Friday, January 31, 2003

~Kate's Kooky Advice Korner~



Red Clay writes in with the eternal question:



'if a girl says no , and means yes, does this mean she is dyslexical? also, what does yes mean, then?"



First of all, Reddie, I want to compliment you on your poetical use of the lower case.



Now, about the no-yes thing.



If a girl says No and means Yes, she is probably dyslexical. Also, she likes you and she wants you to like her even more, because she's not feeling 100 percent certain that she is a sexual goddess in your eyes. She probably has tons of religious hangups too, which can be kind of erotic in the right context. Like, a Nick Cavian vibe.



With this girl, Yes means Yes and I wouldn't look a gift horse too closely in the mouth on the first night.



A girl like this is probably young and needs to become more masterful in her sexuality. Oh well.



The question, of course is, how do you know when a girl is saying No but meaning Yes?



If she says No, be a gentleman and lay off a bit--but not so much that it seems you don't want her anymore. It'll drive her mad and she'll come around. Or else she'll be relieved. Either way, you come off smelling like Casablanca lilies.



Somehow I get the feeling you already knew all this, Mister Clay.



Next!
Everybody Eats Macaroni and Cheese:



Here's some more ghetto-fabulosity from my best girlfriend Debbie Urlik (I still can't bring myself to use her married last name, Beukema, because I clutch desperately at my fading youth). I love how she invented a new word in the first line. Also, note her casual, offhand suggestion of black lips.



"Yes, YES! Good ideas all. Here's summore: Eliminate lipstick! For a well coordinated face, use eye shadow on your eyes, of course, and then the same shadow on your lips with a little vaseline. This... ahem, is from memory from the olden days, when I actually left the house. Also on the make-up tip: If you are desparate, a ball point pen (felt pen even better) works just fine as eyeliner, and smear just a bit on well licked lips. A winner in a pinch! Here's another one for people with a lack of hair... like my husband and I. For a nice full head of thick-looking hair, wash with bar soap and use no conditioner. It dries stiff and fluffy. I've been doing this since high school, when I learned how well it worked on my friend's mohawk."



Dev:



You fucking RAWK.



You are gonna die when you hear this. I have to wonder where you got the magic marker/eyeliner idea, BECAUSE....



The other day, I just happened to be interviewing this drummer for an article. I go to his "house," and it is what they call a trash house. For real, a real-live trash house. I won't go into the details because I don't want to be unkind. He was very, very sweet to me, and he's a super-intelligent, hilarious and articulate person. ANYWAY, so we're talking and shit, and he picks up a Sharpie and starts putting on some Sharpie-eyeliner, then he smudges it all skillfully and shit.



I look at the vintage velvet dress he's wearing, the long hair, the eyeliner, and I think, Hmmm, somebody's a little bit glammy, isn't he?



And then I put it all together: Holy fuck, this is that guy from Celebrity Skin Debbie dated for like five weird minutes in high school!



"The drummer for 45 Grave," we used to say. His claim to fame.



Well, I didn't know this, but he was also the drummer for the Germs.



I remember a funny moment back in high school. I was at whatshername's house and for some reason this guy was there, too, and we were sitting in her bedroom, and he was going to a party at Crispin Glover's house, and he seemed to think that was pretty fucking cool. (I totally did too, because I had a huge crush on Crispin Glover. Oh, wow. It's so sad that I had the body of a nine-year old at age 15. It hurt so much to be a teenager stuck in the body of a child. I was really hoping he would invite us to the party, or we would go, or something, but we didn't.)



Anyway, he and his costar in Celebrity Skin were all decked-out in their ridiculous glam-circus insane stage getups, and they seemed to be trying so fucking hard. So hard. So hard you could feel it.



I wasn't trying to be a jerk, but I was kind of confused about the whole trying-to-be-cool thing. I thought, if you are obviously trying really fucking hard to be cool, aren't you kind of telling the world that you're really not cool? I mean, that you're desperate for other people's attention?



I still don't have this figured out.



So anyway, I asked him something like, "Don't you feel kind of stupid wearing all this stuff?"



He was all, "No way, not at all, why would I feel stupid?"



I couldn't explain what I meant.



Nowadays I think the answer lies somewhere in the fog of identity, the mist between the true self and the exterior world's perceptions.



If you try to be cool, and it shows, and everyone knows you're trying hard, if you do it right, it makes you SIMULTANEOUSLY cooler and geekier.



Sometimes, this makes you more beautiful.



Where would we be without people trying to be cool? We would have no rock 'n' roll, that's for sure. And glam rock? Forget it.



I am so vomitous/verbose today---can you tell I'm on deadline?



To continue the blabbling: Your story reminded me of another makeup idea, sort of the reverse of your eye-shadow idea:



When you put on lipstick, smear a little bit onto your eyelids too. It works just as well as eye shadow, and then you have a strange magical unity to your face.



I remember I got this idea from you one night in Prague: We were in the kitchen in the studio apartment I shared with Vladan and Hana at the Flora metro stop --wow, that sounds so bohemian and romantic now--the studio apartment three of us were sharing--AND it was a seventh-floor walk-up! (And is WAS Bohemian--literally.) The shower was in the kitchen (we were the envy of all our friends because we actually HAD a shower, as opposed to a bath) and the toilet was in the entry hall. That rocked! I remember we used to wash the dishes in the shower because it was so much bigger than the sink, which was as big as a cereal bowl.



Hana would be embarrassed for me to tell you this, but when she came home from work she used to go in the bathroom and wash her feet in the shower. It was very gracious and civilized of her, actually. Then she made tea and smoked a cigarette.



Anyway... so you had come home from grocery shopping and were making me dinner, and you looked so, so pretty.



I was all, Hey Dev, what's with the magic glow?



You said, well, it's this secret makeup tip: I put my lipstick on my eyes!



You, being an artist, have always had a knack for these things.



