Apologies to anyone whose comments on the last few posts got zapped. The site went a bit wiggy a few days ago and ate some content. Um, feel free to repost if you’re so inclined. I restored what I could, the rest is lost to the ether. And you know what they say about ether:

“There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible than a man in the depths of an ether binge...” —Hunter S. Thompson

I've watched probably somewhere between 30 and 40 episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation since Christmas (we own seasons 1 and 2 on DVD, but I've seen far more than that since my childhood), and I've come to the conclusion that Picard and his people really don't view the Prime Directive so much as the First and Most Important order or instruction, issued by a central authority, as much as an obstacle they all participate in slowly eroding.

Picard: “It's not so much a rule or law as it is a guidline to be interpreted as needed by captains such as myself.”

Troi: “Captain, I'm sensing a great—”

Riker: “Captain, I suggest we interfere as little as possible, as long as I can swashbuckle.”

Picard: “Number One?”

Riker: “My dad was too controlling, so I act out through my overachievement.”

Picard: "Surely there's some way we can right the injustices occurring on Jehosephat 12.”

Riker: “We could try to influence the native population by incorporating—”

Picard: “Oh merde, arm the photon torpedos. I can't wait to kick some ass. Engage.”

A few years ago, one of my very thoughtful friends, Aris, asked me a question, which it took me quite some time to respond to. He asked: “What is the greatest work of art you have ever beheld?”

I believe he asked me this, partially, because I'm visually creative (I'm a graphic designer and lapsed artist) and have a fairly decent art education. Of course, I couldn't respond to him immediately. How does one recall all of the art they've seen? I suppose it should have been obvious to me, since the question implies that the work of art would have lodged itself in my mind, firmly implanted in the neurons reserved for the ‘Best ofs’. Well, there was nothing. I just don't keep lists like that mentally on hand. The other trick is that those things I'd seen lately stuck more. So, I pondered. For over half a year, if I remember correctly.

Then, it dawned on me. I do know what that work of art is. It's an exquisite, human, genre-expanding and discipline-crossing work of intensely affecting beauty. It is Chris Ware's Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid on Earth; a graphic novel. So, I wrapped it up and sent it to him, since just telling him was foolish, and it's something that must be experienced directly to be understood.

And then, this New Year's, Aris gave me a gift. It was a gesture of thoughtful and poigniant reciprocation.

Today, while waiting for my chicken tenders and strawberry shake (more on that in a moment) at a food court Burger King, I noticed a sign that reads: “14 and 15 year olds can only bag fries”.

I immediately imagined the following scenario:

The scene: a Burger King kitchen. A manager is speaking to a new employee, who is 14 years old.

Manager: So, we've got some rules here at Burger King...

New Employee: [nods]

M: The first, and I can't emphasize this enough, and most important— [pauses and peers at NE]—rule is right here. [points to sign] See that?

NE: [eyes widen, nods]

M: It says, “14 and 15 year olds can only bag fries”. Do you know why that is?

NE: Um, no...

M: See that man back there? [points to a man handling a mop with one arm, his dirty jumpsuit's left sleeve is pinned to the shoulder] He started here back in '62. Before the Law. The Fry Law.

NE: The fry—

M: He decided he was old enough to bag a cheeseburger. Wasn't 16. Couldn't hold it together. Had to give up the arm.

NE: [eyes widen]

M: So! Now we measure you for your uniform!

So, once I got my strawberry shake, the first Burger King shake I've had in quite some time, and started to drink it, I noticed something odd about it. It tasted good, and it seemed OK, but there was something not quite right about it. It was as though the texture was shake-like, and the flavor was strawberry-like (and good), and the thickness was decent, but the parts didn't fit together. The sensation of drinking the Burger King shake was something akin to getting all of the sensations of a shake, but having them held together by their coincidence in time, rather than their coming from something that had all of those properties inherently; as though the taste, texture, thickness, and other attributes were applied. That doesn't mean I didn't drink the shake, or like it, but it was an odd sensation, let me tell you.

Thus, I dub it 'the Burger King Simulation of Shake-Like Sensations, featuring Strawberry Stimuli'. The tenders were pretty good.

Welcome, welcome. There are seats for everyone here, and it looks like our progress towards the End of Time is proceeding smoothly into the latest chapter, as measured by western civilization. Normally, a new year signals not much more than a big party and about three months of mis-dated checks for me. This year, something feels different. Who knows what'll happen? I know I'm looking forward to it, particularly since we got to start it off in Philly with friends.

Our group of friends (which is really more of a loose, ever-shifting collective) congregate in one of our respective cities each New Year's to celebrate and, now that we've spread out over the country, to prove that we aren't just a bunch of web-based response programs interacting on a bboard every day. It's always awesome, and this year was no exception. So, thus far it's been: NYC, Burlington (VT), Philly, Boston, Ocean City (MD), DC, Philly. That's seven years running so far.

There's too much to cover from this year, but it was great fun. Great food, lots of good drinking, and warm weather. All with close friends and new ones. Plus, we didn't watch a lick of New Year's coverage on TV. In fact, we counted down using my great uncle's watch. There was something telling about that group decision, which happened spontaneously about 5 minutes before the final countdown. Those who were aware that the countdown was being orchestrated all agreed: we're from different time zones, and different cultures, but here we are, together. And, by being together for these few days every year as a group, we are creating our own New Year.* So, with a watch that's been across the ocean, kept time for a group of men defending Europe, been handed down from generation to generation, and needs to be wound and set each morning, we counted down to our New Year: another cycle of seasons as friends, even as we change and grow. And together we cheered.

Maybe that's what makes the opening to this year feel so different. Perhaps this year we won't be watching the world move as much as we'll be part of making it move. Here's to that.

*I'm articulating it with perhaps a bit more cohesiveness here than was actually present that night.

Check out some of my photos in the extended entry. I'm waiting for photos from our other friends, as well.