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December 27, 2007

A decade ago today, a struggling artist put pen to paper and carved out those immortal words: “All I want to do,” she wrote, “is have a little fun before I die.” Ten minutes later, Sheryl Crow was eaten by wolves. The autopsy revealed that she had not, in fact, had a little fun before she died. Ever since then, people have recognized the importance of crafting and sticking to New Years resolutions.

As someone who has already resolved his life and is merely shooting for status quo, I thought I’d share some tips and tricks I’ve learned over the years to avoid being Crowed.

The first thing you’ll want to do is come up with the list of things that you want to change about yourself. After a whole year of worrying about Darfur refugees and AIDS victims, this is finally your chance to think about you. Who are you? And more importantly: what the hell is wrong with you?

To answer this question, you need only walk outside your door and look around. Mother Earth has rolled out the dessert cart and you are its fruit-and-cheese platter. The window cleaner is taller. The crossing guard’s vest masks a bulging six-pack. And look at that man in the coffee shop with the chiseled jaw and the radiant charisma. Hi there! I’m looking right back atcha.

Are these people just inherently superior to you? Well, in some cases. The window cleaner didn’t get that tall by resolving for it, dumbass. But that doesn’t mean you can’t Windex up your inferior genes to boost their resale value. It’s probably too late to be a better father to your kids, but steroids never expire.

How and when you write your resolutions has a great deal to do with whether or not you will keep them. Writing your list on a Chili’s bib or an etch-a-sketch betrays a lack of confidence. I like to engrave my commitments onto something more permanent and valuable, such as my childhood blanket or my cousin.

Before you get too far into your list, however, you should stop and verify that this year’s New Years falls cleanly on the boundaries of space and time. Would you ever start a diet on a Wednesday? Of course not. It’s far more logical to begin on a Monday. So make sure that it’s a nice round year, like 5000, because it’s pretty inane to make wholesale changes right in the middle of a millennium.

Once you finish your list, take a look at it. Scary, isn’t it? It’s not even New Years and already your goals seem to be running away from you. That’s because you wrote them on your cousin. Haul him back here and pull out the red pen. It’s editing time.

Did Sheryl Crow wanna have a lot of fun? Did she want a veritable shit-ton of fun delivered to her doorstep? No. She just wanted “a little fun.” And although she failed even at that, you can still heed her lesson in modesty. Look through your list and soften or remove any adjectives or qualifiers that might discourage your success. For instance, “Eat Healthy” becomes “Eat Healthier” or simply, “Eat.”

If settling for less embarrasses you, consider that some of the most successful people in history compromised on their goals. When President John F. Kennedy faced the Cuban Missile Crisis, he first vowed to a trembling populace: No harm shall befall this great nation. But when historians later unearthed his diary and broke the My Little Pony seal, they found: Well, maybe just Arkansas. Today, political scientists and 49 states celebrate Kennedy’s bold compromise.

Relinquishing your bad habits is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do. Sheryl’s poignant ballad, “The First Cut is the Deepest,” chronicles her childhood struggle to give up creme brulée.

Empirical evidence suggests that the best way to kick a habit is to get it out of your system. For example, nearly 100% of people who successfully quit smoking had smoked before quitting.

So in order to purge your bad habits, you must set aside a few days before New Years and overdose on all of them in parallel. Go ahead. Smoke some alcohol. Nosh on buffalo wings as you rack up catastrophic debt. If all goes well, January 1 should find you face down in an alleyway awash in chicken puke and flanked by creditors. You are now ready to confront the year head on. As soon as you are able to stand upright.

Every Sunday morning at the crack of dawn, 11AM, the church across the street from my apartment rings a bell. And then it rings a bell. And then it rings a bell. And then…

And every Sunday morning, I have the same spiritual reaction: “GOD!!!!”

And then, if I’m feeling groggy: “ANSWER THE FREAKING TELEPHONE.”

Or hungry: “ooh, ice cream truck?”

