The Trumpocalypse is upon us. Inauguration Day is less than 48 hours away, Connecticut’s senators Dick Blumenthal and Chris Murphy are planning to attend (a questionable decision but as long as they resist when it matter, we’ll let it slide), and we’re still hoping Trump will suffer a panic attack before taking the oath and run screaming from the stage.
On inauguration day I hope to completely ignore the entire affair. It happens to be The Farmer’s birthday (he spent his 30th birthday at Obama’s first inauguration–this year isn’t looking quite as bright) so we’ll be pretending the inauguration isn’t happening. We’ll be doing the New England in January version of this:
(For the record, that entails hot toddies, a parka that fits just right, and a bonfire.)
I hope that you’ll help crush Trump’s ego, turn off the TV, and make sure his ratings are abysmal, but more than that I hope you’ll consider joining the rally in Hartford on Saturday. Get involved!
Many years ago I was rushing from a friend’s Hartford apartment to the car on a cold winter night. I tripped a little, and assumed I’d hit a bump in the sidewalk with the toe of my shoe. But my friend, who was walking behind me, yelled, “Oh my God. A rat!” Yes, dear readers, a rat had run between my feet as I was jogging to the car, and I’d unwittingly kicked the little guy. At this point I screeched, broke out into a full out run, and started scratching at the car door! I had to get out of there, and go home and shower for hours.
Then I spent years in New York City where rats are like furtive little squirrels. You see them hanging out on the train tracks, and they scare the bejesus out of you when you’re sitting in the park and you see one scurry into a tree grate out of the corner of your eye. This is all to say, I thought I was used to rats.
This summer proved me wrong. I was digging around in a friend’s West End basement looking for painting supplies. Just as she finished saying the words, “My neighbor says there’s been a rat down here…” we heard the tell tale squeak of a frightened rat. I turned on a dime and sprang up the basement stairs, and then up another flight of stairs to her apartment. Somewhere in there I hit my hand on something and scratched it all to hell. It’s a miracle I’m not dead. (more…)
It’s been an especially long election cycle this time around. And we’ve spent more hours than we would like to admit racked with anxiety about the possibility that a flaming turd that happens to resemble a human man could actually be elected to the most powerful office in the world. The sheer lunacy of it proves that a lot of people in this country cannot handle their right to vote.
And please don’t even bother coming at us with your anti-Hillary nonsense. Here are a few reasons why whatever nonsense you’re about to spew is wrong:
The election is rigged–against Democrats. It’s clear that the GOP’s need to suppress voters is based in the knowledge that they are outnumbered and are afraid to let democracy take its course
But today is about the election and our right/responsibility as citizens to vote. We’ll be checking in throughout the day to tell you about our experience at the polls, and the anxieties that overtake us as the results roll in. (more…)
By virtue of some sort of miracle–or serious mistake that will cost someone their job–we managed to get press passes to the event of the season: The Gilmore Girls Fan Fest. While we were absolutely sure this festival was a work of literal genius, we didn’t know what to expect–especially when the notorious New England weather went from sunny and 80 degrees to rainy and cold, just in time for the festival. Nonetheless, the AP and I dragged ourselves out of bed early on Saturday morning, loaded into one of our beloved Subarus, and headed out to Washington Depot.
It took us a while to figure out the lay of the land, find “the old town garage”–otherwise known as a dirt lot–where we were supposed to park, and the press check-in area. But once we got our wits about us, we were off to the races. Most of the action was located in the town’s small center, where the sweet little Hickory Stick bookshop, Marty’s Cafe, Newbury Place, and the Washington Food Market account for most of the action. But on this particular day, there were local merchants handing out hot cider, food trucks, and big white tents housing screenings, animal adoption events, and knit-a-thons (which will make sense to Gilmore fans). (more…)
I’m not sure what the height of stupidity is. Donald Trump will figure it out soon. But I’m pretty sure what I did this morning ranks pretty high (or is it low?) on the Scale of Dumb Shit. And I did it all for the Gilmore Girls.
If you’re on social media, you probably heard that Netflix–in all of its sheer marketing genius–decided to celebrate the “anniversary” of Gilmore Girls by turning coffee shops across America into Luke’s Diner on October 5. And if you showed up early, you got free coffee! (more…)
Last Thursday something popped up in my Facebook feed: Kurt Metzger was going to be at the Hartford Funny Bone (which is actually the Manchester Funny Bone) over Labor Day weekend. I sent The Farmer a text telling him that I was buying tickets, because I didn’t want to wait for his opinion on the matter and risk the shows selling out. (more…)