It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

This is going to be belligerant.

When I was a kid, I was part of the Purdue Musical Organization Christmas Show three years in a row (until I got the boot because my voice wasn't good enough and my mom was too Jewish--the latter is a bitter assumption). I remember it being pretty awesome. Confetti cannons, sleighs across stage, jazzy coreography...it was a kitschy Jesuspalooza. I might be wrong, but I vaguely remember there being real life elk or deer or something on stage one year with Santa (I am probably misremembreing that). I have never actually SEEN the show, however, so this year my boyfriend and I decided to attend (tickets were buy one get one free!).

And it was the BIGGEST crock of shit I have EVER seen.

I was expecting something especially extravagant, since it was the 75th anniversary, but I was wrong about that one. I have never seen anything so...white. White. Max (who, despite being Jewish, was slightly more impressed than I) turned to me during one especially schmaltzy rendition of "Silver Bells" and whispered, "If someone ever asked me, 'What do white people like?'...I'd show them this." I mean, it was literally white. There were maybe two or three people who didn't have the skin color of buffed ivory. But let me start from the beginning.

The first thing that came out was some tiny little Jon Benet Ramsey girl in a Christmas sweater looking all aglow and hideously singing some unidentifiable Christmas song. Other people started to come out in pairs, unixplicably all wearing Old Navy Polar fleece and khakis. They pointed in awe around the venue, as if Santa himself was soaring above our tiny little heads. It all crescendoed into a big dance number which consisted of coreography that they picked up from the American Sign Langauge Association basement. If they were singing about happy hearts, they drew a heart in the air, in front of where their hearts were in case we didn't get it.

The setup of the show was really boring. There were no props, no stage set up...just plain risers and some fancy lights. There were no "theme" songs either...I remember there being silly songs about food and kids (including myself) came out running around dressed up like chefs, or Western songs with kids (including myself) dressed up like inappropriate cowgirls. But the PMO groups just filed out in their sparkly uniforms and stood there in rows and sang. It was more of a PMO recital than a Christmas extravaganza.

But, of course, they wouldn't let us forget WHY we celebrate Christmas. Jesus was EVERYWHERE, and not just in the second act, which is traditionally more churchy. Now, I am proudly in the process of becoming a full member of the Catholic Church. I pray every day, am at my church two or three times a week, go to Confession, blah blah blah. I'm more religiously involved than most Christians I know. I love Jesus. But I'm not IN LOVE with Jesus. Man, these people really love Jesus. One particularly scary song kept alluding to the "anger and hate" thrown upon Jesus until the male soloist bellowed out the line "...until He was nailed to a treeeee!"

WHAT?!

Ok, FIRST of all, it was a fucking cross. Maybe you're thinking of Judas, he hanged himself on a tree. But why would you be singing about Judas at Christmas? Come to think of it, why would you be singing about the Cruifixion at Christmas? Wrong fucking holiday, dude.

And SANTA. Good LORD. At the end of the first act, all he did was kind of pop out of a box at the end of the song and declare "I AM SANTA." Which just seemed ludicris, like he was launching down onto some alien planet and its inhabitants stood in awe around his red, bulbous figure.

The whole time I was hoping the Second Coming would happen right there on stage. Cause I don't think Jesus was watching and going, "Hey, they're rejoicing in my presence. Right on." Because you know everyone on stage is thinking about how they look, how much they want it to end so they can get drunk, don't fall on stage, have to remember my coreography...blah blah blah. Either stick to the creepy God-like Santa, or to Jesus.

And get new outfits. Those wide leg black pants and shoulder padded sparky purple flower jackets are pretty 1980s Yonkers real estate agent. Sheesh.

Why Detroit?

Vacancy has always been as important to me as air. In an abstract sense, I do my best in the spaces between emotions. The times where I can hold my emotions in my hand and observe them for a short time before they hit me again are by far the most important times in my life. But as much as I need those vacant spaces in my heart, it is the tightness of the city that allows it all. The anonymity of the urban experience does something that is indescribable by prose or essay. Here, I try to portray that feeling through phrases of thought and images of the only city, the only place, that feels home to me--Detroit.

As far as cities go, Detroit is as vacant as it gets. The aftermath of the race riots in 1967 has left it a ghost of its former self. It is by no means a great cosmopolitan city. For most, it evokes fear and disgust in its abandoned factories and crumbling avenues. While I recognize that, I am also endlessly in love with the city. Every broken window and pothole in the pavement emanates such a raw sense of urgency and sincerity that I think is too commonly dismissed in society, in favor of careful precision and calculated elegance.

When I was a senior in high school, I was driving around Detroit with my mom, who lived in Detroit for a long period of time when she first married my dad (who is from the city). We were driving through Mexicantown, the Hispanic neighborhood, and I was gushing about my love for the city. I am continuously struck by what my mom said to me then: “Don’t romanticize this city. Don’t turn it into something it’s not.” At the time I was angry; I felt like she had invalidated my emotions. Now, though, the differing thoughts between us propose a new thesis (for with time comes that distance from emotion that I so strongly need): Romanticizing the city can be just as valid a reaction to it as a more rational view, because the city is so subjective. The city is what we make of it, and I have made Detroit into my home. Romanticizing Detroit has allowed me to render it a legible space, one that I can move around in without feeling overwhelmed or confused.

...And Other Stalker Activities

Editorial comment on my previous post: I think I may come off as one of those...fanatics. Like the ones on the old MTV show where they would stand naked on their roofs with their favorite celebrity's name written in blood on their chests. I AM NOT ONE OF THEM. In all honesty, I wouldn't really want to meet Jack White.

Really!

