Friday, November 10, 2017


It's a bit early, but I am already starting to resent other people's holiday celebrations. In particular the bird-thing coming up in a couple of weeks. The recounting of the splendours of the holiday feast, surrounded by friends and family, by the happy clams for two or three weeks following the event, fills me with dread. "Oh we had such a wonderful time", they will say, "there was turkey and pumpkin pie (with Cool Whip on top) and Grand Marnier and stuffing and gravy and beaten biscuits and corn and cornichons and potato salad and and ham and New England clam chowder and cranberry sauce and cranberry shortbread and cranberry brickle ice cream with orange-cranberry liqueur and cranberry cream cake and succotash and mashed potatoes and peach brown Bettie and Suzanne's famous cranberry truffle quiche and cookies and pastries and string beans with almond slivers and French onion and cream of mushroom casserole and oysters and Pappy Van Winkle hooch and Perdomo cigars and Peet's coffee and crème brûlée and taffy and turkey chow mein and Stilton cheese and wild boar pâté and some kind of Texas chili dish with cheese melted on top and Sriracha apple sauce mousse and lobster and garlic shrimp and a chocolate cake and festive cheese ball and tofurky with all the trimmings .... "

And then they will smile priggishly.

I will have spent the day burrowing into a pile of rotting fall leaves looking for grubs. Or something very similar.

I have no intention of going to the cigar bar that day, because the last three times the other patrons were smirking over their exquisite epicurean warm family hearth eat too much get stuffed events.

Instead, I am already figuring out which chachanteng in Chinatown will be open, so that I can have baked Portuguese chicken rice and a hot cup of Hong Kong milk tea. Or maybe pork meatball congee and a fried dough stick. Because, as the bum with the infected foot so eloquently put it, "you furriners don't celebrate, do you".

Born here. Spent most of my life here.
Still so "foreign" you could spit.
We don't celebrate.

Being pissed off at turkey snarfing neurotypicals, normals, and suburbanites is maybe a bit premature so early in the game. Enjoy your traditional warm family thing, all you socially acceptable types!

My apartment mate will have two thurkey-sivings. One with her kinfolk, one with her boyfriend. I'll try to stay invisible both days.

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