shoot me again, sam

A dentist found the source of the toothache Patrick Lawler was complaining about on the roof of his mouth: a four-inch nail the construction worker had unknowingly embedded in his skull six days earlier. The tool sent a nail into a piece of wood nearby, but Lawler didn't realize a second nail had shot through his mouth.


Yeah. Alright. My only question is:

how could he not know?

This guy. I mean, the jokes he's enduring...no doubt. And I'm guessing, for the rest of his life he shall always be reduced to, "what's wrong with you? Is it phantom-nail-in-the-head syndrome?"

Well...he's in good company. We all tend to deny serious matters in life...

It's a wonder he didn't keel over with tetanus. And, to think...it was a dentist who diagnosed him...hahaha....I would have loved to be the person who developed this x-ray. Would have made my fucking day...

All weirdness aside...I actually know someone who did the exact thing. However, the nail gun shot the nail into the wood...it ricocheted off a hanger (it's a metal deal in construction)...this nail did an about-face...(so to speak)...and shot into his lower lip.

And there it remained.

While he showed everyone on the jobsite...

While he went to the Rite Aid to get a camera and take pictures of himself, so as to show everyone on the jobsite...and on other jobsites...and, subsequently, to show family and friends...

...as well as complete strangers.

And...after half a day of show and tell...this nail continued to remain jutting from his lower lip, as he sat for hours in the Emergency Room.

(They later remarked to him that they would have given him swifter attention, but they misunderstood his situation...they all thought it was a piercing...)

As a puncture wound...it didn't bleed at all. (Which is a bummer for show and tell...by the way...one is reduced to acting all in shock...and freaked out...without true evidence, except the dumb nail still in the dumb lip..)

Some half a day or so later, it was a nurse...not a doctor..who gently slid the nail out of his lip...commenting, "Geez...why didn't you just do this yourself?"

(Yikes. What an attack on the look-at-my-pain-and-suffering ego.)

Then yesterday, er whenever, this x-ray and story come on the news...and this guy: He's first to jump up, point and scream, "THAT HAPPENED TO ME!!! IT WAS JUST LIKE THAT!!!"

...and...once again...we all have to sit and swallow his account of his near death experience.

...with photos...

(He keeps 'em in his car...easy access.)

So...life.

You got the guy with the nail in the head...ignoring it. And then you got the guy with the piercing-gone-awry...wishing he could be the guy with the nail in his head...

Life is just unfair...

I've never had anything shot into my head.

However, years ago, I contracted spinal meningitis...and eventually had to have neurosurgery. (That is...they shaved half my head and went right in with scalpels and pointy/jabby things.) The neurosurgeon at UCSF was this cool dude...but he overlooked a staple...which annoyed the hell out of me for a few months...until it was discovered in an xray. So, I guess I can empathize on some very far removed level...when really trying...(if I put on "imagination cap...")

I guess the moral to this story is:

Keep your mouth shut on the job...

If it feels like a four inch nail embedded into your skull...perhaps that's because it is one?

Ice Cream and Vicodin don't cure all pains...(but they sure make it all cozy....)

And...of course...a nail in the head is better than one in the lip...

my bad...have a groovy day...

Kat

winners

Went to the horse races last night. It was groovy. I so dig on that scene. Beyond the fact that I never lose...I know alot of the folks behind the scenes.

I've done the track for as long as I can remember...

I used to handicap...trip on stats...paddock reports...and it choked out all the fun. Then, one day I was thinking about long ago when I was a competitive skater. Before a competition, we would get a list of who we were competing against. In what order. The mandatory program...

And...we had like a month and a half to master our routine.  It becomes mind numbing...the routine...the stellar parts...the nightmare jump combinations...the music.

I did this one routine to Dvořák's New World Symphony, 4th Movement... The damn thing was like 11 minutes long...I had to entwine 12 mandatory jumps and 6 mandatory spirals...a shitload of mandatory footwork...and heaven help you if your arms aren't UP the whole time. (When you get tired...your arms are the first to go...they provide half the energy in accomplishing the jumps...)

I was 11.

And my instructor...known as a "pro," was this dude from Italy, his name was Leonardo. He was "hot," I guess, as I hadn't discovered boys yet, but all the mothers were just giddy about him. And when I would land a jump I'd really struggled with...or just solidly nail some really difficult jump combo...he would yell out "YOW!! DAT WAS GOOT!"

And that's when began to face my limits...and realize I could have complete command of pushing past my self-perceived "limits."

To doubt oneself is to create your limit. And I doubted alot. But then...I came to the realization that perhaps if I could use that very energy of doubt to define my limit...then, perhaps if I were to challenge my doubt..perhaps...I could push past my limit...recreate my potential. Not take no for an answer.

So I'd practice. I'd go before school...right after school...sometimes non-stop on the weekends. I'd hurl myself into the air and either land or crash. And, if you take enough crashes...you figure it out. I over-rotated...my shoulders weren't square...I led out with my weight on the last 4 toes on my left skate... And, it's like picking a lock...you get just the right set up dynamics...it's fucking yours. And there's this intensely, this almost spiritual realization when you finally master some challenge...you always hoped you had it in you to do this...but you can't believe it's really happened...and it really happened to you...and you are the one who really made it happen.

That was the best character defining lesson I could ever receive with all those years of trying. Winning wasn't nearly as exciting as those quiet moments on the ice...midnight...when you've finally discovered you have won the fight with what your little mind thought was "the impossible..". That one jump...that one mocking fear...the self doubt...the anxiety of defeat...and finding, deep inside yourself the willingness to not be defeated by yourself. To choke back the tears...and to force the win.

I would employ this reasoning later...when I dropped skating for my goal of being Valedictorian in high school. For whatever reason...this was some huge deal to me. And, long story short, I got it.

The competition against self... the willingness to reject insecurity...the willingness to take the focus off "the competition," and realize the victory is only really measured accurately if it is in proportion to the level of deficit you began with...and conquered.

Being better than someone else isn't a big deal...Cause everyone's better than someone else. But...am I better than myself? Than who I thought I was yesterday? Or 5 minutes ago? If so...and when that happens...I find myself in this silenced awe. I find myself intimately aware that any gift I might have did not originate with me...It's a gift. And I have been blessed enough to discover it was there. It does not define me...As it really isn't mine.

