Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Go Hitch!

I especially like the ending when Doucheborough wishes him happy holidays and he returns with Merry Christmas!

Friday, December 11, 2009

Year End List 2009

Top 10 things we could have done without:

1. Orly Taitz and the Birthers
2. Teabaggers and their stupid parties
3. The Balloon Boy saga
4. Lady Gaga
5. Kanye West
6. The Snugee
7. Glen Beck
8. Jersey Shore (the “reality” series)
9. Adam Lambert
10. Governor Jodi Rell

Top 5 things I learned this year

Greek yogurt rules! That’s it. I didn’t learn much of anything this year except maybe that when you think things can’t get any worse, they can. However, that’s not so much a lesson as it is a fact that I don’t like to ponder with too much vim.

Franklin’s Autobiography – Benjamin Franklin
The Major plays of Anton Checkov
Lake Wobegon, Summer 1959- Garrison Keillor
The Return to Depression Economics – Paul Krugman
Mine Enemy Grows Older – Alexander King
War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
The Flash of Lightening Behind the Mountain (New Poems) – Charles Bukowski


Wilco the Album - Wilco
Sea Sew – Lisa Hannigan
No Line on the Horizon – U2
Draw the Line – David Gray
Electric Arguments – Paul McCartney

Monday, November 30, 2009

Laugh because it's funny....Cry because it's true!

I live in the mental health capital of Connecticut! Look at all the choices I have for grief counseling. Note the "zero" offerings next to all the towns. And people wonder why I'm so fucked up and cynical?

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

An Irish Funeral Prayer

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Everything remains as it was.
The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no sorrow in your tone.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

Friday, October 02, 2009

Hide and Seek

At work today I watched a group of pre-schoolers playing hide and seek in the school yard. Their joy was beyond purity. There were other kids off doing their singular play-time things in the sand box, on the slide and in the play house. There was this one boy, the "it" kid who was running and laughing as he discovered his hiding little friends. Everybody got along. It was at that precise moment that I realized that nothing in life can compare to the security a much loved child feels. Nothing. Their world is solely that. Theirs. They should never know sadness or pain during that precious time when mommy and daddy can fix anything and worry only extends to finding a lost toy or putting a band aid on a boo-boo. Tears should always be easily dried and happy play resumed with that magic kiss that makes it all better.

I mention this today as I grapple with understanding my brother's brutal murder on September 8th. He had two sons - age 2 and 5 - who now have to deal with a loss that will change them forever. Their sense of safety, their understanding of how the world works - annihilated by a psycho's steel blade.

My brother was a big guy. Around 6'4" and 270 pounds. He was soft like a teddy bear. Every night, for the first five years of his life, his son was lulled to sleep as he lay on his father's massive warm chest listening to him breathe, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow would bring new adventures for him and his daddy. 

My brother was a stay at home father and was with his boys through all of their child crises and joys. He was their teacher, playmate and best friend. Their biggest fan. In short, their world. Now their world is gone. How does anyone make sense of that?

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

It rears its head....

Don't get your hopes up. I'm still on hiatus. However, I thought you might enjoy this little graphic courtesy of Crooks and Liars. I might have something relevant to say in a few more days. Or not.

*I know Hitchens is crazy, but anyone who has the balls to consistently appear on national television in a drunken stupor and still make sense is all right in my book!

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Time Out

Once again I’ve reached the boiling point with my tolerance for cable news chatter and must take a forced hiatus. Every now and then the bloviating insanity that passes itself off as legitimate news in this country manages to aggravate me to such an extent that it becomes detrimental to my physical health. All signs point to a complete meltdown. Resistance if futile.

There are many factors that pushed me to this decision. The big three are the racist/sexist (insert your “ist”of choice here) treatment of Sonia Sotomayor. Insults ranging from questioning her intellect to mocking Puerto Rican cuisine came shooting out of the large intestine of the GOP faster than a rotten plantain. Look, I don’t necessarily agree with her decision in the New Haven firefighter’s case. That doesn’t mean that she isn’t totally qualified to be on the SCOTUS.