It would ruin the myth. My bestie/fellow White Stripes devotee, Corey, and I love to discuss what we would do if we saw Jack White in Wal-Mart or something. And my response is always "I don't know." I know I would make an absolute blubbering fool of myself, for one. There is no way that I could see the most consistently important figure in my life, besides my mom, and not automatically sob. I cried in Art History this morning when I found out I got an A+ on my Art History exam, so I'm definitely going to cry when I see my most reliable companion in this mortal coil. I'm also really afraid that I would fuck it up even further by trying to be cool--something I definitely am not. And at every other moment I love that I'm not cool, in fact I hate cool. But I feel like I would try to impress him, and obviously fail. Because I've gone over the scenario a billion times in my head of what I would do/say if I ever met him, all that would come out is "...........fhjdshkfkfaqooooooo" and I'd faint dead onto the floor. It would be too overwhelming I think.

Plus...what if he's a dick?

So yeah, I actually would never want to be in a close vicinity with him except for at a concert. Hey, I was like 12 feet away from him when he walked into his tour bus at my second White Stripes show in Indy a few years ago, so that's fine enough for me.

I'm Going to Write a Blog About My Blog in My Blog!

WOAH.

So. Go to Google images and type in "Detroit Mexicantown" and see what comes up first. OK I'll just tell you. MY. ARTWORK. Do you REALIZE that Jack White has probably Googled that?! JACK WHITE HAS PROBABLY SEEN MY ARTWORK. Which was posted on this blog, so he probably read my blog (because he has the spare time), which mentions him, quite a bit! And he would LOVE me, obviously!

JACK WHITE IS COMING TO WHISK ME AWAY.

Woompava, Woompava, Boiler Up!

I'm not against team spirit. I think a moderate amount is pretty healthy and good for forging a sense of community, especially in college when thousands of kids are feeling pretty lost (and plus, you choose the college you go to, so you must have some sort of pride in it). But Purdue has taken it to a ridiculous level in this past week. I moved in last Saturday amid cheers. Not from my parents for moving out (although they might have been cheering, too). Not to myself for moving on to this exciting chapter in my life. No, I moved in to Meredith Hall amid cheers of Boiler Gold Rush team leaders. As we pulled into the parking lot, they started doing a peppy chant about how happy they were to help me move. They asked me if I was PUMPED UP for PURDUE! In the first five minutes of my being at Purdue University, I was already in the environment of a professional wrestling stadium.

It became very clear, very fast, that I was in trouble.

See, I moved in a week early to participate in Boiler Gold Rush, a week long orientation program. I thought it would be pretty relaxed, full of club call outs, doing Boiler-related crafts, and talking about ourselves in fun ice breakers.

I was right about the ice breakers, except the fun part. I love talking about myself and finding out other people's tastes. Unfortunately, other people's tastes seem to center around their hair color and their agriculture majors. I had nothing in common with the people in my group (although some of them liked the White Stripes, which is obviously the correct opinion). It was awkward and humid on that first night. And then came the team chants.

The dorms were separated into themes and we had to compete against each other for, well, nothing except bragging rights. And my dorm's theme was breakfast cereal. BREAKFAST CEREAL. And not only was I surrounded by pictures of Fruit Loops, we had chant with enthusiasm ABOUT cereal.


To the tune of "I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry.

That's the punchline, really. I was going to elaborate on this, but there really isn't anything else to say. So I basically quit BGR after the second day. I hid in my room and watched episode after episode of House and let the calls from my BGR team leader go straight to voicemail. But even then I wasn't completely safe. The Boiler Express, a little train vehicle that rides around campus that I rode when I was in kindergarten, would circle my dorm every ten minutes until 11:30 at night, honking its horn and carrying kids that were VERY excited to be Boiler-ing up.

So the past week has been a bizarre, black and gold circus. And I have watched, annoyed, smoking cigarettes. And I think that really probably says a lot about me. Not that I smoke cigarettes, but that whole watching from the outside thing. And I am much happier in that place then playing on a moon bounce and flirting with RAs.

BOILER UP!

Maybe They're Just Really Fat Ghosts.

ATTN: ORBS ARE NOT GHOSTS.

It's become the very in-vogue (En Vogue?) thing to take pictures at night at graveyards and cornfields with decrepit barns (where a farmer DEFINITELY hanged his whole family and then his self- that's DEFINITELY not a legend/rumor/ridiculous story told by stoners on cruises). Then to put the pictures on Facebook, Myspace, or their ghost blog and point out white, nearly-transparent circles on the (UNEDITED!) pictures and claim them to be ghosts.

THEY ARE NOT GHOSTS.

Here's an example of one such picture:

If you look at this picture without knowing about the "orb phenomenon" you'd probably guess that it's probably just a camera glitch. Or snow. Or rain. Or dust. Or the effect of using the flash in really dark settings bouncing off of dust particles with a shitty digital camera. In all logic, you would be right. But some people-the same people that wave sage around their houses in a reckless manner to rid their bathrooms of bad spirits-would say you are WRONG! NAIVE! UNSCHOOL-ED IN THE FIELD OF THE SUPERNATURAL.

These people are, of course, ridiculous and possibly out of their minds.

I don't doubt that supernatural situations occur, or that ghosts exist. I'm sure there are some pissed off Confederate soldiers wandering around Gettysburg. But why would they choose to come to life (no pun intended) in the form of a circle? That's not scary, it's not even remotely creepy. It's just kind of an irritating obtrusion in the photograph. If I were an angry spirit unable to cross into the other world, I'd appear as a bloody-eyed Medusa or something. Definitely something more like this:

Much more effective.

But maybe orbs are really ghosts. And if these ghosts really are choosing to appear as orbs, those are some weak ass ghosts.

6 Inch or Foot Long?

I haven't written on here in ages. But a friend of mind, who also happens to be hilarious and a really talented writer, said that this (and Scene Kid of the Day, but that's a story for another entry) is one of her favorite online things to read. So with the pressure on to turn up the hits, I return.

