NeoYankee

Ann Coulter is an insufferable Cunt

2010-12-25T02:13:00.002-05:00

I really have nothing else to say on the matter... other than to reiterate that Ann Coulter is an insufferable CUNT. Happy New Year!

I like cats - but I LOVE dogs. Here's one reason why.

2010-06-30T18:25:00.001-04:00

Karma Is A Wonderful Thing

2010-06-26T17:47:00.000-04:00

Bypass Part 5: Corned Beef & CABG

2010-04-20T19:27:00.004-04:00

So, let's see, where were we... ah yes. Having survived the angiogram in fine fettle, I was subsequently informed that I had 3 blocked cardiac arteries. One was 100% blocked... is that really possible?... and the other two between 70% and 90%. I was like the fucking 405 freeway at rush-hour.

Damn. I mean... just... damn.

So, they wheeled me back to my room, waited for most of the happy-juice to wear off, and then informed me that the wisest course of action would be a Coronary Artery Bypass Graft. CABG for short.

I had spend 3 years in Baltimore working for a company that collected, massaged and sold medical data. Among the common surgical procedures that showed up in the Powerpoint presentations I'd put together for consulting physicians was the dreaded CABG. While the mortality figures were low and the clinical outcomes generally good, just the fact that they were telling me I had to have something that actually had a mortality rate just freaked. my. shit. out.

As a result, I spent the next couple of days in a drug-induced haze.

I don't blame them. Most of the people who know me know that I'm not really what you'd call a drama queen. (I hear that whispering in the background... shutthefuckup.) I tend to be pretty grounded for the most part, I don't dissolve into a pile of pudding when things go pear-shaped. But despite my Yankee stiff-upper-lip-ness, the doctors and nurses could tell that I was having a major, major mental meltdown. So I was given the gift of chemical zen.

At some point my wonderful friends Janey and Shaz showed up at the hospital. I remember their visit. What I didn't remember was that I evidently ignored them completely in the presence of my dinner. Gravy was involved. According to Janey, I behaved as if I had either a) never tasted such amazing gravy or b) expected this gravy to perform sexual acts upon me that usually required 3 days preparation and an accidental death signed release form.

To Janey, Shaz, and anyone else who may have encountered me during that period, I can only offer my heartfelt apologies and my solemn promise that I have kicked the Gravy for good.

So then, Wednesday, April 15th (Tax Day. Do you see a theme developing? Good. Keep it to yourself.) dawned. I was shaved. Actually, I was expected to shave many of my parts myself. This was, after all, a Catholic hospital. Leave it to Catholics to expect a drug-addled coronary patient to attack his own chest hair with a disposable razor. Following that, I was given more drugs. Maybe this is how Father Brad got all those boy scouts to... um, I digress.

Anyhoo, off to surgery. I was still awake when they wheeled me in. Rockin'. Fortunately I went under just as they started strapping my arms to the padded board... which was so reminiscent of crucifixion that I would have laughed my ass off if I'd had the energy. Really? Catholic hospital, arms outstretched on the surgical table... and my heart and lungs would be stopped??? Can't make this shit up. Where's that Magdalene bitch? My feet could use a good scrub...

And with that, several hours of blackness descended.

And it really was black. There was no sense of passing time. No dreams. Nothing. Only in hindsight was this absolutely terrifying. The next thing I remember was coming to in the recovery room. I was still intubated, and my very first thought was "oh, shit, I know exactly where I am, what's down my throat, and it's not gonna be pretty." My friend Janey (who also happens to be an RN) had evidently talked herself into the recovery room... it was her voice I heard first. I immediately started gagging on the tube (again, I hear that whispering. See previous remark.)

And That's The Way It Is...

2009-07-18T00:32:00.002-04:00

Walter Cronkite has died. And in no small way, a part of me went with him.

He was the first person I remember seeing on television - earlier than Captain Kangaroo, earlier than Kukla, Fran & Ollie, I remember being very, very small and sitting on the living room floor in a pair of blue Dr. Dentons watching him on a 19-inch black & white tv. My parents tell me (though I don't remember) that I always called him "my favorite son." Eerie. This was long before "The Reincarnation of Peter Proud", so the whole concept of reincarnation was pretty "out there" in New Hampshire in 1967 or 68 - but evidently I was convinced that he was my son.

One memory of him that sticks with me to this day, and will stick with me forever:

It must've been 1969 or 1970 (my brother was there, so it had to be later than 1968) I remember watching the news... and Walter was talking about the war. Over his shoulder was a graphic, showing the body count. Yup, they did that back then. Showed the number of American and "Viet Cong" casualties. I didn't get it at all, so I got myself up and walked into the kitchen where my mom was busy making dinner. I asked her what a "body count" was, and she told me. I was ready with a followup: "Well, we've killed more of them than they have of us, so does that mean we're winning?". She didn't look at me, didn't stop what she was doing, but she answered me in a voice I shall never, ever forget. She just said "sweetie, nobody's winning."

Tangential to Mr. Cronkite's passing, perhaps, but a very powerful memory that I'll always associate with him.

Requiescat in Pace, sir. You have earned it.

Bring it on, Sarah

2009-07-06T20:25:00.003-04:00

In support of Shannyn Moore, MSNBC, The New York Times, Huffington Post, et. alia. I am hereby publishing by blog the following:

Rumors exist regarding the reasons for Sarah Palin's resignation of her office. These rumors include pending indictments for irregularities surrounding the construction of her house on Lake Lucille, as well as irregularities surrounding the construction of the Sports Facility in Wasilla.

