When It's Over

I don't want to do this any more. Any of it.

I want to meet a guy who works on a farm. No, owns a farm. Owns a farm, but looks like he lives in Brooklyn. Plaid shirt, sensible jeans. Maybe a beard, but a well-manicured one. He has a dog, and it's a mutt, with a human name and a white patch on its chest, and it does something cliche-amazing like bring you the paper or your slippers.

I'm exhausted.

I want to live in a little city - a cool one, one populated by post-hispsters, where concert venues host shows that begin at reasonable hours and play at reasonable decibels. Never on Tuesdays. It's a little city, so you have to leave your house to meet people. It isn't overwhelming out there, yet there's plenty to do. There are little dive bars and little coffee shops, and woods nearby, and it's way less twee and annoying than that all sounds.

I'm hollow.

I don't want to help rich people anymore. At least not like this. I don't want to soothe them, coddle them, sweet talk them out of making stupid, tasteless decisions with their stupid, tasteless money; console them for making poor decisions in the pursuit of getting richer.

I'm stuck.

I don't want to do this anymore. At least not like this. In Cobble Hill the other day, I saw the back of a brownstone next to the one I was photographing - 'protecting' - and this neighbor building had its back blown out, created this glassed-in Zen garden situation, and it was fantastic design, modern rear juxtaposed with historic street facade and it was lovely and amazing and inspiring and nothing I could ever allow based on guidelines I'm required to enforce. And just like that, my internal compass went Bermuda Triangle.

I know better.

I suppose it's okay, because I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and it's not this, anyway. This is a way to pay the bills, which became a way to stall, to keep an arms length from the things I most want, and am most frightened by. This is a necessary evil simply because I've made it necessary. I've been doing that my whole life.

So now what?

The guy on the farm (dude, I don't know) the little city, the early shows, getting paid for something that doesn't suddenly make my skin crawl - it's not like there's a door somewhere, I find the right key, and on the otherside: everything. Right? Or is there? It's not like I want to pretend the last four years never happened, but lately everything's become so heavy. Like it needs to be shed.

My move.

Crack Rock

Guys.

I am crazy about Frank Ocean.

Like, I know, 'woohoo, Katie, you and everyone else who listens to r&b, congratulations.' But it's more than that. I haven't listened to an album over-and-over-and-over again like this since...well, since Fiona Apple's new album came out a few weeks ago, but she's my soulmate, so that's sort of an anomaly. Anyway...'Channel Orange', my goodness. It's on Spotify, it's on iTunes, it's on his Tumblr, there's like, a thousand ways you can listen to it, so just go.

And not to be ungrateful, Frank, but it's about g.d. time. 'Novacane' came out like, a year and a half ago. I remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it - in a rental car, lost in New Bedford, looking for some old shipping magnate's house to take pictures of in the rain. I stopped at the Visitor's Center to pee and get directions (Dear everyone who works at the New Bedford Vistor's Center: you are fucking delightful humans, and your facility is lovely) and when I got back to the car, the first song on the radio was Mssr. Ocean's debut. The DJ was like 'Okay, I don't even know guys, this dude is on some new school Prince shit, and it's...it's just crazy, listen' and he played it, and I was like 'OH MY GOD THIS GUY IS SORT OF ON SOME NEW SCHOOL PRINCE SHIT, AND IT IS CRAZY' and then I totally missed the turn and forgot the directions and ended up in Rhode Island, which like, isn't hard from New Bedford, but still.

So then 'Swim Good' came out, all that 'Nostalgia Ultra' business, and he did some shit on 'Watch the Throne' that was pretty ill, but not enough! Of him. So I pretty much decided 'this guy is never coming out with a full album because he hates me' and I half-forgot about him, because I have ADD and I am not medicated.  Or not, whatever, sometimes there's just a lot to think about.

Then, recently, I'm sure you've heard, he wrote this really lovely post on his Tumblr/blog/whatever about his first love, who happened to be a man. And mostly I was like 'Oh shit, Frank Ocean's album is dropping soon!' (I actually think stupid shit like that) because, honestly, if you can fall in love with someone, isn't that just nice enough on it's own? But the internets went batshit, and it made me think about how true it is, that hip-hop and r&b are so straight-centered, and it was pretty fucking brave and beautiful and honest of him, to put that out there, and then Pitchfork gives Channel Orange a 9.5, and fuck, guys, this might make a difference.

