the gasoline choir: January 2004 Archives

perspective:

today the daughter & i, struggling to open a bottle of champagne: she tries, hands it to me. i try, i fail. she shows me the bandages, blood draws in both arms (she's an eggdonor, there are tests & shit). i take the bottle, the cork comes out easy. i have no injuries to my inner elbows caused by rough phebotomists, i have no excuse, therefore, easy, right?

fuckin' a.

oh & for those of you that missed the state of the union here are some cliff's notes:

we got saddam! we got 'im! sheeit, we done got that saddam oh hell yeah we fucking nailed that saddam fucker. the patriot act means freedom. open the borders so we can put plenty mexicans to work driving this economy forward! the american people love a good corporate scandal! get drugs out of the schools & give them to old people! except steroids, don't give those to anyone! and we got saddam, the american people can sleep safe at night knowing there was no saddam left behind, also saddam is in custody have i mentioned saddam? & nukular shit in general? be afraid while we keep you safe. vote for us.

weapons of mass destruction related program activities. i swearta fucking god a direct quote, i ran to my 'puter laughing hard & sardonic to make sure i got it word for word, i hurried. weapons of mass destruction related program activities. that makes it alllllll worth it.

fuckin' a.

ohbytheway

thisisme

not gloating or anything. no.

you know that cheesy movie, called billie jean or billie jo (not billy jack) it was about this teenage runaway outlaw folk hero chick named billie jean or jo, i think it was helen slater in the role, & anyway she's on the lam, isn't that what outlaws go on, the lam? & she had this totally obvious long blonde hair & they're going to catch her or something so she goes into this bathroom with scissors & just grabs handfuls of her hair & starts hacking it off randomly & when she's done she has this fabulously stylish chunky punky totally outlaw 'do and then every chick in america does the exact same thing so da man can't find our billie jean?

i swearta god.

what? of course it's just a movie. of course a fabulous stylist actually cut the actual hair. that doesn't mean i can't do it. that doesn't mean i won't. that doesn't mean i will.

pat benatar did the theme song. i can't remember the name of the song offhand but give me a minute. my poor head is so full of useless trivia. and i tried to make a detour through pink but i couldn't bleach out enough orange without obliterating the hair entirely, so it's now a neon coral, *not* pink. the solution of course is to remove the too-much-orange hair with scissors. this doesn't mean i will. this doesn't mean i won't.

men. pfft.

far be it from me to speak ill of the vaginally impaired. as a matter of fact some of my bestest friends are penis-americans. it's not like i'd want my daughter to marry one, but i don't have much choice, she didn't turn out quite as gay as i woulda hoped. this is my future son-in-law, he's not so bad i guess:

& while i try to be open minded & fair & balanced & am loathe to address any group of individuals as a whole, i find i must toss all that p.c. hooha aside & ask: what the fuck is wrong with you guys? hmm? anyone wanna take a shot at explaining this to me? yes it's a general question being asked in a generalizing way & so what? i've generally about had it up to here with ... with you people. up to here.

bah. men. can't live with 'em, can't chop 'em up in bite size pieces & feed 'em to homeless puppies.

ed. note: i got a bsod while writing this & failed to get a picture, so i rebooted & went about getting another one, thinking, you know, now that i want one, i won't be able to. ha. took three minutes. fucking windows me.

additional note: persons of the male variety who wear dresses on occasion & are willing to submit photographic proof of this to me are exempted from the afore-ranted nonsense.

what? oh these. i was just going to go out & trim the hedges. yeah.

when you are paranoid & have observed a rather relentless fruitfly hovering hungrily around your beer you will peer anxiously into its greenly amber depths over & over never convinced that you are not missing the small speck of his death by drowning & while this might have been a serious issue to you once you are no longer the phobic mess you once were there have been so many of those changes, smells like progress might be numbness as if that matters (it doesn't, trust me) & so on &

on & fine, it's fine it is & i am & aside from the beer(s) there is the can beside them (sparks) for a while there were three open containers on the table beside the laptop due to an outing waiting for the train with the daughter sitting tossing back some cold ones (ice cold) talking about epileptic karma & eggnog performance art vomiting & love

so the train came the girl left & i brought these beers home not drunk but quite delightfully illegal in the mere possession of their openness oh yes i was this outlaw & also this one full one the girl laid on my seat beside me, sweetness indeed my daughter sharing this beer she bought all newly twentyone &

i have no segue to where i say i've been listening to outkast & thinking, hey ya & oh yeah & so forth & so what?