Turkey time

Thanksgiving. The day we all come together to celebrate a uniquely American tradition: carb-loading like we’re prepping for the Olympics.

Every year, we gather around the table, and swear “this time I won’t overeat.” Cut to an hour later: you're sprawled out on the couch, pants unbuttoned, clutching your stomach like you're smuggling a watermelon.

It starts innocently enough. You sip a little wine, nibble on an appetizer— maybe a rogue deviled egg. Then the turkey arrives, and it's bigger than your first apartment. Followed by the mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole and the perennial mac and cheese.

And let’s not forget those soft, buttery Kings Hawaiian Rolls that seem harmless until you’ve inhaled six of them in under sixty seconds. You tell yourself you’ll space it out, but last year you didn’t get thirds on pumpkin pie and that’s not happening again.

Then there’s the conversation, the yearly revival of the same script, performed live by your family.

First, the weather commentary. Wherever you live, someone will complain it’s too hot, cold, rainy, or windy. Next there’s the politics grenade. Someone throws it in the middle of the table like a Molotov cocktail, and everyone braces for impact.

“If I ran the country things would be different,” says an uncle who couldn’t run a lemonade stand without losing money. Five minutes later, we’re knee-deep in a debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn’t).

And yet, as the night winds down, the vibe changes. Everyone settles into quiet resignation of a food coma. Maybe it’s the tryptophan, or the second bottle of wine. But something unexpected starts welling up inside. Gratitude.

Not the hashtag kind of gratitude, where you post a filtered photo of pie with a caption about “feeling so blessed.” This is the raw, messy gratitude that sneaks up on you when you’re hit with the realization these are your people, and you wouldn’t trade them for the world.

And there it is. The point of Thanksgiving. It isn’t to be perfect. Or poised. Or even politically correct. It’s to show up. To gather. To try.

So, this Thanksgiving, embrace the chaos, the carbs, and the conversations. And when you’re lying on the couch, full to the brim with turkey and love, remember: you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if you did promise yourself you’d only eat one roll.

Encore post v2: The right attitude

Happy Thanksgiving. Let's take this day to reflect on our blessings, hold those here and gone in our hearts, be thankful for all we have, and plot how we're going to slice a bigger piece of pumpkin pie without anyone noticing. Pro tip: turn on the TV and ask if anyone wants to watch the parade. That usually gives you a few minutes alone with the pie.

You're welcome. Happy Thanksgiving.

I don't think there's anyone who knows me, as much as anyone can know anyone, who'd argue the fact that I've gotten complaining down to an art form. I'm not proud.

Anyway, I thought it'd be good for me and everyone within earshot if I tried developing a different skill. So I'm choosing gratitude.

It's dawned on me, more than once, that in the scheme of things - the big picture - I have it pretty damn good in almost every area of my life. Not as good as some, but I'd be willing to bet better than most. And it's not that I'm ungrateful - quite the opposite in fact. But what I do know is I could make a more frequent habit of practicing gratitude. Maybe turn it into an everyday thing, because everyday, there's something to be grateful for.

It could start every morning. My pal Cameron always says any day above ground is a good day. So waking up each morning seems like a good thing to be grateful for.

I don't work in insurance or the fast food industry. I don't work on an assembly line. Not that there's anything wrong with those necessary jobs or the essential people that work hard in them. But I'm grateful I have a job that lets me make up stuff and dress like a fifteen-year old everyday.

I could've wound up working with a bunch of stiffs, boring people who make the long days even more excruciating than they already are. Instead, (almost) no matter which agency I'm at, I'm grateful I get to work with some of the funniest, most creative people in any business.

My wife and kids are healthy and love me.

My dog is healthy and loves me.

My neighbors are healthy.

I'm finding it's doing me good to have an attitude of gratitude, even for the little things.

Finding a parking space when I turn in the lot.

Not having to wait in the slow line at the market.

Walking up to the washer just as it finishes the cycle.

