The MIL TEAM, The world association of penny whistle players, the now dead Association of Gypsy Cigarette Smoker, the waking up next to the hairy stranger of the next day that we’ll always regret, the moustachioed or tiara-wearing brat who always still sleeps inside us, the glass too many and the late awakening in the cold ashtray of your good resolutions, wishes you a year without
With our profile still swollen from our recent tormented
parties, our hand on the deformed seam of our elastic morals, we’ll be bouncing cautiously from missteps and illusions with our coterie of generational damned and we’ll be trying not to fall for the general admonition that none of us should be able to kill time by plucking angels… to put it another way.
Like the unexpected renaissance of the shoulder-belt banana and the moccasin, the fuchsia trouser and the bleached
mullet, let’s accept the unlikely mixtures, the aquatic genre, the inclusive writing or the egotistical idiosyncrasy of our youngest specimens as just another parenthesis on the path
paved with good intentions by the Big Thing (supposedly bearded when some claim it’s hairless) that promises us
randomness and endless chaos to come. So, like a mixed-race Davy Crockett 2.0 in leather leggings and rat tail, let’s defend the Alamo Fort that shaped us against the worrying Fort of self-righteous retrogrades whose only projection would be to point to our noses as a source of inspiration and enclosure walls as the latest urban innovation.