Where does the good go

Archive for June, 2010

An April day in June

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

As I was sitting in bed yelling at World Cup refs and drafting plans to bomb Slovenia, April texts with breakfast plans.

Sure, why not?

I’m up and will probably be hungry at some point. But she was bringing some dude and you know my aversion to strangers, so I tried to get more people to come. But Vinnay was asleep, Caity was AWOL and F-train had “work to do.”
“Aw, sucks to be him,” April replied when I rattled off the myriad excuses to her later.
“At least I’m not black,” he texted back after I sent him April’s comment.
(Get used to this construction, there will be many F-train texts guest starring in April day.)
We met outside of the Bellagio cafe and I upbraided her for not being at the Hooker Bar the night before.
“It was the worst hooker bar EVER. No one was there! No Al, No Jen, No Change100, there weren’t even any hookers!”
Just as I ended my hooker-filled rant, I noticed a child, about four, looking up at me.
“And now she’s going to run to her mommy and ask all about what a hooker is and her mom is gonna be all ‘and that’s why we don’t expose Caitlin to black people.'”
“Dude. You don’t bring children to Las Vegas unless you want them to know what a hooker is,” April countered.
Her friend hadn’t shown up yet, so we chatted about something or another until he showed up.
He had been playing craps.
“Oh, I want to learn to play craps! A Canadian “taught” me once, but he was terrrrriibblleee and I lost all my money!”
“Oh, I’ll teach you, but you’ll probably still lose your money.”
Ha! New guy funny.
“Oh, I’ve been here before,” I said upon entering the restaurant and vaguely remembering that I didn’t like it.
“Oh, I come here every trip! It’s one of my four must do things,” April said, “Eat at Bellagio Cafe, Have a fancy dinner, go shopping and steal a cop car.”
Wait…maybe she only has three must do things and the other one is from the Hangover…
I figured I’d just order whatever April got since she keeps coming back.
“Omelette with American cheese,” she said.
“I’ll have the same thing, but with extra American cheese because I’m more patriotic than her,” I told our waiter, Mario.
Jason ordered French toast. I emailed President Obama immediately.
I recounted my harried tale of getting to the airport and almost getting murdered the night before, April shared how she was almost not able to come because her legs were all bruised and swollen, but then she wore grandma hose on the plane and they were fine. She expressly told me to mention that in my post.
Mario brought April the fruit platter that she ordered.
“How’d you get bruised and swollen,”
(That’s what she said! Jason is tutoring me in the TWSS art…I’m still learning…are literal uses acceptable? Because literally, “how’d you get bruised and swollen” is what I said! I being she.)
Anyway, April apparently got caught up in a Hawaiin meth lab sting and she and her Columbian boyfriend took off into the Hawaiian volcanoes on mopeds, while the police followed in hot pursuit. Her boyfriend was killed in a hail of gunfire, she escaped, but crashed her moped and got all bruised and swollen. Which, just so you know, kicks the ass out of Ken Wheaton’s “I went to Hawaii and got caught in a tsunami” story ALL OVER the place!
Texas: 1. Louisiana: 0.
You should also know that everything I have thus far recounted took about an hour and forty-five minutes in real time. But we have still only gotten April’s fruit plate to eat.
And now, only the crappy fruit that no one eats is left.
“What the hell?! Who ate all the good fruit,” I angrily demanded to know.
“Well, I had the banana and the melon,” April said all apologetically.
“No, I hate bananas and melon! I mean the pineapple and the strawberries!”
