Tet(anus) Offensive

As my daughter grows older and passes each developmental milestone (“inch-stone” would be more fitting, as I suggested a couple posts ago), the occasional visit to the pediatrician’s office comes with the territory. I’ve had the mind-bending misfortune of accompanying her and Jenny on two occasions now; let me explain why it’s such a supremely bizarre place.

At the pediatrician, reality is inverted. All the standard rules of the medical profession are turned on their head. Decorating devices that would otherwise seem out of place in the hyper-formal world of medicine are employed with the greatest deliberation: stripes, polka-dots, and primary colors, for example, are all unusually prominent; wayfinding fixtures (e.g. signs, door numbers, room names) are bright, bubbly, and cartoonish. Around every corner is another dreamlike setting that could've been spawned out of Lewis Carroll’s hallucinatory visions.

On our first visit, I asked how I could find the bathroom, to which the nurse provided a tentative, open-ended response, “Well, we have a big bathroom and a little bathroom – which do you want?” I was instantly confounded by many aspects of that question, so I’m afraid I interrupted her with my preferences before she finished responding; I really didn’t need more details - all I could think about was ducking dramatically through the little bathroom’s doorway, crouching to my knees as I pinched my fingertips together to turn the microscopic faucet handles. And I’m sure little fairies would’ve been there to dry my hands with the sparkling breeze from their fluttering wings.

To up the ante during our next visit, we were jettisoned from the waiting room to a new room, its walls festooned with Star Wars posters and shadow boxes full of alien figurines. Plastic model spaceships and more aliens hung from every square inch of the ceiling. (Maybe I’m an outlier here, but the persistent anxiety associated with medical appointments was scarcely eased by alien creatures and their extra-terrestrial deformities. Instead, the worst medical side effects imaginable took turns clawing their way through my head). I can’t speak for Josephine, but if I went to my doctor and found a seemingly unhealthy fascination with sci-fi space mythology, I would be more than a little concerned about his/her commitment to the Hippocratic oath.

The terminology is way out there too. It’s safe to say there’s a lot more coo-ing than would be typical for my own doctor visits. When infant Josephine goes to the doctor, however, there are entire conversations held between physician and patient with rare utterance of any sensible English vocabulary, each party making the most frugal use of consonants. There are lots of official references to “prickles” and “toesies”, “toofers” and “bumbles”, and all manner of gobbledy gook, with hardly a trace of scientific terms. I’m still not quite sure what the pediatrician meant when she referred to Josephine’s “snorkies,” but in one of the few oddities that I actually appreciated, Josephine’s doctor simply referred to her shots collectively as “the meanness”. Her sweet Southern accent gave it a dainty gloss that I assure you is only attainable when one’s vocal chords are cured in a steady marinade of iced tea and pimiento cheese.

The vaccination portion of each visit is particularly troubling for me. In general, I wouldn’t say I’m an avid fan of sharp metal objects piercing flesh, but the gory pain of the stab is just the beginning. Now I’ve found another reason to loathe shots -- just take a look at a few of the dubious ingredients that go into concocting a common vaccine in the lab (according to the Dr. Robert Sears Vaccine Book):

Chick embryo proteins

Fetal cow blood serum

Monkey kidney cells

Monkey guts? The blood of an unborn calf? Throw in a frog’s heart and some cat eyeballs and you have yourself a bona fide witches brew. All those years of education, internships, and residencies, yet the average M.D. hasn't evolved much past the same elemental resources used in the lore and mysticism of several centuries ago. Granted, they're mixing their prescriptions at a more granular level now -- and without the bubbling cauldron. Ohh, and there is the minor point that the newer way does seem to work, whereas witches have a less honorable track record.

Pediatric sorcery and witchcraft aside, there are more ethical concerns at hand: I’m horribly disappointed that Austin, one of the bastions of progressive citizenry in our fair nation-state, has yet to enlist a doctor who will perform vegan vaccinations (you know, something without all these cruel, carnivorous inputs). Can’t some pharma chemist somewhere figure out a soy-based shot for measles, mumps, and rubella? If veganism has taught us nothing else, it's that there's no limit to the wonders you can squeeze out of a humble soybean as long as you’re willing to process it enough.

