Friday, June 29, 2007

Half of New York Is Sitting Outside the Apple Store. Why Aren't I?

Somehow the giant pulsating death machine also known as Apple has convinced everyone that they need an iPhone. People have been in line for days. Pathetic people like this guy and the mayor of Philadelphia.

Although I've been in the market for a new phone ever since I took The Big Long Trip Where I Lost Half of My Belongings, I'm going to keep waiting for my wonder-phone to appear. After browsing through some of the 1,600+ articles, I know for sure this one isn't it. Ignoring the fact that this "diety" of a phone is made by Apple, which everyone knows I despise, I am in awe that so many people want this phone even though it lacks so many features and capabilities.

The New York Times touched on the pros and cons. A million tech blogs have covered it, and some others have done a good job of making fun of it. But I'll go ahead and say what I don't like about it.

1. No instant messaging. No AOL, no Yahoo, nothing. What the fuck? As an avid texter that is by far my largest gripe. Why would anyone get a phone without a chat client? Why why why?

2. Touch-screen keyboard. Looks like a pain in the ass to type and a have a decent amount of viewing space at the same time. But I guess since you can't instant message on the damn thing, you won't be doing much typing.

3. The signature Apple trash can. From the article, "...e-mail messages collapse down into a trash can." So is it throwing out my e-mail or just hiding it from view? The last time I used an Apple computer (I think it was a G4), you were supposed to drag a disk onto the trash can icon when you wanted to eject it. Not when you wanted to delete information, which is the most intuitive explanation... Please give me just a moment to shudder in disgust.

4. Slow internet and poor phone signal. Having spent a considerable amount of time in rural Texas, I know not every phone is going to perform well everywhere. From the studies conducted AT&T network signals, I'd have to be on the top floor of a building in one of the world's largest cities just to make a phone call. Hey, wait a minute... Still, even I have to leave my house sometimes.

5. You can't charge it like you'd charge a regular iPod. I used to tool around the country with a laptop, and it was nice being able to use it to charge my iPod before I got on a plane or something. In general, it's easier to charge something with something else you already have than to set up a whole new apparatus in order to charge a self-important gadget.

6. Low battery life. I was used to charging my Sidekick every night until it fucking broke. But battery life is a huge concern for many people who use multi-purpose phones. If the iPhone is supposed to do everything but wipe my ass for me, it should have some extra juice, right?

7. You choose your calling plan through iTunes software. This is really low on the list since I can't think of anything functionally wrong with that, but it seems really fucked up.

The second page of the article goes into more detail about iPhone's pitfalls, but the ones listed above are my main issues. The author makes some excuses for the new phone's shortcomings, but I won't buy into them just yet. If another version comes out and right some of the wrongs, that would be pretty cool. Even then, however, I probably won't be "thinking different" for awhile.

posted by platkat @ 10:22 AM  0 million people love The Kat

 

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Nu Hairs

Warning: If you are a boy, you will probably not like this post. Not trying to be overly assumptive, just sayin'...

Today I returned to Bumble and Bumble for my free "current cut." Several months ago, I agreed to be a hair model for the B&B school and let a student give me this type of cut after viewing several pictures in a photo book. I went in with the understanding that they were going to do something "avant garde," which a normal person may loosely translate as "strange." But hey, I was game as long as the left some hair for me to correct when it was all over. Of course, since I'm writing about it and it involves me acting as myself, the experience was not without some turbulence, hubbub, and perhaps a pinch of ballyhoo.

It all started last night when I had a nightmare about wet hair. That's right, I was supposed to be doing something fun at some fun place with a lot of fun people, but I was stuck in a room drying my hair for hours and hours. The longer I dried it, the wetter it became, and I never did make it to the party. Considering most people have dreams about their teeth falling out or being killed in some way, this one isn't particularly harsh. But still... foreshadowing... stay with me here.

