Clareified

Where does the good go

Archive for September, 2005

ING INCREASED ITS INTEREST RATES AGAIN!

Tuesday, September 27th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

ING INCREASED ITS INTEREST RATES AGAIN!

Are there laws against marrying a bank?

AND SPEAKING OF WACKY, WACKY GEORGIA

Tuesday, September 27th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

AND SPEAKING OF WACKY, WACKY GEORGIA

Did they really close school on account of high gas prices?

SO WHEN SHE SAID SHE GAVE HIM ‘GOD’

Tuesday, September 27th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

SO WHEN SHE SAID SHE GAVE HIM ‘GOD’

She meant she gave him drugs.

Ashley Smith, the woman who says she persuaded suspected courthouse gunman Brian Nichols to release her by talking about her faith in God, discloses in a new book that she gave him methamphetamine during the hostage ordeal.

THE NEW MRS. TRUMP IS EXPECTING

Tuesday, September 27th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

THE NEW MRS. TRUMP IS EXPECTING

Explaining that his empire is only enough for four children, Donald Trump calls the other four kids into the boardroom and promptly tells 21-year-old layabout Eric Trump: “You’re Fired.”

MAKING CARTMAN PROUD

Monday, September 26th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

MAKING CARTMAN PROUD

An appeals court in Brooklyn has affirmed the first-degree assault conviction of two vegan parents who were accused of nearly starving their daughter to death.

One member of the four-judge panel of the Appellate Division, Second Department, however, cast doubt on whether the parents were aware of the risks that a vegan diet posed to a baby. The judge, Justice Sondra Miller, said the assault conviction should be vacated.

“The defendants may have been naïve, and misguided, and even unfit to serve as the custodians of their child,” Justice Miller wrote in People v. Swinton, 2003-04653. “What they did not do, however, is evince criminal recklessness.”

Silva and Joseph Swinton, both 24, were convicted in 2003 and sentenced, respectively, to 6 years and 5 years in prison. Mr. Swinton was given a more lenient sentence due to his reduced mental capacity.

Ms. Swinton gave birth to a baby girl, Ice Swinton, in July 2000. Mistrustful of doctors and modern medicine, she gave birth at home, assisted only by Mr. Swinton. Ice weighed three pounds at birth.

Over the next 16 months, the Swintons fed their daughter nothing more than nuts and fruit. In November 2001, Ice weighed 10 pounds when she should have weighed about 25. She had no teeth, underdeveloped and soft bones, and could not lift her own head. Ice is reportedly now healthy and living with relatives.

Damn hippies.

DAWN CAN HANG

Monday, September 26th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

DAWN CAN HANG

Dawn: “If our room has a DVD player, this will be the best end of my summer vacation trip ever!”
F-Train: “I don’t think this is going to be the best end of your summer vacation trip ever.”

So what’s a young woman of marriable age to do with her last weekend of fun and freedom before resuming the shackles of a work a day world?

Why drive three hours to play poker and drink in Malvern, PA, of course!