Some of the songs are girl-centric, some are pretty gender-neutral, and then there's something like 'Forrest Gump', which besides having an adorably smart chorus, is totally progressive in that sex-light I've been talking about. I mean...I don't know quite why everyone's always so focused-insistent about hip hop's homophobia issue -- of course, I get it, it is, but it's like everyone trips over themselves to talk about how homophobic hip hop is, when, in reality, is indie rock so much better? Is ANYTHING? Go anywhere. Even 70's glam rock. Mick Jagger was apparently fucking David Bowie for half the decade, but he's still singing about Angie* and heroin. 'Channel Orange' might be, after a full lyric breakdown, the most interestingly sexually progressive mainstream album like...ever?

Oh, and also, IT'S FUCKING AWESOME. I've listened to 'Thinking Bout You' approximately 85 times in the last four days. (I know he released it last year but I missed that.) Even if you don't give a crap about anything I just talked about, if you like music, just listen to this shit. Actually, first, look up the performance of 'Bad Religion' he did on Jimmy Fallon last week. Watch ?uestlove's face. It's crazy to see someone you idolize get that 'Oh my fuck' look. It's amazing.

So, to reiterate: Guys. I am batshit crazy about Frank Ocean. Get yourselves there.

*And I know, Angie was Bowie's wife? The 70's were crazy.

I Know Some People Would Rather Keep Gin In the Desk...

Quick, everybody: whatever document you're working on, just take three minutes and draw a monster on it with whatever 'Paint' feature your computer has. Seriously: a monster. Make it up. Just draw it right on there. Finished? Nice. How much better did your day just get?

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You can use my example above as inspiration.

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Actually I don't see why it has to be one or the other: Gin In the Desk v. Computer Assisted Doodles. Try both. I predict spectacular results. You might want to save it for Friday afternoon, though.

An Open Letter to the Man Playing the Peruvian Wind Flute in Faneuil Hall

Dear Sir,

I want to first say that I commend you for pursuing your passion of playing the Peruvian Wind Flute, and that I admire your determination, confidence and unwavering commitment to filling the Faneuil Hall area with the sounds of the Peruvian Wind Flute from approximately 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. Also, I am in awe of your lung capacity. Because you have been playing the same fucking four songs over and over and over and over and over and over and over again for the last twelve days in a row. So I respect you, Mr. Peruvian Wind Flute Player, there's no denying that. But, that said, I need you to stop. Seriously. Stop playing the Peruvian Wind Flute. Because you are driving me fucking mad.

I realize it's not your fault that the entire back of my office is a giant glass wall over looking Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market, and the general congestion of Congress Street. And I realize you have no way of knowing that, after two years in this office, I have an incredibly low threshold for annoying, repetitive noises, especially the sort which emanate from street performers. And since you didn't like, create the Earth and its atmosphere, you are in no way liable for the acoustics of this spatial arrangement, nor for the way the sounds emitted from your Peruvian Wind Flute carry particularly loudly, strongly, and clearly from your patch of brick to my cubicle bound ears. But I am telling you now. It's been going on long enough. You have to stop before something bad happens.

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Every morning, from 9:15 to just past 10:00, I think to myself 'Yes. Today is the day that the Peruvian Wind Flutist and his evil henchmen have found a new area of the city in which to publically perform. I wish them well, but I am so, so delighted that I will not have to listen to a random scattering of the same four notes for the next seven hour-ah! ah! SHIT HE'S BACK.' Because you are always back. Apparently, no one has told you that there are like 9000 OTHER PLACES IN BOSTON WHERE YOU COULD SET UP YOUR SHITTY LITTLE TABLE AND DISPLAY YOUR CRAPPY CD - WAIT , YOU HAVE A CD? WHAT THE HELL COULD BE ON YOUR CD? YOU HAVE FOUR SONGS. FOUR. SONGS. I mean it, man. You have to go.

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I know it seems like I'm getting irrationally worked up over nothing. Believe me, I feel guilty for hating you as much as I do. I support the arts, dammit. I hand over portions of my meager paycheck to street performers on the regular. Are you playing water glasses in the Public Garden? Bam, take a dollar. Playing your damn violin in the Common? There's a buck for you, too, kid from Berkeley who totally doesn't need my fucking dollar more than I do. I support your mission that much. And you, guy with the giant boombox and the T-Pain voice modulator thing in the subway? Bam. Two dollars, in your bucket, right now. You made my whole night.

