Nothing from Kat.

New blog

2010-11-10T11:44:00.001-08:00

This blog is defunct until further notice. Visit instead:

I'm a Fucking Writer

The Lamentations of a Lady

How to Write, Part I: The Commandments

2010-08-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

I wrote this last month but didn't post it immediately because I thought, Who the fuck am I to tell you how to write? Who are you? Maybe you're Jonathan Lethem. In which case, you don't wanna learn writing from me; you'll learn bad habits (usage of the word "wanna," for one).

I guess it's not likely that Jonathan Lethem is reading this. More to the point, then: Who am I? Nobody. I'm such a bad writer, I have to rely on this crummy generic-template blog to get any point across to the public. And by "public," I mean, You. Whoever is reading this. You're likely the only one.

Ah, but then I received this one email telling me this one thing I submitted to this one magazine is going to be published. There you go: societal validation. You can now listen to what I have to say.
______________
There are only three basic rules for writing:

1. WRITE.
2. READ.
3. REVISE.

These are the universal rules of writing. The commandments. They are not open to debate. You have to follow them. There are other rules, but they are more individual and flexible. The above are immutable.*

There is not much else that needs to be known, but if you would like elucidation of the above terms, please read on.

1. Write. You have to write. A lot. Like, every day, a lot. Write this moment. Write some more. And yet write. Don’t think about it, don’t talk about it, don’t make excuses, don’t go out for a beer on Friday night (or if you need to go out for a beer, go by yourself and bring a notebook. I’ve done it.) Keep writing. Get off of Wikipedia, you’ve researched enough. Now is the time to coagulate your knowledge. Just write. No, don’t go check to see whether the flan you put in the fridge has set. You need to write.

Unfortunately, writing involves actual writing. I say “unfortunately” because some people have this idea that you can earn a pile of crisp money by dashing off a bestseller. These people don’t want to write; they want to be writers, or what they think writers are.** Well, being a writer doesn’t work that way. Most writers don’t earn a living from writing. If you want to make money, become a Major League baseball player.*** Do NOT become a writer.

That’s not you, though. You don’t care about money or prestige or even publishing. Good. I also say "unfortunately" in the above paragraph because even if you love writing, it isn't always pleasant. Repetitive action quickly grows old, and if you are serious about writing, you will want to do it constantly to maintain momentum. Fortunately, writing begets writing. It might come slowly at first, but the more you write, the more your thoughts will segue into other stories, and once you start, once you've got that momentum, the hardest thing in the world will be not writing. This is the principle of inertia at work (or something. I took one physics class in high school and got a D.) Conversely, the more you don’t write, the more you won’t write.

This obsession with writing means you will only get better. The novelist Barry Lyga wrote a nice post about having to write a million bad words before you write some good ones; Malcolm Gladwell speaks of the 10,000 hour rule. Whether you count your words or your hours, you cannot ignore this: It takes a shitload of writing to get good.****

Yet, as much as we love to write, as much as we want to write, somehow shit gets in the way. Writing demands incredible self-discipline, because there is a lot of other shit to do, most of it more fun than writing. Right now, my kids are at their grandmother's house, I have a few hours free, and I am conscious of the million things I could be doing. My own house is filthy, my garden overgrown, it's a beautiful Saturday, and I feel like biking to the farmer's market. So many things to do!

You have to ignore all those things. Other things you have to ignore: friends, beer, the beach, Inception (at least until the DVD release). You have to write, unfortunately. Welcome to the unglamorous, frequently pointless, writing life.

2. Read. The best way to learn how to write well is by learning how to read well. Read everything; why not? Don’t limit yourself to classics or even Really Good Books. If you only read literary novels, you’re doing yourself a disservice. Sure, Germinal is a nice enough book, but it would be impossible now, or at least silly, to write a novel like Germinal. Read lots of good stuff, yeah, but read crap too. Read Life & Style. Great art is always a fusion of something and something else, and often the dash of Something Else comes from pop culture, folk traditions, or outright vulgarity. Know every tradition. I came from a literate household but somewhere along the line, I picked up a nasty Sweet Valley High-reading habit. My mom bought me Black Beauty and The Old Man and the Sea and Tom Sawyer to try to counteract the pernicious influence of Francine Pascal and her army. To this day, I have never read any of those books. But I did find my way back to literature, somehow. And thanks to the SVH quadricentrilogy and many bad pre-teen fan magazines, I know what distinguishes bad writing from pretty good writing from great writing. It’s important to know what you don’t want to write. And, how do you know what’s good if you’ve never read anything bad?

3. Revise. Any good writer hates his or her own work. This is good news, because if you hate it you will be forced to improve it or, more felicitously, abandon writing. If you like what you write, well, best of luck to you: you won't find a publisher, because you are delusional. What you wrote sucked.

I don’t care if you are the next Shakespeare or David Foster Wallace or even Francine Pascal. The first draft of the first thing you ever write is not going to be good. It is going to fucking suck. Even after you’ve been writing for 10 years, first drafts fucking suck. Fifth drafts suck. I revise everything at least ten times, and my writing still sucks. I'm not trying to discourage you; I want you to write (I guess), but I want you to be honest with yourself. And the honest truth is, nothing is good without revision.

I need to emphasize the suckiness of first drafts to counteract the prevailing attitude among amateur writers that they can sit down and write something brilliant on their first attempt. This attitude doesn't seem to infect other arts the way it does writing. I listen to music all the time, but I am pretty sure if I went and picked up a violin with the intention of becoming a concert violinist, I would not play something listenable this month or even this year. Forget the violin analogy; I couldn't pick up a tambourine today and play with the Monkees tomorrow.

I can hear the objections to this: “But my years of nonstop talking have prepared me for writing! I’m quick and witty! If I can talk, well, by gum, I can write!” But talking has as much to do with writing as listening to music does with being a concert violinist. Really. They are different actions. In fact, if you are gregarious, talkative, a great conversationalist, you may even be a worse writer because you are not listening. Writers must have a great ear, not a gift for extemporaneous speech. That is its own gift, but again, involves separate brain faculties. I am one of the most socially awkward people you’ll ever meet. I stumble over my words, I am silent in groups of two or more, and I generally can’t get a thought across unless I have a pen or a keyboard nearby. That hasn’t hindered my writing. (My writing sucks for other reasons.)

The good news is that bad writing precedes good writing. If you want to create good or even Pascalesque writing, you need to revise that fetid glop of words you just strewed across the page. You must revise not only for grammar and spelling and word count, but for structure, fresh images, character development, believable dialogue, and a host of other factors. The painful thing about revision is that you will have to discard many of the lovely words you have written (because your lovely words are, in fact, stupid). Writers have to be both painters and sculptors: first you put color on a blank page, then you whittle away the excess marble.*****

Revision is the time to correct any errors of spelling or grammar. You can't write (well) without knowing spelling and grammar. Sorry. If you plan on submitting your work for publication, even one typo or forgotten comma will pretty much eliminate you from consideration. If you don't know how to spell, look up every word in the dictionary. If you don't know grammar, get some books and study that shit. Study until you know when to use a dash and when an ellipsis. Know the difference between gerunds and present progressive.

Revision is its own art, and I can't fully address it here, but good writers must also be good editors. This means you must be suspicious of every word. Be like those forensics people on CSI. Ask the words why they're there. Demand to know. Find out what the words were doing yesterday (look up etymologies: it's fascinating). I spend very little time on first drafts. The bulk of my writing time is spent on revision. Like, 25 times more time. It's a bitch, but man, it feels good when I shove that manuscript into that slush pile-bound manila envelope and lick it shut. I know I've earned the rejection letter that will arrive in my box in 4-6 months.

One more rule they don't tell you about:

4. Get used to being alone. If you are a people person, you’re going to have a hard time being a writer. Writing is self-imposed solitary confinement. (There are those books written by two people [usually psychologists or something] where the authors keep breaking the narrative dream by saying things like "We have found in our research that....," but those books are annoying and usually only read for class.)
______________
I guess that’s about it, because any other rule I could devise could have a counterpoint to it. If, for instance, I tell you to avoid beginning a novel with the weather, you will pull out your tattered copy****** of that one Faulkner novel that begins with a lovely exposition of a rainstorm. Okay, there is no Faulkner novel like that, but that’s not the point.

The point is, the above rules are the nonnegotiable rules. I can’t think of anymore absolutes. Can you? Read, write (using correct spelling and grammar), edit, by yourself. Now go.*******
_______________________________________
*I plan on divulging my own personal rules, the ones that are open to contention, in a later post.
**The title of this post, see, is "How to Write," not "How to be a Writer." I don't know how to be a writer; you'll have to find another blog to help you there.
***Or be an expert at something and become a tech writer. They make decent money.
****Maybe you don't want to be good; maybe you write merely to cathart to yourself. Hey, that's cool. This is a nonjudgmental blog. Well, not strictly true. I judge harshly the people who wear flip-flops into fancy restaurants.
*****This sentence is a good example of mixing one's metaphors, which you should never do.
******Also to be avoided are clichés such as "tattered copy." Why must a copy always be tattered? Aren't there ever any "unread copies" or "gently loved copies"?
*******If you're going to use this many footnotes, better to use superscripted numerals rather than asterisks. This is getting ridiculous.********

********See?

New Mexico: A Tribute to Writing for No One

2010-06-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Recently I retrieved an enormous plastic box that had been in my mom’s basement for 15 years, collecting spider sacs and millipede corpses. It was full of report cards, copies of YM from the 80’s and Profane Existence from the 90’s, letters from friends and boyfriends, the lease on my first apartment (rent: $385), folders of college essays, and dozens of spiral-bound notebooks that served as both diaries and receptacles for poems and stories and fragments of memories. They dated from around the time I was 12 through my first and last year at Antioch College.

