Mock trial with J. Reinhold

Never have I been a soap opera gal. I knew girls in high school and college who recorded the antics of Lucky and Stone and Alexa. Ridiculous plots aside, I could never get past the high school AV club production quality and the accompanying commercials for Depends and funeral insurance. Much like my theory of the Essence Sentence, soap operas were summed up for me on a forced viewing of one of those shows (Does it matter which one, really?) when some girl said, “This happens every time he gets kidnapped.” Every time? EVERY TIME? Your kidnappings are so routine that people see patterns in events? (My Essence Sentence for R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”? “The midget faints again.” You’re the master, Kels.)

This all poses a problem for someone who’s got a summer vacation and no cable. I realize that every time I leave the house, money seems to leak out of my hand, so I try to stay in and write until I’m close to losing my mind. Then I go get coffee.

My solution: courtroom dramas. There’s Judge Joe Brown, Judge, Greg Mathis, Judge Maria Lopez and Judge Alex. (He’s like the cool guidance councilor of the group, ‘cause we get to call him by his first name.)

Like the cast of The Real World, each judge gives an intro with their hook. Judge Maria Lopez came from Cuba, her intro tells us. (Of course she did.) She is the American Dream! Judge Alex is all about family, Judge Joe Brown got a second chance after a scallywag childhood. That imp!

Now they fight for justice. Who you gonna call when your neighbor cuts down your tree, your friend loses your begle or your sibling won't pay you rent?

A typical case:

On Maria Lopez, it’s sister v. sister. Sister A, Lakisha, is 32 and bad with money, so she gave her 19-year-old sister Quinesha, her $1,800 income-tax refund to hold. Quinesha doesn’t remember her getting the money (“I gotta be focused. You gotta get my attention, especially about money. Anyone in my family know that.”) Except that she later says she does remember getting the money when she finds $100 bills swirling around the dryer.

Pete, the bailiff, cracks wise that it gives money laundering a whole new meaning and Judge Maria Lopez has to put her head down on her judge desk because she’s laughing so hard. The plaintiff and defendant smile politely, because they have no clue what’s going on.

On with the show.

Quinesha says she thought the $100s were different than the wad o’ cash her sister had handed her a few days before, so she assumed this was money of her own she had misplaced. She went shopping with a third sister.

Being a legal eagle, Judge Maria Lopez sees through the story and rules for Lakisha.

Meanwhile, next door, Judge Christina has upped the ante by kicking someone out of her courtroom. Bad ass!

She deals with a case about a wrestler who left his drum set with a fellow wrestler for a year and got pissed that the friend got rid of it.

Judge Christina is different because at the end, instead of hearing from the plaintiff and defendant, we hear from Christina. It’s like Jerry Springer’s heartfelt message/trying to find meaning in the crazy universe he created. At the end of the wresting case, Christina tells us, “It’s ridiculous. They get all dressed up in the costumes, but they’re not real wrestlers. It’s theater.”

I think – I think – there might be a metaphor here, but I’ll be damned if I can find it.

Where's my endorsement deal, Nike?

I ran 3.1 miles today. To a “real runner” or someone “in shape” that doesn’t sound like much, especially at my woeful pace, but I hadn’t run in about two years, so I’m feeling pretty high on life.

While doing my little treadmill 5K, I realized that it’s exactly one year to the Olympics, which means I really should get training if I’m going to make the team (WHICH I AM!)

Since I forget to train for the marathon every year, I knew I'd have to plan ahead for something as big as the Olympics. So I’ve come up with a simple straegy: If I double my running every day for the next year, I should be in decent shape for Beijing.

I’ve got the following things standing in my way though:

1. I’m not really fond of people watching me run. Sidebar: A few years ago, when visiting my aunt and uncle, I headed out for my usual nighttime run under the cover of darkness. (I was also wearing all black. Should I not do that?) My uncle was a little worried about me going by myself and we went back and forth about me taking my cousin Will with me. I told him I don’t like people watching me run and he finally burst out laughing and said, “Kate, he’s an 11-year-old asthmatic. I think you’ll be ok.” But you know what? Will is 17 and training for the New York Marathon, so who’s laughing now?

