It’s January first, two-thousand and six. Hey! Just six more years to go until the world ends, according to (possibly) the ancient Mayans and one or two other unrelated sources that, coincidentally, happen to agree with them. I spent this New Year’s Eve being almost as sick as Regan Teresa MacNeil on one of her bad days. It really sucked. No binge drinking for me this year; no hanging with friends and ringing in the new year by downing multiple Molson’s and shot after shot of authentic, small-batch Kentucky Bourbon. Nope. This year I stayed at home and watched “The 40 Year Old Virgin” on DVD and celebrated the dropping of the ball over Time’s Square with a tissue stuck up my left nostril.
Oh well. Perhaps this year will be a good one. Maybe it works like that: a bullshit New Year’s Eve just might equal a good year, and vice versa. I once spent the very stroke of midnight on January 1st with my penis inside a woman’s vagina. I was pretty sure that was going to be a great year, but as I seem to recall, that year turned out to be a rather shitty one. There used to be an old superstition in the music business: you always wanted your last rehearsal before a big show to be a poor rehearsal. If the rehearsal was poor, it meant you would have a good show. And, if the rehearsal was a good one, it meant that you’d likely fuck up the actual show. Maybe New Year’s Eve works like that. Let’s hope so.
It was Christmas that made me sick. Most of the family spent the day at my house on Boxing Day, including my little God-son and his younger sister. And, of course, they were both just getting over monster colds. I love the hell out of those two little kids, I really do. And, I love seeing them when they come over. But, they are like two little, walking, automatic, disease dispensers. That’s ok though. It was great having the family over, and all-in-all, well worth the price of getting sick.