What is mine, is my character. How I use what I've been given...selfishly...or humbly? To tear others down or to build others up? To be a taker...or a giver? To destroy...or to edify?

So...being the winner. I remember that when I pick out horses. I look into their eyes...I behold their presence. Winners may be pensive...but amidst their timidity, they are intensely focused. They're generally not nervous or unsteady...because the battle of anxiety surrounding possible defeat has already been fought with themselves, alone. They know their potential...and can assess their opponent's potential.

And...for me...if it comes down to do or die...then the victory is mine. I am all about pressure. That's when it just flows. And I find myself sitting back...watching myself do this thing, under intense pressure and seeming doubt...and sensing the ghost of anxiety in my head...but chosing to press on to the victory. And it rocks.

I got to ride in the car last night. The one that leads the race. It holds back the horses from the start. And, at the last minute, the gates swing wide open.

So...here I am. In the back of this car...going backwards...looking at the horses inching up to the gate. And...here they come. And this one...he is literally 6 feet away from me...this horse...he's looking straight at me. And his breathing...shots of hot steam shooting from his face...his mane flying like flames...and the sound of these horses...the hoofbeats...the rumble of their steamy breath....their strength...the definition of their muscles...such an explosion of force...their legs pounding away so intensely...that they appear to be floating.

And this one horse...I'm looking into his eyes...and I saw it...

that unmistakable look in the eye of the winner...

He was focused, although looking straight into my eyes, he was looking straight through me...and I knew it...he would win. It was an amazing silent transaction, intangible, yet certain...a knowledge and excitement I hadn't experienced since my youth.

And it hit me...that epiphanal moment. Like seeing a shooting star...

Being the winner. The intensity. The shine. The unmistakable essence. It's almost tangible.

...and this horse did win.

Having had that opportunity to be face to face with this creature was such a "stirring of the coals," for me. I'm so glad I have failed and fallen so many times in my life. I am so glad I know that effort really only has an impact upon the one to whom it is directed. If it is directed against an opponent...it may very well assure his victory over you.

But effort focused against one's own doubt of self...and redirected into the certainty of seizing a victory which is purely possible...may, indeed, be the mere driving force necessary to grasp what lies before you...

Being the winner...

"It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell."  Buddha

have a great weekend.

Kat

Singles

My best Valentines day story.

Okay. So like, I'm on my way home...and it's misty raining. I'm walking downtown to the little Smoke Shop on the light rail strip. And so...there I am...soaked. Jeans, oversized brown sweater...Doc Martins...listening to...(hmmm...?)...probably Weiland. (I was huge into him at that time...)

And THERE THEY ARE. The sweet, loving, perfect little fucking couples. Oh, and she's got roses. And he thinks he'll probably get laid tonight. And they are just sweet. And fucking perfect. Their perfect hair and shoes...and their plastic manners...

And, of course, THEY ALL have to give me that EW, LOOK AT THE SOAKING WET BLONDE GIRL look. You know, that look that seems to silently say thank-God-I'm-not-you.

And. I felt their look.

Shards of shattered glass shooting straight into my single pathetic soul, you heartless, mindless, plastic fuckers!

Well. I now know, without any doubt, those couples ain't together anymore. Cause, the rumor has it that less than 50% of married couples make it 6 years...So HAH HAH FUCKING HAH.

But...um...okay...well...I make it into the Smoke Shop. And there's this Iranian dude all sitting on this barstool behind the counter, listening to the Motherland radio station...and it's piping out some whining/shrieking woman and like citars.... I'm guessing their Middle East version of Mariah Carey...

Okay...and so like I ask for my cloves. And he's all like gesturing that he has to go get them from the back. (I'm sure he mumbled something too...but I was doing Weiland...okay...?)

So like...my heart: heavy. My being: feeling so alone...

And, the only person I have a chance to speak with...he walks away...

And I dropped my head...from sorrow...being tired...discouraged...alone...

And right there...down by my feet...I see a wad of cash...

Well...Shityeah!!

I look over to Ahmed...and he's all still in the back...so...

instantmoraldecision.

*If I pick it up and give it to Ahmed...that would be honest...

*But, Ahmed is gonna keep it...

*Nobody at fucking all around...

*Therefore, by theory of deduction modulo...It's my wad...or it's Ahmed's...

*And I've always found theorys to be somewhat unstable...and, given the present situation, I believe it best to associate the axiom of asymmetric deduction modulo. (This works for me.)

*All logic aside...therefore..my conclusion to this matter is simple...

FINDERS FUCKING KEEPERS!

So...yeah. I swiped it!

Ahmed returns, and is all showing signs of his impatience with me for actually making him get up off his barstool...

and I pay...

and I bolt!

I got about a block away...and, there, wrapped up in a FIVE...was also a TWENTY and a FIFTY.

And...I knew it was God's little Valentine to me. I really did. And that was the best Valentine's gift I've ever received...

...to be reminded of the Source of comfort...of which, men are swell imitators...but ain't nothin better than to know that

even all by myself: I am never really alone.

And that's my story.

And I'm goin to bed.

Alone...but not really....

Kat

Theme song of the day: "The Young Crazed Peeling" by The Distillers.

.It's fun to be a star... it's nice to have a car...Yeah...you'll have to admit, that I'll be rich as shit!

I'll just sit and grin...the money will roll right in...

Okay. Is it me? Or is it the fact that I am actually awake before 8AM...but...

...I am...

...and, I was trying to do the normal things I do after I get up.

And, just as one's computer freezes up when too much information clogs the whatever...(technical explaination unknown, but solely owned by Microsoft...)...well...I'm really needing someone to CTRL+ALT+DEL my fucking head. Reboot me, man.

Cause...like I'm reading the daily MLB headlines, as I do each day...and somewhere along the line they're all talking Carlos-baby, here. So, I get into and out of another 1/2 dozen websites and somewhere along the line someone refers to Mr. 14 year old Beltran (well, maybe he's 15 now) is looking at a $120 million contract with his Pimp, (I mean, "Agent,") Scott Boras.

And the column also goes on to remarking how the Yankees are "on the brink," of going over their $200 million payroll.

OKAYFUCKINGWHAT?

This is baseball, right? I mean, pitchers...hitters...repititious cup adjustings (by the way, guys, we women aren't with you on that one. you're being icky.)

