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Archive for September, 2007

 
|| September 7, 2007 || 12:24 am || Comments (1) ||

Friday sing-along, beeshes.

Go here for accompaniment.

Aaaand, your lyric sheet:

One-two, one-two, three-four

Come inside my pain cave, and I’ll bludgeon you.

You don’t have to scream, because your ears are bleeding.

That’s perfectly normal when someone bludgeons you.

The bleeding part that I was just referring to.

Paaaaaaain Caaaaaaave

Paaaaaaain Caaaaaaave

Paaaaaaain Caaaaaaave

Paaaaaaain Caaaaaaave

Paaaaaaain… (big finish!)

(jammin!)

(nirvana eat your heart out!)

Pretty, pretty pain cave

(Pain cave)

Pretty, pretty pain cave

(So pretty the cave we spoke of!)

Pretty, pretty pain cave in the pain cave

(If it wasn’t pretty we wouldn’t call it pretty!)

Come into my pretty pretty pain cave.

Come into my pretty pretty pain cave.

Come into my pretty pretty pain caaave…

(wooo! alright! good one! rock on! okay! that was the long version!)

For time out of mind Maxim has sung the words ‘Pretty, pretty pain cave, paaaain caaaave’ at me. When we played music together in the waybackwhen, he would joke toward me while we all practiced, “That’s you, Jett. You’re our Pretty Pretty Pain Cave.”

The other day I decided, “That’s it, damnit, I’m having shirts printed up with Pretty Pretty Pain Cave emblazoned across the chest.” It’s gonna be done in a messy, flowery, scrolly script. I might be persuaded to take orders for same.

 
|| September 6, 2007 || 2:42 pm || Comments (7) ||

(by the by)

When the United States Central Intelligence Agency sets up a command post in the parking lot of a small church in the tiny-ish hamlet of Crossville, Alabama, that is Kind Of A Big Fucking Deal.

Just so you know and all.

 
|| September 5, 2007 || 12:09 pm || Comments (1) ||

random but loosely connected

we loves presentses and we loves gunses

“I have a surprise for you,” Maxim told me this weekend.

He pulled his hand from behind his back; in it was clutched an olive drab teeshirt. The front of it sported a very large weapon and also the brilliant bit of phraseology, ‘UZI DOES IT.’

“It’s from Israel. Joseph ordered it for me.

“I was going to put it in your Christmas stocking, but I figured you could use it right about now.”

My spouse saw this wanton piece of apparel and immediately thought of me, was so tickled that I just HAD to have it. I have an UZI DOES IT shirt, people. En-fucking-vy me.

everyone is on notice, damnit

Making the bimonthly sweep through the kids’ MySpace accounts, I saw a bulletin from last night in Sam’s outbox entitled ‘Scout’. Opening it, I read the following:

everyone please be nice to my sister tomorrow or i will kick you in the throat =]… she’s had a rough weekend … have a nice day =]

I will excuse his being on the internet after formal curfew, I believe.

what’s the opposite of ‘tidings of comfort and joy’??

Exhausted from the past five days’ events, I hollered “FUCK IT!” and rounded up the fam to take them out to dinner rather than cook yesterday evening. We’d no sooner pulled up to the restaurant when I got a call on my mobile. Maxim’s best boyhood friend, the kind that survives on into adulthood and marriage(s) and children, has two brothers that Maxim is fairly close to as well. The call I received was from his wife. The younger of the two shot himself this weekend.

“He did it in front of Mom’s house,” is what Kandi told me, “Michael’s been too much of a mess to call.” Left behind were two little girls, two and one, and one junkie wife. Grrrrreat.

DEAR LIFE,

GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK FOR A MINUTE, YOU ASSHOLE.

SINCERELY,

JETT

Viewing’s tonight. Funeral’s tomorrow. Closed casket, der.

king of gestures

This morning, after a kind of hairy night, I eschewed the gym and got ready at home. When I headed out, I aimed it toward Subway for the breaking of the fast. Pretty much my set point is still numb right now, and I’m thankful for that despite its overall oddity. I’m nearly never lukewarm about anything, so it’s a very, very strange state of being for me.

When I leave from Subway, there is a four-lane that I must cross in order to go to the office. There, across the south lanes and the north lanes and the median in between, stood a slightly chubby mentally retarded man. He was gleefully pumping his fist up and down in the air, throwing out the universal sign for HEY TRUCKERS LAY TO THAT HORN FOR ME WILLYA at every eighteen-wheeler that passed. Long about eight-thirty in the morning in these parts (we are rife with chicken plants and industrial developments), that’s a lotta dang trucks.

I watched the enthusiasm with which he worked, the sheer joy of something so mundane as a horn blast bleeding out from every bit of him when he was rewarded with a trucker’s attentions and goodwill. I sat, smiling warmly and somewhat (I’m sure) maternally in his direction for a couple-three minutes. Round about then, he noticed me noticing him and waved a big, floppy greeting. The very second I returned the wave, he went all nutso, dry-humping the air and grabbing his crotch and doing tongue circles between a spread index and middle finger. Apparently the retarded man has been well-instructed in the art of universal symbology, You Dear Muffinasses.

And let me tell you, that just made my damn day; somewhat like an errant child, he may have needed an ass-whipping but I laughed until I hooted and squeezed tears. It was my First Story Of The Day for Tess and HotDoc, and it was a dead-on hit.

 
|| September 4, 2007 || 11:05 am || Comments (1) ||

What Tess just drug out of me.

“It’s an incomprehensible thing, grieving someone who is still alive. I can’t even begin to communicate the what of it.

“I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I’m on autopilot, but there is some tensile something that connects the insides of me to the outsides and it’s stretched just about as far as it can stretch without snapping right about now.”

Thank you for your kind words, your comments and well-wishes, your texts and mails and calls, your privately-issued “I love yous“. And marc? Thank you for drunkdialing me and playing The Avoidance Game.

I can’t go into it all just now –it’s too terribly raw– but I’ll write it out when I’ve got my head and my guts sorted. I know that Piper will make her way here eventually, she won’t be able not to. To her I say, I love you. You were a gift to me from God, and even though you arrived in an unconventional manner, never forget that He made me your mother. I will carry you around in my heart, for better or for worse, as long as it beats.