To me, Thanksgiving has always been about friends, family, and self indulgent rememberance dressed up as lessons on universal truths. And also a time to rest on my laurels by rehashing old posts. In that giving spirit, here's an excerpt of a Thanksgiving post from one year ago today:
Happy Thanksgiving. Now back to the unyielding demands of the news cycle.
(You see the commitment we have for you, dear readers, here at Fraters? Other sites are taking the weekend off to spend well earned time with their loved ones and thus abandoning their responsibilities of sorting and filtering the news for your review. Other sites are using up thousands of words and precious minutes of your Internet reading time in waxing philosophic about their many blessings and getting all warm and grateful about their lives. And that's fine, I'm truly glad for them. But we here at Fraters Libertas choose to break away from the warm glow of familial bliss to continue digging up the latest examples of Al Gore's ineptitude and Garrison Keillor's verbal foibles.
Trust me, I could take the easy way out. My lovely wife Suzanne's parents flew in all the way from Marin County to spend the day with us here in St. Paul. Per usual, her two brothers and their families are here too. Throw in my parents and two siblings, uncles, aunts, three sets of cousins, my law partner, my publicist and all their respective kids and nannies. Mix in a house full of neighbors, friends and the Elder (who has agreed to tend bar and clean up after the party) and our little Victorian manse in Crocus Hill is almost at capacity for love and good times. We've finished the meal, I gave my traditional toast/poignant recap of the emotional state of our lives, the applause and hugging have about wrapped up, and now the urbane conversation over cocktails begins (and won't end until the wee small ones tomorrow). And where am I at this moment? Back in my den and back on the blogging beat. But I better get to the point here, as Suzanne has just entered the room, with a freshly poured Bushmills rocks for me, and she's very forcefully implying we need a little "face time" before we have to return to our hosting responsibilities.)
Excuse me while I get a little misty eyed over that rememberance. Things have changed slightly since last year. After investing the entirety of Suzanne's and my assets into Deserve Victory bumper stickers, let's just say our liquid position was compromised (and not in a good way). I lost the Crocus Hill manse. And with it went the gleam in lovely Suzanne's eyes. She took the kids back to Marin County and is now seeing someone she refers to as (in a soul withering choice of words) "a successful blogging entreprenuer."
Me? I'm now living in a one room coldwater flat above a baba ghanouj factory on Snelling. The only people trying to get face time with me these days are a couple of bill collectors and Man from Silver Mountain, who claims I haven't propertly remunerated him for his award winning series of posts early this week. (Read your contract pal, there was no provision against paying you in the cash equivalent of Deserve Victory bumper stickers).
Yet today, on this great American holiday, I remain thankful. For all I have (a delicious Swanson's turkey pot pie and half a case of Huber Bock) and all I may have come this time next year. Not to let the cat out of the bag, but if I can get just a few more investors interested in my next great idea (the "Expose the Ink Stained Wanker" bumper sticker), I may be returning to the 55105 zip code and to the love and ressurected respect of my wayward bride.
Goodnight baby and stay true, things will soon break our way.
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