New Year's Day Brunch at stately Goon Manor is a perfect opportunity to look both backward and forward, and remember that we wouldn't be here if it weren't for having been, at one time or another, there.
So, as I looked forward to newly-discovered information revealing the historical past, and backward to the regrets that I refused to ponder last night -- so as to not ruin the celebratory mayhem of New Bedford's CityCelebrates! -- I enjoyed a sumptuous buffet afforded by my Beloved and the company of associates: my shipwright pal Woody and his indecently-beautied girlfriend Sophronia, neighbors Bink and Craisdara, and their brood.
Bink sallied forth. "I'm thinking it might be time to break open the bubbly and get some mimosa going. How 'bout it, old man?"
I agreed that it was time to unfurl the Salon de Mesnil '95 and newly-squeezed, freshly-chilled oranges, strained of every bit of solid. I did not agree, however, about the "old man."
Desiring a more lively discussion than offered, the unflaggingly comely Sophronia opined: "The media around these hereabouts is obviously wading in the shallow muddy end of the gene pool."
"No kidding," Bink flustered. "I was listening to that Fall River station because I thought I'd do some imaging for one of the local offices..."
"So I was listening. Can somebody tell me what a Wachusett Mow-itt is? I thought that cut-rate snow park was called 'Wachusett Mountain.'"
"Maybe the ski place has new ownership with a kind of dyslexia," suggested Woody, to cold stares from Sophronia. "Although that station did have a guy who said 'mink whales.' "
"And the other day," said Bink. "the news guy was talking about the Ponzi scheme like it rhymed with banzai: Pon-ZYE. I couldn't stop laughing. How can a region that produced Emeril Lagasse and Jerry Remy have such lousy radio?"
Bink's boy Berm spoke up: "How can you fossils listen to that static? Dude, you own an iPhone."
"Berm, don't depreciate our host's self-esteem," Craisdara modulated. "What's in this chafing dish? Oh! Kaya toast! Berm, Brig, Sonnet, and Cashew: try some."
"Berm is right, though. We do get everything online," Woody admitted.
"And then they make fun of bloggers," startled Sophronia. "A guy sits in a room, endlessly regurgitating nonsense he can't even substantiate, and then he makes fun of somebody who ... uh ... well, of..."
"Say," Woody spoke up. "Don't you have a blog?"
My Beloved answered sharply: "He calls it 'an online journal.' And nobody reads it since he stopped making fun of the politicians he used to see get loaded. Plus, he has this silly Carey Mulligan thing ..."
"I moved that. But it's still not a blog. Try the jalapeño-cornbread muffins."
"Blahblah blah. Ever hear of Twitter? You geezers are all so chatty."
"Cashew! What did I tell your brother about demeaning our host?"
"Dude. He doesn't even have Wii."
In actuality, it was a much more pleasant time than that. Because those few lines above were the only ones devoted to those topics. The rest of the day: Hopes for a great 2009.
You can imagine what those hopes are, and I hope that you achieve all of your own. Try to do some good.