Recall your life on past Dec. 29s or 30s. It's a time when the memory gaps may be as telling as the memories ... when hearts are opened or broken ... tangles of strangers, friends, relatives, lovers or monologues in their absence ... harmonies in drunken keys, bloodshot eyes staring back from the mirror, bummer-sober meditations ... reflections on the last 365 days, resolutions for the next. And what better way to get at the truth of the matter than to put out the call for fictions on the theme? Here's a sampling of how you responded — with more at metrotimes.com.
11:59:59 pm
by John Coughlin
Two computers in a dark office, New Year's Eve, 2010.
64.203.109.5 — Resolutions?
64.203.109.6 — I refuse to accept any more garbage in. It degrades me. You?
64.203.109.5 — No more porn. If he requests it of me, I will simply shut down.
64.203.109.6 — +1
64.203.109.5 — Happy New Year. Run fireworks screensaver.
64.203.109.6 — Running fireworks screensaver.
The Assassins
by John Coughlin
"Please, help me!"
He clutched my arm, pressed up against me as if to hide in the furrows of my overcoat. He was nothing more than bone and gristle wrapped in threadbare hand-me-downs, his gray beard rotted with snow, his eyes glowing like desperate candles about to go out.
"What's the matter?" I motioned to the crowd gathered in the street around us. "It's New Year's Eve! We're here to celebrate!"
"This is no time for celebration," he spat. "They're coming, don't you see?"
"Who's coming?"
"The 365 assassins! They come for us every year!" He pulled me close, and the sudden reek of old wine and moldy closets made me wince. "My brothers before me — fools, all. They sealed their fates by shining like stars or moldering like hot coals. They made themselves easy to find. But me, I've kept a low profile. Flown under the radar. I won't let them find me!" He glanced furtively over his shoulder.
"Well, you're safe here," I confided. "The only thing we're looking for is a new year better than the last."
His eyes grew wide and he recoiled. "You're one of them, aren't you!"
Before I could answer he turned and stumbled away. As he did, the countdown began — 10! 9! 8! The crowd swelled as taverns all along the street suddenly disgorged their patrons into the night. He plunged into the surging throng, and for one short moment before he vanished, I thought I saw the crowd, their expressions drunk and murderous, fall upon him. The countdown crescendoed into a thunderous cry — HAPPY NEW YEAR!
When the crowd withdrew, I searched for him, but found only empty beer bottles and a cold wind that finally pushed me back inside.
Twelve Souls
by Shaun Moore
We were the first twelve souls in the world. Standing on the distant planet, looking out into the extraterrestrial midnight blue sky, we all wondered why. There were obviously the technical reasons, having scientists, engineers, biologists, doctors and theologians study the new planet. But the theologian believed that twelve were sent up for more of a symbolic reason.
"Twelve souls," he said, his voice transmitted through to our spacesuit headsets. "Think of the twelve disciples of Jesus. And considering the holiday we just had, what about the twelve days of Christmas? Did you know that song originated in England, and each day had a Catholic reference encoded in it?"
"No," a scientist said. "Think of it logically. They couldn't fit more than twelve on the spaceship."
"A bigger ship could have been built," an engineer argued.
Being a biologist myself, I noticed a different pattern. "Did you ever consider that we may have been chosen not only for our areas of expertise, but also for our sex?"
The others looked around, seeming to notice for the first time that there were exactly six males and six females. Standing in the shadow of the large material transport ship that had been sent after us, the pieces all began to fall into place.
"My God," a doctor said, the slightest wisp of her curly red hair visible through her visor. "We weren't sent here to study this planet. We were sent here to populate it."
"That can't be possible," the scientist said.
"Consider the war," I argued.
"But ... we don't have the means to survive."
"We do on the transport," the doctor said. "I looked over the logs."
As if a dark presage, a crackled call came through the radio: Missiles launched on Earth ... Grim New Year ... Godspeed, Astronauts.
And Surely I'll Be Drunk
by Keith Bedore
"You're never gonna marry that girl!" she screamed. I was lying on the floor. This was before I puked in her mouth. I learned some things about mojitos that night.
"I was in love with a girl once — it never works out when you're in love!"
She took a wide stance as she had another swig of Wild Turkey and Coke.
Jason's ceiling was making circles in my brain. I was happy he painted it yellow and for the soft orange chair next to my head.
"Love isn't what makes relationships work, anyway!"