So I went to my appointment, which had already been bumped due to overbooking, which I had also tried to rebook on my own to fit my work schedule and was denied. Anyway, I was put in a group of "current cut" models and the eight of us received a short explanation from a moderator. I was given a seat and told to wait for a student. When my student arrived at her work station, she made a production of putting her stuff down and didn't even acknowledge I was there. As other students and their models were beginning to converse, I was faced with a dead fish. I made a point of introducing myself and stuck out my hand. Okay, now we can talk.

She played around with my just-washed, unstyled, uneven waves for a few seconds and asked, "What do you want to do with your hair?"

I answered her question, explaining that I usually straighten my hair, or dry and curl it with an iron, since you can plainly see that the waves aren't easily manageable. My hair has a really loose wave on top and is poodle-curly underneath. She kind of half-ass muttered something about "using product," which is a decent idea, but not on its own. I know from vast experience that you can't rely on any product alone to tame over a foot of kinky, unbalanced hair in smog, humidity, and whatever else this city kicks up. And if you're going to try to convince me otherwise, muttering, "product" isn't going to seal the deal.

When I didn't jump out of my seat exclaiming, "Yeah! Just dump some stuff on it and leave it curly! It'll be perfect!" she called over her professor. Her professor played with my hair a little bit (just as you thought: thin, dry, and massive—hair only a correctionist could love). The two muttered a few things back and forth before ultimately deciding to "switch me out."

This was annoying as hell, as I had already waited three weeks after my scheduled appointment for a haircut. The student asked me what I wanted so I told her. I didn't say I wasn't willing to try something new. But it's not like I'm going to let her give me an AC Slater mullet and be okay with it. The student's poor communication skills combined with my ridiculous mop of hair (actually, it's not as hard to style as it looks) meant I was going to have to wait even longer?

The student seemed to believe she would be able to do "something," but didn't appear to have the confidence or knowledge to execute it. She was like a doctor that walks into a visit with the assumption that they know more about your body than you do. In some ways that may be true and while I bow to an educated judgment, my confidence quickly wanes when they begin a sentence with, "Let's try..." Stop. I don't want to "try" something, I want to do something that has a proven track record of being known to work. I understand these are students, but according to the moderator, each of these students had a minimum of two years' experience cutting hair. You don't have to be Sheer Genius material, but at that point you should know something about hair if you've been paying any attention. Even if she did, "dealing with clients" was apparently outside her skillset, so I needed some more communication to happen before she whipped out the hedge-clippers.

So I talked to the moderator for a decent amount of time, expressing my frustrations. She tried to be very "PR," which is her job, but in so many words, I told her, "Unless I leave this building with a haircut, I am going to be very, very upset." She then offered to give me a free haircut from a stylist. Thus, I received the cut I wanted from a professional, and I got a free bottle of conditioner for my bumped appointment. I still had to tip, which kind of sucks, but I realize that there is no shortage of girls in New York who want free haircuts and the moderator could have easily told me to go fuck myself.

Believe it or not, I'm actually going back in a few months for a "long, layered scissor cut," the kind of cut I wanted in the first place. Despite the moron who hastily did my assessment for the current cut and the student with the poor bedside manor, the people facilitating this project are actually very kind and helpful. And my appreciation for free shit knows no bounds.

posted by platkat @ 4:11 PM  4 million people love The Kat

 

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

One Ring to Console Me for the Loss of Everything Else

I found out my work schedule has been pushed back a little bit today. Yippee! So I came home for another quality two hours of scarfing ice cream and watching Meerkat Manor. On my way in, I picked up a package from my friend in Chicago who found my ring!!!

Yes, the superfluous punctuation is absolutely necessary because I thought this ring was gone forever. A couple months ago, I visited my friend in Brookfield, as part of what became known as The Big Long Trip Where I Lost Half of My Belongings. Included in them was an antique silver ring with a large turquoise stone. Irreplaceable of course, I was almost certain I'd lost it at the bar along with my scarf.

So long I lamented the loss of this ring. So many nights I lay awake crying due to my wayward finger ornament, on top of the scarf, compounded by the blatant theft of my necklace, which I will someday gather the strength to thoroughly discuss... Anyway, whatever. I got my ring back. Yessssss.

