From the Dusty Archives: How I Became a Yankees Fan

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way." (Charles Dickens—A Tale of Two Cities.)

As the afternoon sun poured onto the desktops it illuminated the dust. I sat...head down...pretending to read, but gleefully watching my classmates inhale the shiny particles. Mimi and Jenny—they were Brownies. They were the pretty ones. The teacher always picked them for hall monitor or sending a memo to the Principal. Their mothers were home all day long and would stop by to bring the class cupcakes.

Tommy Johnston had eyes that could cut glass. I tilted my head to see if he was breathing in the dust...but this time, I imagined the dust was poison. The kind of poison they spray in wars. The kind that would kill you within seconds. No one would know until you dropped like a rock. You would look fine until 1 second before you died.

Tommy Johnston was breathing the dust. I smiled.

As the bell rang I grabbed my shawl. I loved my shawl. It was the only "hippy," kind of clothing my conservative mother would allow me to wear. My shawl was pink and purple with these happy and joyful paisleys dipping and turning in every direction. Chartreuse and gold...it was soft. Sometimes I slept with it.

Jimmy Joe Mayer and Tommy Johnston began to yell—Jimmy Joe was my friend. He had been born with a hole in his heart. He was small, like me; so we were always the last two in line...year in and year out.

Jimmy Joe told me one time we were standing outside, waiting for the teacher, in the pouring rain that he was afraid he would die as a kid. I told Jimmy only bad kids die young. Jimmy asked me why so many bad kids were still alive. I told Jimmy I didn't know.

The red etch-a-sketch flew to the ground and slid under Jenny's desk. "See what you did" Tommy Johnston snapped, while pushing Jimmy Joe away from him, into the blackboard.

"I hate you" Jimmy Joe yelled lunging toward Tommy Johnston...his eyes welling up with tears, his face bursting with a crimson anger, his fists clenched so tightly that his white knuckles didn't disappear when he unclenched his fist to wipe away a tear.

The etch-a-sketch lay on the ground—blank.

He gently picked it up...cradled it in his hands...exhaled into sobs, and fell to his knees.

As his shoulders and head dropped he whispered, "It's gone. It's gone. I hate you, I hate you...I will always hate you for this." I slowly tip-toed from the both, toward the door...looking down, I saw nothing on the etch-a-sketch, but a tear.

I don't know if Tommy Johnston was the first person I ever truly hated, but at that moment, I truly hated him enough for all the other hate I would ever need for anyone else for the rest of my life.

As the rain shot through the plumes of grey exhaust from the car in front of me, I wondered. I wondered about the new season. I wondered about the players. Other teams—the rivalries. I wondered how long it could possibly take for them to finish up with my order of large fries and cheesecake.

I shifted the car into park, took my foot off the brake, sat back, exhaled, and turned up the radio. As the plumes of grey fog mixed with the falling rain I saw particles of silver dust.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you."

Tommy Johnston's mother bought Jimmy Joe a new etch-a-sketch...as Jimmy Joe had not only lost the picture of Joe DiMaggio he had worked on all winter. But Jimmy Joe's etch-a-sketch lost it's little "sketcher," pin when it hit the ground.

It couldn't sketch a thing. Tommy Johnston had the idea that since Jimmy Joe had a new one, Tommy Johnston wanted to take the broken one and put it on the train tracks. Tommy Johnston heard that etch-a-sketch's were filled with dynamite, and if you hit one hard enough, or set one on fire, they would explode into a million pieces that would shoot into the sky for over a mile.

The moon was almost full as we crept in the overgrown lot. I only went because Jimmy Joe asked me to, but I was shivering and I was frightened. The field was uneven and I kept falling into the weeds...my shawl getting caught on the stickers. Tommy Johnstone was laughing and running toward the tracks, yelling back to Jimmy Joe and me to, "Hurry up."

"This is as far as we go," Jimmy Joe blurted, his chest heaving from the half mile walk. "What do you mean, you baby?" Tommy Johnstone yelled, his silouhette elongated by the moonlight stood 70 feet tall on the weed tops. "Just go do it," Jimmy coughed, "go on."

We crouched down into the dewy weeds, looking toward the east part of town as we heard the train speeding up. The powerful thumping of the engine coming in faster beats. "Are you sure it's on there?" Jimmy whispered as I slapped a mosquito near my ear, "Yeah, it's on there alright. Just you wait and see," Tommy Johnston boasted, his eyes wide open, licking his lips as the headlight came toward us.

I adjusted my windshield wipers as I entered the freeway. An 18-wheeler pulling up right behind me, I opted to lay low on my arrival—feeling the burst of water as he shot past me. The hot oil burned my fingertips as I reached into the bag. I licked the salt crystals off my fingertips, and took a deep breath as my heart sank when I heard the first few chords sneaking into my ear...

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence..."

I had chosen to never listen to that song after the summer when I was in 3rd grade. Tonight something in my heart was ready. Something made me let it come in. Something caused me to turn it up and exhale...

I let it permeate me. I let my heart feel the flood I'd held back for so long. I felt the pain behind my eyes and throat grow sharp...and heard myself breathing heavily as my eyes filled with tears.

As the windshield wipers slapped the dirty freeway water off of/and back onto my glass-and-steel pseudo-"confessional," of a car...I felt the presence of the past. I felt the sting. I instantly realized the floodgate that were opening in my mind, and the memories hit like a tsunami.

"You're a liar!" Jimmy Joe screamed, throwing his hands to his sides—just a silver puff of smoke! That's all I saw! Just a silver puff of smoke!"

As we slowly walked in silence through the field, I played the impact over and over in my mind, like the very dust particles everyone inhaled that day, sparkling with the train's headlamp—like glitter in the twinkling of an eye.

It was a Saturday afternoon, I could hear the faint tune of the ice cream truck perusing the neighborhood.

My mother yelled my name from the living room.

As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I could see a mountain of clothing waiting for me—as well as her messy hair and exhausted eyes.

I knew better than to try and argue with her when she had that look. As I sat down on the floor, I heard her talking with my dad in the kitchen, adult chit chat, boring grown-up stuff. I looked up at the television—baseball.

I looked back at them, and back to the television. Would I? Could I get away with changing the channels? The rule of thumb in my home was no one under the age of 99 was allowed to change the channel, day or night.

