One Thanksgiving weekend, I had a lost weekend at a friend's

In the words of Paul Dini: “One Thanksgiving weekend, I had a lost weekend at a friend’s place with ‘Grand Theft Auto.’” Though it speaks with humor and modern imagery, there lies within this statement a meditation on time, indulgence, and the ways in which human beings may lose themselves in diversion. The feast of Thanksgiving is meant for gathering, gratitude, and renewal, yet here it becomes the backdrop for escape—hours slipping away in the grip of a game, days vanishing like smoke. This is the nature of a lost weekend: the sense that life has paused, yet nothing has been truly gained.

The ancients understood well the danger and allure of diversion. They wrote of banquets and festivals that could turn into excess, of citizens who wasted away in theaters or arenas while their duties to family and state withered. Bread and circuses, said Juvenal, could soothe the restless people but also dull their spirit. Paul Dini’s Grand Theft Auto weekend is a reflection of this same ancient rhythm—the temptation to abandon the real for the simulated, to spend precious time in shadows rather than substance. The game becomes a kind of modern arena, filled with danger and thrill, but ultimately a world that vanishes when the screen is darkened.

History too gives us cautionary tales. Consider the Roman emperor Nero, who indulged endlessly in music, theater, and games while his empire crumbled. His nights stretched into lost weekends, and his people suffered for his neglect. Though less dire than an empire undone, the same truth applies to us: when we lose ourselves too often in diversion, we trade the strength of reality for the emptiness of illusion. A single weekend of lost hours may be harmless, but many such weekends strung together form a wasted life.

And yet, we must also hear in Dini’s words the innocence of play. To lose oneself in Grand Theft Auto or in any pastime is also to remember that human beings are not made only for labor. Even the sternest philosophers admitted the need for leisure, for without rest, the spirit cracks under constant weight. What matters is not the indulgence of a lost weekend, but whether it becomes a pattern, whether play becomes escape, and escape becomes a chain. Balance is the key: to enjoy diversion while still returning to one’s greater duties of gratitude, love, and creation.

The imagery of Thanksgiving makes this lesson more poignant. This holiday is one meant for remembering what we already have, for gathering with friends and family, for giving thanks. To spend it in the glow of a screen is to forget the original purpose. It is a reminder that life offers us moments meant for connection, and that we must choose wisely whether to lose them or to live them. A lost weekend may amuse, but a weekend spent in gratitude and presence enriches for a lifetime.

The lesson is clear: time is precious. Guard it as you would guard treasure. Play your games, enjoy your moments of laughter, but do not surrender the sacred hours of gathering and thanksgiving to them. For a game can be paused and returned to at will, but a conversation with a loved one, a shared meal, a holiday together—these cannot be repeated once lost.

Practical action lies before us: when the holidays come, choose presence over distraction. Set aside the screen to look into the faces of those around you. If you play, play in fellowship, but do not let it swallow the time meant for gratitude. Measure your hours, not in the levels you conquer, but in the memories you forge with those who matter most.

Thus, Paul Dini’s words, though offered in humor, reveal an eternal truth: the danger of the lost weekend, the fragile balance between diversion and duty. To live wisely is not to shun play, but to place it in its rightful place—an ornament of life, not its master. For in the end, the truest victories are not in virtual cities, but at the table of Thanksgiving, where gratitude and love conquer all.