Golden Champagne

Last weekend I went to what I thought would be a cool Brooklyn party on a boat. What I actually went to was a senior citizen party/political benefit on a barren lawn in Canarise, and I’d love to tell you all about it. 

The party was billed as “Brooklyn BBQ on the Boat.” I was like, three of my favorite Bs! Many other promises were made in the invitation, including “6 areas of entertainment” at this “outdoor/indoor party,” plus a “special guest DJ and performance by Atlantic Records recording artist.” 

I should have known things would not be quite what I expected, as my friend and I stepped onto the 2:30 shuttle bus, which actually turned out to be a 3:15 church van with no AC. We were on the church van for what seemed like three hours, traveling from Fort Greene, through the depths of Crown Heights, in and out of East New York (I think), until we reached a part of Brooklyn I’d only ever heard about: Canarsie. It was fine, and quiet, and looked like Queens. But I had one concern: where are we supposed to get on a boat in Canarsie? 

We pulled into a gravel lot and walked into what seemed to be a deteriorating saloon. We received wristbands and two “drink tickets,” before being directed out back to a vast, balding lawn. There was a DJ spinning under a tent, a section of picnic tables, a table of food, including vats of macaroni salad and cole slaw from Costco, and a tub filled with a mysterious orange drink. Just beyond the lawn there were several small boats docked in a small bay (pretty sure the other side was glamourous Mill Basin). 

I don’t have the time or energy to lay out the entire event, but here are a few of the most important details: 

1. “Bonnie”*: “Bonnie” was a woman of about 82, whom my friend recoginzed immediately upon entering. She’s volunteered for the non-profit my friend works for, with her other old lady friend who was there too (that one was about 105, and I didn’t see her after an hour, because bedtime). Bonnie wore a shiny, gold, short-sleeved pantsuit, and a hat that your aunt my described as “fun.” We’ll come back to Bonnie in a bit. 

2. The DJ. The DJ was great. He played hits, past and present, and everyone appreciated his stylings. The one bone I had to pick was that he played all the line dance songs consecutively. Electric Slide, Cha Cha Slide, Wobble, all of ’em. You have to spread those out. People wear out quickly. Also he bleeped out weird parts of songs. “Groceries,” you can leave that word in. 

3. The boats. So, we weren’t actually having a party on a boat. There were four boats (of many that were docked) that were going out for trips around the bay. We eventually got on a boat and had a really great trip around the bay. There was hip-hop and breeze. Lovely.  But that was about 30 minutes, and then we were back on the dried out lawn, so maybe they shouldn’t have called it a party ON a boat.

4. “Charlie”. Like “Bonnie,” “Charlie” was an older gent who was familiar to my friend through her job. Charlie was slightly younger, maybe 72, with an affinty for “Whip and Nae Nae.” Obviously, when the song came on everyone was pretty excited, even though the dance is best done by 6 year olds. But Charlie was the most excited. He did his whip and followed up with a nice, clean nae nae. And we all watched him. He did all the parts. Stanky leg. All of it. The weirdest thing was that he did the whip and nae nae to each subsequent song. It was obviously his go-to, but those moves are strictly reserved for that song. No one had the heart to tell Charlie this, so we just let him whip and nae nae to “Truffle Butter” and went about out business. 

5. At one point, Bonnie and Charlie were dancing together. Bonnie was almost doing a twerk. That’s all I’ll say about that. 

6. “Drink tickets.” Those tear-off raffle tickets are still in the pocket of the shorts I wore that day. No one ever instructed us how to use the tickets, and when my friend asked if we could use them for drinks behind the bar, she was told “they aren’t serving from the bar.” What? There was a whole bar, and a case filled with beer. But we were only to drink the orange punch? This made me think that maybe we were all going to be murdered, but I just gave a heavy sigh and poured me some punch. Later, there was a “VIP” section (read: bottles of liquor and juice on a deck), and so my friend and I made our way there. Of course, by the time the real VIPs (that’s us) got there, all of the juice was gone. What a conundrum! Until we remembered the barrel of sodas we’d seen earlier. Which brings me to… 

7. Golden Champagne. Apparently this is a type of soft drink. To be specific, they offered Western Beef Golden Champagne soda. For those who don’t know, Western Beef is a fowl-named low-budg grocery store in NYC (think Aldi’s). Golden Chamagne sounds delicious, like something you’d drink with Drake in a jacuzzi. But Golden Champagne tastes like nothing I’ve ever consumed. Honestly, of all the words on the label, it probably tasted more like western beef than golden champagne. And you don’t want to drink beef.  

