I think I can honestly say that 2001 was the worst year of my life. Frankly, it lacked the glamour of 1994 -- no late-night boozeless car wrecks, no rogue fathers showing up on dormsteps, no psychotic genius drug-girls bent on destruction. No, this was the kind of year that will never make a good story. It was a lot of personal pain, in my brain and in my belly. I fell in love with a liar; I have a rotten malady that turns up its nose at medication and never goes away. It was a year of global loss, reminding me how jaded I'm not, how no matter how many layers of rose-tint I think I've peeled away, there are always more to take off, and it's never a welcome lesson.

That's not to say that nothing good happened this year. I made a few wonderful friends, I ate a lot of good food, I had a few amazing conversations, I heard some great music and read a mess of good books. Oh, and this morning, I pulled a hairpin straight out of my hair and picked a lock with it, which is possibly the coolest thing I've ever done.

But all in all, if 2002 is not more polite than 2001, I am going to stick my tongue out at it in a BIG WAY. And though I suppose I have no reason to, I have faith in it. Happy New Year, everybody. I think it's going to be okay. I mean, it can hardly get worse, right? Right?

I hate people who talk during previews. Maybe if movie tickets weren't 50 billion dollars a piece, I could be more cavalier about getting my money's worth. But they are, and I'm not. Damn it, the lights are dim, the peripatetic popcorn box has already warned us not to violate theater decorum, and everything playing on the screen costs me roughly $416,666,666/minute to watch. So, yes, people who prattle vacantly while I'm watching previews, even if the previews are admittedly a bit subpar (see: Snow Dogs), really set my teeth on edge.

This was the case on Wednesday, at my viewing of Lord of the Rings. I was seated next to two chatty and particularly inane amateur film critics and general observationists. I couldn't move, as the theater was completely full, and I couldn't really shush them, as I kind of consider my devout reverence of previews my own cross to bear.

However, my quiet seething was well rewarded at the end of the movie when, without a trace of irony, Moron One stood up, stretched, and announced scathingly to Moron Two, "Well, they certainly left that one wide open for a sequel." Moron Two made murmurs of concordance, and they went, blissfully unaware of the fact that they'd made my night after all.

nouveau geek (nü-vo gEk)
noun

The only possible description for my current state. I've never played a video game (excepting a brief stint with Metroid and Super Mario Brothers when I was twelve, and a torrid half-hour affair with Grand Theft Auto over Thanksgiving), I've never seen a single entire episode of the original Star Trek series. I've never discussed, or even wondered, if Superman could kick Spiderman's ass. I don't give a hoot about Star Wars.

I wear lipstick. Well, I *have* worn lipstick. And I match. Almost always.

Yet, here I am. Internet as all get-out. Toys in my cubicle. An unhealthy knowledge of Simpson's episodes. A damn online journal. And just look at the company I keep.

But I still don't give a rat's ass about Star Wars. Lord of the Rings might be a different story. I mean, come on. There are princesses.

 

And might I finally add, you have the head of a chicken.