I was surprised at the sheer amount of material. There were novels in that box! Perhaps not exactly in novel form, but if you define a novel by its word count, there were novels. I've heard it said that journaling is an indulgent waste of time; that one would do better to acquaint oneself with the structure of books rather than transcribe quotidian acts, bereft as they are of meaning and character development. I’m not so sure. Over the millions of words I have written, I have learned, at least, how to write a decent sentence and paragraph. I feel I have done a good deal of honing on the micro level, and now I have moved on to story structure and character layering. It helps if I think of myself as a Kung Fu master who spends ten years perfecting posture and breathing before moving on to the art of combat.

One of the items I pulled from the box was a 2-page (tightly-spaced, tiny-font, non-existent margins) story called “New Mexico.” I wrote it around my junior year of high school. I’ve thought about this story from time to time throughout my adult years because at the time I wrote it I thought it was brilliant, and I’d hoped to find it again and see if the reality matched my memory. It was about two young women of indeterminate ambition and background who, while incredibly stoned and tripping on LSD, cannot find their way home and so decide to hitchhike where life takes them. They get picked up by two young punk men en route to New Mexico, and each has tons of sex and they make their way Southwest. But the narrator’s friend steals the other one’s fuck partner, and the new couple drive off into the New Mexican desert, leaving the narrator stranded. The end.

It was lightly edited, nearly stream-of-consciousness, and not at all brilliant. In fact, it was fairly awful. I suppose I thought I was Gen X’s answer to Jack Kerouac, who I had never read but had heard great things about. I passed the story around to my friends at the Avalon, a greasy spoon café on Lake Street near South High School. I usually hung out there while classes were in session. My friends read it as we sat in the mauve booth drinking weak coffee loaded with cream and sugar. Their reactions were polite.

I was embarrassed rereading "New Mexico" and portions of my old diaries. But reading over the raw words of my sad adolescent self serves as a reminder that my writing has progressed, however slowly. I would never write a story like “New Mexico” now. Even my first drafts are worlds better than that. I have never (yet) been paid for a word I’ve written, but I submit things here and there, I belong to a writers’ critique group, I have a blog that has even drawn a few positive comments. Sometimes I will open a document in progress, and a line will catch my eye that I do not recognize as my own, because I think it is good. Moments like this are rare, and yet, this remains: sometimes, caught off-guard, I like what I write.

More often, though, I still don't like what I write. But I write anyway. In his poem “Berryman,” about the poet John Berryman, W. S. Merwin wrote:

I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

I am not sure. I will never be sure. I don't think that publication would quell my uncertainty.

I would like to be sure. I would like it if – even if I die alone, with no one having read a fucking thing I’ve written – I could be sure that what I wrote was worthy according to some universal, objective sense. But then, I would like to own a villa on the Spanish coast too. I’ve learned in the two decades since I began writing almost daily that letting small, badly-wanted things escape from you is no great tragedy. Eventually you forget them, just as I’ve forgotten the faces of the boys I had crushes on and wrote about in my 7th-grade diary.

But some things you can’t escape, even if you want to. That box of dozens of musty, unread journals tells me that something in me doesn’t need to be sure if what I write is any good. I will write no matter what. I don’t know why; that’s just part of who I am, and if I wanted to escape writing, I couldn't. Some people have soaring careers or keep impeccable houses or own an obscure record collection. I write. It’s what I do. Who gives a fuck if sometimes I churn out something like “New Mexico”?

But Zelda spotted me, and with insane speed she and Elijah scrambled into the front seat, still half-naked, and tore out of the parking lot into the miles of fields that lay ahead of them, not even bothering to use the pathetic dirt road; and leaving me standing in my bathrobe, choking on dust, and wondering how the fuck I was going to escape from New Mexico.

Bad writing precedes good writing.

Miss Van Seethinbottom captivates the globe!

2009-05-17T14:12:00.001-07:00

The past 100 visitors to my blog The Lamentations of a Lady have been from all over the United States, Canada, and Europe. But wait: also from Adelaide, Australia, somewhere in Siberia, the Canary Islands, Khartoum, Sudan, and Pune, India. To think that a consumptive, neurotic, wealthy waif could touch so many lives in so many diverse lands! Don't know if anyone finds this interesting. Don't care.

Has it really been five whole months since my last blog? Huh. Gotta work on that. I blame twitter, where I can distill an entire verbose blog into 140 pithy characters.

Don't drink and vote

2008-12-19T20:28:00.000-08:00

I mean, come on! Just ask for a new ballot! It's easy: go up to the election official, publicly admit you're deranged and screwed up on a very simple and straightforward task, and ask if you can start over! Christ!

Oh, wait...that looks familiar. Oh, yeah, that one was mine. What? Wasn't I clear enough? Shoot.

From Gualay to Wall-E: Bad Restaurant Spelling, Part II

2008-11-30T12:30:00.001-08:00

Match the bad spelling with the correct spelling. Keep your eyes on your own paper and your hands to yourself.

1) Onion no eslace
2) Freez lethers
3) Orang well-s
4) Romanie lethers
5) Moyones
6) Shirop peeles
7) Fresser
8) Wall-E
9) Zouce
10) Amburgur

A) Walleye
B) Orange wheels
C) Mayonnaise
D) Frisee lettuce
E) Unsliced onion
F) Hamburger
G) Sauce
H) Peeled shrimp
I) Freezer
J) Romaine lettuce

What I'm Thankful For

2008-11-27T21:21:00.000-08:00

The kids, natch
Having a job that is only in drastically reduced hour mode (not yet quite in layoff mode)
Obama, natch

Um...I'll have to search for some more...

Poor Advertising

2008-11-14T06:52:00.000-08:00

I was almost tempted to buy this kitchen for my kids for Christmas until I saw the boy child's hairdo:

I'm pretty sure the kid's not included, but the mullet's presence kind of diminishes the allure. Plus, are those stirrup pants he's wearing? Naaahhh.....

What I was up to Election Night

2008-11-07T12:12:00.000-08:00

Some video from 11/4/08 at Cedar-Riverside in Minneapolis; raw, amateur, and chaotic, just the way I like it:

This all went on for hours.

Halloween Hijinks

2008-11-03T20:20:00.000-08:00

Well, kids, times are tough. Even for an oyster-shucking, wine-schwilling, stay-at-home-mothering, crappy-fiction-writing aging hipster like myself. No one is immune. My hours keep getting cut at work and Kat is contemplating a second job -- but where? I don't know how much opportunity I will have to put my special talents to work, since no one can afford oysters on the half shell anymore. People have their IRAs to consider. Ah, well; not much I can do other than open a bottle of Summit and sigh.

Ah, but let us avoid the big problems for now. Halloween was a success. My dearest pal Amber and I went to Triple Rock, then Palmer's (sorry, too authentic for a website), then back to Triple Rock for a good time. I dressed as M.I.A. The costume was supposed to center around a wig, but the label:

did not faithfully represent the contents of the package:

For $4.99, however, I don't rightfully have a grievance.

Amber went as Amy Winehouse. During the night, however, her beehive wig fell. Such is the price one pays for heavy drinking:

These guys, Jack and Mark, wanted their picture taken.

I worked with Jack like 10 years ago but he didn't remember me. Such is the price one pays for heavy drinking.

In sum, the night was successful, if by "successful" you mean drunkenly saturnalian to the point of regret and shame.

But enough about the good times; now is the time for slumber and, likely, nightmares about a Palin presidency. Go out and vote for the right individual tomorrow. Hint: the right individual doesn't pretend that a slightly higher tax rate for the ultra-rich is the same thing as socialism.

Game time, kids!

2008-10-30T06:59:00.000-07:00

I have as co-workers some very bad spellers. To be fair, many of them are not fluent in English. But an enjoyable exercise, one that has brought me hours of challenge and eventual reward, is to try to decipher the labels on food containers in the walk-in. I wish to share with you, my loyal reader, the joy of this, my favorite pastime. Match the poor spelling with the picture below that it signifies. Above all, enjoy.

1. Chisse
2. Arbichois
3. Roosby
4. Garly
5. Gualay
6. Grim Bims
7. Boolybes
8. Slace Anie

a.

b.

c.

d.

e.

f.

g.

h.

The first 10 folks who send in the correct answers will be entered into a drawing whose first prize is a free digital picture of me. Second prize: free subscription to the ol' blog. Five runners-up will receive 10 ounces of slace anie.

Next week's game: Virtual oyster-shucking

The Onion's Best Article Ever

2008-10-23T10:12:00.000-07:00

So very prescient:

Bush: 'Our Long National Nightmare Of Peace And Prosperity Is Finally Over'

January 17, 2001
WASHINGTON, DC–Mere days from assuming the presidency and closing the door on eight years of Bill Clinton, president-elect George W. Bush assured the nation in a televised address Tuesday that "our long national nightmare of peace and prosperity is finally over."

"My fellow Americans," Bush said, "at long last, we have reached the end of the dark period in American history that will come to be known as the Clinton Era, eight long years characterized by unprecedented economic expansion, a sharp decrease in crime, and sustained peace overseas. The time has come to put all of that behind us."

Read the full article here.

Sorry for all the vids and reprints lately, loyal reader. Kat is lazy, or drunk, or both.

Red State Mentality, Part III

2008-10-18T08:09:00.000-07:00

These are the supporters that McCain said he was proud of:

Sorry, Johnny Boy, you don't see this kind of virulence at Obama rallies.

