Jack Kukoda

I’m flying back to my hometown of Buffalo, New York this afternoon. In fact, I’m sitting in the Jet Blue terminal using their free wireless access to type this. (I could make a hacky Yakov Smirnoff joke here, but I’m better than that so I won’t.)

I can’t describe how excited I am for Buffalo and Christmas. Actually, I can describe it. Embarrassingly excited. That’s how I would describe it. I’m ashamed of/weirded out by how excited I get. When it comes to Christmas I’m like a gay man on Halloween. I love it! The music, the outfits, the pageantry. Woo, I’m getting dizzy.

And I get to see my best friend Tim and watch the Bills games on my parents’ couch, just like when I was growing up. All right, this is pretty sappy and too personal already. The hilarity and offensiveness will return once I touch down and realize my memories of Buffalo, much like a soldier’s mental picture of his girl back home, have been greatly embellished due to our extended separation. I’m sure it will take only a cursory glance at the exhaust-stained snow, fatties in Starter jackets, and overall blight of downtown Buffalo to remind me why people flee that city like rats from a sinking ship. I kid because I love!