Then there’s the whole Liz Cheney attack dog stance on what constitutes torture. Who the fuck is this woman and why is she getting any airtime? Water boarding is torture. Period. End of fucking discussion. 

Now, apparently photos have surfaced showing a US soldier interrogating – no excuse me - RAPING a woman held in Abu Grahib. This is one of the two thousand photos that Obama rightfully decided not to release to the public a couple of weeks back. I guess the “I’m proud to be an American” feeling since January 20th must now come to its natural, heartbreaking demise. 

Finally, the Proposition 8 debacle in California has proven once again that the backward thinking religious goons and the socially ignorant in the country yell the loudest and therefore win. It’s hard to blame the judges in this case, since the state of California’s laws concerning its constitution are so fucked up that if the people declared that slavery should be legalized again, they could alter their constitution in a vote referendum and make it so. The court would have no choice but to hold up the voted conclusion as law. Granted, the decision would fast-track to the Supreme Court where it would be promptly overturned. But in the gay marriage case there is no guarantee that SCOTUS would rule in favor of what is decent and fair under the law. After all, it’s only liberally biased “activist” judges who legislate from the bench. The conservative block sitting there right now - with all the softness of a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano - unfortunately has the weight of its numbers and therefore would more than likely legislate from the bench – though they don’t have the collective balls to call it that. Praise Jesus.
So, I’m turning off the TV and the blogosphere for a while. I need to focus on my tomato plants, drink good wine in the breeze of the coming summer evenings and contemplate the important things in life. Trust me; Chris Matthews isn’t one of them.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Jay Bennett - RIP

I just read the unbelievable news that Jay Bennett, former guitar/keyboard player for my favorite band, Wilco, and all around awesome musician died in his sleep. Jay was the guy who pushed the band to the limit and subsequently produced the best Wilco music to date. He was innovative, creative and obnoxious all at the same time. A true artist, really. The official statement from Jeff Tweedy is as follows:

We are all deeply saddened by this tragedy. We will miss Jay as we remember him -- as a truly unique and gifted human being and one who made welcome and significant contributions to the band's songs and evolution. Our thoughts go out to his family and friends in this very difficult time.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Till Death Do Us Part...

Here's an excerpt from a work in progress called, Wife.

Our wedding was not what you would call traditional. After seven years of monogamous fun, two of them co-habitating and officially “engaged,” I decided that enough was enough. Somehow the thought of continuing to live with a man whose only legitimate label in society was “boyfriend” really bothered me. First of all, he wasn’t a boy. Second, he was a Hell of a lot more than just a friend. The thought of employing the equally silly though perhaps more mature title of significant other was even less appealing.
“Yes, it’s wonderful to meet you Mayor Douchebag. This is my significant other, Bill.” Please. Significant other sounds like a nineteenth century euphemism for a menstrual cycle. “Lady Jane won’t be joining us this evening. Her significant other is visiting, poor dear.” Wink wink, nod nod.
It didn’t help that I was twenty-seven and in the beginning stages of suffering from the inevitable, Holy- Shit-I’m-Almost-Thirty-And-Still-Single syndrome. Although in my own defense, after seven years with Bill it was more like, “shit or get off the pot.” We were both way past ready to make that final commitment, and if one more idiot asked me, “so when’s the wedding?” there was a fairly good chance that I would have an assault charge on my permanent record.
When we decided to elope I recalled the beautiful garden we had visited in that loveliest of Southern cities, Charleston, South Carolina, during a college spring break many years earlier. You know, spring break. In March. So I had the brilliant idea of getting married in the fore mentioned garden. We knew it would be summer and having experienced what we believed to be sweltering heat in Connecticut, we figured we could take anything the south could throw at us. How hot could it be? We assured ourselves that it would be perfect. Just the two of us, the moonlight, and the magnolias – you couldn’t ask for more. The bonus: no family. Not that we don’t love our respective families both collectively and on a one-to-one whack job ratio - but the thought of all that kissing and hugging; all that forced formality that no one is comfortable with; all those distant relatives who only seem to materialize at the buffet tables of weddings and funerals - was more than either of us could bear. So in late spring I began planning our big day.
“If we do it on a Tuesday we’ll have the rest of the week as a honeymoon,” I pragmatically blared from the center of a sea of brochures on the living room rug.
“Okay,” bemoaned the complacent voice from the kitchen.
“Maybe we should hire a photographer or something. Don’t you want wedding pictures?”
“There’s a really nice inn that we could stay at, but it’s pretty pricey.”
And so it went on. Every suggestion got a resounding okay. Some women get angry when their fiancées don’t participate in the planning. I had complete free reign and loved it. I could have suggested a dude ranch or perhaps the circus and gotten the green light. All he had to do was show up in a well pressed suit. Not a bad deal considering the some of the bridezillas we’d known over the years. He dodged a bullet and he knew it. I was determined to make this as painless as possible for the both of us.
Charleston, South Carolina can get pretty balmy in late July. Let me rephrase that. The bowels of Hell would have been a welcome respite from the palmetto chirping, sweat drenched swamp that is Charleston in late July. However, the inn we stayed at was indeed lovely. An old antebellum mansion of the Rhett and Scarlet variety complete with a four post bed and afternoon aperitifs.
For the record, I can drink with the best of them. So when the predictable black chambermaid brought in both red and white wine with the bread and cheese platter I went all in. I felt great!
Later Bill and I went to dinner and then to a walk in humidor/bar where some of the most tremendous live jazz I’ve ever heard happened to be whaling in the corner. The leader was a lanky black kid, no older than sixteen or seventeen dressed in an oversized white tee shirt and baggy ripped jeans. It was a no frills kind of dive. But boy did he blow like Dizzy in the hey-day.
Naturally, several high balls were consumed over the course of the evening. I was still feeling great. We were getting married the next day at 5:00. Everything was moving according to plan. For the first time in weeks I could relax.
At the evening’s close we staggered through the oven-in-the-face heat back to our air conditioned room and decided not to have sex. We were both plastered and agreed that it would have been a shame to have sloppy drunk sex on such a magnificent bed.