Look...I know it's a business...but...godamn...look at this kid! He's like still waiting for his wisdom teeth to erupt! ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILLION? Jesusfuckingchrist! That makes my head swim.

Well...I'm just glad the Yankees aren't dying to get him. He's not one of us. I don't know exactly why...it's just a feeling I have. I'm still holding out on some hope that they'll get some of them A's for me...but, I think they're all on contract...but, hell, contracts are for suckers... huh, Carlos, honey? Why not just make the deal on a handshake?

We all know that no matter what he signs, Boras will sell him again within 2 years...justyouwatchandsee.

Kat

the glory of mass transit

A few years ago...becoming instantly car-less, I began to bitch and moan and come up with a plethora of reasons I just couldn't continue to function "on foot."

And it's fucking true.

However, I had this roommate, this totally cool dude (a gay hippy) (yes. gay hippy) named Kent...and he was all shovin his mother earth shit in my direction. Okay...I'm a total hippy. I am. But...I bathe. And I have plastic money. Fuck, I have money... And a job. But I totally dig on patchouli and incense...and free love (shhhhhh!) and every other aspect of Hippy-dom. (I even like the smell of sweat.) (Well, some people's sweat.)

So like my roomate, Kent...he's all heralding the glory of mass transit to me. So, realizing I'm getting no fucking sympathy with his whole attitude...I listen to his sales pitch: ad infinitum reasons to try the bus.

Oh, now Kent had a car. And he took the bus like exclusively. So, realizing he wasn't givin me a ride anywhere, I broke down and submitted myself to the utter wasteland of bus taking.

Somewhere on the first week of bus takage, I began to get the whole routine down.

First, don't even think the bus schedule means shit. It don't. And don't think you'll just get on and it will all just be a ride. Ah hell no. They pack that shit with losers and freaks for entertainment purposes. THEIR entertainment...at your expense.

I used to try and be nice...then it became an issue of survival. Like the jungle. I take this seat and don't fuck with my space.

Okay, first off...the fucking bus drivers get all pissed off if you are minding your own business, sitting quietly, but blasting your music. They make a big speech IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.

So, I'm just sitting there and allofasudden we're so not moving. In fact, allofasudden the bus driver is standing. And he's saying something. And he looks really mad. And everyone is looking behind their shoulders...and they're looking at....me...? Me? What the fuck have I done? Jesus, I'm a victim here.

Look around, I'm the only person on this goddamn contraption who knows what fucking planet we're on! And, I also stand out, as I have not eaten, puked, or taken off my clothes and locked them outside the windows so they would dry from the fucking river water they were just "washed" in...

So, like, I learned early on to sit in the furthest-away-from-the-whole-freakish-lot seat.

And, in time, I became a Jedi Knight of bus taking. Ah, hell, I could go from state to state just using the local routes...on a Day Pass. And I'd tell those bus drivers to radio ahead to my connecting bus and tell them to fucking wait for me. And they would...

My attitude and attire were basic. "Any fucking part of your body that comes in contact with mine--YOU DON'T GET BACK." And then, my walkman, I put a big black and white sticker on the side that faces everyone in front of me...it read: I HATE YOU. And I would blast my music and wear my sunglasses, so as to stare at people, but not be caught. Also, you don't have to acknowledge someone when you do your music and sunglasses on the bus, cause they won't know you saw or heard a fucking thing from them...

Not long after I began riding, I was headed home. And the bus stopped at the usual stop. And then we sat. And sat. And sat. Finally I stand up a bit, and at that moment I witness the bus driver shaking this homeless guy's shoulder. Then the man just falls over face first into the aisle. And I was like, bummer. Then, I realize no one is doing a thing. The driver goes back to his seat...and we remain motionless. Mind you...the man is lying in the aisle...and not one person seems affected by this. One dumb bitch was actually filing her fingernails. A couple of minutes go by...and then sirens. The bus driver gets up and directs the paramedics to this man...and they all just hang out. No CPR. They look him over, and exit the bus.

Fact is, the dude had died.

That fucking freaked me out. That dude got on that bus...and that was the last trip he ever took. Dying while on the bus...and not a soul knew when he had passed...surrounded by people, yet, alone in death...

Everyone began to exit the bus, as that was the "end of the line,"(in more ways than one, I suppose.)

I slowly walked home in the pouring rain...rivers of tears rolling down my freezing cheeks. I wept for this anonymous man.

Someone's newborn child, at one time...perhaps someone's brother, father...his brief existence within this fragile reality known as life, forever ended.

I wept because I hadn't even considered the gift of "life," I had been given that day, was sufficient enough to choke the shallow frustrations and vain concens I had so entrenched myself in. I wept because I was once again reminded that amidst day in and day out living, our lives are but a flame, that one day will blow out...the death rate is still one per person...

So, from that moment on, when I began to fixate on selfish frustrations, I remembered the man in the aisle...

I remembered the bitch filing her nails.

And I chose to receive the lesson of seeking to be alert and grateful for the blessings and hardships in life each day.

For the response to such events weave the very tapestry known as each man's life.

I want my tapestry to have some redeeming value...some contribution. I don't want to be anonymous in death. May I live my life in such a way that when I die, someone will actually see my departure as a loss, and not an inconvenience, not just a story to tell in some fucking blog someday...may someone know my name...

And may I seek a higher consciousness of each day, and every day...a gift, each one...with the realization and conviction that I am one day closer to being on the same existence of the man in the aisle...

And so...

Take the bus. Take it at least one time in your lifetime. Perhaps you'll begin a trip which will take your mind to places where it's never been...

Or to a place where you really need to be...

But...take some music and blast it. In honor of "the man in the aisle,"

which lies in us all.

Kat

Theme song for this day: Seek Up by Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds...

Heroes and Friends...

This photo really takes me back. Lately, I've been listening to alot of Bowie stuff...older stuff...Heroes.

Many many moons ago I worked with this guy, Mike, he was a chef. And the guy was hella weird. I avoided him. Beyond that, it was my understanding that we just acquired him from like Germany and he didn't speak a word of English. Every so often I was forced to have to converse at him...and I could just feel his "who the hell do you think YOU are," attitude toward me. So, I guess I secretly rejected his shit, for spite.