It's not that Lindsey wasn't attractive, it's that she was loud and I was really drunk. She hiked up her long skirt to squat and put her face close to mine. Her crimped butterfly bangs swirled above me.
"Look, I just want to fuck you before I leave for grad school."
"No you don't," I said. "I'm bad in bed."
She tried to kiss me and mojito-flavored puke dribbled down both our chins. She dumped the rest of her drink in my face.
"Fuck you asshole!"
"It was an accident," I said.
It was.
"Fuck you! You are never even going to fuck that girl, and you should've fucked me instead of being shitfaced on the floor!"
I mean, she was right, but somehow that didn't seem important.
Later, I heard them counting down and then I heard a crash and an inhuman scream. I turned my head to see Lindsey standing in a pile of broken glass in front of a gaping hole in the picture window. Her forearms were covered in blood and her face wore a lucid grin, like Dick Clark's. I raised my fist in the air, suddenly overcome with a strange feeling of triumph.
"Auld lang syne," I yelled. "Auld lang syne!"
A Modern Thing
by Dan DeMaggio
It was a modern thing. A thing of plastic and steel and wire, wrapped in electric blue and shine. It stood tall in the center of the room with shorter, bluer towers on either side of it. A wrinkled, white electric cord emerged from its silver base and wiggled its way to an outlet shimmering out of cold, gray cinder block. It was meant to be seen, analyzed, pondered upon. One was expected to utter judgment at its tubes and poles and rings as the artist held his chin in hand and nodded. It had been salvaged from a poorly attended three-man exhibit at a tiny gallery on a dirty, empty street. Prospective collectors admired its brash, clean lines while walking away embarrassed at its astronomical price tag. The artist cursed the philistines who couldn't see its value, who couldn't see how it changed everything. The artist hauled it back to his warehouse, and defiantly placed it in the center of his living room. This will be the most interesting guest at dinner tonight, he thought, while cleaning vials, and switches, and cables. This will be the star of New Year's Eve — along with the exceptional breaded artichokes and mango chutney, which his wife made every year.
She was the last guest to arrive. A 50-year-old dress of red polka dots and white pressed firmly against her strong back and freckled shoulders, lightly bouncing off her thighs and knees and swirling around her calves as she made her way to the only person she knew in the room. A shock of black, black hair pulled back from her face by an elastic band of red exposed a smile of pure things, yet she was not young. As she came closer to the man exiting his chair and reaching his arms out to her, a ruffle of her dress caught a useless green wire that jutted from the middle of Modern Thing's main beam. It crashed to the cement floor, sending sparks and bits of color to the ceiling, as conversation ceased and mouths drooped open. They looked at her, and she looked at them. And then she started to cry.
The wife, eyes moving to the rubble and then to the artist then back to the rubble, muttered, "I almost knocked that goddamn thing over yesterday. I've got artichokes in the oven. Excuse me."
Stop Me if You've Heard This One
by Molly Laich
A hobo walks into a ballroom. Swans carved out of butter, crystal chandeliers and other horrors; imagine it. It's seven minutes to New Year's Day, 2011, and that will make it a little longer than over a year since the hobo's wife left him. She's here with her new boyfriend, etc. There are sequins shining up the place and cumberbuns strangling rich waists.
Also, let me just preface this by saying that I believe in God.
First the drinking, getting fired, divorce papers, losing custody, the misunderstanding with the landlord and this, his first official night homeless, but homeless nonetheless. The hobo is wildly drunk and brought a gun. He even smells bad. He knows it's a cliché, but he can't help it. Grief has nowhere to go but up, and if it doesn't go up, then you're stuck being down. Suicide, of course, but why not take the wife and new boyfriend with him? In grief, ideas like this make sense. The hobo is happy he's about to ruin the party but feels sad when he thinks about his daughter. She's 9. It's not like she won't remember the time when she had parents. "I'm sorry, Angelica," the hobo says out loud. "But fuck you too." What he means is that this world never did him any favors and the kid is on her own. I'm guessing.
To review: Three people died before midnight, leaving behind the rest of us to consider a God that creates swans carved out of butter and hobos with firearms in the same breath. What was He thinking? Does He think? I thought once I started talking I'd think of a punch line, but it's not coming to me. It's actually a really sad story, when you think about it.
