Say whaaaat?

Where I've Been

2008-03-18T08:43:00.000-04:00

Grad-schoolin’, volunteerin’, music-makin’.

So, since I decided to stick it out a bit longer and go the Student Affairs track of Higher Ed Management, I’ve been trying to get in as much volunteer work as I can that will help me (and the community) in this regard. I’m going to be working on a number of different projects, including going to a sensitivity training course this Friday to counsel gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgendered students. Awesome. School is getting a little easier in terms of managing time, it’s just hard to juggle 14- and 16-hour days and still try to have fun. I refuse to stop having fun. Gah! I don’t really want to say too much more about it here, lately I’ve been wary of posting too much information on the internet. You never know who is snooping around. Actually, I do know who! But anyway.

One thing that’s been on the internet that I haven’t posted it here…the Maxipads are breaking up. Kacyn is hitting the road for hipper pastures, and it’s time to move on. I’m bummed, it hasn’t quite hit me yet, but Joe and I are already working on a new project with our friend Carrie, which is going to be completely different than the ‘Pads and way awesome. I’m super pumped for it.

Also, Pirates season. Can you believe Opening Day sold out in just over 24 hours? Are you kidding me?! People, we were excited that we beat a COMMUNITY COLLEGE TEAM! Ack! Why are we so stupid? Why do we feed our hard-earned money into this team? I mean, obviously I’m guilty of it too, it’s just…-sigh-. Depressing.

And thefoodsex.com. How I neglect thee. I just need there to be more hours in a day that I can stand to be awake.

Re-reading this, I’ve realized that all this being tired and busy has made me really, really boring. YAWN

Februaried

2008-02-27T08:52:00.002-05:00

I know this happens to me every year but each year it seems to take me by surprise. Hi February! I fucking hate you. I am miserable. I open my eyes and see this (taken at my bus stop):

I don't want to go anywhere and yet have cabin fever. I hate everyone and yet, feel lonely. Goddamnit February, get off my fucking back!!

So.
School is getting mildly better. I decided that after my provisional here is up (October) I may start looking around the University for more student services-oriented jobs. I like my job, but I am going to need the experience when we move.
Oops! I've said too much...

Anyway, fuck February.
Love,
kT

Hey! Over Here!

2008-02-20T11:11:00.001-05:00

So here I am, alive and well, at least relatively speaking. Grad school is keeping me busy. I still can’t seem to wrap my head around exactly WHY the prospective teachers in one of my classes are so ignorant. It seems odd to me that people who champion education would be so ill-educated. For example, loudmouthed girl in front row (my only friend in grad school, Jo, and I had a debate about where she was from, given her accent. Me: Maine? Jo: I think she’s just pretentious.) Anyway, loudmouthed girl in front row is discussing (loudly, from the front row) how everyone in the room MUST have had the same upbringing as she had, with supportive parents and whatnot, because we had ‘made it this far.’

“Do you just think that because nearly everyone in the room is white?” I asked. Except I didn’t ask it, I just thought it really fucking hard while one girl near the back of the room pointed out, “I grew up in India.”

Or the fact that our professor was discussing the Pittsburgh Promise and how silly it is to pay kids for doing well in school, when one of my classmates (who is a teacher) did a presentation on how she motivates her students by paying them. Guhhhhh! Plus, why do all teachers dress like they’re living in 1996? I swear, no less than three girls in my class last night were wearing ribbed turtlenecks with the gold chain pulled-out-draped-over-the-top. You know what I mean? I am only vaguely stylish at best, once a week, and I know that this is not okay.

So that’s my “stupid” class. Then I have the “smart” class where I am the dumbest person ever and I imagine that my classmates are writing blogs about MY stupidity. Ay yi yi. So that’s school.

Why am I even bothering to update my blog, you might ask?

BECAUSE THERE ARE ONLY 47 DAYS UNTIL PIRATES OPENING DAY AND I AM SO EXCITED! See? I do this every damn year. please see last year’s entry called, “My Hopes Are High.” The subtitle was more accurate.

Aw Yeah Hell Yeah

2008-01-14T12:58:00.000-05:00

Oh em gee, it's up.

thefoodsex.com

After a few hours of yanking on my hair trying to figure out even the most basic CSS stuff while Rob set up his electronic drums and watched television (if you think it's easy to concentrate on lines and lines of code while someone plays electronic double bass and MTV shoves the insipid Kate Nash down your throat set to a backdrop of a reality show about...something, you're sorely mistaken), I finally managed to get the damn thing looking semi-presentable and wholly-functioning.

Take that internet, I WIN!!!

Life Is Stupid

2008-01-09T09:59:00.000-05:00

It really is. Or at least, grad school and web design are. (Although, I really appreciate all your kind words about grad school! Thank you so much!)
My first class on Monday was actually not too bad—it was a little intimidating, but it seems like it will be challenging and interesting and applicable to what I want to be when I grow up. My fellow classmates seemed bright and energetic, and yada yada yada.

My second class, last night, is a requirement for everyone in the School of Education. It’s basically a class on how to teach, which I guess I understand why I have to take even though I’d rather stick a pair of tweezers in an electric socket than become a teacher (no offense to those who are/want to be. I just don’t have the patience/desire.) I guess my problem with the class is that I found it somewhat disheartening that so many of the future (and current!) educators in my class seemed to be no brighter than your average elementary schooler. Plus, I counted seven pairs of chunky heels in the classroom. CHUNKY HEELS. I’m not that superficial, but good lord, 1996 is dead and buried. Oh well, I guess you can’t win 'em all.

As for web design…as I discussed before, one of my new projects was going to be moving Food Sex to its own domain and really working on hyping it. So I buy my domain, hosting space, etc., and then try to upload Wordpress, and the whole thing just shits itself. I cannot for the life of me figure out what the problem is, and I’m not really technologically literate enough to read tutorials on fixing it and actually being able to do it. At this point, I’d love to just scrap the whole thing (I’m a quitter) but I paid 45 bucks for the domain and hosting, and I’m also cheap.

So this is me:

UGH.

Chicago, et al

2008-01-03T08:12:00.000-05:00

So we just got back from our glorious vacation to Chicago (last year over Christmas, we went to Niagara Falls. I'm all, "Can't we go to Boca Raton or something?") and indeed, it was glorious. As is usual on our vacations, we totally nerded it up. We went to the Field Museum (the Ancient Americans exhibit was pretty fascinating) and the Shedd Aquarium (Seahorses are the only good breed of horse, for real) and this amazing rare/used bookstore in a football-field-sized room in which everything was under 10 bucks. We even caught the Steelers game in the hotel room with BEER WE BOUGHT IN A GAS STATION. For anyone that doesn't live in PA, you have to understand, buying beer in a gas station almost feels like you're putting one over on the man. Seriously. Pictures as soon as I get around to uploading them.

I start school on Monday. I'm actually pretty nervous--I am getting my Master's at the same school I got my BA (Pitt), so going into the bookstore yesterday was a bit of a weirdo throwback. It made me want to...I don't know...compete a case race and vomit all over my roommate, or something. Wish me luck!

I Used to Work in Food Service, So It's Kind Of Okay

2007-12-11T13:00:00.000-05:00

I just emailed this to Subway, Inc.

Dear Subway Powers-That-Be,
I am sure that with 28,582 restaurants in 85 countries, you are very busy in trying to monitor all of them. However, I feel it necessary to bring to your attention THE WORST SUBWAY IN AMERICA. Located on a busy urban street, sandwiched (pun very much intended) between two major universities (The University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie-Mellon University), this Subway location is in need of a serious course in management. In the two years that I have worked in an office on the next block, I have (foolishly) visited this restaurant countless times. I can assure you that I have never, ever seen the same employee there twice. I'm not sure if management is issuing beatings or what, but something is not right there.
Anyway, have you ever had a sandwich made by an employee on their first day of work? And it's not very good and you're like, "Well, it's their first day, can't blame 'em"? That's what every visit to the Craig Street Subway is like. A Quiznos recently opened on our block. I don't want to have to go there because I hate that it's called Quiznos Sub and not Quiznos Subs. Don't worry, I'll email them too.
Okay, now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "This is obviously NOT the worst Subway in America," but seriously, I had a veggie-on-wheat in a gas station in The Middle of Nowhere, Virginia that beat the pants off any veggie-on-wheat I have ever had at Craig Street, the worst Subway in America. Thus, I feel that I am correct in naming it as such. I've never been to a Subway in Europe, but if I ever make it there, 10 bucks says it's better than Craig Street.

Love,
Katie P.

Crazy Fucking Dream

2007-11-15T15:24:00.000-05:00

Normally I hate when people talk about their dreams, but this is my blog and you can all eat my butt.

So last night I dreamed that I was trying to walk through a room that was full of people standing in very straight rows. They were all wearing gorilla masks with big pointy ears and each one was holding a big shiny butcher’s knife. Some of the people in the masks were my friends, and the others were trying to kill me. I couldn’t tell who was who, and as I walked past, the ‘bad’ gorillas would lunge at me with their knives. I woke up trying to run from the bed. Poor Rob.

Anyway, kind of telling, don’t you think? Maybe it’s time to do something about the parasitic people in my life that disguise themselves as friends.

Whoa. So emo. Where’s my Livejournal? Geez.

An Open Letter to the Pittsburgh Pirates, Part 345843

2007-11-13T08:25:00.000-05:00

Dear Pittsburgh Pirates organization in general, GM Neal Huntington in particular:

SIGH.

So. You guys hired a new manager, huh? (Hint to readers: it wasn’t me.)
So um, tell me. Why did you pick this guy? I mean, didn’t you fire him a few years ago for NOT BEING ABLE TO TELL WHEN PLAYERS SHOULD RUN FROM THIRD TO HOME?! Sounds like a quality candidate to manage the entirety of this team.

Mr. Huntington, this was your first major decision as the Pirates’ GM. And you know what? It fucking stinks. Why did we pick this guy? Because he was one of the cheapest options. When will this organization learn that buying cheaply gets you nothing? I guess never. Thanks, Nuttings.

My beloved Pirates, it’s been a decade and a half. You’re losing us. I’ll still be there at Opening Day, probably clutching a sign that says We Will! (Be Better This Year? Please?) But as hard as it is for me to say this, I already dread this season. I want to believe that things will be different, but it seems that nothing has changed but the faces. The attitude is the same, and that attitude (the frugality, the cutting corners, the acting as though winning doesn't matter) is a dangerous thing. If things don’t get better—- I don’t know. It’s hard for me to say, “I won’t be there,” because I love baseball so much. But why should I believe?

Help me, Pirates. I don’t wanna feel like this.

All my love and lots of sadness,
kT

Mayoral Race, Part 2: The Conclusion

2007-11-07T12:53:00.000-05:00

Well, it’s over, and if you remember in my first blog about the race, I was torn as to where my vote was going.

In the end, I voted for Luke, and here’s why:
No one had given me a good reason to vote for DeSantis. All I heard was, “Well, he isn’t Luke.” Yes, I think in terms of professionalism, he’d be a better candidate. But professionalism does not a city run. He seemed like a nice guy who urged people to think “outside the box,” as he said in his speech last night, but really, what does that mean for this city? People, his ideas were frightening. The city-county merger, one of the top issues on his agenda, would essentially fuck city residents—- as would the potential of doing away with residency requirements for city employees. As a resident of this city, my neighbors are the ones I want to see 1) make the decisions that affect us and 2) protect us.
I do not want cops who go home to cushy houses in Upper Saint Clair patrolling my neighborhood. I want cops who are raising a family in this city patrolling my neighborhood.
I do not, as I’ve mentioned before, want the Fox Chapel Yacht Club members deciding what happens to public transit. I want the people who USE public transit to decide. Things like that. If DeSantis had become mayor, I think that urban issues would have been largely ignored.
Furthermore, some of the sentiments on the Democrats for DeSantis site were actually frightening: "Some of these old people shouldn't be allowed to vote because, let's face it, they do not care about the issues that are important to you and me."
Are you kidding me??

And while he may have made some very public faux pas, many people forget that Luke has, in fact, submitted two incredibly balanced budgets, something this city had not seen since before the Murphy administration. The issues he cares about are the issues I care about. In fact, I feel as though many people who supported DeSantis just kind of bandwagon-ed it as a response to not liking the incumbent, and many of the DeSantis supporters I met were even more braindead than your average yinzer. That is a sad state of affairs for a campaign.

Whatever. It’s over, and the margin of victory was as expected. As Joe put it while trying to get me to come directly to Maxipads’ practice after work instead of going home to vote, “Fuck voting. Luke is gonna win whether you, me or all of Bloomfield votes.”
Thanks Pittsburgh, I think you made the right choice.* ** ***

*In publicly admitting who I voted for, I reserve all rights to bitch about political leadership from this point forward.
** I also reserve the right to continue referring to Luke Ravenstahl as “Mayor Doogie.”
***The Pirates hired a new manager. I didn’t even get a rejection letter. But that, my friends, is a whole different blog.

You Say Goodbye, And I Say Hello

2007-10-19T08:50:00.000-04:00

So, a lot of changes recently. Actually, in the last five days I was both accepted to grad school and given a promotion (and a substantial raise. Eep!) I registered for classes for the spring term and I moved from my little cubicle in the back to my very own office near the front door.

I’m a little nervous about going back to school, time-management-wise. I know I can do it— for those of you who didn’t know me back then, I put myself through undergrad by working almost full-time in an office, and taking my classes at night or during my lunch break. I also worked a second job (bagels!!) in the summer and found the time to get belligerently drunk most nights while maintaining a functional (if incredibly unhealthy) relationship. I know I can work full-time/go to school at night/play in the Maxipads/have time to spend with my loved ones.

One of the things that I think will probably suffer is this blog. I read so many blogs, every day. SO many. Mostly local people, but some not. Some people I know in real life, some I don’t. Some people I like in real life, some I really don’t. In reading them, I’ve figured out what I do and don’t like in blogs and writers. For instance, it’s difficult to read all about—I don’t know—someone whining about their boy/girlfriend, going shopping, doing poorly on an exam. It’s like, “Cool...so?” Some people can pull it off, no doubt (witty people and talented writers) but for the most part, it seems to come off as drivel. I’ve found that blogs I enjoy the most are content-based, focused on a subject. Hell, I’ve been reading tech blogs about the iPhone even though the most high-tech gadget I own is a can opener, and I’ve enjoyed those. On that note, I’ve been doing this blog for nearly two years. How many more stories can I tell about the Maxipads, my cats, or falling down in public? Well, scratch that. Falling down in public is always funny.

As you all know, I recently started http://food-sex.blogspot.com. I’m really, really pumped about this. A lot of people have been telling me what a good idea it is, and my cousin-friend at Urban Velo suggested that I move Food Sex to its own domain and really focus on getting traffic to it. So I think that’s what I’m gonna do.

I’ll still update here from time to time. Check in sometimes, and then if/when Food Sex folds miserably, I’ll be back, talking about falling down in the liquor store parking lot and permanently injuring my knee, but WORSE, smashing the bottle of wine in my hand.

Love,
kT

Get Dahn!

2007-10-11T11:34:00.000-04:00

It's time for the second inaugural I Really Fucking Hate Thursdays playlist! I wonder how long I can keep this up for? Probably not too long; I'm lazy.

Anyway, here it is. Remember that you can download each song individually or the entire playlist at the bottom.

1. Yeah Yeah Yeahs- Down Boy (I really don’t like the majority of this EP, but this is the only song on it where Karen O doesn’t sound like she’s trying to squeeze out a huge turd while she’s singing.)
2. Velvet Teen- Naked Girl
3. Rainer Maria- Life of Leisure
4. Spoon- You Got Yr Cherry Bomb
5. The Lemonheads- If I Could Talk I’d Tell You
6. Talking Heads- Road to Nowhere
7. Cat Power- He War

And the whole thing is right here.

Enjoy, and may your Thursday go quickly.

Ooh, A New Job!

2007-10-08T12:42:00.000-04:00

This document, along with a copy of my real, honest-to-goodness resume, is in an envelope on my desk waiting to be mailed because it's goddamn Columbus Day, which means that the mail doesn't run on days commemorating genocide. I honestly think I have a shot at it.

Pittsburgh Pirates
Baseball Operations
115 Federal Street
Pittsburgh, PA 15212
Attn: Mr. Neal Huntingdon, General Manager

Dear Mr. Huntingdon:

I am writing in regards to the open managerial position within the Pirates’ organization. As a lifelong fan, I am whole-heartedly dedicated to bringing this team back to the glorious champions they were two decades ago.

As I am sure you do not need to be reminded, a large portion of the Pirates’ problem over the last several years has been personnel issues. It never seemed as though the right players were on the field. As a Human Resources professional at the University of Pittsburgh, I have much experience in selecting the best person for a job. I feel confident that I could select solid relief pitchers, a position that has caused many a loss for the team. I believe that I have the judgment and foresight to not bench players who are on a hot streak. In short, my experience in handling personnel will certainly come in handy when I become the new Pirates manager.

Moreover, it’s been well-noted that the Pirates’ young franchise needs discipline, and that former manager Jim Tracy did not do much in the way of providing it. Let’s face it, no one provides discipline like a woman. I will run this team like a tight ship. I will instill in the players a sense of pride in the organization. Moreover, I am fairly certain that my screaming will frighten umpires nationwide.

I realize that my lack of baseball management experience may be considered a factor against me in your final hiring decision; however, I’d like to point out that I’ve watched approximately 75% of all Pirates games in the last three years, and more like 50% before that. If you take into account that I began consciously viewing Pirates' games around the age of eight, that means I've watched approximately 1,419 games since 1992, the last year we had a winning season. Furthermore, I also have not been to work on Opening Day in the last three years. I truly believe this qualifies as experience. This, coupled with my desire to rejuvenate a team that has been losing for more than half my lifetime, will make me one of the most successful managers in history, if only you will give me a chance.

Attached is my resume for your consideration. Please feel free to contact me at the phone number or email address listed on my resume if you would like to discuss this further.

Thank you for your time and consideration, and I greatly look forward to hearing from you. Let’s go Bucs!

Sincerely,
Katie

Loser of the Day/MEGA Loser of the Day

2007-10-05T14:55:00.000-04:00

1. Page-a-Day calendars
Seriously, fuck page-a-day calendars. Or at least, fuck the one sitting on my desk at work.

Let me back up. Robbo’s dad gave me one for Christmas last year, full of snarky and cynical jokes. This is actually really nice, as it says he understands my sense of humor. I’m snarky, and goddamn am I cynical. Most days, I love the calendar. I sit down at my desk in the morning, tear off the previous day's, and I laugh. Thanks a lot, page-a-day calendar!

But some days, the calendar says weird and depressing things. One day, on which I was coincidentally having a really bad morning, I ripped off the previous day to see the words, “It’s never the chipped dishes that break.” And you know what? It’s true. What a bummer. I think I cried at my desk. THANKS A LOT, PAGE-A-DAY CALENDAR.

Today’s thought of the day is a three-fold:
1. You can’t win.
2. You can’t break even.
3. You can’t even quit the game.

I’m half-tempted to just throw the whole damn thing in the trash. Fuck you, page-a-day calendar. You're my LOSER OF THE DAY.

2. Hi, Jim Tracy? You're the MEGA LOSER OF THE DAY. You'd think I'd be excited about the prospect of new on-field management, but I'm not. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.
Honestly, the ending of this season hurts a little too much to talk about. 15 years. This is a milestone, people.

You know how they say that women release a hormone when they give birth that causes them to forget about the horrors of labor? I think I release the same hormone for Pirates’ seasons. By October, I am pained and disgusted. I cannot imagine watching another losing season—it's just too much for me to bear.
But then, by April, I’m so excited, I can barely contain it. I request to take a vacation day on Opening Day about six weeks in advance. I read every report that comes out of spring training. I can be heard saying things like, “This year is gonna be our year!” and “I’ll bet you (insert high stake here) that the Pirates go .500 this year!”
Oh wait. See this entry from this past March, aptly titled My Hopes are High.

Sigh.
Cue “Another One Bites the Dust.”

Fuck a Bunch of Thursdays

2007-10-04T08:49:00.000-04:00

I hate Thursdays. Man, do I really hate Thursdays. I inevitably wake up thinking it’s Friday, and get all pumped to do nothing at work and then come home and start the weekend, and then I rub my eyes and realize it’s Thursday, it’s motherfucking Thursday, and I have a meeting every Thursday at 9am in which I have to attempt to impress people, and I just want to pull the blankets over my head and stay there until Friday.

So, rather than dwell on my Thursday hatred, I’m adding a new feature to my blog—the Thursday playlist. (I’m all about the gimmicks this week!)

Anyway, the Thursday playlist will just be seven songs of my choosing that you can download from Sendspace individually or as a playlist. The files will be available for download for (I think) one month.

The inaugural seven:

1. Cake- Mexico
2. George Harrison- Got My Mind Set on You
3. Party of Helicopters- Cover Me
4. Beirut- In the Mausoleum
5. Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton- Reading in Bed
6. Queen- Don’t Stop Me Now
7. Minus the Bear- Knights

And the whole thing is right here.

Kind of a weird mix, but whatever. Party on.

The Launch!

2007-10-02T11:58:00.001-04:00

So, I've had this project in the works for a few months now, a food blog called Food Sex that I wanted to start. I cook just about every night, and I'm always trying new stuff, and I like to eat eat eat, so I figured, why not subject the internet to me talking about food? That's just what the internet needs! More talking!

Anyway, Robbo and I started working on it back in July (he's taking all the pictures and reviewing the food, because I am seriously a turd with a camera) and it was like, we couldn't get the pictures right, the lighting was bad and it made the food look bad, etc etc. But lately, we've been making all this good food that would be fun to write about it, and it's all going to waste. So finally I'm just saying fuck it. I'll put up the pictures of not-so-good looking food and we'll learn from it. It's launching tonight. Enjoy.