The most random, God-awful programming was almost exclusively selected by them. I was certain this was one of those bad things that happen to children when they grow up, they become boring sadists to anyone younger. Especially their own children.

As I reached for the shiny silver knob just a foot or so from the tip of my nose, I heard my mother yell, "Don't even think about it."

As I sat back down on my heels, I began to feel imprisoned. The pile of underwear, towels, and socks seemed like Mt. Rainier. I grabbed a sock and made a decision. I can't really even remember why, but I remember when.

Since I had no other choice than to sit in front of this mind numbing sport show, then I would pick a team to root for. I remember looking at the players, looking at their uniforms and trying to decide who would be "my team."

I found the mate to the sock and folded it into a ball. The players all look alike, and I could never like this stupid game anyhow. I can't even hit a ball with a bat. But Jimmy Joe could! Just then I looked at the score...and I decided to choose the team that was losing.

That team was the New York Yankees.

The Yankees won that day, but I was never able to tell Jimmy Joe.

Jimmy Joe never returned to school that Monday. He had drowned in the American River on Saturday, trying to help a younger child who had fallen out of a raft near the rapids. The younger child survived, but Jimmy Joe was brought to the shore, lifeless.

That Wednesday afternoon, my teacher called me into the hallway. She reached into a book and pulled out a card. She handed it to me and said, "Jimmy Joe's mother brought this to school to give to you. It was his. And she wants you to have it."

It was a 1952 Topps Baseball card...I'll never forget it. The impish smile on the face of some old guy.

But that old guy, he was wearing my New York Yankee's hat! The team I had picked while folding clothes the same day Jimmy Joe died.

I lost my best friend in the 3rd grade. I was all alone at the end of the line in the hallway at school, and life would never feel as innocent and curious again, I thought.

But Jimmy Joe knew someday I would find him again. The New York Yankees were Jimmy Joe's favorite team, and I never knew that until my teacher handed me that Topps card after I had picked them as my team while folding clothes...

That's where it began.

A few years later, when I was in Junior High, I remember being in p.e. and my teacher demanding I spit out my chewing gum.

I recall clearly being sent to the front office and explaining, in tears, that I had been chewing that wad of gum since the playoffs—and if I stop—the Yankees will lose the World Series.

They gave me a Kleenex...and a note for my teacher to let me chew.

Tommy Johnstone was a Dodger fan and would try and make me cry when I would wear my Yankees hat or talk about baseball to any of the kids. Tommy Johnstone was convinced Ron Cey was the best ball player God ever created. 1977 and 1978 were the most hellish years I believe I ever faced as a Yankee fan due to Tommy Johnstone and Ron Cey. But, in the end, the Yankees won...and Tommy moved away.

(Someone told me Tommy Johnstone went to prison for check fraud some years later...but I never really looked into the story to see if it was the truth. It sounded fairly probable to me and I wouldn't want to remember him any other way, quite honestly.)

I carried my Topps card in my back pocket for years, until it disappeared one day. I never was able to find it...now that I am an adult, I think it was probably laundered and didn't survive. I believe my mother shielded me from the broken heart I wouldn't have been able to bear at that time in my life.

I remember the day my mother took over an hour to console me when she discovered my No. 44 Reggie Jackson t-shirt had not survived one of the only washing/drying cycles it had ever been subjected to. I wanted to bury it in the backyard at sunset, and: we did.

I remember Bucky Dent. I remember Reggie. I remember Billy Martin yelling and screaming. I remember George Steinbrenner punching someone in an elevator.

I remember the day Thurmon Munson died, and Bobby Mercer not only spoke at his funeral, but played in a game that night against the Orioles that few will ever forget..

I remember thinking the crowd was booing Lou Pinella...and telling my mom I would never go to Yankee Stadium, where they boo their own. She went on to explain to me they were yelling, "Lou."

Friends came and went. I fell into and out of love. I went to college and grew up, and the Yankees were with me every moment of the way..

I remember when we farmed Jeter. Rivera. Posada. Bernie. Pettitte.


I remember finding myself in a motel room, some years later...bored...homesick...clicking through the channels...and there they were—my boys in pinstripes.

It had been years since I had paid attention to baseball. I had become sidetracked with other things in life...distracted by the seeming demands of being an adult, and yet: there they were.

The playoffs—Jeter & Williams—some kid named Maier interfering...and I was home.

Years would go by but somehow, I always found myself watching my boys in the fall. A few times they went all the way—a few times not.

I grew up with the Yankee haters.

Hell, I fell in love with, and subsequently lived with one. And literally, he would come into the room, while I was watching a game, and point out how they sucked, how stupid they were, how they were overpriced assholes.

He's gone now, they remain.

Honestly, I can't remember a time when the Yankees weren't a part of my life. Then again, I remember thinking I could never imagine not seeing Bernie on the field, or Paul O'Neill.

I know. It's only baseball.

But, to me...it's more.

It's life.

It's being a part of something bigger than keeping an appointment, paying your bills, and gassing your car.

It's the opportunity to ride on the wings of your favorite slugger and round those bases with him.

It's the bottom of the 9th, two outs, 3-2 count—bases loaded—and relishing the anticipation.

I am so grateful for every moment I have laughed, cried, argued, and mused over my team—the New York Yankees. I wouldn't trade one moment of my many years with them for all the tea in Boston. I have learned alot through these many seasons of triumph and glory—disappointment and loss—sometimes it's heaven, sometimes it's absolute hell, but, this is life...and they will always be a part of my life.

As I reached the parking garage elevator, my fries had grown cold. My nose was stuffed, and one quick glimpse in the mirror informed me of my need to avoid all contact with others. I pressed the elevator button and glanced behind my shoulder to the garage camera, aimed right at me.

Just then, to my right, a Porsche pulled through the gate on the west side—as I glimpsed to see it...I beheld the raindrops illuminated against the night sky...like glitter...dust...memories...everywhere...and I smiled...

(Dedicated to Jimmy Joe Mayer)

the king, the queen, and the pizza.

many moons ago...one lazy evening, i was kickin back...just hangin on my back patio. and, yeah, it was my birthday...

i remember i had had a busy week...and i was kinda diggin on the idea of just sittin, watchin the sunset, and sippin on my vodka and oj.

