Rain, Rain, Shoot Me in the Face.

It's been two weeks and this rain hasn't stopped falling. Either the earth really needs this moisture or nature is just out to coax me into a submissive and dismal ball of misery.

Ball of Hellfire

Purchased for Father's Day: Nun Bowling. What dad wouldn't want ten nun pins and a ball of hellfire?

Upon further inspection, I noticed that my set didn't come with the ball of hellfire. Here's a question for you: Do I take it back? If so, what is the polite way to phrase their mistake?

I can't really ask my dad to bowl without the ball of hellfire. It wouldn't be right.

Oh, Hey.

The Salad I Didn't Know I Wanted

While New York City may be known for its lousy service, New York City delis are of another breed entirely. While exploring my new work neighborhood in search of the perfect salad, I found a deli that seems to pride itself on its multi-tasking.

Delis that offer a 'Build your own salad" bar have always intimidated me. First of all, you're not building your own. You're telling someone else to pick up your chosen vegetables and mix them together for you. There's always a line of people waiting behind you, ready to pounce on their crisp accoutrement of choice.

Before I've even handed over my plastic container of untainted spinach, they're already asking me what I want.

"Uh, chicken--"

"Yes?"

"Cherry toma--"

"Yes?"

"Uh...Uh... Chees---"

"Yes?"

"Green pepp--"

"Yes?"

"Uh--"

"Yes?"

"Wait, I--"

"Yes?"

Before you even have the choices out of your mouth, they're throwing it into the large silver bowl with tongs. And the choices are overwhelming. Before I knew it, I was debating between hot tamales and grape leaves. All of a sudden I've reached the vegetable finish line. There's no going back. The salad attendant has flung the bowl at the next attendant who's waiting with a curved blade.

The guy with the blade dumps your salad out begins hacking it into little pieces. I mean, just really going for it. Everything you've just ordered has been diced into vegetable confetti and placed back inside the plastic container you started with, then thrown at the next salad attendant. The next guy then puts your dressing of choice on and mixes it for the second time.

Finally. Salad confetti. I made eye contact with a guy in line in front of me who looked equally perplexed and overwhelmed by this process. All I could say to him was, "I'm freaking out."

Alas, my $10 dollar salad proved to be fresh and delicious. Who knew it took battling a panic attack to get a good salad in this town?

The Best Part of My Day

Township to the Stage: A Comic Journey

Greg's buddy from college is finishing up film school at USC. The following is a promo of his thesis: "Township to the Stage: A Comic Journey." It's following stand up comedians from South Africa.

Check out this awesome project and if you're so inclinded, you can donate!

Township to the Stage: A Comic Journey - Promo from David Meyer on Vimeo.

More Fun Than Food Poisoning

Okay, Oscar, I get it... I should have seen these films when you said they were worth watching. Maybe if I had, I would've been more inclined to join the others in favoring it.

In the past week, I sat down to watch Rachel Getting Married and a few days later to watch Revolutionary Road. Aside from the general sense that I should no longer be living, they were great movies.


Considering I spent four hours of my past week, right on the edge of despair, I don't know that I can muster up enough concentration and emotion to give a decent review on each. So I'll keep it simple.

Rachel Getting Married -- Anne Hathaway deserved every bit of recognition for her portrayal of a recovering drug addict trying to make amends with her family during an emotional weekend of nuptials.

Verite style cameras really helped capture to immediate emotions that pushed this story along. Any second, I expected Anne Hathaway's skin to come apart. Aside from the heartbreaking jaunts down the most miserable memory lane ever written, and the quirky wedding guests that seemed to crawl out of the fictional woodwork, it was a lovely ceremony.

Revolutionary Road-- Richard Yate's epic novel was one of my favorite's in college. How it came to warrant a screen debut, I don't know, I'm still perplexed. One of the greatest challenges of translating a novel to a film is being able to incorporate all of the back story and subtle details that filled the pages and outlined the characters in the book.