I'm grateful for my friends, who support, encourage and uplift me in all my endeavors and wild schemes. I mean my current friends. I cut the whiners and complainers loose long ago - no time for them. I'm grateful I did that as well.

So that's all I wanted to say. No snarky post, no quippy little end line. I'll wrap it up by saying I'm grateful to everyone who reads this on a regular, semi-regular or occasional basis.

That's it. Now I'm done with this post.

See? I even gave you something to be grateful for.

Toast

Some of my regular readers (pauses to laugh at the idea I have "regular readers") may know my beautiful daughter got married to her longtime boyfriend this past weekend. Needless to say, I got unexpectedly choked up. It was a complete waterworks show—a tear-filled event.

And that was just writing the check for the venue.

Ponying up for the day is just one of the traditions the Father of the Bride is required to abide by before and during the big day. The wedding toast is another one.

There are basically five steps to every FOB toast.

The welcome. Thank everyone for taking the time and making the effort to come. You know how you feel about traveling to a wedding on a perfectly good Saturday. They feel the same way and they still made the trip. Thank them all. Even the ones you wish hadn’t.

A story about the bride. Here the FOB has to tread lightly. There are a lifetime of stories to choose from, and while you may find the truly memorable ones amusing there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll find them embarrassing. Memory is funny that way. Choose accordingly.

A story about the groom. You know when he entered the picture, how he treats your daughter and what he’s like. My now son-in-law is an awesome person and I couldn’t be happier my daughter chose him. You may not be as lucky. But, and being a husband you already know this, what you think doesn’t matter. It’s her day, and he’s the one she’s riding off into the sunset with. Toughen up cupcake. Make sure you have nothing but good things to say, even if you don’t.

Welcome the groom and his family to your family. Do I think even though birthdays, Christmas and Thanksgiving will get a lot more crowded you should be excited about your new extended family, and go in expecting nothing but the best? I do.

Words of wisdom. Your daughter and her betrothed are entering into an arrangement you’ve been in for years. Have you learned nothing in all that time? Unlikely. Find some words of wisdom to pass on to the happy couple. The good news is they don’t even have to be your words. Movie quotes are a good way to go. I'd stay away from "You're gonna need a bigger boat" and "Make him an offer he can't refuse." I went with one from Good Will Hunting. Not the one about apples, the one that says "The guy doesn't have to be perfect, and the girl doesn't have to be perfect. As long as they're perfect for each other." Sweet, amIrite?

If you’re looking for a little inspiration, and trust me, I’m the last person you should ever be looking to for that, but if you are then maybe this will help.

Here’s how I started my FOB toast.

”Thank you all for coming. You know, when I started thinking about this toast, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, several words came to me right away. Beautiful. Strong. Independent. Funny. Talented. Courageous. But then I thought, this shouldn’t be about me, this is her day."

You’re welcome.

Encore post: The right attitude

This year, Thanksgiving is going to be filled with more gratitude than most, starting with the fact we finally get to gather around the table again with family and friends. Like Joni Mitchell said, "You don't know what you've got til it's gone." The pandemic Thanksgivings reminded us of what we had. And, thankfully, have again.

So let's take this day to reflect on our blessings, hold those here and gone in our hearts, be thankful for all we have, and plot how we're going to slice a bigger piece of pumpkin pie without anyone noticing. Pro tip: turn on the TV and ask if anyone wants to watch the parade. That usually gives you a few minutes alone with the pie.

You're welcome. Happy Thanksgiving.

I don't think there's anyone who knows me, as much as anyone can know anyone, who'd argue the fact that I've gotten complaining down to an art form. I'm not proud.

Anyway, I thought it'd be good for me and everyone within earshot if I tried developing a different skill. So I'm choosing gratitude.

It's dawned on me, more than once, that in the scheme of things - the big picture - I have it pretty damn good in almost every area of my life. Not as good as some, but I'd be willing to bet better than most. And it's not that I'm ungrateful - quite the opposite in fact. But what I do know is I could make a more frequent habit of practicing gratitude. Maybe turn it into an everyday thing, because everyday, there's something to be grateful for.

