Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Safer Now But Not Yet Safe

So, uh, when will we be?

Last I heard, the public doesn't think we're so safe.

According to an analysis of recent polls by the Program on International Policy, U.S. opposition to the Iraq war continues to grow. The analysis, essentially an averaging of poll numbers, showed 49 percent of Americans are now saying the war was a mistake, compared with 46 percent who approve.

A year ago, 63 percent approved of the war.

This is a worrisome trend for a wartime president.


That's an easy soundbite for a sitting president, and an easy block for a challenger.

Kerry dropped it.

Like he dropped so many things.

And, like so many active, engaged, agitated voters, I'm looking for "Anything but Bush", but haven't found anything but Kerry. He needs to step up the charisma, if he has any, to get the real swing votes, or to get the voters out at all. Personally, I'm just pissed at Bush. That doesn't bode so well for Massachusetts man. (Can anyone say "Dukakis revisited"?)

Go, Mikey

So, McCain's speech. It was ( for a convention speech) pretty even handed. He at least referred to us all as Americans, not enemies, and yaddahah yaddah yaddah. Too bad Bush smoked him in 2000; he would've made a nice President, no? The serial blogonomist doesn't mind a moderate, so much. Social liberal, fiscal conservative. That's all good.

But the Michael Moore jab?

(or, talk about making a martyr for the left...)

I've never seen so many fired up white people freaking the fuck out.

I've also never seen a controversial documentary guy so happy to fill the role of

BWAHAHAHAHHHHAAAAAHAAAAHAAHAAAAHAAAAA!

Damn, if all of the vitriolic conservative's fat jokes didn't prove themselves in that one, ten second shot (and, really, if all they have to say is "He's fat. And disingenuous." then what have they really got?) AND, damn if he didn't vindicate the entire left by laughing in the face of a blatant attack on enemy grounds.

"Four more years! Four more years!"

"Two more months! Two more months!"

Yeah, Mike. Go, dog, go. I can't wait to see his newsletter later on.

More of tha Rudy...

Oh, and what about the "It's not fair to let the terrorists decide where we travel... or where we hold political conventions...we are America, land of the free, home of the brave!"

Yeah, I'd agree that's not fair. It's also not fair to take up a targeted city and display it as a symbol of Republican triumph. American triumph, sure (McCain got that - more on that in another post) but Republican triumph? Uh-uh. Let's do the rundown;

G.W. Bush: Bunny hopping on a plane to nowhere. The manly rhetoric came days later.

George Pataki (Republican Governor of New York): Holding Giuliani's jacket for a press conference.

Rudolph Giuliani: Doing what had to be done. Previous comments excepted, he was the only guy who really had to MOVE on the NYC front. And move, he did. He lends tremendous credibility to the Republican takeover of 9/11, but at the same time, he's one of the only politicians out there who could.

Duh Fuck?

So, like I was saying, Rudy was full of shit. Like this:

"They heard from us in Afghanistan..."

Uh, yeah, the Taliban left. But where's that old codger Osama? Hmmm. Like Waldo, that one.

And does anyone remember the years when the left (rabid bad killing baby feminists, mostly) called for taking out the Taliban? Hmmm. Women's rights and cultural preservation aren't nearly as compelling as an attack on the homeland - with good reason, sure - but was GW the first one to pick up on that tip? I think not.

"They heard us in Iraq..."

Yeah, but Iraq wasn't the guy we were talkin' to. Sorry bout the miscommunication. Oh, and we're safer now? Sure, they are, and that's a mighty aim. But we're sure as hell not. Bigger target, anyone?

"And Libya heard us..."

Well, that was probably a long time a coming. Plus, he had nothing. Plus, his kid urged him to do it to "modernize". Whatever. There's not enough mean liberal pundits out there to take advantage of this shit. Oh wait, liberal pundits aren't mean. They're reasonable. New readers, republican readers, perhaps, this may be a new thing. Reasonable. Embrace the logic.

And howabout the old hypocrisy factor, eh? The family values, we-support-a-constitutional-amendment-on-gay-marriage Republican delegates were clapping their little asses off for a man who:

1) Spent the downtime between his wife & his girlfriend on a gay couple's couch

2) Let the city pay for his wife & child during said time on gay couple's couch (she lived in Gracie Mansion --- ooooh, state subsidized welfare mama!!!)

3) While on said gay couple's couch, his girlfriend (Donna Hanover - current wife - who Republican poster child darling dated while still married to former wife -) was appearing in the Vagina Monologues.

Let's get this straight. I got no problem with gay couches, dating while separated, welfare (or TANF, the artist formerly known as welfare), or the Vagina Monologues.

(hell, I took me some women's studies classes, yo!)

Nor do I have huge, 'can't get past that' issues with Giuliani. But hell, don't shit where you eat. You made your bed, you lie in it. And other anti-Republican-hypocrisy cliches.

Rudy's Just Full O' Shit (Still)

"I grabbed Bernard Kerrick's arm and said, 'Thank God George Bush is our President!'"

Right. We've all seen Rudy telling this tale before -- he looked up, he saw people falling. It was really sucky. But did he ever include the above line in all of that? NO? No, I didn't think so.

Wouldn't a more appropriate response be, "Holy Fucking shit!!??"

Sunday, August 29, 2004

Did I say fun? Maybe not so much...

A first hand account of one of those arrested during Critical Mass here. (Thanks to Ursus for the link.)

I'm torn.

I totally, absolutely empathize with the frustration and indignation expressed by miserychick. What a horrible, humiliating way to go - and, as she so aptly observes, "All for riding my bike." It sucks that these bicyclists had to see the Tombs; it sucks that our city civil servants can be so blase about "just doing their jobs"; it sucks that hanging a banner or blocking traffic or merely being in the way of the blockers of traffic becomes an arrestable offense when politicos decide to use your city as the backdrop for their week-long "W Has the Biggest Dick in the Free World!" festival of fat-cats.

At the same time, when you participate in dissent, you consent to putting yourself in the line of fire. You know that these things are a possibility, right or wrong, and (innocent bystanders excepted) are conscious of the possibility of detainment. As terrible as that is, it's naive to think that a city cop is going to risk her job for your ass, no matter how articulate or well reasoned your plea. They are, after all, just doing their jobs.

Which leads me to this: There are hundreds of thousands of really well-intentioned people out there right now, maybe rallying in the park, maybe celebrating today's success, maybe resting up and planning for tomorrow - I don't know. I'm heartened and even touched by how many people have come from so far to exercise their rights, and with such creativity and passion. That's incredibly brave.

There are also tens of thousands of cops and security and medical personnel on call right now, and they are also incredible. They don't want to shut anyone up or fuck anyone over. They just want to keep everybody safe and intact in the face of an overblown, self-indulgent, highly controversial event (and yes, I'd say the same thing about the DNC - if hundreds of thousands of people had wanted to protest the DNC) held in a city that's already been marked as an international target.

Even if they make some questionable calls (and don't think for a minute that I consider locking up hundreds of bicyclists for "parading without a permit" an example of excellent judgment) I'm exceedingly grateful they're out there doing their jobs, trying to do the right thing for everybody, getting rid of the bad guys with bombs while simultaneously trying to maintain some semblance of order amongst the rest of us.

Thank you.

The Week in Preview - A Handy Dandy Guide

This time I will carry no sign. My message is simple enough: Look out your window, George Bush. Look at us.

- From Linus over at Pepper of the Earth.

At Ze's Blog, I found an excellent overview of planned events via Alternet. It's a twelve page pdf and quite informative, whether or not you know anything about the groups involved, the issues at hand, or New York. Check it out. Kiernan, Tim & I will probably be coming out again for the vigil in Union Square, all day Thursday, sponsored by Veterans for Peace and Sept. 11 families.

Finally, if you're interested in rapid fire, first hand coverage of the protests (and perhaps not so concerned with journalistic objectivity) try Indymedia NYC.

I'm hot, sticky, beat and exhilerated. The actual, prescribed march route was a safe bet - there were no reported arrests on the march itself (some outside, however)despite the massive, highly visible police presence. The most intimidating aspect was the line of mounted & riot cops blocking the northern end of the route (there to prevent the march from veering off course to Central Park) but the prevailing sense was of creativity, empowerement, and festivity. Kiernan and I departed soon after arriving in Union Square - he was hot and tired and had been a trooper throughout - but there were flyers everywhere instructing protesters to meet in Central Park at three o'clock. I've been looking through the news feeds to get more current information, but I've also been distracted by trying to figure out how to post some pictures. I figured something out - I hope you like.


These pictures came from a posting on Indymedia NYC. I still haven't figured out an efficient way to use my own.  Posted by Hello


The crowd was estimated to be over 1,000,000 strong. But of course, they always vastly overstate these things.  Posted by Hello


Awwww, yeah. Posted by Hello

Saturday, August 28, 2004

Yo, G, it's a G-Mail Extravaganza!

Are you down with the G-Mail?

I be g-mailin'. And the g's at g-mail want me to share the love.

You probably already know that it's experimental Google email, and that you have to be invited, and that you can store & search all of your messages. You probably also know about the privacy concerns - the focused marketing and so on. That said, I really really love all of the extra storage space, but I'm pissed there's no rich text function (not so good for resumes and such, but hey, I'm self employed now, right?)

I'm not a tech type; about all that I know about the care and feeding of my computer is how to hit shiny buttons like "publish". If you are, go ahead and leave your rants and or raves in the comment section.

So, the POINT of all of this -

I've got six g-mail invites. Anybody want one? Email or comment. If it turns out that more than six people want to be g-mailin', I'll probably just invite those that made me laugh the most. Or if I actually know you. Which may or may not be the same thing.

Let the Games Begin!

