For the third year, I’ve spent Thanksgiving at a restaurant. I’m fully convinced that it’s the absolute best way to spend Holidays. No relatives, no cooking, no washing dishes—nothing. You make a reservation at some fancy-ass place, eat, pay and get the fuck out. Bloodless and without pain. You don’t have to talk with anyone you hate. You don’t have have to play at being patient and polite. You don’t have to do anything and more often than not, you eat better than everyone else. It rules. Try it.

When I was a kid, Christmas was never really a big deal for me. What got my blood pumping came about a month early, when all the presents would be wrapped and hidden somewhere. I was on the prowl, hunting them down carefully lifting the Scotch tape, sliding off the paper and playing with them.

Nothing stopped me. Once, when I knew that behind a locked closet door was a brand-spanking new Nintendo game system, after unsuccessfully picking the lock, I just took the door off the hinges, hooked up the system and played it every day, putting the door and everything else back before anyone came home. Subsequently, when Christmas morning came, I had to look surprised at the gift even though I’d managed to win Super Mario Bros. several times over already. I was a horrid child.

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