2. Ditto my un-fondness for short shorts. They look revealing and, uh, chafe-y. I think I have a solution though. I’m just going to ask everyone in the stadium to turn their backs during my races and NBC to cut their feed. Then I’ll put on my baggy sweats, hop on my Segway and cruise to glory. Simple. Easy as pie. Which brings up problem #3…

3. I like sugar. And loafing.

4. It’s kind of hot outside.

5. I don’t want to have bionic titanium knees when I’m 38.

Other than that though, glory is mine. I've got my Wheaties box smile ready to go and I'm willing to sign my name to any and every product put in front of me. After that I'll decimate a former boy bander on “Dancing with the Stars.” It’s gonna be great.

You can stand under my umbrella, dawg

Part one of last week was the funeral, but for part two I became a DANCE MACHINE at my cousin's wedding. (No, no, not the reception, I do mean the actual wedding. Ass.)

It started with a warmup a week before at my friend's boyfriend's birthday when I found the magic elixer drink combo that made my feet fly and my arms flail rhythymically. Part of the glory goes to the DJ who was like my own personal dream iPod: MC Hammer? T.I.? Journey? Bollywood tunes? All of the above!

That night and the wedding were just what I needed to get my self-esteem back on track after the hip hop class I took. It may or may not be related to my abilities that the co-worker who invited me never made eye contact with me again.

But this weekend, I was a superstar. Dancing with members of your immediate family will have that effect on you. After that it got a little blurry. But there was also some talk of starting a band called "I suck? You suck!" Get your T-shirts now before they sell out.

With my dance confidence at an all-time high, I returned to New York only to have my bubble burst.

The girl next to me at Starbucks just shoutbragged (and if you're going to brag, shoutbrag) that she got paid $20,000 to create a dance for some commercial. And again I'm regretting not selling my now legendary infamous "Umbrella" dance. (I don't give away the milk for free, but let's just say it involves waving your curved arm rapidly over your partner's head. It's pretty fly.)

When I say Isabel, you say Attracta!

Were you ever the kid who tried to do your book report without reading the book? Now imagine you’re a priest and you’re asked to speak at the funeral of a woman you’d only met a few times. Same result. Lots of stuttering, few relevant details.

Yes, my grandmother’s funeral was hilarious. Thank you for asking.

In addition to dying just a week before my cousin’s wedding, apparently she also died on or near the feast day for some St. Attracta, which the priest found somehow amazing. Any time you start a speech with “Isabel would have loved to have died this week” because you don’t know it’s week of her grandson’s wedding, you’re bound to have near riot conditions on your hands.

At no point did he tell us why Gram would have loved St. Attracta, but he was so certain he saw a parallel with them that I was sure I’d missed a family joke somewhere.

Before it just devolved into him just jibbering away, he certainly hammered out the semantics of their respective names.

Here’s the highlight:

“So you have Isabel. Let’s break that down: Isabel Is. A. Belle. If we look at the translation, then we see: Is. A. Beauty. Add that to St. Attracta’s feast day and we have a beauty who is attractive.” (At this point my brother leans over and whispers to me, “Is he hitting on her? That’s my grandmother, you sick son of a bitch.”)

It went on like this for some time, with the priest just going back and forth repeating “Isabel, Attracta, Isabel, Attracta” in front of dumbfounded mourners.

My uncle later said he was worried the next step was for him to command the right side to shout “Isabel!” and the right side shout “Attracta!”

Having gotten that out of his system, he retired to his seat on the altar to let us all contemplate the wisdom of God.

Haiku contest!

