I Luff the Library

That's more than love, is how much I love it. It's indescribable to describe my love for free literature and the like. Like in "Annie Hall," when Alvie Singer tells Annie that he loves her so much, that it can't even be called "love" that he luffs/lovures her. Ooh, ooh, ooh! So, I'm still reading "Kafka on the Shore" (wow! weird and awesome) and as Kafka Tamura (one of the main characters) is currently residing in a library, reading lots of books and holding long discussions with Oshima (Kafka's supporting character) about books, I've been thinking a lot about books, and today I went to the library to get books. Specifically T.S. Eliot's Collected Poems, 1. because Oshima spoke about the straw-filled hollow men from Hollow Men and 2. In reading an RS article, Woodstock director Michael Wadleigh said the aftermath of the festival was reminiscent of Waste Land - so I had to, I was pulled, in other words.

Re-reading these poems reminded me of sitting in junior year English class, sighing over failed attempts to comprehend the magnitude of Eliot's words in Prufrock and others, but now I find joy and delight in the memory of those attempts and the newfound ability to grasp hold of said concepts and images. Let me type out one for you....

'Preludes'

I.
The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.


II.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One think of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.


III.
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.


IV.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
------------------------------------

And I really liked this one, too:

Hysteria

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..." I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.
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And then, after watching a trailer for "Bruno" I watched a trailer for "2012" that made my heart race and think of 'Waste Land', especially the ending ("This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang but a whimper").

So, I got that, and this life and pictures book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and CDs!! Erykah Badu's "Mama's Gun," Fiona Apple's "When the Pawn," Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land: The Asch Recordings, Volume 1," "The Best of Grand Master Flash, Mellie Mel & The Furious Five," Priscilla Ahn's "A Good Day," and "The Best of the Girl Groups: Volume 2" - like I said, I luff the library and all its precious treasures. Now to make use of my finds...

100%

I'm a big fan of Haruki Murakami, in addition to the fun of pronouncing his name, he's a wonderful writer. I've only read A Wild Sheep Chase (a fast reading mystery) and Norwegian Wood (a heartbreaking and brilliant "coming of age" love story), and just recently started Kafka on the Shore; my brother shared this short story, in which Murakami plays off the idea of soul mates, that I wanted to share with you. Take a chance, I want to tell the people posting on craigslist for "missed connections" and this falls in that vein; though most stories turn out sad, as death is inevitable, there is always an opportunity to make something good happen in the middle.

Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird. "Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone. "Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?" "Not really." "Your favorite type, then?" "I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts." "Strange." "Yeah. Strange." "So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?" "Nah. Just passed her on the street." She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say? "Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?" Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman. "Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?" No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me." No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about. We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had. I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd. Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?" Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. "This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me." "And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream." They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle. As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?" "Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do." And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank. They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: She is the 100% perfect girl for me. He is the 100% perfect boy for me. But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever. A sad story, don't you think? Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

---

[A] List(s)

Household Items Lil Mama plays with:

- Rubber bands
- Straws
- Receipts
- Discarded Cheerios
- Bottle caps
- Dust
- Mr. Potato Head's Nose, rendering him smell-less with a giraffe's ear replacement
- Whatever string she can scratch out of any fabric surface
- Nothing at all, just jumping around, running through the apartment like some kid of woman possessed
- Paper bags

Items Lil Mama does not play with:

- Whatever my roommate and I spent money on specifically for kitty's enjoyment, ie., all $60 except sometimes the feather fisher thing... Not even her cat nip bubbles does she like.


I'm almost ashamed to post this as apparently I have swiftly become a crazy cat lady... wait, wait, wait, she's in her litter box, scratching around, I don't like her again.

I Just Signed a Contract... With the Devil(?)

I probably shouldn't have even said that much. I'm not so sure what I signed. I mean, I know it was a contract, and it was long, and there were lots of words/phrases that I didn't understand, but besides that and "One Million Dollars (without bail)" I'm not really sure... yeah, awesome, right? I can't really talk to you about what I signed or why I signed it. I'm just saying I signed one which basically gave all my rights and information and privacy to someone to dispense to the world at his or her pleasure, all for a chance to... maybe move on to the next round. I suppose if I do there will be more paperwork. Oh, the contract did suggest that I have my lawyer look everything over. Right. Because an unemployed 23-year old has a lawyer readily on call to handle all my contracts and other legal documents. Right. (And when I said that did you imagine me talking to an actual contract - like, let's say 8' x 5' - like I did? Like how sometimes when I say, "Oh, well I told Korea that I'm going to need to push back my leave date because I want to try and vie for this opportunity where I will most likely make an ass out of myself preventing any future worthwhile opportunities" I imagine myself phoning up South Korea, dressed in blue (it, not me, I'm in a yellow hazmat suit) delivering the bad news. No you don't see either of those? Oh.)

