2012: In The Rearview Mirror

(originally written 12/31/12)

It would be fair to compare the year 2012 to a poorly-constructed pastrami sandwich from Subway.
The first couple bites, lacking the requisite meat/dressings/queso: yucky. One might argue licking the umbilical cord of a sloth might bring about a more favorable taste.


The next few bites: Amazing. Heavenly. Euphoric. Pick your adjective. Overstacked in the middle with inches of sumptuous caloric bliss, I can't recall, or even imagine, putting anything tastier past my lips. (To my nastier friends: don't go there.)


The final bite: not great, doesn't come close to approaching the delectability of its' preceding bites (what with the toasted bread corners and all), yet enough of its' finest attributes linger to maintain a description of "okay" rather than of "sloth umbilical cord twin".
(Yes, Esmeralda from Subway #32364. Your shoddy effort, nor your grating prattle, has not been forgotten and I wish you years of unexplained body odor.)


The first couple of 2012 bites rated as turnip-level yucky. If you read my blogs (and hopefully you did because I really don't care to relive those days), you know why. Losing One Life to Live barely two weeks into the year admittedly hurt like losing a lifelong friend. But the low point: eight days spent in a hospital gettin' my scrambled head back on straight (NO, it was not related to OLTL.)


When all was said and done, I was me again, although I lost my bragging rights as the lone adult member of my family not on medication. (For the record: Zoloft works.) Gradually, all of the stumbling blocks that sent me to the loony bin resolved themselves, one by one—none more important than increased quality time with Josie.


Then we got to the middle bites—talk about savory; each morsel seemed to outdo the one before it. Yours truly got to check several things off his lengthy bucket list, including: taking a real (if incomplete) hike, learning to cook lasagna, taking Josie to her first Giants game (well, technically her second, but the first where she could comprehend the ongoings), joining a basketball group, among several other items.


Probably 2012's crowning achievement was overcoming my decade-long hatred of San Francisco. Having realized that there is more to the world than sports, and that one of said world's most fascinating metropolises (or is it metropoli?) lay right in my backyard, Skillz decided to take in the city at long last—joining the dozens of others who've visited Coit Tower, Twin Peaks, Golden Gate Park and the Sutro Bath ruins. I even became something of a beach-bum-in-training (yes, me) and attended the annual Fleet Week air show for the first time.


Granted, it was a summer with precious little softball, even less knee and back health, and zero alcohol. Yet, it stands as arguably the best of my adult life. I still think about some of those times and laugh—even when giving blood and delivering packages to customers. As for the final couple of 2012 bites: meh. While I did fulfill a longshot goal of returning to FedEx, it came at the cost of moving in with an idiot drunk whom I've grown to truly despise (see upcoming note) and losing practically all of my spare time. 


Now 2012 has been fully consumed and digested. It was quite a meal, made up of largely titillating ingredients (friends/family...you know who you are) which collectively masked the rotten taste of the expired ones—my ex, my idiot roommate, and the stupid girl who broke my heart in June (don't ask; I'm not here to talk about the past.)


If the manager upstairs offers me a replacement, I'll just flash back to all the best parts—yelling out of Heather's window at passing San Franciscans in the Broadway Tunnel, the 49ers playoff win over the Saints, the Giants' World Series win, winning goldfish at the Fair and starting a "family", seeing my cousin enter college, snuggling with Kim at the Lighthouse, a partial BAD ASS Baseball reunion complete with an unforgettable projectile, practically anything & everything Josie—and politely refuse. :)


In closing, RIP to:
⦁    Mr. Pitt from Seinfeld, Ian Ambercrobie
⦁    First man on the moon, Neil Armstrong
⦁    Hat-eating '70's Reds pitcher Pedro Borbon Sr.
⦁    Steve Bridges, President Bush impersonator (eerily resembled him)
⦁    Hall-of-Fame catcher Gary Carter
⦁    Soul Train's Don Cornelius (still have no clue what a stone dance is)


⦁    Family Feud host Richard Dawson (all that smooching...so lucky)
⦁    Larry Hagman of Dallas...just barely made it to the Dallas reboot
⦁    George Jefferson himself, Sherman Hemsley
⦁    Whitney Houston ("One Moment in Time" still gives me patriotic chillz)
⦁    Rodney King (he deserved one whack, but not twenty)
⦁    Penn State coach Joe Paterno (actually, don't rest in peace. You let kids get raped)


⦁    Ex-major leaguer Pascual Perez (instigator of arguably baseball's all-time worst brawl)
⦁    NFL Films' Steve Sabol (he could make a Week 4 Buffalo Bills punt dramatic)
⦁    NFL Hall-of-Famer-in-waiting Junior Seau (he was talented and funny)
⦁    ex-NBA star Jack Twyman (google his name & Maurice Stokes. Great story) and
⦁    Yvette Wilson of Moesha (to this day I'm not sure if she played Aunt Dell or Andelle).