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Sunday, January 01, 2012

here's to the new year 

It's two minutes to midnight. Literally, really it is. And while the hand may not currently be threatening doom, it is still surely making a very exciting night at my house.

Outside the darkness bangs, whistles, and booms. Fucking redneck urban hillbillies and their gahdamned fireworks. At least I hope they're fireworks. . . Although in my part of town. . .

Those bastards. Sounds like a gahdamned war zone. I might as well be Edward R Effing Murrow phoning it in from some rooftop in London. Fuck it. It's New Year's Eve. I'm breaking out the bourbon.

All the creatures in the house save me are in full freak-out mode.

The Boy was quite happy to go to bed. He smiled when I tucked him in an hour and half or so ago. The dogs were also rather content, all snuggled in throw blankets on the sofa. I was just settling down to watch a documentary about the history of television on PBS. Really. Yes, I actually was. I know, I know, how New Year's Eve has changed. Why back in the day we'd. . .

Whoa, getting off course. Back on track.

There had been intermittent bursts of small explosions periodically throughout the night. Perhaps a few more than a typical Saturday night, perhaps beginning a bit earlier than is typical. I mean, the cantinas, clubs, and bars are still open for about another two hours. But such a ruckus is certainly not unheard of in these parts.

Starting about eleven thirty or so, it went up a notch. Fucking fireworks. It started in skirmishes of small arms fire, bricks of black cats blocks away. It got closer, and closer. As the old year waned into the new the louder booms of rockets added to the cacophony like small artillery, mortars and stuff. Again distant at first, then close and all around.

Midnight.

Outside it sounds like Fallujah in April of 2004.

The dogs are glued to my ankles and The Boy shakes and vibrates in his bed as I pace around the house impatiently waiting for his damned iPod to sync so I can set him up with music to drown out the bangs and booms raging all around.

Finally. Ah, sweet Brandi Carlile. Your voice sure is some kind of sonic soma for The Boy. His eyes widen when he hears it. He almost immediately relaxes, and within a few bars his respirations begin to relax.

Well, primary crisis resolved. Like I said, I'm breaking out the bourbon. . .

2012 enters with a bang. Let's hope the Mayans had it wrong and we do this again, same time next year, ok?

Until then my dear reader and friend, raise a toast to the new year! And one for the brothas who ain't here to celebrate it with us.

And always remember my dear reader. . .

All For The Love Of The Boy

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