PaperGirl

I know I've mentioned my fiance's Vegas trip several times, but he keeps telling me stories that are too good to pass up.

One night, the guys were walking through the old part of town to get a cab. They passed a girl standing on the sidewalk, openly crying. She was pudgy and had stringy hair and seemed to be in great distress. D.W. walked a few paces past her, then turned back to ask if she was okay.

The guys grumbled a "Come on, let's go" and rolled their eyes. It's not that his friends are jerks; it's that they had one night in Vegas left and were much more interested in finding girls that weren't crying. D.W. told me the girl mumbled out an, "I'm okay." The guys called to him from down the street -- they had gotten into a cab and were waiting for him.

"So what was her problem?" Wes asked. Wes is incredibly good looking and terrifically fond of women, which is the understatement of the century, though he has little tolerance for women if they're not a) pretty or b) happy.

"I don't know," D.W. replied, annoyed. "You were all in such a hurry I didn't find out." The cab rolled up the street and they came upon the girl, who was still crying. The sight of her made Matt, another member of the party, feel bad enough to roll down the window ask her what was wrong.

"My friend!" the girl burbled. "She left me! She's just...gone!"

The guys looked at each other. Wes sighed heavily and Matt asked her where she was staying. The girl replied that she was staying at New York New York. In a chivalrous moment, the men in the backseat scooted over and opened the cab door for the girl.

"Get in," said D.W. "We're going that way, we'll drop you off."

So the girl did, and that's when things got sad. D.W. tells me that she tried so hard to be cool with these guys that she sort of made a fool of herself. When they asked her what she did for a living, she scoffed and said, "I work with retards. I teach them how to like, wash dishes, because that's something retards can actually do." The girl worked in social services -- my guess is that she probably liked her job but denigrated it to try and impress the guys. She also tried to gloss over the fact that she had indeed been ditched by her friend.

D.W. says the guys tried to help her out.

"You know, we ditch Wes all the time," he said. "By the way, what the hell are you doing getting into a cab with four guys?" The girl laughed too loudly and said, "Oh, whatever! It's cool with me!"

They arrived at her hotel and D.W. says Wes, basically pushed her out of the car. D.W. told her to be careful and to have a safe trip.

Later that evening, Wes was putting the moves on an exceptionally pretty Vietnamese girl at the craps table. The two had been canoodle-ing for at least an hour when Wes leaned over to D.W. and said, "You know, you totally should've brought that girl up here and f-cked her." Then, without missing a beat, he turned back to his lady friend and continued flirting like the pro he his.

"Wow," I said when D.W. told me this. "He's really a piece of work."

"It was a calculated move," D.W. said. "See, we were sharing the suite. Girls don't want to be the only girl in a hotel room if there are two/three guys. But if I brought a chick in the room, then it would be okay for him to bring his chick up. He was trying his best to lay the plan."

Though I've made him sound more than a little villainous in this story, I actually like Wes in spite of myself and he's a close friend of D.W.'s.

He is also a groomsman in our wedding. Between Wes, the homemade Croatian whiskey, my Louboutin shoes, and the 500+ guest list, my nuptials will be the hottest ticket in town.

(I'd bet the house.)

IN BLOOMINGTON FOR TML GIG.

FORGOT GLASSES AT HOME. MUST'VE BEEN IN MY MAKEUP CASE BECAUSE I FORGOT THAT, TOO. I CAN'T SEE ANYTHING. I COULD PUT MY CONTACTS BACK IN BUT I'M TOO TIRED.

I'M PROBABLY LESS THAN SIX INCHES FROM MY SCREEN RIGHT NOW. THIS SUCKS.

BLOOMINGTON IS COOL. WISH YOU WERE HERE.

WITH MY GLASSES.

So D.W. had to buy some flip-flops in Vegas.

The hot thing in Vegas right now are these pool parties. They're outdoor lounge/bar/clubs and people do everything they do at lounge/bar/clubs at night, only it's outside during the day and there's cabana service, where a bottle of vodka is $350 instead of table service, where a bottle of vodka is $300.