For those terrified of Halloween

2008-10-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

Found this on the Como Zoo website:

ZooBoo is a non-scary Halloween fundraising festival for families and young children. For this unique fall fundraiser, the grounds of Como Zoo transform into a world of fairytales and fun! Over 200 live costumed characters interact and entertain children.This magical event offers families a safe trick-or-treating alternative plus many Halloween surprises.

If any child is actually scared by Halloween, they probably don't deserve to participate. By "safe," do they mean "drug-free"? Because if that's the case, count me out.

Untitled

2008-10-10T07:18:00.000-07:00

This senate race is getting a little weird....

Franken's heartwarming response:

"Oh hi, you caught me as I'm having my morning coffee!"

There's also a clip on youtube in which Coleman professes that he misses santorum. Well, who, deprived of its frothy fecality, wouldn't?

Red State Mentality, Part II

2008-10-09T11:04:00.001-07:00

Find a pleasant profile of a typical McCain supporter here.

Red State Mentality

2008-10-03T06:32:00.000-07:00

I have to keep stealing pics from photobasement, because it's my favorite website (besides dubyaspeak, but that's more poignant than humorous). But it's okay, because I think they steal all their shit from other sites anyway.

It needs no comment, yet it came with one: "These seem like typical McCain supporters."

Dumber than George Bush?

2008-10-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

Holy Cow.

Every newspaper, kids. She has read "any" and "all" newspapers and magazines in existence. Does that include the Swiss Political Science Review and the Journal of Arthoplasty?

Knock me over with a feather

2008-09-21T19:40:00.001-07:00

Wha' ? John Kerry and George W. are distantly related? Why didn't I know about this? Did everyone know about this? And they're related to: John Adams, John Quincy Adams, William Taft, Herbert Hoover, Susan B. Anthony, William Jennings Bryan, Dorothea Dix, Winston Churchill, as well as many other notable vice-presidents, congressfolk, ambassadors, senators, judges, activists, activist judges, delegates, muckrackers, noisemakers, carpetbaggers, and Fish & Game Commission secretaries? Amazing. I mean, everyone knows that George W. Bush is an elitist, except the 50,456,002 delusional souls who voted for him based on his presumed ability to be a satisfactory drinking buddy, but Herbert Hoover? I thought he was just plain folks from Iowa!

This explains why I have failed to undergo a meteoric rise to the top of the political world: it just ain't in my blood. I come from a long line of proud oyster-shuckers and unknown bloggers.

Sorry for planting that image in that there noggin of yers. Sorry also to the website I stole it from. Anyone got a problem, tell me and I'll think about removing it.

So. Fucked. Up.

2008-09-06T06:25:00.000-07:00

The word "Orwellian" is thrown around a bit wantonly in letters to the editor and by stoned college kids. But the police action against certain anarchist groups planning to protest the RNC seems like nothing more than thoughtcrime. From the Star Tribune:

A federal judge refused this afternoon to order authorities to immediately return most of the pamphlets, literature and other material seized during four police raids last weekend....Attorneys for the plaintiffs argued that the seizure of books, maps and other literature violated their First Amendment rights. Exhibits in court included pamphlets and books with the titles "Anarchism, What it Really Stands For," "You Can't Blow Up a Social Relationship," "The Ethics of Labor Struggle" and others.

Maps? Maybe, like, a topographical survey of Lapland, or a street map of Madras? Definitely incendiary.

And what are those pamphlets? I found "Social Relationship" on the web and it's a dry screed against using violence and guerilla tactics in attempting to overthrow the social order. As for "Anarchism," this is a classic by Emma Goldman, which happens to rest on my bookshelf between Francis Bacon, "The Essays" and Rousseau, "The Social Contract" (which I still haven't read). Uh-oh! Does this admission mean my house will be raided and my documents seized? Does it also mean that I've hurt my chances of winning the senate race come November?

Quick quiz, kids: Which group has killed more people in the U.S.?

a) Anarchists
b) Pro-lifers

The answer, of course, is b. Yet you do not see this kind of treatment lavished upon those who picket Planned Parenthood. The police certainly don't raid the homes of pro-lifers and seize fundamentalist Christian literature.

Oh, yeah, and remember the foiled plot to assassinate Obama at the DNC? Anyone recall that, like, three weeks ago? Was there anywhere near the absurd level of police aggression in Denver? Troy Eid, the U.S. Attorney for Colorado, said: “We can say this: We’re absolutely confident there is no credible threat to the candidate, the Democratic National Convention, or the people of Colorado.” Riiiight. So a guy is found with rifles, walkie-talkies, and bulletproof vests, he admits to police that he was planning to shoot Obama, police arrest an associate of his named Adolf who was wearing a swastika ring and had a criminal record, and this is "no credible threat." Uh-huh. But journalists and unarmed citizens possessing anarchist books in the privacy of their own homes do pose a threat.

Fucked up, seriously fucked up.

Where be the rioting protesters?

2008-09-04T14:24:00.000-07:00

The liberal media is making the RNC protesters out to be a bunch of loonies who deserve beatdowns and jail time. Mayor Chris Coleman was on Minnesota Public Radio creaming himself because St. Paul was featured on CNN and the BBC. Yeah, I'm sure there's going to be a huge spike in St. Paul tourism. He also glowingly praised the police reaction, calling it appropriate. However, consider that 20 members of the media were arrested along with the nutty anarchists (despite what the liberal media might imply, being an anarchist is not a crime). Also witness the following:

Posted by a leftie:

Posted by a rightie:

Posted by someone of indeterminate political leanings:

I like the above because you can see the cops pepper-spraying the retreating crowd. The protesters above got a liiiiittle too close to the cops. Those cops are a bit high-strung, man. Maybe afraid someone would think them gay if a man brushed against them? I also like the guy dancing, refusing to let Johnny Law harsh his mellow.

Duuuuhuuuuude, just barbecuing some ribs, watching folks get pepper-sprayed:

Fight the power:

"Thanks, Corey, but I'm gonna cut you off before you try to make a salient point about authority's blatant suppression of free speech."

Kids, I've been scouring youtube and news clips, and I'll be dagblammed, but among the copious amount of amateur and professional footage, I just can't find one instance of a protester breaking or smashing anything or throwing bricks at the cops or doing anything besides march peacefully. Anyone want to dig anything up for me that would prove them justified in throwing explosives or spraying tear gas wantonly into a crowd?

My executive experience is bigger than yours...

2008-09-04T10:38:00.001-07:00

Wait...is this election about experience? Or not about experience? Or not about lack of experience? Or about whose lack of experience is more bigger? Or about whose experience is dumber? I'm so confused, my head is spinning....I need to lie down.

Hi, Republicans!

2008-09-03T19:10:00.001-07:00

Hey, Giuliani: if it was so important to you to elect a candidate with military experience, you had that option four years ago and you fuckin' blew it. Nice try. Try harder.

And I was just beginning to have my faith in democracy restored...

2008-09-02T20:17:00.000-07:00

Now, I don't know if you youngsters recall this, but there's this line in this document called the constitution that reads thus:

Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Heh, heh. Well, back in them days lawmakers was quaintly naive about extending rights and such to people so long's they owned plantations and other land acreages and such. But seein's how nowadays all type of folks been deemed proper citizenry, waaall, I just don't know quite what to make of all that, no-sir, I just don't quite know what to make of it. But clearly those early framers didn't have this riffraff in mind:

for when they drove up to the peaceable assemblage over yonder in St. Paul yesterday they was rightly greeted by these keepers of the peace:

Also too, a meddlesome reporter was arrested after she tried to ask the officers an uppity question. Don't she know you don't ask questions?

Waaall, I ought not say too much more about these riffraff who don't understand you don't peaceably assemble against unpopular warmongers. Those nutty anarchists...how much tear gas it gonna take afore they learn?

I just can't stop blogging about Republicans

2008-09-02T19:36:00.001-07:00

What the fuck does "Country First" mean? Why do Republicans insist on using the American flag as their personal symbol? Have you ever heard Obama say anything un-patriotic? Have you ever heard George Bush not blame the American people for any hardships they find themselves embroiled amongst? Politicians all cream themselves over their country, whatever their philosophy. Republicans have no monopoly on patriotism. Who comprises the "nation of whiners," as McCain so eloquently and whinily puts it? I turn on talk radio and hear right-wingers whining all day about their lifestyles being robbed from them. Boo-fucking-hoo. They seem to have plenty of gripes with this country, from immigrants who work harder than they would ever dare, to the rampant teen pregnancy rate amongst inner-city lib...oh, wait...uh, never mind.

Huh?

2008-09-02T19:14:00.000-07:00

Wait....some Republicans are taking Prom Queen seriously? Are you....fucking joking? What? What happened? Where am I?

Nice fuckin' VP pick

2008-09-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

Palin says daughter, 17, is pregnant
By LIZ SIDOTI, Associated Press Writer Mon Sep 1, 7:34 PM ET

ST. PAUL, Minn. - John McCain's running mate, Sarah Palin, said Monday her 17-year-old unmarried daughter is five months pregnant, an announcement stealing even more thunder from McCain and a Republican presidential convention already overshadowed by Hurricane Gustav.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
[gasp for breath]
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Panic; a sinking sensation of Dread

2008-08-31T06:29:00.000-07:00

Help me, public. By tomorrow my neighborhood will be swarming with 50,000 Republicans. In under 24 hours these overfed elitists will be everywhere, sucking aesthetic value and rational thought out of all that they encounter. Likely they will, locust-style, infest the restaurant that employs me. Someone come live in my house for the duration of the RNC. Please. Please. Please. Please.

This Ain't the PTA, Sweetie

2008-08-29T09:35:00.000-07:00

Is Sarah Palin running for Vice President of a major North American democracy? Or is she running for Soil and Water Conservation Commissioner of the Homer District? 'Cause you coulda fooled me.