Most of the reason I haven't been writing is that I'm too busy making your Italian BMT (would you like the works on that?) at Subway. My mom would beg to differ since I only work about 10 hours a week. But I feel like I've earned my sandwich cred there since I worked last summer and fall at about 20 hours a week and I will undoubtedly return next summer.

The job itself isn't too bad. Aside from prepping the crab, most of the tasks aren't that disgusting or arduous. It's the customers that makes me want to take my hand and slam it into the bread oven. On the spectrum of fast food, Subway is probably the most expensive (although Arby's is getting up there...have you seen the price of a beef 'n' cheddar recently?) and thus attracts the biggest assholes. I don't care if you have a BMW parked outside, ma'am, you have to pay for the extra cheese you put on that sandwich.

There are a lot of different kinds of assholes that come into my place of employment, though. So here is a brief list of them. If one of these sounds like you, please, stop. I will not hesitate to get really pissed off at you but not show it because I don't want to get written up.

1. The Sandwich Dreamer- This is the idiot that stands blankly in front of the vegetables and just CAN'T decide if he/she wants cucumbers or not. Especially when there is a line out the door behind them. Or the person that spouts out their entire order, veggies and all, in one breath without telling you what kind of bread. And then not being able to decide what kind of bread they want. Let me tell you something: most of our bread tastes exactly the same. Everything is based off of either white or wheat dough, and once you douse your sandwich in honey mustard, you won't taste a difference anyway. And even worse about the Sandwich Dreamer is that they almost always come through drive-thru. Ma'am (because these are usually middle aged women in minivans...or stoners), there are 10 cars behind you, so please decide if you want regular or spicy mustard.

2. The Big Order- This is pretty simple. Don't come in at 12:15 during lunch rush and order 10 foot longs for your office buddies. We hate you and everyone else in the store hates you.

3. The Stickler- This person is straight out of whitewine.com. They don't think our white bread is white enough for them, they aren't sure if the bread is fresh or not (we make it every morning), please change your gloves even though all you've touched is food, the same damn kind of food that you are going to eat, can you double wrap that?, those banana peppers look pretty hard, here let me show you, oh man not that much mayo! etc. These people wouldn't be too unbearable, except they are always the most condescending DOUCHE BAGS on the face of the planet. I cannot express how much these people make my blood boil. They absolutely deserve to have their hearts ripped out by wolves. I'm not a 4 year old, yes I speak English, and yes, you need to leave my store before I take this loaf of Italian Herbs and Cheese bread and beat your face in with it.

You're ugly anyway.

Today some jerk came in asking for directions to campus, and when my perfectly kind coworker chimed in, he turned to him and said "Excuse me, SHE was giving me directions." He was not using his indoor voice or his friendly tone. I wanted to shove jalapenos into his eyeballs. And since my last day at Subway this summer is tomorrow, I decided to not just grit my teeth this time. I said to him, "Sir, first of all don't be rude to my coworkers. Second of all, buy a map." And I turned on my heels and went back to the kitchen to scream about it. Do you know how good that felt? And that all of us feel that way about you if you fall into one of the above categories?

Now, are you going to have a meal with that?

I Don't Think Thomas Jefferson Would Have Cared This Much

My best friend is a huge Hillary Clinton supporter, and she wanted me to spend the weekend with her in Washington D.C. at a rally to get the Michigan and Florida votes counted. I did vote for Hillary, but this wasn't a cause I felt super strongly about. But I went anyway, thinking it would be fun and interesting. Well, I was right about the latter.

We took off from Lafayette (on a small-ish Lafayette Limo bus) shortly before a monstrosity of a storm hit the city. We're not talking just high winds and rain, we're talking about 50,000 tornados swooping down to feed on the young of Greater Lafayette. And severe weather (and the complimentary onslaught of tornados that so often comes with it) is absolutely my worst fear. Orca whales are up there, but tornados terrify me like nothing else can. So with my stomach shaking and eyes darting around the open planes for signs of imminent death, we were off.

Not long after we were on the road, a crotchity old lady with a giant fleece sweater-blanket contraption quizzed us about why we like Hillary. I said that I am a fierce labor union supporter and I think that Hillary has workers' backs better than Obama, blah blah blah...when I was done she gave me the most awkward, tepid, condescending smile I have ever seen in my life. Then she and some other women on the bus started laying into Barack Obama for reasons I HIGHLY suspect were racially motivated (they did everything but use racial slurs).

Also, they were really mean to our bus driver, who was like 800 years old but extremely nice.

So we tumbled all night through Ohio and Pennsylvania to get to Washington the next morning. That day and night would be one of the most ridiculous times of my entire life, but we'll save that for another entry. Tornados and raisin-eating old ladies threatening to vote for McCain if Hillary doesn't get the nomination (big surprise: she doesn't) is enough for now.

Plus, it's thunderstorming.

This Is Going to Get Me Into Trouble

I started a new blog.

For a while now, my best friend Corey and I have been fascinated by the ridiculousness that is the "scene kid." Today at graduation rehearsal, my friend John asked me what the difference between an "emo kid" and a "scene kid" is. To me the difference is pretty obvious, but that's because I'm really boring and I think about these sub genres of cliques a lot. So I guess the main difference is that scene kids love themselves. I mean, REALLY love themselves. They think they are awesome in so many ways that we would never be able to understand.

Also, they tease their hair like they're in an 80s hair metal band.

While I absolutely despise everything they stand for and everything that they listen to (any genre of music with the suffix "-core" is pretty much guaranteed to suck), they do get what they aim for: attention. You would not believe how much attention these kids want. They would LOVE for the paparazzi to follow them around all day; in fact, most scene kids consider themselves famous (having over 10,000 friends on Myspace is, regrettably, just about as notable as Amy Winehouse's latest crack-binged video of her raising baby mice).

