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Posts Tagged ‘she said with glee’

|| February 23, 2003 || 1:19 am || Comments (1) ||

Not going to New Jersey isn’t procrastinating, it’s common sense.” ~Igby

From the “Hello, Live With This” section of the memory banks:

Hangin’ out on a summer night. New Jersey, straight off a loud, punk-tinged musical high. Muggy, low-key drunken revelry. Street corner parties have their plusses, a soft parade of city lights and interactivity with the community being two of them.

Some of the boys, all braced and laced and overtough, were passing a bottle of Night Train amongst them. To say most Skins have a death wish is doing them a great verbal disservice.

I, given my predilection for suspecting that more people than not have some form of cooties (or, The Cooties, as they are referred to in presence of royalty and highsoc types, real or imagined), was sipping on my very own bottle of Absolut Citron (vodka gimlet without the prissy glass, yo), palming it in fine, unsophisticated fashion.

A junkie on the curb, kit being employed for the God-knows-how-manyeth time that day, about fifteen feet away: It was only three ay emm and he was already rockin’. We were paying no attention to him until he shot the words lazily into the air.

“Whatcha drinkin’ over there?” He was all tied off, head bent to the task at an angle that allowed a green cast to come over his face. Neon dermatitis.

Bemused, where hours back and sober he would’ve told the junkie to get the fuck off his street and maybe worse, Cooper laughed and called out, “Night Train, man. You wanna swig?”

The junkie, watery-eyed and sinking the steel, said, “No way.” And as he deftly did the push, he jabbed at irony and changed Coop’s beverage of choice for a lifetime.

That shit’ll kill ya.”

|| November 8, 2000 || 1:26 am || Comments (0) ||

I’m gonna send a postcard to Sam Rockwell in care of his agency and the only thing I’m gonna write on it is the addy to this blog and the date 9/22/00 on it. I’m gonna DO IT. Think he’ll pop in??

Think if he did that he would e-mail me? Think that if I responded to his e-mail with an invitation to be a guest blogger on here that he’d take me up on it? He could be totally anonymous to the world, blogging away under a nick like ‘Brewster Chisholm” or “Phil Holloway” or “Grady Lord”.

It’d be our secret.

It’d be such a turn-ON. Makes my nether-regions simply glow with the thought of it.

|| October 17, 2000 || 11:31 pm || Comments (0) ||

From time to time I get one of those e-mail forwards that is worth the click I spent opening it. The following, sent to me by one of my favorite college profs, is a fine example. I laaaaaughed and laaaaughed, d00d.

Subject: chicken

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

I fight for the chickens and I am fighting for the chickens right now. I will not give up on the chickens crossing the road! I will fight for the chickens and I will not disappoint them.

I don’t believe we need to get the chickens across the road. I say give the road to the chickens and let them decide. The government needs to let go of strangling the chickens so they can get across the road.

I believe that every chicken has the right to worship their God in their own way. Crossing the road is a spiritual journey and no chicken should be denied the right to cross the road in their own way.

Chickens are big-time because they have wings. They could fly if they wanted to. Chickens don’t want to cross the road. They don’t need help crossing the road. In fact, I’m not interested in crossing the road myself.

Chickens are misled by the evil tire makers into believing there is a road. Chickens aren’t ignorant, but our society pays to create the need for these roads and then lures chickens into believing there is an advantage to crossing them. Down with the roads, up with chickens.

To steal a job from a decent, hardworking American.

Because the chicken was gay! Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the “other side.” That’s what “they” call it-the “other side.” Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And, if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like “the other side.” That chicken should not be free to cross the road. It’s as plain and simple as that.

Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, The chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed, I’ve not been told!

To die. In the rain.

I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross without having their motives called into question.

In my day, we didn’t ask why the chicken crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.

It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

It was a historical inevitability.

This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

What chicken?

To boldly go where no chicken has gone before.

You saw it cross the road with your own eyes. How many more chickens have to cross before you believe it?

The fact that you are at all concerned that the chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying sexual insecurity.

I have just released eChicken 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your checkbook -and Internet Explorer is an inextricable part of eChicken.

Did the chicken really cross the road or did the road move beneath the chicken?

I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What do you mean by “chicken”? Could you define “chicken” please?

I don’t think I should have to answer that question.

The road, you will see, represents the black man. The chicken crossed the “black man” in order to trample him and keep him down.

And God came down from the heavens, and He said unto the chicken, “Thou shalt cross the road.” And the chicken crossed the road, and there was much rejoicing.

I missed one?


“You’re a celestial being who’s slumming between jobs. You like your associates, although it’s hard not to feel superior. When it’s time to perform, they won’t have the vocabulary to describe what you’re doing.” So sayeth the horrorscope. Makes me laaaaaaaugh, d00d.

Had a great day today! I am lucky to be me today! YAYAYAY!

And, uh, I despise my postie, too….


Hooray, hooray!!! Michael is coming to bounce some stuff around tonight! I smell fresh gigs, boys and girls…

|| August 26, 2000 || 11:34 am || Comments (0) ||

See? Proof that I have been doing it right all along. Get with it, girls. Wear your rage like a badge of pride….

|| August 26, 2000 || 10:09 am || Comments (0) ||

Douglas girls have their own look. Even in this sprawling Appalachian cluster of communities, I can spot them a mile away when I see them in town. Their faces are starkly angular and they possess exaggerated chins, like they were molded around a golf ball or something. They always have on black eyeliner that is applied in a sort of seventies hard rock kinda way and lipstick in a color that brings out the yellow skintone that most women try to camouflage. They dress in a K-mart caricature of current fashion trends and their bodies are slim (not skinny) and angular in such a way that I am reminded that some are born that way, not methamphetamine-altered. They have big, starving-cat eyes and run about five-foot-six on the average. They will never know a plump day in their lives, but may well develop that little belly pooch upon giving birth to their children. They look street-hard but innocent….comes from hailing from a farm community, I guess. The hair is limp, whether curly or straight, and worn just below the shoulder. They are mild-mannered and they get around. Just something I have observed and was ruminating over…

ON AN ENTIRELY SEPARATE NOTE: Going to see the Blake Babies tonight and I am entirely jazzed about that. Evan Dando is opening with someone else…he is so yummalicious. He never ages, I swear. I believe he must be a ‘WamPieUh’ or something. I remarked on this to a friend and she said, “Well of course he is…why do you think all of his shows are at night??” Right on.

Until then, I have the house to myself, Oh thank you sweet blessed Jesus, and am working to fill orders. Today is like taking several relaxed breaths and it is lovely.