Hello. My name is Kate, and I am a travelholic.

Recently I've been asking myself that perennial question most people have to turn over in their heads a few times a year (or month, or day perhaps): Where did all that money go?!

To get a rough start on solving this puzzle, I sat down and wrote out all my major or semi-major expenses over the past two years. And a pattern emerged: aside from two unexpected car repairs, the purchase of my computer, and a VERY PERSUASIVE pair of jeans (no comment, please), nearly every single expenditure of $100 or more has been related to my small-potatoes travels. Berkeley, Hayward, Spokane, Spokane, Oakland, Oakland, Spokane, Spokane, Oakland, Seattle, Oakland, Ireland, London, New York, Boston, countless gas-guzzling drives to LA, and the list ... well, doesn't really go on because I've brought us up to the present. But you get the idea.

I think I've made a breakthrough by recognizing that I have a problem. I am unable to resist the allure of airline tickets. I am a travelholic. Now I think I'll congratulate myself on this epiphanic realization by driving to and from LA a couple times, buying a ticket to New York, and paying a visit to the Bay Area.

Bon voyage, indeed.

Belated thanks

I've been meaning to thank you all for your comments on the post I published a couple of days ago, about the boy who was shot at my old high school. I really wasn't sure how that would come out when I sat down to shape that nagging, nearly unconscious distress into words. So it was wonderful to hear that my uncertain efforts were appreciated. Or that they hit some kind of nerve, maybe. I dunno. The point is, thanks.

My house is a fun place to be

FYI

Hey, just for reference, I'm going to start using the acronym OMGTWSFIJLOLAIAWAETTLAMLIWI. It stands for:

Oh my god, that was so funny I just laughed out LOUD and I'm at WORK and everyone turned to look at me like I was insane.

Steal at will. I've seen enough variations on it, I know it'll get some use.

The New Me

I didn't stick to that "short 'n' sweet posts" pledge, I know. Trying. Trying.

Today I realized that I am not actually a 21-year-old girl, but something closer to a 19-year-old boy.

Reason Number One:
I feel the urge to compliment girls on their nice asses and nice racks. I refrain, however, fearing an unfavorable reaction (maybe that makes me a 19-year-old boy who's mature for his age).

Reason Number Two:
I seem to think it's possible to live on a diet consisting mainly of pizza and beer.

Those of you who've been 19-year-old boys in the past, any advice for how to get myself past this phase?

Sean

I finally saw Bowling For Columbine this weekend, and while watching it I couldn't stop thinking about Sean.

Sean is 16 years old and until recently was a student at my old high school. I doubt he'll be a student anymore, though. The last time he left the building he was nearly dead.

My little sister, who graduated last spring, remembers Sean as a nervous, insecure kid at the mercy of boys with bigger fists and bigger biceps. She remembers having to defend him from "the wrestlers". She remembers him being unhappy.

Last Monday morning, Sean left a suicide note in his bedroom and went to school with a gun, knowing that the standoff he'd cause would get him shot. That when the gun had been reported, the school evacuated, and the police called into the building, he could pull his weapon and draw the fire of the officers. Fire he wanted to be fatal.

The Police Chief said Sean's suicide note made it clear that he had a death wish that day, and he wanted the cops to make it come true: "He wanted it very public, very sensational and he wanted us to do it for him."

They very nearly did. They shot Sean in the arm, leg, and face. When I spoke with my younger brother on Saturday, I learned that Sean, a classmate of my brother's, had just been downgraded from 'critical' condition to 'serious'. A week after a bullet tore into his head, he's likely still there.

The chief also said that Sean, in his suicide note, "was very specific about not wanting to hurt anyone else."

Sean was a lot less prescient about this part of his plan. I received an email from my father, who has met his mother, last week. "One wonders how it's possible to live through such a thing," my dad wrote. I don't know if he meant Sean living through the shooting, or his mother through the horror, shock and misery that it caused.

Thinking about Sean makes my heart hurt. What was so horrible about high school that he couldn't sit out the two remaining years? Why was he determined that his life get cut off tragically and publicly? How did such a disconnect occur in his brain that he was committed not to hurt anyone, yet tried to get himself killed in a way that hurt so many? He must have been driven suicidal by the kind of pain that doesn't bleed, doesn't bruise, only rips and tears the tender construction of the soul - and yet it is just this kind of pain he brought to everyone who cared about him. He professed in his letter that there would be no collateral damage around his suicide. Well, there was none of the type that bleeds.

When I checked the town paper's website for follow-ups before starting to write this, there were two main headlines, both shootings. One casualty was a 26-year-old; the other was 15. When did this happen to my plain grey nothing of a hometown?

The 15-year-old boy was shot by the police, as Sean was, for failing to put down a weapon. (In his case, it was a BB gun.) One officer, after Sean's shooting, said that the lesson of Columbine was that you simply don't take any chances with kids who have firearms. Better to shoot than risk being shot. Better safe than sorry, then?

