SufferJets vs. Psycho Dolls

The Ithaca SufferJets took on the Syracuse Psycho Dolls on Friday night at Cass Park, and I was there. This was the second roller derby bout I'd witnessed, so for the uninitiated, here's my one-word summary of the sport: awesome. It's even more awesome when you know some of the competitors, and (spoiler alert) they win.

Several hundred people showed up, which was a pretty impressive turnout considering that few of the audience members could have been familiar with the sport. I wasn't surprised, though, having witnessed Nell's organizational and marketing abilities before. The crowd got into it, too, quickly figuring out when to cheer and chanting "Suff-er-Jets!" during the final timeout.

There was a decidedly un-awesome part of this bout, however: just a few minutes in, one of the Psycho Dolls fell and snapped her femur. Without going into gory detail, I do mean snapped. She was screaming in pain before the ambulance arrived. The crowd clapped for her as she was being wheeled out, and she saluted us with both middle fingers. I thought that was heartening--you wouldn't expect a roller girl to smile wanly and wave, would you?

Terminus Est does an excellent job of documenting the bout here.

Ithaca

Nell loads Franklin the horse into the Blue Goose for his
trip to the bout

I arrived in Ithaca two hours behind the scheduled time. Nell picked me up in the Blue Goose, her '84 Volvo station wagon, and calmly explained that she was in "panic mode." The debut home bout of her roller derby team, the SufferJets, was mere hours away, she'd barely slept, and she should probably be at the rink by now, but she had so much to do, and people kept calling her. Did I mind if we went to Shortstop? Shortstop sounded perfect to me.

I got a small poor man's pizza (PMP) to tide me over until dinner--Ithaca claims to have originated the French bread pizza, contrary to what the French might tell you. We ate our sandwiches in Nell's living room, in what would turn out to be my only indoor meal all weekend. The weather was perfect, and people in Ithaca get excited about nice weather.

It was really nice to be back. I love DC, but I must say, it makes me appreciate how pretty and quiet and unpolluted and cozy Ithaca is. It's so cute how people don't drive like maniacal misanthropes there. Sure, you have to dodge potholes that could swallow a Smartcar, but that's just part of the charm, right?

Bus odyssey part 2

The bus from New York City to Ithaca was also over an hour late, for no apparent reason. I lined up for it at around 7:30 am. Half an hour later a security woman came by and scolded us for not lining up single-file. "This line is in disarray!" she said. Once we finally started boarding a woman near me in line, wearing fashionable glasses and a green trucker hat, kept yelling suggestions at the Greyhound workers. "You're causing chaos here!" she said, and, "hey, security, how about bringing some order here?" I was torn between the vicarious satisfaction of hearing someone protest against the unapologetic crappiness of the bus experience, and an introvert's annoyance at the added tension she was bringing to the situation. What was this woman, some kind of Greyhound virgin? Did she actually expect anything different?

After we'd finally gotten on the bus a woman walked up to the Greyhound virgin with the kind of smile one doesn't often see at Port Authority at 8:30 am. She shyly asked trucker-hat woman whether she was Josie from Top Chef, and lo and behold, she was! A celebrity spotting on Greyhound! This made me feel marginally better about riding the bus, even though Josie had only appeared on a reality TV show I'd never watched, and seemed to feel that the hour was too early for recognition. Here she is wielding a knife.

Bus odyssey part 1

I took the bus to Ithaca. Many people pointed out to me that this was a bad idea, but Ithaca isn't an easy place to get to, especially sans car. Several friends in DC suggested that I take the train, which I thought was cute--apparently people in DC assume that you can take the train anywhere. Agent V recently told me he's contemplating taking the train to the Florida Keys, since it's "only" $120 and 24 hours each way.

But there's no passenger train service to Ithaca, and flying to its tiny airport would have cost upwards of $650, since it was Cornell's commencement weekend. I usually rent a car, but last time I rented a car for a holiday weekend there was a very long line involved, and paying $4/gallon for gas was unappealing. Plus, the Greyhound station is within walking distance of my house, and my neighborhood has so few amenities that I was tempted to take advantage of this one.

My bus was an hour late leaving DC, but I didn't mind too much since I expected a long layover in New York City anyway. On arriving at Port Authority bus terminal I spotted this sign. Two thoughts:

1. "Motor stairs"? Is this an expression only New Yorkers know, like standing "on line"? Or is Port Authority trying to accommodate its many patrons who speak English as a second language, and might not know a word like "escalator"?
2. I heard a standup comedian recently say that he likes escalators because an escalator can never really be out of order; it just becomes stairs. Apparently not this escalator.

What I accomplished this week

1.) Doing the splits (front and back--I'm still working on middle) for the first time since I was about 17 and taking ballet.

2.) Keeping my downstairs neighbor's cats alive until his return today. This may not sound like a big deal, but I seem to be kryptonite for cats. One of the neighbor's cats got sick a few days into his three-week absence, I took him to the animal hospital in the middle of the night and then gave him his medicine and canned food as directed, and you know what? He seems to be doing ok. Although the episode has made me even less inclined to acquire a new feline anytime soon.

Ubiquitous

There's someone out there with the same first and last names as me, who has the same email address as me except with a middle initial in it. Some time ago she apparently began putting the wrong email address (mine) on forms left and right. Long story short, I ended up finding out her real email address and now I forward her anything that comes to my inbox that isn't spam but is clearly not for me. (Yes, I can be a nice person sometimes.)

The strange thing is that, judging by her email, my doppelganger lives in several different places. She's supporting Barack Obama's campaign in Washington state, taking her kid to gymnastics lessons in Houston, and, according to the evite I got today, perhaps attending a barbecue in northern New Jersey. Or, more likely, these are three different people. Maybe I will track down all of their email addresses eventually and end up routing their mail like one of those old-time phone operators. Except that it will also feel like that restaurant scene in Being John Malkovich.