...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.

.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