Add a dash of two renowned actors, it still doesn't help fill in the gaps of sour American Dream heartache that the book held. I thought surely Sam Mendes would add a little pizazz to this piece, but I came away with absolutely nothing. Like the book, the movie is straight forward and unbelievably honest. It still holds true to the end, with a no resolution and zero pay off. If I had cared more about the onscreen characters, maybe I would've raised more of a fuss when the picture abruptly faded to black. Honestly, I was just glad it was over.

I still have one more Oscar pick to view... The Wrestler. If the credits roll and I still want to jump out of the window, I think I'm going back to involving myself in straightforward 90's romcom's for the rest of my days.

"When the cool night shakes you like a chandelier..."

Dear Friends,

Wilco has a new album due to hit shelves June 30th. They were streaming their album on their website for awhile. I'm not sure if it's my computer that can't take happiness anymore, but don't know that it's still streaming. Regardless, you can get a listen to one of my favorite's here.

That little duet you're listening to is between Jeff Tweedy and Feist. I don't care if you think it's just too cute, I think it's just too awesome. The closer it gets to the end of the album, the more it begins to sound like a promise to a lover. Each song, upon Katie's review, becomes epic. "Country's Disappeared" and "I'll Fight" especially.

Take a listen. Fall in love.

Oh, To Be 18 Again and Constantly Alert

This weekend, I gained a lot of insight as to why I'm not 18 anymore. For starters, beer hurts now. Staying awake past 3am: also painful. These days I'm perfectly content to end my nights by midnight in the presence of comfortable pants.

It was only fitting that I sit down to finally watch Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. I was interested in this movie when it was out in theaters. But one of the drawbacks, (or benefits?) of no longer being a teenager, is the ability to prioritize where my hard earned paychecks go. I learned that lesson when I paid $12 to be completely and dismally let down by last Indiana Jones.

Nick and Norah proved both to be entertaining and thoughtless. If I were 18, I would've been all over this movie. From the heartbreak and immense angst over a relationship that you're not suited for, to the complimentary meandering and sweet nature to be found in an often overlooked counterpart; we can all relate to why being 18 was terrible and wonderful.

I was able to overlook the seemingly ridiculous way in which the pacing of this movie deliciously fell into step. Anytime there was a problem presented, a phone rang immediately with a solution. If you're able to blindly accept the ironic and sweet way the characters took part in an Easter egg hunt around Manhattan, all for separate yet equal hunts, you'll be fine. Lest I forget, this wasn't written for me. It was written for my 18 year old self.

In fact, this exact scenerio was something I'd probably wished would happen to me at 18. A chance to tag along with a dopey yet attractive scraggly-haired male to discuss our favorite music all while he discovered the beauty I was too blind to discover in myself. I think I wrote this and I think Time Travelers have stolen this from me.

I don't know that I'd recommend Nick and Norah to anyone other than a girl who's bent on spending an evening alone, followed by a hefty read-through of an old journal from high school. Regardless, it's had me thinking quite a lot about my inefficiency to churn out stellar mix tapes. An art that I have, tragically, not carried with me into my, (ahem) late twenties.

Basically, Nick and Norah just adds to the already growing number of teenage flicks that prove that the dorky guys really do get the girls in the end. Keep it up, dorks. You're making us old folk look good.

"You Sure Do Kiss Like a Cowboy!"

Last night, we gathered around the television to take part in our newly functioning Bad Movie Night Club. This club is just getting off the ground, with such hits as Silent Night, Deadly Night and Doctor Detroit starring a young Dan Akroyd.

This time around, we went with something slightly more iconic than the norm. I'm assuming we're all aware of the street tough Sylvester Stallone and the triple-threat herself, Dolly Parton? They team up in biggest flop of '84 to create the masterpiece Rhinestone.

Jake Farris (Parton) finds herself desperate to break her music contract with her sleazy club owner, (played by Ron Leibman, best remembered for his role as Rachel Green's dad on Friends.) The owner will do anything to keep his money making songstress in his clutches, until she up's the stakes with a bet. Jake boasts that she can turn anyone, she means anyone, into the next hit country music sensation. If she wins, she gets to break her contract. If she loses, she has to finish out her contract, tack on five extra years of servitude and allow her manager to have his way with her in the sack.

