some the wiser

IMG_1719The morning after I turned 24 my extensions had turned against me.

Autumns are always a little rough for me. My birthday is in September, which never fails to put me in an existential haze. And no matter how many years I’ve been out of school (three) that feeling of starting a new grade never fully goes away. I start to feel the weight of a change beyond my control. Who was I, who am I, does it really matter… Everything Old starts to die to make room for something New. But that can be beautiful, or so they say.

The week of my 24th birthday was the usual mix of celebration and apprehension, with a short congratulatory period pancaking to an idle anxiety. Sure, I’d accomplished some things in the past year. But what would I do next? I was back on the job hunt, newly single, another year older and this was all sounding far too familiar…

The seasons were refusing to change. I was refusing to stop using my air conditioning. Other people’s lives were advancing all around me and the most exciting things that had happened in my life recently were that my mother had sent me a care package of Kraft mac n cheese and I got a membership at Planet Fitness (a contradiction not lost on me but in fact one that I find representative of my life philosophy. Everything in moderation, sure, but still everything I want). With more time to myself, that is, less time working, I started working out. I realized I was in better shape than I’d thought, and that running is a good way to take out aggression. Plus it burns off the booze! I guess I always knew these things, but if you remember me before I moved to NYC you know I couldn’t run a mile without my heart nearly exploding from my thoracic cavity (I found that word on wikipedia. Did I use it right? I’m not a scientist.) Now I can run like two miles while sexting and still have the energy to masturbate in the shower after. I’m a regular Florence Griffith Joyner.

 me rn

OK, so maybe not. But I still consider it an accomplishment. Let me have this, okay?

Somewhere around the end of last month, Alex and I fell into a lull on our Big Project, the ever-dreaded Writer’s Paralysis leading us both to send each other terribly transparent, self-deprecating gchats from our respective caves of neuroses. I had become pretty irritable by this point, but I think that had something to do with PMS, and as much as I love her, probably something to do with my mom coming to stay the weekend at the end of September. My lack of patience is still something I really need to work on, especially when it comes to someone who does so much for me. I mean, she birthed me, and even though I didn’t deserve it, she bought me these cool knock-off crocs.
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Susan Miller gave us fair warning that October would be rife with hurdles, disappointments, or possibly blessings disguised as the worst fucking thing that ever happened. The jury is still out on the blessings part, but I felt the tension in the air from the very beginning. Granted, I always feel tension at the first of the month because the words “rent day” and “freelancing” go together about as well as Virgo and Aries (that one’s for you, Susan). This time, I had a lot to look forward to, thus a lot of planning and stressing. With grand plans come great expectations and I have to be prepared for every possible outcome.

Every fall (as in twice so far), Sarah Sassafrass, Jeffrey Scott, and Justin aka Boy Reverend come visit me for a handful of days. They’re my fam away from fam, my Team outside of Big Things. When they visited last year, I had the cheapest mattress from Ikea lying directly on my floor, we made a huge mess, and because I started a new job that weekend we didn’t get to spend as much time together as I’d hoped. This time I had the Ikea mattress on an Ikea bed, fun things scheduled for every night of their visit, and I told them to bring they own damn towels. The Monday before they arrived I was feeling equipped for a houseful of guests, but I still didn’t have a job. So I looked on craigslist, found a post I liked for a development associate position at a production company, and applied. I interviewed Wednesday and I felt good about it, but hey, I’d been wrong before. I didn’t hear back the next day, so I decided to say “fucket yolo” and go to Hannah’s salon to get my hair texturized.

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It’s always a sight for sore eyes when I see those colorful heads of hair standing at the Starbucks across from the Megabus stop. I was feeling ready to party, we went home and changed for some party, prepared to deal with the continued hiatus of the L train. After drinking at Winston’s until about 1 am and getting a belated birthday present from Sass (a collar that says BITCH), we thought we’d finally hit the street. A walk, a wait, two trains, and another walk later, we arrived at the location of the party, only to see that…it wasn’t there. We had the address right. We were standing in front of it. But the doors were shut and there was no one inside, as far as we could tell. Bummed, drunk, and weirded out, we headed to The Woods to drown our defeat in pickleback shots, but not before seeing who I was pret-ty sure was Alia Shawkat of Arrested Development fame scurrying down the street ahead of us. Despite my confusion at how I always end up at this bar and that I was convinced something must be wrong with me, we actually had a pretty decent two hours. We closed the place down and it was the first time I publicly made out with a stranger since being single. It was not as fun as it sounds. But there was a dog in the bar, so it all came out in the wash, I guess.

