This street is lined with houses of varying hues of pink. First we have the salmon-colored one. Then the cotton candy one. We’ll call the third one dusty rose. It’s almost as if cotton candy house went first, which either inspired or infuriated the homeowners to the left and right. Regardless, this is no coincidence.

I’m looking out the window of Cellar Door, a local coffee house in Southeast. The latte was exceptional and went down way too quickly. If you’re in the vicinity of SE 11th and Harrison I recommend you drop in and try the espresso, maybe even buy a bag of beans for the road. While you caffeinate, sit in the window and watch people pause before entering the A-1 Food Market across the street. For some reason they all reemerge with nothing in their hands.

I got the most ridiculous letter in the mail on Monday. The author was a doctor whose care I came under last summer (2008, to be clear). She said she hoped the letter found me well. She informed me that due to 60 days of inactivity, she was closing my file. At first I was dismissive, ridiculing the correspondence because I’d actually been inactive for over 6 months and the bitch was LATE. But, the more I made fun of it, the more I thought about what it meant. My file was closed. It was CLOSED. And that stupid piece of paper morphed into a certificate of accomplishment. This morning I dug out my emergency stash of medication and threw it all away.

Thanksgiving. That’s today. We’re excited about it. That’s the royal “we”, man. A lot of people aren’t, though. There’s a certain dread a lot of folks feel around the holidays. I know because I talk to a lot of people and most of them have horror stories ready for the sharing. On the surface, folks spin yarns to entertain, but it’s all deeply rooted in emotions and personal truths. We laugh, wave a hand and utter cheerful exclamations. Then we sigh and think while we sip our beverage, waiting for someone else to tell a chuckler. And we’ve all got ‘em. But that’s not the important part of this paragraph. The important part is the thinking.

In between the stories and the laughs I’ll think about that letter; about the journey to which that letter vaguely refers, and to the ending that it signifies. And I will be thankful for it, among many, many other things.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

I remember the satisfying mental image that materialized when I first heard someone speak of “throwing the elephant into the middle of the room”. It was a combination of Dumbo’s drunk hallucination and that World’s Strongest Man event where they hurl beer keg shells backwards over their heads into a trailer which they must then drag the length of a football field. Last one who still has his kneecaps wins!

What sound does an elephant make? I mean, what do you CALL it?

Trumpet. Oh. Who picks these anyway?

And who thought it would be a good idea to have a mouse coerce a baby elephant to funnel beer through his nose and blow bubbles? And put it in a kid’s movie, no less.

First keg stand on record. Only it was a bucket. And the subject was on his feet.

It’s a wonder parents are flabbergasted at the behavior of today’s college student.

Seriously. If I could blow bubbles with my nose after a few glasses of booze I’d have everything I need for a fun time at home.

It’s easily been 15 year since I’ve seen Dumbo. After viewing this clip, I get the trumpet thing. You win this time, science. Er, beer.

Not me. The elephant. It’s a freakin’ weeknight! What do you take me for?