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Posts Tagged ‘two snaps up in a circle’

|| September 14, 2012 || 3:08 am || Comments (7) ||

I once knew a girl named Laura whose mother wouldn’t let her watch the show ‘Square Pegs’ so I taught her the theme song. Laura used it like a weapon without even realizing it; she drove her mother crazy by singing it incessantly. I’d made sure she had Patty Donahue’s bored, slightly hostile whine down pat before I unleashed Laura on the world.

“If she complains,” I thought to myself one day, “Laura should just point to the poster above her bed.” It depicted a fat blue cartoon bird in the throes of soulful (constipated?) warbling. It was peppered with pregnant, drunken music notes and bore the caption ‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.’

In short, I’ve always been this way.

Later on Laura’s mother would figure out we were Without and find subtle ways to feed me and my sister a hefty meal once a week. We got a long afternoon of play on Sundays after church; we were largely unsupervised for hours at a time in the massive playroom over the garage. Laura’s mom always baked us a pile of cookies to snack on warm out of the oven then tucked a foil packet of them into each of our pockets. I made my sister ration them: If we made it home with three apiece, then we’d split one between us per day.

One time my sister gorged the second day and ate all but one herself; I wanted to pound her in half. We couldn’t afford a doctor’s visit, though, and I knew if I whaled on her I would hurt her terribly, so great was my sense of want and loss and frustration with our circumstances. It had nothing at all to do with cookies and everything to do with the dignity of having something more than what we were usually afforded.

I need to send Laura’s mother a thank you letter, I think. I never thought she liked me overmuch. I’ve figured out that liking is irrelevant though, really, as long as you are acting out of care and love.

You don’t have to like someone at all to do that.

|| January 29, 2012 || 1:57 am || Comments (10) ||

So I worked at this plant where I was a supervisor on night shift. As a completely unrelated (and maybe worthless, I’ll leave that to you to decide) aside, I’d like to tell you that –despite aggressive insomnia that started taking over my sleep when I was in the neighborhood of eight or nine– ten months of working the night shift aged me ten years. At least, that’s what it felt like when I slung my safety gear over my shoulder and walked out of that joint for the last time.

Clock in at eleven, clock out at seven. There were three-hundred and fifty personnel on that shift, busted up into different sections, each section with a supervisor. A couple of the more sizable sections had three to four line supervisors, with crews of anywhere from seven to fifteen people for whom they were responsible. Out of those three-fifty, there were approximately eight women. Only one was a section super. Another was a line super. The latter was me.

The plant floor was always loud. It wasn’t only loud; it was dangerous, too, because we were working with caustic chemicals and we climbed things like monkeys and we teetered on the edges of slick, sharp inclines manhandling equipment that was half our bodyweights or more, high up in the air over solid concrete floors. There was machinery everywhere to bounce off of on your way down, if the thought of cracking your melon on some ‘crete wasn’t enough to keep you cautious.

I had a crew of twelve men. There used to be one woman on it, a woman who had been there for years and never been promoted because, well, she wasn’t. She was diminutive and appalling, because she was yippy like a chihuahua and always aggressively demanding respect out of one side of her mouth but then giving blowjobs in the parking lot out of the other. The kind of girl who, for instance, wanted to wrestle like a man but when pinned would intone in babyvoice, “Let me up, don’t hurt me, ’cause I’m just leeeedle!” Females of the world who are like this: Just give us all one big fucking break, would you? Everybody –male and female alike– pretty much wants you to fall in a ditch and stay there.

(I mean, I don’t give a shit if your aim is to have every dick within ten feet of you in your mouth at one time or the other, but don’t go acting like you’re surprised when none of the males those penises are attached to come to you for your philosophical take on matters. There is slut-shaming and there is poor judgment and we’re all adults here and can tell the difference, right?)

So Yippy was on my crew and her first order of business was to be passive-aggressive with me and Give Me Ten Kinds of Shit because I had all my teeth and two brain cells to rub together and oh yeah, tits. Good-looking tits. So HEY, I must be COMPETITION rather than her BOSS, right? It didn’t help that she was madly in love with my buddy Polack Dave and was convinced surely to all of high holy heaven that I was going to fuck Dave the very minute that Yippy (who yes, had been Dave’s mistress at one point) and DAVE’S WIFE turned their backs.

See? See what I was dealing with? I played poker with Polack Dave and Polack Dave’s wife and they fed me at least twice a week. Polack Dave and I high-fived one another on the way in the door every night and flipped one another the bird going out of it every morning. Why on Earth would I want to mess that up?