--- I wish my fucking cute cat would learn how to use the scratching post; she was just trying to claw the shit out of the arm chair in the corner and I clapped and said, "KITTY!" and she stopped and then, on her way into the kitchen I tried to scoop her up to attempt to failingly train her on the s.p. but noooooo, she's dodgy. Great, thanks cat. Thanks.

But yeah, so I signed it and sent it (and my life) off into the sunny, smoggy, traffic-y abyss that is Lake Toluca, California. And now, because I signed it, I can't talk about it... or, at least, I don't think I can. And A.) I don't have a lawyer to show it to, and B.) even if I did, it would have to be read hunched over my laptop (or their computer) because there's no effin' way that I'm paying another $14 at Kinko's to print that shit off. RIDICULOUS!! Fucking Kinko's and their nice, thick paper with their bold inks and efficient service; bastards.

What else? Oh, I don't think there is anything. Just that we're back at square one. Waiting. Oh. My. Oh. My. I loathe waiting. I am impatient! And I know, I know. Patience is a virtue, but one which I do not possess, nor wish to. I mean, sure, I guess it would be adultish of me to be patient, but I'm not down with that. I'm already doing a pretty good job at honesty, and I think I'll keep it at that, because I know a lot of lying liars who can wait around just fine, and no thank you, I've got better things to do with my time... except in this case, and really, I have no choice but to wait on decisions coming out of La-la Land (did you sing that? I did) and pretty much twiddle my thumbs or go for runs, or biking in the sun...s - because! did you hear? That one star that's closest to us (second to the sun) is getting closer, and it's actually the cause of global warming, not our particularly outrageous and wasteful habits, and we'll all be dead by 2012, so live it up. No, that's not true. I lied about that first last part, with the second sun coming... so I lie in jest, but not when it counts, any more. Buuut, (am I losing you? Shh. Work harder) that latter last part, the one about the 2012? I was just reminded how much it freaks me out by writing about it, because there were two dudes talking at the bar, when I was working a few weeks ago, and y'know, I'm pretty crazy/gullible (call it what you will, the Jackalope could totally happen in real life. Chupacabra, there are PROVEN documents of its existence!) on my own, so when the History Channel throws in the end-of-the-world music and the movie-trailer guy (I know he's dead, but this one sounded like him, and maybe they filmed it before he died) narrator on their Nostradamus special, yeah, I'm gonna be convinced, but then I easily dismiss it after I rub the sleep from my eyes and step into the light. These guys, let's go back to them, they looked pretty educated, but maybe that's only because they were wearing glasses (probably without a prescription), and they were talking about the planets being aligned and all the calendars ending on that day and how it's gonna happen. That gave me 'deer in the headlight' eyes and an increased heart rate for a minute until I remembered that the HC special ended on a note of, "Well, this could happen and be cataclysmic and the end of everything we know, or nothing could happen at all, so let's just wait and see." Uggggghhh!! Tom Petty, tell it like it is:

EFFIN' ESS!!! I totally know how to embed now (and it's not even hard, as YT distinctly instructs you how to do it under the link, aaaaannnnyyyyway) but this ass clown disabled it, so click here and snap/shoulder shimmy along.

And I love this song, and wow, they play it a lot faster (and better, yeah) than I can... I was going to say it doesn't really relate, but "oh the sweet smell of success," it DOES! Enjoy:

Remember when MTV still played the whole music video, and it was good?

Comradery in the Chaos

Oh-oh, oh, oh!! What a wonderful weekend!! So good, so good!! Started out excellent with a Dave Eggers meet 'n greet (maybe write about later), then wandered into the beautiful chaotic scene of a King Khan and the Shrines show at the Bottom Lounge with fun friends and sweaty strangers. This was my second time seeing them - my first was at Pitchfork '08 and I was heavily imbibing on libations of whiskey and beer, beer, beer and I didn't know much about them and I don't remember much except that it was hot and King Khan was in a loin cloth. I love them; I'm obsessed with them, and seeing them live only furthered my lust.