Sean took it for granted that the police would shoot him if he pulled his weapon. He knew. The police took it for granted that he would shoot them if he pulled his weapon. Everyone there seemed to know that weapon meant shooting meant death. Everyone there was so keenly aware of what a drawn gun does. So keenly aware of what a gun does.

Eddie Izzard said, "Guns don't kill people; people kill people. Yes, but I think the gun helps, don't you?" Why isn't everyone so keenly aware of what a gun does?

One of the subjects of Bowling For Columbine is the "culture of violence" theory behind America's astronomical gun-death rate. Sean wasn't a violent kid, but he knew the violence would be there when he needed it to kill him. It just hurts.

Dear favorite bloggers,

YOU ARE ALL MAKING ME FEEL INADEQUATE.

I may decide that all of my posts from now on shall be short and unassuming, because I SIMPLY CANNOT COMPETE with the quality I've been seeing everywhere.

TODAY'S POST:

Go buy - or at least listen to - the new Rufus Wainwright, Want One. It's sterling.

Wouldn't it be a lovely headline:
"Life is Beautiful" on the New York Times

Debate coverage - with a twist

I read lots today (in blogs, and elsewhere) about the California gubernatorial debate. Less about the gathering of Democratic candidates in New York. Obviously, the latter took place late enough in the day for it not to turn up. And besides that, why write about a traffic jam when you could write about a train wreck?

So, since I'm sure you're all inundated with Ahnold quotes and up to your necks in Cruz Casino Cash, I'll do your Democratic debate research for you. What follows is a real* transcript** of the debate that took place among our nine*** Democratic hopefuls.

Host Brian Williams: Welcome. This event is the official announcement of General Wesley Clark's entrance into the presidential race--

Aide: (Whispers in Williams' ear)

Williams: What? Oh. Yes! The debate. Yes, that's what we're here for. [Pauses, resumes in conspiratorial tones] But we're really here for the General's coming out party, so to speak. [Turns to reporters] Don't forget that in your coverage. [Turns back to candidates] Now, I'm going to make some jokes, and then we'll get to it. You know the rules - 60 seconds for a direct question response, 30 seconds for a rebuttal, limit 2 Dean slurs per response. Congressman Gephardt, let's start with you. You--

Congressman Dick Gephardt: Here, I'll just give you my resume. It's all in there.

Williams: Actually, if you could give a verbal response...

Gephardt: I'll read it, then. [Reads resume.]

Williams: [Makes joke] Thank you, Congressman. Now, Senator Kerry--

Senator John Kerry: DEAN, YOU STINK!

Governor Howard Dean: YOU STINK MORE!

Williams: [Makes joke] Let's take a commerical break.

** Commercial break **

Williams: We're at Pace University in Lower Manhattan for Gen-- I mean for two hours of discussion among the Democratic presidential candidates. In this segment of our gathering, we will attempt to get a candidate to answer a question. Congressman Kucinich, would you like to rant a bit before we begin?

Congressman Dennis Kucinich: I'm the only one on this stage who has done anything right in his political career.

Williams: Thank you, Congressman.

Dean: Did anyone else hear something?

Williams: Oh that's nothing, just the minor candidates attempting to participate. We'll turn that down for you boys. Now, Senator Lieberman, do you believe the Congress should give $87 billion to the President for the reconstruction of Iraq and Afghanistan?

Senator Joe Lieberman: Thank god no one is booing me.

Senator John Edwards: [Under breath] Boo.

Williams: Hey, where did Wes Clark go?

Dean: I saw him headed toward the bathroom. It's okay, no one was speaking to him anyway.

Reverend Al Sharpton: I'm funny, and I'm a New Yorker, and I am a gentleman.

Dean: I thought you said you'd quiet that down, Brian?

General Wesley Clark: I miss anything?

Williams: We were discussing the $87 billion figure, but since you have investment banking experience let's talk finance.

Clark: [Recites figures]

Media: Oh, that's so cute! His ninth day, and he's already spitting out numbers. They do grow up so fast, don't they?

Kucinich: I am the only one on this stage who has done anything good in his political career. And/or life.

Sharpton: I'm the only New Yorker here, you know.

Williams: [Makes joke]

Kerry: [To Dean] Newt-lover.

Dean: I take offense! And YOU STINK!

Kerry: YOU STINK MORE!

Sharpton: I'm a gentleman.

Williams: [Makes joke]

Audience: Laughter, applause

End.

*By "real" I mean "completely fabricated"
**By "transcript" I mean "blog post"
***By "nine" I mean "ten" ... you don't think I'm that thick, do you?

Blog Chain

I started classes today (under the assumption that all my worries will be smoothed out). One is a writing workshop. There aren't very many students in it, so there's plenty of time to do round-the-table introductions. The instructor is a likeable, charming woman who makes this activity into a somewhat bearable dialogue about "writing".

It's worth mentioning that this is already not really to my taste. No matter what you say in this context, you're going to come off sounding pretentious while addressing a subject that is huge and vague. Sure, it's one of my favorite subjects in the world, but I dunno, it's not the best thing to talk about broadly in groups of strangers, and the setting is all wrong. Just my opinion.

