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What will future generations say about New Year’s Eve? When the History Channel geeks write up a special on the ancient traditions, what will they have to write about? A a big ball was lowered in New York, everyone counted the last few seconds, they sang an old song no one knew. Lovers kissed, resolutions were made for the coming year, and the whole country got really drunk.

What I like about New Year’s is its secular and non-family nature. If you don’t do New Year’s with family, it doesn’t make you a terrible person. Finally a holiday where the obligation doesn’t overshadow the celebration. While I certainly enjoy the but-you-have-to-come holidays, the back-to-back nature of Turkey Day and Christmas make New Year’s a nice break.

Those who know me know I’m a big Bond fan. I have seen every movie except the one with Denise Richards, have read several of the books, have logged an unspeakable number of hours playing James Bond videogames, have spent hours researching Aston Martin, have been to a Bond-themed bar, have gone as Bond to a Halloween party, laughed at the refential jokes in Austin Powers, etc. After a recent successful viewing of Goldfinger, with 7/8 of my normal blood capacity and under unusual amounts of stress, I gave some strong consideration to a Bond blog, in which I would chronicle a viewing of all of the film. After a nap and some food, I decided against this. I mean, how often would I post? What would I have to say? So, consider yourselves lucky that I didn’t start up yet another ill-advised blog.

I have few guilty pleasures. This is due mainly to the fact that I partake in many pleasures and feel guilt about almost none of them. Today I savored one of those few — calling in sick. Now, I don’t mean calling in sick when you’re not, which ain’t right. I mean calling in sick when you’re actually sick. I usually slog my way through the work day when feeling ill, but from time to time I give the call. I don’t even do the sick voice. This is grand. Sleep half the day, laze about the rest, and feel tip-top the next morning.

Why don’t I do this every time I feel sick? Because I have a work problem. Any time you guys want to stage an intervention to tell me you’re all concerned about my working, feel free to jump right in. Granted, I rarely work late or on weekends, but still. Dude needs to take some damn vay-cay now and then. If I make it to the DMV before my birthday, it will proof of divine providence.

Had some lads by to play some Halo 2. Played Oddball. Liked Oddball. Frustrated the hell out of my compatriots with the following strategy: when you’re about to die with the ball, jump off a cliff. He who chases you must then go all the way back to the ball’s spawn point. I suggest throwing the ball back towards them as you fall to your doom, just to mess with ’em. If ever there was justification for building a “give the finger” command in to a game, this is it. Imagine the joy of taking the ball into the bottomless chasm, leaving your enemy staring down at the bird.

Nothing beats a good sample. It’s like a little puzzle in the song, taunting you for not being cool enough to get it. As a fan of DJ Shadow, I’ve pretty much given up on any meager shot I had at being the guy who points out the source of samples. But yesterday, as I partook in 007 Days of Christmas, I heard a familiar strain. You know that song 6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps, the infi-cool song from the Saint soundtrack? The first few notes are a sample of the music playing when James Bond walks into the bedroom to find his latest girl coated in gold. This, quite clearly, is awesome. It is also an indicator that I need to lay off the spy flicks a little.

RHAPSODY Link

I’d offer you a comparison, but Rhapsody doesn’t have the Goldfinger soundtrack. Dammeht.

Something unlikely happened at my house yesterday. After the cookie-filled close of Christmas dinner proper, the women cleaned up and the men sat in the living room and watched football. That’s right — an actual football game on the TV in my home. From this experience, I took away one thing and one thing only: on holidays, men watch football not out of any love of the sport, but rather a desire to not have to engage in conversation for a time.

As you may have noticed, both this post and the two prior reveal me to be completely small-talked out.

As has been the tradition for many a long year, I received no games for Christmas. I did recieve a Madcats Xbox controller and a two-pack of wireless PS2 controllers, which were much appreciated. I spent the bulk of the Best Buy gift cert my brother got me on RotK like the trusting idiot I am.

Still working my way through Tiger Woods. Eagling all the par fives in the game turned out to be quite the challenge, but the recent discovery of the “mulligans on” setting made it a LOT easier.

Also, after receiving a fierce whooping from a first-time player the other night, I have discovered that the cranking up the Luck stat makes the impossible plausible. You heard it here first.

In the post-coffee, pre-extended-family-arrival lull, is it inappropriate to pull out the Xbox? Between prepping din-din, brushing off the car, and watching A Christmas Story repeatedly, the fam is relatively occupied. I fear, though, that they are not occupied enough not to take serious umbrage to me continuing my battle against the Covenant. I can hear the whispers now: “I can’t believe Alex is playing videogames. Why isn’t he sitting in here with us, waiting in bored silence for something to happen?”

In the post-coffee, pre-extended-family-arrival lull, is it inappropriate to pull out the Xbox? Between prepping din-din, brushing off the car, and watching A Christmas Story repeatedly, the fam is relatively occupied. I fear, though, that they are not occupied enough not to take serious umbrage to me continuing my battle against the Covenant. I can hear the whispers now: “I can’t believe Alex is playing videogames. Why isn’t he sitting in here with us, waiting in bored silence for something to happen?”