It Takes A Genius to Make Microwave Popcorn

2007-10-01T15:51:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: What Do You Mean, You Don't Put it in for 10 Minutes and Then Walk Away?

Sub-Subtitle: That Smell is Nauseating

Sub-sub-subtitle: Things My Coworkers do that Annoy Me

Sub-sub-sub-subtitle: I Guess I Don't Even Really Need to Write an Entry, Do I?

Oh, Fridays.

2007-09-28T13:25:00.000-04:00

Today at work I had to sit at the front desk and play receptionist, a task that I hate because, well, I hate most people. Good thing I work in Human Resources, right? Anyway, it’s payday for our temporary employees, so they were lining up to pick up their checks. An older man was at the front of the line, and he took quite a long time to sign his name with shaky hands.
Meanwhile, the two younger men behind him were clearly trying to hold back laughter.
The old man left, but the younger men kept chuckling. I was starting to get annoyed. “Are you laughing at me?” I asked.
“Naw!” said one of the younger men. “That old man just kept ripping them!”
I stared at him blankly for a moment. I looked at the other young man. He brought his hands to his mouth and blew air. “PFFFFFLLLLTTTT!!!”
Suddenly, I understood. And I laughed.

Nothing like an old man farting all over your desk.

An Ode to Wharton Square: How I Loathe Thee

2007-09-27T15:53:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: But I Love the Convenience!!

Oh, Wharton Square. I feel like I say these words so often. Always in the same tone: exasperated, but not exasperated enough to give up on you.

For those of you not familiar with the Pittsburgh area, Wharton Square is the strip mall of the Southside. Well, the less classy strip mall, now that Southside Works was constructed.

It’s an amazing place. Sort of. I am there constantly because I cannot seem to get all of my groceries for the week at once. Also, I am always in too much of a hurry after practice or the gym or on the way to a show, or yada yada yada, to go all the way out to Whole Foods or the Co-op or, you know, anywhere that I wouldn’t feel dirty shopping. I’d prefer to forget at least seven various items, of which I will inevitably need one each day, and thus, I never have to miss a single day of Wharton Square!

Why, in the parking lot alone, one can experience the wonders of recyclables (empty 40s), wildlife preserves (chicken bones) and elements of beauty (hair extensions)? Seriously, the other day Robbo and I were walking up to the doors of Giant Eagle when a balled-up hair extension rolled across our path. “It’s like tumbleweed!” I remarked.

Wharton Square also conveniently has the local liquor store—also the site of my accident last winter that I laughed off at the time, but turned out to be semi-serious for my knee. Thanks a lot, Wharton Square. Put some salt on that shit!
Anyway, between food and liquor, I spend a lot of time here. But, let's not forget-- there is also: a Payless! A Bo Rics! A suspicious-looking Chinese food place! A Dots (I’d never even heard of a Dots until I moved to the Southside and met Missi Dymond. I've never actually been inside but...well, it's there.)Woo!

And then there are jitneys. OH, are there jitneys! Personally, I like them. They’re always nice, even though I never need transportation. At first, Robbo didn’t understand the concept of a jitney (“I don’t get it, are they tailgating or something?”) but now he too has a soft spot for them. There are small children dancing and running (in front of cars, or sometimes the bus), there are charities collecting for a cause (the Southside crazies need change too) and it’s lovely to see an example of all drivers being neighborly (there are no laws in the parking lot. Complete anarchy.)

I couldn’t find a single photo of Wharton Square on Google Images, so instead, please enjoy this satellite view of WS, in all its majesty, right there next to what is arguably the dirtiest of our three rivers, the Monongahela.

Oh, Wharton Square.
-sigh-
I’d give you up, if only Mama didn’t need a bottle of wine tonight!

Recap (Super Big Picture Post!)

2007-09-19T19:56:00.000-04:00

So, here's everything that's happened over the last month or so that I haven't covered on this blog. Because, let's face it. You want to know what I am doing every single second. Seriously.

Robbo and I celebrated an anniversary--he took me out on the town, nothing but the finest for me.
See also: Dee's has the cheapest PBR pitchers in town.

Then, we got dinner. I mean, it was a big night.
MMMM Vesuvio's!

Then we went to three other bars, and then we somehow made it home. This is us in the kitchen. The picture isn't out of focus, that's just really how we look. Please also note Mr. Poopies having a 2AM snack behind us.

A few weeks later, we were lucky enough to get to go to the Steelers/Eagles preseason game.
Sometimes I'm not sure how I live with him. BOO EAGLES! GO STILLERS!

One of the amazing things about this town is our obsessive love for the Pittsburgh Steelers, a phenomenon I've talked a lot about on this blog. The tailgates for this preseason game looked like a playoff game. The excitement was almost tangible:

We are also lucky enough to have wonderful friends. RJ & Nicole:

Steelers won, of course.

Mama's a drunk.

Then, over Labor Day weekend, I made my first camping excursion.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't mind sleeping on the ground, dirt, bugs, things like that. It just seemed silly to me to load up two vehicles to the point that we couldn't possibly fit another object in order to 'get back to nature.'

To be fair, it was beautiful along the Youghiogheny River:

Meet your new neighbors!

We got there, and the Lizzard and I sat down to...um...well, let's not lie, we were having a drink:

...while our boyfriends did the rugged, outdoorsy thing:

Things at the homefront are good, too. The kitties are well:

And my hibiscus is still blooming:

So. Life ain't so bad, huh?

THIS is Awesome

2007-09-18T13:32:00.000-04:00

Seriously. From the AP:

Nebraska State Senator Sues God

LINCOLN, Neb. (AP) — The defendant in a state senator's lawsuit is accused of causing untold death and horror and threatening to cause more still. He can be sued in Douglas County, the legislator claims, because He's everywhere.

State Sen. Ernie Chambers sued God last week. Angered by another lawsuit he considers frivolous, Chambers says he's trying to make the point that anybody can file a lawsuit against anybody.

Chambers says in his lawsuit that God has made terroristic threats against the senator and his constituents, inspired fear and caused "widespread death, destruction and terrorization of millions upon millions of the Earth's inhabitants."

The Omaha senator, who skips morning prayers during the legislative session and often criticizes Christians, also says God has caused "fearsome floods ... horrendous hurricanes, terrifying tornadoes."

He's seeking a permanent injunction against the Almighty.

Chambers said the lawsuit was triggered by a federal suit filed against a judge who recently barred words such as "rape" and "victim" from a sexual assault trial.

The accuser in the criminal case, Tory Bowen, sued Lancaster District Judge Jeffre Cheuvront, claiming that he violated her free speech rights.

Chambers said Bowen's lawsuit is inappropriate because the Nebraska Supreme Court has already considered the case and federal courts follow the decisions of state supreme courts on state matters.

"This lawsuit having been filed and being of such questionable merit creates a circumstance where my lawsuit is appropriately filed," Chambers said. "People might call it frivolous but if they read it they'll see there are very serious issues I have raised."

U.S. District Judge Richard Kopf, in an order last week, expressed doubts about whether Bowen's lawsuit "has any legal basis whatsoever" and said sanctions may be imposed against Bowen and her attorneys if they fail to show cause for the lawsuit.

The Associated Press usually does not identify accusers in sex-assault cases, but Bowen has allowed her name to be used publicly because of the issue over the judge's language restrictions.

Cheuvront declared a mistrial in the sexual assault trial in July, saying pretrial publicity made it impossible to gather enough impartial jurors.

Like an Episode of Seinfeld

2007-09-13T15:04:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: The End of an Era?

Yesterday, Robbo and I took a sick day. We’ve both had nasty coughs, headaches, fevers, etc. all week, and decided to just take the day off. By evening, we were antsy from being in the house all day and went for a walk around Southside.

Allow me to preface the following with this: I was so excited a few years ago when Dave Wannstedt came to coach the Pitt Panthers. SO excited. I’d had a crush on him since he coached at Miami. It’s the moustache, it’s just so cute.

See? Cute!

In the past few months, I’d run into Dave Wannstedt all over the place. I saw him at the corner of Fifth and Bellefield when I was waiting for a bus to practice, just walking around Oakland. I saw him when I ran the Father’s Day/Prostate Cancer 5K back in June, walking the opposite way along the race route, congratulating the runners. Each time I was like, “Eeeeeeeep! Dave Wannstedt!! I hope I look okay!” Yeah, I’m a loser. Whatever.

So last night, as we were walking down Carson Street, we noticed a large group of Pitt fans facing out a storefront window (I think it was Pittsburgh Steak Company.) An instant later, I realized it was a taping of the Dave Wannstedt Show, and Dave Wannstedt himself was sitting with his back to the window. As we passed, he turned and looked out. I began frantically grinning and waving. After a moment, Dave Wannstedt lifted his hand and waved back.

(Silence)
Robbo: He hesitated.
Me: He did, didn’t he?
Robbo: He didn’t want to wave to you.
Me: No…he didn’t.
(Silence)
Robbo: I mean, he waved back.
Me: Yeah…but he hesitated.
Robbo: Yeah.
Me: I can’t believe he hesitated!
Robbo: Yeah, well…
Me: Fucking Dave Wannstedt.
Robbo: But, he did wave back!
Me: BUT HE HESITATED.

And thus, I believe my crush died. Who hesitates before returning a wave, anyway?

Football Season, Football Season, It’s Motherfucking Football Season!!

2007-09-06T08:10:00.000-04:00

Well.
It was another disappointing year for the Buccos, though I’ll cop to watching nearly every game that I was able to. And, you know, going to a bunch and giving them my hard-earned money to continue to suck. But the fact that we played so well in August (and so far in September) does give me the slightest glimmer of hope for next year, given we don’t make any really shitty roster moves. Jack Wilson started playing like fucking magic when ownership stopped talking about trading him. Don’t trade him.

But right now, I’m not even thinking about the Bucs. Why? Because tonight begins football season. I have been waiting seven long months for this, and I feel that the Steelers are going to have a good team this year, if the O-line can keep from self-destructing. Also, I’m pretty psyched that they’re coming off a bad year for two reasons:
1) A new attitude. They went from winning the Super Bowl to missing the playoffs. What a reality check that must have been. Now they’re hungry, they have something to prove. I believe.
2) Weeding out the fair-weather fans. Hopefully, last year’s 8-8 debacle will prevent some of those irritating yinzer girls in their platform flipflops from coming out to the bar to watch the game in their pink and white Roethlisberger jersey. You know what I mean? Seriously, go root for the Pens, they were good last year and then you can feel good about getting behind a winning team. Don't worry, I'm sure they'll soon come out with pink Crosby/Staal/Malkin jerseys.
Fair. Fucking. Weather. Blah!

Anyway. Tonight it’s the Colts and the Saints, a game I couldn’t particularly care less about, especially because I think this year, the Colts are going to hit the same post-championship slump that the Steelers did last year. I may be totally off-base with this, but I don't see them being much of a threat in the AFC this year. The rest of the AFC is a different story. I'll get into this later. I mean, did you really expect a blog entry about anything but football until February?

Ooh, wait. I do have this: so, we went camping over Labor Day weekend, and I learned a lot about the outdoors, and um...roughing it, and...bringing enough beer. I have to bust out the pictures of the weekend. Camping may not be for me, but at least I gave it a shot, right?

Finally, I just overheard someone in my office say “Reesey Cups.”
Dear God, sometimes I really hate the city of Pittsburgh.

Whoa, Did You Know That Michael Vick is in Trouble?!

2007-08-28T15:48:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: Hero of the Day, Vol. 6

So, I was trying to watch Monday Night Football, and Michael Vick wasn’t even playing and all they could talk about was Michael Vick, so I guess he is in some kind of trouble, or something? I'm not sure. If anyone can fill me in on what happened, that’d be great.

Juuuust kidding. I’m so tired of Michael Vick, I wish the media would get eaten by pitbulls. I turned on Sportscenter the other day, as I do every morning, and the topics list on the side read: Vick, Vick and the Falcons, Dogfighting in the US, Prison Time?, Vick’s Career, AL Playoff Race. Yeah.

Kill me. Listen, the torture and killing of dogs makes no one sadder than me. I’d care a lot less if it was the torture and killing of, say, American corporate executives, seriously. At least there are people in the world who probably deserve it. Hmm...too far? Anyway...

I don’t want to hear any more about it. I don’t want to hear if Tony Kornheiser thinks Vick might go to jail. I don’t want to know what Suzy Kolber overheard from an animal rights activist. I don’t want to see that clip of Michael Vick OBVIOUSLY not believing a thing he’s saying in his “apology speech.” I do not want to know. Stop talking about it.

You know what I do want? I want Joey Harrington (whom I’ve always liked because he reminds me of the meathead older brother on sitcoms) to have an incredible season. People, Michael Vick was overrated! And I think Joey Harrington is way, way underrated. I think he just got a bad reputation with a REALLY bad team in Detroit.

And come on, look at him!

He’s so likeable. He looks dopey, but plays jazz piano. He goes by the name of “Joey.” That’s cool!

I like you, Joey Harrington. You’re my hero of the day! Keep on keeping on.

I Am Going to Get So Fat!!

2007-08-24T09:47:00.000-04:00

Oh SHIT!!!

From today’s Post-Gazette:

Dunkin' Donuts apparently has spotted a huge hole in the Pittsburgh market. The Massachusetts-based purveyor of doughnuts, coffee and other baked goods said yesterday it reached the largest store development agreement in history, signing a deal with Heartland Coffee Co. of Pittsburgh for 105 restaurants in Allegheny County in the next several years. The first new stores will open at undisclosed locations within 18 months, the company said. There currently are 10 Dunkin' Donuts in the Pittsburgh area.

I don’t even like donuts. What I do like, however, is Dunkin’ Donuts egg-and-cheese bagel. It’s the only really gross fast food item (excluding the Taco Bell bean burrito, and that’s not even that gross) that I really enjoy, and at 15 grams of fat apiece, no light breakfast. They’re a tough score around here, as the downtown location closed last year. Also, going to Dunkin’ Donuts is one of the few nice memories I have of visiting my ex-boyfriend in Philadelphia. Actually, it’s the only one. Anyway.

Also, 105 stores…estimate 20 employees per store, that’s 2100 new jobs in the southwestern PA area. With the rising minimum wage, these will be decent jobs for a lot of people. I am pretty awesomely psyched on this.

Remember this guy?

IT’S TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS!!!!

Shit Just Ain't Going My Way

2007-08-15T20:12:00.001-04:00

UGH.

Have you ever had one of those weeks where every possible thing that could go wrong, does? It's not even major stuff--well, not really. One fairly big thing:

-I didn't get a job that I had done two interviews for and really, really wanted. I thought I had it wrapped up (alternate choice, my ass. Alternate THIS, BITCHESSSSS!)

And then, just a series of minor things:

-I discovered a package of Ramen noodles on the floor of our pantry with a corner chewed off and a bunch of the noodles gone. This means one of two things: either living with me has shorted a fuse in Robbo's brain, or we have mice. My money's on the mice.

-There is an odd smell emanating from the kitchen that I can't find the source of. Can I blame the mice for this, too?

-Steely McBeam. Seriously, I'm not even going to bitch about Steely McBeam because you've heard it all before. You know damn well why I hate him. I'm just going to chalk him up to one of the shitty things happening this week.

(Taken from a notboto board poster.)

-I'm back to not sleeping much. But on the plus side, I've watched about 20 episodes of Ninja Warrior this week.

-I decided to take a short break from running, since I was putting all this ridiculous pressure on myself and had stopped enjoying it. I realize that this is conscious choice and not something that "happened to me," but it's making me a little crazy nonetheless.

-I'm hormonal. What do you want? At least I'm not crying at Stouffer's commercials anymore.

I am, however, crying at the Pittsburgh Pirates. You assholes really let me down. I'm glad I never made the CAMP RONNY sign because as I was typing this entry, I saw Ronny Paulino make a play (or more accurately, NOT make a play) that looked less professional than the Little League World Series. One more year of failure under our belts. Is it too soon to say that? No, I don't think so. Thanks for being just one more disappointment. Turds.

It's only Wednesday. I bet I forget to wear pants to work or something.

One totally awesome thing happening this week:
Tomorrow night (Thursday), the Maxipads are playing at the Firehouse Lounge in the Strip District.

From their website: "The Firehouse Lounge is a distinctive nightlife experience for those who appreciate a sophisticated yet casual environment."

Yeah. Sounds like it's MADE for us!

(Yes, all three of us are wearing dresses.)

Don't You Hate It When People Make You Look at Vacation Pictures?

2007-08-09T13:47:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: Don't Worry, I Don't Expect You To Care

So, we’re back.

And I’m back at work. Oh wait, I forgot! I don’t work; I’m on welfare! (See also: the cruelty of Dave Matthews fans.) But I’m seriously done talking about that.

Anyway— vacation was amazing. Just what I/we needed. We spent most of our time lying around on the beach:

Didn't you know that I have gigantic shoulder disease? I do. It's not funny. Whap! Seriously, I don't know what's up with that.

I told Robbo that his legs would probably get hot if he wore his sweater-pants to the beach, but I dunno, he wore them anyway.

On Friday, we went deep sea fishing. Yeah. Deep. Sea. Fishing.
Things that I don’t do very well:
1) Freestyle rap
2) Pee standing up
3) GO DEEP SEA FISHING

The first two hours on the boat were beautiful:

Too bad they were also quite possibly some of the worst of my life. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach the movement of the boat, so I popped two Dramamine before we left. At 4:45am. Did you know that Dramamine will make you sleepy? I didn’t.
It also didn’t keep me from being nauseated, just from throwing up. So I’m on the boat, sick as a dog but unable to vomit, unable to keep my eyes open, and thinking, “only 8 more hours of this!” At one point, it began to rain and I didn’t even notice until I opened my eyes and everyone was inside the cabin and I was soaked. Completely oblivious. It was like college, but without the fun.
Eventually, I got used to the wobbling of the boat, but vowed never to do it again, as Robbo puked over the railing. We’re definitely land-people.

"HELP ME OH GOD HELP ME!!"

Ahem. Anyway.
We also went to the previously-mentioned Cape Hatteras lighthouse:

This is us doing the stand-here-and-smile picture in front of the lighthouse. The man that took it for us carried his own camera around in a Crown Royal bag. I complimented it and he glared at me and said, "It gets the job done." Ooookay.

I have to say, one of my favorite parts of the trip was staying in Richmond on the way down--our very first stop was to a gas station. You know, to buy beer. Because it's NOT Pennsylvania. I always forget about this luxury until I leave the state, and then I'm all, OH! Thank you GOD! Here's us being grateful:

Yes, those are 32-ounce Colt 45s, affectionately dubbed "thoh-ties." You know, like foh-ties. Forget it.

And you know what? Despite not being able to buy alcohol anywhere I damn well please, it's still pretty good to be home.

The Rock Revolution Won't Be Televised

2007-07-30T08:31:00.001-04:00

I’d considered writing this entry as a devotion of thanks to the Dave Matthews fans whose helpful advice and constructive criticism about how I must be on welfare, be ugly, be unloved, be desperate, be conservative, be a teenybopper, be utterly evil helped me to come to the realization that Dave Matthews is OHMYGODTHEBESTTHINGEVER!!!111!!one!

I had planned to reassure everyone that I was, in fact, listening to “Under the Table and Dreaming” while frantically masturbating to a VHS copy of “Because of Winn Dixie” and etching a prison ink-style tattoo of “DMB4EVA” in the flesh directly over my heart.

However, I’d like to be able to open my email without seeing my inbox full of notifications from Blogger that 30 more nameless people have said something contradictory, nonsensical and often downright ignorant in the semi-anonymity of the internet, or tried to start a fight with one of my friends (Hi Trapper! Hi Cimba! Hi Notboto Board posters!)
Plus, geez. You all just said the same thing over and over, and to be honest, it stopped being funny after the fourth or fifth post. I guess it stands to reason that rabid fans of an unoriginal musical act wouldn’t be too original in their insults.

However, I do appreciate all the return visits to my blog—the increased traffic has been awesome. Also, the other two members of the Maxipads thank you very much for all of the plays on our MySpace. Please purchase our album.

I was honestly surprised that a lot of people, even after hearing my band, assumed that I was a teenybopper—sort of weird, especially considering that Dave Matthews is like Mr. Radio, and I’m in a loud punk rock band. Who’s the teenybopper? Then I realized that despite how important (and time-consuming) music is in my life, I rarely talk about what I’m into on this blog. So here’s what I’m listening to these days.

Oh, and I disabled comments because, well, I own this blog, so thus, I get the last word. And the last word is that Dave Matthews is crap, and stuff that I like is awesome.

So! My current rotation:

Metric- Old World Underground
This is one of those albums that I’ll listen to until I can’t stand it anymore, and then I’ll put it away for about a week and pull it back out, because it’s so damn good.

Jawbreaker- Dear You
This came out in 1995, and it took me 12 years to appreciate it.

Minus the Bear- Planet of Ice
I’m a huge Minus the Bear fan, and Robbo and I got an advance copy of their new record, Planet of Ice, that is due out next month. It’s seriously amazing, it’ll blow you away.

Rainer Maria- Catastrophe Keeps Us Together
RM’s last album ever, so that’s a bummer, but it was also their most polished and I’d say, cohesive. Give it a listen.

My Niece Denise- Don’t Get Your Hopes Up
An awesome showing from a local Pittsburgh quartet—I do the same thing with this that I do with the Metric album in trying to put it away for awhile and the next thing I know, I’m dancing around to “Big in Japan.”

Spoon- Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
I like this. I’ve always been a casual Spoon fan, and this was their first record that really grabbed me. Yeah.

