Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: new year’s eve

Old Land Slide

Happy New Year’s to the new parents, padding around in their socks and asleep by ten; to the babies, too, thoroughly unaware of orbital mechanics or Pope Gregory’s influence on the balloon and noisemaker industries.

Happy New Year’s to the paramedics with their spatulas, and even the cops. The nurses and surgeons and moppers of shit. The voices on the other end of 911. The Fire Chiefs and probies. Server monkeys. Tugboat captains. Frazzled nerds at power plants watching outdated meters and flicking retro switches, because someone gotta. Pilots and flight crews and the guy with the orange flashlights waving you in.

Happy New Year’s to the bass players and back-up singers and road managers, and to the magicians, and their assistants and rabbits; the dancers in the chorus, and the comics and drag queens. The pianists sitting in front of giant brandy glasses. Strippers with magical boobies and optimal dongs, and the sizable fellows that watch over them.

Happy New Year’s to the bartenders. And to the waitresses, God bless the waitresses, and save a place in heaven for the short-order cooks; the busboys shall inherit the Earth. Delivery drivers in their shitboxes bringing pizza to shitholes.

And to the drunken, and the doomed, and the dummies; the foolish and the absent-minded, and the bitter and mean; to all the ghosts and yearners,  and those with hearts made of duct-tape. The weird, and the smelly: happy New Year’s, all you losers.

Happy New Year’s to all us losers.


New Year’s Resolutions

  • Declare more evenings “lit as fuck.”
  • Switch from wine to whiskey, or maybe just start shooting gasoline into my veins.
  • Accept Dead & Company’s tempos.
  • Get into basketball. (I’m done with football, Enthusiasts. Didn’t watch at all this year, and didn’t miss it. I’ll check in for the playoffs, perhaps, and the Super Bowl is unavoidable, but this year was my breaking point for the NFL. What was it? Maybe it was the loathsome nature of all men involved with the league, from the blond stump of a commissioner to the Jesus-praising kickers to the antebellum owners and every single fan with a take. Maybe it was Basketball Head’s involvement. Or maybe it was the fact that watching NFL football is now like watching vintage gay porn: you know how the men on the screen are going to die.)
  • Destroy the Bear Clan in the name of my father, Chief Stanky Leg.
  • Argue more about Star Wars; I did a little of it this year, but not enough.
  • Maintain current levels of badness, and try to pump up my boujeeosity.
  • Finally go down to the library to read a hundred or so of those best-selling detective novels, shit one out, and make millions.
  • Market my line of supplements, 3-Hour Energy (which is just 5-Hour Energy in a bottle 60% the size).
  • Pfuck a ptarmigan.
  • Convince more strangers to give me money.
  • In a sexual sense, my nipples have been freeloading; that stops in 2018.
  • Actually read some of the books I’ve been lying about having read.
  • Go on more panty raids.

What John Mayer Was Doing In My Pajamas, I Have No Idea

Go read Groucho: The Life and Times of Julius Henry MarxIt’s a much sadder story than you’d think.

And then go watch Duck Soup. It’s much funnier than you remember.

Balloon Boys (And Mrs. Donna Jean)

Maybe it was just the ossification of habit, but Brent was always stage left. Keith was left, right, sometimes in the middle, once he was by the merch table.


“Don’t you do it, Weir.”


“Step on a balloon.”

“You saw my leg?”

“I saw your leg, man.”

“Hey, Jer.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Y’know, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Every fuckin’ year.”

“That means, uh, that this is the anniversary of our friendship.”

“Great, man. Play the song.”

“I got you a little something.”

“You really shouldn’t have.”

“Here ya go, Jer.”

“You went to Jared.”

“I did, yeah.”

“Is this a tennis bracelet?”

“Better. Anklet.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”


Later that evening, Mrs. Donna Jean (already in her ceremonial gown) would be thrown into the volcano to appease Gbaja-biamila, the god of backup singing.

A Rough Guide To New Year’s

The first New Year’s Eve was celebrated by a small band of cavemen living in what would many years later be called Kenya.

“The weather was about the same on this date last year, right?” asked Thog.

“What the fuck’s a ‘year?'” said Og.

And then both of them were eaten by a sabre-toothed water buffalo, and the concept of “New Year’s” was forgotten about until people invented writing. Homo sapiens have been around for 200,000 years and were smart enough to figure out the cyclical nature of the seasons–important information if you intend on farming, which we’ve been doing for 10,000 years–but it wasn’t until six millennia ago when we made the leap to representational idiogramologies and phonemologies that humans became capable of deciding upon the exact length of a year.

(This symbol + that symbol = this sound + that sound = this word + that word = idea. That’s the Promethean event in human history, not fire.)

Once we learned to write things down, we realized two facts: the moon repeats cycles once every 28 days, and the sun and stars repeat their cycle around the sky once every 365 days. (Roughly.) This seemed meaningful, and therefore had something to do with the gods, so chickens and virgins were sacrificed. Archaeologists have found evidence that the Modrano people of southern Europe required the sacrifice to be a virgin chicken, which is a tough get. Chickens love fucking.

Very few cultures still perform ritualized acts of murder to gain favor with chance, but all cultures still do that exact thing,  just metaphorically.

New Year’s does not happen in China until February, because of the time difference; they celebrate New Year’s Eve with fireworks, because the Chinese can’t get through lunch without fireworks. We get it, China: you invented fireworks.  How about you invent something now, and stop pirating all of our intellectual properties?

At the stroke of midnight in Spain, twelve grapes are tossed down one’s gullet; in Portugal, twelve grapefruits are hucked at mailmen; in Peru, a llama named Esteban dances to Stevie Wonder songs.

Canada, which is almost America but not quite, observes the change in year by horking each others’ clothes, and exchanging Syrian refugees. At dawn on January 1st, all Canadians gather–like the Whos in Whoville–to sing Red Barchetta together.

On December 31st, the British pine. For lost love, days gone by, chances missed or not noticed. Youth. The British pine.

In Bhutan, the new year is associated with dogs. The story goes that on the coldest night of winter, the year was about to die of hypothermia, but his dog huddled with him until morning; from then on the days got longer and the temperatures climbed. All day, the Bhutanese drape garlands on street dogs (who are treated well the rest of the year, too) and sing to them. There is some holy muzzle-painting. The dogs have absolutely no idea what’s going on, but they always seem to enjoy the day just as much as the people do.

The women of Burkina Faso weave sorghum stalks into fans, and then the men slap the shit out of each other with them. No one looks forward to New Year’s Eve in Burkina Faso.


Everything is arbitrary except time and gravity, and if you are young enough and the music is correct, then even those things can be shunted to the side for a moment, just a moment; when you realize it is happening, it will be over and gone.

And for the rest of your life, that moment will be the fifth chamber of your heart.

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