me. There are constant number games in my head throughout the day, but it’s frustrating because they require more effort from me than most.

Places like this are sweetly nifty to me.

Funny, I see all these people bemoaning the fact that myspace is so damn clunky and inelegant, but there are scores and score signed up…including the complainers.

Oh God, hahaha. (NOTE: Favorite lines are “Spain. Spain.” and “I will shoot you so hard you will shit a gun.”)

Every time I meet a kid who has been given a stripper’s name by their foolish-assed parents, I want to run out and buy said child some spangledy g-strings and pay for their pole lessons. I recently made the acquaintance of a girl named Ember. EMBER, FOR CHRISSAKES. Surely her mother knew the fate she was consigning her to, didn’t she? This angers me irrationaly.

Recently someone I know had the privilege of entry into one of the most extensive, exclusive, valuable guitar/banjo/mandolin collections known to man. Given the choice between picking up and playing one of Johnny Cash’s guitars or one of Jerry Garcia’s, the latter was the option of choice. I scream to the gods in agony, “Why, whyyyyyyy?”

I bought this hand-carved artisan mug recently. It’s black, mostly, with some ivory thrown in. It’s carved in woodblock printing fashion, with raised letters that say even if the world was to End tomorrow i would still plant a Tree today. Metaphorically it says everything about me anyone could ever need to know: I intend to live and mean it until the very damn end. That’s probably why I spent too damned much on the thing. Should anyone ever ask me to sum myself up in a sentence, I will waggle the mug at them and scowl. The mug will be filled with Mountain Dew; the scowl will be filled with heart.

I am nearing the third anniversary of (one of) my best friends’ (EV. ER.) death. I am also nearing a point where I can open a vein and write about her grimly and buoyantly and honestly. This is important. Like, in a big way.

My mom was a telephone operator for a while before I was born, all through her pregnancy with me, and a decent ways beyond. By the time I was five or six, I was playing on the country partylines out at my grandmother’s very rural home; by the time I was eight I was tearing down handsets –then bases– and reconfiguring their guts, fascinated.

I guess I like pretty things and gritty things equally. Gritty Pretty Things is in reserve as the moniker for yet another of my projects. Please do feel free to guess away in the commentses.

I don’t tend to dwell on the past overmuch, but I do miss those Southern summers I meted out in sweat and peas shucked and toedips in Storm Creek. My cousins would try to terrify me with tales of giant snapping turtles that would grab you and only let go if it came a sudden summer lightning wash. They told one that actually did (scarify me royally, that is): Seems there was an elderly gentleman who got snagged up by his left nipple and writhed in his fishing boat in agony; God saw fit to bless him with an electrical storm only two hours into his lonely, horrifying ordeal. Even at the age of five, I knew how to calculate all the negatives: Alone. Distress. Injury. Desperation. Salvation (in the form of lightning strikes) was potentially deadly, as the man was placed in a metal boat. On the water. Surely this was the stuff of damnation. All of these things occurred to my young mind as grim practicalities. I stayed out of the reeds. I watched for the fucking turtles. One could never tell.

I called bullshit on the ‘no-swimming-until-thirty-minutes-after-eating’ rule actively, loudly and often. Because, bullshit.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, was one of those braindump entries you hear so dang much about. Guess I’m about done. Kind of like trying to drink a milkshake out of a sweatsock on a bumpy country road, innit?

I only just want to attend to my dental fucking hygeine!

I am constantly bringing dental floss to the office and I am constantly losing said dental floss.

Look, this is just dumb, because this office isn’t that bloody BIG.

Somewhere around here there is a pile of about fifty cute little wee boxes of floss that have only been used twice or maybe even thrice. They are giggling and insulting me in a foreign tongue, I just know it.


|| May 20, 2007 || 10:04 pm || Comments (4) ||


I forgot to tell you! At the foster parent appreciation dinner recently, we won a cash doorprize, w00t. It only happened because Maxim arrived before me, got the ticket, stuck the ticket in his pocket; I didn’t see, touch or breathe on that thing.

When they started the prize giveaways, I was leaned up against a wall, a gaggle of social workers surrounding me, doing catchup. I haven’t seen some of these people since I stopped working for the state a couple of years ago.

“Oooh!” I said, “Ooooh, watch this: We are gonna win because I’ve not sullied that ticket’s mojo.” Sure enough, ours was the second number called.

“Told you,” I said smugly. Everyone was understandably wowed.

Hey, have I forgotten to tell you that Scout is going back to Scotland on a mission trip next month? Maxim is going, as well. We started out with Piper and Sam headed over as well, but various circumstances and situations have altered those plans.Me, I’m staying home, because I’m not ‘called to go’ this go-round.

Anyway, Maxim’s funding was short by a (relatively small) triple-digit amount. What we won that night was exactly that number, so I told him to keep it all and apply it toward his balance.

And just in case you were wondering? Yes indeed, we foster parents are getting rich off of all this kid-farming business. RIIIIIICH, I TELLS YE.

pee ess…I still miss the old Blogger splash page.