Someone touches upon the subject of pressure begetting quality. She was referring to deadlines, but the topic turns to the pressures created by knowing one has an audience. I.e., feel free to scribble down utter crap into your personal journal, but if people are going to be reading your result, you'd better put some damn thought into how it's going to turn out.

By this point in the discourse I know what's coming. I know I'm going to hear the B-word. I'm dreading it. It must be what it feels like to write one of those e-magazine columns that promotes blogs to the non-blog-reading public: knowing how utterly fruitless what's ahead is going to be.

But there's a lull in the conversation, and I think the moment's passed. I look up in relief - until I hear the intake of breath that means someone's going to squeeze in one last point, and I see a mouth opening.

There are these things you can write online... This is it. What - is - the - point. They're called Xangas.

He paused. I sighed.

I have one. He turns red at his own admission. Never fear, young man, here's someone to out-do you:

I have one, too! a girl exclaims. Anyone want the address?

Well, at least it was the X-word, and not the all-encompassing B-word which might actually have led to some kind of blogtrospection (or, for those of you too lazy to click on that, a general musing-over of the blogging phenomenon). I can dismiss the X-word out of hand. Blogger could eat Xanga.

(Moveable Type would sit back demurely and watch, with a glass of fine red wine.)

Welcome to "Questions It's Best Not To Be Asked"!

Apologies in advance if you're not in a rant-reading mood, if knowing lots about a blog author's life doesn't really interest you, or if this turns out to be a pessimistic mind dump. I don't mind if nobody reads. But sometimes you gotta spill, and if you're me it's most satisfying to spill in the form of sentences and paragraphs, and if I'm going to do that I might as well publish it.

With that in mind, let's get right to "Questions It's Best Not To Be Asked"! Today's Question is: "Do you have a back-up plan?"

And the Response It's Best Not To Need To Give is...

Why, no, I don't. I kinda thought "college" was pretty failsafe. Y'know, back when I was planning My Life - fitting all the to-do's into their little time slots, putting "bad fashion sense" into 11-12 and "first kiss" into 13 and "flirtation with organized religion" into 14-15 and "driver's license" into 16 - when I got to 18-22, I didn't think, "Hm, my first instinct is to assume that I'll be spending those years at a university, but there's a good chance the financial aid office at that university will fail to process my application and then refuse me any aid, forcing me to drop out because I don't carry $25,000 in my back pocket, so I'd better come up with a contingency plan."

And when I was starting my current job, two years ago, I didn't think, "Hm, I should consider whether this office requires me to be a student to work here, because it could be that extraordinary circumstances two years from now will force me to give up my student status and put my employment in jeopardy. So I'd better have a second job opportunity at the ready."

And when I was planning out the school year 2003-2004, I didn't think, "Hm, well, Option A is to finish my degree in March, but let's not forget Option B, which is to be denied financial aid, forced to drop out, and left only with choice of graduating one year later, or not at all. I should probably plan for both."

So my answer? No. I don't have a back-up plan. College is my plan. Getting a bachelor's degree and working full-time at my current job is my plan. Finishing in March and moving out of San Diego is my plan. I ain't budging. Thanks for your effort to plunge me into a state of utter pessimism, but if you don't mind, I'm going to stick to my guns. Keep track of my options? Yes. Lose dedication to the path I'm committed to? A resounding NO.

The Series Expands!

There could be no more qualified author of "The Art of Charm" than the lovely Krissa.

Update: "The Art of Charm", continued: The Art of Charm and Friendships.

And finally: The Art of Charm and Love.

In lieu of words

The Art of Answering Loaded Questions

Introduction (mainly authored by Karen):
You may remember Londonmark's recent Art of... series, which caused so much frenzied, jealous tooth-gnashing in the blogosphere that he had to cease posting before Dave and Pete sent in the evil wasps.

How fortunate that after months of painstaking archeological work, Karen and I have discovered two of the original series that have never before been published! We have shared the spoils between us, so that over at Uborka today, you can read The Art of Washing Dishes, and without further ado, I present for your perusal and enjoyment, The Art of Answering Loaded Questions.

* * *

As you probably gathered from the title of this post, it's an instructive one. Might as well skip it if you don't need instruction, yes? So let's try a simple quiz to determine whether you could use the advice:

Do you know any women? [ Y / N ]

If you answered "No" to the above, reading this post will be a waste for you at this point. Go forth! and meet women, for Chrissakes! and come back.

If you answered "Yes", then read on. What follows will be especially useful for those of you who are male and who relate romantically with women, as you are likeliest never to have thought of any of this. We'll begin with the basics.

