A Random Image

Archive for October, 2007

 
|| October 22, 2007 || 10:27 pm || Comments (0) ||

the sound of the rain, filtered through the window screens and bouncing off of the wall next to my overimportant writing desk has an eerie scraping undercurrent to it. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life had a disquieting feeling about rain. that’s one more thing to grace the ‘things I’ve experienced’ box.

last night, I was sitting at a concert and –so enraptured was I by the music– whipped out my phone to record a snippet for e-mailing to myself. I was intrigued today to find that my recording device’s lack of sophistication resulted in what amounted to the aural approximation of about a thousand unsettled wasps in a middlish-sized hunk of lead pipe….what I imagine that might sound like, anyway. I’ve never had the distinct displeasure.

I digress–I wasn’t sitting at a concert so much as I was lying in the same room as one. ten yards back from the stage, up near the ceiling atop an eight-by-eight sort of crow’s nest, I had the best view I think I have ever boasted. when you are above the band, the music hits you before the images do and it’s enrapturing in a really organic way. didn’t hurt that the floor beneath my stretched-long body was thrumming with everything it had, and the music found its way straight to my chest before it was run from the ground up through dampers like knees and hips and pesky things like kidneys, the greediest of all filtration devices.

the most interesting sensation was the thrumming of my uterus sans the regular postcoital recovery method. thaaaat business was crazy and enlightening after a fashion all its own. i think I’ll see more shows from the air above them while lying on my belly. somehow. don’t worry about me, I’ll work it out.

other things that romanced me last night:

+ when I pointed out to Wes that he’d likely need more clothes (“It’s always freezing in there, man,” I relayed to him while giving him a cursory nod of the head) than the overalls and tank top he had on, he fished around in the back seat of the car for three seconds; he then brought out an orange-and-brown puffy vest to sport over his beat-in Liberties. he looked, in a word, fuckingamazing.

+ the contrast of the bass player’s so-shiny-it-could-be-pleather cherry red instrument against his softly-plaid ivory/tan/tender blue trousers. hot damn, hot damn

+ the bow that the guitar player pulled finely and precisely across his les paul standard (thank you, oh mighty gibson, you are one thing america can still jut its chin obnoxiously out about)

+ the influence of tool and dream theater liberally sprinkled with some geoff tate-styled vocals that pushed up through what these boys were extracting from their respectable musical abilities

+ my sudden and inexplicable (but thank-you, o ye magical slumberforce) ability to sleep, deep and dark and unmoved, for six to seven hours at a stretch.

hey, by way of closing here is some really bad poetry for all of you wot like that sort of thing:

and now, let us speak of pretty things, dainty things

let us speak of things both wild and oily

let us speak of the indefatigable and the shamed

then we’ll dress our beds for ceremony

the pomp and circumstance of sleep that ushers dreams

shows, grand plays, about the tentative way we view reality

and the pitiable cries of them as we fall once again

stumbling on the morning sunlight and open thirst

of the freshly awakened, robbed and mourning.

 
|| October 22, 2007 || 11:31 am || Comments (6) ||

! more audience participation !

I know you are EXCITED.

So, this weekend the fam and I will be embarking on a road trip. Whenever I go through a lottery state, I’ll spend about twenty bucks on scratch-offs (like a crazed gambling junkie, yo), which I am amazingly gifted at in the luck department. For trues, I most always win at least the amount of cash I’ve invested; I may have, however, just sledgehammered that little bit of fortune by speaking about it with you, delicious reader. Maybe not, though, since I’ve shared about my Good Parking Space Mojo before and it seems to have gone unaffected from an adversity standpoint.

Another thing I do is to drop a fiver on the MegaMillions lottery. I look at it from this standpoint: That’s five less dollars-worth of damage to my liver or one less bath bomb every three or four months. My MegaMillions mojo is not as powerful as my scratch-off mojo, though. This is where you Muffinassedly Folk come in. Give me your best numbers! If you want to play a full ticket, that’s five numbers ranging from one to fifty-six and a single powerball number from one to forty-six. If you don’t want to play a full ticket, throw me some good bones.