The next morning, my wedding day, I was hit with the worst hangover in world history. Charles Bukowski couldn’t have experienced a worse one if he drank anti-freeze with Mad Dog chasers. When the maid brought in the breakfast platter of homemade breads, jams and wonderful southern delicacies that we Yankees have yet to embrace, I sprinted to the toilet. It was the first time I had ever actually hurled from a hangover. Lucky me.
As I stared into the bloodshot eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror all I could do was cry. Of all days! Bill was sympathetic and, of course, felt absolutely fine.
“Are you okay in there?” he asked with a mouth full of some sort of biscuit while peering into the marble floored powder room at his half dead fiancé.
“No I’m not okay. I’m sick! Look at me, look at my eyes. We have to call it off, I can’t do this today,” I sobbed.
“What? We already got the license; we have to go through with it now. You’ll be fine, just rest for a while.”
I tried to rest. It did little good. Then Bill got the brilliant idea of going to some museum a mile away and talked me into it. It was noon by then, the hottest part of the day with the worst hangover of all time. Yay. Mercifully, an early period did not arrive to complete this turducken of misery. I trudged on.
The museum was uninspiring; in fact I can’t even remember anything in it. He liked it. Walking back we found a florist and bought some roses. Oh yeah, there was that thing we had to do at 5:00.
Arriving at the garden fully dressed and on time was a challenge but we managed. My dress was simple, but with stockings and a full girdle it was almost unbearable. I felt alright, but I was angry at myself for letting my vices get the better of me. Poor Bill only had one suit, and it was black wool. But boy did he look hot in the incredibly sexy way.
We had to check in at the park office which was located in one of the rooms of the mansion museum on the property. A tiny black haired woman in her fifties greeted us. She was dressed in a black floral dress and wore a headband to keep the hair off her face. Fans were blowing in two corners of the paper cluttered room as well as a window air conditioner at full power but nonetheless losing the battle to make the climate anything cooler than evening swamp.
“You’re not from around here are you,” she drawled as a statement of fact and not a question.
“The park closes at sunset. Feel free to walk the grounds. I’m sorry but there are no more tours of the museum today so you’ll have to remain out of doors for the duration,” she said in a tired end of the day voice.
A rather portly justice of the peace greeted us on the veranda of the plantation house with a photographer who can only be described as the ghost of Chris Farley. In a powder blue suit I might add. So it was just the four of us, Bill, the reverend, Chris Farley and me.
To my surprised delight a funny thing happened as we were standing there listening to the booming southern drawl of the right reverend. My head ache disappeared, the heat magically lifted and for those few precious minutes everything in the garden stood still.
Bill and I looked at each other and an overwhelming rush of love and confidence washed over us. We were meant get through life together, and nothing was more important than to officially and legally proclaim this fact. It was all that mattered in the gravity of that moment. We were in awe of its meaning.
Those first few hours after taking the vows were indeed blissful. Even though we’d been in love for years, the instant we said, “I do” it was bigger. It meant more. Bugs and all.
Only a couple of erudite Connecticut Yankees would be clueless enough to plan an outdoor wedding in Charleston in late July. Nevertheless, it was the most romantic day of my life and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Another year older, another year odder....