Ever since then I have copied you.



xoxox

LeRoy

Thursday, January 30, 2003

Oh, you:



One of the secret things in my life that I am proud of is that for two and a half years I did all my laundry by hand. By hand, in the sink, with soap or shampoo or whatever was on hand. And hung-dry all of it in the bathroom. I was living in Prague when things were different.



It's weird, because if I think about it now, it seems absolutely preposterous. But at the time, it wasn't like I sat around bitching about how insane it was that I was doing all my goddamn laundry by hand all the time.



Anyway, the point of this is that I have a laundry tip for you, if you're ever broke like me or you run out of laundry soap (also like me) or lose it in the fire, or your dog sells it to the neighborhood skunk for drugs:



If you run out of laundry soap, you can also wash your clothes with many other things. I recommend a combination of baking soda and shampoo. Just sprinkle a whole bunch of baking soda into the washing machine and then squirt a whole bunch of shampoo in there. Moisturizing shampoo is very nice because it makes your clothes soft. No kidding.



I am certain that dish soap or that liquid hand stuff would also work, although dish soap seems a little harsh to me.



One thing I like to do is invent different ways to accomplish things when the chips are down. Like once on a trip to a cabin on the North Shore of Lake Superior, we had coffee beans but no grinder. So I put the beans in a ziplock bag and went out on the deck with a hammer. It didn't take that long to get it mushed up enough to make coffee.



And let's not even get into all the possible substitutes for toilet paper.



In fact, I have so many fucked-up ideas for making do, I'm like the ghetto Martha Stewart.



For example: If you're ghetto like me, you use those Mexican devotional candles in the tall glasses. The only problem is, after a while it gets really hard to light the fuckers, once they've burned down a bit. Solution: Take a piece of uncooked spaghetti, light it with a match, and then use it to light the candle.



Or say you have some incense but you accidentally flushed your incense holder down the toilet. Just take a wet sponge and stick the incense stick into the sponge. That way you know there won't be a fire even if you leave the house.



Or let's say your skin is so, so dry in the Santa Ana winds but you don't have enough lotion. Olive oil is a great body moisturizer.





There are a lot of nice uses for olive oil. Ahem.



If you ever run out of guitar picks, pennies work pretty good, or bottle caps. But what works super good is the little flippy thing from the top of a beercan.



If you have any more ideas you can put them in the comments.



xoxxo

Evan Dando has his solo debut coming out in April. It's been seven years since the Lemonheads last one. Jon Brion produced it and cowrote a bunch of songs. Jon Brion is so talented. I don't know why I didn't go to his residency at Spaceland. Anyway here's a snippet of the press release:



When asked about what he's been up to in the time between the Lemonheads' final studio album, Car Button Cloth, and this new disc, Evan said something about going on the road with Enya (he didn't) and getting married (he did). But time, as Einstein once proved, can be a relative thing. As Evan put it, "Gee � seven years can go by in fifteen minutes."



Speaking of producers, I read yesterday that the new Mandy Moore album is being recorded with a band in a garage somewhere in L.A., and it's going to be covers of '70s pop songs. If that weren't weird enough, the producer is John Fields, known in Minneapolis as John 'Strawberry' Fields, an old Minneapolis scenester musician producer dude. I mean, he's not old, but he goes way back, if you know what I mean.

Wednesday, January 29, 2003

There is nothing so fine as Thai ice tea:



Yum. It makes me feel that this is a new day of sunshine, daisies and harmonized electric guitar solos.



I feel all bad because one of my lovely groovy editors thought I was talking about him in the rant about the Village Voice and all that bullshit. Rats. My rant was directed at the Institutions and those who get wealthy buying and selling them, not not not the hero editors who work at these places.



Is that clear, dear?



Love, Love, Love.



So, maybe it's because I was up all night writing, but I have a drowsy, nostalgic, homey feeling that makes me want to take a bath, put on a sweater and drive to Har Mar or Southdale and see a new movie, full price, with popcorn and everything. The previews last 20 minutes and they're the best.



I get these suburban longings from time to time. I long for the quiet, the green, the endless free parking.



Prolly because I grew up in the concrete grid.



Since I'm not in Minneapolis, the longing directs itself toward Glendale. The perfect suburb. Ah, sweet Glendale.



Glendale is like St. Paul, a little bit.



Got to go now.



heart,

Kate
More Boring Journalism Shoptalk:



What a dumb article. It's from the village voice and it deals with the DoJ ruling on the naff deal done by VV and New Times that killed my column, Hot Child In the City :)



I'm just going to repeat that as often as possible.



So anyway the article claims that the New Times L.A. was "neocon," and also claims, nauseatingly, that "Here in proverbial bohemia, we like to stick it to the Man."



It's a good thing I'm on a whiskey diet because if I had eaten anything last night it would surely be covering my computer keyboard right about now.



First of all, a word to the reader: Never, ever trust any newspaper or magazine (or person) that:



A. Refers to itself as "Bohemian" (It's kind of like "cool": If you have to say you are, you so aren't)



B. Pats itself on the back for its own ass-kicking in the first five seconds



Now, onto the "neocon" thing.



For Pete's ass's sake, that's dumb.



I'm the biggest hippie you know and I would never have gone near a neocon paper, whatever that means. That paper might have broadcast some polemical views that strayed from the received assumptions of boomer Leftism (and it might have had an ungroovy drinking problem), but the reason it did so was because its editorial philosophy was based in freedom of thought.



It's a messy world these days and anyone who tows a strictly "right" or "left" line just isn't thinking.



In fact, I would argue that a paper's diversity of intelligent viewpoints is way more important than how much, as a superduper-hippie, I agree with any single writer. I want to read a paper that mixes it up, not one that continually doesn't surprise or challenge me.



It's funny to me how old-school alt-weekly people think that alt-weeklies should be classically Liberal, and uphold the political philosophies of '60s leftism---when boomer leftists betrayed the spirit of the alt-weekly movement years ago by selling out the entire industry to national chains.



I mean, where the fuck does anyone at the Village Voice get off claiming to be the little guy, sticking it to "the Man"?