Instead of watching Meerkat Manor, I should write my friend a thank-you note.

posted by platkat @ 11:10 AM  1 million people love The Kat

 

Monday, June 25, 2007

Another Sighting

I am happy to report that my Ryan Christopher sighting proved fruitful. If you clicked the link and read the comments, you'll see that he contacted me and now we're planning to meet. I'm pretty excited. Yakkity yak, new contact.

Last weekend I went to Vegas, which I will discuss in detail later. What's important now is that I saw another person I used to know, this time from high school.

Unlike my friend from college, this is not a person I was particularly thrilled to see. I hadn't seen her in at least 10 years and we weren't exactly buddies when we knew each other. We hung out together a few times in elementary school, back in the good old days of being forced to play soccer and eat kiddie food. We quickly grew apart as she was an "athlete" and I was a "nerd."

Despite being an athlete, she had a stocky frame, flat chest, protruding belly, and tree-trunk legs, and time had changed nothing. She also had a nasal problem as a child to which she adapted by breathing through her mouth, kind of like Napoleon Dynamite. That was still happening too.

I spotted her standing in the cab line at the Flamingo as my friends and I were gathering outside to board a limo that would take us to a wedding. This time, I had a few minutes to look closely and make sure it was her. She and her plain-looking friend were dressed in dumpy Midwest tourist garb and backpacks. You could tell they woke up one morning and said, "Let's do something adventurous. Let's go to Vegas!" They were so obviously single that to mention how I could tell would be an even greater tragedy.

She and I weren't standing close enough for me to innocently say, "Amy?" to see if she'd turn around. Even if we were waiting for a regular cab instead of a limo, we wouldn't have been in her plebian line anyway because a) we have a cab driver in Vegas that we call when we need to go places and b) Gus has Diamond status at all Harrah's casinos now, so we wait in the Diamond line. More on that later too.

Since this girl and I weren't friends before, I didn't feel it was worth my time to walk the 30 or so feet to introduce myself or deal with the off-chance that it wasn't actually her. So I just looked at her. I continued to look as my group boarded the limo. I guess I was hoping she'd see me looking at her and recognize me, or wonder what the hell my problem was, or both. It's possible she did and chose not to do anything.

I wish she had though, because getting into a limo in Vegas with your man and a group of friends is the perfect circumstance under which to reunite with someone who thought she was too good to hang out with you. It doesn't really matter though. I'll see her fat ass and everyone else's fat asses at the ten-year reunion next summer. If I'm even invited.

In conclusion, Amy Braunies of Naperville, Illinois, resident of the Naper Carriage Hill subdivision, graduate of Naperville Central High School, playing soccer, basketball, and possibly football needing only the assistance of a fake mustache and athletic cup, I saw you in Vegas. And what happens in Vegas... gets posted on my blog for everyone to read.

posted by platkat @ 2:16 PM  0 million people love The Kat

 

Sunday, June 24, 2007

So Dank the Smell of Man

Morning elevator rides can be brutal. I can always tell whether a man or a woman has ridden before me by what I smell. Most good-smelling men have left for work by the time I use the elevator, so that leaves the girls and the stinky people. So it's either an overly sweet tidal wave of nauseating perfume or the rank B.O. of someone who's been doing hard labor for the last several hours. This morning it was the latter.

posted by platkat @ 2:09 PM  0 million people love The Kat

 

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

New Yorkin'

I am a New Yorker. These activities prove it.

Bjorkestra
Gus and I met a couple of friends at the Highline Ballroom to see Travis Sullivan's Bjorkestra on Friday night. Before I mention the show, a note on the venue: What the fuck?

Gus bought will-call tickets. When we arrived and Gus presented proper identification, we were denied our tickets, as they had been given away to another man by the same name moments ago. The guy in the will-call booth spent a few minutes floundering about in a confused state (understandable), but then made it seem like the mix-up was our fault (not understandable) and attempted to rectify the problem by entering the dark, crowded venue to seek out Bizarro Gustavo (what the fuck?). I realize they're not hiring mensas to work the door at music venues, but everyone knows you don't just walk into a concert and find someone, even if they're looking to be found. The guy ended up letting us in like he was doing us some huge favor, saying for his own assurance, "We'll get him on the way out." I'm sure you will, tough guy.

