Where does the good go

Archive for July, 2010

Gay dude dismissed under DADT

Friday, July 23rd, 2010 by Dawn Summers

I thought the President was repealing this. What the frack?

Not So Random Thought

Friday, July 23rd, 2010 by Dawn Summers

It feels like Barack Obama has
been President forever.


Thursday, July 22nd, 2010 by Dawn Summers

Last night Astin, Em and Chinese Pete took perverse joy in informing me that George Washington, Rosa Parks, Neil Armstong, Bill Gates and Serena Williams were all Canadian.




Fuck cancer

Thursday, July 22nd, 2010 by Dawn Summers

My little Sammy is having surgery today on his little boy part. The doctor fears it may be cancer given my grandpa’s death, but we’re hoping for the best. Also, may I just say, the Universe owes this damn a kid a lottery win of like billions of dollars given his crappy crappy first (not even two) damn hell ass years. #RUDE

But he’s a little trooper (insert moment of Zen):



He’s home, sleeping. They found TWO hernias all knotted up in there. Doctor said he must have been in pain all the time. We all feel soo bad for being annoyed that he was always screaming so much. Who’s getting a big red fire truck with lots of lights? Who?

Happy Birthday, Vinnay!

Thursday, July 22nd, 2010 by Dawn Summers

Forest Lawn Cemetery, Buffalo, NY

I tried to go back and figure out when I first met the Buffalo assasin.  This is the earliest mention, however, since it mostly involves my desire to stab him in the head, it’s not a very Happy Birthdayie fodder post.

Then there was that time I picked him up to come to one of the impromptu Crackhouse tournaments, and any number of times I ran into him at the Bash — but truth be told, most of those times I totally thought he was this other mean poker blogger white guy (Sorry, April.) I don’t know how many times Karol would be all  “No, that’s the OTHER guy! The one that came to your house that time and we picked him up.” Ohhh…yeah.

A week ago, one might have called this “racism,” but Astin taught me about this thing call “Face Blindness”! It is apparently an affliction whereby one doesn’t remember faces or confuses faces or something, but it’s NOT racism, so I CALL DIBS! I was all face blinded.

But I do remember the day I realized that Vinnay was not the mean poker blogger white guy. (Well, he is a mean poker blogger white guy, just not THE mean poker blogger white guy. Again, sorry April.) I had announced my hiatus from blogging and Vinnay sends me a hilarious text which said, in sum, that my retirement was unacceptable and that I would be obligated to text him amusing anecdotes for his personal entertainment.

He never really commented in those days, so who the hell knew that he even read my wacky blog, but he did! And that was a very cool text for me to get, especially since I was pretty sour on the whole blogging scene at the time. Of course, he likely does not remember sending that text. In the two years since that message, I have discovered that Vinnay only texts me when he’s totally wasted! And then I make sure to reply as loudly as I can only when he’s hungover. It’s our thing! But drunk Vinnay, is one of my favorite texters. He is completely and utterly insane.



He has a “survival planning day” where he hones skills necessary during the end of days. Evidently, F-train will last a very long time. I will be eaten by wolves on the first day, which is totally cool, since if there’s no internet, I wouldn’t want to live anyway, and service in the bunker is spotty.  Seriously, drunk Vinnay needs a twitter account.

Anyhow, I can now officially pick the real Vinnay out of a lineup and I no longer confuse him with Meany Mcmeanerston. After an awesome visit up to the Toughalo last year, our Vegas trips and his jaunts to BKNY, including Saturday’s totally memorable, if not necessarily by me, surprise appearance at MY BIRTHDAY tournament, he’s also one of my favorite IRL invisible internet friends! I will not throw him into the Grand Canyon from the helicopter in December.

I found this recap Mary wrote of our Buffalo trip. It was during my blogging hiatus, so I didn’t read it till now. Hilarious! Vinnay has robots in his apartment.
He’s such a nerd.

