Hanging with our fellow isolating neighbor last night—he was our Thanksgiving partner too, and Christmas—drinking wine and smoking weed and after blasting some way old school punk rock like the geezers we are (Wire and the Vibrators, don’t ask) and the newer if defunct The Mallard (who are just as interesting as the articleless Mallard, actually, if not more so) he took us through bits of all kinds of weird recent science fiction shows. Watching The Mandalorian, one of those Lucasfilms Star Wars offshoots that grown ups for teens and their grown ups who couldn’t stand Star Wars (which, like KISS, I was too old for in the late 70s), in which there was this cutely ugly animated beast and damn were the vile little warlike Star Wars midgets doing a number on the poor thing. Shit, I heard myself say without even a trace of irony, the little munchkins are giving the critter a real hard time, I’d hate to have that motherfucker’s gig. I remember through the wine and weed being floored that I actually talk like that. Some kind of zany cool Brick jive. I don’t even think I realized it. For a moment there I thought I’d better make me a New Year’s resolution to straighten up the verbiage. Then I figured what the fuck for? Anyway, eventually we were watching Shanty Tramp, from 1967, which I can’t really recommend unless you’re into alabaster tits. Like floppy bouncy marble they were. The title anti-heroine had hers on display for half the inane movie. I’m sure it was quite the drive-in thrill wherever they actually ran the thing. Midway through where the plot should’ve been the hour struck twelve and we cracked open the champagne, wished each other a Happy New Year, kissed (well me and Fyl kissed) and sang the worst Auld Lang Syne you ever heard. Outside people howled and slurred their Happy New Years as a zillion fire works went off all over town. All in all, it wasn’t a bad little party for a pandemic.