Another Rose Parade, another dud.

I’m pretty much finished with the Tournament of Roses parade. No kidding, this is the second year in a row I was bored half to death ... except this time I actually fell asleep after the first 30 minutes. The floats are too commercial, horses aren’t allowed to poop, everything is too damn slick, and the announcer (Al Roker) never shuts up long enough to let you hear the music. A high school marching band from suburban Atlanta had a girls’ drill team that performed like a line of professional hoochie dancers. And this year’s Grand Marshall? None other than Paula Deen, the Food Network’s southern-fried princess of plastic surgery. You could see her fluorescent dental veneers three blocks away.

Sam and I spent the rest of the day in and out of naps, watched My Darling Clementine and a few old March of Time newsreels on TCM, and then Sam picked up Tex-Mex for dinner from Norma’s Restaurant in Garland. Pretty much an ideal New Year’s Day except that I haven’t been able to warm up, even after two extremely hot showers. Maybe we should light the fireplace. Socks might help, too. Thank you for reading this.