gobble gobble, hey

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Since I’ve spent the last several posts extolling the fabulousness of my family and friends, I’ll spare the sap this time and just reaffirm that yea verily, while moving is a bitch, it’s the logistics that really kill you. Once the movers came to take the majority of my things away in a container last Friday, I really felt a whole ton better. Saying goodbye is still sad, but I’m moving to London, which is really pretty fucking cool.

Anyway, in light of my recent baby steps back toward the land of stability, I’d like to share some random thoughts, Mimi Smartypants-style…

I’ve had a really good year, show-wise. There was Bowie in January, Gomez in February, Elvis in March, and now this. The last time I saw Frank and Kim do it up live was way back in 1989, at the tiny, Double-Door-esque Peabody’s Down Under in scenic, exciting Cleveland, Ohio. I’d recently come back from a post-high-school, pre-college sabbatical in France, and at 17 I remember how limitless the world felt, and the enormity of their sound was so fitting for that time. This time, it’s no less perfect. I spent the entire show with an enormous grin on my face, which during several songs was accompanied by tears streaming down. Reminded me of Homer: “smiling through tears”. It was cathartic and totally rockin’ and I am so glad I went. And speaking of Mimi, it was great to run into her and finally meet the elusive LT.

Performance Fashion
While I was stapled to the sofa yesterday, I saw a preview for the show Fashion Police (the latest from TBS‘ crackerjack reality TV factory), and while the voice over explained that the next installment would cover the worst red carpet fashion mistakes in (presumably recent) history, they showed a shot of Björk in her swan getup. Now, respect where it’s due and all, I’m not that big a fan of hers. She’s done a whole lot of interesting music, sure, and Dancer in the Dark was a fascinating piece, but overall I pretty much think she’s a crackpot. Which is why I wish people would stop expecting her to appear anywhere looking normal. Clearly, most of Björk’s life is a piece of performance art, so why should her red-carpet clothing choices be any different? The woman’s not wearing Vera Wang, she’s wearing Odette, for crying out loud. Take it for what it’s worth. She’s odd, she’s pretty, and she’s got enough cash on hand to get someone to make her a white feathered contraption. If anything, fan or not, I’m inclined to give her props for having the balls to take it out in public.

OK, so I lied.
For the past ten years or so, with the exception of one year when I was out of the country, Thanksgiving has been held in my dining room. We’ve always called it the Orphans’ Thanksgiving, my mom and I (my mom started it years earlier) – if you’re too far from home to get to your family, or you don’t get along with your family, or you don’t have anyone else to go see, come on over and get your food on, get your drink on, and have a good time, we say – but this year, my dining room is the only furniture left in my cookware and china-free former home. So we accepted an invitation, my mom and I, from friends of mine. And it was great. We all went around the table, talking about what we were thankful for. We all more or less said the same thing: our families, our extended families of friends, our good fortune and the strangeness of coincidence and good fortune that’s shaped the finer things in our lives. And I really thought it would be hard having this holiday outside of the cocoon I’d grown accustomed to, but it wasn’t. It was warm and welcoming and fun and delicious and utterly, completely lovely. And I’m thankful for that, too.

Gobble gobble yeah.