So, I'm going to give them what they want and give them a ton of attention by making a new blog that is entirely devoted to the "scene kid of the day." While it is sarcastic at best, bad press is better than no press!

Right?

Anyway, visit www.scenekidoftheday.blogspot.com for more.

This Is a Really Good Idea

I should start a comic about a tiger that plays baseball and name him Tyger Cobb.

MOM! WHERE ARE THE GAUZE PADS!? MOOOMMM!

As I write this, my jaws are exploding. Literally. The tendon that keeps the bottom jaw to the top of the mouth or whatever is currently splattering across the wall in front of me. I'm sure I could bring in a blood splatter expert and they'd say "Oh, it looks like her jaw exploded when she was at the computer."

I HAD MY WISDOM TEETH OUT AND IT WAS THE WORST THING EVER.

I have a huge tattoo on my calf, I've had 6 stitches in my thumb, nerve blocks in my hand, and a concussion; but this is by far the most excrutiating pain I've ever experienced. I did have pain medication, but they only gave me 12 pills and of course I took them all already, I wasn't a dumbass and, like, spaced them out like I was supposed to. That would just be stupid.

So now I'm living off of Ibuprofyn, ice cream, Pennicillin, Stouffer's macaroni and cheese, and cigarettes that I'm not supposed to be smoking. Oh and lots of gauze pads. I really, really shouldn't be smoking. It increases your chance of dry socket a ton. Apparently it also increases your risk for cancer, a fact I did not know!

Last night I looked in the mirror at my swelling (which has mainly affected the left side of my face) and started sobbing, "I LOOK LIKE QUASIMODO!" Even though my mom gently pointed out that Quasimodo had a hump on his back, not his face. I am more akin to the Elephant Man. Thank you, Mom. But she really has been a pretty good nurse. She normally won't let me eat ice cream or buy Chef-Boy-R-Dee ravioli, but she's let me do both without a terse comment! And she even let me call the doctors to see if I could get another prescription for pain medications, though it didn't work out too well (the nurse just told me to take 800 mg of Ibuprofyn with mashed potatos, that worthless slag). And my boyfriend, Greg, took expert care of me last night and even tried to snuggle with me to make me feel better even though I had the general demeanor of a wolverine.

So I have had pretty good caretakers, which has been nice. I think I might go take advantage of one of them (my mom, Greg is at work) and make her get me an ice pack.

This Unremarkable Life

I'm pressing "pause" on my ticket out.

My parents, whose opinion I respect so much, have decided that it isn't practical for me to go to Wayne State next year. At first I was pissed off, and I'm still massively dissapointed and sad, but I've accepted the fact that they just aren't going to let it happen. My sophomore year, though, I'm going up there; either on the scholarship if I can still get it or I'll live there for 9 months and establish residency and then go. My mom says "Maybe you'll like it at Purdue" but I'm not going to let her passive hints get by me right now. I still love my parents to death, but, in the immortal words of Bon Jovi, "It's my life."

Katie's lame factor = obvious after that quote.

I'm watching High Fidelity right now and realizing that maybe I was never actually meant for am interesting, urban life like that, even though I've always seen myself as a person with that life and the characteristics that come with it (independent, artistic, observant, confident, hardass). More often, I betray those characteristics in favor of inertia and weakness. I think that going to Detroit for college could be my way to overcome that, and I don't think logistics problems like looking for apartments and registering for classes should have stood in the way of that. But I should have figured, I guess, I've always screwed up amazing opportunities and maybe this is karma for all of that.

Or maybe life just sucks right now.

But, you know, who cares. I've always been so comfortable with mediocrity, so I'll just continute to coast.

Enid from Ghost World by Daniel Clowes: Stuck.

Wow.

I never thought I'd have a moment in my life like this.

I just got a 36,000 dollar scholarship to Wayne State University in Detroit. It is the university I wanted to attend for the longest time, but didn't plan on going to because of the cost. Now it's completely feasible for me to go there. At a time where I have been 100% sure I was going to Purdue; in fact, I have paid the deposit and signed up for Day on Campus and everything. Now I have the chance to go to my favorite place in the world with my wonderful boyfriend who is more committed to me than Tom Cruise is to Xenu (or something). But it's 5 hours and a world away from my parents, my cats, my house. But there's the thing, it's my house, not necessarily my HOME. Maybe Detroit is my home, as I have so brashly claimed it is for so long.

Maybe I should just drink myself to death in the French Quarter in New Orleans.

When You're Chewing on Life's Gristle, Don't Grumble; Give a Whistle!

I've been on a real Monty Python kick lately (granted, I've been on a Monty Python kick since childhood). But I've been getting a lot of graduation party invitations lately which is caused me to think about what could be the senior year "theme song." I've decided "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" from Life of Brian is definately my pick.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHPOzQzk9Qo


I really would like to post the video on here, but blogspot is being lame and not letting me use Youtube html. So I'll post the lyrics.

(words and music by Eric Idle)

Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse.
When you're chewing on life's gristle
Don't grumble, give a whistle
And this'll help things turn out for the best...

And...always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the light side of life...
If life seems jolly rotten
There's something you've forgotten
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.
When you're feeling in the dumps
Don't be silly chumps
Just purse your lips and whistle - that's the thing.

And...always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the light side of life...
For life is quite absurd
And death's the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow.
Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.

So always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath
Life's a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.
You'll see it's all a show
Keep 'em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the right side of life... (Come on guys, cheer up!)
Always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the bright side of life...(Worse things happen at sea, you know.)
Always look on the bright side of life...(I mean - what have you got to lose?)
(You know, you come from nothing - you're going back to nothing.What have you lost? Nothing!)Always look on the right side of life...

