2016 New Year's Resolutions (Star Wars Edition)

• This year I will stop telling people, "I'll be back in a parsec!"
• I will stop loudly asking the people next to me, "Which one's Spock?" during screenings of The Force Awakens.
• When the movie's over, I will no longer talk really loudly about key plot points when leaving the theater and walking past people waiting for the next showing.
• This year I will stop meowing the Star Wars Theme in the office while everyone else is trying to work.
• I resolve to stop humming The Imperial March on my way down the hall to drop a deuce.
• I will stop saying, "Well, it looks like Han shot first again!" whenever I prematurely ejaculate.
• I will stop sending George Lucas hate mail addressed from Jar Jar Stinks.
• I will stop yelling out, "Star Wars? More like Star Bores!" during the slow parts.
• Any time someone shares a good idea during a meeting, I will refrain from cocking my eyebrow, tapping the shoulder of the person next to me, and saying, "The Force is strong with that one, eh?"
• I will also stop saying, "Careful. The Force is strong with this one" whenever I let loose with a really smelly fart.
• I will find a way to not be so goddamned turned on by the fact that Chewbacca goes through life completely nude other than an ammunition belt.
• I will stop blurting out, "That's Luke's father!" every time Darth Vader is on screen.
• I will start an intergalactic country/western band and call it Garth Vader. If that name is already taken, I will call it Darth Brooks. And if that name is already taken, I will call it Ruth Vader and the GinsBrooks. And if that name is taken, I will call it Greedo in a Speedo. And if that name is taken, I will give up because seriously, who needs that shit?
• This year I will finally forgive Lando for being such a traitorous dick on Cloud City.
• I will stop making land cruiser sounds when I'm walking quickly through a crowd.
• I will refrain from showing people my drawings of what I think Jabba the Hutt's junk looks like.
• I will stop sarcastically talking like C3PO whenever I meet someone who seems smart.
• Talking like Yoda I will also stop.
• This year I will get a bunch of young Atlanta football players together, make a new team, and call them the Millennial Falcons.
• I will stop bellowing like a goddamn tan-tan every time my team loses.
• I will stop putting on a Darth Vader mask, waking up my daughter in the middle of the night, and hissing, "I AM YOUR FATHER."
• I will find a way to refer to the "first Star Wars" and have everyone know which one I'm talking about.

2014 New Year's Resolutions of an '80s Action Star

• Walk in slow motion toward the camera while a building burns behind me.
• Get shot with an arrow, snap it off at the shaft, continue fighting.
• Dive over something right as what I'm running away from blows up.
• Light a fire by flicking a burning cigarette into a puddle of jet fuel in slow motion.
• Crash through a plate glass window. Continue fighting.
• Get betrayed . . . by the very person who'd told me to trust no one.
• Get mocked by my younger, hipper partner for being unimpressed by/unable to use a new piece of technology.
• Be told by an older colleague that it's a new time now and people like us don't matter anymore.
• When it seems like it's all over and the main bad guy has the drop on me and he dickishly throws some snarky quip at me at gunpoint . . . spring my trap, shoot him dramatically, and turn his one liner around on him.
• Have a partner who 1) I've been with my entire career; 2) I love like a brother; 3) is black; 4) has a newborn kid; and 5) is a week away from being transferred to a safer, cushier job; but 6) manages to make it to the end of the movie alive.
• Use a paperclip to pick the lock on a pair of handcuffs.
• Defuse a bomb seconds before it's about to blow.
• Spit blood in the eye of the captors who are beating me for information.
• Have access to a bunch of random uniforms (elevator repairman, janitor, etc.) that I use to gain access to buildings.
• Refresh an informant's memory with a $20 bill.
• Use a fake passport, have the border guard take a really long time to check it, force a smile, and ultimately have it stamped.
• Realize too late that the harmless looking guy/woman/child I just waved through is actually a suicide bomber. Turn toward the building and yell, "NOOOO" in slow motion right as it blows up.
• Use hand signals to coordinate a stealth raid.
• Do that thing where I run out of bullets in both handguns at the same time, eject the empty cartridges, reload, and keep shooting. Preferably in slow motion.
• Jump from one moving car to another.
• Yell, "THERE'S NO TIME!" into a walkie-talkie.
• Win a fight against multiple thugs despite being tied to a chair.
• In the middle of fighting one bad guy for control of a run, use said gun to shoot another bad guy.
• Claim to be too old for this shit.
• Do it anyway.