Rihanna- Umbrella
Yeah, I downloaded the single, so what. Oh wait, guess that makes me a teenybopper. Whatever, this song is hot.

DMB4EVA!!!!!!

Who Knew?!

2007-07-28T10:37:00.000-04:00

Well. As it turns out, plenty of people still like Dave Matthews. Shameful, really, but this is America.
Some people like good food; some people like McDonald's.
Some people like good books; some people like Dean Koontz.
Some people like good music and then-- some people like Dave Matthews.

Unfortunately for Mr. Matthews, the cross-section of humanity that sprang to his defense...well, not the creme de la creme, if you will.

ewww, first off, the name of your band is gross. 2nd...how disrespectful is that song, "jonbenet?!" come on now. you have NO room talking about dave like that.

I guess none of you have heard that really obscure Dave Matthews B-side, "I Like Fucking Little Boys." I guess you're not a REAL fan!

I'm so sorry for you on so many levels. I can only hope one day you can open up and find DMB you will be a born again human being!

Then maybe Dave Matthews can take me out to a remote farm and feed me some poisioned Kool-Aid. Creeeepy!!!

Seek up little girl before you do become a danger to self or others.

You know, I couldn't figure out why I so enjoyed drinking until I blacked out and then driving at high speeds. Then this commenter brought it to light--it's because I hate Dave Matthews! Obviously!!

I think I may devote the rest of this blog to hating on pathetic, has-been pop icons. It's so much fun!!

Ha!! Or maybe not. I mean...honestly, it just seems too easy!

Blasts from the Past

2007-07-27T09:11:00.001-04:00

So. I just signed on to MySpace to see this, under Featured Music:
Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
Check out the exclusive MySpace Music Video Premiere of Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds performing "Eh Hee," live at Radio City Music Hall!

Are you KIDDING me? People STILL listen to Dave Matthews? Did you know this?? WHAT KIND OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN WHERE THIS MAN IS STILL RELEVANT?!
Not to mention the fact that the name of the song is “Eh Hee.” EH HEE, PEOPLE. I’m seriously going to make a recording of me farting all over a snare drum, and I’m going to package it up really nice and sell it to all the fucking douchebags in the world that still listen to Dave Matthews.

I mean, seriously. Don’t you just want to jam a tennis ball in there and be like, “Stop it, okay? Just stop.”

Speaking of blasts from the past, Lizzard and I are currently working on re-collecting the entire Sweet Valley High book series, because it was formative in our respective childhoods, and oh, also—ruined our lives.

It gave me such unrealistic expectations—somehow I thought that when I got to high school, I would be blonde and blue-eyed (I’m Italian), rich (I grew up in a Nascar family) and beautiful (don’t even get me started) and that boys would be throwing themselves at my feet, and that I’d drive a convertible, and have a date every weekend night, and would have to make up my mind about which boy to go to the dance with. Yeah. NOT SO MUCH, SWEET VALLEY HIGH. NOT. SO. MUCH.

I remember in 7th grade, I got the series of three or four books where the twins are camp counselors via mail-order. Bear in mind that in 7th grade, I was only 11 years old while the other kids were 13, some nearly 14, as I had been pushed through the early schooling years. Not only did this fuck me up socially for a bit, but hi, PUBERTY? Nowhere to be found.

So there I am, a child when everyone else is growing into adults, and what does that get you in 7th grade? Relentlessly mocked. I remember one day that it was particularly bad, I was crying in a stall in the bathroom. Suddenly, I remembered that I had just gotten these books in the mail, and I cheered up instantly. Then I looked in the mirror, and realized what a nerd I truly was. And to this day, I’ve embraced it.

Plus I finally grew boobs, so that probably helped too.

An Open Letter to my Next Door Neighbors

2007-07-24T10:18:00.000-04:00

Dear Next Door Neighbors:

Hi! You live next door to us. You seem like nice guys, in that you always say hello when we pass you in the alley. You do some little things that annoy me, like discarding your empty cigarette packs onto our stairs, but I just pick them up and throw them away, and say nothing about it.

Your back porch is next to our back porch, which means that it is located all of 15 yards from our bedroom window. Okay. You have dogs. I love dogs. I do. I truly love all animals. Ask Robbo. I’ve been mere seconds away from grabbing strays and bringing them into our house. He hates when I do this. He also can’t take me to PetCo without me sitting on the floor, cooing at the mice and hamsters and guinea pigs and begging, "Please, pleaaaase can’t we get one? I swear to GOD I’ll feed it and clean up after it I promise!!!"
Yeah. Now that I think about it…maybe Robbo hates me. Anyway.

My dear neighbors, here’s the thing about your dogs. Well, all dogs, really. They poop. They poop a lot, and their poop smells.
Okay, that being said…
Things a responsible dog owner does not do:
1) PERMIT THEIR DOGS TO POOP ALL OVER THEIR BACK PORCH AND THEN NEVER CLEAN IT UP, AND LET IT FESTER IN HOT AND MISERABLY HUMID PITTSBURGH DAYS.

Seriously, it smells awful. Awful! In order to do anything with my garden, I have to wear a bandanna over my face. I swear the acid-poop smell is making the tomatoes turn black and drop from the vines. Gross!

So that sucks. But here’s the thing I really don’t get. If you refuse to clean up the mounds (literally, MOUNDS) of dog poop on your back porch, how the hell is it possible that you manage to have drunk broads out on the porch in the middle of the night ON A MONDAY NIGHT? Because, as you may already know, my most favorite thing in the whole world is to be woken from a dead sleep by some girl shrieking (15 yards from our open bedroom window, remember), “Fuck you! Fuck you and your perfect body, you cunt!!”

Ugh!

You know what, neighbors? I think I might hate you.

Love,
kT

WHAT TIME IS IT? GAME TIME!

2007-07-19T13:36:00.001-04:00

Okay, so. I know you've all been worried about me, what with the Buccos dropping all six games since the All-Star break and you know what? I'm okay. Not great, but okay. There's still plenty of season left to hit the .500 mark. I wasn't hoping for playoffs or anything. We shall see.

More importantly, just this morning I got crazy-excited for football season. I mean, really, really excited. I forgot how much fun it is to wake up early on Sunday morning with the anticipation of the game, and then you waste time until 12, when you can put on the pre-game coverage while you get dressed (and drink beer) and then put on all your Steelers gear and head out to your local watering hole (for us, Excuses at 26th and Carson, home of THE IKE TAYLOR MAFIA) where everyone else is similarly dressed and as pumped as you are.

I'll spare you my intricate analyses of the Steelers' upcoming season for a few weeks. For now, I'll just say...HEY YO STILLEEEEEEEEERS!!!

Let's Talk Politics

2007-07-11T16:12:00.000-04:00

The Pittsburgh mayoral race.

-Sigh-

This vote, I fear, is going to be for the lesser of the two evils.

In this corner, the incumbent “Lucky” Luke Ravenstahl (D), or as I like to call him, “Mayor Doogie.” The kid hasn’t the faintest clue what he’s doing, and spends most of his time either searching for Tiger Woods or hanging out in Dan Onorato’s pocket. His “plans” to revitalize the city are not very well-thought out, it seems. But still, he is young, and a young mayor would more than likely focus on things that are important to the young people around here—namely, attracting employers to keep young people in the region. As young voters in this region, it's our responsibility to be accounted for. Moreover, Mayor Doogie desperately wants to do well, which I think is probably because he is not yet far enough in his political career to be jaded. Thus, his electability is all based on speculation of what he could do, given he had a decent plan. We’ll see.

Summation? Meh.

In this corner, the challenger Mark DeSantis (R). Okay, please hear me out. I don’t dislike DeSantis because he is a Republican. Party affiliation really has very little to do with the job of mayor. As many of my peers have pointed out, he’s obviously not going to privatize Social Security within the city limits, nor declare war on a rival city (look out, Cleveland!) so the fact that he is a Republican in and of itself is a moot point. He does seem like a sincere guy with some good intentions, who has a genuine interest in rebuilding this city. Okay. The things that concern me: the fact that he wants to merge the city and county. As Mayor, he can’t actually force Allegheny County to do anything, but the fact that he doesn’t realize that this is not the best idea makes me nervous. I do understand, as is the argument, that fragmentation within local government can potentially result in economic and racial segregation, but in my opinion, the merging of the city and county in this situation would do nothing to solve the problems that we’ve already created for ourselves. And also—city residents, do you really want members of the Fox Chapel Yacht Club voting for your mayor? I certainly don’t. I enjoy having public transit.
Other things that bother me about Mark DeSantis: the fact that the man donated money to Rick “Dead Baby Under the Christmas Tree Because it’s Not Just a Fetus” Santorum and George W. “I Don’t Even Need to Come Up With a Funny Nickname Anymore” Bush. Plus the fact that DeSantis worked on the first Bush administration. Bottom line, party affiliation or none, the judgment calls that he has made have not impressed me.

Summation? Meh.

Final summation? At this point, none. Guess we’ll have to wait for the debates.

Pittsburgh residents, what are you thinking? If the election were tomorrow, who would you vote for and why?

Sunshine on my Butthole

2007-07-11T10:00:00.000-04:00

For once, things seem to be going my way.

Mine and Robbo’s lease is up at the end of this month, and we love our apartment. It’s amazing. It has two floors, two bedrooms, a huuuge kitchen, a wide-open living room and a big back porch. It’s bright and airy and is truly the first place I’ve lived in a long time that feels like home. Have I mentioned that it’s on the Southside and we pay very little for it in terms of rent? I love this apartment.

So the building sold, from one landlord we never even met to another landlord, a slick dude with gelled hair and a silver bracelet. Not impressed. Slick Dude, or (“Marc Anthony,” as Robbo has taken to calling him) wants to renew our lease. We say, “awesome!” Now, due to our proximity to Southside Works, this apartment should be very expensive—especially because our old landlord was still charging the rent he charged before the Works was built. In fact, the former landlord had purchased our building and the ones around it for 40k each and resold each for 160k! Yeah, I imagine he’s moved to Aruba by now. Anyway, point is, I’m a worrier. I was completely convinced that our rent was going to skyrocket and that we’d either have to move, or suck it up and pay it and be poor all the time.

So yesterday, “Marc Anthony” comes over to give us the new lease. He hands it to me with his slick hands and says, “So the rent we’re gonna do is…”
I hold my breath.
He says the number.
I instinctively shake my head a bit, as though to clear the cobwebs. Are you kidding me?

The new rent is 50 bucks lower than what we were paying before.

Suckers!! One more year at Jane Street!

Friday Night Naked Party

2007-07-09T10:20:00.000-04:00

Kacyn leans over to me. “I just saw her rectum,” she says with whiskey breath.
“Rectum?!” I reply, “I think I just saw her cervix!”

It’s Friday night, and we’re at the Cricket Lounge. I glance across the bar just as a dancer bends her head into Robbo’s lap, poking around for a dollar bill. I swig some more Jameson and look around for the cocktail waitress.

It is a certain someone’s special day. His lady has just left for another continent for several weeks, and a big group of us are celebrating his relative freedom with overpriced drinks and lots of titties. The last time I was here, a few years ago, the fully-nude statute in the city of Pittsburgh had not yet been lifted, and so the dancers wore panties and glued-on glitter on their nipples. Not so awkward.

Fast forward to July 2007, and I’m staring directly into some woman’s birth canal. Which, judging by her stretch marks and oversized nipples, had very recently been occupied.

It’s dark enough in here, but the whiskey is clouding my vision. “You have great boobs!” Sasha or Sarah or whatever her name yells to me over the blasting nu-metal as she slides down the pole and holds open her garter for a tip. “Thanks—uh, you do too!” I slur.

I open my wallet to find two crumpled singles where there used to be a fat wad of them. How did that even happen? I can’t be sure, but I realize that means it’s time to go.

Robbo and I walk out the door and weave our way down the sidewalk to the bus stop. My clothing smells strangely like nudity. We have to pool our resources for bus fare.

The lesson? Boobs will empty your wallet, every time.

Playing Catch Up

2007-07-05T14:08:00.001-04:00

So, it’s been awhile. Rather than to write a lengthy entry about everything I’ve been up to (because you definitely care!) I’d rather just touch on a few things, in haiku form.

On interviewing for a promotion at my work that I doubt I will get:
Ugh. My bosses know
That I take questionable
Sick days. Whoops! Oh well.

On the Maxipads/Medic Medic/Bugs in the Dark show at the 31st Street Pub:
What a show! Girls rock
So hard, you’d not believe what
We’re capable of.

(I know, this isn't in 5-7-5 form, but please, for your own good--check out Bugs in the Dark from Brooklyn, whose EP was one of the best things I've heard all year, and Medic Medic, from right here in Pittsburgh. Oh, and while you're at it... MAXIPADS MAXIPADS YEAH! Shameless.)

On the Jam on Walnut:
We left the bar late
And missed the whole damn party
What a bunch of drunks.

On my garden:
I wish cucumbers
Were not tittybabies that
Have no will to live.

On the 4th of July:
Dude! Awesome party.
My friends are sweet and they can
Cook better than you.

On the cats:
Dear Marley, listen
Please stop pooping on the floor
You lazy bastard.

On the fact that I’ve been acting like an old lady lately:
Sorry I’m so tired
My bones ache; I need a nap
Must be arthritis.

Reconsidering

2007-06-19T16:02:00.000-04:00

Last night, Robbo and I decided to go for a walk. We got coffee and were sitting on a ledge in the Southside Works near the fountain, when suddenly I got this eerie feeling, like someone was behind me.

I turned, and there he was, lurking over my shoulder.

“I’m Spiderman!” he lisped.
And Spiderman he was, from the top of his toddler-sized Spiderman t-shirt to the bottoms of his Spiderman velcro shoes.

This was the cutest damn thing I’d ever seen. “Oh no!” I exclaimed.

“But I’m the good Spiderman!,” he said. “I’m gonna save Mary Jane Watson!”

“Who are you going to save Mary Jane from?”

“DOC OC! I’m gonna web him!” Spiderman said. “But I need to find Harry first!”

“Where’s Harry??” I asked.

“I don’t know!!!” said Spiderman, as he ran off toward the fountain.

Robbo and I hung out a bit longer, and eventually started walking home. The sound of little feet followed us. We stopped and turned, and there was Spiderman. “Wait!” he yelled to Robbo. “I need to talk to you!!”

Spiderman’s dad came over. “Come on Chris, they need to leave.”

The howls that came from Chris/Spiderman’s mouth were one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. We could still hear him halfway home, echoing off the buildings. My heart melted, just a little.

Hmm. Maybe I won’t get sterilized after all.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

2007-06-13T11:28:00.000-04:00

So, Robbo and I are planning a trip to Cape Hatteras, NC in August. This should be fun.

We decided that instead of driving all the way there the first night (about 10 hours or so), we'd stop off in Richmond, VA and stay in a cheap motel.

Now, I've seen a lot of horror movies. A LOT. Many of them take place in hotels and motels. Hi, Psycho? The Shining? Motel Hell, Mountaintop Motel Massacre and only in the last few months, Vacancy and Bug? People, think!! What does this tell you? It tells me that motels are scary, scary places where you will probably be disemboweled, and die.

So naturally, I had the feeling that we'd end up in some ratted out Southern motel room (cue the banjo.) Don't get me wrong. I am certainly not high maintenance. I don't need silk sheets and 5-star quality. Hell, I don't even need cleanliness, I just don't want to die. I don't think that's too much to ask of a place to sleep.

So let's look at a few reviews for the place we're staying (courtesy of expedia.com), shall we?

Wouldn’t recommend to anyone
This was the worst hotel I’ve ever stayed at by far. Rundown would be an upgrade. I was worried about the safety of our vehicle being parked outside.

Might as well sleep in a tent
Very dirty and therefore uncomfortable.

Disgusting
I put my bag in front of my door in case someone broke in, I might have a little extra time. There were cigarette butts covering the outdoor hallway, and I felt dirtier getting out of the shower than before getting in.

Deceiving
Toilet broken. No clock in room. Broken windows is some rooms, torn curtains in others. Garbage in parking lot. Strangers banging on the door at night. Actually somewhat frightening.

Hah.
Disembowelment--I mean, vacation, here we come!

Live-Aversary

2007-06-04T13:16:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was mine and Robbo’s “live-aversary.” Meaning, it’s been one year since we moved in together. For anyone who’d like to re-live the move, please feel free to here, in the "Moving is for Suckers" post.

Please see the only photo I could find from the night before we moved. I know somewhere there’s a picture of me drunk, sitting in an otherwise empty box, and a picture of Kacyn drunk, putting a casserole dish into a box, but I can’t find them right now. So instead, I give you this:

Thanks for all the help packing, honey!

Lately I’ve been thinking about how much things have changed over the last year.

* At this time in 2006, we were slowly unpacking the apartment.

* The Maxipads were prepping for our very first show. It was June 30, 2006 at the Quiet Storm. We wore velour jumpsuits and drank PBR pounders. Everyone we knew showed up, and it was one of the best nights of my life.

* I was about to be fired, but because those suckers gave me three weeks of warning, I was spending my days at work with my feet up on my desk, watching a live stream of World Cup soccer games, and then walking to the Buon Giorno Café in Market Square on my lunch break to drink overpriced Yuengling drafts (yes, drinking on my lunch hour. They told me they were firing me, people!) and to watch the games with the bartender, who affectionately dubbed me “Soccer Fan.” Robbo and I were also setting the alarm for 7am on Saturday and Sunday mornings to get up and drink and watch soccer. We definitely got World Cup fever. We were definitely drunk most of the day on most days. It definitely made the transition to living together easier. The neighbors definitely saw me in my underwear. Then introduced themselves and shook my hand. I plan to do the same thing with next year’s Summer Olympics.

And some things stayed the same.

On July 20, 2006, I wrote this: On my second day [at a new job], I rocked a hangover so hard that I threw up in the bathroom. Twice. Since then, I've been up to my usual tricks of "I wonder how much time I can kill in the bathroom?" and "I wonder how badly I'd have to hurt myself in order to go home and not the hospital?" So, same old shit.

Yup. Some things definitely never change.

Yowza, America. Yowza.

2007-05-31T11:09:00.000-04:00

Hi Internet!

May 2007 has been quite possibly the busiest month of my life. Between work, Maxipads, my newest band The Hips, company softball games, working out, running a 5K (I finished in 25:13, bitches!), maintaining this totally bitchin vegetable garden (did I really just say "bitchin vegetable garden"??) trying to see friends and maintain a functioning, cohabitating relationship, it feels like I’m on the go from 6AM to whenever my sleeping-pill-induced coma hits me at night. Yeah, I know. They’re only temporary. Mama’s stressed out, ya heard? They make me loopy, and then I say funny things. They're recreational drugs for the faint of heart.

Anyway, the ‘Pads went back to Olean, NY (after last month’s sword fiasco, I swore I’d never go back.) But this time, people seemed to like us, and no one threatened us with weapons. Robbo got a sweet video of our encore song, “Kill for Satan,” so once that’s up on YouTube, I’ll post the link.

So for now, I’ll just entertain you with the following oh-so-American story (from the Associated Press):

MIAMI - A Wendy's manager was shot several times in the arm early Tuesday trying to protect the restaurant's chili sauce, authorities said.

A man in the drive-through argued with an employee because he wanted more of the condiment, police said. The worker told the customer that restaurant policy prohibited a customer from getting more than three packets.

The man insisted on 10, reports said. The employee complied, but police said the customer wanted more.

When the manager came out to speak to the man, the customer shot the manager, Miami-Dade police spokeswoman Mary Walters said. He was taken to Ryder Trauma Center at Jackson Memorial Hospital with non-life threatening injuries, police said.

The shooter fled with a female passenger.

"I did not know I got shot," store manager Renal Frage told WTVJ-TV in Miami. "When I went back to the office, I saw blood pumping out of my arm, and I was shocked. I was checking myself out and couldn't believe I got shot over some chili sauce."

Frage added: "I got shot over chili sauce. I was trying to figure while in the hospital why someone would shoot me over some chili sauce."

Thanks, America. Thank you SO much.

An Open Letter to Pandora

2007-05-24T11:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Pandora:

You have a really, really great idea going here. Your users enter the names of bands that they like, and you use the musical aspects of those bands to come up with other music that the user might enjoy.

Brilliant! I’ve found a lot of sweet bands that I’d never heard of before through your website because, let’s face it. I’m not cool anymore. I don’t know what’s cool. One of the things Robbo requested for his last birthday was a subscription to AP. I said, “Sure. Wait. The Associated Press?” Yeah. Not quite.

So for you, Pandora, to tell me what I might like without me having to do the legwork of researching it makes my life so much better. Thank you. I would totally recommend you to anyone. Plus, it’s great for bands, because now I’m going to buy these albums I would never have before.

But do me a favor. Don’t fucking insult me.

That shit's not even funny.

All my love,
kT

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up

2007-05-23T15:35:00.000-04:00

The answer is, a fucking astronaut.

Or at least, that was my answer when I was six years old, minus the perfunctory curse word. An astronaut. I want to go up there and float around in space and check shit out. I’d discover other lifeforms and hang out in zero gravity all day. Uh huh.
Then I got degrees in English and Art History.

Call this being in your 20s, but lately I’ve been SO back and forth on everything, it’s unbelievable. I’m all “Robbo, let’s move our life plan up a few years and move to Seattle tomorrow. You and me, baby!” then fifteen minutes later, I’m like, “Ew, you? Get back on your side of the bed.” *

I had a job interview today. Yes, I know. I already have a job, but this is a better job, in that it would pay me more and I’d get better experience, career-building, yada yada yada. But the catch is, this company provides practically no paid time off, and a lot of that extra money would go into things that I’m used to getting for free here, like a bus pass and a gym membership, things that I need. (Well, I need the bus pass, I love the gym membership. And I need not be fat, so there.)

