Thanksgiving Procession 2022.

"Such was the way, gratitude was expensive, and revenge cheap." 

-paraphrase of Edward Gibbon

I was sitting there with my Beech Nut and Miller sawing over a ream of turkey.  I had been accosted by street toughs earlier, beaters and coffee can exhaust, coffee can speakers and such, accosted, left for dead, left to put my shirt back on with one hand while holding my dignity, forever, in the other hand.

There he was, the Cheever, and sometimes when one is in mind he brings his s elf to pure physical presence.

"WELCOME TO FOOT-"

and there it was.

"BALL!"

In the course of human events, time and circumstance stand still for no man, posterity only smiles upon the most fortunate usually, and a desultory character grows its own tree of shames and woes.

The first dark skin off the boat it was, some five hundred years ago, some Pilgrims, and some Injuns, red skins, darkies and chalky.  Good old irrepressible Chalky, churning that butter into cream, Horatio Alger.

What does Elon give thanks for this Thanksgiving?  He has a new pet project with Twitter; I know that has a certain excitement, a little project to throw oneself into.  I know the fresh excitement of breaking the seal on a new project.

And there I was.  Perpetually into something new, that restless roil leading me along, touching things, sampling things, getting my fingers in things and looking at things.

I was still amazed that Bezos simultaneously gave away 100 million and fired 10,000 employees, basically same week.

Mother was thankful for not farting pure blood during the prior week.

My own ass was thankful for new opportunities, old friends, and so forth, and so 24th bebes.  Rainbow warriors.  Prayers to God, and better still, praise reports to God, because all the glory is inevitably his, and us, just recepticles of his gracious merit and favor.  Indeed, somewhere in the goodbook is said all good things are from God.

That woman, hiding in her bedroom, that with the blankets and tin foil over the windows, and me dragging myself, nearly toothless, bleeding, still half-drunk, back to my truck, beaten and bloody, conquered in all but spirit, little nugget of revenge, and my outrage sperm tapping against my thigh.

"Such as it was, the Catalines existed as robbers of the empire, the most dastardly not coming from without, and the real grabbers of Imperial treasure not lurking in the magical woods of Vin Di Bona, but from within the very Palantine, from the very districts of the city itself.  Their vicious hunger for increase had them building with all sorts of nuisance materials, such as blood and bones, empty Sniggers papers and so forth, waste matter."  -This never happened.

I was listening to the Doors, and writhing around shirtless, on a mission to go upriver to see the Colonel, and probably kill him if not bring him in line with the organization proper: a killing being a simple enough method.  The IWGP referees had banned me from ringside, so there I was, listening to LA Woman and pawing my balls with the television on the Christian channels, kind of doing a Godless existentialist prayer to turn my enemies into ashes, or something along those lines, anyway, reduce them the way people reduce my own problems to my own devices, just sort of mirror that goodness back on them, meet their goodness with their own goodness, a proper taste of like.

"His tactics were brilliant.  Unorthodox. He had went up the Me Kong and went silent though, somewhere in the north of Laos."