The Bjorkesta, as our friend pointed out, was more like a Dorkestra, consisting of a large brass section of band nerds, some other dudes, and a quirky lead singer all dedicated to remaking Bjork songs. The singer tried really hard to be as quirky as Bjork, but of course she fell short. A for effort though. She entertained me enough that I can say I enjoyed the performance. And much like when you hear an orchestral rendition of the score from your favorite video game, it's hard not to appreciate the symphonic beauty of the familiar.

Most of the songs they played were from Post, which is probably Bjork's most fun album. There were a few from Homogenic, which I also like. Vespertine and Medulla are kind of like the red-headed stepchildren of Bjork's discography, acknowledged but largely ignored. There's definitely a lot more to play with on her new album, Volta, and the band sounded like they were planning to remake some of those songs in the future.

The Bloomberg Summer Party
Gus and I arrived early because we thought it was going to rain. It did, but we somehow stayed until the end anyway. Like last year, I'll make a list of what was there:

  • A carousel

  • A giant black butterfly

  • A fountain with three women posing as statues shooting water from their hands

  • Kangaroos

  • ICEskating (topping last year's rollerskating)

  • Volleyball

  • Giant chess, checkers, and Connect 4 (sneaky move, Mike)

  • Some weird game involving water balloons

  • Baby buffalo

  • Racecars

  • Pool, ping-pong, and shuffleboard

  • Basketball-playing unicyclists

  • Henna tattoo artists

  • Llamas

  • A scent-making station

  • A tall, spinning teacup ride

  • Dancing and dance lessons

  • Free glowy thingies

  • A hat-making station

  • A pirate ship

  • Pirates

  • Every kind of food imaginable, except sushi, which is okay with me


This time, we took some pictures, which includes this gem of Gus, a kangaroo, and someone's unzipped fly:



I had a lot of fun, and toward the end of the evening I invented a new dance called the "Crash into Steve and Megan on the Dancefloor." Everyone will be doing it this fall. I suppose Steve and Megan should invest in some protective gear.

Stand-Up Comedy
One of our friends from comedy class invited us to see him perform at a new night at the Comedy Village. The lineup was much larger than I expected, and he was one of the last few people to perform. That was okay because many of the folks before him got at least a laugh or two out of me, some of them more.

The last performer was this sad sack of shit and he was NOT okay. Now I'm sure you're thinking, Wow, he must have said something really offensive, or if you've seen my stand-up, you're thinking, Who the hell are you to criticize someone else's routine? You're justified in thinking either or both... until I tell you about this guy's bit.

Awful. I hope he was drunk. But this wasn't a free open-mic night. Gus and I paid 15 dollars each to watch this shit, and I want to say there was a drink minimum too.

Anyway, his entire 20-minute bit (the average one was about five) consisted of what a loser he is because he got third place on the first season of Last Comic Standing telling jokes about mundane shit like food. Meanwhile, wars are taking place, this country is in the crapper, and he's living the high life somewhere on the Upper West Side. He could have done something really great with his life, but now he's grappling with being a has-been that never was.

So that's the theme and for 20 minutes it doesn't stray. Other than it not being funny, here are my issues:

1. Gus and I were sitting with a girl from our comedy class who had also come to see our friend perform. She whispered that the guy was from the aforementioned tv show, I asked which season, etc. Unfortunately, after light laughter from his first joke, the place was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He calls us out, our friend says sorry, and I want to say, "You wouldn't have heard us if your jokes were funny!" But I didn't. I made the mistake of waiting for it to get funny.

2. If you're upset with the turn your life as a comedian has taken, why continue? The guy obviously didn't write any material before he came, so it's not like he's continually investing effort. Being a comedian also keeps your days relatively free, so there's plenty of time to explore other opportunities.

