Back from outer space

Hello blog, have you missed me? I've thought about you quite a bit the last few months, but I just didn't have much to say. I guess we all need a break sometimes.

So what have I been up to you ask? Playing shows with the band. We made a CD and have a tour coming up next month. We get to play in NYC! I am very excited as I have not been to the big bad apple since Princess Diana was alive and the Twin Towers still stood. God I miss the 90's.



I fell in love too. I think I've been in love before, but this is the first time it's felt real and, well, mutual. It's nice, but it's not as nice as they make it seem in the movies. I know we are great together. We even fight each other well. We don't get petty and we resolve things pretty quickly. Our only serious problems can be blamed on the world outside our bedroom. (yes he's moved in already) In the outside world there are bills to pay, horrid, venomous baby mamas and my disapproving parents. Fuck 'em says I. Mostly I am happy.

I saw her today for the first time. No one had to introduce us; I knew it when she opened her mouth. This was not the first time I heard her speak. Before today I only knew her as PRIVATE on the caller ID. Before today, I only knew her as that voice on the other end of the receiver. No one had to introduce me to that voice. Every time I see PRIVATE on the caller ID, I ready myself for it. I am sad and exhausted like that voice. I am beaten down and alone and I want someone to pay for it. Like that voice.

I sigh and pick up the phone, she sighs and introduces herself. She doesn’t have to. I wish I could say that to her. I wish I could say I know who you are and I probably even know what you are going to say. You are a broken record of tragedy, limited imagination and enough intelligence and denial to argue yourself straight into an asylum. There are people upstairs she says. They are sliding on the floors. They are wrestling kidnapped children. They are cooking up methamphetamine and listening to loud bass thumping rap music, she says.

The renters moved out. They moved out just like that nice couple before, and the college students, and the single mom.

That residence is empty. No, no, no, she insists. Somehow the owner, who hates her, she says, has lent his keys to degenerate fiends. Or there are squatters. Or drug dealers. There are degenerate squatters dealing drugs up there.

I listen to her as long as I can because I think that is essentially what she wants. She’s lonely, I think. She is lonely and sad. She is frustrating. I think. She is frustrating and annoying. What do you want me to do, I think? I’m not security, and even security can’t help what is imaginary. You need a doctor and I am only a desk slave. I tell her I’ll do what I can, which is not much, and I try to get her off the phone. Rarely do I offer advice. It’s no use. She has a one track mind to misery.

If you think there are drug dealers upstairs, you should contact the authorities I say just to stir things up. There is the brief sound of hemming and hawing; of regrouping. I have interrupted her soliloquy. Her mind concocts the most paranoid of adlibs. She says she has a friend on the force (head of narcotics of course) who has told her that drug dealers like that would think nothing of killing a snitch. I giggle silently at that word. Snitch. I’m pretty sure those calls are confidential. I say, there are people at the desk and I have to assist them. It’s a lie. I say I’ll make sure to write up a report and discuss it with my manager. Again. I thank her and hang up; always pleasant but not too pleasant. If you’re nice, she’ll take a mile, and she’s already too far gone.

I saw her today for the first time. She never comes into the office, but today, there she was. I didn’t talk to her, I walked right past. She already had someone’s attention. Someone nice. That’s what you get. I take my time in the closet, very slowly hanging my coat and listening to that sad voice. She looks just like she sounds; tired, disturbed, and tragic; lethargically fighting defeat and heavy under layers of bags and baggy clothes. She is all scarves and dark colors and long hair. She’s a big, grey, talking, sighing blob. She is Eeyore. She is Debbie fucking downer and she’s won’t stop until she’s contaminated us all.

Everybody Poops

Me like food

This is a random post dealing mostly with food and irresponsibly. Meaning that I both ate lots of food and acted irresponsibly, or even; ate lots of food in an irresponsible manner. Meaning, I need to stop pigging out and drinking alone.

Oh don't worry, I didn't eat and drink alone every time. Plenty of times I was with someone. Plenty of times it was that other person providing the food. Homemade food. All the more special and tasty when someone has made it for you.

It started on Thursday when my vegan friend made lasagna. She cooked for her roommate and myself, and we chatted about India, Amsterdam, prostitutes and current events. Their stereo shorted out repeatedly and I jokingly suggested we play musical chairs. The roommate walked over to the stereo and fixed it in mere seconds. I congratulated him on his success. "I just fiddled with the knobs to make it better." To which I replied, "That's what she said." Yes, I am that immature. Thankfully everyone laughed and then we ate blood orange cake. Homemade, of course. I took some lasagna home with me. I ate it as soon as I got home because I have no will power.

Saturday. Band meeting to discuss upcoming recording plans. I get into it with the guitarist who has fuck all for listening skills. He just talks, talks, talks. I finally pull out the most immature of arguing tactics. I scream, "You don't listen, you just talk!" Over and over again until he shuts up. Remarkably it works. Our drummer makes us chicken soaked in Bourbon, I think, and something else, with potatoes on the side. Delish.

Later that same day was Loop's 30th birthday. (http://www.zazzle.com/volsungaloop) Her husband cooked Cuban food. How did he know my weakness for fluffy rice and shredded beef? Oh, and fried plantains! So yummy. I basically sat my ass in the same spot all night and ate till I lost all respect for myself. Eventually I stepped away to socialize.



This guy. I had never met this guy, and after five minutes of talking to him, I had to tell him to back out of my personal space. Honestly, I should have such problems more often. He was a cutie, but so flirty with everyone and I felt all dumpy so I was just not having it. It was comical. At times he'd move in so close and so fast, I would flinch and knock into stuff. He was good at what he was doing, I will give him that. *more party pics at http://flickr.com/photos/kittykatlounge/sets/72157613517830412/



But basically, I was feeling like this.


But what about the irresponsibility, you say? It started with fiscal irresponsibility on Sunday night. I had the Sunday blahs, no groceries, no motivation, plenty of alcohol. So I think I had some cereal and then some Jack. Don't cry for me. I live like a frat boy because I can. Eventually I craved more sustenance so I walked over to my favorite pricey restaurant, 112 Eatery. I had eaten there once before, and had one the best experiences ever. This Sunday may have topped it. It started out a little rocky. The server suggested a dish for me without warning me that it was extremely spicy. I choked down almost half when he asked me how it was. I could not hide my grimace and told him, as nicely as I could, that he should have given me a heads up about the bite. Then he asked me if I wanted to get something different, but I said I didn't want to be 'that girl.' Luckily for me, the manager was sitting to my left and insisted it would be no problem. Then she opened a menu and made a few suggestions. I ended up getting the lamb with pesto. Excellent food, and service above and beyond. Especially when you consider that I hadn't showered and was dressed like a total slob.

Still buzzing from my dinner, I stumbled over to Luce for irresponsible act number two; More wine and a pack of cigarettes even though I recently quit smoking. I end up talking to a man at the bar about god knows what. Thankfully, he does not hit on me, but we do step outside to smoke and he suggests we share a joint. When I get home, I'm a little suprised that I've once again made it back safely. This is just the kind of shit I shouldn't still be doing at my age. But the guy with the joint was at least forty. So what does that say?

Jul 19 2008 - downtown MPLS

Hey, missing summer? Here's some video I took when the weather was still warm. I like to walk downtown sometimes when the drunks are out!

Jul 19 2008 - betterplaces

AYDS Commercial Fail

My mom used to use this product. Her little brother thought it was real candy and ate a whole box of it. He get VERY sick. But thankfully not AIDS sick. He's a real homophobe now, so that story always makes me smile.