Gratty-tood

I hate Thanksgiving, or any prescriptive time where we're supposed to be doing something because it happens to be a certain day of the week or month. I would never barbecue on the Fourth of July or Memorial Day, for instance, because that's when you're "supposed" to barbecue and it's like: what the fuck are we all, mind-controlled or something? What if I want to have crab cakes on July 4th? And what if I want to make them in a fucking pan?

I guess I'm a communist.

I don't like Thanksgiving because it forces the idea of command-style gratitude on us and, while it's great to be reminded that there are things in life to be thankful for, I don't especially think we need to have it marked on our calendars for us. So, with that in mind, I'm going to tell you today, on some random day in August, what I'm thankful for and, if you feel so moved, you can feel free to reciprocate.

No pressure. And no fucking cranberry sauce either.

I am thankful for:

* ties, of the neck and bow variety.

* Monty Python

* my travel mug

* folk music

* hiking

* Richard D'Oyly Carte, for bringing together Gilbert & Sullivan

* my parents

* air conditioning

* books about, not necessarily by, Mark Twain

* you

* that my eyesight is bad enough to warrant glasses, but not poor enough that I'm supremely dangerous to myself or others without them

* boxer shorts that don't do the army crawl thing up my asshole

* my banjo

* the ability to communicate through the written word

* those who've stuck around

* my job, imperfect as it is

* my beautiful wife

* the ability to not be embarrassed when I repeat myself

* my beautiful wife

Look at Me: I'm Thankful (Again)

365 days ago, I let my small corner of the blogging world know that, on Thanksgiving Day, 2009, I was thankful for my undershirts.

Aren't I clever?

This year, I don't know what it is, but I'm not feeling especially clever. Or witty. Or funny. Or subversive. Actually, I don't know exactly how I'm feeling as I start to type this post, which is always a little dangerous, because I have no idea how this post is going to turn out.

And, honestly-- I kind of like that. It's pretty much the only risk I take in life. Besides speeding-- and I speed in a Volvo, so it's almost not even that risky anyway. Speeding in a Volvo is a bit like having bareback sex with a photograph of a prostitute.

Thanksgiving is a tricky time for renowned cynics and muttering bastards the world over, and I struggle with it, too. On the one hand, it's predictable and cloying-- inspiring some of us to pen odes to our undershirts. On the other hand, as a nation that takes everything, from its oxygen to its Blackberries for granted, a little dose of Rockwellism once a year couldn't really damage us too irreparably.

It wouldn't hurt this generation to bow its head and hold hands around that anachronistic thing called a dining room table-- not one little bit.

I've undergone a lot of changes between the Thankgiving of my 29th year, and that of my 30th. The smarmy, winking little brat in me wants to be funny and light this year, to poke holes in and poke fun at tradition and syrupy Little House on the Prairie idealism-- and the burgeoning adult in me wants to cry and hold my family, people who unbelievably seem to grow more distant and unfamiliar every week-- or is it month? I forget.

What I can't forget is that I am both the punk and the idealist, I am the smiling bugger and the thin-lipped grandfather-in-training-- always thinking, obsessing over what is right and what is expedient, and how to tow the line between the two. Or if I should. And what would it matter if I never decide to make the choice at all?

While I was writing this meandering mess, it popped into my head that I ought to be thankful for my sanity, a notion that has crystalized now that I work at a mental hospital. Sorry-- "crisis center," let's be politically correct, if we can stand it. I've now worked there long enough to see patients get discharged and re-admitted multiple times, and, even sadder, I've worked there long enough to see names from my ancient past, and not-so-ancient past, on the admitting sheet, and I have chatted with these gowned ghosts in the halls, and I know that, for one synapse misfiring, or not, it could have been me. Without the I.D. badge, without the keys. And that is enough to make anyone bow his brown-haired head at the dining room table.

Of course, I'm still thankful for my undershirts. Even the ones I've had to force myself to throw out between this year and the last.

Happy Thanksgiving, my dears.

Hi! Look at Me: I'm Thankful!

Lots of people wait until November 25th or until they've been hit by a bus to talk about being thankful. So, this morning, March 1st, 2010, I thought: shit-- why can't I talk about what I'm thankful for today? I mean, it's my blog, right? Right. So, off we go!

I'm thankful....

* that it's not Christmastime.