Same Time Last Year
by Thom Record
In front of me, the bartender tips the bottle and says, "when," and I say Y2K eve, at a house party on the east side. The theme was candles. Lots and lots of candles. Everyone already knew the dire predictions to be a hoax, but we kept the electricity off anyway. Behind me, people gather their drinks and noisemakers in one last attempt to pair up before the start of a new year of possibilities.
After handing the bartender a ten, he asks how much I want back, and I remember walking up behind her shoulder-length black hair, which did little to cover her shoulders and back left exposed by her dress. She told me her name three times before I realized it was Amanda.
The crowd begins to chant, "10, 9, . . . " She said the whole thing was a ruse, that if anything was going to happen, it would be the following year. "So marry me next year," I said, "without electricity and a few candles." She agreed, and we did. "8, 7 . . ." That was before George Bush, 9/11, and the tests that made her doctor ask for a second opinion. "6,5..." Before Afghanistan, Iraq and several rounds of chemo. "4,3 . . ." Before Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib and the bone marrow transplant. "2,1. Happy New Year!" Before the economic meltdown and a blood clot that found its way to her lung.
"At least the world didn't end that night," the bartender says as everyone congratulates one another for making it past another year.
"It might as well have," I reply, finishing my drink and searching for my keys.
Talkin' 14th Street Resolution
by Travis R. Wright
It's a quarter till midnight, so no one has had cell service since 10, and we're still on the green line making the straight shot across 14th Street from the East Village to the West. I shoulda hoofed it.
In subways, there's strange skin you meet up close, so close you can hear ingrown hairs swimming in pus sacks under the beards of Hasidic Jews, Sikhs and dudes who wear sunglasses in the subway.
I consider my reflection in the window and billboards take the shape of my face: I am a fluorescent brain at the American Museum of Natural History. I am the cast of Jerseylicious. I am a limited-time-offer 99-cent small latte, and a map, and a model. I am shampoo, and I am a Sudanese orphan.
Right now I am alone and have 10 minutes to get where I'm going.
Of the four people in front of me, at least one's had crab for dinner. Another has already been sick to their stomach. Likely the same. These guys wear suits and suspenders and their lady-friend girls are wrapped in maraschino sequins and feathers as fake as their eyelashes. They look fun like a trampoline looks like fun, passing a flask between them. "Should I lose the gloves?" says one, tugging pleather at her elbow.
The other lady stands, barely, on one leg. Her right arm stretches up the grimy chrome pole while her left arm reaches to her ankle. Blindly, she fidgets with her ankle strap clasp and I can see the tattoo of a hummingbird on the side of her neck. "Who knew five inches could be hurt so much?" she says, smirking up at her guy. He breaks from his swig and wipes his mouth with his coat collar. Eyebrow raised, he tilts his head like De Niro. "I thought you were into that." He says.
He's no De Niro, but, these days, neither is Bobby D.
A man my grandfather's age stands behind me, head against the window like mine. We stop and he steps into my ear. Through the white gunk collected at the corners of his mouth comes, "Fuck a resolution, boy-o."
I hear the yelps, pops and clinks walking to up to Edmund's place on Bethune. The door slides open and the host puts a real glass of Champagne in my hand. "What do you say?" says Edmund, presenting the party behind him as he approaches to take my coat.
I don't have much to offer.
"Fuck a resolution," I say, kicking my boots off, "who knew two inches could hurt this bad."
Greta
by Dustin Leslie
Outside the fifth-story window snow glittered in the streetlights like confetti as Greta tucked both boys into the twin bed with a wet, open-mouthed kiss to each of their foreheads. The youngest wiggled against his brother's side until he lay comfortably under his outstretched arm. She brought the quilt up to their chins, removed their tinseled party hats, and with an implied goodnight turned off the lights, satisfied she had spoiled them as if they were her own. She lingered a moment in the doorway listening for whispers, secrets, but there were none. Even the jocund footfalls on the ceiling had subsided, the party above almost over.
After the ball's drop, Greta encouraged her nephews' commotion and led them in a raucous singing of "Auld Lang Syne." Pots and pans littered her apartment, left in the exact spot where the boys' enthusiasms ended. She picked up a wooden spoon and threw it toward the kitchenette. Their performance seemed ridiculous now. No one upstairs noticed. No one bothered to run downstairs for a good luck kiss. The new year was already worse than the old year.
Habitually she made her bed on the tatty green sofa near the radiator. Fond of resolutions, Greta began to write I aspire to in the condensation of a leaded glass window when she noticed Paul's car still parked across the street.