New Year's Resolutions for 2012

1. I resolve to stop yelling, "WHOO!" whenever I'm at a concert and the lead singer asks the crowd how they're doing.

2. No more Viagra jokes every time someone mentions The Dark Knight Rises.

3. This year I'm finally going to return Olivia Newton John's calls and take her up on her invitation to get physical.

4. I will stop feeling like I'm sticking it to The Man whenever I preview tracks on iTunes that are already less than 30 seconds long, even though I'm totally listening to the whole song for free, man!

5. As the CEO of Bozorotica Entertainment, I vow to put out nothing but the finest in clown porn guaranteed to tickle your other funny bone.

6. I resolve to stop whistling Taps every time I lose my erection.

7. I will stop telling my friend Daryl his border collie is a DILF even though she totally is.

8. This year I will finish the screenplay for my East meets West, Eddie Murphy/J-pop mash-up, AKB48 Hours.

9. At some point this year I will show up to a party and announce to everyone that I came to do two things: kick ass and chew bubblegum, but then keep it to myself that I brought more than enough bubblegum with me.

10. I will stop dressing up like Frosty and asking attractive women if they know where the snow blower is.

11. The sun will not go down on Elton John this year. Not on my watch.

12. This 4th of July I will go to town with the sole purpose of riding a pony. I will then stick a feather in my cap, call it cheese, and get rude with anyone who tries to correct me.

13. I will go to Hollywood, follow Al Pacino into a restroom, drop my pants and ask him to say hello to my little friend.

14. I resolve to stop crashing Occupy Wall Street events, seeking out hot alterna-chicks and asking them if they want to go back to mine and occupy ball street for a couple of hours.

15. No more saying, "Daddy like!" every time I see an attractive woman, delicious dessert, or sweet ride.

16. I resolve to stop forcing Good Will Hunting-esque, "It's not your fault" breakthroughs on strangers at the DMV.

17. This year I will figure out once and for all what the hell Goofy is.

18. I will start a Neko Case/Justin Bieber tribute band and call it Justin Case.

19. I will start a Johnny Cash/Tom Petty tribute band and call it Petty Cash.

20. I will tell anyone who asks me how to get to Sesame Street.

21. I will win decisively by drinking tiger blood with Charlie Sheen during Shark Week.

22. I will stop trying to make my wife refer to my penis as Shiva the Destroyer.

23. I resolve to stop using so many exclamation points!!!! Seriously, I mean it! No, really! OK, last one! Just kidding! LMAO!!!!!!!!!!!

24. I promise to put an end to my practice of dialing old girlfriends and hanging up, and then when they call back insisting that my infant daughter had gotten ahold of my cell phone and started punching random buttons and sorry about that, ha, ha, but, um, how you doing?

