This year, for the first time in a long time, I’m not cooking Thanksgiving dinner and neither is my wife. Some years I do the turkey and all the fixings, especially if the holiday falls between two of her graveyard shifts or if she’s out of town with our kids (in which case I invite strange assemblages of acquaintances, as in this episode recounted this time last year). Other years she does it. This year we’re going to a nice restaurant instead. It was her idea, and it’s one I like a lot.

Her other idea is that after our Thanksgiving dinner at the nice restaurant, the five of us can go to the movies. She scanned the listings to see what’s playing. “We can go see ‘The Fantastic Mr. Fox,'” she said. “Or, we can take the kids to see” and she named this movie. Given the subject matter, I’m not sure it’s the right choice for a feast holiday.

This rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” leaves me feeling all fuzzy.

Lou Dobbs may run for President.

In other news, there’s still no Democrat running for governor of California.

Overheard tonight, as my 7-year-old and his 11-year-old sister came across a television commercial for the new teen vampire movie:

Him:  “Why doesn’t he die? He’s a vampire. Vampires can’t be out in sunlight.”

Her:  “I don’t know. He just doesn’t.”

Him:  “Why not?”

Her:  “I don’t know. I know one way to kill them for sure. Rip them apart into pieces. They did that in the first movie.”

Him:  “Why don’t they use acid? That would work.”

Her:  No response.

Him:  “Why don’t they use acid?”

Her:  No response.

Him:  “EMMA!!!!! Why don’t they use acid?”

Her:  “I DON’T KNOW!!!!”

Later, he told me that he had “a plan to put an end to her diabolical ways.”

According to a news story on MSNBC.com, “Tiny insect brains can solve big problems.“

If you’d like to see what “The Prisoner” really looks like, click here.

The new one doesn’t even have cool theme music, let alone Patrick McGoohan’s penetrating glare (which I practiced for hours back in high school).

I’m not the only one seeing more people in restaurants. In another good economic portent, even the restaurants in Indiana are showing signs of life.

 As a fan of the original series, which spoke so directly to my rebellious teenage self, I was looking forward to the remake of “The Prisoner” running on AMC this week. Sadly, it’s unbearably bad. Really, truly, tediously, awful. I would go on about why, but this fellow has already enumerated all the reasons, with one exception:  There’s nothing at stake. No stakes = no conflict = no story. In its place:  dolorous music accompanying logy acting. If there are terrorists in the village, I’m rooting for them.

The New Oxford American Dictionary’s Word of the Year is, fittingly, “unfriend.”

I used to have this very close friend. He was a big part of my circle for years. He and another friend and I smoked cigars together and went to Mexico together and did theatre together and did all sorts of things together. Great times.

Then he fell into a deep conversation with an actress at one of my parties and soon after they moved in together and then he drifted away. Which happens. I understood it then and I understand it now.

I did try to maintain the friendship, though. I mean, I have other friends who suddenly have love interests who remain my friends. And shouldn’t that be what you want for your friends? If not, maybe you’re not such a friend.

So I would call him and he’d sure-sure me, but then not call me back or not show up. The final straw was in 2004 when I was at the launch party thrown by Nike for the Rockstar energy drink. They took over the Music Box (aka The Henry Fonda, home of that recent Devo concert) and threw open the taps and bottles and generously dispensed appetizers. The rooftop speakeasy provided a great venue to smoke cigars and take in the night time buzz of Hollywood. So I got on my cellphone and invited my friend because I knew I could get him in and because I knew he lived close by — in Hollywood, mere blocks away. He said great, thanks for the invite, he’d be right over. An hour later I called him back and he answered his phone at home and then I knew it was the last time I’d be talking to him.

Me: “You’re still there.”

Him: “Uh… yeah. Sorry.”

Me: “I called you an hour ago and invited you and you said yes and now I call you and you’re still home. So you’re not coming.”

Him:  “Yeah. Sorry.”

Me: “No. It’s okay. I get it. I got it.”

Him:  “No. It’s not like that.”

Me: “Yeah. I think it is.”

Five years went by.

Two Fridays ago I got a call on my cellphone. It was him. “Hey, it’s [name here]. Uh… I’m going to call you at your home number too.”  Five seconds later, my home phone rang and he left a message there too. Asking me to call him.

So here’s what I’ve done:  Nothing.

Oh, I’ve been tempted to text him and say I’m going to call him right away, and then do nothing. But that seems petty.

As soon as I told our third friend that our former friend had called, he said, “He wants something.”

When I told my playwriting group this story, a friend in the group immediately said, “He wants something.”

Wants something as in, wants something that will benefit him. And that’s my thought too.

I deleted both messages and forgot about it until five minutes ago when I thought I’d post it here for posterity. And, who knows — maybe he reads this blog.