There's a major prize for the person who turns this Match come-on into the best haiku:

Hello! I am off this week, a long deserved vacation,
but... i will be local up and about. How about coffee in
Newyork city - with you. Take apick, some restaurant you
love, give me the address, date and time this week and
lets meet.

Ambitious? you are too, so lets see what happens, like
they say, its "just coffee"

A stream-of-consciousness remembering of my grandmom

My mom’s mom died last night at 12:01, one minute after my dad's birthday ended.

At 87, she’d had a front-row seat for a staggering amount of the 20th century. She grew up in Milford, Massachusetts and years of living in New York and Florida could not make her put an “r” in the proper place. My brother once asked her what her least favorite food was, and she thought for a moment and said, “Well, I was never paahhtial to paaahhsnips.”

Her parents ran a bar during Prohibition and they’d smuggle alcohol in her and her four brothers’ backpacks. (The statutes of limitations have passed on those charges, right?) They called the bar, The Office, so if you were there you could call and tell your wife you were still at the office.

Even just a few years ago, she’d tell us stories of her childhood in a frightening amount of detail. She’d share a story about a college football game, and tell us what the score was, or when her town had their big anniversary in 1920-something, and she demonstrated the song and flag routine she did.

She almost didn’t go on a second date with my grandfather because they were the same height. They had their wedding announcement in the New York Times, which I always wanted to go back and find.

While my grandfather was at war, she lived in Manhattan, right across the street from Grand Central. Rent: $60 a month. She said she'd run across the street in her robe and slippers for the newspaper. She was so excited when I moved to New York, saying she’d get to live it all again through me.

She and my grandfather raised 10 kids on Long Island after he got home from the war, living out the American dream in a big white house on the water. It's a home for autistic kids now.

We went back to visit it after my grandfather's funeral in 1998, and my uncle, who was one of the younger kids and felt perennially overlooked. He was so excited to be back as an adult to share it with his kids and nieces and nephews. However, the entire trip went thusly:

We go to visit their old neighbors, and the little old lady greets him with a huge smile.
Old lady: Dermot!
Uncle: No, it’s Liam.
Old lady: Oh, I thought you were your brother. Want to come in anyway?

She then proceeded to give all of us teenagers children’s books to read, with the admonishment to wash our hands first.

Here’s the tour we got of the town:

Uncle: I used to buy candy at this gas station up here! (Turn corner, no gas station) What? Oh come on!

Uncle: We’re coming up to this stone wall I used to walk on coming home from school.
(Pause as we turn corner) How can they remove a whole wall?

The trip reached its sad but somewhat inevitable conclusion when we turned the corner to see his old room and discovered that the room literally ceased to exist – the wall had been taken out and the door was plastered over.

When my grandfather retired, they obeyed New York state laws and migrated to Florida, like good grandparents do. She did some sort of Catholic ministry work with single moms in jail, which led to lots of hilarity along the lines of “Grandmom’s in jail again.” Those were happier times.

We played board games with her once, although she never quite embraced the concept of “teams” and would just shout out the answers she knew, so we switched to Scattergories, where you have to write your answers. (There’s an assigned letter and everyone has to write a word starting with that letter in a category.) This lasted only as long as “Four letter word starting with T” when she got distracted, apparently thinking of other four-letter words she knew. And wrote “Fuck.” What more do you want in a grandmother?

Since I was 2, whenever we’d sign off on the phone, she and I would end with “Amen sister.” I don’t know where it came from, but we did it for almost 25 years and it was something just the two of us did.

There are already three girls in our family who have Isabel in their name, and I’m sure there will be many more to come.

She was a good lady.

Who needs the Kwik-E-Mart? I dooooooo…

For me, this summer has been a long slog of movies I don’t care about. (Except “Knocked Up”! Call me Seth Rogan!) I’ve been all “Capt. Jack what? Harry Potter and the Yawns of Yawnington?” Vomity voms.

Ho boy, is that coming to an end on the 27th with the Simpsons movie. Anything could happen! I might camp out, I might dress up. I might skip my cousin’s wedding. (I have a feeling he’ll be ok with it.)

