As I prepare to make not one, but two turkeys this upcoming week, I think back to a column I wrote in 2003 about Thanksgiving in Lingo Yarns, once upon a time when I was editor of this fine rag.
As I read through it now, I reminisce about my girl spawn who was so innocent and young six years ago. My how time flies. Perhaps I'll have an update on Squanto from her next week.

Here is the 2003 column for your pleasure...
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When you sit down at the dinner table over this next week, first eating the big turkey, then the myriad of secondary dishes made from the leftovers, it might be food for thought to contemplate these Thanksgiving facts and myths.

Thanksgiving is celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November as established by the United States Congress in 1941. This was a compromise between tradition and a non-binding presidential declaration. Two years before, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt declared that turkey day should be celebrated on the next to last Thursday of November rather than the last Thursday of the month—to lengthen the period of time for the Christmas shopping season. In those years, you see, it was uncool to shop for Christmas until after Thanksgiving but coming out of the depression the middle-class merchants needed all the help they could get. Today, big corporate stores start setting up after Halloween and holiday catalogs begin arriving just after we’ve thrown out all the back-to-school catalogs. “Oh come, all ye faithful…”
Before Roosevelt’s declaration in support of America’s merchants, Thanksgiving had been recognized for only 76 years as an annual event. In 1863 president Abraham Lincoln declared a national day of Thanksgiving on the last Thursday of November in an effort to help forge a national identity during the tumultuous divisions between Americans resulting from the Civil War. It was also a way to welcome the huge influx of immigrants coming to America by involving them in a common, American holiday.
Several other presidents had proclaimed days of thanksgiving. James Madison declared the holiday twice in 1815. John Adams proclaimed it in 1798 and 1799 and George Washington in 1789 and 1795. The only thing was, none of these days of Thanksgiving were in the fall. George Washington, while leading the revolutionary forces declared a day of Thanksgiving in December, 1777, but it was a victory celebration for beating the British at Saratoga.
Prior to that, communities would hold Thanksgivings which were primarily glorified harvest festivals. There was no particular day, differing from colony to colony and in unfavorable harvest years some celebrated with a fast. Algonkian tribes in the area held six thanksgiving festivals during the year. The first pilgrim’s Thanksgiving was actually the local tribe’s fifth celebration of the year.
We can thank the American Public School system for teaching us that in 1621, the Wampanoag Indians and the Pilgrims who settled in Plymouth celebrated their friendship through a fall feast, which actually was a three-day event. We are taught that the Wampanoags tutored the Pilgrims how to grow foods, how to harvest the native flora and fauna and various survival tactics. It took the Pilgrims two years to get it right because it wasn’t until 1623 that they had enough food to hold another feast.
Today, the USDA estimates that 269 million turkeys were raised in 2003, with a good portion allocated to the annual gorge fest. Most families enjoy turkey, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, yams or sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and for desert, pumpkin pie. These, most Americans believe (like they believe that Saddam Hussein was responsible for 9/11), were the dishes served to the Pilgrims by the Indians. Historians believe that turkey was probably not served at the first Thanksgiving. Nor was corn on the cob, mashed potatoes or pumpkins in any form. What they agree on is that cranberries were most likely served in some fashion, as well as venison, other fowl like geese and ducks and probably some kind of squash and breads made from ground corn, but not on the cob.
I asked my daughter, age seven, what she knew about Thanksgiving.
“I know about when they first celebrated it, they celebrated it with Indians. They were celebrating thanks to people for helping them,” she said.
“What did they eat?” I asked her.
“They ate turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberries, cider, fruit, cider sauce…” she said.
Her eyes lit up when I asked about Squanto. She told me this tale.
“Squanto, um, he was hunting for food and then he saw this place with the pilgrims and they were talking and then they became friends. And then, um, Squanto came back and brought another friend and that other friend was very nice and he taught them other stuff too. And then Squanto came back with a bunch of Indians and then his second friend, um, he came and told them stuff that he needs to know. He needed to know how the Indians were doing.”