The arrests that started trickling in last week have finally started full force. 150 uh 200 uh I meant 400 um, an undetermined number of Critical Mass bikers were arressted last night for blocking traffic.

The boys & I were downtown last night to see the original Godzilla at the Film Forum (don't even ask...), then moseyed to the east side to get something to eat. Tim ran into an old friend who'd just seen them pass. "It was insane! They were passing for at least fifteen minutes. Traffic was completely cut off. This asshole in an SUV drove right through and crushed a couple of bikes."

There have been several rappeling banner hangers, all of whom have been locked up. There were the naked Act-Up third world debt relief activists two days ago. (They showed one cheeky bum in the Post. Kiernan saw the picture and asked, "Couldn't they have worn some shorts or something? Jeez.") There were the Yippies handing out Krispy Kremes to the NYPD near Mayor Bloomberg's townhouse. Good times.

And tomorrow? A parade! Yay! UFPJ (United for Peace and Justice) finally got it together and decided on a march route (followed by a peaceful dispersal and "individual groups heading to the Great Lawn of their own volition." Subtle. Real subtle.)

I'm dragging Kiernan down to 14th Street and 7th Avenue at 10 am tomorrow. The march is scheduled to proceed north up to 34th Street, past Madison Square Garden, then head east to Broadway, then south to rally at Union Square.

This is the legal, permitted protest; as long as we do what we're told, there shouldn't be much trouble. I am, however, extremely hesitant to take my child to Central Park. It's not that I fear physical danger, but the fact that the Park has become a big symbol, is a technically illegal site, and the NYPD are not ones to fuck around with these kinds of things.

Maybe before then I can develop enough geek prowess to save and post pictures. More to come.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

40 Pounds of Jealous Canine Muscle

I like dogs. You may have gathered that through my job description; that is, Dog Walker.

However much I may enjoy my canine charges, the big spot in my heart is reserved for my own dopey dumb dumbs, Max.

Why? You may ask why I would love such an unwieldly, undistinguished beast, particularly when I have daily contact with pedigreed, adorable lap dogs. A dog who is so smart that he KNOWS every command we give, yet chooses to ignore them unless we have a treat in hand. A dog who has figured out how to open the closet door to chew on the world's most coveted and tasty treat, Tim's dress shoes.

A dog who, though he rarely if ever indulges, sniffs only the crotches of the very old or the crotches of blooming young adolescent girls. He's a veritable crotchrometer, that one.

Why do I love him so?

Because Max (the handsome, amiable, friendly to human and dog alike and receiver of never-ending compliments) has a sixth sense for lecherous, pathetic loser guys who are checking me out. He is also willing to jump on them, and growl mightily.

Note that "lecherous pathetic" is the operative referent. The "lecherous pathetic" aspect tends to be emphasized when said man is jumping away from my 40 pounds of jealous canine angst.

Cute, appealing men are welcome. Max won't jump on you. Tim might, though.

I'm Pissing Myself...

... reading Dan Savage. It's that funny.

When I was a kid, my next door neighbor had watched the "Nova" sex special, so she had at least a little credibility when she told us all, "To make a baby, the man has to stick his weiner in his wife's butt." We all vowed to adopt on the spot.

When I was six, I had a friend, Nathan, who suggested that we go to the back yard and hump. Being six, I had no idea what "hump" was supposed to mean. We hid in the garage. I showed him my Wonder Woman under-roos, and he flashed me his tiny, six year old erection. I was mortified and convinced that Santa Claus wasn't coming to my house that year, since I was so bad.

My parents really pussied out on the whole "sex talk" thing. There was mysterious talk of "strong urges" and "sin", but no specifics. Finally, at around nine or ten years old, I found a pop-up sex book they'd left on my bed, called "The Miracle of Life". It had 3D sperm and scary, alien looking embryos, but at least I learned that there would be no weiner-butt action required to have children. Oh, how times change.

Big Bad Apple

A few posts ago, the lovely Dayna commented:

I love reading about people brave enough to move to the big NYC! I will live vicariously through your stories!


I'm certain Dayna meant this in the nicest way possible. You'll see no condemnation or critique of her here.

But let's get this straight: New York is not scary. Not one little bit.

When I was still living in The Boonies (aka, the Buffalo vicinity)and people heard that I was preparing for a move to NYC, they invariably gave one of two (well, three) responses.

The Admirer

Wow, that's cool. I love New York.

The Realist

Wow, that's cool. I love New York. But you must be some kind of fucktard to pay those prices.

The Incredulous

New York? Wow. I've never been that brave.


New York is probably the most guarded, locked-down city in the U.S. - except Washington D.C., perhaps. Yes, 9/11 happened here, and everyone knows how horrible that was. Now, I'm about to make a controversial, crass, down-right-cold-and-unfeeling pronouncement here, and that just might piss you off. Feel free to comment. BUT...

A few thousand people were unjustifiably killed, and that's undeniably tragic and BAD. But that was out of a population of eight million plus.

In other words, the probability that you are in direct danger is extremely small.

Moreover, the city, the state of New York, and the Federal government are quite aware of the fact that NYC is on the all time top ten list of "We'd like to blow THAT up!" terrorist targets. I realize I'm being glib, and that my words might imply more trust in the competence of the Fed than I actually hold. Still, if more Horrible Things happen in the near future, I have a lot more confidence in how NYC might handle it than I would in, say, Des Moines (no offense, Des Moines. I'm sure your anti-terrorism task force is a fine one.)


Terrorism aside, the grit and pluck and sheer ballsiness of the city and the people who live here consistently surprises me.

Let's get this other thing straight. I'm not a native. You can tell I come from middle-America when I am hesitant in ordering a coffee, when I stare in amazement at the guy telling the other guy in line to shut the fuck up, already, when I'm the one on line not moving fast enough, and somebody mutters, "What are you doing, taking a nap here?" and I sheepishly glance away in shame. I am sometimes passive aggressive. New York is never passive aggressive. Many of the monied, rarified masses who have moved to Manhattan in the last decade or so are also passive aggressive, but they are decidedly not natives, either. My boyfriend has offered me honorary citizenship (he's originally from Brooklyn,) but I just can't seem to pull it off.

So, yeah, I guess that could be scary. Or off-putting. It's also really endearing, particularly when the guy in line making the funny crack is telling it to you, or when someone treats you like an asshole and that same guy sticks up for you. Ballsiness and heart go hand in hand. Folks all around you on the street aren't afraid to tell it like it is. That's what I call rarified, and it's refreshing.

So... hmmmm... it's crowded. There's not a whole lot of fresh air, or open space. Housing costs are a bitch. All of these seem like perfectly good reasons not to live here, but it's only fair to chalk those up to preference rather than fear.

Crime? Crime rates have plummeted in correlation with the economic boom in the nineties. Despite the economic slump, crime has stayed down. Homicides continue to drop. I haven't heard any recent urban-mugging-horror tales, though they certainly still happen. I suspect that a mugger would be much more likely to go for some Upper Eastsider with something to MUG than your average joe on the street.

It did happen to Tim a couple of years ago. He went out for drinks with some friends and passed out on the train home. It was his own fault - you've got to watch your back, after all. He lost his cell phone, an ATM card, and the jeans he was wearing (no, he didn't wet himself. They sliced out his pocket to get the stuff.) On second thought, that IS scary - but he came away unscathed and cursing his own lack of self-control.

And yes, there are certainly neighborhoods in which you are much more likely to get jacked or hit by a stray bullett. You are also highly unlikely to visit those neighborhoods if you've moved here from some idyllic suburb. If you're from New York and you're reading this, you probably share an apartment in the East Village or in Williamsburg and you're probably not a native, either. I know I'm making a lot of assumptions here, and I encourage you to call me on it if I'm all wrong. Email! Comment! Chances are, if you're computer savvy and have enough leisure time to be poking around the blogosphere, you don't live in East New York, Brooklyn, or Morrisania, Bronx, or the Edgemere Projects in Far Rockaway, Queens; I'll take it all the way and assume that you have never visited those neighborhoods, either. I know I haven't.

Which makes it safe to say that you're probably not going to get shot, nor are you going to get jacked or jumped or any of the other words we've made up for the bad things that happen to people in impoverished neighborhoods.

If you're NOT from New York and you're reading this, well, you're probably of one of the three attitudes I outlined above. And if you're of the second variety (i.e., "You pay how much in rent? Yeah, you really are a fucktard.") you're really smart. Can I move in with you? No, just kidding.

But, if you think it's scary.... well, it's so not. There's a Disney store in Times Square where there used to be peep shows, people! Come visit. You'll like it. I promise.

Nascar Dads Make Good

From today's New York Times. Do you think Paul Wolfowitz and Karl Rove dig them some Skynyrd?

G.O.P.'s Southern Strategy? Cranking Up Lynyrd Skynyrd
By CAMPBELL ROBERTSON

Published: August 25, 2004


If the political right has a soundtrack, perhaps it used to be Bach's "Brandenburg" Concerto No. 2, the piece that introduced William F. Buckley Jr. on his program "Firing Line." But in 2004?

Two words: "Free Bird."

On the Sunday night before the first day of the Republican National Convention, the Southern rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd (or its latest incarnation) will be performing at the nightclub Crobar in Chelsea for a party honoring Southern Republicans in Congress. There are only two original members left in the band, but, as the song goes, "a bird you cannot change," and the band is still touring and still quite popular in the red states. For Sunday's event, the band members are going to be paid as if it were any other concert, but their manager, Ross Schilling, said money was not the only factor.

"They make no qualms about it: they are definitely a Republican band," he said, adding that the band performed at a party during the Republican National Convention in 2000 and at several campaign stops for President Bush.