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Hannah didn’t realize until much later that that was not her boyfriend.

That Friday was a huge milestone for the closet comedy nerd inside me. I had my first improv class at Upright Citizens Brigade, and at 400 bucks a course, this is no small feat. UCB has been a launch pad for many of your favs, and even though it may not be at the top of my Life Goals List to be on Saturday Night Live, I’d probably rank it somewhere in the top 100. But really, as a writer with a “performance background” it’s pretty much always been a dream of mine. So when I went to the training center at 3:30 for my three hour class, I was a little bit nervous. About as nervous as I was this time last year about my topless gogo dancing casting call, that is to say, I felt awkward for about five minutes before breaking the ice and flirting with all the girls. Of course, about halfway through the course I got a call back about that position I interviewed for. I had gotten the job. Yay! But there was just one catch. No! I’d have to be available every day until 6:30 and continuing the class at UCB at this time was a no-go. Fuuuuuck. Of course, I took the job with only slight hesitation, switched out of my UCB class and bore the fees I incurred with gritted teeth.

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That night, after buying some new accessories ^ at Patricia Field, I had Jeff dress me in my look for a night at Bossa Nova (the photos of which you will see next year sometime because it takes Sarah that long to edit them, ahem)

Every part of the weekend that I wasn’t in FULL LOOK from head to toe per Jeff’s insistence, I was lounging in bed, moaning off hangovers. We pretty much only got up to eat Popeye’s and go shopping on Knickerbocker, where I showed the gang what Bushwick life is really like, and where Sarah almost shat her pants. My favorite find of the day, and the only thing I could afford, was a teeny tiny “nurses outfit” in the Halloween costume sale section of Shopper’s World, that was really more like a nurse’s bra and slutty nurse’s mini skirt…they wear those in the ER, right? After getting drunk on Evan Williams and sending some of the best sexy photos I’ve ever taken of myself, we went to Passion Lounge for the marriage of Ultra Velvet and Shock Value.  Obviously the whole thing was great until the next morning, when our fish bowled brains had shriveled to raisins and I found a twitter mention from a hater calling me a whore. Sometimes it’s hard being a star.

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Because I had scurried over to my ex’s house that night (in a bikini top and socks with my shoes in hand…let’s not talk about it) I spent the next day blazed, walking around in an oversized boy’s t-shirt, a leather peplum, and arch-splitting heels that I couldn’t take off for the sake of The Look. The only saving grace of the entire day, besides waiting in line for 30 minutes to use a piss-stained Starbucks bathroom of course, was the kielbasa sandwich I devoured at Veselka, a Ukrainian restaurant in the East Village. It made me glad to be an EX-vegetarian (a refreshing break from kinda feeling guilty all of the time), and made me miss the kolbász my Hungarian gramma used to put in our kapusta. I tried to make a vegan version of this once and it came out SO abominably terrible I felt I’d disgraced my ancestors and vowed never to try it again.

IMG_1260_2Stoner wear/boner wear

After not being able to sleep at all before my first day at work, I spent 8 hours staring into my computer screen like a fool and then scurried home for my last night with my visitors. I’d looked like a bucket of horse manure all fucking day but I had also promised myself that I’d have Sarah take my Christmas card pictures with Kos n Gon before she left (I plan on being an adult this year and letting other adults know, namely my family, that I am not an ungrateful, useless person that forgot about them when I moved to the Big City). After achieving some spectacular results that I wish I could show you but won’t, the four of us sat in bed with Gonny, ate two pizzas and watched Clueless. In typical fucking fashion.

