Old Year’s Hangover

Middle Ages Weekend

When midnight struck, “American Pie” was played. And sung. Yes, the long version. It has become a tradition for our group of friends who meet over New Years each year as part of Mid-Ages (aka: Dark Ages) Weekend (in no way associated with the best and brightest who celebrate Renaissance Weekend). Mid-Ages Weekend is a simple celebration of the best parts of the Middle Ages (drinking, storytelling, verbal jousting, funny hats, and general revelry) without the worst (inquisitions, crusading, plague, and sword wielding of all kinds). But mainly it is a group of liberal middle agers who “who dig those rhythm and blues” and “still remember when” at least most of the time. But I stray…

My new year’s resolution. After 8 post Bush v. Gore years of spending way too much energy being against things, I am resolved to be for things. Sounds simple enough, but most Old Year’s habits are hard to break. For instance, morning coffee is directly connected with mining the Op/Ed’s for harangue points to share with my wife who will wake a wee bit later. Without these political bitch sessions, I fear we’ll stop talking at all for fear of real life subjects like, “how the heck we are going to survive January or what bills we need, but can’t pay.” And then there is the whole self esteem connection with the sharing among friends the details of conspiracies and tales of corruption and incompetence. I must leave these behind.

Thoughts of wars, innocent death, cronyism, greed, suffering and hatred bounce off the walls of brain like the worse of Old Year’s hangovers. Stop. Change the subject. Be resolute. Be positive. Wipe the slate clean. Oops. It is clean. A void. Positive about what? Change? Hope? Faith in the new party. Patience. He’s not in office, yet and Cheney’s not actually said he’s agreed to leave.

Think about work. That’s it. A coping mechanism. Used it before. Mental slight of hand. Okay, work. Focus. Sh*t, the economy. Work stinks. Dead. Phone doesn’t ring. Clients don’t call. It’s stopped. Another blank slate. Yikes. Inventory not sold to be written off. Opportunity unused. Life wasted. Precious staying power diminished. Scary. Stop. Gaza. Blagojevich. Bailout. Madoff. Stop. Get me an aspirin. This harder then quiting smoking or loosing weight.

“But I knew that I was out of luck the day the music died. I started singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry and good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye singing this’ll be the day that I die. This’ll be the day that I die. I met a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news, but she just smiled and turned away. I went down to the sacred store where I’d heard the music years before, but the man there said the music wouldn’t play. Well now, in the streets the children screamed. The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed, but not a word was spoken. The church bells all were broken. And the three men I admire the most the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. They caught the last train for the coast. The day the music died. We started singin’ bye, bye, Miss American Pie…”

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