June 29, 2002


get off of me,
get out of me,
unstick yourself
fuck yourself
keep yourself
over there.

stop haunting
stop taunting
turn your eyes
the other way
take yourself
out of here.

Build me
break me
please don't
hate me.

And when
you're done,

singin' a happy little tune

Pulled up in the driveway with some top-40 station playing this song--I don't claim to know Pink. Seen her. Don't have any of her CDs. In fact, don't know her from a bag of assholes. But I know I dug the lyrics to this song by Pink and Dallas Austin. Maybe I'm more connected to the Atlanta sound than I think. Oh, and (Halley, sorry 'bout the Brittney dissing. ;-)

Don't Let Me Get Me
-Pink & Dallas Austin

Never win first place,
I don't support the team
I can't take direction,
and my socks are never clean
Teachers dated me,
my parents hated me
I was always in a fight
cuz I can't do nothin' right

Everyday I fight a war against the mirror
I can't take the person starin' back at me

I'm a hazard to myself

Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else

I wanna be somebody else, yeah

LA told me, "You'll be a pop star,
All you have to change
is everything you are."
Tired of being compared
to damn Britney Spears
She's so pretty,
that just ain't me

Doctor, doctor won't you please prescribe me
A day in the life of someone else?
Cuz I'm a hazard to myself

Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else.

mp3 sample

My Two Sons

Tom "Insiteview" Shugart, who has credited me with single-handedly bringing him to blogging, just spoke to Frank "Interview" Paynter, who credits RageBoy and me with his blogging birth. My boys talked for the first time Friday via the telephone, the increasingly popular back-circuit-to-blogging, and have plans in the works to hook up in December in person.

It does a mother's heart good.

reggae sea

Right now, this very minute, I wish I were in Jamaica, 2 a.m. Nights there on the beach at runaway bay, the heat lifting just enough, and all-day swimming with a still-wet suit on, a welcoming cool breeze, open bar, smoking and talking and just listening to the waves crash. The Piano Bar's the only thing left open, and stays open until the last indulgent visitor is done indulging in the last drink of the night. Purple Rain anyone? It goes down smooth.

I never understood Reggae, never got into it before seeing for myself the enthralling beauty, the endless sky against the despair and poverty that is Jamaica. I would say to my husband, "It all sounds so much the same." Him telling me, "Listen closer."

This isn't one of those, "I go to Nashville and now I 'get' country music" things. It's much more primal, internal--has to do with waves, tide, moon.

It's the cadence of the waves; the sea is the context for reggae. Every break of every wave comes at just the right instant in every song, embellishing, making it so much more. I can still hear it; it goes like this, as I invoke Bob Marley (play the song in your head--not just the words):

Get up, stand up
(wave crash)
stand up for your right
(wave crash)
Get up stand up
(wave crash)
Don't give up the fight
(wave crash)

Preacher man don't tell me (wave crash) heaven is under the earth (wave crash)
I know you don't know (wave crash) what life is really worth
(wave crash)
Is not all that glitters in go--(wave crash)--ld and
Half the story has never been to--(wave crash)--ld
So now you see the light, (wave crash) aay
Stand up for your right. (wave crash) Come on.

The sea is missing in the recordings. But once you've been, you play it for yourself, bring yourself to the song, bring the sea with you.

June 28, 2002

I feel like Doc

Okay, it's kind of like the John Lennon "the beatles are as popular as Jesus Christ" thing, and, you know, so don't twist it like that, but for these last few posts I've felt like Doc or David, giving a rundown on current events (with a twist of lemon). Those guys are always so consice yet witty; I marvel at what they do. Doc's headlines alone are worth the price of admission. And David's unassuming humor shows through like a shiny golden nugget (or chicken mcnugget--I'm not sure yet). I admire their style every day. And now that I've tried it, lamely, I admire it even more.

And now, I will return to my former sad, lost, wanting blogger self.

Break it up. Nothing to see here. You can all go home now.

Satirizing the Pledge Debate

No one does it better than Satirewire, ever.


thank God we live in a Demoncracy.

Elaine made up a new word

"demoncracy" -- she freudian slipped over here in the the blog sisters' comments box where the sisters are discussing patriarchy.

fitting? hee hee.

Yah, what he says.

