First off: NYC has a feel in which it belongs to no nation.
At our hotel, on every elevator ride, and even in the street we were surrounded by a different language, and while that makes you wish for one of these, you still have to take a step back at the wonder of it all: Swiss, German, Russian, French, Irish, even some gangly Texans such as ourselves, it is truly is a melting pot and we had the best time there. But writing about all the good things may bring warm fuzzy flutters to my stomach and behind my ears, but that's not what you came for: so for the bad.
The Big Apple has its seasons wrong. Where I grew up, in Central Texas, we do things right. We go from a mild, I'm talking Pace Picante sauce mild, winter to Scorched Earth Summer in a matter of days. There are no buffers, and we don't want any, because buffers are false representation of the dog days of August to come, a mirage. I don't even own a jacket, but I had to buy a Snoopy Rain Parka in NYC, where the material is so comfortable I can only assume that it was made of old lady wig.
But I need to get to the Spurs here, because that's why I come to PTR, not for the community and feedback on bad jokes: We flew Jet Blue, my first time. Blue potato chips do wonders to your stool. Having a television on every seat is remarkable, and does make the flight go by faster. But there's a problem with new, innovative ideas: they don't always work. And when you have spent your entire time in some foreign land, only to look forward to watching your favorite team play as you sit on a chair in the air, and then only to find that you and your spouse are sitting in the only seats where the televisions are not working, you start to get sad. And when I say sad I mean irrationally incredulous. Stopping a flight attendant who is in mid stride to get the plane off the ground to ask about your tv not working may feel like the silliest thing I've ever done in my life. Louis CK came to mind several times.
So I missed the game. While others around us watched Iron Chef Tallahassee, tater tot episode, I bored holes through their skulls with my anger-vision. But I caught the highlights, GO Spurs GO, Go Najara's jealous clothes-line move being a catalyst for great Spurs basketball: the best revenge is the W, and Go Pop standing up for his players, and huffing loudly. I wouldn't want to make Pop mad in real life, due to the fear of him removing some organ in my body, caramelizing it pan-fried style, and feeding it to me as some sort of secret neuron disabler.
I can't wait for game five.