The manager picks out rough and tough cab driver Nick Martinelli (Stallone) as her next protege. As seemingly monolithic as he is and as determined to never step outside of the boundaries of the five boroughs, Nick easily agrees to let Dolly shape him into a country music sensation. What you think would be a simple "Eliza Doolittle gets a cowboy hat" story, it quickly becomes the musical journey of a New York man defending his state's honor by channeling the down home nature of Tennessee state.

This was no simple story. Rhinestone contains layers upon layers of back story, relationship struggles, gender, family ties, loyalty and stereotypes all with musical accompaniment. But the main message I seemed to pick out of this cinemagraphic hodpodge, was the issue of North vs. South. How many stereotypes can these writers, (ahem, including Stallone) make in such a short amount of time? Answer: Quite a few.

From Nick's Italian, speghetti-eating family, ("Papa lov'a da' meat-a-balls!") to Jake's toothless neighbors, we are face to face with a war yet to be settled and only music can pave the resolution. Featuring the hit song, "Stay Outta My Bedroom" and the dark and unsettling gem, "God Won't Get Ya," Dolly really spreads her wings to let us inside.

The film can basically be categorized as having two separate climaxes and lessons. Act 1: Defending the honor of your heritage through the power of music. Act 2: Coping with overnight fame and defending the honor of your lover. As you can imagine, Nick and Jake win at both music and love.

The final interpretation I'll make is this: North and South prove friends as made evidence by the final climax of the film. Stallone dresses as a shimmering silver cowboy and rides a galliant white horse through the streets of Manhattan to reclaim his love. City vs. Country meet in the middle long enough for the heartfelt duet, "Be There;" the perfect blend of what we love about both.

Proving, yet again, that love really does conquer all, Rhinestone will go down in my book as another optimistic jaunt through life. Only this time, Dolly made it look good.

10% Better Than You

Here's a little something that's been intriguing me lately.

It seems there have always been a number of commercials that advertise the greatness of their product through a series of equations and percentages. Now with 30% more moisture!

I understand the basic percentages with product volume. But what intrigues me lately, is the percentage of workability. Pores get a 10% deeper clean! What is this math based on, exactly? And what's your stasis? Bone?

Lost, We Have to Break Up.

You had me at hello, Lost.

From the pilot episode where you crashed your plane, I was on board. When you told me the island was a different type of island, I listened. When you told me the island could cure people, I didn't question you. When you told me polar bears were in the jungle, I nodded in recognition. When you had me believe there were Others, I feared for you. When you kidnapped innocent children, I thought for sure you'd tell me why.

You, Lost, have taken a turn. Time has alluded me in this place. Perhaps this is your fickle nature, Lost. For you certainly have duped me before. But no, Lost, no. This isn't a game anymore. Lives are at stake. I have questions that need answering. I was enticed with your teases, but now I realize you've masked reality with several shirtless men who know how to shoot weapons. I thought I could be okay with this.

We basked in the innocence of your camp fires, in your love triangles, in your father-son moments. We cheered you on when you took charge, when you fought for yourselves, when you faced your worldly problems. It wasn't that long ago, Lost, when I accepted the presence of monsters, of an unseen evil at work.

These days I'm faced with detonating Hydrogen Bombs, time travel and the hope that one day I'd understand how an entire land mass could shift with the turn of a wheel. You had me believe that you might explain something as unexplainable as the black smoke. It turns out what I thought was important is small compared to the task that lay before me.

That is why, Lost, I have to walk away. I know what you're thinking, "But, Katie, we're a season away." Lost, I'll watch your last season, but I won't be happy about it because you've had me believe that you're not going to give me answers. That one day, not too far from now, you'll end the entire series by telling me it was all a dream. That by some sheer twist of time and irony, it turns out that Vincent the Dog is actually the evil ruler of the island and somehow controls the fate of the planet on a whim.

