I’d say it’s a decent idea, Thanksgiving, even if it’s one of those old, decent ideas that means almost nothing anymore. Still, it does strike me as a worthwhile thing, the notion of taking time out of your life to give thanks for whatever the hell you have to give thanks for. And surely you have something to be thankful for –come on, pull your face away from that bong for a moment and think about it.
I know I do. A few for instances:
Microwave popcorn.
Tabasco sauce.
Canned chili.
Willie Nelson.
Cold beverages.
Dune buggies.
The Colonel’s blend of special spices.
The grand-fetuses –if I’d known the little bastards were going to be so much fun I’d have had them first.
The troops, which I nonetheless feel strongly should be spending the holidays with their families at home.
Zigaboo Modeliste.
Al Jackson, Jr.
Air hockey.
Paper boys, even –or perhaps especially– if they’re middle-aged men working three jobs just trying to get by.
Grasshoppers.
Formaldehyde.
Mutterers.
Television evangelists.
A good cat mystery.
Robert Goulet.
Vespers.
U-turns.
Pre-history.
Mason jars.
The down-on-his-luck hippie magician.
The spinster librarian.
The smooth Lothario.
This sneaking suspicion.
This magic moment.
That tragedy narrowly averted.
Nose-diving birds.
Twizzlers.
Dumplings.
Nancy and Sluggo.
The great hearts gone, and those still beating.
The ink I still, astonishingly, feel compelled to use.
Unexpected eruptions of pleasure and recognition.
Mercy.
This life, what it helplessly is, and what it yet could be.
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