One day, I had this party of like 30 people...and I mean full courses...desserts...cocktails...blah blah blah. One woman orders like a fucking sandwich...not an entree. And, of course, she's all particular as to exactly how this sandwich must be. So, like on my little notepad I'm jottin down everyone's fucking salad dressings and beverages...and she's all doing some shit with the cheese on a separate plate. So...I deal with this crowd...and I felt a sigh of relief when they finally all herded their shit out the door.

So this Chef...he is like staring at me. And I'm all looking away. And I look back at him, and he does the "come here" finger gesture. And I was like, "Oh, what the fuck does HE want?" So, not looking at him the entire walk over, I step up to him and say "Yes?" And he says, (in perfect english/no accent...) "Didn't you order the Hero with the cheese on the side?" And I was like shocked by hearing him speak for the first time, and then twice as shocked to suddenly realize I had totally forgotten her dumb fucking cheese... And I was like, "Well, I--" And he goes, "Cause there's a plate of cheese over there and it's got your name written all over it." And, embarrassed, but undaunted, I approached said plate.

There, I beheld 3 slices of Swiss cheese...I quickly grabbed the plate, before anyone else would think I was some dumbshit...and, looking down, I beheld my name written over and over in a rainbow of ink. I looked back, and he smiled. I was so taken.

I had an opportunity to hang out with this guy, and discovered he was a purist Bowie fan. He was the first person to introduce me to Heroes. And he told a story of a couple, in love, who were to be forever separated due to the building of the Berlin wall...living on opposite sides. The man was at the wall, yelling to his true love (on the other side) of his love for her, and his fantasy of being together just for one day...

I was forever imprinted by that story.

I believe in true love. I also know that sometimes circumstances, or passing needs, can cause people to remain together, as opposed to love. I feel for all the people I work with, or people I encounter, who are in a loveless relationship. It seems such a waste of our God given capacity to know, give, and receive love. And, fuck, life is so fucking short. But, I understand.

I wound up going out with this guy for a few months. He was truly one of a kind. I didn't love him, but I was very blessed by having his company...maybe an impression more solid than what I would consider "love," later in life.

Weird. And so...he would send me these postcards. They would say like "Main Library. Brothers Grimm. Pg. 241." And I'd be like...? So, I'd cart my ass down to the Main Library, ask the gal for all the Grimm shit...and begin going into page 241 of the stack. Inevitably, I would find another post card..."Macy's shoes. Red Bandolino Stiletto." And...I was off and running. In a way, it was exceedingly annoying...all this treasure hunt...but, somewhere along the line, I began to realize how much someone like him must have cared for me to be so motivated with this surprise. And, sure enough, there would be the Stiletto...and, in the toe, another note. "Fifth Godiva box by the elevator..." And, fearing what I may come to eventually find...I carefully counted 5 boxes...lifted the stack and found THIS famous kiss...(the above picture)...as a postcard...

On the back, he wrote, "We could be heroes..."

And I knew, the depth of love this boy offered was well out of my capacity to appreciate.

And...although I wound up trying to fall into/and maintain various "loves," for years after knowing him...I have come to be reminded of the true spirit of pure love...

From a friend.

Just thinking aloud.

Kat

Ohmygod! We got Randy Johnson! I'm so fucking thrilled! It's about time Steinbrenner got off his fat ego and let someone make an intelligent decision for my team. Of course, Randy has to agree to this...opleaseopleaseopleaseoplease....just for a year or whatever...i mean I will love you forever...or at least 'til you make us lose. Wow. I've been following this saga for fucking ever...and it's sooooooooo close now....wee hee! And I hope we get rid of that dumbshit Kevin I-like-to-hit-shit Brown. Ew...wouldn't it be just fancy if we also bought up a couple of those cuties on the A's team? I love Barry Zito...hey, George...get us Barry, too...he's yummy. Okay, enough dreaming...but welcome Randy...we will love you to death...and it's all good for kickin our asses in 2001.

http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/

Ah! Godamn this boy! All sittin in MY usual seat on the bus...AND SMOKING, the nerve! But, hell...I'd drop dead and no need for heaven if I met his lovely face on any bus...Love you Eddie...you rock...and I think you should know you spend alot of time entertaining my little head & heart...I truly dig your everything, mister.

These guys...damn! How I wish I could dress like this for work! And, damn...I'd work overtime, for free, if they were in my office...

I just sense they would mellow out all the pretentious, condescending bullshit. At least, they'd find a chum in me...and I'd be just giddy with that! Mainly, cause there would probably be occasional huggings...and perhaps the every so often borrowing of clothing. Hmmmmm....

Nah...I really dig their music, too. So, they're just overall peachy in my little world.

Steve or Jesus?

Hey! Is it my homeless Jesus, also known as Steve? Groovy...except my Jesus had dreadlocks...and a kickass guitar...but...other than that---> THIS IS HIM!!!
Kat

just to let you know...

hey yall. welp...another week come and gone...and I'm jazzed about that. Hey...I have a friend over, we refer to him as Scottman Rich...he's rockin. He's such a very cool kid...and I have offered to let him "vent" through my blog. So...if you notice the style seems different...that's cause SCOTTMAN is in the house! So...sit back...relax...and remember when being 16 was such a mess...thank God there is an escape route...time...

til next time...

Kat

scottman rich... 

well i see a face comin through the haze...

I remember him from those crazy days ... Kat

blood and guts

Somewhere around my last birthday, I began to feel pretty shitty.

I'd been really dragging myself around for a long time...and never able to get past feeling like I was the walking dead.

Those commercials on t.v. about "leukemia-related anemia," where like people are all gaunt and lifeless---me. And so, I was all wondering if I could score some of that drug on the street, as I don't have leukemia. But, hell, it appeared to DO WONDERS for THOSE FOLKS...

And so...I'm all breathless just making the bed...getting chest pains and palpitations...massive headaches...then...I began to lose my hearing. I explained all that shit to other things. Smoking...caffeine...Rage Against the Machine on the walkman...

Quite a few times I'd get these massive headrushes...and flashing lights. The visual shit was like constant...trippy at first...then annoying. I just shook my head and thought, "brain damage."

And then...one day...my stomach was killing me...I worked for a bit, left for lunch...then...I just dropped. I called in sick the rest of the work day...and fell into this semi-coma on the bed. Hours later, I awoke...went out back to smoke...and just about fell through the deck I was sitting on. Something in my head said DON'T GO BACK TO BED. GET YOUR SHIT TO ANY FUCKING HOSPITAL.

