Secrets Revealed

*Hand Motion*


Everyone has their own secret perversion. That one activity that you try not to admit to people you still want to respect you. It might be a love of “Sabrina the Teenage Witch”, Magic Cards, or really cheesy love songs. It might be a secret devotion to a certain website. Or in my case, it might just be Hollywood gossip.

I can’t get enough of it. It’s just so entirely surreal. The ephemeral quality of Hollywood trash cannot be met anywhere else in the world. Where else can….ANYTHING like these stories ever actually happen? What is it about the magnitude of success and beauty that dislocates stars from reality, rif-raff, and general ‘real’ people? Even when you hear someone say a positive comment about a star, it goes without saying that there is a mental “well, for a movie star” notion tacked onto the end of the statement. Designer ovaries, billion dollar indulgences, and egos that fight to the death for stroking. Everything is shocking and its always so unbelievable that we often have no choice but to believe it. But its my favorite when one of the powerhouses tumble, and tumble hard.

Brittney Spears has been in a downward slide for some time. She’s been mocked, lambasted, and taunted. She’s been the focal point of satire, the butt of the joke, and the galah without elocution lessons for ages. And I feel bad for her, I truly do. And that must be the lowest of the low. Like most women, I vehemently denied that she had the ‘perfect’ body, and then went off about gossip regarding surgery, eating disorders, and speculation about the body that I would have if I too had a million dollars and a personal trainer. I envied her perfect body, her perfect breasts, and even her perfect baby-doll complextion. But now? Wow. Brittney “white trash” Spears has –my­- sympathy. Yikes.


Here is her newest form of self-expression. The completely untapped wellspring that is poetry. Nobody has ever done this before. Anyway, this is her poem that I found at a local celebrity gossip rag website. (Secrets Revealed !) *hand motion*

Remembrance of Who I Am
No more chains That you gave me.
Enough of pain
Now I'm craving
Something sweet, so delight
How do you stand sleeping at night?
Silly patterns that we follow
You pull me in
I'm being swallowed.
By the ones you think you love
They pull you down
You can't see up above.
Manipulation is the key
They screw it in
Because you're naïve.
You come to me now
Why do you bother?
Remember the Bible Sins of the Father.
What you do
You pass down.
No wonder why I lost my crown.
You don't see me now
You ask yourself why
My crown is back
And it's way too high
For you to be in my presence
Especially my son
You should bow down
I've only just begun.
The guilt you fed me
Made me weak.
The voodoo you did
I couldn't speak.
You're awakening
The phone is ringing.
Resurrection of my soul
The fear I'm bringing.
What will you say
And what will you do?
She's not the same person that you're used to.
You trick me one (sic), twice, now it's three.

My conclusion?

Wow. Brittney has become completely unglued.

Awesome.

-K

Ohh, Snap!

Saturday was our anniversary. External circumstances put a minor damper on the evening, but it was still fabulous. We decided to go for a romantic dinner at Moxie’s, but it was a bit early to be dining (it was around 7…this is too early for us. You know, us being the “other category” and all.) So on our anniversary, we decided to stroll around Ikea and kill some time. It was fun…though Geoff had a bad experience with an Ikea lamp, and now distrusts everything from the store. (Who hasn’t had an Ikea product fall apart on them? Honestly.) Anyway, after many tasteful jokes about the Swedish (genuine Persian rugs…made in Sweden.) and a few minor jokes about the Irish (green seems to be this seasons “in” color”), we were off to Moxie’s. I had the fantastic chicken oscar. I highly recommend it. A nice dinner and some romantic couple time. What more could I possibly ask for on my anniversary?

And to top it all off, Geoff got me the first two seasons of Sex & the City! He’s so wonderful.

School is not going as well. I’ve pretty much ignored Sociology, and am currently trying to get through a paper on Italian Futurism. I pretty much have no idea what it is, and I petty much don’t care. (examples follow) Ah, academic apathy. I’ve missed you so. Anyway, I’m off to bullshit my way through this paper.

What a waste of a post.

-K




Edouard Manet.
The Absinthe Drinker.
1858-1859.
Oil on canvas.
Ny Carlsberg-Glyptotek, Copenhagen, Denmark

This is one example of an Italian Futurist painting. I really like this one...though I can't explain why.





