The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Years as a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Commentator

Well, sort of.   These days, my Thanksgiving mornings are spent cooking.   I am usually up by 830AM, sauteing sausage, onions, and celery so I can start making the stuffing in the slow cooker.

But, I've only had a Thanksgiving chef hat in recent years.  Most of my life, I was parked in front of the television.   And gaping at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  And that brings to mind this sidebar comment.

Some years back, I was actually asked this question by a work colleague in New York.

"When is the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade?"

I replied that I was not sure. October sometime?

The idiot said, "Oh," and walked away. I made a mental note never to speak to that person ever again.

Okay, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is an integral part of the holiday's celebration. Right along with football, cranberries, and a post-dinner nap on the couch with your pants unbuttoned. And, for the complete sensory experience, you have to watch the parade on television with either one of two smells emanating from your kitchen. The aforementioned sauteed onions for stuffing. Or a pumpkin pie baking in the oven. It all goes hand in hand.

When I was a kid, I was totally into the balloons, because they were all my favorite cartoon characters. 

Popeye. 

Bullwinkle. 

Bugs Bunny. 

Somewhere along the way, Macy's went off the track and started devoting balloons to commercial sponsors. Because I'm a big fan of the Snuggle Bear? When you're ten years old, you really don't give a shit about what fabric softener your mother is using.

Back in my youthful days, the parade was always hosted by Lorne Greene and Betty White and they were delightful. Later on, they were replaced by the idiots from the "Today Show," who introduced every float as written on the cue cards. It all became a lot less spontaneous. 

"Guess who's coming, kids? I can see his sleigh." 

Duh.

I dreamed always of going to the Macy's parade one year. Of course, this would never happen as it fell totally into my father's tried and true trilogy of excuses.

"It's too crowded."

"It's too far to drive."

"It's too hot and/or cold."

Thanks, Dad. Again.

It would be years later that I would finally see the parade live. Up close and in person. And I would do so for five Thanksgivings in a row.

A company I worked for in New York had offices on Broadway. Third floor directly opposite the Ed Sullivan Theater. With picture windows that were ideal for parade viewing. It became an annual party for employees and clients plus their kids. A continental breakfast was served and then folks would line the windows as soon as the first drum roll was heard.

We were eye level with the balloons. And, despite the fact all these rubber creatures were now nothing more than commercial placements, they were still spectacular to look at. And it was also a great way to see just how broken down they were. The number of patches were plentiful as they did their best to keep the air from going out of Snoopy's ass. It obviously required a lot of surgery to get Underdog through Times Square every year.

Up in our penthouse of viewing, we were above the hordes on the street. Folks down there brought their own ladders in an attempt to get a better look. It was fun for us to watch the ladder climbers eventually fall off their perches sometime during the morning. While the parade was certainly the main attraction, the curbside morons were a delectable side show.

One year, one of our sales managers (sadly he has since passed away) was standing next to me at the window. We started cracking wise about some of the Hollywood has-beens that always seem to show up in the parade. Before you knew it, we were getting laughs up and down the row of windows. A ha! An audience. Our color commentary was appreciated.

"Ah, Joanne Worley is the old woman in the shoe. She has a lot of children and no real career since Laugh-In."

"When do we tie some strings to Al Roker and float him down Broadway?"

"The Popeye balloon has a big tear down his crotch. Must have been a rough night with Olive."

Betty White and Lorne Greene were never like this. 

The next year, one of our annual guests, a young boy, came up to me.

"Are you and that guy going to make jokes again this year?"

There was a look of hope on the kid's face.

"We would be happy to."

And another holiday tradition was born. And I was a heck of a lot funnier than Matt Lauer.

Dinner last night:  French dip panini.