And so I did. Alone I waited. I stared mostly, and sought to hold my head up. But I nodded off quite a bit. I was sooooo out of it. And I remember staring at this group of black people for like ever, until I heard this one big dude say "Shi--- that's the whitest white chick I've ever seen!"

So...after 7 hours of staring and nodding off...they take me into THE SMALLER WAITING ROOM in the ER. Okay...so, what's with the term EMERGENCY here? Man, people were clogging that shit with their shaving cuts and torn cuticles, okay? Here or there some overdose wannabe...but...mostly alot of fatass people sitting, eating, and talking about nothing at fucking all emergency related...

I would have left, but I was like so out of it...it didn't even occur to me to get pissed off at that shit.

So like I tell them that I know I have an ulcer...cause I did...

(You see, I have this nerve deal in my back and I have to take shitloads of Advil to endure it...work related...ah...but whogivesashit, huh? Worker's Comp is a fucking lie. And that's the end of that story.)

...and I simply said that the Tagamet wasn't working anymore. I needed something else to deal with these ulcers...and then just let me fucking go already. So, they like do all these tests...I don't remember very well. But then they bail for another hour or so. It was freezing cold in that room...and at one point I just wanted to get dressed and go home. But first, DAMN, I NEED JUST ONE CIGARETTE!

And so...this little group of lab-coat wearing Asians come sternly, yet softly, walking up. And they're all, "Are you here alone?" And I'm all yes...and they're all, "You need to get someone down here. You need to get your affairs in order, do you have a preference on whether we should resusitate you?" I'm all like FUCKING WHAT? And they're all, "We're keeping you. You are very sick, and, actually you are going into decompensatory hypovolemic shock..." I'm all like FUCKING WHAT? And they're all, "Look. You have an ulcer. And you're losing blood. The fact is, this has been a chronic condition for quite a long time." And I was all, yeah, so? And they were all like, "You have just under a 4 on your hemoglobin." And that was it. I was like, "Look. I don't know what you're trying to say. I feel like shit, yes. I have an ulcer, yes. But, I need to go now. And I want the closest door...as I intend to go smoke." And they were all like, "Okay, listen to me now. You have bled out 3/4 of your blood supply. You will die. We will not let you go. We intend to give you a blood transfusion beginning in about 3 minutes, and you better get it together. You have some very serious decisions to make, and you better get SOMEONE down here to help you deal with this."

So like, I cried. (Mainly 'cause they wouldn't let me smoke.) (Oh, and also, I don't like it when people pull that "listen to me now," shit on me...I have issues with all that kind of attitude.) (And, hey, who are YOU to say I'm GONNA DIE, bitch?) (But, mainly, THEY LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE RIGHT.) (And, that, coupled with not being able to smoke, made me weepy.)

So...they gave me something in my I.V. that made it all keen.

Then...overnight they filled me with 5 units of OTHER PEOPLE'S BLOOD.

Okay...that's just really weird. I mean, hell, I'm all grateful...I really am. But, like from that point until even today, anytime I get a cut, I'm all, "ew...not even my blood...." And, I also had this deal with the stomach surgeon who like tortured me. He like wanted to shove this like hose down my non-sedated throat...allthefuckingway into my stomach. Then, he was just gonna HANG for a bit...as this hose has a camera...and they were lookin to make a video. I was freaking out at the nurse all explaining this procedure that I HAD TO HAVE DONE. She then responded to my utter RUN FOR YOUR LIFE response...and informed me that they have a cool way to help with it all.

This medical professional (the nurse) then went on to tell me that the Hierarchical medical professional (the G.I. guy) would be using "this medication" just before he does the procedure. She further informs me that, it's closely related to "the DATE RAPE DRUG...so YOU WON'T REMEMBER A THING!"

Uh fucking huh. What kind of midevil-back-ass-street-drug-peddling place have we here?

I guess they made out okay...

...found 6 ulcers...various stages of onset and healing...no cancer...and had to pin me down several times...and you know...although Dave (my man) tells me I kept fighting/apologizing...I DON'T REMEMBER A DAMN THING!!!

Eventually they let me out with my tubes and IV and all that shit...to go smoke. It was lovely. And yet I felt a little guilty.

Over that weekend, I incurred $15,000.00 of hospital costs...received blood from 5 different people...and was able to cuss out a gastrointestinal surgeon and never had to apologize for it. (As I don't even really know for certain that it happened...okay?) People make shit up when they know for a FACT that you can't remember JACK SHIT.

I still struggle with the back stuff...blah blah...and now I must take less Advil (yikes, huh?) and I have to spend zillions of dollars on iron and prilosec. But...guess it's worth it...not to die and all.

Hey...I think some of those blood donors were athletes. And musicians. I have overwhelming urges to ski downhill...rockclimb...and I have a really great sense of rhythm now.

So...I'm really thankful to whoever you are, all 5 of you out there. Really nice of you to like help me out of not dying and all. I wish I could just track you 5 guys down and let you know what your blood's been up to, you know?

And yet...in a way...I sense you're all right here with me...

Okay. Enough blood and guts and stupid jokes for one night...

Oddly aware of how grateful I am just to be alive...

Kat

the mall

I've been in a Pink Floyd mood all day...and I'm so diggin it. This morning I brought out the NagChampa and lit up with old Pink and me... It was rockin'. I'm so diggin on having electricity too.

I spoke with one guy about my whole electrocution theory of the PG&E dudes...and he suggested touching the dude on the nose with a light bulb...if it lights up, then don't be doing CPR. I laughed my ass off.

I love it when not only do people get the weird shit I trip on, but they push the envelope well into the weirdestphere.

I had to go to the fucking mall last night. I don't know for certain, but I'm guessing that I would serve less time in prison for murder than the lines I endured. I mean...it becomes laughable. Where the hell do some of these people come from? I mean...I don't do lines well ANYWHERE. I'm just not a consumer. It's so uninteresting...keeping up with society's trends...I have more of a desire to eat cat food. And so, what's the deal with people all thinking that just because you are in line near them, y'all are like BEST FUCKING FRIENDS, now? This man is all asking my opinion about his choice of powder blue fucking 100 percent polyester sweatsuit...

