My wife came around the corner of the house carrying two chickens, one under each arm. They were backwards — tail feathers out for all to see. Hen heinies saluting the world. Let’s face it, you look ridiculous walking around with chickens under your arms. Like you’re carrying basketballs. And it’s worse when their hindquarters do all the greeting. It must have been a sight to see downtown. And she didn’t expect anyone to see it. Which is why the mailman walking up was such a surprise. “I must have looked like a crazy person,” she said. She expected a strange look. Maybe a question: “Mam, you do realize there are fowl growing out of your armpits?”

Every year on Thanksgiving it’s the same thing. I cook. Lots of family come over. My nerves get frayed. The stress builds up. I yell at my mother because she wants to take a family photo just as the food comes out. I black out. Wake up a week later. Wonder why a turkey giblet’s lodged in my ear canal. But not this year. Even though I have roughly 1,700 family members coming over — and my house only seats two! — I’ve developed a Thanksgiving recipe for a calm, Zen-like day that will alleviate stress and make it enjoyable for all. Here are a few steps you might want to try, too: ? Put on cooking apron before scalding hot turkey grease spills down new dress shirt. In fact, why cook in dress clothes at all? Maybe this year I’ll go au naturel in the kitchen. Relaxing, quicker cleanup and much cooler.

I didn’t realize Blockbuster Video was still around until I read a story about its demise. Well, it’s final demise. Because rental videos died a long time ago. So did video tape. Remember VHS? That ancient device called a VCR? It had wires and you jammed clunky plastic things inside it. What was that all about? There’s been much written about Blockbuster going the way of the dinoVCR. CNN posted a story on 10 things they wouldn’t miss about the stores. Others said “good riddance” and “that’s what you get for late fees!” But the video store’s closing has actually made me quite sad. For me, Blockbuster is more than just an obsolete video store. It was once part of a Friday night experience. A cultural event. When I think about Blockbuster, I think about weekends with my dad. My parents were divorced, and no Friday night at his place could begin without a trip to the blue and yellow video store. My brother and I frantically searched the stacks in hopes that the latest release of this or that was still clinging to the wall. Fat chance. Blockbusters on a Friday night were like a grocery store before a hurricane. Shelves picked clean. Mad scrambles for second tier selections. Blood-curdling screams from disappointed families: “We’re doomed! ‘The Goonies’ are all checked out!” That always started a stampede for the exit. We combed the store in search of something worthwhile … and preferably with mild nudity! A couple movies, a […]

“I’m putting out the tree, and I don’t care,” said my co-worker. He was referring to his little office Christmas tree. He reached up into a cabinet and extracted the ornament. Bam! It was Christmas. At the St. Johns Town Center in Jacksonville, Christmas music was already playing from the speakers. The sky was sunny, people wore shorts and there was Andy Williams telling us, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” I don’t need to tell you there have been singing Christmas trees, lights and snowmen sledding out on store shelves since, I don’t know, July? Stores always get in on the act early. Forget Halloween. Forget Thanksgiving — “Turkeys? Who needs stinkin’ Turkeys?” We’re moving on. It’s Christmas time, baby!

The sense of fear, dread, terror — of taking my life into my own grill mitts — is gone. No longer do I consider wearing silver, asbestos-lined fire suits or welders’ goggles. No longer do I kiss my wife and child before marching out to the backyard with a plate of frozen burgers: “If I never see either of you again, remember I love you. Write epic poems about me. Tell the world I went down in a blaze of glory … literally.” My old grill — that flaming death trap — is gone, and to honest with you, I kind of miss it. It was my first “real” grill. One that didn’t need charcoal and a blast mask. Nothing like the eruption of lighter fluid on those old-style briquette grills. A mushroom cloud of roaring flame that could be seen three blocks over. Children would dive for cover. Men would take off their hats, bow their heads and somberly say, “A man just died grilling a burger. Amen!”

I almost asked the sales clerk behind the counter. Shame — and the thought of further public embarrassment — kept me from it. I was flipping through a catalog in the high-end furniture store. Looking through pictures of rugs that weren’t on the floor. This one? No, too light. That one? Nice, but the pattern is too static. It would never hide anything. I was about to drop some cash on a rug for the living room. My wife has been wanting one for a while. A replacement for the one we threw away. Why did we throw it away? Ha! Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Like the one I wanted to ask the retail clerk as I thumbed through the catalog gasping at prices and agonizing over what would go with the sofa and the wall color and my general mood and the futility of it all.