Loaded Questions are those whose implications cause you to gulp, be nervous, hide behind your pint/wine glass/cigarette, cough, and generally wonder whether that nookie is quite so certain tonight. LQs are conversational tricks used to trap you in a position where you can do one of two things:

1. Tell the difficult truth

Actually, that's it. (HA!) You see, when a Loaded Question is wielded properly, it can only succeed in its task - to force from your reluctant lips the awkward or painful truth about some contested or sensitive matter, with or without the accompanying result of you collapsing to your knees in humiliation and tears. The Loaded Question is to be feared and respected. Kind of like God, but (let's face it) with more implicit threats about the dwindling likelihood of sex if you answer wrong.

There are two kinds of LQs: those you both know about, and those only she knows about. Each must be dealt with in its own way.

Obviously Loaded Questions
These are of the "Am I fat/ugly/in any way inadequate" variety. They are blatant; you can't miss 'em. If you did, you're single.

Let's have an easy one as an example. The correct answer to

Do I look fat?

is

1. Yes. End of story.
2. No. End of story.
3. Neither of the above.

If you answered (1), you are the spawn of Satan, the hated of womankind, and the densest male ever to have opposable thumbs. Also, you are not funny. No surprise there.

Here's the shocker: (2) is also wrong. Why? (2) is the "get me out of this situation, FAST" solution. Novice! What's needed is the long-term, focus-on-reducing-the-number-of-times-this-question-is-asked-ever-AGAIN solution.

It's worth pausing to consider whether you really want to put forth the effort and give the extended answer. While we pause, let's re-read that bit about implicit threats concerning sex.

I thought that might help. Right. Moving on, then.

So you answer in the negative, you express bewilderment and hopelessness (and perhaps a little frustration) at her suggestion that such a thing might be possible (but not at being asked), and you issue a sincere reassurance/browbeating that ensures a decrease in the frequency of this particular inquiry. Such a response will help you prove your mettle as a mate, and rid you of this admittedly puny bait for ego-boosting.

There. Easy as pie, isn't it? Ready for more?

You see, the trick to answering loaded questions is to untangle them so that their real constituent parts - a difficult question, and a pointed threat - can each be addressed in earnest. This may prove difficult for the occasional male who doesn't enjoy facing a sudden power discrepancy, and it is this fear of coping properly that leads to fumbling answers such as "No. Yes. Yes? Maybe? What do you think?"

Stealth Loaded Questions
It's trickier to deal with these, because they are cloaked in ordinary tone and dipped in ordinary subject matter. Do you recognize any of the following SLQs?

1. "What are you doing tonight?"
2. "When should the two of us get together?"
3. "When do you have time?"

Or these?

1. "Who is she?"
2. "What does she want?"
3. "Why can't you do it later?"
4. "In our house, you bastard?!"

Most of these, when not arranged sequentially to tip off the thicker of the readers, appear to be ordinary snippets of everyday conversations. Obviously, the solution here lies in decoding the query so that you can answer the question she's really asking. Here's our list, deciphered:

1. "You're going to spend time with me tonight, right?"
2. "No? Well, when then? I'm not terribly patient."
3. "Don't have time? Are you telling me I'm a low priority?"

And here:

1. "Do you possess any interest in her that supersedes your feelings for, attraction to or commitment with me?"
2. "What's so important about her that lets her get your precious time?"
3. "Are you seriously telling me that you're spending time with another girl instead of me with completely upstanding intentions? Do you think I'm dumb?"
4. "In our house, you bastard?!"

You can't dodge loaded questions, especially stealth ones. If that had EVER worked, I wouldn't be writing this guide right now. We do know when you're doing so. So work out how you'd respond to the above, and compare your answers with these:

1. "Let's spend time just the two of us tonight, darling."
2. "Tonight, I said."
3. "Tonight, I said!"

And here:

1. "She's my mother, darling."
2. "I've got to get rid of the spiders in her house. Dad's too afraid."
3. "The infestation's out of hand. I've really got to take care of it right away."
4. [In the case that the conversation gets to this, an appropriate response would be to duck out of the way of the surprisingly powerful fist headed your way.]

Of course, to get as far as decoding and responding appropriately, you have first to acquire the intuition to know when a loaded question is being stealthily asked, and that takes a sixth sense I can't teach. But barring that, this guide should help you step confidently into any conversation and slay those stealth loaded questions with ease!

Unless you've done anything wrong, in which case, you'd better duck out of the way of the surprisingly powerful fist headed your way.

A unexpected, nasty turn

With the exception of something I'll post tonight, things might be sparse for a little while. All my writing energy is about to be dumped into a letter to a university office, and I won't have any to spare.

In related news, if I have to drop out of college because of BUREAUCRATIC ASSHOLES and their TOTAL INCOMPETENCE and their UNFORGIVING RED TAPE and their CONDESCENDING MANNER OF ACCUSING ME OF CAUSING THEIR ADMINISTRATIVE FAILURES, I might seriously lose it.

Feel free to vent about red tape in the comments box, as that will make me feel much better, thank you, and I'll see you on the other side of this bumpy ride.

i <3 ny

Argh, we need backup troops

Mark is searching for a new title bar catchphrase to replace "londonmark : from camden with love". He asked for help, but I don't really think he's gotten much - see for yourself.