I want all you shy, backgrounder types (Robinson! Brynne! Rod!) to play along, too. Should I win big –like, to the tune of six digits or better– and become a dastardly, evil jetsetting tycoon world-travelling philanthropist, I’ll slide you a *minimum* of a hunnert bux for every number supplied by you that hits. Let’s do the dang thang!

 
|| October 19, 2007 || 11:04 pm || Comments (0) ||

This week is one of them.

Some weeks the set of my chin is better than others.

 
|| October 18, 2007 || 11:32 pm || Comments (8) ||

three-parter

While I was away Important Things were happening. I’m only here to tell you about three of them, though.

FIRSTLY: Get ready to pee yourselves, because I now am the proud owner of an assault rifle, I shit you not. The hippie done purchaseded it (! and !!?!*&^%!) saying –and here I do not embellish not nary a pinky nail’s bit– “I cannot wait to see you firing that thing!” So, in case you had not the first hint of an idea, the little myth that you grow more like your spouse as time goes on turns out to not be so golly-gee mythological at all. Expect me to be buried sporting a goatee, desperately clutching a box of Nag Champa to offer toward my boat passage across yon Styx. I’m just sayin’.

In other words, badass trumps pacifism, yea and verily-like. At least in these four walls. At least recently.

NEXTLY: You might have noticed a little “DECABLOGGERS HAVE GONE FISHING. CHECK US NEXT WEEK” action last week. This was not dramatically timed to coincide with my “Meh, on a break” post a couple spots down the page here. Even I’m not that heinously over-the-top, sheez. What all that was about was a little changing of the guard. I, after an insanely long and complicated time on these here interwebnets, own this domain I’m parked on. In essence, TheDane left the babysitter all carefree and popping popcorn, only to call and say, “The baby, she is too burdensome, call me if you need any emergency medical information, but mostly she’s just all yours. I’ll be Fed-Exing the paperwork any second.” Wow. WHO NEEDS TO BE HOSTED? I’m a snobby bastard, so don’t get your feelings hurt should I say no. I mean really, I’m the woman who told a girl one time to GO IMMEDIATELY AWAY FROM MY WEBSITE, IF YOU WERE MY KID AND READING THIS FILTH, I WOULD WHIP YOUR ASS AND POUR ICE WATER INTO YOUR CENTRAL PROCESSING UNIT.

But seriously, there are some vacancies on this ten-spotter that long for some decent writing and I aim to fill them. You know, in my shambling, booze-crazed way.

THIRDLY: I have wanted an Akita for dang near half my life, which is to say: Eons. Recently I’ve also been possessed of a mad desire to have a pet to run with me in the evenings. Baxter is a huge, unwieldy beast and honestly, prefers the confines of both the backyard and his own personal brand of doggie insanity. If he wasn’t too old at this juncture to learn new tricks, (HA!) I’d teach him to type and host *him* on the Deca. Because seriously, there is some great voyeurnal material knocking around up there in that massive head of his. Baxter would be all about the story-telling, but is not really about all this Encircling The Block At A Steady Pace business.

Ellie, well, she is just this spastic little Australian Shepherd who makes this terrible ‘HACK, HACK, GAAAACK’ noise each. andevery. tiiiiime I put a leash on her. She has things to see! Stuff to freak out about! Side trips to be made! Spazzing to be done! And how dare I, mere mortal and feckless human-person that I am, try to stifle her with something so fucking paltry as a (wrinkle your nose here, oh great Muffinass, in the most disdainful way you can muster) leash. “I will run on my own terms, Silly Person,” is what she conveys to me consistently. So, Ellie (much as I am fond of the excited little knucklehead) is relegated to fetch-partner. I can throw a ball for hours and not get bored, as long as she’ll retrieve it.

So after searching high and low, and after taking a certain amount of abuse from a certain animal activist in Georgia (THAT WHORE, but more on that later), I’ve found what is likely going to be my running companion and the only mutt in this house (to include the childpersons* in residence) that will be allowed past the doorjamb of Yon Hallowed Superior Enclave Of Peace And Reclaiming Of Daily Sanity, a.k.a. my and Maxim’s bedroom.

Here’s a photo of her:

new doggie

She’s an Akita/Shibu mix. You are excited, no?