At Least I Don't Listen to Boston pt. 2

DISCLAIMER: I DON'T ACTUALLY THINK HALL AND OATES IS A GOOD BAND, I JUST LIKE THAT ONE SONG "FAMILY MAN" BECAUSE IT'S CATCHY. SAME WITH THE OTHER SONGS LISTED IN THE PREVIOUS ENTRY. I REALIZE THAT WRITING THIS DISCLAIMER IS A SELF-CONCIOUS ATTEMPT TO SALVAGE MY COOL FACTOR, AND A MEEK ATTEMPT AT THAT.

In a continuation of the previous entry, let's pretend that hipsters actually DO like the music they pretend to like (this is probably true). Imagine this guy with muttonchops in a Tilly and the Wall (don't listen to them) teeshirt who is laughing along with similarly facial-hair-ed dudes about how ridiculous Lionel Richie is when, deep down, "Hello" was this guy's theme song to his first girlfriend. If all hipsters feel similarly, then imagine how wild it would be if all hipsters took the edge off of what they were saying and openly declared their previously ironic favorite songs to be actually legit. The scene wouldn't change that much, the hipsters would still drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and sing along to "Dust in the Wind" when they're drunk, but now it would be sincere. Eventually this would change the whole cirriculum of what is cool, and soon enough Hall and Oates would be playing at SXSW in a much anticipated comeback like they were the Pixies or something.

And you know who would be the ultimate heroes of cool now? Middle aged divorced women on cruises crying into their margaritas to "Amanda" by Boston. This would be the new face of French indie movie cool.

Think about it.

Journey: The most influencial band on the new electro-mono folk ballad scene.

At Least I Don't Listen to Boston.

I have my suspicions about hipsters.

Part of the whole "thing" about being a hipster is that they must listen to music ironically, which has never made much sense to me. Why would you want to pretend that you like a song that is awful? And, unfortunately for my hipster status, most of the songs that they like ironically, I like genuinely.

Here's a short list of the kinds of songs that the cool kids PRETEND to like that I ACTUALLY like. I realize that doing this is probably going to lead to my demise in any sort of legitimate social circle. But I just really don't mind yacht rock.

"Gloria" by Laura Branigan.
"Push It to the Limit" from the Scarface soundtrack.
"Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey.
"Family Man" by Hall and Oates
"Jump" by Van Halen.

Etc. Etc. I have extremely well-developed music taste and enough "street cred" to get by with ironically liking those songs. But I don't. I just think they're decent singles that can get stuck in my head. I'd never get away at a hipster party because if these songs came on (ironically!), I'd know the lyrics. And then it would become all too clear that my hair isn't fluxus enough, my jeans not skinny enough, and my nose not coke-filled enough. So I'll just hang out at my house and listen to Phil Collins and clean my room for now.

Total Vacay!

Yo.

I'm going to Florida in two weeks, which is pretty rad. I've been to Florida once and I absolutely despised it. Granted, I stayed in an overpriced condo in the God-forsaken swamp of Orlando. I didn't even go to Disney World. This time I'm going to Stuart, which I've been told is near West Palm Beach. My dad and I are going to go visit my grandpa, who resides there during the non-hot months. My Papa Al is really a one-of-a-kind saint of sorts. He may be the most selfless, peaceful person I know. But he also has long term battles with my aunt Christine's cat and steals rhubarb from the neighbor's yard. Basically, he's a baller. Also, he listens to smooth jazz.

I love my family.

So I'm assuming I will be spending lots of time on the beach, which means I get to DISPLAY MY TATTOO. Finally. It's been a ridiculously cold winter and spring, and those little winged cats want to fly freely on my left calf for the world to see. Spending lots of time on the beach also means that I might see a manatee! Or a shark! Or old leather bag women in bright orange bikinis, but that's neither here nor there.

I'm excited to get out of Indiana, although a few weeks ago I went to Chicago with my boyfriend for his birthday. That was an epic adventure full of tropical fish (The Shedd Aquarium) and massive coronaries (Bennigan's). I'll post later about that. But right now my fluffy kitten Dobby is sick, and I need to tend to him!

A Change Is Gonna Come

You know how sometimes you have those miraculous, focused moments where everything makes sense and you feel like you really KNOW what to do in this life?

Well I just listened to "A Change Is Gonna Come" by Otis Redding for the first time, and I feel like the rest of my life can be that moment with that song.

Wow.

Good Thing I'm Literate.

Pleasingly (although not pleasing for my room's cleanliness, and my mom's happiness with me), I've been reading a lot lately. At my job, which happens to be at a ridiculously modern Aspen-esque cabin with rows of bookshelves filled with intellectual finds I will probably never understand (I don't "get" Kafka)(my job is babysitting for a scholarly couple--their baby sleeps a lot so I have time to notice these things without endangering the longevity of my career there), I came across The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx. I know my mom liked the book a lot, and I vaugely knew it was made into a crappy movie with Kevin Spacey. But now that I've started reading it, I've been really pulled into it. It's about a middle aged semi-loser widower named Quoyle with two kids that moves to his native Newfoundland, basically. But the book profiles the geology of Newfoundland and its inhabitants with such stark lyricism (without being ostentacious-a word I learned today!) that it opens up a new style of writing for me. Also, Proulx describes Newfoundland very vividly and it seems a lot like Rockport, Massachusetts--the place where my mom grew up and I vacation often. Except people in Rockport don't club seals during the winter. So anyway, I reccomend it.


Oh, and it won the Pulitzer Prize.