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All that week it was work, work, work, dates, dates, dates. Including my first ever Tinder date, a concept that both excited and terrified me. I love sexxxting and meeting new people and talking about myself and eating fried chicken with strangers so you’d THINK dating would be my thing but truthfully, I’d only gone on one blind date in all my years of having Facebook, Twitter, OKcupid, and access to other people’s Grindr accounts. The first guy hit me up on Twitter, turned out to be a complete psycho and put me off the whole idea for a while. Until Tinder came along and I made it my personal mission to slide the entire city of New York to the left. The way I see it with these things, someone is only safe to approach if their profile appears self deprecating, effortlessly ironic, or no-fucks-given to a strong degree. I think it was Groucho Marx that said “I wouldn’t fuck anyone from a social network that would have someone like me for a member,” to paraphrase. Anyway, I had an amazing time. I got free Pies N Thighs, and shocked myself with my ability to have a great time while completely sober with a guy who doesn’t drink. Weird, right? (Yes)

By the weekend, I realized I’d spent all my free time in the last 7 days either naked or in belly shirts, so the stress must have been good for my figure. I’d been sustaining on dick pics and Miller High Life (cause that’s all I could afford) and I thought I looked just great, which is why I was AGHAST that PaperMag put up a picture of me from last Friday’s Ultra Velvet looking like a toothless hillbilly. IRL I looked spooky and swagadocious and the paparazzi just caught me at a bad time. The perils of fame, y’all.

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Screen Shot 2013-10-21 at 9.53.38 PMWho needs a jack o lantern?

That Saturday, after emptying my pockets on a prix fixe brunch, reeling off of one bong rip and watching straight boys play GTA,  I decided to get my look together for Kelela at 285. We pregamed at Moe’s and I ate free pizza while annoying, if cute, Australian boys argued with my concept of society. After trying to run away from them on the street, failing and feeling kinda bad afterward, we ended up at 285. The thing about 285 Kent: the inevitable sighting of the boy you do not want see, followed by the boy you kinda really wanna see. Both are disconcerting, and by 3:45 when Kelela left the stage I was overstimulated and ready to die.  But the night wasn’t a total loss. The music was amazing as expected, I spent the night in Reid’s bed after he paid for all my drinks, and at some point I took a selfie with a golden retriever.

IMG_1529_2The next morning, even though I found myself gnawing on slim jim and watching the Kardashians as usual, I felt like something had changed. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t really had that much to drink the night before. Maybe it was watching the leaves blow across the parking lot of the food bazaar. The air tasted different. Did I feel capable? Hopeful? Maybe I could act like a teenager and still get things done. Maybe I could be free but not lonely. Nope, as I walked down Irving avenue towards my apartment, I realized it was just autumn. I was still poor, I was still confused. I’d taken two steps forward and a five picklebacks. But hey, I was still alive. And idk, maybe I was ready to write again.

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FASHION (turn to the left)

fam gang

Damn, y’all! It’s certainly been a crazy couple of weeks. Last time we spoke I had just begun my most recent job, the hours (10 am-8 pm five days a week) I am just now getting used to. Of course, now that I’ve gotten the routine down pat the gig is drawing to close, as such is the nature of freelancing. And with the additional drawback of inconsistent pay, I’ve just barely made enough in the meantime to pay off my August debts with a little leftover for that other thing. Survival. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten anything not on my Trader Joe’s Budget Friendly Shopping List that when I went to buy toilet paper from my local bodega just now, the owner asked me if I’d moved. More than once I’ve seriously considered the “ride n ditch” method of drunken taxi transport. I’ve gotten more overdraft notices in the mail in the last month than I have birthday cards (which is to say, ONLY ONE. Don’t worry, family. You’ve still got a full two days before I disown you completely.)

I have managed, though, as I usually do, to indulge myself with some top-notch extracurriculars. Most notably, I’ve hit a major milestone in my top-secret entertainment project with OMGAlex, who btw finally has a blog of his own (thank god). It’s really quite perfect if you’re into that whole “sardonic account of psuedo-bougie urban gayness” thing, which let’s face it, you are.

