Friday, November 23, 2007

Random, Useless Discourse 25: Playlist Your Life, M’Fer! Part 2: Red-n-Blue Tuinals, Lipstick Red Seconals

(also posted: 11/23/07:

In case you don’t know me very well, first off, hey, how’s it going? Good. Good. Excellent. Glad to hear it. I’m well. Thanks for asking. Hope you had a happy Thanksgiving.

Oh, and before we get too far in, I’m a self-analyzing non-medicated freak. If you are still reading, well then, allow me to lay out the mat, and usher you into this lunatic parade (thank you, Scissor Sisters).

I’ve blogged about playlists before (myspace: 11/29/06 post: RUD #9 – Playlist your Life, M’Fers!) and music at other various times (myspace: 4/7/07 post: RUD #18 –If Justin hadn’t brought sexy back, would we know it was missing?). So none of this should come as a surprise.

I love making playlist. Few things are more satisfying. Straight-into-the-vein junk. G-sweet, candied self-pleasuring. Look at me world! I’m so awesomely eclectic. I’m soooooo fucking cool. - The act is on par with blogging. Combine the two and you have all the self-pity of a Dickens orphan. Fingerless gloves, muffler a-wrapped, rags on your feet, asking for more. Please, sir, validate me.

Playlisting, like most public acts, are little more than expressions of the person you want to be. The person you see when you look in the mirror, eyes closed. They aren’t entirely honest, and by that, they are always false. Playlist are smart, referential-tartans to cover our less-pleasant naked underside.

I don’t lie on my playlist. Every song on there is among my favorites. I truly, truly do love Lou Reed (“Transformer” – go download it NOW… I’ll wait) and I truly, truly do love the Judds. But I must admit, the fact I have both “Heroin” and “Grandpa, Tell Me About The Good Old Days” on my current myspace playlist, makes me feel good about myself. Makes me feel clever. And, I’ll tell you Susanna and only you, Kristy really loves to feel clever. Kristy needs to feel clever. – Yeah, I know I’m referring to myself in the third person. I’m an egotist. Classic with self-destruction tendencies (myspace: 9/30/06 –RU#6 – Destruction for the sake of reconstruction: Pleasuring the masses) and narcissism (see people’s exhibit A: my myspace). I’m working on it.

But c’mon, dude! Show me some love! I put David Bowie’s cover of Pixie’s “Cactus” over the Pixie’s own version. That sooo deserves like a 5minute make-out session, right? Tongue optional. I also tossed in “Where is my Mind” and “Hey” to get your Pixie fix. I resisted adding the Stooges because, you know, that would have looked desperate. Actually, the shark would have been catapulted over if I had included Boontown Rats or New York Dolls.

See? I know how to play the game. This cock knows how to work the walk. I got all my bases covered. I got not one but TWO Elvi (mmmmm ‘Elvi’). I got Beasties. I got your Arcade Fire, right here, gummy-gumdrop. I’m the pusher and the crack I’m selling is my fine cut Tennessee-Kristy.

So please, check out my mysp playlist ( See how cool I am. How cool I want you to think I am.

If you don’t have the time, that’s okay. You read this blog and that’ll stroke me through. But do both, and I’m shuttering to the floor, grinned and sated. And wouldn’t THAT make YOU feel good? Cool and clever, that’s you, rockstar-bitch.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Random, Useless Discourse 24: So I want to be a Ninja.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007 - orig post date -

Random, Useless Discourse 24: So I want to be a Ninja.

I believe this ninja-thing of mine is for real. It isn't a sudden desire. Nor is it a phase or a passing-fancy, like the trombone (thought it would be easy… I mean, there were no valves or keys to press) or jai-alai watching (Chula!). Oh no, it's the real deal. Ok, Charlie. Cool hand, Luke. Okie from Muskogee. Etcetera etcetera.

