Thursday, May 29, 2008

Recent Dreams or Really Exciting Anecdotes?

Last week there was a hornet flying around my basement and Brad, true to life, was terrified and angry at the same time and all but drowned the thing in bug killer. The bug didn't fall, though. It just slowed it down until it was hanging in mid-air and Brad could grab it by its two wings like he was plucking a fuzzball off a sweater. Then we noticed it was carrying something in its little hornet arms, which turned out to be an excruciatingly tiny mouse. Brad threw the mouse in the trash. I woke up before I found out what he planned to do with the hornet.

Last night I was in my "house" alone, which is apt because I was in my house alone. This house had several extra floors and a sliding glass door in the basement that opened out onto a big patio surrounded by trees and lawn and plants potted in giant terra cotta urns. I kept hearing noises around the house and going to investigate them, but nothing proved fruitful until I peeped through the glass door and found a huge lion running through the backyard. It stretched out along the patio and took a nap, effectively trapping me inside the house. The front door was similarly blocked by a zebra, some kind of gorilla thing and a rhino.

"Hm," I remember thinking, "the power must've gone out at the zoo."

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Read Between The Lines

Okay, so, when you see a headline about an archeological dig at the Manson ranch, you have no choice but to click on it. Apparently they were searching for bodies of hitchhikers and other vagrants who supposedly wound up at the ranch and were never heard from again. Arpad Vass, researcher extraordinaire, is probably more invested in this than he should be:

"I haven't been this frustrated [ABOUT NOT FINDING DEAD BODIES] in a very long time," said Arpad Vass, a senior researcher at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory.

"We're trying to improve the science. It's in its infancy," he said. "Every exercise we do like this will further the science so that one day we can say, 'Yes [VIRGINIA], there is a body here.'"

Saturday, May 17, 2008

An Open Letter to Everything

To my darling dearest life lately,

You kinda rule.

It is Saturday. I am sitting in my backyard. I have a backyard. The neighbors are listening to the Ronettes. I am listening to the Replacements. The combination is surprisingly good. My horoscope says You don't have to do anything special this weekend. Just be who you are and do what you do and everything will fall into place as if by magic. I slept late. I slept at all. I finally found my $5.00 New Orleans souvenir t-shirt with the drunk hanging on the Bourbon Street sign. I am wearing that shirt. It's warm. The girl at the coffee place said I smelled nice. I smell nice. Brooklyn. Black tights. Beer. Boys in general and, a couple of times recently, in particular. 3:30 any morning. Walking. An unexpected cute night the other night.

That the scope of my life finally encompasses cute nights.

A surprise visit. Surprises in general. That's the whole thing, I think: that I've been continuously surprised for the past couple of months. Though it always sounds melodramatic and reductionist to make proclamations that begin with "my life," it's utterly legit for me to say that my life had a certain rhythm and very particular fences until recently. There was an entire realm of cool shit that happened to other people--confusing, exciting, and unpredictable stuff that I wanted very much to happen to me--and then there was my pasture, a territory that occasionally housed cool stuff, but always with a degree of separation. It's not like I didn't have stories that would make you laugh or make your eyes go wide, it's just that those stories usually started with, "Oh man, this one time, my friend...".

But suddenly everything has been very first person and I feel like I'm fielding a series of curveballs so wild--actually, I'm getting myself into deep shit with a baseball metaphor, because I have no idea how to finish it. But I'm completely in love with being confused about where every day ends up, because it means for once, my life is obeying Newton's laws of motion. An object at rest will remain at rest until acted upon by an outside force.

Outside forces are the coolest.

Love,
Kathy

Friday, May 16, 2008

Trust Me On This One

I have never posted a video on this thing before, or anywhere, because I secretly kind of hate online videos. But this is unbelievable! It's a wall-painted animation. It's the single coolest thing I have ever seen in my life. It makes me want to hand over my first born, it's so good.


MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Clues and Red Herrings

I don't know what the following list is going to say about me, but for the past two months or so there has been this handful of reoccuring themes in my life that pop up no matter who I am talking to. I mean, honestly, this crap comes up with a bizarre variety of people on an almost daily basis, and I swear, hand to god, that I am almost never the person who drags it into the conversation. They are my leitmotifs, if you will. The whodunit clues you underline in your crappy paperback for later reference when the kid detective wraps it all up for you in the end.

If anyone can unravel the mystery now, though, instead of fifteen chapters in the future, I'd be much obliged.