Ahhh yes, “The Bash at the Boathouse” Al Can’t Hang’s ingenious bringing together of poker bloggers for a night of gambling, charity, bands, Delaware cheese steaks and drinking. Oh wait, did I mention the drinking?
Cause, oh, was there drinking.
And then, afterwards, more drinking.
And then…oh, we get it, Dawn just get on with the embarrassing stories already.
Ok, OK, but I’m going to start with the poker because I actually made a 77 dollar bet.
And then, called a 28 dollar bet.
A regular high roller I have become.
There were two tables full of poker bloggers. One table was playing limit HORSE, some round robin of version of dealer’s choice, where four-fifths of the games are not Hold ‘Em.
Which, after my last experience with dealer’s choice, left but one option: the .5/1 No Limit game.
I drove down with F-train, who, despite exchanging emails with me about the Bash for a week specifying that I would pick him up at 10:30 a.m., proceeded to sleepily answer his phone when I called from outside his house at 10:35 with a hasty “no…I’m up…I just gotta go brush my teeth.”
“Well, I knew you’d come, I just didn’t think you’d be on time.”
Since I had skipped breakfast in order to get to casa de F-Train on time, I practically inhaled the cheese steaks that EvaCanHang brought with her to the Boathouse all the way from Delaware.
Turns out, the best Philly Cheese Steaks? Not from Philly.
The pit stop for food caused F-train and I to be the last ones at the poker tables, and while he managed to squeeze his tiny little body into a slot between Dr. Pauly and Jason Spaceman, I played audience for an hour or so before I took the plunge.
The table consisted of Spaceman and wife, Pauly and Derek – the Venus and Serena Williams of the poker blogger world, F-train, and two, maybe three other guys.(Pauly has the lineup here)
I folded many a hand as the friendly .5/1 NL game quickly became the $4 standard raise/All-in NL game.
I want my mommy.
Then I was dealt AK!
I hate this hand mind you, and I knew that one of the guys at the table would raise, so in second position, I just called.
Sure enough, Jason standard raises it from the button.
“F*ck your position raises!” F-train shouts, throwing in three dollars.
Re-raise Dawn. Re-freaking-raise.
No. Shhh. We hate this hand.
Idiot.
Your mama.
We have the same mama, idiot.
You bi—

