366 Questions

I have only two:

1) What is a New Year's party without Nacho Cheese Doritos and Zodiac, the movie?

2) What is a New Year's party but Nacho Cheese Doritos and Zodiac, the movie?

On the 30^th was Icestock, an outdoor concert running from 10:45am until just after 6pm, thirteen bands, a chili cook-off ongoing in the cargo containers surrounding the crowd space – one team per container, free samples throughout the day. Hula hoops broke out about two in the afternoon. From the window of my room I could throw a shotput onstage, and so I shuttled in and out when I heard bands turn over. It was cold outside and the musicians, between songs, stuffed their hands into pockets, or blew rapidly into their cupped hands. Wind and snow pressed on the performers. One man, lead singer of Phatass Bluegrass, said to us all: “You know, I've played festivals in the rain before, but this will be my first one in the snow."

If you like good music, then you may have been disappointed, but the show was free and a coffee hut by the grandstands offered cups to warm the chilled core. I stomped my feet, I clapped my hands. (Is it dance through action alone, or must we consider intention?) The snow eased as the day crested and sank toward evening. The crowd grew boisterous and dense, then spread into the cafeteria at 5:30, then disbanded to all corners of McMurdo for the holiday parties, doors open, glasses clinking. During the two days off for Christmas – December 24^th and 25^th – I heard $54,000 worth of alcohol was purchased. I don't yet know the New Year tally.

Brunch on Monday morning, the snow again, heavier than Sunday. We had the day off. I spent much of it loafing, purchasing Doritos, renting Zodiac, browsing the rest of the DVD collection. I hiked Ob Hill again, stood up top where to the north the power plant chugs along, its six generators sounding like a train huffing up steep rails, and to the south the whiteness of the storm. It's a mystery, where the cloud ends and the ice shelf begins. My roommate brushed his teeth pacing the room, readying for 2008 at Gallagher's, one of the bars on station. Impatient, he finally said half to himself half to me, “Well, those beers aren't gonna drink themselves,” and he swept out the door, closed it brusquely.

Simon told me a story about returning to his dorm one evening at nine o'clock. His roommate is in his sixties and goes to sleep near eight to wake at four-thirty, so Simon used the light of the closet through a door ajar for navigation. He stumbled around, changed into nightclothes, then began brushing his teeth. “And I thought as I was brushing, funny, me toothpaste ain't lathering. Walking down the hall thinkin about it, it wasn't until I got to the bathroom sink that I realized I'd used shaving cream instead.”

And now it's 2008. Remember we've got a leap day. One more than usual. A twenty-ninth where once a first. Looks like this year is a good year to chase down those dreams—new, old, escaped, fading. You've got one extra chance. The confetti's flying.