Speaking of which, he’s decided to protest my religious freedom post, with weekly “Science Thursdays” at his site. So, on this, his special special born day, go stump him with your hardest mathy questions. (I’m going with what does E stand for in E= M*C *C (Malcolm doesn’t know how to do exponents.)

Also as my gift to him, I hereby declare my birthday season over. You are all free to wish him and Chinese Pete Happy Birthdays!

And in exchange for my extreme kindness and generosity someone should tell me the name of his band and write an awesome song about me. And Tito should send me keylime pie. Just sayin.

I’m all lost in the supermarket (by guest blogger Mary)

Wednesday, July 21st, 2010 by Dawn Summers

Dawn asked me if I wanted to do a Poetry Wednesday (and by ask, I mean insisted, and by insisted, I mean a gun to my head).

I’m not a huge fan of poetry and tried my best to take as little poetry classes as necessary in college. So, when deciding which poem to use I had a very limited pool to select from (a Shakespeare sonnet? a feminist commentary from Margaret Atwood? a dramatic monologue from T.S. Eliot? or how about some deconstructed modernist poetry from Allen Ginsberg?)

I chose Ginsberg. For added pleasure, try reading it aloud. I apologize for the small text – the regular width of the post area forced breaks in the lines. The only way to maintain the poem’s structure was by decreasing the font size.

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! — and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

I’ve always loved this poem. It is so bright and shiny, yet dark and mysterious too. Personally, it echoes a constant battle of my love for nature and old ways versus my love for technology and the future. And whenever I go to a big grocery store I can’t help but say to myself “Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?”

I hope Dawn doesn’t expect me to write an analysis of this poem – I gave that up when I got my degree. These days, I enjoy reading for the sake of reading. If necessary, I guess I could discuss Walt Whitman’s influence on Allen Ginsberg – but that is fairly obvious and I wouldn’t want to bore you. Or how about the demise of nature to commercialism in America? Peppers wrapped in cellophane versus those grown in your back yard? In this modern Garden of Eden the forbidden fruit is shrink-wrapped and date-stamped, who’s hand has plucked it from the tree?

Perhaps he is looking for inspiration in the ice cream aisle. Or maybe he just did too many drugs that night. Anyway, read what you want into the poem. I know what it means to me, you know what it means to you and that’s all that matters.

Mary, is one of my invisible internet friends, she usually blogs here. -Ed.

Testing Testing 1 2 3

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

With the Droid X, you have to turn it on its side just so in order to get the big keyboard.

I prefer the big keyboard because the little one trips you up; it mangles your words and then April and F train laugh at your texts. And then you plot revenge and that takes a lot of time. So now I always use the big keyboard. But to get it, you have to turn it on exactly the right side or else it just stays on the little keyboard and the cursor blinks expectantly.

This is the first post I’ve written on the Droid. I used to write posts on my blackberry all the time. I’ve decided to test out my writing capabilities on a silly unimportant post just to make sure I can still write on subway cars and at poker tables. So far, it appears that I can.

But there are worse things than monkey paw wine

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

“The day I bring an Od-ing bitch to your house, I’ll give her the shot!”

The legend of the monkey paw wine

Monday, July 19th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

I think I’ve mostly pieced together everything that happened on Saturday night. And since there is evidently video, let me take this opportunity to point out what a brilliant, awesome wonderful person Alceste is. And he looks great without his glasses! Top notch.

Earlier that day I had been at the Verizon store getting acquainted with my new best friend, Malcolm. Afterward, my mother said she wanted to go to McDonald’s to try the new wrap they offer. I said I would wait in the car.

And I did…until I looked up and quite out of nowhere there appeared a liquor store. I was having a poker game that night and the only wine I had left was sparkling, so I figured I would pick up one or two bottles of regular. Because, as you already know, alcohol does not affect me like it affects regular people.

I am was special.

I was too arrogant, too smug.

I had angered Dionysus. (That, or I just saw Percy Jackson and the Lightning Bolt Thief.)