When I was little, I wanted to be Wonder Woman. The Lynda Carter, 1975-1979, Wonder Woman that I watched in re-runs. I'd spin. And spin. And spin. Then I'd throw-up. And, finally, collapse. Limp. Exhausted. Crushed. And then, somehow, I'd get up and spin some more. This entertained my older brother (by 8yrs ) to no end. He would encourage me in that loving way older brothers do. He'd tell me to spin harder. Faster. Quicker. As the tears rolled down my slick, chubby apple cheeks, I'd slowly raise myself up to be greeted with his disappointed head-shake. "You didn't go fast enough. You didn't believe hard enough." So, yeah, I'd spin some more. And he'd sit back and grin. Satisfied. Entertained.

I also wanted to be Princess from G-Force (the censored American version of Gatchaman). Again, Brian was there. He'd play along. Talk to me on his watch. Help me jump off the sofa arms to launch and fly. Glide like the little bird Princess was. Unfortunately I was considerably less graceful and tended to land with resulting bruises, scrapes, and blood. Brian would advise me to 'shake it off.' ' It didn't really hurt.' I'd lie and agree. Nope. No pain there. The swelling would go down before Mom got home.

There was also the year I spent wishing upon the same star every night that I'd become Firestar (aka Angelica Jones) from Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends for my birthday. Needless to say the star let me down. It's ok. I learned a lot about constellations. And I kept this little one to myself. Pretty sure there would have been some first degree burns if I'd gotten Brian involved.

Oh, and let's not forget the time invested in mimicking Jaime Sommers. My running and jumping came with their own 'kkkkkkkkkk' s. I took up tennis. I pretty much knew that I wasn't going to be the Bionic Woman (I mean, I would have to be in a very bad accident or something and I was also pretty certain that OSI didn't have any operatives in BFE, TN to rescue me). But, hey, you never know. My tennis career came crashing down when I realized I had to run. A lot.

So yeah. I want be a ninja. I can do it. Right? Maybe?

Ok, admittedly, I have the physical prowess of a kitten. And I'm about as stealthy as I am subtle. And yes, I know I won't ever really really be a ninja. But the point is, even now, all growed-up like I am, I can still entertain myself with these brief flashes of fantasy. I still retain my imagination enough to conjure up those moments. Something to make me smile as I design an application or resolve a communication error or correct access settings. Or some other less crime-fighting, planet saving, sexxy bitch activity.

The real world kinda sucks sometimes. And when it does, I can toss a smoke bomb, slip around the corner, and be in my own kick-ass world. Seriously, what do you do? I can be a ninja when I want to be. And yeah, ok, it is pretty lame. But so is reality. I choose to be entertained.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Random, Useless Discourse 23: If it can’t be found at Wal-Mart, it ain’t worth having …

Sunday, November 04, 2007 - also posted on

Random, Useless Discourse 23: If it can’t be found at Wal-Mart, it ain’t worth having …

For those of you not familiar with Wal-Marts in the South, let me explain. They are life. They are the spice. And he who controls the spice, controls the universe. Or, more appropriately, he who can afford the spice, shows he's a good provider.

Wal-Marts are Willy Wonka fantasies except instead of the oddly-lovable, if not a touch criminal, Gene Wilder, you are greeted and guided by a well-placed grandmother whose sole-purpose is to make you feel guilty about stealing from her so that you don't shoplift from the massive chain that profits more in a month than many countries in a year.

So there you are, Augustus Gloop, in your smart little outfit. Ederly oompah-loompahs offering up their creepy hey-ya'll grins as they scrutinize your purchases (Diet Soda and a King Size Kit Kat. Really?) and mark your every move with all the skill and training of a prison guard. To your right are the beauty aides which will not only assist, but can clear-up and doctor any rash or break-out. To the left are aisles of crackers, cheeses, shortenings, cake mixes, pre-packaged brownies and pastries. The front walls are lined with stores-within-a-store. Ophthalmologist. Optometrist. Financial Advisors and accountants. Bank branches. Hair stylist. And cell phones. All the modern needs and delights. The back houses your camouflage, oil change stations, guns, knives, bows, arrows, and sporting goods of all sorts. Like a lollipop forest in need of clear cutting, there is something for everyone and everything for somebody. Come in for the Charmin 12pack. Stay for the tire rotation.

