My insomnia came back last nite, the bad kind. I fell asleep very early for me, at 10:30, but at 2:37 on the dot I was awake, & I didn't fall asleep again until 8 a.m. or so. I was trying to read things that make me usually feel better but it wasn't working. I read the entire goddamn book Franny & Zooey again, & incidentally reading that book makes me want to say "goddamn" about every second or so, & after that I picked up a book of poems by Sylvia Plath (a gift from Paul) & read several of those, & then I picked up Cosmopolis (a gift from Stuart), but it started out like this
Sleep failed him more often now, not once or twice a week but four times, five.... He tried to read himself into sleep but only grew more wakeful. -- so I put it down straightaway.
After that I tried making myself bored by reading this big notebook I've been writing favorite passages & poems & such in since I was about fifteen. I got stuck on the line
New York! D'abord j'ai été confondu par ta beauté... & read it over & over the way someone might read the same goddamn sentence in Moby Dick if they were, say, on the train to Philadelphia, trying to work up the nerve to talk to the girl sitting opposite.
What a nitemare insomnia is. I also HAD nitemares, when I finally got to sleep.
Why aren't there any dour pictures of Sylvia Plath? She looks like a pinup.
Why does Oprah have to ruin everything? She ruined East of Eden & she's ruining Anna Karenina. I know I'm being a horrible Jonathan Franzen-like snob, & I didn't even read that Corrections book. But I don't like her spreading good books around. I know she's not really ruining them. I know it's a wonderful thing she's doing, getting average homemakers to read legitimate novels. But I want her to leave me Nancy Mitford & P.G. Wodehouse. I don't want to see The Code of the Woosters or something, with that silly blue O on it. I know I am being grumpy. I didn't get enough sleep.
Thanks to Melly I did get a smile today. This is pretty great. Lucky bndkllr29! Imagining Melly wearing it aboard the Christmas train in Chicago saved my whole day.
It feels like Christmas morning, I said greedily, as he came back from the bar & set two fresh glasses of water on the table in front of me, took two pills out of his bag, one for him & one for me, & we drank them down together, sitting halfway inside a very dark room, half tangled up together, half spilled out on Clinton Street.
Twas a delicious evening, truly.
Sterling Fassbinder, one-third of my favorite blog, set up this killer site organizing a Fuck Bush party during the RNC here in NYC. Check it out yo. I will be posting over there soon. NY-ers & non-NY-ers... fuck Bush... seriously... go check it out.
After my lovely date last nite I wasn't tired so I watched a little bit of The Red Shoes. I've seen it many times but last nite it was striking me as more hilarious & more beautiful than ever. The best part of the movie is the wonderfully charming & handsome & probably gay actor Anton Walbrook, who plays Boris Lermontov. Lermontov sits there in his embroidered powder-blue dressing gown, being served buttered bread & tea, & saying things like, "It is important to remember that it is much more disheartening to HEF to steal than to be stolen FROM."
That accent! I could swoon. To HEF to steal. He says "heppy" instead of "happy," like "I trust you will be very heppy here, Miss Page." (I don't know if he actually says that, but it seems like something he would say.)
As for Miss Page, I like how in broad daylight, she goes around wearing a goddamn cape & tiara. Imagine wearing that out on the town in this day & age. What if you got wasted & slept over at some dude's house & had to go to brunch with him in the morning in that outfit? It would be the ultimate walk of shame, showing up at Enid's in your disheveled cape with your tiara a little askew & your eyes all bloodshot. Quelle horreur!
I met my friend Greg for a furtive smoke & a very efficient swapping of jokes. The one he told me went like this:
Greg: What's the difference between Neil Armstrong & Michael Jackson? Me: I dunno. What? Greg: Neil Armstrong walked on the moon... & Michael Jackson fucks little boys.
I countered with What's the hardest thing about roller-blading? Greg: I give up. What? Me: Telling your parents you're gay.
