Happy New Year, I guess. I'm not really a big fan of New Year's celebrations. It's not that I don't enjoy being with friends, eating cheese dip, and drinking too much while playing bumper pool in the garage. And it's not that I don't enjoy fondly remembering all that we've had and lost, obviously. I have trouble with the idea that this is the time we've given ourselves another "new beginning" just because the calendar year is rolling over. If you're upset about something that happened last February, interested in pursuing an idea that came about last May, or ready to make a change to your lifestyle for the third January in a row, this day is for you...I sure hope patience really is a virtue. I guess I just feel guilty, because after the holidays, I don't feel any different, I don't have any renewed hope, and most of all, I don't really want to do anything differently. I know, I know...if you read this crap halfway regularly, you're saying, "Man, Wyatt is a real buzzkill." Forget about it...I just hope you all get what you want.
I drew the picture above several years ago. My grandfather went crazy during dinner one evening. He claimed to see a man standing on the kitchen table and refused to eat until the man was removed. His health had been declining, mostly because of his bad knees, but this was new to all of us. My grandmother, the sweetest kindergarten teacher in the world, was probably the most confused. She called my mother and I, and eventually, the ambulance. My grandfather was taken to the hospital, admitted to the fifth floor, and kept for observation. That was the last meal my grandfather ate at his kitchen table...my kitchen table. I estimate he ate over 16,000 dinners at the table, and at this last one, he left a cold Arby's sandwich unfinished. He never came back home, but he enjoyed many more dinners in hospitals, rehab facilities, and nursing homes. I'd heard the word dementia thrown around, but I didn't really know what it meant. Alzheimer's disease, ironically enough, is poorly understood. My grandfather eventually forgot most of the stories and dirty jokes he was known for, but he never forgot who I was. I drew this portrait on the first night of his adventure, while he ate a dry, grey hamburger in the soothing green surroundings of his hospital room. I let him look through my sketches a few days later. When he got to this one, he looked at me with a serious expression and asked, "Who's this sorry son of a bitch?" There was a tense moment before he said, "Why don't you give me a little extra hair next time."
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And auld lang syne?
-Robert Burns