 8. Eventually, it was time to go (it had always been time to go). We made certain to be ready for the 8pm bus, band of course it didn’t leave until 8:45. The driver was out of his mind, and stopped at McDonald’s for like 5 minutes. I considered getting an Uber, but it would have been close to $100, so I just sat there and kept my mouth shut. We then began to drop people off one by one, which would have been fine, had anyone been along the way. It took us about 30 minutes to get to the party, but after 45 minutes, we were dropping people off in thoe most suburban parts of Brooklyn. And people had the nerve to try to have along  farewell. I was like, bye, Felicia. When we got close to my apartment, I basically did a ninja roll out of the church van. 

*some names have been changed to protect the twerkers

Hey, Girl

I was walking down the street on Thursday when a man driving a horse-drawn carriage looked down at me from atop his steed and said, “Hello” in a suggestive manner. It was unexpected. I paused to gather my feelings. 

On any other occasion, I might have lost it. I’ve had it up to here (my hand is by my hip) with men hollering on the street. I don’t know you. I don’t want to talk to you. If I see someone with great shoes, I don’t say Daaaaammnnnnnnn, look at those Rachel Comeys! Let me try those on, girl. I think it, but I have a solid grasp on respect, boundaries, etc, so I keep my thoughts to myself. So when men act that way, I’m like pull yourself together. Don’t you see shoes every day?

But this was different. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it. Admittedly, hello isn’t the worst thing someone can say. And the moment was undeniably silly. The man was wearing a jaunty top hat and a coat with tails in the middle of August. He was sitting atop a giant, sad, stinky horse. And he thought, I’m going to get that lady’s attention. I laughed. No disrespect to him. People have to pay the bills, and jobs are hard to come by. While I dislike the horse carriage industry for many reasons (not only are the animals mistreated, but they smell terrible, poop everywhere, and almost run me over on a bi-weekly basis), I understand that many have to take such jobs. But I don’t know if it’s not really a “chick magnet” job, like firefighting or being Magic Mike. And there he was, trying his best. It’s not like he’d intended on thinking outside the box, but ultimately he did present me with a rare and original scenario. I appreciated that. 

After that day, I decided that there are a few individuals who could make a pass at me without inciting outrage: 

1. A sad clown leaving a children’s birthday party (the guy isn’t actually sad, he just has a frown painted on his face). 

2. A high school nerd surrounded by a bunch of his meat head classmates about to clobber him (I’d blow Little Nerdy a kiss, and the bullies would be super impressed and offer him high fives). 

3. Ginuwine, but only if he did it via his hit 2003 jam “In Those Jeans.”

4. A dachsund. 

5. A bow-tied professor, as part of a class lesson on what not to do (the course is Theory of Dating?)

6. The guide on a double decker NYC tour bus, through the microphone, like it’s part of the tour. 

I’m sure there are other exceptions. It’s not that I would fall in love with any of these people, but they wouldn’t send me into a rage, and that’s a good place to start. Same old, same old gets a bit trying after 6 years in New York City. If a man is truly interested in a woman, he should try a more delicate approach, or at least something unexpected.  We hear this stuff all the time. If you can, try to get your hands on a work animal, or at least a top hat. 

Back Story

As some of you might know, I’m not 100% on board with massages. I’ve already posted once about how they make me feel vulnerable and anxious. But last week my back and shoulders were practically cobblestone, and there was no denying the fact that I was in desperate need of a rubdown. So I looked up a cheap massage place near my job and booked 30 minutes (because my anxiety usually sets in around 40). 

First of all, let’s go through my massage salon selection process. Yelp was obviously my first point of reference. I narrowed it down to .3 miles and $/$$, doy. The place I found was at the top, with approximately 1,0000 reviews, with an average of 4 stars. People were like, “It’s not nice in there, but I can walk again!” I also checked out the parlor’s website, which was basically a scrolling page of coupons with various colors, typefaces, and sizes, so I knew it would be grade A. 

When I walked into the massage room, I couldn’t help but notice that the lighting cast the room in a startling shade of red that suggested danger. I ignored this and stripped. There was soothing (?) music playing, and no pesky chimes or scented candles, which I appreciated. 