AKMA takes on the Pledge of Allegiance issue and says just what I was thinking over here, in Tom Matrullo's world, but AKMA says it whole lot better and smarter, which is why he runs that University of Blogaria thingy:

"....[S]wearing allegiance to a material representation of a secular institution amounts to idolatry; indeed, it’s hard to think of a clearer example of idolatry, and the ease with which this nationalist idolatry has saturated American Christianity underlines the danger of soft-pedalling the controversy at hand."

gosh, he's good.

Who Knew, Mary Lu?

Mary Wehmeier is keeping us in the know this week. Of special interest is this post, which features "coffee talk" where Mary chats up a storm on what's going down in the land of communities. She gives an interesting pointer to MeetUp, Scott Heiferman's new project mentioned by Doc.

MeetUp looks pretty cool. The idea is to connect in realtime with people who have shared interests--obviously net-savvy people with whom you might already share some little thing in common--like an obsession with blogging, for instance?--at coffee houses to chat face to face:

"MEETUPs are like book clubs, activist groups, shareholder meetings, user groups, fan clubs, car clubs, support groups, or study groups. Show off your dog, your car, or your handiwork. Maybe play a game or mobilize for a cause."

You do it first and report back on how it works.

Aunt Halley's Policy Dreambook

Minus the numbers... Well, or something like that. Halley Suitt spills the beans about grown-up men and little boys, about girls maturing into women, and about lots of other interesting stuff in the latest Frank Paynter Interview with Blogging Greats and N'erdowells. I think Halley even made me respect Brittney Spears, a little, which is something only persuasive Halley with her energized take on life could make me do.

gonzo squared

Another review of Gonzo Marketing today, this one at Roy Christopher's place:

"Locke evokes Esther Dyson's aphorism 'Always make new mistakes,' inviting corporate marketers and consumers alike to realize that markets aren't clean and tidy; they're messy and ugly - quick and dirty even."

And if you haven't heard Chris Locke's review on Marketplace Morning Report yet, click here to find out what advertising, patriarchy, and enforced gender roles have in common. (hint: institutions use them to fuck up young and old alike.)

June 27, 2002

dialog with me

You know how it is
when you're lights are low
you're thinking's slow
Got no spark,
no feeling but numb.

It's your imagination, really.
Just press on. What else
can you do?

Too much to fix.
Too much of nothing to do.
just under water
swimming not breathing.

It's really not good that you get
so unhappy. You have so much
to be thankful for:
great kid, great man, great job.

So why am I here alone on the couch,
feeling left, feeling like I'm six
alone in the house, waiting? There's
no energy coming towards me.
Nothing feels very real.
Spending too much time
with myself. But then again,
you have a point, don't you?
Actually, yah, you are right on.
I'm an asshole.
Feeling sorry for myself.
In fact, I should really thank you.
Thank you, thank you, and thanks
to the supreme diety
and the corporate lifesuckers
that are sucking my brain out
slowly with a straw.
No, really, I owe you my life.
I'm so sorry I'm sad.
oh god, i'm so so sorry
what's wrong with me?
I'll slap a smile on right now.
watch me do it.

[shit eating grin.]

Self pity isn't becoming.
And neither is sarcasm.

Not becoming for you maybe.
Feels pretty good to me.
Feels real good to get down in it
and look at the knotted parts
and wonder how they got
so knotted up
and work to untie
those knots, find a few answers
and then start to hurt
and feel what it's like
to chip away at the
red brick wall.

Um, huh?

Oh fuck you.
you don't even know me.
Why do I try to tell you anything?
It's like you've been someplace else
all my life. You want to know
what's wrong with me? Try asking
what's wrong with you,
you manipulative bitch.

You have some issues with anger then?
Is that the place we're coming to?

ISSUES? No, I have no issues
with anger. What I have is a fucking
switch blade in my pocket
calling your name next time
you try fucking with me.

I'm not afraid of you; I hope you understand that.
That's the problem with you.
You can't control your emotions.
You let your feelings control you.
That's why you get so anxious,
so panicy, so down.
You have no idea
how to handle it.
You know what?
You really ought
to schedule
an appointment
with your


[Scuffle ensues. Switch blade comes out, razor comes out, the fight is on. Hair pulled out by the root. Kicking, stomping, scratching. Cut! swipe! gouge! bleed!]

Oh, sweet lord, she slit my throat!! Oh.
god, I'm dying. Oh no please.
oh. hhh. e. l. p.
[gasp. silence.]

I'm fucking glad to be rid of her.
For today at least.