However, Yippy was inconsolable. Yippy did a good job, but Yippy was lippy and disrespectful and I did all the requisite you-try-to-fuck-my-crew-up-I’ma-fuck-your-day-up dancing and write-ups and finally I said, “You know what, Yippy? I AM HAVING YOU TRANSFERRED TO POLACK DAVE’S SUPERVISOR,” and so I did. She was (prematurely) gleeful.  Said super promptly hid her in a broom closet in the nether reaches of the plant and everybody was pretty gahdang happy for a time.

Then there was the night that a very large fellow named Howard stepped to me.

See, I think that maybe some people made the mistake of thinking that I had Yippy transferred because she was a female. Not so. I had Yippy transferred because she was a gigantic asspain and I just wanted to do my fucking job and get the fuck out of there in a timely manner each day. When I eventually got my crew hipped to my way of doing things, we were done with our line by four-thirty and could catch two hours of nap in the breakroom so that we’d be rested up and ready to find beers at one of the only two bars in town open for breakfasty patrons. If you work the night shift, then eight in the morning is your six at night and so by ten ay emm you’re good and shitfaced if that’s your aim. Sure, it’s in a scummy dive of a bar, but who is there to judge you? Nobody, that’s who, because they’re either the folks carpooling miles away from said establishments or the guy at the end of the bar with his asscheeks imprinted into the stool that he hardly ever leaves. He sees four of you and all four iterations have a different name, get it?

Holy cow, I digress. Anyway:  In order for me to do my job and get out in a timely manner, there has to be a cohesive team working toward the same aim and doing so at least quasi-jovially. Whistle while you work, bitches, and you will ride the clock for almost three hours for free and nobody is going to yell at you for doing so because you! are Union! and you! have done a bang-up job! that exceeds the specifications laid out for you in the super-big and ridiculously detailed company manual! This is because my aim is never to do just enough to get by; my aim is to have some stracked-out results whose worth cannot be contested. Selah! Amen! Nap! Then beers and billiards after!

An event whose progressive steps looked something like this, so as to save us some paragraphs and get us to the action right quick,

1) “Howard, man, I don’t like that. Can you do it the other way, please?”
2) “Hey Howard, could you do your job x way because your fancy new y way is slowing the flow and is less efficient overall and since my part of the line depends on your part of the line, you are slowing me down, as well.”
3) “Howard, I don’t know why you are looking me dead in the eye and purposely slowing both our jobs down but that’s not cool and I need you to cut it out.”
4) “Howard. Cut the shit, man.”

occurred over the course of about an hour and a half. By the time I got to “HOWARD. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH,” Howard had decided he’d had enough, too, and closed the twenty or so feet between us with a haste that, had it been shown earlier, would have saved us all the ensuing trouble and dramatics.

Howard got all the fuck up in my face. He had six inches on my five-ten and Lord knows how many pounds on my one-sixty. We were in full hazmat gear, but our helmets were magically, manically gone, flipped from our heads simultaneously and he was breathing down on me, enraged, bearing in, face literally two inches from mine. Howard began yelling in earnest and the whole ‘I’ll be damned if I’ma let this fool back me down’ aspect of my personality rose up in all its glory. I was on my tiptoes, meeting him where he was at and pushing back emotionally every bit as hard as he was shoving me and suddenly there was Polack Dave jumping lines to get to us, there were three members of my crew begging us to stop and more on the way. Everyone was afraid to touch us, everything so electric and precarious. They were attempting to shout sense over the clanging and banging of machinery but the fog of rage –not to mention our mutual shouting– engulfing us obscured them.

Howard got one warning from me to back up, then one more warning from me to back up then he told me to fuck off bitch and I gave over to fury. I raised the high pressure hot-hose that had been dangling limp in my hand (hastily shut off during Howard’s approach), put the metal key to it that dangled from a loop in my coveralls and kicked the hose on as I took a step back. A high-pressure stream of scalding water surged forward from that industrial hose and I nailed that fucker square in the chest with it. There was less than a foot between us. Howard went down.

I got reamed for this. Never once, though, not one single day of my life, have I ever been sorry for that moment. Sometimes your crazy is the only thing that you can rely on. Hatred is shameful. Fury is gorgeous. The two should never marry. If it is devoid of hate, sometimes your fury is a righteous and perfect thing with inexact but fitting results.

Afterward, when she let herself into the apartment, it was with a great sense of satisfaction. She felt easy, taut, sated; all her senses were heightened in a way that made her feel triumphant. She sure did have a knack for the During, but the After always made everything so delicious to her. The gentle music of her keys against the inside curve of the bowl by the door gave her pause, for instance. Why, imagine! Such a marvel that things so simple as door keys and her grandmother’s silky white bowl could come together and make subtle, pleasurable sounds!

