In the blogosphere, my blog would be now be called an untended and perhaps even neglected blog. Not unlike a car parked for a lengthy time in the Bronx; it used to pack a punch, but when left idle for a long period of time, is stripped of its substance and uniqueness and is just a frame for distant memories.
Of note in the past 66 days:
Dogs on a Plane-
Picked up my small dog from Canada. Air Canada, I beg you to rethink your no pets in the passenger cabin rule. Seems as random as your no praying on the plane rule. Instead of a direct Air Canada flight, I had to take a Delta flight through Chicago to NYC because of the dog.
Spent a 5 hour delay in Chicago airport, during which I replicated my Montreal living room in a strangely deserted corner of the Continental Airlines waiting area for flights to Los Angeles. Thanks to the circa 1972 decor, the era when unusually long sofas were all-that, the chairs didn't have arms, so they were like one super-massive comfy couch on which I totally spread out, with the dog curled up beside me, and slept.
Glad to say that the pup is a big-city boy now, and he has informed me that the amazing array of garbage smells that have begun to show their smarmy faces have sold him on the place, and he's in for the long haul.
Sistah-
My sis has come to live with me in NYC, and is staying for a while, yay, another victim of the NYC vortex.
Chopped Liver-
My drinking buddies are taking the slow route to liver damage, but in mid-April I inadvertently took the quick way to liver destruction with a puck to the liver and diaphragm in a hockey game at Chelsea Piers. I was quickly wheeled away by FDNY EMT's Martin and his partner, and into the hands of the lovely ER nurses of St. Vincent's hospital.
Memories of the ER staff are as follows: Brad, the hot nurse, who we couldn't figure out if he was gay or not, but I didn't mind. He had to mess around with my heart monitor chest sticky things and I was like "Brad, I think the sticky things need adjusting on my stomach and chest. A lot of adjusting." There was also the big momma within whose bosom I felt I could curl up and sleep forever. The radiologist who did my CT scan, Dr. Mike, was the most beautiful man of the Tommy Hilfiger Model School of Hotness. He was gently helping me out of the wheelchair onto the scan bed when he explained that the injection I was going to get would give me the strange sensation that I was peeing aaand then all the magic left the room. Those eyes though, wow. Then there was Nadia - young and spunky, the conspirator nurse - who trucked me up to the ICU, crash cart and all. She warned me that "she" (the ICU nurse) would likely make me put my hockey gear in storage, but that 50% of things that go down to storage never come back up again (thank you dear sister for rescuing me from that situation and coming to claim my hockey gear at 4:30 in the morning). Dr. Wayne, pancreatic and biliary specialist, wore a dapper suit and could have been the love-child of a middle-aged James Dean and John Wayne. Yee haw.
I lacerated my liver, but avoided surgery and was out of ICU (Intensive Care Unit) in three days, and Raymond (nurse, also gay or not, who knows?) said he'd never seen a patient walk straight out of the ICU. I felt weak, but gooood especially considering my neighbors to the right and left had ventilators, and one of them could only communicate with a device that made sounds which my sis and I mistook at first for a loud 'Simon' game.
Parental Consent-
The parents came to visit from Ottawa for a 5 day 'let's see everything, k?' tour of the Big Apple. It was a family reunion love-fest which can be summed up nicely by The Beastie Boys' An Open Letter to NYC, we did it all: "Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten From the Battery to the top of Manhattan..."
That's 66 days in about 700 words. Somehow, life seems less meaningful when measured by a word-count.
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