It was Thanksgiving day in 1982. I was a year into my divorce. My girlfriend, a lovely, funny person, had broken up with me a few weeks before. I was suddenly alone for Thanksgiving due to a bonehead move I made on her girlfriend after a comedy club performance. I called her and suggested we meet for a drink or something like that.
I was unaware that girlfriends, unlike guy friends, often talk to one another. They tell one another everything — Oops.
My family was only 350 miles away in Santa Barbara, but in another bonehead move, I decided to stay in San Francisco alone. “It’ll be fine,” I said to myself. It would have been so easy to drive down and have a lovely Thanksgiving at my Mom and Dad’s house, but John Wayne decided to go it alone.