“Oh, sorry. Umm…I call.”
The flop comes 3 6 K.
F-train checks.
“I’m all-in,” I say, pushing my last 19.50 in the pot.
Jason folds.
F-train leans into the table.
Looooooooong pause.
“I think I’m getting the right odds to call here,” he says.
“Damn you and your pot odds.”
“Damn you and your mathematics,” Jason translates.
I am glaring. F-Train doesn’t know this, but if he calls and wins, I am going to dismember him in his sleep and dump the parts all along my drive back to Manhattan.
“I call” he finally says, turning over 45s.
Son of a!
I told you to re-raise didn’t I?
I hate the voices in my head.
The turn card gives him a spade draw to go with his open ended straight draw.
Deuce on the river.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—-
“Do you want to rebuy?” Pauly asks.
I check my pockets. Hmmm…well, I need money for the hacksaw and some hefty garbage bags, but that still leaves me with a hundred….
“Okay.”
I hand him a fifty dollar bill. He recoils in horror.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING??”
The bill drops to the table.
The other players also push back a little from the table.
“Fifty dollar bills are bad luck!”
“Yeah, man”
Pauly starts to cry.
“I can’t have this in my pocket.”
After a few more minutes of hysterics, my fifty was shoved deep into the piles of bills and I was given another stack of chips to lose.
OK, Dawn, play smarter – which basically means fold.
After an hour of playing fold ‘em to the point where even I forgot I was there, I finally called a standard raise with KQ.
The flop came K Q 4.
Woo hoo!
I raised the bet and everyone folded to me.
The next hand was my infamous loss to Spaceman’s upturned hand.
In shame, I went back into lockdown.
I limped in first position with J10h.
There were three other limpers and we saw a flop.
J 3 10 rainbow.
Woo hoo.
I bet five dollars.
Two people called, one folded.
The turn came: 10.
Oh. My. Word.
Stay calm. Stay very, very calm.
I bet ten dollars.
The guy next to me raised to forty.
WHAT?
The last guy, Derek, folded.
Back to me.
What could he possibly have? Two jacks? No way, he would have raised on the flop…straight draw? Flush draw?
OK…whatever.
“I’m all-in.”
Pauly counted…sixty seven, plus the ten already out there.
After agonizing for a long while, he threw in the rest of the bet and turned over 8 10.
“Let me see your J 10,” he sighed.
“OK!” I said happily.
The river brought another Jack for Dawn.
The hand made me big stack!
The next hand I was dealt pocket queens under the gun.
I was about to bet, when a man, who looked like a bible salesman, put his hand on my shoulder.
Uh oh. God is not pleased.
“Have you guys started that hand?”
“No…”
“Ok…can I just talk to y’all for a minute.”
He is so gonna tell us about the fiery pits of hell.
Instead, he produced a deck of cards and told us to “think of a card, any card”
His act lasted for ten minutes, during which he produced Five aces, brought ourlost 9 of diamonds back from the depths of plank jail and guessed the number of the building where I grew up in as a child.
“OK, Dawn. I want you to really think about the house you grew up in. Can you remember it? Can you see it clearly in your head?”
“Guy, I just moved out last week. Yes, I see it, very clearly.”
Only F-train laughed.
At the end of the mind reading portion of the evening, he reached deep into his vest, as if to pull something out.
I flinched.
“NO RABBITS…OR DOVES!” I screamed recoiling from him like Pauly from the picture of General Grant.
Only F-Train laughed.
Instead, it was another deck of cards. This time, Derek was his mark.
“Is that your daughter?” he asked pointing to the baby-faced Mrs. Spaceman.
“No, she’s my wife,” he replied.
He looked surprised.
“But you guys can’t cross state lines, right?”
“No, it’s ok. We’re from Kentucky,” Derek answered, not missing a beat.
He did a trick where Derek picked a card from a red deck and he turned the back of it blue, even though all of the other cards were red.
At the end, we played three card monty, where he assured us that we weren’t breaking any Pennsylvania gambling laws because there was “no chance of winning.” But it was ok because all the money went to a charity to find a cure for cystic fibrosis in honor of Big Mike’s nephew, little Mike.
After the magician left, we were all impressed, except F-Train, who was on his sixth So-Co on the rocks and showing it.
“Yeah, I thought he was good. But he slipped up a bit. There was like one blue card in the deck at the end there.”
Yeah, buddy, that was the magic part.
In the hub bub, I raised with my queens and got no action.
A few hands later, I busted out Spaceman with an AJ.
He didn’t rebuy, leaving us down to seven.
The next hand, I was dealt wired twos.
I standard raised, Derek called.
The flop came J 10 2.
I bet five.
Derek called.
Turn was a King.
I bet five, Derek raised to ten.
I made a worried call.
The river came King.
The Macarena went off in my head…or so Mike Sexton woulda said.
I bet five again.
Derek went all in for twenty eight dollars.
“I call!”
“I have the straight!” He said turning over his cards and going for the pot.
“Ok…I have a full house,” said the slow rolling mofo with the shades on.
Heh.
That busted out Derek, who had lost a similar hand to Mrs. Spaceman, when her pocket queens turned into queens full of tens on the river, beating the Ace high straight he made on the turn.
We played five handed for about another hour because F-train wanted to protect his “donation to charity,” as he had decided to pull a Barry Greenstein and donate his winnings to charity.
That Bastard.
I can’t hacksaw him to death now. Or can I?
I decided to take my car back to the hotel and take one of the storied shuttles back to the Boathouse, so that I could partake in the drinking without fear of wrapping my car around a tree.