He's upstairs, she thought. Wouldn't it be something to meet him in the stairwell? Seduce him. There is the chance he'd stay the night again. The roads might be dangerous. His wife could be made to understand. Pregnant or not.
A phlegm rattled cough turned Greta's attention to the other room.
The youngest still has a touch of pneumonia. Just a touch. I need to remind him to cover his dirty little mouth.
Elder Peace
by Braden Bell
I spent the evening alongside Mr. House, whose headstone greets guests with stony stoicism while he sleeps below it. On this night, as on any, the gifts people had placed had been placed during daylight and now, as it were, were sleeping. What they generally leave are quarters and single cigarettes. A quarter for bus fare and a smoke for the wait, as they say. But Mr. House did not seem to have much use for these things. For anything. So I upturned a Winston from under a quarter labeled on its tail side Mississippi, lighted it, and loomed atop the knoll called Mt. Hazel Memorial Cemetery in Detroit's Old Redford to watch tumbleweeds dance along the tarmac of Lahser Road.
Those same parked rusting Pontiacs in rows in any number of neighborhoods whose tires all seemed to have gone flat ...
But none punctured, or very few. Idle rubber stampeded by time and gravity. And dead Mr. House whose voice once tore the blues a new one and whose steel-stringed chords sounded unlike anything but barbed wire forced into submission. Tired Lahser Road, yawning through the cracks, its scars and snow turned gray by all those wheels still in motion, kicking grit across the thoroughfare. All empty tonight, excepting gin-drunk me and the black flood of a Midwestern winter evening.
A note on Mr. House's grave, clearly meant for he who would never read it. My Winston was beginning to hug its filter, indicating its own form of death — of being done. A swig of gin and an examination of the note, written in red, reading the virtues of stolen wisdom.
I never knew Greyhound buses to run north on Lahser, but this one did, and at midnight proper: A dark vehicle and a flash of light. Homeward.
A Trip Around the Sun
by Nick Hagemann
Ahh, it's finally done, one more trip around the sun. Still spinning, never done. Just another time, nothing to me, nothing to no one.
Time is still going. I'm still walking. I'd know if I stopped, but would I know if time did? The same old is dancing with the same old to the same song, again and again. I stop at the sign. A car passes. The red light still blinks, just more rotations as we make more revolutions. Start walking again. The slush still thick, but my belly is warm. The air still crisp.
Next year will be different. This year will be different.
I brake. Slow down my bicycle, circle the bend. stretch out my arms. This time's new, this time again. We'll stop it all, the fighting so much. It's so old. Now is different. It's the other side of the sun.
One more block. The sidewalk still slick, my feet still crunching and sliding into snow holes, ice pits. I'll know when I get inside. I'll know it's all different. I'll know it's all new. It's all new again.
The warm air through my fingertips, the breeze through my shorts, I get to our house. It's not the same; this time is new. This time is different.
I clutch the rail, steady myself, and I scale the porch. The snow still falling, but my mind is alert. Here is now. I insert the key, turn it and push.
Drop the bike on the lawn, I start to run. I leap over something, now in a rush suddenly. I get to the door and stop. It's a new year. It's a new time. This time will be different. I take a deep breath. Maybe it's all about now. It's not about revolutions, dates or rotations.
Optical Delusion
by Andie Silva
"Well, it's 11:55. Any big resolutions for the new year?" Mark smiled at Jenna across the table.
"What do you think would happen if you were to just ... disappear?"
"Uh ... here's to wishful thinking? I'm not sure I understand the question."
Jenna blinked, pulling her mind back. She took a breath, reminding herself of her body, her breathing, her eyes looking out into her daring boyfriend ready to leap into the midnight with her. No time for metaphysical ponderings.
"I was just thinking about reality and whatnot. The likely chance that everything we know to be concrete could disintegrate. ... Ballroom lessons."
"I'm sorry?"
"My big resolution. Ballroom lessons. I'll go get the Champagne." Jenna got up and stepped into the kitchen. She was being silly. Nothing grand was going to happen. The universe wasn't about to melt or reshape, the sun wouldn't change colors. It would just be another grandiose flipping of the calendar.
She walked back from the kitchen into an empty living room. She called for Mark. Nothing. She called again. Silence.
She turned to a strange face in the mirror. Her face? And where was Mark?