I didn't end up watching Angel last nite. I got drunk at the Salt Bar with Matt & Tracy instead. Not in Angel's honor or anything, but I ended up having a very manly, bloody sort of dinner -- quasi-vampiric, one might say -- of very spicy Bloody Marys & a starter plate of chorizo. You'd think I'd be feeling pretty evil after that but they started playing The Rainbow Connection (yes, that Rainbow Connection) at the Salt Bar. Tracy & I were well into drink number four & we got a bit misted up, & somehow the conversation turned to favorite old stuffed animals & Muppets bedsheets, & it wasn't evil in the least. Poo.
Nothing is very evil right now. The city is gorgeous; for lunch I walked down 9th Avenue, because I like that Avenue, & it was sunny & there was a beautiful breeze (which, granted, was blowing trash against my ankles) & I was walking along not thinking about anything really, but I was hoping my dinner date doesn't cancel tonite because I want to see him & I wore a dress today, but if he does that's ok too, I guess. Today I just happened to wake up feeling nice, for no reason, the same arbitrary way I woke up on Tuesday already feeling frustrated & worn down. Everybody is in love lately & even more people are getting married, proposing to their girlfriends in thunderstorms & having weddings on the beach. These are good things, but then it always makes me wonder if something awful is going to happen, when things are nice. Not to other people, but to me. When nice things happen to me sometimes it is shocking, because before I remind myself I'm not I always think of myself as like, that girl from Welcome to the Dollhouse or something, & it is weird when things go my way. It's totally ridiculous that I am actually trying to ruin a good day with pseudo crappy philsophy that doesn't mean anything, so I shall stop doing it right now. But I really, really want to post a picture of Dawn Weiner cos it's way too perfect.
I don't really follow Angel, but tonite is the series finale, so I may make a vague effort to watch. I don't think David Boreanaz is all that hot, either (tho sometimes, I can be convinced), but I love the way he was discovered. Apparently when they were casting Buffy, they wanted someone super fucking manly & hot to play Angel, & they couldn't find anyone. One of the producers suddenly thought of this guy she sometimes saw walking his dog around the neighborhood. She brought him in & everbody went crazy for him.
I see hotties walking their dogs all the time & I wish I could make them famous too.
Buffy had a pretty hot cast. Newly-betrothed Paul told me about this game where you could figure out your ultimate sex fantasy Buffy cast member by a simple process of elimination. Like, I say, "Oz or Riley?" and you say "Riley." Then I say, "Alright then, you sick fuck, Riley or Spike?" And you say, "Spike, obviously." Then I say "Spike or Angel?" & you say, "I said Spike, bitch, now step off him! Me + Spike 4ever!!!!" & that's how we figure out your dream date is Spike.
The important part is that you have to play for BOTH genders, no matter how disgustingly homophobic you may be. As for me my ultimate sex fantasy Buffy cast member (male) is Giles, tho he's neck & neck with Spikey. The lucky lady is Faith. Duh.
Speaking of sick fucks, I was watching The 400 Blows last nite & I kind of thought that kid who played Antoine was hot. I mean, if I were twelve or whatever ...
If I see one more of those goddamn see-thru plastic handbags, I am going to throw up. I don't think I've ever seen one on the arm of an actual person, but on street vendors' tables & in trendy shop windows & even online, they are annoyingly ubiquitous. I guess they are fucking everywhere because absolutely no one is buying them.
Today I was walking down Seventh Avenue & I wanted to swat at them with my own bag, a 1980's black leather & suede monstrosity with a broken strap & a scratched zipper. But I didn't want even my lowly little Williamsburg fashion victim purse making contact with those horrible things.
Cheryl, can I get a "not so much"?
Hooray! Somebody got to my site by googling "love parade ruffneck pee" -- really. That warms the cockles of my heart. It's so all-inclusive. It's a pinch of hippie, a dash of thug, & a warm dribble of bodily fluids.