Craig Finn=Keats for the 21st century?

2008-08-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

This is just pure, unadulterated poetry, yeah?:

I gotta lot of old friends that are getting back in touch
And it’s good, good feeling, yeah it feels pretty good.

Brilliant! "Lyrically dense storytelling," as one critic puts it. I'm not sure if you captured the nuance there, but friends are "good." Like, they inspire feelings which are "pretty good."

It's, like, ironic, see? His conversational style is so very realistic; like, he knows that he's being good in his badness, which is actually ignorant sweetness. It's all so meta, like. You know?

You know we couldn’t have even done this
If it wasn’t for you.

That, friends, is as touching as any end-of-year farewell scribbled in a junior high yearbook.

Finn isn't just a poetic genius on stage. He carries around his lyrics in everyday life like he carries around his Discover card that he spends at his beloved Brooklyn bars while he reminisces about the sad-eyed girls in Richfield. For instance, in a City Pages interview, in an instant of inspired extemporaneousness, he gave the world this gem:

We were doing this '70s rock thing and thinking, 'This sounds pretty cool!'"

Can anyone compare to him? Don't answer; that's rhetorical.

But no lyric, no poetry or prose, spoken or on the page, even approaches the following sheer godlike quality of these 16 words:

we gotta stay positive
we gotta stay positive
we gotta stay positive
we gotta stay positive

Whew. How can I even think of commenting on such profundity? I need to go lie down, and, like, clear my head for awhile, man.

What I laugh at

2008-08-10T11:09:00.000-07:00

I know I'm a tad on the immature side. I'm 31 and wear jumpers and don't comb my hair; everyone thinks I'm 17. I don't shop at Bed Bath and Beyond or electronics stores, like I've heard many 30-somethings do. I don't cream myself over stilettos, my purse collection is limited to a plaid Dickies bag and a patent leather clutch that I got for $3 at a thrift store, and my kitchen is about as clean as a dorm commons. I laugh at flatulence jokes and can't complete a sentence without throwing in either "dude" or "fuck" or "fuck, dude!" So it goes without saying (except I'm about to say it) that I titter whenever I'm listening to NPR and hear a report about a troop withdrawal from Iraq, or about a Georgian pullout from South Осетия. Does anyone else have this experience?

Funny in all the wrong ways.

2008-08-09T22:13:00.000-07:00

I don't know, this is just very funny.

U.S. President George W. Bush poses with U.S. Women's Beach Volleyball team player Kerri Walsh (R) while visiting the Chaoyang Park Beach Volleyball Grounds at the 2008 Summer Olympic Games in Beijing August 9, 2008.
REUTERS/Larry Downing (CHINA)

Can he stop sweating? It's making me want to vomit. I also like how the caption indicates which figure is not George Bush.

This is also funnily disturbing:

Republican sex scandals (the above picture, Larry Craig's foot-tapping, Warren Jeffs, etc.) are just so much creepier than straightforward, good old-fashioned Democratic ones (fucking an intern, fucking a prostitute, fucking a campaign worker: borr-ring!).

Hey kids! It's lazy & random post day!

2008-08-08T23:09:00.000-07:00

Internet Pet Peeve #21:
youtube parodies that are less funny than the original; exempli gratia, the clip of Chris Crocker's Britney-induced meltdown was funny. The clip of Miss Teen South Carolina's non-answer regarding the South Africa and the state of maps in the U.S. America was funny. Yet people like Seth Green felt they had to improve upon the humor, as if viewers couldn't unearth the hilarity in these videos. Then people like me felt like we had to view the substandard parodies, thinking that they must add some new angle that we hadn't thought of. Mmm...nope. No new angle there, and little humor, just 2 minutes and 17 seconds wasted as I hurtle ever faster towards inevitable death, wasting my life away on youtube. Just like you're wasting your life reading this blog.

Waitress/Barista Pet Peeve #10:
Scenario: a customer (most likely a hat-wearing woman between the ages of 45-70) asks, "What do you recommend?"

"Well, the tuna tartar is excellent -- "

"Tartar? Isn't that raw? Ew, no, no, no...What about the fettucine, is that good?"

"Mmm...it's all right. But in my opinion, there are better dishes, such as the fennel pollen-crusted halibut --"

"I don't think I like fennel. No -- no, I'll go with the fettucine."

I don't think one customer has ever jumped all over my recommendation like a male macaque on a female macaque's scarlet posterior. Listen, middle-aged women: I don't know why you need so much attention and tip so little,* but don't assume my taste is the same as your taste. If it was, I would also be wearing a hideous red brimmed hat with a cheap purple ribbon tied around it. And don't get all pissed when you don't like my recommendation. I like my coffee strong, my fish raw, my wine purple and melancholy, and I do not cream myself over the thought of chocolate cake. That's just me. You are free to cream yourself over chocolate cake and shrimp-studded fettucine if you like.

I do not dress like this. Chefs begrudgingly place fettucine on menus specifically to suit women who dress like this.

*Actually, having read a fair amount** of Freud's works, I do: you are unhappy in your marriage and unsatisfied by your hyper-secure life. Although you are a control freak in certain superficial areas (obsessively vacuuming your gray living room carpet, obsessively bobbing your hair), deep down you feel you have no control, and you're right: none of us do. So you try to control those you feel yourself to be superior to (servers), when in fact you are allowing yourself to be controlled by these people who are ultimately inconsequential in your life: witness your utter peevishness and anhedonic tendencies for the duration of your sojourn at any public house.

**Like, 5.

Good-bye?

2008-08-06T12:07:00.000-07:00

It may be all over for me, kids. I seem to have invoked the ire of the crack dealers across the street. I mentioned last month that they had moved; well, for these people, moving is a month-long process that mostly involves creating large piles of garbage such as this one:

The above picture, which I took last evening, has swelled to double the size shown. Today a woman associated with this residence angrily approached me as I was unloading my kids from the car. The conversation went like this:

A neighbor told me that you were taking pictures of my trash. You wanna mind telling me why?

For my own purposes.

What purposes?

Personal use.

Well, I have a dumpster coming today to take it away, so I'd appreciate it if you'd mind your own business.

It is my business. I live on this block, and I have to look at it.

Well, it's gonna be gone, so don't worry.

And she left without hurling so much as a single punch. My common-law husband thinks it would have behooved me to not infuriate the sort of people whose first resort is violence, and for whom willful property damage is only a second resort, and who don't mind jail at all. But seriously. Why was she so protective of the proprietary rights of her garbage?

In retaliation, some of the house's associates began snapping pics of my house. Maybe they're not so tough after all.

But if I should turn up, say, dead, or beaten and left for dead, be sure and tell the police about my neighbors. I would assume they'd be the prime suspects.

If I never see y'all again, so long.

Warning: Sweet, loving, non-sarcastic post to follow

2008-08-02T23:11:00.000-07:00

Harold and Jax turn two today. Happy birthday, sweet boys.

Here's a little song for them:

And here is their favorite lullaby, "Mbube," later recorded as "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." It's one of the sweetest lullabies ever, or do I just have a weird sense of "sweet"?

Don't worry, boys, I'll protect you from lions. Oh, wait, there's no lions around here. Okay, then, I'll protect you from the crack-dealing neighbors.

2008-07-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

Here's another one from the inimitable Steve Ballmer, just 'cause it's 2 a.m. and I have little insight to put forth:

Just one observation (assuming I don't have to make the observation that he might want to bring up his perspiration problem to his physician during his annual prostate exam) : had I been an audience/cult member during the above presentation, I would not have been among those cheering. I'm assuming I would have been running for my life.

For Shits & Giggles

2008-07-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

This video is old, and I believe that of the 1,126,181 views on youtube, 1,126,100 were viewed by me. And yet I laugh, on the 1,126,101st viewing. This lunatic runs Microsoft:

And, in honor of the great Estelle Getty (who was one year younger than Bea Arthur, her TV daughter):

Dear Hipsters:

2008-07-22T22:59:00.001-07:00

The woodland animal trend should stop. Deer heads are only cute to Wisconsinites.

The apex of coolness, to some in Williamsburg and rural Wisconsin.

Why I Am Better Than the Hold Steady.

2008-07-20T22:54:00.000-07:00

(Originally printed, in a slightly different form, on myspace.com. Sorry to those of you who have had to endure this twice.)

It needs to be said, and I shall be the one to say it: The Hold Steady are not cool.

Is anyone with me on this? Anyone? If anyone out there agrees with me that the Hold Steady are not “the greatest straight-up rock band of the 21st century” (thanks, Esquire; like I value your opinion) please inform me. If you think they don’t even make the top 50, pull up a chair and I’ll pour you a nice glass of Frontenac.

I'm not some philistine, okay? I know good music. I know the critics dig them, but this critical popularity only proves that critics are 1) squares, 2) not that bright, 3) only attuned to minor, not profound, nuance in lyricism. Have the critics who proclaim Craig Finn to be "one of the best writers in rock," and his lyrics "near-prophetic," ever read anything longer than this blog post? Have they ever read a novel not written by Chuck Palahniuk?

It wouldn't be half as bad if I didn't have to constantly read glowing articles in the local press regurgitating the same three irrelevant facts:

1) They're from Minneapolis, and now live in Brooklyn
2) They drink beer
3) Something something about Bruce Springsteen something something.

Well. I am from Minneapolis, and I drink beer. I do not, however, sound like Bruce Springsteen.

So far: Kat, 3 points, Hold Steady, 2. Still with me?

I have also not sold out to move to Brooklyn. Because while it may be that all members but one of the Hold Steady hail from the lovely Midwest, they decided to take the easy way out and move to Funtown New York. I have not chosen to abandon my brethren simply because I am artsy and New York makes life easy for artsy hipsters. I maintain my unpopular stance that New York sucks.

