The evening before American Thanksgiving is considered by many to be �a big bar night.� This, I am thinking, is the general perspective of home-for-the-holidays college students who are totally eager to try out their recently purchased fake ID�s at a �real bar� - not just some college-town bar that tolerates that crap. No, these kids are looking for the challenge of a real bouncer checking out their drivers licenses and they are thinking man, you go ahead and shine that flash-light on me bouncer dude, just try it! I�ve got my fake social/address/height/weight and name ALL memorized! You just try to deny me access to your bar! The aura of my neighbor hood is absolutely giddy with this kind of energy right now.
So yeah, it�s funny to me because if we have learned anything here at ann-frank.diaryland.com it is that any night can be a �big bar night.� Who needs an official holiday when any old Wednesday will do with the right company?
At any rate, I am staying in to avoid the amateur rush, plus I have consented to spending 48 hours at the parents� house which means getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare for a long-ass drive tomorrow morning. Here�s a tip: 6 hour drives are much more pleasant if you are not hung-over. If anything, the road coffee tastes better.
Hung-over or not, I am a little bit excited to be going someplace where the only two things I am expected to do are eat my mother�s fabulous home-cooking and maybe let out a belch or two. Quietly, of course. Because I am just that much of a fancy grown-up these days.
Pass the gravy boat!
However, truth be told, I am not too thrilled to have to spend a good portion of tomorrow afternoon with my step-brother, who, overall I guess you can consider a nice guy even though he is the world�s number one narcissist. No, it is not the natural amino acid tryptophan in the turkey that makes you sleepy on Thanksgiving, ladies and gentlemen. It is conversation with my step-brother. I mean, yes, we get along, but having a conversation with someone who starts every sentence with �I �I�I� makes you want to scream �pick another vowel, fool!� after awhile.
But never you mind. It�s nothing but the kind of mind-numbing boredom a few bottles of wine and couple of cigarettes can�t kill. Thank god that if there is any time binge drinking is somewhat tolerated, it is on a holiday.
So, yeah, in preparation for the early-morn road trip, I am staying soberly alone tonight watching the Paul McCartney special on the teevee. Because even though it is just about the cheesiest thing to hit the boob tube since the Pennsylvania Miners Story (didn�t that just happen like, last week? How did they manage to cast - let alone film - so quickly?) I am still a Very Big Beatles fan. I am not ashamed.
Plus, you know, it�s really the only thing on when you don�t have cable teevee.
I think most fun about any Paul McCartney watching experience these days is the venom spewing from the many hard-core Linda McCartney fans out there who are in total shock Paul would ever consider getting married so soon after Linda�s death � these people who believe the only way his new wife and former model Heather Mills got Paul to marry her is by threatening to beat him over the head with her prosthetic leg. I mean, those haters have some time on their hands, you know?
Also in regard to tonight�s broadcast: do we really need to see so many audience shots of Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz cuddling while they sing Beatles� ballads? Do we really need another close-up of Michael Douglas and Jack Nicholson getting down like they are just normal folk who just happened upon tickets to the show when they have so many laminates and backstage paraphernalia hanging around their necks weighing them down it is a wonder they can even stand during �Hey Jude�?
No we do not. I personally do not like to see the celebs getting down in their little privileged front-row pens when I know nice normal hard-core fan-folk like ammo-dots had to freak out for days just hoping and praying and wondering if he was going to even be able to score a nose-bleed ticket to see this most recent McCartney tour.
Although, I can�t lie, when it comes to audience shots, what I want to see is more footage of Al Gore�s White Man Missing the Beat clapping. Poor dude lacks rhythm in such a train-wreck way you can�t help but watch and feel bad. But you know, it�s okay, because it looks like he�s having a great time. I mean, despite the fact that from what I can tell it looks like Al�s at the show with huge set of binoculars hanging around his neck. And the notion Al Gore�s V.I.P seats are so far back he needs the �nocs to catch a close-up of Paul�s wrinkled fingers tickling the ivories is so hysterical you can�t help but think a little po� man�s PR like that just might score him a few pity votes should he run again in �04.
Anyway, show�s over now so I best get to bed. That is if I am able to actually sleep with every single one of the first generation of diagnosed-in-record-numbers A.D.D cases yelling directly underneath my window. Must they all stand underneath before they do their drunken screaming? I am {this close} to getting a bullhorn so I can hang out the window yelling, �bloody hell, kids! Y�all act like you�ve never seen a bar before! Either get inside and get loaded or take a hit of your Ritalin and let�s just be done with it, already!�
Yes, I better get to bed before the insanity drives me to make it a big bar night right here in my own living room and play a solo drinking game that consists of me, a bottle of wine and a big gulp of that wine every time I hear �doooooooood, yo! Dooooooood! I haven�t seen you in like, forever, doooooood!�
Because if that happens, I expect I�ll be lit up like the fucking nativity in front of the church down the street come midnight and I just can�t have that on the eve of my big morning drive.
So, hey. Happy Thanksgiving and stuff, huh?