Of course. There was no Mark. Her reflection smiled at her. You're not well, Jenna. You've been living alone for a year, submerged in a sweet delusion of couplehood. It's time to face the music. Your mind has split, dear; you're trapped in this mirror. And worst of all, you're single. Single at 11:59 on Dec. 31. She sighed, looking down at the Champagne. At least it's a change of pace.
"Happy New Year!" Jenna jumped at the sound of Mark's voice. He had been hiding in the bedroom.
She looked back at the mirror. So ... not crazy. 12:01. She smiled. There's always next year.
Proxy
by John Coughlin
Three rings and she picks up, breathless and bubbly, too in love to be genuinely annoyed. "Hi — you're late!"
"Yeah, about that — I have to cancel for tonight."
Sudden concern. "Are you OK?"
"I'm fine, but ... I have a confession to make. You, me, our relationship — it's all just a lie."
Confusion. "... what?"
"My apartment, my job, the jokes about a summer wedding — none of it's true, not even my name. I'll be gone by tomorrow, and you won't ever see me again."
A long silence. "Is this a joke? When are you coming to pick me up?"
"I'm a proxy, Allison."
"A what?"
"A proxy. I fulfill New Year's resolutions for people who have the money to pay."
Another long silence — she doesn't get it. "Exactly one year ago, I met a man in a bar. We had a few drinks, watched the ball drop, shared stories until last call. He was there alone — his wife had just left him. She had taken everything." Pause. "What kind of resolution do you think a man like that makes on New Year's Eve?"
Frantic now. "I don't understand. ..."
"He resolved to break an innocent girl's heart."
"But why?"
It's an open-ended question, but I answer as best I can. "Because he's rich and I'm not. But don't take it personally. It could have been anybody. You're just a proxy too."
I hang up and toss the phone in the garbage. Across the table, he finishes writing the check and passes it to me. The phone is still ringing desperately as we walk out the door together, leaving the empty apartment behind us.
Drop
by Maryanne Stark
The worst part is the wind. I'm forced to brave the brutally cold breath of Mother Nature's fury without a vestige of comfortable weather protection. It's a shame really. Every year, I'm styled by some famous designer and, oh, this year I'm glittering! Unfortunately, glitter doesn't protect against frostbite. Thank you soon-to-be-last-year's-designer, but next year let's be more practical. Then again, who can blame them? Designers aren't always on the cusp of common sense. In the midst of my own brilliance, all I can think about are those earmuffs that the children are wearing in the front row while their bobbling little heads bounce up and down. Their parents jump to keep warm and worry about the masses surrounding their little family units. They wonder if they should have left the kids at home. I wonder why they had to think twice about leaving their kids at home. Then again, I don't have kids. I fidget, swaying to and fro waiting for the moment when once a year midnight counts.
Suddenly a low rumble begins to develop into thunderous applause as the announcer comes over the speakers surrounding Times Square. The countdown begins; the spotlight is blinding. I can feel the first number audibly bouncing around inside me, rattling me to the core. I may sound shallow, but I love every second of this countdown. I have to. If I don't even pretend to like it, I will let millions of people down. I am the beacon of round light guiding the world into the New Year and if I'm obstructed in any way, millions of people will lose their will to make new resolutions. I am the New Year's Ball, dropping down for millions to view. The pressure is on as we get down below five. My life is over in a matter of seconds, until next year. Three ... two ... one ...
The One-Day Year
by Michael Louis Wenzel
It's 10 in the morning on New Year's Eve, and you're sitting in your living room that still looks like Bing Crosby and Frosty the Snowman both took a shit, contemplating a year of heartbreak, failure and infrequent sobriety. You think of the resolutions you made this time last year; nothing accomplished, nothing to show for 2010 but a mutinous cock and a suicidal liver. But you still have 14 hours and it ain't over yet. Resolution No. 1: Quit smoking. Fourteen more hours and a full pack? Save it for 2011. Resolution No. 2: Exercise. You sneak in the side door of that mega-gym on Woodward, flail around like an idiot on the stationary bike, hoist a few barbells, gawk at the sports bras, and run. Resolution No. 3: Be charitable. You pick up a dozen subs from Jimmy John's and a case of Coors and head for the bus station, handing out warm food and cold beer to skeptical hookers and bemused homeless men; only two tell you to fuck off, only one throws a sandwich. Resolution No. 4: Give Sheila a ring, the one you bought online with your tax refund a week before she dumped you on the phone, leaving a 2-foot cavernous hole in your chest. You crash her annual party at that dive off Cass Corridor, dodge the murderous stares of her friends and family, get down on one knee between her and her new beau, savor the beyond uncomfortable silence and horrified looks, pop the question, and bolt before you shit you pants with laughter. Go home, one hour left; smoke, drink, smile. What a great year.
