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Monday, June 27, 2005

Straight outta Compton:

Is it odd that I'm considering a vacation to Buenos Aires mainly because the airport code is EZE?

It's probably because I just smoke motherfuckers like it ain't no thang.

babbled by Kat @ 9:20:00 PM | |

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Some light can never be seen:

My friend Sean (site coming soon!) and I are totally insane. Observe, an IM conversation:

Kat: let me know when you come down from the silver mountain.

Sean: i will, when you stop being the last in line.

Kat: i can't stop, because there's no sign of the morning coming.

Sean: forget about the morning. just ride the tiger. you can see his stripes but you know he's clean.

Kat: i guess that would require that i feel the magic that's floating in the air.

Sean: or you could accept the fact that between the velvet lies there's a truth that's hard as steel.

Let's just forget the fact that one of the fake users on my test server is Ronnie James Dio, shall we?

babbled by Kat @ 11:28:00 PM | |

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Redemption city:

I'm in southern Indiana right now.

Don't ask.

Anyway, I arrived somewhat late on Monday night, and after dealing with flight delays and flying for a good 8 or 9 hours, I wanted a beer. Just a beer. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, at 1 a.m. in southern Indiana, it is. Everyone I asked, from the clerk at the convenience store to the guy at the hotel front desk, all looked at me as if I'd grown an extra arm out of the side of my head.

(As an aside, how fucking convenient is a store that doesn't sell beer, anyway? I mean, at all. There was NO BEER in the convenience store. The hell is that about?)

So, Tuesday night, I was determined to have my after-work beer. I went to the front desk at the hotel and asked where the closest place to get beer was.

Again, I received puzzled, blank stares.

Finally, one of the staff recovered from their shock and chimed in that there was a liquor store called "Busy Bee" down the road, right after the KFC.

I love it when people give you directions by fast food landmark.

So, I headed on out to complete mission: get Kathleen an after-work beer. The area where I'm staying is sort of rural - lots of really small towns, chained together by Wal-Marts and tractor stores. As I drove down the road, I glanced around me at the sights. I passed a car wash whose marquee promised "Satisfaction guaranteed or your dirt back". A little further down the street, a hand-painted sign cautioned, "You have an expiration date. Trust Jesus."

It was a little disconcerting.

I arrived at the Busy Bee, which was a small, nondescript building in the middle of a parking lot. I walked in and headed for the beer coolers in the back of the store. Through the lone, tinny speaker in the corner, Eric Clapton told me that cocaine "don't lie". A lone customer stood in front of a frosted glass door, trying to make the difficult decision between Miller and Coors. He chose a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee.

I knew I was in the right place.

I walked around the store, looking at the selection. Dozens upon dozens of bottles of premium spirits sat untouched on the dusty shelves. I turned the corner, and the shelves carrying Mad Dog and Thunderbird looked picked-over and sparse. I walked back to the cooler and saw an entire section filled with various flavors of Boone's Farm. On the radio, Van Halen insisted that "I might as well jump". I was instantly transported back to high school.

I chose a couple of large bottles of Asahi and brought them to the counter. The clerk rung up a leathery, nicotine-stained customer who was buying a bottle of Jim Beam, a pack of Winstons and a scratch-off lottery ticket.

The leathery customer spoke through his salt-and-pepper mustache, which was discolored to a yellowish-gray by tobacco smoke. "What kinda beer is that?" he drawled, looking at me sideways under his dusty Nascar cap.

The clerk answered for me. "I think it's Japanese," he said, giving me a look that said he knew I wasn't a local from my choice in alcohol. The grizzled customer mumbled something under his breath about "fur'ners" and left.

The clerk rang me up and I headed back to the hotel, passing three tractor dealerships and a discount Bible outlet. Safely ensconced in my chain-hotel haven, I enjoyed my fur'n beer and wondered where my next adventure would take me.

To be honest, I wouldn't mind if it was southern Indiana. At least I know where to find beer here.

babbled by Kat @ 8:39:00 PM | |

Monday, June 13, 2005

A little bit of gold and a pager:

My magical mystery trip was to New York, which you'd have figured out by now if you'd been paying attention to the photoblog. I had a phenomenal weekend, despite the fact that it was so hot and humid that some of my internal organs melted and fused.

