You May Not Know my Father

... But you probably know Planet Earth.

What, you ask, do the two have in common? (Besides the obvious, that is?) Both my father and Earth share a special day. April 22! The day of my father's illustrious birth and Earth Day. Some background- on April 22, 1951, a beautiful baby boy was born to Robert and Gabrielle Seyfried; the third of four children and the only boy (which would in time cause some deep familial problems when Gabrielle's favoritism became abundantly apparent- as evidenced by sauerbraten vs creamy chicken at the dinner table). On April 22, 1970, when our hero celebrated his 19th birthday, Earth Day was created by United States Senator Gaylord Nelson (I would make the obligatory joke about his name, but it's probably a bit overplayed) as an environmental teach-in and a way of celebrating the natural world (rightly so, I might add). Each went on, in kind, to become something great. Earth Day eventually became International Mother Earth Day and my father became The Bob.

This year, today in fact, The Bob celebrates the big 6-0. And, as he has pointed out with great glee and on numerous occasions, I am nowhere in sight. That's right. I neglected to buy a States'-bound ticket which would get me home in time for mi padres birthday. Add to this the fact that one of his sisters (ahem) sent him not one, not two, but SIX birthday cards, and I seem a little absent... and a little like a terrible, neglectful daughter. And by a little I mean a lot.

So, factoring in the filial guilt trips, the 12000 miles between us, and my aunt (ahem again) and her six cards, I have adopted the Go Hard or Go Home approach to The Bob's birthday this year.

Bearing all of that in mind, I shall take this historic moment in time to announce my spearheading of a movement to rename Planet Earth... "Planet The Bob." That's right, daddy (I bet you didn't think about that when the email started eh? You probably thought you were in for another soap box rumination on pollution, saving the planet, and how Congress is one large collective moron for taking grey wolves off the endangered species list... But nay, that's not where this was going at all... muwhahah). For your birthday, I'm getting you a planet.. and not just any planet but the Big Cahouna of human-habitable planets. Shortly individuals around the world will find their inboxes peppered with a spam-like email asking for signatures to show their support in the greatest Name Coup to ever take place.

Beat that Aunt Nancy!


Haha, HAPPY BEARTHDAY DADDY!!! Much love, and sadness that I missed out on it, From China.

The Kate

Dear China

Bon Jovi called, he wants his acid wash jeans back.

I daily thank my lucky starts that China has no real influence in the fashion world. Yes, I know, this coming from me- the girl who who is permanently clothed in Patagonia, something from a thrift store, or chacos. Or clogs, let's not forget the clogs- the clunky, murderous, slightly platformed danskos that I am wholeheartedly trying to bring into any sort of style. I realize the irony in this situation. I am literally the last person on earth who can make any sort of critique on fashion. In fact, I think most of you daily thank your lucky stars that I have no real influence on fashion world.

But back to the point. If the 14 million residents of Chengdu are any indication, 1987 is back in style. And back in style to stay. It's devastating. I have no other words for this phenomenon. I mean, I've seen the unnerving 80s styles trends around... the tapered jeans, the side ponytail. I've even sported a side pony or two- recently. Not to mention when Pat and I were in Perth, I saw the same thing. Acid wash jeans, cut off short shorts (with pockets sticking very hick-ly out the bottom, billowy belly shirts that defied the laws of nature and did not meet the high-waist band of the jean short shorts. I was distressed, to say the least. But come on, Australia is Australia- untethered to the rest of known society, existing in a protective island solitude bubble which precludes it's inhabitants from having any pressing need to exhibit fashion sense.

What's your excuse China?

All I'm saying is that the western world is apparently terrified of China, right? Because the government is sitting on trillions of dollars of surplus (and we owe them a bit, too), or because there are a billion Chinese, or because they have in the past year or so developed stealth fighter technology (for more on this, see the Daily Show, January 20, 2011. Then keep watching, Stewart's bit on Steve Cohen is both priceless and poignant). Or because they have a nasty habit of kind of poisoning people (babies) with tainted milk.

But put this is your pipe and smoke it- acid wash jeans. Rhinestones. Bedazzlers gone wrong. Embroidered velvet pants. Neon. TONS of neon. It's okay on Nikes. It's not okay as the accent color on shoulder pads. These are the choices the Chinese are making every day. And I know they have mirrors, I walk past old men cutting them into panels on makeshift workbenches while their grandchildren toddle into oncoming traffic every day. They've got mirrors, they just don't use them.

Everyone calm down.

But if you never hear from me again, it's probably because I've been taken into custody for writing this blog and am being forced to work in labor camp- acid washing.

Or supergluing tiny fake jewels to already ugly hair clips. Or shoes.

Cheers, Friends.

Happy Birthday, Brother*

*Disclaimer: I wrote this several... months ago. My brother's birthday is the 17th of January. I didn't have my computer around this day, at this particular moment, so I just jotted down what I thought would become the blog in my journal and made a mental note to put it up here. And I've been meaning to get back to it. But I haven't. In typical fashion, I forgot about it and I only remembered writing the initial journal entry today, when I passed the potato fountain (you'll understand shortly).

So on with it:

Day 67: Happy Birthday, Brother. 1/17/2011

Today my brother turns 29 years old. I am thinking about time and time passing. The forward march of time: years, months, days, hours, seconds.

All time, all in motion.

I am also thinking about the rocks in the designer irrigation system/possible fountain outside of our apartment complex.

They look like potatoes. All of them. Every single decorative "river stone" looks like a potato. It's weird. Coming home from my run today (granted my brain was on a barely functioning autopilot at that that point) I literally thought to myself 'who would put all those potatoes there? And perfectly fine-looking ones at that?'

All rocks, all in disguise as potatoes.


Until next time my friends,
Cheers.