Only the Occasional Whiff of Patchouli

A couple days ago, Josephine turned six months. We did nothing to celebrate because the last quarter has not been the most harmonious season between Josephine and her parents. But because we control the purse strings, Jenny and I did recently treat ourselves to a fairly ambitious vacation to Northern California, albeit with l’enfant terrible in tow. It has been about a year since we’ve had a true getaway, but when we planned the trip a few months ago, we mistakenly assumed that a child who is more or less serene at three months old would maintain a similar disposition over the course of the subsequent three months. Ha! [I'm laughing with tears in my eyes.]

Chalk it up to another hazard of naivete for first-time parents. Here are other things I learned in Northern California, some thankfully unrelated to parenthood:

• There are more Priuses than people in Berkeley.


• Berkeley has gone commercial, and its archetypical acolytes have fled to surrounding communities like Sebastopol, where stores selling locally handmade glassware and pottery are exceedingly common, often advertising their wares as so-called “functional art.” My best guess is that, in this case, "functional" means “can be smoked out of.”


• In the wine country, the natives feel there’s no limit to the ways in which oak wine barrels can be repurposed with apishly stylistic effect; it’s the landscaping equivalent of that particular Napa/Sonoma font that proprietors feel they can put on signs to provide their establishment with instant cachet.


• Of all the temptations we passed up in the wine country, from high vintage tasting rooms to the French Laundry and other fine eateries of national repute, none seemed more irresistibly alluring than the occasional daycare on the side of the road.


• One shouldn't be surprised when you spend the night in a mountain town crammed in the middle of several national forests, only to find out that all the rooms are booked up by hundreds of people from the park service, all of whom are in town to eradicate the surrounding forest of marijuana.


• “Where time stands still” is not a promising motto for your lodging for the night


• As it turns out, there’s little you can do to reason with a six month old


• For civil engineers in California, any indication that lanes are merging is an afterthought. (The arrows are usually painted on the pavement after you pass through the stop light, roughly 15 ft before the lane disappears.)


• Beach towns have beach trash and river towns have river trash, all washed up from the Summer of Love (or at least the ever-elusive dream of its renaissance).


• Many hardened hippies are ultimately irritable and difficult.


• Shirts are no longer in vogue for men in offbeat towns of Sonoma County. Guerneville, with its above average ruffians per capita, can be particularly harrowing after dark.


• I was astonished to find that Northern California is still the sort of place where people drive down main street with country music blaring out their rolled-down windows. You don't have to go to far out of the Bay Area to be in the backwoods.


• On the other hand, rural gas stations there stock bottles of organic apple juice sourced from local orchards, and by "local," I mean the orchards that are located within that same county.


• Coffeeshops in otherwise unassuming small towns carry books like the one I noticed titled “10 Minute Activist”


• Sometimes churches have to be converted into natural foods stores.

"The Referendum," by Tim Kreider

I read an amusing article a couple weeks ago. Here's an excerpt:

“Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master.

"I have never even idly thought for a single passing second that it might make my life nicer to have a small, rude, incontinent person follow me around screaming and making me buy them stuff for the rest of my life. [Note to friends with children: I am referring to other people’s children, not to yours.] But there are also moments when some part of me wonders whether I am not only missing the biological boat but something I cannot even begin to imagine — an entire dimension of human experience undetectable to my senses, like a flatlander scoffing at the theoretical concept of sky.

"But I can only imagine the paralytic terror that must seize my friends with families as they lie awake calculating mortgage payments and college funds and realize that they are locked into their present lives for farther into the future than the mind’s eye can see. Judging from the unanimity with which parents preface any gripe about children with the disclaimer, “Although I would never wish I hadn’t had them and I can’t imagine life without them,” I can’t help but wonder whether they don’t have to repress precisely these thoughts on a daily basis."

Sims vs. Sims

I’m so over Josephine. Everyone else is busy fawning over her, but I’m fed up with it. Come on, people – spare the sap . . . I think it’s high time I get some more attention around here.