I got a number of ideas while I was there with regards to my creative endeavors. Basically, I've been intending to write stories from my life and I really haven't done shit about it except that one time when I wrote the story about my experience with adoption. So I'm going to start writing that shit out for you dirty bastards to read. I'll probably hash a good number of them out on a friends-only journal first, especially the emotionally intense ones, but I promise I'll attempt to keep you entertained with tales of my teenage hijinks.

I'm off to an undisclosed location for the next few days, during which time I'll probably go completely bugfuck insane. I'm not doing well with the transition from fun to work, but I bet I'll adapt by the time I land in said location tonight. I'd tell you all where it is but it's really not anywhere anyone wants to go. Including myself.

babbled by Kat @ 9:25:00 AM | |

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Spontaneous combustion:

At noon today I decided to get on a plane to go across the country. I am in the airport lounge now, surfing the internets because I am addicted. I will attempt to photoblog the entire fucking experience. Not as well as Jimbo, but I'll document shit.

First class on a 3-class transcon. God bless frequent flyer miles.

babbled by Kat @ 10:49:00 PM | |

Friday, June 03, 2005

Kill the headlights and put it in neutral:

Some random things to put in your pipe and smoke.

I intend to eventually trick someone into falling in love with me with the cunning use of frequent flyer miles.

The Louisiana Purchase was of questionable constitutionality. (One of the reasons I chose to abolish it.)

I have named several of my body parts, including both of my inner labia.

It's not gay if you smack them on the ass afterwards and say, "good game".

Massive internal hemmorhaging is the new black.


babbled by Kat @ 5:15:00 PM | |

Wednesday, June 01, 2005


I just went completely batshit insane because I can't find the traffic ticket that was sent to me by the nice folks of Kansas City, Missouri a little while ago. You see, I was stopped in this area of the highway where the speed limit suddenly drops from 65 to 55 with no warning or signs whatsoever. It was super fun! They mailed me the ticket, which was for some exorbitant amount of money, like $60 billion for each mile over the speed limit, and I set it aside before the Artwalk with the express purpose of keeping it in a separate, safe spot so that I could mortgage my immortal soul and send them a check. Now that I have settled down from vacations and speaking engagements and customer travel and impromptu porn shoots, I would like to a) contact an attorney in Missouri who can give me a quote of $59.9 billion per mile over the speed limit, in which case I'll let him contest that shit; or b) sell my straightedge neighbor's kidney on eBay and just pay the ticket. Of course, now that I've decided to be a responsible adult and try to weasel my way out of it, I cannot for the life of me find this ticket anywhere in my fucking apartment.

I've checked every possible flat surface, every storage box, the underwear drawer, and the cat's litter box. I even checked that shelf where I put mail that requires action, such as bills, unactivated credit cards, and letter bombs. The best part is that not only can I not find the ticket that they mailed me with the ginormous fine, but I can't find the original ticket given to me by the very pleasant cop who assraped my wallet by the roadside, so I can't even be sure which county, local, or state official to bribe contact. I have never been a patient person and therefore I do not deal well with frustration, and I am so frustrated right now that my skin tone has turned from a lovely alabaster glow to a slightly radioactive-looking fuchsia, and most of my hair is standing on end. While this is undoubtedly amusing to my cat and the DHL guy who dropped off a delivery a few minutes ago to a disheveled, bathrobe-clad redhead with an uncannily Einsteinian hairdo, it is probably not the best thing for my blood pressure or continued sanity. Therefore, in order to solve this problem without my brain exploding, I hereby invalidate the entire Louisiana Purchase, giving the territory (which encompasses what is now the state of Missouri) back to France to deal with. The ensuing chaos, wine drinking, and surrendering should distract them long enough for me to sneak in, destroy all records of the ticket, and snag some K.C. BBQ on the way out.

You might think that invalidating the largest treaty-based land acquisition in our country's history could be going a bit overboard when I'm just trying to deal with a traffic ticket, but as far as I can tell it's the only logical course of action available for me to pursue.

babbled by Kat @ 4:11:00 PM | |