Hurricane Irene – Connecticut Diary 1

 

Friday, August 27

7:37 p.m. – A pinkish blue sky, with a white streak of clouds, grows darker as I write these words.

No rain or wind yet but I fear the entire sky will soon turn black. Is this a foreshadowing of things to come?

The phone rings at approximately 8p.m., a robo-call from the First Selectman, a.k.a. dah Mayor. It’s an election year, but the call is not blatantly political.

Just letting us know he’s not on vacation.

The First Selectman advises me (and others like me) what the town has done to prepare for the storm.

A leaner

A leaner after Hurricane Sandy 2012

“There will be shelters available for the displaced.”

I’m always displaced.

“We will advise you of the locations at a later time.”

Before or after cell towers become airborne projectiles?

Saturday, August 28

9 a.m. – Rain falls from the colorless sky and then slaps the ground.  No wind yet in real-time. Just blowhards spewing doomsday warnings on TV.

“Stock up on canned food, water, and batteries!”

For vibrators or flashlights?

“Stay off the roads after midnight!”

Just a typical Saturday night.

9:21 a.m. – Another robo-call. This time from Connecticut Light and Power.

“We are doing everything possible to prepare for the storm.”

Making hotel reservations for the CEO?

“Assume all downed wires are live.”

I never considered an inanimate object a living creature before.

“Crews will work round the clock to restore power after the storm. But power may be out for days or longer.”

We’re going to need a bigger generator.

TV news continues to report on the hurricane as if the storm has already blown the east coast to smithereens. Panic reaches a new high as the news reaches a new low. They love to stoke the fear and incite chaos thus creating more news to fill the 24-hour cycle.

More hurricane news later.

Unless Connecticut Light and Power pulls the plug.

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Nuts: A Twitter Story

Peanuts

Image via Wikipedia

A Twitter Story in 140 Characters.

Tom emptied his drawers, leaving Ann alone in bed with a bag of nuts. Ann ate them, despite her allergy, tweeted a salty goodbye then died.

 

 

 

 

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Dirty Dish Physics: A Primer

Dishwashing liquid in use

Image via Wikipedia

 

FYI, guys.

Washing dishes is not magic realism, fantasy or science fiction. You cannot wish a dish dirt free by rubbing a Genie’s lamp or will it clean with telekinetic abilities.

 

 

Dirty dishes in a sink remain in a state of food decay until said dish undergoes a Loofah scrub or dishwasher purification ritual.

You cannot change a dish from dirty to clean with a click of the remote control or get rid of a dish with a mafia hit. Dishes aren’t disposable and should not be tossed in the trash after just one use.

Leaving a dish unattended in the sink won’t teach it the virtues of clean living. There is no 12-step program for a plate, no pharmaceutical solution for dirty dish disease.

Don’t you know it’s sacrilegious to smite crockery at night?

A plate must stay chaste. You must cleanse its ceramic soul after defiling it. Otherwise, it might embark on a germicidal rage, corrupting Sippy cups juiced up on acidic vitamin C while sliming strung out saucers.

Gunk on a plate stays on a plate until you take the plate in your hand and purify it with Palmolive dish soap. Can I hear a hallelujah?

Hallelujah!

Brother, you must rid the dish of grease streaked sin by sanitizing it in suds. Enough is enough. You must absolve the dish of past residue and grimes of passion.

Purge the plate of maleficent Rocky Road and pecan pie. Flush the demons down the drain. Shine that plate until you can see your face reflect the pristine white glow of soap. That’s all it takes to free a dish of the grit that taints it.

Now say 12 Hail Mary’s and we’ll call it a day.

“Amen.”

Debris or not debris. That is the question.

Only you can set it free.

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Think Spin Grand Reopening After Extreme Blog Makeover

Earlier this week, I told you about Think Spin’s extreme blog makeover by the talented blog plastic surgeons at TribalBlogs.net. If you lower your gaze to the picture below, you’ll see the old me where I look like a Rabbi.

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BEFORE MAKEOVER

Now, look out below at my blog makeover logo. I hope you love it as much as I do. To see the bigger picture, please mosey on over to my new digs at http://thinkspin.com.

You see, in addition to having a fancy new blogdo, I’m moving to my own domain at http://thinkspin.com. There’s still some minor tweaking going on, e.g. getting my blogroll in order and waiting for all my Disqus comments to move in. Their truck is rather slow.

So, please change your feeds and add http://thinkspin.com to your blogrolls, which are a lot like egg rolls without the MSG, but just as tasty.

Jen a.k.a. Redheadranting and CG CardioGirl did an incredible job. I can’t say enough good things about them. They are amazing to work with and have a wonderful blogside manner.

I highly recommend signing up for bloggy rehab at tribalblogs.net if your blog is in need of an attitude readjustment. Yo, that’s the official Extreme Blog Makeover badge below with a link to the seven-step program.

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Tribal Blogs Extreme Blog Makeover.com

 

Vin Jaune (Image via Wikipedia   

I hope to see you at my new home. You’re welcome to stop by anytime. Mi casa es su casa.

Before you leave, please have some wine and cheese.  It’s my treat.

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In Dog We Trust

Mixed-breed dog doing dog agility Mix of a Que...Image via Wikipedia

Barking Up the Far Right Tree in Straw Poll, Iowa

With a purebred to mutt ratio of 2 to 1, the recent Iowa vote reflected the views of the majority of Straw Poll voters, the Bulldogs and Hounds.

When asked if Dog belonged in politics, Harry Hound bayed, “Buuuuuuuuut of course, who better to keep the American mutt in a pack-speak mentality than an Alpha Dog.  Society is more orderly with Dog in charge.”

The others in the crowd agreed, wagging their tails in unison while peeing on a portion of lawn fashioned after the Constitution.

Harry Hound added. “It says right here on the grass, written in poo, ‘In Dog We Trust.’”

“Isn’t it true that you’re dyslexic,” Rabid Reporter said.

“We’ll leave that decision to the citizens of this taerg country.”

Mutt onlookers sat watching from the gallery, with ears pinned back, tails stuck between their legs; they started to howl, “Owwwwwt! Kick the bitches Owwwwwt!”

The Mutts panted nervously, as Maggie Three Breeds nosed her way through the crowd and nudged Rabid Reporter’s hand.

“I’d like to make a statement,” Maggie said, hocked up a grass loogie and continued. “Every family unit is a pack with its own Dog in charge. Putting the pack and Dog into politics is a dangerous precedent,” she warned.

“Then, the Buck doesn’t stop here. The Buck stops by the banks where the only cash flows and gets mauled by Paper Pusher Predators that corral all the Bucks and Does. No, Dog does not belong in politics. Dog belongs in the home with the family pack.”

Happy barking echoed from the Mutt gallery crowd.

“And out!” Rabid Reporter said, then followed Harry Hound’s scent to the staging area that reeked of expensive pee. “Would you like to respond to what Maggie Three Breeds said?”

After Harry Hound finished licking his balls, he turned to address the purebred elite.

“Dog rules. Mutts drool,” Harry shouted. “Without Dog in politics, all the mutts would run free, muddying the culture of our purebred theocracy. Long live Dog. In Dog We Trust!”

After the howling subsided, the Dog handlers grabbed the voters and shoved them into their pens.

“It’s better if they think that they’re in charge,” Big Biz said, and lugged the purebreds to the next stop on the low road of the Dog and Ponzi show.

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