Are my eyes really blue?

I couldn’t explain on what grounds I was so emotionally overtaken by last night’s national championship game. It’s not that I have some overwhelming Bama fandom, and I didn’t even watch the game – I had an event in the city and a trip to the saloon on either side of it, so all I saw of the game were glimpses of the second quarter on the TV in the background of my meeting.  And to be perfectly honest, the last two times the Tide played for the title, I was pulling for LSU and Notre Dame respectively.

So why was I overcome with this one? Probably because, as you can guess by the turn this blog took in the last week or so, I’ve had a lot on my mind about days gone by. And in those days gone by, I was a Crimson Tide fan. Not a sports fan, not a college football fan, an Alabama fan. It was one of those things, like Baptist or Chevrolet, that was a cultural shibboleth.  And it went by the boards while I was in DC, and I basically shoved all in on Vandy in 2006, and my only concern was that the Tide handle the Vols every year (which they have been doing with aplomb) and beat Texas when offered (which they did).  After all, Nick Saban’s squad is as mechanically ruthless and joyless as the Soviet Red Army hockey team…or maybe an industrial bandsaw. Supporting the Tide was functionally similar to cheering for Germany in soccer or the Yankees of the late 90s – the moral equivalent of rooting for the blackjack dealer.

But here’s the thing: I’ve been consumed lately with how much I no longer enjoy football. The collegiate game is a mess; the have-nots are without hope and Vanderbilt in particular is hamstrung by standards in a conference without them. The game is fixed. But I have decades of historic and family ties to the team that is at the top of the heap, the one everyone hates for their joyless efficiency, the one which has racked four titles in seven years and routinely destroys Vanderbilt’s arch-rival. Why not allow the team of my old affections to act as my agent now? Let Vanderbilt be a team I support for all the right reasons and let the Tide be the one I support for all the wrong ones? I don’t even have to be that plugged into it, I just have to look up occasionally and nod gravely as they blank-face piledrive yet another contender, like a giant crimson version of the Undertaker at Wrestlemania.

And I guess in some way, it worked. That – and the cocktails – broke a weeklong funk, made me smile, reminded me of happier days, and pointed up the fact that it’s been over forty years since Alabama lost a national title game. In my lifetime, since I was old enough to watch, whenever it’s one fall to a finish with the belt on the line?  Penn State, Arkansas, Miami, Texas, LSU, Notre Dame, and now Clemson. If they get to the last game of the year, they’re not going home empty-handed.

Rammer jammer yellow hammer – give ‘em Hell, Alabama.

FOREVER UNITED HERE SOMEHOW

YOU GOTTA PIECE OF ME

AND HONESTLY

MY LIFE

WOULD SUCK

WITHOUT YOU
For Lee and his brothers and his father and his children, even when they strayed from the faith of their fathers, this one’s for you. That makes sixteen. Couldn’t be sweeter. 

Start here to see how the summer before went down.  Then click here to see what happened the first week.

The school itself is colloquially known as “the Hilltop”, or in some circles “Hilltop High.” The colors are black and gold and the alma mater is a word-for-word crib of Vanderbilt’s except for the school name.  If you look at a campus map now, you’ll see a lot of things that simply didn’t exist then. The fraternity row was where the Lakeview dorms are now (there were no Lakeview dorms or even a lake, just a swampy patch of woods by the intramural fields). There was no bell tower in the academic quad. There was no swanky “fitness and recreation center,” just the old gynmasium. No softball park, no athletics complex, no football field – no football team at all since 1939. In fact, go to that map on the website, draw a line across it about a quarter of the way down, and everything above it didn’t exist.

As far as I can tell, actually, the ensuing two decades have seen the construction of maybe one new academic building. A whole new fraternity row, multiple athletic facilities (oh irony), a couple of new dorms, sure…but that’s about it. Much has been made elsewhere of the country-clubbing of higher education; you’ve got to have plush dorms and a lazy river in the rec center and the right sort of frozen yogurt in the food court – and a food court, for that matter, no cafeteria. And it certainly looks like they’re doing their best to stay on trend.

