I had a fine Thanksgiving yesterday. My father creates authentic southern comfort food. An interesting man my father. He is not the prototypical male from the country. Eldest son of thirteen siblings. An amateur barber, he cut most of the families hair from cousins to aunts. During the 80's, he was the only father I knew that participated in aerobic classes. Never pushed me in sports like all the other fathers did. He prefers variety shows and musicals to most other types of TV programing. Hell, not only did he cook our Thanksgiving meal, he also made the center piece! I believe my Dad was one of the pioneers of metrosexuals before there was such a word.

So during the meal my mother decided we should toast what we were thankful for. A lot of thanks for good health and loving family then it came to me. I said I was thankful for all the material this family provided for my fiction writing. Errrr CrAsH!! Excuse me, said my Mom. And that's all I'm saying about that.

Tome: Tribeca Blues by Jim Fusilli

Bell tolling: High Fidelity soundtrack

"If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate: The 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' is worth any number of old ladies."
William Faulkner