We had some good times and you've thrown me a few curve balls. But for now, I'm going to treat you like the show you ought to be... Nothing more than whimsy of science fiction. I shall not hold my breath for you or cheer you on. You have to win me back, Lost. And flowers just aren't going to do it.

Judas Got a Bad Rap

This morning I resurrected, (too soon?) my mom's vinyl of Jesus Christ Superstar and did some rocking out. Every time I listen to this soundtrack, I'm finding myself gravitating towards the track "Heaven On Their Minds." First of all, it's an amazing song. Movie-Judas did such a better job than Album-Judas. Yet I'm already digressing.

I firmly believe that Judas got a bad rap. Okay, okay... I know what you're going to say. "But what about the whole selling Jesus out to the Romans thing?" Okay, I'll admit that was a little shady. But quite honestly, Judas had Jesus' back up until that point.

Judas did nothing but believe in Jesus' word and truth. He pushed Jesus to be a better man and warned him to stay on target, to not let his celebrity persona override the real message. The followers, literally, had too much Heaven on their minds. Instead of preaching the message and trying to do good in the world, they followed Jesus and held him above all.

Yet when he was caught, (okay, be it Judas that led him to this), his followers turned on him. Judas never stopped believing that what they were fighting for was for truth and understanding. He just thought Jesus was not doing what he set out to do. And when Judas got to his wits' end, he commited an act of betrayal. But can you imagine believing in your message so much and seeing it begin to unravel? Not only that, but feeling like your leader isn't doing all that he can? You'd get angry too.

And if you disagree with this, that's cool too. Neither one of us were there, so I can't really argue with you. Regardless, please enjoy, "Heaven On Their Minds."



Plus Movie-Judas is smokin' hot, one thing he was never found guilty of.

Drunk History

I just discovered this absolutely amazing video series called "Drunk History." Each episode, they tape one of their drunk friends talking about an historical event. Then they reenact the scene using some pretty amazing actors.

This is my favorite one... Watch the gripping tale of Oney Judge.



Amazing.

If Hospitals Were Run Like Airplanes

Good Morning, America has a tendency to show the same things over and over again. Take for instance the plane crashing into the Hudson. They love this clip. Just about every week, they have some new take on this event.

This week, for example, was about how hospitals should be run more like airplanes. That airplanes are so efficient and everyone has to be quick to act on their feet. Basically, that doctors need to be running a tight ship. I thought this was hilarious, as I imagined what they were going to compare it to next week. Maybe how Obama should be more aviation-minded.

So, back when I thought I was going to die, I went to the doctor a lot. My claims of dizziness for no reason led doctors to believe I had low blood pressure, low blood sugar, pregnancy or that I was capable of seizures... The latest, in interesting things to rule out, happened to by Lymes Disease. Okay, fine. Rule that out too. I don't recall any fraternizing with ticks, but fine. Do what you gotta do.

This was months ago and shortly after, I began to receive bills for this test. My new insurance, not having been fully kicked in at the time of the appointment, was then instated and was going to be retroactive before the time of the appointment. So I began filling out forms to file, and sending them back in. Only I'd get another one. Thinking I was just getting duplicates, I'd fill it out again and send it back.

I get a notice that says that I might be in danger of being sent to a debt collector. I call them this morning to find out what's been going on.

"Well, we haven't received anything from you."
"I've sent in this information twice now."
"Well, we don't have anything. Where did you send it?"
"I sent it to Mt. Sinai hospital, where the addressed envelope in which you provided me guided me along."
"Well, I'm the only one who opens them and I haven't received anything from you."
"So you mean to tell me that not only have you not received your self-addressed envelope in which I mailed, apparently just to you, but you haven't received two of them?"
"Correct."
"And not only have you not received them, but now I have two pieces of mail floating out in cosmos with all of my personal information and signature on?"
"Correct."

I almost went into debt over a test for Lymes Disease. Really? A tick bite?
I live in New York City. I can't even remember the last time I saw a fucking tree.
Are you kidding me?

Hospitals really should take a note from Captain Sullenberger. I'd trust my life and threat of impending debt with Sully any day of the week.