I text message my cousin Celeste about being unable to make a decision. I say, “I feel so torn about everything. Do you ever feel like that?” She responds, “Oh my god, every day of my life.”

Does this ever get any better? Or do you eventually just suck it up and deal with the fact that you have to have a job that you probably don’t like? You probably don’t make enough money, and you’re probably unhappy there?

And if that’s the case, then why do we even bother? Why not just work a crap job and have fun all the time otherwise? Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do. Maybe that's what I'm gonna do. PARTY ALL THE TIME. I'm gonna be Tara Reid when I grow up! (or Lindsay Lohan, or whomever is notorious for partying? God, I'm so uncool.)

That's totally gonna be me. Wish me luck!!

* I realize that I probably poke fun at Robbo on this blog a lot more than I should, and for anyone who doesn’t personally know me and how much I love the guy, it probably seems that I don’t even like him. So I kind of feel the need to let the internet know that I do. I mean, look at him!

(with Nikki and The Latin Assassin.)

He's pretty much the best thing ever.
Hi, honey! Olive shoe.

Superficial is the New Deep

2007-05-17T12:50:00.000-04:00

I know, I’m very late on updating. There was no CAMP RONNY sign on Tuesday night because SOMEONE (Robbo) didn’t pick up the posterboard as requested. It didn’t even matter, because Ronny Paulino didn’t play, because—duh! It makes perfect sense to bench your best catcher the night after he hits a home run! Obviously!— but rest assured that the sign will be there on Friday night for Fireworks Night.

Anyway. The reason I haven’t updated is because I am truly a mess. At the aforementioned Pirates game, I rubbed away at my allergy-itchy eyes, disregarding the fact that I was wearing a pair of old contacts. I woke up the next morning with a bright red, watering-on-its-own, blurred-visioned right eye. Yeah. I still can’t really see out of it. (Side note: Nicole, I picked up some Claritin at your suggestion, and today I feel like a million bucks. Thank you.)

So I have to use these steroid eye drops (MY EYES BE JUICIN'!) and wear my glasses, and I always feel really dowdy and ugly when I wear my glasses. And yeah, I’m shallow. So what?

So instead of a bunch of emo crap whininess about eye pain and feeling ugly, I’m just going to share with you a very shallow (and poorly worded) email I sent to my friend Liz today.

“I just remembered that I had a nightmare last night about finding the cutest dress (in my dream, it was light blue and white polka dotted with cap sleeves) I could ever have imagined (in the dream, I recall saying, “This is the cutest dress I could ever have imagined.”) and when I went to try it on, I realized it was not a size 6 but a size 26. And I cried.

Just thought you might have been interested.”

Her response:

‘That is equal parts hilarious and horrifying!

And, it sounds like an extremely cute dress!”

I may have mentioned this before, but Liz and I have agreed that a girl should never, ever trust a girl who claims to hate other girls, and has no girlfriends. Why? Because she's a backstabbing bitch. This is not the point. The point is, ladies, if you have no girlfriends to support, condone, and downright encourage your shallow thoughts and behaviors, then you have nothing at all.

CAMP RONNY

2007-05-10T12:50:00.000-04:00

So, if you just happen to be going to the Buccos game this Saturday, May 12, for RONNY PAULINO BOBBLEHEAD NIGHT, and have no interest in actually owning a Ronny Paulino bobblehead, let me know by either commenting or emailing me (the envelope link at the bottom of this post.) I'll pay you for it. I love Ronny Paulino in a way that is abnormal and I just can't possibly make it to this game.

Also, look for me and Robbo at this Tuesday's game, unveiling our CAMP RONNY sign.
Robbo: Too bad we don't have scout uniforms!
Me: Yeeeaaaahh...too bad.

Oh, Ronny. Why do I love you so much? Even I can't explain it.

Holy Christ

2007-05-07T13:13:00.000-04:00

To make up for the lack of funny in my last entry, I just wanted to tell you all that someone in the UK found my blog by Googling "the alien strapped the girl into gynecological stirrups."

This is probably the proudest moment of my life.

Nostalgia

2007-05-07T13:04:00.000-04:00

Warning: this entry is really sappy and completely unfunny.

When I was a kid, my grandfather had a huge vegetable garden in his backyard. It was his pride and joy--if he wasn't digging around in it, he was talking about it, peering through the kitchen window at it, or just sitting in a chair next to it. He always enlisted my help in its care, and if I helped him pick green beans, I could take some home. There are very few children in this world for whom green beans are an incentive to work, but hey, I was a weird kid. I always thought I was doing this really hard job and being paid well for it, but in actuality, Gaga (husband of Nana, who was previously my Hero of the Day) just grew entirely too many vegetables for two people to eat. So he and I would go outside, and he would sit in his chair while I picked green beans into a basket, mopping his brow with a handkerchief and giving me gardening lessons that I bet he thought I wasn’t paying attention to.

Amidst my parents’ ineptitude for raising children, my grandparents stood in (and Nana continues to, of course.) Gaga cosigned my student loans for college and hung my report cards on his refrigerator. He gave me advice, threatened me when I messed up (seriously, I needed it) and once told Nana that if he weren’t so old, he would have tried to adopt me.

He died three Februarys ago. My heart still aches to think about it. My brother and I both took it hard—he was, after all, our father figure.

This past weekend, I planted my “garden” on my back porch—tomatoes, peppers, squash, herbs, etc., all in pots. When I was finished, I leaned back on my heels and wiped my forehead with my sleeve. And I thought, he would have been proud of me.

Worst Hangover EVER.

2007-04-30T13:22:00.000-04:00

No, this entry is not about the aftermath of Super Bowl XL, when I walked in the snow from South Side to Oakland to Shadyside and still made it to work on time, but at one point woke up under my desk, unsure of where I was.

Nor is it about last Thanksgiving, when I got waaay too drunk at Robbo's dad's Thanksgiving celebration, shared a cigarette with his stepmother in the driveway, somehow managed to get my shoes off to pass out in their spare bedroom and spent the bulk of the next morning vomiting uncontrollably. (I know, I'm definitely the kind of girl you want to take home to meet your parents.)

Instead, this entry is about this story, courtesy of Reuters:

PATNA, India - Villagers at a wedding in eastern India decided the groom had arrived too drunk to get married, and so the bride married the groom's more sober brother instead, police said Monday.
"The groom was drunk and had reportedly misbehaved with guests when the bride's family and local villagers chased him away," Madho Singh, a senior police officer told Reuters after Sunday's marriage in a village in Bihar state's Arwal district.
The younger brother readily agreed to take the groom's place beside the teenage bride at her family's invitation, witnesses said.
"The groom apologized for his behavior, but has been crying that word will spread and he will never get a bride again," Singh said by phone.

I know this will probably be viewed from our contemporary American standpoint of "Oh-em-gee, how could you ever marry someone you like, didn't totally, absolutely, like, love? And like, how come he wasn't upset about losing this bride? He like, only cared about future brides! They're culture is so TOTALLY messed up. Seriously."

But no. I'm amused. That's goddamn funny. And this is my blog, so you're at my mercy. Ha!

Just be glad that I didn't write the entry I'd been planning to, which would have included these lines:
"Dear Steve Young,

I really used to be in love with you. I love football, but I'd particularly watch ESPN's Sunday Countdown just to look at the crinkles next to your eyes.
AND THEN YOU HAD TO GO AND GET BOTOX OR A FACELIFT OR SOMETHING, AND YOU LOOK LIKE HELL AND I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE. Plus your Brady Qunn obsession nauseates me. I'm disappointed, Steve. So, so disappointed.
Love,
kT"

I just couldn't find a picture of him on the internet with his brand new, less-wrinkles-than-me face to go along with the post.

Sock Controversy

2007-04-26T15:30:00.000-04:00

It is baseball season, and I love baseball season. You know this.
This post, however, is not about the Pirates, although I did want to mention that Robbo and I went to our first game of the season this week, and I decided that I’m going to start selling t-shirts that say CAMP RONNY after my boy Ronny Paulino. But that’s neither here nor there.

This post is about the Curt-Schilling-Red-Sox-announcer-bloody-sock controversy. In case you’re not a sports geek, here’s a little background. During Game 6 of the 2004 American League championship series, there was blood visible on pitcher Curt Schilling’s sock. He’d injured a tendon in his ankle and required sutures to hold the thing together so he could pitch that night. The bloody sock became famous—a testament to the “Davids” of the world (the Sox) going up against the “Goliaths” (the Yankees) and doing it with heart. The bloody sock is actually in the MLB Hall of Fame.

Last night, Orioles announcer Gary Thorne, who also does nationally syndicated work for ESPN, said that Red Sox catcher Dave Mirabelli told him the blood was fake, that it was done for publicity (as if the Red Sox needed more publicity during the 2004 postseason?) Mirabelli denies this, of course, and now NO ONE IS SURE IF THE BLOOD WAS REAL!!!11!!1!

Um, okay. Not to bring down the party, but look at this—the sock in question:

I’ve had worse shaving injuries than that.

Anyway, the Pirates are rightthissecond up 5-1 in the bottom of the 8th and about to sweep the Astros for the second time this year, and to that I say HEEEYY YOOOO BUCCOOOOOOOOOOS!!!!!

Also. This is my 100th post to this blog. Thanks for sticking around!

"Tour" Diary: A Very Maxi Weekend

2007-04-23T13:19:00.000-04:00

So as you all know, this past Friday was the ‘Pads album release party. A good number of people came out, we were able to pay the out-of-town bands well, and we sold a decent number of CDs. Thank you SO much to everyone who showed up. I think I can safely say that all in all, it was a great night. All three of us wore dresses we found in Joe's house. See below--I wish you could see Joe's flowered get-up better:

(photo courtesy of Trapper Tom)

Good thing Friday went so well, because NOTHING could compare to the horrors of the following night, Saturday. We drove to Olean, New York-- home of St. Bonaventure University and very little else. We rolled into town blasting Van Halen’s “Right Now,” getting ourselves pumped for what we thought would be an awesome show.

The Maxipads were on the bill for a University Media Fest (or something.) We ended up playing at 7pm, stone cold sober, to a crowd of teenage straight-edge kids who had no idea what to make of us. It was the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been during a show. I felt weird in my own skin—the feeling actually reminded me of being in junior high. Ugh. But what can you do? Everyone plays bad shows.

So we went to the gas station across the street from the all-ages, drug-and-alcohol-free venue and bought a bunch of Sparks, and then pounded them in the back of the van belonging to our friends from Cleveland, Kill the Fall. Then we went to the apartment we were supposed to be crashing in.

As soon as I walked into the place, I got really, really anxious. Like, digging-my-nails-into-the-palms-of-my-hands anxious. I chalked this up to drinking too many Sparks and tried to chill out. I leaned back to listen to the conversations of small town people. And let me tell you, that phrase “small town, small mind” is not just a cliché.

The boyfriend of the girl that lived in the apartment apparently had very bad social anxiety disorder—duh, such a good reason to invite a band of people that you don’t know to stay with you. He also owned a big sword, which he was happy to take out of its sheath and point at us. Okay. Unstable, drunk people should not own lethal weapons. He was horribly offended when Kacyn asked him to please, please put the sword away.

After the sword incident, things went from bad to worse. Crazy Sword Guy (from here on, referred to as CSG) was talking loudly about how he hated, and I quote, “everything that’s ever been played on the radio, ever.” I asked, “What about Green Day’s Dookie?” because I think it’s the ultimate in radio-friendly albums. It’s a “just press play” record. Anyway. CSG looked at me angrily. “I HATE IT,” he said. “I’m talking about good records, like Weezer’s Blue Album.”
“But wait,” I said, “Buddy Holly was a huge radio hit, and a few other songs were too.” CSG just glared and me for a second and stomped off to the kitchen. I was confused, but a little too drunk to worry. About a half hour later, he came stomping back into the living room, yelling at me and Kacyn about how “if we didn’t want to be there, we should just leave.” Confused, I got up and followed him to the kitchen, trying to apologize for whatever we’d done. Because, I mean, if you have to sleep on the floor of someone’s home, the last thing you want is to piss off the crazy guy wielding a sword.

CSG accused me of having “a god complex,” which baffled me enough that I could barely respond. All I could manage to stutter out was, “What are you talking about??”

“If you don’t want to be here,” he screamed, “get out!”

Smelling the crazy in the water, I decided that, no—I did NOT want to be there. I grabbed my stuff and went out to sleep in the van. Apparently after I left, CSG lost it and smashed some glass all over his own kitchen. At that point, Joe got directions to the nearest motel.

Called Motel DeSoto and costing us a whopping $67 for the night, there was what appeared to be blood in the shape of a smiley face on the ceiling.

And that, my friends is why you should never go to Olean, New York.
It is also why I really, really wish we didn’t have another show booked there in a mere five weeks.

We drove out of Olean on Sunday morning blasting Iron Maiden’s “Run To The Hills.” It just seemed appropriate.

The Maxipads are so much fun.
And I am such an ugly-looking drunk.

(with the famous Trapper Tom.)

All I Have to Say Today is...

2007-04-20T12:48:00.000-04:00

It's tonight!! EEP!!

An Open Letter to Will Ferrell

2007-04-18T12:46:00.000-04:00

Dear Will Ferrell:

Hi. You seem like a totally nice guy. I bet you’re a lot of fun to go drinking with, and I hear you’re very good to your fans. That’s awesome.
You are also one of my all-time favorite SNL cast members. In fact, you are probably one of the only good “new” cast members (except for my hetero-crush, Tina Fey) and one could actually make the argument that your departure was the final nail in the SNL coffin. You were also great in those late-90s SNL movies, such as Superstar.

You know what other movie I liked? Old School. It was witty and offbeat, and you were hilarious in it. Plus, the entire movie wasn’t just you saying off-color and oh-so-quotable things. Good job!

And then you did Elf. Now, as much as I hate Christmas movies because I hate Christmas, and Christmas cheer makes me want to punch a Salvation-Army-bell-ringing-money-collector in the face, I really liked Elf. Again, I thought you were excellent in this movie.

Then, you did Anchorman. And you know what, Will Ferrell? This was the end of my liking for you. I thought Anchorman was crap. I didn’t think it was funny at all, and I swear to God, there was a point at which if I heard ONE more person say “I’m kind of a big deal,” I was going to jump into the Monongahela River. I mean this sincerely, and with all my heart.

Then, Kicking & Screaming, which, according to IMDB, had a working title of Untitled Will Ferrell Soccer Comedy. Then Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby which had a working title of Untitled Will Ferrell NASCAR Comedy. Well geez, Will. I guess there’s something to be said for a formula that works, but how many sports can you actually make the exact same movie about?

Silly me. There is no way that you’d do more than two of these ridiculous, “crude humor” movies.

Enter Blades of Glory. Christ. How wrong I was.

What I’m saying is, OH MY GOD WILL FERRELL, GIVE IT A FUCKING REST, PLEASE.

Thank you.

Love,
kT

Ignore This Entry UNLESS You Want To Be a Decent Human Being and Help Me Out

2007-04-16T13:25:00.000-04:00

So. It’s come to my attention that I desperately need a new cell phone. One could say that I’ve desperately needed a new cell phone for some time now, but I hate change and I hate technology, so I don’t really want one.

Unfortunately, yesterday it took five “can-you-hear-me-now?” phone calls while I stood on my head in our upstairs spare bedroom, as close to the window as possible while not breathing at all just to get enough reception to schedule one MaxiPads practice because my cell phone is garbage and no one could “hear me now.” Lame.

Some background information. This is the cell phone I have now:

It has a bunch of totally awesome features such as a front WITHOUT caller ID. Because seriously, who in their right mind would want to know who’s calling them? It sucks for screening calls because I have to flip the phone open to see who’s calling and by that point it’s like, “Well, I’ve come this far, I might as well answer.” And chances are, I don’t want to talk to you. I kid. Sort of. To counteract this, I put a big old Iron City sticker on there. Who’s calling? Iron City Beer! AWESOME!

My cell phone also does not have a battery cover. I don’t miss it much.

Anyway, my two-year Verizon upgrade was nine months ago, and I just never bothered to cash it in because at that point, I only had to sit Indian-style on the floor while turning my neck to a 62 degree angle to get reception. Not too bad. So I go to the Verizon Wireless Check-Out-Our-Cell-Phones page, expecting there to be maybe 10-12 models I can scrutinize, overanalyze and then never actually choose one.

Holy shit. There are 36 goddamn cell phones. Say whaaaat?? That’s not even including PDAs, Blackberries and Smartphones (What in God’s name is a Smartphone?!)

Naturally, being me, I immediately X-ed out the page and pretended none of it ever happened. Then I looked at my sad little cell phone, all dirty where it used to be clean, scuffed where it used to be shiny, unfunctioning where it used to send and receive calls and text messages whenever I wanted it to, and decided I needed to be a grown-up and just pick one already.

So how am I doing that? I’m asking you, Internet. Please comment on this entry with the phone you think I should purchase. Bear in mind, I tried to use Kacyn’s new Chocolate phone and found it really user unfriendly. I’m only saying this because I am a technological idiot, and she is not, and she said she didn’t understand how it worked.

So help a sister out. Do you have one of these phones? Let me know how you like it. Even if you don’t have Verizon and you’d just like to mess with me, please vote.

Internet, I trust you more than I trust myself. And I’m counting on you. Don't let me down.

Dear Internet- I Am Madly In Love

2007-04-16T02:00:00.000-04:00

Somewhere in Southside, 4/15/07, 10pm

Robbo: I had a really good poop today.
Me: What was it like?
Robbo: (describes it. I’ll leave this part out because you don’t need that many details, sicko.)
Me: How many wipes?
Robbo: Two.
Me: Are you a crinkler or a folder?
Robbo: Crinkler, duh.
Me: Crinkling seems to be more effective, but it ups your chances for a breakthrough.
Robbo: No, it ups your chances for a slip-around.
Me: That’s very true.
Robbo: Nothing sucks worse than accidentally sticking your finger up your ass.

Reasons Robbo and I Should Never Procreate

2007-04-11T11:21:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: Other than Passing on Genes for Big Noses and Big Heads

You know, sometimes you start to feel old. And you start to look at the person next to you in bed and you think, “I wonder what our kid would be like.” Do you ever do this? Maybe you don’t even want kids, but I think that most people, at some point, imagine procreating with their current partner.

And thus I decided, Robbo and I should never have kids.

And here’s why. We briefly discussed it, kicked around the notion, you know. For giggles. And THIS was his idea. AKA, the worst parenting idea ever:
So, you have a kid. Let’s call him Bill. Now, let’s assume that Bill is an only child. What if you constantly compared Bill to his nonexistent brother, Carl? And never explained to Bill why you do this?
Such as: “Carl cleaned his plate. WHY CAN’T YOU?! Carl gets A’s in Algebra, WHY CAN’T YOU?!”
Just to see what would happen.

I said, “Robbo, that’s disgusting. You can’t do that to a kid! Kids are not experiments!”

So then, he pitched this idea. AKA, the new worst parenting idea ever: So, you have a kid. An only child. Now, what if Robbo called the child Bill, while I called the child Carl? And what if we never provided any justification for this, or even acknowledged that it happened? You know, just to see what would happen.

Moments like these make you wonder, who am I really sleeping next to? Then I made him an appointment to get a vasectomy.

This is Entirely Shallow

2007-04-05T10:03:00.000-04:00

Maybe it’s because it’s snowing in April after a two-week spell of beautiful weather, or maybe it’s just the changing of seasons in general, or maybe it’s that I know I probably don’t put enough effort into my appearance, but right now I am suffering from an affliction that strikes every woman, everywhere, at inopportune times. It’s called I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WEAR.

Symptoms include:
- Tearing apart your closet and debating whether to just throw everything you own away;
- Tearing apart your boyfriend’s closet in hopes that, maybe, just maybe, he has something to save you;
- Looking at every other girl on the street and wanting to beat her up for her pants, if only they’d fit, and there weren’t so many witnesses around;
- Having the urge to befriend girls with nice clothes just to borrow them, and then never speak to them again;
- And finally, wondering just how much your best friend is worth to you. Could you possibly borrow that cute, short purple dress that you tried on the last time you were at her apartment and then never answer the phone when she calls again? Just kidding, Liz!

There is one solution for this, and it’s shopping. However, it’s a dangerous kind of shopping. The buyer’s remorse kind of shopping.
It’s like bending over the toilet when you have the flu. It’s like kissing someone you don’t much like when you’re drunk. You know it’s only going to get worse. You’re going to do something that may feel good at the time, but lord knows, you’re going to regret it later.

And anyway, as if having the right shoes, or the perfectly-fitting pants, or all the cute short purple dresses in the world makes you a better person. As if it’ll fill any sort of hole you’re unable to fill yourself. Why do we (as women, I guess) want to do this? Fill our holes with the perfect job, the perfect man, the perfect pair of shoes?

Ugh. I’m getting in over my head on this one. I didn''t want to delve into the female psyche; all I really wanted to say in this entry was (prepare yourself for the inevitable 16-year-old-girl-blog-line) I am having such a goddamn ugly day.

Also, HEY YO BUCCOS 3-0 SWEEPING THE ASTROS!!!

Another Pittsburgh Sports Post, Because I Know You Were Wasting Away Without One

2007-04-04T14:11:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: I Really Abuse the “Open Letter” Format, Huh?

Part I: An Open Letter to the 2007 Pittsburgh Pirates

Dear Buccos:

162-0.

That is all.