Apparently it was a Brazilian googling this, because the referring site was google.com.br. If you google "love parade ruffneck pee" on the American Google, my site only comes up third. But on Google Brasil, I am Number One in love parade ruffneck pee. I can finally say I'm huge in Brazil. Obrigado, amigos!
Over sake at Chibitini last nite, with very good company indeed, I was reminded of how much I like that song Eyes Without a Face. It turns out Billy Idol wrote it because he was obsessed with an old French horror film, Les yeux sans visage.
I want to post the lyrics along with a picture of Billy Idol but that's really more Anise's blogging style. So let's call this a tribute post, since her birthday is coming up quick, rather than calling it me biting her steez.
EYES WITHOUT A FACE
i'm all out of hope one more bad dream could bring a fall when i'm far from home don't call me on the phone to tell me you're alone it's easy to deceive it's easy to tease but hard to get release les yeux sans visage eyes without a face les yeux sans visage eyes without a face les yeux sans visage eyes without a face got no human grace your eyes without a face i spend so much time believing all the lies to keep the dream alive now it makes me sad it makes me mad at truth for loving what was you les yeux sans visage eyes without a face les yeux sans visage eyes without a face les yeux sans visage eyes without a face got no human grace your eyes without a face when you hear the music you make a dip into someone else's pocket then make a slip steal a car and go to las vegas oh, the gigolo pool i'm on a bus on a psychedelic trip reading murder books tryin' to stay hip i'm thinkin' of you you're out there so say your prayers say your prayers say your prayers now i close my eyes and i wonder why i don't despise now all i can do is love what was once so alive and new but it's gone from your eyes i'd better realise les yeux sans visage eyes without a face les yeux sans visage eyes without a face les yeux sans visage eyes without a face got no human grace your eyes without a face such a human waste your eyes without a face and now it's getting worse.
I do have something else to say, after all. I hate being broke. Right now I am so broke that last nite I stored my contacts in regular water, cos I'm out of saline & can't afford to buy more. I'm so broke that when I put my leftovers in the office fridge, I hesitated a moment, then attached a post-it that said "Kat's food -- please don't eat me. I'm broke."
So broke that Anise paid for my dress today at H&M, as if she were my mom.
& finally, so broke that I sold a BCBG leather miniskirt in perfect condition & the vintage gold pumps I just bought in Miami -- & was fucking thrilled to make thirty dollars. At least I am not as broke as this crackhead.
The (bloggable) highlight of my weekend was seeing Ashley from Live Girls!!! take her jeans completely off in the middle of a song at Trash on Saturday nite. She played in her underwear for the remainder of the set. It was such a badass move & she looked incredible. I happened to have my camera on me but I felt like it would be creepy to take a photo of Ashley in her skivvies so I didn't. I spent Sunday afternoon admonishing myself & getting admonished for this.
There were various non-bloggable highlights of the weekend too, but I'd like to keep them to myself.
In fact there were moments I'd like to crystallize & hold, & keep them very close to myself.
Since practically everything I've got to say today is completely & utterly non-bloggable, I will only say this, & party people, I am talking to YOU:
Tomorrow nite the place to be is the birthday bash for the inimitable Anise. Be there or be square.
Here's a little ditty I found in my email outbox. Evil me wrote it last year.
Ode to ____
i will throw knives at your head. i will gouge out your eyeballs and throw them at passing cars. i will rub your broken bones together to set fire to your remains. i will bury you in lederhosen and spit on your grave. i will drug you and heave you into the ocean. i will roll you into a ball, stuff you inside a paper bag, and smash you with a mallet. i will take a blade to your nose.
just kidding. i will not do any of those things. :)
p.s. i will drop you off at an old folks home and i wont come back for you. i will speak to your parents in private. i will steal your mojo. i will give you a splitting headache.
