This way out

I hope you appreciate how long it took me to find a Thanksgiving post picture that not only was relevant, but also looked, if you squint, like a pumpkin. You're welcome. Let's get started.

Today, like many Thanksgivings over the years, I'll be heading down to one of the relatives' homes in Orange County to polish off my quota of turkey (cooked to perfection), stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls and butter, pumpkin pie and whipped cream plus whatever other holiday fare finds its way to the perfectly set table.

I do this every year with the family, which is why Thanksgiving always feels a bit like Groundhog's Day. Not the one with the buck-toothed rodent. The one with Bill Murray.

Year in, year out, it's the same people. The same family stories. The same gossip. The same arguments. The same observations. The same questions. After the meal, we all retire to the same living room, sit on the same flattened couch cushions and watch the same TV shows while we all try to recover at the same time from overstuffing ourselves.

There's a certain familiarity to it all, and for the most part, it's fairly enjoyable. Especially the part with the pie.

But every few years, the old adage about how you can choose your friends but not your family roars to life in a loud, opinionated, foul-mouthed, conversation-dominating, high-as-a-kite, thick-headed way.

Not naming names, but there's a relative who in the past has occasionally, whether by accident or intentionally, managed to find the unlocked portal that goes from the deepest pit of hell to the natural world and made their way up to my Thanksgiving dinner table.

And of course, brought their own special brand of misery and "Do I kill myself or them?" to the proceedings.

Anyway, at one point there was some mention this person might be joining us this year. And, as anyone who knows me would expect, I reacted in the most mature, polite, measured, holiday-spirited fashion I know how.

I said if they show up, we're going home.

Then I proceeded to worry about it almost every minute of every day. Figuring how I'd make my stand, recruit my family to join me in storming out (God bless 'em they were all in), and most important, if it happened before we ate, planning where we'd have our Thanksgiving meal. Philippe's was a contender. So was The Venetian. But The Venetian is always a contender no matter what the question is.

In the end, come to find out all my worry was for nothing. This year, the particular individual I speak of has decided to brandish their special recipe for holiday gloom somewhere else.

So now, not only do I get to enjoy the holiday with the people I truly love, I also have one more thing to be thankful for.

The Prius phase

It seems there are phases both genders - and I'm going to limit it to two for the purpose of this post - go through.

For boys, it's usually firetrucks, dinosaurs and baseball. For girls, it's often horses, dolls and photography.

But eventually time catches up with us all, and the childhood phases slowly recede as we discover more expensive, adult phases to pass through. However, there's a new phase adults of both sexes seem to be grudgingly surrendering to.

The Prius phase.

As phases go, I suppose it's an admirable one, as opposed to, say, shoplifting or cutting yourself. But if you appreciate a finely tuned, high-performance, road-eatin' ride, the fact is it can be just as damaging.

What happens is one day a person is overcome with the uneasy feeling perhaps they need to be more socially conscious. Or that the coming derision is more tolerable than the $500 a month tab for gas. Perhaps they feel compelled to make a statement. Statements range anywhere from "I'm environmentally forward thinking" to "Yes I'm a better person than you" to "Is this thing on?" to "Did I tell you I get 55 MPG?"

Many times, especially when they try to show off their smaller carbon footprint by speeding and cutting you off on the freeway, the statement becomes "Look at me, I'm a douche in a Prius." I'm pretty sure this last one is unintended. But it doesn't make it any less true.

Inevitably after a while living with the car, the Prius phase begins to run its course. Drivers begin to miss the sound of an engine when they press the accelerator (in the Prius, it's called the "pedal on the right"). They long for a less tinny sound when they close the car door. The idea of a car - like the one they traded in for the Prius - that can run a curve and stick like glue becomes a yearning. It's all they can think about.

Next thing you know, the same guy that drives the service department shuttle is taking your Prius around back while they're writing up the paperwork on your new A6, 530i or AMG C63. The siren call finally gets answered.