Skynyrd is not the only member of the Southern rock delegation: on Monday, ZZ Top is scheduled to perform at a party at B.B. King's; the Charlie Daniels Band and 38 Special will perform the same night at an event at Crobar, and on Wednesday night the Marshall Tucker Band is scheduled to play at a concert at a Midtown club with the Dickey Betts Band (Mr. Betts being a former member of the Allman Brothers).

"I don't think anyone coordinated it this way," said Brandon Winfrey, who helped organize the Lynyrd Skynyrd party. "These are just great throwback bands and I think everybody enjoys them."

Throwbacks, maybe, but that does not mean they are uncontroversial: Charlie Daniels recently angered some Arab-Americans with a song that included the lyrics "This ain't no rag, it's a flag, and we don't wear it on our heads." And Lynyrd Skynyrd is known for waving a giant Confederate flag during their rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama."

It is not all going to be Nascar rock, of course. Otis Day and the Knights, the rhythm and blues band of "Animal House" fame, will be sharing the bill with Charlie Daniels.



Monday, August 23, 2004

Six Degrees of Blogination (part deux)

The MASTERS, those that I emulate, land here. They are all, to the letter, much better (and usually funnier) writers than I. They also (mostly) know a little bit about how to design a decent website. They don't need no stinkin' "HTML for Dummies"! (I don't know no stinkin' html. But you knew that. Why else do you think I'm based with the "crackhouse" blogspot? You tell me.)

Strangely enough, a lot of them happen to be parents, too. But they're not all about that. (In the sense that they're not ALL about that, but those that are, aren't all about that, either.)

Da Queen:

Dooce. As I've said before, you know her, you love her. She's also an ex-mormon (just like me! Awww, shucks...)

Da rest:

Fussy. More html knowledge envy. Plus, 2 year olds spouting swear words like "Fuck you, mom!"

Smitten. Not mommy oriented - which is not, I repeat, not a criterion - but well designed and well written.

Green Fairy. Oh so funny! Fresh from the UK.

Finslippy. Anybody who can make a post just to use the word "Monkeyshines" makes it in my book.

Love junky. Also fresh from the UK, but with lovely photographs and excellent writing.

Da Honorable Mentions: (cause, you know, everybody cares what I think...)

A Girl Named Bob. She so funny.

Tequila Mockingbird. Everyone links to her, too, with good reason.

Texas T-Bone. A daddy blog.

Citypop. This guy never updates, but it's pretty & his stories are hilarioulsy touching.

Chookooloonks. Another mommy blog, albeit in the blogger format. Funny & enlightening.

Laid Off Dad. Again, the parenting thing. It's (parenting, that is) pretty good for amusing anecdotes.

The Underwear Drawer. She's great overall (kinda ER, but non-dorky) but her 9/11 posts (most made way after the fact - first anniversary) are incredible.


So, uh, that's it off the top of my head. As I said, everybody in my blogroll is pretty cool for some reason or another. And I've probably overlooked a lot of people. So, uh, don't hate me, okay? Okay. Ya'll come back now, ya hear!

Sunday, August 22, 2004

Shout Outs (or, to be more honest, Big Bad Blog Envy) Or, Six Degrees of Katination, Non-Famous Edition

I harbor great admiration for many a blogger. They're all in that obnoxiously long list to the right. Seriously, every person I've linked has one thing or another that drew me to their site and kept me reading.

However, this post is not for all of them. This post is for the elite.

The first props must go to those that started me on this silly blogoventure.

Jen single handedly forced me into the blogosphere.

Jen (a former "social chair", whatever that is, for her sorority [ackk! I've always been anti-sorority, despite Jen's propensity thereof]) has many a blogging friend and family. As follows:

Tim (no, not that Tim.) Lil brother extraordinaire. I actually had a crush on him, for about a minute, in high school. He's a chiropracter now, and witty as hell when he occassionally posts, and married. To:

Dayna. I've never met her, but her blog is sweet (in the good, not the stoner, sense), and she sounds like a marketing goddess.

Friends:

Erin... who introduced Jen to this whole game. A writer, smart, and sweetly sentimental.

Stephanie: a lawyer, these days. Cool as hell. Jen says she's like me (I dig her blog, if that's any indication) except she's successful.


Then, MY friend, Andrew. He handcodes his site, he's supercool, and he got on to this whole blog thing just a minute before I did.

In addition, I've gotta include a couple of strangers (that Andrew linked to) who made me enamored of blogs before I had one of my own:

Blind Cavefish

I am Therefore I Date (aka Dating is Hell)

Experiment in Anonymity

Bluish Orange. Super design, compelling archived back-story. She's like a movie, but better. She's also currently in Ecuador, and thus not updating regularly, but this will come with time.

These are the friends and degrees of friends. More to follow.

P.S. Jen is a link whore. Appease her or risk her bizarre Republican wrath.

Mmmm mmmm good

Tim cooked seasoned steamed hake (fish; like cod, but firmer & less expensive. You can get some at Citarella) sugar snap peas, and roasted baby red potatoes. Gooood. There are many reasons why I keep him around.

Oddly (given our personality differences)Tim is a by-the-book, cookbook / recipe chef. He's done it professionally, if you consider the boondock's answer to fine dining professional ;) (to be fair, he's had a couple of New York gigs as well) but he's devoted to the "rules". He knows how to do all of the classic French technique stuff, which is delicious if not so healthy, but I humbly declare that MY stuff is much more free form, exciting, delectable, and good for you.

Okay, enough foodie geek stuff. On to dog geek stuff!

I met two adorable (client based) puppies today, who I'll be pimpin' out fo' cash soon. (Wait - I'm not the pimp in this equation... am I the JOHN? They're paying me, so who knows...) I'll figure out how to download pictures soon, so's I can share the love.

Saturday, August 21, 2004

Fun With the RNC

I've actually been excited about the Republican Convention. I look forward to a good, LARGE crowd (my last was -- Jeez - probably the 1993 Gay Rights march in DC? Small ones since, absolutely, but that was the last headline maker.)

Lately, however, there's been a lot of chatter (pun intended) about this convention. About how we should all "tone it down a bit". About how we'll "play into republican hands".

Well, goddam, people! Do you really think everyone involved is a bandana wearing, anti WTO Seattle anarchist?

I fully intend to bring my eight year old - YES, my eight year old - son to the protests, at least for a day. I will, of course, try to stick to the more peaceful, family friendly (i.e. - no Missile Dick Chicks, no Panties for Bush, none of the "No More Bush!" shaving the pubes nudity stuff that's gotten some press, much as I'd be entertained by seeing them, or even participating with them) areas. You know what Kiernan said to his dad the other day?

"I can't wait to go to the protests. That way, I'll be able to tell the President the truth about this country!"

Awwww, shucks. This from the same kid who, when forced to watch the Democratic primary debates, said "I'd probably vote for the same president. He's an important man."

So, what gives with the scare tactics? They're harsh enough that our own side is starting to believe it. An eight year old's pollyanna version of democracy is sweet if unrealistic; a seasoned demonstrator's Cassandra prophesies are disheartening and reveal just how much of a self esteem problem the left really has.

My opinions aside, the Fed isn't helping. This, from the ACLU via the Daily Kos - (italics = Kos - keep tellin it like it is, baby! Block = ACLU report quoted within.)

Now, I don't' want any nutbag anarchists screwing with a bomb dog's ability to sniff out something that could kill people. I hope that not one living thing gets one scratch on them during the RNC protests. At the same time, we need to remain vigilant against actions that purposely lower our level of comfort when it comes to exercising our rights as citizens... like the right to assemble and protest when we're being screwed.

Luckily, Tony D. and his posse are watching out for the rights of all Americans... regardless of their politics. It just so happens that Republicans are freedom-hating assholes, so it seems like we're picking on them.


August 16, 2004
Calls on Individuals to Report FBI Interrogations

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

According to reports from ACLU offices, law enforcement officials throughout the U.S. have been monitoring the daily activities of various activists they believe are planning to protest major national political events, including the upcoming Republican National Convention in New York, which is expected to draw hundreds of thousands of protesters. In the days leading up to the Democratic National Convention, officials identifying themselves as JTTF agents made "visits" to the homes of several activists as well as their friends and family members.

In Missouri, three young men in their early 20's were subpoenaed to testify before a federal grand jury on July 29, the same day they planned on protesting the Democratic convention. The men, who planned to drive to Boston with an activist group based in St. Louis, first realized they were being targeted by the FBI when agents visited the homes of their parents a week before the subpoenas. In addition to asking about easily accessible information such as current addresses, the agents also asked the parents for information on their sons' political activities.

----snip----

"These young men are quite terrified by the experience of being targeted by the Joint Terrorism Task Force because of their protest activities," said Denise Lieberman, Legal Director of the ACLU of Eastern Missouri. "The FBI interrogations have had a chilling effect on free speech."


I don't want to live in that country, do you? Do we really have to go through this exercise every 50 years or so?

Can I repeat? At the same time, we need to remain vigilant against actions that purposely lower our level of comfort when it comes to exercising our rights as citizens... like the right to assemble and protest when we're being screwed.

Remember that, folks. Don't let anybody cow you out of town, preferably not even your own side.

Party On, Bill! Party On, Ted!

Ooooooh baby... the beer is a flowin, the Dead is crankin (note to self: do not date self with Dead references. The cool kids don't like that these days. At least try to say Phish or something.)We even bought a pack of cigarettes! Whoooo! No, no, cigarettes are bad. But, on those few, bi-weekly occasions when Daddy brings home a six pack, we indulge despite our better-quitting-selves. And throw away the leftovers in the morning.

