Last Christmas I claimed to be cool based upon new clothes I received and the hip, enviable way in which I wore them. I have to blush a little bit now, wiser to the fact that material objects like clothes cannot define me or make me something I’m not. No, as I sit here now in the airport, sipping Frappuccino, with my ripped jeans and corduroy jacket, tapping smugly away on my computer, I realize that only by blindly following yuppie trends can I achieve a petty sense of social approval. On to something more seasonal.

I’m at the airport to fly home for a few days to celebrate Thanksgiving. This is the holiday where we take perhaps the one instance of good will between Europeans and Native Americans and exaggerate its importance until we almost forget about the ensuing genocide. Works for me. Especially if there’s pistachio pudding. Mmmmm, pistachio pudding.

I like Thanksgiving because it has the benefit of bringing family together without the complications of gifts or expected cheer. A bonus is the unapologetic focus on bird and face-stuffing. Every year, after consuming giant lumps of turkey flesh washed down with a liter of Leinenkugel’s, I collapse on the sofa like a sack of meat with slippers on, mumble something about dishes, and pass out. You just can’t get that kind of satisfaction on Christmas.


Happy Thanksgiving everyone, and travel safely.