You do not need any examples of how great this movie will be. It will change lives and be required viewing for our children’s children. But just in case you had doubts that these guys were geniuses, listen up. Leading up to this delight, they have turned the 7-11 in Times Square into a Kwik-E-Mart.

I talked friends into going down there with me by singing the Kwik-E-Mart song at dinner. (“Who needs the Kwik-E-Mart. Let’s hurl a brick-e mart. The Kwik-E-Mart is real…d’oh!”) I think they agreed to go just to shut me up. Whatever. I got my way.

Reality and cartoon perfection converged on 42rd between 8th and 9th. They pasted a Kwik-E-Mart sign over the 7-11, had giant Simpsons characters and sold Buzz Cola and Krusty Os (happy birthday, Kevin.)

There was only one small stumbling block/dose of reality/unfortunately quasi-racist moment when the real shopkeeper’s license was posted in the window with his 18-syllable Indian name and someone was like “Oh my God, that must be Apu’s real name!”

Oh, and we also got Squishies. I truly was like when Bart and Milhouse tripped out on them.

The only way to explain my behavior was that I went into a trance. Leaping with a nimbleness I didn’t know I possessed, having my picture taken with Homer and Chief Wiggum.

I also don’t think my friends would have gone if they knew I had a camera with me.

Screw you, J.J. Abrams

Pretend it's like three years ago as I ask you this: Have you seen this show called Lost? Dear God.

I've actually intentionally been avoiding it, because I knew this would happen. I knew I would get way too hooked for my own good, and the good of those around me.

Like my dear friend Taylor—whose wife banned all Halloween candy from their house after he made himself sick—I have what you might call "an addictive personality."

This happened with the legendary Law & Order SVU binge of '04, and some say I've never been the same since. I watched all of Lost season 1 (seven discs!) in about three days. I have binged, my friends, and I regret nothing.

This is the kind of show where it's 3 a.m., you're groggy and about to turn the TV off, but then a polar bear runs out of the tropical jungle. No mere moral could resist watching the next episode. A polar bear! In the jungle! Someone 'splain me that? Between the bear that will haunt my dreams forever, there's also a hatch that likely goes to hell itself. And this guy Ethan who's so creepy that I'll likely punch on sight the next Ethan I meet.

I will also punch the next polar bear I see, so watch your little back, Knut.

Should I use my power for good or evil?

I was getting off the subway yesterday cursing the little 14-year-old twerp in front of me with his pastel polo's popped collar. Did your date-rapey older brother at Yale teach you that at family weekend? Did you pick that nasty little habit up at the yacht club? Does your cold anorexic mother force you to do that?

And then, mid menal tirade, a miracle on 77th street happened...he FLIPPED HIS COLLAR BACK DOWN!

We have three choices here: 1.) He parted ways with his friends and realized what a young douche he looked like. 2.) It popped up accidentally. 3.) I did it with mind control. Obviously, that's a trick question. Of course I did it with my mind.

The Kateie Awards: Saddest hippo edition

Most embarrassing moment (musical category):
When the first notes of “Under Pressure” came on and for a second I got excited it was Rob Van Winkle’s “Ice Ice Baby.” Second place contender: “I’ll Be Watching You” came on at Starbucks, and I was all jazzed thinking “Man, I haven’t heard this P. Diddy song if forever!” (Pouring some iced coffee out for you, Biggie.)

Most infuriating Barista:
The one at 86th and Lex who refuses to only put just a little ice in my coffee. It’s like she’s an evangelical Wal-Mart pharmacist morally opposed to selling Plan B.

Most excitingly confusing email subject line:
“Re: Birthday medicine.” Clearly, this is an awesome invention, one that is long overdue. Does it make me forget my birthday? Remember other people’s birthdays? Make Sept. 8th generally more awesome? (Like it could possibly get better!) I don't care what it is! I'll take it! Luckily “Krystian Jacobs ” has sent me answers. Sidenote: I can’t be the only person who falls for all these spams, can I? I know in my heart that I know no one named Krystian, but I still open it to double check. Every time.