Kat 4, Hold Steady 2.

Plus they allude to Christianity in their lyrics. Lame!

Kat 4, Hold Steady 1.

We may both drink beer, but living in New York they have no access to Summit, Surly, or Flat Earth. They probably drink Pabst, like other Williamsburg hipsters.

Kat 5, Hold Steady 0.

Craig Finn went to Breck.

Kat 5, Hold Steady –1.

Craig Finn, according to the Star Tribune, "worked in an office as recently as 2006." I briefly worked in an office too. Fuck that. I'd rather slave away and feel productive than be bored. I got balls enough to work in a restaurant kitchen.

Kat 6, Hold Steady -2.

According to the same Star Tribune article, Craig Finn has "a lawyer friend." Very, very uncool.

Kat 6, Hold Steady -3.

To further prove how cool I am, even though I live in the lowly Twin Cities and not New York, I will now provide you with the lyrics to a song that I wrote that sounds just as mental as a Hold Steady song. Note the 9 million quaint Minneapolis-St. Paul references. Thanks.

So we're drivin on the crosstown, me & her
And we got a 6-pack of James Page
Later on we drive past Southdale
And then up Lyndale Avenue on a whim
She's gorgeous but still searching for Something
I bet she'll find that something on 694
So we drive along 694 for awhile
We're down to four beers now
Oh, yeah, we're feelin' good
So we decide to knit some scarves
We knit our hearts into some scarves, yeah
And leave them on the doorsteps of the disaffected
Out here in Golden Valley.

Last I heard she lives somewhere around Brooklyn Center
But she still has Hiawatha Avenue dreams
And she's still searching
Oh, she's searching
Somewhere in Brooklyn Center
I hope to see her again someday
Until then I'll drink a James Page
And wish we were still driving on Highway 100
With three beers left.

See? Their lyrics are really easy to write. They are not "near prophetic."

Kat 12, Hold Steady –10

Plus, who looks more bad-ass onstage? Craig Finn?

Or:

Sorry, guys. Kat Vapid wins this time.

Two Thoughts

2008-07-19T23:08:00.000-07:00

1. Saturday night feels blank without a stream of bass-booming cars, without punches thrown in the street, without St. Paul's uniformed calm-keepers swooping in with bright lights. All is quiet. Eerie. Wrong.

2. Some might say it is decidedly uncool for a person to drive around in her Subaru blaring Nirvana. I don't fucking care. I intend to embrace the 90's like the Baby Boomers embrace their stupid fucking 60's. If those jerks can get all wistful over Strawberry Alarm Clock, I can publicly state my love for Nirvana and lament how artistically impoverished 21st-century hip-hop is. If they can try to pretend that they participated in various protest marches that ushered in some non-revolution, and then proceeded to sell out and vote for Reagan when it became clear that the purchase of a BMW was in their reach, well, by gum, I can truthfully state that I just sat around looking blasé for the entirety of 1994. Except for when I ran out of pot. Then I got off my ass and wandered for miles in search of some kind bud.

Me fitting as much flannel as the laws of physics will permit into one space, ca. 1994.

Dragon Festival

2008-07-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

Dragon Boat Festival last weekend at Lake Phalen. Always pleasant. The best five bucks I've spent all year paid for these:

Tattoo designs, you ask? Mais non! My children's names, magically translated into Chinese calligraphy. Apparently their surname means "artist." You may or may not know that their father is an accomplished artist. How very prescient.

Name #1: Oliver. Chinese meaning: works for the benefit of others. And indeed, Oliver is a very empathetic boy, always concerned with how other people are feeling. He is the humanitarian in the bunch.

#2: Jax. Interested in doing great things; poetic. I have long said that Jax has the soul of a poet.

#3: Harold. Logical; generous. Well, this one doesn't quite fit. I was fully expecting it to mean "mischievous" or "impish" or "frequently inconsolable" or "ADD." Three outta four is an okay rate, I guess.

While I ate some mung bean-stuffed sesame puffs under a willow tree, my appetite turned to nausea as I witnessed a man sitting about ten feet from me clipping his toenails. Other than this incident, the festival was a success.

Vacancy

2008-07-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

Hot Dog! I hope this mortgage crisis never ends! Thanks, George Bush! Your ownership society is a real lulu!

The dear family across the street from my house is gone. Gone is the crack-dealing and the beer-drinking and the senseless screaming and public beatings in the street. Silence has descended upon this crumbling crescent of a St. Paul neighborhood. Where have they gone? Where is the mother and her three lovely, neglected children, and the oldest daughter's prison-tattoo-covered, shirtless, cocaine-hawking boyfriend? Where is the stream of rusted cars that once graced my block from noon until 5 a.m.? I know not, but I miss them already. The house is dark, a victim of the ubiquitous foreclosure trend that is sweeping the nation. Apparently my next-door neighbors have decided to jump on the foreclosure bandwagon too. And there the house sits, with its many DIY, incongruous additions, with its array of ancient machines and broken garden tools in the backyard. So many houses...so few residents.

I'm so glad I bought my house in 2003, when prices were just bursting. Equity is for suckers.

My theme song

2008-07-13T00:47:00.000-07:00

Dear loyal reader,

I would like to take this opportunity to make a token apology for the recent technical difficulties that afflicted this blog. But I have been occupied by very important matters.

You see, for some time now I have been attempting to pick a theme song for myself. No small task, when one considers that in the history of music, over 250 songs have been sung, played, written and/or recorded. In the case of many pre-industrial societies, the music was sung only to the people present, each melody or rhythm simply donated to the ether and to the moment, without hope of preserving it in digital or analog format. In the case of Kevin Federline, the music was merely recorded, without being sung, played, or written. A remarkable feat.

What exactly am I trying to say? I’m not quite sure myself. But oftentimes, when listening to what musicologists like to call “music”, I have felt that certain songs were written just for me. Perhaps you have had the same sensation while listening to “The Mickey Mouse Club March” or “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.”

For me, during times of heartache or triumph, the following songs have been constants in my life, acting as salve, as balm, as Percocet to my withered soul:

Amy Winehouse, “I Wake Up Alone.”
“I stay up, clean the house/least I'm not drinkin'/run around just so I don't have to think about thinkin'...There’s this ache in my chest/’cause my day is done now/the dark covers me and I cannot run now.”

Johnny Paycheck, “I Can’t Quit Drinkin’.”
'Cause, you know.

Cat Power, “It’s Alright to Fail.”
Except she’s not a failure, so the sting listening to these words is even more poignant.

Nirvana, various songs regarding misery and self-hatred.

Neko Case, “Margaret vs. Pauline.”
"[Katherine] is the fragment of a name/Her love flows like a fountain, her love seethes like rage/her jaw aches from wanting and she's sick from [restaurant-grade] chlorine, but she'll never be as clean/as the cool side of satin, Pauline."

John Ashcroft, “Let the Eagle Soar.”
I was pleasantly pleased to learn that Mr. Ashcroft shares my enthusiasm for all things avian. I, like our former Attorney General, would like to give the order Falconiformes credit for being the noblest of all bird groupings. (Or perhaps was Mr. Ashcroft referring to the alternative classification scheme, Accipitriformes? Or maybe even referencing the New World species, Haliaeetus leucocephalus and Aquila chrysaetos? One cannot be certain, given his cryptic use of the generic term, "eagle".)

But I have decided that the one that most defines my life is:

Edith Piaf, “Je Ne Regrette Rien.”
Literally translated, this means “I don’t regret shit,” though a looser interpretation would be, “I don’t give a fuck.” The song is really some sentimental shit about meeting some lover who would change one’s life, erase all the heartache of the past. What fucking ever. That’s never happened to anyone. All I give a fuck about is the not giving a fuck part. ‘Cause a fuck I give not.

I can't believe I missed the smokestack demolition

2008-06-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

The Xcel energy plant, located about 3 blocks from my house, imploded the old smokestack at 7:30 a.m. today. I fucking missed it. Whose fault? Sadie's, the shrill girl across the street. She was screaming at her mother until late into the night. I set my alarm for 7:00 but somehow slept through it. The BOOM woke me up, though, and I watched it topple from my bedroom window. Probably a good thing, due to the ol' asthma.

Here are videos of it from two different perspectives. The first, with its insightful commentary, is just so West End.

I got balls

2008-06-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, my ship has come in. I have officially moved from the very groveling position of shrimp de-veiner to the prestigious one of oyster shucker. Here I am, everyone. I now reside atop a mountain of gold, enjoying the mangoes and durians of my labor.

It is a gleaming new restaurant I work in, fairly high-profile, with a substantial kitchen workforce of perhaps 50, give or take. I am one of 5 or so female cooks. Personally I was quite struck, when I first shuffled in to the punch-in clock along with the others, by what a male-dominated field cooking still is. It may be that the particular company I work for just hates women, or that my interviewer mistook me for a man.

Foodie-ism has been kind of fashionable (amongst squares anyway) for some time now. Gourmet clubs are a staple in well-to-do neighborhoods; women and non-women alike delve into Saveur and Cook's Illustrated, and pride themselves on their ability to eyeball a liquid pint or pluck out a strand of mâche from a barrel of microgreens, or to distinguish a Wellfleet from a Hama Hama, or a North Coast Fumé Blanc from a New Zealandish Sauvignon Blanc. But these are all upper-class people who cook in the slowness of their own kitchen, and who would never dream of donning a chef's coat and shoving artichoke dip under a professional salamander. Why? Why is this?

