Entries from September 2003 ↓

C-listers find this shit just as funny:

Funny Things I Have Said To “Famous Bloggers” that the “Famous Bloggers” Did Not Find Funny At All.

Also, what liberal media?

(All this found at Famous Ernie’s.)

Jesus Christ.

I tried twice to write this post, both times losing the entire entry. The second time I had all the text copied to the clipboard, only to paste in a single word: naivety. Apropos, no? I could punch a baby in the neck right now I’m so angry, but the story of Crazy Poem Guy must be told. It’s already been far too long.

Just a couple of months ago this rumpled, unshaven, but incredibly polite man comes into the bar where I work about 15 minutes before we close and orders a double Johnnie Walker on the rocks. I ask him which kind, Red or Black, and he says he doesn’t have a preference, which I find odd, but not enough to think about more than once. I pour his drink and present it with a smile I reserve only for, well…just about everyone. When I put the glass in front of him he tells me I have pretty eyes. I thank him for saying so, and ease out of a somewhat uncomfortable, but not yet incredibly icky encounter.

I go back to cleaning when he asks for pen and a napkin–he is a writer–and that he is going to write a poem. I mention that I am also a writer and he tells me that he is currently working on a book of poetry to be published in February. To coincide with Valentine’s Day. I ask if maybe I would have read any of his work and he says if I’ve studied any contemporary literature at all then I would likely know his name. Which he refuses to tell me.

Which is fine by me. It is late, and getting later, and all I care about is getting my clean on. When it’s closing time I possess a talent found only in the most seasoned of restaurant employees: I can make you invisible. I can avoid eye contact with such consistency and flourish that there really should be an award, because I could win it right up. Drinks are full, folks are happy, but when it’s closing time we won’t be discussing whether the Titans will go to the Super Bowl, or how your new 19-year-old girlfriend is jealous of your only son, or who’s tits are better–Jessica Simpson or Halle Berry? Instead I’m wiping bottles and putting away mixes and dismantling frozen drink machines (which is sort of like breaking down a nuclear weapon except, also, you get margarita in your eye), because it says what time we close right there on the door.

I am pleased he wants to write and leave him alone to pen his piece. Once he finishes the poem he hands it to me and asks me to read it. (You can read it by clicking the thumbnail below.)

The poem totally weirds me out, but more than that I can’t believe I thought this guy was a published, noted poet. No he didn’t just rhyme “littany” (sic) with “Brittany” (sic, again). I am glad when he goes back to writing after ordering another round, and am even more glad when he stands up to leave. He tells me he is running out to grab his credit card from the car, and that he’ll be right back. Ten minutes goes by and Mr. Mentally Inventory isn’t back, and I start to feel like a total dumbfuck. He drank 3 double scotches on the rocks and walked out on his fucking tab.

I find a second poem on the bar and pick it up.

This one is even worse and now I am thoroughly creeped the fuck out. I feel like a total moron. But at least now he’s gone and I can laugh over the oddity of the situation, all the while getting the fuck up out of work. Plus I have two terrific, trite poems from Crazy Poem Guy to show all my friends.

I think I am finally headed home until two seperate people inform me that Crazy Poem Guy is waiting outside–in the rain–and that he wants to see me. I am totally wigging now, and so very just want to go home, so I tell my manager the creep didn’t pay and is now loitering, asking for me, in the parking lot.

My manager and another male employee walk outside to confront him, at which time he takes off running down the hill into the Wal-Mart parking lot next door. My manager chases him, catches up to him, and confronts him, all while the four or so of us left at work watch from the side door. I wonder what could be said–they talk animatedly for over five minutes, and then the phone rings. Line 1 is for me, and it’s my manager calling from his cell phone.

Crazy Poem Guy told him that I–get this–agreed to accept the poetry in exchange for free drinks; that each poem was worth $1,000. He was phoning to verify the man’s story, which he naturally didn’t believe. I laughed and said that no, of course I didn’t agree to that, he fucking said “hazel orbs.” That isn’t poetry you pay or trade for! While talking to the manager I could hear Crazy Poem Guy saying, “Brittney. Brittney, I’m right here Brittney. Did she say ‘no’? Brittney, I’m right here.”