It feels so damn good to feel.

A Lesson in Gonzo

George Partington has a wonderful interview with Chris Locke on Gonzo Marketing, where Locke talks about (aha!) human beings on the net. A must read.

June 26, 2002

who do that hoodoo that RB do so well?

"In hoodoo, one of the oldest traditions is for a male gambler to have a female lover urinate on his mojo bag or lucky hand while he is at play. If the gambler and his partner can retire to an alley to perform the act while the game is in progress, so much the better. This is called 'feeding the mojo...'"

Have you fed your mojo today?

June 25, 2002

who your daddy is?

Gary BS Turner asks how many of us are offspring of the prolific RageBoy, and how many boggers were begotten during RB's challenge that went something like this: Start a fucking blog and send me the link; I'll blogroll you (gary's got the link to the exact words). I started allied around that time. Read Gary's comments to see who else is brave enough to trace their lineage back to the Ragester.

Is RageBoy your daddy?

Gary proposes a day to honor RB. Maybe we give him the key to Blogaria. That or a new lighter.

confession time

Tell the truth, the whole truth
as long as it shames and blames.

Close your eyes, bow your head
take a knife, plunge it deep
into your small tender chest
rip skin and muscle, split bone
stop your racing heart,
because guilt hurts
worse than this.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Wrap your own cold corpse
white lace neatly arranged
over pale blue skin,
you are my prize
for the world to see.

The bloody masacre
before your eyes
is broken children
breaking children.

Mea culpa, mother?


Light flight
sliding gliding,
there's a magic
in all of this.

I can't reach the place
where it makes sense,
in you, of you, from you
a soul wrapped
in so many layers,
who owns
her, me
he, you?

Out of time
Out of mind
Out of bounds

Absorb, contain, release
this is where I find you.

Andrea Got Paynted!

Check out Frank Paynter's latest--an interview with Andrea Roceal James, who has me wondering, was I a blithering idiot at 24 or what? This woman has the wisdom of the ages in her pocket. Find out how she got it and what she does with it. Note--Frank's last two interview subjects--Andrea and me--both mention throwing up. Frank--you bring out the best in us!

Who sent him?

He showed up on our porch three days ago. Well, not exactly. We don't have a porch really; what we have is a set of steps that go straight straight up to the front door. See if this gives you the picture. If you walk out the front door, there's three steps, then a landing, then five steps, then a landing, then maybe eight steps, then the ground.

I say this not to scare off the vertigo challenged, but to tell you that it isn't such an easy feat to "show up" on our porch. But he does it. Every time. I've started to go out looking for him, trying to decipher his origin. I scan the other yards, our front yard, our side yard, peer down under our steps from up high. And sometime during my obsessive scanning, he appears, always about half way up, bounding the rest of the way to say, "Hey, Beautiful."

He's a tom cat that doesn't belong here. He's not from these parts. I've asked my neighbors, and I know the neighborhood cats--five of them live next door, two across the street, one halfway up the block, and so on. No, this is not one of our street cats.

He is maleness personified, perfect head and golden eyes, thick neck, big paws and strong claws, grey and big with a tail striped like a snake. And he knows he is "it," swaggers around the top landing, wagging that snake tail up in the air, ssssssssssssssssssssssss!

I've started to call him ashes. Partly because the ashes from my cigarette dapple him as he squirms around my calves. Partly because he is the color of ash.

Don't want a cat, don't need a cat, especially one who likes to bite my calves, this drifter turned possessive and jealous:

"Get back up on the step, woman!"

But there's something comforting about him for me, nearing my third month with my man gone to China. Ashes is fierce. The cats who used to eat my aloe plants and sneak in my garage to piss don't cross Ashes' boundaries. And when they do, they pay the price. Even our two dogs, on duty in the back yard, seem to have relaxed since he came around. They're off high alert. They're not barking, no more watching for any crackling branch or falling leaf to signify attack mode. Nope, they're hanging out on the deck, looking pleased as can be that Ashes has come by to pick up the slack.

So, last night I fed him. Now his infatuation with me has turned to obsession. And it's not just the food. He flops down half way up the stairs, crosswise, my feline gargoyle taking up an entire step, not letting me down, or anyone else up, he looks up at me and says:

"This is my place. I make the rules. Don't worry, baby, I'll take good care of you." blink. blink.