But in the fall of 1990, it was the cafeteria three meals a day (paid for by individual punch rather than any sort of debit) the Campus Store atop the dorm quad for cheap pizza that might have been better with the cardboard left under the crust, and whatever additional exercise you didn’t get from hills and stairs had to come from whatever was in that old gym – some weights, maybe a machine or a treadmill, and a lot of stuff that hadn’t budged since the building opened in the 1940s. There weren’t even phones in every room – you had to contract with South Central Bell to get a phone in your room, and a central PBX and four- or five-digit dialing for dorms was a few years away. No internet access. No networking to speak of. DOS-based computers in labs in two or three different buildings. And an on-campus population of maybe a thousand or twelve hundred at most.

So that’s the setting: a fairly sparse array of campus amusements, a town whose entertainment potential I’d mined out in high school, and a fairly unambiguous statement of you don’t belong here. And my solution was…to latch on like an imprinting duckling to the first girl who showed interest. Which I did. And it was a huge mistake, because I had tendrils to other people who were slowly building their own thing, but the girl to whom I’d tethered myself basically wanted every moment of my free time and every particle of my attention, and – hold the shock, please – I was afraid to risk the devil I knew in the face of the devil I didn’t. And so I let these other people go by the boards over the course of that first semester because I was betting everything on this one girl who had kind of sort of provided me with a nugget of validation.

Big mistake. Huge mistake. Life-altering mistake.

Because what I didn’t realize is that there was a group for everything. If you weren’t in one of the frats, if you weren’t in a sorority, if you weren’t a theater major or a baseball player or a foreign student or living off campus, there was a loose-knit amorphous sort of clique for you and the rest of the losers. You had to really really like Star Trek and Blackadder and be willing to speak in extensive strings of Monty Python quotes…and to my immense chagrin, I realized that I wasn’t really this guy either. Here I was, whole entire personality defined by needing somewhere and something to belong to, and the music had stopped and not only were there no chairs left, there weren’t any chairs at all and all the players were gone.

Only three years and eight months to go until graduation.

 

to be continued…

It’s been a quarter century. Over half my lifetime ago. It’s the black hole, it’s the original mistake from which all others stem, it is the defining catastrophe of my life. And it’s starting to surface again in ways I honestly had not anticipated.

Part of that is down to college football – and the realization that as I think about possibly having gone to some other institution that didn’t play major college football, leaving me with the opportunity to take or leave Alabama…well, that’s exactly what I did in undergrad, didn’t I? There was nothing requiring me to take Vanderbilt; I could have held onto free agency if I wanted, just had no team at all, never made any other emotional investment. Heaven knows I was punched out on Bama for pretty much my entire life in DC, barring the obvious two games a year. (And they made it easy to punch out from 1997-2003, to be perfectly honest.)

But it isn’t just football that brought this back…it’s Silly Con Valley. Twenty-five years on, I look around me, and I have the exact same feeling that I had walking around a dark campus in the west end of Birmingham: this place is not meant for the likes of me. Sure, I live here and I work here and I do a good job and on paper I am part of the high-tech sector, just like I went to class and made good grades and was officially a student at BSC…but as there before, so here now: who I am and what I do isn’t a good “culture fit”.  I’m not actually a part of this place, and I don’t stand much of a chance of becoming one – I could dress up like a Jersey cow and moo from dusk ’til dawn, but no matter what I try, I’m never going to be able to give milk.

