Archive for category Wellville Sanitarium
Even in the face of economic woes, family strife and airport molestation, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving still supplies the raw ingredients of gratitude.
by Scott Daniel // November 24, 2010
Tomorrow will be one of two things for you. It will either be a time of festive joy and merriment or a time of deep sorrow and self-loathing. Irrespective of your circumstances, the choice is ultimately yours. You alone cast the deciding vote on the quality of your Thanksgiving.
This is true even for the two classes of people who can stake the greatest claim to gloom this holiday season: those who have been sexually jostled for the sake of national security, and fans of the Dallas Cowboys. I know this because the most miserable wretch in pop cultural history managed to pull off a Happy Thanksgiving in spite of the indelicate thanklessness of his closest friends.
Charlie Brown has little to be thankful for. At eight years old, he has succumbed completely to male pattern baldness. He is remarkably unathletic: hitters regularly send his patented straight ball into the Peanuts equivalent of McCovey Cove, and his placekicking prowess is on par with that of Ray Finkle. He can’t get a date or even a cheap valentine, his pet beagle is a Germanophilic World War I re-enactor and all the adults in his life speak nothing but gibberish.
You should thank God every day that you aren’t Charlie Brown. Hell, the kid can’t even prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, relying on Snoopy to supply his friends with hearty helpings of toast, jelly beans and popcorn. Yet for all of Peppermint Patty’s grousing about the eclectic and informal spread, these three delicacies are more than food. They are metaphors for the sort of gratitude we ought to express every day.
I didn’t want to be a junkie when I grew up. Still I reached for the Diet Coke and pot of coffee.
by Scott Daniel // October 20, 2010
That was no headache. A headache is a bearable nuisance, triggered by something stressful or irritating, like an SEC football fan or screaming children at your neighborhood Friendly’s. No, it was not like that at all. It was more an amalgamation of nausea, drowsiness and what I imagine surface zero of a fireworks explosion must feel like. It occurred in, around and throughout every lobe of my brain, pulsing rhythmically, ebbing and flowing like the tides, minus the peace and serenity. I could have ended it all right there. Just one pull of the stay-tab. Just one click and release. Just one shot of that sweet, aspartame-laden, carcinogenic fizz, and I could have returned momentarily to stasis. But I am not tempted so easily. Not this time. The withdrawal symptoms may occasionally border on the unbearable, but I will re-claim my Diet Coke-addled brain. It has been 96 hours since my last hit of caffeine.