Boogie's New Year

While I had lofty goals for my new year, I didn't have anything too spectacular planned for New Year's Eve. I'm not a big fan of such celebratory events, and the few that are available to me here in Salt Lake just don't quite fit my tastes. No, I like to spend my New Year's Eve at home, in a state of quiet contemplation. I use the time to think about the year prior, think about ways I can be better, and strive to make attainable goals.

And of course, eat, drink, and be one merry bastard.

This New Year's was no different. I prepared a quality meal, enjoyed some preferred music, and sipped greatly of high quantities of grain alcohol. And occasionally I did do some actual thinking, but mostly I partook of life's simple pleasures.

Naturally, this made for an interesting evening, parts of which I am not quite clear on. But, this is the night as best as I remember it.

After watching the apple fall in Times Square, courtesy of Carson Daly (only because I outright refuse to deal with Ryan Seacrest,) I drank copiously, and put together the mental train that would become my New Year's Resolutions. Upon completing yet another magnificent work of art, I consumed a little more alcohol to relax further, and then drifted into a semi-mellow state. At which point, I mentally tuned out while getting ready for bed.

Now, here is where things get murky. I surmise that I climbed into bed after the spirits had taken hold, and then later in the evening I rolled out of the covers and sleepwalked to my faithful office chair, where I spent the remainder of the evening.

However, my neighbors seem to be under the impression that I ran out of my home wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a dress sock tied across my forehead, and started running down the block where I proceeded to scream "I voted for Obama you heathens!" at the quiet houses. They also seem to think that when my voice went hoarse, that I started urinating the letters CTR upon their snow covered lawns (anyone associated with Utah or the Mormon church will probably know exactly what that means. The rest of you can probably live a long happy life without this information.) Apparently I had enough moisture residing in me to hit about half a dozen houses before local authorities started surveying the streets. At this point, they seem to think I dove into bushes, and crawled through various yards and properties while audibly singing "Live And Let Die" until I reached my front door.

Frankly, I find this all pretty baffling. Perhaps my neighbors may need some high dose prescription medications to help with these crazed fantasies they seem to be having. On the other hand, it would explain why my knees are all scraped up and why I seem to have an odd craving for Paul McCartney albums.