I don’t know much about wine, except that I generally only like white wine and the sweeter the better. I am also poor. Which led me to this exchange:

I pushed open the door, walked past a neatly stacked display of 3 liter bottles of “Semi sweet white wine,” for the low price of $11.99. I didn’t want any part of that. I looked around, but really, I didn’t know what I was looking for, so I asked the guy sitting on a black crate against the wall:

“Do you have any inexpensive sweet white wines.”

He stroked his beard, scraped his nails across the blackboard, cackled and said “yes, dearie. Right there,” pointing his shriveled hand and yellowed nails at the stack of wine. (What we’ve learned so far today is that Dawn’s idea of the worst villain imaginable is the witch from Snow White rolled up with that guy from Jaws. *shudder*)

I didn’t want to take it, but I also didn’t have a valid reason why I didn’t want to take it.
“Oh, it’s too cheap!”
“There’s too much of it!”
I mean, honestly!

So, I bought it. They also sold me something called “Brooklyn vodka,” because credit cards are not accepted for purchases of less than $20. But that’s not relevant. I leave the store and POOF it disappears in a swirl of sand and dust clouds. This was probably a bad a sign.

Anyway, I put the wine and the vodka in my freezer, drive to the Upper East to collect Petitedov and Peter, we get back home and then this happens:

We drink the wine. Not Peter, just me and Petitedov. At first, we’re like “this is not good.” Then we’re like “aww, this is okay.”

And then Petitedov was tweetjacking me and writing terrible things about Tom Brady and my muffins. I mean cupcakes, CUUUPPCAKKKES!

So, I’m outside grilling up a storm and everything is going swimmingly and then Alceste wouldn’t hand over his Chinese food, but he agreed to eat a hotdog with cheese, I accepted this compromise and then things start to get fuzzy.

Vinnay, who was dead to me and forgotten for bailing on my poker tournament was suddenly in my living room! What the hell?! I believe I actually poked him at one point to verify the realness. (In the chest. With my FINGER! GEEZ! You people! #Pervs!)

So then we sit down to play and I was timing the levels on my Droid and then Alceste, who is wise and good, remember, said “um…no, I think I’ll do it.”

Then there was evidently dancing and ranting and people accusing me of being drunk. But that was absurd, right? I mean, it was just WINE! I’ve done almost a whole bottle of Jameson’s standing on my head! I tried to deny their charges, but I couldn’t lift my head off the table, so I decided to tell my tale to Malcolm! He will believe me.


Malcolm is an asshole.

I don’t remember anything after that. Heck, I don’t even remember THAT! But evidently, I am an angry yelly drunk. Who knew? I always thought I’d be a friendly huggy drunk! Ah, who am I kidding! Angry/yelly is so me. I was reading my twitterfeed the next morning and apparently I didn’t feel good and Vinnay is a stupidface! Again, spot on!

In vino veritas!

And in evil monkey paw vino even more so.

I poured the remainder down the sink the next morning — with my one good arm and the one eye I could open…it opened up a swirling blue vortex in my sink. I jumped back and it sucked the bottle into it and exploded in a bright white light!

Take it from me kids, don’t drink evil monkey paw wine. Or do, but confiscate all smartphones first.

Also, er, we’d like to take this opportunity to dismiss all donut stealing charges against Peter. It was just a crazy misunderstanding between friends. Bygones should be bygones. *whistles*


Monday, July 19th, 2010 by Dawn Summers

So, every year some genius thinks it will be HILARIOUS to say they’re coming to my birthday poker tournament AND THEN, like a week later, say they can’t make it BUT THEN ACTUALLY COME ANYWAY!

This year that genius was this guy!

What these people fail to realize is that in the interim between them canceling and showing up, this what happens: I put them on lists! Bad, bad lists. I take them off other lists. Good, good lists. I make mini figures of them and set those on fire. AND THEN when they come I feel all bad and have to call off hitmen.


But the cake was fairly hilarious

AND I have a new Mets fan in Buffalo! #Veryexcited