We are zeroing in on the infamous Turkey Day, and i am just barely sure of what i am not thankful for, let alone what i am. Erika and Jack are both trekking towards New England with people they really care about, and Lindsay has Kate here for the weekend to keep her company. And i am grudgingly going home, just as much to mooch groceries from my mother and do laundry for free as i am because it’s Thanksgiving. So, chalk one more up to crass commercialism and living through the eighties, because i forgot what the thanks was all about.

Most of you have a significant portion of the eighties as part of your palette of experiences … what’s your primary Thanksgiving memory? I turned nine in 1990, so most of those precious formative years were already moving farther and farther behind me. My memory of Thanksgiving is all about my Beta Machine… countless pre-Christmas holiday special recorded on those pint-sized tapes while we were in the dining room merrily chowing down our Italian feast. The meaning of Thanksgiving to me is tied up in that silly B.C. cartoon special that i’m sure i could never quite locate on purpose amongst my nearly hundreds of beta tapes in the 3rd floor closet at home. Thanksgiving is not consumer, and it is not corporate, and it should not be intricate; thanks giving is a simple thing. There shouldn’t have to be a festival, or a parade, or even a turkey. God knows i don’t do any of the above, that’s for sure.


Tonight it’s just me in me — stuffed up and alone in my flannel pajamas with only the echoes of laughter from elsewhere in the apartment to keep me company. I’m trying to pick out what in this mess that surrounds me i’m happy about. The thing is, it can happen any day of the year, and if you put it off until tomorrow you definitely don’t have enough time set aside between the Macy’s Parade, dinner, football games, and leftovers.

Think about it.