Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Wednesday, Oct. 23, 2002 - 1:30 a.m.

The Last Bastion of Middle America
Not to sound all melodramatic, er nuthin, but they tore down the Sizzler near my house. Sizzler, man. $6.99 sirloin. Affordable steak. Oh, sure, it wasn't really great steak. I mean, it was really kinda just fair steak. But it was steak. For $6.99. No matter that I haven't been in a Sizzler or its ilk since I kicked Eric Kiminaugh's ass at All-You-Can-Eat Steak Night at the Traildust in 1980-something by eating 7.5 whole sirloin steaks, 2 bowls of salad, 2 baked potatoes, 3 bowls of pinto beans, and 4 pieces of Texas Toast, that Sizzler was always there. It's been there since I moved to LA in 1995. It was a staple, man. And now it's gone. What will they strip from us next, Pancho's? Red Lobster? I tell you, it's the decline of all that's right and holy in this country. WHERE will we go for all-you-can-eat steak? Where else can you get Texas Toast? Where can you get a half-inch thick, medium-rare sirloin steak served to you with a cheesy serated steak knife with an overwashed and fading wooden handle tucked between the steak and a sizzling hot piece of metal nestled into a really cheesy wooden trencher? ::sigh:: My childhood, stolen from me and razed to the ground. I weep for the future.

That's MISS Doyle to you, pal.
Is there anyone else out there who hates being called Ms.? I hate it. Which I feel kinda guilty for saying, because I know people do it because it's now the polite, PC thing to do, but I hate the label, and they never give you a choice anymore. Think about it. When's the last time you actually had a choice between Ms. and Miss on any form you filled out? You know, not all of us are feminists dying to be free of the evil white man's oppression. Or any man's oppression, for that matter. I don't need to join the military and serve on the front lines, and it doesn't piss me off when men hold the door open for me or stand up when I approach/leave a table, or take their hats off, or refrain from or apologize for swearing in my presence. I love that crap. I really do. It's polite. I can't tell you how many times when I was waiting tables in my youth, I wanted to smack the men in this state who wore their hats at the dinner table. A gentleman does not wear his hat in a building, let alone at the freaking dinner table. What the hell were ya, raised in a freakin' barn? Sheez. Take your damn hat off at the table. And hold that door for me. And while we're on the subject, call me Miss, damn it.

Oh - and pay me the same damn salary for the same amount of work.

There, I'm done. Which brings us to this, and then I'm outta here. After last night's dismal attempt at quote-hunting, I refuse to go look for them. They must find me. If I build it...

Anyway.

The Big Mystery
Will someone please tell me why I have so many lipsticks? I don't wear lipstick. Why am I so bizarrely attracted to it? Seriously, it's like some weird almost obsession. I love lipstick. I want to possess lipstick. Lipstick is girl-like. It's pretty. Women who wear lipstick are glamorous and beautiful and sexy, desirable creatures. Or at the very least, have moist, perfectly pink lips in just the right pearly shade of Mad About Mauve. I, however, am not one of those women. So why the hell do I have so many tubes of the stuff, ranging from pinkish brown to wine to my personal favorite, Mars, which is this incredible coppery orange-red made by L'ancome. I can not help myself. If it's a pretty shade, I simply must have it. And I have to look good in it. Only I will never wear it. I tell myself, oh, it's for auditions. Do you KNOW how many shades of lipstick I have for auditions? Well, neither do I, but now I am going to have to count, and I will let you know tomorrow. I know you shall wait with 'bated breath. Until then, mes amis, I remain, faithfully, your Katie.

Peace out. Kiss kiss.

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