If I were to announce that I have never fantasized of being internationlly renowned as the greatest tambourine artist in the world, well, you can imagine that most people wouldn’t believe me. I clearly have the body type for it. I also have the stamina.
For those of you who think that body type and stamina are irrelevant when it comes to tambourine playing, let me assure you that that many tambourine artists with raw talent never make it to the next level because they lack either stamina or the critical body-type factor: short-fingered, paunch in the midsection providing the right dampening effect for certain styles, amply endowed derriere against which to smack the tambourine skin for maximal sound. Traits like these have long made the finest tambourinists. (Go ahead, look it up.)
Just to be clear, I’ve only imagined being the best tambourine artist. I’ve never actually played one.
But if I did…
Whenever my followers are found to be whipped up into a riotous frenzy, smashing windows and stealing letterhead from my enemies and so forth, all eyes immediately turn to me. Like I held a gun to people’s heads and forced them to abscond with that lectern or suggested that they take a leak into a Congressman’s coffee mug.
Do I know that coffee mugs were repurposed into urinals? Not exactly. But my limited experience with shirtless people wearing fur hats and face paint and carrying spears is that they usually have to relieve themselves mid-riot, and if a Congresperson’s mug is just sitting there unused, well, it might as well be put into action.
There was a lack of preparation for these riots, with far too few porta-potties mobilized for such a huge crowd such that some rioters missed storming the Capitol because they were in a porta-potty line and didn’t want to lose their places. In 2021, that’s shameful.
Not to create a diversion or anything, but I’m wondering if it might make sense to award the Presidential Medal of Freedom to a few professional bowlers this week.
I don’t typically submit a blog post to my team of editors in the wee hours of New Year's Day, unless I want a black eye. Even with no parties to attend, these fixers of my scribblings have by now already toasted farewell to 2020 by donning celebratory lampshades, and are in no mood to try to make sense of the words I’ve splashed haphazardly onto the page for another 36 or so hours.
So let's bypass the editors today and use the opportunity to denigrate the shit year that was 2020 without their interference.
Yeah, OK, 2020 started off just fine. The impeachment of a sitting president may sound inauspicious, but I must admit it lifted my spirits, especially whenever Adam Schiff took the mic. From there it went downhill. The president was found not guilty, continued to ignore or not bother to read intelligence reports, and played down the new virus, which had secretly boarded a plane from China in order to attend a Biogen conference.
The rest of the year is a total blur. Stuck in our homes, unable to give hugs to our friends and family, watching helplessly as our favorite bars and restaurants closed, seeing people lose their jobs, remote school that barely resembled actual school … Ech. The year was a complete disaster before we even started counting all the dead bodies.
The only thing that has kept me from flinging myself off a tall building this year is that no tall buildings are allowing me in. I exaggerate of course. Having the best family anyone could hope to have, a meaningful job, and friends who are masterful optimists with great senses of humor have also kept me mostly sane. Not to mention that I've gotten better at brewing beer.
For 2021, my hope is to retain the family, friends, work, and beer and jettison everything else.
When I die, and you and other friends are gathering ‘round to drink all the beer I left behind, I want you to know that I would prefer it if you drank my beer from real glassware.
It’s the least you could do for me, for crying out loud. Look, I left you all this beer, most of it in kegs. What, you’re going to drink it out of plastic cups? Or coffee mugs?
I know some of you are just chomping at the bit to go under the tap when I die, while people around are chanting “drink, drink, drink…”, but I think you can be slightly more dignified about it. How about tapping 8 ounces into a short-stemmed glass and admiring each beer’s character? If you have chin whiskers, now's the time to massage them while striking a deep, contemplative pose.
On the other hand, I’ll be dead, so it doesn’t really matter what I want. Nevertheless, I thought you might want to know what I’m hoping for.