Clareified

Where does the good go

Archive for March, 2006

AND A RAISED MIDDLE FINGER JUST MEANS #1

Wednesday, March 29th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

AND A RAISED MIDDLE FINGER JUST MEANS #1

Scalia claims reporter “misinterpreted” gesture.

But Scalia said in his letter the gesture is not obscene at all, but dismissive. Scalia said he had explained the gesture’s meaning to no avail to the reporter, whom he referred to as “an up-and-coming ‘gotcha’ star.”

To back his interpretation of the gesture, Scalia in his letter quoted from Luigi Barzini’s book, “The Italians:” “The extended fingers of one hand moving slowly back and forth under the raised chin means ‘I couldn’t care less. It’s no business of mine. Count me out.”‘

Idiot.

NEWBORN HAS DOUBLE ABORTION

Wednesday, March 29th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

NEWBORN HAS DOUBLE ABORTION

I guess Mississippi and South Dakota would now arrest her.

Idiots.

NOT SO RANDOM THOUGHT

Tuesday, March 28th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

NOT SO RANDOM THOUGHT

Never hire a contractor to inspect your main contractor’s work.

Cause here’s what’ll happen:

Contractor 2: Who did this? You paid money? For this?
Me: uhh…yes.
Contractor 2: Deep sigh. Look, I don’t even know where to start. But we’re gonna have to break these walls and rewire the entire living room.

And then when he leaves, you have to find another contractor to evaluate Contractor #2’s inspection, because that fuck accidentally set fire to your brand new albeit still unfinished kitchen cabinets and well, he just doesn’t inspire any confidence.

AMERICAN IDOL BLOGGING

Tuesday, March 28th, 2006 by Dawn Summers


AMERICAN IDOL BLOGGING

Hey, Creed, I think I’ve found your missing lead singer.

Hey, Paula, stop hitting on the young boys.

Hey, Paris DAMN GIRL. Work it out.

Hey, Simon, KEEP TALKING SHIT ABOUT CLAY AND YOU’LL SEE WHAT YOU GET.

Oh, and how old was that dude? 28-29 my ASS. Try 50-60.

A 30th BIRTHDAY EXTRAVANGA: PRINCESS ANONYMOUS HITS THE BIG

Tuesday, March 28th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

A 30th BIRTHDAY EXTRAVANGA: PRINCESS ANONYMOUS HITS THE BIG 3-0

“I don’t know. I think all these years of going for quantity over quality was a tactical error” –a wide-eyed Dawn Summers.

