And lots of ‘em, if this squirrel is any guide. He looks about how most of us feel, and there’s still one more celebratory day of overconsumption to drink our way through before the fasting begins. To everything there is a season, and thems what binges must eventually purge.

I, for one, cannot wait, especially after driving with a full bladder and an empty stomach for many hours yesterday, hoping to see signage from someplace vaguely healthy along I-70 (my kingdom for a Chipotle!). I ended up scarfing drive-thru Taco Bell at 3:45 pm, and then felt as dirty and overladen as my poor car. So let a thousand resolutions rain down, and let me ankle my ass to the gym a goodly number of times each week in ‘09. Which is right where I’m headed now.

After that, I’ll be doing some year-end cleaning around here, blazing through the detritus (psychic and otherwise) of this past December. Back with you tomorrow or Friday, depending on how much rest I get during tonight’s 11-hour showing of Benjamin Buttons.

Happy New Year!

My old friend Paul was in town last night from Mali, so we threw an impromptu party. Matt and Judy brought over a bunch of beer and many bottles of wine, and I will testify that lo, we killed them all. I knew it even before I went downstairs and saw all the dead soldiers lined up on the counter, because my head, she is all dense cotton and dammed streams this morning, and I have to pack for a roadtrip now, and the going (or maybe it’s the getting going) is slow.

But I’m looking forward to the drive and the miles and more time spent with more old friends. Once you’ve known someone long enough, you can trace a line from then to now with that person, like you can map each other’s path. And when it’s a group of friends who knew you when, everything is funny, even the hard stuff, and just sitting around talking feels like taking a hit of yesterday, because while everything changes, it also stays the same.

I’ll be laptopless on the road, so let’s meet back here in a few days, okay?

I’ll bring the wine…

A few months back, during election season (which has since been followed by the winter of our discontent), I posted a video of a Florida student who interviewed then veep-aspirant (now 2-pupped vice president-elect) Joe Biden. Biden, the young reporter claimed after the segment, was now his homeboy. Here’s an update on 10-year old Damon Weaver from one of his teachers:

Since Damon has been a reporter for our school’s television station his grades have improved. He is not a gifted student. He is an average student who has been working very hard. I asked him why his grades have improved since being a reporter and he told me that people out in Pahokee practice a lot to get better at football so he thinks it’s important to try harder in school so that he could become a journalist. Over the years, Damon’s has had some behavior issues in his classes, but since he has been involved with being a reporter the behavior issues have gone away. I must also mention, through all of the attention Damon has stayed well-grounded and never brags to the other students.

Kathryn E. Cunningham/Canal Point Elementary consists of a lower socio-economic student population. 96% of the students are on free or reduced lunches. 80% of our students are African-American. In Florida the schools are given grades based on their test scores. Our school was a failing school we had a low “D”. The past couple of years our school has raised its grade to a “B” and we are trying for an “A” this year.

An average student who works very hard. And delivers a better interview than many of the well-coiffed pull-my-string puppets in the media. That’s some change we can believe in, right there. Yes we can.

Next, he wants to interview Obama, and I for one would love to see that. So c’mon, Barack: Be Damon’s homeboy, too:

Thanks to Jason Linkins for the update on Damon, from his Year in Media Highlights.

From Willie Barnes:

Stella:

Millie:

Sloppy-kisser Archie:

And the entire Subtle Rudder pack.

She needed something to cuddle, my sister said. Kate slept with the tiny weight of two chihuahuas against her legs for years, and I think she just got lonesome for another little body in bed with her. So she and her husband Eric rescued a pup:

Millie is 6 months old, a boston terrier mixed with poodle, they say, although way she wraps her lanky frame around you, you’d think she was part snake.