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But Mr. Peruvian Wind Flutist...enough is enough. You had your chance to charm me, and you failed. From the looks of your stand, you're really not charming many other passersby, either. It doesn't look like you've moved a single CD since last Wednesday (yes, I've been checking. On my lunch break, everyday. During which I fantasize about releasing a termite colony into your Flute cases, and laughing with great mirth. Then I feel really, really bad. For about thirty-five minutes. Until, you know, exactly the moment I walk back into my office and hear the strains of 'ba..babababa...babababadflutemusic...ba..babababa...').

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Listen - I can't get away from you. I have to sit here. You? You're mobile. You can just pack up your table, and your CDs and roll out. Why are you posted up in Fanueil Hall all the time anyway? These shitty tourists came here to eat overpriced clam chowder and drink a beer at the fake Cheers. They're on their way to bother everyone who works at the Aquarium and on the whale watch boats. What do these assholes know about traditional Peruvian Flute Music? Nothing, most likely. And the office workers surrounding your make-shift amphitheatre? Probably even less. We're World Music philistines. Barbarians, the lot of us. I swear.

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So please, please - do everyone involved a favor and move your operation somewhere else. The Common might be perfect. Much more comfortable surroundings, and possibly even some hippie parents bringing their kids to the Frog Pond. May I suggest the Green Street T station in JP? There are never are musicians there, and the location is ideal. Somewhere on the Red Line, perhaps? I think you're missing your entire target demographic. Just, please go. Now. I'll even buy a few of your shitty albums if I have to. I could use more coasters. Because, Mr. Peruvian Wind Flutist, consider this your final warning: If I have to listen to you scaling the fucking notes of your goddamn flute while trapped in a staff meeting one more time, I honestly believe that I am going to snap. I will send you a Trojan Alpaca full of termites, Dutch Elm Disease, pandas, I don't know, whatever fucking eats wood and will decimate your flute collection. I hate you that much.

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Thank you, and best of luck,

kk

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p.s. - This letter, and the passive aggressive pleas contained therein, IN NO WAY APPLY to you, adolescent boy who bangs on the plastic bucket. I love you. I love you even when you gather up half a dozen of your unkempt teenage friends, and you all bang on your buckets in a cacophony of earsplitting, nonsensical hammerings. This also does not apply to you 'Black Guys Dancing', because you are everything joyous and pure that street performers should be. When you randomly invade a car on the T, it's like fucking Christmas. I live for that shit. Thank you.

Live Action Oscar Rambles

Oooh look! The Oscars are on! I didn't realize those were tonight. Hey - Jon Stewart is hosting? Yay! I love Jon Stewart! I'm going to watch this.

8:15 - Ok, there is a half hour pre show? On ABC? Hasn't E been doing this all day? I'm going to walk the dog.

8:30 - Finally. Opening monologue. I love you Jon Stewart. I even love your jokes that fall flat. Love you, love you.

8:40 - Initial thoughts on Oscar Hair 2008: so far both Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner are rocking messy textured hair that would look a whole lot better if it was just a little shiny. Messy hair is cool, but reassure me that it's clean, ladies. Jennifer Garner's hair actually looks exactly like mine did this morning. But I woke up on the couch this morning, after arriving home Saturday night and determining that my bed was simply too far, and the path there littered with too many shoes. Jennifer Garner's hair looked like it shared the evening with mine.

8:47 - Hey! George Clooney in the audience! Did you know his girlfriend was a waitress until like 15 minutes ago? Vote Clooney!

8:50 - 80th Oscar Birthday Montage. I dig the montage. By the way, when did the whole cultural backlash against Billy Crystal begin? Like, all of a sudden everyone hates him. What the hell did he ever do to you?

Oooh, I wish I had been alive when Isaac Hayes performed Shaft. That should win the Oscar for best performance in Oscar History. Then the category should be closed. It was that awesome. And Jesus, Hollywood was really open about its rampant drug use in the 70's. Oh, and the 60's. And the 80's.

8:52 - I love Anne Hathaway's skin. Her dress, however is heinous. It looks like she snipped a red lei in half and stapled it to her chest.