My significant girlfriend said this morning, "You're the most ridiculous person I know... redonculouso!"
That may be true, but she was denouncing my parenting attitudes. And in this case, I believe I am at least partially right, if not totally correct.

"Bad kids need a good whipping and if that doesn't work they should be sent to military school to straighten them out," I countered.

"You're so f***ing wrong. Oh My God," she continued to harp. At this point all I began to hear were the muted sounds of a trumpet like the parents in Charlie Brown holiday special.

I admit, while I'm most certainly, almost perfectly right, I may also be wrong, or at least a behind-the-times-once-correct-but-now-not-correct kind of wrong.

Let me start from the beginning. Once upon a time I, too, was a kid. I know it's hard to believe but I started out as two zygotes, merging to become the lump of flesh, bone, sinew and partially functioning nerve tissue I am today.

While being reared, I challenged authoritay just like any red-blooded American youth to assert my independence. I occasionally encountered old-fashioned parenting attitudes that I thought were wrong. This occasionally led to being grounded and even the occasional ass-beating. The ass-beatings brought new meaning to the phrase "being reared", unlike the modern prison definition of "being reared." It was a time when you could beat your children without Wal-Mart security cameras watching your every move. Ahhh, the good old days.

On one particular occasion the old-fashioned attitudes reared their ugly head. When my father had mistakenly thought I was mouthing off at him while working in the corn feild, he threw a shovel at me. For the record, I may have been mouthing off but that part of my memory could have had some selective censoring and I don't recall those details. The next few seconds, however, are burned into my brain.

I watched the shovel woosh-woosh like a helicopter blade towards me in slow motion. I had plenty of time as he hammer-threw it from about 75 yards away. As it neared, I timed my jump to avoid it as I believed it would fall short. Time seemed to slow down even more as it got closer and as I jumped, the handle whacked me in the shin. My lack of ability to jump high (another story for another time) had allowed the shovel to hit me. But had I not jumped, I may not have had the opportunity to make zygotes of my own and spawn to this very day.

While it didn't break my leg, I still can feel the dent it left in my shin. It is a reminder that no matter what I had done to deserve (or not deserve) my punishment and suffer the wrath of an angry dad, sometimes you got to... crap, I don't know. What lesson is there in this? Don't mouth off to someone with a shovel? Sometimes you got to jump to avoid a ball-severing blow? Maybe I should have ran to one side or the other? Long ago child abuse laws were more lax? Or how about sometimes you need to create dramatic situations to have a good story to tell later.

I just returned from a short trip to Texas to see old friends and my pop. I had missed the food. Tex-Mex, BBQ, fried everything from the sea... I love food like that. I think I gained ten pounds.
Here were my meals...

Tuna/Tamarind ceviche, queso with Hatch green chiles, chips, fresh guacamole, four margaritas.

Amber's Vegetarian Shepard's pie and a couple Shiner Bocks.

Roasted potatoes & eggs

BBQ brisket at the Buckhorn in San Antonio with a Big Red to warsh it down.

More fresh guacamole (not as good as the first one we had), Cabrito (baby goat) & some Tuna Margaritas (Tunas are the name for the prickly pear fruit) at Acenar on the River Walk.

A nightcap at the Menger Hotel where Teddy Roosevelt recruited his Rough Riders. A herd of older Marines on Harleys with some killer colors had taken over the bar... some modern Rough Riders.

Chilquiles and coffee at the San Antonio market.

More BBQ at Bill Miller's in Pleasanton with another Big Red. I bought a coconut cream pie to take my dad.

All-u-can-eat Chinese buffet at the China "A" in Rockport with pop.

Some bacon wrapped scallops and crab stuffed Jalepenos at Pop's (not my pop, but a place near my pop's house. We washed them down with a couple of beers.

Two hours later we return with my own pop to Pop's and I enjoy an all-u-can-eat fried oysters, with another couple of beers.