(there's alot of drinking mentioned in this story. make sure to read my footnote thereafter.)

(for the record: it was an egregious act on my part to drink and drive...that would be one decision i would make differently today.)

anyhow...yeah...my friend mary is all yellin over my fence...she's thrilled about something...and so i invite her over...

i theorize this is where the mischeif began.

mary informs me she had JUST closed the deal on the sale of this hugeass mansion on the outskirts of davis. and the dude to whom she made the deal was some dude somehow associated with the sacramento kings.

which meant not one godamned thing to me.

being a semi-intoxicated yankee fan.

so yeah...and then...well...i seem to recall...i was pretty done with the vodka. so i suggested we celebrate...her sale, my birthday...and we opt to go get more vodka.

i drove.

mary had this kickass convertable...porsche...maybe something else...dunno.

but the sucker was hella powerful...and SHE WAS WILLING TO LET ME WIND THAT BABY OUT. so...first thing i do is get some music goin...in this semi-Thelma-and-Lousie moment...i opted for Billy Idol's White Wedding.

and so it began. and the music...and the summer sun setting...and we are doin triple digits on the I-80...

she's tellin me about the house. mary's all going into how this place has like an attic AND a basement...and she was makin it sound amazing. i was all, "dude. you MUST show me..." and she was all, "well, we haven't exchanged the keys yet...i guess we COULD..." and i was hella thrilled.

some short time later, mary and i were sippin our drinks on the front lawn of this bigass mansion and laughin our asses off at everything.

and...after a while, we opted to finally go inside.

and this place WAS amazing. it was massive. i mean the rooms were hella huge...and they all had like these massive closets...and yeah...the attic and the basement and different stairs off the kitchen and formal living room..

i seem to recall it was at that point i became hungry. i remember sayin we should order a pizza.

and so...i remember somehow mary ordered the pizza...and we would have to hang there for another half hour...

and then we were gonna bail before we get arrested for breaking and entering or something...

so...i suggested we play hide and go seek...

and mary hid

and i just kinda forgot my role in the game...

and then i remember us wondering where the pizza was...

and mary suggested i go hide

so i did.

i was in this one bedroom closet up the stairs off to the far left...

and i was laughin and talkin to myself.

then i decided i should shut the hell up...

silence.

and i was like, "dude. she's not gonna look for me..." but, i knew mary...she would.

so i hid again.

but i remember i sat there for a while. so i layed flat on my back...on the floor of the pitch black closet...and i decided i should HELP MARY OUT WITH FINDING ME...so i began to sing Bohemian Rhapsody...

and i was laugin and doin all the voices...and singin like LOUD...hella loud, actually...

and

well...

i got to about the "i'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me" part...

when

the closet door slowly opens.

instantly i behold what had to be THE TALLEST BLACK MAN I EVER DONE SAW.

and he's lookin at me layin on the floor

and i said, "dude. did you bring the pizza?"

literally.

yes...it was a king or a friend of a king or someone.

and apparently mary had informed this guy and his friend we were there...and that's why she wasn't lookin for me...and they all thought it would be hella fun for him to confront me

as i was worried about us becoming hella criminals, trespassing, felonious mischief...and whateverelse the d.a. could nail us on...

i dunno

i seem to recall eatin the pizza...shootin some hoops...and then i woke up safely at home.

the next day i was tryin to remember everything that had transpired...and i was wondering if we had been as wasted as i thought...

i walked toward mary's apartment and beheld her car...it was taking up 3 parking spots.

and it remained that way the entire day.

many morals to that story

if you're gonna trespass in a tall black mans house...and he just so happens to be a king...don't be messin around in his walk-in singin queen.

:)

happy monday all

♥kathryn

According to data from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), in 2005, 16,885 people were killed in alcohol-related crashes - an average of one almost every half-hour. These deaths constituted approximately 39 percent of the 43,443 total traffic fatalities.
This is a slight decrease from 2004, when 16,919 people were killed in alcohol-related traffic crashes, representing 39 percent of the 42,836 people killed in all traffic crashes.Nationally, alcohol-related fatalities are fairly flat, down .2% from 16,919 to 16,885 and fatalities involving a driver at or above a .08 were down 1.2% from 13,099 to 12,945.

http://www.madd.org/

an open letter to Richard Stephen Crosby...

Dear Bubba,

My name is Kathryn. My mom and I have been Yankee fans since...well...forever, actually. You immediately found a place in our hearts when you surfaced one of your many times...in 2004...followed by 2005.

We researched your playing history...with Rice...and the Dodgers...and we know the talent you possess.

If you retain nothing else from this email, please let this truth sink in: you are an invaluable asset to any team fotunate enough to have you.

You play with passion and the heart of a hero. Determination and persistence radiates from each performance...and your future will be spectacular. Do not question these changes you're facing...I have every confidence that the path you're on will lead to a success you have not been able to enjoy...and this move you're facing will enable your talent and passion to be utilized. I smile at that fact...you should, too.

September 19, 2005. I will never forget the walk off homerun...I watched you up at bat...knowing you could completely turn that game around...and the moment you did...it was magic! My greatest hopes at that moment, realized! I immediately tried to call my mother, who had been also watching, to share the joy...but her line was busy...and she doesn't have call waiting. So...what did I do? I called the Operator and requested an emergency interuption! When asked my name, I replied (so my mother would know YOU did something FABULOUS, and we need to scream and shout!) "Kathryn CROSBY."

She had also seen your play and was on the phone w/ a neighbor TRYING to get off the phone...and immediately called me back in laughter and tears.

She has endured many health problems...but one thing that puts a smile on her face is the idea she entertains that "we discovered Bubba...we loved him from the beginning!" And it's true in a small sense...every game we have attended...we shout our praise for you...and there was a time when the opposing team's fans around us would ask, "Who are you shouting for?" And later they would say, "I'm glad we sat next to you guys, now we know who that Bubba Crosby guy is with the Yankees..."

You are a diamond in the rough. Your playing does lift the hearts and spirits within fans. Your persistence and determination speaks volumes to many lives, young and old.

And...if we had been on the subway the night of your walk off homerun...we would have recognized you.

Wherever you go...our hearts and prayers are with you. Know this. 2 Total strangers in California have had their lives imprinted by your contribution. We are grateful and we look forward to cheering you on in the future.

And we will...

