Not cannibalism, just self-indulgence

So I broke out the camera for the last few days, mainly looking to mess with what I already have on file. The first result:

The single greatest story I've read these holidays

At the link. http://www.slate.com/id/2278240/. As if a Christmas-Eve trek through Target wasn't enough to remind one of the general savagery of the human species. I'll have more to talk about with this later on, but...Bon appetit.

(as an aside, is all this holiday/Christmas shit over yet?)

Photo time

So I'm trying something different right now. As some of you may know, I've had a very passing love/hate thing with photography, something I came to outside of college when thinking about doing film school.

The long story short: I missed the darkroom, and when digital came around, I lost a lot of my love for the general art. But I still flirt with the damned thing.

In light of that, I'm going to try to post some more photos here and there, hoping to get some up and at least checked out. Or at least, rekindle that affair.

Crown Heights

The first try. The attempt here was from a few shots around the hood, and the damned day was a bit more overcast than should be permitted. Enjoy them, if they work for you.

Cupid's Arrow: Assange Edition

I'm in the new place less than a month and get the sage advice "Try OkCupid. Trust me on this, if just to explore and meet people." I'm ready to explore this town, am an arts guy of the someone-else-performing variety, and frankly those are better for dates, anyway.

Sold. However..

As some of you may also know, the gift of self-promotion is not one that I possess. I don't have the sales gene, and while I can bluster on about anything other than me, it's immediately all manage-expectations the second the spotlight flips on. I've already come to terms with the fact that I will probably be mired forever in a lower middle class slot despite all my obvious other gifts, and after signing up on the site, form followed that all I got was crickets. I mean, I've had people drop by, but crickets, not that I've been trying that hard. In other words, it would probably be best to turn to Julian Assange.

Yes, That Julian Assange. The one with the crazy face and white thinning warlock hair. Rat lips. Who in a photo in The New Yorker looked like the albino from Foul Play.

But apparently he had some success. Or at least the bombast to pull off a ... memorable profile. And since I'm not looking to go all Charlie from "It's Always Sunny...," this is probably the best place to start.

Hence, Julian Assange, let's use you as a muse. Or rather, template.

His summary:

WARNING: Want a regular, down to earth guy? Keep moving. I am not the droid you're looking for. Save us both while you still can.

Passionate, and often pig headed activist intellectual seeks siren for love affair, children and occasional conspiracy.

Such a woman should [be] spirited and playful, of high intelligence, though not necessarily formally educated, have spunk, class & inner strength and be able to think strategically about the world and the people she cares about.

I like women from countries that have sustained political turmoil. Western culture seems to forge women that are valueless and inane. OK. Not only women!

Although I am pretty intellectually and physically pugnacious I am very protective of women and children.

I am DANGER, ACHTUNG, and ?????????????

Okay, so I get the charm. A self-deprecating geek with a semi-messianic complex. Or at least a good deal of chauvinism. I can deal with that. It's almost me.

My turn.

Self summary:

MANUFACTURER'S NOTE: Want a slightly deranged, delusional, needy prick who is simply looking for friends to suck the life out of? Well that's not here (and that baggage is merely a flesh wound). I am a droid. Maybe even the one you're looking for.

Dispassionate whiskey-swiller, the antithesis of everything that is hipster fresh in the news, is seeking a harpy for which to engage in smattering unflattering conversation, maybe an affair and to laugh at someone else's criminal children.

Such a woman [should] be quasi-spiritual -- but not in a batshit crazy way -- not be afraid to pay for dates, and be completely comfortable with the finer contradictions of The Irresponsible Self. She should also be a classy woman who says "Fuck" a lot, and will incorporate that and the "c" word into her existential novel about a small white girl coming of age on antarctic McMurdo Station.

Do I need a woman who travels? Not so much, as traveling seems to bring out the greatest pretension in Western Civilization. But being stuck in a city like New York does seem to bring out the whole hen-roost thing, too. Okay. Maybe not just women.

Although at heart I can come across as physically and intellectually truculent, really I'm just the Rolo that sealed your pocket shut.

I do like to control the HORIZONTAL. And MAYBE even the vertical.

...

!!!!!!!!!!!

And there. Now I feel like I need to bathe, shower, and be nervous about my previously printed "Registered Sex Offender" T-shirts.

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.