Clareified

Karol finds out her friend is dead via myspace.

He knew he tanked in the Philadelphia debate, but he was so irritated by the moderators — and by having to stand next to Hillary again — that he couldn’t summon a single merry dart.

Is he skittish around her because he knows that she detests him and he’s used to charming everyone? Or does he feel guilty that he cut in line ahead of her? As the husband of Michelle, does he know better than to defy the will of a strong woman? Or is he simply scared of Hillary because she’s scary?

He is frantic to get away from her because he can’t keep carbo-loading to relate to the common people.

In the final days in Pennsylvania, he dutifully logged time at diners and force-fed himself waffles, pancakes, sausage and a Philly cheese steak. He split the pancakes with Michelle, left some of the waffle and sausage behind, and gave away the French fries that came with the cheese steak.

But this is clearly a man who can’t wait to get back to his organic scrambled egg whites. That was made plain with his cri de coeur at the Glider Diner in Scranton when a reporter asked him about Jimmy Carter and Hamas.

“Why” he pleaded, sounding a bit, dare we say, bitter, “can’t I just eat my waffle?”

His subtext was obvious: Why can’t I just be president? Why do I have to keep eating these gooey waffles and answering these gotcha questions and debating this gonzo woman?

Before they devour themselves once more, perhaps the Democrats will take a cue from Dr. Seuss’s “Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!” (The writer once mischievously redid it for his friend Art Buchwald as “Richard M. Nixon Will You Please Go Now!”) They could sing:

“The time has come. The time has come. The time is now. Just go. … I don’t care how. You can go by foot. You can go by cow. Hillary R. Clinton, will you please go now! You can go on skates. You can go on skis. … You can go in an old blue shoe.

Just go, go, GO!”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAH

via Karol

NEW YORK - Three years after tying the knot in a spectacular, over-the-top affair that caused some backlash, Star Jones has decided to end her marriage to banker Al Reynolds.

Leeemon.

So I just got a call from carol saying that I was texting her boyfriend during tonight’s drug addled blogging. Which is odd because I didn’t think I had his number, so I am evidently calling 411 to get numbers of new people to call and freak out in the moments before I pass out. I’m starting to think it’s time to lock the cellphone away before I really start contacting people that will definitely mandate my killing myself after.

I think Laura and Jenna Bush are hiding in my guest bathoom. She doesn’t her father to find her and make her marry that guy. Thereeeee iiinnnn thhheeererere!

Clinton takes double digit victory over Obama in PA. Oh, I didn’t mention that in Philly, KJ and I would randomly start chanting O-BA-MA O-BA-MA O-BA-MA O-BA-MA, just to amuse ourselves.

Unfortunately, I think this means that we are guaranteed an Obama/Clinton ticket or vise versa. Which, is a bit of a nightmare.

It was a beautiful day. Even though I was awake at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, it was undeniably a beautiful day. The sky was blue, there was a breeze blowing – enough so no AC was necessary, but not cold by any means. I sent KJ my usual “come down” text when I was in striking distance of his apartment, he responded with a worrisome “in a minute.” Usually I get a “in a sec” and those mean a good five minutes…so heaven only knows what “in a minute” meant. I parked on the side of the road and cranked the stereo – until it shorted out…again! Seriously, if I didn’t love my car so much I would kill her. (Oh yeah, note to self, must find out where normal people get their cars fixed. Alceste, we’re looking at you…though your answer is never to fix it…hmm…okay, we so need new friends.) I plugged in my ipod and waited for KJ. As per usual, he got the drop on me by sneaking up behind my car and scaring the crap out of me by suddenly rapping on the windows. (Now, you may think that doesn’t sound so scary at all, but you forget, he is black.)
He got in the car and stared at me in horror.
“What the HELL, Dawn!”
“What?”
“Where is your METS JERSEY?”
Yes, I am an unrepentant coward. We were on our way to Philly to see the Mets play the Phillies (real creative baseball team naming, guys) and KJ and I had been horrifying Al Can’t Hang all week with how much Mets gear we were going to wear. Instead, I sat at the wheel wearing a yellow turtleneck sweater and black jeans. KJ, on the hand was decked out in a New York jersey, with a Mets T-shirt underneath.
“See, in case they think it’s a Yankees jersey, I do this! And they know it’s the Mets,” he said flashing me.
“Okay, okay…my jersey is in the back, I’ll put it on when we get there.” I was so not putting it on when we got there.
We got to Philly in pretty record time, though we hit an insane patch of traffic near Delaware and of course, my GPS tried to kill us. Ooh, but I found out Fred has this cool feature where you can search for “attractions” near a destination. So even though we didn’t have an address for Citizen’s Ball Park or whatever craptacular named place the Phillies play in (look, I’ve still got a good six months where I can talk smack…damn you Citifield, daaaaaammmnnnn yyyoouuuuuuu.), all we had to do was click on baseball stadiums in Philadelphia and we found it.
But first we wanted lunch. Specifically “Philly cheesecake” as my young immigrant friend has dubbed the steak sandwiches which made Philadelphia popular. A guy at the Wall Street game printed out directions for Tony Luke’s, which he said was the best cheese steak in Philly. We parked next door to the nondescript white building. The parking lot was chock full of Mets fans. The orange and blue was everywhere! Reyes, Wright, Santana! Wooo! Now convinced that I was not going to get beat within an inch of my life I put on my David Wright shirt and we joined the end of the line snaking out of Tony Luke’s.
We were behind a very nice couple who agreed to take our picture.
“Okay, smile kids, but know that you’re going to lose today,” she said making me giggle.