3. A lot of people in New York do work hard and aren't living in a nice apartment on the Upper West Side, which he felt it necessary to describe in detail. There's no point in rubbing it in while speaking publicly unless you can make it really funny, and he didn't even approach sort of funny.

4. This happened on a new night at a lesser-known comedy theater. You could tell a lot of the comics there were green and had made an effort to get some friends come watch them. It's an embarrassment to the club and the other performers when a more seasoned comedian books a show and can't crawl out from under his rock of self-defeat for five seconds to spit out a few funny lines.

I have more gripes, but this list will suffice. It kills me that guys like this get work. Die in a fire.

posted by platkat @ 7:53 AM  0 million people love The Kat

 

Friday, June 15, 2007

You Can't Deny the Existence of God

...when there are ice cream wars going on at the Food Emporium! All of my favorite kinds are on sale right now. God bless superfluous food intake! *scoop*

posted by platkat @ 12:50 PM  2 million people love The Kat

 

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

The Return of the Roach

It appears my little friend decided to make a second appearance. This time, I spotted it on the wall above the bookcase. I ran over to the coffee table to swipe a magazine.

L Magazine? No, the listings in that are still good.

Bluff? No, we haven't read that one yet.

Advertising Age? No, too big!

Victoria's Secret Catalog? No!! Too flimsy!! How the hell am I going to kill this thing?

A-ha! Metro Source NY. I lept, arm outstretched, and smashed that pest with 200 pages of fabulous gayness. Unfortunately, I used such force that the sexy Armani ad on the back cover left some very unsexy black marks on my wall. Since I can't readily remove these marks, I left the smashed roach up there too. Kind of an explanation for why those marks are there.

posted by platkat @ 12:09 PM  1 million people love The Kat

 

Monday, June 11, 2007

What's Happenin'

New Big 10. *Narrows eyes to the right*

I got free hams at Grand Central Market, which is like Austin's Central Market, except it's GRAND. And it has one of the busiest train stations in the world attached to it.

Master Cleanse—over.

Massages—still good.

New York—still hot.

And that's the news of the day. Bye!

posted by platkat @ 7:19 PM  0 million people love The Kat

 

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Bleepin' Puerto Ricans

Today I went to the Puerto Rican Day Parade held annually in New York City to celebrate the heritage of our afterthought of a US acquisition. I didn't mean to go, but like most events, I just sort of found myself there.

Did you click the link? That's exactly what it looked and sounded like for blocks and blocks. Noise-noise-NOISE-noise-red-white-blue-noise-flags-noise-fat-chick-noise-NOISE-noise. I was enjoying it fairly well until I realized something: I fucking hate Puerto Ricans.

I don't hate them as a people, but every person with any Puerto Rican blood in them at all that I've gotten to know on a personal level has turned out to be a complete shithead. (This excludes folks I met while actually visiting Puerto Rico.)

I won't name names, you know who you are. Screw you and your stupid, noisy, fattie-infested parade. I'm going to Rockefeller Center to use the bathroom now.

posted by platkat @ 6:59 PM  2 million people love The Kat

 

Friday, June 08, 2007

DMV VIP

New York has a lot going against it as far as customer service goes. You'll run into a good amount of random people who are surprisingly nice, but God forbid it if their job is to serve you. Oddly enough, this is especially true if food and tipping are involved.

Yesterday I mentally and physically prepared myself to be shat on for several hours in a place where neither food nor tipping nor any kind of fun whatsoever may be had: the DMV. Most DMVs are absolute clusterfucks, and with New York's population being what it is, I expected it to be especially brutal here.

I did all the preparing I possibly could before beginning the proverbial grueling journey. I had printed my application for a motorcycle permit from the DMV website and filled it out ahead of time. I amassed every single piece of ID they could possibly request of me. I brought along a book and a Gameboy in case the wait was really long... like, more than five minutes. I did not, however, print or read any part of the Motorcycle Course Manual that accompanies the test I'd be taking, but that's beside the point.