And the good news is once it's over, you can finally stop wearing that t-shirt. You know, the one that says "Prius. Because a gas-guzzlin’, ass-kickin’, fast-movin’, sweet-soundin’, head-turnin’, envy-causin’, great-feelin’ car just isn’t me."

Tell me something I don't know

If you've ever been in the creative department of an ad agency, you already know they're hotbeds of bold ideas, original thinking, sexually transmitted diseases and ironic t-shirts.

There's also one other thing you'll find plenty of: Sarcasm.

Come to find out that's a good thing. Scientific American reports that in a study of sarcasm, looking at the sarcaser and the sarcasee, it turns out sarcasm triggers creative sparks for those dishing it out as well as those on the receiving end.

That explains everything. Like when the planner wearing the knit cap, skinny jeans and no socks calls a meeting to give their latest and greatest insight (The consumer wants to be engaged with the brand!), they're not inviting ridicule. Far from it.

They're inviting sarcasm so the creatives in the room will be more creative. The planners are doing us a favor. Now it all makes sense.

The study goes on to say that sarcasm between people who trust each other can have these beneficial effects without creating conflict.

Which explains why conflict is something you never see in agencies.

Have you seen the trailer

I'm not a fan of camping. To me, roughing it is a three-star hotel without cable.

Many times in my life, some well-meaning friends (who apparently don't know me that well) have tried to con me into going on a camping trip with them. They immediately sense my resistance, and try to appeal to my more earthy side: call of the wild, at one with nature, back to the beginning and all that.

It never works. Ever.

It's not that I've lost the desire to sleep in the woods, use toilet paper I could sand my coffee table with and eat powdered filet mignon (Just add hot water and stir!), I never had it in the first place. I like my creature comforts.

Which is why it surprises me as much as you to hear myself say this, but, not that I was looking for it, I may have found a way to have my amenities and camp with them too.

The 2016 Airstream International Signature.

For only $64,048 I can be in the wild and the lap of luxury at the same time. Here's how Airstream describes this silver beauty on their website:

"With an interior designed by award-winning architect Christopher C. Deam, the International Signature is the definition of upscale. Light pours in through panoramic vista windows, reflecting off sleek polished surfaces. The result is an open environment that will take your breath away.

It’s style that sizzles, with Corian® galley tops, premium fabrics, rich modern colors, and plush Ultraleather™ seating. Signature design meets the iconic Airstream line."

I don't know what Corian galley tops are, but I like them already.

Of course, if I picked up one of these babies I'd have to get a Ford 350 to haul it around to campsites. And when I'm not using it out on the road, it'd just be sitting in my driveway, blocking my asshole neighbor's kitchen window and pissing them off.

Now that I think about it, my driveway is a perfectly good place to camp out.

Simon says

The list of songs that've managed the virtually impossible task of rhyming the words yacht, apricot and gavot is a very short one. In fact, there's only one.

The song is You're So Vain. And the songwriter is Carly Simon.

You'll be hearing a lot about both of them in the coming weeks, because Simon has a new memoir coming out. (Ironically, it's being published by Flatiron Books, and not Simon and Schuster, the publishing powerhouse Carly's father, Richard L. Simon, co-founded).

To be sure, Simon has led a colorful life that's included lovers from Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty. When she was married to James Taylor, they were at one point the richest entertainment power-couple with a heroin-addicted guitar-playing husband in all of Martha's Vineyard.

One thing Simon promises to address, sort of, in the book that has the entertainment press chomping at the bit (if you've seen Simon's smile you know why that last line is so funny) is one of the timeless mysteries of the music world: who exactly is You're So Vain about.

She's already said in past interviews one of the verses is about Warren Beatty. Beatty himself has said the whole song is about him. He's so vain. Which brings up a contradiction inherent in the song that's bothered me each and every time I've heard it.