Someone told me recently that I am “obsessed with living in Bushwick.” This is in fact true. One of the main reasons for my allegiance, right below “semi-affordable housing if you get lucky enough on craigslist” and “large population of friendly stray cats” is that there are always parties worth attending within walking distance of my apartment (this of course is due to the other great reason for living here, that it’s where everyone worth seeing resides). One example of this is the Dizzyland party, which had its one year anniversary, Dizzy /World/, two weekends ago. The circus was hosted by pretty much all your favorite Bushwick supercelebs (Trey Latrash, Ms Fitz, Allison Wwonderland, Brian Whateverer, Genevieve Belleveau & Juliana Huxtable to name a few) and included performances by Pictureplane, Lil Internet, and House of Ladosha ~~and many more~~ so it was a basically one of those can’t-miss things. Hannah and I, getting a late start to our day, arrived around 2 in our best attempt at anime-inspired self-infantilization. I even wore two pink bows from my early 90s days.

IMG_1665I only wish I had been there for longer (although I generally find that no party /really/ gets going until 2 am). We could have gone to the Spectrum for after hours, but being the old farts that we are, we opted to walk home at 4:30. Here I am holding my shoes on the way back, looking as real as ever:
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You can find more (better) pixx from the night on PAPERMAG.

The following week was hellishly busy, as the job I’d been working on was set to take place at Lincoln Center during the shit show that is MERCEDES BENZ FASHION WEEK. I had never been to fashion week before and part of me was excited to see it up close. In high school I used to willfully lap up allll that industry bullshit. It seemed like such a fantasy land compared to my bored suburban life.  There was GLAMOR and CELEBRITY and LUXURY at fashion week. I had bedroom walls covered in pictures of Gemma Ward and Jessica Stam and a casual eating disorder.  Of course, any grown New York woman with two eyes and an awareness of culture consumption and class struggle in this city would be a little disconcerted by the whole thing. One popular picture from last year comes to mind.
I spent most of the day on location last Saturday guzzling free Doubleshots and storming around for 13 hours with a walkie talkie on my hip. I think the most fun I had all day was eating two giant plates of chinese food amongst a parade of cigarette-nursing models. At most I have a post-ironic relationship with fashion, and always try to have a sense of humor about it. That being said–

Later that evening, despite not getting any decent sleep in days,  I decided to attend the Alexander Wang after party, hosted by SHADE in the abandoned Pier 17 mall. By this time I’d been working since 6 am, had been drinking caffeine since, and wasn’t going to stop any time soon. After plotting 12 murders and a suicide on the L Train Shuttle I ultimately decided all I needed was a very large pick-me-up in the form of a few champagne and red bull cocktails and a lot of hair and make up. Around 11 I rode into the city with the New Bushwick Fam, over caffeinated and plenty drunk (though neither perceptible by me.) The party was a gigantic, crowded mix of ~club kidz & celebz~,  a thrilling mishmash of fame and anti-fashion that culminated with a bizarre surprise performance by Nicki Minaj. It pleased everyone. By this point the open vodka red bull bar had burned a sizable hole in my brain. I stepped out to make an exasperated and ill-advised phone call to my ex before silently weeping into my hair extensions as I rode down the mall escalator.  Outside on the pier I sat in a corner and took a quick one-hour cat nap, then spent $30 on a cab ride home. The next morning I had the worst hangover I’d had in 2013. It wasn’t the best night ever, but I didn’t really care. At least I had shown up and looked good.

The other night at Body Actualized Center, Brian was taking instagrams of people in his Whatever 21 line (which btw is now available on Vfiles). After asking him to redo my shot more than once, I laughed and took a selfie instead.

“I’m so vain!” I said to Rachel who had watched this all transpire.

“You are,” she replied. “But it’s part of your charm.”

#kanyeshrug
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life alert in da club

“Um, is there molly in this?”

“Oh, god honey, no! What kind of mother do you think I am?! Why, do you want a little bit? Because if you’re going roll I’d rather you do it in the house.”

****

(2008, everybody)
(2008, everybody)

I’m sure by now you’ve heard and seen more than your share of knee-jerk anti-drug propaganda as a result of the molly-related deaths at EDM shows in New York and Boston this past weekend. Over on BULLETT, Luke O’neil gives an alternative and, in my opinion, more rational perspective on the matter. He points out that, hey, maybe molly isn’t actually growing legs and jumping down people’s throats and murdering them. Maybe there is a wrong way to pop da mollies, and maybe there is a way that’s slightly less stupid.