Turns out F-train was totally wrong and our suite did have a DVD player! I promptly put in my Gilmore Girls Season Three DVD when we arrived. (There is a horrifying picture up of the happy moment on F-Train’s site.)
I hadn’t gotten a chance to finish the DVD before we left for poker, so after I parked the car, I jumped on the couch and pressed play.
Karol called during the final minutes.
“Remember when you said you were ready to play with the poker bloggers?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, you were wrong.”
I told her about the crazy poker game.
“I don’t know…I think you’re selling yourself short,” she countered, “and selling me short, thanks for that by the way.”
I finished the episode I was watching and was fixing to eject the disc, when I realized I had accidentally skipped an episode.
So I went back to the couch and pressed play again.
My cellphone rang.
“Where are you?”
It was F-train.
“Suite.”
“Oh. Dude, someone asked for you and I looked around and realized I hadn’t seen you for hours.”
“Yeah…came to park the car. I looked for the shuttle, but I didn’t see it, so I came back here for a little while.” (If this were Arrested Development, the narrator would now add: “Dawn did not look for the shuttle before going back to the suite.”)
“Well, are you coming back?”
“Yes, I’m leaving now” (Dawn was not leaving now.)
“Ok.”
I went back to Gilmore.
Thirty minutes later.
Ring Ring.
“Everyone is asking for that nice girl Dawn? Where are you?”
Hmmm…by everyone does he mean that ever so dreamy Bobby Bracelet?
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Give me a minute. I’m calling a cab.” (Dawn was not calling a cab.)
Dude, don’t judge me. Rory and Paris were in a duel! A DUEL…with actual pointy sticks.
When Gilmore was finally done, and I checked to make sure I didn’t miss any other eps, I sealed it up nicely in the Netflix envelope and went to the front desk.
“Hi. I need a cab to go to the Roadhouse”
“Roadhouse?”
“Yeah…”
“Boathouse?”
“Yes. Boathouse.”
“Ok, hold on. Let me call the 24 hours cab company.”
Did she just say “the”? Where am I?
“Yes, one passenger. Boathouse….Ok….But I thought you were 24 hours?”
I looked at my watch…it was only 10…could the 24 hours a day cab company be closed?
“Ok, hold on, let me ask her.”
She put her hand over the receiver and informed me that while they could take me to the Boathouse, they could not bring me back.
“That’s fine.”
I paid the fare and set off to find F-Train.
And I did. Or what was left of him.
There he was sprawled across a table, “talking” to Pauly.
“DAAAAWWWNNN….You caaaammmeeee bbaaaaccckkkk,” the word “slurred” doesn’t quite capture it.
“Are you having a good time? I want you to have a good time.”
Imagine that taking thirteen minutes to say.
“Yes, very good. Best end of summer vacation ever.”
“Ok, because you should have a good time.”
Alrighty. I need a drink.
I returned to hear F-Train and Dr. Pauly deep in a philosophical conversation about the propriety of seeing their friend’s wife’s breasts.
“Well, I’m not going to look away.”
“Well, yeah. They’re breasts.”
Dude. Must. Find. Different. Conversation.
Halfway through my second cosmo, I had my second drunken encounter with a mortgage broker.
“Hey, what’re you drinking?”
I downed it.
“Nothing.”
End of conversation, guy, move it along.
“Let me get you another one.”
Well, if I gotta converse, might as well, have a beverage in hand.
He came back with the cosmo and proceeded to tell me all about how he used to bartend at the Boathouse and how it was his birthday and how I was getting a very good rate on the mortgage for my coop, but that he didn’t really want to talk about business.
“So who’d you come with?”
“F-Train.” (And by the way, F-Train actually went by ‘F-train’ the whole trip…I tried to be ‘Lola’ for a little while, then switched to my real name, then went to Dawn, then realized that everyone was so blotto, I coulda given them my social security number and a full set of fingerprints and they still wouldn’t be able to figure out who I was the next day.)
And I’m not kidding.
But drunk guy was intrigued by the name.
“Is that his name?”
“No…it’s his blogger name.”
“What it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
But if it’s a euphemism, I don’t wanna know for what.
Drunk guy tried to get me to dance, after a successful resistance, he left to find his wife.
I headed out to the dance floor to listen to the bands.
I saw F-train again.
“Hey, you’re back. I’m glad you came back. Are you having a good time?”
Now, I was laughing.
He was standing like a two-year-old who has just let go of the coffee table he used to pull himself up.
He is so gonna fall down.
“Yes, F-train. I am having a very good time.”
“That’s good. I want you to have a good time.”
“Yes, you mentioned.”
By now he had somehow amassed a number of beads around his neck, and bolstered by his thirty-ninth So-Co and his discussion with Pauly, he was now trying to exchange them for looks at his friends’ wives’ breasts. All plural.
In the midst of a haggling negotiation: “No, I want two blue beads from F-Train, and two from Spaceman,” a sixty year old woman, also fairly blotto, walked up to F-Train to get the beads from his neck.
“Give me those,” she drawled in a dead-on Bea Arthur voice.
“No,” he said holding on to them, “if you want ‘em, you have to earn them. Let’s see your breasts.”
Dawn was in full on train wreck mode — can’t look away. Is my fine, upstanding friend really trying to see grandma’s rack here?
We are all so going to the fiery pits of hell.
The drunk F-Train and drunk Bea Arthur remained locked in their death grips on the beads for about five minutes, before F-Train stumbled and she yanked a few beads off his neck and ran.