There. I have now published on my blog the fact that rumors exist. Not that they are factual, not that investigations are ongoing, but simply the fact that these rumors exist, which can be easily corroborated by the use of Google. According to the warped mind of Sarah Palin, publishing the fact that these rumors exist is somehow grounds for legal action for defamation.

Bring it on, you fucking white-trash mental-midget piece of shit. I await communication from your lawyer. Assuming he knows how to write.

The Grandview Coffee Shop, Vassalboro ME

2009-06-10T23:12:00.004-04:00

You probably read about this establishment - it was shown on most every media outlet when it first opened. A Topless Coffee Shop??? Ye gods, but that's hysterical.

A few days ago the shop was torched.

I'm a huge Rachel Maddow fan - and tonight Rachel mentioned the shop during her "Cocktail Moment" segment. This is towards the end of the show when she mentions a story (usually on the "fluffy" side) that makes her happy. In this case it was in response to the story that the owner has reopened the shop in a temporary tent in the parking lot - and that the topless wait staff were working in sweatshirts because of the temperature. Here is the text of the email I sent to her show in response. I'll let you know if I get an answer.

===
TO: rachel@msnbc.com
FROM: dennisjscott@gmail.com
RE: Grandview Coffee Shop - A Different Perspective

Hi Rachel –

Thanks for mentioning the arson fire at the Grandview Coffee Shop in tonight’s “Cocktail Moment”.

I love your show ( other than the incessant “beeping” in the background ) but I’d like to pose a different viewpoint on the Grandview fire. From my perspective, this event is no less heinous than the murder of Dr. Tiller or today’s attack on the Holocaust Memorial Museum in DC. Different in severity and outcome, absolutely, but not in its intent.

At its most basic, this was a violent act meant to harm and intimidate the victims – namely the business owner, his employees and the folks who patronized the shop. It is only luck that kept this from being a tragedy – there were several people asleep in that building when the fire was set. Fortunately the responding firefighters were able to make sure everyone got out. Several stories have been written quoting the “fact” that “97% of the people in Vassalboro were against the topless coffee shop”… despite the reality that this business was perfectly within the existing laws and ordinances of the Town of Vassalboro and the state of Maine.

So someone decided that picketing, petitions and the democratic process would not produce the desired result… and resorted to arson. This is no less “domestic terrorism” than the shootings, harassment and threats we have seen in the last few months in other venues and concerning a variety of other issues. Burn a cross, burn a business… the fuel is different, the intent is the same.

I was a resident of the Great State of Maine for 12 years. As an out gay man, I always found that even though my neighbors may not have “approved” of what I was, they never ever treated me with disrespect. “Live and Let Live” is an old, old Yankee tradition which I cherish, as do most of the people in Maine.

But when a single individual takes it upon him- or herself to express their political views with a cowardly, violent and illegal act like this, we should react with outrage, not simply cocktail chatter. To be clear: I felt that outrage no less when I learned about “Earth First”ers destroying a condo complex under construction in Southern California, or environmentalists attacking Hummer dealerships. While I may agree wholeheartedly that rampant development and conspicuous consumption are worthy of contempt, those attacks were also terrorism. “Left” or “Right” is immaterial – wrong is wrong.

To their credit, according to media reports, the vast majority of Mainers have responded with concern, support and cash donations to help the (uninsured) owner, whether or not they agree with Donald Crabtree and his business plan.

I fully understand that the whole idea of a “topless coffee shop” is a comedy goldmine – I cackled like a crone when I first heard about it - but at the risk of being labeled a humorless liberal drone, I don’t want us to lose sight of just how serious a violation of the law, our principles and ideals this attack really is.

I will now step off my soapbox and return to enjoying your show. Thanks!

Dennis Scott
Manchester CT

===

Bypass Part 4 - "Um, hi Mom!"

2009-05-19T16:53:00.003-04:00

So, as the Xanax is kicking in, it suddenly hits me. It is now Easter morning. I’m expected at Mom & Dad’s for Easter Dinner – how do I get out of this without freaking all of North Walpole NH? Crap.

After I hemmed and hawed for a couple of hours, a very nice nurse let me borrow her cellphone around 9:30am to call Mom so I could reverse-RSVP for dinner. As I mentioned previously, between the morphine, the Xanax and whatever else they’d pushed, I was slightly less than lucid. As I recall, Mom was quite calm when I told her I wouldn’t be up for dinner as I was currently in an ER with chest pain, soon to be transported to yet another hospital for an angiogram. Too calm, in fact. I was to learn later that she thought I was “really, really chatty.” I probably couldn’t hear her get worried because I was too busy talking.

I also blame the drugs for my next brilliant idea.

It was now around 10:00am, and I had been told the ambulance to transport me to St. Francis would be there around noon-ish. At which point I came up with a plan stunning in its genius, which I proceeded to relate to the nurse: why don’t I just nip back to my house in the car, pick up some pajamas, etc. and then take a cab back to the hospital? Everyone’s happy, no muss, no fuss, and my car is safe & sound in my driveway. After all, I was no longer in pain, my vitals all looked good and I felt surprisingly happy & capable. Charitably, not one of the ER staff actually laughed in my face, although a couple of them looked suspiciously like they were stifling a chortle or two.