Here are a couple obvious reasons why I'm more deserving:

1) I’m much smarter and wittier than Josephine.
2) I’m way more articulate; for crying out loud, she can’t even talk -- she only grunts and moans, so that’s a pretty low bar to beat.
3) I’m arguably better looking. And besides, if it weren’t for me, she’d be at least 50% less cute. Where do you think she got all those attractive features and adorable mannerisms anyway? They didn’t magically appear one day out of nowhere; it's no coincidence that I’m pretty lovable and adorable myself.
4) I’m more agile, and I could definitely beat her in a foot race. Meanwhile, everyone gets ecstatic when she sits up or rolls over, a trick most dogs would’ve easily mastered by this age too. It was only a few months ago that everyone was getting so worked up when she lifted her hand up to her mouth, and . . . [suspense building] . . . accidentally latched onto her fist to pacify herself. If you ask me, that's not a very impressive feat for the same species that has harnessed electricity, designed supersonic aircraft, penned epic novels, etc. If you're going to offer praise for the basest demonstrations of manual dexterity, that's fine -- I just suggest you reserve that sort of acclaim for lesser primates.

If the disparity stopped at praise for her trivial achievements, I could maybe overlook it, but I'm most disgruntled by the attention she gets despite some clearly despicable iniquities. Since when do we embrace (much less encourage!) people who sleep away most of their day? And when she’s not sleeping, she’s usually either gorging her gluttonous addictions or bawling her eyes out -- neither of which seem very healthy either. Do you really expect to convince me that someone who only eats, sleeps, and cries is “soooo precious”? That sounds more like an archetypical case of manic depression; I frankly believe she belongs in a psych ward, in a room with padded walls. (Come to think of it, no wonder they make bumpers for the interior perimeter of a crib).

The last place Josephine needs to be is in the doting gaze and embrace of some obsessed family member who is merely enabling her mental illness, reinforcing her bad habits and her other severe shortcomings. Someone – someone! – needs to hold her to higher standards. I look forward to the day when somebody finally takes advantage of all this face time we get with her and sternly exhorts, “Josephine, Welcome to the Human Race, now pull yourself together.”

A commentary on form and function

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

I'm not one for famous quotes -- at least, I haven't been drawn to them since my grand oratory phase back in 7th or 8th grade. So I hesitated to use one in the title here; after all, deference to our cultural hegemons runs counter to one's subversive instincts. However, Mark Twain is an iconic character on the order of Hemingway . . . no matter how mainstream, he doubtlessly merits serious attention. I oblige.

As of late -- over the past 5 months to be precise -- I've been besieged by a series of daily inconveniences, and although they have subjected me to no shortage of sacrifice and suffering, nuisance and annoyance, I have (just barely) survived. In my heroic insistence to cling on to the frail shreds of my life as they dangle, graciously and miraculously, from the firmament, I have been too busy to mind my blog entries, much to the dismay of the millions who read this blog every week. You've heard nary a word in the last few months. And for that, I can only blame my infant daughter, who has effectively left a deluge of heartache and longing in the wake of her birth.

At this point in the blog, I considered punctuating these sentiments with something profound like "I’ve been too consumed by the caustic art of everyday living to devote mindtime to the regenerative tonic of reflection," but that seemed inaccessible and fantastically overwrought, and truth be told, I’ve still been writing and brainstorming on the margins of my daily compulsions, building a backlog of posts to prepare for rapidfire release . . . I just haven't had time to organize them into posts . . . Until now. So please, stand back, and cover your eyes and ears.

In the meantime, please feel free to visit the link to my very own Home & Garden blog to the right (Exercise in Domesticity); I've been more active on that front over the past few months, so don't be surprised if you find things that blow your mind and open you up to a whole new consciousness.

Eighth Generation

An unseemly cabal in our 159th year of Texan recalcitrance -- scarred by the southern sun, searing in the white-hot ashen earth.

Suitable gentlemen (Read: Anyone in a tunic's all right by me.)

Now here are three outstanding young men, all clean shaven and well-appointed . . . Okay, okay two of them have a faint trace of facial hair, but it's really too thin to count. Overall, you can tell they're good kids; these guys are going places.

Two important rules for my daughter

This is a fateful, hardly bearable moment in the unwritten history of my life. Today was the first time that I fully crossed paths with the agonizing sacrifices one makes when he places the wellbeing of his child before his own hopes/dreams/desires.