Very sincerely yours,

Kathryn

...We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, on whom the pale moon gleams: yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world forever it seems...

[Ode, by Arthur O'Shaughnessy 1844-1881]

Messages of Unknown Origin...
...years ago I remember walking through a graveyard, with a babysitter, at night. For all intents and purposes, I suppose it was a shortcut toward my home...and I guess she considered the idea innocuous.

The moonlight was steely grey, and it's cool shimmer was cast on every object in such a way that many chills were sent deep into my childhood mind and heart.

Not wanting to see what could merely appear as a hand reaching up from each gravestone I passed, I purposed to keep my eyes straight ahead...as the branches of the trees, also seemed like ominous arms reaching down to me...

I seem to recall she was talking as if we were in the canned food section of the nearest market...and I remember deeply sensing the contrast of her demeanor and the environment. I remember wondering how she could be physically next to me...but spiritually oblivious. I remember wondering if how I was feeling was just a child thing...and if someday I would be more like her...

And then my answer appeared. Lost in my thoughts, I had let my eyes wander...and instantly I realized a word...a single word...screaming out to me...

UNKNOWN

She grabbed my hand quickly and jerked me away from where I must have been standing...staring...as I remember automatically setting one foot in front of another...but not really walking. I was locked in on the message I received from unknown origin.

I remember the shock and disbelief that it were even possible in this reasonable world for the adults to conduct their activity in such a way as to leave a grave this way. I wondered if it were really possible for someone to die unknown. I wondered if that was really all the adults could do with this person...and I know it was at that exact moment I realized I must make every effort to live my life in a way that my contribution to this existence is KNOWN.

From that moment on, I never saw life the same. From that moment on, I realized the soul of that stone could very well conclude to me: hey, what are you looking at? Someday you'll be exactly as I am.

And I will.

But...my Mission Statement was forged at age 8.



THE DIFFERENCE IS YOU

I had had a fight with my boyfriend...we had been together for about 7 years...and I was really very sad at the situation...

I remember the feeling of my powerlessness in the situation...the investments I had made in the relationship seemed to have absolutely no effect upon his need to also invest.

I remember his parting words in the fight...as I walked down the alley. I remember crying and smoking my clove...feeling the first pangs of what would later become our end.

I remember musing on the hateful words he yelled about me...and wondering if what he said were possibly true...and, perhaps I was just too prideful or arrogant to realize it...as he accused. I began to allow his words to become my reality. And I sank further into a hopeless state.

I remember sitting down on the curb to cry...a few feet away from the delivery doors belonging to the florist.

I distinctly remember hating myself at that moment...seeing myself the way he apparently claimed I was...and drowning in confusion, as I knew deep down inside I was nothing like that.

Then...for no reason whatsoever, I began to be hit with repeated thoughts of other aspects in my life that seemed to completely unravel his argument. Situations and relationships where my "investing" has been exceedingly redemptive...and constructive. I began to survey the many relationships in my life that were thriving. And I began to consider the continual destructive relationships he seemed to crave.

I remember at that moment I raised my head to wipe away my tears one final time... and saw a small blackboard near some boxes by the delivery door dumpster.

I could see it had something written on it...in chalk. I remember slowly walking toward the blackboard...still sad...still confused...and I read: THE DIFFERENCE IS YOU.

I still have that chalkboard with it's words and I look at it sometimes with a smile because...when everything was said and done with that relationship...it was a message of truth.



THE SKI PATROL GUY

Years ago, on New Years day, I was with a group of people in Bend, Oregon. They had all decided to go mountain bike riding that day...and...I decided at the last minute to go skiing alone.

Several hours into my runs...I realized a storm was quickly approaching as the light snowfall and breeze were becoming stronger in force.

I remember being at one of the expert runs, very high on the mountain, when I calculated I could take a quicker way to the lodge. Being unfamiliar with the mountain and it's runs...I apparently went off course in a really wrong way. Before I knew it, I was knee deep into the side of this steep run...and completely surrounded by snowfall...with the sun having set some time ago...

I remember wedging my ski out of the snow, taking off my skis and attempting to find firmer ground. I looked around and began to realize the situation I had put myself in.

I was alone, and more than likely no one would know...as I hadn't told anyone from my group where I was going.

I remember a wave of panic hitting me as my efforts to walk seemed impossible enough...despite having no idea which way to walk. I probably moved 5 feet with every 3 minutes of struggle and knew I had run out of options.

I stood still for a moment, catching my breath. My heart racing and the fear welling inside.

In a flash I spotted a red figure some 200 yards away. I saw this figure stop. It stood still. And I realized it was the Ski Patrol. I had no clue what to do. I just stood there, waiting for him to see what he would do. Then he waved one arm toward him...and skied away.

I remember thinking he was going for help...but also...he was on firm ground...so I decided to help him, while he was going for help for me...and I would try to get closer to where he had been...

I couldn't tell you how long I struggled with the snow and my skis and my freezing hands and face...but I remember coming to the realization that the pack was more solid and I had come close enough to attempt to ski down.

And...I gratefully locked on my skis and glided to the bottom of the mountain.

Two ski patrol guys were near the lift when I arrived...they made some comment about how late it was and I remember trying to tell them I was the one the other ski patrol guy had spotted...no need to go up there.

I will never forget when the explained to me that they were the only two ski patrols on that side of the mountain that day...all the others had gone home...and no one else was up there.



YOU ARE LOVED

Not too long ago I was awoken by a phone call in the middle of the night. I answered in an automatic fashion, being barely coherent.

I remember the man on the other side...his words...he said, "You don't know me. But I want to tell you, God loves you."

And I was absolutely pissed off...I was like, "Hey. Who the fuck is this? It's 2 o'clock in the godamned morning--"

And he said, "Look, I know that. You just need to know that God loves you, and everything is going to be alright."

And I was like, "Okay, thank you crazy person. Good night." I slammed down the phone.

In the morning when I awoke...a few minutes drifted by...and the middle of the night phone call surfaced to my mind.

I immediately wondered if I had dreamt that call...or if it had been real...

I walked over to the phone...clicked on the button of calls received and it showed: 1.

I scrolled down...and the word I saw hit me as fresh and brilliant as that moonlit night long ago...when it penetrated my heart and soul...when I was 8...

UNKNOWN.



