See, now, in addition to having dreams where I meet my Trumpet Teacher (he's an old black man with white hair who wears brocade vests and lives in an old Victorian-style apartment with several tempting instruments and intriguing intricate wooden boxes lying around), I do get the psychic heebie-jeebies from time to time. This year I'm having a Bad Feeling about large public New Year's gatherings. We're about due for another visit from Ass-Qaeda, and nothing says Happy New Year, Stinking Infidel! like a cadre of suicide bombers detonating in Times Square, using the Giant Ball as a handy timing device.
So then, joy o' joys, I read this in the Post. (The folks they're looking for look like this).
Now, I've never understood the need to go stand in the cold with 500,000 other people to puke and be puked on. I can do that at home (my little house, TARDIS-like, is much bigger on the inside than it is on the outside). This year, I see even less point.
But I do feel the Creeping Dread. I think they're going to pop one or two off.