--

Erin and I walked to the BL from our apartment, in the drizzle, holding hands, skipping and singing what we could remember of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all the way there... we missed the bus. We arrived, met up with friends, sat in a booth waiting for more friends, Werskeroonie and I stayed inside and talked insects while our loser friends smoked their loser cigs, we made comments about the BBQ Show bandmates that sat next to us in all their hip band-digs and gold coated finery, met up with our latecomers and proceeded into the concert area. The first opener (I forget who) was finishing up, they rocked and we rolled to the front left of the stage to catch a close showing of BBQ Show rambling and rockin' - it was good, but I was giddy for King Khan to take the stage. Soon enough, my dreams came true. Erin, Ty and I crowded the front center of the stage as the horn section set up on the left a little behind the keyboardist, while the guitars and drummer went to the right with the center stage reserved for the man himself, the Khan.The lights dimmed, glared red and the horns blared as the crowd went wild. HERE HE COMES!!! Chieftain headdress, cape and all his glory, the show began with "Land of the Freak" and freak we did.It got moshy in T-2 milliseconds and I thought, "Oh shit. I cannot handle this." and so I retreated to the sidelines, only to look back in and think of all the fun I was missing - so I dove right back, shimmy-ing and shaking with the rest of the freaks, young and old, fat and bony-elbows thin. What a crowd! It was loud. And while it was moshy and pushy and seemingly violent, it was not; everyone had huge smiles on their faces while the were throwing their bodies forward and back, side to side, flinging body parts and sticking to each others' skin. Pretty soon everyone was drenched in sweat; your sweat, my sweat, his sweat, her sweat. The stage presence the whole band emitted was incredible. There was a foxy little cheerleader with black pom poms and fantastic moves dancing out the songs, sprinkling glitter and getting the crowd going. It was pure insanity, and I loved it! Guitarists dove into the crowd to be lifted up and played loud; the keyboardist died at the end of most songs, covering himself in his board and stand; and I had a chubbs for the trumpet player who looked like a guy named "Chuck" that came straight out of a 80s porn flick (so commented Wersk) - he had a fro and mustache, what more can you ask?They played everything I wanted to hear and more; they knew when to slow down and when to speed up, they played like a lover who knew what they were doing. Half-way into the show, after a particularly hearty man belly bumped me almost to the floor I realized I had a race on Sunday and wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be in the midst of the moshing madness, but I decided I couldn't leave my concert comrades and made plans to seriously stretch after the show. Good decision indeed. There was one crazy part where the lights dimmed and King Khan took us on an adventure describing a time he climbed inside a woman, part by part - pretty crazy, and when he was fully inside her he had the audience close our eyes and imagine the complete and total darkness with him, then he started making jungle noises and eventually emerged from her, which may've made her his mother and things couldn't be the same after that, then she told him about the back door and he sang us a song.

--

Erin, Ty and I retrieved our bags and moved to the back side for the encore (King Khan came back out with a awesome old-timey gladiator helmet, and the cape[!], on)and we danced danced danced! It was so nice to have space to move around in and get a whole view of the stage, but I wouldn't have changed being up front for the majority of the show for anything in the world. The music took on a whole new meaning for me after that concert experience and sharing it with all those strangers who, while we were dancing, became friends. Cheeseball corny, I know, but there was something there and it was great... except for that lame hipster couple in the very front and center with the tall chick who got up on stage to dance and had totally lame moves and her short douchey boyfriend who was trying to look French with his skinny black and white striped shirt. Laaaaaaaame! but whatev's. Whatev's.
--

The walk to the Ashland bus was a little chilly as we were all drenched, but we sat close and laughed about everything that happened to warm up... from the crazy, large, hairy-chested man who barreled into everyone and tried to pick up Ty after I egged him on to elbow him to Erin getting knocked down and scooped back up in a matter of seconds to the long-haired girls who made bad decisions about wearing their hair down - good times, good times. Pictures from the bus stop follow....

We're just happy we're friends... though Ty seems to be questioning our craziness.

This is what we would look like if we got pulled up on stage.And this is what we would look like if we didn't get asked on stage. We took more pics, as it took the bus a while to come, but I'll save those for myself.