Love,
kT

Part II: An Open Letter to Jordan Staal

Dear Jordan Staal:

Hi! How are ya? Hell of a season, lemme tell ya. No one thought you’d have a breakout year like this. In fact, I’m surprised you weren’t sent back down to the minors at the beginning of the year. But you weren’t, and you really, truly made this season possible. Thank you. Seriously. You’re a damn good player, and I expect to see big things out of you.

Moreover, you’re kind of cute. The fact that you play a professional sport makes you OHMYGOD LIKE THE HOTTEST THING EVERRR! according to a lot of dumb broads’ MySpace surveys that I read. Because they cannot wait for your 18-year-old self to roll up to their front door and take them somewhere really nice, like Chuckie Cheese or the playground.

Anyway, totally not the point. I just wanted to thank you for a great season, and tell you that I hope you kick as much ass in the playoffs as you did all year.

Oh. I almost forgot. Just one thing. Could you do me one little favor? Please?

Could you please PUT THAT GODDAMN MOUTH GUARD BACK INTO YOUR MOUTH WHERE IT BELONGS. I AM SO SICK AND TIRED OF WATCHING YOU CHEW THAT SHIT LIKE A COW ON STEROIDS. FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, I THINK I CAN SEE YOUR SPIT DRIPPING OFF IT. GROSS, JORDAN STAAL. SERIOUSLY GROSS.

Thanks!
Love,
kT

PS: That may have been the only photo I could find of you chewing your mouth guard on the internet, but you and I (and everyone who watches hockey) know you’re doing it ALL THE GODDAMN TIME.

Dear Internet, I am Crazy! Love, kT

2007-04-02T14:04:00.000-04:00

I’ve written here in the past, briefly, about how hormones make me absolutely batshit insane, in my Nuva Ring=Death diatribe.

Well, last night Robbo and I had just finished eating dinner and were watching Drumline starring Nick Cannon on cable (don’t you dare judge me, you’ve probably seen it too) when we saw a commercial for Stouffer’s new flatbread pizzas. The premise of the ad was that, just because you’re eating alone, doesn’t mean you have to eat badly. It showed all these attractive, single people coming home and opening the freezer and smiling at their Stouffer’s flatbreads, sitting on the couch in front of the television enjoying their Stouffer’s flatbreads. All by themselves.

I started to cry.

Robbo looked at me with a combination of disbelief and amusement—as though he was thinking, “This should surprise me, but really, it just doesn’t anymore.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, “Look, they’re happy!”

“But they’re all alone!” I wailed.

“They don’t care!”

“But they’re all alone!”

“They have flatbreads for dinner!”

“But they have no one to eat dinner with!”

“But see, the ad is saying that it’s okay to not have anyone to eat dinner with.”

That’s when I really started to cry.
“EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE SOMEONE TO EAT DINNER WITH!”

This is coming from the girl who spent an hour watching CNN, indifferent to the deaths of human beings worldwide, but sobbed uncontrollably during a spot about the tainted pet food and resulting animal deaths. Un-con-trollably.

So what am I saying? Well, the following:
1) I personally believe that the Stouffer’s company is insensitive to the lonely and the depressed, and I am writing them an overly emotional email telling them so;
2) If you don’t have anyone to have dinner with, let me know and you can come over and eat dinner with Robbo and me. He’s a grilling machine; and
3) Hormones will mess your shit up.

My Hopes Are High!

2007-03-29T13:57:00.000-04:00

Subtitle: I'm Probably a Fool.

Right now, we are coming into an exciting time to be a Pittsburgh sports fan. As you all well know from coming anywhere near this blog, I’m one of the biggest fans there is. Not in size, in heart—simply because I haven’t yet gained my yearly Pirates-weight, which can be attributed to my undying love for Iron City beer and nachos.

I weep for the Pirates each year. I begin every season with the notion that “This year is gonna be our year!” I wish the owner wasn’t such a freaking tightwad (I’ve got my eye on you, McClatchy, and so does Michael Keaton.)

I know that my devotion is 1) foolish and 2) dangerous, as my continued support of a crappy team (along with the support of all of our foolish Buccos fans out there) incites no need for change. As Michael Keaton so aptly put it last year, if we don’t rally for a better team, and we continue to put out hard-earned money into the Pirates’ less-than-mediocre pockets, yeah, we’re never gonna have a good team. Obviously.
I guess I’ve seen the “Major League” movies too many times to give up now. I just desperately want to see them finish at .500 before I either move out of this city, or die.

And now, the Pens. Going to their first post-season since 2001. Awesome! I’m pumped!

Goalie Marc-Andre Fleury, he of two first names, a soul (sole?) patch, and questionable mental capacity, (courtesy of yesterday’s Post-Gazette): "...Fleury said he was not aware the Penguins had clinched until a reporter mentioned it, although he allowed the accomplishment was ‘pretty cool.’”

Christ. I’ve been wary of Fleury ever since FSN Pittsburgh did that little bit on him and his girlfriend picking out appliances. He was all, “Yeah, you know. We might go to the mall...try to...get some stuff.” Sir, this is obviously why you block speeding pucks for a living. But right now, Marc-Andre, I’m begging you. Please don’t blow this. I know it’s not all on you. I know that some nights, our offense looks like they just woke up from a long night of drinking with their pillows drool-glued to their faces. That’s not your fault. But please. For the people of Pittsburgh, after our disappointing football season, and before our (I hope it’s not but it probably will be) disappointing baseball season, please do this for us. Make it happen. Please.

I put my happiness in the hands of this man.

GUHHH...

An Open Letter to the University of Pittsburgh

2007-03-27T14:51:00.000-04:00

Hi Pitt!

I graduated from you, and now I work for you. I had a lot of fun when I attended you. And now, I like my job (ever since they’ve hired someone to take on that pesky second-person’s-work I was doing.) You pay me...well, not a lot, but enough to keep up my lifestyle, most of the time. So in terms of you and me, I’d say we have a pretty good relationship. Thanks, Pitt. I appreciate it.

I have one beef, though. Were you aware, Pitt, that when you raised the academic standards for admission, you’d in effect be UGLY-ING UP THE ENTIRE CAMPUS? Seriously. Broads be hideous. When I attended you (and it was easy to get in) there were attractive people everywhere. Everywhere! It was a veritable cesspool of sexy. According to Robbo, he used to not be able to walk from his apartment to class without seeing, and I quote, “a handful of hot girls. Like, real hot girls.” Now, I sit outside on my break and it looks like the busted train is coming through. Not good, Pitt.

Over the course of the last 6 years, since I gained admission to you, you’ve raised the standards for admission astronomically. I’m very smart, but I don’t think I would get in if I was applying for 2007 admission instead of 2001. Yikes! While this has probably made my degrees worth more, as in, slightly less worthless, if I visited this campus, I’d be like, “Why the hell is everyone so ugly?” Except I probably wouldn’t care, because if I got into Pitt now, I’d probably be ugly myself.

I call this the Carnegie-Mellon-effect.

So what I’m saying, Pitt, is this. Ease up a little. Ask for headshots with applications and let a few of those attractive, less-qualified kids slip through the cracks. Because someone has to pose for the brochure pictures, and for real—it’s going to be embarrassing when you have to import some girl from Duquesne and stick her next to the panther statue.

Warmest regards,
kT

Because You and I Both Know You’ve Been Breathless with Anticipation…

2007-03-23T14:37:00.000-04:00

Without further ado, here are my top 10 favorite pictures from The Maxipads’ first album photo shoot (minus the one I posted below, and the ones we're using in the album. You can see those when you BUY IT. BUY BUY BUY!!!) I’d link to Brad Quartuccio’s website again, but it’s in the last two posts. Scroll down. Don’t be so lazy!

Anyway, click on the thumbnail to see a bigger version in a new window. Duh, you’re computer-literate!

(We're really close. Like, really close.)

(It's on record: sometimes I do wash my hair.)

(Ahem. And my armpits.)

(Hi, we're...the Beastie Boys.)

(Poison.)

(This is where it was still fun.)

(And mostly sanitary.)

(And then, not so much.)

(And then the shame sunk in. See that stuff floating around? That's my dignity.)

(This is me actually listening to the record. Ouch!)

So. What do you think??

Tales from the Death Disease

2007-03-22T13:20:00.000-04:00

It got me.

I had to go home yesterday from work around 11:30AM, at which point I dragged my miserable ass home (I still don't remember walking the 10 blocks from the bus stop to our apartment), laid down on the bathroom floor, and texted Robbo, “What if this is how I die? On the bathroom floor, dressed in business casual, your cat sniffing my butt. So disappointing!”
He was less than amused.

Today, I'm slightly better. And back at work, because I am a brown-nosing loser. I’d had to cancel practice on Tuesday, which is why I don’t have the photos from the Maxipads album photoshoot up yet. I was too busy watching Seinfeld and vomiting. Tomorrow, I promise. I’m not exactly thrilled about going to practice tonight, but as long as I don’t speak much, I think I’ll be okay for tomorrow’s show.

So come out for it! Tomorrow night at Belvedere’s (oh my god, you don’t know where Belvedere’s is? You cannot be a hipster if you don’t hang out at Belvedere’s! LOSER!) on Butler Street in Lawrenceville. It’s us, Ludlow, Fangs of the Panda and Fuck Telecorps. It’s FREE and it’s gonna be a hiphiphipster good time. Break out the tight pants!

Every time I say, hear, read or type “Belvedere’s,” all I can think of is this:

A Little Teaser

2007-03-20T13:12:00.000-04:00

From the Maxipads' photo shoot for the cover of our first album, "The Battle of Noodle Castle."

Yes, that's me with the huge clump of noodles on my head. Photo, of course, by Brad Quartuccio.

Weirdly enough, my friend RJ clicked on that link yesterday, and found himself in one of Brad's photos from the Super Bowl last year. This town is entirely too small and incestuous.

So in my last entry, I mentioned that I was feeling ill. Look at the picture above, and that might tell you why. Apparently I lost the Battle of Noodle Castle. Unfortunately, I've passed my potentially lethal noodle disease along to Robbo, and we're both really, really sick. And inexplicably, both at work. The only perk of this is that we can compare our symptons via Gmail chat. Thanks, internet! Thanks, Ramen noodles!

Censorship, Green Pee and Noodles

2007-03-19T12:59:00.000-04:00

Another glorious rock and roll weekend here in Pittsburgh. The Maxipads were asked at the last minute to jump on a show at the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern by our good friends and Melba Collective labelmates, Landmonster! (yes, the exclamation point is part of the name.) They have such hit songs as “Hot Tub City,” “I Got a Sandwich in my Pocket” and “I Can’t Wait to Die So I Can Go to Heaven.” They work in a preschool together, they are all a bit nutty, and I heart them.

Photo by Mr. Jason's friend.

But needless to say, they’re weird. The Maxipads are also weird. So imagine just how well our brand of rock and rock comedy fit in with the other bands on the bill, three alt-country-acoustic-bongo-hippie-shit bands. The guy who set up the show, from a craptastic country band called Shug Avory, was wearing pinkie ring. A PINKIE RING! You think I’m going to listen to you? Let me tell you something, people. Never, ever take orders from a man wearing a MOTHERFUCKING PINKIE RING. Seriously.

So, before we go on, Pinkie Ring Guy is all, “You have ten minutes.” Ten minutes?? What the fuck? Well, whatever, for anyone who’s ever seen the Maxipads, you know we can whip through our set. Hell, our album is eight tracks and 14 minutes. However, after our fifth song (meaning, less than nine minutes into our set) PINKIE RING GUY TURNED OFF OUR PA. Unbelievable. We played our single “JonBenet” without vocals, although as soon as I realized what was going on, I screamed the rest of the lyrics at the top of my lungs. Not that you could hear them over our blistering music. Then we packed up our equipment, drunkenly yelled “FUCK SHUG AVORY!” and left. And that was Friday night.

Saturday was a mess of St. Patrick’s Day fun that I don’t quite remember. All I know is that Chaser, those pills you can take to prevent a hangover, allow you to drink all day. ALL DAY. Without stop. And you may still get a hangover. And it may cause you to say things about how much you hate Irish people, or that may just be me. And then the next day, your boyfriend's pee will be green, and you'll pray that it's because he was drinking green beer, and not because he was ordering cheap hookers again. Just kidding honey!

Sunday, the Maxipads had a photo shoot for the art for our album. All photos were shot by Brad Quartuccio of Random Precision Photo and most of them involved the three of us in an inflatable kiddie pool full of Ramen noodles. Seriously. Last night I went to shower the stink of noodles from my body, and found a noodle on my boob. I officially hate Ramen noodles. But the pictures are hilarious. We picked the ones we’re using for the album, and I should be getting the other proofs from Joe tomorrow night, so I’ll post some outtakes here on Wednesday. Honestly, the whole thing was ludicrous and a lot of fun. I’m actually feeling pretty ill today (sore throat, chills, nausea) and I blame it wholly on a kiddie pool of Ramen noodles.

The sacrifices we make for art.

Poopdick

2007-03-14T16:00:00.000-04:00

Poopdick.

Have I titled an entry “Poopdick” before? I probably have, it’s one of my favorite words, and it means whatever the fuck I want it to mean. Much like my favorite phrase, “like cheese on crackers.” What does it mean? Nothing. How often do I say it? Often enough that Robbo wants to strangle me.

Anyway, I’m having a poopdick of a day. I’m tired and achy and it’s rainy. My knee is sore from the ice incident last week, plus two days of running pretty hard on it. Turns out that when I fell, I twisted it somewhat badly. It swelled up and bruised both on the kneecap and on the back of my knee, which Robbo (healthcare professional that he is) assures me means there is probably some muscle damage. He’s not really a healthcare professional.

I just don’t feel like dragging my tired, achy ass to the gym today, but I know if I don’t, I’ll just feel all bad about it, and I’ll have to sit on Joe’s porch for an hour before he gets home for Maxipads practice.

So I need something to cheer me up.

Yup. That ought to do it.

An Open Letter To Mario Lemeiux

2007-03-13T08:59:00.000-04:00

Dear Mario Lemieux:

Hi! It's an honor to be writing to you. Big fan, very big fan. Always have been. I just wanted to say thanks for keeping the Penguins in Pittsburgh. That’s pretty sweet of you. I’m glad you guys could work something out. Cooperation. Yay-uh. Maybe now people will stop posting Myspace bulletins about what a "mean, mean jerk that 'Ed Randell' is!" while having no understanding of exactly why putting a casino in the Hill District is a horrible idea. I blame this on the living in the suburbs.

Anyway, Mario, enough about them. You know the Penguins were a formative part of my childhood, and continue to be important to me through my adult life. The ‘91-'92 back-to-back Stanley Cup championships were, quite honestly, probably the highlight of my youth. I used to cut out every picture of the Pens from the Post-Gazette and tape them to my bedroom walls. Geeky, I know.

“Badger” Bob Johnson was the first person I “knew” to die of cancer. I still get misty-eyed when I think about how I felt, finding out about his death. Anyway.

Mario.
Mario, Mario, Mario. You totally pulled a Katie on this one.
Allow me to explain.

When Robbo and I fight, which is hardly ever and always very mild (an incredibly welcome respite from the screaming/crying/shoving/throwing things fights with the last boyfriend), I always pull the same routine, and it works every time. It's very simple- I threaten to sleep on the couch. This is an instant turn-around in the fight. Robbo will be all, “Oh no, don’t do that!” which is exactly, of course, what I want to hear. I had no intentions of sleeping on the couch. I just wanted him to say it, and to fix whatever is going on that caused me to threaten to leave. Sound familiar?

Mario. You are me, and Dan Onorato and Ed Rendell are Robbo. You won, just as I usually win. Well played, my friend. Very well played.

Love,
Katie

Things that Suck about Other Things, Vol. 1

2007-03-08T11:32:00.000-05:00

Today is going to be the first in a series of recurring entries, much like my Hero of the Day entries, which I am going to call “Things that Suck about Other Things.”

The title needs some work, I know.

Because this is the inaugural entry, I’m going to discuss not one but two things that suck about other things.

Two.

Lucky you.

1) Google Earth.

“Hi! I’m Google Earth! I can show you a close-up of your home from a SATELLITE IN OUTER SPACE! Oh look! Your boyfriend’s car was parked out front when I took the picture! This is what his conservative, mid-size family sedan looks like from a SATELLITE IN OUTER SPACE! Wow!

Oh! Did you want driving directions across the city? I can do that. You want driving directions across the country? I can do that! I’m amazing. I am so technologically advanced, I don’t even understand myself. Cut me, and I bleed technology!

What’s that? You want walking directions somewhere? Or biking directions? Maybe you want to see exactly how long your running course is. Well that should be simple—oh. Wait. You live in the city. There are one-way streets. System cannot process going the wrong way down one-way streets, because system thinks like a car. You’re shit out of luck. Sorry Toots, can’t help ya.”

2) Ice.

Yesterday I had a mildly crappy day at work. Nothing big, just same old same old. Robbo had also had a mildly crappy day, so naturally we hit up our local liquor store and grabbed a bottle of cheap wine (no, not Carlo Rossi…unfortunately.) We exited the store gleefully, bottle clutched in my right hand when—whap—I bit it, right there on a patch of ice in the parking lot. My left knee struck the ground first, followed by, yup, you guessed it, my right hand.

The sound of the bottle hitting the pavement was the worst sound I’ve ever heard.

I rose slowly. Somewhat blankly, I stood on the ice as the wine streamed to the ground like blood from a wound, brown slush staining the knees of my jeans, outright weeping.

My poor boyfriend. He deserves a trophy for every day he lives with me.

A Lesson in Evolutionary Science

2007-03-07T15:13:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: Let’s Get Smart!! Well, Kind Of.

The theory of evolution dates back to ancient times, the Greek and Roman eras. It was modernized, as we know it, by Charles Darwin in The Origin of the Species, 1859.

To illustrate, here:

Okay. Now that we’ve established that, let’s discuss “the missing link.” Essentially, the missing link refers to the gaps in our scientific knowledge of the sequence of what sort of creature existed between homo sapiens (modern humans) and the beast from which we evolved (primates). This missing link is pretty much what allows Bible-thumpers to say, “Duh! You haven’t got sufficient proof of evolution because you are missing that one guy on that drawing! Therefore, humans MUST have been created by God! And/or Jesus! Duh!” Totally makes sense, right?

Well, I am here to tell you that I have personally discovered the missing link, that hunched-over, not-quite-human, not-quite-monkey man, and he lives right here in Pittsburgh.

Damn, I hope I make some money off this discovery. Unlike the time I thought I invented 40’s cozies. You know, those things made of wetsuits to keep your beer cold. I didn’t.

Oh, and just for fun…courtesy of Mondesi’s House, here is Maxime “Missing Link” Talbot in all his glory.

I rest my case.

The Second Time I Got Arrested

2007-03-06T14:17:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: A Really Long Story You Probably Don't Need to Read

Every time I start to feel like I’m getting old, getting dull, something happens to remind me that I’m still just a young buck.

Case in point: today at work, I was standing at the copy machine, doing that bleary-eyed, watching-copies-pass thing, when suddenly from behind me I hear the unmistakable sound of a police walkie-talkie and the jingle-jangle of keys hooked to a belt loop. Instantly, and may I add, without my permission, every single muscle in my body tensed. I began shuffling around the papers in front of me—stay busy, don’t look up, what did you even do??

I have no idea what members of the Pitt Police force were doing here in my office, but they certainly weren’t looking for me. However, my reaction to police presence is exactly what it was a few years ago, except back then I was probably doing something that would spark the ire of an officer of the law.

Thus, I think it’s time to tell one of my favorite stories. I call it “The Second Time I Got Arrested.”

The first time I got arrested was hardly a noteworthy affair. It didn’t even require handcuffs, as I’d pretty well gone and incapacitated myself. Not as funny of a story, trust me.

But the second time, oh the second time is a funny story. The month was July, the year 2002. Kacyn and I were roommates, and there was nary a voice of reason between the two of us. Mayhem. I got myself into more trouble that spring/summer than in any other given season of my life.

One night we were out with our friends Dan and Mike. It was hot, humid and miserable, as July evenings in Pittsburgh tend to be. One of us wished aloud that we could go swimming.
"Hey," said Dan, "I know a pool we can swim in that the cops never patrol!"

We never should have listened.

We parked the car near this allegedly unpatrolled pool, in the Blackridge community in the Churchill section of Pittsburgh. I stress "allegedly." One hopped fence later, and we're in. No more than five minutes into our swim session, underwear-style, do I think I see a light coming from the woods.

"Oh no, you're just paranoid!" I was taunted.

They should have goddamn listened.

A few seconds later, we're all bathed in a blinding light. It was like something out of alien encounters-- shit was scary. "YOU'RE BUSTED! GET OUT OF THERE!"

Awesome. Do you know how hard it is to put on clothes when you're sopping wet? Furthermore, do you know how much more difficult it is to put on semi-tight, ripped up jeans when sopping wet and a cop is screaming at you through a chain link while dangling his handcuffs? Yeah. I got my pants to about mid-thigh, t-shirt around my neck, and started climbing back over the fence. The strap of my bag got caught on one of the spiky tips of the fence, and as I was untangling it, the cop turned the light to me. "YOU CAN JUST LEAVE THAT BAG THERE, LITTLE MISSY." (I have no idea why I feel like I need to have the cop speak in capital letters. In my mind, he was speaking through a megaphone. That never really happened.)

When I finally hit the ground on the other side, myself and my three co-dependants were lined up, kneeling against a bike rack, legs crossed, hands behind our backs. For all the legal trouble I’ve been in (I blame this teenage rebellion on a lack of nurturing from my parents), this is the only time I was ever cuffed. It was not an entirely unpleasant experience, as the cop assigned to Kacyn and me was supercute. Yeah, that's right, supercute. The cop assigned to Mike and Dan, not so much. Mike’s glasses fell to the ground. He asked the officer to pick them up. "FUCK YOUR GLASSES, ACE! I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR GLASSES!"
Ridiculous.