To some , those who come from places with other things to do, this all might seem overkill. A Mecca where the white-trash come to spend their Friday pay and flaunt their saloned tans and curled bangs. But it's more than that. Disregarding it as a mere collective for the NASCAR set only highlights the stigma of the store and the elitist notion of the reader.

Wal-Mart is a social scene. A trunk of Wal-Mart plastic, beloved blue and occasionally white, is as much a status symbol as the Saks bags the Vassar grads tote their Conde Nast lunches in. In small towns you don't have options. You don't have three Wegmans or Whole Foods competing for your organic, all natural dollars. You don't have Macys to buy your Calphalon. You have one place. Wal-Mart. And in a reality where only a generation or two ago your family didn't have plumbing and a college degree is still an earned privilege and never an assumption or certainty, the fact you can afford a carload of Wal-Mart goodies says more about your class and prosperity than anything else. It makes you feel good about yourself. It lets you know, and others know, you can take care of your own.

And basically, when you have no other options, if it can't be found at the Wal-Mart, then chances are, it really isn't worth having. Because if it were, they'd have it.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Random, Useless Discourse 22: In a small town, Time stands still, but the Breeding Continues

Saturday, November 03, 2007 -orig post date -

It has been thirteen years since I've lived in my small town. Visits were limited to 5day spans twice a year. Once at Christmas. Another open to discussion.

Not to go all Golden Girls on you, but picture it: Small Southern town in Tennessee. Population 1,000. Diversity defined by degrees of Protestant reflections on salvation and musical accompaniment. Methodist tend to be quiet, keeping the faith on the inside and the singing light. Church of God have tambourines in the pews, bass and electric guitar upfront, and a shiny, glittery drum set in the back all keeping time to the pitter-patter of altar-trips and testimonials in tongues. There is nothing like a Sunday morning spent in a Southern church. When the preachers pulls out the handkerchief, the sweat bullying up his face, jerks off his jacket, and grabs the microphone, you know entertainment is about to go down. Nothing sizzles and swirls the spirit like threats of brimstone and promises of fire.

In my romantic way, I like to think I ran away the night of high school graduation to college, never looking back. But it was less dramatic than that. Despite what one might think, I enjoyed my school years. I was in with a cool clique. I was at the parties. I knew the cheerleaders. My family was always supportive if somewhat reluctant to let me go. Tears to the airport. Yet there is no edge in having a functional childhood. So let's pretend I was an outsider. Insert all the stereotypes here.

After 11yrs in the surreal alter-reality that is NY/NJ, I'm back home. That all is a tale for another time. Let's just say I just needed to breathe different air. When you don't know what you want or what to do. You go home. Like I said, I have a good family.

In the short time I've been back, a few things have become apparent. The high school football game is still the thing to do on Fridays. The one last night resulting in parents fighting and kids being cleared from the field. Awesome. The Fishing Hole, this paved little parking area next to the park, is still, well, the Fishing Hole, where you pull in to talk and be seen (though in a town with 2 traffic lights, it isn't that difficult to be noticed if that is what you want). And the Hasti-Mart, the local version of a convenience store with its sub sandwiches, Slushy Machine, and old men in their Dicky overalls sipping coffee and eyeing you over, trying to figure out whose kid you are, is still the only place to get a Sun-Drop (if only because it is open until midnight).

What has changed, however, are the first names. And I don't mean just in that everyone is now named Colten, Jaden, Harrison, Britton, Chase, or Dyron (admittedly the last three examples are my nephews). Apparently in my 13yrs of absence, my schoolmates have been fruitful and multiplied. A few did it even before I left. My mom points them out. That is so-and-so's son. That is blah-blah's girl. Generations sit together at the games. The parents I once knew at sleepovers now grandparents. The kid I remember giving Indian-burns and eating dirt, now stalking the sidelines like my daddy once did. Watching the game. Ready to yell out opinions and play-calls.