Saddest hippo:
The one on the side of the Pink Hippo Party knockoff van. It looks like it had Down syndrome.

Most likely my future husband:
The Match guy who sent me an e-mail headlined “I used to live in Queens!” When I wrote back saying “While I’m excited for you about you formerly living in Queens, I’m not sure why you told me.” And he admitted the headline was leftover from him writing to someone else. Ah love.

Mer-maid in heaven, you mean!

A year has hardly been enough time to get over my trauma from last year’s Coney Island Mermaid Parade. Hell, it’s barely been long enough to get the boardwalk smell out of my hair. And yet-like someone who forgets what it feels like to have food poisoning and reaches for the room-temperature clam dip yet again–I’m thinking about going back.

What’s not to love about people who willingly get dressed up like mermaids and take pictures with strangers? Well, a lot actually. It’s like a less bearded Renaissance fair. Or in some cases, more bearded. This is Coney Island after all. Disfunction and daddy issues abound.

The FAQ part of their Web site tipped the balance in favor of going back. So sassy! Makes me want to paint my body aqua, speak some Russian and eat a chilli dog.

To wit:

I'm going to stand in the street in front of the reviewing stand and take pictures because I'm very important and I don't care what anyone says. I might also satnd in the middle of the route and take pictures and hold up the Parade. What do you think about that?

It's a free country and you can do what you want. But if you obstruct the Parade or the view from the reviewing stand, we will bodily remove you. We're running a parade and don't have time to think about your portfolio, your video project or how expensive your camera is. Many of our security guards are poorly paid neighborhood guys who have no problem shoving someone face down onto the pavement when they don't listen. if you're nose, or camera, are broken in the process don't come crying to us when you were standing someplace that you shouldn't have.

Not dead, just not part of the workforce

So there have been some, ah, adjustments in my life lately. Adjustments like "not having a job." That sort of thing. I was considered a temp, even though I'd been there for a year, so the company kicks you out for a few months (exactly how long, nobody can tell me. It involves an algorithm to figure out.) So after a year without vacation, I'm getting a few months off paid for by Uncle Sam.

There are worse things in this world. But I'm a worker bee. I wasn't put on Earth to loaf about and have three-martini lunches in my Juicy velour sweats. I realized within my first day of being away from work that having no job is one of those things that sounds so much better in theory. So far, I've been to the Met, the MoMA, the freakin' U.N. and all up and down this crazy island. Then I got this sexy barking cough, so that's taking up most of my day today.

So far, my goals for my time off are:

Walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Walk the 13-mile length of Manhattan.
Learn to skateboard.
Go to the mysterious land I keep hearing about called "Staten Island."
Finish second screenplay.

To that end, I'm writing this at Starbucks to use their wi-fi, and this older man (I'd later learn he was from Puerto Rico and named Joseph) just cornered me and talked my ear off for about 20 minutes. He was teaching English to this woman, and when their session was up, he apparently just couldn't stop imparting wisdom, so he started teaching me English. I learned all about the value of flashcards, mnemonic devices and was instructed to go to Amazon "right now!" and buy a book called "1,000 English words you need to know."

Sounds pretty awesome, since I'll finally be able to understand this code my friends and family have been speaking in all these years.

All suggestions are welcome about how I can occupy my time between Regis & Kelly, and Oprah.

Kate can't math

The last time I voluntarily did math was 1987 when I was trying to calculate how many more teeth I’d have to lose before I could afford that sweet My Little Pony I had my eye on. (Answer: At a quarter a tooth, I’d have to start knocking teeth out of my sister’s mouth. But she could look at Butterscotch all she wanted while I braided her mane!)