It could start every morning. My pal Cameron always says any day above ground is a good day. So waking up each morning seems like a good thing to be grateful for.

I don't work in insurance or the fast food industry. I don't work on an assembly line. Not that there's anything wrong with those necessary jobs or the essential people that work hard in them. But I'm grateful I have a job that lets me make up stuff and dress like a fifteen-year old everyday.

I could've wound up working with a bunch of stiffs, boring people who make the long days even more excruciating than they already are. Instead, (almost) no matter which agency I'm at, I'm grateful I get to work with some of the funniest, most creative people in any business.

My wife and kids are healthy and love me.

My two dogs are healthy and love me.

My neighbors are healthy.

I'm finding it's doing me good to have an attitude of gratitude, even for the little things.

Finding a parking space when I turn in the lot.

Not having to wait in the slow line at the market.

Walking up to the washer just as it finishes the cycle.

I'm grateful for my friends, who support, encourage and uplift me in all my endeavors and wild schemes. I mean my current friends. I cut the whiners and complainers loose long ago - no time for them. I'm grateful I did that as well.

So that's all I wanted to say. No snarky post, no quippy little end line tonight. I'll wrap it up by saying I'm grateful to everyone who reads this on a regular, semi-regular or occasional basis.

That's it. Now I'm done with this post.

See? I even gave you something to be grateful for.

Nothing but grateful

Despite the fact I’m an only child and the world revolves around me (that’s just science, look it up), I’ve always had a grateful heart and a thankful attitude. I appreciate there’s one day a year designated for celebrating our gratitude, but I think a better approach is to practice it everyday.

Ok, so it’s not going to be my funniest post.

Anyway, between the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade hosted by Savannah Guthrie and Hoda Kotb (It’s the Riverside City College marching band!) and the generically titled National Dog Show (where the German Shepherd came in fourth – rigged), I started thinking about things I’m grateful for, not just today but everyday.

I know what you’re thinking: is he going to tell us or not? I won't keep you in suspense - I am.

I’m grateful for my wife and children. I’d say they somehow manage to put up with my craziness and idiosyncracies and love me in spite of them, except that—and they’d be the first to tell you this—I’m the perfect husband and father. I know, they can hardly believe it either.

I’m grateful I enjoy almost all the people I work with. They’re creative, funny, smart and they challenge me in a positive way to raise my game. I spend a lot of my life with them, so it’s a good thing I feel that way. Except for that one guy—he’s a total asshat.

Grateful for my long-time friends, the one’s I’ve known forever and even though I don’t see as much as I like, can pick up right where we left off. The conversation usually goes something like this: ME: Hey, remember that $500 I loaned you that time we were in Vegas? THEM: I’m pretty sure I paid you back. ME: You didn’t. THEM: Huh. Ok. When I get home I’ll get it to you. (Fast forward ten years) ME: Remember that $500 I loaned you that time we were in Vegas?

I’m grateful for my good health. Despite having to do a little more maintenance than I used to, I’m in pretty good shape. Could stand to lose a few pounds, but I don’t think this is the day to be thinking about that. In fact, I probably won’t worry about it until after the Olympic trials.

So grateful for my dogs. Unconditional love in both directions. They’re both beautiful and smart, but they still don’t pick up after themselves in the yard. If they only knew how many treats were waiting for them if they ever do.

I’m grateful my dear friend, ex-office wife and person who encouraged me to start blogging (blame her) Janice has been declared the winner in her bout with cancer. She’s someone I love and hold in my heart in a way reserved for a special few, and a world without her just would not have been acceptable.

I can’t name all my friends here—not because I have so many, I’m just bad with names—but if I'm lucky enough to call you my friend, know that I am grateful for you every day of the year. Each of you in your own way make my life richer and more frustrating. I meant meaningful.

