I’m not going to go into the specifics, but let’s just say that up until yesterday at 4:30, when I was supposed to be driving my car onto a ferry in New London and cruising blissfully along calm seas to Orient Point, Long Island, thus cutting out interminable hours of additional driving and trafficky mayhem, I liked Connecticut. I thought of it as New England’s suburb, a place where new shades of yellow are invented and polo shirts are handed down from generation to generation. And I’m all for polo shirts and hegemony, and cocktail parties and closeted gay quarterbacks and lighting candles “so things feel special.” But at 4:30 yesterday all that ended. J. Crew is my new sworn enemy and tennis can blow me. You know, Connecticut, for all your civility and prosperity, it would be nice if you could do the “blue collar shit” like take a reservation for the right day of the week during the right month of the year so that when people show up and are like, “Awesome, a nice relaxing ferry boat ride,” that doesn’t immediately turn into three hours of waiting in a “standby line” with exhaust fumes and fat people and only one sudoku puzzle left (the one you planned to do while sitting atop the ferry with the wind in your hair), keeping your sunglasses on even after the sun has set just so others won’t see you cry, and being thrown so far off schedule that the next day, after four refreshing hours of nap, you end up at work wearing flip flops, to the chagrin of everyone around you, walking like a retard to mitigate the ‘flip FLOP’ but, in the process, looking more and more like a retard.
So maybe I went into some specifics, but the bottom line is eff you Connecticut. You’re on the shit list. You have no pro sports team, no major city and you list “foliage” as a tourist attraction on your website. Leaves. Use a week of your vacation time to come check our leaves. Oh, I know. There are other things to do. I’ve seen the commercial. There’s awesome things to do there: You can laugh with your friends and wear sun dresses and hang out at barns and make pretend you’re not still oppressed by the weight of taxes and bills and war because you’re having a glass of wine and the sun is setting. But what Connecticut fails to mention is that a vacation there is about as exciting and relaxing as a vacation in your own backyard with a box of Zinfandel and a Norah Jones CD.
And when the time comes I’m going to let my kid spell it like it sounds because whoever decided on connect-i-cut was clearly learning disabled.