We enjoyed a couple home cooked meals at my pop's place (my real pop's place not Pop's Place down the road). Big fat pancakes for breakfast, deep fried shrimp and red snapper for supper. Sweet Iced Tea to wash it down.

On the drive back to Austin we made one more stop at a BBQ place in Lockhart.

I'm stuffed.

Fall harvest always brings a cornucopia of new foods into my diet. Combined with the fall road trips, hunting trips, fishing trips and upcoming holiday excursions to see family and friends the variety of foods I tend to ingest over the next few months is enormous. While I have always loved traveling and eating foods, my gastronomical tract has not. I tend to get all stopped up. The exact cause is unknown as to whether it is stress, too much lactose, being in a sitting position for too long, or traveling across the magnetic lines of the earth too quickly.
I have always had this issue, even as a young boy. Whenever we went to grandma's house, somebody on day three or four would clog the toilet. I'm not saying who, but after an hour or two of working out a complex mathematical problem on the throne, the plumbing gods would decide to punish me.
I recall one traumatic incident as a young lad, after not having a BM for the better part of a week, my grandmother introduced me to the joys of the enema, a thrill not shared into my adult life.
When she first mentioned it I thought at first an enema was a new type of pastry she was making especially for the holidays. Her biscuits and dinner rolls were always to die for, especially when grandpa made the butter and molasses mixture to spread on them. I was eager to try her new pastry, the "enema."
In hindsight (no pun intended), it could have been her biscuits that bunched me up.
My first inkling that something was amiss came when she said it was in the bathroom.
"Why would you bake an enema in the bathroom grandma?"
She thought that was cute and grabbed me by the ear to drag me into the bathroom. Down on the ranch they had well water, and in certain parts of South Texas the water tends to come up with a powerful sulphur smell. To this day I imagine that water coming up from the depths of hell itself, full of fire and brimstone.
"You're going to stick what where?" I screamed.
There was no escape. She was between the door and me holding a red bag with a tube. She was a large woman and I was just a wee tot at the time. Yep, it was all fire and brimstone and a half gallon of water shooting out of my ass after her part was done. I can't remember if it fixed my problem at the time but it fixed a memory in my head for life. I still get all bunched up thinking about it.

It seems I'm getting more and more irritable. I'm eating more. I'm sleeping more. There is less and less sunlight during the day. My bear spirit is coming out and I'm doing my best to get out of bed every day. It's time for me to hibernate. I think I was a bear in a previous incarnation. But then again, I could be any other number of hibernating reincarnations.
I've written about it before, but over the last several years I've noticed that I tend to get more depressed in winter. It's called SAD (Seasonal Affected Disorder) and I think I've got it. After a winter in Alaska I definitely believe that lack of the sun is a key element in the moods we have.
Over the years I've tried different treatments from full on prescription anti-depressants to homeopathic remedies. I can definitely say that the medical route has worked and the Fruit Loop therapies have not.
So, it may be time to bite the bullet and go see the doctor.
I'm really hoping that the revised health care plan takes care of these issues with our society. Or perhaps they really amp up the drugs in the chemtrails.

I've encountered a television show that horrifies me. The format is simple, each episode profiles two people who have a challenging mental condition. It's kind of like "Intervention" but instead of dealing with addictive drugs, it deals with addictive personalities. It's called "Hoarders" and it scares the hell out of me.
Why does it scare me? Because I collect things too. I keep things thinking that I might use them at some later date. If I paid money for an item I sure as hell don't want to throw it out, I might need it someday. If I found the object I kept it for a reason, most often some as yet unknown art project. I keep it. The objects pile up. While the extent of my "collection" has not yet reached the epic proportions of those in the show, I hear the same excuses for keeping stuff on TV coming out of the mouths of those poor afflicted hoarders as I do my own.
I'm disgusted with some of their behaviors. On the other hand I see some of my own in them.
I have never been a fan or had a desire to watch reality shows like this, but if they give me some insight into my own strange behaviors, perhaps they have served a purpose other than to gawk at the freaks.