"To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one's self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived - this is to have succeeded."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson


Another beautiful birthday...

have a wonderful week...

Kat

...my ode to Billy Joe....
It isn't everyday a hero comes into your life...

As I begin to muse on what you have meant to me...I find myself shutting the blinds...grabbing the kleenex...and forseeing the puffy eyes I will wear all day tomorrow for letting myself venture into the emotional storm I've held back for so long.

Every moment that you have been a part of my life has been such a wonder to me.

Every day of my life that you have touched could not have been as blessed had you not been a part of it.

And I have held you in my heart for so long...my life is immeasurably blessed, beyond my comprehension.

Why God would choose to bless me by bringing you into my life...I don't know...but it has been one of the greatest gifts I will ever receive...one of the greatest tangible realizations of the power and beauty of love...

You were right...when you explained to me that being alone isn't always the best road...the jigsaw puzzle idea...that a lone piece can actually be enhanced by another piece...especially if they belong together...that although they can remain two totally separate pieces...together they enhance one another...together they form a picture....that wouldn't exist had they remained apart...

Oh how very right you have been in so many ways...

Oh, how very stubborn I can be in my thinking! You would tease me, "You always have to be right!" And I knew you were teasing...I knew that you knew I was okay with being wrong...but...at this moment I discover how it was you...you who knew it all...you who saw right through...you who didn't need to receive the credit...it was you...you were right all along.

I love your spirit...I always have. I love your joy...I love how you see things in images like I do. I love how you aren't afraid to be real...how you stand firm on the painful lessons and the wisdom you have gathered...and how you don't shy away from honesty and truth.

I love that you know I will always be honest and truthful. I love that you believe in me. There is no one else in this world I would believe in more than I believe in you. No matter what...I will come through for you...I would walk the earth barefoot for you...you have been worth it...and you will always be worth it.

God knew I would need you. He knew no one else could ever get close enough to me to penetrate my stubborn and prideful shell. He knew that we would speak the same language and crave the same values...enjoy the same hues in the sunset...laugh at the same humor...and finish each others sentences...even when neither one of us have said a word...

Your love has been like a sunrise to my soul every day of my life with you.

I love that you want to shield me from the harmful things of this world...that you are willing to let me make my own dumb mistakes and never say "I told you so," afterward...that we share such a bond only few souls ever encounter.

My heart floods with gratitude and smiles as I say goodbye to you.

Although we will be apart...I will force myself to embrace the fact that time and distance has never had it's impact on us. You mean more to me than any obstacle. We will see each other again...

Cats will always be floppy...and you may not always take my advice...but...I love you...and I know you will always tell my stories....

Kat

...two examples of my need to be single...
...okay...well, maybe these two exemplify the reason I remain single.

Carl Barat and Pete Doherty...otherwise known as frontmen for the former band, The Libertines.

"Up the Bracket," has been such a fun CD to blast every morning...and afternoon...and evening. Sure beats the shit out of the godamn Britney Spears my two retarded neighbors seem obsessed with. They also crank up other shit that is getting on my effing maximum last nerve.

But...shit. Now I'm all inundated with the truth behind these two. And, it's gettin to me. I don't want to be all entwined with such huge fucking self-destructive losers.

I mean, I would theorize there is an "appropriate way" to kill yourself with drugs...but, hell...why make such a dramatic exit and drag it out for ever? Besides, the planet is crowded. If you're that unhappy just make room for the rest of us, k?

I mean, I'm sorry. But I have no patience for this kind of hedonistic bullshit. I live with no less than 5 major hospitals within a 5 mile radius of my front door. And one of them is for terminally ill children. What a fucking nightmare. The suffering, the loss, the torture on each soul. And these two dumb fuckers have to take the gift of life and take it as some huge God-ordained insult. Fucking bail then, Mr. I'm-so-fucking-upset-with-the-world.

Anyone who actually admires this twisted imitation of grandeur is obviously hurting for a muse.

It's all been done before, boys. What amazing talent it takes to overindulge with drugs, sex, and destruction. You're so fucking original.

Well...I have always enjoyed music as a package experience. I dig the composer, I dig the history behind the band...the sincerity of lyrics...I dig the flavor of the sound, as it were.

In order for me to continue chipping paint off the walls from the beat of these fellows every morning...I guess I will have to divorce their music from their existence as human beings.

Funny...seems like we actually have the same end goal after all.

"All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

Oscar Wilde

Next time...Kat

For more reading:

http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/9519813/over_the_edge_with_pete_doherty?rnd=1144170789690&has-player=false

http://rockitqueen.blogspot.com/

...here we see Chad...a lifetime away from the homeless beggar he is today...
...a couple of months ago, he approached me at Chevron. I was pumping gas, and he just appeared out of nowhere.

He didn't remember me from the prior encounter we had had at Safeway. And, as before, he hit me with the, "any spare change," grumble. He was monotone...his eyes looked tired...his face was dirty...his demeanor: broken.

I definately remembered him...as I had the intense realization of myself being a total dumbshit cemented with his face.

I looked at him for a nanosecond and exclaimed, "I can't believe you! I already gave you my favorite rock!" And he actually physically reacted to my statement...as if I was hurling a flaming dart in his direction. He then squinted at me, thought about it, and slowly smiled, "Hey, I love that rock!" And we laughed.

I again mentioned different programs near by...and he again walked away waving one hand, and shaking his head.

When I got into the car, a friend of mine said, "Hey, I know that guy."

And I was all, "What? Did he hit you up, too?"

And he's all, "No. He was on the 2002 U.S. Postal Team."

And I'm all, "What?! No, come on."

And he's all, "No. I'm full on serious. That guy was #2 in the nation."

And I'm thinkin that since my friend is some huge bicycle enthusiast, he's projecting cycling onto everyone and everything he encounters.

So we go back to my place and look up the team. Hard to tell who's who. So...the matter dies.

Until last week.

I'm walking, head down against the pelting raindrops, into Safeway. And there's Chad.

Lonnnnnnnng time no see. And he does the schpiel. And I looked at him.

I had forgotten all about him...and the rock incident...and all that...and I said, "Dude. Were you a cyclist?"

And he appears ashamed, head down, swiping the pavement with one foot. He barely raises his head, with one eye open as the rain hits his face, "yeah."