Now to talk about the race real quickly (Yeah right! you're probably thinking, and you're right, I'll ramble...). I did stretch after the concert Friday night, but Saturday day my left hip started bothering me and I thought, Oh, this is just great! I took it easy that night, hitting the hay errrlay and woke up 5:15a Sunday morning. I put on my ADIDAS jumpsuit and pedaled towards downtown and the lakefront; I got my bib, checked my bag, and warmed up to the sounds of the crowd and the cheesy DJ on the loud speaker, aka, running without music - oh man! Haven't done it since the Chicago marathon and we all know how well that worked. Oh, but they did play the Star Wars theme song on repeat, so that was fun and engine-revving. Anyway, so the race began right at 7am and I started my stop watch as my right foot hit the first timing plate and I ran. Run-ning. The weather was beautiful with blue skies and barely a cloud visible, with a nice light breeze. We rounded the park loop and headed under Lakeshore Dr. to the lakefront path -- you don't care about all these details... 13.1 miles in two 6.5ish mile loops - ewww, loops!! The 10Kers only did one. I was feeling real good and my first mile was around 8:30, just under actually - no, no, no I thought because I don't usually run that fast, so I tried to slow down, but I was sticking with the 9min pace group, so I just kept doing that. At mile 7 I was right on the hour mark and thinking, crap, I know I'm going to slow down and I'm not going to make my time (I just wanted sub-2, didn't care if it was 1:59:59, I just wanted that time). I was happy that I didn't wear my iPod so I could focus on my stride and breath and hear the pounding of the pavement from all the other runners - we sounded like horses and it made me smile to think of the student film I made with my friends about Penny "Horsemeat" Sumner (me), an Olympic runner who was wrongly convicted of taking steroids. The film is shots of me running and going into my "downward spiral" drinking in a bathtub with my guitar woven into an interview where I explain my story and how when I was 6 my father would take me out to the ranch in Arizona and I would have to run and wrangle in the horses, and how if I didn't keep up I would be turned into horsemeat, hence the nickname... I also explained that he got in trouble for that in later years, but that's another story... turns out the urine was switched, so mine was clean and I was able to run in the NYC marathon and that just made me so happy.

Then I sang songs to myself, in my head, listened to other runners, thought about how I was going to finish on time, tried not to cry because I was proud, then I thought of that movie "Seven" and how Kevin Spacey might kill me because of my pride and then we came to mile 12 and I started cheering on the other runners and I sprinted to the finish and my stop watch said my time was 1 hour, 52 minutes and 28 seconds!!! YAY!! So, I have faith that maybe I can make my sub-4 marathon time... we'll see, we'll see. But, before all that rambling, I was going to say there's comradery in the chaos of running, as well, and while it is individualistic it is inspiring to see other runners do well and you want for everyone to do well, because you know how good it feels to do well and how bad it feels to not... yeah. So, there's that for you. Confusing food for thought. MMM!! Hey, anyone in Chicago want to be my running buddy? 'Cause while I like running without my iPod, sometimes my intrinsic motivation isn't at its best and I need a little outside help. C'MONA!!!

MEET MY NEW KITTY!!!

I've wanted a cat for a while now, I think I've thought seriously about getting one since September or something... and then a month ago I had a cab driver named, Maurice, who said that dogs are nice, but cats are the greatest because they know when you're sad and then they come over so you don't feel so bad. Anyway, yesterday my roommate/sister bestie, Erin, and I went to the Anti-Cruelty Society and picked up this little precious kitty cat (she's actually 2, so unless she gets fat she'll stay this small and snuggly!!!):Meet Li'l Mama (though she was named, "Bashful" at the shelter, we thought about "Bessie" for a hot second, or at least I did because I thought she looked like a cow and my Mom had a cow named Bessie when she was growing up in Nebraska, this was around the time they also still used an outhouse and she'd be afraid to go out at night because when the wind blew the door she thought it sounded like there was a gorilla inside. And I just now thought of the name, "Cecilia Meriweather Foxtrot" and we could call her "CMF" or "Cute Mother-fucker" for short)!! Welcome, lady face. She's just a precious treasure and I love her so, so much already - though I can't quite say "with all of my heart" just yet because she likes scratching the furniture and not her post, and we bought her some toys and she was disinterested in ALL of them - EVEN THE LASER!! Seriously, cat!? Seriously? But this morning I was able to get her to play with a feather on a string attached to a stick. Silly kitty. She's so cute! When we were driving her home, the ACS put her in a cat carrier box for us, and she kept sticking her cute lil black and white nose out of the holes. Awwww! Kitty, kitty. Also, I'd love her with all of my heart if she learned how to use a broom to sweep up her kitty litter mess that she flings out of her box - note: not my favorite thing to walk on. Buuuuuuut, I think Erin and I underestimated her playfulness at the shelter, which is a good thing. She sure is snuggly and cuddly, and boy does she purr (sounds like a freaking motorboat - nonstop, I kid you not. I'm getting used to it, but it was kind of distracting last night) and she loves to snuggle under covers; I just took a nap with her on the couch. LIL MAMA!!! Hey kitty, kitty!! And I'm starting to develop a crazy cat voice, a little higher than my creepy dog voice that sounds like the Buffalo Bill in "Silence of the Lambs" ("Is she that great big fat lady?" - E and I love saying that to each other and just laughing and laughing, and probably scaring anyone within hearing range).