I also picked up Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman, one of my favorite music journalists. He wrote the hillarious and poingant (as poingant as any memoir about hair metal can be) Fargo Rock City, which I've read more times than I can count. This book is about a road trip he took while writing for the uber-hipster magazine Spin, visiting the famous landmarks where rock stars died all over the country. But that's the bare bones, really; more of the book is about the death of parts of his own life; more specifically, his relationships with women. This book is far more poetic than Fargo Rock City, but still is filled with side-splitting one-liners and observations. For example (in this part of the book he's talking about Sid Vicious's supposed murder of Nancy Spungen):

"Vicious purposefully OD'd on smack before the case ever went to trial, so I suppoose we'll never really know what happened in that room, though he did tell the police, "'I did it because I'm a dirty dog.' This is not a very convincing alibi. He may as well have said, 'I got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one.'"

-Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live

And that's only page 7.

It's probably the most relavant reference to Jay-Z I've heard in a long while, except for Barack Obama telling journalists that he's been listening to a lot of Jay-Z lately. Apparently he loves "the art of hip-hop."

He also bowled a 37 in Pennsylvania recently.

A 37!

Barack Obama: I got 99 problems, and my bowling score is definitely one of them.

This blows my mind, kind of. My boyfriend and I recently started going bowling once a week, and while we're still horrible, at least we don't get failing test scores (or even D's!). But then again, he's just a skinny politician. And I'm a floppy klutz that reads instead of cleaning her room. So there you have it.

If I Made a Magic Mix Tape

It would have all of the White Stripes' albums, and "Push It to the Limit" from the Scarface soundtrack on it.

Oh, and I tried to go to the new Sonic today but there was so much traffic that there were FOUR TRAFFIC COPS GUIDING THE CARS. So I went to Ci Ci's instead.

My Detroit Photography Series, Continued

What the hell, I'm just going to put up my entire series of Detroit shots. You see, my love for that city is...more than a fat kid loves cake (shoot me now)? It's where my dad's family is from, so I frequent the area. And while some (most) may see Detroit as soul-crushing, I see it as having the most soul of any city in the United States. The city just heaves these sighs, and in the ghosts of the buildings and people there...those sighs are palapable. They are sighs of broken industries, Motown beats, shattered glass, cracks in the pavement, vivid art, poetry, human failure...Detroit reflects its social history more clearly than any other city. And because of that, it's a photographer's dream to shoot there. This past fall, I went with my mom to a labor history conference at Wayne State University (where I wanted to go to college but couldn't because of money), and took a lot of pictures and then paired some of them with words. So here is my Detroit 2007 series.
By the way, that was the first serious essay I've posted. I need to put an LOLCat in here or something.

"Detroit-Hotel Yorba" by Katherine Morrison

December 2007

Digital photography

"Detroit-Mexicantown Church" by Katherine Morrison

December 2007

Digital photography

"Detroit-Near St. Andrews" by Katherine Morrison
December 2007
Digital photography

"Detroit-Michigan Central Terminal" by Katherine Morrison

December 2007
Digital photography

"Detroit-Downtown" by Katherine Morrison
December 2007
Digital photography

I'm an Artist, but I Don't Wear Berets

I'm starting a new thaaang. In the wake of recent comedic writing block, I've decided to show some of my other meager talent: art. My art is not about cheeseburgers, but nor is it about taking things lightly. Mind you, you will see no nooses or wilted roses here; I prefer to produce quiet and intriguing pieces (I hope). I used to do more ravaged, "gross" art (as my mom would put it-and she has a very mature appreciation of art, so that gives you an idea of the gross-factor in which I indulged-rotting skin, bloodshot eyes, etc. etc.), but I've matured and I've gotten more reserved and I think more aesthetically pleasing with my artistic decisions. So as well as my...err, quirky essays, I'm including my art (also quirky) as well. I'll try to post a piece a day.





SO, here's the first piece I'll include.

"Detroit-Mexicantown" by Katherine Morrison

December 13, 2007

Digital photograph

Let's Take This Outside

I recently came across my sophomore year yearbook photo.

LOOK at that! I look like I just single handedly brought down the Death Star all to the soundtrack of "Stronger" by Kanye West (the death metal version)(no there isn't one...but there should be).

Is This Really Necessary?

What part of our evolutionary history has determined that we have to get chapped lips?

No Insomnia for Old Men

I know I haven't posted in a while (weep, my servants), but there is a valid reason: I've been sleeping. It has become all too apparant that I am waist-deep in an addiction to sleep. I don't think there is much of a deep psychological reason for it (I could be wrong, but if there is one I wouldn't broadcast over the entire interweb. I have some decency.); rather, I'm just really lazy and sleeping is genuinely fun.

The best part about it all is the whole ritual of it. It gives me a warm, cozy feeling. Kind of like when I'm eating a corndog, or petting a cat. It's calming and gives me a sense of normalcy. The first part of the ritual is to put on pajamas. I'm kind of a pajama freak. When I was a kid and I'd go to the mall with my mom, I'd beg every time we were at Kohl's (we Morrison/Gabins are a classy bunch) to get me cool pajamas. But my mother, being the Mussolini dictator of shopping, would almost ALWAYS say no. Except once I got these blue lepoard print cotton PJ pants that I still wear today. But through the years I've accumulated two giant bins of pajama pants and shirts. Actually, most of the shirts are wildlife teeshirts my parents would get me from the zoo or school catalogs. The one I'm wearing right now has an intense tiger peering through the grass and the phrase "EYE ON SURVIVAL" sprawled across at the bottom in a pseudo-African font.

So ANYWAY, I love selecting my pajamas. Then I get in bed and get on my laptop and mindlessly surf through emo kid Myspaces and Perez Hilton entries. This really kind of gets my mind ready for sleep, because whatever dreams I have, they have to be more interesting than Amy Winehouse's latest 4 AM shirtless, drug-addled rampage through London.

