aka, shit i laughed, ooh-ed, or ahh-ed at:
i'm a site of the moment
Monday, March 17, 2003
Sometimes I wish I had a tattoo or a piercing or a really neat birthmark or something. Or maybe a really sexy, long scar on my belly. If I were kidnapped and forced to change my appearance the only identifying mark on my body is a large, brown mole on the side of my neck that children often mistake for a tick.
Sunday, March 16, 2003
With my cable modem basic cable channels are basically free. [Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.] They charge you $10 more for the cable modem if you don't have cable television. So, I went ahead and got it. I got the minimum package--looks like 20 or so working stations.
The guy came yesterday to hook it up. I put fresh batteries in the remote and started flipping. Two full rotations later I turned it off, where it has remained, untouched.
Man, there is nothing good on television.
That's my problem.
Asking too much.
I'm doing fine and so are you. And without a hint of sarcasm, I want to tell you, that I am very glad.
call me easily swayed
call me commie, daddy
dad: Did you get my e-mail, honey? I sent you this thing someone sent me about the people who are protesting--who don't appreciate what this country is doing right now.
me: Dad, I'm those people. I went to the Books not Bombs rally in Murfreesboro.
dad: I swear, Brittney. My daughter, the socialist.
After the ass comment, the conversation went like this:
g.i. joe: You watch Oz?
me: No, but I've seen Six Feet Under.
joe: *snubs his nose* That is the show with all the homosexuals.
me, in my head: Those dudes on Oz are always getting bent! That show is, as far as I can tell, about men fucking each other!
me, for real: Not all. One, okay two, and besides-
joe: -I'm sorry, no way. No. I'm not a homophobe, just intolerant. (I do not lie, he said just that.
joe's redneck companion: He really don't like gays at all. He eats his hot dogs width-wise, like this. (Holds hands on either side of his mouth to imitate.)
me, remembering the earlier ass comment while simultaneously discovering the sheer retardation of what I have just heard: Are you saying that everytime you eat a hot dog you think about sucking some guy off?
train of thought
I seriously dig trains. I mean, they are so incredibly mysterious. I wonder what the train cars might contain: Livestock, handbags, artillery, people. Where is it going? Where has it been? The things it must have seen.
I wonder about the freight trains; that, aside from the occasional locomotive-hopping hobo, there are no people. But there must be someone. There is probably even a two-man crew. Sure, with today's technology a train could traverse the tracks successfully from a remote location, but that can't be right. I mean, if something were to get in the way of the tracks that would cause an accident the computer might have a mechanism to detect it, but I doubt it. All this would cost too much. Why, when you can just pay someone to drive the thing?
And that, friends, is where my fascination lies. What an eerie, fucked up kind of job! I mean, it isn't as though train tracks are lighted in any way. There is nothing but the train's own lights to illuminate the tracks. And I can just imagine that a moonless midnight on some remote train track in the back woods of some Tennessee town gets pretty fucking black. And scary.
What if the train's lights somehow quit working? You'd be hurtling ever-forward into the pitch, a soul unseen, riding the places so few eyes have seen. Propelled into the recesses of mountains and to the shores of icy lakes and blindly carried through the fields of nests of sleeping beasts.
And jesus god, what if the fucking thing broke down? You don't call up Skanky E's Wrecker, Tow and Pawn Shop to come tow your busted-ass train. Nor do you have someone "come right out" to take a look under the hood. I say you are fairly well fucked, stranded, train-less, in the damn dark in the middle of nowhere. Some X-Files type shit about to go down and it's you, a gimpy ol train and the SouthEast's supply of Chee-To's.
Annnd, that is all, really. Just wanted to talk about trains and train drivers and how badass they are.
Also badass: all these terrific mix CDs I've been getting (Ya'll rock! Well, most of you.), fucking perfect blue sky, sunny days like today (so perfect I struck up conversations with mothers pushing strollers and the nurse waiting at the crosswalk during my jog), Vicodin, top secret activities, tomato soup, timely reminders, finding floppy disks from 1997 and running out of toilet paper only to remember you have a box of tissues stashed away under the sink.
oh. fuck no.
with eyes on
about the first time
lessons and lesions on hearts
Not really up for discussion.
chico bangs your mom
Then let me know if he is as good as he thinks he is.
on staying grounded
How's that for suck ass?
a few questions
[Hi Wiley and Jen D.!]
pics for peace
do not fucking deny it
You can't tell me Ronnie Milsap's Smoky Mountain Rain isn't a good-ass song.
view from my window
I've decided I must have cable.
All things exceptionally excellent.
first of the month
Now he's beside his tiny truck, painted rust gold and packed to the brim with an ugly plaid couch and household items covered in white plastic garbage bags. Because of the drizzle.