Last year I swore I wouldn't miss two years in a row. This year I'm vowing to not let three years go by without going. I have been depressed the last few days because I'm not with my fellow burners down on the playa. I'm very sad and full of longing for playa dust.
I've been watching a live feed of the playa (see here) almost constantly and have been thinking about getting my costumes out just to try them on and smell 2007's dust on them.

So, unless you have a plane and an extra ticket, it looks like I won't make it this year. :(

You can see previous year's excursions in the BW Archives here.
2004 - Burning Man 2004
2005 - 168 Hours
2006 - Hope & Fear (a.k.a. Dope & Beer)

So I'm working down at the Bouquet last night and I throw out a string of classic cocktail names.
"Manhattan, Martini, Tom Collins, Sidecar and Sidewinder."
"What's a sidewinder?" Andy says.
"Gosh, I'm not sure," replies I. "It just came out of my mouth. I wan't thinking." Which is common for me. Spout off first and wonder what I said later.
I can make all the others, but I don't know why I said "Sidewinder."
So we look it up. It's not in any bar books the bar has behind the counter. A quick internet search last night at the bar revealed no such drink.
So we made it up.
We felt it should have the rawness of the frontier, a little bit of the South and a bite. Maybe a drop of blood for good measure.
The Sidewinder
1 part whiskey (rye preferred)
1 part Tequila (do not skimp and go for the cheap stuff, go high end and it will make all the difference)
Pour both into a shot glass and finish with a drop of grenadine, which will sink to the bottom.
While this drink may make you wince, that "drop of blood" at the bottom sweetens the whole kit-and-kaboodle. It's not bad. And it can poison you like a real sidewinder.

This morning I researched it a little more deeply and found a cocktail made with tea, vodka and cinnamon (a whole teaspoon). I also found a "Sidewinder Fang" cocktail that is basically a Cosmopolitan minus the lime and with a little Angostura bitters thrown in.

Now ask me about a "Ground Zero" and a "Horse's Neck"

Someone I know died today. He lived in Seattle and had a wonderful family. Last week, he was training on his bike and a delivery truck turned in front of him. According to what I was told, at his speed, it took him through the passenger side window.
Avoiding the medical details between a week ago and today, his ventilator was turned off at noon and he soon passed with family and friends surrounding him.

It brings back that whole bike vs. auto for me. It makes it personal. And when I hear people make blanket statements about renegade bikers, I get a little mad.

But today is not a day to get mad. Today is a day to say goodbye to Jose.

One of the little jobs I do now is bartend at a downtown bar a few nights a week. Summer is often a little slower at some bars so it offers me some time to talk to patrons. Unfortunately, sometimes those conversations are painful.

Take, for instance, one group of young revelers on a particularly slow Sunday night. When the conversation turned to martinis I mentioned how I'm a classic martini kind of guy... just gin and vermouth for me.
One young lady was shocked, SHOCKED, to find out that martinis are made with anything except vodka. She thought that martinis are only made with vodka. I just about had a coronary right there. What are they teaching kids in school these days? While vodka is OK in a martini, it was developed for those who don't have the nads to drink gin. Suck it up girlie.

Which came first, the gin or vodka martini? If you guessed vodka, then go back to drinking school. Which, is exactly what I'm going to do, host a drinking school. If all goes well, I'll be posting notices in this blog when and where we'll be having drinking class. People have forgotten how to drink properly so I'm going to do something about it.

The first one will be at the Bouquet in a few weeks and will cover bourbon. Do you know the difference between neat and straight-up? On the rocks vs. water back? What proof means and how it compares to alcohol percentage? And, how to deal with those pesky cheap whiskeys in plastic bottles. My suggestion is to use as a fire starter when camping.

So, my little vodka martini pansies, email me at Bingo@bingopress.biz to get more info when it comes available about the classes. And please order a gin martini.