The last time I did math under duress was an unfortunate run-in with an 8 a.m. math class my freshman year of college. I think I was thinking it'd be better to get it out of the way early? Who knows. College was a crazy time!

In short, I don’t think the restaurant is being patronizing when they offer tip amounts in various percentages. I will pretty much accept any number that Chase says is in my account. I’d still count on my fingers if it were socially acceptable.

So it almost pains me that I never came up with any of these math test answers. I mean, seriously. It's like they say that when you go blind your hearing gets better. I think when you're math-tarded this happens:

Well, we know she can do night surveillance

I'm feeling like the New York Post's site might be over promising things here...

It's not such a bad day with Ziggy!

Know how when you’re a temp and you come into work on a Friday and you think you have one more week of work, but then your boss says today is your last day, and then you’re all like “wha…?” and you tell everyone that it’s your last day and your friends go and get you a cupcake, but then your boss checks with HR again and it turns out that next Friday is your last day after all, and you’re like “Do I still eat my cupcake?”

I’m having one of those days. If you can find the Ziggy (or in a pinch Cathy) that addresses my particular issue, I’d be most appreciative.

Family time!

Here’s a fun game. Let’s guess my ethnicity! Here are some clues:

1. I have freckles.
2. I was raised Catholic
3. I don’t get hangovers
4. I have about 47 first cousins

Five of those cousins will be married by the year’s end. (Not to each other. Although maybe to each other. I live far away.)

We have a half day at work today (whee!) which is great, since I have a cousin’s wedding to go to this weekend (yay!) in Dubuque (wtf?) and I’ve yet to buy a gift. Nothing says “you were in my top three favorite cousins growing up” like waiting until the day before leaving to make a housewares purchase.

My problem stems from her not having a registry. I can see where a bride would want to maybe worry about not coming off looking greedy or something, but please future brides, always do a registry. Also, I'd buy something when I get there, but I literally have no idea if there's a mall in Dubuque. I don't mean that is a snotty way either. I just simply don't know.

I’m going to assume (I know, it makes an ass) that someone else will cover your coffeemaker/toaster needs this weekend, Michelle and Michelle’s fiancé whose name is slipping my mind. (We’re a close family, I swear, though you’d never know it by how often we see each other. At my sister’s wedding, someone who hadn’t seen my brother in years asked if he was the groom. I still vomit about that sometimes.)

I’d love to find Michelle something with a horse on it, to remind her that her drawing of horses was so good it made me give up doing any artwork for about a year, which I think is like the third grade equivalent of cutting your ear off. (Seriously though, she made the back legs bendy and everything! So talented.) What are weddings for if not to dig up childhood grudges?

Maybe I could get her a throw pillow with a horse on it and place it in their hotel bed Godfather style. I think that would get me out of the next few family weddings at least. (I kid because I love, any Healys who might get drunkenly told about my blog in the next 48 hours.)

Like Christmas in May

Every once in a while something comes along that truly brightens your life in a way you never expected. A great book, a free cookie, THE US WEEKLY PARIS HILTON COUNTDOWN TO JAIL CLOCK.



I never liked US Weekly much, but this could change everything. Y’all, they mean business, it counts the time down to the second. You only have 11 days left, so visit early and visit often. Gifts like this don't last long.

Meet my new husband.

Thanks Match!

JEALOUS?!?!?!?!?!

Our eyes met across a crowded room. He walked over to me, smiling and
leaned in and whispered:

wuauu you looks like a very funn woman,hard to find in this days believe me.I think you are a kind of person than I were looking for a
long time!!!!.
what`s your name? I`m (name). nice to meet you!!!!

Then he felt comfortable enough with me to share his deepest thoughts
on life and love:

Bored with the same thing over and over? So am I..No games. Just someone who's sincere.Not trying to impress.That's who I am! Who Are
you?

He's knows what he wants in life, a real go-getter, a renaissance man:

I am a bee specialist. But I earn my pay as a car tech. I am alsostudying to become a realtor. I want to learn how to buy houses right
away.