I was going to contribute "londonmark : anything i can do, you can do better" in reference to his (ironically unbeatable) self-deprecatory skills, but it's best not to encourage him. Can anyone help?

Snippets

Dear Googler,

I do not believe you contracted tonsilitis through oral sex.

My condolences,
Kate

* * *

Plush roadkill

I don't know what happened on the southbound 5 freeway as its traffic surged through balmy Orange County this afternoon, but whatever did left a score of victims behind: stuffed animals - teddy bears, bunny rabbits, kitty cats - were littered haphazardly and helplessly along the far left lane, each one battered and vulnerable and looking so hopelessly lost.

It was a sad sight.

* * *

A conversation over a cigarette

[Smoker Who Wishes To Remain Anonymous]: I hate Marlboros.
Kate: Why?
SWWTRA: This is going to sound stupid.
Kate: Okay. Go ahead.
SWWTRA: They just taste so chemical.

Social caterpillar

No joke:

I was just approached by a woman who works on my floor. I'll call her H. She entered the office very deliberately and said, "Kate, may I talk to you for awhile?" This was a)unexpected, because we have very little contact, and b)unwelcome, because I am very, very busy. So I tell her I don't have much time but that she's welcome to sit (which she's already done) if she can make it quick.

"Okay," she says. "I'm not very familiar with the activities of young people anymore and I'm trying to plan something, so I wanted to ask you: what do college students like to do?"

With only a moment's hesitation - and that was to muse over the ridiculousness of the question, not to ponder a response - I said, "Eat. Everyone eats and no one can afford it, so plan around food." Then I added, "There really aren't any other activities that every single person partakes in." It seemed obvious to me, but evidently not to her.

"I see," she said, mulling this over. "What else? What movie do they all like? Where do all the kids go?"

Um, "they all"? I'm supposed to generalize about 25,000 men and women in their teens and twenties?

"There really isn't anything. Sorry, H. People do all sorts of different things." I'd given up, and I no longer cared that I wasn't assisting her.

"Well, you're being no help," she replied, and walked out.

Five minutes later, she returned with glee. "WHEN IS FRIENDS ON, KATE? I JUST HEARD THAT EVERYONE WATCHES FRIENDS! WHEN DOES IT AIR?"

I had no patience to deal so I referred her to Esther. Poor Esther. H swamped her with questions. "So, it airs on Thursdays? Oh, that's great! [Gets visibly excited.] What do you do to prepare for it?" She asked her all the questions she asked me, too. "What do college students all do?", etc. Esther was much more friendly and cooperative than I, and H left looking quite cheered.

"Thanks anyway," she said to me pointedly and half-jokingly on her way out. I just sat there, trembling with barely-contained laughter and poised with my fingers on the keyboard, ready to type this post.

Dude, like, totally

At my chosen lunch establishment today, I found myself seated near a group of adolescent surfer dudes. You know the type. They say "dude" a lot, and they talk about surfing a lot. They looked to be about seventeen, and they were near enough that I could easily eavesdrop.

One of the dudes had something interesting to say about acquiring surfing skills. He said that as a near-beginner, one tends to think of oneself as fairly good at surfing, and that it's only later on that the realization of mediocrity hits.

He didn't say it quite like that.

Dude 1: Like, when you're just starting out, you think you're all good and shit, and then later, after you pass, like, a certain point, you realize you're just shit.
Dude 2: Dude, I totally don't think I'm good.
Dude 1: Yeah, dude, 'cause you're at the level. But like, when you first start learning and you learn something new and do it right, you're like, oh dude, I'm getting good. And then the next month you learn something else new, and you're like, dude, I'm totally getting good. And every month you think you're getting better and better. And then after awhile when you're finally actually decent, then all of a sudden you're like, dude, I suck.

I've felt this way before. I feel this way about writing. Learning how to write has been (and continues to be) a long and sometimes difficult process. But in those somewhat formative years between my first horrid "essay" and earning college app points as an AP scholar (which, appropriately, sounds more prestigious than it is), I'd have cocky moments. They'd come after receiving "A" papers or after writing essays in which the words seemed to fall out of my head and onto the page so easily, I'd forget that my perfectionist mind and fumbling hands were intermediaries. It happened when I came to college and found out that almost no one else had learned how to structure an introduction or properly review a peer's work. It happened when the essays I scribbled out at the last minute came back with a TA's glowing remarks. I would feel a surge a satisfaction and think, "I'm getting really good at this."

But at some point I stopped looking at my work in the context of all my past work, which made everything I wrote seem ingenius, and started seeing it in the context of everything else I read, which I realized made much of what I wrote seem a bit flawed. Over time I discovered that "a bit flawed" was one of the grossest understatements I'd ever made, and I continue to make that discovery every time I read some of my own writing and then, immediately, someone else's. One part of me recognizes improvements, and the rest sees only the vast untouched landscape of real quality that I haven't even begun to explore.

