Monday,
December 31, 2001
NEW YEAR'S EVE

It's going on 11:14 PM CST in the Fletcher Manse. Lyndon, who is now in the full flower of his cold, is sitting on the couch comfortably stoned on Dristan, digesting a nice falafel dinner and watching a documentary on the rebuilding of the Temple of David. Me, I'm slightly crusty from cooking but generally relaxed (although I'm kicking myself for missing the ball drop in Times Square -- I was reading my email and Lyndon didn't call me through to the living room, drat it all).

So why am I home writing this on New Year's Eve instead of being out somewhere living it up? Well, Lyndon isn't the only one who's sick -- everyone else I know is either down with a cold, going to bed early, watching 2001: A Space Odyssey and moaning about how 2001 didn't live up to the movie, or (in the case of Robert) going to a Pimps and Ho's party.

Don't get me wrong -- I wish I could go out. I'd like to go out and lift a glass of champagne and count down with a whole bunch of people towards midnight, especially since we were stuck inside last year and couldn't do anything fun. I'd like to celebrate the fact that, despite the events of 9/11, we're still here and still living life the best way we know how.

But events, as they tend to do, have once again conspired against such revelry. Oh, well -- it just means that I'm gonna have to throw one hell of a party next year, doesn't it?

Happy New Year, y'all. Stay safe, drive carefully, and have fun.