The Good Birthday Post…

Yes, Phoebe was totally surprised by her birthday shindig. Most of her friends made it.

And as you can see, you can tell she is a superficial bitch because she just hangs out with good looking people. Just kidding, Pheebs. My beautiful sister,

Is not a shallow idiot.

But her friends ARE hot. She hooked up with Ana Maria in college,

and since has been part of the upper crème of Latin New Yorkers.

Oh just look at them all.

And surprise arranger and Hubby Sam.

The presents flowed.

Phoebe cried upon arriving.

Staunton Social treated us to a wonderful meal.

Kobe burgers, pancettas, the best asparagus I have ever tasted,

And even some delicious dippin’ deserts.

If I were the queen,

What would I wish for?

A nice little series with Adriana?

Sure. Sad, angry, flirty. I went over the top, she kept it all in the eyes, like Tyra says in ANTM.

Obviously, Amelia wanted in as well.

These all look related. Orgasm. Jealousy. Taking a shit.

Cakes were brought.

Presents opened.

(I had a hard time picking something out for old Pheebs. I have never really bought her something nice, so now that I have a bit of money, I decided to take it to the next level: ipod shuffle, or slim camera. But it felt like I could do better, and sure enough, when I went to get a cheesesteak and walked by Kiehl’s, I knew it was a sign from yaweh. I got a chalk full of creams, shampoos, conditioners, soaps, perfumes...)

We played telephone throughout, and several naughty phrases came out. Here Adriana shows us all the infamous Dirty Sanchez.

Oh please,

No need to gush Ana.

What a beautiful time.

But wait, there’s more. Mike picked up the piñata and everyone got a chance to shine.

(I took this picture at the beginning, though, so I should get some credit.)

And I also ended the night double fisting.

Happy birthday Phoebe.

Surprises and Soccer Finales…

Daniel Baum in the house, bitches!

And the sad end of soccer.

You know I loved it.

I got my goal, its all I wanted.

Yo Sistah...

Happy Birthday Phoebe!

Happy Birthday.

(worry not, full post of this, the day of my sister's birthday is coming with a look at all her hot Dominican friends.)

Why Gamble Anyway…

My poker reports have lagged. Maybe I feel the repetition bores people. Maybe after my month of losing my reporting hit too close to home. Maybe I’m just lazy.

But poker does continue, I mean just last week I found myself in the presence of Lord Helmet.

The usual suspects attended this majestic battle of guts and wits.

And you can always tell where one Mr. Mclane sits by his trail of MGDs.

Which might or might not be related to the fact that he took almost all the money. I lost like ninety in a terrible display of rash calling.

Thursday we played at Sean’s place, a locale that I had never enjoyed.

I know, I know, not much of a pictographic montage. I guess it’s a good a time as any to admit, I’m losing my snap happiness.

I don’t know what happened, I just don’t care anymore. Or maybe… who knows? Apathy, thy cruel and sly monster of the deep, why must you latch on to everything I do.

I did catch Graham here,

Who has never smoked a cigarette in his life. That is some serious non-smoking indoctrination his parents must have pulled.

Which brings us to Saturday poker. For whatever reason, the Wesleyan Poker Ring has not been able to get their shit together as much to play. Then last week, they pulled a Nooner on my ass, on Saturday for Allah’s sake. I could not attend, for that time is sacred to sleeping next to a certain Mystery Date.

So I just came late this Saturday, when they pulled the shit again.

Look! The prodigal Lawson returned. Harris actually made it to a game. I was wondering if he was even alive.

Orson and Emily hosted at his posh West Village temp sublet, and we played on the lovely veranda.

Derek stared at Althea’s breasts.

And was reprimanded.

And here we get to the vicious truths about blogging (or any media format, for that matter), because no such scene elapsed. And yet, when I saw my pictures, the story line seemed to just invent itself. So watch out for phony narratives.

And even the African Traveler, Olivia, made it out of her anti poker funk to pl--, I mean, deal, and hang out.

Harris, took all the money in the first game,

Along with Derek who rivered like a dream.

I lost twenty, stupidly, to Harris in the first game, but made it back plus three on the second.

What else can I really say?