Yeah, pretty much I had eaten them all and should only have been yelling at myself, but as that would be crazzzyyyy…
Let’s yell at Mario!
Sensing danger, Mario brought out our dishes JUST in time!
As he finished putting down our plates, he checked on the table next to ours: an elderly couple also eating breakfast, but the woman was also drinking pri-tee heavily.
“Oh, I just hated it, Mario. I couldn’t eat a single bite!” The woman said proudly showing off her empty plate.
We ate our breakfasts. Turns out, my stomach isn’t quite as patriotic as my mouth, and I started feeling queasy from all the cheese.
I told April about how Caity had disappeared and abandoned her chips at the table and she said “maybe she was kidnapped.”
“But then why would her chips be left behind,” Jason queried.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “kidnapping is expensive! You’ve got to buy rope and duct tape and gags…plus lots of different magazines to clip letters out of for the ransom note!”
Not that I have any first-hand information on the subject…some older girls told me…anyhoo…
(Later that night, after Caity had been missing a good 17 hours, Vinnay was certain that she was dead, April was certain that she’d runoff and an Elvis had married her to a rodeo cowboy, Jason posed that perchance she was locked on the roof of Caesar’s getting sunburned! White people.)
Then we made plans for the rest of the day. The process went like this:
April would say: “Well, we could go to H&M!”
Jason and I would whistle and look away.
“Fine. I’ll go to H&M myself!”
“Yes! That sounds like an excellent plan! Now let’s go to the Hooker bar!”
Mario brought the check, awesome April gave him her card and the waiter was all “Thank you, Ms. Kyle.” And I laughed and laughed and laughed.
“Mizzzz” hahahaahhaaha
Then the drunk octogenarian at the table next to us, rattled the ice in her empty glass and said, in a sing songy voice “Maarriiiooo, I need another!”
And I was like “that’s SO you in sixty years Mizzzz Kyle!”
Having successfully dodged a shopping bullet (or so I thought) we headed over to the Rio to give the hooker another go.
Hooker Bar.
Let’s go find F-train!
“He’s probably working, we shouldn’t bother him,” said someone that was clearly not me.
“Bollocks! A visit from us isn’t a bother, tis a boon!” said someone sounding much more like me.
I used my magic F-train spotting powers to spot F-train again.
We waved. He gave that head nod of acknowledgment, but did not come down off his podium to greet us.
I tapped my foot the number of foot tapping times I allot before I refuse to continue being ignored. Soooo…once…maybe twice.
“You come down here right now and say hi or else April will make a scene. Something about unpaid child support payments.”
F-train replied with a crude, altogether unrepeatable text, which led me to reply “really? Geez…gay guys have absolutely NO idea what you’re supposed to do with women, eh?”
AND since we handily invented the verbal, in real life hashtag, I added in a singsong voice “gay F-train joke.”
With “bothering F-train,” checked off that day’s todo list, it was onto the “have a serious talk with Erik Seidel about his failure to win a bracelet this year so I can dominate my fantasy pool” item.
Actually, *I* planned to leave Mr. Seidel alone.
The man is a professional with enough incentives to excel in his field that go way beyond my $20 prop bet. However, Jason insisted he wanted to meet as many poker pros as possible, so, I figured if we’re already stalking them…
Sadly, the only pro we saw was Cloutier. I was later told that Phil Ivey was at a table right behind me, but then I fainted and so it’s possible I just dreamed that.
Anyway, once again all the Vegas people were working, so they said they couldn’t do any hookering till 5. That gave us two hours to kill.