I’m a little stuck with her name. The one she currently has consists of three syllables and is kind of, well, dumbass in nature. Seriously, a dog’s name should really be two syllables or less, and if not, it better be a damn good roll off the tongue. So here’s where the oft-awaited, but hardly-utilized Audience Participation Stuff comes in. Help me name her, if you’d like. I mean, I have a couple (Nova?) of monikers (Poppy.) in mind, but nothing has fixed itself there yet.

I’ll likely go to check her out in early November, hang out with her, see if she’s a good fit for us; if she passes muster, I’ll be bringing her home that day. I’d like to have her name already considered and pretty much fixed should she climb in the car.

Two considerations: I’d like something of the aforementioned single or double syllable variety and I’m leaning toward something fiercely, stereotypically-bordering-on-comically Southern. Southerin, as it were. I’m not even kidding: I’ve seriously bandied about things like ‘Delta’ (after the region I’m from, and after the Tanya Tucker joint I’ve sung drunkenly countless times, *not* after that chubby belle married to that Gerald McMajorDad guy) and ‘Lurleen’. You see where I’m at with this?

…and the first one of you to say something like ‘Donna Jo’ gets punched. I mean really, I can fuck this one up on my own.

*I’m KIDDING, y’all. They’re allowed in if they have presents for Mommy and Daddy. Or if they’re delivering a stack of freshly-laundered and -folded clothing.

 

writing our future, with stickpeople and everything

 
|| October 5, 2007 || 12:27 am || Comments (1) ||

“Just like fine wine: Except it tastes nasty.”

So, I’ve not gotten to tell you about the BIG! ATLANTA! FUN!

I keep meaning to do that, to shout about what a fabulous, not-as-seedy-as-I’d-have-initially-thought good time it all was, and how awesome it was to finally get to hang with Clayton after all these years of corresponding in various mediums, to tell you about how really and truly lovely it was to make inside, experiential jokes with fellow navel-gazing dorks that have long been separated from me by a keyboard, the ether and an armful of miles. Clayton, for those not in the know, is some sort of zen guru of hugging, and as I am a Hug Machinetm myself, I fully appreciated him greeting me with arms wide open and laying to it with the “Helloooo, friend!” full-on body press that everyone is so skittish about and ginger with these days. Clayton will be my friend for ever and ever amen, now, because he is unselfish with a goodly hug.

And though I want to tell you about all the lap dances Skillzy and Clay bought me, about Ivy and Paige and Mariah and Desiree (Nubian-Amazon Goddess of Forbidden Bling) and the Canadian Gypsy Endocrinologist (“SCOTTISH!” Skillzy kept hollering, “YOU KEEP FORGETTING TO TELL PEOPLE THAT SHE IS A SCOTTISH CANADIAN GYPSY ENDOCRINOLOGIST! Gah!”), about Big Mama The Angel Of The Laydehs Room, about the waiter at the pre-festivities pub who hated me within like thirty seconds of talking to the three of us yet kept an appreciative eye on my tits here and there, and even how I oh-so-badly want to regale you with the tale of how Clayton came to be known as the Lebanese Brad Pitt over a pot of delicious and gritty coffee, I cannot. Some magicks are not for sharing.

Then, fanciful and ardent readers, there was the music festival this weekend, where my friend Ryan asked glibly for some kid to kick him in the face and the skinny little bastard didn’t realize what Rhetorical Device actually was and proceeded to put a solid boot –powered by an amazingly bony, underdeveloped laig– right into Ryan’s mouth. This was no mean feat, as that mouth hovers around six feet off the ground and the kick-delivering kid was maybe nipple-height to good ole Ry. This whole happenstance, of course, was accompanied by my Ryan’s look of utter discombobulation, my uninhibited hooting and barking of the laughters (lo unto bringing me to the ground) and by Tess saying, “GODDANG, RYAN, GODDANG you’re stupid! Who ASKS to be KICKED! IN! THEFACE??! You deserved that. GAH! Let’s go get another beer. Mine’s disappeared.” Then there were Magickal Happeningks in the VIP tent, and more of such outside a line of port-a-potties (yes! I even have adventures in the near vicinity of port-a-potties) where I uttered the phrase, “Um, listen up J. Crew, you need to school your friend there. Get him away from her, because she will straight up kick his ass.” to a college fellow who looked a) confused and b) sort of dumbfounded at the scene that played out before him. Yes, I was referring to Tess, because she was ten kinds of red at this dumb jock abercrombie-wearing bastard who picked just the appropriate moment to be just the wrong titch of arrogant with the exactly right girl.