1. The movie "Empire Records."
2. The Replacements; the song "Can't Hardly Wait" in particular.
3. Jameson.
4. Savannah, GA.
5. Mormons.
6. Red plaid flannel.
7. The Smiths.
8. American Spirits and how they take a very long time to smoke.
9. Wagering money.
10. Chipped front teeth.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Guest Stars

Last Sunday I was sitting at Clem's, which is my favorite bar for reasons no greater than the fact that it has blinds, through which you can peer out onto the sidwalk at passersby like something from a Hitchock movie, or a civil lawsuit. I was telling Jes how much I missed my friend Brian, who I hadn't seen or spoken to in something like a year. We were just bullshitting, there was lots of beer involved, and I mostly forgot about the conversation.

Then, on Friday, I woke up in the middle of the night, checked my e-mail, and found a two-line note from Brian. Not only was he e-mailing me, he was in town for approximately 24 hours, had no dinner plans, and wanted to know if I was interested in going to the roller derby.

Can you see why Brian rules, folks? May you all have a ghost that haunts you who is even half as cool as mine.

Monday, May 05, 2008

Truman Gets It

Even though I kept telling him: But, Doc, I'm not fourteen anymore, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is (and I realized it while we were standing there) I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch.

-Truman Capote, "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

Friday, May 02, 2008

Bitches, Man. Bitches.

I have never heard the word "dick" used more frequently, at such a high volume, or in such creative sentences about gay lovemaking than I did on the train home the other day. Six skateboarding thirteen or fourteen year old boys hopped on at Broadway Lafayette and yelled all the way to 7th Avenue about their dicks, how everyone should suck their dicks, how they suspected their friends were all sucking each others' dicks, how large their dicks were in comparison to their friends' tiny, tiny dicks, and the unbelievable gymnastic fucking they could accomplish with their dicks. The limitless permutations of dicks, mouths, and butts that these kids could put together to imply that their friends were gay but they were not (despite being able to visualize and verbalize dick-ridden scenarios for their friends to star in) were, honestly, astounding.

I am 25. I have watched drag queens turn their packages into boxes. I have seen horrific pornography. I have edited books on sex. Yet still, some of the things these little dudes were able to come up with actually had me thinking, "Hm. Would that work?"

If I had known when I was their age that out of twenty minutes of train talk, a mere thirty seconds would be dedicated to real, live girls they knew, I probably would've spent less time drafting letters to boys that I never intended to send anyway.

A few weeks ago I picked up Rob Sheffield’s small, kind of quiet memoir “Love is a Mix Tape.” It was recommended to me a few times and I was never that keen on reading it. When I found it sitting on a table next to the book I made a Barnes & Noble trip specifically to purchase, I took it as a sign and grabbed it as well. The other book, Sebastien Horsely’s piece of shit autobiography—I hated that book so much after the first thirty pages I threw it across my room and have been stepping on it since. But “Love is a Mix Tape?” Man.

The way boys think about girls is something I’ve never actually considered, because I think until very recently I took it for granted that a dude brain is the same as my brain. But in the past couple months I’ve found myself meeting, talking to, hanging around, and eavesdropping on far more boys who like girls than I’ve been exposed to, well, basically ever. My life tends to skew a little girly and a little gay. Throwing even a handful of straight guys into the mix has felt like the first week of foreign language class in 7th grade, when your teacher starts rambling in Italian as soon as the bell rings but all you can really catch is “si,” and “no,” and “Andiamo!”

I was awake for 38 hours between Tuesday and Wednesday; it was two workdays bookending a night spent with three straight guys and Jes (who is basically a frat boy. But I can be too. Proof: We got in a showdown last night in a health food store that lasted from the sandwich counter to the register, and ended with me double-flipping-off a bro who'd asked "I gotta fart, wanna smell it?" This does not happen with regularity to girls who are girls.). The dudes we were hanging out with were good dudes, totally nice guys, and when they talked about girls I had an uncontrollable urge to tap their heads like maple trees for a reliable flow of male gender insight.

The good dudes, the gross dude, the book, the boys on the train; while running the gamut in tact and eloquence, they were equally fascinating to me because each was a tiny expedition into uncharted dude brain territory.

Seriously, boys, you confuse me. You make no sense and I love you, you change your minds, you disappear, you appear, you are strange, you are loud, except some of you are silent, you are mysterious even when you are obvious, you are obvious when you’re trying to be sly, and, because I am a girl with broad and flighty taste, you are all cute.

Bitches, man. We girls have zero equivalent for that phrase when we're exaspirated and still totally devoted to the whole lot of you, so I'm just sticking with it. Bitches.
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