Finally, my chariot arrived. It was time for me to reenact every patient-in-an-ambulance scene I’d ever seen on television. The two ambulance guys transfer me onto their gurney, I’m propped up like I’m on a chaise lounge, still with the heart monitor and IV attached, and rolled through the ER lobby like a freakin’ Pride float. All I was missing was half-naked dancing boys and disco music. Then, into the back of the ambulance, facing out the back window while one of the EMTs sat in the back with me, watching the heart monitor on a laptop. I felt like I should hold my breath or something just to give him something to do. I really was feeling better – no pain, no shortness of breath, and the morphine was wearing off so I knew it wasn’t the drugs talking.

The next time you’re on the highway behind an ambulance, make sure to smile & wave, or make a face, or something. All I saw during the whole trip into Hartford were people craning to see through the back window, I guess hoping for gore or something. Sorry to have disappointed y’all.

So, I get to Hartford, arrive at the hospital, they check me in blah blah blah. It’s now 1pm Sunday, and I’m told that the angiogram is scheduled for 8am on Monday. Which means I have to be NPO (no eating) after midnight. Not a problem.

Until the next morning when I’m told the angio has been rescheduled for 11am. Then it gets pushed to 2pm. Then 5pm. Finally some nurse takes pity on me and gets me some clear broth and Jello late that morning. Broth has never tasted so good.

So the hour rolls around, and I get rolled into the cardiac cath lab. Now, for angio, you’re not out, you’re given “twilight” anesthesia – you’re conscious, but not so much as you’d notice it. I remember being there, I remember looking at the monitor and seeing my arteries, I remember my ears getting really warm when they injected the dye. Other than that, it’s a blur. No pain, not really any discomfort, although I could vaguely feel the catheter in my chest, which is just weird, even if you’re prepared for it.

The results? Hoo-boy.

Coming Up: Short-Term Memory – a User’s Guide

Bypass Part 3 - "You don't look like Noah Wyle..."

2009-04-29T20:51:00.006-04:00

(before I begin, a quick apology to those who were concerned that I hadn't posted a new installment in over a week - turns out that the emotional impact of what happened didn't really hit me until a few days after the fact. Took a few days to process the whole "Jeebus, you mean I really could've died? Damn, that sucks!" thing. I'm over it now. So, herewith the next installment.)

So, having established that a) I was really not feeling well and b) things didn't seem to be resolving on their own, I made the decision to head to the ER. This was not a simple decision. I waffled for probably 15 minutes, thinking alternately "this is stupid, it's nothing, I'll be completely embarrassed when they tell me it's indigestion" and "holy shit, if this is really a heart attack, what if they have to do something creepy and/or medical to fix it?"

So, finally being scared more than embarrassed, I threw on a pair of jeans, sneakers (no socks - not going to be gone long) a sweatshirt and a baseball hat to cover bed-head. Brought the backpack with me containing my e-book (will need something to read while waiting). Then hopped in the car for the short trip to Manchester Hospital.

Yes, hopped in the car. Now, as everyone from the cardiologist to the dietary delivery people have told me, loudly, multiple times, driving yourself to the hospital while experiencing a possible coronary is right up there on the stupid list next to smoking while pumping gas or looking Madonna directly in the eye. It's a really quick way to not only endanger yourself, but anyone else who may be on the road with you at the same time. So, to the cocaine addicts who were also driving along Main Street in Manchester, Connecticut at 3:50am on Easter morning - my apologies. Somehow I think they were all too busy grinding their teeth to notice.

Another thing you never think of until you need the information; the location of the local Emergency Room. I've been living in Manchester for about a year, and I've driven past the entrance to the hospital dozens of times. There's a sign and everything. But there I was, driving in circles around a big building with increasing chest pain and quite honestly getting more and more panicky by the moment - with no freakin' clue where the stupid ER entrance actually was. After two trips around the building, I finally pulled into a parking area that said "Valet Only" and decided to walk - thinking the whole time "Valet? Are these people that screwed up?".

Another tip - when you are suffering from a possible coronary, it is probably not wise to park some 200 yards downhill from the ER entrance and hoof it. Now, as I am here typing this, you can rest assured that it worked out - but by the time I reached the actual ER entrance I seriously thought I was about to croak.

Now, for anyone who's watched any of the medical dramas, you probably have a pretty good idea of how an ER operates.

You will want to erase those ideas from your brain immediately, because they could not possibly be further from the truth. Use mind-altering chemicals if necessary, because nobody should ever suffer the cognitive dissonance that results from visiting a real ER after watching, say, "Grey's Anatomy."

About the only resemblance was the sliding door.

At the reception desk, a very nice lady asked for my insurance card. She didn't ask my name, didn't ask what I was there for, didn't seem to care about anything really, other than the insurance card. Once that was presented, I was given a half-page "Triage Worksheet" to fill out. Now, since I had entered under my own power, the woman probably assumed that I was not, indeed, unconscious. This was a logical assumption. However, when the worksheet I handed back had "severe chest pain" listed in the "symptoms" area in fairly shaky handwriting, one would assume that attention would be paid. That assumption would be incorrect.

Approximately 10 minutes (or 3.5 years, depending on your sense of passing time) later, a nurse called me into the triage area. Temperature, BP, pulse ox, respiration - a set of vitals I was to become nauseatingly familiar with - and suddenly you could feel the "Concern Level" in the room ramp up. When I explained the symptoms - chest pain that was now stabbing, tingling/numbness down my left arm to my hand, and a sore jaw - I could literally hear the change in her voice from "now-what-seems-to-be-your-problem" to "ok-time-for-the-doctor".