In my cities, L.A. and Minneapolis anyway, VV is the Man.



The Man that--along with the equally Man-like New Times--killed my column, Hot Child In the City.



Y'alls both of you fat cats.



Excuse me now, I am on deadline for two articles for the alt-weeklies in my two cities, both of which are Village Voice media newspapers, neither of which have competitors.



Love,

Kate





Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Wiggly Pigs In Blankets:



don't wanna to bug my friend heather havrilesky, who does a great blog with an advice-column angle to it.... but i was bored and tired of my own voice (i mean, within reason, of course) and i thought... maybe i'll be better if i'm responding to someone else's problem.



so if you have any advice you need, send me an email (heykate17@earthlink.net) or write a comment.



as all my friends know, i am a master of romantic relationships and give priceless advice on the subject.



i have so completely mastered the mystery of romantic relationships, I no longer need to have them.



love,

kate

Monday, January 27, 2003

Hi Kids:



Just a quick note... I went to the bank just now, so now maybe I am finally not so broke. Phew. Anyway, at Le Money Hut I saw Rodney on the Roq in line too. He was wearing dark sunglasses, a rumpled black blazer and black sweats and sneakers, with a little '80s gel-flip to his hair. He's one of these older people whose style has become stuck in their heyday. We're all getting so old now that some of these people had their heyday in the '80s. (Wait a minit--weren't the '80s just five minutes ago?)



The lucky thing for Rodney is: '80s shit is so "in" right now, he looks somewhat fashionable.



I was wearing my white vinyl jacket, which could be a little bit Billy Idol, but is meant to be more Shonen Knife. I said, Hi, Rodney, do you remember me? He goes, I don't remember anything. I said, you don't like me; I'm Kate Sullivan. He doesn't like me because I didn't mention him enough in an article I once did about early KROQ.



It was weird, standing there behind him in line, thinking, nobody else in this bank knows how important this little elf man is to American pop culture, and to the rock, and how much of the multimillion-dollar media collosus of Viacom really goes back to his work. This little man depositing his paycheck. How many bazillion dollar bands would never have made it onto KROQ without Rodney?



I wish Rodney liked me, but, you know, not everybody is going to like you in this lifetime. Even some of your heroes.



Speaking of not being liked--some editor just accused me of being "breathless" just now. It's funny when people try to criticize you but it doesn't work. Breathlessness rulz. Why would you want to live if there weren't things to be breathless about?



That reminds me of an old girlfriend-anecdote from high school. My friend Halle had the most gorgeous, long, straight golden hair you ever saw. She would sometimes braid it at night so it would be wavy in the morning.



One morning at school, she had her wavy golden hair, and it was resplendant. These bitchy older girls walked by, and snarled at Halle---"fucking mermaid hair!"



Halle's like, was that supposed to be an insult?



Being called breathless isn't as good as being called mermaid hair, but you get the point.



xoxo

ks
Hello, my Stiff Little Fingers:



Miguel the supergenius explains it all for you in the comments below. Thanks, Miguel!



So that Sherman Act sounds pretty keen. Sounds like it needs to be updated, though. Everybody knows the real enemy of competition and entrepreneurship is not monopoly but megacorporate oligopoly. Surely that was always the case, though.



If I had ever known at age five that I would be able to say such big words, I would have been very confused.



lurv,

Kate

Sunday, January 26, 2003

Um, What Up Monkey Finger:



I know I get very sing-songy on the subject of radio and radio consolidation and radio suckiness. But I totally have another reason to bitch, bitterly: Apparently the Department of Justice has handed down its demands on Village Voice and New Times regarding their slime-fisted dealing that killed my column, Hot Child In the City. (Yes, it's all about me so just forget it.) According to the LA Examiner, the DoJ says the papers have to pay fines and help the creation of new papers in L.A. and Cleveland. Great. I mean it, it's great.



Apparently they violated the Sherman Act, which I have no idea what that is. Some law dealing with anti-competitive practices in newspapering, I guess. (Genius commentors?)



So, in light of all this, I have one question: Why are anti-competitive practices not only A-OK within radio and TV---but mandated by federal law?



Why is it that over the course of 1996-97, virtually the entire radio band was eaten up by a handful of companies?



It is true that radio signals were not killed; that is, the number of radio stations was not reduced (that I know of, anyway), but nevertheless the identity and integrity of these stations were destroyed. The local nature of radio and TV was abandoned, and the business lost any kind of real competitiveness.



Four fat sloths tossing an FCC-shaped ball around is not my idea of competition.



Perhaps I connect radio with alt-weeklies because of an incident in the Twin Cities I will never, ever forget. I know I've written about it before, but I'm still so pissed off about it I can taste it.



In 1996, we had a small, embattled, but proud little batch of independent media outlets. In radio, there were some community-based, commercial free stations, as well as a couple mom-and-pop commercial stations, including a children's station and an alt-rock station, Rev-105. (A sidenote: When I interviewed its music director back in the day, I asked her if she had ever heard of KROQ. She got all wide-eyed, and informed me that Rev had been inspired by early, independent KROQ.)



We also had a couple locally owned alt-weeklies, The Twin Cities Reader and City Pages.



Anyway. The two alt-weeklies were locked in mortal combat, because neither could seem to find an identity that was sufficiently unique from the other's, I guess. I don't know. Ad people write the rules of the newspaper business, and in the minds of such people, there's never room for two papers. It has nothing to do with what readers want, of course.



So, the owners of both papers decided to sell out. Both papers were purchased by the same out-of-town company, which promptly killed the underdog Twin Cities Reader. I grieved, not only because it hurt to see a good paper die, but also because the competition had made for some really good journalism. I think the only people who celebrated were myopic cretins.



(City Pages is one of the Village Voice papers today.)



The very same day the Reader died, Disney bought the children's station and Rev-105, and killed them. Same fucking day.



So maybe that's why I connect radio and alt-weeklies. Some people made a shitload of money that day.