Jesus, I have seen no movies this year. This whole 'waiting till shit appears on HBO/On Demand' thing is killing me. Was Hot Rod nominated for anything? No?

Katherine Heigel...so, one shoulder brightly colored dresses are in this year? Kinda ick. But I am digging this pale skin thing.

Hey, the third Pirates of the Carribbean movie came out already? I still haven't seen the second one.

8:55 - I'm seeing La Vie En Rose like, immediately. I just developed the hugest crush on Marion Cotillard.

9:00 - I hate the Oscar songs. Always. These songs always suck. Except Shaft, of course. And when Three Six Mafia was nominated. The song sucked, actually, it was just a really weird cultural moment. Why the hell is Amy Adams singing about scrubbing toilets? Why is she wearing an outfit from my elementary school music teacher's wardrobe? Her heels are killer, though.

9:05 - Yes! The McDonald's commercial with the b-boy kid dunking his apple slices! I want to hang out with that kid.

9:07 - When did The Rock become a legitimate actor? What did I miss? I mean, he's not presenting for Best Actor or anything, so he's not that legit...yet. At this rate he'll be the mayor of someplace in three years. Oh, you don't believe me? Did you know that Jesse Ventura was in Predator? Wrestler --> Actor --> Politician. That's how the politically ambitious and heavily muscled roll.

9:10 - Vanessa Paradis has lipstick on her teeth. I didn't know that actually happened in real life.

Ooh, Cate Blanchett is presenting. I LOVE Cate Blanchett. It's almost impossible to believe she's real. Did you see Notes on a Scandal? She's super human. I could write poetry dedicated to her hair in that movie. And I like her dress, except for the collar. What the hell is going on at the neckline? It looks like she's holding the fabric up with a floral boa constrictor.

9:20ish - Best Supporting Actor Award, presented by Jennifer Hudson. Goddamn, Jennifer Hudson. Did you take like 4 Ambien and attack your dress with a pair of scissors before you got on stage? Are you a robot? Is your system malfunctioning? Someone help her.

Javier Bardem wins! And then immediately makes out with the old lady next to him. Isn't he dating Penelope Cruz? Did he just love all over his mom? That was weird. She looks like she rocks though - check out her bracelets! And dope speech, Javier. God, he's sexy. Ok, but stop making out with your mom, man. It's creeping me out.

9:30ish - I adore Kerri Russell, and her necklace and her dress...but why is the bodice so huge? I love that she's cool with her small chest...but a camera with a birds eye view could make this shit x-rated real fast. You're Kerri Russell. Get it fitted.

Woah, the song from August Rush does not suck. Who is this little girl singing? She's incredible. Is she wearing track pants?

And the Oscar for Whitest Moment of the Evening goes to Jon Stewart...for referring to the ubiquitous white person dance as 'the cabin patch'. My flame of love for him flickered a little there.

9:40: Best Supporting Actress Award. Tilda Swinton wins! Goddamn, Tilda looks a hot mess. That is the ugliest dress I have ever seen. And I love the pale skin this year, but this woman looks dead. Like she was buried for 3 months, and dug her way out of the ground just in time for the ceremony. She is still wearing the shroud she was buried in. Her speech was cool, though. She said 'nipples' and 'buttocks' in the same minute. Jesus, how freaking hot is George Clooney? I need to see Michael Clayton.

9:45 - Even Jessica Alba is pale! I love it! God, she's gorgeous. But what the hell is with all the horrendous bodice-feathers tonight? The inspiration, apparently, was a very timid showgirl.

9:50 - Best Screenplay Based on Material Already Produced or Published or Something...damn, didn't this category just used to be called 'Best Adapted Screenplay'? How do they fit all that on the Oscar? There's not much room for text.

9:52 - Another wack song. Miley Cyrus terrifies me, although her dress was beautiful. (Did you know Miley is short for Smiley, which is what her parents called her as a baby? That is the stupidest nickname I have ever heard.) Kristin Chenowith is so cute, I wish she wasn't torturing my ears with this heinousness. Do she and Kerri Russell shop at Too Big In the Bodice 'R Us? It's cool that you own your flat chestedness. But you're rich. Find a tailor. Oh my God, this song is awful.