Within about 2 minutes I was in a treatment room, with EKG leads being stuck in their various and sundry places. Shortly thereafter a very cute little doctor (whose name I unfortunately forget - seriously, he was very cute) was talking me down off the panic ledge while pushing morphine into my veins.

Morphine? Seriously? I'm having a heart attack and y'all are getting me high???

As you might imagine, from this point on things get a little non-linear. Hey, I was on freakin' morphine, so cut me some slack.

An equally cute nurse by the name of Jason was also in attendance at this point - I remember vaguely that he was ex-Marine, had served in Iraq, and had wonderfully expressive hazel eyes. Jason proceeded to give me nitro glycerine tablets under the tongue, once every 5 minutes, followed by some Lopressor to bring down my blood pressure. This evidently worked too well, as the next thing I knew the gurney was tilted with my head about 18 inches below my feet - my BP had evidently dropped to something like 70 over 40, which is great if you're a 3-toed Sloth, not so much if you're a human.

During all of this, various blood samples were drawn. It turns out that when one has a heart attack, there are several enzymes that are released by the damaged heart tissue. This is the best way to determine whether or not a heart attack has occurred. These enzymes are released over time after the heart attack - sometimes not appearing in the bloodstream for 2 hours or more after the original event. So, the first blood test came back negative - no enzymes, no heart attack.

2 hours later - oh, THERE they are! Fucking enzymes. So, either I severely damaged my calf muscle during the uphill walk to the ER - or I have had a "coronary event".

At which point, the cardiologist on call pays a visit, explains what has happened and advises me that the next step is to be transported to another hospital for an angiogram, a procedure which involves placing a catheter through a vein in your groin, snaking it all the way up to your heart, and checking on the condition of your coronary arteries. About 30 seconds after completing this discussion, the cardiologist orders more painkillers and a Xanax. Evidently my facial expression was less than serene.

Up Next: Why you should always wave to Ambulances on the Interstate

Bypass Part 2 - "Is That A Wasabi In Your Pocket?"

2009-04-20T22:55:00.004-04:00

So, having set the scene, coronarily, in Part 1, we now proceed to the events of the night in question. If I felt any more like Jessica Fletcher at this very moment I'm sure I would develop spontaneous osteoporosis.

My Facebook Status from Friday, April 10, 2009:
(Good) Friday + Market Closed - 8 hours of work = Awesome Friday (You Do The Math).

I shoulda known.

So anyhow, Good Friday, stock market was indeed closed, thus a day off. Did absolutely nothing of note. Saturday arrived, and with the good weather, himself feels a bit coltish. (I refer to an actual young male horse here, not to the famed purveyor of porn. Just to be clear.)

So, around 4:30pm (4:32pm exactly - I remember train times for some reason) I boarded a MetroNorth train in New Haven, bound for Grand Central Station. I have a tendency to do this when I find myself at loose ends with not much else to do. I wonder if the other folks I see at the train station, always with that same combination of anxious/bored on their faces are doing the same thing?

Uneventful trip south - quick walk through the station, #1 train downtown from Times Sq to Christopher St/Sheridan Sq. Over to Bleeker for a quick sushi dinner (For those of you fond of foreshadowing: yes, sushi. Low in saturateds, high in omega-3s blah blah freakin' blah.) From there, repaired to Marie's Crisis on Grove for some showtunes on the Worst. Piano. Ever. played by a lovely young lady named Franca. Left around 10ish, back to GCS, train to New Haven, back in Manchester & beddy bye by 1:30. I swear. There were no scenes of debauchery, no snorting of rendered duck-fat off the toned abs of some dancer named Jaysin at "Splash", no shots of bacon grease at The Pork Palace. Nothing.

So, you may be able to sympathize with my puzzlement at being awoken at approximately 3am EDT on Sunday the 12th. Yes, again, for those of you with an overdeveloped leitmotif gland, Easter Sunday. Shut up.

Now, this may come as a shock to some of you, but when somebody with a family history of heart disease is awakened by chest pain, this person does not automatically think "ZOMG, Heart Attack!". Think of it this way: If you lived in Japan, and were awakened some night by a vague distant rumbling noise, would you really think "Godzilla!" and run screaming from the house? If so, your neighbors would rightly think you a complete douchebag.

So, I took a couple of aspirin, sat up in bed and started reading from one of the Frank Herbert "Dune" books which I'm working my way through again for the umpteenth time. Something about giant worms and political intrigue on a galactic scale make things like a bit of agita pale in comparison.

Your narrator is practical and possessed of at least some common sense. After 30 minutes, not only had the pain not gone away, it had become sharp, almost to the point of being "stabbing". Adding insult, I was now feeling a radiating tingling/numbness down my left arm. And my jaw hurt. Dear Reader, even I don't need a house to drop on my evil ass before the thought starts to cross my mind: "Hey, shithead, you might, just might, be having a spot of heart trouble, here."

Coming Soon: Part The Third, in which our hero arrives in a modern American ER (Casualty Dept. for the Brits). There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth. None of it coming from me.

Bypass Part 1 - "The Gathering Storm"

2009-04-20T21:08:00.003-04:00

I forget exactly who said it, or for that matter the exact quote: Something to the effect that discussions of one's health are only ever fascinating to one's self. All others are more or less intrigued in direct proportion to their affection for you, and in inverse proportion to their propensity towards the same illness. And if nobody ever said that, I claim it as mine herewith.

