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Archive for July, 2008

|| July 31, 2008 || 5:13 pm || Comments (6) ||

(so I unembarrassedly confess)

I’m terribly addicted to Human Pets lately. We all know of my love for complete loons and, let’s face it, bloggy folk aren’t bringin’ the wackadoo anywhere near like they used to; they’re afraid of losing advertisers or sommat.

HP (as we swingin’ insiders call it), darlings, is fully saturated in the wackadoo. When I’m in Thompsonesque company, it makes me slightly happy, because I get to be proud that I’m a(n extremely tiny) smidge better by comparison, and I get to utter spectacular one-offs. Yesterday I got to say, “And thank you, thank you for buying me from that tragically creepy man.

“I’m okay with people beating the shit out of each other in the name of sexual freedom, but please, let’s be discreet about it. I mean, God, I don’t walk around with a pair of men’s hands wrapped around my neck, do I?? No, I don’t, because that would horrify my mother.”

Said man had pictures of himself hanging on a cross and this spiky penis-cover thing that he apparently doesn’t remove during intercourse. Er. Let me just clarify something here and now: I don’t have a damn thing against sexmarks, but I have no desire for my sexmarks to run inches-deep and -long, nor do I want them to be permanent.

Well, not unless there is a bunch of money involved. Or the guy is amazingly special. Har-har. (See mom? This is why you don’t want to be sneaking in here. THIS IS WHY I NEVER INVITED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE)

I can’t believe some of you are still my friends, knowing that one day I will show up in your hometowns to stand on your porch and say, “HIIII! I’m here! Now let’s go get drunk so I can say the obnoxious things I typically say slightly louder and amidst a crowd of people I have never met. This is How We Have Teh Funs.”

Raise your hand if you can’t wait, puddin’.

|| July 30, 2008 || 6:40 pm || Comments (3) ||

fatherly advice

I’ve had a rough couple of weeks. There have been four distinct ceedees that have kept me powering on through those days. One of them is Guided By Voice’s Bee Thousand. If you don’t own it, please go out right this very now and procure it. Let your ears be kissed and your soul be expanded by giving it a rough, quick listen and then returning a little bit later or the next day to really immerse yourself in it. Trust me.

You trust me, right?

(one other is Explosions In The Sky’s All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone)

(one other is a really tight mix sent to me a couple years back)

(one other is Otis Redding’s Greatest Hits)

Sixteen-thousand words. And and eensy smidge of commentary.

McDaniel Avenue
:: McDaniel Avenue ::

no pussies, whiners or momma's boys (for RDB)
:: no pussies, whiners or momma’s boys (for RDB) ::

protection of the church
:: protection of the church ::

Scout visits Gotham
:: Scout visits Gotham ::

wedding spectres
:: wedding spectres ::

evening reflection
:: evening reflection ::

low-key celebrity encounter number 458: ice-ice and baybeh
:: low-key celebrity encounter number 458: ice-ice and baybeh ::

he sang 'Billie Jean' to entice me.
:: he sang ‘Billie Jean’ to entice me. ::

Okay, from top to bottom:

+ I had Scout, my sister Emma, and Lemmy with me. Lemmy, as you recall, is a skinny white kid who rocks the nerd vibe. What I haven’t told you is that he is a little overmothered. While Emma and Scout crawled around this scrappy neighborhood taking pictures alongside me (we were shooting with three wildly different kinds of cameras so as to compare and swap results for a project), Lemmy hung from a window shouting, “I AM WHITE, NOT ESPECIALLY STREETWISE AND VERY, VERRRRRRY AFRAID.” Okay, not really. He did, however –and my hand is to God on this one– occasionally roll said window down and holler something about hurrying up before we all got ’shanked’. Note to Whitest White Kid Ever: Only ignorant, nervous crackers get ’shanked’. And really, shanked?? Come the fuck on, Beavis. But yeah, walk in, ride out. Pretty accurate descriptor for that particular neighborhood.

+ The Ninja, my favorite coaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. This one is for Richard, who lives in the underprivileged land of New Zealand, where they deprive their children of key childhood developmental tools like Moon Piestm and monstrous roller coasters. I sent him a box of Moon Piestm, but I am not about to find a way to pack a orgasm-inducing thrill ride and ship it internationally. There are limits to my a) insanity and b) sense of friendship. Besides, Kiwi customs officials are onto me and I’m flagged four ways to Sunday, probably. I don’t want to talk about it, noseys, but there was once a Minor Incident where they acted Ugly and tore one of my packages all to shit and even confiscated some things. Talk about paranoid!