Because nothing makes you want to shotgun your face off more than walking through Marshalls while Christmas music is simmering through your cerebral cortex. I think "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime" might be the worst song ever written, outside of the theme music for "The Lawrence Welk Show" and "The Quicker Pickerupper" jingle. Between the awful, piped, canned music, the incessant advertising, societal pressure, and the "He-wished-me-merry-Christmas-but-I'm-Jewish-so-I'm-offended" horseshit, Christmastime serious makes me want to damage my face with a penknife or high-powered semiautomatic weapon.

* that it's not election time.

As far as I know, no federal, state, or local campaigns are going on right about now, and I think that's just fantastic. Outside of Christmastime commercials, there's no advertising more obnoxious than political ads and, during election season, we are perpetually ass-fingered with ads for liver-spotted white, Protestant men in ill-fitting suits with red or blue striped ties (depending on party affliliation) throwing babies and shaking hands with snowballs. On Saturday night, I actually had a fight with my mother-in-law who is convinced that Bill Clinton isn't as big a scumbag as John Edwards, because Clinton just ejaculated on Monica Lewinsky's dress and cigar-banged her, but he didn't impregnate her while his wife had cancer. "Yeah," I said, "but they both broke their marriage vows, and they're both disgusting pigs," I said, "one of them just happened to pay attention in 7th grade health class and the other didn't." She was not amused. And I hate politicians.

* that it's not snowing.

Because I've had just about enough of that shit. If any more of that comes our way this winter, I might have to pop a cap in some snowman's ass.

* that my wife doesn't have F.G.S.

You brothas know what I'm talking about (actually-- do any men read my blog?). F.G.S. = Fat Girl Smell. My father, the Israeli, calls it "ovesch," and it's a term utilized to describe the funk that emanates from certain women who are obese and who retain certain curds and/or other byproducts in folds under their underarms, under their breasts, or in their scalp folds, thus producing F.G.S.

Mrs. Apron is neither fat, nor does she produce F.G.S., and I'm very thankful for that. I once went on a blind date with a girl who produced the dreaded odor, and I was crestfallen. On her online profile, she professed to be "more fun than a barrel of monkeys" but, unfortunately, a barrel of monkeys is what she smelled like.

* that we did not bring Knucklehead, the crazed, homosexual beagle home.

While my dog would have benefitted (?) by getting his cock sucked on an incessant basis, that dog would have turned our home on its roof and our lives on its ass. We would not have survived that neurotic, spastic, fruitty-assed dog. Quite plainly, it would have buried us, and, after a sufficient period of mourning, would have dutifully returned to vacuuming our dog's dick.

* that I do not have cancer.

At least, not that I know of. You know-- how do I know for sure, right?

* that my penis works.

It's not something you really think about until it's broken, but my penis does what it's supposed to do, by and large, and I'm pretty thankful for that. I think there are people who think it's vulgar to thank God for their penis, but I don't. I mean, he gave it to me. It's supposedly an agent to make babies (Jewish ones at that!) and so I don't feel awkward about it at all. I mean, it'll never be a movie star or anything, but it's fully functional if not aesthetically winning. So, thanks, God. My dick's what's up. Or... er...

* for my car.

As most of you know, I drive a 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser with 78,400 miles on the odometer. It has a big dent by the right passenger's door that has rusted, there are scratches all over the trunk, roof, and now the front windshield courtesy of enthusiastic snow scraping from the last blizzard, it's underpowered, gets terrible gas mileage, and has the turning radius of a triceratops on lithium, but it's completely paid off, and it's mine. I can do whatever I want to it. I can paint it purple with black polkadots if I get the itch. I can race it at Soap Box Derby Day or paint flames on it or cover the floor in red shag carpeting. Maybe one day I'll dump it in a fucking swamp in Bud Lake, New Jersey and try to claim the insurance on it. They'll probably mail me a check for $307.21. Hello, VW Beetle down-payment!

* that I still get zits sometimes.

Whenever I look at my burgeoning crow's feet or my gray hairs in the mirror, I'm actually comforted by the fact that they're sometimes complemented by a pimple, usually on my temples, where I constantly rub my fingers in exasperation, usually at work. I'm still young, goddamnit. And I've got the little pesky pustules to prove it.

This concludes my thankfuls for March 1, 2010.

Thanks.