When I got to the DMV (which is in a mall, which is pretty cool—more on that later), there was a line that went all the way out the door. I decided that couldn't possibly be the right line for me, so I went inside. There was a much shorter line with a sign in front of it that read, "Learner's Permits." That's me! I wanted a motorcycle learner's permit, as indicated by the form that I had filled out after clicking the link that specifically read, "Motorcycle Permits." I handed them 100 forms of ID, they took my picture, I waited a little longer, they gave me a test, I passed it, no problem. All I had to do then was wait for my number to be called and I would get my permit.

While I was waiting, Gus called to warn me of the perils of attempting to obtain any kind of license in New York while still holding a license in Texas. I guess he told some people at work what I was doing and everyone from out of state (a lot of people) had their own horror story. One of them involved paying 25 dollars to wait for a fax from some state department in Texas just to confirm that he had a license. Bah! I had read a little something about transferring licenses on the DMV site. There was so much paperwork and hoop-jumping involved that I got bored and stopped reading, deciding that I would somehow circumvent this. I told Gus that everything was cool and I was about to get my permit right then. As usual, I spoke too soon.

When I reached the window, some blickety-blahing and clickity-clacking happened, and I was informed that there was a "hold" on my license from the state of Texas. I immediately thought of last year's incident where I was pulled over and later issued a warrant for my arrest.

Crap. I was afraid this might happen. I figured if Texas wanted to be assholes (yes, collectively), they could keep me from driving anywhere else until I took care of my ticket. I'm going back to Austin next month to attend a wedding, and I thought I might also turn myself in and spend a night in jail to take care of this ticket. But now I think I'm just going to attend a wedding. It's for the best—Once in jail, I could suffer from a "medical condition," enabling my dad's lawyer to allow me to finish my sentence in my expensive, comfortable home, only to find out shortly after that I must go back to jail and serve more time than originally slated. Man, these rose-colored glasses are nice.

Anyway, that was a tangent. Nothing happened. You just can't have two licenses of any kind from two states. It was at that point that they learned (because I told them) that I was trying to get a motorcycle permit, not a regular one. They said, "This is the right form, but you have to tell them that you're here to take the motorcycle test." And I kindly responded, "You can't fault me for not answering a question I wasn't asked." There was some more nice discussion, but details on this are boring, so I'll just say what happened: They ushered me back to the testing area, waited a whole five minutes for me to take and pass the motorcycle test, ushered me back to the window, and gave me a temporary New York license and a motorcycle permit. No paperwork and almost no time wasted.

Ta-da!

NY DMV is good people, I tell you what.

posted by platkat @ 5:36 PM  4 million people love The Kat

 

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Before You Destroy Me with Your Eyebeams, Remember the Good Times

I was headed west on 33rd when I saw him. Crossing Broadway in New York City alongside hundreds of other people in broad daylight, I spotted one of my best friends from college. I hadn't seen him in seven years, but I knew it was him right away.

I was crossing Broadway in the opposite direction, surrounded by people, spacing out... Then I glanced up and saw a ruddy-faced, fair-haired guy in his mid-twenties. He was alone and walking fast, eyes pointed, annoyed as hell that all these fucking assholes were clogging up 33rd and Broadway when he had to be somewhere. He was wearing one of those slightly wrinkled plaid shirts he used to wear whenever we were going out somewhere. The walk, the look, the shirt... I would have bet my last dollar it was him.

I looked right at him. He didn't know it was me, as I was hidden behind my very large, stylish sunglasses. When we met eyes (well, when he saw me, another person in his goddamn way), I was completely dumbfounded. Before I could determine whether or not to say anything, he had passed. I walked a few more yards, trying to decide if I should run back across the street and try to catch him. Then I realized that by the time I could reach any type of conclusion, there would be no way I'd find him, so I just walked around the city slack-jawed for another hour.

I knew he was living here. He moved here for some gig in PR or advertising a long time ago. It makes perfect sense for him to be out and about in that part of town at lunchtime on a weekday.

