Thank you, thank you
a SUIT column by Chris Jungle

Like it or not, the year is winding down, and as always, there are things to be thankful for getting me through yet another Thanksgiving. So here we go, in no particular order or intention.

Thank you for the presidential scandal. It proved the old maxim that everyone screws up or screws around. Clinton is a man of contradictions. In many ways a success and in many ways a failure. It makes him almost human. I learned how to spell Starr with two R's and Lewinsky with a big Why. It was a trashy soap opera laced story that went on entirely too long, but I've read a few books that went far beyond their entertainment value, too.

Thank you for The Big Lebowski, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, There's Something About Mary, and Saving Private Ryan.

Thank you for baseball. After days of cooking in the midday summer sun, nothing soothed my wilting confidence like watching a ball game. McGuire and Sosa, the hardly beaten Yankees, the Cubbies in the playoffs, and AC/DC warming up the Padres crowd for the ninth inning. I couldn't have asked for anything more, and I didn't.

Thank you for NOFX, the Suicide Machines, Less Than Jake, Rancid, and NOMEANSNO to get me up, and Miles Davis and John Coltrane for getting me through.

Thank you for the paychecks in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes kids need to be put in five point restraints, sometimes a punk band needs to be introduced to the public, sometimes sky diving needs to be described, sometimes government reports need to be edited, sometimes a fictional story needs to be told. I got paid for all of these things, and I took the money and ran.

Thank you for Charles Bukowski, William Burroughs, Joseph Heller, John Gilmore, Albert Camus, Samuel Beckett, Anthony Burgess, J.D. Salinger and Dr. Seuss. My words have yet to compare.

Thank you for passionate kisses from women. Nothing comes close to the feeling of putting my lips against a female and being able to release the primal lustful craving stuck inside a demented corner of my head. A couple pleasant responses, a couple duds. All were quick, all were fleeting, all are memories.

Thank you for LIES Magazine. It was a four year, maddening, frantic, fantastic ride into oblivion. I never would have gone crazy or became a writer without you.

Thank you for not going to war with anyone. I'm not exactly military material, but the phrase "The Draft" always puts a cramp in my back. I always imagine I'd be the kind of soldier who would go nuts, run out into the middle of a fire fight, and be ripped to shreds by incoming bullets. The message would come back that I fought bravely when, in fact, I just flipped out. Every time we avert war, it makes me think we're actually becoming a more civil world. I know it's only a matter of time though.

Thank you for tolerance. We're all quirky folks, and nobody does everything we want them to do. The best thing we can do is let everyone be what they want.

Mostly, thank you for the little moments which mean absolutely nothing to anyone but myself. Grand conversations about the state of humanity, tiny conversations about weather, wandering aimlessly through the Sandia Mountains, walking intentionally through downtown Albuquerque, soaring through a rambling pipe dream, and sinking into a content mood.

I didn't get everything I asked for, but I got enough to make it all worth sticking around for another year. As long as I'm living, I'll be grateful, and when it's all over, I'll be done.

Chris Jungle is a better and worse man because of 1998. Kind of like Clinton.

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