So after that I go to sleep. And my requirements for sleep are pretty ridgid. I HAVE to wear earplugs. I absolutely cannot sleep without them. I started wearing them when my older brother still lived at home and I had to listen to him and his friends discussing the philosophies of time's paradigm of protracted space (or whatever) and Bob Marley pulsing across the hallway into my room at all hours of the night. Since then, it's become a habit. I also cocoon myself into my blankets, and then as I'm going to sleep I try to think of names for every letter of the alphabet for guys and girls, 2 syllable words that start with "W", etc. etc. It's always good to make sure I'm not suffering from early onset Alzheimer's as I'm drifting off into sleep (it's probably not a good sign that it took me about 10 minutes and Google's assistance to figure out how to spell "Alzheimer's").

And then, for hours upon hours (I can snooze for 12 hours at a time), I'm utterly content. Unless I'm having a dream that Javier Bardem from No Country for Old Men is trying to kill me. But that's another story.

Sometimes, I Wonder...Pt.1.

How did Carrie Bradshaw (from Sex and the City) afford all those designer clothes if all she did was write a newspaper column?

SpRINg BREaK '08!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!1 WOOoOOOooOO!

Actually, my spring break hasn't lived up to what the title of this would entail. I've really been on break since December when I graduated, so Spring Break hasn't been a blip on my nap and PB&J-soaked radar. But looking at my classmates' ToTaLLie WILD spring break pictures on Facebook has got me thinking: am I a loser?

More and more, I'm starting to think that the signs pointing toward the affirmative are really visible. For one, I'm not very social at all. My mom would point out that indeed I am a social butterfly because I have wonderful conversing skills and I obsess about social situations (social situations=boy situations for the most part). But really, I'm nothing like my peers. I don't get invited to parties (and even if I was invited, I probably wouldn't go unless Lindsay Lohan was there...LOVE HER), I've only been to Florida once and it sucked, I don't go to the mall with my girlfriends, and I only have 20 contacts on my cellphone. If I went to Florida for spring break, I'd be the awkward pasty Twinkie-looking thing on the outskirts of the conversation.

Another big factor: I wear sweatpants, like, all the time.

I can't really think of any other huge pointers towards loser-dom right now, acually. My obsession with buffets borderline it...but I guess writing this has kind of made me realize that just because my Spring Break wasn't KILLER DUDE, I'm still pretty fierce.

Which kind of makes this whole blog worthless.

Moral of the story: Go to rehab, become more famous. Right?

Dude, I am so buzzed right now.

Kat Von D Ain't Got Nuttin' On Me.

Well, I didn't die. It didn't even hurt that badly-the worst part was the next day when my muscles cramped and I could barely move. I would attempt to be funnier and more in detail right now, but I really "need" a nap. Oh, and I love my tattoo. Lovelovelove it. Get your tattoos done at Tattooed Heart in Lafayette, IN. The people there are swell. If you get a tattoo of flying cats, they might encourage you to get one of the cats to hold an M-16. You might want to decline this offer.

I survived. Also, I seem to have grown coconuts for ankle bones.

In response to my parents' slight shock at its large size, I must say: I go for gusto.

Why yes, those are indeed Hello Kitty pajamas.

The redness and darkness will fade as it heals.

I'm a Fool.

Today is going to be fantastic. And by fantastic, I mean horrible. Well, once 7 PM rolls around, I will be in absolute bliss. But from 4 PM-7 PM, I will be horrified, crying, gritting my teeth, rolling around in the pits of hell, etc.

Why?

I'm getting a tattoo.

Oh, not just any tattoo. I decided it would be an extremely reasonable idea for my first tattoo to take 3 hours.

THREE HOURS.

The tattoo itself is going to be great. It's an illustration from Catwings, a book I loved as a child. I will have 4 cats (with wings) flying down the side of my calf. For the rest of my life. As we all know, cats are better than people, and as all my friends know, I am a crazy cat lady. I have 4 cats and they mean everything to me, so I'm actually very excited to honor them in a tattoo. The end result will be absolutely amazing.

Oh, that? I'm just putting my calf in his mouth for a while, don't worry.

But, I have no pain tolerance. Last summer when I got 5 stitches on my thumb as a result of a work accident, I literally bit my dad's hand as an expression of my excruciating horror. When I crushed my finger last summer as a result of another work accident (apparantly I work in a coal mine), I had to lie around and watch action movies while weeping and eating ice cream for a day. And now I am willingly submitting myself to a 8 foot metal knife machine (really) for three hours. At least my best friends and my boyfriend are coming with me. So they can laugh at me, I guess.


If I don't die, I will post pictures of the glory tomorrow.

Sylvia Plath Punched Me in the Brain

I can't write anymore.


Ever since I started rereading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, I've fallen into some sort of haze that consists of staying in bed for as long as possible, eating Spagettio's, and filling out Myspace surveys. A pretty pathetic existance. I'm used to writing intricate poems and essays all the time, but lately the most creative I've gotten with words is by sending text messages to my best friend about Project Runway.

So what gives?

Well, I'm not Sylvia Plath, for one. All other writers' work inspires me to write, but for some reason Sylvia Plath's work makes me want to curl up under a rock. And I suppose that is a sign of a really powerful writer, that she can transport the reader to her personal hell. What am I gonna do, transport my best friend into the mindset of Heidi Klum as she judges a haute couture trench coat? Through text messages? Nobody could ever convey an emotion as convincingly as Sylvia Plath. And so I guess I am trying to rid myself of emotions through bland, mind-numbing activities so that I never have to compete with her ghost.

Christian Siriano from Project Runway: The source of my poetic inspiration

Which is ridiculous, really. There are plenty of good writers that aren't, well, insane. And I've written plenty of good poems that weren't drenched in emotion or psychosis. But for now, I'll stick to my Myspace bulletins and silly blogs. Because, well...I'm lazy.

Rest In Peace, Chicken Wings Dipped in Sweet Potato Casserole...

