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thought i was a donut, ya tried to glaze me


boyfriend application

I was sitting in one of the local watering holes a few months back, with some old friends who've been with me since the days of magic diaries and pogs (if you don't understand the reference, just know it's a long time). There are certain things we always talk about-- local gossip and what we've been watching on TV and what we think of Gwen Stefani's new song and tampons and stuff. You know, girl talk. A lot of it is just drunk talk--the type of thing girls talk about at a table, early in the morning, with more than a few in. And someone will ultimately complain about their love life, and then we'll all chime in, and complain about the lack of decent men out there. And we'll curse the Earth for putting us in these predicaments, and order another round. We'll talk about love--the pursuit of it, the way it can leave your life as quick as it came, the way it can be hiding right in front of you. The way we thought it would be different when we were younger and the big questions of "where is he?" or "is this all there is?" and...

...damn. Anyone else need another drink?

Now this all goes back to high school, when we had half an hour every day to sit around a table and talk. Back then, though, we were younger and dumb enough to think that it'd be easier when we got older, that we still wouldn't be sitting around a table trying to figure it all out. And we're young, yet, and still under the assumption that in 3, 5, 10 years it'll all be easy. That we won't be meeting at the Irish Circle to sit at an empty table and let it all out.

But where was I going with this? That night a few months back, at the table--right. One of my friends asked about who our ideal guy would be, and seriously--no jake-gyllenhaal's-face-with-david-beckham's-body responses were acceptable. I think at the time I said something dumb and sarcastic--"fatter than me, so the wedding photos look proportionate. and doesn't beat me."

The friend who asked and I came up with something we thought explained who we wanted: "someone who can build me a deck." It sounds vague, and no, we don't have a thing for woodworkers. But the idea of someone taking care of you and building you a deck to throw parties on? That carries over into a lot of things. And no, the whole deck-building thing isn't necessarily a deal breaker for me...he can always call a contractor. This whole discussion got me thinking, and months later I still think about it. Usually when I'm coming home on the train, which might explain my requirement of "lives in an apartment closer to work, has enough room for my clothes."

So who's my ideal mate?

Like I said earlier, someone who's fatter than me. Because who wants to be the Ashley to someone's Mary Kate? (does anyone get that anorexic-twin reference?)

He also shouldn't beat me, but I guess shouldn't verbally abuse me either. He has to be funny, and sarcastic, and smart (but not pretentiously smart) and like to go out and get drunk, but not all the time. He has to like sports, because I don't trust guys who don't like sports. I can't deal with someone who's obsessed with the gym, or with his hair, or with his clothes. He has to look nice, though, and smell nice too. We have to be able to have a conversation--actually, conversations. I like to talk, and I want someone to talk to.

He has to understand my references and watch a lot of TV and have shows he can't miss, but not so many shows that he can't share the hard drive space on his DVR for the shows I can't miss. It won't hurt if he can cook, but I'll just take any appreciation for food. I'll take a true partner, especially a dance partner.

So the hard part's over--I know what I want in an ideal mate. Now for the easy part; finding him.

But I'm lazy. Can't he can just find me? I have a feeling I'm gonna be at that table in the bar for a few more years.

Listen, I want to have an interesting life; I want to have a crazy journey. All I'm looking for is someone to sit shotty, and maybe take over the wheel when it all becomes too much.


Damn, this past Sunday night was long. I could have done without the dancers-into-penguins (and Beyonce on my screen), but overall it was a a good show.

But here's my biggest issue with this years Academy Awards. I loved Little Miss Sunshine when it came out. I left the theater thinking, that's a really great movie. It's funny, and heartwarming, and I really enjoyed the characters. However, I did not leave the theater thinking Oscar! Oscar!

Little Olive was an adorable character, really. Abigail Breslin did a great job, but how does she get nominated when Shareeka Epps from Half Nelson doesn't?

