mrpeenee’s chums, Hot Foot, Drum Stick, and Secret Agent Fred (often collectively known as The Children) have apparently caught on to mrpeenee’s less than charming habit of agreeing to social obligations and then ducking out 20 minutes before them with a pathetic text along the lines of “sorry, can’t make it. The bed won again.” Many years ago I sent Diane von Austinburg a haiku I had written that went like this:
It’s a cold hard world
but my bed is soft and warm
You call that a choice?
Diane replied that all my haikus somehow involve my bed.
Anyway, now that the children are on to me and know that I can’t be trusted, they’ve changed tactics and simply announce they’re coming over and we’re going to hang out on the roof deck. I suppose I could just not answer the door; the guys would probably be stymied with that, but I have no doubt Hot Foot, as indomitable as a force of nature, would simply kick in the door and drag me out of my bed and force me to have a good time.
And so that’s how I wound up spending New Year’s Day on my roof deck reveling in the lovely San Francisco afternoon, grazing on snacks, and not drinking champagne because I can’t drink alcohol anymore, thank you fucking restless leg syndrome. We hung out for 3 hours, yakking. It was the only sunny day we’ve had in a couple of weeks and it was absolutely toasty. So thank you to my friends for dragging me kicking and screaming into an amusing introduction to 2022.
I know most people have been talking shit about 2021, but really, compared to 2020, it was pretty much a peach of a year. It was the year I found out I’m okay with lockdown, as long as they let me go to Peet’s Cafe every day (which I suppose is really just lockdown lite) because avoiding the riff and the raff of the general populace is fine with me. If I have to be an old man haunted by restless leg syndrome and disappearing eyebrows, at least I can happily be a curmudgeon.
New Year nudes:
At least I don’t wind up on the floor during the party anymore.