I’m not saying that people who die of drug overdoses are idiots. On the contrary. It’s just like that abstinence-only education shit they used to teach us in high school. When kids are told by authority figures and a bunch of talking heads to JUST SAY NO to something that they obviously wanna do, their resulting rebellion is usually approached with a strong degree of reckless abandon, simply for lack of knowing any better. If all you’re taught is abstinence, how would you know how to use a condom? If all you ever hear is DON’T TAKE DRUGS, a dangerous generalization that equates a puff of marijuana with an intravenous heroin shot, you may smoke weed once, think “hey that’s not so bad,” and then every cautionary tale sounds like bullshit.

Well, obviously they’re not all bullshit. Some drugs can kill you. And you can’t really absolve anyone from neglecting to do research about the shit they’re putting in their body. But with all the anti-drug info being SO dramatically sensationalized, and most of the pro-drug info being hosted on what appear to be Geocities websites, it’s no wonder people ignore what they hear and read and just do whatever they want. I certainly learned the hard way, and pretty much every drug rule I have these days is because I’ve done the opposite at least once before (an image of teenage me–in Vegas, pale, crying and shivering at the feet of a certain rodent DJ while my friend begged people for change to buy a $8 bottle of Dasani–comes to mind. Things I learned that night: don’t buy ‘ecstasy’ from strangers in sketchy salt lake city parking lots, don’t take more doses than all your friends combined, don’t wash them down with a bottle of alcohol, you dumbass, and for the love of god SAVE MONEY FOR WATER.) I’m pretty sure, technically, I should have died like…three times now?

I’m turning 24 next week and I know, I know. I can’t stop talking about it. But I’m, like, old now. I have a lot more to worry about than testing the limits of an invincibility complex. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine life past 19, and now I’m drawing up a distinct game plan for what I want to accomplish by 30. I don’t want to go completely straight edge, because hey, that’s lame! So instead I have to, like, “use good judgment” and other embarrassing things our moms used to tell us to do.

Bottom line? Do what you want, but KEEP IT CUTE.  You can’t be the life of the party if you’re, you know, dead.

Surprise, Surprise

I should first begin with sincere apologies for not having written sooner, but rest assured I have a set of great excuses. Firstly, I have been very occupied over the last few weeks with drunk day trips to the Rockaways, reenactments of Wrestlemania using only cats, heated debates over Evan Williams about Chris Klein’s career, running from the cops with a mouthful of pickles…that sort of thing. Aside from the usual, I have also been busying myself with a brand new digital art project collabo with the bestie, PatrickOkay. It just debuted yesterday on tumblr at cantfightcrime.tumblr.com and you should definitely follow and reblog (duh). ALSOOO you can check out our DIScrit 89plus page and vote for us in their #YOUNGERTHANRIHANNA artist competition. Here is a sampling of our work if u don’t believe me. 
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Meanwhile, we are always looking for additional collaborators! So if you wanna be in one of our photo shoots, even if just to have an awesome new twitter avi, HMU>>>> message us on tumblr, DM me on twitter @katstkat or email me at thefabdisaster@gmail.com. Any way you want it.

In addition to all the photoshootin, I have secretly been planning to SURPRISE the triangle with my presence for Sarah Sassafrass’ 23rd birthday party (and to get some air outside of Brooklyn). I officially arrived on Tuesday to cohost the extravaganza, which will be held TOMORROW 8/10 at 10:30 PM, 3801 Lexington Drive in Raleigh. Music by LuxePosh, fabulousness by Everyone. Check out this hot ad we made that is sweeping the entire fucking nation as we speak and possibly the entire world, who knows.