I will go into detail about the festival laters on, because there were lots of wee defining moments that were just terrific from a storytelling standpoint, but I’m frustrated because at the mo I just can’t put myself back in that place in order to properly convey the scenes, the players, the happenings. I can’t do that because just as I was coming here to post it the other morning (I got out the opening paragraph, and it began, “The weekend started out gangbusters. The bartendress asked my name, but commenced calling me ‘Sparky’ near-immediately. I saw this as a Portent Of Goodness: I knew there would be Adventures, and I knew there would be Magic, and in the middle of it all, I just knew there would be a Delighted, Delighted Me. Giddy, even.” I even had the closer in mind, how at the end of all the festivities, after we’d all walked more miles from stage to stage to stage than we had beer cans to mark off –and that is an ungodly lot, let me just say–, a beautiful woman stopped me on the exodus outward to tell me, “You are the most fun person I think I’ve ever seen in my life.” which is probably up in the top five of all the best compliments I’ve ever received in all my life.) I got a call, and that call was from the magical Auntie Brosh that I’ve mentioned only in passing here a couple times before. She was going for tests. Big, scary tests of the emergency sort. Such an emergency, in fact, that they sent her to Birmingham.

Today’s call included a massive, imposing, somewhat hyperstatic descriptor: “They’re trying to tell me it’s Widespread Metastatic Cancer of the Spinal Column. It appears to be concentrated in the Thoracic and Lumbar regions, with a rather large mass seated on my sacro-iliac and my left iliac crest.

“My doctor says there are fifteen masses and he’s never seen anything quite like them. I don’t know, when I looked at the films I stopped counting at twelve. I thought the number just might keep climbing and climbing and I couldn’t remember all the numbers in order after twelve anyway.

“I’m not receiving all that, Beth. I refuse to. I have been too perfectly healthy. This is just out of the blue.”

‘Widespread Metastatic Cancer of the Spinal Column’ just sounds like so graceful a name for such a nauseating thing, doesn’t it? Cancer, Cancer, CAN. CER. The word ‘cancer’ sounds more fitting, hard and brutal and choppy, unforgiving and relentless. Let’s not romanticize The Boogey Man, okay??

We went on to talk and laugh, her voice strong with both conviction and mirth, never once cracking under the strain, until –as is my way– I finally let fly with, “Look, we don’t bullshit one another and we never have; you must just be scared witless.”

“Oh, I am,” is what she said to me, “but I just keep thinking of everything I’ve got to get done in case the preliminary findings turn out to be accurate: I’ve got to make chicken and dressing and lasagna to freeze up –my girls don’t know how to do anything, God bless ‘em. I’ve got to get all my Christmas shopping done, just in case I’m not here then….

“I know that you and Maxim have a hotline to God. I know you do, so I’m just gonna ask that you use it. Kayce gets married next year, Cort graduates, Matteo is only starting college, who’ll feed the damn dogs if I’m not around? Who will take Sam and Scout and Mathias to the beach?”

“Oh, honey,” I told her, “let me assure you every breath has been a prayer. I can’t let you die! You’re the only one on that side of the family that I even LIKE! If you go away, I’m left to my own devices, and how horrible would that be?

“You can’t go anywhere. I’ma tie your shoelaces together, so that if you even so much as trrryyyyyyy to shuffle off the mortal coil, you will trip and fall on your face.”

She exploded into laughter then, oh sweet relief. Good, I thought to myself, if I can still make her laugh there is still life and hope.

There are a tiny handful women in my life –strong, graceful, powerful and loving– that I try to model myself after. Any semblance of anything good or appealing that people see in me is because of these women that I attempt to emulate in my dealings with others. My best friend was one of these women. My Auntie Brosh is another. Heather was thirty-three and a half when cancer took her, broken and rattling, down the chute at alarming speed three years ago. Auntie Brosh is in her early fifties, young and vibrant.