“You ready?” asked my masseuse, her head peeking through the curtain, suggesting that I better be. 

I gave her clear directions. My only previous massage experiences were frou frou places that I’d found on Groupon, and they basically gave me a gentle skin caress. I didn’t want her messing around. She needed to destroy the knots. 

As I lay on my stomach, she began to knead my upper back. Everything was going well, until I noticed that she was making a weird sound with her mouth, like she was sucking one of those strawberry candies that comes in a strawberry wrapper that only old people like. It was a strange slurp, but I was pretty sure there was nothing in there. I had just spoken to her face, and there seemed to be no candy, no gum. But now the slurp was all I could hear. 

“Girl, what you got in there?” I wanted to shout. But I didn’t, because a) we were five minutes in, and it seemed an odd time to bring it up, b) what if there really was nothing in there, and I just ended up sounding like a complete jerk for criticizing what might be a rare mouth disorder, and c) as mentioned earlier, massages make me anxious. A person is never more vulnerable than when laying face down, naked, fully relaxed on a massage table. She could have snapped my neck and been done with me.

So I dealt with her crazy mouth sounds and let that be that. Really, she was having a field day on my back, so so I couldn’t complain. There was an interesting elbow-on-back scenario that recurred a number of times, which I enjoyed. And at one point she pulled out a ladder and started massaging me from a very confusing angle. I’m not entirely sure what was happening, but I’m pretty sure that if I’d stood up, we’d have found ourselves in an Ethel -and-Lucy situation. Nothing like a little massage parlor slapstick!

About halfway through, the lotions came out. I’m personally not a fan of strange lotions, as I not only hate the smell of everything, but I’m also allergic to everything. This stuff wasn’t too bad, though, and it really made for smooth sailing, so I went with it. 

We were nearing the end when the woman twisted my arm behind my back. Then she punched me behind my shoulder blade. Hard. Like four times. It was startling to say the least. She was punching me hard enough that I decided (around hit three) if she punched me three more times I’d should “please stop!” But, there were only four wops, and I let out a sigh of relief when they were over. I was fully prepared for the punches on the opposite side, and put on my game face. 

Next up came the hot towel, and let me tell you, there’s nothing like a scalding cloth on freshly punched skin. That’s a sensation I’ll never forget.

“All done,” she whispered in my ear. I jumped.

“Thank you,” I said, my eyes still closed, face stuck in the hole thingy. 

When I stepped outside of the room, my masseuse stood holding a Dixie cup of water for me. I drank eagerly. She slurpped on nothing. A nervous condition, no doubt. 

I walked away feeling looser, but wishing I’d gone for a full hour. I wanted more twists, and rubs, and even punches. I’ll know to book a longer session next time. And to pop in my earbuds before she even gets star, just in case I get Slurppy again.  

Bag it Up: A Reflection

Last night I went to a Blackstreet concert. Yes, that Blackstreet. My friend got free tickets to New Jack Swing 2015, featuring Blackstreet, Guy, and El Debarge, and she was kind enough to invite me. I didn’t think twice. How many people have the opportunity to hear “No Diggity” live for free? Probably anyone who goes to an Atlanta mall on a Saturday afternoon, or Citibank employees who went on the corporate retreat in 2000. I was excited, nonetheless. 

The concert was at the new Kings Theatre in Flatbush, which is a beautifully restored space with a super-friendly staff. After arriving and going through security (I get nervous every time I go through a metal detector and have my bag searched, like maybe someone planted something on me), we made our way to our seats. The show hadn’t started yet, but a DJ was spinning old school hip-hop hits, and the crowd was live. It was a “grown and sexy” audience, and they were not afraid to back it up to some Mary J. Blige. 

Eventually, Teddy Riley and Friends made their way to the stage, and the crowd went wild. I’ll be honest, our section was not quite full, meaning it was pretty empty. But those who were around us made up for it with their energy.  I had expected to see El Debarge first, but no, they just jumped straight to the headliners, which I thought was an interesting tactic. Don’t make them wait for it. My guess is that one of the members of Blackstreet had to wake up early on Sunday morning for church and requested to go first, so that he could get a good night of sleep.