Kacyn and I were herded into the back of NiceCuteYoungCop's car. He climbs in the front, sighs, and starts the engine. Immediately, blasting from the speakers is Sabbath's "Ironman." Instinctively Kacyn and I begin bobbing our heads and singing along, but really just mouth-guitaring along. "Da na na na na na, NANANANANANANANANA" you know. That song. The cop turns it off. "Sorry girls," he says, "this isn't supposed to be fun."

Long story short (too late) we were taken into the station, and part of our punishment, I suppose, was MeanUncuteOldCop turning the air conditioning all the way up as we sat, cuffed and dripping wet. Thanks, officer. We were lectured for about an hour, including such phrases as, "Do you know what I can charge you with? What you did was one step below murder!" and "Don't you dare try to fight this in court, I will personally take you down!"

We were all let off with comparative (to murder, I guess) slaps on the wrist- a charge of Defiant Criminal Trespass, and a $400 fine. MeanUncuteOldCop drove us back to Kacyn's car and made all four of us sit in the backseat.

And that, my friends, is the story of the second time I ever got arrested.

Bits and Pieces from a Rock and Roll Weekend

2007-03-05T14:07:00.000-05:00

It was a very rock and roll weekend for the Mighty Melba Collective (Who’s down with MMC? No-body!) as we posse-ed up and rolled deep to the Test Patterns/Gito Gito Hustler show at the Pub on Friday night. Weird scene—the place was sold out and the average age of attendees was probably about 40. It seemed that everyone there was older, harder, drunker and punker than me. I wonder how I’m going to feel when I’m one of the oldest people at shows. Hopefully it won’t be at the Pub, which is one of three venues in Pittsburgh that’s banned the Maxipads. this may not seem like a lot, but given that there are like, 9 workable venues in Pittsburgh, well, we're running low on resources. I mean, sorry we couldn’t draw more than 10 people on a Thursday night during a blizzard and a Steelers game. For anyone who is keeping track, we recently found out that we’re banned at Sonny’s Tavern on Millvale Avenue for being “generally loud and offensive.” The owner was not down with "I Killed JonBenet." I guess people don’t know what they’re getting themselves into when they book a band called THE MAXIPADS. Yeah, sounds like butterflies and rainbows to me.

Test Patterns, who were playing their very first show, features Dan, the guy who recorded and produced the Maxipads’ first record. They were pretty fucking awesome. Even more awesome was Gito Gito Hustler, featuring Yago, Dan’s wife (who is also in Test Patterns.) For anyone who’s never heard Gito Gito Hustler, they are an all-girl Japanese power pop/punk rock band.

Their English is not very good (“You…buy merchandise so I buy beer!”) but they did have the 12 stock American rock and roll phrases down (such as “Are you ready, Pittsburgh??” and “We love you too!”)

Saturday found the Mighty Melba Collective in Buffalo for a Flash Darlings show, which ended in a night of general mayhem. It reinforced my theory that there is absolutely no reason for bars to be open until 4AM. None. Robbo slept the entire way to New York, so as I drove through the Snow Belt, Joe and I blasted the Maxipads record and came up with new ridiculous ideas. Such as my new favorite, calling the record “Oodles of Noodles” and then having Brad (of Random Precision Photo) take a picture of us sitting in a baby pool full of ramen noodles. GENIUS.

Then, to cap off my rock and roll weekend, and to remind me just how goddamn old I’m getting, I couldn’t even stay awake for an entire History Channel special about the Dark Ages. I passed out right in the middle of the Bubonic Plague.

That, my friends, is hardcore.

Fridays During Lent

2007-03-02T14:35:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: Jesus is Afoot.

So, I know that it’s a Friday during Lent because my entire office smells like fish (seriously, they’re all Catholic) and I’ve again had to field a number of questions that require me to explain that no, I am not eating meat today, but I never eat meat, ever—Jesus or no Jesus. In fact, Liz even recently suggested that I begin pretending I’m Jewish.

“Why?” I asked. “Is there a fun Jewish holiday going on now?” (Pardon my ignorance. I know, I really need to read a book on this stuff.)

“No,” she responded, “I think Catholics just automatically feel uncomfortable around Jewish people during Lent…you know, with killing Jesus and all.”

I scrapped that idea. (EDIT: I just received an email from Liz expressing concern that anyone who may read my blog would consider her anti-Semitic. She's not. Much the way that I'm not anti-Asian [see below.] We're not hateful; we're just funny.)

Well, anyway. It’s a Friday in Lent, so apparently, Jesus is making everyone a little nutty. I had to run an errand on my lunch break that would take me to that weird Shadyside/Bloomfield/East Liberty vortex of Centre Avenue, which, from my office in Oakland, requires me to take the 71A. For whatever reason, there are always, always crazies on the 71A. So much so that I think Port Authority is considering changing the destination on the front screen of the bus from “Negley” to “Crazyville.” It’s ridiculous.

Today’s selection of crazies included a rather large woman with rolls of toilet paper stuffed into her pockets and the usual assortment of crackheads and dudes that look like they’re just going to hang outside the Cricket Lounge until it opens. There was also, as usual, a plethora of spastic Asian people. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Asians. In fact, I think they are a superior race, except when it comes to running in a straight line and taking public transit. They simply cannot do either well. This is not an insult, this is not racism, this is true. Take note the next time you're using public transportation, you'll see what I mean.

As soon as I got on the bus, I scoped out the scene, looking for a normal person to sit next to. I see a 30-ish guy, nice business suit, wire-rimmed glasses, leather bag. I figure, oh, he’s probably running errands on his lunch break too. Or maybe he took a half day because it’s Friday and sunny and nice out for the first time in forever. Whatever. I’ll sit next to him.

And you know, I thought to myself, I bet this guy would be much happier with me sitting next to him than a crazy. We normals, we gotta stick together. I mean, my pants are from THE GAP, people. And I usually look remarkably well-groomed for someone who loathes both washing and brushing her hair. I’m okay, you know? I'm not a crazy. It's March. See my previous entry.

I smiled at the man, and went to sit in the aisle seat. He swung his leather bag onto the seat so quickly that I jumped back in surprise, nearly falling into the lap of a college-aged girl across the aisle. “This seat is reserved for the Holy Spirit,” he hissed.

Christ almighty. Fridays during Lent.

It's Motherfucking March

2007-03-01T14:44:00.000-05:00

It is March, thank you FUCKING god, it is March.

I swore I wouldn’t write another blog entry until February ended. They were getting too irritatingly whiny. Jesus Christ, is February that bad every year? It literally made me go “the crazy.” I had to take February 28th off from work because I just couldn’t take it. I called Joe, my cousin and the drummer from the Maxipads at work yesterday, telling him that I could practice, and when he asked me why I was not at work, I started bawling and gasping, “Because I’m CRAZY!”
Driving home from Robbo’s dad’s house in the South Hills over the weekend, I saw a marquee outside a Heating & Cooling company that read, “It’s not just you, it’s February.” I know it was referring to temperature and not my unending depression, but I still wish I’d had my camera. Or that my camera worked. Whatever.

Today we turn over a new leaf. It’s March, motherfuckers.

So. What’s new with me, you ask? You didn’t ask, but it’s my blog, so I don’t care. I’ve been running. A lot. I’ve been concerned with “getting my time down.” This does not sound like me. I know. This is the new non-smoking me. Non-smoking me says things like, “I should buy a pedometer.” Non-smoking me wonders if it’s better for endurance-building to run for longer at a slower pace, or do bursts of faster intensity running. Non-smoking me doesn’t know the answer to this, but she still eats Girl Scout cookies before bed, so…you know. Some things never change. Nikki and I are running my first (not her first) 5K in May. I run now. Huh. Please also visit Nikki’s blog for a photo of me playing bass and sweating all over my new EC Star dress. Sexy. Not really.

Also, the Maxipads first album, which was recorded in January, has (allegedly) finally been mixed, and we should be picking it up tomorrow night at the Test Patterns/Gito Gito Hustler show at the 31st Street Pub (which, by the way, I recommend everyone attend because it’s gonna be awesome.) We’ve still not decided on a name, although I am pulling for “The Maxipads Go To Fat Camp” which would feature pictures of us in cheaply made (read: newspaper-stuffed) fat suits, or “Crying on the Inside” which would be us dressed in clown suits but gently weeping, or simply ripping off a classic album name, such as “Licensed to Ill.” Any time anyone says anything vaguely funny, I’m like “Ooh! ‘Cornstarch in the soup?’ That’s a perfect name for our album!” I can’t wait until it has been sent to be pressed so I can stop thinking about record names. And just because I’m vain and I like this picture, courtesy of Nikki:

Oh, and congratulations to Lauren & Jules, my former roommate(s) who have decided to tie the knot. They announced their engagement forever ago and I keep forgetting to mention it. And also to Lex & Milo, Lex being one of my best friends from college, who are also going the way of the big M. I hope none of them have to go to Jesus Camp like RJ and Nicole.

So, my darlings, it is March, and things are looking up. Get ready for more frequent and less emo entries.
I want to hug the world. I want to give the world a lollipop. It’s gonna be a good spring, I can feel it.

(Cue me getting run over by a bus.)

February Emo

2007-02-15T09:08:00.000-05:00

You know, a wise, wise girl once said to me, “It’s February, I think it was established to crush your soul.” This wise girl was Liz, and it was yesterday. But regardless, I think she’s right. I’m having a really rough month. Work has been hell since they fired the temp, and I’ve had to take on double my normal workload. I can’t decide what I want to be when I grow up, or more accurately, whether it’s worth it for me to go back to school for the next 3-4 years at night while working full-time to get my BSBA and move up in Human Resources. Also, I’m creatively frustrated, both with music and writing. Finally, I’m frustrated by the unkindness of some people in my life. Maybe I’m going soft as I’m getting older, but I honestly no longer have any patience for the abrasiveness and lack of consideration I find in others.

I’m whiny.

My friends, I’m afraid I’m losing my grip on being NOTemo. I’ve spent the last eight years toeing the line (since 1999, when The Get Up Kids came out with “Something to Write Home About,” and I was a junior in high school and my life seriously changed. I stopped brushing my hair and started wearing little kids’ t-shirts. Dude. It was 1999. You weren’t cool either. And it’s still a great album.) Then throughout college, I may have slipped across the line into the emo side a few times (and really, who didn’t?), but for the most part, I think I kept it together.

But now, I’m just not so sure. Next thing you know, I’m going to be looking for a d00d like this:

(he was the first hit when I Google-image searched “emo”) and you know, talking about how FUCKING AMAZING The Arcade Fire is (gah!), and instead of constantly pushing my bangs out of my face, I’ll just let them hang over my eye, all Myspace-y like this broad:

and wear big old emo glasses like this:

Oh wait. Buddy Holly rules. OH! That reminds me. Was anyone else vaguely offended by the hair dye ad during the Super Bowl with Sheryl Crow that featured the Buddy Holly song “Not Fade Away,” which is, in my humble opinion, a beautifully unpretentious love song? Now used to hawk hair dye? Lame. Anyway.
I digress. Point is, I’m being emo, and I need to stop. So please-- shake me, slap me, kick me in the face. I need to buck up or shut up. Let’s go get real drunk and bash in some windshields, or something ridiculous and destructive and not emo at all! Help me.

Hero of the Day, Vol. 5

2007-02-05T09:47:00.000-05:00

So, this job is really, seriously interrupting my blogging habit.

And I’m sorry about the lack of my “What I Do at Work” pictorial. I think my camera may have just hizzant the skizzant, or in other words, shit the bed.

But today, in honor of Chicago’s miserable Super Bowl loss, and in honor of their dismal running game, (after Lovie Smith was quoted as saying that the Bears game plan was to run the ball all over the Colts defense) I’m officially declaring today to be a day of honor for the late, great Bears running back, the Sweetness himself, Walter Payton.

Because it is Walter Payton Day, I’m going to share with you a little thing known as the "Walter Payton Drinking Game."

To play, you need:
* Two Iron City pounders per player (I suppose any beer would work, but why would you want to drink anything else?)
* A television
* A VCR
* A VHS copy of WWF’s Summerslam ’94. (What, not everyone owns that? Robbo told me they did, and that it wasn't weird that he owned it, at all. Apparently everyone also owns a VHS copy of Survivor Series 1994, but whatever.)

Rules of play:Cue up the tape to the point where Razor Ramon

is sitting in the locker room. Press play, and crack open your first pounder. Razor Ramon is about to announce (while oozing machismo) that in tonight’s intercontinental title match (in Chicago), he will be inexplicably be accompanied to the ring by “The Sweetness himself, Walter Payton.”
Drink.
Drink every time the words “Walter Payton” are uttered.

Okay. Fastforward through the Alundra Blaze/Bull Nakano match because seriously, who cares? There’s no mention of Walter Payton. Oops! I just said it. Drink!

Although I would like you to see a photo of Bull Nakano because, well….here.

Anyway. Next up is the Razor Ramon/Diesel match, but the details don't really matter because—who is that coming down the aisle? Why, it’s Walter Payton! Drink!

For the next, oh—15 to 20 minutes, the announcers will say “Walter Payton” (not “Walter,” not “Payton,” but each time, “Walter Payton”) in just about every sentence. Drink. Drink. Drink. Within 20 minutes, you’ve drunk two pounders, and you love Walter Payton. And that is why today, Walter “Sweetness” Payton is my HERO OF THE DAY!

Important Lessons Learned on a Birthday Weekend

2007-01-22T09:43:00.000-05:00

This weekend, I turned 23.

I woke up Saturday morning and Robbo was like, “One year older!” and I was like, “and none the wiser!” because it’s true. Being out of school has made me infinitely stupider. Is stupider even a word? I don’t know. Pretty soon, I’m going to be this guy. (Right here I’d planned to have a picture of a really stupid-looking man. However, when I Google-image searched “dumb man,” this was the second hit. So, I’m gonna go with it.) Like I was saying, pretty soon I’m going to be this guy:

But, I digress. The point is, when I said “none the wiser,” I was wrong. I learned all kinds of useful things this weekend. I hadn’t planned on making a big deal of my birthday; in fact, I was a little bummed on it and had just planned on doing what I would normally do (which, in this case, was going to KSWA, amateur wrestling in Lawrenceville, but just getting much drunker than normal.)
So, things I learned: when the following strange things happen, there is probably a surprise birthday party in your near future:

- when your two cynical, Southside-hating cousins suddenly seem really psyched on the idea of drinking at a bar on the Southside, just after they stop at our house to pee.

- when cars belonging to all your closest friends are parked on the street near your house.

- when none of your friends seem even remotely disappointed that you aren’t planning to do anything for your birthday.

- when your boyfriend, with whom you live, seems to have lost only one key from his ring of many keys—the key to the front door of the house.

Yeah. I was surprised! I’m so gullible. When I’m drunk, you could tell me you were the queen of England and I’d probably kiss your hand. It’s terrible.

So thanks, Kacyn, Ali, Robbo, anyone else who was in on the planning of this. I really didn’t understand what was going on for most of the night, seeing as how I put down a 6-pack of Iron City before I even got there. (Don’t you dare judge me, it was my birthday!) fortunately, someone (probably James) decided that I was probably tired, and gave me a Sparks. So now I was drunk, hyperactive and probably offensive.

On that note, I also learned another important lesson: if you must vomit low-sodium V8 all over yourself, do it as you’re getting into the shower. Because, you know, you were headed there anyway.

Pictorial tomorrow, I promise. I was having some camera issues.

I Guess Everyone is a Turd

2007-01-12T09:54:00.000-05:00

It's definitely time for another installment of "Things People Have Googled to Get to My Blog."

I'm a bit surprised-- this time there are considerably less references to being ugly and more references to flatulence. Hah.

Without further ado, here we go:
* fart (Figures.)
* sack up ho
* whaaaat
* whaaaat? (Apparently that question mark didn't make much of a difference.)
* sienna miller pissburgh
* oksana baiul mug shot
* pmom december 2006 centerfold
* mount lebanon top 25 list
* stirrups exam blog feet (Gynecological blogs are good reading.)
* roethlisberger fucks black girls (Seriously. I can't make this shit up.)
* stirrups exam blog
* nancy kerrigan nostril (A subject that intrigues all of us.)
* funny things to do to annoy people (If you have to Google it, you don't deserve it.)
* oksana baiul playboy (Ew. Really?)
* i suck at everything (Finally, something self-deprecating!)
* pmom december 2006
* 2006 playmate pictorial posters

Interesting.
Sorry this was such a cop-out of a blog, I'm taking it easy in anticipation of Monday's entry, a pictorial entitled "What I Do at Work." I've been working on it all week.

New Years Resolutions are for Pussies

2007-01-10T14:35:00.000-05:00

So, in the spirit of the new year, I made the same resolutions that I’m sure many people across the country had also made, which boil down to “generally bettering myself.”

I’m on day 11 of no cigarettes. None! I think I’m pretty much good on that. Trust me, I'm as surprised as you are.
I’ve been to the gym four whole times in the last ten days. Are you kidding me? Four times! That’s a goddamn miracle! I normally wouldn’t even wash my hair four times in ten days. Wow!

So I’m feeling lighter, I’ve got more energy, no cigarettes, runnin’ on a treadmill, woooo! I’m more upbeat and positive, I’m more accommodating to others, I’m getting to work earlier and getting more done while I’m there, and I’m noticing a lot of smiley faces and exclamation points in my “sent items” mailbox.

And then I realize, the new me sucks.

If 2006 old-school Katie met 2007 new-fangled Katie on the street, she’d probably laugh at her, then ash her cigarette on new 2007 Katie’s shoe when new 2007 Katie was distracted by like, a really cute puppy or a rainbow or something.

I’m best when I’m crabby and eating food that is bad for me, preferably while being sedentary. The best time to catch me is on a Sunday with a hangover and a bunch of greasy Chinese food. I’m funniest this way. I may be less palatable to the general public, but I’m certainly more palatable to me, and in the end, shouldn’t that be what matters?

How bizarre is this—I’m sticking to my resolutions but I feel pretty damn bad about me. Is it possible that I’ve been cynical so long that I can’t ever stop?

Ugh. What to do?

You know, over the course of the last few years I came up with several scenarios that I’d challenge myself with whenever I wasn’t sure what to do.

They include, as follows:
WWJBD? (What Would Jerome Bettis Do?)
WWAWKD? (What Would Andrew WK Do?)
WWTDFDLD? (What Would The Drummer From Def Leppard Do?)
WWMPD? (What Would Mr. Poopies Do? [this one is usually useless, as Mr. Poopies, my cat, usually does nothing.])

Today, I think I’ll go with WWAWKD?

Me: Hey, Andrew WK! What do you think I should do in this situation?
Andrew WK:

Good call, Andrew WK. I think maybe I WILL quit being such a pussy. Thanks!

We Have Achieved Something Amazing...

2007-01-08T08:45:00.000-05:00

...and I keep forgetting to tell you all about it.

On New Year's Day 2007, a group of people gathered in mine and Robbo’s living room at 10:30AM, and it began.

It was Rock-A-Thon, and we had a mission. We were going to watch all five Rocky movies before stumbling a few blocks to South Side Works to see the new film (and stumble, we did.) The first five films, incidentally, clock in at a total of around nine hours. I was pretty much Rock-ed out after Rock-A-Thon.

I’m not gonna lie. This was like a religious experience. I mean, unless you’ve been exposed to a total of 11 straight hours of Rocky movies (including the new one, duh!), you cannot possibly imagine how it feels. And because Joe couldn’t be bothered to show up until 4:30PM, we had to take turns continuously calling and updating his answering machine on the saga. (“Joe, I just wanted to tell you, Adrian’s in a coma.” “Joe, I thought you ought to know, Mickey just died.” ) Which I’m sure his girlfriend loved. Especially since she hates all of us.

To make a long story short, Nikki successfully held back tears when Apollo died, Robbo threw up, Huffman was loud and people dug my potato pancakes. Successful day. Well, minus the vomit.

I also really liked the final installation of the Rocky series. I definitely got misty-eyed every time Rocky went to Adrian’s grave. (Oops! Haven’t seen the movie yet? Sorry. She’s dead.) As soon as I got home I hugged Robbo and told him I loved him. Yeah, it was moving. (Wondering why he was at home while we were at the movies? Because it was about halfway through the movie that aforementioned vomiting happened, and he just went home afterwards. Yeah. Just went home. Oh, Robbo.) I also thought that the ending was the perfect way to end the series, especially because Rocky 5 was so crap-tastic.

I suppose it was a good thing we own this:

Yeah. The Rocky Anthology Box Set. OOOOOH yeah!

Next up, Rambo. Yeah, Rambo IV is coming out in 2008. Who's up for Ramb-A-Thon??

You Are All Idiots, And I Am A Genius

2006-12-29T15:56:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: My Generation Sucks
Sub-Subtitle: Why I Hate "Hipsters"
Sub-Sub-Subtitle: Things I Find to be Sad and Disheartening

I very much wish that someone could please explain to me what the obsession is with "hipster" girls in my age group and pin-up girls.
I mean, seriously. What is it that makes you declare them as your own personal saviours on the "heros" section of your MySpace profile? What inspires you to plaster your homes with images of them? What is it about them that makes you want to dress as them for Halloween?

Here's my beef. From Wikipedia:
"A pin-up girl or pin-up model is a model whose mass-produced pictures see wide appeal as pop culture...Many "pin ups" were photographs of celebrities who were considered sex symbols. One of the most popular early pin-up girls was Betty Grable. Her poster was ubiquitous in the lockers of G.I.s during World War II."