Parenting aside, people themselves have changed. The one time dazed-and-confused are now born-again preachers. Pastors proclaiming the power of Christ regaling with their confessions of gutter-life and the healing from the blinding warmth. The uppity, self-righteous have been unseated by their four kids and two ex-husbands. I suppose I am entertained by the roll of the die for them all. How things played out, but, yet, I'm unsettled by it.

Or maybe I'm most disturbed because I don't know where I fit in all of this. What conversation can I have with my peers if I ran into them? I have no kids. No Meghan or Brantly to speak of. I have no insight into marriage nor pick-up trucks nor, God help me, hunting.

I'm embarrassed to say I've moved back and am a little too quick to add-in that it's only until January when I plan to be in Nashville, at the very least. "And Nashville sooo has museums and theaters", as I keep reminding no one but myself.

In a small town nothing changes but the first names. The families are the same. Brewers. Stults. Berrys, of all variations. Holts. Thompsons. A few move out, but the families are large enough that no void is felt. Thing is, I'm no longer part of this small town. And that's ok. Collinwood doesn't need me. And I'm happy to just be visiting. Dear Lord, just let me be visiting.

Friday, November 2, 2007

Sunday, May 27, 2007 - original post date on

Random, Useless, Discourse 20: I am Veruca. And I Want My Oompah-Loompah Now!

Is a forced epiphany any good? Is it a valid Saul-to-Paul revelation on high? Or is it the end result of your unconscious getting bored with itself?

I didn't go into my weekend with any grand illusions of revelation. I did not expect the meaning of life and whatnot to be revealed to me in my moment of mundane – struck as it were by Cassandra-like lightning, all made clear by the shock and purity.

No. I merely wanted to work something out. To sort some feelings. To catalog them and identify them for what they truly are.

There are people in this world who do this naturally. In the moment of the happening. Those who have control, discipline, and patience, can trust themselves enough to trust their emotions. I, however, am not one of those people.

I am for all reasons of debate and understanding, a 12-year-old girl. I react quickly and intensely. Passion and entertainment are what guide me. What lure me along my snail-trail, the slow crawl of life progressing. Skipping and speeding along when you least want it to. I have no control. No discipline. And Lord help me, no patience.

This state of emotional affairs was, at best, cute in my twenties. But now, they are thinning even to me. I do so very much want to be like the others. Those who do not jump. Those who do not feel their insides screaming with the churning of molten impulse. But I do not understand them. I do not know how to be them.

How can they not be kinetic? How are they not in motion? How do they do it? How are their urges subjugated and relegated to the background? I am the id-ridden and they are the super-ego-plus.

I know I disappoint them. Really I must. How could I not? They tell me to use more discipline. To think before reacting. But God help me, I can't on my own! Do they not feel the same whirling? Sirens, doppling-by, in their hearts? Their core gutted and tossed, landing in Pollackesque dripped-chaos where hues mingle and blend into the pretty pretty grey of homogony and the true struggle is to sort out the real from the unreal. To react to only one set and not all. Do they not have this battle? How do they know they are alive, then?

I do so very badly want to be the stable, conscious, rational friend and lover to them all. I WANT to be but I'm not sure I NEED to be. If I've learned anything from them, it is that wants and needs are separate entities and differentiating them is the first step in controlling your actions.

How much can I give up before I lose who I am? How is what I am not good enough right now? Why must I change?

Of course I know why I must change, to some degree. I react like a child. It is selfish and it is small. I have no option. This is not how an adult moves.

I just need help. To find the balance. To be the adult but still be me. I am a random energy. When I meet someone new, I want to devour them. I want their conscious, their breath, and their thoughts on me. My reaction is a magnesium-tape lit and supernova. And I am alive.