25. I resolve to stop dressing up like a pirate and introducing myself as Capn Assgrab in search of ye bountiful booty.

26. I will finally launch Tats for Tots, my body art emporium for toddlers.

27. No more getting medieval on people's asses. This year, I resolve to get Renaissance on them.

January 1 - New Year's Resolutions for 2011

1. This year I resolve to kick someone out of bed for eating crackers.
2. I resolve to put the sin back in synergy.
3. No more flashing devil's horns and yelling, "Wok & Woll!"when they bring me my food at Chinese restaurants.
4. I resolve to stop crashing tea parties in my Obama mask and Chippendale's uniform.
5. No more rhyming . . . and I mean it!
6. Anybody want a peanut?
7. This year I'm going to figure out a way to literally tickle someone's fancy.
8. I will limit my peeing in the shower to times when I am already taking a shower.
9. This year I will make it through the holiday season without asking so much as one midget if he/she is one of Santa's elves.
10. This year I resolve to think outside the bun.
11. I will whistle while I work, as well as while I wank.
12. Straight up laughter might be impossible, but I resolve to at least giggle in the face of danger.
13. This year I resolve to write checks with my ego that my body can't cash.
14. I resolve to stop yelling "Fuck her, I did!" unless I did and they should.
15. I will stop rolling my eyes whenever I tell other parents their baby is cute.
16. Everybody is familiar with nail polish. This year: male polish!
17. I will stop making Wikileaks jokes every time I get up to use the bathroom at work.
18. No more passive aggressive cleaning of the house.
19. On a related note, I resolve to stop passive aggressively asking for permission. Is that OK with you?
20. I will learn to be OK with the fact that sometimes I get aroused by a J-pop singer who, on closer inspection, is actually a really pretty guy.
21. I resolve to be as smug as humanly possible when I dismiss the "I'm so busy!" complaints of my friends who don't have children.
22. At least once this year I will pack myself a couple of knuckle sandwiches and go cruisin' for a bruisin'.
23. As far as I can tell, there are no religions that forbid the eating of chicken. This year I will rectify that situation.
24. I will also manage to say "rectify" without giggling.
25. I promise to start doing that thing again where I dress up like a mime, start doing a routine in public, and then as soon as I've got a nice little crowd, suddenly start screaming and cursing at everybody in Russian.
26. This year I will graduate from MILFs to GILFs.
27. I resolve to stop telling new moms that they're not eating for two anymore.
28. During the holiday season I will manage to ask younger women if they've been naughty or nice without sounding totally creepy.
29. I will figure out a way to call someone "friend" without it having a menacing undertone.
30. I resolve to stop carrying around a rooster and telling people to say hello to my cock.
31. I resolve to stop talking shit about people behind their backs, even though I'm sure those no good fuck balls in accounting would never deign to do the same in return.
32. This year I will get off my ass and write a reply song to Cee Lo.
33. I will manage to have a conversation that's not about my daughter, work, or the weather.
34. I resolve to stop asking the guy in the next urinal if he could zip me up.
35. I promise to stop pretending to be asleep when I hear the baby cry/poop.
36. I will finally get around to producing The Orifice, my porn parody of The Office.
37. I resolve to stop quoting Wayne's World and other comedies from the 90s--Not!
38. This year I will start a podcast and call it Nothing but Dog Whistles.
39. This year I will take my talents to South Beach . . . if you catch my drift.
40. At some point this year, I will take candy from a baby, shoot fish in a barrel, and go on a cake walk, and then brag about what an easy afternoon I've had.
41. I will stop monopolizing all the "Free hugs" people's time.
42. Bargain hunting is so cruel. This year I'm going to focus more on bargain gathering.
43. I resolve to stop asking attractive women in restaurants if they'd like me to butter their muffin.
44. I will cut down on my use of "finger quotes" by at least 50%.
45. This year I will start a Twitter feed for Luddites.
46. I resolve to stop using the words sinful and/or decadent when describing desserts, especially when I'm hanging around a construction site.
47. I will stop threatening to "skull fuck" my brother-in-law, because we both know I'm never actually going to do it, and threatening to do so always makes Thanksgiving really awkward (albeit memorable).
48. I resolve to stop flirting with widows.
49. I will stop wearing my Michael Vick jersey when I volunteer at the humane center.
50. No more doing that Marilyn Monroe Happy Birthday Mr. President shtick to my co-workers unless it's their birthday.
51. This year, I will dress like a leprechaun only on St. Patrick's Day.
52. And during Celtics' playoff games.
53. And when I'm hosting a Leprechaun movie marathon.
54. And when I'm eating Lucky Charms.
55. This year will see the end of my prefacing juicy tidbits of gossip by saying, "spoiler alert."
56. It will also see the end of my using the following words in the following order: juicy tidbits of gossip.
57. Fuck it. This year I will start smoking.
58. It's been said that you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friends' noses. Well this year, I'm going to prove the doubters wrong.