"You will look like a fucking walking easter egg,"

I mean, goddamn! SWEATSUIT? What the hell is up with that? Is he like actually influenced by that little post-pubescent, Brittney? Cause, KORN don't wear powder fucking blue. And...this man was no where near lookin to work up a sweat, except for when he has to lift his lardy ass off the couch to grab his extra large bag of pork rinds and diet beer.

And so then...he's all deciding he DOESN'T WANT THE FUCKING POWDER BLUE. Okay...so like he decides to NOW DO HIS SHOPPING. The girl is all ready to ring up his shit, and he says, "Oh, wait just one minute..."

Uh huh.

After he passes by us, murmuring godonlyknowswhat, like 3 times...I realize I am in hell. The girl at the register then begins to engage other people in line in some sort of forced monologue about how cute her boyfriend was eating french fries earlier. I then began to wonder if this was all like that MTV show where you LOSE $100.00, if you CUSS or get mad. So, I'm all like, I will not react. I'm gonna just hang...

And so Mr. Polyester passes by to ask Ms. French Fry a question, but she is so caught up in her stupid boring story, that Mr. Polyester walks away again. I look behind me, and there are two Japanese women. Oh, they will be NO FUCKING HELP AT ALL in the RIOT I INTEND TO INCITE! They just stood in perfect posture and smiled kindly. JESUS! How is that possible?

And this went on just long enough for the people in the OTHER LINE to all clear away. Then, some shit comes from nowhere and butts up to the front of the other line and GETS INSTANT FUCKING SERVICE...I mean, WHAT? And he's all, "Oh, were you all in line..?" And, OF FUCKING COURSE, THE JAPANESE WOMEN BLURT OUT, "No, go ahead."

No? NO?! NO...DON'T YOU DO NO SUCH THING! WE WERE, ARE, AND WILL FOREVER BE IN THIS LINE! Well...after imagining all the animals, faces, and body parts I could possibly imagine out of the ceiling tiles, I decided $100.00 isn't worth SHIT TO ME.

Well...Mr. Polyester got his last item...Ms. French Fry laughed her final stupid nasal giggle, and the Japanese women had long since switched lines, having grown impatient with MY line. I, however, lasted to the bitter end.

Mr. Polyester tripped on a fallen bra on the way to the escalator, he looked around, bent a little to pick it up, had momentary contact with said bra, then freaked out and drop/kicked out of sight...

I know God allowed me to see that particular moment of Mr. Polyester's life...as a reward for my patience....and it was worth every fucking moment.

Kat

Bytheway...the Japanese women were kept in line by security for some reason...ain't that somethin? hahahaha....

shine on you crazy diamond

PG & E...

No idea what time I got up this morning.

The electricity was sooooo off.

Storm related, I guess. And so, I had the priviledge of getting ready for work today like some PIONEER WOMAN.

At first, it was like OHWHOGIVESASHIT...but then it became a stark reality when I had to shower in sub-freezing temperature water...followed by sub-freezing temperature in both house, and world. Of course, the Red Bulls in my fridge were warm.

And so like the power guys...oh, there's a load of assholes paid by the hour.

I go out back to smoke...I'm all like chattering my teeth, trying to return to a normal body-core temperature...and they were all like "HEY!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THERE'S A LIVE WIRE HERE! YOU HAVE TO GO BACK INSIDE YOUR DWELLING!"

Oh yeah? THIS IS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND I DON'T HAVE TO DO A DAMN THING YOU SAY, YOU UNION-DEPENDANT-MONEY-GRUBBING-ELECTRICITY-HORDING-FASCIST!!! HAH! HAH! WHY DON'T YOU GET OFF YOUR LITTLE STEP-STOOL THERE, MUSSOLINI, AND MAKE ME GO BACK INSIDE MY DWELLING?!

(Of course...I merely thought these words...and meekly smiled.)

After I went back inside, I began to watch these dudes. They talked, looked up, and pointed, mostly. Work? Ah hell no...Work, was clearly for a whole separate group of men in orange.

You see, first you have the first group: the talkers/pointers group...they basically scout out the place for the second group...the little truck/sign/cones group. Now, these guys, the truck/sign/cone guys, well they pretty much let everyone know that they have taken control of this area...like some Radical conquest, operating for the Fascist Regime as a whole...similar to Mussolini's "Shock Groups," back in Italy somewhere around 1917, but different...

Therefore, it would seem I had encountered a Pro-Interventionist, er whatever...all trying to do his 'Fasci Italiani di Combattimento,' shit with me. And, I mean, all I wanted was to blow-dry my hair before I am found dead from hypothermia or whatnot...just my little attempt at looking somewhat decent for the paramedics and coroner when they find my lifeless self...but no.

As each minute ticked by without electricity, I began to hate these "workers." When the COAST WAS CLEAR for me to actually go out on MY BACK PORCH to smoke MY VERY OWN CIGARETTE and exercize my CIVIL LIBERTIES in MY FREE COUNTRY...I was on the verge of cracking into a solo of "GOD BLESS AMERICA," when I saw this one dude.

He was most definitely the smallest of the Fascist Regime...and he was way (and I mean WAYYY) up high on this telephone pole. Just hanging out there, zillions of feet above the alley, in the storm, on a telephone pole...and there, right next to his ORANGE HARD-HAT WEARING HEAD was a sign. It read: HIGH VOLTAGE.

I wondered...

Well, of course I know CPR. But my pondering was this: if this dude got shocked and plummetted to earth, would I make any attempt to try and save him? Okay, well...at first, I'm thinking yes. But then, I started to think about: would he be all HIGH VOLTAGE and KILL ME if I actually touched him? So then, I'm wondering: could I take a stick and poke him??..and if I saw a sparks then I would know not to touch him...?

So, yeah. I felt pretty bad that I came to a distinct conclusion: I would not help any of these dudes if they got electrocuted and plummeted to the earth. I might jab one or two with a stick...but that would be the extent of my involvement. Well, I might hang out if any of the paramedics needed to borrow my stick...and check for sparks...but yeah...

Anyhow, after pondering the 'to poke with a stick or to not poke with a stick,' moral quandary, I decided I should finish putting myself together and get the hell out of the freezing, dark house and show up at work on time, for a change.

(Needless to say, when everyone saw me arrive early for work, they were shocked...)

har har har...

