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.

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.