Madness a priori

  How does one mark the passage of time? In diapers, report cards, cups of coffee? Yes friends,  525,600 minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?

Well, how about hangovers?

Yes, quite.

Given that, my first hangover, at 17 found me passed out over my Nintendo Power trashcan cross-legged on my bed. Such that, I quit my job that very day, July 5th, and went on to sleep in the shower.
Given that, my last hangover was when I visited the Cape at the same time as pool shark Pete, such that, we found our way to three pubs and a beach, where we toasted the moon rise with Drewbot and two uncomely Russians.
Given that, the last time I woke up still drunk was the day after I passed out, still believing Obama was the right man for the teeshirt. Such that, I had no voice from cheering and my right hand was sore from high fives.

Picture then this:
Packed into the train, packed onto the street. A loud screaming Paris, drunk on thoughts of the future and repeating their smiling two word mantra, "bonne année, bonne année.." until you took it up in turn, and wore it like a pair of smooth black gloves, so that everything you caressed with your hands or your words would hold the scent of that goodwill prayer.
 We toasted the new year like champs, straight from the bottle, dans les Champs Elysees. We spoke in loud, nasty--boorish tones of finest bastard tongue.  Nota bene amigos, I'm referring to English. We met strangers, slapping backs and loaning swigs...
"Bonne année, bonne année..."caressing the words with your lips as its meaning formed in your mouth and your mind and fell next to your fingers to guide that message where you would.
"Bonne année, bonne année."
When I woke I was still drunk, sore of throat and ready for a shower; this was a synthesis of all my most meaningful hangovers. Mock my choice of terms if you must, but passage of time my friends, is marked only by a collection of data points selected by a subjective viewer meant to sow meaning, and guard the roots of our beliefs.  You could as easily chart the passage of time in New Years Eves, or birthdays and how silly that would be, indeed.
I offer you no resolutions for the coming year--nor the now upon us decade, there is no albatross around my neck, and there is water if I want some. I am cared for, desired, and useful. There are no white whales to be hunted and none of these hills look the slightest bit like white elephants. I may never talk pretty one day, but I promise you Mr. Abbey, I am outliving the bastards.

Check out a much abridged video from the night that Sebastien and I spent with our new flatmate Pascal. I warn you, the level of intellectual discourse found within may shock you.

Remember team, all's well that ends how you like it. Bonne année.

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