With all my poker playing, blog posting, TV watching, and memo writing — doing anything that involves actual face to face conversation and standing upright is a veritable red carpet event in my life.
Stir in guest appearances by the now famous air quote girl “Scarlett,” and brother of F-train, Princess Anonymous’ thirtieth birthday party was an all star event. Her boyfriend Brian organized a surprise 30th birthday party for her (complete with setting up a stealth email address “Princesssurprise30thbirthdayparty@yahoo.com) and invitees spanning her entire 30 year existence (hmmm…how many times can I point out that Princess is 30 in one post? Let’s find out.)
I’d only eked out about four hours sleep before my painters came to the apartment, so by the time they left at six, I knew I would have to keep myself awake or else there was no way I would make the party in time for the appointed 9 p.m. surprise hour.
Unfortunately, I chose “The Constant Gardener,” as my evening’s entertainment.
When I woke up again, it was 7:20 and that horrible movie was still going in the background.
“Dear God, now he’s actually gardening,” I exclaim in despair.
I decide to watch some poker – WPT – my show of choice on Saturdays. That perks me up.
I rewatch Ardebili’s 23o coming from way behind to beat A2.
Poker is nasty, brutish and …oops, wrong blog.
I get to Princess’ 30th birthday bash about ten minutes after 9.
The bouncer waves me through to the back area. As I walk away from the door, I see him card a guy with a receding hairline and a middle aged girlfriend at the door.
WHAT? Dude, did you see these bangs?? My neon green scrunchy? You should be carding meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
I put him on my revenge list.
I walk to the back…I don’t recognize anyone.
Except there are many people who look and talk like Princess.
I assume that this is the right place, but not feeling particularly bold, I retreat to a corner and surf the web on my Treo until I see familiar faces.
Ten minutes later Dawn 2 and Alceste arrive, she introduces me to Princess’ dad.
He spots the Star of David hanging from my necklace.
“HEY! Are you one of us?”
Uhhh…
Well, I’m a New Yorker.
“No, a friend gave it to me many years ago.”
“Ah, I thought you might be Jewish.”
Nope. I could be more Catholic, but then I’d have to live in Rome. We talk about where I went to college and he says “ahh, the ivy league. I didn’t go, but I got to pay for two Ivy League tuitions,” referring to both his 30-year-old Penn alum daughter and her brother. I do not point out that with Princess’ law degree, that’s probably three Ivy League educations.
Turns out Dad of Princess used to play basketball with the name partner of my firm.
Small world.
At the back of the room, a pair of security guard emerge from a long hallway. When they cleared the doorway and the door closed behind them, I noticed that the “door” was disguised as a bookcase. (Wait…or should that read the door was disguised as a “bookcase?” Can we get a ruling from air quote girl? Hmm…can you have air quotes in the printed word? Another ruling please.)
“Oh my gosh! It’s like Indiana Jones. If I lean against the bookcase I could fall into the secret hallway back there.”
“Yeah, I hear that they have guards back there that beat you up for that,” Alceste flatly opines.
But I’m a girl. They wouldn’t hit a girl, I say eyeing the burly guys guarding the “bookcase.”
I watch the “doorcase” open again to let in another two people, I quickly scan for signs of the rich and/or famous.
It shuts. Foiled again.
By now the back of the room is filled with like 900 people. Dawn 2 and I combine our vast mental resources to identify the familiar faces.
“Wait…who’s that?”
“Umm…Laura something…”
“Oh yeah…like…Michaels!”
“Yes!”
“Hey, Laura Michaels, what’s up?”
“Hmm..we know that guy right?”
“Crap…Jim—“
“Turner!”
“Yes!”
“Jim, good to see you.”
Two Dawns: twice as good as one.
Maybe four times.
It is way past the designated surprise hour. I orally wonder how on earth Brian was going to trick Princess into climbing down to the lower east side alleyway, that precedes the speakeasy-disguised-as-a-toy-factory bar.
A moment later, whispers of “She’s here” litter the crowd.
Someone nearby makes an attempt to sign happy birthday. It doesn’t catch on and the aborted effort dies in a flat “happy.”
I spot my “roommate” for the upcoming Fall wedding and go over to say hello.
And I just want to say, I cannot believe that my readers tried to talk me into bailing on her – she’s totally awesome and it will be a blast. You guys should be ashamed of yourselves.
We make our way through the crowd and wish the 30-year-old birthday girl a happy thirtieth.
“Hey! Scarlett is here!”
And she’s brought her pre-screened boyfriend! Oooh…YAY!