If you can be at this party and you aren’t at this party, I’m not really sure what to tell you. Except that there are seats. Over there. Aaaaall the way to the left.

money squad

kat st. kat, mcdonalds, steel drums, fab disaster, fab, disaster
Times are tough and the struggle is real. I just bought my daily red bull with change I found between the couch cushions. I had stale Pop Chips for lunch. Work is less frequent and my most recent paycheck is floating somewhere between the accounting office that printed it and my particular postal district. The only way I can pay cover for clubs is when I find cash on the ground. Phone calls home have become a lot less fun for everyone involved. I eat fast food for literally every meal (see exhibit A above, in which our hero can be found on foot in a Mcdonald’s drive thru at 3 am last Friday).
By the beginning of last week I’d fallen off my 30-day Calisthenics Challenge and replaced it with a slightly less strenuous Crunches and Squats Every Two or Three Days. I figure it’s better than nothing, and it has come in handy seeing as I rarely wear “actual clothes.” It’s definitely not making my thighs any smaller, but whenever that worry enters my mind I counter it with the most powerful image of all: Beyonce.
By the time Saturday rolled around I was glad I had at least somewhat kept up with my workout, as I had agreed to make a scantily clad appearance in the new Buckwheat Groats video, mostly because A) my boyfriend, the infamous Penis Bailey, had requested my presence and B) who am I to deny the world an unobscured view of me in a Baby Phat bikini waving around an AK-47? I spent the day at Shopper’s World looking for just the right accessories, pinned 15 pounds of weave in my head, glued on a set of fake nails and managed to convince Bill to come get drunk with me on the Brooklyn rooftop set. It was awkward at first, because it was 8 pm and I was sober and surrounded by strangers, all of whom were wearing shirts. An hour later I had a drink, I was waving a fake gun and a VERY REAL BOOTY in front of a camera and it felt like just another Saturday night. kat st. kat, buckwheat groats, factory studios, fab disaster ak-47, kat st. kat, buckwheat groats, tom hanks, bill, fab disasterEventually even Reid and Patrick showed up after their respective work commitments to drink liquor on camera and boost general morale. After only 5 hours of fake dancing we all went to Dizzyland (naturally), where I later realized I had stolen the Wang Chain I spent hours slaving to make for my man, who was only on his first day of shooting. I had Patrick keep the chain safe before I caught a cab from the party rather early, Wang around my neck, stripper shoes in hand, running on the outer edges of my swollen feet.wang chainOn Sunday I ditched the weave and showed up for the second day of shooting in booty shorts and a cut-out bathing suit (so, church clothes basically).
I don’t want to give anything away, but the concept of this video involves a VERY MAJOR FAMOUS CELEBRITY who WE ALL GREW UP WATCHING AND ADMIRING and whose likeness I AM VERY LUCKY TO HAVE HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF SHAKING MY BODY ON, NEAR AND AROUND.
That’s all I’ll say for now.
kat st. kat, buckwheat groats, tom hanks, fab disaster, booty(behind the scenes photo stolen from Lil Dinky)
MEANWHILE it’s official that the Groats are playing the GATHERING OF THE JUGGALOS this year, which is incredibly fucking ridiculous. Apparently they even have a shoutout in this official infomercial but I wouldn’t know for sure because it’s 28 minutes long and there is no chance of me watching it.
That Sunday night, after spending the day drinking Georgi in a basement and having stacks of hundreds thrown at my butt, I saw no reason not to meet up with my friends for a quick trip to Greenhouse. But by that point I was completely out of it. I led an a cappella rendition of Now That’s What I Call Music Volume 19 on the L train and took this picture on the dance floor
kat st. kat, greenhouse, fab disaster, baseball…before leaving early and going to McDonald’s.

independents

july 4, indepence day, alienbrigade, kat st. kat, the fab disaster It’s 6 o clock on Wednesday afternoon and the only things I’ve done this week are bedazzle a styrofoam penis with Swarovski crystals for my boyfriend, a very successful mentally unchallenged rap person, and watch Undeclared while eating peanut butter out of the thing. I’ve worked just enough in the past week to maintain a bank balance slightly greater than the amount I have already written in checks. Most importantly, I have regained the use of my brain and certain body parts temporarily rendered out of commission by the events of last week.
After I was abruptly swept into a derecho of PMS and Mercury Retrograde, all I wanted to do was treat myself with things I couldn’t technically afford. I began last week by trudging through the rain to get a bang trim, brazilian wax and Ameri-garb in preparation of the upcoming 4th of July soiree in Bushwick. I am a sucker for a theme and I really REALLY wanted an American Flag bikini. Failing to find one anywhere (not even on Knickerbocker, which I checked up and down about 6 times) I ended up after hours on Wednesday at the American Apparel in Soho, whimpering under fluorescent lights and trying to squeeze tiny red minidresses over my hips. I eventually settled on a blue thongatard which I figured I could find plenty of uses for even after the holiday, and went home to change into my Beetlejuice dress for Ghe20 Goth1k with the team.
That night we met at Moe’s apartment, where we listened to The Pointer Sisters on the roof, took selfies, and watched Bradford vogue with an actual taser.