I'm feeling Dude 1 on a larger scale, too. I feel that way about life. I can't remember where I read or heard this, but it rings true in my mind: if you were to plot on a graph the level of knowledge someone typically thinks he or she possesses about the world, with age on the horizontal axis and self-proclaimed enlightenment on the vertical, you would see an upside-down "V" that spikes around age 17.

That seems just about right. I spent childhood with my head in a bubble, not knowing anything and not caring so long as I had dolls to play with and bikes to ride. I spent the beginnings of adolescence convinced that as the world opened up before me, it would bring only despair and loneliness. I didn't know what was out there, but I was sure it was bad. I spent most of high school learning - about everything they teach in school, and some of what they don't. By 17, I had the universe figured out. I knew there were certainties and I knew there were uncertainties. I had my opinions on abortion. On Christian fundamentalism. On sex. On nudity. On divorce. On driving. On friendships. I could opine about, oh, say, 35% of all phenomena, and as far as I was concerned everything else could be summarily categorized as "acceptable uncertainty" or "irrelevant" and dismissed.

Four years later, I have more opinions than ever, and am more sure than ever of their tininess in relation to "everything", because "everything" gets bigger every day. The more I learn, the less I realize I know. When neurons spark inside my skull they have all the brightness of a star we won't see until our sun has died and our planet withered, because the space outside my head gets vaster by the minute. It's totally like, dude.

- - -

Update, upon re-reading: That was a really abrupt ending, I think because I realized really abruptly that I'd sat down to write a couple thoughts about the surfer dudes and ended up waxing pretentious for more than a few too many paragraphs. Whoops.

On blogging

I'm a little late finding this, having been on vacation, so many of you have undoubtedly seen it already. I'm linking it for the rest of you.

Dan on the self-aggrandizement of blogging

I promised JPGs

I MISS THIS GIRL! She alone is enough reason to return to New York. Without her company, I am 40% less fun. I've never thought with more certainty, "No one could ever play dumb around this person." And I think that's why I love Krissa. Not only is she hilarious and engaging and charming and pretty; she's intuitive and quick and smart, and she expects the same.

Sigh. Have you ever seen two more adorable pairs of shoes?

Top student

Ha ha ha. I scored perfectly on the BBC's quiz on "Modern Manners". I don't know just how dismissive to be of the quiz (my gut says "very" as it does for all quizzes), I can't gauge how culturally specific it is, and I don't know what conclusions the BBC expects me to draw from the results, so I have no idea what my 100% score means.

(Link via Gert.)

Some things I hope I can avoid hearing about for awhile

• your boyfriend, and how you get to see him all the time, and how great the sex you have all the time is
• "anti-conservative bias" on college campuses
• not wanting to vote - on the recall, for example (JUST FUCKING VOTE GODDAMNIT YOU AND PEOPLE LIKE YOU ARE THE REASON THIS SYSTEM IS GOING DOWN THE DRAIN YOU APATHETIC TWAT)
• Ahnold's being "moderate" as though that were some sort of carrot (oh good, he fits some sort of vague meaningless centrist label, that must make him electable)
• David Blaine
• your philosophical opinion on Top 40 music or Top 40 artists - I just don't have the energy for that crap right now
• how fat you think you are
• how (un)healthy the food we're eating is. Maybe I want to eat sugar and/or grease, okay?

No, I'm not embittered or depressed. Actually, I'm still riding high on a great vacation. This was just cleansing. I'm fresh off a plane and I felt like those thoughts needed air.

I am so totally blushing

Nothing like what Bryan wrote - below - to make you feel on top of the world.

Luckily, I have the knowledge that my post about myself was really, really self-serving, while his about himself was funny and humble, to bring me down.

Flashes

Here's what Bryan really thinks of me. I'm not sure, but I think he might have accidentally written about someone else.

She walks into the bar, friend in tow. It's clear who's running the show, and without even trying. Relaxed, smiling, confident. No games. No fake-outs. Complete sincerity. This is someone who regularly meets new people and, frankly, is pretty good at it. She's in her element, completely at ease, and it shines from her face like your favorite nightlite. Before she said a word, I knew she'd be equal to her blog's reputation. "Bryan?"

I have asked a stupid, overly personal question. Doesn't matter what it is. But it always happens -- you go from bar to bar, you end up talking over a whole bunch of drinks, and WHAM! The stupid part of the brain grabs its chance. "Blah?" I asked, and instantly felt like an idiot. Dammit. I should have known better. But, instead of any kind of face -- and many would work here; disappointed, horrified, angry -- Kate simply says, "No, it's like this." And goes on to talk about a very personal subject in a beautiful way. Without any trace of recognition at the way this conversation started, she's already in her common mode: saying smart things about difficult subjects and getting it all just right. It's grace, and it's something to behold.

