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Thursday, November 24, 2016

Another Thanksgiving is upon us in the United States.

In Canada, they've long celebrated this holiday somewhere near Halloween.    They'll likely be celebrating something called boxing day when we in the states will be thinking only about Christmas.


I'd like to recognize of the things that I am truly thankful for in this year of our Lord, two thousand and sixteen.     I know the Lord pisses some off.    I do choose my words carefully.

The highlight of my life is always those whom I consider to be friends - the old fashioned measure of friends - the people whom I'd invite over for dinner - not the kind on a book of fakery that satisfies an inner need to have a large number of followers and friends.

Heading this year's list of true friends is my beloved from Canada.    Years have come and gone and yet, my friend is always there every Friday for our weekly telephone conversation of all things topical and not.   This is a virtual tour of my southern porch where we'll sit and sip Mint Julips with our white gloves carefully pulled up and our sun bonnets placed on in a typically southern way.    We'll rock away the hours sipping and laughing and spitting up to truly fanciful conjecture and speculation and gossip.    Hours will take flight in a way only Star Trek could envision.   They'll seem like minutes as we've talked each other's ears off with the hottest gossip that only us fags can do.

There is something so precious about these weekly gatherings - hundreds if not thousands of miles separate our homosexual lives from each other, yet we continue to be amazed that we are so similar even in our differences and that we are truly separated at conception as we are like brothers who want to get naughty someday.

I do relish taking my spot on the Veranda awaiting for him to glide into his rocking chair all dressed up in his Canadian flag dress and matching ruby red slippers bringing along his cadre of possums while I hide my Poppet until the very end - the wicked monkey does so want to come out and play.

In our discussions, we've found the long lost recipe to worship differences and to respect them instead of using them to cap each other's asses with firearms or a well placed high heel to the forehead.    I'm at a loss how we in humanity can no longer hold a conversation that has two distinct viewpoints.    In this era of ultra-sensitive personas who must always win every battle, it is a lost art to take a bold sip of mint julip when someone utters words that diverge from our own thoughts and ideals.   

I've found that in truly worthwhile relationships where two individuals congregate, that a large container of mint julip is so necessary to have on hand; for I've found that talking about things that we both agree on grows rather rancid the longer we agree.   Having abundance in things minty and julipy always makes divergent thoughts go down better than a spoon full of sugar.   And in the end, when there is sufficient divergence, we are both feeling a bit more happy anyway.    Without the Mints and the Julips, we'd be looking at each other and yawning.

Do you have someone whom you can converse on a telephone for hours and manage not to repeat items?    In this era of hashtags up the ass and twits of twits of retwits of twits and twats, I find it comforting that I can reach out and touch the land of maple leafs and maple syrup and have someone who I feel I've known for eternity.    There is something so comforting about our Friday discussions that even politics can't shake and that our worries about our own lives can't shake.    It is as if on Friday we both put on our most precious garb and play dress up wondering how outrageous the other will look or if we can catch the other with lipstick misplaced on a denture.

I suppose I am most thankful that I breathe and can experience Fridays in a simultaneous reality above all things.    I could stoop to being thankful for mere breath or having my family intact or having a job or a big-boned cat with sufficient fluffitude to make me want to hug her incessantly.    I could be thankful for being able to achieve wood without a little blue pill or that my sex drive still borders on near criminal.   I could be thankful for having the gift to write enough words onto a digital recording device that I am an author of two books to date with two more in the oven.

Yet, this Thanksgiving I have to note that the most wonderful thing in the world to me are my Fridays where I recapture a closeness that I've not known in the more than twenty years since my Richard passed away.

All things considered, my life is quite dandy with my Friday candy.

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