It’s morning, New Year’s Day at the Fat Fingers of Justice residence…
My lack of a furious hangover pounding on the door to my central nervous system this morning makes no medical sense. Science, even common sense, dictates that I should be begging for undeserved mercy, thinking that even the refrigerator light is scraping-the-backs-of-my-eyeballs too-bright.
And yet…nothing. I feel like a mountain of money, with nekkid ladies rolling around in it. It seemed certain the voluminous gin, whiskey, and mysterious and tongue-twistingly disgusting grape-flavored shots would lead to a wailing and gnashing of teeth to start the new year.
It feels so right to be wrong.
So the question is, 2011, what’s your game? What kind of trick is this?
What do you want from me?
You’ve got my attention – now what? You want money? Here – here’s seven, eight bucks. It’s all I’ve got. Oh, and a Schlotzsky’s coupon. Take that, too. Just, don’t look at me like you weren’t ready for this. Besides, it’s just your first day. Settle down, let’s think about things, make lists, set goals.
You know, I didn’t even see you show up. I lost track of time, or really, was never tracking it to begin with, and all of a sudden, 5, 4, 3 – here you come, sauntering on in. At the exact moment (assuming drunken revelers at a bar are in sync with the atomic clock) you arrived, I was ascending stairs. I’m going to take that as a metaphor, as an awesome omen.
Or it could just mean I’m going to be climbing a lot of stairs this year.
Either way, I’m moving up!
So 2011, on with the resolutions:
Get my shit together.
Drink less.
Spend money I save on not drinking to buy new clothes, especially to replace the t-shirts that I’ve had since my freshman year in college that my beer/taco gut is ever-more courageously attempting to burst through.
Eat less like an American.
Draw more.
Walk more. More specifically, walk to the liquor store. If I absolutely must go, it’s only a few blocks, and I can rationalize that I’m somewhat offsetting the vice of drinking by walking.
Stop making resolutions that already endanger other resolutions.
Stop getting older, but avoid the only alternative.
Less facebook, more book.
More beard.
Pick up self by own bootstraps, and don’t get sidetracked by over-thinking the impossible physics of such a thing.
It’s now one week later at the Fat Fingers of Justice residence…
So far, the above fortune is accurate.
But let’s check on those resolutions, shall we?
Drinking less? If you happened to see me at Ginny’s Little Longhorn Saloon Tuesday night, I think you know how that one is going. That amazing honky-tonk bar, with music by the Bret Graham Band (perhaps the greatest drinking band I’ve ever seen in my life, as their set list is like the dream country and western jukebox), had me drinking so much my brain cells were starting to pool their resources and consider a retreat out my ear to find a safehouse.
Eat less like an American? Pizza and tacos are too good. Scratch that one off the list. What was I thinking?
Walk more? I made about 10 trips to the bar at Ginny’s. All on foot! Add to that the 3 or 4 trips to the as-you-can-imagine unimaginable bathroom, and I’m practically wearing holes into the soles of my shoes.
Less facebook more book? Thus far, my only success, although it’s due to a technicality. My computer has a virus and my Internet time is limited to however long my computer decides not to unexpectedly and without warning shut itself down. As for the book part, I’m mostly reviewing books I read last year. Which leads me to…
All right, now I have to finish up my obligatory year-end list of greatest whatnots and thing-a-ma jigs, sexiest literary juggernauts and dopest arthouse porn flicks. Or something. If I don’t do one, I’m pretty sure my blogging license is revoked.
The Fat Fingers of Justice 