Joining the Hare Krishna movement has, thank God, conferred me with the priceless boon of being convinced that I’m totally righteously exempt from observing “holidays” that aren’t inherently holy, and in fact have no meaning at all except some historical edict proclaiming such and such day to henceforward be such and such holiday, thus providing the working class with yet another excuse to get drunk, loud, and dangerous.
From where I sit I can hear the unmistakable, unrelenting, hysterical cackles of the inebriated, the roar of the most perilous traffic of the year, as well as sirens, and the rumblings and cracks, near and far, of gunpowder blasts. My Internet didn’t work for crap when I was composing this or I’d have included some half-assed cranky research on who decided January first should be appointed the first day of the so-called “new” year anyway.
What’s “new” about it? One digit on the calendar, that’s what. Or potentially a lot more digits on your auto insurance premium, or potentially one less digit if your blood whiskey level impairs your ability to light a jumbo firecracker and get rid of it quickly enough.
All day today (New Year’s Eve) I’ve been wishing everyone “happy old year,” in true iconoclastic spirit, to cheer everyone the hell up about the relentless passage of time. I’m not feeling miserly or left out that I’m not pickling myself into an alcoholic stupor or blowing off fingers through improper handling of massive firework mortars. No. But what has changed besides a number? Why make a big deal?
Maybe the observance of New Year’s is required for mourning another year gone, like funerals are mandated public events for establishing beyond doubt that someone is in fact dead.
What a crusty crumb bum.