I realized, in the newfound roles of gentrifier, vagabond, solitary malcontent, that this blog would take a sort of temporary plunge into self-imposed purgatorio, also known as hiatus. These things happen, they're often called in polite terms "dead spots."
But I'm looking at the last few posts and realizing that, even rounding to the most psychologically salving terms and numerals, it's been three months.
To my most spirited, interested reader(s). I. Apologize.
To my less than spirited, moreso interested but really not that involved in the blabberings of an online freak (in Brooklyn), I will enjoy these precious minutes more than you. Click away as need dictates. But really, I will enjoy it.
So what happened to me? First off, I moved, and contrary to the PR campaign, I have yet to check into all the Kennedy, Crown and US Fried Chicken joints up and down Nostrand Avenue (though I just might still).
What else happened? Well, the Giants won the World Series? How do I know this? Apart from the Yankee fans suddenly perking up over the fact that Cliff Lee might suddenly come at a discount, I'm not quite sure. Maybe it was the cries of "That's definitely not the best team in baseball," or "Who cares about baseball anyway?" or the headline "The Beard Wins a Ring." But that might have been the same-sex marriage trial as well.
What really got me stoked? Two things, this week. One, a couple of some Scandinavian origination, walking through Times Square, the guy with a medal around his chest. Not Life-Alert, but a medal, as if he were campaigning to get mugged and/or anally raped, the omega dog to end all omega dogs (his wife, I believe, would be spared).
And then, rounding the corner at Rock Center earlier today: Camels. I shit you not. Camels. Not the cigarettes. The type that smell. Like livestock and dung. Again. Not the cigarette.
At least my grandfather is smiling from the great beyond, and now I can suddenly give a shit about the plight of the Cubs. (Go Giants!)
