Thanksgiving is here, and what a great day for an iconoclast’s column to be published in the local newspaper!

Now, I realize that very few people can read more than one paragraph of (my) writings without scratching their heads and saying, “huh?”

Duly chagrined, I’m finally willing to concede that no one, least of all letter-to-the-editor writer Dave Matthews, should be forced to waste valuable football viewing time today in what surely will amount to a futile search for a seldom-used dictionary.

I’m feeling compassionate, so here is what “iconoclast” means:

1. A breaker or destroyer of images, esp. those set up for religious veneration.

2. A person who attacks cherished beliefs, traditional institutions, etc., as being based on error or superstition.

But before examining the iconoclast’s Thanksgiving, permit me to further explain my reference to Floyd County’s G.O.P. chairman. Mr. Matthews’s feathers became ruffled when he glanced in the general direction of my recent column about the First World War and mistakenly perceived that I was directing venom at American fighting men and women. He proceeded to attack me for a position that I did not take, which is known in the logical fallacy trade as “building a straw man.”

The Straw Man fallacy is committed when a person simply ignores a person’s actual position and substitutes a distorted, exaggerated or misrepresented version of that position (www.nizkor.org).

As groundless pleas for censorship go, the chairman completely overplayed his hand, and the resulting screed was transparently artless, but then again, political culture in Floyd County generally plays out at a murky subterranean level, and as Mr. Matthews’s machinations edge nearer to the depth of those famous diamond mines in South Africa, we should begin worrying.

He just may be planning to run for city council.

Spelunking, anyone?

•••

While others grew up idolizing athletes and rock stars, and in spite of Reggie Jackson and Keith Moon having substantive moments in my adolescent world, this columnist’s heroes have always been iconoclasts.

From Socrates through Tom Paine, and not exempting 20th-century polemicists like H. L. Mencken, there’s nothing quite like an iconoclast taking a headlong swipe at unexamined assumptions to make my day.

Consequently, each year around this time it is my duty to remind my friends that Thanksgiving, while perfectly enjoyable from a hedonist’s standpoint, and wholly conducive to this bibulous trencherman’s standards, actually stands for something more than gluttony and sports.

But that certain “something” isn’t the prevailing viewpoint that the Puritans and Natives once merrily gathered for a quaint New England picnic, pausing from the consumption of corn chowder and non-alcoholic cranberry wine only to pray to respective deities for their continued prosperity and happiness.

Rather, it is this:

The need for Christian apologetics aside, and whether or not Squanto facilitated a peaceful first Thanksgiving at Plymouth Rock, the subsequent history of the white man on the North American continent featured the unabated slaughter of Native Americans, the pillage of the environment, and an exculpatory doctrine of “manifest destiny” interwoven with prevailing Christianity, one intended to ease the consciences of those pulling the triggers.

We’ll leave the generational approval of African-American slavery emanating from Southern pulpits for another day of thanks.

In the context of genuine American history, and to the exclusion of mythology and wishful thinking, the holiday we term “Thanksgiving” is ironic, to say the least. I prefer reflections on all human history to be in accordance with the record, and as events actually occurred, without the tidying impulse to obscure and sanitize them.

I accept that people in all places and times do what they can with what they have, and believe that the best we can hope for is to learn from the past in the hope of learning worthwhile lessons and avoiding mistakes. In my opinion, the worst error of all is to misrepresent the historical record to justify theological needs.

Yes, I observe Thanksgiving, too … realistically.

•••

You’re no doubt aware that I’m in the food and drink business, which isn’t exactly “retail” in the impending sense of Friday, Nov. 27, when the Christmas shopping season commences.

America’s frenzied pop culture vultures have dubbed it Black Friday, and Pavlov’s overworked dog can be expected to salivate continuously for the next few days as fevered analysts pore over sales figures and tea leaves in an effort to determine if holiday season retail sales will be sufficient to float our national boat (and keep China humming - thanks, Wal-Mart) for another year, with the added variables of downturn, recession and depression to spice the mania.

In keeping with the present spirit of iconoclasm, it’s always useful to lampoon the idea of 24/7 consumerism’s identification with cardiovascular exercise and quasi-religious attainment, but not now. I’m ready to eat.

On Thanksgiving, this means a short ride to Louisville’s South End for transformative dining at the venerable Vietnam Kitchen, which stays open until early afternoon.

Calm down, Dave: I enjoy the traditional Norman Rockwell spread as much as anyone, but cooking it at home simply isn’t an option for us, and finding a restaurant that does turkey and the trimmings right and offers styles of beer (a far better match than wine) to match cranberries, sweet potatoes and stuffing is virtually impossible, although reader recommendations are welcomed.

Instead, we indulge in crisp spring rolls, exotic peppery noodle dishes and the occasional clay pot catfish, accompanied by India Pale Ale and French coffee for dessert.

After all, to each his own “tradition.”



Roger’s Thanksgiving beer choices include Wheat Doppelbock and French-style Bieres de Garde with the main course, and Imperial Stout with sweet closing nibbles. He writes while drinking at the NA Confidential blog: www.cityofnewalbany.

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