So, here are a couple of blog posts about my recent pas de deux with the current American Healthcare System, New England Variant. Please feel free to skip over the boring and/or technical bits, and jump to the juicy parts where snarks are let loose or the infirm are mocked. I shall try to make those the preponderance.

IN THE BEGINNING

So, no secret that all of the classic warning signs were there. Heart disease on both sides of the family? Check. Both grandfathers dead at relatively early ages? Check (Maternal Grandfather prior to age 50? Check-plus). Father with a history going back 20+ years, including the usual suspects: angina, shortness of breath, angiogram, multiple angioplasties, followed by a quad CABG in about 1989 or so, several episodes since, culminating in a coronary event, Life-Flight and implanting of a pacer about 2 years ago? Uh, check.

I certainly didn't help. Smoked since age 18, never particularly cared to watch what I ate, drank or otherwise ingested (until the metabolism slammed into low gear in my mid-30's and "The Gut" started to appear. At which point I still didn't much care, I just knew that now I was supposed to care about it.)

So, this is not one of those

"She was lively, vivacious girl who had no earthly clue what lay in store for her that night at the Frat Party"

type of stories. And there go about half of my readers. See y'all later in the gift shop!

stay tuned for Part the Second, in which our Hero has to make a choice - is this really a heart attack, or just an overreaction to stories of trouble in the Mel Gibson household?

Douchebags

2008-10-12T12:14:00.004-04:00

I have remained silent on this disturbing trend long enough.

Over the past summer, I watched, in abject horror, the latest fashion "trend" promulgated by the rag trade and foisted upon the torsos of straight males across this great land of ours.

I refer, of course, to the "square-cut tank top"

It became the casual wear of choice for a certain sub-set of the population, those that I and several respected demographers refer to as the "douchebag". From the Latin douchebaggus vulgaris, a descriptive term for a certain subset of the plebescite who sported short togas, blow-out hairstyles and were inordinately fond of tanning, the Modern Douchebag is a direct descendant of the original, sartorially speaking.

It's got a beat, but can you dance to it?

2008-09-28T00:09:00.002-04:00

What did we ever do before the Internet?

2008-09-18T20:33:00.002-04:00

NOTE: Be sure to watch all the way to the end; the kicker is Priceless!

Oh, Really

2008-09-03T20:48:00.007-04:00

This blog isn't really about politics (I've got a different blog for that), but this whole Sarah Palin Hockey-Mom for VP thing has got me so twisted that I'm really, honestly, ready to kick the next Republitard I meet right in the deep-closeted, page-raping, do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do, foot-tapping, wide-stanced 'nads.

If this doesn't prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that McChimpy is totally, unabashedly bat-shit crazy... I don't know what will. Does he really have to smear fecal matter on his face and rant about the 'gooks' in broad daylight before anybody realizes this?

Just. Watch.

Time Warp

2008-08-28T22:28:00.002-04:00

OK, stupid fun, and it's just a shill for various retail malls, but I had many a giggle putting myself through Yearbook Yourself. This was just one of the results. I guarantee giggles.

{retch}

2008-08-08T17:29:00.003-04:00

I know, I know, it is like shooting fish in a barrel... but come on.

Gay Men are the Unsung Heroes of the child Beauty Pageant Circuit

Oh, and for the sake of journalistic integrity, I must report that I have personal knowledge that Michael "King of Queens" Galanes is actually 43, not 37. Botox is not a time machine, honey. We both graduated from BUHS in 1983... and unless he was a 6'2" 12-year-old...

Battlestar

2008-06-05T18:54:00.002-04:00

OK, another closet to come out of - I'm a total sci-fi geek. And, yes, I use "sci-fi". I'm old school. The youngsters use "sf", disdaining "sci-fi" as hopelessly Eisenhoweresque.

Fuck 'em.

Anyhoo, a thread over on Ravelry in the Battlestarknitters group (yes, knitters who like BSG - the geek coefficient is through the roof, my lovelies) asked a simple, open-ended question: What are your predictions for where the show will end up.

Some very serious scholarship and prognostication is on display in that thread. Then, there was my entry, which I will reproduce for you here in its entirety.

When the Fleet finally reaches Earth, they will find it completely depopulated except for the original Earth “7”.

1 - Gilligan
2 - Skipper
3 - The Millionaire
4 - His Wife
5 - The Movie Star
6 - The Professor
7 - Mary Anne

They will find that, like the space-based “7”, these models cannot interbreed. Although, 1 and 2 have a suspiciously close “buddy-buddy” relationship, 5 attempts to mate with anything that could possibly produce a movie, and 7 has a penchant for shorts and gingham off-the-shoulder halter-tops. 3 and 4, whilst loudly professing their undying affection for each other, spend most of their time subjugating the others. This “6”, meanwhile, shows no interest in sex or procreation whatsoever. Alternate universe, anyone? Anyone?

Unsurprisingly, the Earth “7” will be discovered just days shy of completing their own Battlestar constructed entirely of coconuts and bamboo.

The Harlot Touched My Sock!

2008-04-28T19:28:00.003-04:00

Maybe that headline needs a little explanation. OK, maybe alot.

I went to Northampton MA yesterday to meet Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, aka The Yarn Harlot - she was appearing at WEBS to sign copies of her new book, then spoke at the Calvin Theatre for a delightful hour.

While waiting in line for the Harlot to sign my copy of her book, I toiled away on my (5th try at a) first sock.

Stephanie evidently has a soft spot in her heart for first sock knitters. After taking my picture, she gave me a great tip on how to make sure you can easily pick up stitches on the heel flap when starting the gusset. (If the previous sentence was complete gibberish to you... don't stress. It's a knitter thing).

