In Floatilla Lore, This Explains So Much...

1977: Bootleg Snacks: Swallowed Deep Into The Love: Track #: Lost

Toys:

We'll fade it in at this point, Jack.

Everybody lean in real close and listen up real good. It's Auntie Toys, searing sonnets and psalms in your ear.

Once upon a time, far away, years and years ago, screaming out my name as I went down, a young woman entered college on Labor Day evening of her nineteenth year... As pure and true as the driven snow.


Floatilla Men:

(Hey, what the hell!)


Toys:

She had never been kissed, she had never been fondled, she'd... god knows she'd never been wasted. She was a doe-eyed, rainbow-deprived virgin. Nineteen years old and still half-drunken with youth... In this century!

One Fourth of July she was out drinking on a fake ID in one of those tweak and freak disco dance joints...


Floatilla Women:

(Leather Bitch!)


Toys:

The kind of girl you want to know
From her head down to her toenails, yeah...

Super Freak, my ass; Blow daddy!


Floatilla Men:

(Break out the good shit!)


Toys:

Anyway, she was out drinking on a fake I.D. in one of those tweak and freak disco dance joints, underneath a Southeastern coastal city. When under the confusion of the flickering, upright line-of-sight disco ball and storming PA...


Floatilla Women:

(We’re gonna burn this mutha down!)


Toys:

Not to mention... not to mention, all the microdot and schnapps she ate and drank that night...


Floatilla Men:

(Pour yourself another round!)


Toys:

She got separated from her alabaster friends. And she was... stricken with fear.

When suddenly there appeared like a dark angel at her side, a thirty-seven year old sweet-talking suave smooth disco gigolo named Dr. Love.


Floatilla Women:

(He used to be mine!)


Toys:

Now, Love was a striking man, in fact, he struck her several times later on that very same evening, under solemnly obligated patriotic prescription circumstances.

There's some people engaged in flagellation back there.


Floatilla Men:

(Who the hell asked you?)


Toys:

Well, what would any red blooded American nineteen year old virgin female do when confronted with a thirty-seven year old domination-wedding-chapel-leather-bar disco gigolo named Dr. Love?

She went home with him!


Floatilla Women:

(Will you remember me?)


Toys:

It's not even midnight, and in an age old time honored right of passage, Dr. Love made a woman out of her.


Floatilla Men:

(Give it up!)


Toys:

It took three whole days and two whole nights, but he did it, he made a light-socket, bottle rocket woman out of her.

About halfway through the second day, they stopped, and he tried to make a man out of her, but she didn't like that part, so they swap playthings.


Floatilla Women:

(That ought to do you for now!)


Toys:

Don't look at me like you don't know how that could be..! The measure passed with ease.


Floatilla Men:

(Hypocrisy Gestapo!)


Toys:

And don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You haven't?

Is this your first summer in town? Let me show you around.


Floatilla Women:

(WWD Love do!)


Toys:

From there, the house call relationship went, um, downhill, if that's possible. It got really sick. It was one of those twisted night after night after night, all day long, all night long, kinda corkscrewed down the back of the night on two wheels kinda things.

I hear some twisted men out there that like that.


Floatilla Men:

(I’m right here!)


Toys:

There's hope! And that's the start of a sad mysterious story: a story of love... love, love, true performance artist love and full witch doctor regalia.


Floatilla Women:

(The best things in life are we!)



Toys:

Amen!




All Floatilla:

(Sasha!)

Girls' Night

She slides her heels off at the door and in her stocking feet
She glides across the floor while I pretend to be asleep
It's too late to take her makeup off
It's too dark to see
It's girls' night
She made a promise to me

Between the discothèques and lounges and martini bars
They ride in hansom cabs and limousines and new European cars
They pretend that they're still single
They pretend to be stars
When it's girls' night
You're free to be anyone you aren't

CHORUS:
It's girls' night
While all the haunted city sleeps
It's girls' night
And the unwanted spirits weep
It's girls' night
She made a promise I know she'd never keep

Don't fuck with me
Don't fuck with me
I'm not in the mood
Don't fuck with me
Don't fuck with me
I'm not in the mood

Every hair is still in place without a trace of sin
Her kisses don't taste anything like cigarettes or gin
She eases up the blinds to let the moonlight in
It's girls' night
We made a wager I knew I'd win

CHORUS

lowes

They can have their little feckin' apostrophe ... lowe's


but I am certainly not freakin' capitalizing them... Lowe's


and, I far'gain dare ya to even just ask me to use their proper fuh-reakin' name...

