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There's a father and daughter making tamales in the kitchen of a house off a canyon road on a clear day at the dulled edge of the decade. I'm waiting to jump in, somewhere in the process.

It's all a process. The last few years, the late nights, a great deal of laughs. All amid the stress of wanting to squeeze the hell out of a few bad people but failing to do so because arms were already wrapped in a bear hug around the good ones.

I've been collecting music, and conversations. It's a process I started around age seven. That was ninety game systems and a pope ago. We measure time in entertainment.

In this decade we discovered limitations. New roads. Learned to know and love the musty smell of car seats in a dead rain. Mountains where we used to climb trees. Otis Redding. Cigarettes. The cold stop of certain girls' progress. Boys who can't think to care for themselves. Starlight through a hot wind. Dramedy. Dogs. Bridges. Blood. The warm heart of whiskey.

I'll be on the couch at 12. I'll be watching for something. Maybe me. Maybe you. Maybe no song could fit the space. But you have to keep trying.

Here's a small list for the waiting face of next year:
+ A struck balance between truth and tact
+ A collection of produced works
+ Breakthroughs in the field of social grace
+ A path to career
+ A Post-season Dodgers
&
+ More and better homemade beer

In this we believe.
Bring on the dancing horses,
ready for the closeup
Mister Mix.