New Week’s Resolutions
By Ryan - Monday January 02nd 2006 |
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Sitting here, warm, dry, watching the sopping Rose Parade (It’s magical!) on KTLA HD. Watching Lance Burton, Master Magician, deftly performing yet unable to keep himself dry with sleight-of-hand. I begin to reflect as I do each year. Thoughts cascade the waterfall of my mind. Hickory Farms’ Christmas Celebration coffee has some type of flavored shit in it. Remember this. It is time, finally, to make my new week’s resolutions. If you’re like me, a year is far too broad for goals to be of any use. Simply ineffective. Am I really going to remember my resolutions in August? In April? Next week? Forget that. I make resolutions one week at a time.
This week:
- Watch this game
- Figure out when the hell that Sparklett’s guy is appearing next and pre-emptively cancel delivery, post-haste
- Brainstorm fundraisers to get Dave Hart‘s puppets industrially scoured. Be honest, if hand puppets received a public health rating his would be hard-pressed to come up with a “C”…(Did these people use sani-gloves?)
- Consider posting some bullshit story about Chinatown in order to be able to use newly-rediscovered two-year-old photos
- Determine if there’s enough material in my New Year’s toast with Canter’s Lightshow and FlameDrink Man to merit a full post
- Look for a job
- Watch the entire Sopranos: Year One series before it disappears into the On Demand void eternally
- Define and write up the rules for Central Library: Hide-And-Go-Scare
- Do something about that pile of crap on the corner of the desk
- Do the dishes
- Cough up 3lbs expectorate from lungs
- Send out plagiarized CDs
Update, 1/3/06! I completed five of my New Week Resolutions yesterday. Not a bad ratio for one day. Newest New Week Resolution: Buy flashlight and battery-operated boombox immediately, I’ve been without power for the last 24 fucking hours
The Rose Parade: to quote Grandpa Simpson, I hate that piece of crap. My sister lives in Pasadena and when I was a kid she used to take me to the goddamned parade every New Year’s Day morning. It was the most excruciatingly dull experience of my childhood. Standing in line with my Dad at the check-cashing place was more exciting. At least there you could watch the hobos squabble. Eventually I began to fake a bad case of the whooping cough on New Year’s Eve to get out of the next morning’s event. By the time I turned 14 she caught on and stopped inviting me, thank Christ.