Then he bursts into a volley of coughs. "I've been real sick."

And I said, in my motherly tone, as I neared the store,"When are you gonna stop doing this? You need to get back to cycling. My friend recognized you...he said you're famous. What's your last name? I'm gonna look you up."

I was walking into Safeway when our conversation was put on hold. I thought he'd be long gone by the time I exited that place, some 45 minutes later.

From behind a building pillar, he emerges, singing... "I love myself better than you, know it's wrong...what can I do?"

I was suspended in this moment.

Cobain. The truth in his lyrics...these lyrics...and Chad is not a lost cause. This guy.

Being enslaved to drugs. Hating yourself for being your own worst enemy...yet fighting so hard to have a life. The depression, the desperation...the fucking questions and judgement from people.

My exact conclusion to the judgement I receive from people is this:

Until someone walks in my shoes, with my exact past, present and future...the pressures, the struggles, the emotions...then, fucking judge me not.

And, your evaluation, opinion, and declaration of me holds no weight, as I am not subjecting myself to your evaluation, opinion, and declaration. If I want input, I'll raise my hand.

No one knows another person's exact struggles and conflicts better than that person. External behavior and decisions aren't necessarily an indication of a person's nature, character, or lack thereof. Sometimes, a person's outward behavior, and external appearance, are more of a symptom. A symptom of an underlying condition...drug and alcohol induced, or otherwise...a tenable symptom, nonetheless.

In which, judgement is never a solution. As it is almost always uninformed, unfair, and unjust.

There is One Judge. And none of us are Him.

So. In this season of giving, and thankfulness, and all that...I am reminded of my fellow humans.

Those who's "light," at the end of their tunnel, is merely an oncoming train...

I am grateful for the experiences in my life, which have enabled me to fully understand their struggle. And it's fucking hell. Selfish, arrogant, irresponsible...yes...but also a trap, a snare, and a continual ripping on the heart and soul...to such an extent, death seems the only peace available.

Not suprising so many find their escape there...

I stood looking at Chad. I began to gently nod, "Cobain." I whispered. He nodded and softly spoke, "I miss him."

For me, life took such a hard, deep dive. I was in a pit I thought I could never escape. And, hardship after hardship...trial after trial...I began to slowly climb out of that abyss. (No, I wasn't all into crack.) (sheesh.) But...my point...(yes, I have a point.)...is...at some point, the tide had turned.

Life and relationships began to just flow. Accomplishment were continuous, and peace prevailed.

I was telling a freind of mine that I really missed the way life used to be. That, somehow, even in the hardest struggles, I enjoyed believing "it would all be okay, someday." And, it's like, today has become "someday,"...and it's hard to look forward to things being "better," when things are actually quite great.

It's hard to have hope in something, when it's right here in front of you.

I explained that, it seems like when everything in your life is going perfect, it's unnerving. It seems like the bottom is going to fall out any moment.

Sad...I understand. Sad...doesn't cause me worry...'cause it's about as bad as it's going to get...and there is always reason to hope. But when everything is going perfect...it's hella unnerving...I'm so much more comfortable with sad...

His response to me was, "It's like that Cobain lyric. 'I miss the comfort in being sad.'"

And, it's true.

Even in the most extreme moments of grief, sorrow, and sadness---somehow I knew, without wavering---that I had a reason to hope. I knew, to the depths of my marrow, that if I continued to do the right things, to endure in doing my best, and to persevere in excellence---despite my obstacles---that it would pay off. I knew that someday I would no longer be bound by the downfall of my foolish decisions---but I would bask in the glow of my dedication to the "higher road." The "harder" road.

The slippery slope up out of the pit.

When you're in the pit...only 2 choices. Give up, or, simply: up.

Giving up is merely inviting death. And, death is the fucking easiest choice. By far, the simplist. But, it involves DYING. And, if DYING isn't really what you are into (as it's permanent...) then, I would strongly suggest, sleep it off...or seek therapy.

To live through the fucking mess of a fucked up life...ah, man, not for the faint of heart. Having to own up to your shit, admit to your wrongs, consciously separate yourself from the self destructive mindset and the "fuck it all," mentality.

All I can say is: focus, motherfucker. It's do-able.

Stop being the fucking victim and toe up to the challenges life throws at you. And one more thing: IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU. Grow the fuck up. Forgive others. Forgive yourself.

I guess it's all about emotional maturity, mental stability, coping mechanisms...and all that shit.

But, when you've lived for an extensive period of time steeped in intense sadness and sorrow, even tinged with hope,the silence of it's departure can be quite loud.

For me, there is no sadness without hope.

I leaned toward Chad and said, "I miss the comfort of being sad." He looked out toward the falling rain, and barely spoke, "I'm sad all the time." And, just like that...he walked away...into the rain...

This kid. He's on my heart and in my prayers. His life, his choices. But that doesn't mean I can't care. I can't help but care. And I hate that I can't impart to him what I've learned. Save him from the torture, from the desperation...the loneliness and hopelessness...

But truths this deep only come to those who live through them.

And I forget

Just what it takes

And yet I guess it makes me smile

I found it hard

Its hard to find

Oh well, whatever, nevermind...

Kat

...the first time I met Chad...

...I was walking into Safeway...

The rain was pouring down, the wind, incessant. I was cold, pissed off, and tired. (Again.)

As I began to grab a cart...I see this young homeless guy...he's all unaware I can't hear him...

And...for whatever reason...I didn't just keep walking...or say, "No, sorry--" like I might.

These are people...

human beings...

and...regardless of what reasons factored into their slip into the homeless pit of dispair...that's where they are.

Long after their 3 seconds in my face...we split up...

I go into the warm store...I get whatthefuckever I want...and I drive my warm car back to my warm house...and bitch on my fucking blog, while wearing my zillion dollar mp3 player...

and they're still at Safeway in the rain...or, maybe at Rite Aid...in the rain. Their night will be great if they can score, eat, or drink, and sleep... without getting their shit stolen, or being fucked with.

Choices?

Maybe. But it takes a fucking village.

And we're the United Fucking States. WHY are there homeless people in the third richest country of the world? Fucking tell me. Why are drug users clogging our jails and prisons...?
Why are the mentally ill aimlessly wandering down the fucking alleys?

Sometimes I hate this fucking society.

