Burns Does It Better

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp !
and surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pu’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d i' the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
and gie's a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

Robert Burns

The Anti-Holiday

More so than any other holiday, I find New Years delivers her sobering message with punctilious ferocity.  That message?  You're getting old.

I am not aging gracefully.   Not so much in the physical sense, that particular nightmare has yet to befall me.  What I mean to say is that I am not accepting the aging process with the grace and fortitude that one might hope for.  To be clear, I am not one of those poor shlubs shopping with the tweens in the mall, distressed jeans matching some godawful Ed Hardy shirt, matching some godawful hair I wouldn't let my son wear, were I to have one.  Son that is.  So, I guess it could be worse. 

I can still make the young opposite sex swoon.  The same sex too, I imagine, if I was so inclined.  But I know, sometime sooner than later, this universal trait of youth shall extinguish and never be seen again.  I'll be left with the rest, dropping drawers with dollars instead of debonaire debauchery.  And it will hurt.

Youth caters to, hell, is the raison d'etre for that most beautiful and short-lived art of reckless indifference.  One wants to cast that aside as middle age approaches for fear of losing to it the fast-track, the corporate climb, the "career".  But upon such discarding, one also discards the essence of dreams, the possibilities inherent in making foolhardy decisions, the options open to a young man standing in front of this great big world deciding which bite to take first...

So I say to you Happy New Year's, and I say it with a slight bitter taste in my mouth.  Another year gone.  Here's to making the best of it.  Cheers.

It's snowing here...  Forecast of 0 tonight, realfeel (whatever that is) of -22.  Demasculated by buying firewood at the grocery (there are no trees and worse, no axe with which to fell them).  Something scintillating simmering for the next few hours on the stove.  A handful of old french movies.  And two behemoth statutes yours truly has to memorize by Monday. 

Methinks I'll get out those skis this weekend.  Cheers.

Rest assured, I am not a man of particularly opulent fancies.  Rather, I pride myself with the lack of trinket-adorning in which I do partake.  Nevertheless, I do love these shoes.  Simple, elegant, made for wear and priced right.  Crafted in England by Loake, handmade or so they claim.  I've just ordered the dark brown number (try and find these stateside, I had no such luck), do hope they fit!

An Open Oven Bakes No Bread...

I owe a good friend a good post, but that post will have to wait for tomorrow.  So until then:

HAPPY SUNDAY!!!!

I need one of these, for Christmas of course...

I think the yanks call 'em tennis sweaters, the brits, cricket sweaters.  Whatever you call 'em, one would look magnificent with my tennis kit.  As far as I can tell ole Ralphy L makes a fine version.  I do like the deeper V on this one than a lot I've seen.  Might just have to pick one up!

Wait, then I saw this Lacoste...  Sold!

Cross those wrinkly, sadistic fingers for me...

Got three, count em, three firms vying for my employ.  Didn't think it would go this good what with all the recession talk.  Comp and bennies from all three by tomorrow.  With a little luck I'll soon look like this guy...

Does anybody know...

where I can buy a tweed flask...?  Do they even exist?

HAPPY SUNDAY!!!

Low..

in my many years on this earth, I know one thing for sure: 

nine times out of ten if you fill an enchilada with cheese, it is good.

Happy Sunday (like JFK does it)!!

Tossing in my vote to bring back the duel.

About to buy a house.  This is not the one, unfortunately.  I've always been keen on early Georgian.  Oftentimes one makes the mistake of referring to this type as "Colonial".  The more boorish and uncouth group it all together, including that awful architectural blunder knows as Georgian Revival.  Symmetrical, that's the way of it!  Nix the shutters and porticos and give me a full side-gable, simple cornices, twelve panes and tennis in the back.  Pedantic, I know.

Ruminatin'... or, "Trying for both"

I need to write more.  I get this locked up feeling when I don't pen to paper every once in a while, like slowly suffocating.  A friend of mine will be in Paris (she's actually from there) in three weeks and I regretably, once again, sink into desperate melancholy trying to right my sinking ship.  On the one hand is progress and the security trifecta: family, house, career.  On the other is my footloose wandering, or, in so few words, freedom.  I do not feel the two are mutually exclusive, though combining them would take a rather herculean effort.

I imagine the thing that gets at everyone is the notion that if you chase one, you'll lose the other.  Forever. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/03/fashion/03Modern.html?_r=2&ref=global-home

I guess it is simply a natural progression one must follow, if one chooses sanity.  But I'm still haunted.  The authority on this, at least from what I've gleaned, is Mr. Hemingway himself.  I believe he tried for both.  Yet what comes through his writing the most, for me, is the severe sadness he has in longing for the past (most prevalent in A Moveable Feast).  I am reminded of my favorite quote from a not-so-favorite film, and I'll leave it at that...

I was young too, I felt just like you... If you're not a rebel by the age of twenty, you've got no heart. But if you haven't turned establishment by thirty, you've got no brains. Because there are no storybook romances, no fairy-tale endings. Because life... is not a movie. Everyone lies. Good guys lose. And love... does not conquer all.