Archive for June, 2008

There’s an admin at work who wears a wallet chain. Even though he’s a grown man in his 30s, maybe he thinks he’s a teenager in the 90s. Or maybe the crime rate at Microsoft is on the rise. Maybe all the developers and managers and other tech-savvy people that were hired to fill chairs have the secret ulterior motive to rob and plunder unsuspecting admins.

They work in teams, appearing not to know one another. One distracts the victim, perhaps by asking for directions to the company store or by spilling inexpensive Pan-Asian cuisine on them in the cafeteria. While the helpful victim is giving directions or wiping the tikka masala sauce off his Pac-Sun shirt, the second perpetrator swoops in and yanks the wallet right out of the admin’s back pocket.

Often times, it is best to have one of the Microsoft shuttles waiting outside to serve as a getaway car. Unfortunately, due to the GPS tracking devices in each vehicle, the shuttle drivers will not flee anywhere off campus, so the thieves must also have a predetermined on-campus hiding place to take stock of their loot.

That hiding place is probably this building. Unlike most Microsoft buildings with multiple floors, individual offices, and comfortable break rooms, this place is a raving shithole. Even admins with stolen wallets wouldn’t come in here unless they had to mail a package, but they’d probably still arrive in an armored car weilding a few machine guns in case the freak show in the mailroom gets to be too much.

Yep, the streets of the M$ Redmond campus are getting rougher every day, and my building is what Cabrini Green is to Chicago’s North Side. Better watch your back and chain up your shit, especially if you make $20/hour and value your unviolated rear end.

163 lines, 138-thousand-and-I-don’t-care points.

As I’ve reminded each of you no less than eleventy billion times, I am capable of a much higher Tetris score when using a portable video game console. Considering it has been years since I’ve played Tetris on my Gameboy Advance SP (for shame!), I am still happily surprised by this outcome, as I’m sure are all of you. But it could have been better.

I could sit and write about this for hours (three-and-a-half exactly, since that’s how much longer it will be before I land in Kansas City), but I will gloss over the fine nuances I experienced while playing this game and get to the point, maybe. Suffice it to say, things were going great and I was in the zone until the pilot picked up the intercom and started running his mouth about the weather or some shit.

Distracted, I misplaced a crucial “L” piece and that threw off my whole configuration. So I was all, “SHIT! What the FUCK!?” And the flight attendant was all, “Excuse me, can I get you something?” And I was all, “No, but you can get the pilot a tall glass of Shut The Fuck Up.” And she was all, “Oh NO you di-in’t!”

By then, my game was pretty much over so I threw my Gameboy at her and yelled, “Hell YEAH I did, bitch! You got SERVED!” So she was like, “Nuh-uh, it’s ON!”

Suddenly a Russian polka band occupying the back row broke out their instruments and began playing a sped-up version of the Tetris theme while some virtually unknown but well-connected dj popped out of first class to throw a techno beat behind it. I asked some Islamic terrorists to put their raid on hold and use the various assortment of machetes and liquid containers over 3 ounces that they’d snuck onto the plane to clear out a few seats so I could settle the score with this meddlesome bitch. Everyone knows that when you exact your fiery vengance on the person who fucked up your game, your score automatically increases to exceed your current high score.

Anyway, that bitch and her flight crew were all frontin’ and shit, so I lifted one of the metal drink carts above my head and threw it at them. When the co-pilot rushed to help (’cause the head pilot be tawkin’), I grabbed him by the legs and threw him against the cabin door till it opened. I pushed him out of the plane and watched him fall at our cruising altitude of 37,000 feet. This made the head pilot stop all his jibber-jabber and see what was happening, and what was happening was his ass falling 37,000 feet shortly after. At that point, the Islamic terrorists figured their work here was done, so they stole the only parachutes on the plane and jumped out, pleased that they would live to hijack another US passenger aircraft.

With both pilots gone and the flight-simulator-trained terrorists floating safely over rural Oregon, all the passengers turned to me like, “Dude, WTF?” except for a scraggly black homeless guy with a crazy look in his eyes who yelled, “You gonna die!” Then everyone started freaking out. I exclaimed, “This vessel is too heavy! We need to lose more weight!” and pushed the bum out of the cabin door.

As most people know, flying a plane is not very difficult. Various actors and actresses are called upon to do this all the time and they always pull it off. Besides, for this trip, I decided to travel smart: I took my vicodin BEFORE boarding the plane and ordered a screwdriver once we were in the air. This is quite preferrable to the reverse, which includes three pre-flight drinks, some guy from Tacoma, two more in-flight drinks, and a stomach ache.