I saw the movie over the weekend and was impressed more by the character of Drey than by the movie as a whole. I'm not saying it was a bad movie--it was good, actually--but she stole the show, and I think Ryan Gosling owes his Oscar nomination mostly to her. How do you nominate a chubby, endearing beaty-queen wannabe over a girl dealing with crackheads and crack dealers??


over this?:

oh come on.


human kindness overflowing

i'm sending this post out to george, who works in the music/dvd section of the barnes & noble on 66th.

last week i came in frazzled and running out of time and he calmed me down, called other B&N's for my dvds, and entertained me, too. he used to work at tower across the street and in our time together he told me he stopped two suicide attempts in the store. if you met this guy, you'd know how. when tower closed it's doors, he wasn't bitter; he performed a farewell concert for his customers on his last day. he was thankful for 13 good years, and i guess they were thankful for him, too.

at my craziest point--seriously, i don't even know why i was getting so frazzled, it was stupid--he took my face in his hands and said "katie, look me in the eye. look me in the eye and promise me that you won't let life get to you."

i promised i wouldn't. and i meant it.

do you even know the kind of good people that are walking around on this earth? why did i ever doubt it?


it always comes back to this

Tonight's episode of Gilmore Girls had the Lorelai's running out of gas in the teaser.

Running out of gas, eh? I'd say--I think an anvil just fell on my TV.


love is a cd-r

It's a little late to be posting some pseudo love-song post, but I just read the great mixes on Late Night Wallflower and was inspired. And since my boom box (does anyone else call it that?) doesn't play CDs anymore I'm going to call this a mixed cd as opposed to a tape.

note: I read the book "love is a mix tape" by rob scheffield two weeks ago and loved it, but the songs I pick wont be nearly as cool as the ones he started every chapter with (or, as cool as the songs on LNW).

here's a list of songs i like to think are about love, and all the shit that goes along with it (and my thoughts on some of them)

"does everyone stare"- the police
written by stewart copeland (he also sings the first verse), it shows the bumbling, sweating, and insecure side of love ("i wanna write you a sonnet but i don't know where to start/i'm so used to laughing at the things in my heart")

"i believe"- stevie wonder
yea, so what if i first heard it at the end of "high fidelity"?

"harvest moon"-pearl jam (feat. sleater kinney)
a beautiful song covered beautifully at a '05 show in montreal. they also played this with neil young at the concert for change, but i couldn't find a version of it online.

"take me to the river"-al green

"gettin' enough?"-lil chris
his beats are fresh, but his lyrics are a little too old for him (but what do i know? kids today are crazyslutty)

"jolene"-ray lamontagne
for his voice, his words, and the piano in the background

"a case of you"-joni mitchell

"song cry (live)"- jay-z
mo' money, mo' problems, right?...."we was so happy poor but when we got rich/that's when our signals got crossed, and we got flipped"

"romeo & juliet"- dire straits

"after the fire"- pete townshend
off the amazing "deep end live!" album. buy it, if only for this song and for his cover of the english beat's "save it for later"

"i can't make you love me"-bonnie raitt
aw, snap. a lite fm favorite & a guaranteed tear-jerker

"the promise"-when in rome

"reflecting light"-sam philips

"a rainy night in soho"-the pogues/"haunted"-shane mcgowan
march 14th 2007 @ roseland.


check out


to read me gushing over the police reunion & for tons of other awesome posts by people a lot cooler than me.


mta, going your way....very slowly

no B train service because it's "cold?"

i didn't know the B stood for little BITCH

valentine's day was a lot better than i thought it would be. i got flowers from a secret admirer, who also happens to be a famous tv personality (listen, sam champion, i know the flowers mean nothing and you're just being a tease). i enjoyed free pizza & blue moons, and brownies, and rice krispie treats, and candy hearts. and today nas signed my copy of illmatic with "love", so how can i not be happy about that?

but now i got writers block & i'm supposed to write about one of the biggest things ever--the police reunion--and i can't get started. sing it, ella, sing it.

this block isn't helping my senior project, either. damn, i should really get started on that.





I'm gonna write more about it, of course, later on.

But $100 for the Fan Club? That's a lot of money to spend just for peace of mind when it's time for me to buy tickets.


hey ladies

What a week to be a girl.

First we have crazy astronaut lady, sullying up her reputation & accomplishments by making in her diaper.

Then we have Nancy Pelosi, who looked so badass on 60 Minutes, now geting all girlie by asking for a bigger plane just because she doesn't like the stops.

And then this happens.