Lowe's Home Improvement Stores


so, don't even flipping consider fackin' mentioning their official f'ing name in my company...

Lowe's Companies, Inc.




I don't even know where to start.
But, I will say: dogs.
Fuckin' eh, I like daigs.


D-47

gots mad skillz

So, I have some new skills I can add to my resume, now. Though, I am not sure that these are items I particularly desired to have on my resume in the first place... but, I am sure it will come in handy, sometime, right.

Here goes: Painting (Interior, only, so far), Cement / Mortar (it's like clay - art therapy - without all the Patrick Swayzeick), Various Texture Applications (now that just sounds like a fine sextoy accessory), Electrical (never in the attic...never, I say, never), Bondo (I think I actually like racing the clock with this... I don't know why I was always so intimidated by it before), general Construction / Demolition (is that, really a skill? - demolition, man, that would be fun to list on your taxes, I suppose), and [I may be adding] Ceramic Tile [to that list] (but I hope not)... [among other things].

FYI: Thus far, I have successfully avoided all plumbing and cabinetry... I wonder where I'd add that to a resume. It feels like a skill / category: avoidance ... PS?


I think I will leave this last one off the resume, but it has become quite a mastered skill... and in a fairly short time. Experience levels really help with that, with the constant contact... it just becomes like a second nature. Born again nature? Blessed nature. At least that what they always say.

Skill: Crackhead Grounds Maintenance (it sounds only marginally better than calling it yardtrash)


Did I mention? No, t.v. Well, if you don't count NCIS reruns ... and old Fawlty Towers episodes on the laptop... that is, of course, no real, live t.v. atm.


And that, my friends is it...

D day:

D - 51

and counting...

universals

Every once in a while I am reminded that this blog site is still here. And I have yet to update any of the links I lost when I updated the template to the 21st century. I don't know why, but I just don't seem to have even the slightest bit of interest in doing html code any more. I guess it was just a phase. At least it lasted longer than the mo-hawk phase, although no where near at long as the vegetarian phase.

So, now I have this site I never update... a twitter, I almost never use... a myspace, I log in so infrequently I have to request the password every time I sign in... and what is the point, really. Sure, it's nice to re connect with some long lost friends... but must I have a bookmark folder full of these thingies in order to communicate.

So, what I am wondering... when do they create the one service that let's you unite all these varied 'message' services together. When can I sign into gmail and have it link to twitter, flitter, aol, yahoo, myspace, facebook, icq, etc... and all I need do is make one universal entry. Why must modern technology take so damn long to become mildly convenient?

{edited for content}












again.

Need I say more...?

Although I had more than my fair share of childhood drama, there were only a few memories that really stuck with me... most of the others I have done very well to repress very deeply.

{begin: storytime}

When I was maybe 12 years old, I was swimming in the pool with my dad and brother. My brother didn't take to water quite as well as I did (unlike me he could walk before he could swim), but it seemed enjoyable none-the-less (as long as he didn't go underwater - that was end game). So, there we were enjoying a nice hot afternoon swim... when I hear my mother yelling from outside. She comes rushing into the greenhouse (where the pool was) and relays the bad news. She has just driven over her cat.... an 18+ year old, the most brilliant cat I have ever met, Venus. As he was as much a part of the family as any human to me, I immediately and semi-completely lost it: I screamed, I cried, I wailed... it hurt so much, I let it all out. The details she gave didn't help much either... as she graphically explained exactly how it's eyes and brain had literally popped out .... and asked my dad to come out an check on it (as if there was anything left to save). The more I cried, the more it began to insight my brother to do the same (even though at age 2ish, he probably didn't have too much of a clue as to exactly what was happening).

And, no, the death of a lifelong feline family member wasn't the most traumatic part of this glorious story... this is: So, now I am balling my eyes out, and so is my lil brother. Then my mother decides to yell at me... for upsetting my brother (like this whole thing is my fault). How am I supposed to not cry!?!

I am sure not I ever fully recovered from that situation... of all the great parenting adventures I experience thanks to mom, this one may have been a personal best (imho).

And what do you do when someone tells you not to cry? - of course, cry more, louder... my apparently, sometimes, eventually, personal favorite: hyperventilate.