Have I mentioned my all consuming lust for smoking? It's disgusting. I'm a junky. When my good friend Ursus asked me what I'd like when he comes home from Vegas with new found winnings, I actually told him I want him to buy me a wonderful, tasty microbrew and roll me a cigarette. I'm a shameless junky. Luckily, my readership is small enough (single digits, anyone?) that the anti-smoking militants won't be all over my ass about that one.

Change of topic!

Speaking of Ursus, he's started a Sagittarius web ring (see the new button? He even coded it to my color scheme - that's what a stand up guy he is.) I'm not a Sag, but I do have Sag tendencies:

That is to say smart, passionate, impulsive, creative, moody, sometimes flighty, and cool as hell...

If you are a Sagittarian, or often find yourselves in the company of one (or several), or are just awesome, then this webring is for you.


If you can sport these creds, join up! It's brand new. I think the current membership stands around two, but I'm sure it'll be up shortly. With a little help from our friends.

Friday, August 20, 2004

The Arkansan Beer Bottle Story

In a roundabout way, a single southern guy reminded me of this touching story of two youths discovering America. No, seriously - this is real. This guy is out there, somewhere in Arkansas, and I'd bet my liberal northeastern ass that he's still cool as hell, hard as nails, and helping dumb college kids out of gas-station-free zones to this day.

So, I'm living in Athens, GA, with my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, VW Boy. I've got a gig lined up with the costume shop at the Opera Theatre of St. Louis (why, yes, I DO have skills other than dog-walking and occasional quiz posting! Thanks so much for coming!) and have inexplicably concluded that it would be great for VW Boy and I to drive there, rather than accepting the Opera's proffered airfare.

Two things about VW Boy. One: he considered himself extraordinarily clever, dare I say brilliant? He had ambitions of becoming an English professor who used his spare time to write and direct independent film, among other delusions of grandeur. He was average to pleasant looking, but considered himself to be a mighty fine stud. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he gave himself just a leeeettle bit too much credit in a lot of departments, including VW maintenance and general, manly sense-of-direction not-needing-a-map type thingies.

Two: he smoked way, waaayyyy too much pot all the time. Which simply tended to exacerbate the glowing qualities mentioned in one.

So, we're well on our haphazard and ill considered way to Missourah, part way through the long, no-exit having hell known as Arkansas. The ol' VW Rabbit is getting a bit low on the petrol, and I suggest that we exit and gas up. VW Boy won't have any of it. She's fine, he insists. This car's good for another hundred miles on empty.

We venture another twenty miles... pass an exit... another ten... no signs tell us there's an exit coming... ten more... The Rabbit is strictly empty now, puttering on fumes. I'm not sure I've ever seen a gas gauge so low. It's in negative gas numbers now. Finally, an off ramp. We idle down into not a goddamn thing. It's a big field. More highway. A shingled general store with no gas pumps.

VW Boy ventures in and makes nice with the locals. He returns alongside a crusty, leathery looking older guy - he could have been forty five, could have been ninety with his ropey arms and overcooked cracked clay smile - holding a case of Golden Anniversary in one arm and pointing down the amber waves of highway with the other.

We start the car and sputter about two hundred feet down the road when the inevitable finally happens, and the car rolls gently into the gravelly shoulder, out of... well, out of gas. We've barely climbed out of the carcass when a shiny new pickup pulls alongside. Golden Anniversary man pokes his head out of the passenger side window.

"Get on in. Ya'll drink beer?" Sure. It's already ten in the morning.

VW Boy and I crawl inside, not sure whether to become believers or expect a scene from Deliverance. GA Man hands us each a cold beer. A much younger man, who we learn is his son visiting home, is in the driver's seat. Both are swigging Golden Anniversary without evidencing much concern for the horrors of mid-morning drunken driving.

"Like I toldya, you can fuel up just up the road a piece. We'll take ya'll up there and back to yer car." We thanked him profusely, gingerly sipping our beer. He looked embarrassed. "Nah, you kid's'd do the same for me".

We arrive at the station. VW Boy moves to exit the vehicle, but Golden Anniversary Man stops him. He proceeds to purchase a container, fill it with several gallons of premium, and purchase it. He won't accept our money.

The road back is filled with pleasantries - you kids go to school? Me & my boy are fixin' to do some fishing today - until we get back to the dehydrated husk of VW Boy's sky blue Rabbit.

Everyone piles out of the pickup. Too late, we realize there is no funnel included with the gas container. VW Boy hesitantly rummages through his hatchback, knowing he won't find one.

Golden Anniversary Man wastes no time.

He guzzles his remaining beer, smashes the empty bottle on the ground, and comes up with the mouth intact. He stuffs the bottle into the tank and proceeds to fill us up. Duty done, he and his son proceed to their day of drinking and fishing.

Ever since then, I've smiled at thoughts of Arkansas and the badass, get-the-job-done people who must live there.

I'll tell about my adventure with a cracked engine block in Only, Tennessee some other time. Or the Baptist Preacher who made me let him save me before he'd call for a tow. Some other post. Some other time.

Thank you, Golden Anniversary Man, wherever you are. I salute you.

Hot Cheap Posts

So sweltering hot... unable to string coherent sentences together.... aaaahhhrrrrggggh...

Since I'm not good for much else:

My inner child is six years old today

My inner child is six years old!


Look what I can do! I can walk, I can run, I can
read! I like to do stuff, and there's a whole
big world out there to do it in. Just so long
as I can take my blankie and my Mommy and my
three best friends with me, of course.


How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla


I'm thinking more infant level. Like, feed me, carry me around, cater to my every whim. Thass what mommmy likes.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

My Mr. Big

From: A Secret Admirer
Dateline: Pelham Bay

My Dearest Katie,

I offer you a mea culpa in regard to my insensitivity. Won't you come in here and read with your two favorite males? I promise to be more gentle and relaxed. This was great advice that Kiernan gave me, when I asked if I was just a mean-old-dad.

Love,
Tim
P.S. XOXXXXXOOXXXXXXXXXXOOO


Kiernan brought me the carefully, tightly wrapped little note. I was installed in the living room, absorbing TBS reruns of Sex and the City (Thank you, TBS! You have smiled on the lowly, unwashed, non-premium cable masses!). I was grumpy, emotional - I'll just come out and say it, extremely bitchy (Katie, bitchy? Never!)

My two favorite males had retreated to the bedroom to play highly addictive racing games. I was avoiding Tim, Tim was avoiding me. A blow out had run it's course an hour or two before, but (never one to pass up a grudge match) I had decided to let the bad feelings flow. Forget this, I thought. We're just not compatible. Astrology books all say so. Because, you know, astrology books are a good guide to living your life, right? Ahem.

The thing is, Tim and I are of two exceptionally different constitutions. I'm deliberative at best, depressed and melancholic at worst. I like to think things through and don't feel quite comfortable if I haven't had the chance to do so. Tim, on the other hand, is impulsive, energetic (mostly), largely unemotional and certainly not excessively introspective. It often works well - he gets me going when things need to happen, and I slow him down and make him think things through a little before he acts. We've been working on it for awhile, but we're both terribly, horribly, unwholesomely stubborn, and when those two constitutions collide? Look out.

That cursed Irish stubborness has made lots of little tiffs become full-scale "we'd be divorced if we'd ever bothered to get married" battle royales. This tiff was not one of those. This tiff was clearly of the "Katie's being petty now. I could call her on it, or appease her sweetly and have everlasting peace" variety. In this case, as in so many, Tim took one for the team.

We met ten years ago this summer. I was a whacked out little college freshman, 19 and in my first non-dorm apartment. He was a meandering super senior (you know, should have graduated last year, but got kind of... distracted?) killing another summer in a tiny college town. Two years later, Kiernan was on his way. Years passed. I played single mom. I got involved with other people (stringin' them along for awhile, then moving on to the next one - hence, serial blogonomy. If I were a guy, I might be a Nick Hornby style serial monogamist.) All the while, I still thought of him fondly. I wasn't angry. I didn't want to catch him, exactly. I just kind of wished he were around, because we'd had a lot of fun together. Not to mention a fabulous kid.

Ten years later, and here we are. Working it out. All ass backwards. It's been a few years, and sometimes he makes me want to kill him, but I think my serial monogamist days are over.

Tim,

I know you're probably not reading this, but it's my shout out to you nonetheless - you're my favorite (Jon Stewart and Mike Piazza notwithstanding) boyfriend EVER. Thanks for the secret admirer note. Those always make me giggle like a school girl.

Katie

In lieu of anything substantive, I offer:





Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You?
quiz.

Strange, but that's almost accurate.

Courtesy of Logan's Dave.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Six Degrees of Katination

Finslippy (who, by the way, I highly recommend - go there now) inspired me to chronicle my recent brushes with fame. Which, since I don't have so many personal ones, are gonna go more like a six degrees of Kevin Bacon - only leading to ME. Scintillating, in't it?

1. About three weeks ago I passed Matt Dillon on the street. On Lex and, I don't know, 82nd? I don't think he's attractive, but he was much more so in person. Tall. Unshaven. I looove that. Only, he was one of those annoying cell phone toting / oblivious to pedestrian traffic people, which I hate.

2. I saw Lou Reed near the Chelsea Barnes & Noble last spring. That's right, mothafuckin' Lou "I am the grand daddy of all music that came after me" Reed. It was on 6th Avenue between 22nd and 23rd. He was leathery. He was not with Lori Anderson. He is a god. I'm proud that I was able to pick up my lower lip off of the sidewalk and tote it around propped up on top of my purse without too much physical discomfort.