She introduces Rhett to Dawn 2 and Alceste and then says:
“And this is Dawn Summers from Clareified.”
“Ohh…cool! I read your blog.”
Well, I could tell right away that this was a perfect, fantastic, charmingly wonderful person with a discerningly high intellect. Dawn wholly approves.
We chatted about fascinating world of securities law for a while, when suddenly a ten-feet-tall figure with a gigantic baseball for a head walked in.
MR. MET!
Holy crap.
In addition to being classmates and former colleagues, Princess is one of the handful of native New Yorkers that I know, who is a huge Mets fan.
So Brian hired the mascot of New York’s best baseball team (or as Rhett commented later…”well, of all the New York sports teams, I guess I hate the Mets the least.”) to make a surprise appearance at her party.
Scarlett was the first one to get a picture with him as he made the rounds. It was such an adorable shot, the rest of us decided that there really was no point in anyone else taking a picture with him. The camera would just sigh with disappointment.
I did shake his hand and tell him he was my favorite mascot. (Ok, don’t tell anyone, but I said the very same thing to Maddie, the New York Liberty mascot in the summer of 1999… but I didn’t really mean it.)
He signed his name on a shirt for me.
Three little known facts about Mr. Met — hmmm…if I had the Drudge alarm codes, we’d inject them here to herald the little seen “Clareified Exclusive:” He only has four fingers, isn’t allowed to talk and might be named Matt.
As he departed the festivities, I totally decided I would pay any amount of money to watch him leave the speakesy through the narrow underground alleyway.
Watching him bend his head through the doorway alone would have been worth it.
F-train arrived at the tail end of the Mr. Met appearance, so I was still totally hyper when he introduced me to his brother and sister-in-law.
“This is Dawn. She’s a losing poker player,” he said, undoing a day’s worth of positive affirmation.
“No, I’m not. You are,” I countered in Clarence Darrow-esque rhetorical flair.
“No. I have won thousands and thousands of dollars playing poker.”
“But how much have you lost,” sister-in-law of F-train countered.
And for the second time that night I could immediately tell that this was a perfect, fantastic, charmingly wonderful person with a discerningly high intellect.
F-train left to say hi to the rest of our merry band, I seized upon my once in a lifetime opportunity to get the drop on my nemesis.
“So, brother of F-train, you have to give me all the dirt.”
He smiled knowingly, but didn’t say anything.
“Come on…did he steal your parent’s car and crash it in a ditch?”
“No, that was me.”
“Did he sneak out of the house at night to go smoke in bars during junior high?’
“No…that was also me.”
I laughed and pressed on.
“See, he can’t tell you, cause then F-train will tell on him,” S-I-LOF explained.
I looked at BoF, who was just back from his second tour of duty in Iraq.
“Umm…you do know that you can snap F-train’s little twig manboy body with your pinky toe, right?”
Sadly, the best I got was that F-train played the trumpet in high school (but did not attend any sexually promiscuous band camps) and was on the wrong end of a bat wielded by brother of F-train in the third grade.
“Eh, I’m sure he deserved it,” I assured BoF.
Oh, yeah and he was a mama’s boy tattletale.
“HA! You played the trumpet,” I said triumphantly when I saw F-train a few minutes later.
“Yeah, I did,” he said, not at all humiliated and exposed, “did they tell you I led the marching band in my senior year.”
“No, dude. I was not going for “F-train accomplishments and moments of distinction.”
“Oh, ok,” he shrugged nonchalantly.
Grrrr….I’ll get him yet.
I was about to head back to my hermit’s existence when I saw the huge cake shaped box with “Veniero’s” written across the top.
OMG.
Now, aside from the Magnolia’s cupcakes, Veniero’s is probably the very best dessert food my fine city has to offer.
We all sang happy birthday in honor of Princess’ umm…wait…which birthday was it again? Oh, right…in honor of her thirtieth birthday and ate delicious, delicious cake.
Brian had managed to organize 5000 guests (AND provide us with free alcohol), hired Mr. Met AND scored Veniero’s dessert? Seriously, if only he read my blog, he’d be tied with Rhett for best boyfriend ever.
I left the party a bit after twelve, but due to some technical difficulties at the coat rack, didn’t leave the bar until after one.
A word of caution: don’t wear a new coat to a popular bar in NYC and then hang it up on a dark, unmarked coat rack.
You will inevitably come within seconds of deciding to abandon the maybe-it-was-navy-with-a-fur-hood coat and leave your friend’s 30th birthday party in a flimsy spring dress despite the winter chill and light rain.