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing - Photo Books
Kids! As in plural! As in mee tooo! Tee heee.
Tony Luke’s was pretty much a hole in the wall, but it was packed. Seemed like we had made the right choice. KJ bought us a couple of sandwiches and cokes earning himself the title of Dawn’s new bestest friend in the whole wide world. And the fact that I got violently ill shortly thereafter doesn’t in the least diminish that honor. It was weird. I was merrily chomping down on my steak, onions, vat loads of ketchup, sweet and hot peppers, with pepper sauce and hero bread at a rate of an inch per three seconds and suddenly I had to barf. Can’t imagine what could possibly have gone wrong.
Unfortunately, remember how I said Tony Luke’s was a hole in the wall? Yeah, hole in the wall with no bathroom.
D’oh.
The nice lady behind the counter pointed us to a fancied up Tony Luke’s restaurant across the street and I bolted across the four lane highway. It had gotten super hot…high eighties, so I changed out of the turtleneck, fully committing myself to the Mets jersey…or testing Philadelphia’s indecency laws. As we walked back to the car, a guy in a green shirt shouted “Go New York!” KJ gave him a high McCain, but as we walked away, he said “he’s such a fan, where’s his jersey?” I laughed. We told Fred we wanted to go to Citizen’s Park and headed off.
We’re stopped at a light, about to turn left into the parking lot when this woman shouts “Fuck the Giants” from the car next to us.
So, I’m all “Hell yeah! FUCK THE GIANTS,” when I remember that the assface in the passenger seat had put a Giants bumper sticker on my car a couple of days before the Superbowl. So, never mind, he is not my bestest friend in the whole world and the title is still for sale. I mean…for grabs? At a sale.
The woman was totally startled by my hearty agreement, which was entertaining in and of itself.
We parked the car, I told KJ that if my car is vandalized in any way because of the Giants sticker, his life was forfeit, and we set off to look for the great ACH – the man, the myth and the liver.
Al told us to meet him at McFadden’s. I hate uncertainty or getting lost, so I asked him for more specific directions and he simply said “dude, if Pauly could find it, you’re gold.”
He was right, McFadden’s was attached to the stadium and easy to find. We made our way over to the doors and another pair of Mets fans gave a shout. KJ wholeheartedly approved of them because both father and son were decked out in Mets gear from head to foot. KJ high McCained them both – that boy sure does like talking and touching people – and showed them his Mets shirt underneath. The father then rolled up his jeans and showed us his Mets tattoo. We laughed and I was like “how about it KJ? If you’re such a fan where’s your ink?”
The bar was crowded. Phillies fans abused us verbally and told us we should be ashamed of ourselves. One dude had a Mets Suck shirt that made me laugh.