I decided to take advantage of my hard earned diamond status and find the lounge. Jason, April and I approached the diamond elevator, but the Knight at the door drew forth his sword and said only two may enter on one card.
He wanted to send up the two hot people, but I protested that it was MY card and I’d be damned if I was forced to wait downstairs.
So, I got to accompany April.
April, who, evidently has never ridden in an elevator before, because she was all “wheee they have buttons!” And “Oh the boxcar is going up!”
When the doors opened, however, the bloom promptly fell off that particular rose.
Unlike Atlantic City diamond lounges, which are designed to foster a diamond player’s smug sense of self satisfaction (I think my keyboard is stuck on alliteration today.), the diamond “lounges” in Vegas are designed to send the degenerate gamblers back onto the casino floor as quickly as possible.

This place sucked!

The bar was lame, the food looked gross and there was only one working internet computer! We pretty much surveyed the scene from the elevator and hit the down button.
“That was fast,” Jason said.
“Well, we felt really bad about abandoining you.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t right.”
We still had two hours to kill, so they said they’d teach me craps.
However, “craps” apparently involved sitting on bar stools drinking DISGUSTING combinations of sprite, quinine and vodka, while watching scantily clad, unhappy waitresses do modern dances on stage.

You could actually see the despair and regret in each flail of their arms.
“Stripper or classically trained?” April would ask as each performer ended her number.
We befriended Edward, the bartender who explained if we played $20 of video poker, our $8 drink would be free.
Hmm…maybe “friend” is quite the right word.
The cavalry arrived around 5, we started dial-a-shotting by 5:15 and the make fun of Dawn’s Liberace sneakers was in full swing by 6.
F-train joined us for dinner at the Indian place and that was when we learned that Vinnay was merely a Harrah’s corporate shill! Want a complimentary room at the Rio? Enter bonus code: “Vinnay” or “Superbowl appearance.”
And Caity FINALLY reappeared!
I bet you want to know what happened, don’t you?
Well, sorry, folks what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
And a little known corollary to that?
If Al takes Vinnay to a strip club, Vinnay stays at the strip club.

Hate is the Star

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

I’ve had a number of really interesting conversations about the issue since I wrote my anti-anger post.
The most startling observation I’ve pulled from these talks is that most people conflate anger and hatred.

I do not.

As you know, I find my anger is useless and ALWAYS destructive. Hatred, on the other hand, has been extremely important in my life, a driving force, even motivational.

I was an excellent geometry student, I got 3 A plusses and an A across four quarters of it. I therefore, automatically placed into Advanced Math 2.
Ms. Donovan.

A week before class starts she calls me, at home, says her name and tells me that after seeing my name on her roster, she was calling to impress upon me that geometry is NOT mathematics. Her class would push the limits of an excellent student of math and I was, in her words, “far from such a student.”
Oh no she didn’t!

She was right, of course, my first year at Poly, I flunked out of advanced math in eighth grade and had to be “relocated” to “regular math,” with Ms. DeReiter in one of those classrooms that had pictures of pies, in quarters and halves on the wall. Oh, the humiliation.
But what could I do? I sucked at math. I aced regular and Geo and now I was back in advanced and no damn hell ass chain smoking ex-nun psycho math Nazi was sending me back to regular!

I took copious notes, studied my ASS off, paid the utmost attention and then got a 67 on the first test.
She wrote D+ next to it (you know, cause 67 was a number and OBVIOUSLY I didn’t understand numbers.) At the top of the page she added “See me.”

Again, she impressed upon me, that I did not belong in this class.
I smiled, as I often did when I was nervous, thanked her, said I was staying and hatched a plan. Actually, my plan turned out to be even more brilliant than I imagined at the time.

One of my close friends was a kid, a year above me, with an aptitude so natural in math and science, he’d aced stupid Ms. Donovan’s class as a freshman without even showing up.

He offered to tutor me and he did…with all his old tests. So while I still was a block of wood when it came to understanding what the hell invisible numbers were for, damn if I didn’t memorize every single question and right answer.
And as the semester went on, I realized that the psycho nazi was also very very lazy.
They wouldn’t be in exactly the same order, or on the same tests, but they were the same questions.
No more D plusses for Dawn!
I qualified for Advanced Math 3.
I CHOSE to decline the invitation.

Hate, my friends, cool headed, well planned hate bested Ms. Donovan’s silly anger that excellence in a course she didn’t respect as math would land a math dunce in her elite calculus section.

When I was a kid, I got sent down to Sister Frances’ office for lots of stuff…one of my favorites was when I decided that Jesus is love could just as accurately be Jesus is Hate.
“Jesus hates death, and disease and liars and sin and money grubbers, doesn’t he?” (Ha! Why don’t people use the phrase money grubber as much when they grow up?!)
“Well, how would you like to tell Sister Frances that you believe our lord is hate?”
And off I went.
Anyway, my point is hate, in itself isn’t a bad thing. Hate is shorthand for that which we reject and repudiate. If there is truly, no one and nothing that you hate…well, I dunno, I won’t judge, but really what are you then? How can you tell your limits?
Me? I have a long list of things I hate, a somewhat shorter list of people I hate and exactly 1 city that I hate.
That’s why I like this poem! It may be the first hate poem in the history of poem writing!
Sure, Emily cops out a bit in the second stanza, but maybe not.
She says hating would take her lifetime, probably longer, since the grave would cut her labors of hate short.
Love, would also take a long time, but it’s more doable than hate and since you’ve gotta do something…

i had no time to hate by Emily Dickinson

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

Bears eat Fish, right?

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still hast served/ Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d. -Macbeth Act 5, Scene 8


Young Maximus is well on his way to world domination as he slowly drains Fuelsellage’s life force with sleep deprivation!

And then… he’ll POUNCE!

But we’re cool, right Max? No killing your favoritest black lady, Dawn…right?

Hey…leave my face alone! BEAR is only a middle NAME!!!