Imagine my surprise when, upon visiting said Harlot's blog, I found my smiling face amidst the "First Sock Knitters" section.

Imagine my chagrin when, upon "clicking to embiggen" my picture, I realized that the combination of a big smile, fluorescent lighting and the woman's evil camera, my face resembled an inflated bladder on a stick.

She should really allow us to Photoshop those puppies before she posts them...

Kah-Lee-Fohn-Yah, here I come

2008-02-13T22:00:00.004-05:00

So, it's official. I'll be in Long Beach from 22 Feb to 26 Feb. Excited to see my friend after almost 20 months away from the Golden State. The weather here in CT has been dismal-ish the past 2 weeks or so. Last night snow, followed by freezing rain, then just rain. Lots of rain. The sump pump in the basement is working overtime. (Those of you who have no idea what a sump pump could possibly be... rejoice in your ignorance.)

Less excited to be in SoCal. But one does what one must.

And if you were wondering, the title of this post is my phonetic approximation of California as pronounced by its current Governator. The simple fact that Arnold freakin' Schwarzenegger is the Governor continues to freak my freak. Gray Davis may have had issues... but Kindergarten Cop? Puh-leeze, Gunther.

Correction

2008-02-07T00:08:00.000-05:00

OK, so I frogged the socks. (for the Muggles, that means I rolled all the yarn back into a ball and started all over again. Kind of related to a Mulligan in golf - except I don't have to wear spikes or pretend to be a W.A.S.P.)

Just thought you should know.

P.S. to anyone I've promised knitted goods to for Christmas / Hanukkah / Ramadan / Solstice...

Don't be holdin' yo breath. Blue doesn't look good on you, honey-chile.

Sometimes, Kids are O.K.

2008-01-21T20:53:00.000-05:00

Don't get me wrong. Most of the time, I believe children are the reason that God (or whoever) invented Swiss Boarding Schools. Seriously.

But the look on this child's face as Slappy McAsshat leans over to share his MLK-day deep thoughts... that's a look you can't fake, and you can't spin.

Child, whoever you are... for this moment, you're O.K. with me.

Don't let it go to your head, however. Tomorrow you'll most likely just be another annoying pre-teen.

Poke, Wrap, Wheeeee!

2008-01-20T20:22:00.000-05:00

OK, it's time that I came out of the closet.

No, not that closet. Christ, I've been out of that closet so long I think the hanger-prints are finally starting to fade from the back of my skull.

No, I'm referring to the knitting closet.

I am a knitter.

Strangely, it wasn't a lot less disconcerting to say that publicly than it was the first time I had to say out loud, "yes, I'm gay." And at least the gay thing, people mostly get. They may not like it, but they get it. But knitting? WTF?

It goes way back. My paternal grandmother crocheted and tatted. I mean doilies. I mean big, complicated, holy fuck kinda doilies. Meanwhile, my maternal grandmother was multi-craftual. My grandfather died shortly before I was born, leaving a 45 year-old woman with 5 children ranging in age from 25 to 15. She wasn't going to be taking care of little kids... so what she did was start to craft. Anything. I mean anything. Decorated egg-crate Christmas trees. Decorated goose eggs. Knitting. Crochet. Embroidery. Sewing. You name it, my Nana tried it, and had a back shed full of craft supplies to prove it. As a little gay kid, my Nana's back shed was a real wonderland... jars and jars full of the most amazing buttons a 5 year old has ever seen... construction paper in every color of the rainbow... magic markers, crayons, cool old postcards to decoupage... you get the basic idea.

My first knitting project was on a Spoolie made for me by my Nana. Spoolies, for the uninformed, are wooden thread spools with nails driven into the top... a kind of home-made version of knitting looms that they sell in craft stores now. I sat on her livingroom carpet for hours, watching Abbott & Costello movies on Channel 29 and making miles and miles of spoolie (OK, so it was I-cord. Happy now?)

I don't think anything ever came of the product of my Spoolie... maybe a potholder or something, but the memory eludes me. True to form, even then I was not a "product" knitter, I was a "process" knitter. The joy of wrapping the yarn, pulling loops over the tops of the nails and watching the knitted cord come out the bottom of the spool was all that I needed - actually getting a usable item out of the thing was just gravy, dude.

Fast forward about 30 years. . Ok, maybe 35.

I've made a few hats, scarves, fingerless mitts. I even attempted and completed a French Market Bag. Woo-hoo! I'm right now in the process of trying my first, honest-to-god, turn-the-heel and full-on-gusseted sock. Can't touch this!

Who invented size 1 dpns? Were they out of their fucking minds? Do you have any idea how many stitches it takes to make an inch of fabric?

I don't care. If I actually get a pair of socks out of this... you guessed it. Gravy.

Going Back West

2008-01-19T21:40:00.000-05:00

Well, honestly, it may or may not happen. We'll see.

A friend of mine from my San Diego days wants me to come visit. He's now in Long Beach - marginally better than San Diego, some may say. Others may just shake their heads knowingly and say softly "well... whatever."

The trip has nothing to do with wanting to visit SoCal. I can state categorically and without bitterness or rancor that I could die happily (far in the future, of course) without ever seeing the brown hills and fucked-up freeways of San Diego, Orange and LA Counties ever, ever again.

No, this trip is about friendship.