Here I could put my degree in Cultural Studies and Comparative Literature to good use and work towards the development of a hermeneutics of hegemonic practices as they relate to the process of othering involved in the dichotomized, genderfied rôles of cooking, viz., performing an identical mechanical action within vastly different socioeconomic contexts, and the resultant splintering of identity due to the fetishistic voyeurism involved in the "Suturing" (to use Kristeva's term) of "Self" that clearly defines one's conception of actualization as it relates to the transcendental signified, and through this launch a feminist critique of Barthes's structuralist methods...but that would be taking the easy way out. As with most things, the issue is not as convoluted as a Critical Theory analysis would make it appear. Simply put: most foodies are pussies. I got balls, big-ass balls.

Why I'm Awake at This Hour, Take 2

2008-06-24T01:18:00.000-07:00

People think I'm kidding about my fuckin' block. I'm not kidding about my fuckin' block. Tonight, my one night off this week, I was woken by screaming, coming from the same shrill woman who last night shrieked at Carlos (no last name given). Soon came the squeal of tires from a 90's-era maroon Cadillac, followed by a loud crash as it hit the El Camino next door to me. More squeals, more screams. The car circled the block, returned and hurled what looked to be a large flower pot out the window. Sleepily, routinely, I trudged down the stairs and dialed 911.

"Hi, Jean, it's Kat again."
"Oh, hi, Kat. Same house fighting tonight?"
"Yep, same house."
"Ohhh, kids these days."
"Tell me 'bout it."
"All right, I'll dispatch Will and Fred out there now."
"You're the best, Jean."

As I spoke with the operator I witnessed the car again circle around the block. It stopped to taunt the onlookers. This time, the neighbor with the El Camino raced his own car out in front of the Cadillac in a valiant attempt to stop the vehicle. The driver was thwarted. The thugs across the street -- at least five of them -- yanked the Cadillac driver out of the car and proceeded to beat the living bejeezus out of him. They also took various objects -- shovels, baseball bats, perhaps a brick? -- and pummeled the front and back windshield of the car into powder. Somehow, it's not as thrilling a sight as it looks on TV. I was simply filled with a sense of dread when I considered my house's plummeting market value due to the, you know, housing crisis, coupled with the scourge of undesirable W.T. neighbors.

Well, several police units arrived, none too soon. A crowd gathered. Most neighbors are content to gawk from behind windows, but this particularly violent episode brought out pajamaed folks from up and down the block. The cops chortled as witnesses gave brief statements.

As the shrill-voiced woman who had been doing most of the screaming trudged back to the house with her mother (crime and trashiness are a family affair here on my block), she felt the need to expel some of her pent-up pathos on her sleepy neighbors. "You people are so disrespectful!" She shrieked at those of us who had been respectfully woken up well after midnight. "We're human beings!" I find it very amusing when human beings feel the need to remind others what species they belong to. Especially humans who have just been involved in a brutal beat-down of another human.

I leaned against the rusted 134-year-old fence that protects my porch from pedestrians and absorbed the scene. Above the confusion and chatter and inhaling of cigarettes, a shirtless gentleman from two doors down could be heard to yell:

"This is how we do it in St. Paul!"

I beamed with pride.

Why I'm Awake at This Hour

2008-06-23T01:11:00.000-07:00

I slept about three hours, changed diapers and refilled glasses of milk all day, then worked about 10 hours over a hot oyster bar. It was my utmost desire to collapse into bed with a glass of Meritage spilling all over me. Alas, the good folks across the street have impeded my plans. When I arrived home around 1 AM I was pleased to see that they were hosting another get-together, accompanied by plenty of blood-curdling screaming -- most of it by a girl, directed at a gentleman named Carlos -- plenty of bodies being pushed into chain-link fences, and a couple of beer bottles thrown from fast-moving getaway trucks. Then there was retaliatory screaming from pissed-off neighbors, the flash of lights as St. Paul's finest were dispatched, and a gentlelady (presumably Carlos's ex) sobbing as she recounted her story.

Thus, I am at my keyboard, instead of slumbering on a wine-soaked mattress.

What I Do Give a Fuck About

2008-06-21T10:18:00.001-07:00

I am really trying to not give a fuck. I shouldn't try so hard, as it defeats the purpose. I am

really

really

really

trying.

But when you have a job shucking oysters from 3 p.m. until 1 a.m., are trying to launch a writing career, have a vegetable garden that is screaming to be tended, a kitchen that rapidly fills with ants and fruit flies if crushed cheerios are not promptly removed from the floor, in addition to three little boys who rise before 5 a.m., there is one thing a girl intensely gives a fuck about: NAPPING.

Another milestone

2008-06-18T12:38:00.000-07:00

Technorati officially ranked The Lamentations of a Lady at #3,324,847. Movin' up in the world!

What I Don't Want

2008-06-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

There are some things I know I want in life. To love and be loved, to do something I love well, to never suffer insult or injury, to die cowering and screaming rather to than peacefully and courageously slip away, these are vague things we can all agree on. I haven't worked out the specifics. For example, who do I want to love? My kids and husband? Or somebody else's kids and husband? Shall my life's work and passion be shrimp de-veining or oyster shucking? Do I want to die with a gun to my head so it's all over quickly, or die in a locked vault into which my archenemy is rapidly pumping hydrogen cyanide, so that others will marvel over my exotic way of exiting?

These answers, I do not know the questions to. But there is one thing I know I don't want. I never want this blog to be referred to as "snarky."

The heterosexuals on my block are destroying the sanctity of marriage

2008-06-12T19:27:00.000-07:00

There are a goodly number of strife-ridden heterosexual couplings in the 8XX block of H------ Street (not my real address) in Saint Paul, Minnesota, where I make my residence. Most of these marriages involve public yelling; some even involve children. I say to you now, and to the law-makers of our fair state, that these heterosexual marriages are a stain on humanity, an affront against God, and demand redress in our legislature. The situation has advanced to the point that a constitutional amendment banning straight marriage is necessary, in order to prevent these riffraff from procreating and debasing the honorable institution that is marriage.

Many of these straight parents yell at their children, spewing out such venom as: "Quit! I said, QUIT! Get yer ass over here! You want a smackin'?" One straight couple engaged in a furious argument last weekend that proceeded something like this:

Hetero woman: "That's my car! You can't take my fuckin' car!"
Hetero man: "I'm takin' it!"
"That's my fuckin' car!"
"Get outta my way, you fuckin' bitch!"
"Fine, I'll break all the windows and slash all the tires!"
"Shut up, you cunt!"

Exchanges such as this are not uncommon. Most of these heterosexuals dabble in various controlled substances, if not in active abusing or dealing. The house three doors down from me is a popular drug duplex, containing some heterosexuals and the tragic results of their copulation, and hosting a steady stream of gaunt meth-heads, the majority of them heterosexual. The police are frequent visitors to this house.

Across the street is another matter entirely. I can't figure out who are the lawful occupants of this home, but there is a more or less 20-hour-a-day, six-day-a-week party occurring at this house. X-treme bass; unabashed marijuana consumption; profuse drinking; littering; high-decibel swearing; heterosexual amorousness.

Katherine Kersten, the brilliant philosopher, creams herself over heterosexual monogamous marriage, which she erroneously likes to claim has been the historical standard (it isn't; while it has been the commonest form of partnership, polygamy is the ideal to strive for in most societies. Still, what makes the norm something worthy of being legislated? For most of human history, poverty and hand-to-mouth living have been the norm, yet one doesn't see constitutional amendments stating that only mud huts are acceptable dwellings, or demanding that citizens make a living using proper hunting/gathering methods.) But as I see it, the straights, on my block anyway, are degrading this venerable institution. Enough is enough. This election season, support me in my efforts to ban straight marriage.

If it is relevant to you pro-straight-marriage types, next door to me lives a nice, friendly, civic-minded family, comprised of a gay couple and their two kids. They are well-regarded by some of the more articulate heterosexuals in the neighborhood. They have the most well-maintained house and yard on the block, while the domiciles of many of my straight neighbors have porches adorned with cardboard boxes and discarded exercise machines. Their house is surrounded by a fucking white picket fence (I am incapable of uttering or writing the phrase "white picket fence" without preceding it by an expletive). I have never heard them yell at their children, or seen the cops arrive to break up a domestic dispute. I'm just sayin'.

P.S. Someone broke into our car the other day and stole nothing (there was nothing to steal). I don't mean to sexually profile, but it was probably the damn heterosexuals.

I am sorry. However, it's your fault.

2008-06-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that my blog of yesterday was crude and vulgar to the point of offending certain types of people who have delicate sensibilities. I want to say that if anyone took umbrage at my mentioning the existence of sex, I feel bad. I feel bad for you.

As a chronicler of the follies and foibles, the dreams and detritus of life in the 21st-century Midwest, I realize that I have a particular responsibility to the youth and the feeble-minded among us, and that these sub-categories of people and their caretakers have come to expect more of me. I fault myself for these high expectations, but let me set the record straight: I do not set a very high bar. My standards -- for a life well-lived, for intellectual challenge, for career ambition, for moral rectitude -- are unusually low for a member of the bourgeoisie, and if anyone among you mistook me for an upright citizen, I am sorry.

Quite simply, I misspoke. Or at least, I spoke, and some people didn't like what was said. I sincerely apologize if anyone misconstrued my intentions, which were nothing if not ignoble. I am sorry for being so forthright. I certainly hope this won't cost me votes.

As a very public figure, I make many statements. Some of these statements are simplistic so my constituents can understand; some of them border on pornographic. It is the liberal media's job to filter what I say; if they shirked their responsibilities, I am sorry on their behalf. The public at large has duties as well; if any of the masses fail to cover their ears when they suspect I am preparing to expound on the subject of robot sex, all I can do is say I regret that they did not adhere to the standards of society.