In retrospect, it makes perfect sense that I latched onto Vanderbilt for degree laundering; Nashville felt like home on day one in a way no other place ever did before or since. And in a world where I’m caught between Stanford on one side and the University of California on the other, I needed a university affiliation of my own that could punch in the same weight class. But the brutal truth of the matter is that unless people here are very knowledgable baseball fans, are really into the origin of the Golden State Warriors, or happen to have had some other sort of connection, Vanderbilt isn’t any more of a household name out here than BSC would be, and in the areas of football and basketball, they aren’t doing anything to improve my mood or outlook on life – quite the reverse. If the rule for 2016 is to do the things I enjoy and stop doing the things I don’t, I’d pretty much have to shut down any connection to the Commodores between June and March.

The thing that really tipped it, though, was…Rocky Horror. I’ve seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show twice in my life, both in undergrad, the second time the night before Bama-Tennessee in 1992. The soundtrack got a regular and frequent airing throughout most of 1991 and 1992, and then disappeared from my life until a few nights ago, when I was looking for one song and realized that in all the years of digital music I’ve accumulated back to 1998, I never once got a song off that soundtrack.  And I’ve been booming the whole thing ever since, and it’s become the waldo-arms with which I can start manipulating the radioactive material of my undergraduate experience.

So this is the beginning of revisiting that story. Four years off the rails, four years that I’ve been trying to recover from for two decades plus. Four years that arguably shaped me more than any other, if only because the rest of my life has been spent pushing back against them – and now that I see the same thing happening around me again, it’s time to remember the lesson and push back right this time.

Zip up your Starter jacket, tie your Nikes tight, turn your hat backward and let’s jump down the hole.

So the Great Mentioner is more convinced than ever that the iPhone 7, so-called, will finally do away with the standard headphone audio jack in favor of having headphones plug directly into the Lightning port – or not plug in at all.  Depending on who you believe, there will be an adapter for regular headphones and it will or will not be included. Or the phone will incorporate wireless charging so you can charge with the headphones plugged in. Or everything will be done with wireless headphones which will or won’t be included. The only thing everyone seems to agree on is that the move is being made so that the phone itself can be thinner.

If this is true, and this is how it goes down, it’s the final proof that Jony Ive is too big for his britches. The iPhone doesn’t need to be any more thin. It’s arguably too thin already, as the camera protrudes from the back of the last two years’ models unless you put a case over them (which in turn compromises the whole “thin” thing). In fact, the release of the Apple battery case for the iPhone 6S is (or is as good as) a tacit confession that the iPhone 6S went too far in sacrificing battery for svelte. It would be one thing if the iPhone 7 sacrificed the headphone jack for the sake of using that space for battery, but if this is all about shaving yet another millimeter off the thickness while leaving the battery the same size or smaller, we have a problem.

Because, like I said, the phone crossed the finish line two and a half years ago. The original Moto X, processor and OS notwithstanding, had just about a perfect hardware spec sheet: 4.7” AMOLED display in a smaller footprint than the iPhone 6S, 2 GB of RAM, LTE and WiFi and Bluetooth and NFC, the smaller nano-SIM form factor, and a 2200 mAh battery – 28% larger than the one in the 6S. Apple has yet to break the 2000 mAh battery mark in a non-gargantuan phone, and 2 GB RAM only became standard with the 6S.

Now, consider the Moto G. It doesn’t have NFC and the camera is the same step down you take with most Android phones, but this year’s Moto G has 2 GB of RAM and 16 GB of onboard storage expandable to 48 GB with the use of a micro-SD card. It’s got a 2470 mAh battery, all the LTE bands you need for domestic use, 1080p HD video capture, it’s functionally waterproof in daily use…and it’s $220, sack and all. No contract. Compare this to last year’s iPhone 6, in 16 GB form, which – unlocked and contract free – costs you $550. It’ll be another $100 for this year’s most basic model, and the cheapest iPhone you can currently buy – the two-year-old 16 GB iPhone 5S – will set you back $450.

