Adventures in Gluhwein

I remember last year around this time I was trying to track down a bottle of Gluhwein. More specifically, this shit, which in a more sentimental mood I would say was a remnant of my youth. What it was really was was a succumbing to the quintessential New York laziness (read: I don't care how valuable your time is, outsourcing is never worth that time you might lose watching post-Simon American Idol). And also a fear of failure in attempting to make it.

To describe this concoction, imagine the most disgusting wine you've ever had, cut with every bit of bitter and sour you could throw in. Then add sugar. And serve warm. Believe me, it's delicious. As in, the human capacity for poison takes a backseat to this type of deliciousness. To further describe this concoction, it's the essence of the Yuletide season: complex to the spice, sweet to the innocuous, and heated to make the days linger and die in the ways there were meant to be spent, drunk, mit zucre und zimt.

I will be attempting this shortly. My attempt will involve something like this:

* eine Flasche trockener Rotwein (750 ml)
* eine Zitrone
* 2 Stangen Zimt
* 3 Gewürznelken
* 3 Esslöffel Zucker
* etwas Kardamom (oder Ingwer)

Zubereitung
Den Rotwein in einem Topf erhitzen (nicht kochen). Die Zitrone in Scheiben schneiden und hinzufügen. Dann Zimt, Nelken, Zucker und etwas Kardamom (nach belieben) dazugeben. Alles etwa 5 Minuten erwärmen - nicht kochen - und etwa eine Stunde ziehen lassen. Vor dem Servieren nochmals erwärmen, durch ein Sieb abgießen, in vorgewärmten Gläsern oder Bechern servieren.

Now, in further huckster-ish fashion, "On to the pretty girl!":

various notes to self

It's another compendium blog, boys and girls. Here goes:

• When delivering your neighbor's mail and her four-year-old daughter happens to answer the door, it might not be best form to be rocking a full-on sex-offender mustache then engaging in a one-minute conversation with said four-year to find out where the recipient of the package is.
• Lying asleep in your jeans is only gratifying when you've fully earned it through the full force sloshing of Fernet Branca, or the desk you're waiting for actually shows up.
• Finally getting around to restaining your dresser might not be the best idea when the weather dips 40. Nor is continuing to aerate your place through the two weeks that is apparently required.
• Advice from a friend: Women are all about changing the names of things. Brunch is just a respectable way of drinking at noon. But that doesn't change the fact that it's still drinking at noon. (editor's note: if and when you meet a women who just calls it by its rightful name, then know at that moment that she's a keeper and one to take home to mom.)
• In general, classical is the best winter music. This is non-negotiable. It is also great for traveling. What's great summer music is probably hip-hop, but I have yet to warm enough to the genre to test it out. And yes, I understand that confession means I will probably never get laid again by a certain segment of the female population below the cut-off of, say, 33. I'm getting more comfortable with this by the week (and the notable distance from Fernet Branca).
• Some of you may remember, either selectively or not, Vladimir Putin showing off his Judo moves. And if you don't, shame on you, because the guy should be wrestling a bear or at least the knife that lost in the Chuck Norris knife fight. And so if you do, you will not need to focus on this next item, because you already understand this guy needs a fan club. And if you don't:
  
  
  Seriously, this guy needs a fucking fan club. He's either the poster child for our age or the perpetual victim of the eternal midlife crisis. Oh, and he's a semi-totalitarian prick. Which means he's all of the above.

In all honestly, I should be asleep. Bon soir, faithful readers. You make me feel like a huckster.

The Thanksgiving recap, as seen through airports

Now that it's a week into its grave, my annual Thanksgiving trek to the desert is ripe for recapping.

First note: JFK has a Sammy Hagar bar. Beach bar and grill, I should say. The synopsis -- breakfast burritos and $15 bloody marys while the singer's head of gold-white tendrils leer on.

Second note: The Phoenix airport has that fresh "ripped-from-the-strip-mall" feeling, complete with the stark flair of early adult obesity that usually coincides. The bar there -- painted, sun-drained cacti stare down on the walls, reminding you (and maybe the city of Phoenix), that it is still a desert. Not that the green-lawn-and-pavement grid as viewed from above would suggest anything otherwise.

Third note: O'Hare is still a rat maze, especially when wandering unawares as to your connecting gate. Or terminal. But at least the bar had the decency to serve a hot dog so stuffed its entrails spilled to the counter top while being eaten. And they served Goose Island. Thank you, Skyscrapers, for being the type of seedy, low-rent place that I love. And in an airport.

Final notes:

• I remember when airline travel used to be fun. I was also about a foot shorter and 12.
  
• Wii Bowling might be the best diplomatic tool ever created. Or just a sheer blast.
  
• Shooting. It never leaves you, even through the invariable stumblings when you get all redneck-y with your Pa over the holidays. However -- who's in for this?

And now, adieu.

Waste-disposal

Feeds for thought:

1) Superspying is a dirty profession. Think about, between all the random drops in random, undisclosed trash receptacles in unmarked bags, there have to be misses. Like instead of grabbing some secret doomsday machine, you picked the wrong side of the street and are running your hands through somebody's half-eaten spoiled babaganoush. If you're lucky. You could use latex gloves, but doesn't that make the entire activity a bit overly conspicuous, akin to running around with a set diplomatic plates?

Maybe I'm just a bit upset that I never pursued this path. I mean, apart from not knowing the language, being a moderate social misfit and not really having the ability to either stand out or settle in to a crowd, there's the problem of the unwanted waste. The bedbugs. The exotic cuisines that involve spleens, brains, bugs, mint tea. The dealing with society who's grasp on the language is middling, meaning nobody would actually get my jokes.

And I'm not gringo. But in general, being a superspy of any sort has to suck.

2) There is no 2. But I'm making bacon to eat with my tacos. Heart disease is overrated.

Kickstart my dartboard confessional malaise

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!)

Friday night funnies

Just three little videos for your enjoyment. Notice: None of these are safe for work, so don't even think about it unless you're about to be fired/laid off/don't give a shit/hate your boss/on your boss's pc/on your assistant's pc/hired an intern to use their pc.

Here goes:
One: The many side jobs of Bob Odenkirk

"Craigslist Penis Photographer" featuring Bob Odenkirk from Bob Odenkirk

Two: in honor of Mad Men, MA Men pts. 1

MA Men from Joey McIntyre

And 2:

MA Men 2 from Joey McIntyre

Oh, and a bonus track:

Wax On, F*ck Off with Ralph Macchio from Ralph Macchio

So about this weekend

This will be a quick, digest post, but some things I learned from this weekend:

• Waking up to one accident outside your window is not nearly as enjoyable as when it's followed the next day by another
  
• Apparently there is a need and love for the SF burrito that is completely incomprehensible to the rest of the nation
  
• Go see my friend's blog: Poo On The Menu (updated much more frequently than this old coffee stain)
  
• Going to the Bronx to play trivia is fine, as long as it results in victory and a six pack of delicious beer
  
• I need a new job that operates in real-people hours (suggestions will be gladly taken)
  
• I'm to the point with sweating that my balls have molded to the side of my leg
  
• Finding apartments is a full-time job. Being a gentrifier could potentially be the same.