What To Do . . . What To Do . . .

So . . . don't tell. It's a secret. But I'm supposed to sing at DJ and Kelsi's "rehearsal dinner" aka giant dinner the night before for the sake of having something the night before, buft . . . I'm really scared.

Dear Kris Allen,

I get that you have a wife. She is super cute. I get that you are an American Idol star and that show is so 2002. It is super lame. I get that you were not the most gifted singer in this year's top 10. It was apparent. And yet, I love you.

I am here to tell you that you simply got the wrong Katy. She spells her name with a Y! That's all wrong! What about me? Kat-ie? I'm sorry. I'm embarrassed. Never before has an American Idol had this effect on me. Shame on me for all the times I mocked that giggly silly seventeen year old whom salivated over Clay; or each moment I couldn't help but grotesquely imitate the girls whom held up signs inscribed "Marry me, David!"--either Archuleda or Cook. Oh how naive I was. Hypocritical now, I say. For you have changed me, Kris. You have made me . . . an Idol fan.

Love, You Know Who

Dear Facebook,

I hate you. But I love you. You could say I hate to love you . . . and I love to hate you, too. I would compare our relationship to a Nora Roberts novel romance--sloppy but sensual, annoying but addicting.

Love, You Know Who


So as it turns out, I'm not very cultured. No, no; don't be deceived by the fact that I do my very best to see and experience all sorts of events and performances. Never mind that I spend as much money as I can afford to see movies, go to the theater, listen to music, and buy works of art. Pish posh to the fact that I Google actors, musicians, artists, both historical and modern, all day long--never mind all that.

Now don't get me wrong. I get that I don't know everything there is to know about everything; in fact, far from it. But seriously, I make an effort. And I also think it's important to be well-rounded. I like to think that I'm the type that knows a little bit about a lot of things. Now maybe that isn't as useful as someone who is a genius at one thing, but I have a lot of interests. And I think there are a lot of different categories of things to be interested in. And to spend one's time on. But I concede that sometimes this is a challenge. It would probably be easier if I only liked two things in the entire world and knew EVERYTHING there was to know about those two things, but that's just not me. Sure; maybe it would be nice--I could just talk about those two things and keep my mouth shut about everything else. I certainly would look foolish a lot less often. Ha. As Lincoln said, "It is better to remain silent and thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt." I never adhered to that wisdom very well, but back to the dilemma. The problem with this personality I have is. . . how am I supposed to memorize the name of every new author that comes out AND know the entire history of German opera? In what way could I possibly keep up on current political debates AND know all my American Golden Age musical trivia? What technique should I use to magically have the time to both learn how to sew AND have the stats of this years baseball playoffs in my head? I'm only one person, world!

Now as frustrating as all that has been to me, this is not what ticked me off intially and inspired this little monologue. I was told that I am "uncultured" because I like too many things. I am not a tough enough of a critic to be "cultured." I'm sorry . . . pardon my French, but . . . What the HELL? Now, being an optimist makes one stupid and uncultured? There is no way you're going to play that card on me! There are things I dislike--I'm a human being; this happens. But I don't SEARCH and SCRAPE away at things in order to find something I dislike. Is that any way to live? I feel like all that would do would make ME unhappy. If I looked at everything wanting to hate it, I would hate it. Absolutely. But then, I would be a hateful, negative person. WHY would I want that? WHY would I want to dislike things? I don't see what that would prove to anyone. Why can't anything just be enjoyed for the sake of being enjoyed anymore? Why is it a sin to have an appreciation for a LOT of different types of things?

Case and point: So, as a general statement . . . I do NOT like Little Women the Musical. I love the book, I thought the movie was rad, but the musical never really did it for me. I just have a different taste in music than the style that play gives me. I prefer different genres, if you will. Well, about a year ago, I went to see this little piece of theater at the Orem Hale Center Theatre. . . a local, "semi-professional" place that I generally enjoy attending. I LOVED this particular production of Little Women. It was the same music I had never been a fan of and there were moments that got to me, but I really enjoyed myself. I don't know what changed--maybe it was the performers, maybe I was biased because I knew the director and several of the actors and love them, maybe it's because I've come to EXPECT good theater from that venue, there are a thousand reasons why my judgement may lack a critical eye or why I could be wrong--perhaps it was terrible and I'm too "uncultured" to see that. But I, me personally, Katie Sue Sullivan, had a good time! I enjoyed it! So what is wrong with that? Isn't that enough?

I am reminded of this point again when I look around my room, through my journal, or even this blog--I don't have a "definitive thing," I don't feel. Well, in the more theatrical, artsy world that is. In the general populus it's enough to be defined as the "drama girl," or "the musical theatre singer." But I am referring to the more specific world within I reside where it seems every "drama girl" or boy has their own DEFINITIVE thing. But why MUST I choose between Puccini and Sondheim? Do I HAVE to hate either Tennyson or Billy Collins? Can AKON, The Weepies, Metallica and Trisha Yearwood REALLY not co-exist in the same mind? I GET they're super different. I GET it. So you're telling me I'm not ALLOWED to recognize that more than one type of person, more than one type of genre, more than one era, can all be interesting or creative or beautiful in their own way? I will like whatever I damn well please, thank you very much, world. And if that makes me "uncultured," well then . . . ha get me a wig and call me Tyra Banks--that's just fine.

PS: I LOVE this picture. I think it's pretty. I like what it says. And that's reason enough for me.
I just found out adrophigus is not word. This upsets me. There is something very wrong with this society of ours if not even adrophigus can be a word.

I've been into Christensen lately. I always had a bad attitude about him because he is from Orem and tends to be cliche in this area. That was close-minded of me. Great artists can be from anywhere. I know that. I expect others to be open-minded to my ability to be an artist regardless of where I am from or how I have been raised. So how hypocritical it is that when I'm faced with the same situation on the opposing end that I have issue--and with someone that has PROVEN their aristry. I haven't even proven mine yet! But anywho, I've been into him and not because he is popular in my area, but because I really think his work is great. It's sweet and rich and unique with so many different literary references and childlike nuances that add such a charm. He also is intricate with detail and color in a way so many artists are lazy about anymore. I love that. This one has been one of my favorites lately. Fin.

Crossing the Bar

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

I LOVE Tennyson.
Corronious gliding--talking and walking whilst carrying our silly cappuccinos and laughing pretentiously.