It's funny to watch baby boomers get fat and sell their dreams.



But seriously, there's another obvious question to be asked: Why is the loss of a paper OK when it's through "competition," but not through collusion? The net loss for the community is precisely the same.



And when the hell is the Justice Department going to look at oligopoly in broadcasting, dear sweet Lord?



--meef

Saturday, January 25, 2003

Now let's hear it for awesome kickass editors!



I have had these lately and it is the bomb.



Here's what a great kickass editor does:



1. makes you sound way smarter than you are



2. is super nice



3. makes you feel like a good writer



4. lets you experiment



5. catches you when you fall



6. makes you laugh on the phone



7. makes you a better man



i am so lucky for the great kickass editors in my life.



thank you.



xoxo

kate

Friday, January 24, 2003

Yo



can't hack condescending editors, yo.



Here's what I can't hack in editors:



1. Condescension. Women are far more condescending to me than men and I haven't figured this out yet except that maybe it's a symptom of insecurity and also they're mimicking the treatment they received as writers.



isn't it tragic, the shit that women deal with all the time? men always want to know why women are so weird and high-maintenance. a lot of it is biology but a lot of it is residual fucked-upness from being second class citizens for about 10 bazillion years. it makes you weird and tweaky in certain ways and it makes you freaky toward those like yourself. which is why no woman has ever tried to mentor me. Cept my mom and she don't count. Men are my allies and i think it's cuz they don't feel threatened. Plus sometimes they want to sleep with me, but we don't talk about that. This is a family blog, you sick fuck.



2. editors who don't acknowledge that you write good.



3. editors who change your shit and make you sound like a retard



4. ditto, plus even more if they add in a lot of cliched adverbial clauses everywhere like "abundantly talented" and "uniquely positioned" and "retardedly cliched."



5. editors who are pyschos who need new prescriptions and take it out on you without ever fucking acknowledging that they have psychiatric issues



I am feeling so much better since the six ibuprofen and whiskey kicked in. so anyway something good happened today and I am proud of it so i'll tell you. I turned down a story for a national music magazine because i fucking hate the band they wanted me to write about. hooray!



i feel like flying across the sky!



i don't have to write about Linkin Park!



And how they "tried so hard, but in the end, it doesn't even matter."



I am so sick of fake nihilism.



now i feel so good i'm going to make out with my dog.



gross!



(by the way, red clay, i haven't forgotten you--i've been busy as hell and everything. i don't think you're old at all.)





xoxo

kate
Bored as hell and i wanna get ill:



Just sitting here with my belly churning, because i'm a female and my loins is burning.



Look, I'm a rapper.



Naw, just sitting here with my belly all aching and whining about all the work it does every month, preparing for that baby, that baby, that never-baby-ever or at least now not-baby. Sorry, baby baby. Nah, not sorry. Look I can barely be a wife and mother to Sloopy and he's a lot chiller than a real baby plus he never cries.



Sometimes this is what it's like: You're broke and so you pull out the credit card and go to Lucky. You know it's coming so you get your shit ready, and here's your grocery list:



1. chocholate chip/macadamia nut cookies

2. plain wrap ibuprofen

3. plain wrap kentucky bourbon

4. hippie pot pie

5. some other stuff i can't remember

6. oh yeah, we're out of toilet paper too

7. I should buy some hippie juice but it's too expensive



I'm glad I did it because now I'm able to call off my appointments and get in bed. I have a 2500 word piece due Monday, fuck, but I can't work right now. i'm supposed to go to a punk rock drummer's house today for a story too. But I can't do it.



can't even blog.



ok bye.





xoxo

me





Wednesday, January 22, 2003

SAME MEAT, DIFFERENT BREAD:



Baby, so like here is why i can't stand KPFK. (Which is not to say I'm an NPR fan, either. People like me have no acceptable news radio source at the moment.)



They're doing their "Peace Is Good" news show or whatever it's called, and they're talking about a new statistic: Only 5 percent of American soldiers who would die in an Iraqi war would be black. Apparently among the sorts of soldiers they would use, blacks are underrepresented, and are doing more "support" work. Most of the would-dies are white.



This naturally reminded me of the old statistics about how blacks were overrepresented in combat in Vietnam. This was a big, big issue at one time, forming the nexus of the civil rights and antiwar movements. Nobody could deny how unfair it was that black boys were dying for a government that didn't give them equal rights.



So I was expecting Ye Old Left Kneejerkers to say, well, isn't this a nice change? White people fighting white men's wars, for once.



But see, that would be too honest, too real, too human. And too sensible. And, Fidel forbid, too humorous.



Instead, they go on and on about how unfair it is that so few black men will die: It's just further proof of how racist and inequitable the military is; black men don't get promoted to these more elite fighting units, etc.



Can't anybody just be reasonable?



If I were black, I would be consider this the best news all year.



A side note: KPFK was also pissed off that Rumsfeld said, quite candidly, that draftees are useless to the military anymore.



They consider that a slight on Vietnam vets.



But I thought that the entire anti-Vietnam War movement was based on the understanding that draftees were dying uselessly, and shouldn't be exploited and killed against their will.



So which way do they want it?



Seems they prefer blacks to die in Iraq, and prefer Rumsfeld to draft America kids into this thing, just so they can prove how corrupt the military is.



I don't get it.



The real reason Rumsfeld's comment is bad (but honest) is this: All he's saying is, America doesn't fight justifiable wars anymore, wars the people truly support.



But I know how bored you get when I talk politics. I guess I better quick talk about kiddie porn, you sick fucks.



love,

Kate
Good Morning, Little Pink Sno-Balls:



I don't read the LA Times, which is bad, I know. But it's, like, so lame. Maybe it was always lame, I don't know. Somehow I doubt it, but I am biased because of my dad and everything. My dad is sharp and funny, so I imagine a place where he worked happily for 20 years must have been good. I used to read it back then but I wasn't "awake" yet and I don't necessarily trust those memories.