3. Back in high school, I went to see The Cocteau Twins at the Riviera Theatre in North Tonawanda, a suburb (if you can call it that) of Buffalo. It turned out that the Smashing Pumpkins were playing at UB that weekend, and Billy Corgan came out to see the show. My friends -- two feedback lovin' dorks if ever there were feedback lovin' dorks in 1992-- insisted that we worship at the altar of Billy afterwards. I was not particularly impressed, but he was also quite tall.

4. I met Henry Rollins after a spoken word gig in college, but it was brief and crowded.

Now, Round 2 - the degree phase.
Tim has brushes with fame all of the time, because he runs coffee shops on the Upper East Side.

1. He chats with Gloria Steinem every couple of days. He once got her to rant about Camille Paglia. I also saw a current picture of Betty Friedan last week, and she looks exactly like Tim's mother (yes, this is random, but I didn't know where else to fit it in.) It's truly disturbing, and makes me suspect that Ms. Freidan is living a secret life, as a retiree in Cape Cod.

2. Al Leiter, one of the Mets' starting pitchers, comes in a lot. Tim says most of the women in line have no idea who he is, but ogle him mercilessly anyway. I guess that'll happen when you're 6'4" and 220 lbs. of pure muscle. Oh, but remember that series against the Yankees, beginning of July, when the Mets swept the Yankees? (Sorry, I just had to get that in there.) Leiter was the starting pitcher for the shut-out game (or, I think it was a shut out. I can't rightly remember).

3. Amanda Hearst, useless socialite, has come in, flashed her credit card, and asked an employee, "Don't you know who I am?"

4. Matthew Lillard came in once. Tim was extremely upset that he couldn't think of something snarky to say, because he hates Matthew Lillard. I don't know why - probably just pure, unadulterated irrationality.

5. When Tim worked for a different employer, years ago, he met Whoopi Goldberg and Carson Daley (not at the same time,) who were both extremely self-centered and rude. He met John Waters in the same place, but he was cool, and so was that third guy from "O Brother Where Art Thou"... you know, not George Clooney, not John Turturro, but___ ? This means that Tim is one degree of separation away from the Coen brothers, and that makes Tim just a little bit cooler than he already was. He also met Paul Sorvino - you know, Pauley from Goodfellas? Mira Sorvino's father? - on the street, and he was one of those people who doesn't shake hands. Also, believe it or not, Flavah Flav.

Independent Wealth, Here I Come!

I think - correct me if necessary, but I think I've finally got it - I think that I am officially self-employed (as opposed to UN-employed).

Last week, I received my last government mandated unemployment insurance payment. This was slightly terrifying, in no small part because we're BROKE. (had I mentioned that before? Broke, broke, broke.) I've been distributing resumes, "networking with contacts", and all of those other fun things one is supposed to do to get an appropriate job, but so far none of these has panned out.

In the last few months, I've been walking dogs to make a little extra cash. And in the last few weeks, I've been thinking, "Hey! This job thing isn't working out so much. What if I walked more dogs?" I put up a few ads on Craig's List.

Well, thank you, Craig! Because, suddenly, a steady stream of people want me to walk their precious little poochies, enough so that (once Kiernan goes back to school)I'll be pulling down more than I was as a legitimate member of the workforce. More, even though I'll actually be working half the hours (and not even sending K to an after-school program, hence saving some $$$). And I found this "pet-sitter" health insurance that costs less than that provided by my last job. I can get bonded and insured for - get this - $100 bucks. Add that to the cost of a metrocard and some good, weather-ly outerwear, and my total overhead is barely over $1000. Not bad at all - not one bit. I be cool like that.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

A Woman Deeply Flawed

I found this interesting little bit at The Green Fairy. But for the wonder of unplanned pregnancy, I would've been this woman. Though I don't regret a minute of it - Kiernan has seriously altered my life in a million indescribably profound and exquisite ways -- I don't think I would have regreted it the other way around, either. It's not at all a bad thing to be defined by yourself rather than your social roles.

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Happy Blackout Anniversary!

One year ago today, August 14, 2003, was the biggest, baddest blackout to ever hit the east coast (well, baddest for the 21st century, anyway.) What were you doing that day? Did it affect you?

Here in NYC, lots of people didn't get power back for two days or more. Given the high-rise situation, that meant no water, no relief from the high 80 / low 90 degree temperature trend we were dealing with at the time, no nothing.

It also meant a lot of bonding - you met the neighbors you'd lived next to for years but never spoken with, strangers on the street shared the news with you, and a lot of bars and restaurants in Manhattan gave away an awful lot of free perishables, thus making it kind of a candle lit camp for hot, sweaty, beer swilling grownups.

I had just finished my first day of work for the famous asshat ex-employers. We were about to eat cake for a co-worker's birthday at 4:30 pm when the lights flickered and then shut down. A senior consultant happened to have a battery powered portable television on hand, through which we found that this wasn't just the building - this was the entire east coast.

I was new to the city and proud of my subway skills, but the trains (electrically powered) weren't running. I figured out that I could possibly catch a bus to my home in the Bronx (upwards of 8 miles away) on 3rd Ave., across town (I was in Chelsea, West 19th Street). I was wearing new heels to my first day of work, and they'd been giving me blisters without even walking that much. I made a beeline for one of those street vendors selling the $5 Chinese net & sequin slippers, and started on a hike that eventually led all the way up to the Upper East Side - roughly four miles, in business casual, on a day that was a good 90 degrees. I had plenty of company.

The streets were this incredible swarm of office types, marching in front of the impossible traffic jams on every corner. Bars were full of people brandishing beer bottles and candles, and there were opportunists selling bottled water at an egregious mark up everywhere you looked. The mass just kept moving north, looking for buses (they kept passing by, full to the brim with Wall Street commuters from way, way downtown.)

Finally, at about 88th and 3rd Ave., I encountered a mass of people waiting for buses to the Bronx. I was worried - the ATMs had all shut down with the power, and I had no cash should an express bus pull up (they don't take the standard MTA metrocard.) I shouldn't have bothered. Everything was free. An hour later, when a bus finally stopped, the sticky mass around me piled on and started to voice their worries. Was it a terrorist attack? Most of these folks had been through the same thing on 9/11 - I wasn't here yet then - and it hit too close to home. Every twentieth person or so was covered in grime, refugees of the downed subway system who had had to crawl through the gritty tunnels when their trains stopped short.

Hours and two harried, confused transfers later, my bus wound it's way through Morris Park, the neighborhood we called home until we found our current humble abode. On one block, the lights were on, and the whole bus cheered. (Apparently, it was only the one block. We realized our power was back when, at four in the morning, our fans suddenly churned into action and woke us from a fitful, sticky attempt at sleep). I passed Kiernan's daycare - empty, blackened, deserted. There were candles all along the street, and even folks up in the Bronx seemed to share a sense of adventure and camraderie. The local bodegas were open, guarded by SUVs shining their headlights into the stores. I made my way around the corner, up the block - to a shrine of candles all along our stoop, a radio blaring news, a case of beer and bottled water on ice in a cooler, cold chinese sesame noodles, and Tim and Kiernan, my favorite boys.

Tim had walked all the way from 86th and Lexington, through Hunt's Point and Soundview and all of the other questionable south Bronx neighborhoods, the neighborhoods that had seen looting and arson during the last big blackout in the seventies. Despite this, he made it home an hour before I did. But here we all were, and we were all good.

So, what happened to you that day? Share your stories! It was surely my initiation into New York City. What was it for you?

Olympics Mania!

It's official: this house is glued to the t.v. for the next couple of weeks. And that little 19 year old swimmer boy - you know, the gangly, dorky one? the one who's broken every conceivable water record? - he's puuurrdy.

And Another...

Yet another quiz... but this one's really funny! I found it on Both Hands.

Grover on X
Grover on Ecstasy



You're funny, you're loveable, you're entertaining,
you like to call yourself "Super
Grover!"--You're obviously on ecstasy.
But that's why we love you. Be careful, ok?


Which Sesame Street Muppet's Dark Secret Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

P.S. (Sunday, 6:00 pm) I found this particular gem as an outcome, "The Count's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder". Someone else linked here & got "Bert & Ernie's Closeted Gay Affair" or something like that. I paraphrase, therefore I am. But like I said, it's FUNNY. And a product of insomniac posting mania.

Quizorama

And ANOTHER, from Experiment in Anonymity:
You are a natural leader and would have led as a King or Queen.
King or Queen:
You are a natural leader and would have led as a
King or Queen.


Who would you be in a Medieval Village?
brought to you by Quizilla

Yes, the Queen of sluggardly laziness (see previous post. ahem.)

Quizzle Schidnizzle

Yeah, I found me some quizzizles.



What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com


That's right, Einstein. Who're you? Comment, dammit! I see you all lurking, lurking, and not commenting!

And what movie am I? Oh dear. The horror. (Weird, that's Tim's favorite movie. Is this quiz strangely prophetic?!)



What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Da Man

Oh, man. I feel bad. I'd call it the Catholic guilt, but I was never Catholic. Atheist guilt? Childhood Mormon guilt?

My man, Tim, just had to wake up and go to work for The Man. For him, it's tomorrow. I've been up since he went to bed (granted, far too late). For me, it's today. When one has to wake at 3:50 am, one's todays are a little skewed. Though I still feel bad (through no fault of Tim's. He brought me a cup of water and told me to get some sleep. He's the best! That's why I keep him. That, and the oral sex). Ahhh! Again, Dad, avert your eyes! (Never let your parents know you have a blog. It does certain things to the psyche.)

Itty-Bitty Lefty Weeklies

I like to read the aforementioned itty-bitty alt-weekly papers in whatever city I'm in. Fortunately, I'm currently in New York, where the itty-bitty weekly is the Big Bad Lefty Village Voice. There was a funny, subversive bit in there about the RNC this week - well, honestly, the whole paper this week was a funny, subversive bit about the RNC. Be that as it may, I couldn't find the thing I liked online, so I'm forced to type it out. It was under this headline, though.

