I'm afraid that I was a little groggy when Philippe Rouille telephoned
me from Paris this morning.  I stayed up too late last night; not enough
sleep, not enough time in the day.  Philippe will be at a party tonight,
in a high-rise building in Paris, watching the midnight events at the
Eiffel tower while I watch the same show on TV at 3 PM in California.
Strange how time gets disjointed.

Last night I phoned (once again) the cornetist I hope will play with
the band tonight: "Danny, come down from the mountain and join us at
the New Year's Eve party tonight."  "Robbie, I can't.  I must report
to work at the ski slopes at 8 AM tomorrow."  I cattily wished him a
continued spell of hot weather, but twelve hours later the first
significant rain in many months began falling in Southern California.
I guess Danny will have real snow on the slopes, after all.  It's been
a long, dry year.

Then I called the washboard player today; he's not coming to the party
either: he's going to stay home and nurse his tired feet.  Humph.  He's
just gettin' old now, and he used to be the life of the party.  That
was a few years ago...

We celebrate the passing time one day each year, and then we return to
complaining that time passes too quickly.  Can't do nuthin' about it,
though; it's as sure as death and taxes.

Happy New Year

Robbie Rhodes