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing - Photo Books
It reminded me of my favorite T-shirt in undergrad.
It said “Harvard Sucks, Princeton Doesn’t matter.” And in the midst of the sea of anti-New York sentiment, that’s how I felt. I mean you hate the Braves or the Red Sox, but the Phillies? They don’t matter. (Oh, there were also these two guys wearing ‘The Mets hate Jesus Christ’ shirts, but I didn’t get a picture of them.
ACH was running late, so we grabbed a couple of buds and entertained ourselves by every so often shouting “Let’s go Mets” and singing.

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing - Photo Books
KJ amused himself by trying to see how many times he could make me cry.
Me: “I’ve been a Mets fan since 1985.” Him: “Oh, I was three.”
That’s 1.
“No, Dawn. We are not going to AC. NO!”
That’s 2.
“Karol is so cool.”
That’s 3.
“Wow, you really can’t count, can you?”
That’s 4.
Oh, look! There’s Al!
We listened to the AltCtrlDeleteCountry Rock cover band for a little while longer and then made our way into the stadium.
KJ, in what is fast becoming my favorite thing about him, decided to prop bet me.
“Dawn, I’ll give you twenty bucks for every black man we see.”
“Deal!” I said IMMEDIATELY.
Then I said “that’s forty!” and pointed out two black dudes to his left.
“Sixty!”
“What are you doing?” Al asked.
I told him about the bet.
He pointed out two more.
“Sweet! $100.” And then I spotted a security guard. “$120.”
“No, that doesn’t count, he works here!” KJ said, I guess starting to realize that a black dude in Philadelphia isn’t such a rarity.
I found eight more before we even got to our seats.
“Well, you still owe me $245 from our Superbowl bet…so now we’re even.”
“Even? Dude…you owe me forty bucks. Gimme.” Count that!
We had amazing seats right in the homerun zone. As Reyes stepped up to the plate I lamented that I hadn’t brought my glove.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Al, who was suspiciously sitting like four seats away from KJ and I even though we had four tickets together, “if he hits a homerun, you have to give the ball back.”
“What?!,” I said, appalled that evidently Philly had to same lame Australian open rule, “I’m not giving anything back.”
“Oh, they’ll make you give it back,” he said ominously.
“Who? The stadium?”
“No…them,” he said gesturing to the throngs around us, “Mets hit a homerun, we don’t even acknowledge it, you throw the ball back on the field.”
“Ha! And what if it’s a Philly homerun?”
“Then, you can keep it.”
“Whatevers. If I catch a homerun, I’m keeping it,” I said confidently.
“Okay,” Al said, moving yet another seat away from us, “but you’d better leave the stadium right after.”
Happily, the Mets scored two runs right away. KJ was cheering very very loudly, while the man next to us glared. I mean Al.
Except, here’s the problem with KJ’s cheering.
Delgado would hit a blooper up the first base line and get easily tagged out.
“Wooo, that’s okay! That’s okay.”
David Wright ill advisedly tries to steal second and gets tagged out.
“Okay, okay, good hustle.”
Finally, I was like “dude, what are you doing? This is why they choked last season and lost the division to the Phillies. They were all…eh, KJ is proud of us no matter what, so everybody just, you know, do your best!”
He laughed.
Dawn on the other hand could be heard vocally booing the Carlos’ with her now patented “The Carlos’ suck! The Carlos’ suck!”
Or “Come on, hit a home run…a single? What the hell good is that?!”
“Stupid Perez, just strike them out…what are we paying you for.”
Seriously, the Phillies fans had no idea what to do with me.
The day was sunny and warm, I was sweating in my jersey and if I’d had a pair of scissors I would have done some damage to the legs of my black jeans, but on the whole it was a chillaxed afternoon.
I realized that I really love watching baseball games live. Forty thousand people hanging out watching a game, drinking beer, and oh, look over there – beating the crap out of each other. Our whole section stood to watch the melee and then one guy started chanting “shoot the Mets fans,” “Shoot the Mets Fans.” Yikes.
Umm…this might be time for a quick snack break.
Al suggested the indoor Barbecue Pit place, but I was still weary of all Philly meat products after the Tony Luke’s episode, so I went to get an Italian ice at the Italian ice place.
“Can I have a half cherry, half lemon ice.”
“No.”
“What?”
“We don’t mix ‘em…one or the other.”
“What?”
“One or the other, hon.”
Grrr.
“Fine. Lemon. No, cherry. Wait…Lem..okay, cherry.” Dude, it’s what she gets, who doesn’t mix ‘em?
Then I went to the snack stand to get a bottle of water and a glass of ice.
The lady behind the counter handed me the bottle of water, said $4.25 and then said “we don’t have ice for water.”
Now, there I am staring at rows and rows of cups of ice sitting right next to the soda fountain.
“Um…you have them right there.”
“That’s for soda.”
“Um…so just give me one for my water. It’s more expensive than the soda.”
“Can’t.”
WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK?
“What if I buy a soda?”
“Then I can give it to you.”
“Okay, give me a soda.”
‘What flavor?”
“ICE FLAVORED, you stupid bitch,” I said saying part of that sentence out loud and part in my head.
And so it was that I paid $8 for ice and water at Citizen’s stadium.
I went back to the game and evidently David Wright had dropped a fly ball and the Mets were in a bit of trouble.
Damn KJ and his “don’t worry about it guys,” chanting.
We got out of the inning and I decided to take this opportunity to drop my mad baseball knowledge.
“So, when do you guys do the Seventh Inning stretch,” I asked Al.
He looked at me quizzically.
“Um…usually the seventh inning.”
And then KJ pointed and laughed at me.
Fuck. You. Both. Did I mention that I’m just a girl?
Everything was fine and good till the eighth inning when the Mets did what the Mets do.
Phillies people were running all over the place. Some dude hit a home run, then the bases were loaded and then the jackass pitcher walked two guys, it was a nightmare. I was going to cry. The stadium got so loud – probably because the scoreboard kept saying “make some noise” bastards. Ruining the Mets’ concentration is just not nice.
Then they brought out some Rollins guy and the whole place went nuts. Shouting MVP, MVP, MVP, MVP and KJ was covering his face, but then the guy pop flied and the inning was over. And then I was chanting MVP MVP MVP because it was funny.
People started to file out, shooting us dirty looks as they left. “I think you guys got this one, but I’m still rooting against ya.”
Then we spotted this guy dressed in a Posada outfit. And KJ and I were like “dude, what the hell? A Yankees fan? He’s got no friends anywhere!”
And then one of us was like “hey, let’s go jump the Yankees fan!”
But KJ said no. I mean, one of us said no.
Indeed, the Mets finished up the game with a decisive 4-2 Win. I credited my jersey which is now 2-0 at away games for the Mets – although they also do then go on to lose the game the day after…gotta work on that.
We walked out of the stadium beaming from ear to ear, it was a beautiful day, a Mets win and awesome company. What more could two crazy Brooklyn kids ask for.
Oh yeah, where did we park the car again?
That’s 5.