Let the typos commence!

Activists in Republican's Clothing

Madison Square Garden is south of Union Square, and just east of Rockefeller Center. To get there, take the H train and get off at the Penn Square stop. Or at least that's the way it appears on the maps that Mary C. Matthews -- age 31 and way, way not a Republican -- plans to have a group pass out to delegates at the GOP confab.

She's one of an unknown number of anti-GOP activists taking a Trojan Horse approach by volunteering at the convention. "I'm mobilizing a group of female comedians to faux volunteer and pass out fake maps, T-shirts, buttons, restaurant, and hotel info," Matthews says. "I was inspired by that ad Ed Koch did trying to get people to volunteer. He said, 'Some people won't know uptown from downtown.' I thought it would be funny to make sure that was true."

Over 18,000 people have applied for the 8,000 volunteer positions at the convention. Prospective volunteers are screened, but not for their political affiliation. That's because the New York City Host Committee, the group responsible for recruiting, is non-partisan.

Though Matthews and her posse decided against trying to become official convention volunteers, they'll be posing as such in homeade RNC shirts. "They have theme days -- like retail day and parks day -- and the itineraries basically tell you where campaign delegates will be," she says. "We're going to go talk to them and gain their trust. We want to confuse them and show them the political climate in New York might not be as welcoming as it seems."

Mattews will film the conversations (posing as a tourist) for a documentary called
Misinforming Republicans for the Manhattan Neighborhood Network. "It will be hard to keep quiet," she says. "I might reach my breaking point." - Kate Torgovnick, Village Voice, Aug. 11-17, 2004


Bwahahaha! Actually, I'm really not a huge fan of Kerry. I could take him or leave him, though I'll probably reluctanly end up voting for him. (Anybody but Bush. Anybody but Bush.)I'll do the reluctant voting, even though New York state is a forgone conclusion. We're not a battleground state. They don't spend money on political ads here. Why? 'Cause it's gonna go Dem., no matter what. It always, always does (barring Mondale). We don't count, no matter what the folks who ripped on me for voting Nader last time around may think. That Nader vote didn't do anything but allow the Green Party on to the ballot for the next election -- it certainly didn't kill Gore (thank you very much, electoral college).

In other lefty news, this guy used to be a friend of my boyfriend's. (I think the relationship consisted of drinking cheap swill in an East Village bar, but what do I know?) Anyway, he also merited a spot in The Voice - and not for the first time. I haven't checked out the current shenanigans, but it seems like fun.

It's just one sentence, but it guarantees five freedoms. Or at least the First Amendment used to, before the swelling of post-9-11 alarm started shredding your rights. For 30 glorious minutes every Tuesday, those constitutional protections are revivified as a random bunch of New Yorkers joins Reverend Billy (the performance artist Bill Talen) at the WTC PATH Station from 6:30 to 7 p.m. for what theater theorists would term a performative act—an utterance that calls into being what it names—but what the Reverend dubs "ritual resistance."

Using cell phones as decoys, participants repeat those heady lines as they lean against a pillar, pace about as if awaiting a friend, fall into step behind commuters, or find some other way to not quite make a spectacle of themselves. The acoustics in the all-concrete top level of the station leave words hovering, so folks rushing for trains can catch whole phrases—"the right to freedom of speech or of the press," "petition the government for a redress of grievances." And the long escalator ride down to the turnstiles provides ample time for all 45 words to sink in.

Some commuters stiffen and hurry away when they suddenly realize that the person chattering behind them is not simply another bellowing cell-phone jerk, but worse: a pro-Bill of Rights subversive. A few turn and smile. For participants, the words acquire an incantatory power, intensified at 7 p.m. when declaimed in unison. The mantra might not make John Ashcroft melt into an unctuous goo like the Wicked Witch of the West Wing, but here—where the wound of the WTC gapes across the plaza and cops dash up to demand a permit for demonstrating on the Port Authority's "private property" when the group recitation gains momentum—it creates a verbal force field that embraces all speakers in their own portable free-speech zones. As Reverend Billy preaches, "The First Amendment is our permit."




I <3 New York...

Dooce city

Oh my god! Dooce (you know her, you love her) is accepting comments right now, specifically re: how can her blog provide income? This is probably the most popular blog I've run across, barring Gawker, Wonkette, or any other commercial outlet. So let's give the lady some ideas, shall we?

As I was saying,

Michael Savage can suck my ass.

I've been thinking about this McGreevey thing. The gayness was not enough to incur resignation. Family strife, possible divorce, sure. But the $500,000 blackmail was cut off at the pass by the very announcement, and the "quid pro quo" sexual harassment would have been all but impossible to prove. Granted, it'd be hell to withstand all of the present & future personal troubles & inevitable media saturation whilst still trying to run the state of New Jersey, but it also could have been a marvelous stand for gay rights. Not that one man is obligated to do this, by any means, but he's going to be in for it anyway, in office or not.

My real point - hence the Savge ass-sucking - is that this is providing horrific grist for the conservative media mill.

I admit that I occassionally listen to Michael Savage. I'm usually chopping vegetables at 7:00 weeknights (when Dr. Savage commences his rants) and frankly, Terry Gross and her fresh air bore the shit out of me. I like to listen to Savage because he gets me all fired up, screaming at the radio. No one else has this power. And, though he's a horrible racist and homophobe (a good ol', home-grown Bronx white boy,) I'm startled to realize that I often agree with his non-racist and homophobic opinions. He's not particularly partisan, he has strength of conviction, and he & I meet on libertarian grounds more often than I'd like to admit.

But not today. Today, he (to paraphrase) said: "What about McGreevey's kids? The man said, in public, that he should never have married or had children. It was a big mistake. Can you tell me that those kids will hear this speech in twenty years and not be crushed?"

Well, Mike, yes I can. It's not a mistake. He loves his kids as much as anybody does. He's a product of a society that doesn't accept difference, that says a homosexual can't do much better than host Queer Eye. They're certainly not serious enough to be Governer. (maybe a Congressional Rep. -- Barney Frank is from a radical liberal state, after all.) I'm a child of a gay man. I don't think I was a mistake. A happy accident, maybe. And when my dad got in front of a church congregation (that's right, church. I'm an atheist, but he's not.) and told evrybody what he was, with honesty, for the first time, his kids weren't anything but proud (and far from crushed, I assure you). Even when others told them they were wrong for that. So, fuck you, Michael Savage. You're wrong on this one. Gay parents probably value their kids more than straight ones do, simply in virtue of those children being such a kink in the regular scheme of things. And we kids value them just as much, for their bravery and fine example. PPPhhhhbbbbttttt.

P.S.

New Jersey, I'm sorry. You are a beautiful state. "The Garden State". Yet, the world sees you as a shitty industrial setting for the Sopranos. A working class backdrop for Springsteen songs. A cheap place for New York actors to rent apartments. The state whose child welfare system allowed a 19 year old man to maintain the proportions of a five year old boy, and now the home of the big gay Governor. I see you for what you are, New Jersey. A lovely little spot of country, but a few miles away from the city. *sniff*

Fuck!

Stupid blogger. I had a long, thoughtful post, and the internet ate it. Allow me to collect my thoughts. My thoughts of smashing the monitor. Grrr.

Friday, August 13, 2004

Katie: Queen of the Lazy Slugs

I was going to be so GOOD today. Run a few miles. Do some yoga to cool down. Eat yogurt and other assorted hippie granola wellness foods.

So far today, I've had a lot of coffee (Starbucks - hold the breast milk, thank you very much,) played with the computer a lot, admired Kiernan's lego creation, threw a tennis ball around with Max. Oh yeah, and ate a leftover hot dog. (Nathan's... mustard... sauerkraut... ahhhhrrrgghh...) No running. No yoga. No yogurt. Bad, bad Katie.

Little devil over right shoulder: Hey, it's overcast. It could rain any minute. Your shoes are expensive, baby! Besides,you can't be good all the time. What's one hot dog? You're an American!

Little angel, left shoulder: You are a huge fatass. Leave the house RIGHT NOW.

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Holy Shit!

Gov. James McGreevey of New Jersey just resigned... because he's gay. Well, it's more complicated than that. But still. Some of the buildup commentary here.

Hey, I could get used to this...

So, I'm liking the blog thing. I like the recognition when people link to me -- I get all fluttery inside and smile a lot, like if I was in 7th grade and found out some boy liked me (how big of a geek am I?).

Today, Dave from Logan's Dave offered to make me a mix cd for my 30th birthday (which isn't until December.) And all I could think was, that's so nice! You don't even know me! So, thanks, Dave. You're supercool. And to the rest of you, feel free to send early birthday presents. Really.

Starbucks Booby Update

Here is the update on a story that caused quite a ruckus among the rabid boob advocate crowd over on All Things Jen (You'll have to scroll down quite aways, to the title "Fight For Your Right to Latte". Ms. Jen is nothing if not prolific.) Apparently, a "Boob-In" has been staged, the VP of the company has personally apologized, and chastised the Baltimore outpost for not following a local boob-defending statute.

So, just as a devil's advocate, I defended the Starbucks guy who made the admittedly stupid call to ask a nursing mother to cover herself. DAMN! I've never seen more feisty feedback to my feedback. You people are serious about the naked boob advocacy! I was asked by one feisty commenter whether I have kids. Yes, actually, and I breastfed him. But I just never got so worked up about it. I also probably wouldn't have felt comfortable being so public about it, but hey, that's my problem, not anyone else's. I don't care, squirt milk at me if it makes you feel better. But just calm the f*** down, already.