A National Treasure turns 45 today! Happy Birthday Stephen Colbert!

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Specter of Disaster

News of the dramatic defection of Arlen Specter from the GOP to the Democratic Party caused a brief, albeit intense media deluge causing many a head spin and eye roll from pundits, politicians and regular people on both sides of the isle. Accusations by the right that he had no chance to win the Republican primary in 2010 (thanks to the lunatics at The Club for Growth) and that he’s only switching to salvage what’s left of his career were pretty much expected. Also, the fact that they’re losing the only Jew in their ranks (Lieberman doesn’t really count) must have sent secret pangs of joy throughout the wingnuttia of the leadership. The Democratic side welcoming him with open arms, despite the fact that he doesn’t agree with them about 90% of the time, was also the predictable outcome of such an announcement. I see it as a lose/lose for both sides.
Right now the Republican Senate consists of not surprisingly twenty lawyers, two medical doctors, several business people, a couple of real estate brokers, a former Major League Baseball pitcher, an embarrassingly bad amateur musician and a former lawn equipment salesman. All proudly admit to practicing some form of Christianity – mostly of the Evangelical or goon variety. * All but six of these Constitutional mouth-breathers fall into the “Guns, God and Gays” category meaning that they are pro gun, anti abortion and total homophobes especially when it comes to marriage. It also attests to the fact that these three virtual non-issues (guns, God and gays) are the platforms on which they base their leadership. And a good many of them are guilty of providing a figurative blow job to Jack Abramoff. My personal favorite, David Vittner of Louisiana, was found to be one of the DC Madam’s best customers. He’s also one of the most vocal about the Family Values ™.
Specter leaving the party signals the demise of any hope of a rational discourse in the Senate. You can’t reason with a person who actually believes that God talks to them on a regular basis and that the jury is still out on Evolution. The loss of Specter is a loss for all of us. I don’t know about you, but I would love it if we as a nation could witness an intelligent debate in the Senate without invoking Jesus, the second amendment or “the definition of marriage.” None of these things matter to the vast majority of Americans who right now are screaming for some answers.
The club of semi-normal Republican senators is dwindling fast. All we’re left with are Lisa Murkowski, Mike Crapo, Dick Lugar, George Voinovich, Susan Collins and Olympia Snowe. Keep in mind that Crapo ran unopposed in 2004. Is the Republican Party about to implode on itself? I’m sure many on the left are praying in a non-denominational way for this to happen. I say let’s not bust out the bubbly just yet.

*Full disclosure – I have absolutely no use for people who use religious dogma to dictate their moral decisions. Furthermore, the idea of using the Bible in any of its whacked out translations to enforce law is completely repulsive and should be ignored by anyone with the capacity for cognitive thought.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Email of the week....

We're all used to getting the occasional email from the government of Sweden informing us that we've just won the national lottery or the former finance minister of Zimbabwe offering us a hefty percentage of the $2 million he needs to safely transfer to a US bank.

Today the ballsiest of all requests arrived in my in box and I feel obligated to share this patriotic audacity with you, fair reader. I especially like that part about the prisoners confessing after being tortured, and their amazing find of an undisclosed number of "nuclearweapons."