I must say, the dudes killed it. I hadn’t ancticipated much choreography, but they did more spins, contagion snaps, and bodyrolls than any of us knew we wanted. Clad entirely in matching white, they jumped around the stage just as much as I imagine they did 20 years ago (unfortunately, I didn’t attend many R&B concerts as a child, so I can’t be sure…though I did see En Vogue at Six Flags when I was about seven, and I hate that I don’t have a clearer memory of that). 

They wasted no time getting to the hits. The second song they sang was “Don’t Leave Me.” Luckily, the words to the chorus were projected onto the screen behind the guys, so even those fools who didn’t know the six lyrics could sing along. When the lyrics weren’t being projected, an image of pink and red raining hearts took over the screen. And then a giant rotating computer-generated rose, in front of which those same tiny hearts rained. It was pretty good. 


Giant rose w/hearts + Teddy Riley or somebody


Later, the guys ran from backstage with handfuls of long-stemmed red roses. They writhed and gyrated, while women with fresh relaxers in Carlos Santana shoes flocked to the stage. Their dreams had come true. The men tossed the roses at the women whilst doing sensual dance moves (no easy feat, to be sure). All I could think, as the women jumped up and down, was “good for you, girlfriend.”  

Roses. Love.


Teddy then spent a fair amount of time singing other artists’ songs. I think he produced or wrote all of the songs, so it’s cool, but it was really confusing to hear him sing “My Prerogative” by Bobby Brown and “Right Here/Human Nature” by SWV. But I loved it, of course. At one point, the screen flashed “Teddy” about six times in a row, then “You Jam” “Teddy” “You Jam.” I mean, he did jam, so I couldn’t argue.  

Finally, the group sang “No Diggity,” which made my life. Then they sang some other songs, and I checked my phone. Then it was intermission. 

The bathroom conversation was excellent. “It’s a party in there!” was uttered more than once. And each time, more and more people agreed. Maybe someone said, “Teddy is jamming!” but maybe not, and it was just his not-so-subliminal messaging working. In any case, people couldn’t wait for more. 

But they had to, because intermission was an hour. This would have been annoying had the DJ not been amazing and played every Ja Rule song known to man. There were a lot of late old school songs, plus 90s and early 2000s hits, and then “Truffle Butter,” which made no sense, but I’m always on board with that one. 

When we went back out, it was Guy time. Just to be clear, Teddy Riley is in both Blackstreet and Guy. But Guy is older, started in 1988, so the true die-hard Teddy Riley fans were really in their element now. I was a little indifferent, until Johnny Gill came out, and I was like “what is happening,” then Wreckx-N-Effect came out and sang “Rump Shaker,” and I was all “I can’t.” It was fantastic. Also, they kept doing that new, cool thing where they say, “Now scream!” and everyone obeyed. That was fun. 

There were a number of times when Teddy would single out the people in the house “over 25,” without realizing that no one in the audience was close to 25. He’d say, “Only stand up for this song if you’re over 25,” and I’d stand up but have no idea what the song was. I don’t know that he’s totally clear on what year it is. Also, I went to the bathroom at one point, and when I came back, he was just in the middle of the audience, on a chair or something, singing with his shirt off. 

Before we knew it, the show was over. El Debage never came out, and no one really cared. All in all, it was a great night. No diggity, no doubt.


On Monday morning, my boyfriend and I stepped onto the train together. The train was pretty full, but we were able to find seats. As we sat down, we heard something loud coming from the corner. There a man sat, a bluetooth speaker in his lap, blasting very loud, very bad rap music. He and his girlfriend nodded along. 

This didn’t seem so unusual at first. Most New Yorkers have been on a subway car with someone blasting ratchet music from his cell phone. And it’s obnoxious, of course. But this was different, and not just because this guy thought went through the trouble of hooking up his music to this massive bluetooth speaker. David and I listened for a moment, and both of us were unable to identify the terrible song playing (normally if we put our hip-hop brains together, we can come to some conclusion). 

“It’s his own music,” said David. 

This made sense. The production value was terrible (think Casio keyboard circa 1999), and the flow was, for lack of a better word, wack. I couldn’t totally understand the lyrics, which isn’t unusual (how many times have I mumbled along to a YG song before realizing what was happening, and then uttering a silent prayer for forgiveness?). Thankfully, the aspiring rapper and his girlfriend (I assume she was not his wife…a man like that can’t be tied down) would chime in every few words, as rappers are wont to do. We would just hear rap, rap, rap, GOLD CHAINS, rap, rap, rap, MASERATI, rap, rap, rap, BOOTIES. I mean, staples. Yes. But it’s been done. Maybe try something a little more original. Also (#noshade) but I’m 90% sure this guy never set foot inside a Maserati. I never have. I don’t think anyone I know ever has. There is no shame in not being supremely rich. I’m just saying, might be better to keep it real.