Until we begin to value our citizens despite race, gender, socioeconomic status...physical and/or mental disabilities...our nation, and it's people will remain a "house divided against itself." The rich keep getting richer...and fuck the poor. The downtrodden, the destitute. After all, social policy costs money....and you need to have money to make money. Thus, spending money on the epidemic of homelessness and socialized health care will only deplete our nation's strength...as, money is our strength...and our country was founded on certain inalienable truths and rights.

Oh yeah? Ponder this:

... in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity...

or,

“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I am sick to death of our government and lawmakers. I despise the hedonistic mentality of our nation. And it sickens me to witness the complete disregard we, as a people, have for our weakest members of society. It is an injustice which will continue to weaken our nation. If money isn't something that Congress is willing to part with, what about power? Perhaps some political house cleaning is in order. Apathy prevails. It's an injustice--- which I, for one, will not sit idly.




(And yes. I do drive a fucking bmw.)


But, Chad.

I rip out one of my ear pieces...and he's asking for some spare change.

I looked him straight in the eye...and I said, "Why are you out here, dude?"

And he says, "Uh, I dunno."

And I said, "Honestly...what's your drug of choice, man?"

And he looks staight back at me and says, "Crack cocaine."

I began to mention different programs within a five mile radius...soup kitchens...NA meetings...

and he simultaneously (and systematically) shot down each and every idea with an excuse...

(it was like tennis...but different.)

I seem to recall him asking me again if I had any spare change...

(Well, fact is: my change purse is filled with still life. No shit. I have a plastic frog, several small rocks from night hikes, a red sequin, a blue thread of yarn...trinkets from days gone by...momentos from fun times...whatever.)

(And, actually, when I couldn't tip this cool barista at godamned Starbuck's one time, I offered my purple plastic ant...and they we're all thrilled as I dropped it into the tip box.)

I only give away one of my little trinkets when truly pressed by someone.

And just then I had an idea.

I informed Chad I couldn't give him cash...but I did have something I thought he would really like.

I began to dig in my purse to my coin zipper...it was caught on the thread...but I was making some progress. He eagerly asked..."What is it, anyhow?" And I said, "Oh, you'll like it. It's a rock. I think you'll really dig it--"

I finally get the damn thing unzipped, grab the rock and look into his smiling face.

I extend my hand and place the rock into his outstretched palm. I smiled, awaiting his response, shoulders back...breath held.

His smile fades for a second. Then he leans forward, looks me straight into the eyes, and says, "You're a real fuckin funny person, aren't you?"

And, you know, it was just a rock. So, maybe he didn't get the coolness of it...I thought.

It wasn't until I was about a block from home that I began to piece together our entire conversation.

NOTE TO THE WISE:

Never casually utter the phrase, "I have a rock for you," around a self-professed crack fiend.

Kat

Theme song for the day: "Kill the poor," by the Dead Kennedy's.

blue monday part II

.
(it only took me like 200 shots to get this one. The bathtub can be a really cold place.)

I've had the damn flu....

Again.


And it's like...people.

...easier to borrow money than receive sympathy.

Bottom line is: I'm gettin this shit like every 8 weeks. So now the comments wander into the "what-the-hell's-up-with-your-immune-system" realm.

And, of course, I roll my eyes and take another drag off my clove.

Geez.

Why is it when someone is like raging with a fever and body aches (only falling off a moving truck can imitate) do people come out of the damn woodwork and pelt you with dumbass comments---and questions?

In the Bible...this dude, Job, dealt with losers like this...but damn...that was like 15 zillion years ago...and we are in an advanced intellect society...right?

Uh huh.

So...yeah.

Flu #2 this season.

8 weeks to be healthy.

Christmas almost here...and I have no idea if I'm gettin the Christmas bonus this year.

You may recall from my ranting of yesteryear: I did tell my boss to "count me out," for next year.

(That's presently: now.)

Do I regret the comment? Not at fucking all.

I say what I mean. And, if I come to discover I was wrong...I come out with the apologies.

Having a "clean slate," means more to me than appearing cool.

I meant what I said...and I'm ready to accept the repercussions. Bring it on, life.

The Yankees remain in my sites...watchin Cash and his lack of wheelin-and-dealin is supreme in my book. Let the Mets and Toronto collect all the mediocre free agents... I firmly believe Bubba Crosby can handle Center...and I also think Boras is standing on the 7 year thing...only to turn around (in due time) with a "okay-how-about-4-years" offer which he thinks Cash will jump at. No offense, Damon....but: no thanks...your bullshit comments about NEVER playing for the Yankees should be something you should stand behind.

Unless...appearing cool means more to you than apologizing and having a "clean slate."

(I'm a bitch.)

Soooooooooooo glad to be rid of Kevin Brown...and Embree...and Gordon can just go pout and scream about wanting to be "the only closer," with some other team. DUDE. We have Rivera: the Jesus-Christ-of-Closers. And you ain't him. Be gone.

Although I greatly admire many players beyond the Yankee clubhouse...I'm really optimistic about the next few years for this team under Cashman's control.

(And Randy Johnson...I once emoted all over my blog for having acquired your shit. You best stop fucking around and pitch when you are told!) Let dumbshits like Schilling go down in flames...you still have a one in a zillion skill...don't fuck it up with the mound-antics. K? Thanks.

Anyhow...my whole body is beginning to cramp up. So I best get back into bed.

I know I didn't really say much...but...bear with me...this is as lucid as it gets today.

Ohandbytheway...I've discovered Tetris. (yeah: Tetris.) But, I'm tellin you: I TOTALLY ROCK WITH A FEVER!!! My record is now: 256.

(Bragging about one's Tetris record isn't very interesting . Odd looks and raised eyebrows are all you get for your badassness in December 2005.)


Ah well, Jimmy crack corn and I don't give a fuck.

See you next time...


Kat

.
Yeahso. I get this car. And, it's nice. It is. But, you see, I was really shopping for reliability and safety.

And within a certain price range.

And, sure as shit, THIS lands in my hands. (At a nominal fee.)

But the deal is: the car freaks me out. It's like this OMINOUS PRESENCE all the damn time.

It constantly tells me this shit or that...like "washer fluid low," or "release parking break" kind of shit. And there's this bell sound along with the dumb flashing demands. And also, these demands can stretch out the the farthest spectrum of my car's needs, such as

"STOP ENGINE!"