Just in case you feel the need to thank this "patriot" for his service you can email him at his shell account: marthins974@msn.com
. American scam artists are getting so sloppy lately. They seem to be running out of ideas at an alarming pace.

I am Steve Marthins from the hospitality state (Mississippi), of the US Marine Force on Monitoring and Peace –keeping mission in Baghdad-Iraq.

On the 21st day of December 2008, we were alerted on the sudden presence of some Terrorists camping in a suburb not too far from Karbala here in Iraq. After Immediate intervention, we captured three (3) of the Terrorists, twenty-six (26) were killed leaving seven (7) injured.

In the process of torture they confessed being rebels for late Ayman al-Zawahiri and took us to a cave in Karbala which served as their camp. Here we recovered several guns, bombs and other Ammunitions including some boxes among which two contains nuclearweapons, one filled with hard drugs(cocaine) and the other four to my amazement contain some US Dollars amounting to $23.2M a fter I and two of my junior intelligent officers counted them.

I however instructed them to keep this in high secrecy.

I am in keen need of a “Reliable and Trustworthy” person like you who would receive, secure and protect these boxes containing the US Dollars for me up on till my assignment elapses in here in Iraq.

I assure and=2 0promise to give you 15% of this fund, however feel free to
negotiate what you wish to have as your percentage in this

Please assure me of your keeping this topmost secret to protect my job with the US Monitoring and Peace-Keeping mission.
Please for the confidentiality of this deal.
Kind Regards,
Steve Marthins

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Quote of the week....

So few remember that the Boston Tea Party began when George Washington and his ragtag group of Union soldiers holed up in the Alamo surrounded by Nazis. Luckily, before Napoleon could bring his Terminator reinforcements, Hannibal saved the patriot army with his elite corps of Elephant men. To this day, we still rally around the cry, “Remember the Ewoks."

Oh Stephen Colbert, how I love thee!

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Absinthe is not for everyone....

It’s no secret that I am a long time connoisseur of the recently legalized libation known as absinthe. Admittedly, it was my great love of Oscar Wilde and Vincent van Gogh that prompted me to experiment with the drink, so I completely understand the temptation to dabble based on the stories of idols past – and sometimes present.

One of my greatest pleasures is sitting at an outdoor café in New Orleans – away from the noise and 24/7 freak show that is Bourbon Street – and sipping a glass or two of the green fairy in late afternoon. I’ve done this on the few fortunate occasions that I’ve been able to visit the Big Easy. Somehow the atmosphere of Pirate’s Alley and the adjacent St. Louis cathedral heightens the experience for me, and I assume countless others. However, this last visit I witnessed some of the silliest examples of pop mentality since Coors beer became legal in Connecticut.

Scores of 20-nothings began flooding into the bar, cameras at the ready, to order their first taste of the ancient elixir. Perhaps they’d heard of Johnny Depp’s love for the drink, or worse still, Marilyn Manson’s. I’ve got nothing against either gentleman. It’s not their fault that they’ve unwittingly turned on (and quickly turned off) an entire new generation of sheep to Artemisia absinthium. Everyone should try it once.

What pissed me off as I was quietly trying to enjoy my $10 dram of Lucid was the asinine giddiness of the crowd. Girls in giggling groups wanting their pictures snapped holding the milky glasses. The constant requests for ice. Who the fuck puts ice in absinthe? Then the heartbreaking sight of half filled glasses lining the bar as the girls realized that they really didn’t like the taste and what was the big deal anyway? Off to get a Hurricane. What a waste!

Personally, I like my absinthe prepared in the classic French way. I don’t need the pyrotechnic display so popularized by the Czechs. Absinthe is a quiet sipping spirit. It takes time to hit you, and when it does, you should be in the right frame of mind. It’s not a race. You don’t drink it like a Kamikaze shot, and it doesn’t mix will with other forms of alcohol. Furthermore, it does not belong in a plastic cup to be consumed on the go.

Perhaps as time goes by the allure will subside a bit, or better still, people will know what they’re getting into before sidling up to the bar for their first experience with the over hyped thujone. Until then, fortunately, I’ve got a bottle of Grande and a stock of sugar cubes at home.

Musical Interlude....