D.W. needed some sandal-type shoes to wear to one of these parties, so he picked up the only pair he could find in his size, which is a 14.

He showed me his flip-flop purchase today. "You're never going to believe these things," he said. "Look." He lifted his foot to show me the sole of the shoe. There was a metal thing on the bottom. "What's that metal thing on the bottom?" I asked.

"It's a bottle opener."

"Sorry?"

"It's a bottle opener. On the bottom of the shoe. For beer. It was the only pair they had that fit me."

I started to come closer to inspect the shoe, but I didn't really need to. "Wow," I said.

"They had other ones that had a flask that snapped into the heel," he said. "I don't know if that was just on one foot or both feet."

Flip-flops with bottle openers. They exist in the world. They exist in the world for people to buy and people buy them. Not all people; but some people. Some people who are very thirsty for beer while they are walking.

I cleaned the house all weekend. Really cleaned it up good. In the game drawer (that's how deeply I cleaned) I found an Uno deck.

God. Uno.

What's not to love? The game is easy enough for monkeys. You can play with just two people/monkeys or a whole bunch more. It's fun for young and old. It's incredibly tense if you're playing with competitive people or if you are a competitive person, and that is very fun. Usually.

My family likes playing games. We enjoy Mexican Train dominoes, Trivial Pursuit, and Uno. We didn't play a lot of Uno until last summer when Mom and The Captain came to visit me and D.W. in Croatia. When D.W. and I are in Croatia, we play serious Uno. It's UnoCon over there.

The games have been known to get heated. The first year, there was a stretch of at least seven hands (hand that lasted hours, as veteran Uno players out there can understand all too well) where D.W. beat me and beat me bad, every single time. It was defeat after defeat: just when I'd get down to two cards, he'd hit me with a Draw +4 or a skip and then another skip. Or I'd screech "Uno!!!!" like a woman possessed when he was down to one card and he'd have to draw, but it then it would end up being a Draw +2 for me. It was horrible. I actually cried at one point.

Oh, we'd stop and eat or go down to the beach. We'd walk to the market and we'd enjoy our dinner. But in the back of both our minds, we were thinking, "Uno. Uno. Uno." And D.W. was surely thinking, "I am really kicking ass." And I was thinking, "I hate my life." Before long, we'd be out on the veranda, at it again.

Finally, after days of this, I won. The look on my face when I slammed that card down must've been similar to the Wright boys' faces when the plane worked. I was wheeling around the living room, jumping from the rafters. I started marching around the whole house like I was the majorette of a marching band, pumping my baton in the air; then I switched to the trombone and bum-bum-ba-bummed at the top of my lungs for I could for as long as I could before D.W. told me to knock it off. I did a couple cartwheels and then had to take a nap.

Good times.

Oh, and by the way: I said I liked 80% of Madonna's new record. It's 95%. I just needed a little more time with it.

D.W. flew to Las Vegas this morning for a bachelor party.

We were looking on the bookshelf for something he could take to read. We had to do it quickly because we were already running late.

"A Libertarian Reader?"

"No," he said. "No politics."

I scanned the shelves, but nothing was the right choice. It was also before seven a.m. and I had only been out of bed for a few minutes.

"Willa Cather? No. I intensely dislike Willa Cather. Why do I still have this copy of My Antonia?"

"We gotta go." D.W. looked particularly handsome, all ready for travel in a nice coat and dress shoes.

"Ah-ha!" I picked a slim little book off the shelf. "This is it!" I handed it to D.W. with a triumph. "The Chocolate War. It's perfect for a flight to a Vegas bachelor party. It's all alpha male, mob scene, betrayal, friendship, loss -- you'll love it."

I hope he reads it. But I also hope he doesn't read it and actually gets some sleep on the plane. The man works too hard. He nearly didn't go on this trip, but thank God he came to his senses and decided to do it at the last minute.

