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Thursday, October 28, 2004

Windy city blues:

I'm in Chicago right now. Well, not really Chicago, I'm in the suburbs about 20 miles outside of town. I've never been to Chicago before, so now that I'm done doing business out here, my traveling companion and I are moving into the city proper. I had big plans for revelry and hijinks tonight, but alas, they were foiled! How, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you!

The other night, it was raining and Pootie (my traveling companion) and I decided to just hang out here. We'd just had to not only move rooms, but move hotels, because of an unfortunate situation involving a ladybug infestation at hotel A. Hotel B, just across the parking lot and in the same chain, offered us slightly less swanky, but bug-free accommodations, but had no hotel restaurant. So we meandered back over to hotel A, which we'll now refer to as the Super Evil Death Suites hotel.

We relaxed in the lounge at the Super Evil Death Suites, sipping beer and watching the Red Sox get out the big broom. We then made the mistake of ordering dinner. Actually, it was all me - Pootie ordered a salad, and it was apparently fine. I ordered a turkey club, which was tasty enough but had a worrisome amount of mayo on it. I finished 3/4 of the sandwich and boxed it up, and we left to go back across the parking lot to the Bug Free Inn. Later, as we watched hotel porn TV, Pootie ate the last 1/4 of the sandwich.

(Cue ominous music.)

Cut to 24 hours later. Pootie is in Indiana visiting his momma. I'm still at Bug Free Inn, having a light dinner and a glass of wine, and watching the Sox just pick the broom up and thump the Cards on the head with it. I start to feel a little funny, but chalk it up to lack of sleep and go to bed. Meanwhile, in the wilds of Indiana, Pootie is feeling similar queasiness, unbeknownst to me. This morning, I wake up feeling like I got run over with a truck, and promptly proceed to throw up. I figure that's the end of it, shower, get dressed, and go visit my customer. But, no. My stomach continues its mutinous actions and I again toss my cookies (or in this case, my water - I was too nauseous to eat). I left the customer's office and came back to Bug Free Inn to take a nap, wondering why the hell I was sick.

Pootie called me, waking me up from a fitful sleep, and told me he felt sick to his stomach. We put two and two together and figured out that the only thing we'd both eaten was the Poison Sandwich from Super Evil Death Suites. We recoiled in horror as we both realized that the mayonnaise we'd consumed was a substance straight from hell, much like Ann Coulter. We just hope we recover from the Poison Sandwich in time to enjoy all the hijinks and tomfoolery we're bound to encounter in Chicago.

babbled by Kat @ 1:29:00 PM | |

Thursday, October 21, 2004


Another reason why I love Sarah Bunting:

I did get a couple of "ah HA HA HA HA HA HA, looks gooooooooood on ya" emails, though, which...this is what I was talking about with the double standard. If the Yanks had won and I'd emailed a Red Sox fan and invited her to kiss my ass, I'd get strung up. Physically strung up. With string. But because I'm a Yankee fan, it's okay to gloat in my face, apparently. I've taken pains to give credit where it's due, around here and elsewhere, but I guess that's not good enough.

Yeah, I'm a Yankee fan. I know, they lost. I watched. I watch almost every game, barring acts of God and, you know, being on an airplane when games are on and stuff. People tell me all the time that it's easy to be a Yankee fan. Oh, really? Because every time I tell someone that I am I get people telling me that I'm an asshole for liking them? Because every time I root for them in a public place I feel like I might get punched? How about the argument that the Yankees "buy championships"? Oh, really? Then why haven't we won the World Series since 2000? (Barring the fact that I moved away in 2000, that is.) We've got the payroll, right? Certainly we could "buy" this championship, according to that logic, right? Or maybe the Yankees pitching staff wasn't good enough to take them as far as they went and the only reason they survived was because of impressive defensive playing, errors on the parts of other teams, and the fact that I was physically in New York for games 1 and 2.

What? I have superstitions. Deal.

I like that team and have liked them since I was a kid. I knew the pitching staff was weak. I knew their chances of getting to and winning the World Series were slim. But you know what? If they had won, and I'd said anything, anything in a gloating fashion, every single person who hates the Yankees just because they're the Yankees would've kicked my ass. The only time I gloat is to Met fans, but what are you gonna do? It's New York, you break balls. It's a thing.