Everything, every one thing in The After was pleasure; she drank in the tactile, reveled in tastes, lingered over sounds. Today she had sung ‘Mannish Boy’ to herself in her head the entire ride home, looking doe-eyed on the press of bodies. The jostles and jerks (and the smooth forward momentums between) were just the natural extension of their prelude back there fourteen blocks away.

He had been possessed of exquisite taste in linens. She appreciated that in a man. Also appreciated was his lack of worry at where those fine linens ended up; not every man wants his stupidly expensive sheets ground into the wall of a stairwell. She adored a sporting attitude.

Icy orange juice to slake a thirst: There was no hunger, not yet. She still felt full in that tender way, her stomach not inclined toward want for a little while longer.

She took her time in the shower, lollygagging there in the light steam, greedily enjoying the smell of her sweet almond soap. Someone had made her a present of it five or six years ago and she’d been using it since. The gift-giver had moved far away; she didn’t miss him when he did. If they discontinued the soap, she would search high and low for bars of it for years and years and probably a couple minutes after that.

When she turned off the spray, she paused for a moment, getting caught up in the sensation of a drop of water on her eyelashes. It executed a perfect dive onto her right foot, splashing messily there, ending itself and beginning four more droplets. She thought about this while wrapping herself in a downy robe, while pouring herself a cup of coffee. She grabbed a book from the stack of six or so she was reading (she was always paying her attentions to several concurrently) and headed for the reading nook she’d crafted next to the window. After placing her coffee and book on the tiered table next to it, she settled into her overlarge chair, propping her heels on the seat’s edge. The orange velour kissed her arches and welcomed them home.

She pointed her toes, she looked out over the city. She admired the light. She smiled as she thought about the fact that she was always the leaver and never the stayer; she wrapped her arms tightly about herself, dropped her head and grinned like a giddy fool, pleasure emanating from her every part.

He says some great stuff, honestly. But my GOD man, I cannot stop laughing. I’ve hit a full-on Smedley over this video.

“I am Jack’s Big Fitness Outrage.”

|| December 19, 2000 || 8:03 am || Comments (1) ||

Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m the girl who despises country music.

Welllllll, okay, I dig innovators and bad boys, so I wholeheartedly groove on Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, John Anderson, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, K. T. Oslin and Willie Nelson (listen to his music sometime….his songwriting ability rivals and defeats most any of the modern-day ‘greats’ and if you listen past the twang, who wouldn’t KILL for a voice like that??) I even dig Olivia Newton-John’s earliest offerings, which were very country….I DARE you to listen to ‘Please Mister Please’ and not be moved to sing along. But the rest of them, especially modern country ‘artists’ (I loudly object to confusing the terms artist and performer, ya know?) can go blow a goat, with the exclusion of Travis Tritt.

That having been said, I can tell you what I was gonna tell you now.

I was listening to the local country music station this morning while taking offspring #1 and #2 to school (they are so fucking spoiled…why don’t I make them ride the bus instead of freezing my tits off and glaring at other drivers through my crusty lids??). ***IS TODAY PARENTHESIS DAY, OR WHAT*** They tend to give the most accurate and frequent weather reports, which scores them regular non-listeners like me.

I’m getting to the point of this story, trust me.

Here comes a song to interrupt the reporting. It was a Christmas tune. It was a Christmas tune that really pissed me off, almost as much as it pisses me off when people use the term “x-mas”; and that one really goes all over me, let me tell you.

The song was about a dirty little impoverished boy who comes into a store to buy a pair of women’s shoes. (harhar, please refrain from making the obvious joke, you turds) for his sickly and dying mother. It seems that the boy and his father want mama to look purty iffin she goes ta meet JEEzus tahnite. To quote a pal, “Just give me one big fucking break!!”

Number one, the cheese factor is unrivaled here. Number two, I love the fact that the old ‘poor and slovenly’ cliche was used. Let me tell you people something….my grandmother, God rest her saintly soul, was DIRT poor most of her 84 years, but a speck of dirt was remiss to cross her path. She put it on it’s merry way right quick. She used to tell us, “It’s no sin to GET dirty, but it sure is one to STAY dirty.” Number three, I hardly think that what she’s wearing is gonna matter two whits to the Immaculately Conceived One. Number four, if she ain’t awready purty, shoes ain’t gonna do the trick and number five-o, (and this is the biggest pisser of all) WHY, for fuck’s sake, whywhyWHY would you WAIT until someone is dying to give them something that could have brought them pleasure while they lived??

