Wednesday, February 9, 2005

Were it not for one of my buddies, one of my Caucasian buddies, I would’ve never known yesterday was Lunar New Year’s Eve. Who on earth could’ve remembered? The ol’ ancestors, I suppose, but my lexicon simply doesn’t have this holiday listed. I’ve flipped through it repeatedly, at least two times, and there’s just a blank spot with chili stains in the Asian section.

Google and the lunar calendar declare this is the Year of the Rooster, which means 365 days of cock jokes until next February, when the Year of the Pony comes to town. I’d ask which animal doubles as your avatar, except I don’t really give a Year of the Crap.

I know, I know–I should cherish my culture, embrace my ethnicity, give myself the annual bear hug. One of these things I did today, yet I’m still afraid of this calendar and its sister publication, the farmer’s almanac. The almanac serves as a preternatural guide for the luckiest days to accomplish worldly tasks, such as getting married or moving a goddamn chair in your living room. Ikea and I are thankful this isn’t the planner du jour for our part of the neighborhood.

My mum celebrated the holiday by discovering a Chinese pastry on her doorstep. I asked her if it was wrapped, and she assured me it was, so I guess we’re off to a roaring good year. As for my part in the festivities, I’ve resolved to improve my bowling score. My highest total on Friday was an 82, damn near double last year’s score, and I believe the Leaning Tower of Pisa tipped over in surrender. Next time I will collect even more points. The day I bowl a 100 or more, that’s the day bin Laden rolls into the Green Zone in the trunk of an Oldsmobile ’72.