Christmas in New York

It's my last Christmas in New York!  Impressions: freezing rain, black (and yellow) snow, everything is closed, lots of Asian people on the train--do they celebrate Christmas?  Do you think they have a holiday in China centered on the production of more crap we don't need?  They're like the Santa's elves of the global economy--and movies.  

For Christmas this year I decided to sit around in my boxers until 2pm, shower at 3pm, and by 4pm I left the house for my big event of the day--watching a movie about an orca-whale-fat, alcoholic, chain-smoking Jeff Bridges trying to sleep with a twenty-years-his-junior, pig-faced Maggie Gyllenhaal.  As my Dad put it, this was the trifecta of disgusting: old man with young woman, boozer's/smoker's breath and the ugly Gyllenhaal brother.  Fortunately it allowed me to save money on my popcorn as I was throwing up in my mouth throughout the multi-generational suck-facing.  

What was cool was that the movie takes place in Santa Fe, Houston, and Arizona, and Maggie lives in Brooklyn, it's like a tour of my favorite places, craaazzzyy (heart).  And the soundtrack was fantastic, written and performed by T Bone Burnett, I think I will download...err...'acquire' the album tonight.

Merry Christ-Mass!

UPDATE: This just in, apparently not only does Maggs loooooove Park Slope (our soon to be former hood) she's also really into showing off her breastfeeding skillz:

I want to point out that this is CLASSIC Park Slope and a perfect example of why I kinda-love, mostly hate-with-a-passion The Slope.  Though I'm all for breastfeeding as the most natural and healthy expression of the mother-child relationship, the fact of the matter is, this betch's tit is just hanging out of her shirt like it's a JUGGS Magazine photo-op.  Which she is fully aware of.  Look at her face in this picture, she's all I'm lovin' it while pretending she doesn't notice the amateur photographer snapping a photo of her non-existent rack.  But that's what's so great about The Slope--it's so, like, free, man.  It's free like the freewheeling Haight-Ashbury of the 1960s, except that, you know, hippies didn't have iPhones, $4,000 strollers, multi-million dollar brownstones and most were not movie stars.  But then they probably didn't have mommy & baby yoga classes in the '60s.