All right. So they were pictures of attractive women in little to no clothing (particularly racy for the time) that were hung in soldiers' lockers. I see their pictures now, posted all over the hip, hip MySpace pages of hip, hip girls, these women in garter belts, posed seductively. Okay, fine. Let's move on.

Also from Wikipedia:
"A Playmate is a female model featured in Playboy magazine. The centerfold/gatefold Miss month is known as Playmate of the Month (or PMOM). The PMOM's pictorial includes nude photographs and a centerfold poster, as well as a short biography and the "Playmate Data Sheet", which lists her birthdate, measurements, turn-ons, and turn-offs."

Honestly, the only real difference is a pair of underwear on one side, and some biographical data on the other. And even your precious Bettie Page was Playmate of the Month, January 1955. Now, no one's ever accused me of being a feminist, and for good reason. I've never been able to muster the energy for it.
But I know this: "hipster" girls would rather DIE than post a picture of say, Pamela Anderson on their MySpace heroes, because it would be considered trashy and low-brow, and degrading to women. However, considering the context of the culture in which they were created, pin up girls and Playboy Playmates are essentially images created for the same reason--the male erection.

So someone, please explain this double standard to me. I'd be thrilled to listen. However, there are arguments I will not accept.

1) It's an image of beauty. (Many people consider giving birth to be the most beautiful thing imaginable. Shall I start posting images of dilated cervixes? No. I didn't think so.)
2) They are cultural icons. (So is Carrot Top. End of discussion.)
3) You're just jealous. (I have a fabulous rack, and anyone who thinks otherwise is clearly wrong.)

So, someone please explain to me why one of these images is hip, classy and cool, and the other is trashy, lower class garbage.

(Images also from Wikipedia. God bless Wikipedia.)

Oh, Yeah.

2006-12-19T15:49:00.000-05:00

I could tell you about how my boss got drunk and embarrassed me at the office Christmas Party Part I, by announcing to everyone in my department, all of my colleagues and superiors, that I am in a band called the Maxipads.

I could tell you how she informed them all that I'd be happy to email out the link to the Maxipads Myspace page.

I could tell you about how the next morning, I heard the song "I Want Your Halloweenie" start playing from several different offices at once.

I could tell you about how it was just like that nightmare where you show up to work with no pants on.

I could tell you how this happened LAST WEEK and people are STILL walking by my desk going "Halloweenie!"

I could yell you about how this was the most embarrassed I've ever been in a professional situation, ever.

But I'm not going to tell you that. Instead, I'm going to tell you that former San Francisco 49ers quarterback and current Monday Night Football commentator Steve Young is one of the most handsome men in the world, and I cannot find a picture online that does him justice. So thus, you're stuck with this.

Not too shabby.

I Put the Fun in Failure.

2006-12-12T09:50:00.000-05:00

(Even though there is no "fun" in "failure." I know, failed pun. Whatever.)

Well, not a whole lot of new things to report.

Liz’s holiday party was fantastic!
I think.
Apparently, I passed out at midnight. After vomiting. After drinking entirely too much. Apparently, I tried to absorb some of the alcohol in my stomach…with cheese. Which I am allergic to.
Apparently, the air mattress on which I was crashed out deflated itself and I slept on the hardwood floor. Apparently, I didn’t notice.
Despite being about to turn 23, I feel 19 all over again.

Read: pathetic.

Furthermore, Marley (see entry about homosexual, overweight cats) was eating out of a box of donuts this morning. Living in my house is totally weird.

Things at work are equally as weird, as I am clearly the "Dawn Wiener" of the office. Totally, miserably uncool. It’s really becoming junior high all over again for me.

Yeah. I know, right?
Thus, I’ve decided not to pull my “Festivus Miracle” cubicle decorating scheme. I figure, I’m unpopular enough as it is. However, I do plan to attend the office holiday cocktail party in two weeks.
Oh, yeah.
Maybe I can keep my streak of vomiting-and-passing-out-at-2006-holiday-parties alive. I mean, people at work would like me then, right? I think I read it in How to Win Friends and Influence People. The key is whiskey vomit. It gets them every time.

Ew. Sorry, I’m done. Have a good Tuesday, loves!

Viva la Pittsburgh Fans! (or Hero of the Day, Vol. 4)

2006-12-07T09:11:00.000-05:00

This morning, I was waiting for the bus to work. It was freezing. It was snowing those annoying tiny snowflakes that pop you right in the eyeball and kind of burn, and that sucks. The wind was blowing like 59 miles an hour and I was miserable, huddled in the doorway of some bar for respite. I really need to buy a winter coat. But I digress.

I heard a male voice yell, “It’s coming!” I thought he was talking about the bus, and I craned my neck down the street. No 54C. Whaaat?

I looked for the source of the sound— it was a grizzled, middle-aged man wearing a Steelers hoodie, his hands jammed into the front pocket. He pulled one hand out and pointed to the sky. “Three inches!” he shouted at me.

“Yeaaaaah,” I said. Because really, what else do you say when some creepy guy is yelling about snow at 8AM?

“BUT THE STEELERS ARE STILL GONNA KICK SOME FUCKING ASS TONIGHT!”

Huh.

Seriously, there’s something about the resilience of this town that gets me every time. This game really means nothing. The Steelers pretty much done for. What’s to get excited about? Nothing.
But this man, he’s still excited. He still believes.
I mean, it may just be naïveté, but I want to believe otherwise. I want to believe in the perseverance (instead of the stupidity) of the Pittsburgher. There's something to be said for wholeheartedly believing in something, regardless of the circumstance. Granted, he was probably drunk, and probably heading for the White Eagle to keep up the boozing, but it still touched me a little.

So today, Grizzled Steelers Fan, you are my HERO OF THE DAY! Keep on keeping on!

For reference, when you do a Google Image search for the phrase "Steelers Fan," this is the first hit:

The funny thing is, it was originally in the Post-Gazette, but was reprinted in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer in January 06, right before the Super Bowl. I don't think anyone else in the country gets it. The city of Pittsburgh truly IS the guy in that comic, and we're proud. What else can you say?

And one last thing! If you're looking for a place to watch tonight's game, I propose the 31st Street Pub in the Strip...where The Maxipads just happen to be playing.

Back in the Saddle Again!

2006-12-06T16:30:00.000-05:00

Ta da! I make my triumphant return to blogging.

Where have I been?

Well, I’ve been crazy.

That’s right, a bout with hormonal birth control (again! Why am I so stupid?) drove me pretty much to the brink of insanity (and quite possibly over the brink, depending on whether you ask me or Robbo) and I only recently freed myself from the clutches of NuvaRing.

I decided that the freedom to be really careless (damn you, NuvaRing, damn you and your convenience!) wasn’t worth feeling totally busted, stupid, fat, and worthless when I am in fact, fairly okay-looking, fairly smart, fairly thin, and definitely (probably) worth something. Look, I’m not gonna get arrogant, just saying-- I don’t suck as bad as NuvaRing made me think I did. Had I been writing blogs during this time, they would have just been sad teen girl poetry, and the last thing the internet needs is more sad teen girl poetry.

It all came to a head when I found myself heaped on the kitchen floor, sobbing and leaning against the refrigerator, after having screamed my lungs out at Robbo because the gas bill was late. Say whaaaat? This is not me.
I ripped that oh-so-convenient plastic ring from my body, stuffed it into the oh-so-convenient foil pouch, tossed it in the bathroom trash can and have not looked back.

It's a very simple equation:

EQUALS

That's right, NuvaRing equals death.

The lesson? Convenience will make you crazy. See also: self-checkout lines in grocery stores. See? Crazy. I rest my case.

Now! Onto more important things, such as: why the hell am I clearly the least popular person in my office? I’m funny! I’m fun! I will waste all day chatting you up because it’s better than working. LIKE ME! PLEASE!

I think the problem is that everyone here thinks I’m a weirdo—which I am planning to verify by participating in the annual “office door/cubicle decorating contest.”
Oh yeah. I’m totally putting up an aluminum pole with a sign-up sheet for “feats of strength” and an airing of my grievances. Seriously, when you take the last cup of coffee, make more!

Do you think anyone will get it?

I Seriously Suck at Everything.

2006-11-15T10:35:00.000-05:00

So, I’ve been sleepwalking.

Yeah.

As if I wasn’t a big enough weirdo before, now I get up and do things in my sleep.

The night before last, I fell asleep while Robbo was reading or something, and apparently he disturbed me, because he claims I sat straight up in bed and stared at him for a full ten seconds with what he described as “crazy eyes.”

I didn’t think much of it until I Wikipedia-ed “sleepwalking,” and got this:

“Contrary to popular belief, most cases of sleepwalking do not consist of walking around (without the conscious knowledge of the subject). Most cases of somnambulism occur when the person is awakened (something or someone disturbs their SWS [Slow Wave Sleep]), the person may sit up, look around and immediately go back to sleep. But these kinds of incidences are rarely noticed or reported unless recorded in a sleep clinic.”

Okay. Not a huge deal. But why was I Wikipedia-ing “sleepwalking” in the first place, you ask?

Well, I was looking into sleepwalking because last night, I apparently took something that was on the floor next to my side of the bed, carried it into the bathroom, placed it in the cabinet under the sink, and then did something vaguely disgusting (of which I’ll spare you the details) in the bathroom. And then I must have gone right back to bed, because I woke up there, safe and sound. I hope I didn’t do anything else. I mean, if I wake up and one of the cats has been completely shaved, I have no one to blame but myself.

What is happening to me? Why am I doing this? And if I’m going to get up and do stuff in my sleep, why couldn’t I get up and sleep-dance? Or sleep-play-bass-guitar? Or sleep-build-a-scale-model-of-the-Taj-Mahal-out-of-toothpicks? That would be amazing. That would be so much better than what I did in the bathroom.

I mean, I’m not super worried, because apparently this happens to a lot of people at one point in their lives or another (some studies say up to 16% of people report this kind of behavior.) Has this happened to any of you?

I guess the only thing that worries me is what I might do if it happens again. What if I poop in the litter box? What if I set fire to my Terrible Towel? What if I go outside onto our second story deck and just jump right off?

I mean, look at this guy. I don’t want to be this guy!

Oh my god. Look!
I’ve been sleep-drinking-cheap-vodka!

Oh. The cap was on the bottle. WHEW!

Responsibility is for Those Who are Responsible

2006-11-09T15:53:00.000-05:00

So today, as I do almost daily, I clicked the link in my statcounter.com profile to see what people had Googled to land on my blog. They are usually really sad, self-deprecating things like, “why doesn’t anyone like me” and “how do I get a boyfriend even though I’m ugly,” which I believe speaks volumes about, well, me.

Sometimes the entries are really random: in the last three days I’ve gotten at least five hits from someone Googling: “Telia paternity test Maury Shardae,” which is from when I was unemployed and spent my days blogging about daytime television. Now that I think about it, I’m a pretty pathetic person, and my blog just reinforces that. But anyway…

Today I got a hit from someone that had Googled: “hooker myspace profile south carolina” which is very, very funny. Then I scrolled down a little ways, and found this entry: “I have HIV.”

My heart kind of hit the floor when I read that. I really hope that it was someone doing research for a high school health class paper or something, and not someone looking for a support group and instead finding me, some perfectly healthy little brat, whining about how everyone that works at Magee is at least mildly retarded. (Because, well, they are, but that’s beside the point. That reader had bigger issues. See what I'm saying?)

Which leads me to this point—by writing for the public, however small a “public” it may be, do we mere bloggers need to take on some degree of social responsibility? I mean, I don’t know. These words are out there for anyone to read. I guess I sort of wonder if/how it affects people.

Ugh. I can’t be socially responsible.
The entry I’d planned to write today was about how, this morning, I stood up from my desk and accidentally farted.

PS, there are a plethora of fart-related cartoons on the internets. I urge you to read all of them.

Elections. Or, Why I Hate All Old People Except for My Grandmother (Subtitle: Hero of the Day Vol.3)

2006-11-08T12:35:00.000-05:00

So the election is over, mostly. We’re still waiting to hear about Montana and Virginia in the Senate, but the Republicans will probably win those because whenever there is controversy, they just go ahead and legislate into a win. But I’m not going to talk about that, because I don’t talk about smart stuff on my blog.

What I want to talk about is how my polling place was 1) held in an day care center for senior citizens with developmental disabilities called Elderberry Junction; and 2) run by what appeared to be residents of the center.

“Ohhh, Robert!” cooed the oldest woman ON EARTH, to Robbo. “That’s my favorite name!”

I laugh politely. She stops smiling and batting her dusty old eyelashes at Robbo for just long enough to sneer and bare her old lady teeth at me, then goes back to smiling at him. I’m taken aback. I am also slightly intoxicated.
Naturally, Robbo turns on his Rico-Suave*-like charms (see also: How Robbo Got Me in the Sack.) Every time I laugh politely, which I continue to do because I am slightly intoxicated, she glares at me.

The other two old women at the table, who were clearly the second-oldest and third-oldest women on earth, didn't say a word to me. Just glared. After they got finished telling Robbo about where they lived, their pets, and their children.

Old ladies. I don’t get it. They must hate me because when I sit down to eat, I don’t have to move my boobs aside to put my napkin in my lap.

So, we walk over to the electronic voting machines, which I didn’t find nearly as perplexing as the ostensibly retarded old fat man in the too-small t-shirt, stained with drool and what appeared to be barbecue sauce, who was sticking an 8-track cassette in the side of my machine. He was also grinning at me with less teeth than I have fingers. This guy is going to ensure that my vote counts? Yikes.

In summation, as you can clearly see, old people suck. Except for my grandmother, who called me to remind me to vote so we can get that (and I quote) “son-of-a-bitch Santorum out of office." Now that's the kind of old lady America needs more of. Good work, Nana! I indirectly credit your slandering of that bigot Rick Santorum with taking him out of the Senate. You're my HERO OF THE DAY!

*Oh, and just in case you forgot what Rico Suave looks like, here:

Gay Cats. No, I Mean It.

2006-11-07T15:21:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

Recently, I discovered that Robbo’s cat is gay. This post will have no real social or personal implications; I just wanted you all to know that Marley likes the peen. And the pooper.

This, my friends, is Marley. He came with Robbo…sort of a package deal:

I know. He is enormous. He has been described as “a meatloaf.” When the Comcast guy came to hook up our cable, he laughed (somewhat cruelly) in Marley’s face and said, “Ain’t that cat a little fat?” Yes. Yes, he is. You can view his own personal MySpace page here. Yes, he has his own MySpace. Yes, his username is “fatmarley.” And yes, my boyfriend is kind of a weirdo.

This is Mr. Poopies, who came with me.

I know. He is adorable, right? Look at that fur. Look at that bone structure. Poopies is the ultimate male, and Marley is the ultimate meatball. (Quick: name that reference! The first person to correctly identify who said it, what film it appeared in, and who played that character in the comments section gets a prize of my choosing. Seriously.)
Apparently, Poopies also looks like a sweet piece of ass. This weekend, Robbo and I were sitting at the bar between our kitchen and living room while Poopies slept peacefully on the couch. Suddenly, Marley jumps up next to him and, hovering over him, begins making undulating hip gyrations and weird mewing sounds while kneading his front paws on either side of Poopies. Really weird stuff. Totally trying to put his peen inside my cat. Not cool, Marley. Not cool at all. This went on for about 10 solid minutes (Marley’s got mojo, apparently) while Poopies just looked on, somewhat nonplussed.

Robbo got very upset, until I accused him of being homophobic. He calmed down, and then I called his cat a f*g, just to get him all upset again. Like I’ve said before, he’s really lucky to have a girlfriend as funny as I am.

And then—then, my friends, the truth came out. Marley had been given up for adoption by Robbo’s father because he had, in fact, held down another male cat in their home and tried to stick his weiner into said cat’s nether regions. And somehow, someone (cough, Robbo, cough) forgot to mention this to me.

The point to this whole story? Some people in my life think that I decided too hastily to move in with Robbo (we’d been dating only three months—in fact, my friend Conor actually said, “This is brilliant idea. It’ll be awesome when you two realize you can’t stand each other when you start to exhibit all the flaws that a 3-month relationship has failed to bring out!” To which I replied, “I know, right?!”) but it has been working out amazingly. My advice to anyone who is considering moving in with their significant other: don’t worry about them. They’ll be fine.
What you really need to do is run a background check on their pet. Otherwise, you are sacrificing the sanctity of your own pet’s butthole. And your pet wouldn’t do that to you. So don’t do it to them.

Ouch.

2006-11-06T10:36:00.000-05:00

It stings, Pittsburgh. It burns.
It stings and burns like it did the morning after you went home with that girl from Mckees Rocks that you met dahn at Donzi’s, and you knew you probably shouldn’t, but you couldn’t help yourself. It stings and burns like that. Ouch. That stinging and burning required a trip to the clinic, and a shot of penicillin. This stinging and burning requires a little optimism and a shot of Southern Comfort.

So, the Steelers’ season is over, barring a miracle. Such as Jesus Christ himself returning to play QB. Or receiver. Or better yet, to return kicks. Or best of all, Jesus serve as our entire offensive squad. But, since that probably will not happen, we've got to move on.

We’ve got to move on, and we’ve been through worse than this. Besides, we still have this guy:

And this guy!

(in one of the lamest photo shoots, ever.)

And this guy!

(for the time being, until we get rid of him like we do with all our good players.)

And let’s not forget THIS GUY!

(the filename of that picture, from Carnegie Mellon University’s student newspaper The Tartan, is “mayor-mcdreamy.jpg.” Classic.)

AND SWEET JESUS, WE'VE GOT THIS GUY:

(if you don't know Tommy Amoeba, you should. Check out his band, Amoeba Knievel.)

All I’m saying, Pittsburgh, is that yeah, this sucks. This is awful. This is the worst way to go out in a season. I know it’d be preferable to make it to the playoffs and lose than to lose all damn season, but there’s nothing we can do now but look to the bright side, and pray to the gods of pigskin and Primanti's that we turn it around in 2007.

As for my blog, I guess it’s going to have to go back to my daily missteps and failures as a human being. Up next, how Robbo’s cat is totally gay, and tried to have butt sex with my cat. Not. Cool.

I love you, collective city of Pittsburgh.

We’re gonna make it after all!

I'm Lost.

2006-11-03T09:25:00.000-05:00

I'm lost. I feel empty. I wake up feeling sad. I go to sleep feeling sad, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on the reason. Nothing in my life is particularly wrong. Work is okay. Robbo is great. My friends are great. The Maxipads are starting to gain a following, which is really, incredibly awesome (and bizarre. Have you heard us? Geez.) But despite all that, deep down somewhere, down in the very depths of my soul, I’m sad.

Then yesterday, the source of my sadness became very clear to me, via an email from RJ (whom you may remember from the Jesus Marriage Cult post.) The email read:
“It's the beginning of November and I couldn’t care less about football. This is so wrong.
What do we talk about now, feelings???? Feelings are gay.”

And he’s right! Feelings are gay!
What the hell am I supposed to talk about in my blog now that the Steelers have essentially ended their season? How I made Robbo mad by forgetting to change the kitty litter (er…more like, always forgetting to change the kitty litter and then the cats get mad and protest-poop on the floor?) That’s not funny. Especially not to Robbo.

We can talk about how my high school reunion is in two weeks and instead of trying to get pretty, or thin, or something, I’m eating M&Ms at 9AM. Is that funny? I don’t know! I just don’t know!

Or we can talk about how I’m such a weak drinker anymore that I have three beers and then fall over. Is that funny? Yes, to everyone but me!

Furthermore, I think I've pasted the dead mayor's head on every possible thing I can. The joke is dead. Dead like Bob O'Connor. (whap!) And let's face it, pasting the new mayor’s head to things isn’t as funny.

Or wait…is it?

Naw. It’s just not the same. It just doesn't feel right.

The point is, I’m in a rut. I need to get run over by a car or something so I have a good topic to blog about. I could chart my progress. You know, “Today, I wiggled my toes. Eureka!”

Kind of like when I got fired and just drank beer and watched Maury all day. I hope I don’t get fired again, but it would make for some interesting writing.

I kind of like this job, though. I think I shall opt for Plan B of the "Get My Blog Back On Track" mission... lots of hallucinogenics.

I Really Hate Being Right ALL THE TIME!

2006-10-30T12:58:00.000-05:00

So. Ben Roethlisberger shit the bed. Again. Hmm…I wonder if that’s a side effect from HAVING YOUR BRAIN ROCKED AROUND INSIDE YOUR SKULL AND BRUISING IT AND THEN INSISTING ON PLAYING FOOTBALL AND PRETTY MUCH RUINING THE SEASON? Yeah…I’m gonna go with…yeah.

The whole time I was watching that game, I kept thinking, how must Charlie Batch feel right now? We have so little faith in his playing ability that we’d rather put out our half-retarded starter than him? Granted, this is a city that is resistant to change. But still. When it’s not working, it’s not working.

This brings me to my next point. Bill Cowher. Do you even still want to be doing this? Are you even trying? Or are you just picturing that big house in South Carolina? And warm beaches instead of hail and rivers? I mean, if you are, that’s okay. But go. And believe me, this is an incredibly hard thing for me to say. You’ve been the coach of the Steelers since I was a little girl. I vaguely remember Chuck Noll, but most of my Steelers life has been based around you. I’ll be so, so sorry to see you go, but what’s more important, I want a coach that wants to be coaching this team.

I mean, look at this. Every other line in today’s Post-Gazette references “shambles,” “crumbling,” or my personal favorite, “Super Bowl talk is no longer on the table. The playoffs remain a mathematical possibility, nothing more.” When will Cowher bench Ben? I don’t know that he will. I don’t think it’ll happen.