My words from yesterday, which I regret some found offensive, were intended humorously. Some of them were not entirely truthful, and I am deeply troubled by the fact that certain readers were not able to distinguish between reality and fiction. Let me state unequivocally: I have never had sexual intercourse. For me to imply in a public forum that I have engaged in such licentious activity was unforgivable; therefore, I hope you can find space in your hearts to forgive me. I have never exploited women or robots for sexual gain. I'm sorry if some were touchy enough to find my comments racially insensitive towards the female persuasion; I'm sorry if members of the robot community were not programmed to understand that my remarks were not in fact anthrocentrist. I intended no offense against any robot, android, cyborg, or AI entity. I'm sorry you were too inhuman to comprehend this nuanced fact.

Again, I hope all those offended can summon the courage to move past this unfortunate incident.

Goodnight, and I'm sort of sorry, I guess.

Al Franken = Big-ass pussy

2008-06-08T08:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, Mr. Franken: Did you really need to apologize for writing a column for Playboy? Did you even need to acknowledge the prude concerns of Minnesota Republicans? The letter they penned is really a hoot, affecting a feminist stance when its authors hail from the very party that mocks feminists. This is my favorite meaningless quote from the GOPs: "We hardly find anything defensible about your finding humor in your desire to have sex with women or robots that look like women simply to give yourself a good time." I'm not sure if you've ever laughed in your adult lives, ladies, but sex is an age-old and fertile resource for humorists, from Rabelais to Woody Allen to Amy Sedaris (three of my personal favorites). Sex can be funny. I've personally laughed during sex, and I've laughed about sex. I think most red-blooded Americans, indeed, most citizens of the world, whatever the hue of their blood, are with me on this. Sex is fun, and sex can be funny, whether one is a man or a non-man. And if you fail to find humor in robot sex, you should see a psychiatrist about scoring a Wellbutrin prescription, because you display severe anhedonic tendencies, suggesting a major depressive episode. I realize these words may come back to haunt me when I launch my own senate campaign ten years from now, but I say them, as youth* is wont to do, without foresight into their character-damaging potential.

I will reiterate, Democrats: Quit fucking apologizing for meaningless shit! Why does Al Franken have to apologize for the supposed misogyny behind fictional robot sex, while Arnold Schwarzenegger can portray a testosterone-driven, bulging-forehead-veined sociopath hunting down women with the express purpose of slaughtering them with a machine gun? How is that Arnie can be elected governor of the largest state in the union without having to spew forth mea culpas about the effect his violent movies have on the youth of our nation? In the warped moral system of Republicans, sex with women is evil (and sex with robots is evil, even though they can't feel anything), but blowing off women's heads is acceptable. Got all this?

In addition to the Republicans feigning shock, Planned Parenthood has also denounced Franken's article. Whatever. Planned Parenthood should be extolling robot sex as being a foolproof form of birth control. This is liberating for women!

But, Democrats, I guess you just don't really want to win elections that bad. I guess you just prefer that we keep the Norm Colemans and Bushes of the world in office, eh? Cause that's where we're headed. Thanks a lot, jerks.

*I am still young. I am. I am very young and show no signs of age. I may be too old to participate in "American Idol," but I am extremely youthful. I sprint through clover-strewn meadows without a care in the world.

The beauty of drunkenness

2008-06-07T20:24:00.000-07:00

I realize it's Saturday night and all, but really, do the folks on my block need to scream swear words at each other for hours on end? Can't they cease at midnight?

2008-06-03T21:13:00.000-07:00

This is Oliver's attempt to ban his younger brothers from his personal space:

Will I be seeing the Sex in the City movie?

2008-06-02T21:25:00.001-07:00

No. No I won't.

Of Geez and Cheese

2008-05-31T08:18:00.000-07:00

Lovely morning for the farmer's market. Lovely morning for the purchase of hickory smoked trout, spinach and rhubarb. Ran out of money before I could get to the asparagus.

Overheard whilst strolling through the celosia-packed aisles:

Woman: That stand back there was sellin' cheese fer $10 a wedge.
Man: Oh geeeez.
Woman: So I just thought, you know what? No.

I have had the cheese in question, LoveTree Farm cave-aged cheeses. I would like to state that I would rather give up my home than go without this cheese. 'Cause really, would you rather be sitting in the dark of your living room eating Kraft Singles or under a golden sun savoring Trade Lake Cedar sheep's milk cheese? If you are ever at the St. Paul farmer's market and you have an extra $10 jingling around in your pocket, do yourself a favor and try this shit. They also give out generous samples, if you're poor and would prefer to remain in your home.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

2008-05-30T22:21:00.000-07:00

You have no idea the unserendipitous turn my life just took. Just astounding. I'm afraid I can't comment in a public blog. All I can say is,

1) They aren't fuckin' around when they say don't burn bridges.
2) They also aren't fuckin' around when they say be careful what you wish for...

Listen, children. Heed this advice.

To give a fuck or not to give a fuck?

2008-05-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

I guess if I didn't give a fuck I wouldn't be on the ol' myspace. Maybe I should delete my account.

Wait, wait, wait. My being on there is evidence of how little I give a fuck. It's all a big self-referential joke.

Whatever. I don't give a fuck either way.

Not giving a fuck, Day 4, or whatever day it is, I don't give a fuck

2008-05-27T20:43:00.000-07:00

There were signs of it coming. My new lifestyle, that is.

For instance,

We are sorry for the interruption. This content has been deleted due to its incendiary nature. We realize that this censorship contradicts the author's professed notgiveafucking, but we don't give a fuck. Thank you. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.

Slowly, ever so imperceptibly, the philosophy of not-giving-a-fuck-ed-ness crept into my psyche.*

Then, a couple of weeks ago, while on my way to drop off yet another résumé, stung by the humiliation of a 4-plus-month-long job search for the very lowly, underpaid job of kitchen drone, I suddenly said to myself: You know what? I just don't give a fuck about this job. I'm dropping off this here résumé at a high-profile joint in a desirable zip code. The ladies working the front of the house all have legs that ascend inches above my head, ersatz smiles, 3-hour makeup jobs, and boyfriends with backwards baseball caps. These are people I don't pay attention to and have no interest in. So, driving from my dysfunctional neighborhood up the big hill to where Garrison Keillor lives and where 50-year-old women who dress like their 16-year-old daughters prance around shopping 12 hours a day, I decided to view the whole thing as practice. I simply wouldn't be nervous. I went in to where a whole team of hiring managers and assistant managers and interviewers and HR chicks and chef dudes sat, and threw the pathetic work history down on the table.

"Bitch!" I said to the hiring dude. "I don't give a fuck! Here's my résumé. Take it for what it is. I know I'm not 'charismatic' or 'personable' or 'easy on the eyes.' I know I didn't do a stage at The French Laundry, and I sort of chortle instead of cutely giggle, but you know what, I'm probably the best thing that's ever walked through those double doors. I work hard and I take carpaccio very seriously. I will shuck an oyster like nobody's business. You don't like it? Hey, good. 'Cause I don't need you. What do you think of that, ass-munch?"

The committee of good-lookings stared at me. I turned in disgust and began to walk away. Then, from their ranks, a single clap rang out. It was slow, but it was a determined clap. Then another joined in. And another. Their pace quickened. Soon all 52 hirers erupted in loud, fierce applause. Not just applause, but cheers and whistles. They rose to their feet. A few were weeping.

"Waaiiiiiit!" Cried out the initial slow-clapper. "Waaaiiiit! Ms. Vapid! We neeed you! Pleeease work for us!"

I reluctantly took the job, but only after I had bargained them up to a salary in the low 7 figures, complete with a great benefits package. Not just health/life/avalanche/manta ray attack insurance. I have unlimited access to the fleet of company jets. I get paid vacations -- I mean, they pay for my monthly vacations to the Italian Riviera, Dubai, and Duluth. Because of my back condition, they have installed a jacuzzi on the premises for me to use whenever I see fit, along with my own acupuncturist and nude masseur. Naturally, I will be attending the Oscars with Ewan McGregor. Oh, and three full-time nannies for the kids. Dinner at El Bulli in Spain whenever I wish. Automatic admittance as an Operating Thetan Level VIII in the Church of Scientology.

All this because of the failing to give a fuck. Who knew it was just that easy?

*I realize it's a big taboo to reveal my personal life in this way. But I don't give a fuck. What's the worst that's gonna happen, I'll get a negative reference? Ooooohhh, I'm soooo scared! Like my career has blossomed while I've played the part of Ms. Kind-and-Cooperative-Rule-Follower.

Not giving a fuck, Day 3

2008-05-26T15:15:00.000-07:00

The amount of fuck that I give is this: none, none at all. I temporarily suspended my not giving a fuck in order to mow the lawn. It still looks like shit. I don't give enough of a fuck to use a leaf blower or weed whacker, I'll tell you that much.

Not giving a fuck, Day 2

2008-05-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

I have a long list of shit to do. Here is a portion of it:

Laundry.
Go through babies' old clothes and give leftovers to St. Vincent's.
Dishes.
Mow lawn.
Vacuum inside of car.
Clean out refrigerator to determine what is causing that smell.
Pay a shitload of bills.
Return calls from various people.
Shower/shave legs.
Sweep/mop all floors.
Tidy up computer area.

Etc., etc.

But you know what? I simply don't give a fuck. So I sat in my pajamas until 10:30 and then threw on the ugliest outfit I could find, one which highlighted my hairy, pasty-skinned legs and bushel of abdominal fat that is the result of a twin pregnancy. I snacked on aged goat cheese from the farmer's market, looked up useless shit online, and now I may go read the paper. What do you think of that? Huh? I might even go to a museum, or maybe pay a visit to some natural sand dunes that I heard exist somewhere in the vast expanse of the eastern suburbs. To top it off, I think I'll reward myself with some nice dim sum. Because, you know: I don't give a fuck.