OOOOOOOOOOH! She's licking her paw right now, sitting at the edge of the sofa. I took some other pictures of her (of course, why not) but she kind of looks retarded in them, like her eyes aren't open all the way. She makes me laugh, a lot, and I almost don't want to get a job so I can play with her all the time. Yesterday, Erin and I brought her home and then we had to go get her things at Pet Smart, when we came home she was hiding between the couch and the wall and we thought, "Oh great. We got a hider, wonderful." But then she came out and started rubbing her catness all over everything. Marking her territory - apparently cats spray pheromones outta their butts, or something. Strange creatures. She has a cute little meow, too. I'm in love, love, love with my kitty!! Okay, I'm sure I'll write more about her later as I'm soooooooo crazy about her already.

I'mma Gross You Out!

Yep. It's that time. I have things I should be doing (script reviewin') so I'm blogging instead. Oh, procrastination, you're such a good friend. For some reason I was just reminded of my last round of finals at MU, the last one I took was my financial planning class. I hadn't slept in close to 2 days and I'm not very good at math to begin with... I think I studied the wrong formulas, or didn't study one that was really important, and that coupled with the lack of sleep equalled freak-out. The freak-out consisted of me looking over the pages thinking, "Oh. My. God. I don't know how to do any of these. I'm never going to graduate. I'm going to have to stay in Columbia another semester. I'm never going to get a job. I'm never going to survive. I'm going to have to live with my parents until I'm 25." and then I started to cry. I didn't mean to, I couldn't help it; I was scared - it was silent, but the tears were streaming down my face, I was in the front row (awesome, right?) and I didn't have a tissue, though one of the TAs brought me one which propelled my crying even more (I was tired! Give me a break or a piece of a cake! Err... sorry). I usually cry during math finals, or just don't show up (calculus - sophomore year was the year of baaaaaad decisions). The first time I cried was freshman year, Spring Quarter at DePaul. My math teacher was amazing, I forgot his name, but he was an older Greek man, and he just had such passion and zest for life that I almost started to love math because he was so wonderful. So, I'm taking the final and I'm freaking out because I'm a retard when it comes to math no matter how much I study, teach gives me his beads... a rosary? Greek thing? I don't know... and I'm clutching them, trying to figure out the problems and I start crying - embarrassing, right? Very delicately (because he knew he was dealing with a crazy fragile girl) he told me to go home, study and then take the test in a couple of days when he was conducting another final. I thanked him so much and went back to my dorm. When it came to take it again I flew through the questions, attempting, but knowing that it wasn't looking good for me. I took the test up to him, completed, but sad-faced. He asked me what was wrong and I told him that I didn't think I passed. Then he told me to write on the backs of the pages a reason as to why he should pass me. Oh! My heart sang a song and I happily went back to scribble out a rambling reasoning of my strengths lying elsewhere outside of applied numbers voodoo and how I attempted, but that part of my brain just doesn't want to grasp those concepts. I passed, got a C+ for the course. Sa-weeeeet! But, oh! how I've digressed from the initial subject, like what I just wrote has ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with what I want to talk about.

It's embarrassing story time. Eyah! You're excited, right? Are you nervous to read on for my lack of good taste and censoring abilities? You should be. Yes. Yes, you should be.

So, this is the story that I wrote for the reality show application, they asked, I wrote. (It was between the following story or the aftermath of my first marathon - in training I didn't run more than 12 miles [which is dumb because I've since trained better and that race is still my best time], so 26.2 came as a shock to my body and the next day I could barely walk and was so convinced that my feet were covered in hairline fractures and about to break that I went and got x-rays and crutches from the doc... those crutches lasted about 12 minutes until I was like, "Fuck this shit! I'm hobbling to class, I don't care!" yeah, more stupid than embarrassing.)

