Auld Lang Syne 2: Electric Boogaloo.

This is true, it’s not even just a thing because ‘tis the season. But New Year’s has always been my favorite holiday.

I’m not a terribly religious person, but I do take a certain amount of solace in the idea of redemption. I think it’s probably the same reason why “A Christmas Carol” is my favorite story: no matter what happened before, it’s never too late to make good, to pick yourself up from your bootstraps, to start again from your beginnings, never breathe a word about your loss, and rebuild. There’s something, then, about the turning of the calendar. It’s an automatic, built-in reboot.

Calendars, granted, are arbitrary things. You know we only had 10 months, way back when? September was called that, because of sept, which meant seven; October, for oct, or eight, and so forth. It wasn’t until we got a couple of really uppity Roman emperors, Julius and Augustus, that we squeezed a couple of months more into the middle. Calendars, then, are malleable, and are just our way of clocking yet one more circumnavigation of our native star.

Still. There is a sentimentality to the new year. In the year 12,021 of the human era, I wonder what we’re going to find? Like everybody else, I am harboring some belief that, magically, the coming of January 1 is going to bring with it to some new revelations. Changes of power, vaccines, getting good and blitzed on a cheap ass bottle of champagne with a lower-case “c”. I’m not naïve. I know this coming year is going to bring along some bullshit with it. For that matter, I’m not going to mention 2020, because seriously, go eat a giant buffet of dicks, 2020.

Which leaves only two options. Optimism, and cynicism. There are some people who say that cynicism doesn’t have any place in this world. I disagree. Cynicism is a defense measure, like an armadillo rolling itself up into a ball. You just need it sometimes. Optimism is the preferable option, but some days, who can afford it?

It’s pessimism I can’t stand. Pessimism is a complete lack of hope, which is despair, which I felt before, and it sucks. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. And this year, we’ve all felt it. Yeah.

Do me one favor. No matter your circumstance, no matter how stressed out you are, no matter what’s going on with life, with family, with finances, with uncertainty about future, or purpose… Somewhere around midnight, give yourself 60 seconds to just breathe. Take the time to think of three things, in this unmitigated shitshow of a year, that were truly good, even if they were small. Corny? Fuck yeah. Does it help a little? Actually... yeah. None of us deserves anything, of course, but you know what? We deserve that small form of reclamation. We all do, Gat-dammit.

I suppose, this is just a long way of saying, from a purely personal point of view, and with the upmost selfishness... thanks. This has been a really whacked out fucking year, y’all. Freaking lonely, amiright? So I really mean it when I say that I appreciate that you’ve spent some of that time with me in these internet nether-regions. It’s been one of the funnest parts. 🙂

What are you all getting into for New Year’s? Here in Spain, there’s a tradition. At the stroke of midnight, you eat one grape with each gong of the church bell. 12 in total, and by the time you make it to No 6., you’re struggling to keep up. Choking hazard? Probably. But I guess that just means it results in even more of a good chuckle, once somebody administers the Heimlich maneuver. (yes, I have often wondered exactly how somebody might do that should I get a large berry lodged in throat... If there was ever an excuse to cop a feel!)

And then, you buy a bottle of bubbly, and drink it. They call it cava here. Fills the same purpose, and only costs about €6 a bottle. Cordon Negro, anyone?

Alas, there is one thing I am missing. I am a Southern girl, after all, and it doesn’t ever quite feel like New Year’s without a controlled explosion. So, if you’ve got some Roman candles, or even a pocket full of M-80s handy, light one for me, will you? As a wise man once said, every time a redneck blows off a finger, an angel gets its wings.

Auld Lang Syne.