People go on and on about the bandwagoneer Yankees fans. I think the bandwagon belongs to the haters.

That said, even though two teams I don't like are in the World Series, I'm going to watch every game. Because that's what I really love, you fair-weather motherfuckers. The game.

babbled by Kat @ 11:04:00 PM | |

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

How not to watch baseball:

Last night, I had every intention of watching Game 6 of the ALCS in my favorite bar, surrounded by the booze, bartenders, and bacon that I love ever so dearly. I'd listen to the other regulars boo and hiss at my team as I gazed up lovingly at the clear, bright screens above my head and thanked the little baby Jesus for letting me find an apartment in a complex that has a fucking bar right in the middle of it.

Yeah. Turns out, not so much.

Instead, I spent the evening watching the game in a series of auto service centers, surrounded by annoying children and mechanics who thought I was hot (I mean, I am, but you can only take so much affection from mechanics). At the top of the first, I turned from the 57 freeway onto the 60 to head home. At about the middle of the 2nd, I felt my car start strongly pulling to the left, and thought that I should start pulling over so I could check the tire pressure. At the bottom of the 2nd, my tire blew out. In the rain. In rush hour. In L.A. traffic.

Fortunately, I rule and didn't even come close to losing control. In another fortunate turn, I just so happened to be about a quarter of a mile from an exit which featured a brightly lit sign which indicated there was a tire center right in front of me. Hooray, I thought.

Yeah. Turns out, not so much.

It was a Wal-mart tire center, which, aside from the fact that I think Wal-mart and its sinister tentacles of retail are the epitome of evil, isn't so bad in and of itself. However, from the bottom of the 3rd to the top of the 7th, I waited in a cramped little room watching my boys suck real bad against Curt Schilling while the cute mechanic boys alternately expressed concern as to why I would choose to live in downtown Los Angeles and dismay as they were unable to either locate a replacement tire in the proper size and rating (205/55 16, H, if you care) or get 3 of the 5 lug nuts off my wheel in order to put the spare on. So, as the boys in blue continued to struggle, I called Triple A and had them tow me across the freakin' street, literally, to Sears.

At the bottom of the 7th, I watched on a blurry television as my boys kept on trying to come back. A series of mechanics came into the waiting room as I breathlessly yelled curses at Johnny Damon and theorized about what kind of conditioner he uses. By the bottom of the 8th, as I watched that little fucking bitch A-Rod slap the ball away from him like a 7 year old sissy, my car was ready. I signed my charge slip while pontificating loudly to the Sears Tire Center about how much A-Rod sucks at 3rd and how he should just go back to Texas already. Many agreeing grunts were heard from mechanics and customers alike.

Between the bottom of the 8th and the bottom of the 9th, there was no traffic between the City of Industry, where my car was treated for its wounds, and my home bar, where I was promptly treated for mine. I got back to the bar in time to watch a very tense 9th inning and take a lot of abuse from Yankee haters. But booze, bacon, and very concerned and sympathetic bartenders were there waiting for me, and finally, all was right with the world.

Even though those dirty Botox won.

babbled by Kat @ 7:17:00 AM | |

Friday, October 15, 2004

Wham bam thank you ma'am:

I would just like to tell you how much I go through for you, the viewing public, to prepare for Artwalk. First, I have to move all of my non-art-related crap into my bedroom or darkroom so that you will think I always focus on art and not on things like Linux kernel rebuilds or theoretical physics or Texas Hold 'Em. Next, I have to rearrange my furniture lest you mere mortals accidentally step into my living area and get sucked into a vortex of medical exam tables and stuffed monkey collections. Then, I must purge my refrigerator and junk mail repository (aka the kitchen table) and cart several bags of trash down to the dumpster, where I will be confronted with all of my neighbors' discarded items and will have to make an extremely creative effort in order to cram the trash into the actual bins. After that, I must hang all of the pretty shiny art for your mildly appreciative eyes to see. And finally, I must run around the place like a maniac, armed with a dust mop, Swiffer™, broom, wet mop, and vacuum to ensure my guests are treated to a shiny and clean Artwalk experience.