I am not a good friend. I don't say this as a way to fish for negating statements to the contrary. My friendships, few as they are, are even now tenuous, delicate things that may perish by way of wanton neglect or active sabotage. A few of my friends from San Diego (if they ever read this, which I doubt) know exactly what I'm talking about.

I've never been the kind of person who works hard at maintaining a friendship. Or a relationship of any kind, come to think of it. Maybe I'm just supremely self-involved, self-interested and selfish. Maybe I have one of those self-destructive personalities that can't believe that someone would actually want to be my friend and so, Q.E.D. cannot be a friend to another person.

I hope this is not true, as it would validate all of the negative feelings I've ever had towards myself. Vicious Cycle, anyone? Anyone?

But my friend is having a bad time. Not the kind of bad time you have when you end up at a movie theatre watching something that should've been cut up to make guitar picks the day before it was released. No, my friend is having a Seriously. Bad. Time.

I'm honestly not sure how to handle this. Do I pretend it's not happening? Do I try to joke and sarcasm my way through yet another challenge that life throws my way? Do I actually express my feelings and make myself vulnerable, let myself feel the anger and sadness and frustration and grief?

I dunno.

Sarcasm, irony and schadenfreude have been my go-tos for so long now that any other choice is waaaaay outside my comfort zone. To quote Shirley MacLaine in Steel Magnolias ...

"Are you high, Clairee?"

So.

The End of an Era, Part II

2008-01-14T21:06:00.000-05:00

This one really hurts.

I spent January 2002 to June 2006 in San Diego, CA. I won't go into the long list of pros and cons of San Diego... people who love it, love it; those who don't so much love it, don't, and ne'er the twain shall meet.

One of the blessings (and as a non-Christian I don't use that term loosely) of my time in San Diego, however, was to meet Kevin Cavanaugh. Kevin was the mastermind behind Blue Velvet, a self-described "retro lounge act" whose brilliance had to be seen to be believed.

Imagine, if you will, a sharkskin-jacketed vocalist/keyboard player/impresario, backed by 2 chicks dressed as 1967 bridesmaids, singing a totally-lounged-out arrangement of "Born To Be Wild" or a brilliantly conceived medley of ABBA tunes, whilst wearing gowns and wigs that would make Emma Peel or Lady Bird Johnson absolutely green with envy. If you can imagine this, you are either a total stoner, or you actually managed to catch "Blue Velvet" at one of their gigs.

I met Kevin shortly after I arrived in San Diego, and became a total, "oh-my-god-I'm-a-teenaged-girl" fan. Even more incredibly (for me, not for the audience), I had the chance to sing with him several times when he played at The Caliph, a bar that I can charitably describe as - ahem - "The Wrinkle Room". We even had an abortive attempt at a guy-group cleverly referred to as "Aqua Velvet". Wait... does one gig count? Need I say more? It died a death and probably the world is better for it.

Kevin is not only an amazing musician, but a genuinely helluva nice guy. He's one of those guys for whom I wish nothing but great things... and if you know me, you know how rare that is. I'm not really evil... I'm just very sparing with praise...

Anyway, it turns out that after more years in SD than I, Kevin has decided to return to the land of his ancestors, namely Grand Rapids, MI. Now, I'm not about to go on about MI having the highest unemployment rate in the country - let Mitt Romney answer for that in his campaign speeches. And Kevin, I already did the "going back to my roots" thing... imitation is just tacky, dude.

I will, however, join those in San Diego in mourning the fact that Blue Velvet will no longer be gracing stages there... they were amazing, and the fact that they were not showered with gigs and cash money only reinforces my judgment that San Diego is a cultural backwater that deserves non-stop repeats of American Gladiator.

To the ladies of Blue Velvet, I can only express my undying affection and appreciation - and I hope nothing but the best for you all.

To Kevin, well... Kevin, I hope you find happiness in Michigan - and you need to know that now you're only 1 time-zone away from Connecticut. If you ever need a partner in a duet of "Oliver's Army"... you know where to find me.

"One More Widow, One Less White... mphmmger... "

The End of an Era

2008-01-14T20:12:00.000-05:00

You might possibly not know Trudy. If so, you are much the poorer for the lack. Trudy was a blogger long before the word "blog" had even been invented. Her first dated post goes all the way back to the Cretaceous - July 23rd, 1995 to be exact - and I can honestly say that Trudy was indeed a voice in the wilderness, calling out for peace, love and complicated cocktails long before it was in fashion.

Trudy, as you may or may not know, is her own special creation - it was never quite clear whether she was female, male, gay, straight, transgendered, transvested or simply a Pontiac TransAm with a clever alter ego - but no matter. Trudy welcomed all into her conversation pit, had witty banter with the worthy and managed to put the unworthy in their respective places in a most amusing and loquacious way.

In her last post dated 28 September 2006, she voices a certain world-weariness with which I can identify - having changed my nom-de-blog from the confrontational Angry Homo to the more mainstream NeoYankee... but it hurts, oh, god, it hurts.

Trudy, I for one miss your witty conversation, your sparkling repartee, and of course your cocktail recipes. You are a true original, and you shall be missed. My conversation pit nom de plume "Aquanetta di Seraglio (Mlle.)" shall be retired forevermore.

Unless, of course, you're just on a very LONG vacation, in which case... just whatinhell has Abbatoir been up to???

Drunk Blogging

2007-12-17T22:37:00.000-05:00

I definitely do not condone the practice, but I just gotta ask - how many of y'all are higher than Jesus Tapdancing Christ when you post blog entries?