The issue is shaving. My instinct for self-preservation regularly reminds me, in a shrill and insistent voice, that I should avoid shaving with every grain of willpower I can muster. Yet, I also don't think my daughter should trust men with suspicious facial hair (and ultimately, all facial hair is suspicious in one light or another) . . . so I stand face to face with a fraught, tangled decision. Do I impose such cruel strictures on my daily habits, or do I risk the life prospects of my own offspring by setting a bad example and getting her accustomed to unshaven men? Well, like any good parent who values discipline, I think it's best to go ahead and establish some ground rules for her:

1) Beware of all men with facial hair. Keep your distance. Do not speak to them. Their slothfulness is exceeded only by their wreckless disregard for human life. They cannot be trusted. Above all, do not love or respect men with facial hair. They are like feral cats. Every fiber of their Godless, hopeless depravity can be counted on their face.

Except for your father.

While I'm at it, why not throw in a bonus rule? (I'm exercising the inalienable parental right/responsibility to develop new, unprecedented rules on an ad hoc basis.)

2) You are not allowed to wear Ugg boots. They are a stain on modern society. My heart dies a little each time someone puts on a pair. In the history of mankind, few fashion designs have been so unflattering to the human form -- in that vein, Uggs are rivalled only by leisure suits, turtleneck sweaters, and coonskin caps. (Toupees just missed the cut). They are disgraceful. No one anywhere ever has looked at the abominable snowman's ankles and said "Ohh mon dieu that's a great look!"

I really don't intend to offend any of my Ugg-wearing readership by openly castigating the trend. But I've been wanting to say this for years -- I had to put up with it in London, with the Northeastern brats at Emory, and now with the UT freshmen. I was certain this meant it was on its way out, an inevitable pariah of the motley shoe sector, but then I read this blog where a mother said the following: “The other girls her age all wear Uggs. In fact, as far as I can see, every girl, of every age, everywhere, now wears Uggs.” I simply broke down in tears. The blog is here http://warner.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/02/12/extraordinary-people/, and if I can store up the energy, I have a whole 'nother reason to rant about the content of this post in particular. For now, let's all just hope that Uggs don't last another decade or so to usher my precious, sensible daughter into her pre-teen years.

The Happiest Businessman on the Flight

The engines on a 737 must be a lot louder than what I’m used to; as the plane was taking off this afternoon, the high decibel whooshing starting to put me to sleep, but as soon as I realized it was the noise that was so hypnotic, a dreamlike image immediately began to crystalize in my head . . . it was a giant-sized profile of a greasy-haired pediatrician, remarkably similar to Dr. Harvey Karp (pictured), floating over my shoulder and vigorously shh-ing into my oversized adult ears. I was immediately jarred back into consciousness, as the very thought of his sweater-vest-and-tie ensemble was startling enough to return me to a fully alert and on-guard state.

(Ever since we watched the Happiest Baby on the Block, I've been wondering if the infants had enough fashion sense for the vest to somewhat offset his otherwise earnest efforts at calming them.)

Although I appreciated the sheer survivalism embodied by his theories, I’ve now resolved that that was my first and last video on babies. I can’t bear the future risk of imagining myself being swaddled by him. Or maybe I should just take cues from this. For the next flight, I could insist on laying on my side/stomach while I ask another passenger to jostle me vigorously as a calming technique.

The Name Hunt 2

Not everyone can claim to be named after an action-movie celebrity from the 60s and 70s. But, in a moment of boundless and breathtaking inspiration, my parents decided to name me after Sean Connery. They were moved by his deep and introspective work in classic arthouse films like GoldFinger, Dr. No, and Thunderball. What better way to motivate a child to the zenith of human achievement, those two crowning experiences of all great figures: philandery and international crimefighting intrigue. Naturally, I was hoping that we could continue this meaningful tradition by giving our firstborn child a name from the subsequent generation of action heroes. I even had a shortlist:

Sylvester Sims
Arnold Sims
Mel Sims
Bruce Sims
Harrison Sims
Keanu Sims
Jean-Claude van Sims
Steven Seagal Sims (my personal favorite)

So many of those have a great ring to them, don’t they? But of course, as fate would have it, we found out we’re having a girl, and there aren’t many good female action heroes that I can think of. If you can think of any, please send names so we can revive our hopes of letting the Sean Connery precedent live on. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re going to have to start with a clean slate.

Introducing the Blog Baron . . .