We had an amazingly drama-free night, even if I did spend most of it sweating through my clothes and fanning myself with a piece of cardstock that said “$25 MINIMUM PER PERSON PLEASE SEE HOST TO BE SEAT.”  Later we went to McDonald’s where I accepted that I am not in fact a pescetarian anymore and ate a McChicken in 13 seconds flat.
kat st. kat, the fab disaster, m4rf4, GHE20G0TH1Kkat st. kat, the fab disaster, GHE20G0TH1K, patrickokay, moedabbagh, brxdford
The plan for the 4th was to attend the “Roof Is On Fire 4th of July Soiree” being held by a group of Bushwick hotties, and to potentially take some acid along the way. Patrick met me at my apartment Thursday with two green business cards he’d been given by a stranger with the instruction to lick them. The word on the street was that somewhere on those little green pieces of cardboard was the equivalent of one tab of acid. How, though, were we expected to ingest the acid without say, eating an entire business card? We tore the first one up, it suddenly seeming not so little after all, and put it in a glass of water.
acid, kat st. kat, independence day, the fab disaster, july 4This was so it would get soggy, making it easier to suck on and then eventually swallow. Which I did, and which I immediately realized was not a great idea as I then had a very large wad of wet cardboard sliding past my windpipe and into my perpetually sensitive stomach. I drank the rest of the water in the glass. Patrick ended up chewing his for a while and spitting it out. Turns out I probably could have done that and gotten the exact same results.
After EATING A FUCKING BUSINESS CARD, smoking a decent amount of weed and transforming into the look of a superstar I was finally ready to leave my apartment and head to this party. Walking through my neighborhood dressed like a slutty drum major I felt my worldview start to melt like a sno cone. The business card was proving to be the real deal, which I hadn’t fully prepared myself for despite the great lengths I went to test it out.
When we finally arrived the color had left my face, with the exception of my expertly applied makeup, and I was covered in sweat. I was beginning to think too much. I needed an alcoholic beverage immediately, or else. But when we approached the doorway we realized it was being guarded by the landlord. We were being barred from entry, despite looking adorable and B-ing our own B and now fully experiencing the effects of major hallucinogens, by the Hasid Who Stole 4th of July.
The sun was beginning to set and it was still 90 degrees. With a bottle of Bacardi and a 2 liter of Diet Cherry Pepsi we were sitting half-defeated on the bench in front of the corner barbershop, listening to our party happen above our heads. How was this happening? And to us for that matter?
Just then, a very pregnant blonde woman with a red camisole and solo cup emerged from a nearby gate attached to the adjacent building. If anyone was going to be our ticket into this party it’d be her.
“Which party are you here for?”
“Um, the weird one?”
“Yeah you can get there from here, you just have to climb.”
We ascended a fourth floor walkup and I straddled two canoodling youngsters to climb the fire escape onto their roof. We were suddenly at a party, but not our party. This party had food and puppies. Our party had drugs and starving fashion people and was on a much taller rooftop connected by a metal staircase hanging about a foot above our heads. We tossed our bags over the railing and pulled ourselves over, just in time to enjoy an explosion of fireworks on every borough of the city. We left shortly after midnight, but not before I crawled down to the other party and stole a burger and a bag of Snyder’s of Hanover, climbing back up, mouth full, like some kind of rabid chola Spiderman.
kat st. kat, the fab disaster, july 4, alienbrigade, l1lposh, patrickokay
I spent the next few days feeling a little off. I had one very swollen lymph node on the left side of my neck and I couldn’t speak at all. I was running out of breath trying to make sounds. Patrick was having similar symptoms and for a second I got a little freaked out. There is a meningitis outbreak in NYC right now so maybe sharing that cherry ring pop with 16 people at the roof party wasn’t such a great idea. Damn, we thought during a massive brunch at Pies and Thighs. What if we’re terminally ill now?

