I've survived Thanksgiving, and in the end, it wasn't so bad. The party started at 7PM and lasted until about 6 or 7AM. This is the way the folks from the old country like to party-- all night, and then some.
At around 10PM, I was ready to go to sleep. Two days of cooking, cleaning, family drama and so forth, had done me in. I was standing by the kitchen, watching the multitudes on the dance floor, when a guy outside motioned for me to come and sit next to him.
So I did. After some minutes of speaking to him, I thought he was either a recruiter from a cult or a strange new breed of player. He was the type of guy that seemed to feel and identify with everything I said. "You 're like that guy on TV that speaks to dead people's relatives," I told him. He laughed. After more conversation, he dropped some line about meeting each other in our dreams that night. "But don't tell anyone," he said, "because then we won't meet."
So I said, "You're like the stranger that gives little kids candy. 'Don't tell anyone-- it'll be *our* secret.'" Then I had to let him down, "Listen, I don't keep secrets; I'm a journalist."
Which is really a half truth. I'm trained in journalism. I've published a few articles here and there. I have an MA in the damned area. But it's not my full-time job.
Anyway, the contest for biggest character of the evening was definitely between him and the Persian Elvis that pulled the craziest dance moves I've ever seen in my life with the belly dancer. Verrrrry scarrrrry.
For the record, my brother had a monicker for the smooth Cassanova outside: Con
Man.
"So what do you think: should I call him?".
KLC, post-Thanksgiving pooper, 11/23/01