My Scrabble habit has become an ersatz Starbucks habit since the chain coffee shops are the only places where word freaks can unpack boards, tiles, racks and clock timers in NYC for the low low cost of a cup of coffee or a scone. Yes, I have been thrown out of diners, bookstores, artspace, libraries…I’m a 32-year-old skater kid getting hassled by the man. Plus, a couple of key Starbucks’ are open 24 hours and I play with crackeads. As per usual, I found items on the menu that I like and I get the same thing everytime — small latte and a coffee cake. And then, this whole calorie counting madness started. Now, I am actively on a “diet” — so I had to switch to a skim latte (happily, it tastes the same to me for some reason) — but well, I wasn’t going to do diet coffee cake or (heaven forfend) no coffee cake at all, so I was happy when I read this in a column:

Um, no. The Starbucks calorie count for the cinnamon coffee cake was 290. For the blueberry coffee cake — 320.

Bah, 300 calories? That’s like twenty minutes on the treadmill…piece of cake. Coffee cake.

via Karol

What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla

Yikes, so as badly as I thought my interview went, I actually made it to the second round…which includes, strangely enoughh a grammar quiz…and since I had to think long and hard about whether that was grammer or grammar…I need mad suggestions on good brush up sites…this was on the SAT wasn’t it? I did good on the SATS. Well, I mean, well. Dammit.

And we didn’t even get our asses kicked!