Thanksgiving. Supposedly, the day started when the Pilgrims, fresh off their disease-infested boats, were able to rely on the kindness of strangers, the so-called heathens already dwelling on the land. In perhaps one of the last compromises between the white and red man, the two groups of people were able to set aside their cultural and pigmentary differences and enjoy a meal together. From that little tale, we get Thanksgiving.
It’s a good story, but I think that’s all it is– a story. It almost sounds like an urban legend to me– just like the Kentucky Fried Rat. Well, in light of the current iteration of the day, that’s all it is– a story. Nowadays, Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the retail bonanza known as the holidays. The media hasn’t forgotten the meaning of Thanksgiving, but they have certainly chosen to focus more on Christmas and less on the secular holiday that comes a month before. Thanksgiving is a formality. It stands in the way, like a belligerent younger sibling, between Halloween and Christmas. Because the Christmas season has recently been expanded to include pretty much every month except February, Thanksgiving is an anti-climax. Malls are already ensconced in Christmas wreaths and trees in late September. By the time Turkey Day hits, people are already expecting Christmas. When they get Thanksgiving, they simply go through the motions, without necessarily pausing to reflect on the day’s importance, historical or otherwise.
I find this unfortunate because Christmas has lost much of its luster for me in recent years. That could be due to the string of stupid, thoughtless gifts I have received (honestly, a sock-warmer?), but I think there are other reasons. Christmas has lost religious significance to me because I, like Marx, have realized that religion is merely the opiate of the masses. Religiosity is not as detrimental as some addictions, but church-goers are far more dangerous to me than the local smack-addict or crack-whore. They spread their ignorant ideas to unenlightened people. They do evil things in the name of something that is supposedly all-good (sidenote: Evil exists. Explain that one to me, holy rollers. God’s all-good, and He created everything. Even evil? Oh wait, that’s right– mmm…could it be? SATAN?!) Anyway, Christmas was originally a pagan festival (much like it is today) until the pre-Schism, pre-Reformation Christian church decided to do away with the celebration of the monotany of the oncoming winter and stick Jesus in there. When was Jesus born? Good question…considering that nearly every culture has its own calendar, and no one was around to firm up the details, let’s say he was born on December 25th. And the public? Oh, they ate it up. Just like their Turkey Day feasts.
I guess my point is that every holiday has no real significance to me. They were all just days invented by other people to commemorate things that may or may not have happened. I am told that on this day I should be feel thankful for what I have; on this day, I should remember those people who have died before me; on this day, I should kiss someone because they’re Irish (that’s one I’ll never figure out). Frankly, I am tired of being told what to do.
The above was written prior to my trip to Florida for Thanksgiving. Actually, it was written during the sojourn down to Titusville, which may account for the vitriolic tone of my writing. I was tired; I was ill; I was grumpy. Although I am still skeptical of organized religion, I must say that I had a splendid time on my trip to Florida to celebrate Thanksgiving.
The plan was to leave bright and early Wednesday. Well, when 6 am rolled around, it was not so bright, but definitely early. When going over my itenerary with Kim, she suggested that instead of trying to wake up at 5:30 (or sleeping in the car, which was my original intention), I simply forgo Morpheus’ arms in the evening, so that sleeping during the trip would be much easier. This sounded like a good idea, so I played video games and packed until it was time to depart.
As soon as we (my brother, his wife, and their two Yorkshire pups) hit the road, my head hit the pillow. It was 6:14 AM. Sleep was the only thing on my mind. A mere ten minutes into the trip, I heard the nasally baritone of one of the DJ’s on Bo’s favorite sports talk radio station. I had no choice but to crank up my personal CD player even louder, the strains of the Amelie soundtrack taking me to a place far, far away from the Toyota Forerunner. I didn’t care about Michael Vick dressing out for practice. I just wanted to sleep. And so, despite the sports talk and the constant rolling down of the window for my brother’s cigarette breaks, I somehow managed to sleep.