Finally, I’m grateful for Robert Mueller. And I hope with all my might to be even more grateful to him very soon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

This way out

I hope you appreciate how long it took me to find a Thanksgiving post picture that not only was relevant, but also looked, if you squint, like a pumpkin. You're welcome. Let's get started.

Today, like many Thanksgivings over the years, I'll be heading down to one of the relatives' homes in Orange County to polish off my quota of turkey (cooked to perfection), stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls and butter, pumpkin pie and whipped cream plus whatever other holiday fare finds its way to the perfectly set table.

I do this every year with the family, which is why Thanksgiving always feels a bit like Groundhog's Day. Not the one with the buck-toothed rodent. The one with Bill Murray.

Year in, year out, it's the same people. The same family stories. The same gossip. The same arguments. The same observations. The same questions. After the meal, we all retire to the same living room, sit on the same flattened couch cushions and watch the same TV shows while we all try to recover at the same time from overstuffing ourselves.

There's a certain familiarity to it all, and for the most part, it's fairly enjoyable. Especially the part with the pie.

But every few years, the old adage about how you can choose your friends but not your family roars to life in a loud, opinionated, foul-mouthed, conversation-dominating, high-as-a-kite, thick-headed way.

Not naming names, but there's a relative who in the past has occasionally, whether by accident or intentionally, managed to find the unlocked portal that goes from the deepest pit of hell to the natural world and made their way up to my Thanksgiving dinner table.

And of course, brought their own special brand of misery and "Do I kill myself or them?" to the proceedings.

Anyway, at one point there was some mention this person might be joining us this year. And, as anyone who knows me would expect, I reacted in the most mature, polite, measured, holiday-spirited fashion I know how.

I said if they show up, we're going home.

Then I proceeded to worry about it almost every minute of every day. Figuring how I'd make my stand, recruit my family to join me in storming out (God bless 'em they were all in), and most important, if it happened before we ate, planning where we'd have our Thanksgiving meal. Philippe's was a contender. So was The Venetian. But The Venetian is always a contender no matter what the question is.

In the end, come to find out all my worry was for nothing. This year, the particular individual I speak of has decided to brandish their special recipe for holiday gloom somewhere else.

So now, not only do I get to enjoy the holiday with the people I truly love, I also have one more thing to be thankful for.

Life of pie

I loves me some pumpkin pie. Always have.

I remember when I was a kid my parents bought a pumpkin pie from Ralphs and had the bad sense to leave me alone with it. I polished off that baby in no time, and when they got home all that was left was an empty pie tin and a kid with a bad, bad stomach ache.

Of course that pie was about a fourth the size of this one.

This is a pumpkin pie from Costco, the mecca of pumpkin pies. Smaller than a crop circle, larger than a manhole cover, this unbelievably tasty dessert is what I've been snacking on since our first Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday night.

You read that right - our first dinner.

Every year, we have the official TG'ing dinner with the family. Pretty routine. The same stories, faces and fights that we have every year. But then, we have a second one on Saturday night with our close friends.

And while the faces may change, the pie remains the same.

Of course, these pies don't just appear by themselves. Although what a great world this would be if they did. On Wednesday before TG'ing, I make the trek to Costco and pick up three giant pies for the holiday meals. You don't know what fun is until you're fighting for a pumpkin pie at Costco the day before TG'ing.

Anyway, it's Sunday morning and time for breakfast.

Or as we call it here, the sweetest meal of the day.

A good day for almost everyone

Before.

After.

The Descendants

Maybe it’s because we look so much alike, but I’ve always been a fan of George Clooney.

Both Michael Clayton and Up In The Air have joined The Godfather(s) as films that, when stumbled upon, must be watched to the end to pick up some line read, nuance or expression I didn’t catch the first twenty-five times I saw them.

I just finished seeing his most recent film, The Descendants. Can you guess what I thought of it? Of course you can.

I’m not going to say much because far be it from me to spoil anything. But I will say a couple things.

It was directed by Alexander Payne, who also did Sideways (merlot anyone?). It has several great moments in it, like the one where your perception of one of the characters does a complete 180 in the time it takes that character to deliver one line.

