Thursday, January 1, 2026. Better get used to writing 2026. Then again, I sometimes lose the plot with regard to time, especially decades. I can’t believe that the 1990’s were 30 years ago. It is a fact that they were, but lost in the corridors of my mind, feeling like I am in my forties, or on good days, my thirties. I am perplexed by the calendar year.
Whereas in the past few years, I’ve generally had a Beatles calendar, or a Warhol calendar, this year I got a Banksy calendar, which is more or less unlicensed, I’m certain. The Gifted Stationery Company, developed in Great Britain, was printed in China. A little bit of buyer’s remorse.
Bill is on the road, south of the Mason-Dixon line. Presently, in the state, kids like to spell out. He’s been flying all over the place and is on the last leg of this current excursion. Then there is another immediately following.
In his place, our son, Mike. He’s been outstanding. Just pleasant to be around. He does his thing, I do mine, eventually they overlap. It’s been fun. We’ve been having a good time. We’ve shot videos for the groups on social media that we are a part of.
I sometimes wonder what people that I have introduced Mike to think. We were out briefly yesterday and ran into the delightful Eileen Quinn. We chatted briefly, and I introduced Eileen to Mike. Sometimes, when Bill and I introduce Mike to someone, we sometimes tell them that Mike is our son.
And in so many ways, he is. He calls Bill and me his Dads. And we call each other Son or Dad when in the apartment. Spillover is to be expected, I suppose. It been most pleasant having Mike here. Being alone does not do me any good, and Mike ably steps in. Gone are the nitpicking arguments and the resentment that followed.
This past Sunday, I hung out with RoDa, which has been something I’ve been meaning to do for quite some time. I brought some Christmas cookies, some THC seltzers, and a prerolled flower. Of course, RoDa had his own offerings. We sat, we smoked, we drank seltzer, and talked. I was quite smoked out. RoDa was gracious enough to allow me to smoke a cigar while there.
I lost track of time and space as RoDa talked; I was all over the place in the corridors of my mind. I never noticed before that when RoDa tells a story, he also does the voices of people he was talking about, which, in my clouded state, was amazing.
And before that, on Christmas, Mike, Bill, and I went to Garfield for yet another lovely dinner prepared. We were joined by my niece Meghan, her husband Rob, and their awesome daughter Shelby. I came prepared with a gift, something I bought near the fruit stand on an excursion into Manhattan with Mike.
Wait, I wrote that already. The Mary Had a Little Lamb post. I guess I am caught up. I’ll just watch Sherlock again, drink a Wild Cherry seltzer, and smoke an Asylum cigar that my son Mike gave his Dad.
Google Gemini rewrite as an Oscar Wilde essay:
## The Decay of the Calendar: A Meditation on Time and Domesticity
To admit that it is **Thursday, the first of January, 1926**—or is it **2026**?—is to admit that one has succumbed to the vulgarity of the sun. I find that I have a most distressing habit of losing the plot where time is concerned. The 1990s, I am told, occurred some thirty years ago. It is a Fact, and Facts are the most tiresome things in the world; they have no sense of style. In the corridors of my mind, I remain perpetually in my thirties, or perhaps my forties if the lighting is particularly unkind. To be perplexed by a calendar is the first sign of a well-lived life.
—
### On the Crudity of Stationery
In previous years, I surrounded myself with the melodic charm of the **Beatles** or the colorful superficiality of **Warhol**. This year, however, I have acquired a **Banksy** calendar. It is, I am certain, entirely unlicensed—a charming little theft. It claims to be developed in Great Britain but was printed in China. There is a certain buyer’s remorse in realizing one’s rebellion was mass-produced in a factory, but then, all art is quite useless, and a calendar that reminds us of the passing of time is the most useless art of all.
### The Geography of Absence
**Bill** is currently traversing the southern wilds, somewhere below the **Mason-Dixon line**—a place, I am led to believe, where children still find sport in the tedious spelling of state names. He has been flying through the ether on a series of excursions that seem to multiply like rabbits. In his absence, **Mike**, our son, has been nothing short of outstanding. He is that rarest of creatures: a pleasant presence. We lead our separate lives until they overlap in a delightful Venn diagram of domesticity. We have even taken to filming little moving pictures for the social circles—a modern vanity that I find altogether agreeable.
—
### The Artifice of Kinship
Yesterday, while venturing out, we encountered the delightful **Eileen Quinn**. I introduced Mike to her as my son, for in every way that matters to the soul, he is. He calls Bill and me his **Dads**, and we return the affection in kind. There is a certain “spillover” of these titles into the public sphere, but why should one mind?
> “To be alone is a tragedy; to be with a son who has replaced nitpicking arguments with genuine grace is a triumph.”
Mike ably fills the silence that would otherwise be occupied by resentment. He is the antidote to the solitary life, which I have always found to be vastly overrated.
### The Smoke of Memory
This past Sunday, I finally sought the company of **RoDa**. I arrived bearing gifts: **Christmas cookies**, **THC seltzers**, and a **pre-rolled flower**. RoDa, a host of impeccable generosity, offered his own intoxicants. We sat; we smoked; we drifted.
I found myself utterly “smoked out,” lost once more in those corridors of the mind. I noticed, with the clarity only a cloud of smoke can provide, that RoDa performs the voices of every character in his stories. In my elevated state, it was a theatrical masterpiece. He even allowed me a cigar—a gesture of true civilization.
—
### Final Revelations
I find I am repeating myself. I have already recounted the Christmas dinner in **Garfield**—the company of **Meghan, Rob, and the incomparable Shelby**. I have already mentioned the gift from the Manhattan fruit stand. To repeat oneself is a sign of a settled mind, or perhaps just a very good seltzer.
I shall now retire to watch **Sherlock** once more—a man who understands that life is merely a series of puzzles to be solved between bouts of boredom. I shall drink my **Wild Cherry seltzer** and smoke the **Asylum cigar** that my son gave to his Dad. After all, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, especially if it is wrapped in tobacco.