Monday, March 30, 2009

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez

Bon jour mon ami,

Tomorrow I will journey to my favorite American city - New Orleans. There will be much drink and merriment. Red beans and rice will be consumed. Trumpets and trombones will fill my head with joy.

There will not be blog posts.

Chick-a-tay. Yeah you right!

The Dunce

Stamford Morons....


Bob Cesca pointed this one out on his blog today. You can imagine my shame and horror when I realized they were Connecticut morons. This photo was taken at a "Tea Bag Protest" in Stamford. I guess the wingnuts are everywhere. It's sad that people are protesting in one of the wealthiest and highest educated sections of Connecticut - and these two Stepford beauties probably have spouses bringing in six bills a year or higher - yet they didn't feel the need to consult a dictionary or a history book. Frightening and sad.

Friday, March 27, 2009

The Violent Bear it Away....

Cancer sucks. It sucks out loud. It sucks quietly in the corner, unnoticed until it’s too late to shut it up. Of all the horrific calamities that might befall a human being it stings the deepest and devastates unabashedly.

Sure, there are other diseases and tragic circumstances that can happen to anyone at any time. But the heartbreak of cancer, the winner take all, fuck you and the horse you rode in on element that makes cancer the number one unnecessary evil in this life is its flagrant exploitation of hope.
This disease has dominated my life in the form of an obscene, smirking bandit ransoming the people I love the most – then running off with every last penny leaving only corpses in its wake. It has no mercy, not even for a baby.
Metaphors like treating a bullet wound with a band aid or fighting an inferno with a squirt gun come to mind when contemplating the demonic mutation that is cancer.
So what can you do? It’s your only life. You fight because you have to. You buy into the medical bull shit three card Monty shell game and play. You pray. You bargain. Tears become a part of your personality. When you finally reach the arch of the journey and see nothing on the other side you still fight. And no one ever has the balls to tell you not to. Not family. Certainly not doctors, who will pump the same toxic poison into a thousand people and get the same result – death – yet will gladly inject person 1,001 in the “hope” of a positive outcome. It is madness unequaled. Fairness is not part of its realm, only sacrifice. Charles Bukowski said it best. On his grave stone is simply written: Don’t try.
Today I learned of another gambler who lost her fight. She tried.

Monday, March 09, 2009

Quote of the week....

D.L. Hughley I will miss you!

Here's the quote from guest Frank Shaeffer:

The fact of the matter is, there are 300 million of us. There's 20 million of them (republicans). It's not a big percentage. It's just a loud percentage. This is the drunk on the subway making trouble in the car for all of the people on the subway. There are 100 decent citizens on there, there is one ass in the front that's molesting women. That's the Republican Party now in terms of the loud car.

Monday, March 02, 2009

Governor Rell 2 for 2...

As if 24 hour bar service at the casinos wasn't cause enough to wonder about the future reputation of Connecticut, I give you the latest installment on how to officially turn the Nutmeg state into the white trash capital of America. Governor Rell is in negotiations to bring the Jerry Springer Show to lovely Stamford.

Jerry Springer Show to Leave Chicago for Connecticut

For decades, Connecticut has made a concerted effort to put on a face of snobbery and wealth. We are invariably associated with the likes of Martha Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, Fairfield County, country clubs and upper class Yankees who make at least seven figures and pay the highest taxes in the country because they can.

Of course all of this is a crock of shit. It's true, we've got ample pockets and hamlets where reside some of the wealthiest go-getters and even older money, but we've also got the poorest capital city in America, a swelling budget deficit, and yes, a disturbing number of trailer parks.

However, as a native nutmegger I take offense at this latest sweetheart deal offered to NBC Universal. Why must Connecticut become an active contributor to the trashification of America? It's bad enough we all must struggle just to maintain residence here, but to once and for all lose our perceived status as having a modicum of class is too harsh a blow in these desperate times.

Governor Rell you must reconsider. I implore you. Don't turn Connecticut into the Florida of the north!

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

When all else fails...get drunk you losers!

Our illustrious Governor in her infinite wisdom about how to fix the budget woes of this pathetic state has come up with this brilliant gem of enlightenment.