I rushed into the cockpit and put on a headset. I said a bunch of shit like, “Alpha nine-oh-eight to control tower, do you read me? Over.” And, “Mayday, we need clearance for landing! Over.” And, “Red Rover, Red Rover, can my Boeing 737 come over? Over.” And, in a low, gruff voice, “It’s OVERRRR! …Over.”

Then I pushed some buttons and steered for awhile until we almost ran out of gas and I had to land the plane. I crashed into the gate slightly ahead of schedule and only injured seven people. Yes, I could have taken a bit more care and spared them, but I had to catch a connecting flight and the layover was only 30 minutes. I barely made it onto the plane, let alone into a bar so I could pound a few cocktails with some fellow wayward travelers with whom I’d trade business cards and forget hours later.

So that’s the story of how I got 163 lines playing Tetris. And crash-landed a plane at DFW.

Addendum: I ended up coming even closer to beating my score during the trip home: 193 lines. I’d really like to blame someone else for my not being able to get another 7 measly lines (which would beat my running score of 199), but I have no one to blame by my own lack of planning and deteriorating motor skills.

Dear Bob,

This letter finds us in difficult times, and I write to commiserate with you over the untimely loss of your girlfriend. I learned of your recent love lost during the untimely departure of the 545 Seattle-bound bus just moments before my arrival at the bus stop. With little to do but swear loudly and wait for the next bus, I opened my window to the world, a midnight-blue Sidekick LX. There you sat in a built-in application on my desktop, bearing news of a life-changing earthquake that shook up dinner plans with your girlfriend by swallowing her forever.

We’re no strangers to love. You know the rules. And so do I. When you lose something you love, you want to chase after it, even if it means risking everything. Thus, it was no surprise that you didn’t hesitate to jump into the chasm right away and begin a journey of danger and desperation.

Quoting the wise, under-recognized Danger community forum philosopher, CourtJester03, “I really hate this game…is there any way on earth to delete this stupid game?” If only there were a way to delete this stupid game of harsh circumstances and unexpected twists and turns. You can’t turn your back on love the same way you can’t turn your back on life. Love isn’t easy; it never is.

But as Kyrios knowledgeably cites, “Nope, the game is apart [sic] of the core OS.” See, there’s no escaping these feelings of struggle and defeat as one battles large insects and spike-backed animals in dark, haunted rooms. Whether you’re free-falling several miles, unintentionally bouncing into a pool of hot lava, or eating a cube that makes everything go dark, traumatic experiences like these are programmed into our lives, and it is our duty, to ourselves and our loved ones, to overcome them.

This letter may not reach the midpoint cliff in Level 1 before you meet your impending doom. However, if it does, I hope the rest of your journey leaves you relatively unscathed and that you find your round, bouncy paramour in good health despite being unjustly swallowed by the bowels of the earth.

Take care,

I was a giant asshole today. I’m an asshole every day, but today I didn’t even try to hide it. Whatever.

1. Team meeting

Coworker: “We should hire someone named Kit to take the empty cube next to you so we’d have ‘Kit’ and ‘Kat’. AHAHAHAHA!”
Me: (deadpan) “Yes. That would be hilarious.”

No one else was laughing, but I really wish one of them had called me a jerk. As an aside, I used to work with someone named Kit back at NI. He was awesome and I miss him.

2. Chat conversation

Kat: you know way too much about the Spice Girls
Jon: well, you have to take into account how old we were relatively when they came out
Kat: No I don’t

He should have called me a jerk too. As an aside, I liked Spice World. It was nice not having to think for 2 hours.

3. Bathroom

Someone followed me in. We took our stalls. Business ensued. I have a raging hangover, so today business is slow.

OG from two stalls over: *shuffle* *shuffle* (Business is slow for her too, apparently.)
Me: *sits still* (Looks like we’re about to have a bathroom showdown.)
Her: *shuffle* *shuffle* *loud, annoyed sigh* (She wants me to leave, the fool.)
Me: *flip* *clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack* (Yeah, that’s right, bitch! I take my Sidekick to the bathroom! Whatcha gonna do about it? Nothing, that’s what! I could be in here all fucking afternoon. I don’t fucking know. Looks like you better be moving on or this could be a long day for both of us, know what I mean? Yeah, that’s right, you’re flushing. Go on, don’t even wash your hands. See you on the flipside, idiot!)

As an aside… yeah, women’s bathrooms are strange.

Me and my TF Secret Santa

Too much spice
Too much rice
Nothing else nice
So I’ll eat lunch twice

I feel strange going back to the cafeteria a second time to purchase a salad or sandwich with a predictable ingredient list and taste. I’d expect the cashiers to notice that I had already been there once today and tell me I fail at lunch. Today, this is true.