Happy one week birthday to my youngest fake nephew!

It goeth before the fall (by guest blogger F-train)

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

Three weeks ago I sent Dawn a text asking that the next Pulp Fiction Tuesdays post be the scene with Ving Rhames telling Bruce Willis, “That’s pride fucking with you.”

Her reply, and this is a direct quote, was, “So guest post! I am not your worker monkey.” I laughed, because she is TOTALLY my worker monkey. Has slavery taught us nothing? I’m the white guy, she’s the black woman. Worker monkey, thy name is Dawn Summers!

I obviously did not reply to Dawn’s skin-tone-blind remark and instead figured that Dr. Joseph must have been right all those years ago. Imagine my surprise, on Monday three days later, when I received another text. “Where’s my Pulp Fiction Tuesday guest post? Where?!”

Dawn knows that right now I am working 16-hour days at the World Series of Poker, 6 or 7 days a week. I barely have enough time to post something to my own site, never mind provide her with my labor and wit. For free! Outrageous. (I LOL’d For realz just now! – Ed.)

My cries of sleep deprivation fell on deaf ears.

“You think I *care* about your schedule? Get it done! Get it done NOW!” There may also have been some shaking of fists and some imaginary lamp-throwing. It was all quite childish, but I can forgive Dawn that immaturity because she is still only 29 years old. Maturity comes when you hit 30.

Now truth be told, I find Dawn to be an engaging, witty, and entertaining writer. To be asked (well, ordered) to post something on her site was flattering in a small way. But dammit I am NOT “her nigga”! I am definitely not her nigga without being handed an envelope stuffed full of cash beforehand, and even then it’d be a game-time decision.

But that was just pride fucking with me. And so, like a past-his-prime boxer ordered to take a dive, I finally submitted a Pulp Fiction Tuesdays post to Dawn. Some things – things like avoiding Dawn’s wrath – are more important than pride.

Color me the color of not surprised

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

Redheaded Russian woman is lying criminal…er…allegedly.

Don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line

Monday, June 28th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

I’m almost all the way un jet lagged now. So I guess I should write up my trip to Vegas. First off, there needs to be more songs about Las Vegas. 25 trips later, I’m resorting to titling my Vegas posts with lines from songs about Atlantic City.


Anyhoo, I got to Vegas at like 9. Owing to my poverty, I decided to take one of those shared vans to the strip, so I didn’t get to my hotel until 11.


I was supposed to meet Vinnay at a hooker bar. Don’t ask me why, but all the action, according to the Las Vegas twitterfeed, happens at the Hooker Bar. For some reason, Vinnay leads me to believe the Hooker Bar is at the Venetian. Now, my hotel is right next door to the Venetian, so I decide to walk. This is one of those “bad ideas” I get from time to time.

First, I ended up running across a four lane highway with no crosswalks. This was followed by a tightrope walking act on these narrow metal bridges that connect the hotel steam tunnels and finally, there was running through the hotel basements and hoping I didn’t get murdered. Because honestly, the entire scene was the opening of a Law & Order episode. Of course, when I finally get to the Venetian, Vinnay is not at all grateful that I am unmurdered, he’s all “Sheesh, what took you SO LONG?! We have to get to the Hooker Bar!”
I apologize that staying alive and unrunover by taxicabs was so time consuming! Dayyyummm.
So, we drive all the way to the Rio, with @Seemitch, who I didn’t really get to talk to all that much and lo and behold NO ONE is at the Hooker Bar!
I was tricked! Lied to! Bamboozeled. I didn’t land on the Hooker Bar, the Hooker bar landed on me!
Or something.

