Thursday, January 01, 2009


By the time most of you sober up, wake up, and sip enough tepid water to ease out of your hangover, it will be over.

It is the closest thing you will ever find to historic ritual in southern California. Pretty girls in bright dresses. Snorting horses. Motorized floats feathered in fine floral facade.

1,000,000 spectators swarm down upon pleasant Passadena, staking their claim upon the piss-stained sidewalk to watch the parade.

Most arrive on new years eve, and brave the mild tropical night.

It was, as most of my stories seem to start, 1987. The last day of the year.

The following day would bring a new year, which would in turn bring adulthood, romance, and a lucrative career in the frozen yogurt Industry.

And so, we decided to go. Not for the parade though. I had built those floats. Those goddamned floats. I had no desire to stay for the floats.

Dr B and I hatched the plan. The post christmas rush being over and the christmas store being gutted, we plotted and planned.

Jose, the manager of the Vans store next door would come with us. Tom, of course. Familytrain. Some other people.

Jose, I think, acquired the copious crates of booze. I brought blankets. Dr B brought rubbers, I think, that or floss.

We found Colorado boulevard already overrun when we arrived. No matter though, we weren't there for the view.

We made camp in front of a shifty motel and began to drink. As we loosened up, the sun went down, drawing 87 closer to it's end.

Darkness and drunkenness led to wandering and adventure.

For me, though, it led to a cute girl sitting attop a newspaper box. Ratted blonde hair, snug acid washed jeans. It took one wine cooler and a compliment about her blue eyes to get her tongue down my throat.

And so we sat and drank, under the blankets on the curb at the dark and ugly end of the route.

My friends returned from one wander and we wished each other a "happy eighty-fucking-eight!!"

We drank more and kissed more and did other things. The guys wandered around again and I was able to wish them "happy eight!!"

And then it all gets fuzzy. It was cold. The girl fell asleep. A peppy band of Mormons tried to convert me, and I continued to sip on one bottle or another.

Dr B came back. He wasn't in much better shape. But he came back and looked down at me. I sat with a sleeping girl under one arm and a bottle of hooch in the other.

I looked up, unable to make words, but happy. Very very happy. I smiled (or grimmaced) and managed to say: "Hap..."

"Hap!" he grinned back.

Hap in deed.

And so, I wish you and your family Hap. Hap in the new year, and Hap in the years to come.


  1. Lucky Red7:42 AM

    Oh crap that's what that drunk guy on my lawn was saying last night? Shit. I guess I should have held off on the tazer.
    Most of your stories start with 1987?...I hear you begin with "it was the best of times,it was the worse of times"...then I tune out...
    Hap Hap 2009 to you and yours

  2. After 1988, Brian became far less interesting.

  3. Ain't that the gods honest truth...

  4. crickets5:51 PM

    cheep cheep cheep

  5. One wine cooler? Christ what has this world come to? But yes hap to all the lounge readers.

  6. GnuBill8:49 AM

    "There are years that ask questions, and years that answer"

    Which will this be for you?

  7. Adam Smith7:51 AM

    Thanks for warming her up for me.


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