Rell Proposes 24-Hour Bar Service At State's Casinos

Gambling revenues have kind of tanked ever since huge swaths of betting slobs residing in the Nutmeg State decided that it might be a good idea to pay the electric bill rather than blow their weeks' pay at Mohegan Sun.

It's bad enough that Chief Fist Full of Cash and the gang get to operate two of the largest casinos in the world, despite the fact that it is illegal to operate a casino in the state of Connecticut. Now they want to give the finger to the local bars who are obliged to obey the arcane liquor laws and close up shop by 2:00 a.m.

And as an aside, Connecticut has more than its fair share of drunken assholes speeding around it's dark back roads in the wee hours. The last thing we need is an unlimited supply of cheap well drinks in a phony atmosphere that pumps pure oxygen through every vent to keep these Otises alert only long enough to get them out the door and staggering into their cars where the full force of reality smacks them in the head.

I will bet my last Wampambuck that the "Indians" are griping because their profit margins are heading downward as more people see the reason in holding onto their cash rather than essentially flushing it down the toilet. I wonder if Governor Rell's bright idea has anything to do with the fact that the Attorney General's office just went on record denouncing any plans for the "reservations" to be expanded beyond their set parameters.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

File this under, "You've Got to Be Fucking Kidding Me"

New York Post. I always knew they were a little off, but come on people! This is just beyond any weak excuse for satire, humor or a sign of the times. It's downright racist and at this juncture in our collective experience completely unacceptable. Nice touch having two white cops. Really adds to the message.

Monday, February 02, 2009

Quote of the week...and it's only Monday!

"It's like wearing dark pants and pissing down your leg. It gives you a warm feeling, but no one knows you did it."

Barney Frank's thoughts on TARP. Classy.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Is it hot in here?

Well guys, I'm off to sunny Florida for a conference in Clearwater. It's beyond exciting for me because I haven't been warm since October! It brings to mind my favorite line from The Pope of Greenwich Village when Paulie exclaims on more than one occasion, "It's warm there, Charlie." Yes indeed, it is. Maybe I'll check out the world headquarters of Scientology or eat dinner at 4:00 with the rest of the population. Such possibilities! I know it's too cold to swim, but a nice long walk on the beach is just about what I need right now. That and a couple of dozen Mai Tais. See y'all in about a week!

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Take two...

Apparently, Justice John "Doofus" Roberts really screwed up Obama's oath of office pledge. You know, the one watched by 5 billion people around the world. So in an effort to quash the conspiracy theorists and all manner of right wing goon-speak, President Obama took the oath again yesterday. Just so we're clear - he really is the president - the powers of the Illuminati are not at work. Move along, people. Nothing more to see here.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Friday, January 16, 2009

Remind me again...Why do I live here?

This is the thermometer on the back deck of my house. No, there is no trick photography here. When did Connecticut become Alaska? Burr......

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

As if Bush wasn't enough of a national embarassment....

There are thousands of real journalists all over America - people who have actually been trained to cover news stories and report on them - who can't land even an assignment editor's position at the local rag for $10 an hour. Yet this jackass, Joe the Plumber, who obviously isn't capable of formulating a coherent sentence on film, let alone on paper, gets the gig of a lifetime and travels to Israel to cover the fighting in the Gaza strip.

A real journalist would be formulating questions, obtaining details about military and cultural history and interviewing as many significant players as they can find.

Not Joe. No, he wastes his time bitching about how there should be no war correspondents (except him?) and asking the most asinine, base questions, to....wait for it....another journalist! To quote the great Ron White, "you can't fix stupid."

Here's a taste. I recommend washing it down with a double shot of bourbon:

JOE: The story here is people are being killed and the media's slanting it and trying to make it Hamas is, uh, as far as, that Israel's being bad. Do you believe Israel is bad?

REPORTER: Do I believe it?

JOE: Yeah, do you?!
REPORTER: I'm Israeli, so...
JOE: So answer the question!

REPORTER: No, I don't think Israel is bad.
JOE: Do you think Israel has every right to protect itself?
JOE: You do?!
JOE: Have you said that on air?
REPORTER: I'm just a reporter.