10:02 - Is it weird that I have an ENORMOUS CRUSH on Seth Rogen? I don't usually go for pudgy guys with JewFros. And yet.

The Sound Mixing and editing Award...Tommy Lee Jones was in No Country for Old Men? I didn't know that. There's this whole weird segment of the population who insist he looks like my Dad. Really! Whenever my Dad used to tell me this, I never believed him, because he looks nothing like Tommy Lee Jones. Then we were having lunch one time and our waitress ACTUALLY ASKED HIM if he was Tommy Lee Jones. It was bizarre. Other, normal members of the human race think he resembles Mike Lowell.

10:10 - Best Actress Award. I knew nothing about Marion Cotillard before tonight, but now I adore her. Not the mermaid dress so much, but she's French, they can get away with that. Cutey speech, too.

10:18 - It was sort of strange that they came back from commercial to Jon Stewart and the August Rush singing girl playing Wii Tennis. Was this product placement? Or did the writesr burn out before they edited this segment? Oh Jesus, another fucking song. Hey! Is Colin Farrel talking about the song from Once? I loved that movie! And all the songs! Are they going to perform? Yay! And who don't I have a massive crush on? Because Glen Hansard? I love him. You know what? I'm going to put the wine down for a little bit.

10:25 - Best Picture Montage. I have seen exactly 26 of the Best Pictures. Out of 79. I feel like I should have seen more. But there are some movies I am just never going to see. Like Lord of the Rings. Oh, get over it.

10:32 - I hate Nicole Kidman. I have to say that before I admit that she is wearing the most gorgeous necklace I have ever seen. Now, I will repeat: I hate Nicole Kidman.

The Honorary Oscar Presentation. Dude - Robert Goyle looks INCREDIBLE for 98. 98! He came out wearing a towel like Rocky, and then spouted nonsense for five minutes. Do your thing old man! 98! This might wind up as my favorite moment of the whole night.

10:45 - ANOTHER song from Enchanted? Really? Hey look! John Travolta! Oh my God! Why is he dancing to this crap? Ah, because he's going to announce the winner. If the song from Once doesn't win...Yay! It wins! And Glen Hansard told everyone to make art and I totally love him and I almost cried a little. Shit, how did this wine glass get back in my hand?

10:58 - Cameron Diaz has my favorite dress of the night.

11:00 - I got hungry here and prowled around the kitchen for a while and missed the people-who-died montage. Ok, I did it on purpose. That shit makes me cry.

11:26 - Best Original Screenplay. Diablo Cody's badass Betty Rubble dress rocked...and her near breakdown was adorable. Look at all these people with emotions tonight! Emotions and pale skin! It's all very deconstructed this evening.

Yes, I need to see Juno, too. I told you! I wait till shit comes out on HBO! It costs at least $10 to see a movie in Boston, and I can never decide which one to see, and I get thirsty or have to pee at least once, and I can never find my seat again, never mind the correct screening room - one time I left to find the bathroom and somehow used an exit that deposited me directly INTO THE PARKING LOT. It took me forever to figure out how to get back into the building. Movie theatres are stressful. Plus, I am a girl who is taking notes during the damn Oscars. I am easily distracted. I like possessing the ability to rewind.

11:30 - Best Actor. I'm actually loving the retrospectives. But I can't even see a clip from Philadelphia without tearing up, so I'm already misting a little when Helen Mirren takes the stage. Weird dress, but she's the shit. Obviously, I am rooting for George Clooney, but everyone says Daniel Day Lewis is going to win. DDL's my Dad's number one man-crush, though, so I'm not mad at him. And he wins! Look at his crazy old school suit! He bows for Helen Mirren! I am so, so charmed by his crazy ass. I know he's supposed to be this super intense method acting nutcase, but his speech was sweet and humble...so charmed. He's a real artist. Make art!

11:41 - Best Picture. Hey! Denzel! My Momma (who is the truth, as mommas go) has loved three men in her life, that I'm aware of: my Daddy, Peter Jennings, and Denzel Washington. As such, I have similar feelings of warmth. Man, I really need to see No Country for Old Men.

Hey, its over? Cool. I'd like to thank my parents and their non-Tommy Lee Jones-resembling, Denzel-loving, pale-small-chested-child producing asses; my brother, the other pale flat chested relative I love; and my dog, whose studded collar was the best accessory of the night.