We shrugged, finished our fried chicken, and went to see The Bling Ring.

bootleg luxury

After finishing my last day of regular work last week and entering the freelance/unemployment world for the rest of the summer, I decided to spend my paycheck on Life Improvement. I have been in a constant battle against clutter since birth, one that usually involves me succumbing to my lack of storage options and suffocating under a dusty pile of magazines only to be found weeks later pale and lifeless with a ball of cat hair in my throat.
“Such a pity. If only she’d cleaned up her shit once in a while.”
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This time I decided to face it head-on by forcing myself to go discount shopping for cleaning products. I was specifically dealing with the beginnings of a bug infestation, 3 trash bags of laundry, and a lack of storage space that filled my walk-in closet with piles of shoes and folded jeans and comforters to the brim. After 48 hours of spraying, sucking, swiffering, and hammering away I managed to reorganize everything. I even dusted. It was a great success, but I also had to dispose of the corpses of 30 dead flies a pile of cat poop I found in the back of my closet, so now I have PTSD.
My next reinvention would be my body, or at least my physical work ethic. I started doing three of those 30 DAY CHALLENGE calisthenics exercises where I basically murder myself slightly more effectively each day until, by the last, I am somehow able to do 250 squats and 200 crunches and 100 push ups or something INSANE. I have just completed the 8th day of this challenge and I am already feeling tighter, sore and generally less fun to be around. But soon I will be able to crush a man’s head with my thighs.
Friday night was the Steel Drums party with Teengirl Fantasy et al so I drank a bottle of creamsicle vodka with Reid and got waaasted in a sports bra, cut up bike shorts and platforms. The night culminated with me eating multiple very large pieces of Popeye’s chicken on the floor of my man’s apartment at 4 in the morning. This is the least flattering picture of me ever taken and I am delighted to share it with you.
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Saturday morning I awoke with a splitting headache at 9 am and despite my early rise still mobilized at a glacial rate. Patrick and I had guest spots for Warm Up at PS1 (as you know I am not one for paying entry…unless it’s for a good cause and I don’t have to rob anyone to do it). I was supposed to meet him at 2:30, which in Kat Speak means 4. Failing to find a cab heading to Brooklyn from the LES in 90 degree weather on a Saturday, I took the M to my apartment to change, stomping home from Myrtle-Broadway (where they expected me to take a BUS after re-routing my train) dressed like a very sweaty sex worker.

When I finally made it to my apartment, I stuffed tons of clothes and make up into my purse for later that day. Sarah aka @alienbrigade had invited us to appear in the new music video for @pendunyc along with our other crazy hot friends at 6:45. I didn’t even have time to shower.
In a unlucky turn of events, a mix up with our VIP bracelets at Warm Up (namely that we didn’t get any) put such a damper on our day that we left PS1 early. I did however have time to go home and scrub my ass before the shoot.
The concept of the video was that we were to look as Bushwick as possible and party really hard in this space while the band played their new song:
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So we did.
We wore @whateverr21 apparel and @h0les glasses, styled with @alienbrigade’s accessories including many of her own designs. Patrick took these photos through the lenses of the h0les glasses and they reeeally made us want to do acid.
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About 4.5 hours later I had made out with a palm tree, covered myself in potting soil, been tied to a bouquet of black balloons, and ingested as well as sprayed my surroundings with at least four types of alcohol. I had plans to go out later, so on my way home to change I grabbed a red bull and a sleeve of ranch flavored Pringles, realizing I hadn’t eaten at all that day. Of course by the time I reached my bed at about midnight, there was no chance of me leaving again until Monday afternoon.
ADDITIONAL AWESOMENESS:
A write-up in the Bushwick Daily about the last Dizzyland included much better photos than what I presented last week (I set the bar really high, I know)
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AND LASTLY, my friends Billy and Brian were featured in the most recent issue of BULLETT and they look fucking perfect.
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Funemployment is officially the look for summer.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to Strawberry and buy an American Flag bikini.