+ This church is the reason we stopped in Questionable Neighborhood in the first place. I kept driving past it and past it, because it was whispering things to me. Everyone in the car knew I would eventually pull over to investigate it. I stood in front of it for a long couple of minutes before I even raised my camera to my face; it speaks to certain spiritual awakenings occurring in me over the last couple of years. I know these locks are for practical reasons, I get that, but you get this: DON’T LOCK THE CHURCHES. Please don’t make me explain that remark to you.

+ Lots of times lately I think Scout wishes she were an only child. I think she is lonely in a way that no one will ever be able to salve, and I also think that –despite our hormone-infused tangleups lately– she enjoys our one-on-one time more than she is able to express to me. I am endeavoring to keep her afloat in the sea of testosterone we reside in; I am trying to remember that she thrives on female interaction more than I do.

+ If you are the kind of person that despises weddings, then you have never been to a reception hosted by the Superiors or their extended family. There is expensive booze and cheap entertainment. This particular fete ran for roughly five hours, had a no-holds barred layout of food and a fully stocked open bar. The whole room was one big pile of smiling faces and moving feet. And it was even better because Aunt Broash (you remember her, yeah?) was the matron-in-residence and she beamed and beamed and beamed from the other side of what turned out to be a miracle. My cousin Cort and her new husband sang ‘Jackson’ to one another while the rest of us hooted and yeehawed like hillbillies, us in our best hundredsofdollars shoes topped by bare legs. Scandalous.

+ I took a trip to the beach with my family and a family of our friends. We arrived ahead of them, around two in the morning. I’ve never been able to sleep especially late when I’m anywhere near the Gulf, so the morning hours found me stepping quietly out onto the balcony of my uncle’s condo as Maxim and the children slept. Stretched out along yards and yards of post-dawn beach were little dots; the little dots were people journalling, meditating and praying. My head was in a fucked-up place at the time, so it was amazing to be greeted with this. It occurred every morning and evening the first three days we were there….hundreds of people, focused, centered, still. I didn’t even speak with any of them; just the observance was enough to swing me back to center.

+ I’m always telling you people about my low-key celebrity encounters, I figured it was time to pony up and prove it. Now, we all know I’m not a name-dropper or anything, but this was VANILLA ICE. So cheesey and wonderful, how could I not force him to take a picture with my kid? Scout, bless her, is usually kind of blurty. This time she managed to contain herself until the man was in the car that had been waiting to take him and his children to dinner. She leaned in to me conspiratorially and whispered, “Now just who is Vanilla Ice, again? I mean, other than a reality teevee guy.” Aces.

+ An evening of rain had slowed business significantly. He was hollering, “Hey blondie! (me.) Hey pigtails! (also me) Hey, come playyyyy!” I hollered back, “You gotta entice me over there, ya hurr?” “I’ll sing you somethin’! Whatchoo want me to sing?” “Some Michael Jackson!” Without missing a beat he started, “For forty days and for forty nights….” with crotchgrabs and moonwalkings and ‘woo!’s and everything. I’m not exaggerating when I say I carry the party with me.

Hey, are you guys okay?

|| July 28, 2008 || 10:10 pm || Comments (0) ||


uploading photers

real messy-tired

will post them tomorrow.

|| July 26, 2008 || 12:52 am || Comments (6) ||

click track

The other night was a late one at work for both Maxim and me. This, coupled with the fact that Subway has that nifty five-dollar footlongs deal, meant that we weren’t cooking. The courts sent Lili home to her mother earlier this month*, Sam meandered over to Memphis for a couple-three days, so we rounded up Scout and Mathias and headed out for some sammiches.

On the way there, I laughingly told Maxim about how now that we were sponsoring our little Indonesian cutie, Intan, I thought it’d be great fun to invoke the spirit of About Schmidt and write her a letter once a month on this here weeplog. Said letter would of course contain all the whacked-out mutterings and advice that would never make it past translators in a realtime scenario.

Good ole even keel, decorous Maxim suddenly and startlingly forbade me to write about eensy Indonesian Intan in bloggy fashion. Now, you all know that he’s forbidden me to discuss certain subjects with Cyberia in the past and that has only served to make me more rapid with and grandiose in my storytelling. He knows this, too; the man is not a complete dumbass. However, sexy and delightful Muffinasses, this time was so, so different.

When I went all, “WHAAAT? Why not??” Maxim sort of flipped out and foamed at the mouth a little when I replied to him pithily about Not Being The Boss Of Me. The hippie got a tad voice-raisey and heated.

