One Brick Short

Fire’s burnng. TV’s on. There’s a book by the chair of Charles Dicken’s Christmas stories; seems the old fart wrote a sleigh load of holiday riffs but only Carol caught on.

It’s a quiet, half-century kind of New Year’s Eve, all relaxed and chilled with the kids out with their friends and just us hanging out. There’s a sample bottle of Jack awaiting the Kroger egg nog (low fat, of course) and another sample bottle of Bulleit bourbon awaiting some ice.

I’m not missing the crowds downtown. I’m not missing the bar scene. Those are things I’ve done and, no doubt, will do again in the future. There’s a lot to be said about good music, good friends and good food, but this year it seems like the best way to wind it down is mellow.

Geez, what the hell is that? Did the mall explode?

Probably just First Night fireworks, considering it’s still going on. I’ll wait for the sirens before I head to the bunker with the Winchester.

OK, it’s about 9 p.m. It’s time for a snack. As soon as everyone’s in place for the night and I’m sure I won’t have to drive, I’ll enjoy a little libation.

Happy-happy.