Daily Archives: February 27, 2013

10 posts

Bad Sequester Ideas: The Face-Numbing Idiocy of Cutting Congressional Pay

A vision of the post-sequester world to come. Image via Wikimedia Commons.
A vision of the post-sequester world to come. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

We are rapidly approaching the wastelands Beyond the Sequesterdome, and there doesn’t seem to be anything anyone can do, except for maybe compromise on their precious principles a little bit, which was the whole point of the thing in the first place. As plenty of people have pointed out, the sequester is stupid: we are told that it is a “meat-axe” or a “chainsaw,” which are used by stupid butchers and lumberjacks, rather than a “scalpel,” which is used by smart, hunky doctors. Continue reading

Adding Black Plants To Your Garden

It’s one of my favorite times of the year: garden planning season.  The plant catalogues are arriving en masse here at Casa de McBoy.  They are being furiously marked up and at the same time I am making spaces in the garden for new things to replace stuff that was overgrown or didn’t make it through the last freeze or just because I want it in the yard because I am rethinking a section of it. Continue reading

Super Squats Challenge

When I started this year’s challenge, life was cruising along just fine. I had it set that I would do a Super Squats post every Wednesday to guide other eager participants through the first six months of the year with a series of core exercises evolving from the plank position. Then life happened. I suffered a terrible and sudden death in my family that threw everything into chaos where it largely remains three weeks later. I have difficulty expressing myself with more frequency and my inability to find laughter in normally humorous things is troubling (though some would argue that I have always struggled with humor). The odd thing is that when trapped in the sad house, surrounded by the stunned and grieving family and friends, my sister and I were able to do one thing to help keep our sanity – we did plank. Continue reading

Pretty Little Liars S3:E21 Recap: Oh, Spencer


The most suspension of disbelief-centric teen-mystery-drama is back. We left last week’s episode with the re-emergence of the mystery woman in red + the hit and run of Detective Wilden + Spencer’s almost heat stroke from being imprisoned in her high-tech sauna. You know, typical teenage stuff on a Tuesday night.  Continue reading

The Subway Is My Ice Castle

wallofskatesI clamp on my purple headphones, crank up the iPod, and in my mind’s eye, and I envision a woman, a girl really, skating in perfect accompaniment to whatever song pops up. Classical. The Stones. Springsteen. Gaga. She can skate to anything. She can do beautiful layback spins, and spirals, and double and triple spins, all perfectly.

As I’ve told you before, I’m not known for my grace. By the time I was a freshman in high school, I had, between my two ankles, broken them 10 times. So when I told my mother I would like to join my high school’s figure skating team, she was appalled. Continue reading

Why I’m Running Away With the Cat Circus

ShadyCatsI’m thirty years old. I get blind drunk once a week because I’m too poor to do it more often. I frequently don’t wear real pants for weeks at a time. Some days the only conversation I have is with my dog.

I’m not just single but divorced and still fuming and sniveling inside about my last relationship. I keep reactivating my OkCupid account, trolling for some kind of unicorn-man to fix me, despite having no car, living with my father, and working fifteen hours a week tending bar at a pizza restaurant.

I like the Cobra Starship song “Hot Mess,” because I relate to it at a visceral level.

I am whatever the opposite is of having one’s shit together. Continue reading

New York City: The Crack Years

996747416_a95e0d9ac3_bI got to thinking about the heavy crack days. New York’s, not mine. Crack was like a tidal wave crashing across the city. I lived uptown, in the 120s. You know how, when you walk in the country at a certain time of year, you hear the leaves crunching beneath every step? It was like that in my neighborhood. Not leaves, though, crack vials.

I would get the train at the valley of 125th Street most mornings, at the only elevated stop on the original Manhattan IRT lines, thanks to the island’s sudden dip in altitude between Morningside Heights and Hamilton Heights. I was usually the only person not jumping the turnstile. Continue reading