Which totally went right up my spine. Turns out the guy had no money, no wallet and was caught in this web of lies. My manager let him go, then called the police to find him, which I don’t think they did.

Crazy Poem Guy is still at large. Good thing I’ve got $2,000 worth of his poetry to sell. In order to by a big gun.

Funniest thing I read on the internet today:

Most servers I know are in it for the exercise.

(Found on Fark.)

Tonight I’m going camping with a boy I’ve never met and the man who helped raise him. We are going to set up a tent in the backyard and play and talk and maybe look at the stars and Mars. Tonight I’ll see, for the first time ever, the man I love most with the little man he loves most. There will be egg shakers and a harmonica and laughing and stories and maybe s’mores.

Johnny Cash is dead. So is my aunt. They both passed away last night. Difference is she was young and married and, I think, finally happy.

I spoke with a friend about people who love their partners so much that when they die, they cannot go on. We agreed we found it comforting.

Today it’s cool like I remember autumns from years past. But nothing, none of this feels at all familiar.

I really hope there are s’mores.

(This post is shit. Read this and this . The least I can do is point you to good entries.
Oh, and like a total loser, I changed my hotmail password, then promptly forgot it. Or made the same typo twice. Either way, I can’t remember the answer to the secret question I gave myself 5 years ago–so I’m fucked. Until I get this straightened out, I would like to kindly ask any of you who’ve sent mail to my hotmail account within the last 2 weeks, please send it again to b [at] brittney [dot] f2o [dot] org. Thank you, and I’m a tard.)

Tim Morgan, a Nashville blogger, is now my hero.

You fucking rule, Tim Morgan. And you make pretty signs.

Skot’s tales about the liquor store guy are fucking hysterical. Like most of his other stuff, and rather unlike anything you’ll find here.

Yet.

Fine, ever.

(A note about the links at left: This list is not yet complete. I am not yet done [not] adding you to the roll.)

The fine, fine folks at the Scene published their annual Fall Guide today, in which they published a section called My Personal Fall. And I’m one of the contributors!

[I’ve contacted the paper about the typo in #4. Probably my fault.]

At first I wasn’t sure, but yeah, this is funnier than it is sad.

Way funnier.

(No animals were harmed during the making of this blog post.)

Tada!

New blog.

Weird, I say. This all feels too weird. It could be the Ease II pain reliever I took on an empty stomach that is making me feel so crazy, since it’s #2 ingredient is crack cocaine. Apparently. Ease II is that First Aid kit-brand pain reliever you get at work that, if you aren’t careful, will have you jacked up at 2:30 a.m. with a severe case of teeth clenching and a good, oh, 4 or so hours to kill before any serious shut-eye. But no headache. No sir! Just a pulse like marathoner and a lot to say.

But, yeah, this feels like cheating in way. That pale, purple pitas “Add an entry” page was a constant companion to me for nearly four years, and while this TypePad “Compose a New Post” page is really clean and organized and easy as pie to use, I’ll miss the slow loading pitas editor. The pita people are such good people, so laid back and generous. The buttons you push when updating your blog say things like “switch er up!”–how can you not love that?

I must admit I’m glad my URL doesn’t have the word “pitas” in it anymore. Typing it is one thing, but saying it is quite another. “Pitas?,” they’d say. “Like the food?” I’d agree, yes, it’s food, but this “weblog deal” has shit-all to do with Mediterranian bread. Oh yeah, and the name Misc., etc. is finally fucking dead. I’ve hated that name for so long. I thought it was okay at first, but the two abbreviations in a row gave people headaches when linking or searching and it was sort of not representative of the site really. Sparkwood & 21’s only tricky element is the ampersand. The ampersand is crucial. Those of you nice enough to update any link you may have to the old place should not write out the word “and.” Just to avoid any confusion.

Links to your fabulous site, an about page, photos and countless other edits soon to follow. The Ease II is wearing off and gravity is wrestling with my head.

This feels like saying goodbye to a new lover too soon, and after a lackluster first-ever make-out session.

Um…Was it good for you?