You can get two topped-up Moto Gs for the price of the cheapest shipping iPhone. Or you can go balls-out and order the most expensive current Moto X – with 64 GB of storage, a leather back, custom engraving and a rack of different colors – for less than last year’s base-model iPhone 6. And this is an important comparison, because yesterday AT&T became the last major carrier to give up on two-year contracts with phone subsidies. From now on, everyone is paying the full price of the phone, either up front or in installments.

This is significant. The iPhone was differently priced for about a year before turning into just another phone, as far as AT&T was concerned – but the flip side of that was that the contract subsidy obscured the full price of the phone and it was still better than anything else out there. But now, as we start 2016, there are brand-new Android alternatives out there that are perfectly good – certainly good enough for Ed Earl Brown – for literally half the cost or less of an iPhone.  Circumstances have contrived to take a device that was cutting-edge-yet-affordable and transform it into far more of a luxury good than ever it was previously.

And what Jony Ive proposes, if this report is true, is to take it even further up the fashion ladder and sacrifice even more practicality for style. To some extent, Apple was always willing to be a high-end product at the expense of market share, just keep those margins up – but this would be an unambiguous gesture in the direction of surrendering the middle ground for good.  And if that’s the space they want to play in, so be it. I’m just not sure it’s the best space to lead from.

You can tell by the headline that the banjo-playing donkey is striking up in my wife’s head as we speak, because it’s time to talk about phones again.  And this is a germane topic because we are setting off to London in August, for the first visit to Europe in six years, and not a moment too soon.  The problem is, last time I went to the old continent, it was in 2010 and unlocked smartphones weren’t really a thing as such – unlocked iPhones from the United States definitely weren’t – and I was packing an iPhone 3G in Airplane Mode and my trusty old SonyEricsson Z520 alongside.

That Z520 is no longer a going concern (but has a space of honor in my box of memorabilia) and the Virgin SIM it relied on is defunct. So it’s time to consider what to carry with me. Normally, this is where that Moto X goes, but there are two issues. One is that the camera on the first-gen Moto X is not suitable for any photography greater than Instagram; it certainly isn’t a point-and-shoot replacement the way the iPhone 4S and later have proven to be. The other is that it only supports four LTE bands, all of which are North American – LTE in Europe was barely a thing when the first Moto X shipped, and it doesn’t have the plethora of options the wife’s unlocked iPhone 6S has.

So that brings up the next point: when we went to Japan, I had my iPhone 6 in Airplane Mode with wifi turned on, and we had rented one of those portable WiFi hotspots, and we were largely able to get by (except in the Japanese Alps where coverage was splotchy at best). Since ‘er indoors can pop any old SIM into that phone, by virtue of having bought it unlocked at full price to keep her old data plan, she could very easily fit it with a SIM from Three, the UK provider that offers service at rates that are insanely cheap by US standards.  Three also allows tethering, which means she would have unlimited data on her own device and could use it as a hotspot for me to burn up to 12 GB.  Setting aside for a moment the notion that this would absolutely destroy her battery life, it provides another option that would be just fine under the circumstances.

But then there’s a wild care, and it is the notional much-rumored iPhone 6C, so-called. The Great Mentioner is convinced that sometime in the first half of 2016, Apple will release a new iPhone out of band with the regular updates, much as they did with the Verizon-capable iPhone 4 or the white models. The general consensus around the rumors is that the body will more or less resemble the iPhone 5S, with a 4” display, but slightly rounded glass more akin to the iPhone 6 series.  It will feature the processor of the 6S but the camera of the 5S. And critically, it will feature a battery slightly larger than the 5S, driving a display 30% smaller than the 6 series, without 3D Touch circuitry taking up space inside the phone.