“LOOK, ELIZABETH,” (see me using my Realnametm? you know for a fact it was serious, because I am exact-quoting him with my Realnametm and everthang) he said, eyes a little wide, “DON’T YOU DARE BLOG ABOUT THAT CHILD IN ANY MANNER!”

“But it would be so great, and so funny!” I wheedled back. Then I got all chin-jutty and buttholey: “I can’t believe you are acting like this! I WILL DO AS I PLEASE, MISTER, PBBLTHTHTHT.”

“YOU ARE RIDICULOUS. FINE. WRITE WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT, JUST DON’T USE HER REALNAMEtm.” If there was a way to put four periods on the end of that sentence without them looking like passive little trailing-off ellipses, I would, because he totally put the emphatic total of no less than four periods on the end of that sentence. There were maybe even five. Five, y’all!

So henceforward little Intan’s name won’t be Intan. I mean, it will be in real life and all, to the people that know and love her (Maxim, apparently, MORE THAN ME). But to you fake internet people? She’ll be Bernie. You clear on that? Intan is not Intan, Intan is Bernie.

And if any of you fuckers tell her I’m voyeurnalling about her, you are in so much trouble. SO MUCH.

*Completely shitty scenario. I don’t want to talk about it. We are done being foster parents for a minute. FUCK THE SYSTEM, IT IS INHERENTLY FLAWED.

|| July 24, 2008 || 5:54 pm || Comments (2) ||

hey homes, what up?

Some days I tag along with Tess on our generous two-hour lunch break. Some days she tags along with me. Today I had plans to run home to the studio and cram in some time there putting a coat of this on something, sanding something else, and gluing that to another this entirely. You’re following my creative process, right? Right.

My studio is hideously cluttered, because I’m one of those Creative Types you hear so much about. It looks a sweet hot mess in there,

My studio, she is a mess.
:: my studio, she is a mess ::

but if you ask me where any single, teeny widget or baublething is, I can point straight to it, savantlike, enabling you to insert your hand into the rubble and emerge triumphantly with the specific bit. A mess usually unnerves me, so I typically go in to do a complete sweep and ’straighten’ it once a month, but that poses a genuine problem: I run across this thing and that thing and HEY! there’s another thing and before I know it, ideas are all over one another, panting and rucking up skirts and ready to get their art on. You people should be in my head. It’s vile and amazing and trucked-up sexy all at once.

So I went to the house aiming to get something done, but really all I ended up doing was getting my Dremel tool out to do some detail work on a piece. This lasted all of twenty minutes before Tess became a distraction, what with Kathy Griffin (who is of course a massive hero to all suppressed women everywhere. and to the over-exuberant ones. and to ones that aren’t afraid to say the word ‘cunt’ proudly. cunt, Cunt, CUNT.) being on Bravo and all.

Tess and I watch Bravo programming on a regular basis to keep in touch with our inner gay men. It makes us bodacious, or something. No, seriously. If you don’t follow my Twitter feed, then you may not know that a gay man at the flower market last month told me quite enthusiastically that I am Bodacious. He said it just like that, with a cappillul bee and everything. I’ve been called Bodacious exactly three times in my life, and each time I was in love with the fact that I’d been thusly labeled.

So Tess and I were being bad, smoking (*gasp*!) a cigarette and watching Ms. Kathy and pinging one-liners off of one another. Tess is quick with a snappy comeback, and quite clever, so it’s fun to back-and-forth with her unabashedly at times. So we were doing this when Tessa became mesmerized with a Nubian goddess on the tellyvee, and this exchange occurrred:

TESS: Oh. Gaaaahhhd. How fabulous is she?

JETT: She’ll do in case of hard times.

TESS: I want to get extensions, and I want to wear them like an afro.

JETT: Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you something!

TESS: What?


And she was, like cracker-white. Lived in the middle of a farm community, had no interaction with any black people whatsoever until she’d graduated high school and moved to Birmingham for college. So I’m always amused at her lusty desire to be a black woman.

I’ll admit, though, when she gets on the dance floor, the results are what could be dubbed ‘not bad for a white girl’.

|| July 21, 2008 || 6:57 pm || Comments (3) ||

Apparently we are Those People

We are sponsoring a child from Indonesia through Compassion International (ROLL YOUR EYES, because if I read this over on your site, I probably would, because I am a complete bastard like that). For reasons I will not go into right at this very now, there was a lot of internal turmoil for me over this one. I know, I know: I will allow the county’s child protective services to scoop up kids and deposit them into my home on a couple hours’ notice, but I’m tragically torn over mailing a barefoot kid from Southeast Asia thirty bucks a month so she can afford fancy things like, oh, a roof that is not crafted of see-through plastic and nutritional meals.