All of this leads to me being tired, grumpy, and utterly unable to hold coherent conversations, which is yet one MORE reason for you to come to the Artwalk. There's nothing funnier than trying to carry on a conversation with a slightly drunk, exhausted me, because I'm bound to say things like "that's why sometimes the elephant NEEDS a monkey's tail" and "askfhlgkdll!"

Info and directions: here
Where to send mojo if you can't come: here

babbled by Kat @ 5:41:00 PM | |

Sunday, October 10, 2004

When I think about you, I kill myself:

I moved that long-ass list post to my livejournal, because it's long and I don't want it here and if you don't like that you can kiss my bunghole.

If you'll pardon me for being a bit baseball-obsessed for a moment, I can'tfuckingwait for the Yankees-Red Sox series to start. I'm going to be in NYC for the first two games, and I would give my left ovary to get tickets to either game, so if you're in the market for a nice, healthy ovary and have access to tickets, please don't hesitate to let me know.

Also, the Dodgers avoided elimination last night in a spectacular fashion. Lima pitched a shutout and my favorite injury-prone Orthodox Jew hit two home runs on top of Finley's two-run double. It was a great game, and gives Dodgers fans hope that they can maybe stop sucking just enough to let them squeeze past the Cardinals and take the NLDS. I'm tempted to call Dodger Stadium and see if they have any tickets available for tonight's game, because I could take my cat-sitter and he'd be so grateful he'd give me daily rimjobs.

However, I have too much to do today - the only reason I'm even at the keyboard at the moment is to do my expenses for my last two trips and check e-mail, but of course I got distracted by this fucking cursed blog. For the rest of the day, I'm going to be cleaning, trying to eliminate my packrattery and doing laundry to get ready to go to New York tomorrow, because a visit to New York requires clean underpants and lots of 'em. I also have to move some paintings around and hang all my photos in preparation for Artwalk, which is next weekend. However, I get back from NYC on Friday morning and I really don't want to spend the 24 hours between the time I get home and the time I open my doors to the unsuspecting suburbanite public cleaning and spazzing out about how I'm not ready. Instead, I'll spend that time driving to the store to purchase a weekend's worth of booze and snacks so I won't have to leave my house during Artwalk, in the true spirit of my hermit-like living preferences.

The usual request: if you live in L.A., come to Artwalk. If you don't, come to Artwalk anyway. Assuming I survive a week in New York carousing with my friends and return in one piece, the Artwalk is guaranteed to be a good time. Plus, I'll have booze and roofies snacks for people I like and nooses arsenic distilled bathwater dirty looks for people I don't. See you there!

babbled by Kat @ 1:22:00 PM | |

Friday, October 08, 2004

Baseball fever:

Dear Jim Tracy,

Can you please learn from experience and make a mental note of the following: Never, ever, EVER leave Jeff "5th inning meltdown" Weaver in PAST THE 4TH FUCKING INNING. For the love of all that's holy, PLEASE STOP OVERWORKING YOUR BULLPEN, you COCKMASTER. slhgjdldlljgg; hdsiofanis.


The sort-of Dodger fan who HATES YOUR STINKING DIRTY GUTS.

babbled by Kat @ 9:50:00 AM | |

Sunday, October 03, 2004

TPS report:

A brief trip report in re: my journey to Lake Tahoe this weekend:

  • Southwest flight from L.A. to Lake Tahoe == cattle call! I do not understand unassigned seating. It is foreign to me, like vitamin supplements and suburbia.

  • Geekfest == good. Met many people. Enjoyed their company. Enjoyed the company of my friends much more. Enjoyed the "free" booze while gambling. Really enjoyed the hooker-y outfits of the cocktail waitresses on the 19th floor at Harvey's.

  • Gambling == better if I'm at a video poker machine than if I'm at a table game. I won stuff, with help from a cute boy and a cute girl.

  • Wifi + photoblogging == best.geekcon.evar.

  • Drive home == A visit to every rest stop between the CA state line and Los Angeles. They all have EVERY FLY THAT EXISTS ON EARTH. Also, I like Disintegration better than Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me. I finally decided.

    Also: Thanks to everyone at the geekfest for making my weekend rule. Especially my road trip partner. It was more fun than a barrel of um, poker chips.

    babbled by Kat @ 10:44:00 PM | |