Also, it’s worth noting that this was not a young man. I’d guess he was between 45 and 50, which is not necessarily prime for being discovered in the rap industry. Maybe things are changing? But no, they’re not. If you’re a rapper over 25, you better rhyme tight. And you better know somebody. And you better be able to keep up and know the language and trends. Like, please no who “My Woes” are before trying to be a rapper in 2015 (I dont’ know what that means, but I’m not tryna rap. Also, please let me know if it’s an offensive term, I’ve been using it quite regularly). 

So, this guy was steady rapping, and everyone was mad. The woman across from me was reading a New York Times and just boiling. She kept sending her stink eye down the train, and I was like, Girl. Relax. You don’t know him. He might be crazy. It’s true. We all read and watch the news. People are insane. I would have loved to shake this man and tell him how terrible his music was, and that nobody wanted to hear it in the morningtime. I would have loved to scold him for all of the coarse language he was blasting while tiny elementary school children sat right across from him, but I’m not yet comfortable using the term ‘coarse language’ aloud. And again, everyone is crazy. You never know when someone might pull out a weapon, or spit on you, or give you a demo CD then ask for a five dollar “donation.” So I kept my mouth shut. 

I’m all for following your dreams, but if you’re goal is to become a rapper, maybe don’t force your terrible sounds on innocent people on their way to work. I mean, aspiring actors don’t just hop on the train and perform a monologue. Psychology students don’t get on and ask if anyone has an issue they’d like to discuss (that would be a nightmare, the student would never leave the train). I’d encourage this guy to go the traditional route, and just post something on YouTube or Vine.

[I hope you enjoyed my attempt at using hip-hop terminology]

Worst Behavior

[First of all, I know. It’s been a while. Almost a year to be exact. But I’m back. All is well.]

I went to see a 5 hour play last night. Bold move, I know. But I’m not here to tell you my thoughts on the production, but rather my thoughts on the audience. I suppose the length of the show increased the probability of interruptions throughout, and it had it’s quiet moments, which likely illuminated these disruptions. But these people were unbelievably, shamelessly loud.

There were so many things. First came the usual coughs and sneezes. Obviously, it’s been 2 degrees for the past few weeks, so everyone has pneumonia. But pneumonia or no, you spend good money on a ticket you’re gonna see the show, especially when it stars Albert Goldman/Pepper. So screw it. Suck down a garlic clove (also appreciated by your fellow audience members), and call a car. This is your “outing” for February, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to let a little whooping cough get you down.

In fact, the man sitting directly behind me (who may or may not have been the old man from Up) spent a good portion of the first act suppressing a cough in the most distracting way. He was trying so hard not to make noise (which I appreciated) that I thought he either die or vomit on my head. Things weren’t looking good. (However, this man did redeem himself during intermission. He made a call on his flip phone. “Yes, it’s very good,” he said. “Very good. The performances are excellent.” I wanted to pick him up and give him a kiss on the top of his head.)

About halfway through Act I, Siri arrived in the mezzanine. She was like, “Your destination is on the left.” What? The play had started about an hour ago. Was Siri drunk? If the person had moved at all, it was to go to the restroom. And if the person used Siri to get to and from the restroom, then there are larger issues at hand.

We were a few minutes into Act III when the Long Island woman a row behind me had a revelation. “This is an excellent play.” Full voice, just in the middle of the show. I had to turn and give her my “Boo, pull yourself together” look. There were a couple of other instances of full voice chatter further away throughout the show. I don’t know what the deal is with that (and it happens A LOT in movies), but it needs to stop.

An appreciated moment of audience noise came during this act as well, when the only black character in the show had a “drop the mic” moment. He was excellent throughout the show, but he really nailed it in this scene. As one of probably six black people in the house, I had what I thought was a particularly visceral reaction to the moment. And while I wanted to shout “yaaaaaaassssss,” and start voguing in the aisles, and fall into a death drop, I restrained myself. I was glad to hear, though, that the entire audience appreciated the moment. There were lots of claps and “wooos,” so that was fun.