You people do remember that I’m not a slave to rationality, yes?

Maxim actually made the command decision to do so and was the one to write out the check. This came about because we recently spent some time hanging with Grant Norsworthy, who is a spokesperson for Compassion and has seen firsthand –in several places scattered across the planet– what they do for children in need. He spoke of them with great reverence and respect and conviction, so now we are the sole sponsors of six-year-old Intan, who has five siblings and has not yet begun school. Our paltry handful of dollars will, thankfully, help her get started.

Before I read much about her, I was reading the literature that came with her packet. I had grand visions of us going to the OshKosh outlet, buying up the same clearance biballs I used to outfit my own children in, and packing them lovingly with things like a babydoll and some ringpops and stickers and other things that children should be lavished with from time to time. My Auntie Jett fantasies were dashed upon the rocks of “NO, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DO THAT,” however. We are allowed to send her family a monetary gift three times per year, and we are allowed to send Intan the same no more than twice a year. I think the max is twenty-five bucks? and will be spent by Compassion staff on the child to meet specific needs she might have. As to the family gifts, they ‘direct’ the family, counsel with them as to the best way to invest the money on things like adequate housing, sanitary water supply and the like.

So it looks like Intan will be saved from me and my over-enthusiastic do-gooder ways. RULES, BAH! I will send the stickers, I imagine, brightly-colored and ridiculous ones. And some coloring pages. And maybe one of Mathias’ crazy comic books. We are limited to correspondence not greater than 8.5″ by 11″ in size, and the entire packet cannot be more than one-eighth of an inch thick. Anyone have any ideas? Postcards, photos of the States, these things have occurred to me already. What is the first thing that pops into your Muffinassed brains?

Scout’s all, “Let’s go over there and meet her.” I gave her the Let’s Not Be Pushy And Overeager Obnoxious American Whiteys speech. She’s just enough like her mother to be crazily dangerous to the world at large. I told her, though, I told her that if that little Intan grows to be a big Intan and we are still her sponsors, we’ll go watch her graduate high school. She made me promise and she made me swear, that Scout, that I will take her to Indonesia to meet this dusky-skinned little round-faced girl from a faraway place should that moment present itself.

(I’ve never had the overwhelming desire to be in that part of the world, not even when my mother told me that she fervently believes I may have a sister thereabouts, a half-sister born of the collision of a foolishly-fought war, my father’s whoring ways and his required presence on the scene at previously-mentioned war. I figure if there is a girl in Vietnam who wonders after us, she’ll maybe look up me or Fred or Henry. Hell, maybe she already has, who knows? But I’ll receive her warmly if that time comes and not worry about it overmuch if she doesn’t. I’ll explain to her that she was lucky, in a way, that our father was not in close enough proximity to break her heart over and over in the manner that he did mine and Fred’s.)

I can’t help but be reminded of About Schmidt, when (SPOILER! SPOILER!) the protagonist retires and then his wife suddenly dies and then he fucks out a little bit and then part of his fucking-out entails sponsoring a little African boy named Ndugu (I think? Whatever. It’s pronounced EnDOOgoo). He writes these lengthy, rambling letters to Ndugu which are pretty intensely inappropriate but insanely funny and just break your heart to hear them. Ndugu is his unconsciously chosen, seven-year-old, impoverished African therapist. Bless Ndugu’s teensy heart.

Oh, Intan, you have no idea how wackadoo your own sponsor is. Ndugu was a lucky little fella by comparison. One day, mebbe, when you are much, much older and it is appropriate, mebbe I’ll send you the link to my voyeurnal. Maybe I’ll help you start your own. I’m thinking that the way we were united was no accident. Your packet was just kind of haphazardly handed to us, pushed into sort of unexpectant hands, but I knew before I even glanced at it that you’d be a chubby-cheeked girl of no more than seven, that you’d have barrettes pushing back thick, dark hair and that your precious little knees would be knobby. When I finally got around to reading it, and then saw some of the others, I had to excuse myself to the bathroom. It cited your loves as telling stories, making art and listening to music of all kinds. You were the only child in that stack who possessed that express combination; I am a person whose heart believes stubbornly in the existence of Should Bes. Maybe I’ll come to find that you are, as well. I hope I –along with my little family here on the other side of this big old little world– turn out to be a blessing to you.