Today they had an article about Ken and Matt's new LA tabloid--on the cover of the 'Calendar' section, which seemed a little weird, but whatever. I saw it on my neighbor's doorstep, with Matt and Ken's names right there on the page. Dear Matt and Ken. Well, I've told you all about Matt's goodness and wonderment and stuff. It's funny that the LA Times wouldn't hire him because he didn't have a college degree. Isn't that the most? The real reason, I am sure, is that they were intimidated by his brilliance and fire. People who live mediocre lives are often interested in snuffing the flame of ass-kicking in others. This is true of institutions as as well as individuals.



Not always. Sometimes unhappy people and institutions are really encouraging and wonderful, because they are secretly fanning their own flames of ass-kicking.



I went to the website to get the link, but, oddly, the headline was nowhere to be found. That is so weird.



Anyway, so dig my horoscope today from the LA Times:



Scorpio: Keep a secret. You could be involved in confidential information, possibly in connection with space program.



I am so glad I got the warning, because usually all those NASA blueprints go right in the dumpster.



I spent all my money on sushi and a happiness magic spell kit for my friend, and other essential items like that. So if you have some money, you can give it to me, and I will drive to La Belle Epoque and buy a real French croissant and coffee.



After I wake up. It's too early. I'm going back to bed.



shhhh,

kate

Tuesday, January 21, 2003



Come on, feel the blog:



Saw two great bands tonight for Freeee at Spaceland: The Rogers Sisters, who are a little bit of something else, and Patrick Park, who isn't a band but is brilliant anyway. He was looking more Cobainy than ever tonight, but a lot healthier.



Everything's groovy right now.



Missing Paul Wellstone, of course. But what can you do.



Gotta get up early and I'm so fucking tired it's crazy, yet I want you.



Tell me you don't want clever conversation. Cause i'm all out.



I kind of hate going to Spaceland alone. I kind of hate going out alone. i always feel so self-conscious and ignored. It's full of young people who all seem to know each other or something. I always feel like I have my nose up to the glass, trying to get in. Even if there's someone there who might want to talk to me, everyone's so shy and cold, it's brutal. Oh well.



Heard my favorite song of all time again today on K-Earth, "Here Comes the Sun." Oh, wow. Every time, I get the shivers, it never fails. Now, he's a little bit immortal. Don't you want to be immortal? Are we all? Maybe. You never know how it'll happen, though. Maybe something you did in secret that nobody knew about, maybe it'll help someone you never met, later.



Goodnight, ladies.

kate



Friday, January 17, 2003





dude, war is getting in the way of my rock lifestyle.



Just got this email from Spaceland regarding the previously scheduled concert by the lovely Libertines. The band's manager wrote:



"I was contacted today by UK Traffic Control our visa application agency who have informed me that we shall face delays of up to possibly 15 weeks with our applications due to the increased stringency of the US State Department visa application rules as a result of the imminent war. We are therefore unlikely to be able to perform at the gigs rescheduled for February. I am extremely sorry about this and would be grateful if you could please kindly (again) pass my sincere apologies to all those who have been inconvenienced by this."



I love the Brits. they are so fucking polite. Plus, they say "shall."



Did you dig that awesome run-on?



I would like to say that this is a great inconvenience to me and I don't blame the Libertines but the enemies of rock in Washington the so-called president and his oil-based cabinet who are oily in more than one way but also they are secret friends of rock because everyone knows rock gets better in difficult times just look at the war-torn Sixties and the miserable Seventies and the oppressive Eighties I mean in fact we've had great rock ever since it started because we've been through some bad shit pretty much nonstop and only the 1990s were a little better and look what happened to rock it sucked.



Nirvana was an Eighties band at heart I mean let's face it in terms of where it was coming from emotionally it was just a superfancy glorified hardcore band and now i'm shutting up ok bye!



Love,

Run-On McRandall

Thursday, January 16, 2003

Sorry, My Nizzles



Blogger was down last night.



So anyway, I have a recommendation. If you want to see the best rock show of the year (besides, like the Stones or some really fancy shit like that), go to see Supergrass on Feb. 15 at Spaceland.



Supergrass put out fairly wobbly albums, but they are totally, intimidatingly ferocious live. One of the best live bands I have ever seen. I saw them at an unbearably oversold Roxy two years ago. The idea of seeing them at Spaceland--just the kind of venue they were made for--is thrilling.



I just bought my ticket at this address. They only have a $4 service fee.



This is my sincere recommendation for the new year.



Also, my boy Patrick Park is doing the free Monday night residency at Spaceland this month. His songs are special and beautiful.



This night is amazing--dry gusts and the stars all piercing and shit--wish i didn't have work to do...



Why don't you go out and wield some magic and tell me about it after.



xoxox



kate







Wednesday, January 15, 2003

dude....



did i really want to know pete townsend is a kiddy porner? did i need to know that?



ew. ick.



i thought he was just gay.



that was good enough.



he doesn't have to get freaky.



he says he was sexually abused as a kid, he thinks, but he can't remember.



does that make you more likely to be a kiddy porner?



like michael jackson?



i wonder if gary glitter was, because he has a big thing for kiddy porn.



but carlos santana was sexually abused.



and so was a certain goth/glam guy who got blamed for columbine.



and so was a good friend of mine.



and i don't know but i don't think they're into kiddy porn.



this is horrible.



On to a different kind of kiddy porn.... The White Stripes!



Ah, the White Stripes.



I just felt like saying their name.



I had my first Jack White makeout dream last night.



It was awesome.



I was sitting on a couch with him, telling him that I felt kind of nauseated, I liked their band so much. I said they were my favorite band in the world, but then I had to say, well, actually, the Beatles are my favorite. (And now that I'm awake, Led Zeppelin is my second favorite; then the White Stripes.) Then we made out a little bit.



My subconscious makes really lucid fantasy dreams. I had a dream someone was taking a picture of me and my dog, but they were having trouble with the camera, and Sloopy said, under his breath, "Take the picture..."