I like this. I like this a lot.

My days of giving a fuck are over

2008-05-24T22:08:00.000-07:00

That's it, kids. I'm through. For thirty-one long, arduous years I gave a fuck about it all. Career. Relationships. The environment. Political justice. Education. Being liked by humans. Procuring a decent plate of mussels. You name it, I gave a good hard fuck about it. I sat up nights giving a fuck. I surrendered dignity and material comfort giving a fuck.

No more, friends. It changed for me tonight, while drinking a medium-good bottle of Spanish Garnacha-Syrah and enduring being within earshot of the 1,257th drunken midnight public domestic dispute on my humble little sliver of a St. Paul block since I moved in 5 years ago.

Look, I just want to prepare for my Saturday night "Cheaters" viewing in peace. I simply couldn't take the Coors-induced screaming. While I listened to a shower-sandal-shod man scream three houses down, "Fuck! FUCK! FUCK!" while car doors slammed and bottles broke on the asphalt, I suddenly decided I couldn't take it. Not because I was so outraged by his fits or his choice of footwear, but simply because it was a perfect moment to inject humor into the May air. I took action. I opened the screen door of my ramshackle 134-year-old house, and, lowering my voice an octave, shouted, "Keep it down out there!"

And what happened? A string of obscenities hurled my way? Revenge graffiti? No. Simply silence. Sweet silence.

And thus it is borne, loyal readers. Loyal reader, excuse me. Thus ends the era of giving a flying fuck. Henceforth, this blog shall be devoted to my adventures in not giving a fuck. Stay tuned.

Congratulations!

2008-05-16T07:56:00.001-07:00

Woo-hoo! My blog The Lamentations of a Lady scored 3 hits last week! True, all three were the result of unrelated googling, but still!

In other news, I turn 31 tomorrow. Here's a list of some of my accomplishments thus far in life:

Maintain three very unpopular blogs. Also have my very own myspace account.
Have traveled to both North and South Dakota. Also took a Greyhound through New Jersey.
Have given birth twice, resulting in three children. Actually didn't so much give birth as have major abdominal surgery resulting in babies.
Have had writing rejected from at least 45 publications, both respected and unknown.
Was expelled from high school for smoking weed on school property.
Have befriended several people. Have engaged in conversation with at least a dozen people.
Once got an F in gym.
Once had a nasty bout of malaria. Guess that's not my accomplishment so much as the mosquito's, though to my credit I survived, thanks to my ingeniously following the proper regimen of Fansidar. Same goes for my heroic battle with scarlet fever; I tackled that amoxicillin like it was going out of style. Blam! Take that, streptococcus!
Have been employed by no less than 20 companies; likely more. Currently I clean shrimp and assemble salads for a living, for a very handsome penny I might add.

I'll be spending my birthday working late into the night, lamenting my ineptitude.

A brief treatise on politics

2008-05-07T08:10:00.000-07:00

Might I kindly suggest that politicians refrain from accusing one another of "playing politics"? Might I also make the meek request that the average citizen stop acting indignant when politicians "play politics"?

They are all playing politics. That's why they're politicians.

BREAKING NEWS!

2008-04-29T14:37:00.001-07:00

Obama's former pastor makes sane, witty, erudite, no-bullshit speech! Finally someone tells it like it is! Obama quick to distance himself from all this straight-talking truthfulness.

Seriously: it is symptomatic of the perverse nature of American discourse on race that when black people merely mention that racism exists in this country, they are the ones accused of racism. I watched Jeremiah Wright's speech to the Press Club, read a transcript of the Moyers interview, and I don't believe he said anything outlandish. What exactly did he say that was so offensive? That God loves the whole world? His remark about the U.S. government's possible culpability in spreading HIV was merely misguided; I didn't find it outrageous or "hateful." The remainder of his speech was forthright.

Why wasn't Mitt Romney's religion this big of a deal? More to the point, why is John McCain not being excoriated the way Obama is for seeking the endorsement of bigoted pastor John Hagee?

A quote from the Hagee:

All hurricanes are acts of God, because God controls the heavens. I believe that New Orleans had a level of sin that was offensive to God, and they are -- were recipients of the judgment of God for that. The newspaper carried the story in our local area that was not carried nationally that there was to be a homosexual parade there on the Monday that the Katrina came. And the promise of that parade was that it was going to reach a level of sexuality never demonstrated before in any of the other Gay Pride parades. So I believe that the judgment of God is a very real thing.

Hm. Decide for yourself whether the above quote is more incendiary than the following, from Mr. Wright:

South Africa is wrong! Apartheid is wrong! Oppression is wrong! Anybody who feels white skin is superior to black skin is wrong!

Oh my God, how could he? Such ferocious controversy.

Let's get this straight: Wright pointed out, absolutely factually, that the U.S. has killed thousands, millions, of civilians worldwide. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Panama, Grenada, Iraq, on and on. The question is, what gives us the moral high ground? And in light of these bombings, these killings, this -- yes -- terrorism, is it all that surprising that maybe some people might be a little pissed off at our arrogance and wanton disregard for human life?

What Hagee said was totally different. Hagee claims that God himself is unleashing his wrath against an entire city (note that Wright never said that God was angry with New York or Washington or America; he is merely pointing out that in the real world, occasionally, behavior carries consequences). Why are God's panties in a bundle? Because of a gay pride parade. Right.

Some fucking liberal media we've got. Where is the outrage over Hagee's comments? Why isn't McCain being asked to denounce Hagee's virulent hatred towards gays and Catholics?

Whatever. This whole pastor thing really ought not be an issue at all. This is more ridiculous than the fucking Swift Boat Veterans for Bullshit.

I don't know, Democrats. I just don't know. The election is being handed to you. Fucking given to you on a silver platter, with a dollop of crème fraiche and a lychee on top. The Republicans have fucked our country up to the point of being unrecognizable. No one can sell their houses. No one can afford their houses. The dollar is a joke. Food prices are rising. The life expectancy is actually going down. We are stuck in a losing war against a country that had nothing to do with 9/11. We've completely destroyed their country, too. No doubt, Bush is a giant asshole. And still, Democrats, still,

YOU
ARE
FUCKING
IT
UP!

Don't fucking go on the defensive. You have nothing to be defensive about. You're wrong about expanding early childhood education, but right about a few other things. You're right about the war and the economy and keeping creationism out of science classes. Don't let Republicans set the fucking tone of the conversation. Start defining the conversation right now.

Daily Bread

2008-03-12T16:43:00.001-07:00

Baguettes yesterday, semolina bâtard today. Ho-hum.

Elementary Hell

2008-03-01T09:44:00.000-08:00

I have been visiting schools in anticipation of my oldest son entering kindergarten in the fall. Quite the process they have for parents. How am I to choose from the array of arts magnets, music magnets, science and technology magnets, aerospace magnets, montessoris, environmental science magnets, open schools, classical academies, International Baccalaureate programs, Spanish, French, German, and Mandarin immersion schools, and plain old boring neighborhood schools?

Well, that's beside the point. What I really wanted to say was that, upon touring one of these fine elementary schools the other day, we were shown the gym and man, it smelled exactly like I remember the gym smelling in my youth. The smell was an admixture of foam mats, floor cleaner mixed with dirt from recess, and the particular variety of sweat the human body secretes when being bullied by the athletic kids.

I really don't want to send my kid to school.

My life is complete

2008-02-27T05:43:00.000-08:00

Why didn't this exist when I was six years old?

And why did I find it in the kids' section of the library? I don't know the answer to either of these questions, but I'm glad I found it. This amazing CD contains 18 songs that were all referenced in various "Little House" books. Wow. I understand the world of my favorite childhood books so much better now.

It's alive!

2008-02-23T18:03:00.000-08:00

Behold: my sourdough starter.

I made it. I brought it to life from nothing more than flour and water, capturing millions of bacterial cells eager to feed on the simple grain. You can’t really discern the fulsome beauty of it from this substandard photo on a substandard website: the bubbles caressing the surface, the sour/umami scent, as complex as any old Pauillac*, the strands of gluten stretched to their limit by the carbon dioxide of yeast flatulence…oh, man, I am as proud of this jar as I am of any of my children. You may chuckle, and go ahead, but I’ve named my starter Méliès, after the great early filmmaker Georges Méliès. He was part technician and part magician, which is what any good baker is.

The finished loaf:

It tasted good but the texture was all wrong. A bit burnt on the bottom.

A second loaf:

This one was based on the famed pain Poilâne, from some bakery in Paris which will ship a 4-pound loaf to the U.S. for $35. That’s right, $35. The ingredient cost for mine? Maybe a buck for the flour. Starting a culture involves a lot of throwing away of flour, after all. Mine only weighed about 2 pounds.

Again, I am but a humble boulanger, not a photographer. You can’t really appreciate the crackles in the crust, the chewy crumb, the expansive holes in the interior. This is to say nothing of the flavor, which has made every heartache in life worth it, all for the moment of tasting this hunk of goodness. You should really wish you had been in my kitchen during all this insane 7-day odyssey.

On an unrelated note, here’s a picture Oliver took of icicles in a cup.

This is just a bit of the self-indulgence of which I am capable. I am aware that this is of no interest to anyone but I. In fact, it is of precious little interest to I.

The end.

*I’ve never had an old Pauillac. I’m just assuming, from articles I’ve read in dumpster-dove copies of Wine Spectator, that it’s something pretty worthy.

Throwim way leg.

2008-02-23T12:11:00.000-08:00

Fuckin' A.