Precedent

photo by Altercator

My big sister, Deb, always said that what you do on the first day of the year defines what’s ahead for the other 364 days, so you ought to make it a point to do all the things you want to on January first as a means of preparing for the rest to follow.

If so, 2015 should be a fine one for me—and for a number of beermakers—as a good thirteen hours of steady consumption led to the sort of transcendent weirdness that bodes well for the subsequent fifty-two weeks lying before us.

I’m reminded of how loosely stitched together is the fabric of reality when you poke at it from different directions all day long and above all, how utterly fantastic those hot, greasy curls of potato batter can taste in a parking lot well after midnight.  Details don’t matter too much as long as the general shape of things can be recalled: pedaling, hot-boxing the trailer, standing outside around the flames enhanced by “boy scout water,” and then one last last call; it doesn’t sound like much when you put it that way, but if you consider all the parts that go into such visions, it’s hard not to be impressed, especially given the means of conveyance.

One might wonder, in retrospect, whether it’s worth it, given the day after, but that would be to base one’s assessments on consequences; sometimes, by contrast, it makes sense to focus on intentions rather than results.  If that inclines one toward a deontological perspective, so be it; consider it our duty to live it up in spite of the cold cruel light of dawn and a modicum of curly fry induced dyspepsia.

But really, who’s going to pass up such good chances to harbor minor regrets?  The real sense of loss emanates not from bad decisions made, but rather, from roads not taken at all.   If it means muddy shoes all year long, then sure.