I'm not going to name names or link to offending parties, you've all seen that post that looks like a Craigslist rant gone horribly, horribly awry. I'm just wondering if anybody ever bothers to go back and re-read their posts after sobriety returns.

If you do, how many times does your inner monologue go something like"... um, what the fuck was I talking about?"

If this inner voice has ever said words to that effect, please feel free to let me know.

And, for the record, I find Drunk Blogging only slightly less entertaining than Drunk Dialing.

Wow. Just... Wow.

2007-12-13T20:15:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's me, but I don't think it should take 5 hours to travel from Windsor to Bristol, CT. Seriously, check it out on Google Maps, it might be 28 miles total.

Snow began falling at around 11 a.m. It began falling in huge, blinding bucket-loads around 12 noon. Our corporate masters in their infinite wisdom, decided that 1:30 pm would be a good time to close up shop and let everyone go home.

Unfortunately, all of the corporate masters in the Greater Hartford area made the same decision at approximately the same time. With the expected result.

Lots of people on the road during the worst part of the storm, most of whom have no business driving in sunny and 70 weather, much less with 5 to 8 inches of accumulated snow.

Weather is Back

2007-12-03T19:25:00.000-05:00

One of the things I dreaded returning to was New England weather. Strangely enough, one of the things I missed most while in California was... wait for it... yes. New England weather.

Today the Greater Hartford area was subject to a bit of an ice storm. When I say "a bit", ice buildup was less than an inch. Nonetheless, 2 poor souls lost their lives on I-84 overnight when their car couldn't manage a curve.

I think weather turns out to be a very personal thing - we all experience the same atmospheric conditions, yet no two people will ever describe a thunderstorm the same way. I work with people who can't wait for the first snowfall, who literally vibrate when a storm is forecast. Of course, in the very next cubicle is the sad case who does nothing but whine, moan and sniffle from now until June.

One of my pet theories about why I was never able to "transplant" to California has to do with the weather. More specifically, the lack thereof. Growing up in New England, you learn early on that the seasons dictate the schedule of your life. Summer means swimming at the lake, fireflies in the backyard and picking blueberries from your own bush. Fall means school, sweaters, raincoats, rubber boots and the smell of leaves as you wait for the bus. Then, Winter comes along to remind us all that everything ends, everything one day must die. The crystal clear air so cold that the feeling of it on your face and in your nose almost makes "cold" seem like an unrelated concept. And after slogging through all of that, Spring arrives much later than it should, at the very last moment; the seasonal equivalent of that stupid cousin who shows up at the house after dinner's already started.

Californians, of course, have weather. But, except for the occasional mudslide, it's not life-threatening weather. Sure, there are earthquakes and fires, but these are hit-and-miss. In New England, there is a stretch of months where, if you do not prepare adequately before you leave your house every day, you most certainly may die. Sure, the house is heated, the car is heated, where you work is probably heated. But the point is, you can't just decide to spend 4 or 5 hours outside in your shirtsleeves whenever you want to. You have to realize that your wishes do not necessarily have any impact on the larger world around you - a realization that I found strangely lacking in California. We grew so accustomed to being able to do what we wanted, when we wanted, that the idea of having to follow rules that were not of human origin was a completely alien concept.

For the most part, those people with whom I became friends during my time in California were not originally from California; they were from "Back East". Not that everyone from Back East became my friend - some of us are assholes no matter where we end up moving. But there was something indefinably... "real" about people who have lived in and been affected by the seasons. I can't explain it other than to say that, within 2 minutes of meeting someone, without ever asking where they grew up, I always knew which were the folks from weather and which weren't.

I guess my point is that, for me anyway, the seasons are more than just an excuse to switch my wardrobe from short- to long-sleeve. They are a concrete reminder that time is passing, that entropy goes in one direction and that sooner or later you'll find yourself watching a snowfall for the very last time. A sense of mortality, yes, but also the joy of knowing that things change, that people can evolve, and that any particular day, without rhyme nor reason, may end up being 20 degrees colder (or a whole lot more worthwhile) than it started out.

In a very real sense the seasons in New England are an impersonal, non-self-absorbed impetus which allows me to check in with myself; how am I doing this fall? How was I doing last fall? Are things better? If not, what can I do about it?

And I now realize that 5 years in California have taken their toll; prior to San Diego I never would have used the phrase "check in with myself" unless I were staying in a hotel that I also owned.

A Gracious Hello

2007-12-02T18:34:00.000-05:00

After becoming a bit... shall we say, "tired", of my previous blogincarnation as Angry Homo, comes this kinder, gentler online version of myself.

Try to control your excitement.

This is not to say that I am no longer angry. Far from it. I seem to have gone beyond anger... a place that evidently lots of other people have gotten to, as well. Perusing the headlines on Reddit, for example, quite a few of the postings include some sort of language to the effect of "where's your anger?". A word to those who foolishly assume anger = engagement. Do not make that mistake - or do so at your peril.

My anger is still here, my darling boys and girls. Only now it has refined itself. Like Damascus Steel, my anger has been purified and honed to a very sharp edge; I no longer wield it in an attempt to slash all who come within its influence. Instead, it is a weapon which is only used when it may a) have the desired effect and b) not harm the wielder or those who are not the intended target. How freaking civilized is that, huh? My own little Prime Directive, as t'were.

Wow. That sounds a bit David Carridine in Kung-Fu even to me. Not to mention the fact that a fictional directive from a fictional universe invented by the man who married Majel Barrett found its way into this blog. Oy, gevalt.