His tone is impatient, yet soft. He almost whines at her. She makes the cute faces back at him. He wants to know if there is anything else she'll be taking to her mother's, to please, go get it. He shifts his weight. She pushes up the winding staircase to retrieve more of her belongings--I hear her. From the window I see him remove his cap and slide grasped hands through oily, wet hair and unlock the door to his truck. She hurries. He waits.
Once outside he yells, softly, "I said it's unlocked." She tries the handle again to no avail. Beside him in the cabin, truck door still slung wide, she sweetly says, "You know I hate to move, but next time I'll do it by myself." She says it kindly, matter-of-factly, and he doesn't argue.
They kiss deeply and share a cigarette.
She leaves the truck for her own blue station wagon. She climbs in the driver's side. He honks at her. She honks the horn back. He returns her return honk and pumps down the window. He loudly, and with a hint of relief, informs us that she won't be back.
I so get off on it. I think it's great, since it happens so very rarely. I used to get really freaked out about it and want to know, "Why? What the fuck is with that ringing?" Now I'm all resigned to it. Accepting of it. I like to sit and really listen to the buzz--see what I can hear. Is it a blip in the matrix? Aliens uploading raw data through my ear hole?
This isn't crazy talk. Or some sort of anomaly. You get that buzzing too, right?
Suspense and shock beyond anything you have seen or imagined!
I pulled into the lot and made my way to the pond. I noticed a few geese and ducks doing nothing by the water's edge, grabbed my camera and locked the door securely behind me.
Immediately, two geese hurried over to me, big feet all muddy, squawking. I clicked on the LCD screen and snapped a shot a colorful bird. I rasied my eyes from my camera to note more fowl swimming in toward me, and quick. Those that were on land took off in a full sprint. There were less than ten, so I maintained by alarm to manageable. They weren't panthers, they were fucking geese. Then I took a photo of three white ducks by a tree. It was at this time that 20-25 ducks bumrushed me, getting all up close squawking in a girl's face and shit. Their cries for food were like sirens, but more hungry.
Fuck yeah, I started to freak. The squawking got louder--more hateful--and there was this hard coldness in their black eyes. Those goddamn birds were going to eat me. The water level had risen so drastically that it destroyed any food in their precious ecosystem and they hadn't eaten in a week. They thought I looked like a white bread kind of woman, but all I had were some Tic Tacs and a diet Pepsi. Me and my thighs must have looked like a tasty treat--and none of them were thinking about sharing. My fear welled.
I can think only, "Hitchcock! Dammit!," as I fish for my keys. I hear them beating their enormous wings behind me and I fear I'll be consumed by a frenzy of beaks before I get the door unlocked and sit safely inside. I think one of them bared his teeth to me in my rearview mirror as I peeled out.
Also, I took pictures in the potty:
Just now it happened again and this is what (I think) this guy yelled: "She's just a simple bitch."
I wonder if he meant to say "She's simply a bitch," or whether he meant she is indeed simple--as in manifesting little common sense or intelligence.
'Cause if it is B) then that is a truly excellent putdown. You simple bitch.
How cute! It got its own gray box!
what the hell?
Hard to read? Difficult to navigate? Just plain ugly? Hate all the cursing and shit?
It doesn't have to be detailed or profound, just constructive.
trying to trend set
I know, I know, they are ugly. You're right, they can be. But there is a pure, special kind of beauty that can be seen on the face of a woman who isn't clenching her teeth in discomfort from having blue-sparkly lace up her bum that you haven't considered. The granny panty has many and versatile positive aspects. You can hide shit in there. Loose change and the like. And in case your sail breaks while out boating, you can use the Missus' drawers. They can also double as restraints in the bedroom. Just sayin'.
So, I am on a crusade to bring the osteracized and misunderstood granny panty back into vogue? Who's coming with me?
And to the giver of these, thank you, they are benefiting me immensely in my polar apartment. Damn these highly attractive, yet enormously drafty, Civil War-era windows.
Mom, Mus, co-workers, acquaintances of mine: Read this to understand me better.
These regulars are the kind of people who are jealous of the time/attention/whathaveyou given to the other regulars, begging you to have your shift meal beside them, and not Darnell. "Come take your top off and sit by me."*
They know that you close at 10 p.m. on Sundays, yet sit until 11 every time. Sometimes, they make you cry.
Some bar regulars are cool as fuck. Like Jimmy the Biker who was gentle and considerate and tipped super fat. Everyone liked to see Jimmy because he never tried to verbally molest us. Then Jimmy got a girlfriend and now he doesn't come around anymore. Good for him, but man, I think we all really miss ol' Jimmy.
Which leads me to conclude that there is one characteristic in bar regulars that remains consistent--regardless of age, race or social status: They all seriously need to get laid.
*When eating at the bar, staff must remove their outer server shirts to maintain an illusion of professionalism. We wear t-shirts and such underneath.
One of those days.
Listen, you can't fade that. I sincerely hope she doesn't cheat on him for like, 50 Cent or, god forsake, Puffy "Bom-Bom-Bom" Combs.