The implications of this are significant.  If the screen is consuming 30% less battery power, the expected battery life should be a third longer than on the 6 series.  Add to that a camera lens that would be flush with the body of the camera rather than protruding, and the performance gains of the faster (and presumably more efficient) processor, and it’s just barely possible that we might – might – finally have an all-day iPhone that only requires you to carry a battery on days when you’re in full-on tourist mode.  It will be genuinely one-hand-usable again. It’ll disappear in a front jeans pocket again. It will, in short, be precisely what I want from a new iPhone.  And at that point, it would be possible to splash out on it, straight cash, and just make it my regular everyday phone. Leave the 6 in a drawer at work in case of emergency, put the Moto X in the drawer for Android compatibility testing only and be prepared to pull its SIM if I leave this job, and boom, I’m set for the next couple of years. And between an aging Apple credit and a little bundle of cash unlooked-for from Apple under different circumstances, it’s already paid for.

The downside of this is that I’ve done what i decried in this very space eight years ago: I’m attempting to will a new iPhone product into existence on nothing more than my own desires and hardly-disinterested say-so. And given that any such device will be pitched as entry-level, and possibly have as little as 16 GB of storage, that could be an issue. I really need this thing to be a 32 GB phone at a minimum and I’d prefer if it were 64, although I recognize that’s highly unlikely – but then, the iPhone 5S that’s currently the entry device still has a 32 GB option, the only iPhone that does.  So that’s nice.  Rumblings also suggest NFC support and 2 GB of RAM – ironically both features of that first-gen Moto X.   

That unlocked 32 GB iPhone 5S, right now, costs $500 – bring in a 32 GB phone with those specs as the iPhone 6C and I’m all in.

It doesn’t even have to come in gold. Of which…

I was in Los Angeles for New Year’s Day for the second straight year, attending the Rose Parade again – this time in the company of my mother and my mother-in-law. Our total traveling party was five, and we had to negotiate trains and subways and buses and taxis and light rail with a mobility scooter and a lack of speed appropriate to a pair of septuagenarians. Union Station to downtown LA to Pasadena and all around in between, for four days.

And almost without fail, nearly everyone we encountered – from white-suited volunteers guiding us between floats to homeless people on 7th and Figueroa – was unfailingly polite, helpful, and friendly, in a way that recalled the Portland minibreak of 2014. The only person I wanted to punch the whole time was one we brought down on the train from north, a cranky old dude who got mouthy as my wife attempted to help him find his bag (which was in a completely different car altogether). Once we were actually inside the Los Angeles perimeter, it was surprisingly pleasant – and I know we were at the Rose Parade, but we were also in the busiest train station in California and on a transit system that basically didn’t exist 25 years ago. And everyone was nice.

And I returned home to yet another bout of digital diarrhea from a big-money Silly Con Valley player – this time it was Paul Graham, whose Y Combinator I’ve already taken to task once in this space. His blatherings have already been dealt with elsewhere, but they are of a piece with similar screeds from the likes of Marc Andressen or Jason Calacanis or Peter Thiel any number of big-money finance types who think that because they’re putting their money into companies that rely on apps or websites, they’re technology moguls, rather than the same sort of banking assholes that ran the economy on the rocks years ago. Paul Graham’s assertions are particularly risible, considering how Y Combinator has become the new Stanford for an industry that brags about ignoring traditional credentials – and how few Y Combinator companies have yet to brave an actual public market for their exorbitant and unrealistic valuations. Or given how its ducklings get a golden net under them when they flame out.

The three counties of Silly Con Valley – San Francisco, San Mateo, and Santa Clara, the latter of which has by some measures the highest per-capita income of any county in America – have all bought into the smell of their own shit. Everything should be like Silly Con Valley. Everything should be a startup. Everyone should move fast and break things, and if you’re not an entrepreneur, then you’re a barnacle on the exciting high-tech future and you’re a Morlock only fit to drive and house the Eloi. And any regulatory interference – indeed, any attempt to hold a light up to these exaggerated claims – is second only to an attempt at collecting regular non-confiscatory 1990s-level tax as a impingement on the freedom of great minds to do as they will.  Which is why people are flipping out at the fact that the FDA dared point out that Theranos, the current darling of the “biomedical revolution”, has yet to demonstrate valid results from its much-vaunted blood-test system and is neck-deep in regulatory arbitrage to hide their alleged product from prying eyes that might ask them to prove it works.

