Here we teeter on the brink of another year’s birth at midnight tonight, even as I traditionally would be teetering in wild celebration as the moment arrived - maintaining precarious balance against the ever-relentless forces of mean Mister Gravity.
What’s next? How can things get stranger? Has our world become a giant lunatic asylum staffed by morons and run by inmates – the laughing stock of whatever intergalactic universe may or may not exist? But that’s harsh, the herald angels sing.