Could it really be about the plight of the Native American Indian?

Today is a day we devote to stuffing large amounts of fattening foods down our gaping maws and wondering what stores we are going to frequent afterward in order to secure the most righteous deals on merchandise.  Eating is such an amazing experience.  On Thanksgiving I like to eat until I am stuffed and then I like to stick my fingers down my throat like a crazed infant and vomit that succulent combination of turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, yams, and pumpkin pie into the great porcelain bowl like a fascinating piece of abstract performance art.  Few things in life give me as much pleasure as tossing my cookies.  This cleans my stomach out so I can commence with the ritualistic binge drinking.  I purchase several 18 packs of Tecate (cervesa con caracter) ahead of time as well as several bottles of inexpensive red wine.  As the night progresses I drink and I puke and I am reminded of all the steadfast realism I see when I move the red curtains and look out my window at night.  I cannot say why but for some reason the sight of the distant street light fills me with incomparable dread, especially when it is green.  I don’t know where I was when I realized my life is a dream.  Funny how secrets travel.  I have been considering purchasing a gigantic box set of the show Gatchaman but who knows if I will ever have the intestinal fortitude to go through with such an audacious act.  Who amongst us has not harbored fantasies involving being subjected to electrocution by raven haired goddesses from the south?  I once met an individual claiming to be a deity from another dimension who was half man, half woman.  This person offered me gifts which were blinding blue in color.  I was afraid to look at this individual.  When describing me, many people say music was my first love.  I understand the hyperbole but in actuality my first love was a girl named Melissa.  She would call me “Raisin-Bran” on occasion as a diminutive jest on my name.  She’s dead now. 

What I have written above has absolutely no value.  It is not remotely entertaining nor is it in any way, shape or form an insightful commentary on Thanksgiving or life in general.  However I can recall with numbing clarity watching the movie Carrie for the first time when I was a wee youngster.  My mother was in the room with me and when I inquired about the opening scene – which I did not understand at all at the time – she refused to elucidate on the subject.  Despite this, I never became a large fan of Brian DePalma’s work; Carrie is still my favorite movie of his (though it is far down on the list of my favorite Stephen King books).   Those who know me best know I have very little use for holidays.  One does not need a designated day on the calendar to eat like a pig.  This is obvious because people do it every day, me included.  A person also has the capacity to be thankful for anything on any given day (I think).  These days the only benefits I find in holidays are the days off from work they provide (admittedly, this is a huge boon) and the TV specials.  A Garfield Thanksgiving still beats my hirsute ass into puckering submission.  Why must we all be such dull programmed automatons?  What has happened to everyone in the entire world?  Strangle me please!  If she were standing before me I would beg this of her.  How I adore Italian food.  Carrie is phenomenal though.  I must buy this motion picture on blu ray immediately that I may watch it 59 times in a row every Tuesday for the next 17 years.  Only then will I ever have a prayer of advancing my invented universal language (consisting of tongue clicks and guttural noises) into the more scholarly circles at Harvard and Yale which determine the future of our fair planet.  I listened to a lot of Vicente Fernandez this week.  Of his more recent albums folks often cite Para Siempre as the best and though it is excellent I think I may actually prefer its follow-up Necesito De Ti.  If only she would punish me for this transgression.  As previously alluded to, Italian food is so glorious. 

I witnessed two things of nigh indescribable ugliness this week and they were both in the same place.  I will never forget those eyes.  Grotesque, disgusting bulging eyes.  They were the eyes of some ancient evil and belonged to a hideous, bloated bird like creature with an insatiable hunger.  The worst thing in those eyes was the knowing.  There was a definitive knowledge and acknowledgement there despite all the protestations of innocence.  Time had elapsed; it could not have been simpler.  Before me, the life of a monster not worth preserving.  If only I’d had two freshly sharpened Ticonderoga number 2 pencils at hand then those repulsive ungrateful eyes would not have bothered me so.  And what is behind door number 2?  Why, only a glorious pale entitlement.  A giant tall glass spoiled milk.  That is a brilliant and shockingly apt description.  This thing was looking for ways to exterminate innocence and bring an end to something pure, if for no other reason than this thing has nothing of value underneath all the artificial niceties.  This slime covered alien beast is equally as horrible and intrinsically wrong as the bird like monster.  The violence inflicted in the past was deserved and not nearly enough.  All those fancy toys cannot hide the truth and that is true ugliness.  No crossing rivers for this thing, only fire.  I became complicit in these acts and I may never be able to come to terms with this fact.  The only hope of salvation lies in offering the innocents an opportunity for retribution. 

It is hard to believe a year has passed since she went away.  For the entirety of that year I was unable to listen to her music.  Today, finally, I was able to listen again.  As always, beautiful.  Wherever she is, I hope it is a better place than this.    

This year – as in most years of my utterly failed life – I am most thankful for luchadoras and denier, but especially the combination of those two.