I was just recently reminded of this tale, again... as she drove over yet another family pet with her car. And again, it doesn't bother me as much that Moira has passed (I am confident she is in a better place now), rather I am bothered by the response of the supposed adult in the situation.

"It was like she just ready to kill herself."

{/end: storytime}

{wipes off cobwebs}

Sometimes, a skull and crossbones is a good sign, even if it's only moderately toxic. I can say without a doubt, this is the first time since I received my pesticide handler's certification, that I am THRILLED to use it. I asked the boss what he suggested I used to kill those pesky lil bastids...he said a Pyrethroid (basically the same stuff most flea treatments use) would do it.

Is it odd that I generally don't enjoy shopping, yet browsing for this death-juice made my day?

I chose the Lesco Crosscheck plus multi-insecticide an emulsifiable concentrate with the active ingedient Bifenthrin 7.9% fl tc.

Large doses may cause incoordination, tremor, salivation, vomiting, diarrhea, and irritability to sound and touch

Doesn't that sound nice. Yes, yes it does.


I wonder if I use a lower does than the EPA standard for this chemical (a .25% dilution rate), if it will make them suffer more/longer.



Btw, the final recovery time for me... I missed two full weeks of work. And workers' compensation wouldn't cover it (probably because some quack called it poison ivy). I still have scars, almost two weeks later... and I suspect I will for some (if not forever) time.

Everyone I talk to about these horrid bugs says they only live in Florida... and they can't believe they're actually here. Jokingly I say, they must have hitched a ride on the backs of fire ants as Knoxville has just recently been added to the 'fire ant quarantine zone'.

...Now, where was I...

not Bactine, not Cortaid (spray or scrub), not aloe, not menthol, not homeopathic/herbal allergy (pill or cream) remedies, not even dog saliva... and believe you me, I'm willing to try ANYTHING.

So, I finally went to see a doctor. He claimed it was Poison Ivy.































Although I explained to him the intense hornet's-nest fires-straight-from-hell burning-sensation of each of the dozen (or so) stings which match the locations of the worst of the rash, he wouldn't listen. Told me I didn't know what I was talking about... as if I could make up something like this... because I was too ignorant to know what Poison Ivy is. "Oh, you work outside. It Poison Ivy."

So, I splains ta him:

I work (not to mention play) outside. I get Poison Ivy 5-6 times a year, every year. Every time I get it, I see it (that 3-leafed lil devil). But by the time I see it, it's too late, I already have it. I did NOT see Poison Ivy BECAUSE IT WAS NOT THERE... but I did, however, see THE SINGLE MOST DAMNABLE CATERPILLAR ON THE FACE OF THE FECKING EARTH. ( <-- Can you tell burning & itching continue, now.) I also SAW my arm on it. ( <-- notice I didn't say that the other way around)

Lucky thing, I hope, though... a steroid shot as the doctor's prescribed remedy for my 'poison ivy'... is something which 'should' work just as well for the new-found allergy I apparently have to what irony would have me remember as one the most magestic caterpillars I've ever seen (at first glance). Today's lesson: Caterpillars are ugly and plain, as a rule... when they appear fantastic: oh, they are.

http://www.uky.edu/Ag/kpn/kpn_02/pn020909.htm


(scroll to the last article)

Once you have encountered a saddleback caterpillar, its an experience your not likely to forget soon.

Or ever. As long as I live I hope I never see, or more importantly feel, another.

No really effective home first aid treatments for caterpillar stings are available.

Not Calamine, not Cortizone, not Campho-phenique, not Neosporin, not Benadryl, not soap and water, not rest, not drinking lots of water, not tape, not baking soda, not prayer, not even selling your soul to the devil will remedy the itching and burning... or even help stop the spreading of the rash.



It felt as if I was shoving my arms into a hornet's nest... again, and again, and again. I have about a dozen stings on my legs and arms, yet the rash has spread to my face, stomach, and back. I'm as irritable as if I were having the worst case of pms ever, yet after a few days the pain/irritation didn't fade. Four days and counting. And the rash on my lips has to be my favorite, followed closely by the one surrounding my eyes, of course.

It just looked at me with those closed-grinning-Cheshire-cat-eyes as if to say how proud it was, what an accomplishment... like I had just made its day. I think this might have been the first time I have ever really wanted a bug to die... at my hand, with all the vengenance possible.