So we went to find F-train. I then discovered that my superpower is spotting 115-pale-pounds of fury across a room the size of a footballfield and a half!
“Is that him in the orange shirt?”
“No, that guy is regular size, F-train is the preteen girlish figure on the other side.”
Vinnay doubted me until we got about halfway there.
“Oh yeah.”
I shoulda bet him a dollar.
I talked to Captain bringdown for about twenty minutes before he shooed me away because he was “working.”
I do not understand these people who do not drop everything to entertain me. The hell?! Do they not know who I am?!
Lucko was deep in a tournament on the other side of the room, so Vinnay and I railed him for a bit and chatted with the lovely Lana.
Then I decided I was hungry.
“Whatever you do, don’t go to the Poker Bar. People have been getting sick!” She advised us.
Okay. No Poker Bar. Check.
Vinnay says he’ll come with. We walk around the casino, Vinnay throwing out restaurant suggestions in the following manner:
We could go to the burger place, but it’s probably closed.
We could go to the Irish place, but it’s probably closed.
We could do Indian, but I’m not sure if they’re open.
And so you KNOW what he says next, right?
“Look, the Poker Bar is right here…just don’t order anything with mayonnaise.”
This is when it occurs to me, he is actually trying to kill me. First directing me to the Venetian deathtrap, NOW this!
It’s not my fault I am AWESOME and crushed the football quiz he wrote! Geeez!
Caitycaity, who was also out in Vegas, texted me and we finally settled on this American bar on the casino floor. I used my Diamond card status to shorten our wait by a good four or five minutes. They’re welcome.

After dinner, we hit the poker table. They were playing the big stake game, so I wanted to play it too.
They bought in for $500, I bought in for 100. Vinnay laughed and pointed.
The first hand I played, I threw $37 into the pot over three streets with middle pair tens, nine kicker, but Vinnay won the hand with middle pair tens, queen kicker.
So I knocked over his stack.
Caity called this a “party foul.”
OH! Also, the Rio has these people called “chip runners.” I give them my hundred dollar bill and they bring me chips. So the guy brought me and Vinnay our chips, and I kinda saw Vinnay tip him, but by the time I did the “oh, I guess I should tip him too,” thing, he was gone. The next time I saw him, he made a random joke and I remembered, oh, I owe him a tip, so I gave it to him and he thought I was tipping him for the joke cause I was an awesome person. Which, really, I am. Anyway, this causes him to keep sending the drink guy over to our table and since I didn’t want to be rude, I then started doing rapid fire double shots of Glenlivet.

The other players are nursing Rolling Rock beers.

Now, the rest of this story may be disputed by other eye witnesses, but I assure you, they are haters.

And probably racists.

So, I’m playing and drinking, but alcohol doesn’t affect me, so I’m doing okay until Caity stacks me when she hits a set of Kings against my set of sevens.
She then goes “I wish you had more money.”
See??? Raayyyyciiisssttts!
I rebuy, and this happens.

I have about $86 and this guy raises to $25, one guy calls and I look down at AKoff. This is a strong starting hand, so I go all-in.
The original raiser calls. We don’t turn over till the 8 high flop. He shows pocket eights.
I’m drawing dead. Ish.
Caity goes “you got runner runner spades…”
Sure enough…turn spade…river? SPADE!
I’m aallliiivveeeee!
Eights guy? Unhappy and he starts drinking!
Then THIS happens.
I raise with Le Dawn of hearts: KT, everybody calls because they foolishly think I am drunk. HELLO, set! AK! I am playing AMAZEBALLS!
Anyway, flop is AQJ! DUUUDE. It’s checked to me and I go all in for my more than $200!

I put my head down on the rail.

Just because.

Sometimes I do that. It had nothing to do with the shots.
It folds to this guy in the 8 seat. He thinks forever and then he says, “if I fold, will you show”? I sit up, nod and say “yeah, sure. I just want you to fold.”
Five seconds later he snap calls me with Ace rag! LOLZ!
Double up!
So now I have a billion dollars. (#Math #Girl)
Vinnay starts to get up and I’m all “where you going?”
He goes “um…bathroom.”
I say “Okay, wait up. I’ll come with you.”
This will later be recounted as evidence that I could barely walk on my own. However, I totally could have. It’s just that a casino is a dangerous place. ANYTHING could happen to me in the 100 yards between our poker table and the bathroom in the hallway.

I could have been kidnapped! Beaten! Robbed!

Pardon me for thinking the hardscrabble, raised in the Toughalo, Vinnay could fend off the dangerous predators roaming the halls of the Rio. #RUDE

Anyway, after the way upright, non stumbling at all trip to the loo (I’ll give the British that much, they make the bathroom sound classy.) Vinnay told Caity that he thought I should just stay in her room at the Rio for the night instead of going back to Harrah’s. Evidently, Caity thought I was drunk and would yak all over her room, so she abandoned her chips at the table and disappeared! (#Truestory She didn’t turn up again for almost 22 hours!)
Anyway, I was fine, but the table kinda got dead, so I decided to go back to Harrah’s.
I had no trouble finding the front doors. Though, there was an interesting spot on the carpet that I wanted to get a closer look at, so I spent a few minutes doing that.
Then I caught a cab and went to bed. I woke up for the US match in the semis of the World Cup. Vinnay, on the other hand, stayed up all night, stacked the last woman remaining at the poker table, won a grand on the US tie with Slovenia and went to bed at like 11 AM…completely missing my April day!
Stay tuned…for the #nobffday April day post.