Addendum: I ended up being rescued from the clutches of Microsoft and magically whisked away to white-washed suburb of Kirkland, where I enjoyed a fish sandwich by the docks. Thanks, Josh.

…Once these songs are over. You know, everyone has a booty tape full of music that puts them “in the mood.” But sometimes the occasion calls for anti-booty, and nothing says “Down boy,” like one of these masterpieces:

Boots Randolph – Yakety Sax (Benny Hill Theme)
Los Del Rio – Macarena
The Darkness – I Believe
Beastie Boys – Heart Attack Man
The Lion King – Hakuna Matata
Animaniacs – Wakko’s America
Lou Vega – Mambo #5
Weird Al – Eat It
Ren & Stimpy – Better Than No One
Smokey Robinson – Tears Of A Clown
Jefferson Starship – We Built This City
Will Smith – Parents Just Don’t Understand
Billy Ray Cyrus – Achy Breaky Heart
Bobby Jimmy and the Crickets – Somebody Farted
Any Wesley Willis Song

You could easily add a bunch of kids’ songs, parodies, and comedic/novelty tracks, but I think these are the cream of the crop. You can add to this list if you feel like it. I’m sure I left out some epic libido-zappers. Like all my running lists, I’ll probably add more as I think of them and change the datestamp. Rock over Tacoma, rock on Seattle…

I stepped out to console a friend and plan a trip with my sister, thus missing my opportunity to score a Bag of Crap for $6. Even though I brought several bags of crap home from New York a few days ago, I always seem to find room for more. (Thanks, Peter. Misery loves company.)

There was a Woot-Off today. I didn’t buy anything, but had fun checking out all the gadgets up for grabs. My favorite by far was the description for this Wireless FM Transmitter. Nice to see an item featured for its pristine manual, sad to see that mine might be yet another job that is outsourced to China.

This Flight of the Conchords video made me think of this Pet Shop Boys video. Probably should have been the other way around, huh? The weird part is that I found the former video on the myspace page of house dj Demarkus Lewis, who I plan to see tomorrow night. I feel like I’m making a great sacrifice going back to the See Sound Meatmarket—I mean, Lounge, but I love, love, LOVE house music.

So at long last, I finally returned to the Big Apple to get the rest of my stuff. I didn’t get ALL the rest of my stuff, but I made a sizeable dent in the pile so it was a productive trip. Some highlights:

The Arrival
I arrived “home” to find my city as I left it: loud, busy, and sparkling with grime. A few hours later I did my regular trek down Third Avenue to Union Square, where my Fark Party awaited. Great turnout, wonderful people, lots of fun. Although, the last thing I remember from that night was a cute little voice next to me saying, “Hey, do you wanna do shots?” Here are some pictures; I think the camera appeared after the shots disappeared down my throat.

Pics from Starry

Pics from someone else

Pics from Miss Feasance (pw: platkat)

The Storm
On Saturday night, I watched the most beautiful storm I’ve seen in years from my bedroom window facing the Empire State Building. Thunder, lightning, heavy rain… all the precipitation action that Seattle lacks. I took advantage of New York’s vast delivery options and ordered some lo mein. Nom.

The Shoot
I was supposed to do a photoshoot, but I cancelled it. In addition to splotchy weather, they were doing work on the roof so there was nowhere for me to stand. And I got shy. Yeah, imagine that.

The Donation
I donated about half of my belongings to the Salvation Army. Most of my donations were clothes with heavy sentimental value and very little practical use whatsover. It’s funny how a collection of t-shirts depicting bands, 5Ks, charity events, and school-sponsored activities are as poignant of a trip down memory lane as a thick, leather-bound photo album. I also parted with a plethora of homemade projects and a few vintage pieces that I’ve had forever and will unlikely wear again. I saved the one-of-a-kinds that fit me and mentally promised myself that despite my abandonment of personal style for the sake of comfort and personal development, I would make a point to wear these clothes at least once this year.

I hauled my donations down to the ground floor on a broken luggage cart and dragged them down the front stairs. I stood around for 10 minutes like an asshole amidst what looked like a pile of garbage waiting for a cab to approach. When one finally came and helped me load all that crap into his car, I informed him that we were going ten blocks and he didn’t even run the meter. (I paid him anyway.)

The Interception
As I unloaded stuff on the curb, a skinny bum came out of nowhere and asked if I needed help. What he was actually asking was for me to give him some free shit. I didn’t mind doing this, but I was slightly bothered that I had to explain multiple times that most of my clothing was female gender-specific, as I am female. I let him stuff a duffel bag full of towels while I hauled the rest of it into the store. Nice people there. I took my receipt and left feeling strangely unmoved. I was neither relieved to be rid of the burden, nor sad to see my things go. Hm.