That’s the biggest problem with Silly Con Valley, 2016: this is where your future comes from, and the future is based on using tech-washing to bring back the Gilded Age. Underneath the whizzy apps and buzzword compliance, the mission is the same as it was for the likes of Leland Stanford: consolidation of wealth and power, full stop.  It’s past time we told the truth: Uber is a taxi company, AirBnB is a hotel company, and “empowering” people to take in others’ washing so they don’t lose their home isn’t innovation, it’s the perfect expression of the “I Got Mine Fuck You” mentality of an industry that lost its way once it decided the most important goal was to let the Eloi abstract away the Morlocks once and for all.

It’s not that Portland was nice, or that Los Angeles was nice, though they were – it’s that in the last five years, this place has become Not Nice. These three counties aren’t Florence during the Renaissance, they’re Wall Street in 1986. And when the crash comes, a lot of these “entrepreneurs” are going to be dangling on the cliff by their fingertips. And at that point, it is incumbent on us as Californians and human beings to lace up the steel-toes and stomp. Hard.

…and just celebrate the fact you arrived.”

I couldn’t say where the quote originated, but I’m sitting in the gallery parlor car of the Coast Starlight. By rights I should be about three hours from Los Angeles. Instead we passed the horseshoe curve in the dark and are just setting out from San Luis Obispo.

That might be as neat a metaphor for the year – and my larger life – as you could ask for. It was rapidly apparent I needed to punch out of my job, but it took an awfully long time to give up and just put the resume online, followed by explicit threats to HR that I was looking to get out. And two and a half months later, I had a new role that I didn’t fully take up until after Thanksgiving, with a new (albeit cumbersome) title and more money to actually do less work – only the bits I was actually enjoying in my previous role. 

It also took too long for me to finish punching out of football as I’d planned – and to add irony, the Skins fell ass backward into their second NFC Least title in four years. But my life is better without it. And the entire holiday season, I found myself wearing my high school ring, that blue stone winking at me just as it did in 1988. 

I’ve gotten everything I wanted that was once on the other side of that stone. Not all at once, and I have since lost some of it, and some of it I stopped wanting, but on paper, I’ve closed out the list for that sixteen year old kid. It’s important to be reminded of that from time to time. 

Because if there’s another lesson this year, it’s that not only do you not every time get what you want, sometimes you don’t get to hang onto it. There were multiple divorces close to the family this year, and my most favorite job was transformed by a big-media deal that did wrong by many of my closest friends and teammates. Silicon Valley isn’t what it once was when I loved it here, the bar of my past Sunday frequency no longer opens on Sundays, and my loyal Rabbit has gone temperamental and will almost certainly not get through 2016. 

Nothing lasts forever, for better or worse. That’s the lesson of 2015, and it’s a good one to have learned before the really rough stuff starts next year. The good things that happened did happen, and those memories bear me along to the next episode. 

Next stop: Rose Parade. Then Hawaii. Then, at long last, London. And onward to bigger and better things at work, and hopefully better health and better feelings. As always, the plan: less soda, fewer carbs, not so much vending machine crap. Fill all three rings on the Apple Watch every single day, keep pursuing lower blood pressure and a better night’s sleep. Do the things that make me happy and stop doing things that don’t, and have some sense of perspective. 

And speaking of better late than never, see Star Wars: The Force Awakens at least a dozen more times. 

They say a prosecutor can get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich. Once again, we have a case where cops shoot a black kid – literally a 12 year old kid, with a toy gun no more convincing than the Edison Giocattoli cap guns I used to run around the neighborhood with, or the arsenal of matte-black waterguns I once lugged through an airport – and the district attorney doesn’t even find enough awry to make it worth going to trial. Never mind conviction; the DA couldn’t or wouldn’t find enough in this situation to give it a day in court.