I just pulled a Dawn…

Monday, June 28th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

which is kinda like pulling a hamstring, but it’s not so much physically painful as costs money and makes your hand strike your forehead while your mouth says “D’oh.”

So, this story requires that I rewind a week and cross the country by 2000 miles. As you all know, some two years ago I got my awesome Liberace sneakers. I wore them. A lot. Everywhere. Then, about four months ago, I noticed the sole was peeling off. Plus, the pink hue was fading.

“Oh no! I have to get a new pair!” I exclaimed.

So, one of my “to do list” items for my Vegas trip was “get new pair of Liberace sneakers.” I wanted blue this time.

F-train volunteered to take me. He claimed it would be his birthday present to me (not the sneakers or the entrance fee, just his company to the museum…once again, the answer to today’s installment of ‘spot the Jew,’ the Catholic boy, F-train.) But I think mostly because “F-train in the Liberace museum” is the gay F-train joke that writes itself.

So, Saturday, I met up with my twitter buddy Zidonia, who lives in Vegas, Ftrain, This is Not April (lies, IT WAS TOTALLY APRIL) and the evil chocolate pudding pusher Jason for lunch and then the Liberace musuem. Well, they knew about the lunch, I knew about the musuem. They would find this out later. Like right around…”can we get the check, please? The Liberace musuem closes in half an hour!”

Sadly, by the time we got there, we were already too late. We pulled into the parking lot at quarter to five and the main museum was already closed. WORSE STILL…

“DAWN, THEY DON’T HAVE YOUR SNEAKERS ANYMORE,” F-train said all triumphantly.

I didn’t believe him.

I ran inside the gift shop, which was still open, to look for myself.

They were not where they were the last time.

“Excuse me,” I said desperately to the nice lady manning the counter, “where are the sneakers?”
“Which sneakers, dear?”

F-train chimes in “the horrible hideous Liberace sneakers!”

The woman behind the counter lifts up her leg and reveals the left foot of her black and silver pair of “hideous Liberace sneakers” on her feet.

F-train turned bright red. Assface.

“Yes! Those! Where are they?”

“They don’t make them anymore dear. I’m sorry.”
My sad crestfallen face must have made an impression though, because she then said “I know someone who might be able to help you.” She scribbled an aol address on a slip of paper and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled stuffing it into my purse.

Meanwhile, the rest of the horrible, evil people in the store with me, were walking around making comments like:

“How did everyone not KNOW this guy was gay?”

“Did he leave any money to AIDS research? Cause that’s what he died of!”

“What has gone wrong in my life that I have ended up in the Liberace museum”?

Jason took this photo:


Why does he hate Liberace’s confidence so much?! Haters! Except April who bought me Li-bear-ace to cheer me up: @thisisnotapril and @realdawnsummers matching Li-bear-aces! on Twitpic (He’s pretty cute, though he’s a little judgmental…don’t ask.)

Anyway, when I got back to New York, I found the little paper, but decided to try google first. Googling turned up an ebay auction, of these:


THEY WERE 99 cents! DUUUDE!!

I watched them for TWO days! Still $0.99.

So, I bid $2.

“You have the winning bid”! Mr ebay informed me. Ex-cell-ent!

Then, NOT ONE HOUR later, I was outbid! Now 2.50 was the leading bid. So, I bid $5. “Sorry, you’ve been outbid!”
Sorry, outbid.
Mind you, I had watched these things untouched FOR TWO DAYS! But suddenly, now I’m in a LOSING bidding WAR!

The whole thing smelled SO fishy! Like the seller was upping the price just so I couldn’t get them for the ridiculously low advertised price.

