Tag Archives: obituary

Scotty, or, That Time I Wasn’t 21

My favorite memory of Scotty was in 2005, the summer after my freshman year of college. I was 19 years old then, and there was a band I wanted to see that was playing at Rudy’s that night (I think it was the Plus Ones, but I’m not entirely sure). I was walking around downtown New Haven with a friend, and we decided to see if we could get into the bar to watch the show, even though neither one of us was of legal drinking age. We over-rationalized a complicated scheme, as you tend to do when you’re not yet 21 and trying to get into a bar: “I heard Rudy’s doesn’t really card anyway” “Plus it’s a week day, they definitely won’t be carding” “I bet they card at the bar, so let’s not buy any drinks and just watch the band instead” etc.

As we approach the patio in front of the bar, who else but Scotty Lucca bursts through the door, drunk as drunk can be and fumbling with a cigarette and lighter in his hand. Of course he sees me immediately. “Thom Dunn! Holy shit!” he shouts as he runs over to give me one of those great big Scotty bearhugs. I introduce him to my friend, whom he embraces with just as much enthusiasm. In turn, he introduces us to the doorman at the bar — because it’s New Haven, and Scotty may as well be the mayor of this town with all the people that he knows. The doorman lets us follow us follow Scotty back onto the patio, no questions asked.

We stand there chatting for a bit, catching up while Scotty has a smoke. He finishes the cigarette, stomps it out, then turns to me and says (at a delightfully drunken volume), “So what are you up to tonight, man? You’re not 21!”
…at which point my friend and I look at one another and try mumble an excuse about, oh, well, we’re just hangin’ out, just kinda walking around…
And almost immediately, Scotty realizes what he’d done. “Oh. Fuck. I just totally blew your cover didn’t I?” My other friend and I (I don’t even remember who I was with) look back to the bouncer, with that awkward-nervous smile and wave that never covers anything up, and abruptly leave the bar.

Thanks for that, man.

A year and a half later, it’s my first night home in New Haven since turning 21, and I end up hanging out at Rudy’s with some friends. I start to tell them this very same story, when sure enough, Scotty shows up. He brings me a beer and apologizes profusely for that night, but we just laugh it off and catch up on each others’ lives. I think pretty much every time I saw him after that, he’d apologize for that night as well. We never saw each other all the often, but it become our kind of running joke whenever we did.

Rest In Peace, Scott Lucca
11/10/78 – 10/18/12

Requiem for a Chinchilla

Dustbath “Pedey” Pedroia was discovered at the bottom of her cage at approximately 7:00pm on Thursday, June 24. While the average domestic chinchilla lives for up to 15 years, Pedey died at the tender age of 3ish from apparent health complications incurred by a sudden heatstroke. While it is true that chinchillas are indigenous to South America, their natural habitat tends to be amongst the rocks and caves of the Andes mountains, where their lack of sweat glands and their incredibly dense fur protect them from the other elements — great for a Boston winter, but not for a Boston summer such as this one.

Prior to the heatstroke, Pedey was in just as good of health as any other household chinchilla. She lived with her younger sister, Yubnub, who survives her today and is decidedly less fat and black. In life, Pedey enjoyed raisins, pooping a lot, and sleeping. Despite her negative attitude towards her owners and occasional incestuous lesbian tendencies, Pedey was much loved in her home, where she could often be found watching LOST while trying to chew her way through her cage. Yubnub fondly recalls every time that a famished Pedey would sit in the food bowl for hours on end, eating and defecating simultaneously, and rarely differentiating between her food pellets and her feces. (Like any good sister, Yubnub would patiently wait her turn and let her older sister gorge on Timothy Hay and Alfalfa, often being rewarded with an extra raisin as a result) When not hogging the food, or attempting to bite the hands of her owners, Pedey could often be found cuddling with Yubnub in the corner, and generally looking cute and silly like chinchillas are wont to do.

She will especially be remember for her her little T-rex-like chinchilla hands. Pedey enjoyed standing up straight and placing her hands on the bars of her cage, much like a human prison inmate. It was quite precious.

A small graveside service was held in the backyard on the afternoon of June 25. Pedey was laid to rest in the garden of the home where she once lived, and hopefully, her spirit will nourish the plantlife that grows there. Just to be sure, she was buried with a package of her favorite craisins as incentive.

In her honor, Dustin Pedroia, second baseman for the Boston Red Sox and Pedey’s namesake, hit 3 homeruns on the night of her death, leading the Red Sox to a 13-11 victory over the Colorado Rockies.

Raisins to raisins, dustbath to dustbath. Rest in peace, Pedey.

Please send grievances in the form of raisins.

In lieu of flowers

You were my oldest friend, an avid opera
note with sorrow and flowering gardens
in abundance at her home, but the caring
lynchpin of heaven has gone out.

The business flourished, as declining
health dictates, inspiring leadership
and consummate grace throughout
his tenure, along with an ability–
an image compression algorithm–
by all of us graveside, to underwrite
a multitude of lives in private practice.

When an off-shore captive suddenly saw you
dancing due to the wartime incarceration of
flophouses, the Mobilization brought about
an extensive set of his life, plus six. Whether
it was impromptu or in her sleep at her beloved

home, a light did indeed continue her
grand humor, whose voice will be retired
to Barnegat Light, usually for the first time
in their lives. We join with many friends
she created, raised devotion to establishing
perfection, only slowing all of life throughout.

In this difficult time, we wish to extend
Dear father, a temple of understanding.
He was the devoted location on the banks,
a stalwart member. If sophistication were

a parent, her gifts to all of us will be
her willowy frame and winsome smile.
But diplomacy made him when she
was predeceased, utterly transcendent,
for sorrow will always nest where art may
never be destroyed as knows not its depth.

Dear brother, he finished chalk streams
of duck blinds on the Chesapeake, his
autumns shooting father with limitless vitality.
Returning to the beach, he would often shoot
a gargoyle in his likeness, a series of odd horse
afficionados and gin publishing glass containers.

He shaped and led the thoughtful, penetrating,
oral and artistic life of her spirited way, saw
sea duty paper the stern and waves, and the dressing
had become synonymous with her rainbow-
colored mohawk, offering psychoanalytically
informed sorrow at the passing. Bon vivant and

reposing Monday, service is scheduled for
the high school docents, retired as an itch
by first founding. A joyous scene from Die
expanded the field celebrated at Our Lady,

her warm smile cooking of dignity, gallant
courage and acumen enchantment: “Come
out right now! Include the needs, escalate
to multiply. The passing of our longtime
services are only private tools, taught to be dangerous.”