Why Jon Stewart Rocks and Should be Your Boyfriend, Too (wait, no he shouldn't -- he's mine! ALL MINE!)

A couple of posts ago, my good friend Ursus saw fit to comment

Ewwww, gross!

to my declaration of love for my dearest, most special boyfriend Jon Stewart. I feel compelled to defend Jonny boy, if only because that's what a good girlfriend would do.

1. Jon Stewart churns out better news than actual news shows.

Yes, actual news programming gives you the headlines, the human interest, the startlingly groomed anchors. However, the Daily Show provides this and more -- headlines, PLUS commentary on the total INANITY of other station's reporting. The incoherent mess that is a stump speech. The thrill of irrelevance, the agony of a really bad sound bite.

2. Jon Stewart is much, much funnier than actual news anchors.

Well, at least if you're a sucker for cynicism. And literate enough in current events to know what he's making fun of.

3. Jon Stewart is cute.

Contest it if you will, but smart, snarky guys are the hottest. No holds barred.

and, finally,

4. Jewish guys have the biggest schlongs.

This is just an undisputed fact. Sorry, Tim. Irish guys are second.

P.S. Jen's boyfriend Ed Helms is on the show, too. Even better.

Disclaimer:

Choke, cough Sorry, Dad. That wasn't meant for your eyes.

Okay, okay, I found both of these on Mediocrity's Co-Pilot (see the links, it's 2:30! What do you expect, me to work or something?!)

The first was heart warming, especially since I've noticed that many a lad and lass got "Heart of Stone". It also reminded me of the Neil Young song, which doesn't hurt - but made me feel wussy, which does. ;(

gold heart
Heart of Gold


What is Your Heart REALLY Made of?
brought to you by Quizilla

The second? Hmmm. I'm very contagious, but only if I bite. Spencer over there got Syphilis, so I can't say I'm jealous or anything. Heh.

I am Rabies. Grrrrrrrr!
Which Horrible Affliction are you?
A Rum and Monkey disease.

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Jon Stewart / Bill Clinton Celebrity Death Match

Did anyone see the Daily Show last night? Clinton looked absolutely scrawny. Go South Beach.

And my boyfriend Jon Stewart looked fabulous, as always. I love you, honey. Kiss kiss.

How is my mother crazy? Let me count the ways.

So, my dad emailed me to let me know he's been reading my blog.

This is a bit disconcerting, as it made me realize that I talk about drinkin' & cussin' & other unsavory topics, and that my dad is reading that. But, he's cool like that, and that's one reason I ever let him know I had a blog in the first place.

I didn't let my mom know. Why? Because I knew, eventually, she would really piss me off or amaze me in some other way, and that I would be forced to write bitter, inflammatory, unflattering things about her in this space.

My parents divorced when I was about 18, mostly due to the fact that my dad is gay & my mom is straight. (That's a whole other post. Although, I will say that Kitty [see below] was one of the first people I told at the time. His response? "Oh my god, your dad's a big fag!")

Anyway, I think my mom's menatlly ill, so I really try not to get as angry with her as I do. She does many, many small things that add up to not giving a shit (forgets Kiernan's birthday, never, ever calls, blah, blah, blah) and doesn't really take any care of herslef or her surroundings, either. Since my parents' divorce, she's been pretty bitter, blaming my dad for any financial problem she's ever had and so on. It's hard to fault her for that, though it would be so much healthier to take personal responsibility and move on, already. She recently remarried (though this, too, is a HUGE other post involving the INS, the internet, and middle aged desperation. It may also involve Homeland Security, but some other time, please) and this has at least taken some of the focus off of my dad. But it's also created an environment where years of eccentricity and irresponsibility are finally catching up with mom.

Mom's new husband lives overseas, in a not-great economy where it's hard to earn enough money to compare with the US. My dad just sold the house where I grew up, and part of the divorce settlement was that my mother would get half the proceeds when that happened. She'd planned to use this sum to cover expenses associated with her husband (and I think some of his children?) immigrating, and with all of them moving to a more urban area where he could earn an appropriate living.

Eight years ago, when the divorce was still pretty fresh, she & my siblings rented a three bedroom place in the boondocks. As it happened, mom stopped paying rent one day. It wasn't that she was too poor - she had a good job, and though she wasn't making the big bucks, she also recieved generous child support from my dad. She just stopped paying.

This went on for over six months. She was, as you might have guessed, evicted. She found another place (a nicer, but more expensive place; not so practical)and, after a year there, moved back to New England to be close to the rest of her family. The back rent on the first place was never paid, and finally the owner put a lien on my FATHER's property. Now that it's being sold, the old debt has to be paid before she gets her half. It's kind of poetic justice, because she's been bitching for years and years about how if dad ever did the right thing and sold that place, she'd be sitting pretty. Not so much, I guess.

It's not that I hate my mother; on the contrary, I love her, and I feel really hurt when it doesn't seem like she cares about me or my son. But it makes me really mad that she blames everyone but herself for any bad thing that happens, and still expects my dad (and even her elderly parents)to pay her way. Not cool, particularly when she doesn't help out her own kids, but wants to pay for the overseas passage of virtual strangers. So, I can't help taking a certain pleasure in knowing that (to overuse another old, old cliche,) she made this bed, and she sure has to lie in it.

Kitty Power

Yay for Kitty!

Yup, he's a grown up now, like so many of us... oh my...

(And, Ursus, I didn't hear the songs. But I did get confirmation that he'll let me know WELL IN ADVANCE if he has a gig. You're going with me.)

So, we went to this little bar, Grass Roots, on St. Mark's Pl., and drank delicious black & tans (Brown & tans?) made of Brooklyn Weisse and Guiness. Laughed a lot. Met one of the owners, Rita, who admonished us to be as middle class as possible should we choose to attend the RNC protests. (I did mention my plans to bring the wonder Kiernan - 8 year olds are pretty middle america, right?) Explored the possibility of finding me a job with the Kitty's employer, which would FUCKING ROCK! Bummed cigarettes from total strangers on the street, 'cause you know, drinking beer would imply that one SMOKES CIGARETTES... Did not fall off the nicotine wagon completely, but did decide to forgoe the jog yesterday. Since, if I did run, my lungs would crawl out of my mouth like so many little bits of hamburger, fall on the floor, and Max would eat them. And I don't want that, because lord knows, I need my lungs. That, and they'd probably mess with Max's delicate digestion.

Sunday, August 08, 2004

Which famous feline are you?

Courtesy of All Things Jen(nifer).

I'm so psyched by my results! Calvin & Hobbes are the coolest. Also, it's Kiernan's (red headed genius love child -- though he's not so red headed, really -)favorite comic EVER.

You're Hobbes!
You're Hobbes. First of all, the makers of this
quiz would like to congratulate you. You have
our seal of approval. You are kind,
intelligent, loving, and good-humoredly
practical. You're proud of who you are. At the
same time, you're tolerant of those who lack
your clearsightedness. You're always playful,
but never annoying. For these traits, you are
well-loved, and with good cause.


Which famous feline are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Saturday, August 07, 2004

Ouuuuuuuccccchhh

The training regimen has begun!

And I'm a whiny little pussy.... waaaaaahhhhhhhh....

Anyway, I get to have fun tomorrow. I'm meeting the Big Kitty for drinks. I've known Kitty since like 1992, when I was a little high school student crashing undergraduate keg parties & he was the gay guy who mocked me. Last time I saw Kitty, he a drama therapist working with high functioning gay men with social/behavioral disorders (or, as he put it, "I play puppets with retarded fags." Only he could say this and make you giggle rather than throw up.) I can't wait - I'm definitley going to laugh so hard that it feels like I spent all day doing crunches.

Friday, August 06, 2004

The Other Night

The other night I had a dream about my old boss. Gah.

Now, this requires a little bit of background. First, I finished my B.A. in Philosophy last spring (2003). I was kind of old - 28 - but I dropped out when I had K the wonder baby, and finally came back when he started pre-k. We moved to NYC to be with Tim (the wonder dad) soon after, and I started the job search of the 21st century.

Mind you, I was naive idealist girl. Nevermind that I attended a no-name state college; I was so f***in' great that I'd be sorting through offers from the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, and the offices of every left leaning congressional rep in the whole stinkin' city. Nevermind the shitheap, er, job market either. Surprisingly, I did get an offer within a month or two, which I was pretty happy to take.

Background, part II: I am an overachiever, especially in bookish/mental/intellectual pursuits. I was an academic standout, and was armed with recomendations from my entire department to prove it. I'd never been fired, even disciplined, in a professional setting. I'm also kind of idealistic, and I had my heart set on working in the nonprofit sector. Furthermore, I thought that fundraising would be a good fit (though I'd never actually WORKED in fundraising... hmmmm...) because I could do some grantwriting, etc., etc. , etc. I didn't realize at the time that fundraising entails schmoozing with a lot of monied assholes so that they'll give your organization money. Some might like such work. Not me.

Anyway, this teeny tiny fundraising consultant wanted to take me on as a development assistant, at the salary I wanted, and said they wanted me to do a lot of writing, loved my writing samples, and so on. They were in a rockin' neighborhood (always a good criteria when evaluating an employer - NOT), had an artsy fartsy "organically designed" office (which turned out to have been inherited from the previous tenants) and a staff full of women, since the principal (the only male) was so damn lecherous (*cough*choke*) I meant, feminist, that he only hired "young women". His name was Charlie. I noticed in the office cabinet that he had had coffee mugs made up, embossed with a group photograph of about twelve knockout women in various action poses (former employees, I guess) under the caption "Charlie's Angels". Asshat.