Here, part of how I eulogized my best friend three years ago:

One reason, to this day, that I have so few female friends is that Heather’s the yardstick by which I measure potential partners-in-mayhem and those to which I’d bare the absolute guts of who I really am.

Gwen, Gary….though I know it may be of small comfort to you since you no longer have your daughter here physically with you, I want you to know that she resides in me, as she helped to form a good chunk of the woman I have become. Heather had much to do with shaping aspects of me that others deem valuable.

I believe strongly that you take something away from every relationship, every interaction that you are a part of. However, there are only three other women I could definitively say the above-scribed about, and my aunt is one of them.

We are a family that believes strongly in dreams and prophecy. This past week, two nights in a row, Maxim had one dream. He was at a wake, and there was a woman being memorialized. Her lips and eyes had been sealed shut in preparation for her burial. He saw her move, heard her make noise, suddenly and instinctively knew that she had been declared dead too soon. “A voice from inside my gut just kept insisting, ‘This is A Mistake. It’s A Mistake.’” he told me the first morning post-dream. He does this: He brings things to me to lay out in front of him and sort; I then scry the bones of his dreamscape, feeding him what I believe to be the best interpretation I have. If I’ve no answers, I tell him so. This dream captivated me, but I had no clue when he asked me who I thought the woman might be. I showed him my palms, shrugged faintly in an empty gesture, “I don’t know, Maxim. I haven’t any idea.” The next morning he woke and said two things, “I had the dream again, the exact same one from last night.

“It was a mistake, Beth, A Mistake.” I believed him, and I believed his dream: Whomever it turned out to represent, it would be A Mistake, pure and simple.

This afternoon, when I told the children the news Brosh had relayed, Sam hung his head and cried. Scout immediately and decisively started ticking off names. “Those are the people we’re supposed to take with us and go pray over her. We have to go this weekend, mother.” They exhibited two of my favorite traits about them cleanly right there: These kids of mine are compassionate, and they are proactive. I –and maybe foolishly so– believe them (and others I’ve known like them) to be the hope-bringers, the miracle-makers of their generation.

What I’m doing here is asking, I guess, that you pray if you are at all the praying sort. Not only that you pray, but that you request others join you, because Brosh is one of the good ones, one of those remarkable and graceful and humor-filled Southerin Wimmen that books and plays are written about. What is going on here is not only A Mistake, but A Mighty Big Fucking Mistake. Please hold hands and believe with me.

…and I’d also like to tell you that, though not conclusively, I think I’ve decided to stop writing here for a little bit. The last three or four months of my life have been dipped in a lot of dark and I feel like a massive schmuck coming here with only doom and gloom to dole out. Every time I get up the gumption to share some funny or some sparkley with you, I’m taking one on the emotional jaw before I know it and it just seeps all over and through and out my fingertips to slide up onto your screens. You All Have Troubles Of Your Own, You Don’t Need None-a Mine. You have the e-mail, and you have the digits, and if you want the latter, I just might come across with them if we’ve had any semblance of contact.

In the past year, I’ve been toying with the idea of abandoning voyeurnalling altogether; in the past six months or so I’ve thought seriously about just coming out from under the cloak of pseudonym-anonymity. Some of my favorite people do it and have for some time. If those weenies can swing it, surely I can as well.

Peace, all you folk.

 
|| October 3, 2007 || 4:54 pm || Comments (4) ||

hands-down, I get *the best* voice mails

“Heh.

“You shoulda seen me tryin’ ta explain at three in the mornin’ why a girl would call me that I’ve never met.

*clears throat*

“I’m not Fred Astaire, I’m, mmmmm, more of a Gene Kelly type, but…. that was tap dancing at its very finest.”

He and I are only just friends and always will be Only Just Friends, but I have to just tell you that the way he said ‘finest’, with sort of a full-rounded hiss-emphasis on the ess, was Really Fucking Hot. And Ella Fitzgerald (best I can tell) was playing in the background, doubling the hotness factor.

To him, I say, all you had to tell her was that “…she’s a Portry-Loving Insomniac Drunk, sweetcheeks, Just Like Me. We would have No Business In The Universe being romantically (or lustfully, or whatever other adjective suits) involved. You’ve nothing atall to worry about.”