We have a crisis in law enforcement in this country, and it is this: the kind of arbitrary government tyranny that fat old white ammosexuals claim to be afraid of is real, only it applies to black people. People who scream and rave about the incipient tyranny of Obama and the jackbooted heel of the ATF suddenly have every excuse in the world for a cop that pulls the trigger on an unarmed black person.

Never ask why black folk are angry.  Ask why they aren’t angrier. Actually, look at what Trump voters want to do in response to the slightest threat to the primacy of whites, and ask yourself why black people haven’t done even more to fight back what is increasingly obviously a stacked deck. And then ask if things are getting worse, or if they’ve been like this all along…and you just haven’t noticed it.

“Fairytale of New York” is one of my favorite Christmas songs going back at least fifteen or sixteen years, to the days when everything that mattered in our lives happened at that one Irish public house in Cleveland Park. It’s a complicated tale about chasing dreams and love and things not quite working out the way you thought – granted, the boy languishing in lockup while the girl dies of heroin-related complications is about as bleak as you can get without binge-watching Jessica Jones (seriously, after that show I need something uplifting, like Philadelphia maybe), but even so, it’s a story about how things don’t always work out like you planned.

This was the year that my first and most favored employer changed forever, in a way that meant my old job didn’t exist anymore and the crew was scattered to the winds. This was the year that I decided I just couldn’t care about my first favorite sport anymore. This was the year that the best man and the matron of honor at our wedding both got divorced. (Under substantially different circumstances, certainly, but it made for an uneasy coda to our tenth year of married life.) It’s also the first year we realized we had no plans on Christmas Eve, and I’ve insisted on going to the 8 PM Mass – not out of any lingering sense of Catholicism* or because it’s a critical part of the tradition, but because the thought of the two of us sitting alone on Christmas Eve was too awful to contemplate.

On a personal level, it wasn’t a worse year than last year, which is the first time I could say that in a few years. All around me, though, are people whose years have ranged from below-average to stunningly-godawful. The missus and I are not in the best of health ourselves – she battles the fatigue and thyroid stuff while I try to find a way to sleep with a bi-level CPAP mask over my face in hopes it’ll improve my quality of sleep and quality of life. It’s been almost six weeks and I still haven’t slept through the night with it once. Hell, only once have I made it to 7 AM without ripping it off and throwing it aside, and I woke up every two hours all night. I don’t think this is what they had in mind. And God forbid you go back and ask for some sort of sedative or tranquilizer or something to at least give you a chance to acclimate, because you’ll get tagged as “drug seeking” and then it’s real trouble. Which is why I’ve had to bite my tongue and just accept whatever sad-sack ineffective prescription NSAID the insurance will condescend to pay for. If there’s an opioid epidemic in this country, it sure as hell isn’t in Silly Con Valley at my Walgreens.

But we traveled again. We left the country for the first time in five years, we saw Japan for the first time, we spent some quality time in a Birmingham that has bike share and a raging craft beer scene. I probably wasted too much money this year by saying “screw it” and just buying anything I wanted that cost $30 instead of spending months agonizing over it, which is how I ended up with way too many books in the Kindle app and a couple of dart blasters that are incompatible with everything else in the house (or each other).

And I actually have plans for next year – they’re more or less the same plans as every year, but I’m going to try again to stick with it: quit with the vending machines and fast food and extraneous bread and sodas, fill all three rings on the Apple Watch every day even if it means walking or riding when I get home, and take advantage of the first positive change at the job in four years to kickstart improving the other areas of my life. The things you do to try to keep body and soul together while a depressing job tries to part them aren’t necessarily good to keep doing once you turn the tide.

Oh, and see The Force Awakens again. And again. And possibly again.

 

 

* Although I still want Notre Dame to beat the hell out of USC.