And that face. Look at that face:

The Subtle laptop is back in action, and can I just say that while Nebraska winters are punishing, Nebraska customer service is like a tribe of pillowy angels hugging your troubles away. Just so nice. Also, footrubs. The Apple Store experience in San Francisco is basically a chance to mainline fret and stress, but my Omaha genius was kind and capable even in the face of my full-on crank. Plus, he was wearing a t-shirt that said “My reindeer name is Fixen.”

And lo, she was fixened.

The Subtle Rudder herself is still starey and headfloaty, but who has time for that crap? It’s christmas! Also, after a day in bed plowing through 15 episodes of Angel, I’m all demoned out. The dogs have gone wilding through the house: they love it when we daysleep, and they can slip away for freestyle toileting. The place smells like a French alley today, but cleaning’s on my list. This morning I’ve already had the snow tires put on, done 40 minutes of cardio at the Y, and vamped through a phone interview with a mad-professor Frenchman who might possibly employ this little match girl. Fingers crossed, y’all.

I had another long holiday post written, but it was so bitterly unfestive, I gaffed it like a fresh-caught fish. This, believe it or not, is my up-with-people alternative. Happy holidays, everyone! Rest up, eat up, and enjoy this time with the ones who drive you maddest and make you laugh hardest.

After all, as Joseph Spence tells us, Sandy Craw is coming!

There is nothing better on a sickly Monday than coming home to presents from people who get you and know just how to select a thing that stands in for love.

I’m no label whore, but there is something so charmingly decadent about these Marc by Marc Jacobs fingerless gloves from my friend Betsy; all stripey-80s-looking, they kick the unlovely ass off my self-cut Target specials (which are already unraveling).

Mary’s probably my oldest friend (we sang in church choir together in junior high!), and for some reason, we call each other Kitty. She’s also a Sanrio superfreak, so this lambsoft Hello Kitty t-shirt feels like a long-distance hug.

When I told my sweetie about my gifts, he said, “Wow, it’s like they’re your perfect boyfriend.”

“No,” I said, “they’re better: They’re my perfect girlfriends.”

There’s nothing like being understood.

Thanks, Ladies!

I love you!!!

PS: The pictures were taken from my sickbed: the colors are much more vibrantly PINK than they appear. And sometimes, even for the ungirliest girl, PINK can make all the difference.

And her laptop is sicker. 

I just have that impending cold with seasonal aches thing going on, but the laptop crapped out yesterday, while working on a freelance gig. Hours on the phone with Applecare, and the diagnosis is dire: it’s a hardware issue, either the video card or the logic board, or some unholy combo of both. Whatever. I’ll drive through the snow and the sniffles up to Omaha for my 1:20 appointment at that temple of want, the Apple Store. Just make the silver sliver go.

I’m writing this on my elderly 12-inch powerbook, which is not as much of a multi-tasker as I’ve become. We’re seriously out of rhythm with each other now, after 4 years of umbilical tethering. Last year, when my glasses got stepped on, I had to wear my chewed-up old frames from several prescriptions back, and that’s about how this feels: slightly headachey, like I might miss the curb and land on my ass if I don’t take things easy. Of course, the cold’s not helping.

So that’s the plan: slow, then Omaha, then slow again, until I can really see what’s ahead of me.

Dad and Dixie came down for the Church of The New York Times this morning, where the news was bad, but the chihuahua lounging was good. Also, we got a little rhythm going on the crossword, slowed only by my uncleared brain thicket. (I’m not feeling my fleetest these days, in a synaptic sense.)

Dixie rides to church tucked into dad’s shirtfront, with just her head sticking out:

You’ve seen it before, if you’ve been reading a while: Dad or Santa?!

Sitting at the Bread and Cup, drinking some wine and listening to Elvis Costello (so in this almost empty gin palace, though a two-way looking glass, you see your Alice). It’s Saturday night, and I’m feeling tangential, just trying to map the patterns.

Here’s one: dots.

(My mother is going to love this picture. She’ll print it out for her inspiration board or her ideas notebook, where it will feed a quilt.)

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