December 31 - Last Supper

New Year's Eve. No time. Already late, but a shower, change of clothes, and a fucking faster than hell bite to eat had to be done.
Food first. He opened the refrigerator.
A disaster. Absolutely fuck all to eat.
Fuck my ass.
But wait.
What's that?
Cold fried chicken in the back of the second shelf.
Yes.
He reached for it.
Hold on. When was the last time I had chicken?
Valuable seconds ticked off the clock.
Was it this week? Last week?
Last month?
He stood in front of the refrigerator wondering.
Minutes melted away.
He scrunched up his face in concentration.
Fried chicken.
The sun had long since set. More and more lights went on outside. The town was coming to life.
On the other side of town, She was finishing getting ready.
Third date tonight. All kinds of vibes on dates one and two. Sex tonight for sure.
Sex for fucking sure.
Fuck it. It's fine.
The first bite told him otherwise. Second bite, too, and every other bite until he'd ripped his way through it like a shark that swam in on a seal fucking his wife.
And the chicken had tasted off, there was no doubt about it.
But it was fried. How bad could it have been?
No time to ponder. Into the shower. Hot water. Steamier than hell. Not mixing well with the caffeine from earlier. Definitely not mixing well with the chicken.
He focused on his date and fought through the doubts that were starting to creep in. Was the chicken a mistake?
He turned off the water and started drying off.
How freaking old was it?
Dizziness and nausea. Things slowed down. Everything moved cartoonishly slow. There were trails. The Axe Body Spray slipped out of his hands and crashed on the floor and he was powerless to stop it.
Everything was in slow motion.
His stomach turned to lead. Then his arms and legs did, too.
Just a second to sit.
It didn't help. The room spun. And then went black.
He was out.
Hours passed.
And then the dreams started.
They were all over the map.
Suicidal whales, kindergarten unicycle gangs, Mongolian night stalkers, wild west zombie killers, serial killer jaw transplants, plastic bubble wrap men, vegetable cows, Korean gangsters the size of whales, feuding Palestinian and Jewish rappers, Catholic High School Girls in Trouble, Chinese cyberterrorists, messengers from the sky, Russian house sitters, talking dogs, vampires, long lost heirs to the Japanese throne, an orchestra of hobos, orcs, bloodbaths, fish tacos, homeless punching bags, fighting leagues for old ladies from around the world, mind reading flight attendants, fat suits, washed up former masturbation champs, sleeping pills, funky presidents, time travelers, haiku hustlers, bastard warriors, castaways, Gypsy curses, catatonic seers, and bridges.
The dreams kept coming and he kept sleeping.
Dream after dream after dream after dream.
African rock star prophets, post-apocalyptic herbivores, baseball dads, talking mustaches, talking assholes, talking penises, magic pens, heroes, single women, advice dispensing pirates, illegally employed undead, dog racing monkeys, clown bars, running bachelorettes, jinxes, Bible thumpers, Amish rock stars, good deeds, iMotions, prehistoric killer bees, stressed out jazz musicians, domineering deer, ass kicking boy band back-up dancers, races against incontinence, assassination schools for mixed race orphans, birthing resorts, insufferable bastards, Zoobomb Turks, underground paintball circuit champs, restaurateurs, hecklers, inter species romances, lameasses, Spanish wine-making giantesses, breakfast burritos, pillow fuckers, heists gone right, baby proofers, parallel universes, final shots, aliens in border towns, and roaches.
The dreams kept coming.
Pranks gone wrong, long legs, father son trips to Reno, mouse ballets, bear ticklers, make-up artists, sausage hiders, glove makers, penis thieves, cho pos, one hit wonders, Rush cover bands, karaoke kings, fish 'n' chips jackasses, haunted strip malls, Turkey sand witches, death trains, meetings with Satan, neckless bastards, Ozzy Ozbourne, magic tots, boxing nuns, lesbian vampire killers, selfish shellfish, semicolons, a baby named Maya, and a shit ton more.
There didn't seem to be an end to the dreams, but then suddenly there was.
The dreams stopped.
By the time he woke up, the night was over, the sun was up, and the new year had begun.