...these are the messages I have nightmares over...

You see...any fucking problem I encounter with this car is going to set me back zillions of dollars.

(That's if I decide to keep it, and not shove it off some nearby cliff.)

It's insured.

And I'll buy witnesses if I have to.

And so now I'm not some low life pedestrian. Nor am I some low life mass-transit user.

No. Now I get challenged at every intersection by every make and model of HONDA to race.

And those Honda people think they're the shit. Okay. Honda. Uh...I'm just not feelin your badassness.

So...I flip it into race mode and hit the pedal. It sounds great and employs immediate g-forces...and...way back there is the Honda. It's boring after one or two times. (a day.)

And so then. I'm like going to Safeway...the store with freaks and idiots...(read prior posts)...and I'm coming up to the goddamn RED LIGHT VIOLATION intersection.

$371 PER VIOLATION...is the part of the sign that concerns me.

And this particular intersection actually has cameras...unlike the many others dumb non-camera/sign posted intersections that litter my little town.

So like...it's a stale green...and I'm doin like 40...and I figure I will go through...(no slowing down, that is)...and then it becomes stale yellow...and I'm thinking, "It's a right turn...no one needs to stop to turn right...do they?" And just then I see some goddamn cones on the side of the road where they've been doing road work...and the cones threw off my timing and edge of taking the right on the stale yellow.

SO I FUCKING LOCK EM UP.

(Of course, I have abs...so I didn't really lock em up. Annoying. But safe. Uh huh.)

And...as I came to a complete cessation of movement on this stale fucking yellow...I apparently just d-r-i-f-t-e-d- - - over the crosswalk line.

And before you could say one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two...I am instantly hit with the FLASH of the camera!

OH, YOU HAVE GOT TO FUCKING BE KIDDING ME?!? I'm like STOPPED you dumb fucker. And now the opposing traffic is moving. And I have been sitting here STOPPED for at least 2 seconds and you take a fucking picture of ME? (I'm talking to the camera. Didn't even care if others saw.)

Realizing the severity of the situation, and futility of yelling at the camera, I found myself on pissed off/panic mode. I wanted to find the nearest cop and explain my whole situation so he would know that I wasn't some egregious law breaker.

I theorize, egregious law breakers don't hunt down cops to explain their activity...only the seriously innocent/misunderstood/responsible types do.

And, perhaps, he would put in a good word for me to his sadistic friends who take and process the photos. "It was a freak mistake," I would say, "It may look like I broke the law...but I didn't. That's why I'm coming to you, mister Cop-man. Let's just save everyone the time and hassle and go get my picture from your pals together, k?"

But, no. No cops in sight. And I tend to not like time spent with any authority figures, anyhow.

I'm certain my hate-The-Man vibe would be an influence...and things may go sideways on me.

(They can arrest your shit just for grins and giggles, you know. No reason necessarily needed...just thinking you might be doing something that might be illegal, or looking like someone who might be connected with someone they might be looking for...it's called Probable Cause...and they do this shit like randomly...and often.) Remember, there is a vast difference between being "charged," with a crime, and being "convicted," of a crime. "Charges," they drop all the time. "Convictions," nnnnnnot really. Beyond that...it is a cop's job to arrest folks. They need to arrest folks. Quota and all. "Keeping the peace," alone won't get you extra funding from the State or Feds. And heaven help you if it's a District Attorney's election year. But anyhow...

Makes me want to break out into a solo of "God Bless America..."

Nonetheless...I remain safe and not-yet-found-guilty-by-a-jury-of-my-peers in my car.

And then my car actually began to mock me. It was like, "Well, if you wouldn't drive like such a dumbshit we could have made it." And I began to resent my car.

Oh, that's nothing new. I began to resent my car the moment the fucking DMV wanted $1300 more than I planned to pay them in March. Sales tax. (They're a whole separate Fascist Regime...) And the hits just keep on playing.

Bottom line, with this damned Red Light Violation...15 days.

They have 15 days to mail you your shit. The photo...the citation...the invite to court and/or jail. And I was having all forms of anxiety.

Okaylook---> I DID NOT PROCEED THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!!! I WAS STOPPED, YOU PRIVACY-INVADING-DICTATORS!!!

However, the law states that if you enter the intersection (over the crosswalk lines) when the light has turned red...you have committed a violation...whether you proceed or otherwise. Entering on the red is the crux.

I tripped out loud each day of my 15-calendar-day wait.

A friend actually wrote on my white board at home "Oh Goddd! She's telling her Red-Light-Story-Again!!!" while I was telling my story on the phone...which I found later that day as I was typing up an email of my Red Light Story to another friend...

The mail man became the evil messenger whom I dreaded. I was THRILLED to see my mailbox filled with just bills.

And day 15 came and went.

No citation.

No photo.

No fine.

And a trepidatious sigh of semi-relief...wondering if it still might come and I will have to clog the fucking courthouse with all my random filings and appeals.

(It would become my life focus. And I would enjoy a good knock down/drag out before I part with $400 bucks...and then some...that's for damn sure.)

But...it's been a month or so now...and I'm over it, I think.

A friend was telling me of her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder...struggling with her fear of simply driving again, after surviving this intense collision where her car was totaled.

The only thing I could compare that all-consuming-paralizing-state-of-fear with is the dread and anxiety I endure when I come near that Red Light Violation intersection.

She nodded, but seemed a tad bit miffed at my shallow attempt to empathize.

My position is this: everyone's shock and trauma is subjective, okay?

And it's the little things in life which mame and torture.

So there.

So...anyhow...just thought I'd give you a glimpse of my happenings as of recent.

Haven't come up with a theme song of the day...but...one thing's for damn sure...

if those Yankees don't start annihilating each and every team they come up against in the next few weeks...we ain't gonna be in the playoffs...and...I for one, will be a very unpleasant person to be around in October.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Just pitch the damn ball, you guys!

Happy Monday...

hate the Red Sox...

go A's...

and stop on yellows.

Kat

.
Hey man...I know it's been like forever since I've touched bases here...and...well...I'm doing rather well...I'm just hanging...you know. But...I will write soon...I have a plethora of shit to shovel your way...so...hang tight...and I will return.

Just like Jesus.

Love y'all.

Kat

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.