AND NO DANCING!

When it's cold like this in San Francisco at the end of the year, everyone looks forward to the great big party on the thirty first; people dancing nude, kept warm by the body heat of the crowd. Flesh pressing flesh. Close proximity! Boogie woogie conga! Except, of course, that during a pandemic such as we're experiencing, all close proximities and public disrobing is discouraged. Party at a safe distance - six to ten feet, while wearing masks -- and NO nekkidity! Please and thank you.

Well, nekkidity was actually never part of it.
We're a rather staid bunch, here.
No orgies either.

All of that's more of an East Coast thing. For the past several years, instead of gathering with others of unlike minds to swill cheap champagne and tunelessly sing Old Lang Syne, I've gone to bed early. Waiting for the ball to drop is pointless. If the ball, exceptionally does not drop, the new year will not be delayed or in any way harmed.


Did I mention the cold? It's a pity none of us have tauntauns. I suppose we'll have to kill the pet doggies of yuppies instead to crawl inside for warmth. Imagine how I'll look wearing several bloody pug cadavers. Oops, scratch that, bad idea; somebody might get triggered by my extremely poor taste sense of humour and pitch a hissy.

URBAN TAUNTAUN, DOMESTICATED

So anyhow, I actually like the little pests.

I'm not dancing, nude or otherwise. Those are convulsions from the cold. No wonder the rest of the country is friggin' insane, it's colder there.

Dang it, it's cold.



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