Twas the Night

Cover charges and busy bartenders. Random encounters with former acquaintances. And the overcrowded bars where mancrotch lurks, each and every step of the way. Turn the other cheek and you may feel violated. Give him a return serving of loins and you might just have a playmate. Sing it with me, “These_Are_The_Breaks!” Tonight’s the night before Thanksgiving and tomorrow you ain’t got shit to do. So pile into the neighborhood speakeasies, family members of similar age in tow, and get fucked up. For it is truly the American Way.

Had the American Indians who played host to the “First Thanksgiving” foresaw the consequences of their benevolent actions I doubt Running Zack would have cooked up an extra serving of maize nor Cheyenne driven down Pow Wow Highway with industrial sized cans of cranberry sauce in the trunk. Did the natives of yesteryear stage lavish spectacles disguised as games with 5 second tape delays and pyrotechnically drenched player intros? Would crazed Algonquin parents force their children to sacrifice their childhoods in order to vicariously attain pseudo-stardom via national anthem singing appearances? (“And now twelve year old singing sensation and Atlantic Records recording artist…and sure-to-be divorced, strung out, and penniless by twenty-five...put your hands together for…”) I hope so, because at least there would exist a precedent for what is now misconstrued as the REM sleep of the American Dream. The more money that goes into something, the better. Television is God, and celebrity the evangelical.

What better way for the youth of America to welcome such a day than with a painful headache, uncontrollable nausea, and the remorse which follows a night spent drinking one’s face off? If your Thanksgiving consisted of watching the William H. Macy Parade and basting unhealthily big breasted birds you wouldn’t be at 1 Tuff Place right now. We here at 1 Tuff, and far beyond our limited reaches, do our best to remember and commemorate the generosity displayed by this nation’s original bamboozled population. In celebrating a race of people now subjugated to an existence of alcoholism, unemployment, and under education, I have done my best to hold up at least two of the three identifiable stereotypes (Ivy League diploma notwithstanding…go me!). I can only hope you’ve tried your darnedest as well.

Approaching the night before Thanksgiving, excitement bubbles just below the surface, much like a flaccid penis awaiting a Levitra cocktail. But unlike boner meds, the fun on the night in question generally exceeds four hours, requiring no immediate medical attention (aside from the occasional stomach pump and/or hand suturing). Everything begins slowly, from selecting the right wardrobe combination to convey what message it is you want to express (the don’t care hipster, libidinous swallowbag, or fancy OC cast member looks, to name a few) to the discussion of starting points, meeting points, and vomiting points. Staying on points, DWI checkpoints seem to sprout up often on these nights, so it’s always been a good practice to embrace what little public transport exists, or some poor schlub’s sad sack of a parent (reverting to the good ol’ days of high school).

What makes this night great is a unique combination of coincidence and identification. You depart into the black night with the notion that anything can happen. Though it rarely does, it is this sense of subtle curiosity that drives us, is kept in our minds the weeks prior and following, and later enshrouded in mythic remembrance. On a superficial level, this Wednesday night bender is simply that; moderate-to-binge drinking, meaningless small talk and posturing, and a nomadic focus on the events at hand, always looking towards the next run-in, drink, or establishment…an addict’s world view. These are the reasons cited by people who see this night as debaucherous and deplorable. They’ll stay home, or at least wish they had, all evening. They are also the vehicles by which ye of ample faith (myself and fellow revelers of the night in question) travel to reach a destination of shared experience. A little booze to grease up the wheels and suddenly the engine purrs.

Every minor conversation, wayward glance, and casual flirtation with someone from knee-deep in your past adds to produce an air of comfort, a running theme associated with meaningful holidays. Suddenly, you’ve climbed out of the everyday machine into another, more familiar entity. Recognition oozes from every cog and sprocket, you know everyone’s place and function, even if that knowledge is based on selective memories and unsound assumptions. You grew up with a lot of these people, apart from most. But still, the wealth of experiences you have shared with some of them dwarfs other more alien environments where we find ourselves guessing and judging, largely to no avail. In this bar, for a few hours we can discuss ourselves, poorly listen to others, and give empty promises of reunion and reconciliation. It won’t amount to anything, but everyone’s doing it, so best follow suit. The next morning (err…early afternoon), once the dust settles, perhaps you can laugh at having spoken to this person or that. As you’re sinking into the couch for hours upon hours of passive football viewing, fleeting thoughts of these random people parading through your mind, imagine how many others are doing the same. Think about how you could be reimagined in the thoughts of others. A network of drifting souls, brought together by one evening’s drunkenness.

We find an overabundance of holidays at the close of the year. Handouts from the gods…pardons from an otherwise unrelenting series of months. Whoever the string-puller, the guy behind the guy that laid out the Western holiday calendar deserves kudos for bringing communal warmth to a lonely, inward time of year. Whether you spend it smiling with your family or blacking out with a bunch of newfound relics, I hope it pleases you knowing you spent it, one way or another, in the company of family, friends, and strangers. All enjoying an easier day.