At first, I thought cube life was great. I was earnest. I tried hard. Then I started to notice that, while I was working hard, everyone else was on Friendster or taking a 2 and a half hour lunch to go shopping. Those who weren't were staying until seven or eight o'clock every night, which I simply couldn't do if I didn't want to face child neglect charges. I started to feel like I was the dorky girl amongst cool girls -- while they were shopping every lunck break, I was saving my pennies for a 2 bedroom apartment. There was a lot of whispering, especially from my own boss (who we'll disparage in a moment.) I hadn't felt so miserable and insecure since seventh grade.

All this time, I received basically no feedback at all. My boss, a petite, blonde, blue eyed upper east side ice queen, generally either ignored me or gave mild praise in her best "good child" voice. She seemed woefully overworked, but wouldn't give me any concrete assignments, tell me what I could improve, or interact with me in any other meaningful way. She got really angry with me when I had trouble figuring out how to transfer two pages to a double sided copy. Granted, it was a mistake. But an honest one, and shit, after the first time, I'd KNOW HOW TO FUCKING DO IT, OKAY? Thus was born one of her best quotes:

I forget that you don't learn these things in college. Afterall, I had my first internship at fifteen.


(In response to a joke about free services from a prospective client, a massage school) I have an aversion to people I don't know touching me.


My fifteenth college reunion is in six months. I'm not eating until then.


After months of non-feedback misery, along comes my first review. TPB, who had never before directly expressed displeasure with my work, made up for months of silence by ticking off every mistake or misjudgement I'd ever made and declaring that she questioned my commitment to the firm because of it. She who never raised her voice above a ladylike whisper and a girlish giggle screamed of her frustration at my shortcomings to good ol' Charlie and the HR Director. Oy. I walked on eggshells for months afterward and eventually requested an informal review in which she told me that I had vastly improved and that she was happy and impressed with my progress. I realized I really really hated working there and started circulating my resume elsewhere.

Meanwhile, there had been a mass exodus -- 14 employees when I was hired had now become 7 -- and senior staff had taken a pay "rollback" due to everyone's inability to DO ANY GODDAM WORK. (There was much, much more time spent there figuring out how to make our clients think that they needed us than there was spent actually doing work for them. No wonder the ship was sinking.) In December, right before the match on the IRA plans and the bonuses were given out, the HR Director called me into her office and terminated me. She cried. I felt vast relief. Since then, my boss' name has been removed from the company website. She's outta there. The weird thing is, other senior consultants who left - left the country, found new jobs, retired -- ALL of them are still on the site, as though Charlie wants to pad the firm's resume. But not her, super ice queen bitch from hell. I hope she was fired. The day they axed me, she left early and said to me, "Have a great weekend! I'll see you on Monday." Hypocrite whore.

So, uh, I'm a little bitter. Heh. BUT, I dreamed about her the other night. And it was foggy and surreal, as dreams tend to be, but I remember that she was being kind to me, and giving me some sort of medal. Huh? Why? I have no idea why my psyche would do this right now, aside from the fact that I ran into one of my former co-workers about a month ago. But, I would have dreamed this a month ago, no? Either way, she at least taught me the extraordinarily valuable lesson that I want nothing to do with office culture of any kind. And now I'm starting a business, which will be far, far better than some office full of hacks in Chelsea. Blahrg.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Partisan Ranting

So, Jen's going to love this.

BBC Analysis, as quoted by James Ridgeway of The Village Voice:

The prevailing wisdom is that Al Qaeda actually 'like' George W. Bush
in the sense that his muscular rhetoric is seen as playing up the very divisions
that Al Qaeda wishes to emphasize... The Bush administration's fixation with
Saddam Hussein and Iraq is widely seen as being a distraction from the real
campaign against terrorism.

And she'll most certainly love this.

Are you sure you to come visit for the convention? I think I'll be taking Little K out to protest for at least one day. What a fabulous "What I did this summer" story that would make!

BUT, I wouldn't want to have to explain this!

Health Kick of the Century

This is a red letter week in Katie's world.

Yes, this is the week that Katie quits smoking without hormonal assistance.

See, the only time thus far that I've been able to (semi) successfully quit has been due to pregnancy. Not only was quitting basically an ethical and moral obligation, but cigarettes also kind of made me want to puke. Now, though? It's all willpower, baby. It's been a week, and aside from Sunday night, when Tim's old friend came to visit from Burlington and we indulged in fire water and devil tabbacy, we've both done just fine, thanks.

So what inspired all of this healthy mayhem?

Last week, Tim's dad treated us to a proper family-style vacation. To be clear, this place is gaaawwwgeous, and very staid; that is, no drinking (there's no bar in the hotel), lots of older folks and young families, lots of wasps on vacation from NYC, and so on. The entertainment is good old fashioned outside playtime, and we took ample advantage of the rock climbing, hiking, canoes, paddleboats... you get the idea.

Anyway, long story short, by the time we got home we'd both cut down to minimal nicotine consumption, and we both had that great, sore, exercisey feeling you get when you use muscles you forget you had. I, for one, felt all cut & meaty & ferocious. Mmmmmm.

This inspired "Health Kick of the Century!". We hauled ass down to Paragon Sports and I bought these for only $40. Hot damn, I'm gonna be cut & lovely and I also know how to save a shit load of money. Yeah, thassright. So, when I win the marathon next year, don't forget I told ya so.

And I thought...

I had a huge school girl crush on Mike Piazza... Lookout, she's even got bad music ;)

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

One Reason Not to Leave New York (for the forseeable future)

Summer in the city is universally hated. The humidity, the stink (eu de garbage, anyone? Underground piss, perhaps?), the rats, the roaches -- none of them are attractive propositions. Everything feels sodden and oppressive, and dirty air conditioner water is constantly raining down from on high.

We live so far north in the Bronx that we're geographically much closer to Westchester than Manhattan. It's more suburban in character, but still maintains the grit that one would expect from a Bronx address. There are many single family homes and few large apartment buildings, barring ours.

Our particular space is in the fifth floor of a 1914 walk up. The trip upstairs can be forbidding, especially after a night of nicotine and booze, but it lends a fabulous cross breeze on horrible, ugly, hot nights like tonight. And the breeze always carries this faint, salty tinge, because it comes over Pelham Bay and Long Island Sound before that. I can't get enough. I'm originally from New England -- the scent says summer and playtime and huge family dinners of lobster and salt potatoes and corn on the cob.

My boyfriend says he can't smell it. He's always lived here, though; too much familiarity breeds contempt, I guess.

Looky, looky!

So, I'm a little bit smart. I have LINKS now! Maybe I can put "web page design" on the ol' resume now, eh?

Testing, testing...

Hmmmm.

First off, many thanks to the illustrious Jen(nifer) (of All Things). Without your enthusiastic prodding, I wouldn't be blogging along today (we'll see whether the world thanks or curses you. Ahem.) I still don't know what the hell I'm doing, but hey, what's life without a few new challenges?

For the moment, I'm just gonna play. Eventually (I presume) I'll figure out how to link, make stuff pretty, etc., but that day ain't today.

A bit o' background:

I have a fabulous 8 year old, heretofore known as red-headed-love-child. Said child recently spilled qwater on our keyboard, and noqw it is impossible to type a 'qw' qwithout a 'q' before it, or a '12' qwithout a '1' before it. So, if I qwrite a lot of qweird qwqwqwqw things, don't blame me. I'm not retarded, just too poor to buy a neqw keyboard today.

The 8 year old has a dad, heretofore known as the red-headed wonder. (Disclaimer: all nicknames subject to change, as their stupidity sinks into the author's consciousness). He's great, and our story together is long and bizarre.

Our picture of domestic bliss is made complete by Max the wonderdog, a shelter husky mix. We love him, even when he chews our things and pees on the floor. Bad, bad Max.

I hail from the same tiny college village as Jen, Fredonia, New York. While Jen has morphed into a cheerleader for the entire Western New York region, I couldn't run away fast enough. In the past five years I've lived in Athens, GA (home of the B-52s, REM, and Uga the Georgia Bulldog); St. Louis, MO; San Antonio, TX; and now call the Bronx home. THAT'S RIGHT, THE FRIGGIN BRONX! Not Riverdale, not the scary South Bronx, but the bucolic, working class Pelham Bay. It's nice, and I don't feel like a sucker for coughing up $3,000 bucks a month to try and live on the Lower East Side.

Test complete. Oh, yeah, my first poll: is the name "serial blogonomy" extremely stupid?! It's a joke, you know! It's funny! Oh, wait -- you don't have to explain things that are funny... Maybe I should have a contest: "Name My Blog!" You won't win fame or fortune, or eve notoriety. Just the satisfaction of helping a poor, no name havin' blog...

Monday, August 02, 2004

WELCOME HOME KATIE!

Well, well...Katie has a blog. Now what WILL she do with it?

Evil purposes?
Or Good?

Only time will tell...

PLEASE leave comments encouraging the new blogger...

Katie is the brilliant and yet-somewhat insane best friend from long, long time ago.

She thought my car was funny.

I made fun of her fluffy hair. And admired her gorgeous Alto II (real woman voice!)
We fell for the same boy in art class, who had his wedding announcement to his husband posted in the New York Times a few years ago.

She was my partner in crime. I made her drink caffeine and stay out on the Sabbath.
She made me look at pictures from Madonna's Sex Book (when the born-again christian boyfriend wasn't around)

Ah, good times.
And I shall not even get into the crazy summer...the summer of looooove. And other things. : )
I was the virginal, alcoholic, sorority girl.
Katie spawned a red-headed genius love child.

And now, Ms. Katie lives with said child and spawner, and is a member of..of...the?
What has our world come to? : )

Welcome to our world Katie...if I'm going down, you surely are going with me...