While not an epiphany, I've realized this much: I'll be patient. And controlled. And disciplined. Again, I don't want to disappoint. My guilt-drive is even more powerful than my reaction center. I'll wait for my oompah-loompah, whoever he is. I just hope he doesn't give up or give in before I'm ready. And I hope that when it is time, I'm still Kristy-enough to need him.

Self-Indulgent Post 4: Strung out on Lasers and Slash-back Blazers – Part I

Monday, July 30, 2007 - posted originally -

Self-Indulgent Post 4: Strung out on Lasers and Slash-back Blazers – Part I


It can rain sand. Grains streaming through your hands. Shifting dunes puddling in the palms. Grit congesting the passes between the fingers.

He tried to sweep them away. Futile kicking that only seemed to smear and embed.

"Be still," she warned with what passed as a whisper only because he knew she was capable of much more. She eyed the child suspiciously. Always in movement. Always about to tumble and take them all down with him. Her sixty-two years wore hard. The last five spent with the child have not helped matters at all. She could recall every wrinkle that now populated her once vibrant face. Recall them with experiences of narrow-escapes, near-deaths, and worry. Constant, constant worry.

He stared down at the streaks of sand browning the dark planks that passed as a floor. He felt bad, but only for a brief moment. He snorted and look around. It was a shack after all. What damage was he causing?

She shook her head and rubbed her heavy brown eyes. She slumped over, wrapping the rags that passed as a shawl around her shoulders and over her head. She was tired of watching. The boy was going to do what he wanted. He always did.

"We'll move in two hours. The sun is settling." She raised her head to give him another look. She turned it oddly. "How old are you today, boy?" she asked.

He crawled toward her, his knees scrapping along the floor, dirt tracks behind him. He gently pulled the blanket tighter around her. His long, thin arms encasing her like pale tentacles, clutching the ends of the cloth, urging it to expand to complete the circle. The dimming light in the room caught his face, the eyes glowing fire and blue. His head was hairless, kept closely shaven, allowing for the quick change and the opportunistic disguise.

It might have been frightening. The boy's face. Cold and empty as it was, with the ethereal orbs emitting their own light. His sharp angles told of knowing beyond his youth. He was a man just in a smaller scale.Yet his smile, gentle and emotional, humanized it all. His lips were full and warm. They were the visual proof of life on the inside.

The voice was soft and soothing. No emotion but yet, still, human and loving. "Today?" he asked. He looked down at himself. The small chest. The loose-fitting shirt and pant legs rolled-up, the tightly-cinched make-shift belt keeping him barely decent. His wrists were small and fragile with long effeminate fingers.

His attention returned to her. Her face was smoothing. Relaxing. She would need the full two hours to sleep. The running was aging her too fast. Wearing her down. He placed his palm against her cheek and she pressed into it, eyes closed, smile large.

"I believe I have been twelve today, Ohma," he finally answered. "It is always a good age. A fun age." He paused. He didn't want to lie to her. "I can't be sure, but I think I have been twelve all of today."

She laughed softly. Slipping into sleep. "You always have fun, no matter the age."

Gael sat back, resting down on his elbows, legs stretching long before him. His cuffs hitting half-way below his knees. The room was losing day but be barely noticed. His pupils expanded, taking in what light they could trap. He looked at the mess he had only moments before been dancing in. The sand sparkled in what was now, practically, moonlight.

He did so love being twelve. When this was all done, the "Journey" as Ohma romantically called it, he would go back to twelve for real. Constant fun and no obligations. No one to protect. No considerations for the greater good. No destiny. Just bodily functions to laugh at and rails to be tricked.

But not now. Now he was twenty and while he could be twenty or twelve or one, or any age in between, he needed the strength of his full age. He needed what all his brief tenure permitted him. Because for now, at least, Gael did have people to protect and obligations to consider and a destiny to, well, aim for. Because now, in this moment, they had only ninety minutes to rest in. Ninety minutes before night became solid and they were on the move.