Giacomo Balla
Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash
1912
Oil on Canvas
Italy

More futurism. They were big on everything ephemeral...like moving dog legs.

Gimme a break.

Cat's in the Cradle

It was the middle of winter on a bitterly cold Canadian night when I found her. I bundled up, and bribed her with warm milk and biscuits. Before long, she trusted me enough to let me pick her up and pet her. I remember picking her up, and grinning at my parent’s through the window. My father (notorious cat hater) was looking like he wanted to see how far into a snow bank he could punt me and the mystery cat, and my mother was alternately shaking her head and trying not to smile. As soon as she came outside with warnings and admonishing the stupidity of cuddling a stray and disease ridden cat, I asked if she could stay in the garage while it was so cold out. Knowing that a parent has not properly said “no” until it is said three times, upon the second “no” I turned to guilting her nurturing instincts. “But mum! It’s -40! And the cat will die if we don’t help her! Look, she’s missing part of her ear from frostbite already.” I could see that she was one more guilt trip away from being persuaded. “Mum,” I said with the straightest face I could muster, “Do you –really- want to be responsible for this poor animal’s death?” Her face became a hybrid of being completely pissed at me for guilting her and smiling because she knew I had played her successfully. “Only the garage, and I’m not feeding it!” Within an hour, the cat had a milk crate wrapped in dozen’s of blankets in the coziest corner of the garage we could find (our garage is not attached, and is unheated). Within an hour and a half, the milk crate featured tiny curtains so that she wouldn’t lose the body heat she produced. Within two hours she had a name. Patsy. (I’m a huge fan of film noir, and my father had lost something –glasses, I think- after I discovered the cat under the deck. “Nothing has gone right since you found that thing outside.” father dearest grumbled at me. “Sure, sure daddy. Blame the cat. Just make it a patsy.” And the name was born.)

By the end of the week, not only did Patsy have an insolated milk crate, but my mother’s best heating pad lining the thing. My mother failed miserably at keeping her threat, and within a fortnight Patsy was being fed Whiskers served with a saucer of warm milk and a side of filtered water. Oh yes, this cat has its own rags to riches story, to say the least. We had her spade (only to discover that her previous owner had taken the liberty...himself. It’s a miracle this cat is still alive) and we also shaved the hell out of her because her hair was so matted that it was tearing her skin. The cat was miserable for weeks, but earned a temporary place inside the house till she healed. Anyway, she earned her keep by keeping the mice away when the spring thaw occurred.

That was about a year and a half ago, which brings us to these pathetic yet hilarious pictures. You see, being a long-haired cat that is kept outside, Patsy’s hair became matted and tangled despite our best efforts to brush her several times a week. Again, we had her shaved down when the warm weather hit, so that she can be comfortable for the season. And here she is- Patsy the cat with a poodle style.

And man, she looks pissed.

(and yes, the vet scolded us for how fat she has become. Hey, Whiskers and milk...it's not Atkins for Animals, that's certain.)

-K

I win

I've been mocked over the years for my love of shoes. "Who need that many shoes?" people would ask in an appalling shock, while looking at me as though I had a weird skin rash. Even friends would hold me in contempt, dragging me away from various shoe stores, all the while rolling their eyes and saying the same refrain: "You don't need anymore shoes!" I tried to explain that shoes are not a "need" in the food, water, sleep sense of the word. But they are very much a "need" of mine, and I have been alone.

Until now.

Barb's Blog:
" I am so tempted to buy cute shoes on my way to a meeting tomorrow. OMG WHAT AM I ACTUALLY A GIRL!?!? *FLEES*"

Chelsey's Blog:
"My friends, I have to admit that I have become a cute shoe whore!! I can't stop myself . . . everything revolves arounds shoes.It's a slippery slope, isn't schmeltie?"

Ha! And yes, Chelsey, it is a slippery slope. I started out much like you...and now, I have 80-odd pairs of shoes in my closet.

Love of shoes is a gift, my friends. Before you know what happened, you'll be surfing eBay for great deals, and Carrie Bradshaw will become your personal hero, as she has mine. And I promise you; you will find dialogue like this witty and amazing:

Charlotte: I could never! I have the most terrible fear of heights!
Carrie: Well, I do not... you've seen my shoes.”


Ahh....hilarious.

-K

Loves it

Thank you, Penny Arcade! Hilarity ensues.