24 BLOGGING

Monday, March 27th, 2006 by Dawn Summers


24 BLOGGING

Have they ever tortured a guilty person into telling the truth? Like. EVER?

re·gret (ri-‘gret)

Monday, March 27th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

re·gret (ri-‘gret)

I had my first hot dog in fourteen years tonight.

See also : mis·take (me-‘stAk)

GONE TO THE BIRDS

Saturday, March 25th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

GONE TO THE BIRDS

For reasons that are not entirely clear, it’s dawn on a Saturday morning and I am in a fierce staring competition with the pigeon perched on my balcony ledge.
Under all rules of play, I have won.
She has broken from my gaze at least six times since I started counting. Her neck bends first left, then right. The wind ripples through her blue tinted breast feathers.
Now she struts away from my window completely, prancing half-way down the balcony ledge.
But, she comes back. Our eyes meet and the game is once again afoot.
She watches me as I furiously tap at the window, futilely attempting to scare her and her loud cooing away, so that I can get some sleep before the painters show up tomorrow morning. Correction. In four hours.
Still, she watches.
Now, I am straining to pull up the window. Maybe I can yell her away.
It doesn’t budge. I yell anyway. And tap. Yell and tap. All the while never taking my eyes off of her. It.
She turns away again.
Dawn: 7 Stupid filthy dirty pigeon: 0.
Well, that’s not exactly accurate.
In fact, I may win every staring battle with this bird between now and when I sell this place to some hipster doofus for a million dollars, but the fact that she is there at all, signals that I have most definitely lost the war.
You see, ever since I’ve been Our lady of the Terrace, I have battled with the pigeons.
My mother suggested sprinkling cayenne pepper to get rid of them, then ammonia, then cayenne pepper flavored ammonia. To no avail. Every morning, moments after the first rays of the sun hit my eyes (because I haven’t yet figured out how to bring the blinds down), I hear them. Cooing. Then prancing and fluttering.
What was I thinking? My Panamanian raised mother, who now lives sans balcony in the East Coco Beach, is not going to help me get rid of my pigeon problem.
No, no. This was going to take something or someone bigger than my mom. A google times bigger.
Indeed, Mr. Google was chock full of ideas. A thousand dollar device that sends ultrasonic radio waves that send pigeon distress signals, some sodio-dicloraxide which goes for $50 a gallon, or a twenty dollar ceramic owl.
Ding ding ding. We have a winner.
The owl arrived today, er, yesterday.
I eagerly opened the box that would rid me of my problem.
There it was! A 22 inch, brown ceramic owl, with huge yellow eyes and a bobble head type spring for a neck.
Tell ya the truth, it was kinda freaky.
I ripped the plastic off and set it outside on my patio table.
That’ll learn those pigeons but good.
I ran quickly back inside, lest the owl decide to peck my eyes out for good measure.
Now, I wait.
I went back to my regular apartment life – my kitchen cabinet-less existence of eating take-out on my bed for want of a dining area or utensils
(how much do we hate our contractor? Lots and lots.)
Around six, as I chatted with Karol on the phone, I went to my home office to finally log out of my AOL thing, which has had been idling for like six days. I see something dart across my range of vision.
I SCREAM.
“What happened?” Karol asks on the other line.
“FUCK. That owl scared the shit out of me!”
“What owl?”
“I got the plastic owl thing to keep the pigeons away.”
“OK, let me get this straight. You got a plastic owl to scare away pigeons and, instead, you scared yourself?”
“It’s very creepy, bobbing around out there.”
“You need help. And quick.”
Shut it.
I closed my eyes, hit the computer’s power button (certainly no time or sight for logging out and proper shutdowns) and then closed the door behind me. Damn owl.
Which, of course, brings me back to my current staring contest with the pigeon perched on my balcony ledge.
While I am terrified of the bobbing, yellow-eyed owl sitting on my patio table, the pigeon seems, not only unfazed by the owl, but completely and utterly oblivious that its natural predator sits just inches away ready to attack at a moment’s notice.
And yes, I can hear Fisch‘s voice saying “a ceramic owl? That’ll never work. These are city pigeons. They’ve never seen an owl,” in between puffs of Karol’s Marlboro lights.
But you know what? Whatever. Because as I watch the pigeon finally fly off into the sunrise, I surrender.
They can have the damn balcony, cause as long as that freaky ass owl is out there, I won’t be using it.

WAIT…WAS HE THE ONE MARRIED TO MEG RYAN?

Friday, March 24th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

WAIT…WAS HE THE ONE MARRIED TO MEG RYAN?

Quaid filed a lawsuit Thursday in Los Angeles County Superior Court alleging producers got him to work cheap by falsely claiming “Brokeback” was “a low-budget, art-house film, with no prospect of making any money.”

“Yet from day one, defendants fully intended that the film would not be made on a low budget, would be given a worldwide release, and would be supported as the studio picture it always was secretly intended to be,” the lawsuit says.

Quaid agreed to waive his usual seven-figure fee and share of gross profits in favor of a much smaller payment, the lawsuit claims, although it doesn’t say how much he was paid.

Are the Quaids the ones with the old dad or is that the Baldwins…

MY NEW MONDAY NIGHT MANTRA

Friday, March 24th, 2006 by Dawn Summers

MY NEW MONDAY NIGHT MANTRA

However dumb the subplots get on 24, we must always remember: Jack Bauer does not jump the shark. The shark swims over and asks permission to jump the Jack. Jack will then proceed to throw the shark against the wall, choke the shark, demand to know who it’s working for and proceed to trade it net immunity and a copy of the DRY list for what it knows. Because, as we all know, that shark is their only lead, the perimeters have failed and the superiors at Division have sent the herring to bring him.

24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck.