Monday, April 30, 2007

Monday Morning Dance Party: "Make your own scrapbook" edition

Back by popular demand, it's the triumphant return of MMDP! And who better to kick it off than our fearless leader, seen in action here fighting the scourge of malaria with his bare hands and a drum. Those evil-doing mosquitoes don’t stand a chance. That’s the power of a dance party.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Where the hell is my ticker-tape parade?

Last night was kind of a big deal for me: I finished the last of a medium size container of fat-free sour cream. Huzzahs all around. Not all in one sitting, though I suppose that would have made me even more impressed with myself. No, the celebration here is that I powered through a single kind of food before it got moldy.

That’s the bad thing about grocery shopping for one: You have to commit to eating enough of one kind of food before it goes bad. Am I in the mood for a dozen eggs? Can I commit to a container of milk? The economical size yogurt tub? A bag of apples might work out to be cheaper per apple than picking up just a few. But it’s not wise. Or healthy.

Sour cream and I didn’t get off on the best foot, what with it having that “sour” misnomer. (It’s like the Greenland of food!) I gazed at it warily on many a taco night at Casa de Little Kate. But I’ve become a convert in recent years. Eating dry baked potatoes is no way to live your life.

I’ve yet to beat the mold spore clock with a loaf of bread. I’m ok until about two-thirds into the loaf, and I hit the wall. I don’t want toast, French toast, a sandwich of any form or egg in a hole. And I refuse to buy the short-bus loaves that they pawn off to shopper-for-ones. Hell no. I’ll go feed bread to ducks before that happens.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Bonus “I love New York” debauchery

I really can’t believe I forgot to mention this part yesterday. One of the finalists for New York’s heart was sent to get cleaned up at a salon. They waxed his eyebrows, or as he called them, his unibreezy.

There’s nothing you can’t thug out! Excess facial hair gets the Snoop treatment now, a mere 3 years after the D-o-double-gizzle stopped with his patented suffix treatment.

I don’t care though, it’s still the best sentence I’ve ever heard. Seriously, if I were on Pee Wee’s Playhouse, this would be my word of the day. As it is, I’m considering changing my IM name and email password. I’m definitely working it into my life as much as possible.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Flavor of perfection

My favorite word in the English language—next to “alacrity” (obviously!)—is “begat.” It’s more of a honking noise than a word, made doubly fun by the fact that the only time I heard it was as a kid in that Holy Week reading about Ezekiel begatting Shlomo et al. Apparently in biblical days there was begatting going on all over town, because it’s “begat” like 38 times, followed by the silliest names you’ve ever heard. Followed by Cadbury Eggs. Easter is truly magical.

Oh but there’s a new sheriff in town, a new messiah if you will: Flavor Flav.

The Surreal Life begatted Strange Love, which begatted two seasons of Flavor of Love, which begatted I Love New York, which I think we all agree is the best, most debaucherous half hour on TV today.

Fact: Jesus associated with untouchables and prostitutes.
Fact: Flav hangs with New York.

Fact: Jesus had many enemies.
Fact: Flav had Public Enemy.

Fact: Jesus carried a heavy cross.
Fact: Flav carries a heavy clock.

Fact: Jesus preached that the greatest gift of all is love.
Fact: Flav gave us the greatest gift of all: Flavor of Love.

Fact: Vying for Jesus’ attention caused Mary Magdalene and someone else. (Martha? I forgot my Bible today, oddly enough) to argue.
Fact: Vying for Flav’s attention caused otherwise reputable young women to hock loogies, thrown stilettos and pull out each other’s weaves.

I could go on, but I think you get the picture. And while Jesus might have had Jehosiphat and Jebiddiah, the Bible is far from a lock on winning the having-people-with-funny-names battle. In fact, Jesus was sorely—and mysteriously—lacking in the “hanging out with people named Deelishis and Hoopz” department.

I watched the I Love New York reunion show last night at the gym, and it is awesome. Imagine a woman, or “woman” as the case may be (I remain unconvinced, VH1. Why? See right. That's why.) who was raised in some sort of highway toll booth, sustained on only sass, push-up bras and toxic levels of eyeshadow. At the age of 24 (yes, she claims to be 24) she was let out of her booth long enough to attempt to mate with several young men who have facial hair that says “I’m not now—nor in the foreseeable future will I be—gainfully employed.” Also there’s a random accountant from Boston who wandered in. He literally got knocked out in on earlier show, which got him kicked off. New York needs a fighter in case she runs out of shoes to hurl in the club. Bitch is hardcore

The woman who unleashed New York on the world goes by the name Sister Patterson, presumably to avoid being associated with her daughter. Clearly, though, she’d schooled her youngster in the ways of Disco Ball Eyelids. (Trademarked)

There was a dispute from a gentleman caller about how genuine her faith was, questioning if it was just for the cameras. (A legit question, given her daughter’s general demeanor and STD to IQ ratio. Then they cut to a clip of Sister Patterson praising Jesus like she was at a revival. Case closed. “I will praise him wherever and whenever I want to!” she bellowed, missing the Jesus forest for the trees.

Next up were two meatheads who rode the crest of their fame to start some knockoff Chippendales company. They are suspiciously like the Dog Brothers from that MTV show “Sex in the ’90s.” (Please, MTV and Viacom, if you never do anything else for me, find out what the Dog Brothers and their sin bin are up to now. It’ll make up for “Date my Mom.”) I don’t need to tell you their dancing involved a Greek flag.

Then! They played a clip where the Greek guy said he’d feed his Mom and Ya-ya before New York in some sort of imagined buffet scenario. Unacceptable to Sister Patterson. Then they played a clip of Mom and 80-year-old Ya-ya smoking and saying how they’d kick New York’s ass because their son/grandson was much classier than her.

Then two of the guys, Chance and I forget, so I’m calling him Herpes Simplex discovered they were both from Florida. This is an unacceptable fact in this parallel universe so they were going to get in a fight about it. Here’s my re-creation of the events as they unfolded:

Chance: He know he ain’t be from there. He don’t rep Florida.
Herpes Simplex: I’m what’s really hood. Know how we solve this in Florida?
(Chance begins to take off his glittery sweatshirt, and Herpes Simplex knows this is the international sign for a fight.)
Herpes Simplex: You don’t want none! Go on, hit me.
Chance, however, comes to his senses and puts his clothes back on.

He realizes he’s won the fight of a lifetime: The love of a “woman” called New York.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Pick me, choose me, love me

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Think of me as that little boy with cancer who needed 10,000 get-well cards to be cured.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I'm the white devil, or: Why I can never go back to the 51st street stop

When I was but a little Kate, I remember an old white man getting out of his car and screaming at my brother, sister and me for playing with our black friends across the street. It’s something a 26 year old can’t absorb, let alone a five year old.

Our town in North Carolina was almost evenly divided between black and white kids. (I assume this was before Hispanics and Asians were invented). After some initial confusion early on, I discovered I wouldn’t turn black if I colored my hands. When I lived in Iowa, I was confused why my class’ entire black population was named Marcus Hester.

Race relations continued rather swimmingly through high school, where I happily studied with, befriended and played soccer with whoever was around. Vakessha and I were going to get rich off our “expanded skin tones” line of Band-Aids.

I’ve learned about the many uses for a peanut and the miracle of the cotton gin, appreciate rap and wholeheartedly apologize for slavery.

In short, I’m the white devil.

It’s been a big week for race relations, what with Don “nappy headed ho” Imus, and the racially charged Duke lacrosse case coming to a close with the charges being dropped. For me personally, the highlight was having “fucking white bitch” screamed in my face for about 20 minutes on the subway platform.

I blame myself. I’d been home for a few days, where people are friendly. The biggest challenge I’d faced was fending off the onslaught of food from my mom. (She would be in her optimum state of happiness shoveling potatoes into our open mouths the entire time.)

So after work yesterday, when I couldn’t find my MetroCard and a pleasant voice calls out “I got you miss” and swiped me through (as people do for each other from time to time) I said thanks and gave him a wave.

“That’ll be $2.”
“I don’t have $2, that’s why I was going to the machine with my debit card.”

I went back through the turnstile up to the booth, and he followed me, yelling about what a spiteful white thief I was, how I stole $2 from him just like I stole this country. It will shock you to know the MTA guy who sold me my ticket watched this man scream at me and just brushed him off with, “You can’t sell swipes here.”

Again I go through the turnstile, assuming my new friend will want to stay at his post and let the matter die down.

He followed me, yelling in my face, less than a foot away. Flipping me off. Shaking his fists. Yelling racial slurs worse than any I could imagine. After my initial protests that I never owned slaves, you’re breaking the law and you didn’t lose money because you have an unlimited MetroCard I did something unusual and just shut up. He kept yelling, like an underground drill sergeant, and I stood there and took it, trying to figure out how to avoid the third rail when he inevitably pushed me onto the tracks.

People around me were looking concerned, no doubt trying to figure out why—and more importantly how—I’d personally enslaved and stolen from this man.

Then the train came, and he got on with me, still shouting in my face. I was impressed to no end how the young business guys around me handled the matter. There wasn’t a big confrontational, “Stay away from the lady or I’ll punch you” show of machismo. One guy took my elbow when the subway doors opened and put himself between me and the guy, then two other guys stood between us too, so there was a barrier around me that Angry Guy could continue to shout through.

I don’t know what made him decide to get off a few stops later, but thank God he did, because I had no plan of action. Start to finish it was about 20 minutes of unhinged screaming in my face. And I didn’t cry until he got off. Then I went to the gym and called the police.

P.S. This is the second time in as many months that I've been called a "Fucking white bitch." The other time was a guy collecting for that bogus homeless charity with the water bottles. Apparently he was new, because the guy training him had to point out "No, no, we don't say that to people." I think this officially upgrades being racially harassed to "On a fairly regular basis."

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Stupid liberal media

At some point gave up on reporting human news and became Cute Animals Doing Unlikely Things site. When I become an elderly shut-in, this will be the source for all my pet updates. You heard me

I’ll click on a few times a day to be greeted with this delightful vision of sound news judgment:

Be with you in a minute, tsunami-ravaged villagers!

But since dogs can’t be saving their choking owners all day every day, CNN sometimes does people news too. Especially if it's literally within their building.

I'm assuming that's why we're going into day two of Breaking News! about a run-of-the-mill shooting in the CNN complex. Sometimes you gotta bring the news to the journalists. They also like free food. Just sayin.

But! I'm nothing if not one to see the positive in this tragedy. Rarely does a silver lining contain the word “Pimpin”:

Aaaawwww yeeeeah.

I think the killer actually came out looking better than this writer/witness. Note to self: Never ask a journalist for a quote. It will come out sounding like this:

After years of seeking quotes from others, Brad, you knew just how to phrase the emotion and drama of the situation without actually sounding like how a real human being would speak.

Well played.