The utterly incomprehensible post-Halloween oppression is about to begin. This will mean a ramping up of all the Holidays crap we've all come to know and love.
The good thing is, Thanksgiving is the best social holiday I know, these days. I get to drive two hours, which is a great odyssey of countryside, toward the end of the Rappahannock River, where I will join with a family not-my-own. This family considers me a friend, perhaps more, and in long-standing.
It's a fortune in good will boiled down to one day. I know Thanksgiving is just an artifice, but the traditions were designed around the idea that human beings who actually loved each other would enjoy spending a day doing what human beings do, which is eat.
In most cases and most families, the tension is a crawling eyeball of judgement and slithering death to the individual. And trust me, I've had my share. But in recent times, I've been lucky to have wonderful people desire my presence. Unlike in any other facet of life, I'm an integral part of something far larger than myself.
I use this post as a preface, an apology of sorts, for all the cruel things I'll say about the Holidays, and people, and traffic, and everything else about this time of year. There is one thing I love about the Holidays. The rest of it, well, the rest of it could be buried deep in the earth, near the nudie magazine I hid when I was fourteen, with the full-bodied woman volcanically-oiled and writhing beside a pool on a day with sun bleaching the stones beneath her. I wonder where she is, today, and if anyone loves her as much as growing boys did in the 1970s.
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