As I write this, he's outside, stretched out on the fourth step, on the night shift, making sure we're safe and sound.

Thanks, Ashes.

June 24, 2002

moments beyond

When we're each in our own skin, this mean even more to me. The time apart together, reaching across the bucket seats to place your hand on my thigh, what was that story you were telling me? Your hand rubs my knee, your eyes on the road, gleeful jabbering coming from the back seat.

Tell me the one again about how Buddy was staring at your cute butt that time, when we came back from our honeymoon early, so you could play that gig; tell me the one about Bridget, was that her name? your trouble-making loyal great dane who chased down one too many of the farmer's chickens; tell me again about the time your well-meaning rock found the prize rooster's head, after he clawed your shins for the last time, how you were bereft, laid his lifeless chicken corpse at the side of the road, because he had that reputation for truck chasing, and your mother would never know.

Love me pregnant, cherish me for growing your baby. Sit by my hospital bedside as I bleed, near death, hanging on, hold my hand, look into my eyes, tell me you love me, sleep there on that hard chair day and night, don't leave me. Make them bring me back; you don't give them a choice; you don't give me a choice, and that's why I'm still here. That is the you who loves me, the you I love so much.

It isn't just the sea, our bed, my warm body wrapping around you that makes us last; it's the in between, how we dance around the edges, the time after going, before coming, when you say I understand, you know how my mind tortures me, your smile eases sadness away like a sigh, touch, squeeze, and I remind and remember you in the quiet of your pain.

This is how we make love.

June 23, 2002

reality check

If you suffered through some early trauma--say your father's death when you were a kid--and at that moment they tell you he's dead you feel it alter who you are, who you will become, and at that moment it settles within you like some heavy suitcase you are assigned to carry around your whole life, well if you've ever felt something like that, then you know what I mean.

You know what I mean when I say it's there, it's always been there, will always be there. Sometimes you can put it down, like for a few minutes at a time--when you're riding your horse, when you fall in love, say "I Do." When the doctor's pulling your baby out of the hole in your abdomen, when you're making love. I can put it down then. I feel it slip off of me. I feel so light. Which makes picking it up again all that much more overwhelming. And when I don't feel the exhaustion, then I feel the anger. Why do I have to lug this stinking thing around everywhere I go, and look at her, she's not carrying one like mine. What'd I do, what am I being punished for? Why am I different?

But the real kicker is that sometimes the loss you have always believed was the biggest loss in your life, that heavy samsonite hardshell you take with you everywhere you go, wasn't the biggest after all. And sometimes you get flashes and glimpses that maybe the things that were there in your life--the things that you counted on--the things that should have helped you with that suitcase when you were just six, and then 12, and then 16, 18, 22, 38, well, they didn't. Maybe they even gave you theirs to carry too.

And then you start thinking, what is the source of my sadness? My anguish-turned-terror sometimes. Is its source that person you had for six years and didn't have for 34 years? That has been my journey--the journey of mourning "without." And maybe you ask yourself, is this kind of a heavy trip to lay on your Dad, and on yourself? Or is it, maybe a convenient one? Can't do anything about that one but deal with it. Can't bring him back. Can't change that six-year-old child's reaction. Job done. Pick up the samsonite and move on. Find a skycap if you're lucky. Get some good poetry out of it.

But, what about the other 34 years? Um. What happened? Who were the players? What were their roles? What was my role?

What the fuck, what the fucking fuck?

And now what?

fowl is fair

My husband ate Hong Kong pigeon. Do I let him come home? Homecoming potentially July 2nd by the way. More on that to follow.

getting to gonzo

The Greenpeace folks have a weblog where Gillo, Trina, Brainfit and others talk about stuff stuff stuff. Like this from Trina:

"Check all headers and sub-heads for consistency. Finish off the About Us section. Check captions and add the final corrections to the press centre, god is that it? Hang on...check over the old archived sites for relative links, skim the news stories, ask Dan to show me how to fix the home page...there must be more but I am sure it will come to me on the way to the office. Oh yeah, buy champagne to pop when we press that magic online button. I wonder ... is there a bottle shop open on Sunday around here? Right go to bed, get some sleep."

Not as risky for them as it is for more conservative mainstream organizations, but cool nonetheless. They are apparently launching something big on Monday. Hints and whisps from the bloggers there. Well, why not--I'm going to check them out tomorrow. Thanks to Rebecca Blood for pointing us there.