Yesterday I drove to Pasadena on a whim and checked out 117 S Los Robles, where the KROQ studio was from 1978 to 1985. You know, the good years.



It's a small, old two-story office building, the kind of place that might have once been a general store downstairs and a the owner's residence upstairs.



The studio was upstairs. I have seen a group photo of all the DJS lined up on the metal staircase out back. Raechel Donahue told me the first time she went there, she stepped on an empty vial of coke on the stairs.



They used to do shit in the parkng lot---water balloon tosses or BBQs or Wendy O. Williams destroying things. Robert Palmer quit Power Station in that parking lot. The band was leaving the studio and their limo got trapped in a crowd of psychotic Duran Duran fans. So Robert Palmer got out of the limo and walked away. Caught a cab at the Pasadena Hilton down the street. (Where KROQ also broadcast from earlier, where Rodney got his start.)



Van Halen used to climb up those back stairs and try to sneak in the window to give the DJs their pressing of Running With the Devil.



Missing Persons knocked on the back door one night and asked them to play their little 45. April Whitney put it on right away. That happened all the time.



I knocked on the door and asked the office person if I could look around. It's now the business office for the dental practice downstairs. It's all been redone. You can see, though, what an awkward space it was and still is. One long hallway with the bathrooms and these sort of artificially constructed walls dividing the space up randomly.



Nobody except one lady knew that the space had formerly been a radio station. They were super-squares.



As I was sitting in the parking lot out back, I turned on KROQ and Jed was playing a song by Interpol. Talk about a wrinkle in time. That sound, that rhythmm, those droning vocals, that youthful optimistic pessimism. The sunlight felt as brilliant at that moment as it did in 1982. The sun was so brilliant in 1982.



I sound dreadful. I never even liked Joy Division--or New Order.



I just mean.... I sat in the parking lot, looking at the building. That little space, not much bigger than my apartment, was the incubator for something now worth half a billion dollars. A product that rich evil people milk every day. That little building. How can I connect that building to the signal coming in over my car radio, the multimillion dollar signal?



It's as if the rich frat in Animal House bought the Delta house and turned it into a theme park.



oh well.



OK bye.

Kate















Monday, January 13, 2003

Hi Fussbudgets



Been going thru something weird, and I winder if you can relate.



No, I can't seem to put words to it.



(winder??)



It's like... I haven't been able to do my blog properly in months. And the reason is something very weird that I just discovered. For a long time I thought nobody was reading it, and so i had a merry time doing it for my own fun. Then people read it and seemed to like it. And then I got totally paralyzed.



I might have a problem with approval.



As soon as people seem to like me, I get scared that they're going to stop, and so I purposely sabotage myself so that they don't like me. Then I can say, well, I did it on purpose.



Another twist on the problem is that for the first time in maybe my whole life, I am working on two major projects that I care about passionately. They mean something to me. They are not money gigs I'm doing to fund my own work; they are my own work. They come straight from my guts. The problem is that now I am stressed out in a way I never was before. I am getting gray hair and smoking too much, getting road rage and snapping at my dog. I always thought doing my own thing would be somehow liberating and floaty. But it's actually scary. I am terrified of fucking up. If I fuck up, I can't blame any editor. And so every day I fight the urge to fuck it all up.



I am awed by people who can embrace opportunity and success with courage and ease, or at least appear to. Who can go, hey, this is the shit I've been dreaming of. This opportunity may not come again--let's rock the show!



Mad props to those people, yo.



Can anyone else relate to this? I'm not proud of it.



I think the french must have a word for this.



There is a store on Santa Monica called Don't Panic. That should be my mantra for the next couple months. Don't panic. Chill the fudge out.



Yo, chill that fudge out on the counter.



If nobody read this blog, I would have written a long time ago about Avril Lavigne, of course. Like, what the fuck is up with that strange digital aftertaste to her voice? Is that the scent of ProTools? Something is going on with her voice and it's very cold and steely.



Welp, now it's time to go work on the work. Thanks for listening.



Do you like the Christina Aguilera song "Beautiful"?



your

Kate









Saturday, January 11, 2003





One More Thing, Mister:



If you want to make a girl who likes you like you even more, here's what you do: Call her up, and then throughout the conversation, call her by name as much as you can, and say it with an almost-imperceptible degree of reverence. For example:



"Yeah, Kate, I know what you mean. But don't you think the mechanized bears were partly at fault?"



"Not too many bands have been able to pull that off, Kate. Stripes and plaids are a dangerous game."



"That's the problem with rutabagas, Kate."





Just a tip.



xo

Hi, Babypants:



So the peace thing was fine. Goddamn, I love downtown Los Angeles. Its grandeur is epic and polluted, just like its humanity. Walk down Broadway some time--there are faces in the facades, and little planets and stars. The old Herald Examiner building, empty but proud, the movie palaces turned Latino churches, the ginormous Aztec (?) mural, the families out for a Saturday stroll in the shops. Grand Central Market--we ate there after the thing; it was packed and bustling with chilis and pig heads everywhere, sawdust on the floors, colorful neon signs, espresso and burritos and chop suey and shit. Angel's Flight trolley wasn't running today but it sure looked pretty. A butch lesbian janitor lady cleaning out the trash cans with the worst rat tail you ever saw. She had her thing going on. I felt like John Fante was maybe sitting at one of the tables sipping a beer, watching. Whenever the New York Times or any other snobs accuse L.A. of cultural vapidity, I laugh.



Do they have eyes?



Or are brown people invisible to them?



Maybe the problem is in their definition of culture.



If it doesn't include this, I don't want any part of it.



The Surreality Award of the day goes to this moment:



The protest-ubiquitous Jackson Browne singing some damn song about American imperialism, backed up by a Santana-ish--then distinctly metalesque--lead guitar from Slash.



He is one fine damn guitarist, and there's no two ways around that.