I’m not stupid. I know not to expect a Super Bowl every year. I’m a Pittsburgh fan. My life has been a series of disappointments, one after the other. We’re conditioned for it. It’s just sad to see potential go to waste.

That being said, let’s cheer up. There are other things to talk about. Like the fact that this year’s Bloomfield Halloween Parade, an event I look forward to every year, is being called (I kid you not…) “The Spirit of Bob O’Connor Parade.”

Aw snap. I love, love, LOVE the fact that we’re naming a Halloween parade after our dead mayor. I wish I had a dead mayor mask. I’d totally go as The Spirit of Bob O’Connor. Maybe the reason the Steelers have been losing is because The Spirit of Bob O’Connor has not been playing.

But I digress. We have to keep our heads up, people of Pittsburgh. Do it for Bob.

I’m taking this too far, aren’t I?

Oh Geez, Ben.

2006-10-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

I started an entry about Jesus being in a band, but it turned out to be yet another shameless promotion of The Maxipads, who, by the way, got some love in this week’s Pittsburgh City Paper. So that’s pretty cool.

Then I started an entry about how being in your 20’s is depressing, especially when you go to a training session at work for new hires and realize that the other two people in the room are your age, went to schools equivalent to yours, and are definitely no smarter than you, and they make more money with higher-level jobs, and you start to wonder where you went wrong. Then I got depressed. And nobody likes sad kids.

Instead, I must fall back on one of my old standbys: 1) pooping at work; 2) the Steelers; or 3) Hero of the Day.

So, while pooping at work, I thought this up: another open letter to Ben Roethlisberger. Without further ado…

Dear Ben:

Hi. It’s me again. You may remember me from such events as openly, public weeping when you guys won the Super Bowl, and this letter.

Ben, Ben, Ben. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? No, I’m not talking about your on-field performance, although it has been very hit-or-miss and let’s face it, hit-or-miss teams do not win championships. I’m talking about your ridiculous I’m-Gonna-Save-Pittsburgh-Football-and-I'm-the-Only-Guy-Who-Can-Do-It mentality.

Remember when you were in that motorcycle accident in which you claimed you were seconds from death (which I should mention, I’m still not buying, but that’s neither here nor there) and came back in time for the preseason?

That was probably not the smartest thing to do, Ben. And I hope you know that.

But alas! You were waylaid from the opening game because your appendix went ahead and ruptured itself and you had emergency surgery. But no worries, you came back the next week.
Seriously Ben? Is that necessary? No. Did it hurt the team? Yeah, probably.

And now this. Ben! Remember this?:

Followed by this?

And then this?

And now this headline:
Roethlisberger Looks Okay; May Play Sunday
WHAT?!
Ben, what?!

We’re playing the Oakland Raiders. With the way they’ve been playing this season, I could probably rush for over 100 yards against them, so Willie Parker (and Najeh Davenport, for Christ's sake, play Najeh!) should have no trouble at all on the rushing offense. I mean, seriously Ben, your continuous attempts to come back too early from injuries and illnesses is clearly hurting this team.

And oh yeah- Ben? Remember this guy?

That’s right. The Homestead Kid, Charlie Batch.
Let him play. Our season is already in the shitter, we’re playing one of the worst teams in the league, and Charlie has proven himself to be more than adequate as a quarterback.

Seriously, Ben. I know your intentions are good, but we don’t need you to save us. Take a break.

You fucking turd.

Love,
kT

Good News!

2006-10-24T16:35:00.000-04:00

So, in reference to my most recent post, I do not have HIV.

I believe congratulations are in order.

I'll actually update tomorrow. Something funny. In fact, I think I only got positive votes for the whole "writing a blog entry about what memeber of a band Jesus would be." So I think I might be feeling that. See yinz guys tomorrow!

Magee Women’s Hospital is Staffed by Retarded Monkeys

2006-10-20T13:46:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: this entry is going to be a mix of 1) outright rage, and 2) what may be too much personal information about me for you to handle. Please react accordingly—meaning, stop reading if you don’t want to know.

Christ al-fucking-mighty! So yesterday, I go to my new doctor for an annual lady exam. Gross, right? Okay. And as all you women out there know, stressful enough. Nothing says “oh my god, this really sucks” more than the words “slide down to the bottom of the table and put your feet in the stirrups.”

But enough about that. The point is, because I am a conscientious kind of girl, I got an HIV test. Now, I know I don’t have HIV. There is no possible way that I do. But still, I believe people should get them. As often as necessary. And I figured, while I’m here, what the hell?

My doctor cannot administer the test. In fact, she has to write me a prescription to get the test. I ask her how I get my results. She says, “I think they mail them in 2-3 weeks.” This doesn’t sound right to me. People who actually think they may have HIV should not have to wait 2-3 weeks for the mail to come. And neither should I. So I ask the girl at the desk how I get my results. She says, “I have no idea.” Well then. Thank you.

I go down to the outpatient lab on the first floor to have the test done. I ask the girl who takes my blood how to get my results. She says, “Oh, just call your doctor tomorrow and ask if we’ve faxed the results up to them.” I say, “Oh! Okay,” because this is the first person who is making any sense whatsoever.

So today. I call my doctor’s office and ask if the results have been faxed up. The woman who answers the phone LAUGHS (because this whole situation is hi-larious! Especially for me! I’m so glad that I have this to break up the stressful monotony of my day!) She says, between chuckles, “They can’t fax results of HIV tests. Call back on Monday.”

So now I’m angry. I decide to call the lab where my blood was taken. The man who answers tells me that in order to obtain my results, I have to physically come to the hospital and knock on the door of a lab on the 4th floor to get my results. WHAT?! No. If that’s even true, I don’t have time for this. And if it’s not, what kind of asshole am I going to look like knocking on the door of some lab going, “Hi, do I have HIV? No? I didn’t think so. Thanks.”

And moreover, am I the first fucking person in history to have an HIV test done at Magee? Seriously, it’s an entire hospital system specializing in women’s reproductive health—and no one knows the protocol for a fucking HIV test?! There’s no memo that was sent out? The step-by-step procedure of administering an HIV test is not posted on a bulletin board somewhere? Come on!

Thus, in conclusion, everyone who works at Magee is fucking retarded, and should be replaced by cute little monkeys with cymbals that they clap together at random intervals because that would be far more useful than those goddamn scrub-wearing idiots.

GAH! I hate you, Magee!

I Am A Fiend

2006-10-17T14:14:00.000-04:00

I am. It’s true. I’m a monster.

I’m quitting smoking. (I know, I’ve been saying this for months. But it’s been a months-long process. Honestly.)

I like to think that I am a woman of my word. I’m headstrong, often to the point of being ridiculously stubborn. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. For the most part. Mama ain’t no flake.

Giving up cigarettes has been an entirely different story. To my own credit, I’ve cut back from about 5+ packs a week to less than 2 packs a month. This has been difficult, and I’m proud of me. I’m currently patting myself on the back.

Robbo is a nonsmoker, which is making quitting easier. I don’t think I could live with a smoker if I was trying to quit. In fact, my last roommate smoked like a two-stroke engine, which made me smoke more, which I think made her smoke more and suddenly we both had black lung and the cat coughed all the time. No good. (Paul assures me that ‘two-stroke engine’ is not an obscure reference. I’m undecided.)

In order to facilitate my quitting, I performed the following steps:
1) took my last pack of cigarettes
2) handed them to Robbo
3) said, “Hide these from me, and only give me one if I really, really beg.”

This, of course, has set me up for degrading myself constantly. I say, “Hey, can I please please please have a cigarette?” and Robbo says, “Are you serious??” and then he looks at me all disapprovingly and I feel awful. This was the plan! This was supposed to make me quit! I don’t want to degrade myself! (Unless it’s on the interweb, on my blog— in which case I degrade myself daily.)

Instead, I decided I was just going to dig up the pack. One night while Robbo was out, I started searching. And by ‘searching,’ I mean, ‘tearing shit apart like a buzzard on a roadside carcass.’ I found the pack in a box at the bottom of his bookshelf. I ripped the lid off the box, grabbed the cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it with an, “ahhhh.” Smokers--you know this feeling! Amazing. Orgasmic. I sat on the floor, amidst the rubble I had created in my search, and puffed away. With the windows closed. Because I am a genius.

When the final puff was gone, and the cigarette stubbed out, I looked around at the mess I had created. I was ashamed. Ashamed like a cheap hooker. Ashamed like a cheap hooker who said she was going to quit smoking and then tore apart her home to find a hidden pack of cigarettes. That, my friends, is a deep shame.

I put everything back together as best I could and Oust-ed the room. Score! I thought. Robbo will never find out.

He did.

About a week later, I did the unthinkable- I begged for a cigarette. Robbo went into the other room to get it. Tick…tick…tick…
“Hmm,” I thought. “He’s been in there for an inordinate amount of time.” (Yes, I actually use words like ‘inordinate’ in casual thought. No, I don’t. It was probably more like, “Robbo gone long time! Oh my!”)

He came back with a cigarette and a scowl.
Robbo: What did you do?
Me: What are you talking about?
Robbo: Everything on that shelf was messed up.
Me: What shelf?
Robbo: The shelf that had your cigarettes in a box that you clearly dug through!
Me: Maybe one of the cats did it?
Robbo: The cats took down the box that contained your cigarettes and put it back upside down?
Me: …Yes?
Robbo: You’re pathetic.

And the moral of this story is, yes. I am pathetic. And weak. Just wanted you all to know.

-sigh-
Burn on, little lighter. Burn on.

Dino-Mite!

2006-10-12T13:42:00.000-04:00

If you want to know why my updating has been slow lately, it's been a combination of three things:

1. Work putting its collective work-weiner up my ass and sloooowly wiggling it around;

2. My customary state of ennui. I have nothing interesting to say. It’s true. It’s further compounded by the fact that I always forget the funny things I want to write about, or, when I’m sober, they aren’t as funny anymore. (POLL: would you want to read a blog entry I wrote about what member of a band Jesus would be, were Jesus in a band? Vote in the comments. Let me know, I’ll work on it. Democracy in action.)

3 (and most importantly). My extreme frustration with the play and, moreover, coaching of the Steelers has left me speechless, like a toddler who wants a cookie but just CAN’T say the damn word—“cookie! cookie!” ...fuck. Read one opinion here, in Fich and Andy’s blog.

So today, my friends, I will not write a rant about how Ben Roethlisberger is, as I’ve said a thousand times before, a huge turd who once yelled at Liz in Red Star Tavern, ignored Jenn B. in Roland’s, and oh yeah, can’t throw downfield for shit. I will not write a rant about the fact that WE KNOW that Willie Parker cannot run up the middle yet we ask him to do it anyway. I also will not write a rant making fun of my boyfriend, because I think he started reading my blog.

Instead, I will write about dinosaur porn. That’s right, DINOSAUR PORN. (I thought that ought to be in big letters, in case you’re reading this at work. Now everyone knows you’re a pervert. You pervert.)
You think this a joke, right? It’s not. Dinosaur Porn, much like Furries (the people who get off on making sweet, sweet loving in big animal costumes) is a very real thing. Big credit to Paul for finding it. I’d post pictures, but I’m at work, ya know, and I already googled “dinosaur porn,” so I probably ought to keep the inappropriateness to a minimum. It’s pretty raunchy stuff, so I had Paul look at it and tell me all about it.

ktpg: is there such a thing as a still shot that would be work safe?
relative q: not unless your work lets you look at pictures of girls sucking dinosaur dick

Apparently, it’s women having relations with people in dinosaur suits. I don’t know, I haven’t seen it yet, but I think I could get into this.

ktpg: is it sexy?
relative q: oh hell no
relative q: it's just weird

Yup. I could definitely get into this.

THIS IS NOT WORK SAFE! IF YOU ARE NOT AT WORK (AND HAVE NO SHAME, LIKE ME!) click HERE for a little sample of the world of porno to come.

I know what I’m doing tonight. On Robbo's computer. Then later, while he's in the room, I'm gonna look at the History and be like, "Dinosaur porn?! What the fuck is this? Jesus! I thought you loved me! What's wrong with you? God! You're such a creep! I thought I knew you! I'm moving out!" until he swears up and down that it wasn't him, he has no idea how it got there, and then I'll be like, "Oh yeah, I forgot. It was me."

Hah. He's so lucky, every boy should have a girlfriend as funny as me.

An Open Letter to Sienna Miller and the Residents of Pittsburgh

2006-10-11T11:13:00.000-04:00

Dear Sienna Miller,

Hi. How are ya? I always thought you were pretty cute, and though I’ve never seen any of your movies (except maybe ‘Layer Cake’ and I think I was drunk for that), I’ve seen you in magazines, and on the internet, and Liz loves you, so you must be okay.

Now look. I’m not gonna get all up in arms about the fact that you said “Shittsburgh.” I’ve said “Shittsburgh.” (and “Pissburgh,” but that’s another story.) Granted, I’m in my goddamn 23rd year here, so I sort of have a right to say that. And I completely understand how the charms of a place like, say, Bloomfield, would be lost on someone accustomed to a lifestyle like yours. Yes, Sienna, Pittsburgh is not New York. It’s not Los Angeles. It’s not even a Boston, Chicago, even a Philadelphia. But it is also not rural Alabama (cue banjo music). So count your blessings. That’s all.

That being said, please, please stop running around asking if people “know who you are” (Here if you’ve not read it.) It looks really bad on you, because, well, we don’t know who you are. And when people that we did recognize (ala, Plaxico Burress) went around asking “Do you know who I am?” we decided that we hated him, and we ran him out of town. Pittsburghers are a vicious bunch, Sienna. Think villagers in those old movies, hordes and hordes of angry villagers with ratty clothes and torches. That’s us. Don’t fucks with that. (Yes, I said 'fucks with that.')

And to you, Pittsburghers! My dear, dear Pittsburghers. Why must we always be up in arms about something? I know the dead-and-buried mayor is old hat. We can’t even really get all rallied up behind our Steelers because, well, wtf are they doing out there? BEN, I’m looking at you. OFFENSIVE LINE, I’m looking at you. SECONDARY, I’m looking at you. And COWHER, bless your scary little heart, I’m looking at you. I suppose that’s a different blog entry. I mean, what else are we going to get all excited about? The Pirates missed the playoffs for the 14th year in a row (since 1992. The same year, by the way, that the Pens last won the Stanley Cup, so I don’t even have anything to say about them at the moment. Phenom Schmenom.) Point is, are we this desperate for something to do? It’s come down to bagging on some little blonde Hollywood floozy? Eh. I’ll pass.

Love,
kT

PS, I’m sorry for the inconsistent blog updating. I promise I’ll step it up.

Banned Books Week

2006-09-28T13:50:00.000-04:00

So, it's officially Banned Books Week.

Click here for the list of the top 100 most frequently banned books (1990-2000) and here for the top 25 most frequently banned books (2000-2006) according to the American Library Association.

As you know, I'm a book nerd and so seeing this list bums me out. I knew schools still banned "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "The Color Purple" but I guess I didn't realize the actual extent to which books are banned. I mean, "Bridge to Terabithia" was quite possibly my best friend in 1992. See also, in different years, "The Outsiders," "Catcher in the Rye" and "Flowers for Algernon" as best friends. (Lame, I know. But Paul had Legos! We grew up to be awesome! And don't you forget it!)

So hey! Everybody read something "offensive and subversive" this week. Do it for the kids!

Side note: I've been wanting to go back to school. Think I could pull off being a school librarian?

And by the way, I'm sorry for the intense geekiness of this post.

Snap!

2006-09-21T14:04:00.000-04:00

I’ve gone retarded.

So I’m sitting outside of my office. It’s definitely turning into fall—in fact, I think the first day of fall is this Saturday—it’s that kind of weather in which you have to wear a jacket in the morning but by midday, it’s sunny and breezy, and you can take your jacket off but you’re still glad you wore long sleeves. You know what I mean. Really good weather.

I start thinking about a year ago at this time. And you know what? I have no memory of it. Okay- that’s not entirely true, I remember bits and pieces- the incidental limo night, Halloween, spending quite a few nights at the Squirrel Cage, the cocktail party, but other than that? Completely missing. It’s like my life jumped from Labor Day to Thanksgiving. Granted, it was a shitty, rough time in my life (oh boo fucking hoo) and I was drinking a lot (I know in my later years that if I ever look back and refer to “my drinking days,” it’ll be Fall 2005), but seriously, did I manage to lose an entire SEASON?

Wow. I honestly can’t believe this.

Well, that sucks. Sorry this wasn’t funny. Allow me to make reparations.

I don't even know why this exists (God bless you, Google image search) but oh, Macaulay Culkin. You give me the heebie jeebies.

Hero of the Day, Vol. 2

2006-09-20T14:06:00.000-04:00

Well, I didn't update yesterday because I was upset about the Steelers’ loss or, more accurately, the shitty way our offense performed, and I didn’t want to say a bunch of things that I’d regret such as “What a bunch of bums,” or “What the hell was Ken Whisenhunt thinking?” or “Ben is such a fucking turd,” (oh wait, I think I’ve said that before. )

Then, the baby from the previous post was found, alive and well, hydrated and with makeup covering her telltale birthmark, so that’s not even that interesting. I just really have nothing to say.

So thus! Today’s post is dedicated to my HERO OF THE DAY!

The inaugural HOTD was someone I knew, so I thought that this one should be someone I don’t. and I give you (drum roll, bated breath please):

OKSANA BAIUL.

Yeah. That’s right. What’s that? You don’t care about Oksana Baiul? Well you’re reading my blog, so you must have very little taste. And those of us with very little taste should love Oksana Baiul. Why, you ask? Because she started out as this darling little thing in 1994 that came from nowhere to beat out Nancy Kerrigan for the gold medal in the Lillehammer Olympics, and we weren’t even that mad, because seriously, we were only rooting for Nancy because we felt bad for her, and she had those big nostrils and kind of seemed like a bitch anyway.

So cute! I mean yeah, the bangs, but it was 1994, and she's from the Ukraine, and a figure skater, so whatever. America loved Oksana, embraced her with open arms, made her (briefly) our new golden child.

Now, she's this…thing/woman/what? :

Yeah. I know, right?

I decided to do a little research on Oksana. Everyone knows about the drunk driving arrest but I mean, the woman still shows her face in public (a big part of the reason that she is today’s HOTD) so she’s gotta be doing something.

The answer is this: living in New Jersey, and managing a clothing-and-jewelry line (it’s allegedly “skating-themed.”) I couldn’t find anything about it online, so it must suck. I guess that probably could have gone without saying.

But hey! Oksana! You’re still out there, girlfriend! You're running around at Fashion Week all uglied up, and quite possibly drunk! Way to have no shame, Oksana! Keep on keeping on.

This is Probably Inappropriate.

2006-09-18T15:56:00.000-04:00

So sometimes when I can't think of anything to blog about, I’ll just tool around on MSN.com or CNN.com until I find some kind of weird, funny, stupid, oh-so-pathetically-American news to make fun of.

Today was not a good day for it.
T.O.’s broken finger? I don’t effing care.
The Pope making anti-Islamic comments? Don’t even get me started.
The spinach/E.Coli scare? Hitting too close to home (although I did eat a salad made of bagged spinach on Saturday, long after the story had broken, the whole time asking Robbo, “Does this look like E.Coli to you?” Because I'm smart like that. Savvy. You know it.)

So that leaves me with the baby kidnapping in rural Missouri. “Yikes,” I thought when I read the story this morning. “It’s gonna be hard to make this one funny.”
Because, for real, that sucks. Imagine being in your home, in the middle of nowhere, having someone knock on your door, slash your throat, and steal your 10-day old baby. Not funny. I hope they find this woman and I hope the kid is okay. Yeah. Anyway.

Bright side! What is funny is this: the description of the suspect (from CNN.com)

"The Amber Alert describes the woman being sought as white, between 30 and 40 years old, about 5 feet, 8 inches tall and weighing around 200 pounds. Her dark or black hair was pulled under a baseball cap with a worn bill, authorities said. She was wearing a gray or brown T-shirt and blue jean shorts. She appeared to have a female mustache."

Ouch.
As if it weren’t embarrassing enough to be that crazy bitch who stole some woman’s baby, now you’re that mustachioed crazy bitch who stole some woman’s baby.

Thankfully, they managed to capture said mustache in the composite sketch:

Yup. that's a mustache, all right.

Najeh What?

2006-09-15T15:17:00.000-04:00

Or:
Things I am Excited About

I, for one, believe in football.

Moreover, I believe in the Pittsburgh style of football. The ground and pound, passing-less-than-half-the-time, this-is-not-Peyton-Manning style of football.
This is the football I like to see, and I hope yinz guys agree.

That’s why I am VERY excited about the addition of Najeh Davenport to the Steelers. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to address Najeh himself.

Dear Najeh:

How do you say your name, anyway? Naaww-jaaah? Naahh-Jeee? Naahh-jayyy? Eek! I’m dizzy.
Anyway! You are a good, solid, ‘big back!’ You are a power runner! You will save the legs of Willie Parker! You will run up the middle! You will be excellent in goal line and short yardage situations! You were for the Packers!

My only concern, Najeh, is that you will go the way of Duce Staley. Let us not forget that Duce was a great back for the Eagles, when he was not injured. You are injury-prone. Please, please don’t be Duce. Look where he is now. Look at him in his goofy sweat suit.

No one wants to wear the sweat suit, Najeh. We don’t want to see you in the sweat suit, Najeh. Please don’t put on the sweat suit, Najeh.

I have a good feeling about you. I had a good feeling about Willie Parker too, and look how that turned out. So make me proud, Najeh, and maybe one day I’ll be Photoshopping pictures of the dead mayor’s head onto your body.

Oh hell, who am I kidding?

Do it for Bob, Najeh!

Best wishes and all of my love,

kT