Thursday, November 26, 2020


The day of the dead bird is upon us. Most people have, by now, hunted down the innocent wild sub-avian American and slaughtered him, perhaps brutally, definitely sudden. And if they have less than a dozen people to feed, have harvested the breasts and fatty thighs. Which they will in several hours bring forth from the domestic charnel chamber festooned with sundry inedible side dishes. The ceremonial plates of greased starch and blandish spackle.

Imagine the sound of trumpets here. Savage trumpets.
The kiddie-winkies will gather, drooling.
Barely contained joy.

Or whatever it is that pilgrim wannabees do on this day, in their faux puritan finery, while they get ever more swozzled on beer and cheap bourbon, which is what this holiday is all about.
I wouldn't know, not going anywhere, apparently there's something en crout in the refrigerator for a meal later, and this is the first time in very many years that the apartment mate is staying home for Thanksgiving, because unlike people in the vast interior, she isn't crazy and neither are her siblings with whom she usually celebrates Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Traditionally, I feel hosed on Thanksgiving. But not this year.
All the sane people are alone or in groups of two.
Avoiding family like the plague.

My sympathies are with the bird.

Last smoke of the day yesterday evening was long after nightfall, in silent streets. Many apartments in the neighborhood were lit, showing that most of the people here weren't flying anywhere. And it was too cold for there to be many other pedestrians.
Besides, most folks don't have an urge for a nice Virginia flake while freezing their balls off.
It was, never the less, an extremely enjoyable smoke. Succulent.

In less than an hour I shall be heading out for a morning constitutional, with another Peterson and another flake. The loonies whom I heard last night at the intersection will be asleep, or still drowsy, not so mumblesome. It takes hot coffee and full alertness to be fully dysfunctional.
My apartment mate will be fixing herself breakfast at that time. She's home today (which means that I cannot smoke inside at all), and I'm thinking of getting my coat for Canadian winters out of the closet. As a Dutchman, I should be okay with cold weather. As a 'long time Californ', of course, I bellyache about the weather. Anything between fifty nine degrees and seventy nine Fahrenheit (15° C to 26½°C) is fine. And I would offer that that is a large enough range that it should be a legal standard. Anything outside of that is outrageous, and should be illegal.

Yeah no, I don't like cold. None of us pipe smokers do.
But for domestic tranquility we'll Siberianize.
It's a price we pay for happiness.

I don't know what that turkey did, but we should pardon him.
If I were in power, I most certainly would.
Poor damn frozen bird.


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