Gung Hay Fat Choy

I was sitting on the couch this evening, contemplating all the things I really needed to be doing besides sitting on the couch. I was exhausted in that deep-bones weekend-spent-outdoors way that is the best kind of exhaustion. Yes I'd just spent 3 hours in a car coming back from Tahoe, but I had also spent Saturday snowboarding at Squaw Valley in blinding snow and wind, a couple nights playing poker 'til the wee hours in front of a warm fireplace, and I had a belly full of gross amounts of cheap meat, carbs and butter after having stopped at Denny's.

So there I sat. The lights low. My gear still in a heap in the hallway. My ass becoming one with the couch. When all of a sudden an explosion of noise erupted on the street outside my window like a machine gun, rocketing me out of my reverie in a momentary adrenaline-fueled panic.

One of the hazards of living near Chinatown is the two weeks of sporadic nerve-jangling detonations of jillions of firecrackers chasing away the evil spirits. It's the Year of the Dog, so Happy Lunar New Year, bitches. Steel yourselves for the ruckus, and let's party like it's 4703.