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH
Unfazed, he returned to his bargaining with EvaCanHang, his bead collection now sadly diminished.
“OK…I’ll give you one bead, and he’ll give you three.”
She agreed.
I went back to the bar.
I had started the Amaretto portion of the evening when AlCan’tHang saw me drinking alone at the bar and promised to kick F-train’s ass for leaving me by myself.
“Awww…thanks,” I said.
You should probably kick his ass for seeing your wife’s breasts for beads, while you’re at it. (Dawn did not say this last part.)
I spent the rest of the night listening to the bands, and dodging F-train’s incessant “Are you having a good time”s, I counted at least seventeen once I really started paying attention.
Around midnight, I switched to water, finally accepting that there was no way F-train would be able to drive us back to NYC in the next month, much less in ten hours.
I still can’t believe he hasn’t fallen down yet.
Naturally, I gravitated to the television over the bar.
A commercial for the new Chris Rock show.
Drunk guy number…eh…I’m out of fingers and toes… leans into me.
“This show is sooo confusing…like they keep cutting away…I can’t follow it. They’ve got to fix it, you know what I mean?”
Mmm…the smell of large quantities of alcohol being processed through the liver and escaping through the breath…wonder if the cheese steak tastes as good the second time around…
“Umm…it’s just a commercial…not the show.”
He slowly turned away from me and stared at the television which now flashed the “It’s the story of what makes Chris ROCK!” comment from some low rent TV reviewer.
He turned back to me.
“You’re right. But it’s still confusing.”
“You probably just need a good night’s sleep.”
He laughed so hard and so suddenly, I jumped out of the bar stool.
“You’re right about that,” he said still laughing.
And then, just like that, he stopped.
“The thing is…about poker.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re all going to die…It’s just how life is…you can play and it doesn’t matter.”
What? Poker players die too?
“Yeah.”
I started looking around for someone…anyone else I knew….
“What? Am I weirding you out?”
“Uhmm…no…poker…death…so true.”
He then told me about his wife and how they bought a car because they have to take their daughter to the doctor every month and that his wife was pregnant with a son, but it’s not really cool until the baby actually comes because then it’s like “whoa, a baaaaby.” (He’s holding his arms out and looking down into them to demonstrate the babyness of it all.)
I went to find AlcantHang to see if there were shuttles going back to the hotel from the bar, especially since I knew there weren’t any cabs to be had.
He said that as soon as the band finished up, the shuttles would be called.
I went searching the floors for F-Train. I had seen him flailing his drunken arms on the dance floor about half an hour ago, but not since then.
I finally found him on the phone in the courtyard.
Wow.
He figured out what the ringing was?
Or he’s crank calling some old girlfriend.
We were the first ones out of the bar, following behind the lead singer of the metal band that had just finished up.
The guy was dressed in black leather, and had the requisite black eyeshadow on his face, which after an hour of hard head slamming in a hot bar and lights, was now running down his face.
F-Train decided the look was very gay. And said so.
“He looks like he should be getting F&%@cked in the ass with a rubber ball in his mouth.”
The bouncers, who were only a few inches away from the lead singer started to laugh. I prayed the singer didn’t hear him though.
Luckily, the guy didn’t turn around.
“Ok, F-Train. There are things we think in our heads and things we say out loud for others to hear. That was one of those inside our head things.”
“Do you think Bobby Bracelet is going home with that girl?” (I wouldn’t find this out until the next morning, but F-Train had been keeping a photo log of Bobby’s drunken courtship with a local girl.)
“I don’t know, F-Train.”
By the way, he is now standing, but bent over at the waist.
“Cause she is soo ugly.”
“Shhh…remember what I just said about the inside our heads/outside our heads thing?”
“BUT SHE IS UGLY!”
Oh God.
I looked around…don’t think anyone heard that.
A couple walked past us:
“RACHEL!” F-train yelled, apparently drunk and deaf.
“MAN YOU HAVE A LOT OF BEADS!”
“My name’s not Rachel, you asshole.”
“Well, she seems defensive about all her beads.”
“Shut it. F-train.”
Minutes later the shuttle, Bobby B and his “ugly” girlfriend came out front.
I planted my hand firmly across F-train’s mouth.
Desperate times, my friends, desperate times.
We climbed into the shuttle and waited for the other Bash goers to fill it up.
Pauly came out holding keys in his had.
Carter, who was in the shotgun seat, had a very after school special moment.
“NO MAN! I can’t let you drive like this.”
Pauly either didn’t hear him, or ignored him.
Next came Jason and Mrs. Spaceman.
They started to walk toward Pauly.
Again, Carter tried to stop them.
“Come on. Get in the shuttle. They are going to die in that car. They are all gonna die.”
Mrs. Spaceman climbed in, but her husband went toward the death car.
She got out and followed him.
Carter, defeated, merely muttered to himself.
“I tried to save their lives man, I tried.”
When we got back to the room, Carter followed F-train and I in, I asked no questions and went swiftly to my room.
They will both likely be dead from alcohol poisoning in the morning, I thought as I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed.
Well, at least I’ll have something to blog about.
Indeed.