When I awoke, I had the famililar feelings of fatigue. My body was weary, and my mind was slightly delirious. It was only 8:23. I had gotten a couple hours of sleep, not nearly enough to provide my much-needed third and fourth stages of sleep. To help pass the time, I suggested to my brother that was play the always fun, always monotonous “I’m going on a trip, but first I had to stop by (insert local mega-store here)” game. Bo is a sucker for car-ride games, so he obliged. Feeling rather randy, I furthermore stipulated that we start at the end of the alphabet and work forward. And so…without further adieu, here’s what Bo and I took to Florida:
Zoologist
Yellow yams
X-ray Technician (not Cami S., she’s a bitch)
Waiter
Victrola
Undertaker
Tiger Tamer (Roy Horn, who’s currently recuperating by taming kittens instead of tiger cubs)
Sexy Sluts
Radiohead 🙂
Quacky Queer
Professor of Paleontology, specifically Ross Gellar
Oscar presenter (not winner, mind you– presenter)
Ned Flanders
Marijuana
LSD
Knitter, specifically Leslie, who has recently undertaken Project: Scarf
Joint Roller (one who defected from the Dominican Republic, where he rolled cigars)
Ice Sculptor (one specializing in vodka-urinating statues, a la Dennis Kozlowski)
Homosexual Horticulturalist (also a hogfat renderer)
Gay Gardener (one of Bo’s– pretty weak, if you ask me)
Freedom fighter from the Operation: Iraqi “Freedom” campaign
Eerie Eccentric Elephant Rider (another one of Bo’s– pretty weak, if you ask me)
Douche bags
Crazed crooners
Bo Ollinger
Alice from Carroll’s Wonderland books
That was probably the highlight of the actual car ride down to Florida. I spent the rest of my time looking out the window, playing Walter Mitty, wishing it was Saturday, and hoping I could fall back asleep.
[Sometimes I amaze myself. I was able to remember the answers to the game a week after it was played. Not bad.]
When we arrived at our hotel, my mother and my older brother were appalled at the establishment’s deplorable conditions. Granted, things were dirty, and the help was surly. I reminded both of them that things could have been worse. We had cable, A/C, and carpet in the rooms. What more could one want? This was Titusville, Florida. It wasn’t Atlanta; it wasn’t even Birmingham. Titusville is a Podunk town; worn and run-down, forgotten by its residents and tourists alike. To expect more than what we got was ludicrous in my opinion. Once we settled into our slightly squalid surroundings, I took a shower to rinse the exhaustion and stale smell of car ride off me. After my shower, Mom took me to the convenience store for Coronas.
Sidenote: When providing the trip itenerary for me, Mom’s plans included copious amounts of lounging by the pool and drinking. Not surprisingly, her maternal duties precluded her from enjoying this activity for largely the entire trip. Excepting a pair of delicious Brandy Alexanders prepared by my uncle, the only time Kerry drank was during Friday evening’s game of Scrabble. Sometimes, I wish my mom didn’t have to be a mom all the time. She’s an awesome lady when she isn’t worn thin from the constant mothering my younger brothers require.
No offense, Paul and Noah. Well, maybe a little. STOP ARGUING ABOUT STUPID SHIT THAT’S ALREADY HAPPENED!!!
After I had a couple beers, we went over to Grammy’s for dinner. My aunt had prepared us some kind of Mexican casserole. It was edible, and so I ate it. That was dinner.
I’ve picked up the habit of inspecting the various and sundry books people choose to adorn their shelves, and so when I was at Grammy’s, I went from room to room, checking the bookcases and armoires for rare finds. Did I ever find any! Not only did I discover a nifty tome on gnomes and a manual on etiquette circa 1954, but I also found a first-edition printing of my favorite Hemingway novella, the Old Man and the Sea! After picking them out, I approached Grammy, seeking her approval for my choices. She complied, and I’m three books richer! I also put my name down for the gigante Merriam-Webster’s nomenclator she has, whenever the time is right.
My grandmother and I have the most perfunctory of relationships. This is not because I do not love her, but more because I do not know her. She has always been a bit a coot, and so visits to her house have been few and far between. She’s getting on in years, and her time here is limited. I am happy that I got to see her again; it may have been my last time (dread the thought, but it’s a possibility all the same). Approaching her about the books was difficult. Asking a stranger for a hand job may have been easier [Okay, okay. Sorry. First, that was in bad taste. Second, I don’t talk to strangers.]
I’ll pick this back up in a bit, things appear to be getting a little blue. I figure this is enough to get you salivating.