"What are you looking at?" Done with the bars, and I'm planted behind my computer, as always. Whatever I was looking at, I tell her. Something mundane, trivial. Not even making for good conversation. She asks a question and wears a humoring, quizzical look. A non-response. She shakes her head, walks over, and sits down on the couch. Under other circumstances, this is problematic. I don't like being physically close to new people, and I especially don't like it when people look at my computer. I don't know. Something about my little world. A new person, sitting next to me, looking at my computer? No. No way. And yet ... in this case, it was ok. Fun, even. Something about just the right distance, just the right tone, maybe even just the right smell. Something about it said, hey buddy. Not hey sailor, not hey you. Hey buddy. Like we'd been friends for four years instead of four hours.

Hey buddy. Nice to meet you, too.

UNABASHED SELF-COMPLIMENTARY POST - and it wasn't even my idea

In true American see-EVERYTHING-all-at-once style, my travelmate and darling friend Tanya and I decided to make a short weekend trip to Boston during our one-week vacation on the east coast. While we were there I had the pleasure of spending some time with someone Boston should be damn proud to have.

I also met Bryan Adams. But this post isn't about meeting Bryan - it's about Bryan meeting me, and his impressions. I've got to tell you what I thought he thought. This is new, scary territory for me, so bear with me as I try to be as subtle and modest and charming as possible while making it clear that he liked me, really liked me, damnit. So without further ado...

Okay. Right away, he knows I'm friendly (well, after that initial narrow-eyed moment of recognition, of "um, is that you?"), because I greet him with a smile and a hug. Like old friends. Obviously, I like being around people.

I'm not talkative in the"chatty" sense of the word, and I don't tell long stories. But I'm a good conversationalist in that things generally stay interesting and faced-paced. I listen as much as I speak, sometimes with narrowed eyes that can be mistaken for criticism or skepticism - it's really just discerning comprehension - and that make Bryan a little nervous, at least once.

I put my hair up and take it down about three times each over the course of the evening. I seem unable to decide whether to be slightly self-deprecating ("sorry to take up so much of your time") or coy ("good thing I'm such nice company"). Parting of ways is done affectionately, and with laughs. I leave him smiling.

So, all in all, hanging out with me is fun.

Tune in tomorrow for the revelation of the truth!

* * *

For the record, writing that was like walking over hot coals. A really interesting exercise, but smartingly uncomfortable.

A little game

Bryan and I are playing a little game. I'll let him describe it for you.

Update: I'm running late.

Color me wistful

The fact that I wear almost no makeup at all is actually something I'm rather proud of. Not brag-about proud, but quietly-enjoy-it-by-myself proud.

But last night I saw a woman applying lipstick on the subway, and her lips looked so, so good.

That made me a little sad.

Approach

(Hasty scribblings on an east coast bound flight)

(Kate trying to keep her two readers reading)

* * *

The window had grown a five o'clock shadow, a stubble of frost flakes that decorated its lower edge with cold, hard whiteness. We were leaving the sun behind, in the care of the west, and though it still breathed pink onto the flushed cheeks of the clouds below us, the skyscape grew greyer and darker, and the orangey glow on the northern horizon became dim and fuzzy. The clouds themselves turned eastward with us, flocking, trudging forward, their rumpled faces looking toward New York.

le petit hiboux

I knew I'd love Krissa. I just didn't know how insanely much I would love her.

JPGs to follow.

Off

Seven days.

Two Californian girls.

Two cities.

The carnage will be much. The posts, few. See you in a week.

(Unless you live in New York or Boston. See you this week!)

Eddie Izzard, forgive me

"Cake or death?"
"Cake, please."

"Cake or death?"
"Death. I mean cake!"
"You said death."
"I meant cake!"
"Oh, all right. We're going to run out of cake at this rate."

"Cake or death?"
"Um, cake."
"You sure about that?"
"Yes, quite sure."
"Right. Cake it is."

"Lactose intolerance or death?"
"DEATH."

Dish envy

I'm going to continue this pattern of posting in itty bitty snippets today.

This weekend, I visited a married couple, R and his wife Z. I observed an exchange:

Scenario: Z is in the other room. R peeks out the window at the new neighbors. They have put up a satellite dish. Z enters.

R: They have a nice satellite dish.

Z: (Sighs.) I knew this was going to be an issue with you.

R: It's nice.

Z: We are not competing! And you know why? Because they are renters.

Pause.

Z: We probably have a nicer TV than them, honey.

Once you pop...

"You are having oral sex, and you don't realise it's wrong. It's like eating Pringles. Once you start, you can't stop."

- 16-year-old John Wagster

Source: The Guardian

Target Audience

For the past seven months, almost no one I knew in real life read this blog. I wasn't hiding it, but I didn't go out of my way to show it off. I mentioned it offhand a few times, but never advertised the URL, partly because I rather thought it would be easy to find for anyone who took an interest, and partly because it's mostly unorganized, mediocre material anyway (I was looking through the archives for some favorites I could link to on the "About" page, and almost nothing was good enough!) - although it is my unorganized, mediocre material, and I'm terribly fond of it all.