He's a man of complex tastes, and seems oddly prone to randomly
shouting (passionate? Methinks so!):

Has to be funny or have a good sense of hummor. Decisive. My perfect match , HAS TO BE A VERY ROMANTIC PERSON. I love rollercoasters and quiet times. I am flexible and able to blend into anything. I like
people but yet I'm shy. I don't talk a whole lot but, I'm an awesome
listener.

He's literate, but also busy. His reading list:

Newsday, and a menu. I have no time to read. I run and ride bike.

Postcards From Kate: Road to '08. Meet the voters.

Hi there, all you shiny presidential candidates! (And Kucinich)

So you’re a son of a goat hearder, a shrill lady senator, a wee little leprecaun, a Mormon who didn’t make the Olympics a disaster, a former occupant of a Vietnamese jail or a cousin-marrying ex-mayor.

And you’ve looked in the mirror and thought, “I have what it takes to be president.” First off, know that—despite what your second-grade teacher may have told you—you’re probably wrong. Second, it’s slowly dawning on you that you can’t cherry pick who you want to be president of. It won’t just be the people shelling out $1,000 for some chicken and a chance to meet you. It’ll be the everyday people. The ones who rush home to watch “Deal or No Deal” and the ones buying those terrifying KFC “all our menu items in a bowl topped with three kinds of cheese.”

What’s on their minds (besides the theme song to “Three-and-a-Half Men”?) What issues matter to them? Could there be a better way to find out than by reading the local letters to the editor? I think not.

Let’s do this.

We’re going to start with this scathing look at a sheriff named Peanuts. This is a great example in how to not campaign, all under a prepositionally challenged header:

Our sheriff isn't fitting of his office

• (Losing sheriff candidate) would have been the honest sheriff, had it not been for bad voting machines and national Democrat voting. (First name) “Peanuts” (actual nickname) (last name) is as sorry as he can be. Peanuts said I was going to tear down his campaign signs. I told Peanuts I wouldn't touch his signs or tear them down. His signs were nasty looking, the yellow part of his signs showing Peanuts was and is a coward. Peanuts rehired a deputy after he was caught driving under the influence. Peanuts has some bad deputies.

Ok, ok, no nasty-ass yellow signs (I’m looking in your direction, McCain.) Got it. See, learning is fun!

But now, on to more pressing matters. When debate time comes, the questions will fly fast and furiously about immigration, jobs, abortion. Now imagine you’re at your little podium, listening to Hillary be all PMSy and start crying (girls can’t be president!) or admiring the gleam off John Edwards’ hair and then it’s your turn. Potato headed Chris Matthews, potato shaped Tim Russert or potato colored Brian Williams is saying this:

• What a sad excuse for a Christmas parade (town) has. What happened to the real parades (town) use to have, with lots of music and lots of marching bands and all the beautiful decorated floats; something to actually listen to and watch! We have several problems that I see with our parade here in (town).
The parade has become so tedious and boring. The floats are half-mile apart that it drags on and on. The categories are a joke. A Christmas theme should be a Christmas theme. How in the world does a reindeer represent a Blue (state) Christmas or (state) Christmas, either one? We should have a theme and win by that, not categories.

I am also annoyed by the patriotic displays. Can we leave all of that for Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Veterans Day, Flag Day. Even the people that are the announcers every year seem to only point out their friends and the rest of the displays are talked about in a shallow way. (Next town over) makes (town) look like a first-grade parade.

Subtext: This is my suicide note, because I have nothing to live for. Oh, and I hate America.

Sometimes the issues can get rather personal, such as when you have your inevitable affair, or when the bathroom of a local museum doesn’t meet some old lady’s standards:

• I’ve never written before, but I am so angry about the letter from (crabby old lady) of (town) about the (local) Museum and the ladies bathroom. I have been going there for many years and have yet to find anything but clean restrooms. They have large groups of school children visit, and it must have been after one of those visits.