The main lyric is "you're so vain, you probably think this song is about you...." Here's the thing: the song is about him. So is he so vain, or just right in what he's thinking? Discuss.

Admittedly it's not a mystery on the scale of say who shot JFK, or did we know about Pearl Harbor ahead of time. But I have to say I'm kind of curious. Maybe we'll find out, time will tell.

The one thing I know for sure is it's not about me.

As an only child, I have to say that hurts.

Don't ask: Borrowing a book

I'm not gonna lie.

My Don't Ask series of posts - Don't Ask: Watching Your Stuff, Don't Ask: Working the Weekend, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Writing a Letter For You, Don't Ask: Sharing a Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Picking Up at the Airport, and the perennial Don't Ask: Moving - is one of the most popular and requested of all the random musings I slap up here at the last minute.

Even more than Guilty Pleasures, Things I Was Wrong About and The Luckiest Actor Alive. Even more than Why I Love Costco.

To the untrained eye, it might look like linking all those prior posts is just a blatant act of shameless self-promotion. Actually, I prefer to think of it as making quality writing available to the general public.

Anyway, since Don't Ask is the most read series, a new Don't Ask it is. Tonight, it's Don't Ask: Borrowing A Book.

It strikes me odd that for all the huffing and puffing about Kindles and iBooks, people still love the feel of a real hardcover book in their hands. Especially if they didn't have to pay for it. And it's mine.

It's still a free country, and you can ask whatever you want. But if the question is "Hey, can I borrow that book? I'll get it right back to you." the answer is no.

The world is lousy with Kindles, iBook apps and, yes, libraries. Go on them and in them and choose your own book to read. But this brand new hardcover copy of the latest best-seller, the one I've been waiting months for, the one I'll be adding to my Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Anne Ursu. Jonathan Kellerman, Gillian Flynn, Scott Smith, J.K. Rowling collection? This one's mine.

I reserve the right to be the first to smell that new book smell of fresh ink on the pages. To bend back the binding, and hear it crack as I turn the pages faster and faster because I can't put it down.

It's not that I don't trust you. However I believe that all across the city, there exists a library in my name, made up of books I've loaned out in the past. Except instead of one building it's spread across dozens of houses one book at a time. It took me years to build that library. I don't plan on building another one.

So kudos for wanting to read a good story, a tall tale or an educational volume. My heartfelt suggestion would be for you to learn the Dewey Decimal System, break out that Barnes & Noble Gift Card you got last Christmas, or perhaps find another friend who hasn't been shocked and scarred by the ever increasing space on his bookshelf.

However you get the book you want, I hope you enjoy your copy. I know I'll be enjoying mine.

Nous sommes à Paris

J'aimerais dire à l'inimaginable qui s'est passé. Mais malheureusement, il n'est pas inimaginable. Et c'est déjà arrivé.

Comme le monde en général, mon coeur se brise pour Paris ce soir. La violence insensée semble en quelque sorte plus offensive, plus vulgaire pour avoir passe dans un lieu aussi beaux et joyeux.

Nous allons tous être plus vigilants partout où nous allons maintenant, et le peu de paranoïa que nous portons avec nous d'hier de l'avant est malheureusement justifiée.

Mais nous, comme Paris, se poursuivront. L'image ci-dessus est un rallye après le massacre de Charlie Hebdo il y a dix mois. Parisiens la bravoure inspirer le monde entier. Et le message que la vie ne doit pas seulement être défendu pour mais vécu est celle que nous ne devons pas oublier.

Que Dieu bénisse les amis et les familles des victimes. Puissent-ils trouver le courage de continuer, et éventuellement retourner vivre dans leur paix Bienvenue Esprit.

Comme pour les auteurs, pendant qu'ils sont peut-être mortes estimant que leur récompense est en attente dans le ciel pour leur martyre, ils auront droit à une mauvaise surprise.

Parce que je pense que nous savons tous que le ciel n'est pas où ces bouchers vont.