by Ken Tuccio

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving; unless you’re reading this via the archives in the middle of July, in which case I urge you to go outside and get some sun.

Anyways, tomorrow is what I consider to be a truly American holiday.

You see, I don't consider Thanksgiving “truly American” because of the stories of plundering Pilgrims and victimized Indians, I consider it such because it celebrates the things that American’s truly love; eating, laziness, more eating, and more laziness.

Thanksgiving is the one holiday during the calendar year where even the most active fitness guru finds themselves laying back on the couch, hung over from countless plates filled with food stocked with tryptophan, reaching for that 3rd plate of pumpkin pie.

My family has never had really large Thanksgivings. The Thanksgivings in the Tuccio family circle were always “immediate family oriented”, meaning they consisted of my parents, my brother, and whomever each of us were dating at the time. Sure, we had the occasional Thanksgivings where my Grandmother would come over to indulge in turkey with us, but I didn’t mind it if she didn’t come.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my Grandmother, but I’m not a fan of making polite conversation with senior citizens while stuffing my face with cranberry sauce.

I’m selfish like that.

Anyways, while I wouldn’t say that my family has “established Thanksgiving traditions”, I would say that my personal Thanksgivings normally consist of roughly the same activities. For example, since I turned the magic age of 21, Thanksgiving Eve has consisted of my yearly trip to our local wine emporium.

I’m not the foremost wine aficionado, as I’m about as refined with my drinking habits as a Nascar fan, but every Thanksgiving Eve I’ll make my way over to the wine emporium near my house in an attempt to pick up a bottle of something that I can bring over my parents.

I've been raised to believe that grown adults appreciate it when other grown adults bring wine to dinner.

My trips to the wine emporium are normally the same in tone every year; I’ll walk in the store and begin looking at various bottles of wine. I’ll do this while displaying an inquisitive look on my face, as I like to give the impression that I’m pondering what would be the perfect bottle of wine to compliment the Detroit Lions game. I’ll try to act as if I have a good idea what I’m looking at, and as such I’ll spend at least 10 minutes holding a few bottles in my hands, staring at the labels. Deep down I think I'm expecting some magic font that reads, “KEN BUY ME” to pop off the sticker like a Magic Eye poster.

Sadly, it never does.

After spending ample time manhandling various bottles, it becomes obvious to the entire store that I’m a novice to the art of picking out a proper bottle of wine. This is normally when the clerk, who can clearly tell that I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing, will approach me and ask if I need any help. When this happens I’ll try and act educated in regards to fermented grapes, but any attempt I make at acting like this comes across as insanely fake. I've found that when it comes to discussing wine, besides regurgitating lines from the movie Sideways, I’m pretty much just blabbering about things I have no business talking about.

At some point I’ll end up asking the clerk what they recommend as a nice bottle for Thanksgiving dinner, and the clerk always follows up with a question of their own that makes me want to smack him in the face, that question is, “Are you eating turkey?”.

I’m well aware that there are some families that eat fish on Thanksgiving, and others eat tofu shaped like a bird, but I’m of the belief that everyone should assume that everyone eats turkey for Thanksgiving. You can call it poultry profiling if you want, but that’s the way I feel.

I’ll end up answering yes to that ridiculous question, and the clerk will suggest a few bottles to me. He’ll offer me samples of each wine and I’ll taste them with my crude palate. I’ll try to act as if I know the difference between a high quality bottle of wine and a box of wine they sell at the supermarket. I’ll make arbitrary quips like, “Nice flavor ...” to try and impress the $10/hr employee, and then I’ll whip out my credit card and bring the bottle to Thanksgiving dinner the next day. I'll then brag about why I chose the bottle in an attempt to impress my family with the amazing eye for fine wine that I have.

Oh, and I’ll always stop by the package store after buying the wine to grab myself some sort of six pack of beer.

Like I said, I’m totally unrefined.

When Thursday rolls around I find that my Thanksgivings have always begun with me waking up to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I’ve never been the world’s biggest fan of parades. I think that’s because I spent far too many Memorial Days during my youth being forced to march down Main Street in Ansonia, CT wearing my soccer uniform as part of the Ansonia Memorial Day Parade.

Seriously, walking a mile in cleats and shingaurds while listening to a crappy rendition of Sousa’s Stars and Stripes will turn anyone off to events like that.

While I normally hate parades, I’ve always been enamored with watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I don’t like the parades because of the musical numbers, nor am I entertained by watching B-List celebrities who are forced to sit on a float shaped like the Mayflower; I’m actually a big fan of the commentary.

Maybe I find entertainment in the little things in life, but I take great joy out of listening to Al Roker and Matt Lauer attempt to fill time by talking about how awesome a Dora the Explorer balloon is. At the end of the day it's a large balloon shaped like an ethnically sensitive cartoon, but whomever is commentating at the time make it seem as if I'm watching an elephant give birth to a cougar.

On a side note, I'd love to see an elephant give birth to a cougar.

I actually think I’d like to host a parade on TV, not so much for the entertainment aspect, but more so because I’d like to be the one doing commentary in the event a balloon goes rogue and takes out hordes of onlookers. To be able to utter the phrase, “Barney the Purple Dinosaur has just crushed 50 people outside of the Virgin Megastore” is exciting to me, further proving that I’m a simple minded individual who takes great joy from the suffering of others.

I’ll normally make my way to my parents house late morning, where what I deem as the Thanksgiving Pre-Game begins.

The Thanksgiving Pre-Game is the period of time prior to dinner where my Mother is panicking to put the final touches on all the dishes she’s prepared for the feast. She’ll be running around the kitchen yelling things about biscuits, talking about how she needs to baste the turkey, all while my Father sits in his recliner watching reruns of old sitcoms on TV Land.

Once my Mother finishes cooking the meal, my family will then make their way into the dining room and spend an hour or so waxing poetic about life while eating tons of turkey. It will culminate with my Father, brother, and myself giving my Mother a million excuses as to why no one can help in clearing the table.

My excuse this year is that I hurt my back at the gym.

Seriously, I think I pulled something and don’t believe I can lift up a gravy bowl without doing further damage.

The remainder of Thanksgiving day is normally a blur. My brother regularly sits on the computer, doing whatever it is grad students do online. My Mother will spend hours cleaning up and preparing dishes of leftovers for everyone to take home. My Father will make his way back to the recliner where he’ll proceed to read the newspaper and play with his dog, and I’ll find a cozy spot on the couch, drink a few beers, and watch some holiday oriented movie on TV.

This year I think I’m gonna’ go with Planes, Trains, and Automobiles; there’s something about watching John Candy and Steve Martin spoon that puts me in the festive spirit.

However you spend your Thanksgiving, no one can deny that it’s as laid back as a holiday can get.

Nobody is expecting you to run around on Thanksgiving, and nobody wants you to do anything active. On Thanksgiving Day all anyone asks is that you wear loose fitting clothes and piss off the local PETA chapter by eating more bird than you should ever possibly consume.

When it comes down to it, that’s what Thanksgiving is truly all about.