Hookers, strippers, and high-balls. I approve.

This computer is pretty busted.

I have two computers in my life. The computer in my office is not a year old. It's decked out with two monitors and an ergonomic keyboard: both features make my workday both pleasant and productive.

But my laptop, which lives in the apartment, she ain't so purty. This iBook G4 is probably four years old, maybe five. She's a workhorse and I have never had (knock on wood) even one problem with her, except that the battery doesn't hold a charge more than about a 1/2 hour anymore. Airports and cafes always have outlets though, so this doesn't bother me.

But she doesn't look very nice. That crisp Mac white has long since been smudged into a dingy bone. Nearly all the letters have disappeared from the keys and there are visible grooves on the keyboard where my nails have hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit its keys over and over again. There's some grit in the cracks. The screen needs a good wipe-down.

I have a meeting tomorrow with a new client and while I'd love to bring in the ol' iBook and show my samples via computer, I don't know if opening up this puppy is really going to say, "We're going to make beautiful music together." When the time comes for a new laptop (which I really hope isn't soon because I have to hire a band and pay for a rehearsal dinner), I'll try to keep it shinier for longer.

No disrespect, though. A whole lot of good has come through this machine. A lot of good and a lot of internet porn.

Just kidding. Is it hot in here?

I Googled it, I cross-referenced it, I came up with nothing.

I was going to compose a detailed post about an extraordinary concept I was introduced to while reading one of the books I've got going. Sadly, there was nothing else to be found on the Interwebs, so I'll just have to quote the book and leave it at that for now.

I'm reading Low Life: Lures and Snares of Old New York by Luc Sante and it's fantastic. I'm learning about the Bowery and how dirty, how disgusting, how glorious it was, especially in the first half of the 19th century. I was reading about the various industries and shops set up in the area and found this:

"The Bowery had its own economics and its own laws. The Sunday closing law, for example, was essentially defunct there as early as 1870, while it was still being enforced in other parts of town for decades afterward. There were also businesses that could hardly be found anywhere else: tattoo parlors, for instance, which flourished around Chatham Square until the 1950s, and black-eye fixers, who were essentially makeup artists, and whose ability to maintain sufficient trade to set themselves up in storefronts, while only occasionally keeping a second line in something more workaday like barbering, is a testament to the continuous violence of the neighborhood."

"Black-eye fixers"!? Someone set up shop as a black-eye fixer and put makeup on the black eyes of customers? And they stayed in business?

I'm speechless. And I'd love to know more, so if anyone knows anything, let me know.

[Walks away, dazed, mumbling, "Black-eye fixers? You can't be serious..."]

...but this is pretty good.

I was looking up something in a home health guide I’ve had on my shelf for a couple years. On my way to find what I was looking for, I came upon an “Am I Having a Heart Attack?” checklist. A checklist!

The directions said: “The more boxes you check, the more likely it is that you are having a heart attack. There may be other explanations for chest pain, but you need to call 911 or other emergency services immediately if you think you could be having a heart attack.”

The checklist offered symptoms such as, “You have pain that lasts longer than 20 minutes and is not relieved by rest or nitroglycerin,” and “In addition to chest pain you have a sense of doom,” and “unusual weakness.”

I picture a man, mid-heart attack, selecting this book of the shelf, flipping to the chapter on heart attacks, and then going through this checklist, feebly marking off the symptoms he’s having -- this is all after he took a nap and after he tried the nitroglycerin he had in the back of the medicine cabinet.

I picture him getting to the “sense of doom” part and thinking, “Actually, feel pretty positive, considering.” And then I think about him getting to the “unusual weakness” part and thinking, “God. They’re right. I am usually weak. I'm a weakling. But I do in fact feel more weak at this moment. I guess I'm having a heart attack.”

Poor guy.

This might all be amusing to me because I don’t have much experience with people who have had heart attacks. The sections on head trauma, third-degree burns, strokes, and asthma weren’t funny at all.