Dear Aunt Thelma. . . .

Whoa!  This is something the boys in the neighborhood have been hoping to catch a glimpse of.  Now, I'm afraid, they are both thrilled and scared to death.  It is an image they will carry with them into adulthood and, perhaps, after.  Could it even be true?

What the fuck is a Duck Dynasty?  I've never heard of it, but every day that rag of an online news corp CNN runs some headline story about it with a picture of a backwoods hillbilly wearing a greasy ZZ Top beard looking like somebody's very perverted uncle or grandpa.  Why is this person important?  Apparently this genius has opinions that some people don't like.  The other geniuses over at Cracker Barrel have gotten into the mix somehow, pulling products then putting them back.  Somebody tell me please, please, please. . . what the fuck?  Is this truly the culturally impoverished country in which I live?  I'd better take a road trip.  I'm truly missing the end of the world.

A fellow in the New York Times has opined that the GPS is ruining the great anthropological sites of the west (opinion).  No shit, Sherlock?  It has ruined everything including my own hometown.  For my entire life, nobody who didn't know could find our downtown as it wasn't marked.  There was no big sign saying "This Way To The Boulevard."  Now every hillbilly and grease ball with gas money or bus fare is there.  It's a democracy, for god's sake.  They have a right.  Right?  There will be a Cracker Barrel on the Boulevard to serve them soon.  They will be able to get Dynasty Duck and Puerto Rican Gizzards.  The Anasazi are gone.  I'm still here.

I think that a lack of alcohol is making me worse, not better.  I've become vituperative.

But I was going to tell you about last night's dinner with mother.  I finally had time to try grilling all those vegetables up along with some chicken breasts.  I asked for thighs, but when I got home, that is not what the butcher gave me.  They worked, though, just fine.  I made a marinade of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and basil.  I should have added garlic, but it was o.k.  Then I cut up onions and red peppers and sweet potato and eggplant.  In a grilling cage (I don't know what it is called) I put green beans and Brussels sprouts.  And I added on a Portobello mushroom top.  If I may confess, the only vegetables I have ever grilled before are asparagus and corn, so I was very unsure of what I was doing.  No fear, though.  It was easy and tasty and pleasing to the eye.  I put the grilled vegetables together in a big, beautiful bowl when done.  Oo-la-la.  What a feast.  The best were the onions and peppers and sweet potatoes.  The worst was the Portobello.  I guess I am not a mushroom person.  Neither is my mother.  Even the eggplant seemed wrong, though it was edible.  I'd much rather fry it the way I normally do.  Together with jasmine rice and chicken, though, it was quite a feast.  I drank sparkling water.  Mmm-mmm.  Much better than wine.  Not.  But I'm determined not to drink until my birthday when I will be imperially slim and Hollywood handsome and all the girls will wonder how a fine son and good cook like me could be wandering the earth alone.  I'll be the twinkle in every girl's eye.

Holy smokes, Christmas is upon us--whoop--just like that!  Tomorrow is Christmas eve and I haven't sent a card or a wish to anyone.  I didn't even have time to get my secretary's present which was embarrassing when she brought in mine.  I told her that her's was in the mail, but that is not true yet.  I could not sleep last night, and maybe this is why.  I will go Christmas shopping soon after the sun comes up and get all of that done.  Tomorrow I must meet the old miscreants on the Boulevard for our traditional Christmas Eve drinks. . . oops.  Will I confess to being a tea-totler?  I may have to order something that I don't drink just to save face.  Maybe I'll just show up from the bar with a ginger ale, and say with a flourish, "Another, garçon.  And keep 'em coming."  And I must try to find a holiday card for you.  I must prepare my favorite Christmas song, too.  So much to do, so little time.

Oh, Aunt Thelma, whatever shall we do?  Is it wrong to look at your aunt this way?  It is probably common.  Surely many must do it.