In Act IV Siri came back. Everyone was like, “We get it,” so she shut up. People got cough-y again, and started unwrapping Werther’s. Seven people kicked stainless steel water bottles. Maybe a baby was born. I don’t know. Was there an arm wrestling match in the balcony? Hard to say. French lesson in the partial view seats? Sounds about right.

Finally, it was over, and everyone clapped and got all, “We did it! We were so quiet!” And I was like, “What? You guys were so loud! The whole time!” And they didn’t hear me, because they were obviously extremely loud, and they were shouting, “Bravo!” And I was going, “did you even see the play?” And then they were like, “Taxi!”

I get that there are only so many things you can control while sitting in a tiny theater seat. But as a people I think we should make the following efforts while in the theater:

1. Turn off your phone. I know it’s hard, but Siri is obviously going through something, and quite honestly, she can’t be trusted. It’s the only way.

2. If you are sick, like really sick, don’t come to the theater. I know it’s hard, but you are a) going to be miserable the whole time b) disturb everyone around you and c) get everyone sick, which is the ultimate offense.

3. If you’ve got a little tickle in your throat, bring paper-wrapped lozenges, not plastic-wrapped. It reduces the noise pollution drastically, and if it keeps you from hacking everywhere, that’s good too.

4. Keep your noisy bottle in your bag. You will definitely kick it if it’s not in your bag, and it will definitely roll down many, many rows.

5. Shut your damn mouth.

Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you at the theater.

Toddler in a Toy Machine


A missing toddler was found unscathed in a claw toy machine in Nebraska. This raises many questions.

Why are toddlers allowed at bowling alleys (it seems like there should be a 4 and up rule…toddlers can’t bowl, and even I feel unsafe at bowling alleys, although I’m bigger than most everything there)? How insecure are claw toy machines? Why aren’t the rest of us trying to steal all the teddy bears we can right now? How many toys did the kid take? What is “Nebraska?”

I think the most important thing is that the toddler was found unharmed. The second most important thing is that someone took this amazing Twit pic. I mean! That kid is having a blast and also hates his mother. He’s going to be a nightmare.

All told, this story had a pretty great ending. Things might not have ended so well had he been found in certain other parts of the bowling alley:

1. Behind the bar. The risk of being behind the bar wouldn’t be the possibility of the kid consuming alcohol. Honestly, he’s probably no stranger to Bud Light, and that’s all they serve at those places anyway. But bowling alley bartenders are typically unresponsive, often borderline comatose. The police might scour the place, while the leather-skinned bartender stands there chomping on some Juicy Fruit, shaking her head like “no idea where that lil guy could be.” Meanwhile the kid plays with a toy truck by her feet. He runs the truck over her foot, and she’s like “ah, keep forgetting to put out those mouse traps.”

2. Through the ball return-y machine. There might be a group of office workers on a team building outing. They’re nearing the end of their first game, everyone is finally starting to loosen up, when Charlene bends over to retrieve her 6 pounder. She’s on a roll. But instead of her ball, the machine spits out a toddler. Totally kills the mood. Charlene is like, “does this belong to someone?”

3. Outside smoking with the bikers. This would just be a terrible place to find a child.

4. At the end of a lane before a strike. The kid is chilling behind the pins, and Charlene has finally gotten back into the groove after that other incident. She’s feelin’ real smooth and does a fancy leg behind the other leg bowl, and everyone is all “Yeah, Charlene! Strike!” And Charlene is like, “Oh my god, is that a child!” The drunk guy at the lane over goes, “Hey, anybody seen Lil TJ?” Everyone screams. Charlene decides not to have children.

I’m not a parent, but I’ve obviously got lots of good advice for those with children. If you’re going to bring your wee ones to a death trap such as the bowling alley, try and keep an eye on them. My guess is that this was gone for a solid 10 minutes before anyone noticed. He probably made the rounds before ending up inside that machine, and it probably took him a while to get in there once he’d arrived at his destination. And if a kid can get in that thing, God knows what else was floating around in that pool of dusty toys. I actually can’t even think about it. So, the next time you bring the baby to bowl, put a leash or something on him, or expect to be put on Twitter blast.

UPDATE: It seems the child actually went missing from his home? They weren’t even at the bowling alley! I don’t know where to begin.