There were some good, reasoned, logical speeches. Then there were the lame ones, such as the one trying to turn the Iraq-thing into a debate on the government of Cuba and its blah blah heroic fight blah blah against U.S. terrorism blah. Look, people, Cuba is a dictatorship that jails and kills dissidents. Amazing country, amazing people, incredible history. Shitty government.



Why is it OK, among some Lefties, for certain governments to oppress their people, but not others?



But overall the thing felt pretty mainstream, pretty calm and well-organized and grown-up and non-shrill. It was probably one of the best-organized rallies I've ever attended, and the cops were totally chill, too.



Blah blah.



SuperHillary is here from Minneapolis and we're painting the town blue tomorrow, so I gotta go work on my Top Secret Project to liberate myself from the shackles of celebrity media. It's gonna be great.



Over and Out,



Kate







What's New, Pussycat?



Two things about last night's post:



1. There are TWO "B" sections to "Lola," and I'll call them "B" sections instead of "bridges" since there are two of them, and that seems somehow more appropriate. One goes, "Well we drank champagne and danced all night..." The other one goes "I pushed her away, I walked to the door, I fell to the floor, I got down on my knees..." These use different chord progressions.



Isn't that the cat's backpack? I mean, don't you love yourself a song that has two B sections? I think this would be my perfect song, and you can feel free to write it for me for Kwaanzaa:



* Starts with the chorus

* Has TWO B sections

* Handclaps

* Cowbell

* Sleighbells



2. Aaron Carter is not hot is the "I want to do it with him" sense. He is hot in the perfect-pop candyboy sense.

It's almost a Warholian thing for me, like Hanson but better. Or maybe it's just that he reminds me of someone I used to know. Prolly both.



I have to go march for peace now in MacArthur Park. Funny, a peace rally in MacArthur Park.



I'm gonna be sticky and sweet from my head to my feet---what with all that green icing flowing down!



Cake peace,

Kate



awright yadda yadda

so i take it some of yalls don't like andrei c. did you ever see his movie "road scholar"? i thought it was the bee's knees myself.



but the crucial thing is that tinight me and my friend laurne figured out "lola" by ear and we realized the brigdge is "B" "E" and "A," I think, which was really hard for me five months ago, I could't get it, but tonight we got it in five munites or so.



i am drunk if oyu didn't guess!



so that's main thng. for this noght. which is pretty good in my book.



ALSO tonight we went online to get the chords for hang on sloopy. in honor of the pup. and so guess what. it turns out my biggest pedophiliac crush of late, aaron carter, sings hang on sloopy. how fucking hot is that?



aaron cartrer is soo hot and he understands about the SKOOPY. I mean, the SLOOPY, which is my dog, the best fucking dog that ever lives/



he is not so smart. not so smart. in the you kno, smart sens. like, he is realy dumbQ!!!







BUT there are two things he understands. One is love. sloopy is a GENIUS OF LOVE.





the other thing he understands is ROUTINE.



Thius is my secret weapoin. he is like a realy dumb guy you lov sooooo much, he only understands love and routin.e



this is how you get him to fall in love with you.



he is totally in love with me now and it makes me feel special.



the othee awesome thing is that i had a dream last night about this guy i dated over the sumer, this very special special guy. the down by law guy/fingernails guy. i had a dream about him that was so real. i know it means that even though he's datimng some stupid tattoo girl now, he thought of me. i feel it in my soul.



now i'm going to bed





love

kate















Friday, January 10, 2003

Your Moves Are So Raw:



This morning, there are two kinds of people: those who are doing their soul's work (or working toward it, which is the same thing), and those who aren't. You know the difference between the two. You can smell it from five feet.



People who are doing their soul's work have a kind of natural glamour about them, no matter what their work is. They could be a preschool teacher or a bartender or a plumber. They exude a special combination of ease and excitement, because they are in their element. These are always the people you want to hire as your dentist/doctor/mechanic/vet/lawyer.



My mechanic, Jim Matson, is doing his soul's work.



These are also the people I always Like-like. I find this the number-one most irresistible quality in a guy. It is an overpowering aphrodisiac which sometimes interferes with my instincts. It can lead me toward Wrong guys sometimes. But hey, so can a taste for ripped abs.



I think you know it when you're doing what you're meant to be doing. I think. So I must not be doing what I'm meant to be doing, or something. Otherwise I wouldn't have such a thing for those who are. Right?



My thing is, I'm not like a painter or an actor, who has a singular task. I am like a theater director or summer camp director or restaurateur: I need to use several different muscles, all toward the same purpose.



Right now I'm not using all my muscles, and it's making me miserable.



And I've got nobody else to blame.



So I'll shut up about that stuff now.



I think the majority of people are not doing the right thing, whether by choice or by injustice. Andrei Codrescu said boring work is the root of all evil.



Love,

Kate









Wednesday, January 08, 2003

Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch:



This is from the fabulous Red Clay. And I would just like to say that I think it's tragic how some people don't like to wear cheese:



First dates sketch.



O.K., first dates.

And not the good kind.



All my friends, they want me married, where I can't do any damage. So, they meet me out, and leave me with a young lady. They went to use the phone, and apparently couldn't find it, because they didn't come back. They left me with this young lady, but I wasn't too unhappy. She was pretty as the picture you paid a yankee 50 dollars to take. And she smiled sweet, and we sat down.



First thing she asked was "What have you done for the enviroment lately?" Lord help me. I told her, I decided not to have no children, there wasn't anybody could ask me to do no more than that. She had some trouble with this. She knew it was supposed to be funny, but she couldn't see anything but taillights.



So she was a Vaygun.



She didn't eat no meat, nor wear it, nor cheese, nor alcohol. I was wondering what she would eat, the list was so long, she didn't have much past manna left. Talk about militant. I've seen Baptist preachers didn't push so hard, nor expect so much. I'm thinking, maybe I need to go find that phone myself, she'd probably be prettier out of earshot. She's starting to make my head ache, and my eyes water.