December 30 - Guatalatinejo

They'd taken conventional medicine as far as it would go, but it wasn't enough. The doctors gave her a month.
Rather than spending the rest of her time waiting, she and her husband booked a trip to Peru where they would stay indefinitely in Guatalatinejo, a native American village and "healing center" in the Andes. Guatalatinejo was near Puno, the hamlet where they had first gotten to know each other more than 15 years ago as Peace Corps Volunteers. It would be their first trip to South American since then.
"Round trip," she'd said, looking at the itinerary he had booked for them. It wasn't exactly a question, but given their circumstances, round trip wasn't what she was expecting. She looked at him expectantly.
"Yeah," he smiled and shrugged. "Well, you know." What was he going to say? That he didn't feel like explaining to the travel agents why one ticket would be one way and the other one would be round trip?
"It was cheaper, actually," he said.
Before they left, their friends threw them a bon voyage party, and although there were a few tears, everyone was pretty good about following his insistence that the night not "end up in a teary, depressing mess." On the contrary, there was a lot of laughter, and lots of stories. She thanked them at the end of it, saying it was like getting to attend her own funeral. Then she laughed a bit, there was a pause, and everyone else lost it.
Nobody wanted to be the first to leave. The hugs lasted for minutes.
Two days later they were in Peru.
(As they were expecting) Guatalatinejo was a little bit touristy, and the relatively new facilities of the healing center tried a little too hard to look exotic, but overall it was charming. And it was great to be back in South America. Everything looked a little newer, but the hills, the smells, the air, and the sounds were the same.
The healing center staff were friendly. It helped that their tribal language was similar to the language they had learned (and to their surprise, not completely forgotten) during their Peace Corps days in Puno. The more they practiced with them, the more it came back.
There was locally grown fair trade coffee available, as well as and locally made handicrafts for sale at the market near the healing center. They could also buy traditional tribal bags, shirts, shawls, and jackets with the local tribe's patterns and insignia on them--clothing that they only ever saw being worn by other guests at the center or the villagers that were directly employed by the tourist industry.
But despite the manufactured authenticity, they both enjoyed Guatalatinejo, particularly the crisp, cool mornings as the fog burned off. Every morning they wrapped themselves in blankets and sipped coffee on their veranda that overlooked the deep valley. Quietly listening to the sounds of the surrounding village coming to life--sheep bleating, chickens clucking, people calling to each other in the tribal language--was a gently magnificent way to start the day.
Their days were spent with the other guests (mostly other U.S. Americans) sipping herbal teas, eating locally grown herbs and roots, following a rigorous but soothing activeness regimen, and receiving the incantations and prayers of the medicine man.
In a previous life, he might have derisively called the medicine man a witch doctor, but not now. Not when he could see how calm the medicine man's words--whatever they were--were making his wife. Although he would never let himself get to the point where he actually believed any of what was happening there might actually work, he also wasn't so cynical that he couldn't see the effect it was having on his wife. She was calm and at peace, but not in a resigned and ready to die way. She was also vibrant, happy, and vivacious, so he didn't question it.
In fact, he was loath to even acknowledge it. Sports superstitions were about as close as he ever got to religion, but he felt strongly about them, and the one that applied here was don't mess with a streak. Because that's what their time at Guatalatinejo felt like to him, one phenomenal, increasingly long (and frankly unexpected) winning streak. She felt good, they were enjoying their time together, and that was more than they could have allowed themselves to hope for going into it.
The days stretched into weeks and they quickly found a rhythm: quiet mornings together, days with the staff and other guests at the healing center, and evenings together, sometimes in their cottage and sometimes at Guatalatinejo's Cultural Center. Teenage girls dressed in ceremonial costumes doing traditional dances to the accompaniment of pan flutes, and then texted from the backs of their boyfriends' motorcycles afterwards.
They also took a couple of trips to Puno and visited their old host families and friends from their Peace Corps days. They didn't mention her disease and nobody suspected anything was wrong.
A month passed. Then six weeks. He Skyped his boss from their cottage and told her he needed more time. His boss teased him about it, saying the woman they hired as his temporary replacement was doing his job better than he could.
"Take as much time as you need. As far as I'm concerned you guys don't ever have to come back."
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them, but he didn't say anything. He just thanked her and told her he'd be in touch.
Another couple of weeks passed and every day she seemed to be doing better. They went on longer and longer walks. They danced. They laughed. Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was the diet, the exercise, the herbs and the roots. Maybe it was the words of the medicine man. Maybe it was the pan flutes. He didn't know and he didn't care. He was just happy that it was working, whatever it was.
Two weeks after he called his boss, they celebrated their 12th wedding anniversary in Guatalatinejo. Neither of them said so out loud, but both of them couldn't believe she had not only held on that long, but had managed to do so looking better than she had when they had arrived. After dinner they sat on their veranda for hours looking at the stars and listening to the distant sounds of the pan flutes at the Cultural Center.
A week later, she died in her sleep.
There would be a wake for her when he got back to the States, but they had already made arrangements for her to be cremated in Peru. She was adamant about not having her last act on the planet be "getting flown thousands of miles just so I can take up a bunch of space I don't need."
He spread her ashes on the outskirts of Puno and then made his way back home.