Here's how I began: Alright, the number one, honest to goodness, most humiliating, mortifying, awful experience of my life came one year at summer camp (oh! I loved this camp, best summers of my life!)... I'm 80% sure I had just turned 11; summer after 5th grade. Normally it was just day camp, but one week a year it would become sleepaway and either the older boys or girls would stay - obviously in my case it was the girls who stayed behind after all the buses departed and camp grounds were basically deserted. Each night held a different activity (movie, Sports World, campfire/midnight hike - first two were basically rainy day activities so they were kinda lame), and this particular night we were going to take a dinner cruise on the Hudson.

Before we left, everyone went to their respective bunks, took out our overnight things from the shed, unrolled our sleeping bags, got ready, watched our counselors put on make-up and asked them about their boyfriends and giggled, and then we loaded the buses. I got my very first period the month before and was on my second go around during sleep week (talk about lame!). Come to think of it, I could've just turned 12, which makes this story unbearably embarrassing. Anyway, so we're on the bus, headed to the city and I feel the urge, sensation really of needing to go to the bathroom right away - you know the feeling, that, "Oh, shit! Toilet." and that's all you can think. We hit traffic. Are you fucking kidding me!?! (yeah, swear words were in full usage at this point in life, that same sleep week I was at breakfast with my two besties, Kat and Mishy [Kathleen and Michelle], and Mishy wasn't feeling or looking particularly well, so Kat and I asked her what was up over a breakfast of Frosted Flakes and bananas, her eloquent and shocking response was, "I'm fucking sick, damnit!" - yeah, we quoted that the rest of the summer.) So, I'm freaking out at this point, my stomach is in turmoil and I'm convinced that I'm dying. The traffic is horrendous, and we're at the point of the highway where you're basically in a tunnel, but not, because there are roads crossing above you - so aka, I'm feeling trapped like a rat in a cage, with digestive issues. There is nothing I can do at this point, but shuffle to the front, tell my counselor, go back to my seat, hold and pray.

By the time we reach the parking lot all counselors and staff are aware of my situation. I get off the bus first, with an entourage of 4-5 counselors and we haul ass to the boat as soon as the bus stops. I swear to God that bus parked at the furthest edge of the lot, away from the boat. OH, we are run-ning and I'm going to lose it - running like I have a stick up my ass. At this point I am crying and truly, truly convinced that I am dying, that this is the end of my life. We make it on the boat and are running down the narrow stairs to the bathroom - so close - when I lose it. My bowels explode and I sob. I now wish that I was dead. My bottom half is entirely covered and I'm standing in the middle of the smallest bathroom known to man with my entourage of counselors trying to calm me down and peeling the clothes off my body which is shaking with each sob. I think they poured pitchers of water on me to clean off my legs, but honestly, my memory has blocked some parts out to save face in my head.

I can remember very vividly sitting in the stall, still crying, and fashioning myself underwear out of toilet paper. By this point other girls need to use the bathroom and they're asking questions. The counselors respond that I got sick, but will be okay. I'm given an over-sized denim shirt (it was the 90s) to wrap around my waist, and I ascended the stairs, shoeless. Once on the main level, I learned that I pretty much had to stay put all night, because I had no shoes it would be a safety hazard for me to be on deck, or some BS like that. I sat, miserably, cramps twisting and turning my already torn insides, for the majority of the night. Friends and strangers stopped by to make sure everything was alright, and when I lied and sadly said yes, they would feel their duty done and run away to have fun. On the bus ride home I sat with Kat and laid my head in her lap, falling sleep trying to wish the evening away. My soiled clothes were put in a black trash bag and sat at the front of the bus. Ew.

So, that was that. It took me 10 years to tell some of my best friends that story (it happened one night, one the way to the bars, with my two Katies - all of us telling our traumatizing poop stories, one after another - oh! There's only one more for me, and it was a quiet shame, on a road in Maine... I was running, that'll be another post, I think you've had your fill today), and then I recounted it to Kat, and she said she had no idea that was the case! She thought I threw up! Everyone did! God bless those counselors and the children who didn't pry.

**Oh, yeah. And I told this story and the marathon story to my co-workers for input on which to use, obvi they said this one, and Erin said she wanted to start calling me: Kate "Shit Pants" - how sweet! I had to laugh.