What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO???

Things can get rather heated out there, such as when one voter challenges another, You Got Served style.:

• So, (other letter writer) if you think you know everything there is to know about our training before checking out all the details, get the license to drive that bus! Furthermore, we have two of the best school systems in the state.

• Why is the (Town-County) Bar Association trying to persuade children they live in a democracy?

• I may not be as concerned as many citizens about the cost of city services, but for goodness sake, can't we have blooming flowers instead of noxious thistles to welcome people into our city?

So yes, our nation is in terrible shape, what with unclean restrooms, slow parades and questionable bus drivers. And it’s up to you to clean it up. What’s your next move?

Next time, on a very special Postcards From Kate: Road to ’08, we’ll take on the very special topic of gang violence at the mall. Very special.

An open letter to VH1

Hey VH1!

What’s cracking wit da kids these days?

Remember how you use to like only show Behind the Music? What was up with that? But now you’re with the program (pun!) and have embraced my generation’s snark-and-C-list-celebrity-loving ways. Also, the graphics on Best Week Ever are really colorful, which keeps me enraptured like a parakeet with a mirror.

I fear you may soon paint yourself into a corner though with all the CelebReality going on. You’re making CelebJambalaya by not dangling just one has-been at a time. (The correct order should be: Gary Colman, either of the Coreys, Rob Van Winkle, any Hogan, Carney Wilson, Vern Troyer, any member of NKOTB.) Pace yourselves! Eventually every last ounce of CelebFat will have been sweat off, every CelebMarriage will have been broken up and every CelebSizemore/Bonaduce self-destructed.

That concern aside, I have the next great reality show for you. They’re tried and tested, they’re sexy, they could use the cash and they have a huge built-in fan base judging from the number of people who find my blog by searching for them. It’s seriously like half of my Googled traffic.

That’s right, I’m talking about the Dog Brothers from Sex in the ’90s.

Let’s fire up the ol’ Sin Bin! You’d start, of course, with just a straight reunion show. What’s the old gang up to? Are they still living in their parents’ attic? Are they still doing the “That one’s all me…that one’s all you. She’s beggin’. Beggin.” routine with their hand signals? Are they still sort of orange? America needs answers.

Even though it was an MTV show, you’re all one happy Viacom family, and if we’re keeping it real, most of the My Super Sweet 16 fans weren’t exactly around for the ’90s.

After we’re all reacquainted, think of the endless angles to go with this:

Average Dog Brother: Women must decide which overly tanned meathead is a D.B. and which is a fake. Guess right and she gets a million dollars and a date, guess wrong and she gets spared from STDs more numerous than the stars in the heavens.

Beauty and the Dog Brothers: Nerds compete with the D.B. for dates with simpleton women.

Newlyweds: Dog Brothers: The D.B. move to Massachusetts, where they settle down as man and man. (They aren’t really brothers, are they? Oh gross, they are. Nevertheless. Forging on.) Neither of them knows what Chicken of the Sea is because they live on protein powder and their Nona’s Greek food.

The Simple Dog Brother: The Sin Bin hits the road to disrupt small-town America.

Apprentice: Dog Brother: Trump takes on the D.B. Challenges include a bump ’n’ grind off, shirt-ironing competition, testing the constraints of spandex boxer-briefs and hair-gel application (for both speed and thoroughness). The winner oversees building a nightclub in Hohokus. Bonus points for whichever D.B. restrains from hitting on Melania longer.

America’s Next Top Dog Brother: Each week they work in a variety of locales and poses. Their fortitude is tested by overcoming their fear of heights, water and snakes. Miss J has a lot to work to do. One is contractually obligated to become bulimic.

Dog Brother Runway: Using only mesh, denim and leather, they must create new clubbing outfits each week.

Extreme Home Dog Brother: You only need to know one sentence. “Bus driver, move that Sin Bin!”