December 29 - The Neighbor

When I opened the door it was the FBI. They wanted to talk to me about my neighbor, who was being sought as a person of interest in connection with a case of art theft. Namely, the original A Bold Bluff from C.M. Coolidge's Dogs Playing Poker series had been stolen.
I laughed, and asked them if they were serious.
They were. And then they answered my next question before I could ask it. It was worth just less than $600,000.
I asked them again if they were serious, and rather than answering me they asked me what I knew about my neighbor.
I shrugged and said, "Not much" in a way I hoped suggested that I wasn't just answering their question, but also making an observation or even a judgement about the state of the world. Like, We barely know our own neighbors these days. What happened to us, you know, as a society?
The younger one swallowed a yawn, and the older one asked me if I thought art theft might be something he might be mixed up in.
I pretended to think.
My neighbor? An art thief? What could I tell him?
He was by far the quirkiest neighbor I'd ever had.
One time he answered the door dressed in a fur tunic and a helmet with ram horns on the side of it. And then, handing me a flagon of grog, he wished me a Happy Viking Week.
He only ever dated plus-sized models, but not the sassy ones.
He had a rotary dial cell phone and a record player for his car.
I had no idea what he did for a living, but every time I went to his place he was engrossed in a different hobby: building a ship in a bottle, talking on a ham radio to Korea, glass blowing, repairing Sony Walkmans, tracing, translating ancient Greek into Latin, breeding hamsters, plumbing.
He regularly played poker with a group of guys that included Anthony Edwards.
When I heard he was licensed as a minister, I assumed it was one of those deals where you could sign up online, but actually he was Lutheran. But not practicing.
He volunteered for Meals on Wheels, but it was mostly so he could do recon work for antiques dealers; he always knew which estate sales to hit.
He'd gotten a scuba license in Latvia.
One time the local police contacted him because they needed someone who was familiar with an elephant's urinary tract in order to solve a case.
When we were watching Wind Talkers, he kept rolling his eyes at how ridiculous everyone's Cherokee accents were.
He claimed that he did voice talent work in the 70s. Remember the commercial for Operation!? That was him. Or so he says.
A couple summers ago I went to China on vacation, and while I was tooling around near the Great Wall, I saw his likeness on four different caricature artists' sample pictures, alongside Leonardo DiCaprio, Lady Gaga, and Barack Obama.
He'd once contributed a chapter's worth of kelp recipes to an Asian fusion cookbook.
And now he was wanted by the FBI for questioning about the theft of the world's most ridiculous painting. They wanted to know if I thought it was something he might be mixed up in.
I shook my head slowly and shrugged.
"Beats me," I told them. And after a few more questions they left.