I couldn’t find any proof, so I angrily spent Saturday afternoon, driving the price up so that whoever this dummy bidder was would be stuck paying the highest price they bid for the shoes. And it woulda worked too, except…
“You are now the current high bidder.”
And then I sat and stared at the screen, hoping my nemesis would jump in there and outbid me again.
I waited. And waited.
Made lunch.
Watched the World Cup finals.
And waited.
Made dinner, went to sleep, woke up, showered, made breakfast, went to work, waited waited waited.

So…um…I own a new pair of Liberace sneakers.

And F-train still owes me a birthday present.

Conversation of the Day

Monday, June 28th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

My co-worker: Senator Byrd died.
Me: How could they tell the difference?
MC: You are a horrible, horrible person.
Me: *bows*

Quote of the day

Monday, June 28th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

“The World Cup ended on Saturday. The US lost to Ghana in the Finals” -Dawn Summers

Train to the plane? PAIN

Monday, June 28th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

I have a bone to pick with one Mrs. Pearatty: What. The. Hell?
The last time Mrs. Pearatty came to visit me in my fine city, she “took the train to the plane.” To wit, she took the subway to JFK airport because she had a terrible host who didn’t drive her to the airport. Later, when I asked her how it was, she said “actually pretty fast and easy.”
This, my friends, is a damn hell ass lie.

Last week, I was going to Las Vegas on a Thursday night flight. Since I’m pretty strapped for cash I decided two things: 1) I would leave for the airport straight from work and 2) I would take this long sang about “train to the plane.”

I got on the subway in Manhattan at 3 pm. My flight left at 6 pm. I had to change trains twice and then wait for the A train. Turns out, there are TWO A trains.

That’s right. Despite having the whole 26 letter alphabet at its disposal AND the existence of a Q train, the MTA decides to have two As and NO I or O trains. THE HELL?!

Anyway, I get on the A(2) train and I’m on this thing for THREE days. Finally, I get off at the airport stop and really it’s a train station for an airport TRAM! Not only that, but this tram costs FIVE DOLLARS! And it doesn’t accept my monthly metrocard!


I’m POOR! This is why I’m taking the SUBWAY to the airport! I wait 15 minutes for the tram and when I get on, I immediately fear for my life. The tram creaks along the tracks like a car on the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island. Its oblong form rocks, not-so-gently, from side to side as it weaves from the subway station to the terminal. All you can do at this point is get right with whatever God you believe in.

I finally get to my terminal, run down to the Delta check-in station, stick my credit card in the kiosk and wait for my boarding pass.

And wait.

The computer says it needs more information: Please tell me when your flight is schedule to leave:
12:00AM-9:00 AM
9:00 AM-6:00PM
6:00 PM-12:00AM

Um. Well played, troll under the bridge, well played. I pick the second 6:00PM.

I need more information, the computer says again.

If my life were a movie, instead of the tragicomic reality show that it is, clouds would now begin to close in around my head, ominous music would play.

Please enter your destination.

Las Vegas.

Is your flight the 6pm to Las Vegas?


You are too late to checkin to this flight. Would you like to schedule a later flight?


There are no later flights.


I hit clear and did the whole thing again, same result. it was now 5:25.

I pushed my way to the ticket counter, one dude directed me to a supervisor lady.

“How can I help you, honey”?

“The computer won’t let me check-in. My flight leaves at six.”

I hand her my ID. As slowly as is humanly possible, she takes it, spins the computer screen toward her, puts on her glasses, adjusts her chair, looks for each letter of my name on the keyboard, squints, presses it, cleans her eyeglass lens, coughs, puts her glasses back on her face, presses the next letter.


“Yeah, sorry honey, that flight has boarded. Checkin is closed.”

“But it doesn’t leave till six! I was here at 5! (Lies) I’ve been at that computer kiosk thing for 30 minutes! (More lies) It’s a domestic flight. I thought you had to be there an hour before!” And cue the tears.

“Alright, honey, let me see what I can do.”

She types some stuff in, gives me a boarding pass and says “the security line is pretty long, I don’t know if you’ll make it, ask the guard at the front if you can go through. Good luck, honey.”

I run to the front of the security line and simply hand the guard my boarding pass and driver’s license like it was the most normal thing in the world to enter a line from the side after ducking under two ropes.

He took it!

I ran through the metal detectors, grateful that I didn’t bring my laptop. I ran and ran and ran until I collapsed in a wheezing, sweaty mess in my seat.

Victory was mine!

Next Stop, Las Vegas