And they are varied, too. One of the biggest drawbacks to living in Nashville is it's reputation as the Country Music City. Not true. It's just the Music City. And while country music predominates Music Row where the executives prune up-and-comers, and the adornments of the city streets--neon cowboy boots and rhinestone-studded fannypacks--but the actual music in Nashville is as varied as anywhere else you may go.
Which is why I am almost sad to see that the USA Network has created a reality show, "Nashville Star", wherein twelve contestants live together and work toward becoming the winner of a recording contract at the series' finale. The chosen twelve look ripe for the ribbin' with names like Prentiss Varnon, Kristen Kissling and Buddy Jewell. One of the contestants from California names The Judds and Sublime as his primary musical influences. Take this quote from NYC-dweller Jamey Garner, "I try to inhabit a song. Live it! Then throw in some fiery down-home harmonica and a whole lotta heartland upbringing. What comes out is honest country." Or this gem from 19-year-old blonde Miranda Lambert, "I consider myself a TRUE country singer/songwriter who stands on the vocal and attitudinal shoulders of Natalie Maines and George Jones." Honey, you may need a spotter.
I look forward to seeing how Nashville will be portrayed in this B-rate reality series, though I bet I might be the only one.
for your optical dis/pleasure
Here are a handful of photos from there and the drive to and from.
Happy Belated Valentine's Day!
power steering rocks my face
You feel all helpless and out of sorts with the universe for a fraction of a second. Then you note: wow, I own two cars. You opted for the generic milk, but you own two (plural) cars.
Somebody ring "Cribs."
make up my mind not war
A few ideas:
Make Muffins Not War
Anyway, I have the shirt and the letters and an iron. But I can't fucking decide. Every time I go to choose the letters I think of Make Crank Not War! Then reneg.
Update: The t-shirt has been made. See it here.
Also, we are still under happy hour, so if you'd like, I can get you two for one on drafts or margaritas.
So, do you need more time to look over the menu?
Would you like a house or Caesar salad?
Super, I'll get this going for you. You're deep-fried appetizer will be out shortly, at which time I hope you choke on it.
Twenty times a night, five nights a week for six years. That is 362,000 times.
100 words on 'blue'
Fathom whimsy-chapped wonderful trickling over fragments of long-fragile planes.
pork chop, pork chop
Pork chop, pork chop
Odds are you've heard this famous chant, and if you haven't well, it's well-known. Kevin Costner "sings" it in 3,000 Miles to Graceland. Emily told me that.
I've never seen 3,000 Miles to Graceland, but she has, and even after hearing the Mr. Costner chant the rhyme, she insisted to anyone who would listen, that I wrote The Other White Meat cheer. She said she figured someone overheard it at one of our softball tournaments and ripped me right off, taking the verse straight to Hollywood, never bothering to credit or compensate me in any way. The bastards.
Best of all, when people assured her she was crazy--or that I was a bald-faced liar--she insisted that she was right, that Brittney Gilbert made up the Pork Chop cheer.
Now I wish like hell I had.
a big day
Tomorrow I'll have a gorgeous, dentless, CD-player havin', sunroof-sportin', electric locks and windows-featurin', power steering included, totally free car in which to carry around my hundred or so copies of The Scene.
Don't go trying to get me down tomorrow. Try it and I'll run over you with my cool as fuck car. Or tie you down and paper cut you to death with my first published critique.
8th grade was trading clothes with Karah, who was blowing up popularity-wise, since her being featured in Teen magazine's model search. She was chosen as one of the ten finalists, then went on to be a Nexxus girl, then later a hostess at a popular Nashville eatery. At the time I thought wearing her denim skirt brought me closer to the cool. 8th grade was my first kiss during a basement game of spin the bottle, with Bryan Dwyer, a sweetheart of a kid who happened to suffer from Tourette's. True story. That kiss remains, to this day, the longest kiss I've ever engaged in. Not literally, mind you, but my mom was out in the car, blowing the horn, the entire party was watching, and Bryan twitched and licked my teeth for what felt like fucking months. I was glad for us both he didn't curse.
8th grade was awkward, hush-hush fumblings with a girl in her room while listening to Bryan Adams, looped, on her pastel boombox and deciding for sure while she slept that boys were more my style. 8th grade was tears spilled over B+ tests and pretending to read Tale of Two Cities to impress my English teacher. 8th grade was red clay suntans from the softball field, where I learned how to throw a ball really, really hard. 8th grade was hot summer nights beneath screenless, opened windows and the sound of crickets and dreams of true romance. 8th grade was winning the Student of the Year award at semester's end, a plaque I could not accept as I was in In School suspension for french kissing before History class.
8th grade was before the wrinkles, before the loss, before me that is now, hardened and disillusioned. 8th grade is a collage of moments, a foggy, ancient yesterday, a place I'll be happy never to return.
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