Nobody ever warned me about the night before Thanksgiving. Not the way they warn you about New Year’s Eve or St. Patrick’s Day. There was no nickname, no folklore, no “pace yourself, kid.”
Back then, I had no idea Thanksgiving Eve was America’s biggest drinking night — “Blackout Wednesday,” as the world now calls it. If someone had told me that, maybe I would’ve made better decisions. Or at least different ones.
Instead, I did what everyone else my age did: I drank like the next day didn’t exist.
Except it did.
And it hit hard.
Thanksgiving morning I felt like someone had stuffed my skull with gravel. And to make things worse, I had to drive three hours north to my on-air radio job. That was the deal back then. We all had to pick a major holiday to work. Christmas was non-negotiable — if I wasn’t home, my mom would’ve staged an intervention. So I took Thanksgiving.
A 3 PM to 1 AM shift.
Ten straight hours.
Hungover.
In a small-town studio where the thermostat never made sense and the coffee machine was older than most of the artists we played.
My mom knew I’d be up there all night, so she made Thanksgiving breakfast and Thanksgiving dinner and packed it all up for me to take back. Containers everywhere. Enough food to feed a minor league baseball team.
But at the time, I’d laugh and tell her,
“Mom, all I have to do is go on the radio and say I’m hungry and I’ll get food.”
And it was true.
Small-town radio listeners are a different breed. You say the word “pie” on air and suddenly someone is knocking on the studio door with three of them.
But still — nothing saves you when Thanksgiving Eve hits you full force.
These days, I read about how bars treat the Wednesday before Thanksgiving like the Super Bowl. DJs, drink specials, shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, liquor sales that triple a normal Wednesday. Everyone comes home, reunites with friends, and tries to relive a little of who they were.
But back then I didn’t know any of that.
I was living it blindly.
A night out that became a next-day punishment.
Funny thing is, I look back now and it feels like a rite of passage — messy, dumb, exhausting, and absolutely part of that era of my life. The kind of memory you laugh about years later, once your liver forgives you.
So if you’re out tonight — enjoy yourself. Be smart. Drink water. Hug the people you haven’t seen in a while. And if you have to work Thanksgiving Day like I did, may your coffee be strong and your shift be short.
And to anyone stumbling into the holiday with a mild headache and a long drive ahead:
I’ve been there.
You’ll survive.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.