Epiphanal moment of the day...well...kind of...I had a staring contest with a cat on my way to work and tripped over a branch on the sidewalk...(the cat was behind me and I was walking backwards, so as TO WIN)...and...well...the cat won...which is a real bummer as cats are such smug winners...but I truly doubt the cat could walk backwards while still staring at me just to win, therefore I am the true winner...even though the cat might tell you otherwise...

Kat

the purse

I miss L.A. already. Damn. My heart and soul just dig on that scene. So...here I am, back in Northern California, and I should be like all happy to not be anywhere near the City. Whatever...grass always greener and all that.

I picked up the newest Doors compilation (of the same ol' Doors songs) and totally dug it in my big ass gas guzzling massive rented SUV. This mother was massive. And the tunes were hella cool. So, me...and L.A. and Jim. We're kindred spirits.

I got lost going to Santa Monica Friday afternoon, and landed in Bel Air. They sure are fucking snotty there, ain't they? And I'm certain most were strung out on Lortab. But...it was a short stay...and that's the end of that story.

Except...I did look up into the night sky while on my flight home, and I saw this cool ass falling star...and it was totally a private moment. Like God waving, er something.

Did I ever tell you about my stolen purse? Okay. Well. This was like forever ago. Some dumb fucking idiot (who thought he had some remote chance in hell of me liking him) invited me to join him and his friends backpacking. So, knowing this one cool dude (the fucking idiot's friend) was going, I said sure.

Camping day comes, we load up...we head out...and he then informs me NO ONE ELSE is coming. So...I should have just pulled the car over, kicked his stupid ass out, and gone back to bed. But...not willing to admit I was only interested because I thought COOL DUDE was coming, I went...for spite. This shall be referred to as MISTAKE #1.

So...blah blah...we arrive at Point Reyes. We like hike FORFUCKINGEVER through this wilderness...and I'm like taking smoke breaks every 1/4 mile. He's all getting pissy with my breaks...and I'm telling him to fuck off. So...we pitch the stupid little tent, and promptly a storm blows in.

We are RIGHT ON THE BEACH with this NOAH SIZED DOWNFALL and wind...the asshole then decides this is THE PERFECT TIME TO MAKE HIS MOVE ON ME. I told him there wasn't enough vodka in the fucking world...and we decided to BORE OURSELVES TO DEATH (by not talking) and subsequently fell asleep.

Middle of the night the damn tent like rolls over from the wind...I'm just done with the whole nature scene...I exit the damn piece of shit housing...and was attacked by a KILLER RACCOON. (No shit. This particular rodent, er whatever, actually shot it's teeth at me...like a porcupine...) (well, maybe it didn't. But...it's eyes were pure black.) So...I shine the light on this little satanic creature...I SCREAM...IT SCREAMS BACK...nature is just too weird when YOU'RE on THEIR turf. Animals and wildlife are all good...just: BEHIND BARS...like THE ZOO.

Okay, look. I'm all cool with creatures...but...their just like...OUT TO GET YOU. I pretty much think every creature considers me either FOOD...or some TERRITORIAL THREAT. So, we don't mesh...cause they FIGHT DIRTY...too. Yuckems. I would never want to hurt an animal, either...'cause like THEIR WHOLE FAMILY would come after me, I JUST KNOW IT. So...like...I fear creatures.

PEOPLE, I don't give a shit about. GIMME A BANK ROBBER ANYTIME. A BLOOD-THIRSTY RACCOON...that's fuckin scary, dude.

So...next day, I kick his sleeping bag and tell him his ride it leaving...and he best get his shit up. I ditch ALL MY BELONGINGS IN THAT GOD FORSAKEN WASTELAND so my backpacking wouldn't interfere with my SMOKING. 40 years later, we head around the last fucking turn of the last fucking hill...down toward the parking lot.

WHAT DO I SEE? The passenger door is wide open. I'm all like WHATTHEHELL? (The guy's name was George. We referred to him as GEEKY GEORGE. No doubt he's like bald and fat now with some bald and fat ex-wife, and a couple of bald and fat kids...) Anyhow...so I'm like "Fuckin George! You forgot to lock my fucking door!" And he's all like ignoring me, or afraid of me, or ATTEMPTING TO APPEAR SEXY...one last time...

So...I get down there...and SURE AS SHIT...the door's wide open...broken glass EVERYWHERE! Some big stupid piece of MOTHER EARTH (a large rock) sitting on my driver's seat...and EVERYTHING GUTTED FROM MY CAR...including...you're right: MY DAMN PURSE.

(they even took my clove butts...and my spare change...)

Geeky George and I drove those eternal 2 hours back to town...and spoke not word one. When I pulled up to his house I finally spoke, "I'll let you know how much you owe me for this shit tomorrow."

About 8 years went by.

I get this phone call from my mom...she's all talking in code, or something. She's all, "Honey, I found your purse on my front doorstep..." And I'm like, "Hey mom, you may want to back off of all that Sudafed---" No, actually, I informed her my purse was on the coat rack. And she's all, (diggin in MY PURSE NOW) "Well, here's your driver's license, and your make up, and your quarter gram of cocaine..." (no...I'm kiddin.) (Hell, not even I would have left THAT sittin around) But, my mom's all routin through my purse...this is so not okay...I MEAN...NO ONE IS EVER ALLOWED TO DIG IN A WOMAN'S PURSE!

If I were, say Diabetic, and my like insulin was in my purse, I would prefer you RESPECT MY SHIT AND KEEP THE FUCK OUT OF MY PURSE! You'd best be YELLIN' out to those around you for a SPARE INSULIN SYRINGE, before you go diggin in my purse, k?

So...I tell her I don't understand a damn thing she's saying and I will check it out later.

Later came. SURE AS SHIT. My fucking purse from the torturous weekend with GEEKY GEORGE! All my cheap ass make up...driver's license...little notes...EVERYTHING WAS LIKE HERMETICALLY SEALED from the day some dumb fucker broke into my car and stole it. The deal...I mean...this was 8 years later! This dumb purse was like with someone, somewhere...for 8 FUCKING YEARS!

So, what? Like, one day they decide to drive LIKE 100 MILES and deliver it to the address on the driver's license? Like a karma deal, or what? Are they like ON A MISSION to right their past wrongs, or something?

SHIT, MAN. GIMME CASH. I'm all good with CASH. Hey, forget your slimey ass behavior of breaking into my car and stealing my purse...you filthy fucking scumbag...GIMME CASH...and it's all good.