LYING SACK OF….

Monday, September 26th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

LYING SACK OF….

Anonymous Lawyer is a fake.

It’s likely that I narrowly escaped the same fate as Ms. Haobsh. This past December, I was publicly outed as the author of a Weblog called Anonymous Lawyer, where I post about life inside a corporate law firm. It’s fiction, but many of the stories are inspired by events from the summer I spent at a law firm between my second and third years of law school. Had the firm discovered the blog while I was there, I’m guessing they would have fired me. And under current law, they would have had every right to, no matter that I wasn’t writing about real people, real cases or anything that would expose the firm to liability.

Given my own blogging experience, I feel that the natural argument for me to make would be that employers shouldn’t be able to fire bloggers simply for having a blog, and that the law should protect us.

via Karol

UN-BLEEPING-BELIEVABLE

Monday, September 26th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

UN-BLEEPING-BELIEVABLE

My fantasy team scores more than EIGHTY points this week and I still lose.

ECB Rams are now an impressive 0-3.

DAMN IT

Monday, September 26th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

DAMN IT

I forgot to tape Desperate Housewives…any help?

Will get my act totally together once the Time Warner gives me my freaking second DVR box.

TOP FIVE SIGNS YOU’RE IN OVER YOUR HEAD

Saturday, September 24th, 2005 by Dawn Summers

TOP FIVE SIGNS YOU’RE IN OVER YOUR HEAD

5. Everyone else at the table is re-raising pre-flop with 27o.

4. Half the people at the table get paid to write about poker.

3. One player starts live-blogging the action out loud during the game.

2. Small Blind, thinking everyone has folded to his raise, turns his cards face up. You protest that you’re still in the hand, he apologizes and agrees to play the hand with his cards face up. He proceeds to beat you anyway.

1. The guy sitting next to you has Phil Gordon’s cell phone number.