Anna Nicole Smith was no astronaut and was certaintly no Nancy Pelosi. But she was still a woman in a crazy world and wanted what so many people want--fame, fortune, to be loved. I enjoyed watching her on E!, and even, sadly, thought Howard K. Stern was a good guy for her. I didn't know then he'd be a suspect in her murder, supposedly out for the money she cried and shimmied her way to get. Anna Nicole never angered or disgusted me the way Paris Hilton does, because I always thought she was just sad. She was the definition of B-list, a joke in the world she wanted to be a part of. I pitied her as she criedon Access Hollywood over her leaking breast implants, swore what she had with that oil tycoon was true love, and then, more recently, as she mourned the mysterious death of her son (and then put his possessions on eBay).

I find it kind of fitting that she died in (almost, not quite) Hollywood....Hollywood, FLorida.

It makes perfect sense that the final place for someone like her was so close, yet so far, from the real thing.


so you want to be a writer?

by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.

and there never was.

hello, hairdresser? i'd like to get the "crazy bitch" please, thanks.

omg! they're twins!

poetry in motion (the mta is good for something)

The Little Tooth
by Thomas Lux

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all

over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.


It's lonely out in space

Back in elementary school our teachers told us we could be anything we wanted when we grew up--even astronauts! This chick actually did it. she became a real-live space girl, Sally Riding it up in space, eating freeze-dried ice cream, floating weightless in a place most of us will never, ever go. And what does she do? She blows it all for some guy. Typical girl stuff.

The Daily News said their relationship was "more than working, less than romantic", which makes surprisingly more sense than you'd think. Maybe he was a good listener, up there on the space ship. Maybe he revealed parts of himself she thought no one else knew, or he complimented her on the way she looked in her orange suit, or even told her she still looked beautiful even though she hadn't had a real shower in days. Perhaps he told her things like, "no one understands me like you do" or "we have so much in common, I'm going to miss the time we spent up here." Come on people, it doesn't take much more than that, and you know it.

Just look at Cmdr. William Oefelein--Bill, or Billy perhaps,to Lisa--carrying his helmet in that photo. That stud made a US Naval Captain, a God-damned astronaut, drive all the way from Houston to Orlando, straight, no stops, peeing in her adult diapers, just to "talk" to the girl Billy's supposedly dating. And by talk, I mean dress in a disguise, follow her on to the airport shuttle, and pepper spray her.

What makes people (not just girls) so crazy? Why did this woman throw it all away? For love, I guess, or more the idea of it than anything else. I think it was Jesus who said, "it's a fool who looks for logic in the chambers in the human heart", and He was right. I think the reason Lisa didn't stop those whole 12 hours was because she thought at some point, at some rest stop along her trip, this little thing called ration would sneak up on her and make her turn around. And maybe she would have, and she would have cried the whole way back to her husband and three kids, and driven back to her life; all the while dreaming of Commander Billy, floating with her up in a NASA space ship, just the two of them, weightless and carefree. It doesn't sound so bad, I'll admit, but it isn't real. This idea of love, of a love she had with Cmdr. Bill, really fucked up her life. This more than coworkers/less than lovers relationship made her think, "what if?", and take out a knife and plan to really "talk" to this GF.

I always knew love was messy, but you need more than Depends to soak this all up.


stupid bowl

Along with the Super Bowl hooplah usually comes those stupid Super Bowl boxes in offices and bars around the country. The only reason I call them stupid, though, is because I don't understand them. I'd love to make some cash just by writing my name down in "3rd Quarter-Colts--6 point" or whatever, but I've tried to grasp the concept and failed every time. Like a lot of things in life, this has gone straight over my head.

And then there's always my favorite story about the Super Bowl. A few years back some guy bet a whole lotta money on the Super Bowl, in a box in one of the local joints. The story goes, he would have won it all if there wasn't a late-quarter field goal/touchdown/2 point conversion (I don't remember what it was, don't quote me, just know it was some point change that made another team win the game). Depressed, upset, most likely drunk and now out of a lot of cash, he thought of the only logical thing he could do--kill himself. So he walked right on over the Cross Bay Bridge, found himself at the middle of it, and jumped. But instead of hitting the water he hit a pile of floating snow & ice that was leftover from a recent snow storm (remember that--snow?) Instead of dying, he just broke both his legs in Jamaica Bay. And he was still poor.

And that's what I think of everytime the Super Bowl comes around.


wah wah wah

"is this not the true romantic feeling--not the desire to escape life, but to prevent life from escaping you?"
-tom wolfe

Look, I'm as cynical as they come. But that still doesn't mean I don't secretly pine for the type of thing that'll make me swoon.

...and it's not even valentine's day yet.

I wonder if my writing has even improved?