The Fabricator

Sarcastro just called to tell me that Tiny Cat Pants got mentioned in “The Fabricator” today. Sadly, it’s not Slate, which means that he still has one up on me. What’s a girl got to do to get a mention in a national publication? Come on, folks. Let’s have some ideas here. Sarcastro has 183 entries in total. I post 183 entries a day. How come no major media is quoting me like I’ve got valid opinions?

Maybe I should offer to let John Tierney spank me. No, all the important liberal bloggers already take on Tierney.

I just don’t know.

Anyway, the whole thing reminds me of a funny incident when I first moved down here. My dad had picked up a copy of the Scene and didn’t realize that “The Fabricator” was fake news. The story that week was about how the United Methodist Church was going to boycott Mr. Clean because, with the gold earring and everything, he promoted homosexuality. My dad must have trucked back to Illinois with ten copies of the Scene that week so that he could force his DS and the Bishop to explain that nonsense.

I never did hear how that went.

I am in love…

Since I have so many conservative readers, I’m going to assume that most of you know that Sean Hannity from FOXNews has a dating site for his conservative single audience members.

I rummaged around and I didn’t see any of y’all in there, but I did find this guy.

Here’s what I love about him. Clearly, he’s a joke. Some asshole created him and uploaded him and there he sits, awaiting any woman who both believes he has enough money to “spent in on bying nice stuffs” and yet would drive a “Ford f-100 leeks alot of oil & needs atranmision & can’t go to far.”

But I also saw this over at the General’s, which means that enough people have clicked on it now that whoever’s running Hannity’s website ought to know it exists.

And yet… and yet it still sits up there, drawing me back to stare at it, which can only mean that whoever has the power to take it down isn’t sure it’s really a joke.

Folks, how funny is that?

Various Things

  • Damn. The weather is so beautiful! This morning I didn’t even need a jacket when I walked Mrs. Wigglebottom. And last night we sat out on the porch for an hour and read and sniffed the lawn. It was luxurious.
  • So, yeah, I think I’m allergic to winter. I mean, folks, you know. I’ve been feeling bad. My unhappiness was like a roommate who would regularly shit in the tub. My unhappiness flailed around looking for a reason to exist–my job, the Butcher, being poor, lack of good steady men, etc.–but it only wants a reason to exist to mask the fact that there is no reason for it. It’s just there. But after sitting outside yesterday and then walking the dog this morning, I feel better than I have in months. It’s weird. I don’t feel great, but I feel like something has finally broken loose and is starting to move again.
  • This has nothing to do with those other two things, but I was reading the blog of a blog I know and one of the commenters actually said, “Oh, man, sometimes being an empath really sucks” which made me want to travel back in time and stop Star Trek before it could start. I know that’s not fair to Star Trek or to the millions of Star Trek fans who understand that, even if you can pretend to be whatever you want to be, you are not actually really an alien. Do people who call themselves empaths think that the rest of us don’t feel for others? That they alone are capable of vividly imagining what it must be like to feel what someone else is going through? I like to mope around feeling sorry for myself. I don’t assume that makes me special*.
  • If I could write about music like this… God, that would be awesome.
  • The Super Genius sent me flowers on Friday and today was the first day I had to throw one of the roses out. The rest of the flowers are still in fine form. Amazing.

*We all know it’s the boob freckle that’s destined to bring me fame.

Shake ‘Em On Down

On days like today, when I never do find the rhythm of the day and nothing seems to come together how I want it to, and I come home and it’s a little too warm in the house and smells like stale dog, I have one sure fire cure.

Bukka White’s “Shake ‘Em On Down.”

I’m going to share it with you. Go ahead. Download this puppy.

When I hear this, it reminds me of late nights out on the porch, the smell of pine hanging slightly in the air. You can almost hear the crickets and the squeak of a rocking chair in the guitar part.

This is a song for dancing around your house while you do the dishes, hoping for a cool breeze to come in the kitchen window. And this is a song that plays in the background of any party and entices heads to bob. And this is a song for a late night stop on a back road, with a couple of cold beers in you already and one in your hand that hangs slightly behind you and the other one is draped over the shoulder of the guy you’ve enticed out of the car. “Where are your shoes?” “Don’t worry. We’ll find them later.*” “You’re crazy.” “I hear that from people.” “How do you even dance to this?” “You’ve got to come closer.” “I hate this music. It’s so fucking weird.” “Then I’ll dance by myself.” “It’d be better if you were like other girls.”

Well, shit. That sucked. I forgot about that part. I was thinking about the dark trees and the moon and the feel of the gravel on my feet and how good and alive I felt. Fuck it. That’s how I feel when I hear this song, like there should be dancing and sly grins and good times.

I’ve got to stop taking shit like that personally and I’ve got to stop hauling it out like it deserves any space all this time later.

I’d be better off devoting my time to shakin’ ’em on down.

Anyway, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I was trying to convince him to dance to Bessie Smith and I should have known better than to expect him to be comfortable with any song called “Do Your Duty.”

So, yes, “Shake ‘Em On Down.” Good times.

*You will, too. Not the sock, that’s gone, but the shoes are in the back seat where you left them.