Hoopla

Any person who has broken his back and can walk knows what gratitude is. It was a good Thanksgiving. We had a relaxed mid-day meal. The dogs didn't get any of the food.

The food deserves it's own paragraph. We had a turkey basted lovingly in butter and Reisling, covered with cheesecloth until the last quarter hour, as moist as the day it first gobbled. We had a ham, a big local one, cut cross-hatch and basted in brandy and brown sugar and slow baked to let all the wonderfulness soak in. It was pork, as candy. Robyn mixed sweet potatoes and sliced sauteed apples. We had mashed potatoes and green beans with the french onion thing going on and cranberry jello stuff and the traditional Caitlin's boiled cranberry relish, which is actually fabulous, and we had three pies: pecan, pumpkin and apple. John whipped cream, really whipped it with a whisk, and we ate it on our pie, glad to be fat and happy and warm together.

Why, then, did we all go out into the bitter cold and stand outside a Target for two and a half hours? It was windy, too, a breeze that cut through my parka and my stocking cap and reminded me how old and frail and middle aged man can be in the early morning, with no rising sun in sight.

I learned a few things from this adventure:

1. When your son says "I think we should go earlier" he is right. We did and we got the television. Had we come a half our later, our success would have been doubtful. 2. Columbia parkas and stocking caps are great, but nothing beats an old wool blanket held over the head Civil War POW style. 3. Some people need their mommies to dress them. There were a lot of people out there in light coats and no hats. I don't think stupidity entitles you to favors from God, if that's what they were trying. 4. Prepare to be tazed for causing a ruckus. There were lots of cops patrolling and the tiny Target security guy insisted in an adolescent voice he wouldn't tolerate nonsense.

The last time I stood in line for an equivalent period of time, it was 1975 and I got Dylan tickets. It was a great show, the Rolling Thunder Review, and the memories lasted longer than any television I ever owned.

The second Thanksgiving was at my father-in-laws. It's the one I rant about every year. I think we can just replay last year's rant. I did the math this morning, and there were five people there I like, including my father in law. There were six people there with whom I would go to great lengths not to visit. (Notice I didn't end with a preposition!) We sat in a semi-circle around an enormous television. Robyn says I'm focusing on the negative. The whole scene left me in a bad mood even though I was psyched up to be a "sport." I might have made it but the only other company when we got there was the "neighbors," a relatively nice not very bright buy guy with a toupee that would only be more obvious if it got up and danced on his head, and his wife, the alcoholic former prescription drug abuser, who offered up nuggets of wisdom such as "violent videos are just awful," "that dog is going to knock over my wine," and "oh . . . oh. . . my vertigo! (x12)" The social worker in my wanted to suggest that wine and vertigo are perhaps not the best combination, but then neither are abject stupidity and verbal expression, and that never stopped anybody.

I left in a foul mood, no longer thankful for any-fucking-thing. It took me the rest of the day to decompress by myself in the upstairs bedroom, muttering to myself. Today is sunny and stretches out before us filled with possibilities, strengthened by caffeine and foolish optimism.

Nathan Bell suggested yesterday that we all celebrate monkeys, and call it "Thanksgibbon."