Along with colds, coughs, and oxygen tanks, not to mention Covid or computer malfunctions, and intentionally not responding to texts, those days still remain. I’m guilty of not providing a blog for those who give a crap. Just like Christmas Cards, I’m late, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember New Years of the past, present and future…making me a prophet.

Do you remember when the first day of the year meant something, other than hangovers? #bowlgames.

Now, it’s merely just breaking your new year’s resolution.

In the late 70’s and early to late 80’s as well as the early 90’s breaking into the late 90’s, there was a reason to wake up at the crack of clam dip. We watched the Coton Bowl, Sugar Bowl, Orange Bowl, and ended the evening with the Rose Bowl. Not to make light of it, but the “Me Too Bowl” was something I couldn’t properly relate to, similar to my favorite bowl, the “What About Me Bowl”, which still is pending charges, depending on the outcome of certain judicial decisions.

Our mother always made clam dip for us to end her cooking for the New Year’s Day. It came in a casserole dish as large and loud as our catholic and quite pious father using phrases such as “God Damn it!” or “Jesus Christ!” while watching Notre Dame piss away another National Championship. Our brother, Greg, would utilize the same profanities only to be asked to go on the lawn with the other dogs. It was blasphemy and hypocrisy at its finest. Tom and I just ate and enjoyed the games

I miss those days. Simple. Fulfilling. Profanity included. Not giving a damn about resolutions at the age of 5 through 18, we were merely enjoying the games, eggnog and clam dip.