Nobody wants to talk about the messy aftermath of Thanksgiving dinner.
That very much includes me, so let’s focus on anything else.
As soon as I wrote the promise of another post, the ambition and effort to write it dissipated, and now I sit at the cafe a few days before Thanksgiving, forcing words onto paper and lamenting the lazy lack of any driving inspiration to set this blog post on fire.
Instead, all I can muster is a resigned and lackluster rumination on the wind-down of another day of Thanks – my 50th, thank you very much (and how do I return some of them?) – as I feel every single one of those years. Looking ahead as we are wont to do here, as the good Virgos always do, this holiday season doesn’t have a definitive theme (a Ralph Lauren Christmas is redundantly foolish, and our next image overhaul on the blog won’t be until the turn of the New Year) so for the next few weeks we’ll have the final maneuverings of the mysterious Mr. Oud, and a somewhat darker encapsulation of the season as that’s the mood in the air. There’s a deep sunken beauty to a dark Christmas, to paraphrase a celebrated and maligned sadist/writer.
Perhaps this isn’t the best way to greet the season, but I can’t think of another. Buckle up, buttercups.