Or Monty: “Bring out your dead!” from my balcony until it gets old. (Hasn’t happened yet.)

Ringing a bell to call people to worship doesn’t scale. Eventually the other religions are going to arrive at this tactic and start ringing their own bells. Since the human race is always praying to someone or something at any given time, now you have a permanent bell situation. Now houses of worship need to start distinguishing themselves. They’ll try going louder for awhile, but when that doesn’t work, they’ll change their tune.

No, really—they’ll change their tune. Each religion will have its melody, its own ringtone if you will. Christianity will have sort of a melancholy ballad, Judaism will have Hava Nagila, and Scientology will have trance Hava Nagila. Atheists will be on vibrate.

BUSINESSMAN: “Well, it looks like we have a deal, Mr Johns–wait, was that b-flat, G7, d-sharp? Shit, that’s MY god!” (takes off running)

CHURCH: Actually, sir, it was d-FLAT. But as long as you’re here, would you care to start believing in Shinto?

The very concept of announcing your event with bells is awfully arrogant. The blue angels don’t fly overhead every time we have a Facebook meeting. You don’t see coke dealers firing rockets into the air whenever they make a drop.

Alas, the Christians will keep ringing their bells and the Jews will keep blowing their shofars, the Muslims will keep singing their prayers and the Rastafarians will keep making their Rastafarian noises, until we all grow deaf and seek solace in monkhood.

Buddha always wins.

Twelve minutes ago, I ran out of water.

Seven minutes ago, I ran out of cubes.

Now I’ve run out of patience.

My eyes are trailing you around, but somehow yours have never met them. You’ve delivered to everyone else around me, I’m the undiscovered island with wet ambitions. And your routes have been suspiciously circuitous. You slithered around the bar on hands and knees. You exited the building and reemerged through the freight entrance. You parachuted in. You creaked up through the floor boards. You vaporized and transported yourself in your own little metallic watering can. That one was ironic.

But I can’t drink irony, not that you’d ever serve it to me. It has to be water. Forgive me, I don’t mean to sound needy; it’s just that, biologically speaking, I actually do need water. This restaurant is a heart and you, sir, you are its carotid artery. Its high school dropout, dope addict of a carotid artery. And arteries can’t stand around skimming Men’s Vogue the way you are right now.

(flip napkin –>)

Pardon my staring. I just don’t feel that you’ve prioritized us very well. The blonde at the bar is drinking coke, and you brought her lemon for her water. Was it really necessary to upgrade her back up drink? You topped off the man with the glass 7/8ths full. Just in case. You watered the couple sharing the grapes, the purple fucking water balloons. You remember what I got, right? The triple cajun wasabe?

Have you read about the scientists sending robots to mars to find water?

Were you their server?

Server. That’s it, isn’t it? This is busser’s last stand. You want to be master; anywhere else I can get my own water, but not here, not in your little fiefdom. You do a good job and you’ll be promoted to a new role, oxygen man, you’ll just depressurize the whole damn place and go around handing out air to your chosen few, I’ll be choking on my own vomit and you’ll be asking grandma if she’d like a little lemon with her air, can you get her a straw, some sparkling oxygen.

It’s hard to concentrate in here with the voices.

(cont. on ketchup label –>)

Why do they keep saying the same thing?

Dry eyes?
    Clear eyes.
        It has an ingredient to moisturize.
            Wow.

(see sweet ‘n low wrapper –>)

Is this what happens before you die?

Is Ben Stein God?

Because I think I may be. Dying, I mean. Or drying. They say human bodies are 75% water, but I just passed the quarter mark. And now, then, a toast (of what?) to my last supper (walk on water? I can’t even get a refill), as the eyes roll back in my head (does Clear Eyes have an ingredient for that?), and my paper-thin body is
  s
 l
  i
 n
  k
 ing
out of this chair and into a puddle on the floor. Oh, it’s not death that concerns me. I worry that I have made a mess, and

(fortune cookie label –>)

I can’t even get your attention
to clean me off the floor.

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