This morning I was taking a lovely long walk thru Manhattan. The sun was shining & I was listening to Live Girls!!! on my headphones. All the dogs were out in their best gear & they were utterly chic. Passing the candy bright Gucci windows on Madison, I locked eyes with a rhinestone-collared French Bulldog & the word suddenly came to me: Petrosexual. I thought I couldn't possibly be the first person to whom it had occurred, but I was pretty sure I'd never seen it anywhere. I started thinking maybe I could someday own a high-end dog store & name it Petrosexual. Melly would go in on it with me, obviously. Then I got to work & I googled the word & it exists already. Too bad my definition is SO much better. I mean, dogs are getting facelifts & manicures & riding around in Birkin bags. Cindy Adams' Yorkie Jazzy has his own red mink coat. If that's not petrosexual, I don't know what is. So please help my fledgling definition take over. It goes like this:
Petrosexual (pet-ro-sek-shu-al)
n. A pet, usually a small dog, with immaculate grooming and expensive accessories. Although wealthier, better dressed and far more spoiled than the average human, one must admit the petrosexual is nevertheless pretty damn cute.
I call bullshit on this map, which I got via Gawker via Stuart. I'd like to see a 2004 map. Judging from personal experience, Williamsburg's got rats galore. I bet the giant rat population over in the Bushwick area has been steadily creeping, crawling & scuttling its way towards the Burg over the past five years ... ew.
I'm like, two days late on this, but hey, I've been busy. Anyway, that boat accident at Hippie Hollow is totally hilarious. Back when I lived in Austin, I didn't hang out there (I was more the Campbell's Hole/Sculpture Falls type -- & Barton Springs, but then, who wasn't?), but I seem to remember that whenever someone invited me to go out to Hippie Hollow, it was never the sort of person I wanted to see naked. I remember specifically two people who raved about H.H. One was a New Agey, pot-smoking, white wine-drinking, curly-haired massage therapist who was about fifteen pounds overweight & freckly. The other one was this sleazy French guy who lived in my apartment complex. He was about thirty-five or so, which seemed really old back then, & he gave violin lessons to children & he had really bad teeth & I'm sure he showed up at Hippie Hollow completely au naturel.
I bet the people who rushed to the side of that boat are pretty embarassed. They capsize the thing, & for what? Most likely, an eyeful of aging hippies & creepy French violinists.
Austin, Texas! You are so impulsive & you don't have any common sense & I miss you so ...
So it was a pretty shit day yesterday when my plane landed at LaGuardia -- there was a thin cold drizzle & heavy fog low in the sky -- & even tho I was pretending to be dejected thinking This is typical, really I was happy to bursting with the city & even the cab fare hike couldn't get me down.
After a long, lovely evening of dinner & drinks with an out-of-town friend, I got a call from Belkys, who was headed to my favorite spot, the soon-to-be-gone-forever Sweet Water Tavern.
Thank God I'm back, I thought, hurrying along the sidewalk, thank God I'm back in New York at last -- rushing along & repeating it to myself like a prayer.
Sweet Water lived up to its name last nite; tho Bittersweet Water would have been even more accurate. It was not definitively the last nite of its existence, but it was certainly the last Monday nite ever, & I've always had a soft spot for Sweet Water Mondays. The same old people were there, people I hadn't seen assembled together in months, maybe years. Everybody was pretty drunk & I was snapping photos, finishing up my Miami roll, getting one of Belkys wearing lovely red lipstick that matched her headband, one of Lucky & Jake behind the bar, & a shot of the graffiti covering the ladies' room. There was this hot skinhead chick (before last nite, I used to think that was an oxmoron too!) playing pool who would probably have been beautifully photogenic, but luckily I wasn't drunk enough to find out.
In honor of the Sweet Water, I'm posting the only picture of it I can find at the moment. For some reason I think that might be Lucky sitting at the bar, but that's just a guess.
I didn't end up watching Angel last nite. I got drunk at the Salt Bar with 
EYES WITHOUT A FACE
