Damn, the things end-of-year lists make you think about.

My younger brothers used to be this guy. They weren’t music Nazis, really. More … so sui generis from jumpstreet. No one’s tastes ever change. What drives them is the same as it ever was, just more refined and focused and specific. It took them some time to start running across more of the things they were always temperamentally disposed toward. Days like today, I wish they were messing with Last.fm so I could razz ’em about what they were listening to for pleasure, not what they had to play in their radio/club gigs.

Much better mood today. Give me a window to look out of and realize it’s raining. Chinese food (on Christmas at the only open place for blocks and blocks. Show me empty streets, an even cheerier sight than the skating rink by the library that had a few forlorn clumps of people under umbrellas, figuring out whether it was open or not. Let me stumble across a previously-unread Kelley Polar interview. Let me luck into a relatively short grocery store line before its early closing time and stumble across a nice chardonnay recommendation.

I am not fucking with Christmas, so why is Christmas fucking with me?

“Everybody wants to be/Scroogy, Scroogy!” It’s the season of good will and charity toward folks, but I am filled with ill will and uncharitable thoughts.

It’s not other people saying “Merry Christmas” to me. I just sort of hear the words and think “Oh, that’s nice.” Maybe a look drifts over me, a subvocalization made visible, about how Christmas isn’t worth a turd wrapped thrice around the bottom of the (pick one: toilet or punch) bowl if you haven’t been nice to other people the other ~365 days.

It’s not having to work tonight or Christmas day (or New Year’s Eve or New Year’s day, either). There’s always been something immensely satisfying about the rest of the world dropping out of sight and hunkering at homes, off the streets and out of my hair, and being part of a team of people handling something of the life behind the visible holiday. My fondest holiday memory, for real? 1989, the number, another winter, sound of a drugstore all-nighter, Muzak hittin’ me hard ’cause you know I stocked shelves (brothers and sisters)!

Maybe it’s just the year. Thank goodness it’ll all be over soon.