I tripped on it for like a couple of days...but...then...i just filed it in my head under: OKAYWHATEVER.

I guess what I learned from that, was:

IT SURE AS SHIT AIN'T EVER OVER TIL IT'S OVER.

In life...some things end...and other things are put on hold. Never believe you hold the deciding vote on which is which. Take what comes...and don't ever sweat the odds. Sometimes we have a role in fate...and other times we are simply passengers...

I, myself, simply enjoy riding the tides and surfing the waves of each and every moment of this always amazing trip known as life...

...see you next time...

JESUS

My flight is at 3ish...er, something like that...tomorrow...and so like my boss is all asking me if I'm coming into work tomorrow. Okaywhat? I'm all, "Well...I wasn't planning on it," and he just gives me that extended-stare-over-the-tops-of-the-glasses look. And I'm all, "What? Is that a problem, or something?" And he does the textbook passive/aggressive thing of the "No. That's alrigh--(cannot be heard anymore because he is walking away with his head down...) So, I was like "and don't you come back..." (No. I wasn't.)

I don't respect non-communicative bullshit. Would the world come crumbling down if you just come out with whatthefuckeveritis you are trying to communicate? Jesus. Why do people have to do worthless, boring little performances around what they are truly thinking? Ulterior motive, perhaps. I don't like to rush to that judgement. I like the thought that someone may just not have the capacity to articulate their thoughts. Or that they question the moral/ethical value of their thoughts. The mere idea that people fuck with you just cause they intend to fuck you over would not be thought number one on my WHATISYOURFUCKINGPROBLEM? list.

Well. I just don't care. I have performed above and beyond the call of duty at my job for many years now. And that's an outside opinion. I am stellar. And that's the fact. And so...that's why I can have such a kiss-my-sweet-ass attitude, and be fair. I should have said it quite a few times by now...but...now I'M SAYIN IT, AIN'T I? And it's makes me feel all cozy just reliving it.

Okay...so now I'm going to tell you about Jesus.

Jesus was this homeless dude who hung out in our little neighborhood. We live smack dab in the city...surrounded by victorians, which are law offices or professional buildings. Down the street is the Capitol, and all the government buildings; state, county, and federal. It's all right here...including the homeless.

So...this dude. He totally looked like the American version of Jesus...you know, like on those Easter movies made for t.v.? He had these dreadlocks, though. And he was semi good looking, for a homeless dude. So like I would see him all the time. And then finally one day I pulled over and he was sitting in this parking lot playing guitar. It was a Martin 6 string...with a Ovation case. I was like...dude...what is your story? And he was all talking slow and quiet. He said his name was Steve. (but we will always call him Jesus.) And he went into these little chords as he talked. He would like play for a bit...with his icky, dirty hands (but his nails were short and clean)...and then he would just say some totally random thing. I asked him if he had a family. He said, (strumming a g, like 5 times) "I got no family. I've had 3 girlfriends." (strumming a c now) "One, I had for a month." (now back to the g) "One, I had for a week," (now he stops playing and looks me square in the eyes, "and the last one I had for an hour." And I was like not sure if he was a maniac or just stupid. He wasn't on drugs...I could tell. And he didn't smell like alcohol. The whites of his eyes were solid white. And his teeth were straight...AND CLEAN. I was like, THIS DUDE IS LIKE SOME COLLEGE STUDENT DOING SOME SOCIOLOGY THESIS!!! Even his dirt didn't look real. It looked like ink...

So now I was on a mission to trip Steve up in his act of being a homeless Jesus. I told the neighbors, and wouldn't you know it? None of us had ever talked about him, but we had all secretly nicknamed him Jesus. We were on NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH over Jesus to see if he was a fake.

One day I was smoking cloves out back and Jesus and his Martin and Ovation came strolling down the alley. He smiled, and just at that time, Dave (my loveydovey) came driving up. Jesus looked at him. Then, Dave got out of the truck and said, "Hey, how you doin?" And Jesus shot like a bat out of hell down the alley...all running behind slow cars in traffic and shit. I was like...Whatthehell is that all about? And Dave told me that he had seen Jesus running after cars quite a few times. (like a little dog, or something. Poor Jesus...er, whatever.)

Then, another time I saw Jesus at the park. And I was like, "Hey, are you hungry?" And he's all "ye ah m an" (he talked really slow, like a stoner) "can you get me some french fries and a chocolate shake from McDonalds?" And I'm like, "Dude. I'll get you what I get you...and you better thank me for it when I do." So, I get him the NEAREST TO CHOCOLATE Jamba juice that Jamba could make. I came back, and I proudly hand it to him...like IM-SUCH-A-FUCKING-NICE-PERSON...and he's all, "whaaat's thiiiiis? I can't haaaaave thiiiiiss...therrrrrre's vitaminnnnns in that, maaaaaan..." And I was like, "That set me back FOUR BUCKS, MISTER. YOU'RE GONNA DRINK IT." (Jesus was only like 5'4"...I knew, in a pinch, i could kick his ass.) And so Jesus drank the Jamba juice.

The last time I saw Jesus was the night he pulled out our chase lounge and slept on it. As the sun came up the next day, he would rotate it back into the shade, until it was literally under our back window. I went out back to smoke, and saw this dark blue lump of godonlyknowswhat on my chase lounge. Dave told me it was Jesus. Later, I went back outside...and Jesus was gone. So was the chase lounge.

I have my theories about Jesus. No doubt I'll run into that shit at some SUIT LADEN convention downtown...sippin an espresso and juggling a PDA and cell. That guy. (I will then tell him I want my FOUR DOLLARS and MY CHASE LOUNGE back...the shitty little theif!)

Occasionally we hear of people who think they've seen him...but...I don't think it's the real Jesus...(there are Jesus lookalikes...)

I was never able to get a hold of his deal. Once Dave asked him what his deal was...why he was homeless, and all...and he just laughed. Jesus laughed and said, "Oh maaaaaan. I'mmm jusssst herrrre forrrr the jammms," and he did this spazzy little guitar solo...

Kristen said she saw Jesus at the Greyhound station, playing guitar outside...she wasn't sure if it was him...but, she really thought it was. Fact is, Jesus is gone..and...well...peace, love, and bong hits to you Jesus. We miss you, man.

Kat

*Theme song of the day, in honor of Jesus: ONE TOKE OVER THE LINE. (brewer/shipley)