After just 10 or 15 posts on the Itsy-bitsy-est Post-Marxist Subversive, I've decided to start a couple more blogs to add to my increasingly influential internet dynasty. I couldn't resist -- my greed got the best of me -- and if all falls into place, I shall very soon be like a virtual Andrew Carnegie of the blog industry, building a vast empire of (verbal) wealth and (satirical) exploitation to add (figurative) jewels to my crown. In a relentless effort to consolidate my power and expand my monopoly, I fully intend to plunder natural resources; hopefully, I'll also get to lie, cheat, steal, and oppress some proles while I'm at it.

So, with brazen disregard for public server capacity, I'm incorporating these two new blogs into the franchise:

1) An Exercise in Domesticity: As many of you know, for the past year an unhealthy chunk of my time away from work has been devoted to yardwork. In addition to wanting to share the raw wonder of picking fresh food from my backyard, I've been taking pictures of the evolution in hopes of one day being able to look back and feel like there's enough differentiation to have made all this painstaking effort worth it. I also wanted to provide visual aids to all of you who have had to bear with me as I belabor the details but have yet to see much vivid documentation of what's been going on. So follow the link to the right to get caught up. (By the way, I've just begun this and I'm steadily uploading pictures that date as far back as early 2008, but I'll try to catch up to real-time as soon as possible.)

2) Reasonably Certain Signs of the End Times: It's ironic . . . it's outrageous . . . and then, apocalypse! The End of Days have never been zanier. But don't get your hopes up; for now, this really is just a pilot. (Thought I'd take it for a spin w/o too much of a commitment or anything too serious.) What I'm trying to do here is create a running list of life's minor atrocities. Check out the link to the right to see what I've got so far . . . feel free to contribute your own via comments, and I'll give you due credit. Unless they're lame.

Of course, because I'm a veritable tycoon now, I won't have much time to be directly involved in my new ventures, so you should expect even less regular posts than what you get on here.

The Clarksville Massacre of 2009

The setting seemed innocent enough at the time. We were having brunch with some friends at a café in a tranquil, patrician neighborhood just west of downtown. (What could be more disarming than brunch?) Some girls from a local crew squad had just moored their boats down by the canal and sauntered in for a meal. (What could be more placid and genteel than crew?) In came a nice family with a small toddler, ribbons in her hair and a bright pink heart embroidered on her miniature t-shirt.

Only the trained eye could recognize the foreshadowing of doom and peril, a threat that was waiting, literally, right around the corner.

Ignorant of the latent danger, the toddler’s parents had dressed her in a pair of tiny leather shoes with soles that somehow were designed to let out a shrill squeak with every step she took. And she was prone to wander, so as they waited in line to order, incessant squeaking echoed throughout the building. She tripped over the rope line. She started crying. But, otherwise, everything seemed to be going fairly well . . . the family ordered at the counter and disappeared to their table in another part of the café.

Then, it all went awry when the toddler and her family started to leave, opening the door to walk out past the patio seating. All at once, the looming terror became brutally apparent -- right outside the door, there was the attacker, waiting, lurking: a Basset hound tied to the leg of a table. Though I don't get the sense Basset hounds are generally known for their vicious instincts, as soon as you introduce a couple small leathery things that move erratically and squeak at just the right pitch to bring out the bloodthirsty beast in any domesticated animal, all bets are off. The hound lunged forward, the child began to scream, pandemonium ensued. For a moment there, it was like time stood still. Thankfully, just milliseconds before the gore and bloodletting, the pet’s owner stepped in and restrained the dog when she realized that he had mistaken the child’s feet for play toys. But it was a close call, nonetheless.

Squirrels & Seasonal Eczema: A Maternal Opera (of Sorts)

A thread (verbatim) from the AustinMamas discussion group, in all its frayed and glorious disorder . . . a real tour de force embodying the struggles of modern day motherhood:

Original message from Meghan to set the stage for high drama:
"So, do you think that if I dust my succulents with cayenne that the squirrels will stop eating it? they are munchin' on my aloe (which I know has GOT to be giving them the runs), but also the birdseed that is coming from my neighbors upstairs. I dusted with cinnamon today to rid the ants that have shown up recently. you should have seen them eating the neighbors jack-o-lanterns. Times they must be a rough out in the trees, maybe the lack of rain? I've never seen them like this and we've lived here for years. hmmm, thoughts?"