I would like to punch the person in the throat that wrote this utterly moronic song as a lame tug at heartstrings. I am waving the giant birdfinger at their dumb asses and they shall be without beer and sausages forevermore! So sayeth the JettGrrrl!

I know you’re dying to know…the song is “Christmas Shoes” and the group is NewSong. Send them hate mail. Send them my URL. Tell them to bitch-slap whoever is responsible (including themselves) for this musical cheesewad and make them promise to never, never do it again. I implore you.

|| December 15, 2000 || 10:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Uhhh, hi.

Reading chum’s journal-thingy made me sad tonight. Made me really sad. I can’t really put my finger on why. If he reads this, I’m sure he’ll get it. He’s special like that—has the whole insight thing pretty down for someone so young. Mayhap that is why he is bored with his courtiers.*chumster, any thoughts on this??*

I really hope that I wasn’t one of the parties that he was referring to. I hope that he still likes my dance. Isn’t that sick and sad? It sounds that way on the surface, I suppose. You’ve got to look deeper, though. There are few people that I respect in a wholesome way/look up to. This cat has a great intellect and wit and seemingly possesses an affection for people that I could never muster. He tries to bury that light under the bushel of sarcasm, but it’s there and I for one can see it.

I haven’t been blogging as much lately. And certainly the content mostly blows now. Someone e-mailed me yesterday and said I seem ’subdued’. You know what, Will? You’re right. I do. Please allow me to explain in this very public of forums; and Jesus-please-us please let me put to rest the suggestion you had as to why. Good assumption, but one that is way off the mark.

I started this thing for me. You see, I hadn’t been devoting the time to any organized creative output beyond business-related stuff, and creativity for creativity’s sake is the most cathartic and rewarding kind. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad that I can get paid for something I enjoy, but sometimes it turns into a washout and you cut corners to get over just a tad bit more. Then it sort of taints your output and things aren’t so shiny and terrific anymore. ANYONE CATCHING THIS TRAIN OF THOUGHT, HUH???

So as I said/say/am saying, I started this for me and did it for me and was pleasantly surprised to find a had a small readership with a decent intellectual capacity. And don’t get me started on the fact that I discovered that I was not alone in some of my most out-there obloquies, opinions and thoughts.

I tend not even to scratch the surface out here. Some of you who know me and correspond with me know that. There are parts to all of us that remain only our own knowledge, even in the presence of those nearest and dearest to us. This is what defines one’s self. Obviously, as this is a public forum, (even though only barely public…) I don’t completely flay myself open or really even point to my exposed jugular. I have said it before and I shall say it again. PEOPLE WILL SUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKING DRY AND THEN WHINE AT YOU TEN YEARS’ WORTH OF SUNDAYS WHEN YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY GIVE THEM ANY FUCKING MORE. It’s true. You heard it here first. I write to amuse myself first and foremost, but I would be a lying-ass bitch to say it didn’t amuse me to amuse you. And you, and you. And you, over there in the corner…yes, YOU, ya little cutie.

I have so much to share. Or maybe reword that to say ’so much I could share’….but I dunno. I just don’t know.

I could swear up and down all day that “Oh, ya know, holidays….so effing busy and time-crazed…wah-WAH-wah, wuh, WUH-wuh, wuh. Not to mention blahblahdyblah-blah and such.” Bullshit, and I won’t pour it on you. I like most of you far too much to fake it.

When I wrote the piece regarding my cousin, I tapped into the most real me that there is. You all seemed to catch that. I got TONS of e-mail, even from people that I never had a clue existed: “….and you don’t know me, but I have been reading you for a while. I finally had to break down and let you know that you really get to me sometimes…”. Whaaaaaa? I have readers in motherfucking BELGIUM???


So I back off. I shut down. Whoaaaaa, some distance, fellow commuters, please! I am contagious, okay???

Please don’t take this as I sign that I never want to hear from you people. Humanity just makes me nervous. Lots of people out there are unpredictable (don’t get me wrong, unpredictable is good at times) and atrociously, unforgivably stupid. I am quite pleased to know that people who come here, no matter how few, are intelligent and thoughtful and sincere and comically self-effacing. I like their input, be it commentary, suggestion or hapless sexual innuendo (just kidding about that last one, the air was just getting sorta heavy in here).

The long and the short of it is that I am growing, and I feel a time coming that I may just lay it all out there. It’s all been itching in the back of my brain for a few moons now and I am growing dissatisfied with all else.

SO, if you dare, if you care, hang around and sooner or later we’ll play scratch and sniff with my brain. Consider your dumbass self warned.

And oh yeah, fuck every last one of you. >:oD

|| 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?