The Reminder
I wanted to eat something I wouldn’t normally get in Seattle, so I went to Molly’s, a great pub with excellent burgers. Feeling rather accomplished that afternoon, I started to see the good things I missed about New York. As I walked down Third, excited about the delicious burger I was about to eat, I thought, “This place isn’t so bad. People are decent, it’s not so dirty, there’s always something to do…” And I carried these sentiments with me as I sat down in a booth and waited for my burger. Moments later, two girls about my age walked in and took the booth behind me. One of them started blabbing on and on about how mean she was to some girl the other night. She had a smug air of superiority and the most grating accent I’d heard since I got to New York. She went on about getting into a fight with some guy, breaking some stuff at his house, etc. And then I remembered why I left. I left in part because THESE are the types of women with whom I was expected to eat, shop, work (God forbid I get a decent job!), and basically live alongside. There’s no escaping it. Ninety percent of young New York girls are fucking crazy, and most of them are in my demographic. Thanks for the reminder, ladies.

The Lower East Side
Victor missed the Fark party, so I agreed to meet him at an LES bar. Unfortunately, I did this after he’d been drinking for 5 hours and had no intention of getting as drunk as he was. After drinking a few shots, then mocking my choice of beer (Blue Moon instead of PBR), stealing it, and spilling some on me, he decided he wanted to go see his friend Joe on 60th Street. This involved a 15-minute cab ride during which Victor leaned across my lap, stuck his head out the window, and sang “It’s Business Time!” at the top of his lungs. The cabbie was thrilled and decided to drive us eight blocks past our destination, running the meter the whole time. Hey, you picked up a fare at 2am and you’re not cleaning puke out of your backseat—Don’t be a jerk.

The Upper East Side
Before hitting Joe’s place, we stopped at a convenience store. “Get some really shitty beer!” said Victor, handing me four dollars. I got a 40 of Bud Light and six-pack of Corona, which turned out to be Corona Light that the shady-ass store was probably trying to dump. Assholes.

We got Rickrolled at the checkout and some tipsy funny-haircut hipsters started dancing to it. I made a phone call, as I am wont to do when I get Rickrolled, and I ordered the dancing hipsters to sing. Response: “I don’t know all the words,” followed by an eyeroll. Counter-response: “Why are you dancing like you know it if you can’t even sing the chorus? You suck!”

Kat + a few drinks + hipsters = unabashed insult madness!

Joe’s apartment was nice. Almost as nice as ours—I mean Gus’s… (I’ll touch on that awkwardness a little later.) Joe is a chef and had a large kitchen and dining area. He also had five kinds of dark chocolate that a vendor had sent him to sample. Magnifique! In addition to food, we both like traveling, so I ended up getting his number, at the off-chance we would be in the same place at the same time.

The Delay
My flight was cancelled due to severe thunderstorms (which lasted all of 20 minutes where I was). I was glad they informed me before I spent 60 dollars to cab it over to JFK, but not happy to find that my earliest alternative involved a connecting flight that would amount to over 11 hours of travel time. I had Jetblue reimburse me so I could buy a cheap ticket on a connecting Delta flight with a later departure time and only 8 hours of travel. A far cry from a 5-hour direct flight, but those are the breaks. Fuck flying and everyone who does it.

With my extra time in NYC, I did the following things:

-Rode the subway
-Stood clear of the closing doors
-Found an awesome wine shop I’ll never visit again
-Returned to Joe’s apartment for a delicious Italian meal
-Discovered new and interesting ways to cram miscellaneous junk into suitcases
-Felt pleased and astonished that the doormen and maintenance people in my building remembered me
-Got ice cream with Drew
-Remembered that Tasti D’Lite is neither tasty nor a delight

With my extra time in NYC, I didn’t do the following things:

-Trash a dressing room at Pookie & Sebastian (my former workplace)
-Go to Union Square (one of my old hangouts)
-Go to Rudy’s (the first runner-up for the Fark party)
-See Ryan Christopher (missed you, dude)

Overall, the trip was successful. I had some fun (highlighted above), but when I wasn’t doing that stuff, I was sorting and packing. Thus, it was somewhat annoying to come back a day late to an office full of people asking me if I “enjoyed my vacation.” I dealt with the hassle of flying clear across the country and back to retrieve some items from a fantastic living space that I once shared with the greatest love of my life. In addition to paring down the unique commodities that characterize my journey through adulthood, I was also tasked with figuring out how to pleasantly relate to the person I once called my one-and-only, all the while knowing that this whole situation could have been avoided if I’d made better decisions a few years ago. Am I being melodramatic? Maybe. This is nothing I’d actually discuss with anyone. But to any motherfucker who calls what I did a vacation, I have some plane tickets and orders to pick up the rest of my stuff for you.