I can't believe I blew it. THIS is the meat of life. Dramatic moments like this are what I live for. I like drama. Not drama like "So-and-so is mad at you because you said this and her boyfriend got into a barfight with your boyfriend..." I mean uplifting drama—surprising, exciting drama. And I can't help but think how beautifully serendipitous it would have been to shout his name, have him look at me like, "What the fuck?" and take off my sunglasses to reveal my identity. And then we'd hug and arrange to have dinner another day.

So, it looks like my seize-the-momentinator is broken. Le sigh...

No, I'm not going to post this in the "Missed Connections" section on craigslist or the Village Voice. We're a lot alike, and I'm sure his view of those personals reflect mine: I'm way too busy to mess with something like that, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still wouldn't rummage through that tripe in hopes that some random fart-knocker out there noticed me and thought I was hot. It's like finding a needle in a haystack. Why waste your time when you can go out and buy a needle?

But I wouldn't put it past him to google himself. We're both pretty vain too. So, Ryan Christopher, alumnus of Louisiana State University, majoring in Mass Communication with a specialization in Advertising, former KVRX DJ, hailing from Slidell, Louisiana... I know you're out there, and I saw you. Tag, you're it.

posted by platkat @ 12:02 PM  1 million people love The Kat

 

Monday, June 04, 2007

There's More Than One Way to Fling a Poo

Paris Hilton checks into Los Angeles County jail

A response to a similar article on yahoo (unedited, obviously):

paris hilton doesnt deserve to go to [profane]ing jail and all the [profane]ing asswholes who say she does u need to drop [profane]ing dead paris hilton is my role model! i loves her! and all the [profane]ing haters need to shut the [profane] up about paris hilton because u must feel real [profane]ing dumb to be making fun of someone i mean all the [profane] she did was drink and its not like she killed anyone!

I know we have this "No Child Left Behind" thing going on, but can we leave this one behind? Just this one. And I only suggest that because doctors don't generally perform abortions in the 39th trimester.

For the two or three of you who haven't seen it, this has been making its rounds and making me laugh:


You may find this surprising, but I'm actually not laughing at her misfortune. I like Paris... as a character in the public eye. When I'm bored, I turn on the TV and she entertains me. When I want to feel better about screwing around and doing nothing, I look at her and feel better about my life. She's no role model and I sure as hell don't want to meet her. I'm disappointed in those around me (young and old) who have chosen to emulate her. But I like her for the product that she is.

What I find funny is the investment that some other people seem to have in her. The video isn't making fun of Paris so much as it is the photographers, entertainment pubs, and hapless fans who really will have nothing to talk about with Paris gone for the next few weeks.

And what makes me any better for paying attention to any of this? Nothing. But please bear in mind this is the fourth day of my third Master Cleanse, I just drank a quart of salt water, and I have yet to take a shit this morning. I need to stay close to a bathroom and focus on the task at hand, and this topic didn't seem too far-fetched. Have a great day, everyone!

posted by platkat @ 6:23 AM  0 million people love The Kat

 

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Argh, Dammit!

I was making some tea in the kitchen when I noticed a HUGE cockroach on the wall. What the hell? I traded the muggy Louisina bayou for a concrete jungle, and Manhattan is as concretey as it gets. Also, the roach was probably the size of my fingernail (instead of my fist) and it couldn't fly, so my initial fear of it may have been a little melodramatic.

Anyway, it was kind of in the corner by some cabinets—a little hard to get to. A little swat won't do it either. You gotta crush those things or they'll just take off running. So I wadded up a paper towel and pressed into the corner as hard as I could.

Of course, I didn't kill it. I ran away and now I have a giant bruise under my thumb nail from pressing. It hurts physically, and psychologically because it's a constant reminder that there's some nasty little roach running around my tiny kitchen and it could possibly jump in my food, or breed, or vomit on my utensils, or crawl into my ear while I'm sleeping...

AAARRRGGGHHH! Dammit.

posted by platkat @ 4:01 PM  3 million people love The Kat

 

Friday, June 01, 2007

Welcome Back, Dr. K.!

Frail and smiling, 'Dr. Death' walks out of prison

It's getting crowded out here again.

posted by platkat @ 1:56 PM  0 million people love The Kat

 

 

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