Several moments take you straight to tears, do not pass go, do not collect Kleenex. There is also one spectacular moment that reaches out of the screen, grabs your heart and squeezes as hard as it can.

For that moment alone, for me, The Descendants is worth seeing.

It’s also worth seeing for Shailene Woodley, who steals the film with her frighteningly real and effortless performance as Clooney’s older daughter.

If you have a couple hours to spare this Thanksgiving weekend, this would be a fine way to spend them.

Besides, if you're looking for a way to wash away the taste of homemade turkey, nothing does the job like a movie hot dog and a 64 oz Coke.

Uncle Pete

I didn't get to choose my first family. But I did get to choose my second.

And Pete Caubisens, who passed away a few days ago, was a huge part of it.

Many years ago my pal Richard introduced me to a friend of his named Rémi Aubuchon. I knew fairly quickly this Rémi character was going to fast become a new best friend. What I didn't know was how important Remi's family would become in my life. In some ways, with absolutely no disrespect to my own beautiful parents who had their hands more than full with me, Rémi's would often be my family of choice.

Living first in Brentwood then in Santa Monica when we met, I'd always look forward to driving (willing) my orange Super Beetle over the hill to the valley, then up the hill to Remi's house in Woodland Hills. It was always a welcoming, safe place, giving me many things I couldn't get in my own home.

Family, in the bigger sense of the word, was one of them.

Rémi's father Jacques was an accomplished actor. I was a theater arts major. Jacques didn't like flying. At the time I had a huge fear of flying. We'd sit for hours, talking about acting and how flight was still just a theory.

While we're here, one more thing about my major.

My parents were older when they had me, and like many parents of their era they had some old school thinking on what was a real job and what wasn't. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of love in my house for being a theater arts major (they were Jewish - doctor and lawyer were genetically programmed to be at the top of their list).

Where was I? Okay. Rémi's mom Denise, who looks like Ellen Burstyn, was an artistic, warm and welcoming presence. In my eyes she was always accepting and non-judgemental. It was like a breath of fresh air (perhaps I've revealed too much).

I was also close to his sister Danielle (the birthday girl in the picture above), and while his brother Philippe always marched to his own drummer, I constantly enjoyed his company and humor, and always loved hearing his take on things.

It was just good being around them. It felt like what a home should feel like.

Because of how I felt about Rémi's family, and the way I felt about my own at the time, for many years I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his house.

On one of those holidays early on, Denise's brother Pete was out from New York. Pete was an attorney for the airlines, so naturally with my fears I had all sorts of questions for him. I'd never met someone who knew so much about wind shear and bird ingestion (not the Thanksgiving kind, the jet engine kind).

Pete and I hit it off right from the get-go. He had a gentle brilliance and a sharp wit about him. He was funny as hell. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had a smile that lit up a room. And a laugh that let you know how much he was enjoying life.

He was New York cool.

I know what you're thinking: that he was also somewhat of a father figure to me. Is it that obvious?

The conversation turned to New York. Pete said I was welcome to stay at his place on the upper east side anytime I wanted. So I took him up on it. I was there about a week, using his place as my base camp.

I remember meeting him for lunch one day. He took me to my first real French restaurant. Escargot, rude waiters, the whole neuf yards. It was awesome.

Afterwards, as we were walking down 5th Avenue, it started to snow. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen falling snow. It was magical. It's a feeling I'll always associate with Pete.

Time marches on and everyone's life gets busier. And while I talked to Pete less and less over the years, ironically I thought about him more and more.

When Rémi (here with the coolest uncle ever) let me know Pete was gone, he said one of the reasons he wanted me to know was because he knew how much I enjoyed him and his company.

But I don't think he really did. In fact, I don't think I did until I heard he'd died.

I don't know many things for sure, but I do know that Rémi's family, New York and my life are all better for Pete having been a part of them.

The other thing I know is, as of last week, heaven is a much more welcoming place.