First response, from Cynthia to Meghan:
"In the past I've used cayenne on my tomatoes and peppers and it has worked well. However...It did not work on my jack-o-lantern pumpkin!They knawed through it in 3 days, a week before I had planned to carve it. GRRRR. I hate the tree rodents!"

Second response (or bizarre pseudo-soliloquy number one), from Elizabeth to others:
"So far, knock wood, the owl is working to keep them from gnawing the trampoline net. I wonder how much longer that will last...They do seem to be much more frantic in their squirrel burying this year, but maybe that's my imagination."

Third response, from Arden to Elizabeth (sustaining the tangent):
"I agree, they're totally frantic this year. Every morning on my way to work I almost run over a squirrel or two, because they're racing around so fast in the middle of the road, looking for the next nut burial spot.They ate our pumpkin too. Strangely, despite that and the two hammocks they've destroyed, I still sorta like them."

Fourth response (or bizarre pseudo-soliloquy number two), from Nina to others:
"i am prejudiced against squirrels as well. anyone else see the hysterical blackadder episode about squirrels? i love blackadder. or rather, i loved him."

Fifth response, from Jen A to Meghan (in a totally hopeless effort to stay on topic and answer the original question):
"crushed dried red thai pepper worked great for us (be careful not to get it on yourself! Stuff burns.) I crushed the peppers in an envelope and put it in a parmesan/pepper shaker with big holes. If what you are putting it on is a bit wet it will stick better. And they do a crazy spicy dance if they do eat it :-) Kept them off my succulents, they seemed to remember for a little while."

Sixth response, from Heather to others (immediately dashing Jen A's foolhardy attempts):
"Maybe the squirrels are crazy because we're going to have a hard winter.? "

Seventh response, from Claire to Heather (as Claire projects her authority):
"farmer's almanac says it's going to be extra cold and dry this winter. "

Eighth response, from Elizabeth to Claire (as Elizabeth breaks down):
"But I want lots of snow!!!"

Ninth response, from Claire to Elizabeth (with Claire, ever wise and calm, consoling Elizabeth):
"You must have that tantrum every year, living down here :) I miss snow. Sometimes I contemplate going to visit my friend in Boston in the depths of winter just to get a bit of "real" winter. "

Tenth response, from Elizabeth to Claire (as she reflects on a troubled past):
"Yes, we didn't even get a good ice storm last year to satisfy me a bit. The rest of my family is probably going up to St. Louis this holiday season in hopes of seeing some (if airfares drop a bit... eeks they're high!). I'm so freakin' jealous."

Eleventh response, from Samantha to others (chiming in with an inspirational and supportive message):
"DITTO! I want some frickin' snow!! At least it will be cold which will be nice...Guess DH will get to enjoy the snow at 7000+ feet in the Spring. "

Twelfth response, from Katrina to . . . the cosmos? (in the final of three bizarre pseudo-soliloquies):
"That would explain why my seasonal eczema is flaring up in a major way right now. I've got a great scaly patch in my eyebrow - it was perfect for Halloween, now not so much."

Thirteenth response, Meghan closes in a reflective tone:
"Will try- I hate the little boogers. Lived in a house out in Martindale with them in the attic. Owner didn't seem to care, but they drove us NUTS all winter long, come spring I pull out a pair of boots to wear, and they were full of pecans. That was the last straw. Had to move after that (and many other creepy old house issues) I can see them from the couch in the morning, if I walk up to the door, they turn their backs and I just know they are whistling, insert musical notes here-doo doo doo, we're not doing anything, doo doo doo- like I can't see them Standing on my plants. Lucas would get a kick out of seeing a spicy squirrel dance, maybe I can get it on camera .. .thanks for all the responses mamas!"

Happy belated 2009.

To me, every new year seems less like a real year and more like a battery expiration date. Or at best, a sell by date on a can of refried beans . . . anything that once seemed like a distant and hypothetical concept, a future possibility that was otherwise fairly unlikely to be experienced directly.

I think there's a point in your life where each New Year’s Eve abandons the excitement of youth and crosses over into an unequivocally surreal feeling that monopolizes the emotion set. I’m guessing (hoping!) it’s just a glimpse at the irony of death.