The waitress comes. "Didn't she find waiting on men demeaning?" And she sets to ordering. "Not this, but that. And leave off this, and add that, and don't let it get close to this, and did you know chicken feels the same fear as us?" The waitress is looking at me, and fixing to cry. So I did they only thing I could.



Gimme the biggest, rarest steak you got, 2 steps from screaming, bloody as a hemophiliac shaving for the first time. And shrimp. And if you can think of anything else to kill for me back there, I got a hammer in the car.



So the waitress gets all giggeldy, and the girl lets her go, and turns on me. "Would you eat your brother?" I don't think you and me both could take him, and if we got lucky and did, he'd be stringy as all hell. "And didn't I know drinking was bad for me?" Might be bad for you, honey, but it makes me taller, and everybody else better looking. If it did any more for me, I'd never stop. On and on, till I almost started to enjoy it. Tough crowd, but at least I was amused. Lord God, she ate slow.



Taking her home, I'm thinking about the rubber I'm going to lay down leaving, lay it down thick as speed-bumps. And at the door, I'm leaning toward the car, and damnif she didn't ask if I was going to call.



I told her, soons I find a phone.





Tuesday, January 07, 2003

I Call You Stormy:



So the thing about eating less is true--it does make you weigh less. I also found out, if you think less, you get stupid.



If the air smells like jasmine in the evening, and it's warm, and it begins to plop warm wet raindrops on your arm, then you get magical.



You get all ELO inside. You get a strange magic.



skiffle,

Kate









Gimme, Gimme:



I should tell you that the blog is a VANITY project for my own AMUSEMENT and SELF-AGGRANDIZEMENT, intended to make us both think my life is MUCH MORE FABULOUS than it really is. Thus, any time I allude to sex-actions, makeouts, drugs or anything, you should put on your skeptic's goggles.



For example, my New Year's Eve, while INSPIRING and LEGENDARY, was not a big hot tub orgy. Yeah, there was a hot tub, two hot girls and one hot guy, and a kind of X-y loveydoveyness that money just can't buy. But no EVIL was perpetrated and no TRUST was broken and nothing BAD happened. It was all strictly by the book. A book called CREEPY NO MORE: HOW TO BE A HIPPIE WITHOUT ANYBODY KNOWING, Chapter Seven: HOT TUBS, POOL PARTIES, THE BEACH AND CAMPFIRES: ENJOYING NATURE WITHOUT BEING A JACKASS.



Sorry to disappoint.



So I got the new RS, which just keeps sucking harder, and I have to admit, wow, old Justin T. is one hot little Cheeto. I got a funny feeling when I looked at the veins on his tummy. It was a funny feeling in my tummy. Feels like summer. It's coming, you know.



Also in RS was a pic from the KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas concert where they apparently did an all-star version of "Do They Know It's Christmas?" Was disturbed to see that two of the six or so people in the picture were Scientologists: Beck and Juliette Lewis. God, it's so creepy. What the hell was Juliette Lewis doing there in the first place? She's not a rock star. Are she and Beck L. Ron Buddies now or something?



Do they know it's stupid?



The Timberlake article is all about how Britney cheated on him and all his GFs cheated on him, and being cheated on is "a terrible personal tragedy, excruciating to the heart and a burden on the soul." (The male writer's words.) I couldn't agree more. It's just a drag: Whenever a female cheats on a male (Britney, Courtney Love, Beck's ex, et al) men think it's an unspeakable cruelty. Yet 99 percent of rock guys cheat on their girlfriends as a matter of course, all the time----and are admired for it. It's as if men think, somehow, that infidelity is less painful to women. They think we don't suffer as deeply. Or maybe they just don't think about it at all.



I want to know why men have different rules when our hearts are the same.



Fuck it, I don't care. I just never want to be with someone who would do that. Love is hard enough without selfish evil. I'd rather be alone. being alone kind of rocks.



Love,

Kate





















Monday, January 06, 2003

Build Me Up, Buttercup:



It's sunday night again and i'm about to write some stuff for work so here i am writing to you instead. Warming my hands by the light of ye olde internet.



It's warm and windy tonight like late summer, so dry. You'd think with a wind this strong the stars would get blown out of position or something. I wonder if I'll be able to sleep tonight.



Thanks for kissing my ass so sweetly, Jamie. It always perks me up.



I've been silent because I've been overly preoccupied with Lester "Sloopy" Bangs. One day I love him so bad it makes me weep; the next, I can't stand to look at him. Poor thing, stuck with a psycho chick like me. What does he care if I named him after the best song ever, and if I drive around and sing "Help!" to him? He doesn't care about rock 'n' roll. He doesn't care if I take him to the beach and watch the sun set with him. He doesn't get it. I could have named him Soupy Sales or David Hasselhoff and he wouldn't care. I could have named him Hotlips Houlihan or Bea Arthur. It's all the same to him.



gotta



Love

kate



Thursday, January 02, 2003

Hello, Mary Lou:



Wow. This was a kind of legendary New Year's. It brought me to one of those acidesque moments when you hear a benevolent and androgynous voice in your head, maybe the voice of your soul, and it's saying, "You are alive."



It's a kind reminder to kiss and eat and recognize this moment, because it is real, and it is perfect, even though I feel eternally unfinished and imperfect.



You don't have to be perfect to be perfect.



And you don't have to be beautiful to turn Prince on.



The moment happened in a hot tub. Me and a girl and boy were floating in the tub as the earth turned--for hours and years--and still the sun wouldn't come up, and the boy goes, hey, I guess the thing about 2003 is, it's always dark! that was fine, because it was the kind of night that you want to go on for years. It did, too. The evening began in the sexual 1960s and went on from there, with a lot of time spent in the dangerous and liberating 1970s.



I want to explain everything to you but I have stuff to do. In any case, I just want to say that I think you should pursue your dreams, and pursue them your way. Don't let anyone change your style in a way that feels wrong to you. If you keep pushing and pushing, eventually the universe will give you what you ask for, and will reward your individual style.



Happy New Year.



OK bye.

love,

Kate