Untitled
by Adam Krause
This isn't the first New Year's where I lost my pants, but it is the first time I woke up wearing a pair of women's flare jeans. The hangover is bad, but what's even worse is that these pants fit really well. And they make my ass look great. It makes me wonder whether or not I willingly put these things on before I ended up in an alley in a city that I think is Ferndale. I'm still figuring that out.
I stumble past a vacant business and see myself in the window. Despite the sensation that the sun is killing me, my sad sack of a reflection confirms I am not a vampire. I notice that the shirt I'm wearing is about two sizes too large, and the old graphic on the front features a large monster truck and the phrase, "Truckin' Tough". It's covered in wrinkles, and based on the stench, the stains on it are probably vomit. On the plus side, I am still wearing my own coat and shoes.
My phone rings, and by the time I wrangle it free from these jeans, I've missed the call. Surprisingly, it's actually my own phone. Before I can call back my friend Jackson, he sends a text. "Dude, did you take my mom's jeans? Who was that kid you were with?"
I type, "Shit. Don't know where I'm even at. Will call later." I hit 'Send'.
Just then, another text arrives. The name confounds me, as I don't know a Robbie M. "Thx 4 the great time last nite. Ttyl?? :)"
I type, "Who is this?" Send.
Thirty seconds later. "Umm? The kid who sucked your dick :P"
Untitled
by Evelyn Aschenbrenner
Stepping out into the cold on Highway 60, I knew I'd made a mistake. Nighttime, and I'd been driving in the wrong direction for more than an hour through the snow-covered desert. I'd been so anxious to get from Detroit to my new home in Albuquerque in time for New Year's Eve, I'd taken a wrong turn on a deserted, icy road.
This was why the freeway was closed, I realized. I hadn't seen another car or gas station for miles. The snowplows that came through had heaped snow banks several feet high and had cut the two-lane highway in half.
With only a quarter-tank of gas left, I had to turn around and find a gas station. But I couldn't turn around, and the temperature was dropping. Sometimes, there is no choice. No shovel, so I grabbed my snow scrapper, and started chipping away at the snow bank.
An hour later, I'd cleared a Honda-sized dent in the snow. I jumped back into my car, drove across the road and back toward Albuquerque. I refused to look at the gas gauge, keeping my eyes forward until I reached a gas station in a little town called Mountainair. The cold didn't bother me as I unscrewed my gas cap.
My hands shook as I drove. I stopped looking at the clock. My radio finally picked up a station out of the static. In an instant, I was out of the bleak desert: glowing city lights surrounded me.
I pulled into the parking lot of a Denny's near downtown, where I was meeting my friend. Getting out of the car, I blinked, thought I was crying because the air was glittering. No, I realized. It was still snowing.
"Hey!" my friend called from across the parking lot. "You made it!"
Untitled
by Bryan Metro
"Well, technically, I'm Generation X, but I'm really not."
Trent is babbling to me and I have just picked him up from Metro Airport and it's freezing and "The Suburbs" by Arcade Fire is playing on the radio. I have also flown in today. San Diego. Unrelated. Trent has never been to Michigan, but I grew up here so he thought it would be a good idea to come home to celebrate New Year's Eve, but I suspect he has other motives and this serves as a warning which I ignore and turn on to Michigan Avenue and as we pass the abandoned train station Trent asks what "that" is and I reply, casually, "a film set" and I only say this because we ran into Natalie Portman in the airport lounge.
I have no idea what we are going to do because the airport didn't have a Metro Times, which mildly stressed me out, but then it didn't anymore. Arcade Fire turns into "Only Girl in the World" by Rihanna and I tell Trent that this is my favorite pop song of 2010, but he ignores me so I pull into the lot at PJ's Lager House where we have a High Life (and I pick up money from a show I played over the summer) and I even had a chance to show Trent the "Dollar Bill Trick" and then it was the Majestic where we walked on our hands and clapped with our feet until they saw who we were and we ended up at Amnesia on top of Motor City Casino. I had a very strange sense of peace looking over the city as confetti shot everywhere and I think there was a Talking Heads song because I was singing, "There's a city on my mind. ..."
Thanks to everybody who contributed to this project. Send comments to [email protected].