Another fond remnant of my childhood is gone. Ryan's Steakhouse in Lafayette has shut down. I don't know what it says about my childhood that it was partly defined by a dimly-lit buffet, but I am really mourning over this Paradise Lost. You see, Ryan's was like Britney Spears, if Britney Spears was covered in dark chocolate fudge. It's fascinating in a totally sick way, chaotic, trashy, and absolutely delicious. I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but one time my brother got a plate full of butter and dived in thinking it was mashed potatos.

So in honor of Ryan's passing, I'm going on a hunger strike.

Kidding!

Tomorrow is my 18th birthday, and I'm going to pound down some General Tso's chicken from a Ryan's-level-of-seediness Chinese place like there's no tomorrow, and wash it down with a cute ice cream cake. Ah, gluttony has always been my favorite sin.

Oh, how I will miss thee

Ci Ci's Pizza: I Hate That I Love You

Buffets shouldn't make me as excited as they do. But, seeing as they combine awesome people watching and Food (with a capital "F" because buffet food is so glorious), I just can't swerve away from the comforting, warm glow of neon signs boasting a $9.00 all-you-can-eat meal. Undoubtably, the best buffet is Ryan's Steakhouse-their warm tortillas with luxurious nacho cheese make me weep. And one time my brother got a huge heap of butter and dived in, thinking it was mashed potatos--that's how excited and dopey you can get there.



But in terms of people watching, Ci Ci's Pizza is a shining beacon of wonder. If you've never been to a Ci Ci's, here's what it pretty much is: imagine a Roman vomitorium, filled with orb-like figures of humans waddling about in pure bliss, basking in the aromas and tastes of all you can eat pizza, pasta, salad, and dessert for $4.99. FOUR DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS. And you can request (shall I say, demand?) ANY pizza you want-macaroni and cheese, popcorn, bobcat-anything. The food isn't THAT spectacular, but the sheer amount of everyone's go-to-fat-kid-meal (pizza) is.

Ci'Ci's Pizza: The pinnacle of human civilization

But the last time that I visited this tasty carnival, I was disappointed.


My boyfriend (the one who introduced me to Ci Ci's-the old manager there knows him by name) and I went there on a whim last Friday, even though we're supposed to be dieting together ("It's Friday," I reasoned to my thighs). When we walked in I immediately got a pit-of-terror-feeling in my stomach. There he was. Sitting and smiling, holding a bright green weiner dog in his hand-the balloon guy was there. Nights with the balloon guy are always rough. Balloons=kids, and kids=screaming, crying, running, and spilling sizzling marinara all over my legs. But I soldiered on to the salad section of the buffet, while my boyfriend skipped (literally, I'm guessing) straight for the pizza.


When I finished my vegan wonder of iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, and bacon bits, I heard a worker yell that bar-b-q pizza was out on the buffet. Ci Ci's bar-b-q pizza makes me want to die because when I eat it, I know nothing in life will ever reach that level of awesomeness. Unfortunately, about half of the buffet beasts also feel that way. So I ran up to get the last two pieces. My mouth watered as I neared the buffet, patiently waiting in line, eyes widened. And right when I'm about to reach for it, woosh-two little scavanger kids run up and take the last two pieces. Before I got a chance to strike down my mighty fist of anger onto their little toadheads, they were off-like bandits in the night! I walked back to our table in a daze of weariness and gloom, and mournfully ate my spinach pizza.

But my sad tale shouldn't sway your decision to visit Ci Ci's. Because, could a buffet get more awesome than this?: It's across the hallway from International Sports Center. You can eat 87 pieces of pizza while staring at people on elliptical machines. And, really, that's all that probably matters in this life or any other one.

Damn You, Meg White.

Heroes are for suckers.

Or at least that's what one of my own heroes, gonzo music journalist Lester Bangs, once said. After my own personal savior and hero, Jack White (of the White Stripes), ruined all of my hopes and dreams (slight exaggeration) this past fall, I can see where Lester is coming from. Kind of. My irritated, brazen, beligerant side can anyway.

So what happened to make me turn my back for nearly two weeks on the pinnacle of genius of modern music that is Jack White?

His bandmate and big sister Meg broke the myth.

You see, the White Stripes are all about screen porches, lemonade, broken guitars, and old record players. At least in my pathetic fantasy they are. They are immune to these scary modern times of "invisible music" as Jack puts it (mp3s and the age of the download), Britney Spears meltdowns, and T-Mobile Sidekicks. Their music creates a cocoon of childlike wonderment and old-man wisdom. They truely are timeless. But during their tour to promote Icky Thump this year, Meg started to have panic attacks so severe that she couldn't travel. Panic brought on by the hecticness of jet planes and press releases (and maybe drugs, who knows). She broke that old world persona of the White Stripes. And she broke my dreams of going to an open admission White Stripes show in Chicago, being right up at the front, and being asked to sing "St. James Infirmary" with her and Jack, and then obviously being whisked away to their old time 1800s cottage in Nashville where I would hang out with Loretta Lynn and become a taxidermist. Because THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED if Meg hadn't gotten afraid of planes or whatever.

After I saw the news in a White Stripes bulletin on Myspace (the irony is killing me), I wept. And I couldn't listen to them for two weeks. Which is an un-Godly amount of time for me. I listen to them daily, and all of a sudden I couldn't hear a cut from their new record without slamming a fist through a wall. I still can't listen to their live concert stuff out of grief of not seeing them this fall (I've seen them twice before but I just KNEW this would be the concert where Jack would let me join the band).

Thinking about it, I realize it isn't Jack's fault. He didn't cancel the tour. I'm sure he would think I was the most beautiful little snowflake if I did get to see them. And in my mind he's always represented "the White Stripes myth" better than Meg anyways. So I've gone on to surely disappoint Lester Bangs and hero-ize the White Stripes. But it still kind of ruined my life.