Clareified

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SNAP

“Between your daughter, with her one-word statements, your letter writing and, most importantly, your totally unconvincing demeanor, it never had a chance — much as your daytime show is not exactly setting records,” he wrote.
Then he really told her what he thought.
“Essentially, you made this firing up just as you made up your sell order of ImClone,” said Trump, who claimed NBC did not intend to fire him on Stewart’s show.

So’s. Her. Face.

I’M NO MATHMATARIAN, BUT…

I’m guessing the Dukes of Hazzard money came in during the last week of November or the first week of December.

He said they separated December 13, although she claims it was November 23.

Lachey, who gained fame as a member of the boy band 98 Degrees, had more earning power when the couple wed in October 2002. However, Simpson’s fame skyrocketed during the marriage. The 25-year-old singer-actress reportedly earned more than $30 million last year, including earnings from her big-screen debut playing Daisy Duke in “The Dukes of Hazzard” movie.

YEP, TIME TO STOP THOSE CATHOLICS WITH THEIR ABORTION ENCOURAGING

But what’s unique about the case at St. Rose of Lima is that an anti-abortion group has sided with McCusker, claiming that the Catholic school was essentially encouraging abortion.

Idiots.

QUOTE OF THE DAY

Yep, from now on, whenever I lose a hand I’m going to say to myself ‘well, at least I really had cards.’
-Karol

hahahahahahahahahahhaha. Classic.

Suddenly getting the daemon-mailer bounce doesn’t seem so bad

After it’s over.

BATHROOM ALL TO HERSELF…

A LAND THAT NEVER GAVE A DAMN ABOUT A BROTHER

OK. I’m a racist.
I’m still not watching the Olympics, but after hearing about that craaaazy interview following the Shani Davis victory in speed skating (sample dialogue: Question: blah blah blah blah blah blah? Davis: Yes. Question: blah blah blah blah blah blah blah and blah? Davis: No. Question: Are you angry?) I was intriqued.

Apparently, Shani and his requisite single mom had lots of problems finding places for him to skate in his requisite ghetto in Chicago (the particular city is variable). Even as he began to excel and compete in the sport, they weren’t able to get any of the traditional American speed skating people to take on the young black kid and traditional black organizations that support black kids didn’t want to fund him for competing in a “white sport.” Ultimately, they ended up in Canada where he trained and ultimately won his spot on the American speed skating team.
Evidently, the Americans on the team weren’t happy that this rando Canadian trained newbie had taken over the spot from whoever else tried out (I’m not racist, some of my best friends are black people…but…he…um…was trained in Canada) and fireworks ensued.
He ended up telling them he wouldn’t be skating in any team races, and hanging with athletes from other countries in the village. The media focussed on this other guy on the speed skating squad to come away with all the medals — going so far as to ask Shani in a pre-race interview if it bothers him that people forget there’s another American in the race.
Sooo…after he won, needless to say, he wasn’t all Mary Lou Retton squeals and bubbles.
He stonefacededly answered the reporter’s questions, somberly took his medal on behalf of the U.S. and went about his merry way promising to kick his teammates’ asses in every other race he had with them.
As Brian on Family Guy would say “Awk-ward.”
I’m always conflicted when I hear stories like this.
Part of me is all about the “So’s face”ing anyone who questions whether you belong by excelling and refusing to help them in any way; the other part of me, says if you don’t eat shit every now and then, you’ll never get the endorsement deals that makes winning gold medals lucrative (Read: Carl “to hell with you, I’m the fastest man in the world” Lewis.)
Of course…it sucks to high heaven that if he was any other one of his teammates, winning a spot on the team and then winning gold would have been enough for adoration and support…
So I dunno…ye old Dubois/Washington X/King divide rears its ugly head again…although, in the end, I would choose the money…and then use the money to build the doomsday device…
Ok…NOW…we return to our previously scheduled Olympic black out.

…with more speech

Counter-protestors shield families of the military dead for homophobe Fred Phelps.

Phelps believes American deaths in Iraq are divine punishment for a country that he says harbors homosexuals. His protesters carry signs thanking God for so-called IEDs — explosives that are a major killer of soldiers in Iraq.

The bikers shield the families of dead soldiers from the protesters, and overshadow the jeers with patriotic chants and a sea of red, white and blue flags.

It’s better than my “no, you’re gay” retort anyways.

Conversation of the Day

Alceste: Why were you waiting outside?
Me: I dunno. When I didn’t see you, I thought you went to the car and were going to bring it around so I didn’t have to walk in the cold.
Alceste: You must think you’re a different Dawn than you are.

RIDING THE F-TRAIN

I’m alone for most of the trip through Brooklyn.
There was young couple when I got on, but they got off at the next stop.
Coincidence, I’m sure.
It gets exciting at Fourth avenue.
An entire New York Transit maintainence crew gets on.
Nine of the burliest men you ever did see carrying warning signals, flashlights and a broom. Their hardhats are blue.
There are three other passengers - another couple and a young latino man in a Nike baseball cap.
He starts dialing his cellphone, and I realize we’ve emerged from the subterrean underworld into the cool starry night.
And yes, it’s New York, but I can see the sky and its one million freckles.
‘Georgia on my mind’ vibrates in my earphones, for a moment I imagine Ray Charles, but then I realize the face I’m picturing is Jamie Foxx.
Oh well.
The dangers of a biopic. Diet coke should use him in new commercials.
My first F-train panhandler!
He’s a filthy middle aged white man. He walks toward me from the other end of the car. I do not make eye contact.
We’re speeding toward Manhattan.
Eight people…well, seven, now that the homeless man has moved on.
Every race imaginable is represented…we’re a Benetton ad…for like Benetton’s value priced clothing.
The F-train’s Manhattan is completely foreign.
Down here, Broadway is the eastside and apparently there’s a Z train now.
And I’ve discovered there already is a second avenue subway line.
So, what did I authorize a billion dollar MTA bond for?
My car fills up very quickly at Broadway-lafayette.
Hipsterville, USA.
How many white guys with canvas saddle bags strapped across their chest could possibly be in the world, much less in my one car?
I wonder if they ran into each other at the clever pin store? Because they’ve all got lots and lots of clever pins.
West fourth!
Familiar territory.
I contemplate hopping out and walking down to Magnolia for a cupcake. But I determine to finish my maiden voyage…a post depends on it.
I valiently join the ranks of the great artists who suffer for their art: Plath, Van Gogh, Joplin, Summers.
The numbers ascend in predictable fashion: 14, 23– but the subway tiles are antique relics from a long-gone era of mosaics.
The F navigates that middle road between the extreme East and West of the Number 2 and 4 trains.
The independent line, precariously rattling up the center of Manhattan Island.
I’m squarely in Midtown now, if I were going to work, I’d get off at the next stop. But I’ve already been to work today.
No, I’m going higher: to the very last stop in Manhattan before the train leaves the country…I mean goes to Queens.
I go on, ready to start my last week in Whiteyville.
My last week of paying rent, climbing four flights of stairs and popping over to Karol’s to borrow cups of sugar.
Soon, it’ll be mortgage payments, wishing my doorman a good evening, and watching the sun rise from my East-facing balcony.
But that will be then, now, the F-train pulls into the station and I step out into my present knowing that it will be the F-train that takes me back to the future.