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.

An Ointment, The King.

In honor of the further Lebron news, or rather, the one disgruntled fan who might have put the best possible spin on the news("Taking my talents down to South Beach" as euphemism for masturbation), I've come up with a list of other sports-related gesture enablers:

• Hoisting the Prince of Wales
  
• Breaking in the Golden Glove
  
• Time to whack the Golden tee
  
• Practicing the Ickey Shuffle, and...
  
• Get the milk ready, the victory lap is almost done.

Anointing the King

With all the hullaballoo surrounding the Lebron James's decision later tonight regarding which team he will join -- the long months of wooing involving mayors, celebs, politicians, and probably puppy dogs; the three-hour slot ESPN has allocated to the coverage; the giving a shit about where an athlete, and while a very good one, one who hasn't one a damned thing albeit he plays in the sport that allows the most of personal achievement -- I secretly hope that he decides to throw a curveball. Like an "I'm going to start doing Sumo" curverball, or maybe "I've decided to play for AC Milan." Something like that. Seriously.

Below is the [supposed] text of the upcoming post-conference interview (conference having been left out for general health and sanity):

LJ: No, it seemed like the best option. I think the deal-sealer was the pandas.

ESPN: That was after you made the trip there under the auspices of visiting the Dalai Lama.

LJ: Well, the Lama ain't no joke. A lot of wisdom in that fucker. He plays a mean game of bouré.

ESPN: And what did you discuss with him?

LJ: Palestine, Tibet. [laughs] Shit no, man, we were talking the finer points of winning it all. The guy is a natural, after all. I saw him play Prince once, a game of Horse. Prince left with a dislocated elbow. That guy ain't no joke.

ESPN: Now you mentioned pandas. You do understand that that animal is not native to India.

LJ: In the contract we stipulated a full year's supply. I like me some panda meat.

ESPN: You eat ... panda?

LJ: They ain't gonna eat themselves. I grind them up, fire up the grill, a little bit of horseradish, some eggs. Yeah, that's some good you know what I'm saying.

ESPN: They're an endangered species.

LJ: The Dalai's got the fix. We're just looking forward to the chance to bringing the game of hoops to those squint-eyed robed guys. They ain't got enough to do, and they're short, so that's going to help my stats. I got to think of my legacy.

Entering the Adobe Flash Mob

Well I did it. And I feel dirty, denuded, debased, dissembled. I joined a foursquare Flash Mob. Without going into the full details, breaking down the viabilities of any of it, but I joined it. Heatpocalypse NYC. So start the deriding -- I blame it on the heat.

Now, this should not be confused with the Snowpocalypse, nor the (probable) Windpocalypse which I assume I was writing during. I'm also assuming there will be a Hailpocalypse, a Fogpocalypse, and a Cicadapocalypse at various other times. Heaven forbid there be an actual apocalyptic event, like say a Tsunami or something similar. No, it's uncomfortable, therefore it must be likened to the end.

And what do I get from it? A little electronic badge. It's like tamagotchi, but even more useless and not an actual piece of gold, cockring, or something else. Hooray.

The good news -- it's probably about a hundred degrees in my suite right now. And so while it cools, I'm going to get a beer. Ciao, kids. I feel like such a frakking lemming.

Weekend in review

So naturally this will be a rambling post of sorts. So naturally, this will not be very focused. So naturally, as I sit here and my legs are dripping sweat and funk and I'm sleepy but not tired because the suite is just...so...hot, this will not have a theme.

What it does have: sex, rock & roll, a little guitar work, some inspired light shows, chance encounters, furries. Those you will have to ask me about.

This weekend started for me on Wednesday -- I had the day off, was in general emotionally drained and needed an extra day of respite. I'm shitty at breakups, but even shittier at the tiny bullshits that keep people in ties with each other. That's my own bad, and I'm chalking it up to the long harsh toll of 34 years of unintended single hood. So I call out. Sorry to the regulars, but I do. Out of guilt, I decide to make it up to myself and do as much as I effing can. So I feel better.

An aside: it was recently brought to my attention that I have been here for a year. And while I know other people who have been here for less, I'm an activities-based person -- without them I generally stumble around, foolish, looking for another place to people watch if I'm not getting my rock on (or rocks off). But that doesn't matter so much.

The highlights:

• Venues -- The Mercury Lounge, The Bell House, Death by Audio. No order intended. Mercury Lounge, while a decent place, doesn't seem to mix well as a crowd placfe. The Bell House seems to have it, but is probably the biggest place I will see a show at. Death by Audio. Well, if you ever felt the need to be a potential extra in a serial killer drama of some sort, then bring friends. That being said, the most interesting of the three, and probably has the best talent running through.
  
  
• Williamsburg -- When going to said Death by Audio, naturally I had to run through here. I have heard it said that certain neighborhoods belong to a certain demographic, and you realize going in that they want as little to do with you and vice versa. That's how I feel in Billyburg. Much like the SF's Mission district, the amount of young, largely plaintively searching peoples makes me want to, if not gag, run for cover. I can assume that the neighborhood is different in packs -- being lone, intrepid explorer, I'd much rather spend my time elsewhere. It might be my own personal feeling in the area, but the amount of head-up-assishness is largely...underwhelming. But I'm not one to rock the boat there.
  
  
• Rooftops: Great for watching fireworks, albeit from a distance far enough removed it's more spectacle at how the smoke clears. But really, it's just great.
  
  
• Hanging out: To anybody wondering, I think I might have a new local. Not that it's too close to me, but it's everything I look for in a bar, meaning it's got cool people who will talk to the pathetic singleton loser at the other end.
  
  
• Working: God, I still need more days off. For people who are looking for some cheesecake, you won't get any.

I'm out. Talk at you all later.

Addendum: After writing this, lying down, sweating my balls off then sweating some more, I realized I forgot to add something. In the process of this blog a band of fireworks went off in the driveway below, shooting pebbles onto my arm, three stories up. The entire night has been electric with the snare beat of this little explosions, far away and near. I need to sleep, but the general chaos of the scene reminds me why it's great to be out of San Francisco. You'd get this a little bit in Chinatown for the new year, but I remember nothing approximating this. Like a small proxy war being fought out in the dim patch of 2 a.m. dusk. And like the Brits are still pissed, having tied that little World Cup thing, and have decided to re-invade after all these years.

Bombastic!