Read the full report here if you have the stomach:

"Joe the Plumber Fights With Israeli Reporter"

Friday, January 09, 2009

Happy Friday

I think I'll start writing poetry again
Not because I'm in need of a friend
Or pining over some ancient love lost
Not for an audience or the praise of a crowd
No, I'm far too busy for that now

The days come up fast and there is so much to do
Cats to feed
Cooking too
News shows to watch
And letters to write
Important conversations to be had
Over drinks and candlelight

My reasons are simple, selfish and true
It's not because I've nothing better to do
Believe me, a million tasks I could easily find
To bide away my dwindling time
And squander away life's purest delights
With politics and paying bills
The whole gamut of a grown up's plight

Yet it takes but a moment to turn a phrase
Raise a dry smile - seize the day
Honestly, all I want to be able to say
Is that I wrote a poem today.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Happy Birthday In Heaven Mr. Presley...

Today marks the 74th birthday of the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley. I grew up listening to the King, thanks to my mother and her infinite love of all things Elvis. So many of his songs hold a special place in my heart, but none as dear as the one you're about to listen to. Without further ado, "Love Me."

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Quote of the Year....

It is especially gratifying to see a political pundit get verbally bitch slapped on national television. If that blow hard mouthpiece happens to be Joe Scarborough, the joy is even sweeter. Thank you Dr. Brzezinski!

Scarborough: "You cannot blame what's going on in Israel on the Bush administration."

Brzezinski: "You know, you have such a stunningly superficial knowledge of what went on that it's almost embarrassing to listen to you."

Friday, January 02, 2009


As a communications director I can assure you I’ve had some real dooseys when it comes to cyber experiences over the years but nothing even comes close to what I was witness to a few weeks ago.

I was invited to attend a wake through my Facebook page. You read that right. Facebook has now become the new medium to express sorrow and grief.

Perhaps it has something to do with the departed. Tragically, he was only 23 years old. The magnitude of the devastation many members of my own family had to endure at the horrible news of his demise was heartbreaking. I should know, as many were constantly updating their profile “what are you doing right now” fields practically every hour on the hour with some of the most profoundly sad expressions of loss that I’ve ever read outside of a Russian novel.

I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m saying it’s weird.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit feeling overwhelmingly uncomfortable as I hit the “will attend” button right next to ads for Oprah’s Acai Berry Diet and Colon Cleansing. The tackiness aside, it was as if I were replying to an invitation to happy hour after work or an acquaintance’s upcoming baby shower. Still stranger were the photos of all the Facebook friends right up there on the page, those planning to attend, not to or still thinking about it, the plethora of images - each one vying to be most unique or funny in a sea of everyone else attempting the same - each with their own individual perspective that when taken as a whole is exactly like the next and the next and still the next.

Our tireless efforts at nonconformity are the cruelest joke of all when it comes to the 2.0 phenomenon. We all look the same to the advertising jackals. The minor tweaks that need to be executed to customize our collective consumer experience are laughable. The consequences, however, may very possibly be catastrophic.

Have we as a society become so immune to advertising that we’ve accepted it as a part of our deepest moments of despair and elation? Have we fallen victim to its audacity and intrusion so completely that its offense is suddenly palatable? Perhaps through generations of conditioning our racing minds have learned to acknowledge an image with the tag line, “Tired of Waxing?” for a nano-second, store it and return to experiencing real human emotion.

Maybe my status as a cyber immigrant has something to do with my unease at this latest trend in grieving. The sympathy card has been replaced with a poorly written text message complete with misspellings and painfully free of grammatical punctuation. What’s next? Starbucks gift certificates in place of the Mass card?

The younger generations, the cyber natives as I like to call them, those born into the computer technology age, in many ways are the biggest dupes of all. Although Facebook is an excellent means of communication and has become absolutely essential to so many of us who rely on it to stay in touch with friends and family, the degree of personal information people willingly offer to virtually anyone is profoundly disturbing. And worse still is the inconceivable gullibility of the age.

Then again, Scarlett Johansson recently put her snot filled Kleenex on EBay. It was a top entertainment headline. Bids topped $2,025 by 9:00 a.m. the next morning. The lunatics are now running the asylum.