After awhile, though, it dawned on me that the blog was a secret - albeit unintentionally so - and that bothered me. So I gave out the site address to all my friends (it might take a little more persuasion for me to advertise it at work, however), and though only one of them has commented, I can only guess that others have glanced this way.

So, hooray! Welcome, friends! Look around! And don't make fun, because I know where you live, you bastards.

Please excuse me while I interrupt our regular programming for some frenzied excitement

MY LITTLE SISTER WAS BLESSED BY THE DALAI LAMA AND SAW BRAD PITT

Tea Virgin

Yesterday was obviously a day of healing, because I went from professing such severe weakness that I couldn't even compose a post (9 a.m.) to - surprise - composing two posts in a single evening (7, 10 p.m.) I think it was the tea that did it.

I am proclaiming this week's bout of, um, whatever it was, as The Time I Got So Sick I Began To Like Tea.

This is a pretty big step for me. I never liked tea in the past, ever. Even tonsilitis and strep throat (I got that three times in a single year, too) didn't make it appealing to me. But I'm a big fan, now. Been living on the stuff. Christ, it was all that would fit.

I'm excited to stock up on my new favorite thing, but I'm totally new to all this. I never bothered to pay attention to all the different varieties of teas before. I have no idea what kind of taste is implied by "English Breakfast". Nor "Earl Grey". I'll probably come home with all sorts of strange herbal concoctions, simply because the descriptions on the packaging will fluster me - This is sweet, earthy, aromatic, deep, soul-healing, true-love-finding, get-rich-quick tea. What?

Just wondering

Have you ever felt snubbed, even in the slightest, because of someone's failure to link to your site?

A simple "yes" or "no" answer will do just fine, although of course you're welcome to explain yourself further if you'd like. But I'm honestly curious, so please share.

The blame game

When all else fails, blame Microsoft  Apple  Bush  your bank  your HMO  UC Regents  the Homeowners' Association  Blogger  Yaccs  gas prices  big business  America  the system.

In brief

I'm not feeling quite well enough to compose an original post*, but I'll do your blog-browsing for you:

Sashimi, brotherly love, Sarajevo, courage, Clueless, eyebrow hair, new digs, dead squirrels, memorial, Yaccs-hate, blogiversary, animal rescue, sisterly love, and old photos.

Go now, my pretties.

* Update: either I jinxed myself here, or the get-well vibes passed along via this post's comment thread cured me. Thanks, Bryan and Anna!

Congratulations

"Losing" deserved this win.

Swell

Is anyone missing a pair of golf balls? Let me know if you are, because I've got them, lodged in my throat.

Whenever I feel the symptoms I'm feeling now, which include the near-impossibility of letting anything down my throat larger than the width of a single hydrogen atom, I tend to jump to one conclusion: tonsilitis.

This is because I contracted three cases of the illness during my senior year of high school, and so I feel quite intimately familiar with it. By the third case, I was asking that the tonsils be sliced out of my ravaged throat, but told that the procedure was unnecessary because tonsilitis, once considered to have only one solution (the surgical one), was now curable with drugs. The obvious hole in that argument was that my doctors hadn't done a very good job of curing me. But because medication is much, much cheaper than operation, I never went under the knife.

And that is a decision I regret every time I think I'm swallowing a machete and it turns out to be a sip of water.

* * *

Okay, I just stepped away from the computer to do a little examining in my hand-held mirror. Sure enough, the back of my throat is nowhere to be seen, having been blocked by intimidating fleshy things that look like they're readying themselves for world conquest.

As you may have guessed by now, the irritating thing about me falling ill is my propensity for talking about it. To make matters worse, the fact that this symptom makes it extremely difficult to sleep - my sinuses, distressed by the hostile activity further south, have clogged nearly completely, which makes breathing a difficulty - and so the result is a very much awake Kate, wanting to vent about her silly discomforts and with nowhere to do it but on the blog. How fun for you.

But I don't want to be rude. I want to afford you the same courtesy I've afforded myself: the ability to rant. Don't hold back, now: what's been driving you crazy?

A fine weekend

I'm testing the limits on laziness. It seemed as though I hadn't stopped moving since around the last week of June, so I felt justified while spending approximately all of Saturday lying prone.

On Sunday, I bumped things up to a sitting position, but only on very soft surfaces i.e. the couch, for the watching of The Big Lebowski and the talking on the phone and the absent-minded brainstorming with notebook in hand.

I took a break from sitting to do more horizontal time, relocating to the pool for a two-hour nap in the afternoon sun.

In the evening, I made the leap to full upright position in order to spend an evening of coffee and film in Hillcrest. American Splendor made me wish I could better appreciate a good comic. It also made me quite glad I can appreciate a good movie.

Now - well, soon - I'm off; awaiting me are a day of sun, sand, lobster, and the joys of the US-Mexico border, and a night of homemade guacamole, chips, fresh fruit, and sangria. Mmm, happy holiday.

Memo

Dear Yaccs users:

Switch.

Sincerely,
Kate